Fall…..

Four seasons have passed;
Since last fall.
The trees have shed their leaves,
The ground is covered in a soft carpet of russet;
There’s chill once again in the air,
And you haven’t looked back since….

Musings of a wandering soul….

I looked down upon the hill below. The wind was making music in my ears, like a divine orchestrator had composed a symphony and was calling out for an audience: for people to stop a while and pause and listen. A few metres away a golden retriever puppy was going round in circles, trying to catch hold of its own tail, amusing itself in this funny game. The afternoon sun was bright but not burning. The whole ambience was soporiphic, lulling me to sleep. I struggled to keep my eyes awake, trying to soak in the sights and sounds of this quaint little hill station. Not so much because I had never been to a hill station before but because my soul needed the solitude and respite only a small town could offer.

I looked at my cell phone. No there was no overwhelming desire or excitement to share with anyone: for me to make use of a cell phone at this point of time. It was just to check the time as I had long foregone the need to wear a wristwatch and a cellphone had sufficed that odd need to check the time once in a while. I was more than happy to let time pass me by these couple of days, but it was the odd reminder that my mom was in the habit of calling me post lunch and that she might start getting worried if she couldn’t get through the line; that I felt my brows furrowing for a split second. I let the thought pass me by just this once, knowing that it is rarely that I get an opportunity to let go of things. Back in the maddening city and my killing job, I had a hundred and one things that I knitted my eyebrows for. For a change I was glad that there was not a single bar indicating reception in the area. The wind had stopped and I could hear a dull drone slowly rising in pitch. I turned my eyes towards the direction of the sound and a couple of hundred metres below I could see a lorry struggling to climb up the steep hill. A familiar sight in most hill stations.

I had no intention of retreating into my room rightaway. I dumped my luggage inside the spacious wooden cupboard. I had been fortunate that I could get a room in the Holiday Home of the Air Force. There was definitely no touch of luxury, like a couple of the star hotels in the vicinity offered. A star hotel room was not what I was looking for, not that I couldn’t afford it. But there is something about hotels that has never really appealed to me; maybe it is the whole business like commercial attitude. Here everything that a wary soul could ask for was available. It was a small suite actually, complete with a huge king size bed, side tables, a mini fridge, a tv, an ac (not that there was a need for it) and a small sofa. Everything was perfect, infact it was more than I had asked for. The Corporal had already informed that dinner would be available at the Mess from 8.00 p.m. onwards, so my basic need for food was taken care of.
Perched halfway atop a hill adjacent to the Monkey Point, the Air Force Mess offers vantage views of the town. A couple of metres below I could see that the beeline for the Hanuman Mandir which I had crossed while entering the Air Force Mess, had not receded at all. Now I wasn’t the most religiously inclined person, however the vagabond in me couldn’t resist the urge to find out what lay on the other side of the hill. The climb was steeper than I had anticipated, and by the time I reached the top, I was short of breath, not so much because of physical exertion but because what lay in front of my eyes was truly “breathtaking”.

It was beginning to get dark and the sun painted the valleys below a glorious shade of orange which soon turned to a crimson red and then to an inkish grey, all this within a span of less than half an hour The wind suddenly turned fierce and cold and I stood there as if I was awakened from a trance. I realized it was time to go back. As I descended, I pulled the thin anorak tighter which seemed inadequate now. And I started feeling a tingling sensation at the sides of my tongue and the base of my throat which I hadn’t felt in more than 14 hours, I knew the familiar feeling…. it was a craving for nicotine. As I walked downhill my pace picking up, the urge grew stronger and I started searching the pockets of the anorak; no there were no traces of an unhealthy and undesirable habit. My hands reached for the depths of the pocket of my jeans, nope -all that I could find were a few chits of paper, a few parking slips, some unfamiliar names and addresses scribbled and a flavourless old chewing gum….. there was nothing that resembled anything remotely to a cigarette.

