A 'Chest' of memories

Yodeling, screeching, slipping and sliding, I was born two years and two days after my parents' act at the altar midst a three ring circus of the religious, silk-clad relatives and the hamlet's who's who. Amma says I was born on Maundy Thursday (No! That's not directly or inversely proportional to my spirituality) at a hospital in Cherthala. An actress died in a car accident at the hospital bend. After a few drops of water from a steel tumbler held out by Lily Aunty (the tumbler shares glory with my first toothbrush, first spoon, pair of shoes and all that jazz in a showcase at home), I was wrapped in 'swaddling' clothes and taken home to make a family complete.

I knew no mattress as an infant for my Appa's hairy chest lent me all the comfort in my baby world and the melody of two heartbeats sang me a loving lullaby. This nightly tryst with my truly warm bedding makes for my first definition of feeling at peace, of feeling at home.

A hairy chest! Urggh! I'd scream and scoot the scene in a jiffy were I a 21 year old then but in my years of vulnerability as a suckling, it was my blanket from the world. Handled and fed by maidservants who came and went like night and day, I yearned for the "phat-phat" of the scooter that signaled Appa's arrival. A few sounds of water running in the shower later, I would be greeted by the fragrant embrace of Cinthol and Cuticura and a bearded cheek pressed against my "Johnson Baby" one before I was allowed to straddle my favorite bed.

I've slept the best on my Appa's chest and it is probably the only bed that fit me perfectly (my short stature allows for plenty of boot space on the present one). I did not have to worry about drawing back the covers or smoothening the wrinkles for it always offered me the perfect welcome. I toss and turn on hardwood bed today but a few fleeting seconds with Appa and my baby self found itself dreaming of cherubs and all things angelic (folklore has it that babies smile in their sleep when they dream of angels)

Well, I have gained years now and there will never be another chance at the pristine happiness on Appa's chest. He still celebrates his hairy splendor (and looks down on metrosexual men baring smooth chests) for it more than makes up for the lack of crowing glory atop his head.

And I, I celebrate the chest that blessed me with warmth, blanketed me in love, shielded me from mosquitoes (there is no Big Bad World when you are an infant) and rocked me to a lullaby that promised me the world.

G for Gandu - In retrospective

Dubiety, awakening, catechism, exhilaration, emancipation, illusion – this is no rhyme for any reason but this gamut defines the riff raff of Gandu – The Asshole as it pays raffish homage to the free-spirited, the existentialist ( Are you listening Nietszche and Kierkegaard!) and screams non-conformist.

Quashik Mukherjee, aka Q, weaves the story of two no-hopers, Gandu (Anubrata) - the self-proclaimed ‘next-big-thing’ to hit rap and Ricksha (Joyraj) – a Bruce Lee devotee, suffocating in a rickshaw puller’s garb, against the moral and societal fabric of archetypal Kolkata. An accidental collision and the two begin their rides (What perversity! We are (not) talking sex here) fuelled by drugs, debauchery, larceny and the occasional hallucination.

With full-frontal sex scenes, excessive on detailing, the film attacks the pseudo nature of Indian sexuality and morality, which climaxes in a dingy room and 5x5 cubicles but looks at its ugly toes or squirms in its seat when the same is addressed in open. While the Occidental venerates India as the land of Kamasutra, (This will be the only mention) shame shrouds the Indian sensibility but Q and the Five Little Indians beg to differ through their thrash metal Bengali rap music that is an ‘overdose joint’ of unabashed voluptuous lyrics.

Though the music is often cacophonous, it does not call for a willing suspension of disbelief and does not meander through snowy mountains and multi-hued gardens thankfully. Breaking the dogma of filmmaking is the exchange of the beginning-rising action-conflict-resolution-climax (there’s plenty of it alone) routine for an erratic and erotic timeline that resonates with the shiftless and devil-may-care attitude of the protagonist.

Shot by a camera that appears to have a mind of its own, the jittery visuals project the angst of a generation on edge and earn no laurels technically but serve the larger purpose of storytelling. Black and white dominate the narrative as the story of the nameless underdogs unspools with Gandu’s romp with Rii (the hooker) adding the only colour to his life and our screens.

With the odd penny to Goddess Durga, a fleeting shot of the Hooghly and ample servings of Bengali poetry and egg chowmein, Q adds local flavour to the reel but the non-Bengali is flummoxed with the barrage of an alien language and subtitles don’t do justice. This one will make you love thy Bong neighbour!

Calling a spade a spade, Gandu’s fare of hardcore porn (delightful propaganda) is difficult to digest but talking about destroying the conditioning and sexual hypocrisy, shock value does the trick. If the purpose of Q’s experiment with paradigm shift and abstinence from self-censorship was to tell an honest story, kudos to the cast for pulling out all the stops to make this one anything but a ‘losing’ affair. Though Gandu, the word and the character, are pariahs, the film legitimizes and acknowledges the existence of Gandu in each one of us. Gandu is no one yet he is every one.

Give Gandu a chance but leave the kiddies, the nannies, the puppies and more importantly, your inhibitions behind.

(Image courtesy : torrent.dl4all.com)

Light the Dark

A pulsing flame, a throbbing life

Fight the wage of darkness.

My soul - a martyr at the pyre.

PROLOGUE

No time to read and write - may not be a befitting title for a blog (meant to be written and be read. No pretensions there!) but it suits my sole (read soul) need to create and make subtle attempts at thunderous applause and blinding spotlights (I was taught lying is a sin. Yes, I like making it to the Top 100s of search engine results!) by posting out loud and letting the World Wide Web know that they got something coming up their alley, rather server pathways.

No time to read and write - honestly, YES! Time is proving to a high maintenance lover and I see less and less of him (gender specific and to all the feminists - I'm no male chauvinist! Peace \m/). Therefore, posts will appear in their bare minimum, no pun intended, and may often make guest appearances.

No time to read and write - let alone browse through heaps of resources and find something to pass off as one's own. No takers for plagiarism and let's kill that doubt - the photographs are products of great calculations of ISO, aperture and shutter speed as shot by my lens. No, no one was injured or killed in the process!

No time to read and write - there is no holy hour devoted to reading and writing. The world of words is an open house and offers no closed doors. It lays down no hollow rules, wears no facades, passes no judgment, holds no expectations and therefore, to each his own meaning.

I write that it may be become a rite that seeks to find the right.