Mogambo Khush Hua!

When I read Rishabh's post on the best villains and bit-roles in movies, I thought that this list was a little Prince Harry (my latest term for anything white-man). This is my list - the desi counterpart. One must note that this list is biased in that I watch movies only in Hindi, Tamil and Telugu. In no particular order, here they are:

One: Paresh Rawal in Kshana Kshanam. Arguably Ram Gopal Varma's most fun movie ever, with pacy dialogue that would put a screwball comedy to shame, and a plot that compares with any acclaimed thriller, this blockbuster Telugu movie has lots of little characters excellently played - Paresh Rawal's sidekick who never has an answer to anything, and the guy who lives below Sridevi's house come to mind. But the one who takes the cake is Paresh Rawal, with his highly accented Telugu, his brilliant rendition of Ek Do Teen on the piano and the natural expression on his face that makes you laugh every time he's on screen! Given all this, in a couple of scenes, he does manage to be extremely menacing giving the movie its required thriller touch. If you haven't yet seen the movie, be dismissed from civilisation's presence, and come back when you have watched it!

Two: Rajat Kapoor in Monsoon Wedding deserves every accolade there is for playing a small role with extraordinary panache. Throughout the movie, you know there's something wrong with him, but nobody ever says anything. He doesn't say anything. But you still know there's something wrong. And that's where Kapoor scores. The expression on his face when he is asked to leave at the end is one of the images from Monsoon Wedding that will stay with me forever, because it is this expression that changes this really good movie into a great movie. (Also to be noted in this movie are Dubey and Alice - what a pair!)

Three: When people talk of Naayagan, they often shower praises on Kamal Haasan's role, the screenplay, the story, the direction, the music. While all these are brilliant and go a long way in making it one of Indian cinema's milestones, we often ignore the smaller contributions that hold this classic together. Janakaraj in his little role as the Godfather's right-hand man is at once the humble, serving, caring aide and at the end, the only companion of Velu Naayagan. But in this one scene in the courtyard, when Velu's daughter slaps him, his reaction is sublime. His role in Roja was in serious contention for this spot, but when I remembered this scene, we had a clear winner. Janakaraj is definitely one of Tamil cinema's much-ignored dynamites - capable of handling slapstick comedy and drama with such dexterity, and yet merge with the background, not ever wanting the limelight for his work.

Four: This is a joint position awarded to Saif Ali Khan and Dinesh Dobriyal for Omkara. Jointly because I didn't want to give two awards to the same movie, and I the scenes I enjoyed in the movie the most were scenes involving both of them. Most notably, the one on the bridge. And, the one on the terrace where Dobriyal announces to the world, "Langda Tyagi, Bahubali! Bahubali, Langda Tyagi!" Other memorable scenes involving these two in this memorable memorable movie are the scene where Saif breaks the mirror, the scene where Dobriyal speaks on the phone to Billo, when Saif shoves the invitation cards in Dobriyal's face and asks him to distribute, and the end when Saif declares that there is no difference between his truth and lies anymore. Langda Tyagi, movie should have been named after you, and not the Company-redux Omkara!

Five: Gabbar Singh. I shall not say more, for there is nothing left to be said. Watch Sholay if you haven't, and you'll realise, no words can do justice to Gabbar! Man, that lecherous expression he has in Mehbooba...

I put this in a separate paragraph because I think Gabbar Singh can't share the same space with anyone else, but check out a similar villain in Chinagate. He's damn good too.


Six: Gangu Thai from Waisa Bhi Hota Hai Part II is the most disgusting, scary, vulgar, ruthless and for those very reasons, funny villain Bollywood has ever produced. In one of the most under-rated movies of this decade, filled with brilliant performances by everyone from Arshad Warsi to the Balle Balle Boys, two people stand out - the guy who played Vishnu, and Gangu Thai. Because we're going with the smaller roles, I leave Vishnu out. Gangu Thai delivers her dialogues in that over-the-top, Chhammiya No. 5 style, and makes you believe in one scene that she is actually capable of cutting one of her men's fingers. When Arshad Warsi calls her, "Maa!" you really see the love she has for her 'son'. She makes you cringe, cry, put off the TV, fast forward, and at the same time, laugh, love, and revisit her role in this quirky, farcical, one-of-a-kind movie.

