Amala

Ignore the dog, and the "TotalTollywood.com" written at the bottom, and concentrate on the picture. You are now looking at Amala, an actress of yesteryear, my favourite for many years. If you think she's not spectacular enough, watch Shiva or Agni Nachatram. Last night, finding it tough to watch the brutal World Cup final, I started flipping channels, and on Siti Cable, Kamal Hassan was paying his tribute to silent comedy with Pushpak. But what keeps me interested me about Pushpak, given that I watch it on TV on an average of four times a year, is Amala.
Now, Amala did her last movie in 1995, and so, her career coincides almost exactly with Freud's latency period in my life. However, it was much later, on two consecutive afternoons, when I was around 13, that I watched Shiva and Gharshana (Agni Nachatram) on ETV, and found myself falling... in love. To this day, when I sing or play the first few notes of Ninnukori, I'm reminded of Amala in Ilayaraaja's audacious song in Agni Nachatram.
Amala, I found out much later (fifteen minutes ago, in fact, when I did a little google for her pictures) is half-Bengali and half-Irish. Women really don't come more exotic than that! She quit the movies, according to another biography because she had certain 'visions', and consequently, started working on animal rights. Yet another biography attributes her retirement to her marriage to Nagarjuna.
Whatever the reasons might be, because I never saw her in the movies too much, my love was directed later on towards other actresses. Aishwarya Rai was a standard phase in the lives of most guys in my school, (although the women preferred copying Kajol's hairstyle in the first half of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. Why?!) and me being as mainstream as they come, fell for her. Recently, when I checked the desktop at home, I found that my vast collection of Aishwarya Rai photographs downloaded on patient afternoons still exists in the depths of the hard disk. And then, I discovered English movies - French Kiss, and You've got Mail made Meg Ryan my favourite, and that folder on my hard disk even chronicles this event!
One day, I watched Casablanca. And for the first time in my life since Shiva, I was in love again. Other actresses, like Shirley Maclaine (especially with that haircut in The Apartment) and Chitrangada Singh (of Hazaron Khwaishein Aisi fame) have come and gone. But these two women remain constant.
Last night, when I saw Pushpak on TV, I didn't even bother changing the channel back to the World Cup to check the score once in a while. When the movie got over, and I changed back to cricket, Jayawardene got out, and the rest of the final was a formality. Having supported the Lankans through the Super Eights till the end, I should've been disappointed, but I was not. I had this strange smile on my face as I switched off the TV and and cleared up my bed to go to sleep.

Four Retirements (Lara, Inzamam, Kumble and Jayasuriya) and a Wedding (Abhiash - yes, I have picked up this term - I read the Bangalore Times)

The one month since my last post on this blog (or any other blog for that matter) has seen India's second-most (in)famous wedding (rank 1, I think, still belongs to the wedding of that foster son of Jayalalitha's - elections were won and lost on that one. We will have to wait and see what effect this one has on Amar Singh and the UP elections); the announcement of India's new look, 'young' team to Bangladesh (I can't seem to recollect any other team make such elaborate plans for a tour of Bangladesh - such commitment to the game and professionalism surely augurs well for the future of Indian cricket); my introduction to Ingmar Bergman (the opening sequence in Persona puts any big-budget-special-effects-modern-Hollywood-movie to shame, and the movie itself ranks in my top-5 of all time, of about 1500 movies watched over the course of my life. How did I calculate this? The unparalleled Rishabh Gupta finally made a list of all the movies he owns and it amounted to around three hundred and fifty. When I went through that list, proving to him that The Departed would not even feature in my top 50 favourite films, I realised that I had watched about 250 of the films on his list. Now, this list does not include too many movies in Indian languages, and many English movies that I have watched. Making a rough calculation from there, I reached the figure of 1500) and Federico Fellini(will put something in these brackets when I have seen 8 1/2. I have this urge to make a comment about the term "foreign films", but I shall save that for a different post); the World Cup droning on in the background (I can recall three matches worth watching); Samrat Singh's 19(1)(a) rantings on responsible behaviour and "making out" on campus (frankly, I thought the comments on the notice were more entertaining than the notice itself); and most importantly, Lara's retirement (Ian Bradshaw also retired, but I don't think anyone really took note of that). This post is about that retirement (and a couple of others from this edition of the World Cup).

