freebird

Mr. General you are still a President

You are a President but you would have loved to be a General

Loved the gun and the barracks

The salutes and the moolah

You are the ally

But sir you don’t allay

I will write my own democracy

I call it Pervez-crazy

Crown of thorns I dream

I say something, but contrary I mean

It’s a habit, I agree

Kashmir, Kabul, Karachi

The Uniform stares back

I wear it on the sly

This is my country

I love it

I am it’s Fate

My country doesn’t know it

They are my people

They don’t know it

I and I and I

The Legend will go on

The epitaph will sing my praises to the heaven high

But I, will I be there to read it?

I will be of course, for

I am imperishable, I am the President

And my word is the world’s command

I decree and the world agrees

How else otherwise?

Otherwise how else?

Yawn. Let’s laze today. Well, I am writing, that means that I am not lazing. Wiriting is an exrcise, a job, sometimes painful, often lonely, sometimes ecstatic, taxing, boring etc etc. But more people in the world (I might be biased) think writing is nothing but a whole lot of posing. It is posing with hands on your head, tearing your hair or cigarette in hand looking at the smoke swirl, curl and disappear…looking for words, sentences, meaning and inspiration in the play of light and smoke on its heanvenly journey.

Bombay houses Bollywood. Bollywood makes films, lots of films. India makes some 800 odd films in a year. Films have actors, directors, producers, music composers and it also has writers. Also because they are the least commended or appreciated. I speak from both personal experience, hearsay and instinct.

Me and millions like me were exposed to films…mailnly in theaters and VHS. DVD’s are recent and I am 32. So we grew up with Tape, audio and video. I saw films and remembered some and forgot most. Some fight sequences, a stray dialogue and some characters. Very few films were remembered because of the writing skills. It was also because of my inexperience. Remembering the immediate, the pleasurable but not long-lasting.

One didn’t know or understand as kids why films of Bimay Roy, Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Guru Dutt, Vijay Anand, early Yash Chopra etc left a lasting impression and not other films. I am talking of the so called commercial films. Even then the gut knew what was different in the films shown at 1.30 on sundays on Doordarshan. Films by the Indian masters and other new – wave directors from the regional centers.

It was something. But what was it? I couldn’t figure, but only sense.

Over the years after a gradual exposure to international cinema, my horizons were widened. Not just by films. Books and the written word began to weave its magic. It gained the pre-eminence that one gives to one’s mother. Words I realized were the nutrients, the ground, the soil upon which all meaning was constructed. In poetry, short story, novel.

The new art of the century, Film, was of course different. It was a coming together of everything else till that point and more. Meaning was constructed piece by piece by the simultaneous synthesis of picture and sound. The word existed. But the word was shaped and chiselled by sound, facial expression, light and shade, movement and other symbols that were already a part of our collective consciousness. The word was no longer the prima donna.

It was never the case in Bollywood. There are exceptions but…

Here it is the actors. They earn in crores. The director too earns in crores if he or she has given hits. The music composers too earn in crores. But the writer is still a beggar.

The early writers during the independence were still nurtured by ideology and rebellion. The middle years by growing disenchantment. The 80’s by nobody knows what and the 90’s by the noveau. All these films of course had words, many of them were hits and people still remember them.

But hits can get dated and the re-runs on the innumerable channels offers us an opportunity to test. Most of them fail. It jabs at one’s memory. I still remember the day when Shahenshah was out on the pirated circuit in Jamshedpur. All of us friends contributed and raised some 150…a princely sum in 1988 to lay our hands on the VHS tape for 1 run around 3 and a half hours. Or the day when another Bachchan starrer was screened during a family gathering. What a disappointment? One remembers the highs also.

Pulp Fiction, Blue Velvet, Space Odyssey, Blow Up, The Passengers, Z and many more.

Coming back to writers. I did my stint in Bollywood. Doctored scripts. Wrote and didn’t get credit. In the meantime I also saw some films that were well written. But the majority of them offer no hope. Why is that?

