The Gods In The Himalayas Received Live Feed!

As a kid I had this firm belief that all we do throughout our lives is in accordance with a definite script. That every single person has a sharp, unconscious, built-in and regularly updated awareness of their role and that the very purpose of one’s existence was to act it all out to the satisfaction and amusement of immediate superiors. By ‘superiors’ I mean people with higher authority – in my world, that meant parents. And at every level, superiors decided the basic outline of the script their charges would enact.

The way I saw it, we were all theatre artists. And the ones who got to the big screen were the ones who made it big (with respect to others at the same level), which is why they were on the receiving end of all that fame and adulation, all that bhav. So just like we could go to Vishnudas Bhave Natyagraha and Prithvi Theatre to watch people enact certain stories, I figured our superiors were watching us too. Big Boss style, absolutely.


So you had the bachchas who were their parents’ puppets and so on until you exhausted living familial hierarchy; then came some mid level authority I never thought about; and at the very top of that controlling pyramid sat The Gods. Oh yeah, I was a believer back then, Dadi took care of that… I have fond memories of those times. No, don’t try it now.


Getting back to my story – which I believe you’re still somewhat interested in since you’re still reading :P – I used to visualize usually homogeneous pairs of Gods and Goddesses in stereotypical God/Goddess garb (flowing black hair (white for Brahma), loads of skin show, glitzy blingy ornaments, silky satiny rhinestone-studded clothes...) sitting on separate sofas that flanked a coffee table loaded with grub (they always always always had peanuts), laughing at the antics of us mortals as giant spools of real time recordings played on giant Videocon Bazooka screens. Laughing good naturedly, indulgently, never mockingly, but laughing nonetheless. Real time? Dunno how they did it man.. Even then, I could see how it was funny… I mean c’mon, you have all these humans falling over themselves to be promoted just some more, wanting to be in a position that allows them to decide the actions of so many others around them. By the time a global drama inclusive of all levels was actually put together, it was probably a holy comedy of errors. Pun, haha, pun.


I always wondered if tapes of the part I was enacting were important enough to be viewed by the Gods themselves or if they only reached the city-level authority for perfunctory checks and were then tossed aside. Never did quite manage to figure that out. Nor did I work out how the tapes reached the gods (Bluetooth ka baap?) or how scripts were communicated to us actors – we just knew what to do and went about doing what we had to, unaware of this twisted manipulation. Mind you, we experienced joy, frustration, ecstasy, sorrow, anger, embarrassment and just about every regular emotion you can think of while we were at it.


Doodlebug, a short film by Christopher Nolan and crew, was what brought this eerily vivid piece of imagination to the surface. Tried uploading but Mom's lappy doesn't seem to approve. Do look it up.


And just in case the idea of Hindu gods living on Indian land and ruling/governing/ manipulating/spying on the entire world offends you, my 5 yr old self apologizes. That was what I knew, okay? Apologies all the way from the bottom of my heart, all sincere.


PS – Please don’t start working out why my mind/imagination works the way it does/ the way it always has. You might be tempted to suggest I take up Management, seeing how I had pyramidal admin structures, checks and controls, authority and regulation all worked out at the age of 5. Don't. You might be tempted to probe tomes on Psychology and comment on my concept of the unconscious or reveal that it has to do with a repressed desire to control / act / manipulate / tell stories / eat peanuts. Speculate all you want, just don’t tell me. The way I bombed my Psychology end sem, I don’t think I’ll welcome anything connecting me and the subject for a long long time to come.

The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas

This isn’t a movie review as much as it is a post of frustration and absolute helplessness. It’s one of those times I wish I knew more, never enough, of everything – language, history, people… Language so I may express better. History and people? I don’t know how to explain those. You either get it or you don’t.


I’ve spent a small, probably insignificant amount of time in the last few years looking up details about the Holocaust. Books and movies, the internet and reference guides. The usual. Since History textbooks in school would fly out the window before they elaborated on the period (“Jews were subject to inhuman torture.”), I was lucky to have a mother who was more forthcoming.

Anne Frank’s diary was, and do pardon me for putting it this way, an ideal introduction to the Holocaust for a kid. No, no kid should have to know about something so ghastly. But then no kid should have to live in a world that saw something so ghastly. Ideal? Shall we replace that with ‘appropriate’? I don’t know.

Ideal is hypothetical – Grade 12 physics said so. So do historians, philosophers, gamblers, parents of teenagers, realists and anyone who knows. Damn them all.


I’ve been trying; I can’t say a thing about The Diary Of A Young Girl –or indeed, anything to do with it– without feeling like what I’m saying is wrong. It’s not about being politically correct, it’s not even about what I think is wrong; it’s about how I feel when I try and put my thoughts on paper. Every word seems out of place. Inadequate. Just see the words used so far dammit – inhuman, ideal, ghastly. They simply do not do justice. Words like ‘disgust’ and ‘anger’ mean nothing because hey, aren’t those the words we use when we speak of nasty smells and broken mugs? You’re angry because someone didn’t call you back; you’re angry because millions had to live through “inhuman torture” – Really?