As I neared the check-post, I could make out the silhouettes of two persons and some furniture. I assumed they were the security guards on the night shift. One of them pointed his flashlight at my direction and I instantly covered my eyes to shade myself from the blinding light. As I reached within visible distance, the guard gave me the most incredulous look. Finally with a sense of authority that came from the powers bestowed on him by his superior officers, he summoned me “What do you think you were doing so late after dark? Do you know I can have you arrested for violating local laws?” I was totally taken aback by this aggressive behaviour and volley of questions that were bombarded at me. Before I could manage a reply, the other guard came up and added insult to injury. “You could have been eaten up by leopards or a pack of wild wolves for all you know. You city people are unaccustomed to the ways here. It is different here in the hills. Go back to your room now”

There was little that I could think of to counter his argument then, although the second guards’ logic seemed preposterous to me at that point of time. Later in retrospect when I thought about it, it struck me that the guard was right from his perspective. Afterall if any untoward incident happened to a tourist, he could have been held responsible. By the time I reached my room it was almost quarter past eight. The air had turned chilly and the incident had fired my craving for a cigarette all the more stronger. I went inside my room and found my pack of cigarettes and Zippo tucked away in a small pocket of my backpack. I caught hold of it and came out to the small sitting area where two chairs and a small table had been neatly arranged. As I flicked the cover open, the tiny flame trembled in the dark lonely night and I covered it to light up my fag. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and as I did so, the day’s fatigue and tension seemed to ease away.

I looked up, it was a clear sky. And as hard as I tried to think, I couldn’t remember when was the last time I had seen something like this. A million stars twinkled, bright one moment and then fading away another and I tried to identify constellations that I had learnt about it in school and had long forgotten. Then I noticed the white band that spread across horizontally. “Xeyaa durot haatipoti- That far far away is the Milky way”, my Dad had taught me as a 6 year old. It seemed like an eternity had passed before I heard someone calling me out. “Its quarter to 11….we are closing the mess. Don’t you want any dinner?” I could barely make out the form of a human face in the dark. I decided I better not make any delay, or risked starving through the night. My body had become numb with the cold, and it was only when I entered the centrally heated Dining Room that I realized I was out in the open for so long. The food or rather whatever was left of it was nothing lavish but a modest spread and was palatably warm. I quickly gulped my food and came back to my room. I decided I had enough adventure for the day and tucked myself inside the warm quilt.

I rose with the sun, feeling fresh and energized the next day. This rarely happened as my fatigued and weary body always struggled to get up with the false alarm I set for myself; back in the city. I quickly freshened up and went downstairs for breakfast. After a light breakfast, I set out for the day armed with my map and camera. I decided to explore the much talked about nature trail.

The trail forked out from the main road and a small inconspicuous signboard was the only marker. As I entered, the trail narrowed to a thin dirt track and at several places was just about a couple of feet wide apart. The trail circumnavigated one of the hillocks. I could run my hands and feel its rocky grainy surface. At other times my fingers felt a soft moist sensation …. patches of lichen and moss had knitted a carpet over crevices and other areas where sunlight never reached. To my right there was a steep drop of few thousand metres. Somewhere in the middle of the trail the land stretched out to a patch of grassyland and gently sloped downwards. I decided to stop for a smoke and some water. The gentle wind was back and the sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds. At an elevated altitude, the clouds seemed much closer; like big fluffs of cotton. At another point I thought they were like sugar candy of my childhood days. I could see mountain goats and cattle grazing in the distance. A couple of young shepherds smiled. One of them was singing a pahari tune. I couldn’t understand the local dialect but it seemed like he sang about his lady love. I envied their carefree life somehow even though I knew it was not the easiest. I picked up my backpack and started again. There was much more to explore in this hill station which in due course of time I found out was a cantonment area and maintained by the army. By the time I finished my trek, beads of sweat had formed on my forehead and I could feel the sun growing behind my back. I decided to go back to the mess and pick up my bullet.

The little trek had tired me and I thought a ride would be better. The ride downhill to the Lower Mall was less than 5 minutes. I parked the bullet (I always thought of my bullet as my Horcrux) in the small parking lot and walked towards the neatly arranged line of shops that was the main market. I had been ignoring the hunger pangs all this while and my olfactory sense instinctively drew me a to a corner shop which was selling steaming hot momos and thupkas. As I neared the place I realized it was no more than a shack! and yet there was a beeline at the cash counter and buzzing with people-school children, jawans from the nearby cantonment, elderly couples, tourists et al. With my tummy full, I once again set out on my bike to see more of the town. Somehow I always thought nothing can beat the sensation of the wind in your hair, the cool mountain breeze blowing down your face, the smell of pine cones and the sight of rhodendrons touching the skies. Vignettes of the town passed me by as I sped down the winding road- a century old church and a cemetery, convent schools, bungalows with red bricks and oakwood shafts. The tin roofs gleamed as sunlight from the afternoon sun slanted its way to the little town.