Saif was brilliant in Omkara. When I came to know that he was being considered, I was horror struck. The chhote nawab mouthing those lines and body language. I was surprised and so was Saif I suspect, at the mature consistency of the character. But see Saif in other films and you wonder…what a waste. Is he the same guy who did that? Well, commerce is what sustains us and let’s not bemoan.

What do we see around us? Slapstick comedies, action and romance. We watch films because they are made by a particular Brand…either the Yash Raj, KJO or RG Varma kind of films. Then we go for the actors. Shah Rukh, Salman, Aamir etc. Then the music etc etc.

When will we go because of the writer of the film? They say Salim – Javed did that to another era. But what would the pair have done if AB was not around? That’s a question worth answering. Was the symbiotic relationship between them a coming together of destinies, serendipity working overtime to make collaborations possible…la Scorsese, Paul Scrader, De Niro.

But that was another era. Will we again make arresting drama? And who are the subjects of this drama? Like Barton Fink…will we be able to make films that makes the common man / woman, his or her concerns to be the subject matter? Will we in our time see a new kind of cinema? At par with the Iranian kind? Simple but not simplistic, universal and relevant. Or will we be satisfied by the tag Bollywood spectacle, musical, a unique narrative form that takes on the might of Bollywood?

Are we scared that if we make a different kind of cinema then our way of story-telling will disappear? Is quantity our only weapon? A whole lot of questions so far and obviously no answers. But what the hell, I felt like writing.

When do we grow old? Is age the quotient? It is universally. It is an obvious means to measure but just as youth and age have nothing in common the same goes for old age and age. But that is not the case.

I Step out of my home. At the traffic signal everyday I see kids, boys and girls, some begging, some cleaning windshields, selling books, flowers, superstitions. They do it everyday. We see them everyday. Sometimes out of pity or necessity we employ and pay for their services. Most times we don’t. What we should do is debatable. And then we foget about them. It’s a fleeting encounter lasting 2 minutes at the most. And then the accelerator charts different destinies for both.

The boys and girls sometimes don’t hear the abuses inside the aid-conditioned machines. The cops come with some choice words. There are others whose paths they cross. Its inevitable, they live on the streets. They sleep on the kerb under the sun and moon and rain. Sometimes without any shelter or food. The great city moves on. It has no heart we say. What about the people of the city whose hearts make the city’s heart?

Who is old? Who gets older faster? Whats age got to do with it? Who lives more? Who dies more? Who is more dead?

We dreamt of a land for ourselves. We didn’t want anybody else there. We promised that we will love each other, care for each other, in sickness and in health we will be arm in arm, hand in hand. We will have equality, we will have parity, we will have progress, health and happiness. There will be none like us. The world will look at us and wonder…how happy they look. Why can’t we be like them, they wonder?

Us and them went our separate ways. Rivers, mountains, trees, sun and shade everything torn asunder. The water changed course and color. People changed lands and history. They tried to forget the past and failed.

They moved on like life because there was no option. They cursed each other. In snow and in desert they killed each other. Abuses rent the air. Tears went unwept. Nobody cared for the other.

Time went by and they stood still. Unwilling to renege hate which gave fodder to their nightmares. Masochistic both and unrepentent. Eager to inflict more, suffer more but not yield. Suns changed a million times, the moon lost its sheen but not wounds still ooze.

They stand apart now. Both look askance now. Mellow is the hate now…do they still feel the old minutes and seconds? Yes, but grief too has a heart. It wept, cried and now tries to find peace. They look at each other with young eyes and hearts. Others still fight for land, glory, faith, ownership. The mountains are still crowned by black cloaks, green smoke and choked tears.

But the sun tries to smile now. At least it is moved to try. But the men and women, rulers and messiahs still pull them down. Why leave the past they proclaim? Leave it and you betray the past, the sacrifices, the hopes, the promises and passion of your fore-fathers. Can you and will you betray them?

