Indian cinema is synonymous with Bollywood. That’s like saying European cinema means only Italian movies. Unfortunately it is true for anyone outside India looking in. The fact that Hindi cinema does in no way represent the culture or even spirit of all of India is one that is never publicised. Hence all of Indian cinema is assumed to be a senseless and overly long musical extravaganza.
I am not a fan of Hindi cinema. This perhaps could be because I am from Kerala. Now, I am not a proper Keralite since I grew up outside India and saw Hindi movies long before I saw my first Malayalam movie but even then I could feel the difference. I did love the songs and clothes in the Anil Kapoor movies that were the rage then (I was a kid – that must be my excuse!). So no one can point fingers at me accusing me of not knowing the language or its nuances or in being too “Madrasi” in my taste.
A Hindi movie is always the same – non-existent story, scanty clothes, improbable style sense and song sequences that are completely unwarranted. The actors change, the hemlines change but the underlying principle does not. I used to watch Hindi movies in college just after exams to relax my brain and yet I have walked out of a couple of Madhuri Dixit movies just because it was too much nonsense for me to watch without slipping into a coma.
A Malayalam movie is more down-to-earth. The characters are people who are not glamorous for the most part though the men play a role far younger than their real age. However the stories are genuine and believable. A fisherman’s daughter will look just like she is supposed to and will not sport designer labels or make-up even in an imaginary song sequence. Also there is never a question of ‘borrowing’ music or stories from Hollywood. Among Keralites there isn’t a passion for all things American either. In a sense Malayalam movies are very much like American movies of a certain era – they stand on their own merit and are original.
Over the last ten years, there’s been deterioration in the quality of Malayalam movies – actually I think that might be applicable to most of popular cinema around the world. There were movies fifteen years ago that have moved me to tears time and time again. There are actors like Mohanlal, Jagathy, Mammootty and Oduvil Unnikrishnan who have shown such subtlety on occasion that they feel more like a part of my family than actors. Its the very subtlety of the acting contrasting with the intensity of emotion and the full-out comedy that is the hallmark of good Malayalam cinema. When successful movies from Kerala are copied or remade in Hindi, they lose all their lustre because of lackadaisical acting and an overdose of glamour and songs in ordinary life situations. A regular story in Malayalam would never work in Hindi and for the benefit of both cinemas should never even be attempted.
Therefore it is truly sad that instead of recognising Bengali and Malayalam movies for their excellence, only Hindi movies are selected time and time again to represent India at the Oscars. Who on earth would think a Lagaan or an Ekalavya was even worthy to be viewed abroad let alone sent to the Academy of Motion Pictures as contenders? Greats like Satyajit Ray , Bharathan, Adoor, Padmarajan have made (and Adoor continues to make) excellent movies of unparalleled beauty but there is no one to showcase them because regional cinema is poor financially and could never match Bollywood in marketing.
Indian cinema has great talent and Hindi cinema has some movies from the non-commercial or small budget section that are truly enjoyable but labelling Hindi cinema alone as Indian has deprived the world of the pleasure of watching fine movies from various regions in India and has also deprived great filmmakers from being given their just dues and recognition.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Is that a baby in your soup?
My daughter has always asked me questions that are tricky to answer. She is five years old. I do hope the questions don’t increase in complexity exponentially with her growth. If she does, I’ll have to outsource the answering to her dad.
The other day we had a conversation that went like this:
Mahi (she was just back from school): Amma?
Me (struggling to get her out of her extremely sand-encrusted uniform): Yes?
Mahi: If you eat a lot, will you get a fat stomach?
Me: I don’t think you will ever get fat but it does depend on what you eat. Why?
Mahi: If you have a fat stomach, then you will have babies.
Me: Er..
Mahi: Lots of babies.
Me: Who told you that?
Mahi: All the people who have babies become fat!
Me: That’s true – but it’s not because they eat too much.
Mahi: Then why do they eat babies and put them in their stomach? You ate me and Appu , right?
Me: Of course not - I did not eat you and your brother – remember I told you you started small and got into my bellybutton?
Mahi: Okay but still if I eat a lot, my stomach will become big and I don’t want babies!!
Me: Eating a lot will not make you have babies and in any case you don’t eat anything!
