Of late an sms has been doing rounds where the blue-eyed boy of Indian cricket, our very own M S Dhoni thanks Anna Hazare and his acolytes for drawing all the pats as well as the brickbats the country has on offer. Otherwise, being flayed for recent rubber debacle in England would have been inevitable. Not that the cricket experts have gracefully abstained from subjecting our innocuous, overworked cricketers to derision. Still, the critics are a handful and irate supporters have sobered down to the extent of venting their angst by burning effigies only. On the contrary, team Anna rides on the support of gagged denizens in a democracy, unwilling to let go of the this blessed opportunity to vent their ire over irregularities in pension disbursal or dipping interest rates in banks. To cap it, Dhoni and his premier blue-blooded lot have been exempted from the scathing opposition's umbrage, much to Ajay Maken's delight.
The power of one is what our democracy seems to be at home with. As and when one has escalated to many, as in the star studded, venerated National cricket team, the outcome has wavered from the preset objective to a superfluous one. Take the septuagenarian Gandhian. Remodeling Ralegaon Siddhi into an exemplary village amidst rural hinterlands bequeathed with crude chauvinists, hence wife-beating, philandering drunkards was a humungous job done clinically well. Not entirely on the lines of Gandhi though as a no-nonsense Anna slipping into his army bearings with effortless ease to flog the errant men have made it to the local folklore. But, then it was Anna alone with a team of women and children sickened by their daily dosage of the stick. However, with a stage bigger and target monumental, in came the Bedis, Sisodias, Bhushans and Kejriwals. Then followed the megalomaniac opposition parties baying for the Prime Minister's blood and chair. Close on wheels were the ever speculative, TRP and circulation hungry media. And the country was served a platter of a beaming Anna, reaping a rich anti-corruption harvest. Close by were the co-crusaders, hell bent on carving a necropolis for the red-taped bureaucracy for a more accountable one.
The hullabaloo comes dear. According to newspaper reports, team Anna foots a bill of around Rs six lakh per day to satiate gastronomical requisites of the anti-corruption crusaders. A 15-day phenomenon is likely to cost around a crore. Anna, you would rather dole out the cash to the millions who languish in penury in the squalid nooks of the country rather than feeding truant students with a foot in India an eye on US or the oleaginous MNC employees seeking a break from the monotony of corporate decorum.
Swami Nigamananda would have been an ideal apostle of anti-corruption outbreaks to the millions who will be marauded by the Reddy brothers, Kalmadis and Rajas in future, had he got equivalent media coverage in the days leading up to his death by fasting. Anna, remember the late freedom fighter Jatindranath Das or even our modern day icon Irom Sahrmila. Nigamananda, Das and Sharmila did it alone and did it well. They neither hogged the limelight nor gave opposition parties the leverage to up the ante against the Government and degenerate their initiatives to a political circus.
Even the corrupt manages to fool around with efficacy when alone than in company of share- mongers. Be it Telgi, Harshad Mehta or the barons of Bellary- the Reddy brothers, all succeeded in evading scrutiny longer than their counterparts-the Rajas and the Kalmadis whose follies were facilitated by a barrage of prominent corporate honchos. Or at least, a mention of their accomplices did not ring a bell with the prying police or inconspicuous public, unlike Anna's band of brothers and sisters. The taciturn ate their dough before being incarcerated.
All it would take Anna to silence the foul-mouthing detractors is to refrain from rhetoric and resort to tangible demands. It would not require a raised platform at any public place, negotiations with the Government or Delhi police over fast venue, offering homage at Rajghat at the drop of a hat before shutterbugs or a celebrated team of acolytes. A sequestered corner is what it takes to embark upon a hunger strike and such coordinates are available aplenty. In addition, it requires an honest urge to denounce public adulation with a single minded sense of purpose and a realization that the minors bandaged with anti-corruption logos riding on their parent's back in the tedious rallies do not give two hoots about Anna Hazare and his anti-corruption campaign. Probably, a dearth of nannies has done them in. Otherwise, with substantial news encroaching the inches dedicated to the Anna saga in newspapers with every passing day, 'the answer my friend is blowin' in the wind.'
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Memoirs of a Migrant
For a 25-year old unemployed adult, nothing is more coveted than a job, preferably outside the home state, when, after days of frugality, the enticing temptations of financial liberty takes precedence over a sane and secured life back home. I nurtured similar aspirations while packing my bags for Bhubaneshwar.
My first impression of the city was that of a demure, inexpensive, well planned town (respected denizens, pardon me, I am not trying to sound pompous in tracing my roots to more 'happening' places like Kolkata and Bangalore, it is a matter of personal observation and understanding). Of course, I was living out of my bags at a moderately priced lodge at Puri-Cuttack road, ordering wholesome dinners that satiated my Bengali taste buds from a modest eatery at Rs 25.
However, hopes of a good living crumbled in a week, as I embarked upon house-hunting. It was a Herculean task. What stood as a mounting barrier between me and an apartment with ample ventilation in a crime free locality, was rent. Its been two months and I am still trying to comprehend why does a rental apartment in Bhubaneshwar comes dearer, in comparison to Kolkata or Bangalore. The dilemma is inevitable as the city is about half the size of Kolkata and Bangalore, both in terms of population and civic amenities. Not that the migrants sleep under the temperamental Orissa sky, scorching now and pouring then. I would get myself one, I appeased myself.
The city, as said by long-timers here, witnessed a spurt in house rent business with an influx of migrants tracing the IT boom and prospect of quality education at a moderate cost. Settlements around these epicenters soon became dearer and much like an epidemic, a steep hike in house rents gripped the city over the coming years. Landowners benefited, tenants perished and the trend still continues.
Sample these. A two- BHK (Bedroom-hall-kitchen) apartment in Kharvel Nagar, Shaheed Nagar, Maitreyee Vihar relieves you of nothing less than Rs 10000, plus electricity bill and maintenance charges, per month. That was well beyond my expectation and moderate budget, as none of these places are easily communicable by public transport after 10 at night. Incidentally, public transport is a novel concept in Bhubaneshwar, with a recently deployed fleet of city buses which go off the road by 9.30 at night. Then on, passengers are lurched at the mercy of auto rickshaw drivers who are quite unabashed in demanding the 'extra' for a trip to an inconvenient location at inconvenient hours.
Coming back, the situation is equally grim elsewhere in the city. I remember coming across a proud owner of a three- BHK apartment at Bapujinagar, a posh locality. He was blatant in saying, “Rooms are hard to come by at Rs 2500 in this locality. You are lucky. All you have to do is to share the apartment with a couple of others.” That 'a couple' for the septuagenarian would mean nine, with provision for few more, was something beyond my imagination. Cursing my naivety for envisaging such a luxurious stay for Rs 2500 ONLY, I could not but wonder at the perseverance of the nine occupants-three in each of the 10 by 12 feet rooms. Probably gauging my expression, a bemused boarder with a welcoming smile said, “ You can adjust, even we do.” Nonetheless, I moved on.
“Sir, flats are available here, but not for bachelors,” apologized the broker as I placed my case. And he was not lying with an ulterior motive of usurping the Rs 200 I had already paid him as registration fee without putting in an iota of effort. Barring entry for bachelors is the newest phenomenon in town as the broker narrates the tale of the trio from a reputed IT company, whom he had found an apartment. “After a couple of months the landlord evicted them. They had brought in two girls to stay along with,” he beamed, his tobacco stained grin confirming the extent of stigma and saucy gossip attached to fornication.
I have finally found a place to live, a single room about 9 km from the airport, entirely at my disposal for Rs 4000 only. I do not complain, though in Kolkata, my friends have rented a two BHK apartment at Rs 3000, 2 km from the airport. I enjoy round the clock water and uninterrupted electricity supply. My landlords, a young couple, seems tolerant to vices like smoking and boozing though female guests are strictly prohibited . They have acceded to my erratic office hours and do not crib when I knock the main gate at the middle of the night, but, honestly, such considerate landlords are hard to come by in Bhubaneshwar.
For a 25-year old unemployed adult, nothing is more coveted than a job, preferably outside the home state, when, after days of frugality, the enticing temptations of financial liberty takes precedence over a sane and secured life back home. I nurtured similar aspirations while packing my bags for Bhubaneshwar.
My first impression of the city was that of a demure, inexpensive, well planned town (respected denizens, pardon me, I am not trying to sound pompous in tracing my roots to more 'happening' places like Kolkata and Bangalore, it is a matter of personal observation and understanding). Of course, I was living out of my bags at a moderately priced lodge at Puri-Cuttack road, ordering wholesome dinners that satiated my Bengali taste buds from a modest eatery at Rs 25.
However, hopes of a good living crumbled in a week, as I embarked upon house-hunting. It was a Herculean task. What stood as a mounting barrier between me and an apartment with ample ventilation in a crime free locality, was rent. Its been two months and I am still trying to comprehend why does a rental apartment in Bhubaneshwar comes dearer, in comparison to Kolkata or Bangalore. The dilemma is inevitable as the city is about half the size of Kolkata and Bangalore, both in terms of population and civic amenities. Not that the migrants sleep under the temperamental Orissa sky, scorching now and pouring then. I would get myself one, I appeased myself.
