Pinot grigio, the oscars, slums, and other such stuff

Last night turned into an unexpected celebration of sorts with the roommates. We opened some Pinot Grigio and sipped happily as we cheered Slumdog and Rahman and Pookutty and Pinki. Hugh Jackman is my most recent crush and he comes a close second only to Josh Holloway. The show was massively entertaining and you could not miss the ‘Indian’ presence at the awards if you wanted to. Rahman, a man of few words, and adorably inarticulate revived the eternally Bollywood, “mere paas maa hain,” which can never be fully comprehended by Hollywood (as Gitika's status correctly read) but likely brought the house down in my part of the world. I felt euphoric every time Slumdog won an award but my joy was unbounded when Rahman and Pookutty won 3 ‘direct’ awards for India. Lots of cheering later, I went to bed buzzing with more than just grigio.

The much-loved Rahman has finally found the global recognition he deserves. I’m still trying to get over a wayward reaction that claimed he only won because of a lack of competition. I wish to reserve comment on that statement. I will only say that the man redefines versatility and has belted out fantastic scores that have haunted me for months and stayed with me for years. And I know a lot of other Indians will agree with what I say: Slumdog is by far, not his best work. Unfortunately, Danny Boyle didn’t ask him to provide music for any other flicks and so the rest of the world has yet to see beyond the tip of his immense talent. I like to believe that last night was the beginning.

Did I like Slumdog? I loved it. Not because of the ‘realistic’ portrayal of Indian slums. Prince Charles’ demented “the western world should learn from Indian slums” notwithstanding, most people do not ‘choose’ to live in slums. Part of my never-ending educational training included working with street kids and the children of construction site workers in Bombay. The experience was enriching in ways that an upper middle class, city snob like me would never have imagined. I agree a majority of slum kids will not make it out of there in their life-time. Yet, I saw glimpses of brilliance and resilience that were immensely gratifying. I feel sorry for those who lament Slumdog as a movie glorifying the least glorious parts of India. I read an article somewhere where the author was questioning why the movie did not have a single shot of the more prosperous parts of Bombay. Another article claimed that Boyle has exploited India, Indian slums and even our Rahman. I think I may have missed something here. Did Danny Boyle claim to be making a documentary? Did he claim to be making a film that showed the 'true' nature of all of India? Is that even possible in a single project? Why did American Gangster just show gangs? Won't people who have never been to the US and never watched another Hollywood flick just think that the US is all about gangs and people smart-mouthing each other before shooting? A lot of people feel Slumdog is overrated. Perhaps so, but aren’t a lot of other movies? Isn’t movie-making all about appeal? And if Boyle found a formula that appeals, why is he being criticized for it? He did not exploit anyone; he was just making a movie. I would like to point out that there are countless movies that thrive on the premise that people love cheering for the underdog who struggles to make it to the top. The only difference is that the protagonist in Slumdog is an underdog who makes his way to the top while harboring no such intentions. Yet, when the gawky Jamal wins a crore, the audience experiences an adrenaline rush along with him. He found his love AND won a crore. It’s a triumph of the human spirit in a way that we rarely see in real life. Isn’t that another reason we love movies? Because they allow us to vicariously live another’s life, experience another’s pain and another’s joys? By ensuring that audiences felt Jamal’s euphoria as he emerged an unlikely winner from conditions of squalor, Boyle played his hand and played it well.