Mahi: But what about you?
Me: I won’t have babies either. I have you and Appu.
Mahi: You should ask God not to give you any more babies, okay?
Me: Sure – okay...
The other day we had a conversation that went like this:
Mahi (she was just back from school): Amma?
Me (struggling to get her out of her extremely sand-encrusted uniform): Yes?
Mahi: If you eat a lot, will you get a fat stomach?
Me: I don’t think you will ever get fat but it does depend on what you eat. Why?
Mahi: If you have a fat stomach, then you will have babies.
Me: Er..
Mahi: Lots of babies.
Me: Who told you that?
Mahi: All the people who have babies become fat!
Me: That’s true – but it’s not because they eat too much.
Mahi: Then why do they eat babies and put them in their stomach? You ate me and Appu , right?
Me: Of course not - I did not eat you and your brother – remember I told you you started small and got into my bellybutton?
Mahi: Okay but still if I eat a lot, my stomach will become big and I don’t want babies!!
Me: Eating a lot will not make you have babies and in any case you don’t eat anything!
Mahi: But what about you?
Me: I won’t have babies either. I have you and Appu.
Mahi: You should ask God not to give you any more babies, okay?
Me: Sure – okay...
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Words unsaid
Michael Jackson is no more. It is still a bit of a shock to know that the highly talented star who had been on a downward spiral for the last decade or more had died alone with but a doctor by his side during his last moments. He had been steadily killing himself over the years with an unhealthy lifestyle, obsession with greatness, addiction to painkillers and complete disregard for his body’s needs. He was a fine healthy young man at the peak of his career when one fire accident caused the downturn that stopped only with his death.
It is hard for a regular person such as myself to understand why such an obviously gifted person could not find contentment or happiness. He had his talent and the adoration of multitudes but was pitifully lonely. He could not love himself. He had no soul mate. He had no regular joys in life. He indulged in excesses that were so far beyond normal, they existed in a sort of fantasy realm. All that however did not complete him or fill the void he must have felt each hour of his days and nights. Unnatural and early fame unmanned him to the extent that he felt himself above normal and lost his grounding. Indeed in the last few years he was more an object of ridicule with his endless charades and widely known debts and ever increasing dependence on quack doctors for relief. He lost every bit of his fortune and was probably almost destitute at the end.
In the end his story is not unique for there have been too many such cases when a volatile mix of fame, drugs and sex has sent a great talent to an early grave. MJ’s excesses were admittedly almost without precedent but the style is similar. What really bothered me was the fact that he died alone. How it must have hurt to realise even for a split-second that he had no more chances left to redeem himself in his eyes and those of the world. Did he want to say a final goodbye to his children? Did he feel the need to see his parents or siblings? Did he want to thank someone or apologise to another before he felt at peace? To die unfinished is the greatest tragedy for after all death is universal and not a tragedy by itself whereas leaving unsaid the final words that are searing your mind as you head towards the end must be scary.
It is hard for a regular person such as myself to understand why such an obviously gifted person could not find contentment or happiness. He had his talent and the adoration of multitudes but was pitifully lonely. He could not love himself. He had no soul mate. He had no regular joys in life. He indulged in excesses that were so far beyond normal, they existed in a sort of fantasy realm. All that however did not complete him or fill the void he must have felt each hour of his days and nights. Unnatural and early fame unmanned him to the extent that he felt himself above normal and lost his grounding. Indeed in the last few years he was more an object of ridicule with his endless charades and widely known debts and ever increasing dependence on quack doctors for relief. He lost every bit of his fortune and was probably almost destitute at the end.
In the end his story is not unique for there have been too many such cases when a volatile mix of fame, drugs and sex has sent a great talent to an early grave. MJ’s excesses were admittedly almost without precedent but the style is similar. What really bothered me was the fact that he died alone. How it must have hurt to realise even for a split-second that he had no more chances left to redeem himself in his eyes and those of the world. Did he want to say a final goodbye to his children? Did he feel the need to see his parents or siblings? Did he want to thank someone or apologise to another before he felt at peace? To die unfinished is the greatest tragedy for after all death is universal and not a tragedy by itself whereas leaving unsaid the final words that are searing your mind as you head towards the end must be scary.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The return
Ten years had passed since she had last set foot in her native land of north Kerala. It did not have to be ten years but her parents had decided that travelling to India was an indulgence they could ill afford and were willing to wait for a more permanent reason to return. She was thirteen and slender with big dark eyes and masses of hair that seemed to overbalance her frame. Her sister was five years older and was the darling of her grandmother’s heart till she left. Her grandmother never forgave her father for uprooting her eldest grandchild from her heart and her home.
