50 Shades of Seriously Messed up --- An Obituary of Literature....

After decades of war against male dominance, the insanely popular trilogy by E L James delivers a resounding slap on the face of every modern women of the 21^st century. What is worse is that women everywhere are greedily lapping it up. Today every book store shamelessly flaunts rows upon rows of these infuriating display of abysmal vocabulary – the “mommy porn” novels. India is no stranger to Mrs. E L James’ minting press either. It is astounding how the country which, not so long ago, went berserk at the very public peck on Shilpa Shetty’s cheeks at an STD campaign, is buzzing about  “Christian Grey flavoured popsicle”.

Born in a country where women are still required to first serve men their meals before retiring to the kitchen to their own plates, I have always believed in breaking free of the male chauvinistic norms. Therefore I believe I have the right to be appalled at the message that today’s women are sending to the world. The enormity of the success of the trilogy, in a way, reflects that women, in fact, are still fascinated by an alpha male who would love nothing better than to dominate every aspect of your life. Every teenager giggling over pages and pages of virginal Anastasia Steele’s accomplishments in the sack, are completely disregarding her total lack of reservation and grace.  The literature-lover in me is slowly dying a painful death at the outrageous comparisons that are being drawn between Mr. Grey and celebrated literary heroes like Austen’s Mr. Darcy and Bronte’s Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff!

So, what exactly are we, the modern women, trying to convey? That we still dream of being enslaved by a dark, handsome man; as long as he is a billionaire who whisks us off on a helicopter for a date? That we would in fact want the men in our lives to track our phone records and buy the companies that we work for, all in the name of concern? And on the very same day, tie us up and then torture us with numerous shudder-worthy tools for their pleasure? If every boy who was sexually abused grew up to be dominating stalkers who owned multinational companies, I imagine, India would be the richest country in the world! And of course the fact that Indian women would all be bearing marks of sexual abuse is of no consequence to anyone!

Who would have thought that the constipated glittery vampires with a penchant for abstinence would serve as the foundation on which Mrs. James (mother of two) would build her “red room of pain”?

This, in my eyes, marks the tragic demise of literature and feminism. May they rest in peace....!!!

Freedom to Ride....!

Public buses in India are a rather entertaining affair. That is assuming you can tolerate the nauseating stench emanating from the armpits of the pudgy passenger trying to wrestle you into making more room; or the incessant yowling of the kid next to you.

A public bus is the perfect place to observe mankind in its many shades. It is the place where a person predicts that he will never see his fellow passengers again, and so he is free to display his most primal instincts. He ignores the irritated ‘tisk’s that are directed at him. He pretends not to notice the glowering looks that gradually bore a hole into the back of his head. He does what his heart wills him to. He is at his most selfish—he has no inhibitions. A public bus is where he is truly a free man of a free country!

That is why he doesn’t think twice before elbowing all the contenders to secure that recently vacated seat, originally meant for the fairer sex. Then he promptly whisks out his cell-phone and starts speaking at a decibel which should be made illegal at a public place. His neighbours are forced to dig for their earphones and retreat into their happy place—the auditory oblivion that is brought on by the familiarity of their playlists. While in another corner of the bus, a lecher tries to discreetly fondle a young, defenseless girl too frightened and astonished to speak up.

During this summer vacation in my hometown, I was fortunate enough to spot a bus which was half empty. Five minutes in the bus and I realized that I had made a mistake. The bus was excruciatingly slow. While I wasn’t in a major hurry, the same couldn’t be said for a few others. One impatient bloke tried to motivate the driver by repeatedly telling him to speed up. In response, the driver slowed down even further to turn in his throne and release a couple of innovative expletives aimed at the poor chap. This shut him up quite effectively. At the next stop, a man got on. He was spraying into his phone about some very forgettable achievement. Judging by his enthusiasm, there was a very deaf person on the receiving end. This extravagant display led to another passenger, a lady, dialing an acquaintance. Thus began the battle of the century—who can talk the loudest and the longest! Can you really blame me for my relief when I could finally escape from this lavish display of uncouth behavior?

