Zest

Something I shall never be able to write about.

Yours Sincerely

When we fall in love
We hope that the curves and crevices
And bents and dents of a person
Are of the exact shape that would fit in
Our sharp edges and blunt ends.
We flaunt our jagged past that sticks out.
We keep our scarring ideas at hand
Not to hurt but to show that this -
Is what needs to be embraced.
But then as we get closer,
We become weary of or irregularities.
We become embarrassed of our flat dullness
And start moulding;
Bending a little comfort here
Breaking of a little self-respect there.
Finally it becomes a competition about
Who is doing it better.
Who is sacrificing more scaring ideas
And whose past has been polished
Into a more fitting memory of gone by days.
Some of merely manage
To fit in certain curves with gaping holes
And try to make the mismatched bends here and there work.
However, some of us let go.
Because for us -
It is not about fitting into that puzzle.

on the Xystus

So we will go to Greece
And we will put on hats like tourists do
We'll walk down beaches and sit at monasteries
There will be stories all over the place
Also decadence
We shall talk of our days
Of coffee flowers and small rooms
The sun will gradually set on us
We shall walk some more
To friendly inns and deserted by-lanes

We shall not meet for years
But when we go to Greece---
We shall kiss on the xystus.

Why not?

It all started on a summer evening. Like every other middle class Bengali who is still in Kolkata and has surprisingly managed to get employed, I had a long, tiring, and 'sweaty' day at work. Just as I was gathering my stuff to leave, I was invited on a 'walk to the metro station' by this really hot colleague of mine who is so out of my league that Sakhshi Tanwar would feel a little more comfortable playing Daenerys Targaryen than what I felt.

I was anxious, I was sweaty and to top it all, I was self-conscious to the point of a nervous break down.. Now who wouldn't be conscious if you are as tall as a lamp post with dark circles till your chin and oil pouring out of your skin like the middle-east? I have grown up watching the 'Fair and Lovely' ad which has taught me that to get married, or to get a lover and even to get a job you need to be fair and lovely. 

The moment we stepped outside the office and started walking he asked 'Is something bothering you?' and me being me blurted out, 'I am so sweaty that my pants are sticking to my inner thigh and my underarms feel like jelly fish.' I knew I had made friends with a good man when at this point, my hot colleague burst out laughing. He pat me on my back and said, 'That's good. It proves that you have worked a lot throughout the day.' Thus, the day was made.

The idea, however has stuck to me ever since. Why don't we ever appreciate what is natural? Why are we so ashamed of the fact that we sweat, or have facial hair or have huge feet? 

Well to be honest, by 'we' I actually mean women. I have seen my girl friends and also have subjected myself, to absolute torture when we have spent our own hard earned money to pull hair out of our skin. Waxing every bit of self love that we have and threading our personalities to that perfect arch of an eyebrow. 

I have been told by my male and female friends alike that I sweat like a 'man' but very few appreciate or even acknowledge the fact that I do a lot of things like a 'man' by the social standards. 

I run after the bus like a man without thinking about whether my breasts are drawing attention from all that running. I carry 20 litre water jars up the stairs to the fourth floor of a building, without asking another man for help. I swear like a man, at a man or woman who pisses me off without worrying whether it is 'lady-like' to know of such profanity. So the question is why isn't this ok? Why is it that I am usually taken to be this very angry and volatile person because I behave in the way that naturally comes to me? 

My lack of filters is thus considered to be 'manly' but why on Earth should natural behaviour be the essence of one gender while the others are expected to pretend all the time? 

I will bet my life on this that nobody will be able to give me an answer to these questions other than 'Men and women are different' or 'Women look beautiful when they take care of themselves' or similar such absolutely pointless arguments which basically do not even qualify as an argument because we have already accepted them.