But fate is nobody’s slave. One day it will drag us down. Downhill through the mountains and valleys we will be washed away. The virgin snow will smell red. The air nascent with death. It is only a matter of time before we make our own apocalypse. Engineer our own extinction. How will your land and gods; promise and betrayal matter that day when all will be nothing. No day. No night. Nothing.

Let’s meet again on that day and not say a word but mourn the beautiful loss. There will be no tears to quell the silence.

And no hate to quell peace?

Welcome to India on a monday. Monday in India is always late, slow, sabbath’s hangover, just like anywhere else in the world. It creeps in, the first child of the week, winking at the hours and minutes, the sun dragging itself from the clouds, a lumberous stretch. Are birds, bees, dogs, crows, cows, cats all afflicted by this strange disease. Or only we men and women are its special chosen victims? Has any scientist done research on this phenomena? Umm…

No work at work today. There are some niggling chores and then adios. Who knows, the 2nd half might get too interesting and then…who knows? 11 o clock and people are just filling up the offices…monday it is, don’t you know, writ large on everybody’s face.

Blogging is addictive. The freedom of expression is infectious. It is like a child discovering it’s ability to scribble and shapes taking form. Similar is the joy when the post is saved and the world gets to read one’s words. It also make one feel important? Words. Dead words for so long captive in the pages start to breathe, exist, talk and converse.

10,000 people dead in Bangladesh.

The same storm was about to hit India before nature took a detour and brought death and destruction on its neighbour.

Elephants don’t forget they say. But I have. And so has the world. Indians were bowled over by Benazir during the Rajiv era. Roses were exchanged and we like prejudiced humans, suffering from superiority and inferiority complexs, gave the benefit of doubt to the British education, accent, antecedents and political posturing. The world supported the embattled prime minister, her husband was allegedly framed and the prodigal daughter went into exile.

This past week Fatima Bhutto has been knocking on all liberal doors. Read an article by Fatima Bhutto about the status of Pakistan post the imposition of emergency by Musharaf. A poet, activist, she wrote lucidly about the affairs of the state or non-state that is in turmoil. Benazir touted to be the only alternative to Musharaf has some serious dirty linen. The neice also accuses her aunt of hijacking the democracy platform with her accent, American support and excellent media management. Possible in today’s democracy or despotism.

It is a case of the one-eyed being the king in the land of the blind. Benazir is presently politically acceptable. She is the liberal face, has a past experience in governing the fragile country, has history and legacy on her side and is pro-democracy.

Can you be pro-democracy and be bad for your country/state/family? Of course you can. The Pakistan President by promulgating a new ordinance has annulled all cases that Benazir was charged with. She gets special treatment to voice her displasure with the present (mis) government. None others do. And we smell a fish here.

Who represents the new opposition in Pakistan? Who is ready to take on the general, his cronies in all shapes and sizes and forge a new alliance? An alliance of what? Is a question that Pakistan should bother themselves with right away.

Any alliance that gives refuge to fundamentalists, the Taliban etc is not good for the country. It is time the entire nation realized that violence cannot be an instrument of state policy. Power corrupts we all know and agree. Power resides in arms and ammunition and in merceneries. And in the army, the police, the State.

When every attempt at ushering liberal secural values is crushed under one pretext or other, sometimes by the military, the police, the state machinery, the polity must foster an alliance on a greater Ideal. Musharaf has given a great chance that way to a generation of Pakistanis. What that Ideal is…can and should be defined by only the Pakistanis…not its military, its police, its generals, Americans, Indians, intelligentsia, media.

