Hello Beautiful

The stretch marks on my belly are erase-proof, my sagging breasts defy any attempts at upliftment and the daily-emerging wrinkles on my face make me really, really consider botox. I don’t believe I just mentioned “sagging” and “my breasts” in the same sentence. But you see, that’s what has happened. I am mother to an 11-month-old baby girl and since having my daughter, my whole concept of ‘beautiful’ has done a volte-face. It’s not about me anymore, not about what I consider beautiful. What then will I teach her about beauty?

FA-F*****g-Qs and Bollywood dancing...

Pic = southasianlife.com
Oh well. I will never, ever review a movie again. I know I stopped doing so ages ago, but just in case I ever think of it again, I will not.

I should have known it, you know, the fact that Slumdog Millionaire would bag the Oscars. It’s a case of history repeating itself. No, no, not any first-slum-movie history, but JB’s-film-reviewing history. It seems that the moment I declare any movie the biggest crap, it goes and sweeps awards.

The first time it happened, I was panned publically – and online – because of my review of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s scam-for-art, Black. Yes, THAT Black. I had given the movie two-and-a-half stars declaring, ‘It’s bleak for Bhansali’s Black’. It did not matter that Pooja Bhatt and Dipak Tijori wrote/called me to congratulate me on a good review…. As far as the public was concerned, I was way off the mark. Numerous and then some readers and bloggers declared that it was my film reviewing career that was bleak and the bloody movie (I still hate it completely) went on to win Filmfare awards and more.

Another was Bhansali’s Devdas – I didn’t review it, but hated it nonetheless – which also won awards. More recently, I have been asked by EVERY single Australian I’ve met, “What do you think of Slumdog Millionaire?” Most don't really care about what I think; it’s just a convenient conversation-filler. But I have my fun and proceed to bore the person asking that question with e.x.a.c.t.l.y. what I think/thought was wrong about the movie. Now, it goes and wins the Best Movie at the 81^st Academy Awards (aka Oscars). I know that am going to have even more people asking me about Slumdog… and India. Sigh. A thought: Do those of us who dislike Slumdog, do so because it's simply not that great a movie or perhaps, because it embarrasses us as Indians? I know I didn't think much of it as a movie, but I am not certain if my reactions don't include a bit of the other emotion as well... Read this.

You know, India seems to confound and confuse most people; Bollywood even more so. I am still trying to understand my own reactions to my country and Bollywood and more so towards what people think of both...

Like this well-meaning bloke asked me, “Does India have arm-wrestling?” EH?! I don't know if I was amused or offended. But the answer would be, no, arm-wrestling is too tribal, India just has world chess grandmasters. Then there are those who demand, “Can you do Bollywood-style dancing?” and proceed to lift their hands in the air and do something that is a cross between bad dancing and bad aerobics. Or ask me, “Show us some Bollywood moves,” and wait with a wicked gleam in their eyes. Well, sorry, no. Firstly, you are not paying me to dance and secondly, you will not be able to. Not when you are smacking of misplaced superiority that is! I've heard there are many non-Indians here who enjoy Bollywood; I'm still to meet any. As for Bollywood dancing, ANY Indian can do it. Even Indians who quote Satyajit Ray and scoff at commercial Hindi cinema know at least one Bollywood dance move. Our 23^rd chromosome IS the dancing chromosome.

And now Slumdog has smacked people in the face and Jai ho – which in my view is very, very average Rahman fare – has won best original score. Funny, our average is a global best.

So Hugh Jackman (what a tasty man!) announces “The musical is BACK!” and everyone cheers. Er, I don’t see the excitement because India and Bollywood have been producing musicals for like, ages. Try 1950s. Yet people ask me, “Why does Bollywood have so much singing and dancing?” Because we like to! And we can. Because every Indian state, every 50 kms you travel in the country, has its own dance form. Because as a child, mere me has learnt the Bharatnatyam, Kathak and danced the gidda. Because India has more things to talk about than four versions of Underbelly (Melbourne underworld), Gallipoli (with due respect), the indigenous people (even more respect) or numerous shows on every possible government department (emergency services, firemen, customs, immigration police, trillion cop shows etc)?

So Slumdog wins. While it’s a feather in Danny Boyle’s cap, I wonder if it will translate into anything for Bollywood as an industry. Or will it, perversely, just validate what the world is apparently saying about Indians now: “India and Indian youth have a new-found aggression.” You hear it during cricket commentary, each time the Indian economy is mentioned or even the rise of the Indian middle class. I find it a little irksome. Indians have been always been aggressive; we are global masters at bargaining for a reason. Just that the world has developed new ears I think. Anyway.