Seven: Kannathil Muthamittal is right up there amongst Mani Ratnam's best. It is a celebration of unabashed senti-ness, and is executed brilliantly. Nandita Das has a total screen time of about 20 minutes in a two and a half hour long movie, but along with Keerthana, she is the subject of the movie. In those twenty minutes, she manages to create such an impact - first, as the carefree wife, then as the refugee, then in that LTTE camp as a cold-blooded freedom fighter, and in that last scene, finally, as a mother. A close second as Tamil cinema's best amma role (Nandita Das was not really a traditional Nirupa Roy style 'amma' role, but she was the 'mother', so that counts) is Srividya in Thalapathi. The scene in which Rajnikanth and Srividya react to the sound of the train - only Mani Ratnam could have conveyed so much so subtly, and only Srividya could pull it off on screen.

Eight: This entry might be a little biased because I think Simran is a goddess. However, in Pithamagan, in the ten minutes she appears on screen as herself, she is just unbelievable! The scene involving Simran is so audacious, that it could have either gone down as a publicity stunt, or as one Tamil cinema's most famous scenes ever. Simran, with some help from the absolutely electric Surya, and a superb Vikram, makes sure it takes the latter route. The energy and the joy that fills this sequence is unmatched by anything I have ever seen on screen!

Nine: When I spoke of Paresh Rawal in Kshana Kshanam, I mentioned how the natural expression on his face just made you laugh every time you looked at him. Its the same quality about Om Prakash that puts him one level above the other stalwarts acting in Chupke Chupke. In that movie, Dharmendra and Amitabh have all the punch lines, Jaya Bachchan does the pretty-looking routine, Sharmila Tagore is the one who sings the songs, but Om Prakash as the soap-selling, retired-barrister, genius jijaji steals the show.

Ten: Lastly, I salute one of India's most famous villains ever - Mogambo. Amrish Puri, over the years, has played all kinds of roles - the London-settled desi at heart, ridiculous villains in crazy outfits (Telugu movie watchers will remember Jagadeka Veerudu Atiloka Sundari and Atavi Donga), the evil zamindar, comic relief and so on. But, for twelve whole years of my life, every time I saw him on TV, I'd say, "Mogambo Khush Hua! Eehahahahaha!" Along with Gabbar Singh, Mogambo is Bollywood's most recognised, parodied, imitated villain ever, and in my books, given Sholay was before my time, a villain with whom I share a special bond, for he was the first bad-guy I loved!

What's in a Name?

Thanks to Woody Allen and Rushdie for some 'inspiration'.

"You know, there are some books and movies that I cant bring myself to watch simply because of their names?"
"What bullshit!"
"No. Seriously. If someone told me, 'Go watch Waisa Bhi Hota Hai Part II, its really good,' I'd stop trusting his movie tastes immediately, even without watching the movie."

I backhanded another dosa on the tava as I listened to this conversation in the background. Of course I understood the feeling, having a bias against something because you don't like its name. I have suffered from it for twenty-one-and-a-half years myself. My name is Mona Lisa Devi. Yes, I am serious. That is my name. Apparently, when the news of my mother's pregnancy reached my father, he had just come back from seeing the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, and was awestruck by its beauty. I shudder to think what my name would have been if he liked Da Vinci's Virgin of the Rocks instead! My mother, on the other hand, promised various Goddesses that she'd name me after them if I turned out to be a girl and because she couldn't have given me thirty names, she named me the generic Devi. And so, there I was. Their proudest possession, Mona Lisa Devi.

For years I tolerated things like, "Smile, Mona Lisa... Oops, I forgot. No one really knows if you can smile or not." Laughter all around. Or the "Mona Darling..." in that typical Ajit voice. Even more laughter. Every time someone saw my name in an application form, I'm sure a little remark would be made, "And I thought Blossom Babykutty was the worst I would come across" or, "Why would you do that to your kid?" or, "Lets give her an admission just for the name!" The Bombay Vikings song "O Mere Mona Re" allowed society to attack me with renewed vigour. Cheap, lecherous men on roads who earlier stuck to their usual set of lines that had rehearsed for the other women now had a song to sing.

It's not as if I had never considered changing my name, but just that I thought of it a little late, and although I never learnt to ignore the ignominy I suffered, I learnt to tolerate it, albeit with the ocassional, "Give it a break!" or, "You know, a kid in my kindergarten class cracked the same joke," or on some particularly bad day, "I curse you, bastard. I wish your telephone number is one digit away from an all night taxi service!"