The slums in India are hardly the stuff dreams are made of, and I whole-heartedly agree with people who believe that the western world should know India for more than just its poverty symbols. So here’s the thing, the more worldly individuals of the West have already noticed that Indians somehow proceed to win every Spelling Bee and Silicon Valley is crawling with engineers who are more or less Indian. With respect to the awards, yes, there are other Indian films and film-makers, who perhaps deserve as many accolades as were showered on Slumdog last night. But isn't this a good beginning? I think it will surely come to the world’s attention that Rahman and Pookutty in all their respectiv Tam-ness and Mallu-ness are wholly Indian even if Slumdog in its entirety is not. Not to give the Academy Awards undue importance (I’ll always know that some brilliant Indian films will never see the light of day there), but I really think that art and entertainment should cross international boundaries and if the Academy Awards provide an avenue, then hell, why not? If they are incapable of appreciating a Lagaan, we’ll just supply them with a Monsoon Wedding. And sometimes they’ll even receive a Paheli, and eventually, they will forgive us for it. That said, I would like to go back to applauding Rahman and my Bombay in Slumdog. And to all those who criticized it and claimed it was “poverty porn”..whatever gets you off.

An Unanswered Question: Repost from an old blog

As we walk on, away from the light,

Idle conversation…not the agenda tonight

Searching within me, for solutions that evade

Questioning decisions and why they were made.

You’d think that to move on is to erase the past,

Little did you know about memories that will never cease to last.

Dissonance is unnerving, and its what you fight

And until you gain equilibrium, there is no respite.

The sand on your feet is cool, the sea not quite calm,

But calmer than the sea inside you, that threatens to break loose.

There is more being said than you intended to be said

It’s a new feeling, saying anything that comes to your head

Head…? Or heart..? or does it matter?

As heavy words pour forth, with the ease of chatter.

But yet there’s something of the sea that you hold back,

You’d say it..if only you knew what it were

Because you’re not afraid….not tonight,

There’s something about the Now that would make anything all right

The light is closer now, reality close at hand,

Closer gets closer as you make your way on the sand.

The spell is broken, the moment fleets by

And you realize that even if you solve everything, there never ceases to be a Why...

The Monsters under my Bed

I tread softly..

Creaking floorboards send a shiver down my spine.

I reason with myself,

The fears unbeknownst are mine.

No ghosts, no demons exist, I tell myself,

They are all figments of my addled mind;

If I light a candle on this very fine night,

Shadows of objects are all I’m likely to find.

But the misgivings persist,

And imagined whispers in the dark won’t let me be;

I’m shuddering in the darkness,

My resolve to be brave ever threatening to flee.

Why won’t my mind be at peace?

Why won’t these thoughts go away?

Why won’t my wrist flick itself?

Fears will surely perish….I could fight, I could slay.

But the shivers continue,

Brought on by fears unknown,

And my silly head refuses to acknowledge,

That the monsters underneath my bed are my own…

Why Blogger?

Before I created this account, I wondered why I never blogged. I love writing. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I'm passionate about my writing. I've been penning down cute little poems since I was 8, and most people who knew me until the 10th standard and lost touch after that, gape at me in disbelief when I tell them that I turned out to be a researcher instead of the journalist that everyone who knew me then was convinced I would be.
And why not? My dislike/disdain for math was just as pronounced as my love for anything remotely connected to languages...and my report cards hold testimony to this. After college in Bombay, I even ditched the idea of being a Psychologist and spent a few months editing for a certain business magazine. I felt I should give working as a writer a shot. Did I like the work? Yes, even if got a little mechanical after a point. Did I like corporate life? Definite no. So I free-lanced for a while..but after writing an article on 'Fashion Do's and Don't Do's This Summer' and another one that gave shoe shoppers advice on 'What's Hot and What's not', I realized that there was nothing 'creative' in what I was doing and I certainly couldn't do this for a career unless I wanted my grey cells to rot and fall out. I decided that I'd pursue my slightly less favored career choice with a vengeance because then writing could be something I did when I chose to, not when I was told to. And that made sense in my rational little head.
Except that no non-academic writing has occurred for 3 whole years now..save for a random sentimental something on some special friend's birthday card. And that worries me a little...what if I've lost my touch? So on this too-warm-for-comfort summer afternoon, when I really should be running regressions on variables indicating that children's social skills are in fact related to their academic skills, I decided to give blogging a chance.