She knew of her maternal uncles and grandmother only through her sister’s memories. Her sister would talk about plaiting coconut palm fronds for the roof of grandma’s cowshed or walking about in the fields learning about the obscure little plants popping up among the vegetables or pulses that were planted in between the paddy harvests. She was a good story teller and soon the younger girl’s imagination was full of the scent and colour of the water lilies that grew profusely in the little canal close to the Chemballi River.
So they all made the long, tiresome journey to her mother’s home and she clambered down from the taxi onto a road too narrow to admit cars. Her mother led the way to the house and she went eagerly onward. Her younger brother was quiet as usual. Her sister seemed to remember the place and she was smiling one of her rare smiles. Her maternal uncle had come to greet them and so did his wife and infant son whom they were all seeing for the first time. She craned her neck for a glimpse of her little grandmother but saw no one fitting that description. Almost the entire village had gathered to see the return of one of their own.
Her father’s booming voice broke out over the strained silence. He asked for her grandmother and then she reluctantly came out of the dark house. She was completely impassive. Not a gesture of warmth or affection crossed her face. She spoke in clear and measured words enquiring about their health and telling them to come inside. She did not look at the grandson who was born in another country and who was a complete stranger to her. She had no smile for anyone and she looked at the returnees as if from a great distance away. The young girl shivered as though suddenly cold. She felt anger at her grandmother’s ruining of the long-awaited homecoming. She did not see the endless days her grandmother had waited in despairing hope or the silence of the long years that had frozen her heart. The return was as painful as the leaving...
She knew of her maternal uncles and grandmother only through her sister’s memories. Her sister would talk about plaiting coconut palm fronds for the roof of grandma’s cowshed or walking about in the fields learning about the obscure little plants popping up among the vegetables or pulses that were planted in between the paddy harvests. She was a good story teller and soon the younger girl’s imagination was full of the scent and colour of the water lilies that grew profusely in the little canal close to the Chemballi River.
So they all made the long, tiresome journey to her mother’s home and she clambered down from the taxi onto a road too narrow to admit cars. Her mother led the way to the house and she went eagerly onward. Her younger brother was quiet as usual. Her sister seemed to remember the place and she was smiling one of her rare smiles. Her maternal uncle had come to greet them and so did his wife and infant son whom they were all seeing for the first time. She craned her neck for a glimpse of her little grandmother but saw no one fitting that description. Almost the entire village had gathered to see the return of one of their own.
Her father’s booming voice broke out over the strained silence. He asked for her grandmother and then she reluctantly came out of the dark house. She was completely impassive. Not a gesture of warmth or affection crossed her face. She spoke in clear and measured words enquiring about their health and telling them to come inside. She did not look at the grandson who was born in another country and who was a complete stranger to her. She had no smile for anyone and she looked at the returnees as if from a great distance away. The young girl shivered as though suddenly cold. She felt anger at her grandmother’s ruining of the long-awaited homecoming. She did not see the endless days her grandmother had waited in despairing hope or the silence of the long years that had frozen her heart. The return was as painful as the leaving...
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The lost princess
She was brown and tiny and wrinkled. She was in the furthest corner of the dank and ill-lit room where there were too many children to count. She cried softly having learnt very early that crying loudly had painful consequences. She was hungry most of the time and no one came to look at her very much. At three months she was one of the youngest souls in the orphanage dedicated to abandoned or unwanted children. She was born in guilt or shame perhaps or even just happened to be one more girl child the parents could not afford. In any case, she was a little nobody with dulled eyes and a whimper to keep her company.