There was The Great Escape, but the spirit and faith aside, it dealt with how a bunch of prisoners of war found a way to beat all odds and break out; sunshine at the end of the tunnel, catchy music to boot. There was Schindler’s List. Oh Lord. There was Vikram Seth’s almost biographical account, Two Lives. There must be hundreds and thousands and thousands of books out there that refer, if only fleetingly, to the Holocaust. And during practically every such book or movie, your stomach clenches, you choke up and pillow covers get replaced.


I don’t know how far it is the collective suffering that elicits reactions and how far the individuals stories. I don’t know if I’m a masochist. Why it makes me think of a dagger being forced in and twisted in a neat circle, I can’t say. In the light of it all, everything else becomes so trivial, so fast it scares me. It makes me want to do something for all world over – Jews, Germans and otherwise. Somewhere, I know chances are I won’t do a constructive thing about it. I know nothing can be done for the people who perished during those years. For their families and souls, in their memory and all, yes. But nothing that would be any help directly. It all just feels like a failed cause, much as we may say being humane now will make a difference. I ramble.


This is one of billions and gazillions of posts, letters and notes written all over the world. Some furious, some intimate, some showing solidarity and others helplessness. As a blog post, it’s pretty useless – unless you decide to go look up the few samples I’ve mentioned. It isn’t entertaining, funny or informative. It’s my take on something that garners a unanimous, identical opinion worldwide. It’s long, it’s vague and it’s repetitive. But it’s something that needed doing. Don’t be surprised if you come across a repeat.

Bottom line? No one deserved to live that life. And no one deserved to die like that.

Wake Up!

But only to smell the roses. Make that cinnamon for those of you with refined tastes.

That my father thought it was a waste of time didn’t matter. That he would’ve preferred a Govinda flick with double entendres that he thought only he could comprehend is a different, laughable matter altogether. That my mother is the coolest thing ever and liked it too says volumes about her awesomeness. That my sister missed catching a different “cute guy” on the screen every other minute was irrelevant. Yeah, she’s in that phase… no dope on me, nope.

Getting back to the point, I loved the movie! And that is why you will get a bit by bit review that hopefully, will NOT include the story, dialogues and picturisation. Yep, I’m bullshitting you.

Since it’s a review, it will obviously include MY opinions, my sentiments, my POV. So don’t go looking for generalizations and politically correct “IMO”s. You want a view, you shell out 150 + travel charges. Simple as that. And now that that’s clear... :P

Since beating around the bush to tell you it’s a review post took three whole paragraphs, I’ll do what I can to keep the actual review short. Sum it up for you in 7 words –

Light – No pakaoing you with stooopid jackassery or “Ma ki mamta” bhashans. For a change, no one gets married, shot at or conks off.

Fast – Props to the director and screenplay chappies. Also the scriptwriter. Normal, believable, everyday stuff yet stuff I aww-ed over just the same.

Real – Relatable. From the occasional brat to the kid out to prove out a point, it was all stuff I could relate to. Made me happy, made me watch, made me happy. 

Voltage – For me, personally *wink*, it was one of those charge-you-up-and-make-you-wanna-DO-something! films. I’m not talking “inspiring” like Gandhi-Lincoln type ka inspiring. Not the idealist activism sorta charge either, though I’m sure it could manage that… yeah I’m loyal man, back ‘em to the hilt. Like Taare Zameen Par was the creative + idealist DO something, Rang De Basanti was more idealistic... the creative DO something kicked in only on seeing the graffiti. Par atleast today, it was the sort of voltage that reminded me of all the chota mota projects I had in mind for my Dad’s perennially on-loan camera, my wall-and-door décor, pending articles, gifts et al. I am erupting with ideas! Most likely the sort I’ll forget by 8 am, but fuck it, someone has to hand me a pencil.

Happy – Yeah, good ol’ Bollywood. Much as it may differ from a typical Bollywood masala flick, fact remains happy endings have got to happen. They were made for the emosunal janta of India, dammit! So yeah, you’re 10 minutes into the movie and you already know he’ll reunite with his family, get together with his new pal, get the job of his dreams, ya da ya da ya da. Cool. Now stuff it and predict outfit colours scenewise and in silence. 

Ooh yeah, I’m mean in the middle of the night…

One last thing, the apartment! All light, fresh, happy looking and totally inhabitable - you could believe the characters were the ones who put it all together. Doesn't get better than that. What bets the crew and all worked on it too? 

Another last thing, don’t EVER let pesky li’l pests stop you from sitting through the title track / spesal song/ bloopers they show as the credits roll. People don’t seem to understand that’s part of the screening time they’ve paid up for… so you stay back. Enjoy it! Aur kuch nahi toh usher ko zyaada time AC ka fayda hoga…

So yeah, my take - Go Watch. I say you wont miss the popcorn. =)