I came back to my room for a quite dinner. The night was cold and an uncanny stillness prevailed; from my balcony I could see a bonfire in one of the bungalows in the distance. I dimmed the lights but I couldn’t sleep for a long time. I lay there in my bed listening to the sounds of the creatures of the night as they came alive at this odd hour. Somewhere an owl hooted and I wondered if it was a bad omen like I was told as a child. A dog was barking and I instinctively knew it was the same retriever puppy. I wondered if its owner had ignored him and the poor soul was feeling lonely.

I didn’t know at what time I fell asleep except for the fact that it was pretty late into the night. I woke up late unlike the previous morning and the sun had already been out for quite some time. I decided to skip breakfast and just made myself some black coffee instead. After a quick shower I was all set to go back. I strapped my helmet, put on my leather gloves, tied my backpack to the pillion seat, kicked the pedal and fired up my bullet. I was going back to the city. Just 5 more days. 5 days after my grueling grind at work, next weekend, I was going to be at another new place, another new vista……

Guzaarish

Ke aapko hamari mohabbat kubool nahi,
Ye koi gila nahi hame aapse;

Itni bas guzaarish hai
Ke gair na karde apne dilse:

Aaahe bharte hai roz ek nazar ko,
Ke dam nikalta hai har lamha har pal;

Is aashiq ke janeze pe aasu na bahaye
Ke sukoon na mil payegi mere roohko....

Hangover

Lies and Lust….
What a heady cocktail?
Yeah sure I was inebriated…
When did I wake up from this drunken stupor?

I was in a trance!
Tripping over the hallucinated reality of your love;
Drenched in the psychedelic colours of a concocted romance:
Ecstatic with the illusory image of togetherness.

It ok …
I am sober now…
And “You” a bad hangover….

Schizophrenic!

She laughs like a mad woman
Cries like a child;
She frets like a teenager
Throws tantrums like a rock star!
She dresses like a diva
But behaves like a beggar;

She dotes like a mother
Cares like a friend;
She plays games like a toddler
And hurts deep like a true lover!
She curses like a witch
And heals like an exorcist.

She’s schizophrenic!

Reverberations…

The songbird sings outside my window,
The bard in saffron and the hawker cry out too;

RJ on the radio cackles
The phone incessantly vibrates;
The kettle gurgles with boiling water
Exuberance and innocence burst through peals of children’s laughter.

Tap tap tap… my keyboard clicks,
Ting Ting Ting… the school bell rings;

The airplane drones the foggy night
Mother sings a lullaby to put baby to sleep
Amidst all this I hear my heart silently weep….

On Guzarish...

My admiration for Bhansali as a filmmaker started with Khamoshi. It was indeed pathbreaking a film and refreshing to come across a filmmaker who treated his craft with so much passion and sinceretity, when the norm of the day in the nineties was mindless films catering to the baser senses of the masses and the demands of the box office; a Roja or Bombay or Rudaali or an Akele Hum Akele Tum in sporadic bursts notwithstanding. Bhansali’s sensitive handling of the topics dealing with the physically disabled (both Khamoshi and Black ) and his directorial prowess to extract such splendid performances from his cast, have always held me in awe of him. Much like the auteur of the French New Wave during the 1950’s, Bhansali manages to leave his indelible mark on his celluloid dreams.

So with the all the rave reviews that the movie had garnered, it was but inevitable that I went in to see the film with highest expectations. Dealing with an extremely challenging topic like quadraplegia is no mean task for any director and when the star hero is not romancing the heroine or bashing up the villain in a “ mainsteam Hindi film” and stuck to a wheelchair for the larger part of the film, the Director and Producers are sure taking a risk. Sure the times are a changing and the new breed of multiplex movies are managing to pull in the crowds...but albeit a niche audience. Kudos to Bhansali for believing in his dreams.

The signature Bhansali style of filmaking with grand opulent sets and rich visual imagery is obvious in every frame of Guzarish. So whether it is the decaying remnants of a once magnificient Portugese bunglow or the panoramic seascapes of Goa, cinematographer Sudeep K. Bhattacharjee has managed to create some alluring and enthralling visuals. From the almost chiaroscuristic magician’s playground to the lush green countryside, the transition is almost Raphaelesque. The subtle poetic background score of Guzarish is definitely the highpoint of the film and threads the cascading emotions from despair to joy to ecstasy of the two main protagonists Ethan and Sofia.