The dosa had now become a crispy brown, with the oil making its presence felt, without being overbearing. The chutney and molagai podi made it perfect for a light 'tiffin' dinner. I walked back to the drawing room where the conversation had now moved to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I remember loving the Turtles because there was this obscure character called Mona Lisa who appeared in one episode. For years, this little salamander-like animation series character was my lease of life. I knew that what I had was a real name. A really bad one, but a real one nonetheless. I sometimes wished I got hold of some mutagent, so that I'd become like that Mona Lisa, and spend my time with people who didn't hold back a sly smirk every time my name was uttered.

As I drifted into the world of the Turtles, slowly devouring the round dosa, I heard one of them say, "I'm going to Delhi this month for three months, and I need one of you to stay at my place. " I jumped on the opportunity. I had gotten tired of my roommate, and this crummy apartment.

My friend, Ananya Rajan, lived in the opposite end of town, and for those three months when she was away, I lived her life. I ordered pizza. When the guy asked me for my name, I didn't have to hear the customary, "Mona Lisa? Did I get you right?" Instead, I heard, "Yes, Ms. Ananya. Would you like extra cheese?" When I bumped into this cute guy in the corridor of the building, and he asked me who I was, there was no, "Oh, Mona Lisa... Um, yeah. Um, have a nice day." He said instead, "Ananya? Flat 203? I always wondered what you would look like." At least for the time that I spent in the building, I was Ananya - the lovely girl with the lovely name.

And one evening, when the Cute Guy and I were watching TV at home, I heard this knock on the door. There was something about the quality of the knock that made it sound cruel. And clearly, the knocker was in a hurry, because even before this knockee could get to the door, the knock had repeated itself four times. When I opened the door, I had this strange feeling that I wasn't opening the door of my house, but the door leading to some dark, evil land. At the door stood this tall figure in a black hood carrying a weapon.

"Ananya Rajan?" he asked, in his rough voice.
"Yes..."
"I have come for you."
"Who are you?"
"I am Death."
"Oh, there's been a mistake. I'm not Ananya Rajan."
"That's what they all say. Your night shirt has AR stitched on it."
I was wearing her clothes! "No, I'm serious. I'm Mona Lisa Devi"
"You expect me to believe that?" he said, with an evil little grin.
Then Cute Guy came to the door and said, "Ananya, what's wrong?"
"Stop calling me that!!! I AM NOT ANANYA!"
Death laughed louder and louder, and the world dissolved into nothingness.

When I got up, this nurse told me, "The operation is successful. You'll take some time getting used to those wings. Here, take this. This is the latest model," handing me a harp. Then, shouting out to someone, she said, "Mona! There's another one of you now. You can stop crying now," and turning to me she said, "She's been crying here for five hundred years. She hates her name, you see."

Five Most Bizarre Movie Watching Experiences

At number five, we have Miss Congeniality 2. My third year in Law School. At Symphony. The third movie I saw in a theatre other than Cauvery in Bangalore (the only other ones being Love Actually, and American Pie at Plaza). This was after one of Siddhartha "Bojaj" Sen's mega-lunches - the one to which he invites all his non-Bong buddies - the most sumptuous free meal available in Bangalore. Only, it isn't always "available", and you have to be on the good side of Bojaj for a considerable amount of time. But given that, trust me, it is worth it. So, after this lunch, we (being around 25 people from our batch) proceed to Symphony, at Apurva's insistence to watch Miss Congeniality 2.

The plot involves the kidnapping of Miss USA - some actress who looks like Miss Palampur in the Cadbury ad, and Sandra Bullock wavering between a reluctant bimbo and an FBI agent who wants to recover the lost Miss USA. It was the experience of the movie that is memorable though - I was really full, and desperately wanted to "release" (in Shankara's words) and then have a short (read five hour) power nap. Unfortunately, this movie was filled with shrieky women who shrieked even louder just when I dozed off. Or so I thought. Apparently, I did sleep really well, because at the interval, when I asked Apurva, "You like what you've put us through?" she said, "There was one good joke about euthanasia, come on." I had aboslutely no recollection of any such joke!

It also has the worst last line in movie history - some joke about World peace. I have never been gladder when I walked out of the cinema hall!

