Ten things I hate about you, Kolkata

Now, I am not a very violent man. I am an enthusiast of choreographed action; but not the person who goes out and picks a fight on a daily basis. However, slapping is simultaneously a symbolic and a physical reproach. This city of joy that I have grown to love has so many great things about it. The top ten things about Kolkata will make it'z debut in this same space tomorrow. However, there are certain kinds of people, who hurt the city consistently in their narrowminded shenaniganary. Here is my list of the ten people in Kolkata that I want to slap.

10, The Cheap Bodhi. You have seen her haggling to the poorest of the poor over things you would never think anyone would bargain on. I remember this once where a bodhi got on a bus with two kids about 15 and 11 years of age. When the conductor asked for tickets, she actually bargained with him and refused to pay for the second child - who was occupying an adult seat in the bus (it was one of those Tolly-Airport a/c buses). Come on. The average Kolkatan is someone who puts in about an hour's commute everyday to do a job that would have paid him more anywhere else in the country. Stop being a cheap haggler. When you hand in the twenty unhesitantly at South City for parking, why do you fight over the 5 rupees parking on Rashbehari?

9, The one at a time shopkeeper. Have you ever stood at a shop counter in Kolkata and waited, just endlessly as this person next to you is THINKING of what to buy. The shopkeeper, just stands there, in awe of the capacity of the person to contemplate what (s)he wants. You cannot express annoyance, because you are next in line. I have seen shopkeepers handling upto four clients simultaneously while engaging in small talk with all of them in Madras. I am not expecting everyone to do the same; but someone needs to slap this shopkeeper to wake him up.

8, The happy Aantlamo. Ooohh yea... This is that person who has to have an opinion about everything and automatically assumes invitation to conversations when there were none. The idea of Adda or chatting for the sake of it is an age old custom in Calcutta. It is a healthy exercise of speaking about nothing, with passion. I like this. I don't have a problem with this. However, I have a problem when people barge into these conversations and kill the idea of private space (more on that later). You can identify this person by his/her disregard for popular bangla cinema, a pretentious know-all air about an obscure subculture and an acute awareness of their own pseudointellectualism.

7, The Lake-destroyers. I am not against Public Display of Affection. I think it is very sweet when couples share an awkward kiss or hold each other in public. However, what happens at the lake on Southern Avenue is NOT an innocent gesture of affection. It is almost often a case of horny people with no marked definitions of shame. Even when you go out for a walk in the morning, which is considered one of the safest timezones to visit the place wtihout being scandalized, you are bound to encounter couples who are walking around aimlessly, taking stock of the situation. The moment the clock strikes eight a.m, they grow bolder and stare at you as if YOU are invading their area. These people who take such joy in killing the lake for children and old people alike in the afternoons deserve a massive slap.

6, The jay-walker. My dad often says that drivers in Calcutta, except the bus drivers are so well behaved. They don't go too fast nor do they try killing others just to get ahead. However, some people constantly keep trying their luck, almost challenging the driver into running them over. These are people from ALL walks of life, young and old, who think that just putting a hand out gives them a right to cross the road, whenever and wherever it pleases them. It kills me that there is an automated voice message begging them not to cross the road when the walking sign is red. In a spree of collectve color blindness, the people continue to cross at will and it is better to slap them before they get run over.

5, The callous smoker. Probably I am being a little unkind to the smokers here, for I come from the world's first (and currently ONLY) smoke-free mega-city. But I simply cannot accept the degree of approval that smoking gets in the city. Smoking is NOT cool. It kills you and people around you. And people continue to have the least regard for this, smoking in public vehicles, parks, offices and even educational institution. Couple of days ago, I cornered and stopped another biker and shouted at him for tapping the ash of his cigarette while riding the bike. If the idiot wants to die, fine; let him not try killing others on the road.

4,The over sensational journalist. Have you ever felt that the newspapers in Kolkata (I take Times of India regularly and Telegraph, I read occasionally; don't know about the Statesman) over-sensationalize even the tiniest thing? Often, they behave like they live in a bubble that is outside the continuum of reality but also keep making comments that speak as if they are the only ones that know how to direct the course of the nation. I am not against strong, critical news-reporting; but I don't want to wake up to read fabrications and forced-stories. Maybe that is the trend world-wide now, but as long as I was in Chennai, The Hindu did not screw with news.