The city, as said by long-timers here, witnessed a spurt in house rent business with an influx of migrants tracing the IT boom and prospect of quality education at a moderate cost. Settlements around these epicenters soon became dearer and much like an epidemic, a steep hike in house rents gripped the city over the coming years. Landowners benefited, tenants perished and the trend still continues.
Sample these. A two- BHK (Bedroom-hall-kitchen) apartment in Kharvel Nagar, Shaheed Nagar, Maitreyee Vihar relieves you of nothing less than Rs 10000, plus electricity bill and maintenance charges, per month. That was well beyond my expectation and moderate budget, as none of these places are easily communicable by public transport after 10 at night. Incidentally, public transport is a novel concept in Bhubaneshwar, with a recently deployed fleet of city buses which go off the road by 9.30 at night. Then on, passengers are lurched at the mercy of auto rickshaw drivers who are quite unabashed in demanding the 'extra' for a trip to an inconvenient location at inconvenient hours.
Coming back, the situation is equally grim elsewhere in the city. I remember coming across a proud owner of a three- BHK apartment at Bapujinagar, a posh locality. He was blatant in saying, “Rooms are hard to come by at Rs 2500 in this locality. You are lucky. All you have to do is to share the apartment with a couple of others.” That 'a couple' for the septuagenarian would mean nine, with provision for few more, was something beyond my imagination. Cursing my naivety for envisaging such a luxurious stay for Rs 2500 ONLY, I could not but wonder at the perseverance of the nine occupants-three in each of the 10 by 12 feet rooms. Probably gauging my expression, a bemused boarder with a welcoming smile said, “ You can adjust, even we do.” Nonetheless, I moved on.
“Sir, flats are available here, but not for bachelors,” apologized the broker as I placed my case. And he was not lying with an ulterior motive of usurping the Rs 200 I had already paid him as registration fee without putting in an iota of effort. Barring entry for bachelors is the newest phenomenon in town as the broker narrates the tale of the trio from a reputed IT company, whom he had found an apartment. “After a couple of months the landlord evicted them. They had brought in two girls to stay along with,” he beamed, his tobacco stained grin confirming the extent of stigma and saucy gossip attached to fornication.
I have finally found a place to live, a single room about 9 km from the airport, entirely at my disposal for Rs 4000 only. I do not complain, though in Kolkata, my friends have rented a two BHK apartment at Rs 3000, 2 km from the airport. I enjoy round the clock water and uninterrupted electricity supply. My landlords, a young couple, seems tolerant to vices like smoking and boozing though female guests are strictly prohibited . They have acceded to my erratic office hours and do not crib when I knock the main gate at the middle of the night, but, honestly, such considerate landlords are hard to come by in Bhubaneshwar.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Kasab’s death is no good reason to celebrate
Yesterday belonged to Ajmal Kasab. And the 23-year-old agent of massacre seems to have basked in the media coverage showered on him. The Bombay High Court upheld the sessions court’s decision to hang him. The media went into a frenzy reporting a smiling and smirking Kasab, prior to the verdict.
Was Kasab indeed bothered about the verdict? Were the smiles and smirks purported to ward off the ominous thoughts of the hangman’s noose? Or was it a symbolic mockery of the judicious Indian government? As I try to conjure how a smiling Kasab would look, Jesus Christ comes to mind. And I cannot refrain from drawing a comparison between the life giver and the life taker. Kasab, to me, appears to be the chosen one of the Jihadi cause.
Who knows what crossed his mind while he smiled and smirked? Was it a Jesus-esque thought? Oh father, forgive them, they do not know what they are up to. A belligerent Ujjwal Nikam, the prosecutor, a vocal Prithviraj Chavan, the Maharashtra CM and all others who wanted to have their share of the Kasab pie, might have missed something. A Kasab hanged would ignite hundred of young minds back in Pakistan, vulnerable to misinterpretations of the Quran, to join the fidayeen movement, lured by martyrdom. And Kasab would serve as an ideal inspiration.
It appears that Kasab’s trial acts as an easy outlet for the nation feel righteous and purposeful after failures to pull the noose over other s accused of crimes of similar magnitude. India applauded the verdict, including the revered ministers and public servants. The finance minister has congratulated the decision makers.
The PM’s might do the same but he is the same man who says that corruption and subsequent inaction over it are cons of coalition politics. How credible does this chest thumping over killing one lone, captured militant look when you consider how many in the country actually die because of plain bad governance?
Kasab’s death will do nothing for India. We will still plead with US to arbitrate with Pakistan on Kashmir. Indian army will still be accused of conducting genocide to subdue rebels in disturbed areas. Maoists will still continue with the hostage taking exercise and butchering.
These pertinent issues needs to be attended before the celebration over Kasab’s verdict commences. Or is the verdict indeed worth celebrating? What’s the use of hanging a pawn when the big fishes still lives to mastermind similar acts? Probably Kasab is nonchalant of his fate. He will attain heaven after embracing the gallows anyway. He will be a martyr.
Why don’t we keep Kasab alive and attempt to reform him, which is the true aim of justice. A rehabilitated and human Kasab would be an excellent proponent of cross border peace. A martyr Kasab would definitely ignite similar desire in many souls across the border. What does the government want?
Was Kasab indeed bothered about the verdict? Were the smiles and smirks purported to ward off the ominous thoughts of the hangman’s noose? Or was it a symbolic mockery of the judicious Indian government? As I try to conjure how a smiling Kasab would look, Jesus Christ comes to mind. And I cannot refrain from drawing a comparison between the life giver and the life taker. Kasab, to me, appears to be the chosen one of the Jihadi cause.
Who knows what crossed his mind while he smiled and smirked? Was it a Jesus-esque thought? Oh father, forgive them, they do not know what they are up to. A belligerent Ujjwal Nikam, the prosecutor, a vocal Prithviraj Chavan, the Maharashtra CM and all others who wanted to have their share of the Kasab pie, might have missed something. A Kasab hanged would ignite hundred of young minds back in Pakistan, vulnerable to misinterpretations of the Quran, to join the fidayeen movement, lured by martyrdom. And Kasab would serve as an ideal inspiration.
It appears that Kasab’s trial acts as an easy outlet for the nation feel righteous and purposeful after failures to pull the noose over other s accused of crimes of similar magnitude. India applauded the verdict, including the revered ministers and public servants. The finance minister has congratulated the decision makers.
The PM’s might do the same but he is the same man who says that corruption and subsequent inaction over it are cons of coalition politics. How credible does this chest thumping over killing one lone, captured militant look when you consider how many in the country actually die because of plain bad governance?
Kasab’s death will do nothing for India. We will still plead with US to arbitrate with Pakistan on Kashmir. Indian army will still be accused of conducting genocide to subdue rebels in disturbed areas. Maoists will still continue with the hostage taking exercise and butchering.
These pertinent issues needs to be attended before the celebration over Kasab’s verdict commences. Or is the verdict indeed worth celebrating? What’s the use of hanging a pawn when the big fishes still lives to mastermind similar acts? Probably Kasab is nonchalant of his fate. He will attain heaven after embracing the gallows anyway. He will be a martyr.
Why don’t we keep Kasab alive and attempt to reform him, which is the true aim of justice. A rehabilitated and human Kasab would be an excellent proponent of cross border peace. A martyr Kasab would definitely ignite similar desire in many souls across the border. What does the government want?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Paradise lost
“I don’t care about the money anymore. All I wish is to make a film on my life. People need to know it’s not that hunky dory after a National Award.”
The words reeked of despondence, dejection, desperation, possibly every adverb with a negative flavor that begins with a ‘D’. I say reeked because the words come from a National Films Award winner who probably deserves a better deal than slipping into limbo from the volatile public memory that every artist dreads.
Shafiq Syed, at 37, is a sad shadow of the diligent Chaipau he played in Salaam Bombay (1988), a Mira Nair film, which was the second Indian film to make it to the Oscars, after Mother India (1957). In the 22 years that stands tall between Salaam Bombay and now, Shafiq have grown wider and bald, a paradigm shift from the lanky Chaipau. The only semblance with a 12-year-old destitute wandering the streets of Mumbai, is the benign smile stained with beetle tinged teeth.
The rise
I wonder whether Shafiq is yet another shooting star with a very short stay at the helm of affairs. A backward time travel in the history of Hindi cinema would reveal few names with similar fates. Some like Sachin Pilgaonkar could manage to hang around the sidelines. Many like Shafiq fades away while more like Sabina, Azhar and Darsheel Safary stand in queue, God forbid. “The need to earn drove me to Mumbai. It was me and three others who decided to go to Mumbai to make a career in acting,” says Shafiq, who admits being an ardent admirer of Govinda.
Homeless and foodless days followed until he was spotted by Dinaz Staffer, assistant director to Mira Nayar, who was casting for Salaam Bombay then. “I was promised Rs 20 per day plus food. The money did matter to me then. In addition, I would be meeting the likes of Nana Patekar. After a two month long workshop by Barry John, I was finally cast as Chaipau. They paid me Rs. 15, 000,” says Shafiq.
The role fetched him the National Award for the Best Child Artist actor in 1988. Patang (1993), a critically acclaimed film directed by Goutam Ghosh followed, where Shafiq shared screen space with Shabana Azmi. “Wahi pandra hazaar (The same Rs. 15, 000 once again),” says Shafiq.