Irrespective of what I think of Slumdog, I am really happy for two of my favourite artistes, AR Rahman and Anil Kapoor. The latter hardly had a role in Slumdog and has delivered a winning performance every two-three years.

Here’s my list of favourite Anil Kapoor movies and moments:

1. Virasat: I love the way he transforms from UK-returned to son-of-the-soil; the scene before the interval where he comes out looking like his father still gives me goose-bumps… Amrish Puri was the best on-screen pairing with Anil I think.
   
2. Parinda: it was supposed to be a Nana Patekar movie, but Anil’s vulnerability was unparalled
   
3. Ram-Lakhan: hahaha, I love him when he plays the rogue. And that moochie. Again, Amrish Puri!
   
4. Nayak: Perhaps not the greatest of movies, but there’s something very earnest about Anil’s character. Yet again, with Amrish Puri.
   
5. Tezaab: Ah. The rogue woman-charmer who turns into someone with a burning vengeance. He just fits the role of tapori…
   
6. Mr India: “Anil bhaya” at his best. Cute, charming and one of our best attempts at science fiction, if I may!
   

As for AR Rahman, I am not too crazy about Jai ho or Sayya… but some of his other work is in my list of favourites. Here goes:

1. Yuva
2. Roja
3. Vande Mataram
4. Rangeela, first hindi music with original score
5. Rang De Basanti
6. Swades
7. Saathiya
8. Dil se
9. Bombay, the six tracks he composed
10. Lagaan

PS: I am still not convinced about Slumdog. But if it could mean we might get Hugh Jackman to come and act – and sing and dance – in Bollywood movies; I am all for it.

Related: Is Slumdog Millionaire a poverty porn?

The object of my (des) ire

"Do you ever get tired of thinking?" read the comment. No.

It's involuntary, like breathing. Inhale thought, let it mix in the blood stream, pump through the arteries, twist together in the veins and exhale out. In notebooks, on napkins, on the margins of whichever page of whatever book the eyes are on, behind book covers; sometimes here.

Some thoughts are triggered by a song, a scene, a scheme. Some are like the past, with a subconscious claim over my dreams. The purest of those thoughts, those dreams are fuzzy... I don't know how to consciously create them. Like you can consciously create a day-dream where everything is geared to make you come out the winner. To make you happy. Day-dreaming and cynicism are mutually exclusive.

The clearest thoughts/dreams involve pain. Hurting others. A departure from reality, where always, I am the one left curled up, tired to cry, hoarse to scream. With such a tremendous pressure on the chest, it feels the heart will disintegrate and pour out of my mouth in a bloody vomit. Each droplet out like acid splattering on another's face. Burning through their skin, eating into their brain. Demanding reasons, retribution, revenge. Justice.

But justice is overrated, poetic justice befuddled. And revenge is like your own personal rancid rainbow -- of reeking reds and gory greens -- that you can run to, but never touch. So you run from it. You think you are "letting go". But the scarlet-tinged, fluoro colours are always, always there in your peripheral vision. Mocking. "You idiot! Others are reaping the rewards of your hurt. Of your heart. Ha, ha."

I don't get tired of thinking. But I tire of repetitive thoughts with no results. Of a clingy past that I cannot shake off. Because I cannot seem to stop remembering. How do I let go? ... Or how do I hurt? Because sometimes, so many times, I really don't want to hurt. I WANT to give it back.

And if that makes me a bad person, guess I am like everybody else.

Saw pseudo-vampire flick Twilight last evening. Pseudo because they have no fangs, just strong teeth. More a horse than vampire I say. Hrmph. Have read all four books by Stephenie Meyer. It's a teen romance masquerading as a vampire flick/book. So S.L.O.W. Kristen Stewart looks constantly constipated, Robert Pattison looks anemic (well, he's a 'vegetarian' vampire, snigger) and there's zero chemistry between the two. The books are a cruel joke. My translation: A perfect man is only possible if he's a vampire, i.e. a work of fiction. Hah. Read the books if you have to, give the movie a miss. Partner either groaned or yawned through it all. But at least we are even; four history documentaries against one chick-flick.

Came back home and saw Korean director Chan-wook Park's Sympathy for Lady Vengeance. Loved the movie. Completely empathised with Geum-ja Lee... what if vengeance does not liberate? What if it doesn't shake off the past? DO see the movie. It's black.