3, The Spitter/litterer. When I first reached Calcutta; I told my friend that the two disparate things that you notice, is the City's beauty and it's poverty. It is not just the poverty in an economical basis I am talking about; but a general sense of disrepair and a total disregard for the beauty of the city by many, MANY people. How often have you seen really rich people, in big houses, casting away their garbage BANG in the middle of the road here in Cal? The worst thing, however, is the constant pan-chewing spitter who makes EVERY corner stained and disgusting. The other day, I went to Kalighat and it hurt me to see that, right at the entrance of the temple, was a flowerpot kept exclusively for the purpose of spitting. One of the greatest temples in India spat over on a daily basis. It is a shame that I wish someone redresses.

2, The Kolkata Basher. We have all met one of these people. The pretentious snob who is either from a different place, grown up in this city or from the city, but grown up in a different place who has NOTHING else to talk about, except how "primitive", "boring" and "oldfashioned" Kolkata is. The constant bashing of the city for its values reveal a deep sense of disgruntlement with their own personality and it is plain pissing off to be around these people. These people never raise a finger to change anything even when they could, they pretend not to understand bangla and walk with a pout that makes them look like dead fish. Repeated slaps may help these people get their heads out of their asses.

1, The one who says, you can't change it; this is Calcutta culture. The one person who is worse than those who bash Kolkata, is the persn who does more damage to the city, by saying it cannot be changed. I once remember somone telling that Old Development cannot internalize new changes. I know that to be untrue but in Calcutta, that is accepted as the be-all and end-all of things. How many times have you seen punctuality going for a toss because it is Calcutta culture? I used to go to a college where classes started at 8.15, and we were expected to be in class by 8.05 (failing which, we are not allowed inside the class for the first hour). To be at the great JU where the first hour starts at 10.20 and see even professors taking it lightly and turning up only after 10.30 breaks my heart. It is not the culture of the city that changes people; but the people who can change the culture of a city. So the next time someone says that Calcutta cannot be improved because that is the way they have always been; give them a good healthy wallop.

Some honorable mentions that did not make it to the final list; The four decade no-gooder was kept out of the list because their decisions affected the whole of WB, not just Kolkata. The JUnkies were also kept out for being too specific/topical a group. Not to mention bus-drivers in the city and old people who just stare at you. And of course, there are always my security guards who have not perfected the art of doing just ONE thing that I have been asking them to do for the past two years - put my bike out so that it does not get caught behind three cars everytime I want to go out.

Aayirathil Oruvan - Tamil (2010)

I wanted to review this movie in Tamil, but I would like as many people, from as many different linguistic backgrounds possible, to watch this movie which reminded me that there is no tongue to a movie. Aayirathil Oruvan, means One man in a Thousand. The movie can claim credit for being truly, one in a thousand. Starring Karthi (only in his second movie in five years), Reema Sen (not to be confused with the Bengali sisters) and Andrea Jeramaiah (a stage actor from Madras) and R. Parthiban (a man who carved out a new path for himself in the industry a good two decades ago), this movie does not claim to have big names or a monster budget. However, the story is one that has not been told in this scale, intensity or detail, ever before in Tamil, or may I venture to say, in Indian cinema. Running to a good three hours, it is sure to leave you with a strong opinion; good, bad or ugly. This is not a movie for the weak-hearted.

Directing his sixth movie, Selvaraghavan has reiterated the statement that he is someone to look out for. His past movies have carved a niche audience for himself. While he launched his younger brother into superstardom with his first two movies, he proved that he is one of those directors who can be very original with even the most uninspiring narratives. He has the knack of leading the story into its moments rather than forcing dramatic moments on the unsuspecting audience. But even with his proven credentials, this movie shows that he is not afraid to tread on a different path. The genre of the adventure movie fell out of fashion in Indian cinema in the eighties. Of course, we have had the Dhoom series and the odd period movie; but none so authentic or experimental, in creating a world that is probable but impossible. The only person who has come close in portraying such a world was Kamal Hassan in Vikram (albeit, in a very commercialized and watered down space) and it is worthy to note that after two decades, no other movie has been written in that genre. As a blend of more than one genre, this movie captures the imagination of the audience and reveals another layer of the horrible truth to those who are willing to train their eye on it.