It should be defined by the honest man and woman of the street, the rich honest man and the rich honest woman, the educated, the uneducated but wise, the fool on the street, the genius in exile, the singer who hears and the poet who stays silent. It should be defined by the student at the madarsa who is searching for God but doesn’t know where to look, by the hindus and sikhs of Pakistan who love their country, by the Pakistan soldier who has died for his country and has been forgotten, by the soldiers loved one’s, by the kids, people who for long have been silent, crushed, deprived of their right to say, speak, select, vote or reject.

They have to choose from the choices offered by a President who has for various reasons crushed opposition, supported opposition if it benefits him, given shelter to terrorists, lost regions of the country to the Taliban, allowed American bombing of his country, gagged the press, the media, arrested protesters of all kinds…all in the name of restoring parliamentary democracy.

After all Brutus is an honest man.

We are educated

We are liberal

We are indians

We are hindus

We are muslims

We are christians

We are sikhs

We are jains

We are budhists

We are communists

We are marxists

We are trotskites

We are maoists

We are naxals

We are brahmins

We are tribals

We are the marginalized

We are the the scheduled castes

We are the other backward castes

We are the minority

We are the congress

We are the bjp

We are the janta d or u

We are poor

We are rich

We have a heart

We do charity

We speak no lies

We hurt no flies

We pray

We bow before gods

We chant

We don’t believe in gods

We are atheists

We are pantheists

We love animals

We don’t spit on the road

We don’t litter

We are not class-conscious

We resprect all faiths

We respect women

We protect our children

We are incorruptible

We do no wrong

We are all liars

We are racists

We are exploiters

We hate the less-fortunate

We use god as an excuse

We can kill if we want to

We will kill

We can bomb each other to rubble

We will bomb

We beat our husbands, wives, kids, fathers and mothers

We are selfish

We deserve our misery

Because

We know not love

Welcome to 2 films that are similar and separated at the same time. Both are loud, over the top. Both peppered with songs. Both introducing the future stars of the industry. Both by one time choreographers who are now directors. One is Bhansali and the other Farah.

Sawariya and Om Shanti Om have hit the silver screen. OSO is a runaway hit as expected, whereas Sawariya is trudging along, although Sony Pictures who debut in India with the mega-hyped Sawariya, would make us believe otherwise.

Bhansali is considered an Auteur…in India and abroad. He shares a love – hate relationship with the critics for various reasons. His films are anticipated with bated breath…right from casting to music to publicity and release. It’s an event in the cinema – calender of the country.

Sawariya was no different. It was the launch vehicle of Ranbir Kapoor, the 3^rd generation of the Kapoor Klan and Sonam, another Kapoor, but daughter of Anil Kapoor. A star son and a star daughter being launched by presumably the biggest film maker in the country; a healthy budget, a Dostoeivsky short-story as original content and songs…the forte of SLB…all in one film. It couldn’t have been bigger than this.

Om Shanti Om, in contrast is a tongue in cheek film about the Hindi film industry…it jokes about yesteryear actors, acting styles and the innumerable Bollywood cliches that we love and hate. It is also a tribute to a narrative style that many say is on its last legs. OSO is a nostalgia laden roller coaster…at least in the 1^st half. It has many a moment that congratulates Farah Khan, its director. Shah Rukh, playing an extra, is memorable. Deepika the lissome lass, all agree, is here to stay. The 9 minute star – studded song is grating and unnecessary but Hindi films have never been known to have strong 2^nd halfs.

So one doesn’t mind OSO. One appreciates the Devil’s sense of humour.

Sense of humour is something that Bhansali doesn’t seem to have. Bhansali’s aesthetic is one of EXCESS. In laughter, tears, song, dance, melodrama…his leitmotif is excess. Excess can and has been an aesthetic. Film makers, past and present, have taken recourse and make memorable films. The same holds true for Bhansali.

From the fantastic palace setting of an Indian classical musician in Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, its hyperloud Salman Khan to the prurient Aishwarya of the same film; Devdas’s melodrama in style and content; to the caricaturish Rani in Black to Ranbir’s imitation of Raj Kapoor (his grandfather) and the BLUE that pervades the entire film…Bhansali can be equated with a kitsch that is unique but sadly deliberate.