PS: This doesn't make any sense does it? Good. It's still my blog you know.

Curious co-relation between the two movies? Tofu. 'Edward Cullen' says surviving on animal blood is like living on tofu, does the job but never satisfies you. Lady Vengeance has tofu too... it signifies purity of soul. But never satisfies?

India: Slums, dogs and millionaires

Happy Republic Day.

One of the first things I remember about describing India -- it was a grade three/four essay on “describe your country” -- was “India is a diverse nation.” To a seven-year-old me, “diverse” really didn’t mean much. The first real awareness about any patriotic identity I had was that we -Indians - “hated” Pakistan, rather the Pakistani cricket team.

Over the years there have been many things I have realised about my country. We are in the top 10 list of most corrupt nations and would soon become world leaders in terms of population. Recently I learnt that we have more honours students than the entire population of Australia. And that Indians doctors and IT guys are wanted the world over. I could go on…

What is India? “Everything” is the word that best describes it.

Structured chaos, patience for long traffic jams, slums with the best TV channels and early morning lining-up for water. Praying to cows and killing of female foetuses. Gods with many arms and beggar kids with none. Rising divorce rates in cities and a reluctance to put parents in old-age homes. World-class chefs and mothers who still make awesome, detailed home-cooked food. In Amitabh Bachchan, the star of the millennium (BBC says so) and every state and every district with it’s own distinct dance form and music. We might suck at global sport but you can’t beat us at mind games…

Pizzas with paneer on them and the world’s best bloody street food. Metal head chicks who still get henna on their hands for weddings. And weddings! The many different kinds of Indian weddings are a study by themself. A blooming real estate industry and shitting in the open. Politicians with criminal records and yet a surprisingly, surviving democracy. I would love to challenge any other country to take even a quarter of the population we have and try and make something worthwhile from it. They will fail.

It gets difficult though, when people here ask questions about India: some honestly curious, some mistakenly superior. My father keeps telling me to not get into arguments and let people think what they might. Well, we shall see.

What is India? The list can go on… She is different things to different people.

So I asked friends and my ‘network’ to contribute a photograph: something they think denotes or represents India. But then, as contributor George Koshy pointed out, can any single picture really capture India? You decide, or not...

Captions provided by photographers where not specified

<-- 1. Good Morning India: pic by Shashwat Nagpal, 28, freelance photographer, Creative Director with a multinational IT consulting firm.
"I took this picture in Benaras/Varanasi. To me, it reflects the spiritual face of India... showing the faith in our culture and customs and how people make living through it too."

2. Years of Raniket: pic by Shefali Sewak, 28, lawyer -->

"I've been going to Ranikhet every year since I was about 8-years-old. It really is my 'home away from home', except that unlike Delhi, it is spiritually unsoiled. Every time I'm in Ranikhet, I see and feel things that touch me to the core. This is strange because I don't usually get moved easily.My last visit in October 2008 was no different. There's this one picture which I took of an old woman. She had typical Kumaoni features, and her face was wrinkled with years of Ranikhet. But gorgeous as her face was, I found this photograph more intriguing."

<-- 3. Varanasi tradition: pic by Ben Tregear, 28, freelance photographer currently living in India

I met Ben at a terrace party, smoking pot and strumming Bob Dylan or someone else on the guitar...

4. Die Swimmer Die (Pong Lake Watersports sign board, Kangra, Himachal): pic by Colin Fernandes, author (Viva Santiago!), contemplator, lad-mag features editor -->

<-- 5. Mishti khabe?: Pic by Michael Oberhardt, 29, senior geologist, currently living in India

"It was taken in a small village called Rajdih in September last year. It is about 7 hours drive north of Kolkata in Jharkhannd state. We were drilling nearby and I decided to stop at all the little villages to hand out some sweets to the kids (and parents)."

6. Sushil and I: pic by Rajaraman Ganesan, 47, former sports editor, current consultant --->

This picture shows "the down to earth nature of an Olympic medal winner..."

7. Family portrait: pic by Jesse Rapczak, 28, video game developer, living in India

"This is a portrait of a family that lives near my office in Noida. They run a small corner shop and usually sleep on the street. After I took the photo I realized they probably did not have a family portrait as a keepsake, so I printed several copies and took it back to them. We didn't speak the same language, but I'll never forget the joy I saw in their eyes and how grateful they were as a result of this simple gesture."