Another recent and painfully memorable bus ride ended in thoroughly embarrassing me in front of an overloaded bus of strangers. It was the last day of vacations, and I had planned to make good on the promise I had made to my sister before the vacations started. I was taking her to Mani Square. The bus gradually filled up. By the time our stop approached we had to squeeze past passengers in order to reach the door. When we tried to get off of the bus, I realized that by bag’s zipper had somehow managed to get stuck to a neighboring passenger’s belt straps. No matter how much I pulled, it just won’t get free. Amazingly, the driver gave in to the others’ protests and drove on, with me still furiously yanking at the uncharacteristically calm gentleman’s belt! My sister, instead of helping me, dissolved into peals of laughter. Finally one stop later, the conductor decided to tear my bag free and let us off!    

Another strange incident comes to mind. Last year, in Bangalore, I was out one evening, with my friends. On the ride to one of the many malls, we came across a bizarre scene. A group of wasted boys had boarded the bus. By their mannerisms, they were clearly from the Northern States. Even though we have never had the Civil Wars, for some unfathomable reasons, the North and the South Indian states have always been sworn enemies. The boys got into some tiff with the conductor of the bus. From what I could gather, the differences between ‘North Indians’ and ‘South Indians’ were being thrown around rather rampantly. Finally the boys were asked to leave the bus. What stumped me was the event that followed. After the boys got off, a man who had absolutely nothing to do with the exchange walked to the door and spat at their retreating figures. He returned to his seat while mumbling some disgruntled remarks. We were left staring at each other trying to make sense of this.

Bus rides in Hyderabad are unique in their own way. The bus conductors, who can be very feisty at times, do not believe in returning change. They take the advice “Pay the EXACT fare” quite literally. Or maybe, they hope that the passengers are generous do-gooders on a mission involving heavy tips. The passengers have probably never been told that staring at strangers is rude. They don’t even look away when you catch them at it. So, it culminates in an uncomfortable staring contest.  

So far, my rare yet thought-provoking bus rides have taught me one thing. It is best to just sit tight and ignore the world if you want anything that can pass for a pleasant time. Otherwise, the myriad of sensations can be overwhelming!

the might of the silken thread...!

Every year on the day of Rakhi Purnima, we used to be regaled with the same story during our school assembly. We would recite the story in our head as the teacher assigned for that assembly recounted the adventures of Alexander, the Great, the Indian king- Puru and a strand of intervening thread that dictated the course of the story. The story itself was quite harmless—the anxious wife of Alexander, the Great presented King Puru with an auspicious thread (Rakhi), thus symbolizing the bond between a brother and a sister. This, in turn, saved the life of Alexander, the Great, who would, otherwise, probably have been responsible for raising the blood count on Puru’s conscience by one.

This story, for some mysterious reason, always ended with an unusual statement. We were always told that even though Rakhi has generally been shared between a brother and a sister, anyone with any amount of affection for another person could tie this particular auspicious knot.

By the time we were through with breakfast, the dining hall would be buzzing with anticipation of discovering who gets a Rakhi from whom. For girls, it was a popular way of warding off unwanted male attention. Oh, how the boys would avoid their crushes the entire day so that the poor fellows weren’t assigned the role of a brother by their objects of obsession! This always proved to be an infinite source of amusement for the rest of us. But then we would sober up soon enough and console those unfortunate chaps by reminding them that the girl might be implying that she considers him her knight in shining armour!

 Rakshabandhan used to be such a big deal! Never having a biological brother, and with my cousins living so far away, I had made many of my acquaintances my brother. Now, looking back, as I sit across from a dolefully empty schedule, staring back at me with pitiful eyes, I miss those days dearly.

Even though I am too far away and too old to tie a Rakhi on my many brothers’ wrists, here’s wishing every one of them a HAPPY RAKSHABANDHAN!!!  

   

caught a cold? fly South...

Bangalore, Chennai, Vellore --these cities may represent a whole lot of things, but to a Bengali these are the places where anyone suffering from any ailment under the sun will seek refuge in.  No, seriously, every time a member of the “bong” community falls sick, they will first consult the local MBBS who has set up a clinic in a tiny, dingy room around the corner of the street. Then, if the ailment hasn’t magically vanished with a poof within two days, then South India, here we come!