Sawariya takes place somewhere in sometime. A train, a guitar and what are they called ‘mirchi lights’ that decorate the pubs in this fantasy land give clues that this is located, rooted in…god knows where? A Buddha statue there, a mural here, a gandola, a bridge, a jazz pub, some whacked out (literally) prostitutes and fleeting extras inhabit this Tim Burtonish landscape. I think this idea of being Tim Burton might have weighed heavily on the film maker. Fantasy.

Fantasy. Place the film in a land and time that nobody knows. That land and time has its own rules; its own mores; its own customs and its own idiosyncracies. Nothing wrong with that. So Sakina and Ranbir the singer meet on deserted cobble-stoned streets that could be Venice. They meet, talk, share sweet-nothings and sing songs and pine…Ranbir for Sakina and Sakina for the mysterious, boxing bag weilding Salman Khan and Gulabji rooting for Ranbir.

Ranbir the lover falters in love and the 2^nd half is him trying to redeem himself…with a little help from Rani, the prostitite with a conscience. You need a climax to end a film and as things would be Sakina is on the verge of falling in love with Ranbir when the bag weilding Khan called Imaan enters once again muttering ‘Masha Allah’ and all’s well. Er…not really.

By then you are BLUE. Blue is the reigning color of the film. There is enough Blue to last a lifetime. Who is an Auteur? One who has a vision or one who imposes a vision? Is it a way of making a film? Is it an approach to art? Is it an approach to the language of the medium? Is it in making one’s own distinct dialect?

Bhansali’s films are Bhansali’s films. And so is Karan Johar’s and Rakesh Roshan’s. Means that everybody in India is an auteur. Is it so?

Bhansali’s are angst ridden tales of unrequited love, great suffering, masochistic heroes, sacrificing heroines, unreasonable emotions…his films have grand passions and grander settings. True. But grandiose ideas, a big budget, a stellar cast maketh not a film.

Bhansali no matter what his problems was a great choreographer. I say WAS, because with Sawariya, Bhansali has reached the nadir as far as song picturzation is considered. The Rani + gang song is one of the worst in recent times. The Id song is bizarre to say the least.

Bollywood makes musicals. Sawariya too is a musical but what went wrong…?

Is it a showreel gone wrong? Or is it about a director who is overwhelmed by his IDEA about HIMSELF. It has happened in the past. Your own art and craft or one’s assumptions about one’s art becomes bigger, more important and powerful so as to blinker the maker’s vision.

Why do the 2 shots of the sprawling city with a train chugging exist? Does it represent something? Is the director hinting at something? About the caged existence of Gulabji, the prostitute, and the forgotten Parsi/Christian landlady played endearingly by Zohra Sehgal? Why does the cardboard wall of the set move when Ranbir writes Sakina’s name for the first time?

Why do we as audience are unable to willingly suspend our disbelief, wink at the fantasy and move on with the story of love, redemption, pain, suffering and enjoy a catharsis? Why don’t we cheer for Sakina’s foolish belief that Imaan, her love will return. Why don’t we also not root for Raj’s love for Sakina? Clap when he burns the letter. Cry when he feels the pangs of guilt?

Because the idea of ‘OPUS’ smothers love, feeling, emotion, sentiment of the young protagonists. Because the IDEE FIXE of the director is the director himself. And not the story. It’s time Bhansali needed a Knight.

Diwali. The festival of lights in a couple of days.Our cheques have come late and it takes 3 days to clear. From friday its the time of public holidays. So our cheque’s will not clear till the 14^th at least. Where will the money come from to celebrate Diwali? The management cares two hoots. ‘Thank god you are at least getting the money’, would be the repartee, said in the most innocent of tone and face so that it is sounds like a joke whereas it could mean an imminent threat.