So is the movie yet another masterpiece by Bhansali? I am afraid not so. I am far from declaring Guzarish as his best work till date. So what is it that fails or doesn’t work for me? For starters the dialogues-Ethan Mascarenhas’ frequent references to sexual gratification- as his last dying wish, as an objectionable pass at his nurse (though we come to know later in the course of the film that Sofia is the “love of his life”) : okay maybe a little bit of harmless flirting in a slightly lighter vein and different level altogether, and almost hidden and suppressed desire of his best friend Devyani to sleep with him.(which again we come to know only towards the end of the film!) The name of his protege is Dick! (I beg your pardon but did you just say your name is DICK!). That the sexual innuendos are completely out of place and distasteful is to say the least. It is almost insensitive and offensive. Impotency along with a host of other medical problems like total loss of motor and sensory control (which even includes control of bladder and bowel movement and is even mentioned in the film) is one of the most obvious symptoms associated with paraplegia/tetraplegia. For a quardiplegic who is crippled and restricted to a wheelchair and who is in such a state of despair that he wants to end his life in dignity, I wonder if his priorities are a little off the track ! Bhansali has sure committed cinematic blasphemy!

A has been written about Hrithik and Aishwarya’s sizzling onscreen chemistry in their earlier pairings in Dhoom 2 and Jodha Akbar. Somehow it just fizzles this time. Understandably the script demands a more subtle and old world romance where its not so much about spoken words or physical expressions of love, but a more restrained and almost unsaid understanding of each other’s emotions. There are moments when the two create magic together like in the backseat of the car, when both of them go out of the house 12 years after Ethan’s accident for the court hearing; but for the larger part, the growth and the changing dynamics of their relationship remained unexplored. The transition from Sofia’s selfish need of clinging on to her love, to her understanding and empathy for Ethan’s pain and finally agreeing to his plea of mercy killing could have been exploited further.
Much of the flaw remains in the script itself. Told through a series of flashbacks, the story often meanders through several sub-plots. There is nothing wrong in this form of storytelling, and is a credible and established editing style in contemporary cinema. The characters of his past life however needed to be fleshed out more as they seem to emerge and disappear out of the plot without any significance. Case in point Estella and Yaseer, who the director would like us to believe were vital to the life of Merlin- Ethan Mascarenhas the greatest magician of the world. I also fail to understand the forceful connection between Yaseer and Dick which could have been easily done away with. That a young aspiring magician also considers his father’s arch rival a better and greater magician is almost forcefully implied and not really been established.

Bhansali’s inexplicable penchant for period costumes is but well known and though Sabyasachi managed to create some beautiful dresses for Aishwarya when viewed in exclusivity, she looks ridiculous in those outfits as a jaded and love forlorn maid/nurse. It is almost like a wax figurine trapped in a time capsule has been juxtapositioned against a Stephen Hawkingish character. Talking about ridiculous, I cannot fathom why Aishwarya tries to air guitar, drum and dance flamenco all at once. This stupid act of hers almost overshadows the one moment of brilliance in the court scene.

The only saving grace in the entire movie was Hrithik himself. (supported by Shernaz Patel) Hrithik has effortlessly managed to shake off his larger than life image and essay the role of a paraplegic with ease. His zest for life and incorrigible humour totally beguiling the despair and anguish that he is suffering from within.


By now almost everybody knows that Guzarish is not the most original screenplay and I am not referring to the novel of Dayanand Rajan. Movies like internationally acclaimed The Sea Inside and Whose Life is it Anyway have similar storylines and have already touched upon the sensitive and controversial subject of Euthanasia. Somehow Guzarish fails to come to grips with the underlying theme of mercy killing. References can also be seen to Christopher Nolan’s Prestige and The Illusionist. (the inspiration behind Merlin or magician) and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. (the stubborn fly scene) So no points to Bhansali for originality.

One expects much more from a filmmaker of Bhansali’s calibre. His devotion and dedication towards his craft is truly inspirational and motivating. The magnificently penned story of an incapacitated and debilitated man who desires to end his life with dignity has so much of promise but the film fails in to pack in the punch mainly because of its predictable dialogue and weak script. Guzarish is definitely one of the better films made in recent times, and is worth a watch, but it is definitely several notches behind The Sea Inside.