Let me first get over with the "inspirations" of the movie. Ben Hur, MacKenna's Gold, 300, Apocalypto, Beowulf, any number of Indiana Jones movies, Lara Croft, William Wallace (Braveheart) and the Mummy movies, most importantly, often parade themselves in fleeting moments. Techniques, shots and sometimes even situations are borrowed, only to narrate or make convenient the plausibility of the progress of the film. To say that the movie has blatantly copied any of the above mentioned movies would not be fair to either this movie or the one said to be copied from. For the best moments of the movie are its own.

The story starts in a fairly straightforward manner. A famed archeologist, Lavanya and the head of the archeological committee, Anita venture in search a band of Cholas who had fled the invading Pandias and the Pandian artefact that they had stolen. They are accompanied by a private security force and a band of coolies headed by Muthu. After many traps and hinderances, which cost them much resources and life, Lavanya, Anita and Muthu discover the lost civilization. And here, the movie moves into the historic mode with an entire lost tribe portrayed; not the fair, delicately clad and decorated women/men portrayed until now in historical movies, but gritty, realistic and extremely topical portrayal of these warriors, tribals and women. This grounds the movie in such realistic terms just as much as the fantasy makes it fly. The end is unexpected but fitting. The movie will surely haunt you for a while.

Karthi entered the industry as actor Surya's younger brother, but at the pace he is going, he is sure to obliterate such associations. Mind you, it is not a great pace, for he has done only his second film in five years. And still, the maturity with which he has chosen his roles promises great things in his future. The biggest challenge is that, despite the hero-centric title, the movie does not give even an inch for such complacency. Karthi is only as important as his other counterparts and despite the messianic role, he does very little that can be described heroic. And still he shines by not shining as himself and becoming Muthu, the coolie. His eccentricities, fears, arrogance, anger and human-quality makes it one of the most rounded performances seen in a long time. Reema Sen proves herself as one of the most undervalued/underutilized actor in her role as Anita Pandian. Though she could have wielded the gun in a more assertive manner, she pulls off the extensive range of emotions and personality that her role demands of her. Andrea Jeramaiah. I once knew this girl when we worked on a play together (she was the leading lady and I the backstage guy). To be honest, she sings like an angel. How does she act? Well, as I said, she sings like an angel. In the movie, she manages to generate some interesting scenes, but they are few and far apart. She is often over shadowed given the caliber of her co-stars. But the scene in the mangrove forest where there is a triadic conversation in English (with Karthi just staring at the two women), that borders on lewd and manages to remain witty, is enough proof of the trio's acting skills.

I saved the best for the last, for we have not heard much from R. Parthiban in the recent years. He made a fool of himself with Pacha Kuthirai, and I am being nice to say that. It was disappointing, for I am a fan of his work and as any loyal fan, I was waiting for him to resurface. In this movie, one can surely say that he has, and HOW! Perhaps in the best role of his career, this actor/director/writer comes across as a convincing tribal leader who can hold order in his domain with his presence and if needs be, his fist. The last hour of the movie is dominated by this veteran in every sphere; including that monster-like dance that he manages to make interesting. It is Parthiban who features in the two best moments of the movie. When bombs are used against the sword wielding tribals, he asks Karthi why he did not tell them about this weapon. He adds after a pause, whether Karthi had hidden that fact thinking that they would be afraid. All his tribesmen join in a riotous laughter before being gunned down. This is perhaps the most evocative moment in the film that shows the pride of the indigenous against the metallic wrath of the moderns. Not many minutes before the mentioned scene, Parthiban slays one of the assailants and takes the machine gun in his hands, looks at it and shakes it pointing at people around him saying, "tut...tut...tut...tut...tut..." and then throwing the gun away shrugging. How powerful is that image of the man who knows not what terrible fate awaits him at the hand of the most cowardly of inventions.

What appeals most about this movie to me, is the same thing which makes me feel that this was one of the most satisfying films I have seen in my entire life, is the strong political, subaltern message that it carries. To see a people who have fled away from the nation to make another civilization in an island (speaking the language in a different, "purer" or more archaic form) only to be persecuted by their cousins who have no rationale except blind racial hatred is an echo of more than one reality. Most obviously it becomes an allegory to the thousands of Tamils dying a meaningless death in Sri Lanka. Some may wonder why an adventure movie ends on such a dark note of mass-suicide, utter desolation and an annihilation of not just the people but also of their dignity; this is not a way an Indiana Jones or a Mummy movie would end. But this is exactly how life goes on. There is no magical rescue in the offing.