The markets in India are full of excess. Looking around one is sometimes apalled. Does India actually have electricity shortfall, I wonder? Lights everywhere and millions of them. And the million is not hyperbole. Check the Lokhandwala market. It can light a few Indian villages for some days. It’s the festive time and who cares.

So buy the burnol, memorize the local fire brigade’s number, buy an extinguisher and bar me from riting such apocalyptic blogs.

Wish all a safe, sound and colourfull Deepawali.

Finally saw No Smoking. It was a late night show that had 60 – 70 viewers. Some of them walked off during the interval. Some stuck around till the end. I was one of them.

Bad press has dogged the film and its director, Anurag Kashyap. Directors, critics, actors, distributors and the audience too to a certain extent dislike him. For various reasons – Anurag is an outspoken outsider who with his sheer writing skills has made a name for himself in the incestuous world of Hindi cinema. He has fought with his mentors, with his producers, actors, financiers, distributors.

He is the enfant terrible and nobody likes them ‘E.T’s’until and unless they become legends. Anurag’s is a strange case. He first came to everybody’s attention after Satya. Then because of his fall out with his mentor Ram Gopal Varma. The fallout was a classic case of two strong personalities not being able to see eye to eye on creative issues. Then Anurag branched out on his own. Paanch was the result. A bloody tale of friends betraying each other. The film is still to see the light of the day.

But it is a cult favourite. Largely because of the sadly unseen performance of Kay Kay. Otherwise the story is an oft repeated one. It is only Kay Kay’s performance that holds the film together. But Paanch gave birth to a legacy; to a persona that represented the lone outsider’s struggle to make it in the film industry; Anurag became a symbol. Of the uncorrupted idealist who pitted against insurmountable odds ranges gallantly and almost wins. It was in the failing that he became a successful icon.

He tried Gulal. And failed. He announced Alvin Kallicharan. Didn’t happen.

And then Black Friday happened. One of the best films to come out of India it again died a premature and tragic death – this time by the courts. Based on the Bombay blasts after the Babri demolition, Black Friday was cinema, documentary, history, analysis and to some a creative catharsis. It never saw the darkness of the theater. Tragic.

Fate has not been kind to Kashyap.

Meanwhile he earned his bread and butter and a penthouse writing good and indifferent films. In the meantime the legend grew. Of a maverick film maker who brooks no interference, takes on the high and mighty, tackles controversial stories, a maestro who while battling his personal demons was maneouvering the big bad world of Bollywood.

And then No Smoking was announced. About a nicotine addict who comes in touch with an underground rehabilitation centre…and things go wrong. I was kicked when I heard the one line. Right up his alley and who better than K to handle it.

And then one day in the month of feb-march 2007, I was surfing and came across ‘Cats Eye’ and things have been a bit different since then. I immediately realized that K’s No Smoking is a rip off of Cats Eye. But then I came down from the high horse and looked around…everybody was copying…Martin S did it with his ‘The Departed’ (paid for the rights) and so why not Mr. K, I reasoned. He might be better at it and spin it in his unique way, I consoled myself. And since then I have waited for the release of the film.

Initially I was aghast at John’s casting. But then I didn’t mind John A’s casting also. Good directors can do anything with a story, actor. So the weight of tradition, myth, legend, anticipation and Bad Press weighing heavy on my soul I entered the theater and watched No Smoking.

K is an inveterate smoker and his life is never the same again after he meets the head honcho of The Lab. Things go horribly wrong for K. And for Anurag K, the Box Office, the producers and well nigh cinema itself.

Here are the WHY’S of that.

Critics love to hate Anurag. They have ripped No Somking. Self – obsessed film maker, too arty, not for the common man, no message, hero smoking all the time, why didn’t it end half an hour after the film began!!! etc etc.

Some critics have gone so far as to suggest that such films should not be made!