“I was not in touch with my family for over a year then. I came back home, to Bangalore, to pay off my family’s debt,” he says. His family had changed base by then and it took him great pain to trace them.
“My parents were happy to see me back. They didn’t inquire much about the money and the fact that I was acting in cinema was not that exciting to them. Salaam Bombay was not a phenomenon then,” says Shafiq. Equations changed once the National Award happened. Like every poverty struck parent, Shafiq’s gathered some money to fan their National Award winning son’s career. Shafiq went back to Mumbai to act.
The fall
“I attempted suicide once by jumping into the Arabian Sea,” says Shafiq.
A six-month stay at Barry John’s place and futile rounds of production houses later, Shafiq had given up. Frustration of failure had driven him to commit suicide.
“I realized how insignificant the National Award was when it comes to securing roles. Everybody was sympathetic to me, than being professional. I approached the Saalam Bombay crew for work but everybody warded me off with snacks and some money,” Shafiq says. “Shahrukh Khan was staying with me then at Barry John’s place. Fauji was on air then,” he sighs, probably comparing the trajectory of his life with the superstar’s.
After a year’s stay at Delhi, Shafiq finally returned home rejected and dejected, to take up auto-rickshaw driving, which has been his profession for the last 17 years.
The Present
“I wish I was educated. Education is important. Had I been educated, I wouldn’t have been an auto driver,” says Shafiq, in between fixing the sound recording instrument at a set in Ravi Kiran estate, Bangalore. He works as a sound technician in a Kannada daily soap these days. Needless to say, Shafiq is glad to be somehow close to the buzz of ‘lights, camera, and action’—which is a welcome break from running errands across the city driving an auto. He hasn’t driven an auto for the last four months. “I had worked earlier with Jain studio while in Delhi. I learned the basics of sound recording there,” says Shafiq.
His prime concern is to educate his four children. He seems to have long forgone the lure of the silver screen to the extent of being nonchalant about losing his National Award certificate and medal. “I lost them in Kolkata way back,” Shafiq shrugs.
“I met Mira Nair last December in the International Film Festival of India (IFFI), Goa. Saalam Bombay was screened there. But we didn’t have any conversation about my sagging career,” he adds.
He attributes his family for the stable life he is living now. He says that the air of momentary stardom or the sudden disappearance of it, never really rubbed on to them.
“To them, I am a bread-earner. Back then, I earned by acting, today I earn by driving an auto or working part time as a technician. I earn anyways. My ascent or descent doesn’t make much difference, thus,” says Shafiq. “All they want is to see me happy and I am happy with this job as a sound technician. My wife and children have watched Saalam Bombay, liked it and liked me in it. That satisfies me.”
He is candid in admitting that coping with anonymity got onto his nerves many a times, especially during the initial days as an auto driver in Bangalore. “Few passengers recognized me, very few though,” Shafiq sighs.
The trend
The likes of Shafiq nurture the anguish of failure behind a façade of tranquility. For Shafiq, series of setbacks has been a good teacher, good enough to make him pragmatic. Television crews lining up for an interview, to seek his opinion on Azhar and Rubina (two slum children who played central characters in the movie Slumdog Millionaire), doesn’t excite him anymore. “They are interested in my opinion on two children with a background almost similar to me. Just that. I know this won’t revamp my career in any way,” says Shafiq.
Shafiq is one among the many child actors who have faded in due course of time. Possibly a trend has been set with him, Sachin, Junaid Mehmood etc, which suggests child actors usually fails to make it big. “Probably because we had been stereotyped. The audience was not ready to accept the kids they had already seen running around naked on screen as a child, romancing,” he suggests.
According to Shafiq, there is a basic difference in the upbringing of child actors of then and now.
“They have education and are trained to handle success, attention and rejection. We were not. I am a victim of illiteracy, perhaps,” he says. “I pray not a single child meets my fate.”
However, the hang of a National Award still lingers as Shafiq says: “I don’t expect any preferential treatment from my crew. At times though, I feel I could have been better off than many who are making a living out of acting.”
Probable resurrection
“I want everyone to know my story.”
O. S. S. Entertainment Multimedia, a Mumbai-based production firm, had agreed to make a film based on his life. An informal deal was made almost a year ago. “I had recorded a voice clip of about four hours, detailing my life. They had promised me Rs. 15lac for the project. I had been to Mumbai three months back to sign the deal,” says Shafiq. As luck would have it, neither Vivek Shukla, the prospective director, nor Kanika Kapoor, C E O, O.S.S Entertainment, have responded to his calls since, Shafiq complains.
“Maybe they have started working on the script,” Shafiq anticipates with a possible hope of resurrection.
The words reeked of despondence, dejection, desperation, possibly every adverb with a negative flavor that begins with a ‘D’. I say reeked because the words come from a National Films Award winner who probably deserves a better deal than slipping into limbo from the volatile public memory that every artist dreads.
Shafiq Syed, at 37, is a sad shadow of the diligent Chaipau he played in Salaam Bombay (1988), a Mira Nair film, which was the second Indian film to make it to the Oscars, after Mother India (1957). In the 22 years that stands tall between Salaam Bombay and now, Shafiq have grown wider and bald, a paradigm shift from the lanky Chaipau. The only semblance with a 12-year-old destitute wandering the streets of Mumbai, is the benign smile stained with beetle tinged teeth.
The rise
I wonder whether Shafiq is yet another shooting star with a very short stay at the helm of affairs. A backward time travel in the history of Hindi cinema would reveal few names with similar fates. Some like Sachin Pilgaonkar could manage to hang around the sidelines. Many like Shafiq fades away while more like Sabina, Azhar and Darsheel Safary stand in queue, God forbid. “The need to earn drove me to Mumbai. It was me and three others who decided to go to Mumbai to make a career in acting,” says Shafiq, who admits being an ardent admirer of Govinda.
Homeless and foodless days followed until he was spotted by Dinaz Staffer, assistant director to Mira Nayar, who was casting for Salaam Bombay then. “I was promised Rs 20 per day plus food. The money did matter to me then. In addition, I would be meeting the likes of Nana Patekar. After a two month long workshop by Barry John, I was finally cast as Chaipau. They paid me Rs. 15, 000,” says Shafiq.
The role fetched him the National Award for the Best Child Artist actor in 1988. Patang (1993), a critically acclaimed film directed by Goutam Ghosh followed, where Shafiq shared screen space with Shabana Azmi. “Wahi pandra hazaar (The same Rs. 15, 000 once again),” says Shafiq.
“I was not in touch with my family for over a year then. I came back home, to Bangalore, to pay off my family’s debt,” he says. His family had changed base by then and it took him great pain to trace them.
“My parents were happy to see me back. They didn’t inquire much about the money and the fact that I was acting in cinema was not that exciting to them. Salaam Bombay was not a phenomenon then,” says Shafiq. Equations changed once the National Award happened. Like every poverty struck parent, Shafiq’s gathered some money to fan their National Award winning son’s career. Shafiq went back to Mumbai to act.
The fall
“I attempted suicide once by jumping into the Arabian Sea,” says Shafiq.
A six-month stay at Barry John’s place and futile rounds of production houses later, Shafiq had given up. Frustration of failure had driven him to commit suicide.
“I realized how insignificant the National Award was when it comes to securing roles. Everybody was sympathetic to me, than being professional. I approached the Saalam Bombay crew for work but everybody warded me off with snacks and some money,” Shafiq says. “Shahrukh Khan was staying with me then at Barry John’s place. Fauji was on air then,” he sighs, probably comparing the trajectory of his life with the superstar’s.
After a year’s stay at Delhi, Shafiq finally returned home rejected and dejected, to take up auto-rickshaw driving, which has been his profession for the last 17 years.
The Present
“I wish I was educated. Education is important. Had I been educated, I wouldn’t have been an auto driver,” says Shafiq, in between fixing the sound recording instrument at a set in Ravi Kiran estate, Bangalore. He works as a sound technician in a Kannada daily soap these days. Needless to say, Shafiq is glad to be somehow close to the buzz of ‘lights, camera, and action’—which is a welcome break from running errands across the city driving an auto. He hasn’t driven an auto for the last four months. “I had worked earlier with Jain studio while in Delhi. I learned the basics of sound recording there,” says Shafiq.
His prime concern is to educate his four children. He seems to have long forgone the lure of the silver screen to the extent of being nonchalant about losing his National Award certificate and medal. “I lost them in Kolkata way back,” Shafiq shrugs.
“I met Mira Nair last December in the International Film Festival of India (IFFI), Goa. Saalam Bombay was screened there. But we didn’t have any conversation about my sagging career,” he adds.
He attributes his family for the stable life he is living now. He says that the air of momentary stardom or the sudden disappearance of it, never really rubbed on to them.
“To them, I am a bread-earner. Back then, I earned by acting, today I earn by driving an auto or working part time as a technician. I earn anyways. My ascent or descent doesn’t make much difference, thus,” says Shafiq. “All they want is to see me happy and I am happy with this job as a sound technician. My wife and children have watched Saalam Bombay, liked it and liked me in it. That satisfies me.”
He is candid in admitting that coping with anonymity got onto his nerves many a times, especially during the initial days as an auto driver in Bangalore. “Few passengers recognized me, very few though,” Shafiq sighs.