Technically, the editing is absolutely seamless. What the ridiculously poor CG drops the ball on, the elegant, innovative cinematography more than makes up for. The costumes and the detailing are really well done. The extremely racist painting of all "tribals" in a color each is a jarring element in the movie. The locales are truly breath-taking, when they are not pissed about with bad CG. The music... the album score is okay, with a couple of songs lingering on in the mind. But the BGM is a huge let down. Perhaps it is because of our being used to such ephemeral subtlety in Selva's movies thanks to Yuvan? It is time to bring the young prince back into the fold.

One thing I would like to record about this movie is that, Selva, unfortunately did not have the courage that Kamal Hassan did, as we find the latter refusing to add a song to the movie when it was not relevant, however good or close to his heart (as it was performed by his daughter). But Selva adds the Ooh Eesa song for the reason of having shot it. It would have better served as just publicity material. However, it does not take away from the bottomline, that Selva assures us that the future of Tamil/Indian cinema is in good hands.

Maugham said, "...that's why I couldn't read PostColonial Drama so much!"

errm... well, Maugham did NOT say that. Not even close. But he actually did say something which is a significant part of this blorticle. If not the most vital part if it, certainly the definitive moment of the piece. But I get ahead of myself. Let me start with a story about a kid. An average schoolkid who still has left in her/him, all the illusory promises of greatness that the future promises to offer. Being the ever enthusiastic participant in every inter-school competition, (s)he ends up winning one. A debate, quiz or poetry recitation; does not matter. Our objective is that (s)he wins a gift-certificate of, say, one hundred rupees to some bookstore. It does not matter if it is a traditional piles of books on top of books kind of store or the new places where you have to cross a sea of CDs/DVDs/accessories/crockery/chocolates/perfumes/PC games/PSP games/PS1,2,3 games/toys-stuffed and otherwise, to finally reach some of the good books. Either place would work for our story.

The child decides, out of sheer boredom and overexposure, the (s)he would not buy anything else but some books. Perhaps it is a selfrighteous fit of overenthusiasm, a bout of sincere inclination towards knowing more of "literature" or even a simple curiosity of the unknown (read: parental pressure to do something that they never did). Anywhichway, this kid, whose age I have forgotten to mention (is about twelve, by the way), steps into the books section. Let us skip to the point of the story; Too many options described in an aloof/borderline funny way, a lot of derision towards self-help and biographies, a moment of self-indulgent ogling at the awesomeness of the comics section and a little more venom spat towards self-help books later, we are at the drama section, where our little friend (if you snigger, you shall die a death by reading self-help) has stopped. Why has (s)he decided to have a look at this section is a different blorticle; whose essence I am giving out in the next line for the certain uncertainty of never getting down to write it. It could be because (s)he felt the inner, natural pull towards the most ancient form of worship, or it could be the natural spidey-smarts that alerted the kid that shorter than a novel, simpler than poetry; a play is all that you could read in minutes ninety. I don't know. But ya, either way, there (s)he stands, looking, staring, judging at playwrights from Aeschylus to me (boink! wishful-thinking, redalert!). Read closely folks, for this is the point of the piece. (S)he invariably buys a simple-Shakespeare edition and goes back home, living happily ever after. Well, at least until that second divorce and that bizarre double murder-suicide. But that is not part of our story. Our story has ended. Get out. Go out and play in the rain. If you read the previous line, you did not listen to the one before that and so I can say whatever which you will not pay the slightest attention to... Okay, I cannot understand what I am saying but let me quickly put down in bullet form, what I intend you to infer from the above story.