There are more contributions, just that I'm running out of time.. will come and upload those later. For those interested in contributing as well: email me ONE photograph --that YOU have taken -- that represents India or what you think of India. Hope a lot of you will participate! Email contributions to foxytanya@gmail.com WITH:

1. your photo contribution: perhaps a caption or two about where/when you took it and what it means

2. your name, age (optional) and what you do for a living/ otherwise

3. a link to your website/blog so people can check out more of your pictures

You DON'T have to be a professional photographer; anyone can send in a contribution--- if you know people who might want to contribute...please forward this note to them.

PS: Saw Slumdog Millionnaire last night... a post on that later.

Kamasutra, Krishna and cultural crisis

Most Indian gods have multiple arms and many have multiple heads too; yet we are the first to get uncomfortable if someone with physical disabilities is around and poor Hrithik Roshan was made fun of for being polydactyl. We made pornography into an art form through the Kamasutra and exported it to the world and yet we’re the first to have fainting fits at the mention of sex. While the 21st century Indians apparently “don’t do dirty things in bed” and mere cheerleaders have political undies in knots, the Kamasutra-age Indians read graphically descriptive chapters on lesbian sex, fellatio, cunnilingus AND men-making-out-with-men.

Single mothers and premarital sex is deemed a “Western influence” and you’d have a mob uprising if you were to hint at Indians girls having and raising a baby without marriage; yet the first record in history/ mythology/ however-you-take-it is that of the Pandavas mother (refer Mahabharata), Kunti who “prayed” to the Sun god and was “blessed” with Karna. Strange isn’t it that the Immaculate Conception in Christianity leads to Jesus being revered as God’s son, but Karna is put in a basket and left to the care of nature. Why wasn’t he worshipped?

So Shakti, Durga, Jagdamba are all forms of the Supreme Goddess, the seat of all Power. She rides a lion in some versions (Durga, Jagdamba) and a tiger in others and yet the lion and particularly the tiger are both on the brink of being wiped out from Indian forests. And we raise hell when a cow is killed? YET we leave the cows out on the roads to chew on plastic and die of swollen intestines? While we shy from killing the Holy Cow, we have no compunctions killing unborn daughters, burning daughter-in-laws for dowry and had the Sati system not been abolished, widows were also supposed to burn atop the pyres of their husbands. Burnt alive that too. On a lighter note, while the goddess of wealth Lakshmi rides an owl, ‘ullu ka pattha’ (son of an owl, not literal) is an abuse?

The rant is because I’ve heard “India is so rich in culture and all that,” just a little too many times from too many people who don’t have any clue of what they’re talking about; Indians included, me included. Is the Indian culture the arranged marriage where two people confuse college degrees for degrees of compatibility? Is it the system where girls pretend to listen to their parents till 42-years-of-age and yet have no problems lying and getting out of their houses in salwar-kameez only to change into a backless or something to celebrate their own birthday? It’s not any aspersion on any of my friends or me – who’ve done something similar – it’s trying to understand how we acquiesce and rebel in the same breath, how open secrets has become a way of life and why this confused culture of ours still doesn’t make sense to me.

And somewhere wondering about all that and myriad other Indian things, I met the Mishra Family comprising the 50-something father, Mr Mishra (or ‘Mishraji’ as we Indians would respectfully call a senior person), his wife Mrs Mishra and their two children, Pinki, 19 and Tinku, 22. The Mishra family is a typical Indian, middle class Hindu family that is trying to preserve the roots of an ancient culture while trying to imbibe the new culture of the Internet and 24/7 news channel.

Through the mishaps that occur within the Mishra Family (sometimes unfortunately involving yours truly), this is an attempt to understand what goes on in the mind of the Indian middle class families as they grapple with more money in their pockets, new ideas beamed into their houses and as the old and the new generation try to come to terms with the changes and with each other… Not necessarily always in agreement with each other.

While those who might have read ‘What Goes My Father’ on ibnlive.com will be familiar with Mishraji and Co., some of you will meet them for the first time. As I put out the past experiences with Mishraji (not daily yet) here to get everyone on the same page, those who know him, please bear with me. Soon enough, I will give you the latest juice on Mishraji’s Musings. Here we go…

Indian Culture Rule 1: Before you fall in love, always ask your parents.
Indian Culture Rule 2: If at all you fall in love, keep it withiin your religion.