The trend
The likes of Shafiq nurture the anguish of failure behind a façade of tranquility. For Shafiq, series of setbacks has been a good teacher, good enough to make him pragmatic. Television crews lining up for an interview, to seek his opinion on Azhar and Rubina (two slum children who played central characters in the movie Slumdog Millionaire), doesn’t excite him anymore. “They are interested in my opinion on two children with a background almost similar to me. Just that. I know this won’t revamp my career in any way,” says Shafiq.
Shafiq is one among the many child actors who have faded in due course of time. Possibly a trend has been set with him, Sachin, Junaid Mehmood etc, which suggests child actors usually fails to make it big. “Probably because we had been stereotyped. The audience was not ready to accept the kids they had already seen running around naked on screen as a child, romancing,” he suggests.
According to Shafiq, there is a basic difference in the upbringing of child actors of then and now.
“They have education and are trained to handle success, attention and rejection. We were not. I am a victim of illiteracy, perhaps,” he says. “I pray not a single child meets my fate.”
However, the hang of a National Award still lingers as Shafiq says: “I don’t expect any preferential treatment from my crew. At times though, I feel I could have been better off than many who are making a living out of acting.”
Probable resurrection
“I want everyone to know my story.”
O. S. S. Entertainment Multimedia, a Mumbai-based production firm, had agreed to make a film based on his life. An informal deal was made almost a year ago. “I had recorded a voice clip of about four hours, detailing my life. They had promised me Rs. 15lac for the project. I had been to Mumbai three months back to sign the deal,” says Shafiq. As luck would have it, neither Vivek Shukla, the prospective director, nor Kanika Kapoor, C E O, O.S.S Entertainment, have responded to his calls since, Shafiq complains.
“Maybe they have started working on the script,” Shafiq anticipates with a possible hope of resurrection.
Book review: The story of my assasins by Tarun Tejpal
When a journalist of the order of Tarun Tejpal takes to penning a book, his antagonists can not refrain from feeling a pang of threat, a threat of misdeeds being unveiled, dark secrets being divulged and so
on. The reader waits with bated breath to come home to potshots, scandals, tantalizing criticisms of policies or individuals, backlashes from ‘victims’ etc.
‘The story of my assassins’, on a similar note, promises a lot. However, Tejpal ducks every opportunity to turn heads with revelations. He resorts to taking mild potshots at the decadent journalists, who form the backbone of modern day journalism, activists going gung ho for defending those they believe to be wronged, driven by an urge to satiate their moral responsibilities than backing their beliefs with coherent arguments. Last but not the least, the queer Indian police, which has gracefully learned to function ineffectively in spite of the plethora of ire and mockery they have been subjected to from all quarters, remaining nonchalant to criticism all the way.
Tejpal narrates the story through a journalist, who finds himself at the centre of media attention and round the clock police protection, inadvertently, for being the prime target of a foiled assassination attempt (for the exposes he has conducted on various honchos in politics and business), claimed to be a brainchild of Pakistan backed terrorists, by the Indian government.
The reader will unfailingly empathize with the protagonist, who is seemingly trapped between foul bureaucracies in the work place, a dumb and beautiful wife ‘Dolly/Folly’ (as addressed by the protagonist)
back home, an intellectual lover Sara fond of obscenities who needs ‘….a dose of Vedanta to cleanse her head. Hindi abuse for the body; Hindu philosophy for the soul’: a gold digging, parasitic, self proclaimed best friend Jai, who can be as diverse as to quote Pablo Neruda to charm women and hurl abuses after downing few pegs of country liquor and a police inspector Hathi Ram, who is fascinated by ‘The Naked Lunch’ succumbing to the provocative title and not the content. So disdained is the protagonist with the hullabaloo around, that he seeks repose in ‘Guruji’, a religious preacher, a symbol of loosing confidence in self.
The book succeeds in captivating the audience right from the beginning. Narratives with a hint of ambiguity are hilarious, so are the conversations between characters with undertones of confrontations. Too many characters pop in between, new dimensions to the lead characters are unfurled, all to the comfort of the readers. The sub plots, revolving around Jai’s opportunistic endeavors in selling off a dying publication house at the expense of the protagonist’s newly earned fame, the monotony in domestication with ‘Dolly/ Folly’, violation of privacy by a bunch of bodyguards seemingly disinterested in their job and a beaming discord over their way of functioning with the protagonist, are fitted aptly in the story. Another aspect where Tejpal scores over his Indian contemporaries is the lucidity of language, making his second novel a pleasant read.
The success, as well as shortcoming of the book are the four chapters attributed to providing a background of the accused assassins, entwined with confrontations between the protagonist and Sara, the activist who believes in the innocence of the accused and takes up the onus of exonerating them before law with panache, as if she is on course to fulfilling a moral obligation.
With his infallible narrative, Tejpal creates a vivid image of the assassins, replete with their childhood, introduction and ascent in the profession of vandalism, even adding a spiritual dimension to the
characters as he deduces Chaku’s (one of the assassins) inference of the Gita: ‘of fearlessness and action and the legitimacy of violence’. Even from their monikers (Chaku, Chini, Kaliya, only exception being Kabir.M) the readers get a feel of them being hoodlums with all social ties renounced. All one can conceive are personifications of brutality.
Just as the reader climbs the crest of anticipation, making wild guesses at who might be the master mind of the plot which has thrown the protagonist’s life into disarray, or whether Sara was right in smelling foul in the set up or even a violent altercation between Sara and the protagonist over conflicting interests (in a patriarchal Indian society, a man inevitably finds it difficult to digest his woman supporting the cause of his opponents), a series of events are insinuated that unravels the mystery to the reader. An ending, which
can be safely presumed, will not cross one’s mind throughout the entire read, but sadly devoid of the impact it had promised to impart.
Overall, the book almost serves its purpose. It is humorous, it is a racy read and it takes potshots, successfully. Most importantly, it unveils a virtual nexus between the government and law enforcing
agencies which is capable enough to make a mountain of a mole or disrupt the normalcy in one’s life, for the vested interests of the powerful. It gives a reader a sense that policemen we accuse of being incompetent are mere pawns directed by bureaucrats, as Hathi Ram sighs, “….in our line of work, nine right and one wrong is wrong, but all ten wrong is right.” It is a compelling read if read, if not, not a loss.
on. The reader waits with bated breath to come home to potshots, scandals, tantalizing criticisms of policies or individuals, backlashes from ‘victims’ etc.
‘The story of my assassins’, on a similar note, promises a lot. However, Tejpal ducks every opportunity to turn heads with revelations. He resorts to taking mild potshots at the decadent journalists, who form the backbone of modern day journalism, activists going gung ho for defending those they believe to be wronged, driven by an urge to satiate their moral responsibilities than backing their beliefs with coherent arguments. Last but not the least, the queer Indian police, which has gracefully learned to function ineffectively in spite of the plethora of ire and mockery they have been subjected to from all quarters, remaining nonchalant to criticism all the way.
Tejpal narrates the story through a journalist, who finds himself at the centre of media attention and round the clock police protection, inadvertently, for being the prime target of a foiled assassination attempt (for the exposes he has conducted on various honchos in politics and business), claimed to be a brainchild of Pakistan backed terrorists, by the Indian government.
The reader will unfailingly empathize with the protagonist, who is seemingly trapped between foul bureaucracies in the work place, a dumb and beautiful wife ‘Dolly/Folly’ (as addressed by the protagonist)
back home, an intellectual lover Sara fond of obscenities who needs ‘….a dose of Vedanta to cleanse her head. Hindi abuse for the body; Hindu philosophy for the soul’: a gold digging, parasitic, self proclaimed best friend Jai, who can be as diverse as to quote Pablo Neruda to charm women and hurl abuses after downing few pegs of country liquor and a police inspector Hathi Ram, who is fascinated by ‘The Naked Lunch’ succumbing to the provocative title and not the content. So disdained is the protagonist with the hullabaloo around, that he seeks repose in ‘Guruji’, a religious preacher, a symbol of loosing confidence in self.
The book succeeds in captivating the audience right from the beginning. Narratives with a hint of ambiguity are hilarious, so are the conversations between characters with undertones of confrontations. Too many characters pop in between, new dimensions to the lead characters are unfurled, all to the comfort of the readers. The sub plots, revolving around Jai’s opportunistic endeavors in selling off a dying publication house at the expense of the protagonist’s newly earned fame, the monotony in domestication with ‘Dolly/ Folly’, violation of privacy by a bunch of bodyguards seemingly disinterested in their job and a beaming discord over their way of functioning with the protagonist, are fitted aptly in the story. Another aspect where Tejpal scores over his Indian contemporaries is the lucidity of language, making his second novel a pleasant read.
The success, as well as shortcoming of the book are the four chapters attributed to providing a background of the accused assassins, entwined with confrontations between the protagonist and Sara, the activist who believes in the innocence of the accused and takes up the onus of exonerating them before law with panache, as if she is on course to fulfilling a moral obligation.
With his infallible narrative, Tejpal creates a vivid image of the assassins, replete with their childhood, introduction and ascent in the profession of vandalism, even adding a spiritual dimension to the
characters as he deduces Chaku’s (one of the assassins) inference of the Gita: ‘of fearlessness and action and the legitimacy of violence’. Even from their monikers (Chaku, Chini, Kaliya, only exception being Kabir.M) the readers get a feel of them being hoodlums with all social ties renounced. All one can conceive are personifications of brutality.