I wouldn’t pretend not to have done this myself once (or twice, maybe). Of course, the fact that I was finally correctly diagnosed within a week in Chennai, after worshipping at the altar of the hospitals in Bengal for over half a year, is totally besides the point.

So, why is it that so many Bengalis have lost faith in their “para”s doctors? Are the doctors in the land of idli-vada really better than those of our home turf, or is it just a myth that we like to nurture? 

You may ask, why this sudden interest in Kolkata’s medical facilities? This was brought on by today’s morning news. I was accosted by gruesome images of a comatose 8-year old and his mourning family who are currently on their way to Bangalore for further treatment. Apparently the boy was admitted to R. G Kar hospital for a tonsil operation but was returned to his family a living vegetable.

If you visit a Doc for something as simple as a common cold, the first task in his agenda would be to prescribe a bunch of tests, just to be sure whether you actually have common cold or whether it is a precursor to Kwashiorkor.  

Not too many years ago, a renowned hospital nearby was vandalized by enraged ruffians for not catering to victims of a road accident. While I don’t necessarily applaud the hospital for its actions, I absolutely condemn the damage. I do not see how venting out on harmless, expensive equipments is going to solve anyone’s problems. 

On the other hand, Christian Medical College of Vellore has gained an almost cult status among the Bongs. Reportedly, there are four Bengali restaurants outside this hospital almost next to each other, neither of which has ever seen slow business. I wouldn’t be too surprised if the primary language spoken in this city turns out to be Bengali solely for the unbelievable amount traffic from Bengal. 

A quick Google search showed me that in Chennai Apollo Hospital, more than 30% of the total outpatients and 35% inpatients are Bengalis. If you were from Bengal, you would fit right in—they have from Bengali signboards to Bengali translators, Bengali books in the bookstores to even a Bengali restaurant “Atithi”, catering to the Bong palate.  

When so many people are willing to travel more than fifteen hundred kilometers for something as simple as a hernia operation, it begs the question –why?

Are the hospitals in Kolkata really lacking in its infrastructure or are we just determined to believe that the grass on the other side is greener?

Fight or Flight -- The Hunger Games (review)

It’s been over a month since I first watched the screen adaptation of the popular young-adult novel, The Hunger Games. I believe I am finally ready to review it without being biased. There were a million thoughts that crossed my mind when I watched the film. I am going to mention just a few here. Before you read on, I have to warn you, THIS IS A SPOILER ZONE! Do not read any further if you plan to watch the movie in future.

“Does this darkness have a name? This cruelty? This hatred? How did it find us? Did it steal into our lives or did we seek it out and embrace it? What happened to us? That we now send our children into the world like we send young men to war, hoping for their safe return, but knowing that some will be lost along the way. When did we lose our way? Consumed by the shadows; swallowed by all the darkness. Does this darkness have a name? Is it your name?”

Those words are not from the Hunger Games. In fact, it is a quote by Lucas Scott (Chad Michael Murray) of One Tree Hill. But they have captured the essence of Suzanne Collin’s story perfectly. And by the looks of it, so has Gary Ross’s film. The bleak tones of a dystopian society have come alive on screen exactly how I, as a reader, had imagined. Author Collin’s involvement ensured that the script didn’t stray too far from the novels. Needless to say, the film has ripped the BoxOffice to shreds!

One doesn’t need to read the books to enjoy this film. The director has explained the premise of the movie in a very crisp and efficient manner, using an introductory Capitol video, and interviews before the reaping. In the distant future, North America has been divided into thirteen (one of which had been destroyed) districts, all of which are under an oppressive totalitarian rule of the formidable Capitol. The only form of “entertainment” in the impoverished districts is the Nationally Televised “Hunger Games”. This is a whole new low for reality TV where teenagers are trapped in a gladiatorial arena and have to kill each other for survival. It certainly makes you wonder, could the current inane reality shows ever stoop to such drastic measures for ratings?

 Critics and fans alike have complained about the use of hand-held camera. I, on the other hand, think that the use of a handheld camera lent the movie a gritty, indie feel. The desperation in the districts couldn’t have been better portrayed. The feeling of disorientation that a tribute must experience during the first crucial minutes into the Games was easily realized with the shaky camera effect. Add to that the quick shots, eerie background music and no sound of combat, the effect was gripping!