• There is a general, often unnoticed trend in the pricing of the books which "encourage" us, from a very young age, towards buying books which are touted to be "them, Classics". For a hundred bucks, there are only 'n' number of books that you may buy, particularly when you are not willing to shell out extra cash. And despite a revision of gift-certificate values in mid-range city schools makes a real and present representation; it ain't my battle and I shall stick to the pricing.
• Let's face it, Shakespeare will always be cheaper than Beckett or Ngugi. And let us not even GO to Pinter or Shaffer. As a writer, you are saved as long as you are being taught as a part of a syllabus; thanks to some friendly neighborhood professor-assissted publication which makes some of the books relatively affordable. GOD FORBID, if you are a standalone, popular enough to be shunned by the academics and not popular enough to be blessed with a paperback edition. You are doomed to be one of those names that are oft-mentioned but never read.
• Playwrights who are affected most by this tendancy, are the postcolonial ones. Sometimes I wonder, is this a way by which the Empire prevents us from striking back? It is as if one of those Harv-grad business execs got up and said, "Here's a good strategy to keep these dissenting voices under a tab. Let us sign them all on good figure deals, no matter how good/bad they are and overprice their books, so that nobody would ever read them!" Who am I kidding? Those kids cannot even say dissenting. But somebody's doing something which makes certain books more/less accessible than the others, aren't they?
• Before I go on about it, let me drop another term, most probably self-invented, the indeterminacy of Classicability factor. Simpler put, it is the who/what decides a book to be a Classic, a.k.a, must-read. It is almost like a transitive verb (all students of Franco-German languages, gimme a hell yeah!), but only it is not. Who says, that despite from being the same age, Sean O'Casey should be more expensive than Shaw or Strindberg's Dream Play alone should be unavailable online in translation when all his other plays are non-dime-a-dozen (if you are not counting the internet/current/initial investment of purchasing a computer charge). Does that mean, that these books (plays, in this context) are so revolutionary that THEY are doing everything to prevent us from even getting hold of a copy? So, to conclude in the same fashion of my previous paragraph, somebody must be doing this, who are they?
• Okay, lemme ground myself back-to-reality (Peace! 2 Eminem), and accept facts. Fact is, newer IS dearer. Given that the authors are not dead yet in a more literal plane, it makes it that much tougher to bring out low-price editions. Between royalty and copyrights, most works seal their fates. And works by themselves are non-living things which only accomplish, or try-to, the intentions of the author behind the book. Fact of the matter is, (all those waiting for the moment of a piece where I make a preposterous accusation, this is it!) AUTHORS DO NOT WANT TO TAKE A CUT IN THEIR PAYCHECK.

Face it, they might pretend to care about the third-world-ness of the third-world, they might cry you a river or lie down in front of a steamrolling roadroller charging at 5 kmph in a rainforest (oddly, almost often near the release of their next books) or even pay in obscene number of dollars to get that, oh-so-unfashionable! look befitting an author who fights for the CAUSE! But bottomline is, they have bills to pay, possibly a bit more than what you and I have to and acquired tastes, be it caviar or cocaine, is the hardest to kick and dearest in the world too. That is why dead authors make more benevolent souls.

And that is why Maugham's words come back to me, for its startling inaccuracy. "Writers write, not because they want to; but because they must!" Bollocks to you my Maughaman! They write, because they MUST BE PAID! Remember, I am not your usual geek who remembers quotes, so there is a source besides the source. Couple of days ago, I read a piece by my favorite author, Paulo Coelho where he adds his own third line to Maugham (everybody's after this guy to add another line, poor dude!), saying, "because they want to be read!" Coelho walks the talk and puts up, get ready to do the double take, PIRATED E-VERSIONS of his OWN WORKS! He started this way back in the early nineties, putting up the Russian version of The Alchemist on a fan's request and has gone on to put up books in any language where he is not bound by a contract to do so. This shockingly self-defeatist attitude which seems to be a sure way to bury one's self has, au contraire, helped the writer. He has sold in millions and is still counting.

What all could be achieved if only a creator wills to put the creation ahead of her/himself, has no bounds! It is a fact that most, if not all, writers have a "day-job" which contributes to their writing not insignificantly. By making their works available to the world, writers guarantee a wider reach of audience without necessarily putting themselves in a corner, eating the I-am-not-getting-paid-for-this pie. Time is money, and the more interesting your work is, the more money you make, without imposing a toll on the audience for experiencing your work. What more, other fields would also benefit from such a policy. Already, the principle has been verified with in the movie-business in the days of P2P sharing. Have we not, in the past three years, seen more Global-grossers than before, when the audience were "protected"? With a little innovation from the creators, movies would simply become two different realms; one, where good stories are told with non-existent budgets and the other, which would be a pure spectacle industry; both extremely successful!

But I get ahead of myself, again! Let me start the change, by being the change. Henceforth, all my works shall be considered public domain. Do not let the current absence of a publisher make you take me lightly. I am considered to be a man of my word; more or less. To read any of my works, simply write to me at thesaruaon23@gmail.com. I shall soon upload a detailed catalogue of my completed works, few though they maybe. So, until then, think, write and be cool!