Just as the reader climbs the crest of anticipation, making wild guesses at who might be the master mind of the plot which has thrown the protagonist’s life into disarray, or whether Sara was right in smelling foul in the set up or even a violent altercation between Sara and the protagonist over conflicting interests (in a patriarchal Indian society, a man inevitably finds it difficult to digest his woman supporting the cause of his opponents), a series of events are insinuated that unravels the mystery to the reader. An ending, which
can be safely presumed, will not cross one’s mind throughout the entire read, but sadly devoid of the impact it had promised to impart.
Overall, the book almost serves its purpose. It is humorous, it is a racy read and it takes potshots, successfully. Most importantly, it unveils a virtual nexus between the government and law enforcing
agencies which is capable enough to make a mountain of a mole or disrupt the normalcy in one’s life, for the vested interests of the powerful. It gives a reader a sense that policemen we accuse of being incompetent are mere pawns directed by bureaucrats, as Hathi Ram sighs, “….in our line of work, nine right and one wrong is wrong, but all ten wrong is right.” It is a compelling read if read, if not, not a loss.
In your face but out of your brain
God has many incarnations, human nature has many faces. So does poverty. Poverty which might be one’s companion day in and day out, poverty which might be a fleeting visual from a speeding four wheeler (even a two wheeler suffices), or even as one walks past the poverty stricken, occasionally mulling about their squalid existence.
An inebriated soul might find a reason or two to sympathize with the plight of the poor, so does a fistful of noble souls. I was neither of the two.
My streaks of poverty were confined to a wallet deserted by all but a single hundred rupee note, with seven days left for the month of my plight to get over. ‘Month of my plight’ needs clarification: mother was infallibly benevolent in such times of financial crisis. The aforementioned draught had hit me not more than thrice till then, because benevolence was not always affordable for maa (that is what I call mother).
Not that I was unmoved by the poverty around. But its scope was limited to fleeting thoughts, as mentioned earlier, which added to my melancholy, after spells of lambasting by mother after exam results were declared.
Durga puja is one festival where West Bengal is lit up, lamps illuminating the streets flooded with people dressed in their best attires. Every Bengali assumes the mantle of a prodigal, every prodigal philanders money to live up to their expectations. Bassanio’s (courtesy: Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare) impact on me was prominent, as I took great pleasure in splurging my pocket money whenever I could afford to.
That an early morning stroll in a drunken stupor, on one serene dawn during the festival, would make ‘spendthrift’ an obscenity to me, was beyond my comprehension.
As opined earlier, poverty has many faces. The face which introduced me to the plight of a poor, a homeless one at that, was that of a girl, asleep on the bare floor of a pavement, curled up in one corner of a pavement, presumably with her family. The girl in her teens did not have a face pretty enough to evoke sympathy, nor was she in any significant trouble (poverty in the form of hair, unwashed for days, clothes tainted with dirt which would now refuse to go even after a hot water wash, bare feet, etc are a common sight, not soul stirring anymore by the monotony of the its occurrence in a city inhabited by large number of pavement dwellers).
She was in a sound sleep. It might be out of the delight of enjoying a stomach full dinner after a while, or of tired bones exhausted after a day’s toil at work place. She was sleeping in serenity, oblivious of a white tinge on her forehead. A curious and close look revealed that the tint was feces of any bird, presumably crow, going by their prevalence in the city’s sky.
Until then, the misery in poverty was an unexplored territory to me. An unknown face, serenely asleep, was the least expected path to it. How miserable a life could be, one which has compromised the onuses of sleeping beneath the sky, without a roof in between, for the sake of a sound sleep. The miseries of the homeless, which, till then, had been confined to literature, were glaring straight at me.
I pitied her helplessness, pitying myself at the same time. Reality, at times, becomes too real to bear. Poverty had never been so real to me. No woman begging with a rickety child in her arms, no urchin running errands in a traffic signal, selling their petty merchandise, no child scouting through the contents of a road side waste bin for a morsel of food, had unsettled me the way a tinge on the fore head of a sleeping girl did. The miseries began to make more sense than what I had deduced from literature themed around poverty.
Misery became synonymous with poverty. I loathed Bassanio. I was wary of prodigals and spend thrifts. Money was no longer a commodity, but an asset. Poverty was no longer a thought provoking subject for a heart wrenching poetry, but a harsh reality staring straight into my eyes.
I wished to wipe the disturbing tinge off her forehead, but didn’t. I wished to place a hundred rupee note beside her head before walking past (the latter wish being inspired by noble philanthropists I had encountered in literature or even a benevolent hero of a Hindi cinema, whose prudence and benevolence draws applauds, in the form of whistles, from the audience). I refrained from fulfilling either of my two wishes because none would be worthy of acknowledging the misery in poverty.
An inebriated soul might find a reason or two to sympathize with the plight of the poor, so does a fistful of noble souls. I was neither of the two.
My streaks of poverty were confined to a wallet deserted by all but a single hundred rupee note, with seven days left for the month of my plight to get over. ‘Month of my plight’ needs clarification: mother was infallibly benevolent in such times of financial crisis. The aforementioned draught had hit me not more than thrice till then, because benevolence was not always affordable for maa (that is what I call mother).
Not that I was unmoved by the poverty around. But its scope was limited to fleeting thoughts, as mentioned earlier, which added to my melancholy, after spells of lambasting by mother after exam results were declared.
Durga puja is one festival where West Bengal is lit up, lamps illuminating the streets flooded with people dressed in their best attires. Every Bengali assumes the mantle of a prodigal, every prodigal philanders money to live up to their expectations. Bassanio’s (courtesy: Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare) impact on me was prominent, as I took great pleasure in splurging my pocket money whenever I could afford to.
That an early morning stroll in a drunken stupor, on one serene dawn during the festival, would make ‘spendthrift’ an obscenity to me, was beyond my comprehension.
As opined earlier, poverty has many faces. The face which introduced me to the plight of a poor, a homeless one at that, was that of a girl, asleep on the bare floor of a pavement, curled up in one corner of a pavement, presumably with her family. The girl in her teens did not have a face pretty enough to evoke sympathy, nor was she in any significant trouble (poverty in the form of hair, unwashed for days, clothes tainted with dirt which would now refuse to go even after a hot water wash, bare feet, etc are a common sight, not soul stirring anymore by the monotony of the its occurrence in a city inhabited by large number of pavement dwellers).
She was in a sound sleep. It might be out of the delight of enjoying a stomach full dinner after a while, or of tired bones exhausted after a day’s toil at work place. She was sleeping in serenity, oblivious of a white tinge on her forehead. A curious and close look revealed that the tint was feces of any bird, presumably crow, going by their prevalence in the city’s sky.
Until then, the misery in poverty was an unexplored territory to me. An unknown face, serenely asleep, was the least expected path to it. How miserable a life could be, one which has compromised the onuses of sleeping beneath the sky, without a roof in between, for the sake of a sound sleep. The miseries of the homeless, which, till then, had been confined to literature, were glaring straight at me.
I pitied her helplessness, pitying myself at the same time. Reality, at times, becomes too real to bear. Poverty had never been so real to me. No woman begging with a rickety child in her arms, no urchin running errands in a traffic signal, selling their petty merchandise, no child scouting through the contents of a road side waste bin for a morsel of food, had unsettled me the way a tinge on the fore head of a sleeping girl did. The miseries began to make more sense than what I had deduced from literature themed around poverty.
Misery became synonymous with poverty. I loathed Bassanio. I was wary of prodigals and spend thrifts. Money was no longer a commodity, but an asset. Poverty was no longer a thought provoking subject for a heart wrenching poetry, but a harsh reality staring straight into my eyes.
I wished to wipe the disturbing tinge off her forehead, but didn’t. I wished to place a hundred rupee note beside her head before walking past (the latter wish being inspired by noble philanthropists I had encountered in literature or even a benevolent hero of a Hindi cinema, whose prudence and benevolence draws applauds, in the form of whistles, from the audience). I refrained from fulfilling either of my two wishes because none would be worthy of acknowledging the misery in poverty.
The GREAT Bangalore Habba
Post liberalization, Bangalore has had a drastic change in its demography. The opening up of the constricted Indian market in the early 90s had marked the insinuation of several big names in the world trade set up camps in Bangalore. Especially, the information technology honchos. This called for enormous skilled and unskilled man power, coaxing thousands of Indian youths to migrate to the city. Not to mention hundreds of educational institutions, of varying capacity and capability, mushrooming in the city. To sum up, the denizens of Bangalore are a heterogeneous mix of cultures, faiths, practices etc.
Bangalore habba, an initiative of AFFA, has given the Bangaloreans (including the immigrants), an opportunity to have a comprehensive view of the cosmopolitan cultural of Bangalore. The audience has a wide array of performances to choose from. Thus, Bangalore habba is special in its diversity, as it caters to audience with distinct sensibilities. This is in concordance to Bangalore’s demography, where there are audiences for Kannada theatre, folk performances, arts exhibition, as well as rock bands. With a blend of indigenous and western arts, habba does not disappoint on content.