Here I have a request for the handful of readers this blog post may ever get. Can we please start thinking about not stereotyping gender? Can we please start accepting people with all their naturally beautiful flaws? Can we please appreciate women who sweat, as hard workers? Men who go to the salon regularly are not homosexuals by default and even if they are, you and I are nobody to mock them. Men who spend time to look good are not feminine. Why not just accept individuals? Tell me, why not?

VFX and more: The Great Indian Hypocrisy Worth Rs 250 Crore

Fuck Bollywood! Fuck the Khans! Fuck the racist North Indians! Bahubali is a blockbuster with a record opening in its first week and nobody can simply get enough of it. Neither could I, and therefore dedicated one whole evening to try and understand what 'CGI' meant. 'Imma be cool like that!'

Statutory warning for anybody who expects to read a film review: you can stop right here and go watch Bajrangi Bhaijaan; the rest of the cynics who are hurt every time a film is not even half of what its trailer promises may continue reading.

For a longer part of this year, every time somebody said ‘Indian Cinema’ it sounded like ‘Bahubali’. You know, how Mr S.S Rajamouli had single-handedly decided to transform the face of Indian cinema by spending Rs Two Hundred and fifty-wait-for-it- Crore and the media couldn’t say, think or ask anything about the content or storyline because, 'Fuck all that! This dude just spent enough money to feed the entire country for a couple of days at least, so who cares? We’ll just relax in our royal recliners and have popcorn or sip pointlessly brain-freezing cold drink to digest our emotions as the regal orphan is brought up by the always awestruck tribal people.'  

Now without any spoiler alert, I can tell you that the very beginning of the film gave me a slight feel of Jungle Book, where there is an abandoned infant and a strong motherly figure but hola! Within minutes of having unbelievable graphics thrown at my face, I realized that it is about a giant of a man who can’t get laid in his neighbourhood because of his bossy mother and decides to risk his life only and only so that he can find the girl who is hot enough for his tremendous masculinity. Anybody who begs to differ will also call ‘E Laldupattewali tera nam toh bata’ a song of light humoured friendship where the heroes do obscene facial expression and insist on touching the heroines against their will because the Godmen of this country have announced: ‘Women actually like rape’. Period.

If you have read any amount of literature or have watched even one Pixar movie or had befriended me, even by mistake, then you should already know where I am heading. Yes, from all those magnificent bloodshed and self-righteous dialogue delivery, what stuck to me from Bahubali is the mating sequence of the leading pair. No, it’s not a song sequence or a dream sequence, as they like calling it. Or even a romantic sequence for that matter. It’s an out and out mating sequence where most of the mating was being done forcefully. You may, and I repeat you may call it a ‘romanticized rape sequence’ but yeah, that’s mostly all about it.

Even if I decide to overlook all my other problems with the film, like over-rated graphics, bad junior artists, continuity mistakes and lack of logic, I simply cannot overlook this magnificently romanticized rape sequence that I COULD NOT believe was going on.

There is nothing, that I might say that would be sufficient to express my disappointment with the filmmaker over that one sequence. The character of Avanthika, played by Tamanna Bhatia is introduced as a formidable female fighter who doesn’t care about looks or life but of course that’s no way to lead a girl’s life, yo! So you need an oaf to come and rip you off your clothes, paint your lips and touch you in all inappropriate ways so that you can feel all feminine and then finally, fall for him.

I was stunned. Still, kind of, am. How on earth could a man think of passing this off as romantic? What unearthly spirits should possess a man to actually think that standing in the 21^st Century, in our country, where one of the biggest problems right now are the innumerable crime against women, it is okay to propagate such objectification of the gender?

After that, the whole time that I sat through the movie trying to forget about the crater this film had made in my pocket, I realized that I might just be the only person thinking about it right now. The rest of them might be gloating over the strength that Rajamouli’s female characters portray. The character ‘Shivagami’ for example is the apparent epitome of female strength but she won’t sit on the throne because that’s what ages of Indian patriarchy has taught us. And none of us have a problem with that. The fact that the filmmaker allowed this one odd female to be strong is more than what we can ask for.