(I prefer footnotes to brackets, they make the text look cleaner and more academic, but on blogger, I guess I'll have to do with brackets)

A famous quiz question from the start of this World Cup was - "Only five players from the 1992 World Cup are playing here in the 2007 World Cup. Who?" The answer to that was -
Lara, Sachin, Inzy, Jayasuriya and Anderson Cummins. At the end of this World Cup, only one person will continue playing international cricket, despite strong calls for his 'dignified' exit from cricket when he is still on a 'high'. Two others, who emerged a little after that World Cup, Kumble and McGrath, are also calling it a day. None of the teams will continue to be led by a player who even played in the 1996 World Cup. For the first time in all my cricket watching years has the older generation been so systematically wiped out. I use this term 'wiped out' because except for McGrath, the other players would have liked to continue playing if their team still wanted them to. This is the proverbial golden handshake - we've let you play this last World Cup, now leave before we throw you out.

The loss that hurts me the most is, of course, Brian Lara. My favourite batsman of all time has been forced out of a game he stopped enjoying some months ago thanks to West Indies' callous attitude towards one of their greatest assets ever. Much like how we treat Sachin every time the team does badly. At the same time, it is this very West Indian atmosphere that allowed Lara to become the best batsman of his generation. As usual, West Indies produced a batsman who, like Sobers and Richards before him, was not bound by the confines of playing 'correct' shots, and yet looked majestic. Every time Lara takes strike, time seems to slow down. When his bat swishes backward, in that high backlift, for a split second, we are unsure of whether the ball might just sneak through. It is this tension, and Lara's extraordinary success rate that made him the most exciting batsman to watch in the last decade-and-a-half.

I have often wondered what he might have achieved if he was in the Australian side - with a stronger batting order supporting him, and a better administration backing him. If Lara had come through the Australian system, I don't think he would have been recognisable. He'd have this percentage cricket style, a business-like approach to batting devoid of all the romance that is attached to Lara's cricket. His high backlift and flourish would have been stamped out of him by the coaches at the junior levels, and we would have had a more prolific Justin Langer redux in place of Lara.

In almost stark contrast to Lara is Inzamam. While Lara's batting is buzzing with intense energy and dancing footwork, Inzamam waits and waits and waits. With minimal effort, he plays his cricket - be it his batting, his running between the wickets or his captaincy. Kumble is different from both these players - he toils tirelessly, conspiring and calculating at the same time. His cricket is played as much between his ears as beyond them. With still no spinner in the country as effective as him, he might continue to serve in the Test team for some years to come. However, this is not the case with Inzamam - Pakistan cricket has taken this World Cup debacle badly, and heads will roll for it. As always, the easiest target is the captain himself.

Jayasuriya and McGrath have one last match in the game, and it might well be their most important. Both have played exceedingly well in this edition of the World Cup, and both will be looking to leave with a bang. And while Australia will be looking for a hat-trick, individually, McGrath and Jayasuriya will try and ensure that they make more of a mark on the game than they did in the 1996 World Cup final. Watch this match closely, for you might never see a bowler as mechanically efficient as McGrath, with Asif's career in a cloud, and you might never see forearms as powerful as Jayasuriya's.

John

Fluorescent-orange coloured John has been the protector of our room in the hostel for three years now, although he was first referred to as John only five months ago. One afternoon, when he absconded as usual, Arun said, "John! John! Where are you, da? Dai John, where are you?"

At first, I didn't understand what he was talking about. Then, I put all the facts together. Firstly, it was Arun Sri Kumar speaking. There had to be a bad joke involved. Secondly, we were searching for our lock at that point of time. Then the badness of the joke dawned on me, and the name stuck.
Our lock was called John.

John is the safest lock invented by mankind. He is a complicated number lock with a dial that has to be turned alternatively in clockwise and anti-clockwise direction three times, with a fixed number of full rotations each time, and terminating in three different numbers. Ok, that sounded a lot more complicated than it actually is. I re-explain - first, you turn John's dial in the clockwise direction, cross 0 set number of times, and then reach a number. Then, you turn it anti-clockwise, cross 0 a set number of times, and reach another number. And lastly, you turn John back clockwise, cross 0, and reach a third number. After you do all this, if you are lucky, and have been treating John well, he will let you in.


For me, John has always been a person - even before he got his name. There were days, when you could almost feel his anger at the world that doesn't respect him. He'd refuse to open. Irrespective of how much you yanked at his orange self, he'd just not open. Then, you have to be nice to him. Turn the dial slowly, taking care to ensure that every number was reached exactly, and all your counting was done properly. After that, you pull John carefully to set him free. John also takes a lot of pride in his work. When strangers try entering the room, he is very hostile towards them - even when they know the combination, he refuses to go down without a fight.