Though the script didn’t change the original story much, some of the additional scenes really helped. For instance, the scene where President Snow berates Seneca Crane for awarding Katniss a near-perfect score and explains the need for a victor; it really helped understand the psyche of the universally hated character. The Games from the game-makers’ perspective was insightful. The part where Katniss and Foxface collide and are both unwilling to make the first violent move clearly differentiated the Career tributes from the rest. Also the scene with Crane and the berries after the Games was beyond COOL!

The entire cast was impeccable; in fact, I think, that was the best part about this movie. I had my doubts about Jennifer, you know, with her being too old and voluptuous for a starving sixteen year old. But ten minutes into the movie, I realized that the only thing that really matters is whether she can act the part; and boy, did she deliver! Right from the very beginning, she was spot on. The audience could pinpoint the many facets to this incredible heroine. Her sarcasm towards the cat, her playful yet vulnerable exchange with Gale, and her almost tangible distaste for anything Capitol was all a part of her charm. One of the less noticeable features, that I particularly loved, was how she was with Prim and her mother. The way she immediately jumped to her aid whenever the younger sibling needed comfort or adulation clearly showed that she had been in charge in the Everdeen household for a very long time. The way she always had difficulty accepting help from her mother or even the way she almost ordered her mother not to give in to grief once she left was Oscar worthy! Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jennifer gets nominated once again.  As a matter of fact, the only complaint I had, was how late her reaction was when Prim was reaped. It seemed like forever when she finally jolted out of her reverie and volunteered as a tribute.

Peeta—well, I am not too happy with Josh Hutcherson. He just didn’t live upto the Peeta of my imagination. I can’t point out exactly what was wrong with him, he certainly looked the part. But something was definitely off. He just wasn’t Peeta enough. And the over-hyped cave scene was a disappointment.

Liam Hemsworth as Gale, the third wheel, didn’t really have much to do in this film. But his few scenes were layered with meaning. Plus the camera loves him, which is always a good thing when the majority of the audience is made up of teenage girls.

Haymitch and Effie Trinket were beyond reproach. Elizabeth Banks was just too good, what with her Capitol enunciation and remarkable insensitivity towards the plight of the tributes. The lines “That is Mahogany” has almost become a catchphrase. Haymitch deserves major brownie points for his act. He owned every minute of the screen-time that he got! He completely won me over with his reaction when he found out about the arrow that Katniss had shot at the game-makers. In fact, secretly, I have been shipping Effie and Haymitch for quite some time now; you’ve got to admit –they have great chemistry!

Stanely Tucci released his arsenal of talent as soon as he revealed his otherworldly grin to the world. He was engaging, he was funny, and he gave his audience exactly what they wanted.

Prim and Rue, both have an uncanny talent of squeezing out tears from the viewers. Rue’s death was just tragic. One of the scenes that made no sense to me was Cato’s insane rambling on the Cornucopia. What was the boy thinking? Had the Games driven him off the edge? But, given that he was a Career and had been training for the Games from a young age, it seems unlikely.   

Translating words from pages to the screen is always a risky business. When you are reading you can soak in the magic of a whole new fictional world in your head, and you can take your own sweet time doing so. But on screen, with a limited time on your hands, some unimportant characters are deleted, emotions are not properly portrayed, and the experience is just not the same. For instance, you couldn’t see any of the horror, or sometimes even mean glee that the tributes experienced after each kill. Something that helped a lot was having a superb protagonist to root for. Unlike Twilight (no offense, Twihards) this film had a strong badass female protagonist who could hunt, shoot arrows, live off roots and squirrels, sleep on trees and would do anything to protect those she loved. She was far from the damsels in distress and did not throw tantrums or wallow in self-pity when she didn’t get what she wanted. She is the modern girl’s idea of a perfect yet suitably flawed heroine. And that’s what I love about The Hunger Games and it’s tearing me up to see Gary Ross’s departure from the franchise.

 Kudos to Ross, a director who could satisfy millions of fans and critics alike!