The habba highlights the democratic culture of Bangalore as well. One of the fore most cosmopolitan cities in India, often reeking with complaints from the immigrants about limited linguistic flexibility of the region (which is considerably low as compared to the orthodox Chennai), Bangalore gives its denizens a liberated cultural scenario which is a healthy concoction of western and regional influence. Thus, in addition to catering to a heterogeneous population which is a result of liberalization, the Bangalore habba also showcases different facets of Bangalore culture. It proves that Bangalore has an audience for the diversity on offer.
The event remains true to its motive of highlighting the cultural diversity of Bangalore as it offers a free entry to the audience, thus liberating a willing audience of economic constraints and provides emerging talents a platform to showcase themselves, all the while. This can be attributed to the sponsorship by few of the fattest purses in the corporate world. It can be safely presumed that the big money it has drawn in, from the likes of Airtel, Tanishq, Black Dog, ONGC etc, is an outcome of liberalization. With more business and an increase in revenue garnered, the corporate are now capable of pumping money into such events, the events getting bigger and better in the process. This is a glaring example of liberalization’s contribution to the habba.
The event justifies the corporate image of Bangalore as well. The selection of venues, which ranges from the UB city auditorium, the Mantri mall, to the Palace grounds, complements the kind of events at the respective places. With events like crafts mela, the habba has commerce as an integral constituent. Association of big brands, with the main sponsor Airtel having around 200 words dedicated to the company profile in the official Bangalore habba website, showcases the event as a platform for advertisement and promotion as well, justifying the corporate flavor of the city.
Thus, the Bangalore habba, replete with the indigenous earthiness and cosmopolitan polish, provides a platform to showcase the diversity and flexibility of Bangalore’s culture with efficacy.
Bangalore habba, an initiative of AFFA, has given the Bangaloreans (including the immigrants), an opportunity to have a comprehensive view of the cosmopolitan cultural of Bangalore. The audience has a wide array of performances to choose from. Thus, Bangalore habba is special in its diversity, as it caters to audience with distinct sensibilities. This is in concordance to Bangalore’s demography, where there are audiences for Kannada theatre, folk performances, arts exhibition, as well as rock bands. With a blend of indigenous and western arts, habba does not disappoint on content.
The habba highlights the democratic culture of Bangalore as well. One of the fore most cosmopolitan cities in India, often reeking with complaints from the immigrants about limited linguistic flexibility of the region (which is considerably low as compared to the orthodox Chennai), Bangalore gives its denizens a liberated cultural scenario which is a healthy concoction of western and regional influence. Thus, in addition to catering to a heterogeneous population which is a result of liberalization, the Bangalore habba also showcases different facets of Bangalore culture. It proves that Bangalore has an audience for the diversity on offer.
The event remains true to its motive of highlighting the cultural diversity of Bangalore as it offers a free entry to the audience, thus liberating a willing audience of economic constraints and provides emerging talents a platform to showcase themselves, all the while. This can be attributed to the sponsorship by few of the fattest purses in the corporate world. It can be safely presumed that the big money it has drawn in, from the likes of Airtel, Tanishq, Black Dog, ONGC etc, is an outcome of liberalization. With more business and an increase in revenue garnered, the corporate are now capable of pumping money into such events, the events getting bigger and better in the process. This is a glaring example of liberalization’s contribution to the habba.
The event justifies the corporate image of Bangalore as well. The selection of venues, which ranges from the UB city auditorium, the Mantri mall, to the Palace grounds, complements the kind of events at the respective places. With events like crafts mela, the habba has commerce as an integral constituent. Association of big brands, with the main sponsor Airtel having around 200 words dedicated to the company profile in the official Bangalore habba website, showcases the event as a platform for advertisement and promotion as well, justifying the corporate flavor of the city.
Thus, the Bangalore habba, replete with the indigenous earthiness and cosmopolitan polish, provides a platform to showcase the diversity and flexibility of Bangalore’s culture with efficacy.
26th Jan, the day of depravity
“Holy shit,” the expression that followed the oxymoron was one of overflowing urgency and panic; as if Deepak got to know he had mathematics test that day and not Physics, one which he had slogged the previous night on.
The urgency was to acquire “some booze”, the panic was the fear of alienation from his daily quota of booze. All because the government of India expects the revered denizens of the state to refrain from alcohol on 26th January, to commemorate Republic day.
Evidently, Deepak and his acolytes do not endorse the idea of a dry day. Unfortunately, they represent a considerable chunk of Indian youth with similar opinion.
Inviting the Indonesian prime minister, Sutan Sjahrir, will probably contribute to the fostering of friendly ties between the two countries; Sonia Gandhi’s absence in the president’s tea party, or Yedurappa and his acolytes giving the Governor’s tea party a cold shoulder, might have provided enough fodder for media speculation.
However, Indian government needs to pull its socks to address the grievances of Deepak and likes, for whom a republic day or an independence day is another coveted break from work. It is disheartening to know that, while patriotic forums in social networks are abuzz with jingoism, Deepak rues over non availability of alcohol. Those who don’t, keep mum at the prospect of a holiday, whatever reason it might be for. What is the purpose of imposing a dry day when liquor shops grab this opportunity to relieve the desperate customers of a few extra bucks against a bottle of whiskey, evading police vigilance (not to undermine the prospect of a nexus between the police and the shop keeper). So drop the idea of a dry day as it garners black money for a black soul.
Let us focus on the institutions where ‘ignited minds’ of the nation are manufactured. A republic day celebration is an integral part of any school’s schedule, where students are expected to be present and participate, ideally. However, teachers, over the years, have learnt to take the despondence over low turnout in their stride. The republic day celebration is confined to the unfortunate NCC guys performing the ritual of a parade, preceded by the customary national anthem. I am not sure whether they envy their classmates who enjoy the cozy winter sun with hot coffee, while they toil it on the ground. So leave the onus of celebrating republic day on the central and state governments and allow all the children a sound morning sleep, so that they at least appreciate the republic day.
Viewership of movies like Krantiveer and Border, patriotic movies which have become a permanent part of the platter served by television channels on republic day, far exceeds that of the live telecast of republic day parade from Red Fort, Delhi. Why don’t BJP confront the government to produce couple of movies on Indian independence, starring a Shahrukh Khan or a Madhuri Dixit, organize free and compulsory screenings in schools and colleges, rather than forcing their way to Lal Chowk to hoist the tricolor and antagonize the Congress? Thus, before 26th January dawns next year, number of youth cribbing about non availability of alcohol or compulsory attendance in school might take a downward plunge, out of respect for the Ambedkars and Bhagat Singhs and Subhash Boses.
The urgency was to acquire “some booze”, the panic was the fear of alienation from his daily quota of booze. All because the government of India expects the revered denizens of the state to refrain from alcohol on 26th January, to commemorate Republic day.
Evidently, Deepak and his acolytes do not endorse the idea of a dry day. Unfortunately, they represent a considerable chunk of Indian youth with similar opinion.
Inviting the Indonesian prime minister, Sutan Sjahrir, will probably contribute to the fostering of friendly ties between the two countries; Sonia Gandhi’s absence in the president’s tea party, or Yedurappa and his acolytes giving the Governor’s tea party a cold shoulder, might have provided enough fodder for media speculation.
However, Indian government needs to pull its socks to address the grievances of Deepak and likes, for whom a republic day or an independence day is another coveted break from work. It is disheartening to know that, while patriotic forums in social networks are abuzz with jingoism, Deepak rues over non availability of alcohol. Those who don’t, keep mum at the prospect of a holiday, whatever reason it might be for. What is the purpose of imposing a dry day when liquor shops grab this opportunity to relieve the desperate customers of a few extra bucks against a bottle of whiskey, evading police vigilance (not to undermine the prospect of a nexus between the police and the shop keeper). So drop the idea of a dry day as it garners black money for a black soul.
Let us focus on the institutions where ‘ignited minds’ of the nation are manufactured. A republic day celebration is an integral part of any school’s schedule, where students are expected to be present and participate, ideally. However, teachers, over the years, have learnt to take the despondence over low turnout in their stride. The republic day celebration is confined to the unfortunate NCC guys performing the ritual of a parade, preceded by the customary national anthem. I am not sure whether they envy their classmates who enjoy the cozy winter sun with hot coffee, while they toil it on the ground. So leave the onus of celebrating republic day on the central and state governments and allow all the children a sound morning sleep, so that they at least appreciate the republic day.
Viewership of movies like Krantiveer and Border, patriotic movies which have become a permanent part of the platter served by television channels on republic day, far exceeds that of the live telecast of republic day parade from Red Fort, Delhi. Why don’t BJP confront the government to produce couple of movies on Indian independence, starring a Shahrukh Khan or a Madhuri Dixit, organize free and compulsory screenings in schools and colleges, rather than forcing their way to Lal Chowk to hoist the tricolor and antagonize the Congress? Thus, before 26th January dawns next year, number of youth cribbing about non availability of alcohol or compulsory attendance in school might take a downward plunge, out of respect for the Ambedkars and Bhagat Singhs and Subhash Boses.
caste caste caste
India has been hailed as a land of unity in diversity for long. However, how unified India actually is, can be put under scanner, as caste based pogroms hog the lime light every other day. Be it a macro or a micro analysis, one is bound to agree that caste distinction is prevalent in India, irrespective of rural or urban, only that some embrace it while others claim to discard the tenets of caste.