They are people who don’t want such film makers or stories to be attempted. That way the status quo on the stories told, the actors signed and the cultural stagnation will continue and they can celebrate. By making ‘NS’ Anurag has axed his own foot. But films can go wrong.

There are also another kind of critics who have praised the film. They have bestowed on the film’s hero and it’s director the kind of praise that you prepare much in advance, in anticipation of your favourite hero because you couldn’t become one yourself. So K, in this case, both Kashyap and the films hero become ‘the narciccist who ends up losing himself in his self – love, the descent into hell, purgatory, the Faustian exchange, the existential dilemma of a modern man who has to fight for the very thing that kills him, the allegory, the symbolism, the decaying city and its effect on the moral fibre etc etc.’

So in between unreserved praise and unbridled criticism lies the truth of the film No Smoking.

No Smoking’s premise is set, explained and plays itself out in the first 30 mins. After that what?…is a question that Anurag K should have asked right at the outset. We travel into the labyrinthine nightmare of K but John A is not accomplished as an actor to portray grief, helplesness, rage, desire…abs don’t act… is a fact. But Anurag like most men and women faltered…at the very first step. You take a non-actor in your film because that person guarantees the one thing that you have not been able to do so far…make a film and RELEASE it. John guaranteed the release.

So what about the other arty stuff that even the art house crazy fans have not understood. Symbolism, allegory, modern archetypes of decay, stagnation and death a la Baudelaire and Eliot and others. Where does Anurag’s descent in hell go wrong?

It goes wrong I think in the fact that Anurag has also become a victim of his own legend and myth. Just like countless others before him Anurag has also thought himself invincible. He made his kind of films - just like Yash Raj makes ‘their’ kind and Ghai makes his ‘kind’. Anurag also seems convinced of his own infallibility. I can and will make the films I want to make and anyways the audience is illiterate so who cares for them? It happens to the high and mighty and Anurag is the high priest of the Bollywood strugglers.

Is No Smoking a venture borne out of an over-confidence that borders on arrogance and apathy? I think it is. It is revenge film making…I can show you what I am capable of kind of bravado. An interesting premise that never had the material to last 120 pages deliberately force-fitted to an incompetent actor and the desire to see one’s film in the darkened four walls.

Brevity is the soul of wit…something that Anurag was good at is never to be seen in the film…in dialogues or in its length. What you witness is a smart – alec director busy with inside jokes that only he and his cronies know (common to Jhoom Baraabar Jhoom) and understand. Pretentious symbolism that Kashyap uses to pay homage to his own intelligence and literate self. And the conviction of a man sure of his own genius; sure footed in his complexity; complacent in his creativity.

There are others who will now suffer. Interestng scripts, concepts and directors will now be shoved aside because of K’s failure. That’s definitely tragic. For Kashyap and for others this time round.

3 BIGGIES this friday. 2 big films this friday. Sawariya by Bhansali and Om Shanti Om of Shah Rukh and Farha. And DIWALI – the festival of lights on the 9^th. Who is going to burn the brightest? The filmakers have an enviable track record. OSO looks more promising according to WOM or word of mouth. But Bhansali can grow too…at the Box Office that is.

You can watch Hindi films at their best. Its masala at its best. Will the festival make us forget the negatives? Will we wink at bad acting, non-existent screenplays, self-obsession and laugh at all the money going down the drain. Me is cynical. Not the time I guess. Whatever we do we will burn money on the 9^th.

Dard-e-Disco is the new teen anthem and the 6 packs…digital or otherwise is drawing oohs and aahs. What shall I do? Firecrackers!! As kids it was eagerly awaited. But now…the sound definitely hurts the drums. As kids the louder it was the better it was and now it is only COLOUR/SPARKLERS.

But kids will always like more of sound and fury. I also didn’t know or didn’t pay attention to the scared animals all around me. Dogs and cats definitely have a horrific time. So do mice am sure. But now I get rattled.

Age is catching up or maturity or cowardice. A bit of everything I guess.