Coming in at number four, is Mungaaru Male, the recent Kannada smash hit that has been running in Bangalore for over four months now. And so, after years of staying away from latest Kannada movies, myself and phamily decide to go the Alankar Talkies (pronounced tyack.iss) in Udupi to watch this movie. Appa, I have believed for years, is the Godfather of Manipal. When he walked into the office at Alankar to pick up tickets, the three people sitting there in serious conversation all stood up to welcome him. The owner summarily dismissed his other guests and seated us all in his little office. Then, he gave us the tickets, and seated us in the best seats in the theatre, and served us juice! The last time I had gone to Alankar was eons ago to watch Jurassic Park in Hindi, a little before Diana Theatre released it in English, but way after I had seen it in Bioscope (the little illegal video hall) in English. (The one other movie I watched in Bioscope is Chinese Kaamasutra bunking non-detailed English class.)

I will remember Mungaaru Male forever for two reasons - for that one astounding shot of Jog Falls (no sarcasm here) from the mouth of the Falls looking downwards, and the ending - with the rabbit being buried.

Plot Summary

"Inky Pinky Ponky.
Man had a rabbit.
Man cried.
Rabbit died.
Inky Pinky Ponky."

The rest of the story is, really, some sort of a, irrevant. Kannada cinema's fascination with the rabbit continues. In America, America, the heroine owned a pet rabbit, leading to the movie's most chilling scene where everyone suddenly thinks the rabbit has been put in a pressure cooker. Here though, the rabbit irritated me to the extent that I almost did a little celebratory jig when it died at the end. I wish the heroine died a little earlier. I couldn't stand to watch her fill the screen for much longer. For a description of her face, take the Tamil expression "Lakshanamaa irkaa" and imagine the exact opposite. "Crank Call" Ganesh was fine until he got drunk and started crying. The rest of Kannada cinema must be astonishing junk for this to be the industry's biggest hit. Still, I must admit, I was entertained for the two and a half hours, and never wanted to leave the hall!

For a better version of rabbits dying check this out.

Third Place goes to The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl - watched this March in East Marredpally, Secunderabad with little cousins. I sometimes wonder why I subject myself to these things. However, I had strong reasons for watching this one. When the opening credits came, I saw that the director was Robert Rodriguez (remember Sin City?) and resumed that this couldn't be too bad. How wrong I was.

Three years ago, I watched Aditya Verma act as an alien in a play. The bizarreness of that play pales in comparison to Shark Boy and Lava Girl. Firstly, the boy is a boy who is also a shark, and the girl is Lava. They have nothing in common. Also, they don't exist. Or, do they? Even if they do, what are they? There's this moment of discovery towards the end, when they each realise they are actually the King of the Ocean and Lady Light! I presumed they were in some guy's dream, but they appear at the end to save his parents. In reality. There is also evil kid (whose name I've forgotten) and Electric Man and the Ice Princess, who wears a magic necklace. The special effects could have given Shaktimaan a run for his money, and the acting could have put the clueless Senura in Scenes from Pulp Fiction to shame! Yet, a must-watch for sheer trippiness.

The runner-up in this contest is Baadsha at a random little theatre in Moodalpalya nearly ten years after it was released. Nobody can match Thalaivar for sheer style, and no other collection of people can match Thalaivar's fans for sheer enthusiasm. Everytime he said, "Intha Badsha oru darava sonna, nooru darava snna maadri", the small crowd went ballistic. Every song was cheered and danced to. Thalaivar was encouraged in every fight sequence, "Avanai nanni adinga, Saar". Every entrance of Nagma was met with crass hooting. When Rajni was tied to the pole and beaten up, I could almost feel the audience seething with rage.

The movie itself is one of my favourite Thalaivar movies. It mixes his big set-up scenes with little throwaway lines that are brimming with the most profound of thoughts. He mixes style with humility. He doesn't hesitate to talk directly to his audience, and almost single-handedly turns what would have been a mediocre pot-boiler into the movie that spurred the auto-drivers self determination movement!

The Winner, by a few light-years, is Jai Vikraanta. One night in Bombay, Parashar, Singla and myself, being the insomniacs that we are, were flipping channels at Q's place. Now, when we reach Sab TV, there's this police officer, whose name we later find out is Sher Khan, is holding a gun to this foreigner saying, "Drugs bhejke desh ke naujawaanon ke jeevan barbaad karnewaale haraamzaade!" The foreigner is called Christo. He is then taken to the police station, where in the lock-up is an old man, who has just delivered a monologue of having been in prison for years. Christo sees the man and tells the police, "Yeh hamaara gang mein shamil nahi hai, " and benevolent Shar Khan says, "Christo ke bayaan pe mein tumhe chhod deta hoon." If only the Criminal Procedure Code was this simple!