Today, John's growing old. His dial that once moved smoothly creaks with pain when one turns it. If I try telling him that, he makes a face (goes more orange) and continues doing his job with pride. I personally don't have the heart to ask him to go away, and get a new boring silver padlock in his place. And even though the joke would apply to any lock, no other lock will ever be called John, for our John is a legend.

The West Indies and I

My three favourite cricketers of all time are Brian Lara, Curtly Ambrose and Mohammad Azharuddin (all left handers). (It took me some years to convince myself that Azhar bats left-handed, but my faith in that fact is unshakeable at the moment.)

As a necessary corollay of who my favourite players were, I fell in love with the West Indian cricket team in my early years of cricket watching - around the 1992 World Cup. I supported the West Indies irrespective of who they were playing against - even if they played India. I spent nights together watching cricket in the West Indies - somehow it always seemed like such a fun affair. Maybe it was just the experience of staying up all night (read 11.30pm, after which sleep would invariably take over) watching cricket, maybe it was stadiums that looked like the hockey ground on our campus with makeshift stands, maybe it was just Michael Holding's accent - watching West Indies play was something else.

And then there were my two heroes - Ambrose and Lara. I always wondered what would happen if Ambrose bowled to Lara, for it was my belief that both were invincible - nobody could get Lara out, and nobody could hit Ambrose for a boundary. One was 6'7", and the other, a little over five-feet, but in their aggression, they were almost similar.

When Ambrose's bowling came thundering down at the batsman from a height of ten feet, I'd have this wry smile on my face, waiting for the ball to rise up around the nose and make the batsman jump around. I dreamt of bowling like that one day - intimidating the batsman with my sheer presence, and getting them out when they move and bat as if they're scared of the ball. Given all this, I almost ignored that Ambrose's bowling was not all about its intimidatory effects - he was quick, deadly accurate, and moved the ball when his profession demanded it. I cannot recall a single instance when he has ever felt the need to say anything to the batsman, - his cold, expressionless eyes said so little that the batsman feared whatever hidden message they were trying to convey and assumed the worst.

Lara on the other hand, was, to use a chiched expression, poetry. I copied his high backlift and drive, cut and pull technique with little success all my life (although it did take me to two centuries in neighbourhood cricket - one where I was actually out on 30-odd and refused to walk even though the 'umpire' had given me out). There were days when I'd be upset all day when Lara got out cheaply, other days when I'd skip meals because he missed a century! I had a fairly large collection of Brian Lara photos carefully cut from newspapers and stickers, which I lost when I lost my wallet. My wallet had some money (my winnings at a quiz), quite a handsome amount at that age, but I had my priorities right - I was more upset about the stickers.

Gradually, though, my environment and innate Indianness began to affect me. This other little batsman from Mumbai joined the man they called the Prince, and this batsman who was then, according to me, the most boring batsman in the world changed the way I watched cricket.

But this World Cup, I'm back where my heart belongs. Go West Indies! Make sure no one takes the Cup away from home!

6 Reasons why Dil Se is one of my Favourite Movies

1. The plot of "Dil Se" is much maligned, but I have always believed that it is one of the movie's strongest points. The first time I watched this film, I was not too sure why people did what they did - why did Manisha leave him randomly? Why was Shah Rukh Khan running after her, and not telling the police what he knew? Why did the terrorist guy run away from Shah Rukh when he saw him? I think, the reason why this plot draws you towards itself when you watch it the second time, is because these questions begin to get answered, and you know that every action of every character has more meaning to it than you first imagined!

At some point in our lives, we have all come across this one woman who draws you towards herself, inexplicably, and the more she uses you, the more you want her to use you. You are drawn to her without understanding why.You know she doesn't care about you, and that attracts you even more. This is why the plot is simply astounding - it takes this emotion and exaggerates it, and in a slow transformation, turns everything on its head leading to the chilling climax! The hallmark of a great film is that you think about it way after you've finished watching it, and I have found myself thinking so many times if there was any other way this film could have ended. The predicament of the characters is so intricate that the ending somehow seems like the only way in which they could be together.