We don’t even wince once, when the great ‘Bahubali’, the ultimate man dances with the three sexy dancers in the ‘what-was-the-point-of-that-again’ scene because ‘hey, come on dude! A man’s gotta have his fun!’ That is what young men are supposed to do. It is absolutely okay to behave like a pornstar with a woman outside your family. 

I mean that’s what Indian hypocrisy is all about.  Because it’s ok if you pass a comment on a female on a train as long as you don’t beat your wife up. Because staring at a woman’s body is perfectly alright as long as you don’t let your daughter wear short clothes. Because everything we say or do is a waste because nobody, not a single person in that huge fucking crew of Bahubali had a problem with these things. Nobody associated with that film pointed it out to the great Rajamouli that it is wrong to demean women like this and the romanticization of such violation encourages violence and crime against women. That after years of having film heroes getaway with teasing their future wives on the road, it is time that Indian Cinema made a different statement. That Avanthika should have slapped the shit out of Shivudu.

Untold

Don't you worry love,

This will pass and so will that.

Everything we've ever pretended

Will eventually disappoint

And then love,

There'll be nothing sorry.

Together love

We shall write a sad poem then

Or at least - hold on a little longer.

Courtesy: Hari Menon Photography

Therefore and Thereafter

There was just but 'reality' as they called it. They said it was amazing. It was beyond all experiences. 'The sight of reality' they said, 'is so powerful, that at times you get transfixed or may be...may be you'll lose your sight for life.' They kept on saying it. They kept on repeating themselves for some of them believed though they never said it out loud, that repeating things, repeating them continuously make them real. They just believed that but never said it out loud. They repeated it till everybody had heard it. They repeated it till everybody learnt the word. They repeated it till everybody was talking about it. Everybody knew it was there... somewhere. But they stopped as soon as somebody tried to comprehend the meaning. They hated questions.

However, in the midst of all this, there came a poet. All this while he was just there. Neither did he ask questions nor did anybody ask that why didn't he ask questions. Some Mr Know-it-All commented 'No point talking to him. He'll never understand reality. He believes, thrives, grows and survives on imagination.' So they left him. They kept him aside like a piece of paper which has been so badly scribbled upon that there is no more space left. They couldn't fill him up with anything else. So they just left. 

The poet had heard about the new 'word' in town. He tried to talk to a few of them to understand what was going on but nobody was ready to talk. They were just speaking, shouting, answering, justifying but nobody was explaining. None of them were talking and what seemed very weird to the poet is that nobody, not a single person was asking questions. 

He met a man who was telling anybody who would listen that he had answers to everything and asked 'If you are saying that you're going to give me all the answers why aren't you asking questions?' But nobody was listening so the man did not answer. He said the answers were for everybody. He can't give it out to one person. The poet asked a few more of them but everybody was so busy speaking that nobody heard that the poet was trying to talk to them.

Everybody had accepted by now that 'reality' was the most powerful thing in the world and while the universe was settling down in peace an anonymous pamphlet came out. It floated around the town like a fallen autumn leaf. People tried to catch it but they failed. They tried to send men to get it but nobody could. Mr Know-it-All said 'It's a stray parchment. Leave it.' Somebody else said 'In reality, how can a stray parchment fly around the city like that?' Everybody heard a question after a long time. They got excited. Everybody now started speculating. Meetings were held and committees were brought into effect but nobody could catch that rogue pamphlet. In the mean time somewhere someone felt a weird little tinge at the back of their head. 

Finally somebody said 'Call that poet, he might know what is there in the pamphlet. He knows about all these things.'

As the poet came, they demanded an answer. He brought out the pamphlet and read it out loud.

"Imagine. For imagination asks questions, all whose answers are there in reality."

In the mean time, somewhere someone named the weird little tinge at the back of their head as 'imagination.'