One day she was cleaned up a little and carried to the next room where a young couple sat talking to the matron in charge of the orphanage. The woman’s eyes brightened and she reached out instinctively for the baby. Her husband’s eyes met her own and they both felt it at the same time – the acknowledgement that they had found the daughter they were seeking. Many days and more formalities passed before they could bring the baby home. And suddenly one day they had their very own little girl.
The tiny hands found other hands to hold. The tiny eyes began to brighten and focus on the loving eyes of those around her. She could eat as much as her little tummy could hold and no one would curse her. She was enveloped in a warm cocoon of love by a whole family – parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents. She was doted on constantly. Willing arms carried her everywhere and mobile mouths spoke to her of flowers, butterflies, stars and moons. She was everybody’s little princess and basked in the rays of their combined affection.
She grew a little bigger each month though she would continue to remain a slight. She began making tentative noises which were pounced on by the eager family as displays of great erudition. She was praised to the skies and carried about with so much pride that she started to look around her with pleasure. Her eyes filled with the light of curiosity. The children’s laughter and the sounds of their talk attracted her the most. And then one day she did it – something she had not done ever before in her life – she smiled. A blessed beautiful smile of happiness and well-being. Now she was truly home.
One day she was cleaned up a little and carried to the next room where a young couple sat talking to the matron in charge of the orphanage. The woman’s eyes brightened and she reached out instinctively for the baby. Her husband’s eyes met her own and they both felt it at the same time – the acknowledgement that they had found the daughter they were seeking. Many days and more formalities passed before they could bring the baby home. And suddenly one day they had their very own little girl.
The tiny hands found other hands to hold. The tiny eyes began to brighten and focus on the loving eyes of those around her. She could eat as much as her little tummy could hold and no one would curse her. She was enveloped in a warm cocoon of love by a whole family – parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents. She was doted on constantly. Willing arms carried her everywhere and mobile mouths spoke to her of flowers, butterflies, stars and moons. She was everybody’s little princess and basked in the rays of their combined affection.
She grew a little bigger each month though she would continue to remain a slight. She began making tentative noises which were pounced on by the eager family as displays of great erudition. She was praised to the skies and carried about with so much pride that she started to look around her with pleasure. Her eyes filled with the light of curiosity. The children’s laughter and the sounds of their talk attracted her the most. And then one day she did it – something she had not done ever before in her life – she smiled. A blessed beautiful smile of happiness and well-being. Now she was truly home.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Clearer sight
I woke up this morning with a sense of freedom flowing through my veins. I was free of my doctor-imposed house arrest of seven days. I could go out for a walk or even something as mundane as getting the right groceries. After a week of recovering from laser eye surgery, it was a dream to just be free to read, watch TV or more importantly, step out.
I tried to figure out why I felt the frustration of not being able to do my usual chores so much. They were not of earth-shattering importance but they did bother me so. Not being allowed to enter the kitchen, I was prevented from having one absolutely perfect cup of tea (the way I and only I can make it!) or having anything worthwhile to eat. Eating is not paramount and anyone who sees me can testify to my disinterest in it. But while I am not a foodie, I do like to eat only food that has a perfect balance of flavours. SO I discovered I missed my own cooking. I could have cheerfully not minded any of that had I not also been banned from reading and writing (but that was only for three days) and so I realizes how many hours of the day were left for me to fill now that I could not do what I usually do.
I felt really bad at not having a job I could go to with colleagues to chat with around the water-cooler. I also felt bad at not having a friend close by who could come and chat with me over tea. I missed reading to the children and was upset by the fact that they seemed perfect content with it! I knew that I had to be careful with my newly minted eyes but that didn’t stop me from being bored out of my mind.
So I fell back on yoga to improve my lower back and in general uplift my spirits. I took long oil baths to rejuvenate my skin. I cleaned out cupboards and gave away old clothes. I thought about how famous my future book would make me and envisioned myself sitting opposite Oprah and telling her why exactly I wrote “The Book”. And I listened to music. Not listened to it with half an ear as I normally do when I put it as a background to writing or surfing the web. I actually listened with all my senses and it soothed my mind wonderfully. I could hear every nuance and felt myself transported. It is surprising how much one fails to notice when one is frantically cramming the day with multitasking in order to prove to ourselves how extraordinarily efficient we are.