2. I have always believed that in cinema, drama and storytelling in general, subtlety is a virtue. "Taxi Driver" tells you so much about Travis Bickle without expressly saying it. Neither Allen nor Keaton in Woody Allen's "Annie Hall" say "I love you" throughout the film. Closer home, Santosh Sivan's "The Terrorist" hardly has any dialogue. In Mani Ratnam's "Nayakan", Kamal Hassan conveys so much without saying much. In Capek's most famous play - "RUR", you realise the gravity of his message when the last line of the play, "Go, my Adam and Eve," is delivered (I have never seen it being performed, but I can imagine the effect!).

Same way, the twist in the plot is so subtle, that one hardly notices it build up - Manisha is being drawn towards Shah Rukh throughout. The second viewing of the film, in the entire scene between the two of them at the campfire in Ladakh discussing the three things they like the most, where they almost kiss, had me in complete awe. They don't kiss, but you feel the energy between them more strongly than in any Mallika Sherawat scene or Hollywood movie - definitely one of Cinema's Ten Greatest Kisses! The only time Mani Ratnam makes it obvious that she loves him is towards the end, when she asks him, "Amar, tum theek to ho?" on the phone, and when he says to Priety, "If I talk to her, she won't do it!"

3. This movie is directed by Mani Ratnam, but Santosh Sivan's cinematography is a standout, and deserves special mention. The film looks so unbelievably good - I can think of only "Omkara" and "Lakshya" as other Indian films that have looked this good. There is Mani Ratnam's characteristic strong back lighting with front lighting just bright enough for us to make out the features, with a key/source light that sets the mood for the scene. Again, I go back to the scene at the campfire - it just looks so good! Almost every shot of the film is desktop wallpaper material. (In this regard, 2001 and Barry Lyndon are so beautiful that EVERY shot is desktop wallpaper material). Every landscape in the film - Assam, Leh and Delhi are captured so well, that every scene has character - typical of Santosh Sivan.

"Chaiyya chaiyya" shot on a train is a continuation of Ratnam's obsession with trains - watch Thalapathi, and the climax in Thiruda Thiruda, and it is shot so well that it deserves a special mention.

4. There is one little scene in the movie that deserves extra-special mention. Just like that insane splitscreen scene in Requeim and that scene in 2001 where the guy is taking a jog on the Jupiter spaceship, this scene is unbelievably good and remained in my mind as the one image that defined the movie. The two of them are at the AIR office corridor with light coming from one little hole in the door, and every time the door opens, there's full light on her face. The dialogue that goes on between them is the summary of the movie. He asks her why she left him and why she's come back now looking for him, and says she will not get the job unless she answers the question. She walks away, refusing to answer the question. And, he tells her, "Don't go away. You have the job."

5. The fifth reason is the soundtrack. It ranks amongst Rahman's best, a feat in itself, with Meenaxi, Thiruda Thiruda and Kannathil Muthamittal - the rest of his work comes in after that. From "Chaiyya Chaiyya"'s energy, to the pain in "E Ajnabi", to the pounding base line in the title track to Kavita Krishnamurthy's randomness in "Satrangi Re", each song in the soundtrack has a character - a feature missing in say Lagaan (although credit must be given to him there for creating a distinct sound for the movie).

The soundtrack that runs during the movie is even better. Instead of punctuating the action like in Lagaan and Swades giving the viewer emotional cues, this soundtrack becomes a part of the image itself, haunting and repetitive, creating an aura around the image.

6. People have told me so many times that Shah Rukh cannot act and his characters are all the same. I have always disagreed. Not for a second in this movie is Shah Rukh smooth with the women - compare this to his role in DDLJ, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, K3G and so on where there are women all over him - his outwardly maturity and his inexplicably intense, obsessive love on the inside come across beautifully. Manisha conveys so much with just her eyes, and Priety Zinta is excellent in what I believe is her best role to date. When she asks Shah Rukh if he's a virgin, the expression on both their faces is simply too good!

Random Strangers with Sob Stories

When I was in the twelfth, I think, I had this short story by Saki, Dusk, in my English textbook. The protagonist is conned into giving money to stranger-with-a-sob-story. After I read this story, I have always been wary of these money-grabbing strangers with brilliant acting skills and a carefully crafted story.

Over the years, I have come across these people in almost every city - I remember this middle-aged man who came to me in Bombay last December claiming to be from Nepal. He said he'd lost his wallet with his passport (big wallet it must've been!), and didn't know what to do, and asked me for money to call his relatives in Nepal. Alas, little did he know that you don't need a passport to travel between India and Nepal - even a driving licence would do!