Mishrajis Musings, Chapter 1
But I love Sam, Papaji!
The wedding season has been good for one. It has kept Mishraji quiet busy and the patriarch has not found much time for our regular let's-bash-the-media (that would be me) sessions. But then, everything that has a beginning, has an end...The knock was a soft one and given that it was 11.30 pm, one was duly alarmed. A furtive, behind-the-curtains peep further upped the alarm levels. Miss Mishraji (aka Pinkiji) was standing at the front door, in her nightclothes. She had a pillow in one hand and a stuffed duffel bag in the other. Even as one opened the door and before one could say a word, Pinkiji blurted, "I have run away from home. I can't live there anymore. Please help me."

Under normal circumstances, one would have gladly helped a damsel in distress. However, the idea of dealing with Mishraji - especially when his daughter had run away (even though it was next door) - was not a normal circumstance under any circumstance. As various visions of Mishraji brandishing his rolled newspapers flashed before one's eyes, Pinkiji's eyes dangerously brimmed over. If that weren't enough, the final straw was when Pinkiji said, "They won't understand, please help DIDI." (Didi = older sister) Those who live alone and away from their families will understand that the use of such relationship-building terms DO something to you. Pinkiji was duly invited inside and two cups of ginger-tea and a hot bowl of instant noodles later, one asked if she wanted to talk about it. Pinkiji was only too willing.

"You know how Papaji is," she asked and stated at the same time. One firmly bit one's tongue. Experience has taught that criticizing a woman's boyfriend/ father always backfires: Women will agree with the criticism for the moment and hate you for a lifetime. Since Pinkiji was waiting for an answer, one safely ventured that Mishraji was a good father.

"Yes, yes, I know that; but Papaji has his rigid ideas about caste..." She suddenly clutched one's arm and said, "Didi, I love a boy and Papaji won't approve." After confirming whether the guy had a job, was not part of any mafia and was not the son of one of the many neighbours Mishraji detested, one pointed out the positives of positive thinking.

"Oh, I know Papaji," she said, eyes brimming again, "But didi, I really love him... But he is a Catholic and Mummyji just found out and she read my diary and she didn't even ask me anything and said we would discuss it in the morning and that she was sure Papaji won't be pleased." One knew the Mishra family was seeking a groom for Pinkiji – a Hindu groom – and given those circumstances, her falling in love, without consulting her parents and that too with a boy from another religion, would not be taken kindly. Yet one could not help but empathise with young love. Since there wasn’t much to be done that night, one suggested a good night’s sleep…
Even before one's alarm could go off the next morning there was Mrs Mishraji ringing one’s doorbell insistently.

"Tell Pinki she should come home before her father wakes up. He won't like it," was all Mrs Mishraji said. A night's sleep seemed to have cooled down some of Pinkiji's ardour as she meekly followed her mother outside. One followed too, courtesy demanded one see off guests. Two steps outside the door and one wished one wasn't as courteous: Mishraji was, arms akimbo and scowling. The newspaper was late and so was his morning chai (tea). He didn't react when he saw his wife walk out my gate, but when he saw his daughter walk out in her night suit, his eyebrows nearly left his forehead when he saw his daughter follow in her night suit.

"Why are you up so early? Don't you have college today?" he asked, while looking pointedly at yours truly.
Pinkiji stammered, "I... I came to consult Didi on something." There was that word again and from the look upon Mishraji’s face, it was clear he didn’t want one to be any relation of his…
"What ideas are you putting into my daughter's head?" he demanded of one vehemently even as one silently, vigorously denied all charges.
"Let's go inside..." suggested Mrs Mishraji meekly, uncertainly.
"What prompted you to go to HER and not ask your parents instead?" Mishraji asked Pinkiji, relentlessly, still glaring at yours truly.
"I... I..." stuttered Pinkiji, eyes-brimmingly.
"What are you hiding?" Mishraji asked, softly, "Out with it," he added, sinisterly.

As one cursed one's good Samaritan-ness that had lead to one getting involved in someone else’s family drama, Pinkiji blurted, "I love someone Papaji..."
Mrs Mishraji breathed in sharply. Mishraji noticed. Finally looking at his daughter he asked, "What's his name?"
"Sam," Pinkiji muttered. Mishraji took a long, deep breath.
"I have always supported you in whatever you have wanted to do," he told his daughter, "I just want to clear one thing... I didn't get his name right. What was it again?" He was smiling.
"Sam," Pinkiji answered somewhat louder, bolstered by her father's smile perhaps. She had not noticed his cold eyes.
"Sam or Shyam? Is it Sam or Shyam?" asked Mishraji hopefully.
And one knew that this story had just begun...
(To be continued…)