Politics in India has chosen to remain interwoven with the call of caste. That Bihar has woken up to the lure of development in the forthcoming election is worth attracting raised eye brows. However, an insight into the pattern of candidate deployment and promises to voters reveal that caste might not be the trump card in securing votes any longer, but it is still a prime constraint which voters keep in mind. On one hand, Nitish Kumar is banking on the Extreme Backward classes and the Mahadalits, apart from Kurmis, Koeris, upper castes and Muslims. Lalu Prasad and Paswan are coaxing Yadavs, Muslims and Paswans to stand by them.
This is not a novelty in Bihar which bears the stigma of several caste based discriminations. The trend shows that the self proclaimed upper or privileged classes, with the tenets of Manu as a support to their agenda, are unabashed in using the services of lower castes, discarding them when the need gets over. This need based acceptance of the lower caste forces us to reconsider the hypocrisy and futility of caste distinctions in the country. As an example, one can cite a mid wife in Jamui, Bihar, who presides over every birth in the village, irrespective of caste, but still deprived of an invitation in social gatherings hosted by the upper castes. The same applies to the Doms in Jhaja, who dispose dead bodies off railway tracks and clean human excreta; still railways have been apathetic in imbibing them in its payroll. The crux is, the lower castes play a substantial role at life and death, only to be hypocritically discarded in the interim period.
Disparity in society is not an alien to South India as well. Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and Kerala are states practicing caste distinctions in full throttle. In Madurai, Tamil Nadu, lower caste people are expected to walk barefoot in upper caste localities. Even in Kerala, the Indian state with highest literacy rate, caste distinction prevails.
Gujarat is a striving centre for caste distinction where malice has corroded the souls of school children as well. While Bhangis (Dalits) are forbidden from travelling in chakkads (tempos) in Bhavnagar, Gujrat, Dalit girls are forced with the onus of maintaining sanitation of school wash rooms. Pouring 20 buckets of water daily to clean up the mess is no nondescript job for the 15 year olds. Several students have preferred to drop out of school to save themselves from such plights.
Such throbbing instances show that development is yet to over ride caste. Inclusion of caste in census, touted to be a revolutionary move, will have an important role to play in changing India’s mindset. On one hand it will enlighten us about numerous unrecognized classes striving for recognition and benefits, enlisting those castes which have benefitted immensely from various reservations implemented by the government at the same time. It has been aptly stated by Bhanwar Meghwanshi in his article in the Hindu that more than enlisting castes in the census, under pretext of uplifting social standards of those deprived, measures to eradicate the evil would be more apt. The ruckus created over inclusion of caste in the census, possibly because concerned persons are worried about its implications in their own ways, shows that caste has not gone down many places in our list of priorities.
The trouble lies in the loss of self respect in the down trodden. They are so accustomed in their squalid existence that they have started accepting the step child like as a custom. In Gujarat, Dalits are glad to accept Prasad from the higher castes directly, overlooking that they are not entitled to set their foot inside the temple premises. According to the documentary, India Untouched, a manager of Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation, a harijan, still refuses to be seated on the same platform with a higher caste person, even if offered a seat. Unless they find comfort in asserting their caste with pride, averting the perils of caste distinction is an improbable feat to achieve.
Not only Hinduism is a partisan to such practices. Castes are equally prevalent among Muslims, Sikhs and Christians, implementation of Islam being a tad bit lenient as it allows every Muslim to pray in the same mosque, unlike Christians and Hindus who often have separate temples to offer prayers, biased by caste hierarchy.
Government might have undertaken measures to dispense off the miseries of low caste. However, whether the aid reaches the targeted beneficiaries, unfortunately, depends on what class and caste they belong to. It is imperative to say that it is required to banish the caste distinction from our mind, to inculcate the mentality to realize that the so called low castes are entitled to social security and welfare schemes, at par with higher castes.
Politics in India has chosen to remain interwoven with the call of caste. That Bihar has woken up to the lure of development in the forthcoming election is worth attracting raised eye brows. However, an insight into the pattern of candidate deployment and promises to voters reveal that caste might not be the trump card in securing votes any longer, but it is still a prime constraint which voters keep in mind. On one hand, Nitish Kumar is banking on the Extreme Backward classes and the Mahadalits, apart from Kurmis, Koeris, upper castes and Muslims. Lalu Prasad and Paswan are coaxing Yadavs, Muslims and Paswans to stand by them.
This is not a novelty in Bihar which bears the stigma of several caste based discriminations. The trend shows that the self proclaimed upper or privileged classes, with the tenets of Manu as a support to their agenda, are unabashed in using the services of lower castes, discarding them when the need gets over. This need based acceptance of the lower caste forces us to reconsider the hypocrisy and futility of caste distinctions in the country. As an example, one can cite a mid wife in Jamui, Bihar, who presides over every birth in the village, irrespective of caste, but still deprived of an invitation in social gatherings hosted by the upper castes. The same applies to the Doms in Jhaja, who dispose dead bodies off railway tracks and clean human excreta; still railways have been apathetic in imbibing them in its payroll. The crux is, the lower castes play a substantial role at life and death, only to be hypocritically discarded in the interim period.
Disparity in society is not an alien to South India as well. Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and Kerala are states practicing caste distinctions in full throttle. In Madurai, Tamil Nadu, lower caste people are expected to walk barefoot in upper caste localities. Even in Kerala, the Indian state with highest literacy rate, caste distinction prevails.
Gujarat is a striving centre for caste distinction where malice has corroded the souls of school children as well. While Bhangis (Dalits) are forbidden from travelling in chakkads (tempos) in Bhavnagar, Gujrat, Dalit girls are forced with the onus of maintaining sanitation of school wash rooms. Pouring 20 buckets of water daily to clean up the mess is no nondescript job for the 15 year olds. Several students have preferred to drop out of school to save themselves from such plights.
Such throbbing instances show that development is yet to over ride caste. Inclusion of caste in census, touted to be a revolutionary move, will have an important role to play in changing India’s mindset. On one hand it will enlighten us about numerous unrecognized classes striving for recognition and benefits, enlisting those castes which have benefitted immensely from various reservations implemented by the government at the same time. It has been aptly stated by Bhanwar Meghwanshi in his article in the Hindu that more than enlisting castes in the census, under pretext of uplifting social standards of those deprived, measures to eradicate the evil would be more apt. The ruckus created over inclusion of caste in the census, possibly because concerned persons are worried about its implications in their own ways, shows that caste has not gone down many places in our list of priorities.
The trouble lies in the loss of self respect in the down trodden. They are so accustomed in their squalid existence that they have started accepting the step child like as a custom. In Gujarat, Dalits are glad to accept Prasad from the higher castes directly, overlooking that they are not entitled to set their foot inside the temple premises. According to the documentary, India Untouched, a manager of Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation, a harijan, still refuses to be seated on the same platform with a higher caste person, even if offered a seat. Unless they find comfort in asserting their caste with pride, averting the perils of caste distinction is an improbable feat to achieve.
Not only Hinduism is a partisan to such practices. Castes are equally prevalent among Muslims, Sikhs and Christians, implementation of Islam being a tad bit lenient as it allows every Muslim to pray in the same mosque, unlike Christians and Hindus who often have separate temples to offer prayers, biased by caste hierarchy.
Government might have undertaken measures to dispense off the miseries of low caste. However, whether the aid reaches the targeted beneficiaries, unfortunately, depends on what class and caste they belong to. It is imperative to say that it is required to banish the caste distinction from our mind, to inculcate the mentality to realize that the so called low castes are entitled to social security and welfare schemes, at par with higher castes.
All blood, all gore
MOVIE REVIEW: RAKTA CHARITRA
Word of caution: If nausea grips you at the sight of a beheaded and blood bathed chicken, Rakta Charitra is not your cup of tea.
Ram Gopal Verma has always excelled in highlighting the nitty-gritty of the underworld, be it Satya or Company. However, Rakta Charitra falls short of attaining the realism of the aforementioned master pieces by Verma by miles.
His current fascination for red is bound to get to the audience’s nerves inadvertently, courtesy Rakta Charitra. Here, revenge is personified by lacerated and moaning victims, the victor standing by, holding the weapon, eyes gleaming with a pervert desire to kill more.
As with every Ram Gopal Verma movie, the antagonist to the law is the protagonist. Bubka Reddy, portrayed by Abhimanyu Singh, who had earlier shone in Gulal, can be safely concluded as the best choice of character. Portraying a character who is a scrooge in spending words (other than his romps with damsels where he vows to avenge his father’s assassination), alcoholic, sexholic, beastly, vicious, and all other adjectives worth attributing to a man personifying a beast’s incarnation, Abhimanyu excels.
Vivek Oberoi is pale in comparison. Beyond doubt, Oberoi has mastered the art of portraying grey characters, at times black even. However, the wronged character of Ravi Pratap, bereaved by the loss of his family, set out to avenge the loss, is overshadowed by the maniacal Bubka’s might. Oberoi tries his best in spite of looking queer in a double barrel moustache, but failed to rise above the mediocrity of the script.
A major drawback of the movie is that several characters are nipped off in the bud as soon as they start to bloom, be it the fugitive leader of Naxals played by Sushant Singh or the seemingly fearless police officer played by Ashwini Kalsekar, both perishing before Bubka. Similar treatment was meted to Bubka, as he dies a chicken’s death. Such irreverent treatment after raising him to the pedestal of a fear invoking lead character might be considered unjust by many viewers.