The domestic help at my cousin's house in Vasant Kunj asked my cousin once for a 1000 bucks. Apparently, she wanted to buy a car - a Honda City at that - and fell 1000 bucks short!

This man on Brigade Road asked me faltered in the first sentence itself, "Bhaisaab, hum Bihar se hain. Aapko Hindi aata hai?"

Then there is that one auto ride I'll never forget. This was one morning in my first year when I decided that I needed a bookrack in my room. Periamma, as always, had a spare one. Then, I was still a small-town-boy-in-big-city-who-only-travels-by-bus-irrespective-of-what-the-circumstances-are. So, my bookrack and I prepared ourselves for this journey from high-society Sadasivanagar to in-the-wilderness Nagarbhavi changing two buses on the way. The first leg of the journey was uneventful, barring some strange looks from conductor.

Then, at Majestic, everything went wrong - one leg of the bookrack decided that it had had enough of the journey, and settled itself in a dirty gutter from where I couldn't take it out and I boarded the wrong bus with the rest of my bookrack! When I realised that, I got off and decided enough was enough. I took an auto to law school - a princely sum of sixty rupees it would cost me - approximately what I spent every week in those glory days of eating only mess food. The autodriver was of the strangest variety. He had Greatest Sai Baba Hits (a cassette with famous Hindi songs with Sia Baba lyrics - famously parodied in Boys) playing in loud volume, which he refused to turn down - it was his morning prayer time, allegedly.

Autodrivers make for the most interesting conversation, and I never pass up an opportunity. If you can speak a smattering of Kannada, Bangalore autodrivers are more than willing to tell you their views on inflation, Virender Sehwag's flawed technique, Upendra's latest philosophy, and the elections in Punjab. They have simple solutions to every problem in the world, usually involving ridding Bangalore of North Indians and Tamilians! Couple of them have even reminded me of Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver, their disgust for the evils of urbanisation and a certain disconnect from life in general.

This one was unlike any I had ever met! He spoke in perfect English and told me that he was a B.A., used to work at a bank in the 80s and early 90s, and circumstances had forced him to do this job. His wife apparently had an affair with another man, and he now lived alone with his son and mother. Now, the mother was ill, and needed an operation. I remembered watching this plot in some movie. Apparently, the last time he needed money, he stole from the bank, and was fired for that. This time, he decided to ask me. I didn't want to tell him on his face that I thought he was a fraud, for I feared that however filmy his story might have seemed, he could be genuine. I didn't believe him at all, until he started weeping. Now, I have seen sob stories before, but this was too much for me to handle. When I got off at Nagarbhavi, I gave him all the money in my wallet - three hundred bucks. He said, "Sir, please tell me your name and class, and I'll return it to you in some days." I gave him the details.

When I related this incident to my senior, he laughed for a whole five minutes non-stop. I still believed that he was genuine. I wrote an email to my cousin. She also told me the same thing - he conned you. He must've been a really good actor! I have never felt like more of an idiot. Given all my worship for Saki and his wonderful writing, how did I fall for something like this? I vowed to never give anything to any stranger ever again, irrespective of how genuine he sounded.

Some one month later, there was some commotion at the Law School gate, and by the time I reached there, it was over. When I asked the guards what had happened, they told me that there was this auto driver who came looking for this boy whose name he had forgotten. Apparently, he had to return three hundred bucks to him. The guards didn't believe his story and asked him to leave!

Retribution

I've been sitting in front of my computer for the last two days (and for almost ten days sometime two weeks ago) writing a paper on how one responds to mass atrocities. The usual indecision that plagues my existence has led to me changing my opinion on the issue every two hours or so.

I have this little note at the end of my draft paper that reads:

"Conclusion: Argue for setting up of a Permanent International Truth and Reconciliation Commission".

Fifteen minutes ago, it read, "Conclusion: Argue for selective prosecution of perpetrators".

At 6 pm, it read, "Conclusion: Argue for dividing prosecution between national courts and International Criminal Court".

At 10 am, when I began work for the day, it read, "Conclusion: ?".

At 11.40 pm last night, it read, "Conclusion: Restorative justice rocks. My dear Waldo, you're right. Retribution is what the uncivilised opt for."

When I resumed work on this paper last morning, after one week of submitting other papers, it read, "Conclusion: Argue for screwing the bastards. Castrate all of them! (yes, I did assume they'd all be men!)"

What DOES one do with mass human rights violators?!