At the end of the week, I find myself rested and happy to resume my routine which was formerly very tedious for me. I find myself admiring the leaves on the trees and the blades of grass that my new vision has made more beautiful. I find myself being gentler with the kids and smiling away some of their naughtiness instead of getting upset. A week of looking inwards and finding a novel way to keep myself at peace was a gift that was totally unexpected when I went in to get myself clearer vision.
I tried to figure out why I felt the frustration of not being able to do my usual chores so much. They were not of earth-shattering importance but they did bother me so. Not being allowed to enter the kitchen, I was prevented from having one absolutely perfect cup of tea (the way I and only I can make it!) or having anything worthwhile to eat. Eating is not paramount and anyone who sees me can testify to my disinterest in it. But while I am not a foodie, I do like to eat only food that has a perfect balance of flavours. SO I discovered I missed my own cooking. I could have cheerfully not minded any of that had I not also been banned from reading and writing (but that was only for three days) and so I realizes how many hours of the day were left for me to fill now that I could not do what I usually do.
I felt really bad at not having a job I could go to with colleagues to chat with around the water-cooler. I also felt bad at not having a friend close by who could come and chat with me over tea. I missed reading to the children and was upset by the fact that they seemed perfect content with it! I knew that I had to be careful with my newly minted eyes but that didn’t stop me from being bored out of my mind.
So I fell back on yoga to improve my lower back and in general uplift my spirits. I took long oil baths to rejuvenate my skin. I cleaned out cupboards and gave away old clothes. I thought about how famous my future book would make me and envisioned myself sitting opposite Oprah and telling her why exactly I wrote “The Book”. And I listened to music. Not listened to it with half an ear as I normally do when I put it as a background to writing or surfing the web. I actually listened with all my senses and it soothed my mind wonderfully. I could hear every nuance and felt myself transported. It is surprising how much one fails to notice when one is frantically cramming the day with multitasking in order to prove to ourselves how extraordinarily efficient we are.
At the end of the week, I find myself rested and happy to resume my routine which was formerly very tedious for me. I find myself admiring the leaves on the trees and the blades of grass that my new vision has made more beautiful. I find myself being gentler with the kids and smiling away some of their naughtiness instead of getting upset. A week of looking inwards and finding a novel way to keep myself at peace was a gift that was totally unexpected when I went in to get myself clearer vision.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Passive lives...
I have always followed the expected path. Perhaps I lacked the imagination to try anything different.Perhaps I always wanted someone to blame in case things went wrong. Whatever may be the reason, I always followed the course that I was pushed into and have never sat down and thought hard as to whether that course would keep me happy.
Years later, I long to erase my stupidities. I long for impossibilites like greater exposure or choice that could have saved me from making decisions based on limited availability of options. I longed for any person who could have told me a little of what I know now. I don't know if my life could have been different but I cannot see how any person could be so crippled by their own limitations as I am. I did not want to turn into someone who is in a cage of her own making - who thought herself too old at 27 to try something different and who on the eve of her 35 th birthday is sure she is too old to change. Life would have been so easy if I had never shown promise but to have the acceptance that comes from being good at something and then growing into absolutely nothing, is too painful.
How does anyone find the spark to keep your soul going through the weary days and nights that make up most people's lives? What keeps you gettign up? The thought of paying bills? The thought of making a difference?The wish to change the world? Or just because you long to wake up and start another day being happy - that is a tough one, isn't it?
Years later, I long to erase my stupidities. I long for impossibilites like greater exposure or choice that could have saved me from making decisions based on limited availability of options. I longed for any person who could have told me a little of what I know now. I don't know if my life could have been different but I cannot see how any person could be so crippled by their own limitations as I am. I did not want to turn into someone who is in a cage of her own making - who thought herself too old at 27 to try something different and who on the eve of her 35 th birthday is sure she is too old to change. Life would have been so easy if I had never shown promise but to have the acceptance that comes from being good at something and then growing into absolutely nothing, is too painful.
How does anyone find the spark to keep your soul going through the weary days and nights that make up most people's lives? What keeps you gettign up? The thought of paying bills? The thought of making a difference?The wish to change the world? Or just because you long to wake up and start another day being happy - that is a tough one, isn't it?
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