Technically, Verma has always been almost impeccable, however sad the script might be. Rakta Charitra is no exception. If you do not object to the diet of blood and gore, maniacs and scheming politicians, rest assured that yawns would maintain a safe distance from you, thanks to the editing. Equally good is the cinematography.
The back ground score and title song calls for a pat in the back. They are two prime contributors in setting the mood of the movie. Though loud at times (subjected to discretion), the back ground score acts as a spice to the murder and vengeance curry which the movie supposedly purports to offer. The title song sounds to be a summary of the movie’s motif.
Rakta Charitra is very much watchable, may not be with girl friend or siblings younger than ten. However, a gang of sanguine bloods is obvious to revel during the screening. It is time for Verma to feel satiated with underworld tales of blood and gore and offer his audience variety, lest he wants to avert oblivion. This piece of cinema might be remembered as an attempt at emulating Tarantino and his portrayal of violent histrionics on screen, however, larger than life projection marring the game for Verma this time.
Word of caution: If nausea grips you at the sight of a beheaded and blood bathed chicken, Rakta Charitra is not your cup of tea.
Ram Gopal Verma has always excelled in highlighting the nitty-gritty of the underworld, be it Satya or Company. However, Rakta Charitra falls short of attaining the realism of the aforementioned master pieces by Verma by miles.
His current fascination for red is bound to get to the audience’s nerves inadvertently, courtesy Rakta Charitra. Here, revenge is personified by lacerated and moaning victims, the victor standing by, holding the weapon, eyes gleaming with a pervert desire to kill more.
As with every Ram Gopal Verma movie, the antagonist to the law is the protagonist. Bubka Reddy, portrayed by Abhimanyu Singh, who had earlier shone in Gulal, can be safely concluded as the best choice of character. Portraying a character who is a scrooge in spending words (other than his romps with damsels where he vows to avenge his father’s assassination), alcoholic, sexholic, beastly, vicious, and all other adjectives worth attributing to a man personifying a beast’s incarnation, Abhimanyu excels.
Vivek Oberoi is pale in comparison. Beyond doubt, Oberoi has mastered the art of portraying grey characters, at times black even. However, the wronged character of Ravi Pratap, bereaved by the loss of his family, set out to avenge the loss, is overshadowed by the maniacal Bubka’s might. Oberoi tries his best in spite of looking queer in a double barrel moustache, but failed to rise above the mediocrity of the script.
A major drawback of the movie is that several characters are nipped off in the bud as soon as they start to bloom, be it the fugitive leader of Naxals played by Sushant Singh or the seemingly fearless police officer played by Ashwini Kalsekar, both perishing before Bubka. Similar treatment was meted to Bubka, as he dies a chicken’s death. Such irreverent treatment after raising him to the pedestal of a fear invoking lead character might be considered unjust by many viewers.
Technically, Verma has always been almost impeccable, however sad the script might be. Rakta Charitra is no exception. If you do not object to the diet of blood and gore, maniacs and scheming politicians, rest assured that yawns would maintain a safe distance from you, thanks to the editing. Equally good is the cinematography.
The back ground score and title song calls for a pat in the back. They are two prime contributors in setting the mood of the movie. Though loud at times (subjected to discretion), the back ground score acts as a spice to the murder and vengeance curry which the movie supposedly purports to offer. The title song sounds to be a summary of the movie’s motif.
Rakta Charitra is very much watchable, may not be with girl friend or siblings younger than ten. However, a gang of sanguine bloods is obvious to revel during the screening. It is time for Verma to feel satiated with underworld tales of blood and gore and offer his audience variety, lest he wants to avert oblivion. This piece of cinema might be remembered as an attempt at emulating Tarantino and his portrayal of violent histrionics on screen, however, larger than life projection marring the game for Verma this time.
Word of caution: If nausea grips you at the sight of a beheaded and blood bathed chicken, Rakta Charitra is not your cup of tea.
Ram Gopal Verma has always excelled in highlighting the nitty-gritty of the underworld, be it Satya or Company. However, Rakta Charitra falls short of attaining the realism of the aforementioned master pieces by Verma by miles.
His current fascination for red is bound to get to the audience’s nerves inadvertently, courtesy Rakta Charitra. Here, revenge is personified by lacerated and moaning victims, the victor standing by, holding the weapon, eyes gleaming with a pervert desire to kill more.
As with every Ram Gopal Verma movie, the antagonist to the law is the protagonist. Bubka Reddy, portrayed by Abhimanyu Singh, who had earlier shone in Gulal, can be safely concluded as the best choice of character. Portraying a character who is a scrooge in spending words (other than his romps with damsels where he vows to avenge his father’s assassination), alcoholic, sexholic, beastly, vicious, and all other adjectives worth attributing to a man personifying a beast’s incarnation, Abhimanyu excels.
Vivek Oberoi is pale in comparison. Beyond doubt, Oberoi has mastered the art of portraying grey characters, at times black even. However, the wronged character of Ravi Pratap, bereaved by the loss of his family, set out to avenge the loss, is overshadowed by the maniacal Bubka’s might. Oberoi tries his best in spite of looking queer in a double barrel moustache, but failed to rise above the mediocrity of the script.
A major drawback of the movie is that several characters are nipped off in the bud as soon as they start to bloom, be it the fugitive leader of Naxals played by Sushant Singh or the seemingly fearless police officer played by Ashwini Kalsekar, both perishing before Bubka. Similar treatment was meted to Bubka, as he dies a chicken’s death. Such irreverent treatment after raising him to the pedestal of a fear invoking lead character might be considered unjust by many viewers.
Technically, Verma has always been almost impeccable, however sad the script might be. Rakta Charitra is no exception. If you do not object to the diet of blood and gore, maniacs and scheming politicians, rest assured that yawns would maintain a safe distance from you, thanks to the editing. Equally good is the cinematography.
The back ground score and title song calls for a pat in the back. They are two prime contributors in setting the mood of the movie. Though loud at times (subjected to discretion), the back ground score acts as a spice to the murder and vengeance curry which the movie supposedly purports to offer. The title song sounds to be a summary of the movie’s motif.
Rakta Charitra is very much watchable, may not be with girl friend or siblings younger than ten. However, a gang of sanguine bloods is obvious to revel during the screening. It is time for Verma to feel satiated with underworld tales of blood and gore and offer his audience variety, lest he wants to avert oblivion. This piece of cinema might be remembered as an attempt at emulating Tarantino and his portrayal of violent histrionics on screen, however, larger than life projection marring the game for Verma this time.
Word of caution: If nausea grips you at the sight of a beheaded and blood bathed chicken, Rakta Charitra is not your cup of tea.
Ram Gopal Verma has always excelled in highlighting the nitty-gritty of the underworld, be it Satya or Company. However, Rakta Charitra falls short of attaining the realism of the aforementioned master pieces by Verma by miles.
His current fascination for red is bound to get to the audience’s nerves inadvertently, courtesy Rakta Charitra. Here, revenge is personified by lacerated and moaning victims, the victor standing by, holding the weapon, eyes gleaming with a pervert desire to kill more.
As with every Ram Gopal Verma movie, the antagonist to the law is the protagonist. Bubka Reddy, portrayed by Abhimanyu Singh, who had earlier shone in Gulal, can be safely concluded as the best choice of character. Portraying a character who is a scrooge in spending words (other than his romps with damsels where he vows to avenge his father’s assassination), alcoholic, sexholic, beastly, vicious, and all other adjectives worth attributing to a man personifying a beast’s incarnation, Abhimanyu excels.
Vivek Oberoi is pale in comparison. Beyond doubt, Oberoi has mastered the art of portraying grey characters, at times black even. However, the wronged character of Ravi Pratap, bereaved by the loss of his family, set out to avenge the loss, is overshadowed by the maniacal Bubka’s might. Oberoi tries his best in spite of looking queer in a double barrel moustache, but failed to rise above the mediocrity of the script.
A major drawback of the movie is that several characters are nipped off in the bud as soon as they start to bloom, be it the fugitive leader of Naxals played by Sushant Singh or the seemingly fearless police officer played by Ashwini Kalsekar, both perishing before Bubka. Similar treatment was meted to Bubka, as he dies a chicken’s death. Such irreverent treatment after raising him to the pedestal of a fear invoking lead character might be considered unjust by many viewers.
Technically, Verma has always been almost impeccable, however sad the script might be. Rakta Charitra is no exception. If you do not object to the diet of blood and gore, maniacs and scheming politicians, rest assured that yawns would maintain a safe distance from you, thanks to the editing. Equally good is the cinematography.
The back ground score and title song calls for a pat in the back. They are two prime contributors in setting the mood of the movie. Though loud at times (subjected to discretion), the back ground score acts as a spice to the murder and vengeance curry which the movie supposedly purports to offer. The title song sounds to be a summary of the movie’s motif.
Rakta Charitra is very much watchable, may not be with girl friend or siblings younger than ten. However, a gang of sanguine bloods is obvious to revel during the screening. It is time for Verma to feel satiated with underworld tales of blood and gore and offer his audience variety, lest he wants to avert oblivion. This piece of cinema might be remembered as an attempt at emulating Tarantino and his portrayal of violent histrionics on screen, however, larger than life projection marring the game for Verma this time.
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