For almost two hours of the movie, the three of us laughed non-stop. What with people calling each other, "Raja Harishchandra ke aulaat!" and wearing knitted sweaters with cats stitched on them, and a long-haired Sanjay Dutt as the Robin Hood-like Vikraanta prancing around on horses with his little band of outlaws. Apart from the initial exchange that we watched, two little incidents in the movie stand out - first, when Sher Khan says, "Christo bhaag gaya!" Parashar literally fell off the bed! Second, when Q came in and did the voices for this ridiculous scene where the heroine holds Vikraanta's sword and dwars blood from her hands and applies it on his forehead. Heroine is holding the sword in her hand, Q says, "Is your member as long as this?" She wields it around. "Is it this flexible?" Then she runs her finger along its edge and draws blood, "I don't want to talk about this!"

The Reluctant Genius

Four years ago, I found myself drifting away from Carnatic music - Law School's reinforcement of popular music perpetrated through the mp3 sharing culture, and the need to not feel left out when people were discussing the latest Audioslave album, or some obscure Beatles' song had an indelible impact on my musical tastes. Although I still listen to Audioslave and The Beatles, one little incident brought Carnatic music right back into the top spot. While looking through Periamma's vast music collection, I came across this cassette that had T.R.Mahalingam printed on it (with a typewriter, presumably) - one of those recorded cassettes, neatly labelled in her years in the US. Having heard a lot about Mali, from my grandmother, but never having ever heard him play, I decided to listen to that cassette, even though there was this Jimi Hendrix CD waiting to be explored.

Wafting through the speakers of the little Phillips cassette player was the most quaint and extraordinary Sankarabharanam I had ever experienced. Each phrase was distinctly Sankarabharanam, but was still nothing like I had ever heard anywhere. His shrill flute produced a sound that was stamped with his unmatched genius, without seemingly stretching the boundaries of the raga. The alapanas were punctuated by long pauses, almost as if he was giving you time to digest what you just heard. And just when I thought I might never hear anything that beautiful, he started Kapi. Weaving the entire alapana around one or two notes and recurring phrases, he played a Kapi, the likes of which I have never heard again in my life, except in two other recordings, each of them approaching the raga from a different perspective. When he meandered in the mandhra sthayi in another recording of Kalyani, I felt the whole world dissolving into a mass of irrelevance. Nothing seemed worthwhile anymore.

Suddenly, I was obsessed. Like an alcoholic who couldn't go a day without alcohol, I needed Mali's music to keep me sane. Unfortunately, the more I learned about his life, the more disappointed I became. Being a reluctant performer, which according to a biography was a result of the exploitation of his talent by his family in the early years, he recorded very little. When he was older, he took to the bottle, made fewer and fewer public appearances, claimed that he suffered from this recurring 'headache' that caused his mind to go blank, and didn't turn up on days when his concerts were scheduled.

Today, Mali's music exists to my generation in a few studio recordings, and one live concert recording that I have come across. But to those who have listened to his concerts, I can see their eyes moisten when they talk of his version of Begada, or Hamsanaadam, or those little folk tunes that he used to play towards the end of his concerts. For many 'rasikas', as we are referred to, he will remain the greatest instrumentalist ever - Miles Davis,
Hendrix, Coltrane, Zakir Hussain can all make way for this little known King.

On Being Grown up

Most people, in this last term on fifth year in Law School have one foot outside, and with Recruitment having happened today, and everyone having gotten a job, they have some clue as to where that foot is. Here I am, with no idea as to where I'm going, being the cool dude who opted out of recruitment because he doesn't want to 'whore himself' like the rest of the world. And because I have one foot in law school and the other hanging in space, I feel imbalanced.

The standard question to every fifth year from a junior is, "So, where are you going?" )They also ask you, "So, where is the treat?, but we shall ignore that for the moment). And apart from answering it philosophically with, "We all came from Him, and we will go back to Him," I can't think of a more correct answer. And each time I'm asked this question, there is this inescapable feeling of guilt. I have these vague ideas in my head on what I want to do - some exciting, others pragmatic and most downright stupid. And mostly, the stupidest of ideas seem the most enticing.

This is when you feel grown up. Suddenly, you're trying to decide what you want to be in ten years, and trust me, it is not a pleasant thought process. I don't like being grown up. I want to go back and play cricket in the sandpit every day. I want to cycle to school. I want to play 11 players outside our house - long timeless Test matches requiring extra-ordinary patience. I want to perfect Dhruva Tala Alankara in four kalams in Raga Thodi. I want to sit on the roof and stare into the Western Ghats...