PK

Here is my take on PK - the most successful Hindi movie ever. Click here to go to kaahon.com, where the article was originally published:

The Idol

It was a glorious day. A beautiful morning. And she was ten years old today. Ten! How wonderful.

She jumped out of her bed and raced downstairs to her father’s workshop.

“I am ten today!” she squealed and launched herself into the idol-maker’s mud splattered arms. His days began early, with the festival just a month away. She could see the goddess coming alive. Those big, beautiful (and slightly intimidating) eyes just waiting to be painted open.

“Yes, you are. A big, big girl now”, her father smiled and tapped her nose.

“You remember your promise? You do? You do?” She hoped that he did. It was something that she had dreamt of all her life. And its fulfilment seemed so long in coming.

Her father’s smile deepened. Carrying her in his arms, he walked to a corner of the workshop, where something lay covered under a tarp. He set her down and pushed her forward.

“Go on. Pull off the cover.”

She first turned, with a smile beaming and blew a kiss. Then with a flourish, she pulled off the cover.

There stood the bamboo structure of a miniature idol. And next to it, sat a basket of clay. The same clay that the idol-maker used to create gods and goddesses.

“Thank you! Thank you”, she first shouted and then whispered. Finally she could also make her own goddess.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The goddess was so beautiful in her home. And what a home it was. Shaped like an iridescent lotus, with the lightest pink deepening into a glowing mauve.  The goddess herself sat amongst dark purple stamen that rose out of the lotus’ centre, while the lotus floated in a pond of mirrored flowers. The leaves that shaded the goddess, started at the base of the lotus and were a work of art by themselves.

She was so proud. Proud of her father who had made the goddess and her uncles who had created her home.

And she was proud of herself. Because next to the goddess, sat a slightly misshapen but actually perfect miniature version of the goddess. And she had created this goddess.

One day, this goddess would grow as big, as strong, as powerful as her father’s. She will just have to protect the young goddess, bring her up the way her father was bringing his daughter up.

Today was the last day of the festival. She knew what happened today though she had never seen it with her own eyes.

“On this day, the goddess returns to her divine palace”, the idol-maker had explained to his four-year old, inconsolable daughter, many years ago. “But she will be back next year. Don’t cry, darling.”

“Where are all these men taking her, then?”

“She needs the shoulders of these strong men to find her way back, you see.”

“I can help, too.”

“When you are older, maybe.”

And today, finally, she was old enough to help the goddess on her return journey. With the older goddess, her young goddess also had to go, her father had explained. She was sad about that but next year, they would all return. And her own goddess would have grown bigger by then. The thought excited her.

The contingent reached the edge of the river and down went the goddess.

“No!” she screamed. They were drowning the goddess. They were murdering her. How would she return if she died.

The idol-maker lifted her. “It’s okay. Her path goes through water.”

“No, you are lying. You are killing her.”

“I am not, child. That is the way of the world. You are all grown now, aren’t you? Ten years old. Practically a lady. You have to learn the ways of the world.” With these words, he gently pried the small goddess from his daughter’s fingers and let go of the statue into the water.

The young girl stood, silent, mute. Her goddess sank into the muddy water, not even putting up a fight.

Slowly, the girl walked away from the murderous river. She was an adult now.

Photo source: http://espiritokashi.wordpress.com/2011/10/15/the-story-behind-visarjan-immersion-ceremony/

The Fort

Jaigarh Fort, Jaipur (Courtesy: www.tnstravel.com)

The old fort where the party was being held did not really have any legends attached to it. At least none that she knew about. Maybe Google would throw up something or asking some locals. Not that it mattered.

However, its location atop a hill allowed one to view unmatched panorama of the old city spread below. But it was night, so that picture was cloaked in darkness. The revelers had to pass through twisting passages, laid out with electronic red carpet, to reach the inner courtyard where the dance floor, the food and the booze were. They were advised not to step off the path to explore the unlit part of the fort.

So, she left the lit passages and walked through one of the doors along the path. And emerged into an open space, high above the ground and under a vast blue, grey sky. Moonlight created a comfortable shadow play. Her hands, when she extended them, were awash in a silvery blue and if she tried very hard, she could feel a cool tingle in her fingertips.

The shadows in the corners were shy, gathering within themselves. She was tempted to go coax them out, explore them, learn their secrets. Were there any stories hidden within their soft folds?

Later, she decided. This hushed light had its own story to tell. While it was silent all around and any noise was too far away to be heard, occasionally she heard the voices of her fellow revelers passing on the paths to the party.

She ignored them. She was drawn towards the high boundary walls. The city lay hushed and spread below her like some covered feast. All she had to do was extend her hand and scoop the darkness out, laying bare the lives that were cloaked. She turned back to the unlit, moonlit terrace. She was beginning to feel a little cheated. Disappointed. Where was the grandeur of the moment? She might never come back here. And she deserved something special. A memory that belonged to her alone, transcending time and history.

Suddenly, there was a twinkle in those cornered shadows. It caught her eye. She was intrigued but also a little wary. She had wanted something special, hadn’t she? This could be it. She was both hopeful and trying very hard to be pragmatic. Hope fluttered and quivered in her belly, threaded through a vague, unnamed fear. In the end, she walked forward. Curiosity and imagination had always been her salvation and her doom.

It twinkled again. She was now in the extreme corner of the terrace, where the shadows were most bashful. Her shoes echoed, muted in the stillness. The night remained cool, fresh, flowing through her unbound hair. She reached.

She stooped down and extended her hand. It touched a papery, wrinkly silver foil of some candy.

Disgusted, disappointed, relieved, she muttered under her breath. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

Stupid tears stung her eyes. In helpless anger, she picked up a small stone lying next to the deceitful foil. It was uneven with pointed, jagged edges. She tested the edges and threw it with all her strength into the shadows.

Getting up, she spun on her heels, leaving behind the dust of some unnamed, unrealized romance.

Sometime in the night, from some where in the soft , trembling shadows, dropped and rolled onto the silver stones, the muted tinkle from a broken, silver anklet.

An Allegory

I stand.

With green arms outstretched,

Straining, forever straining,

To that blue sky, reach.

It pulled me out of slumber cozy,

When I in brown earth dwelt.

My mother's snug womb,

I left,

Drawn by the sky's sirensong:

Notes of pure air

And the chorus of dusk and dawn.

The lyrics of a day bright and

The symphony of moonlight.

I surged out of the earth pliant,

A vulnerable shoot green,

Yet determined and so sure, 

Oh so sure, to reach the sky,

My lover. My home.

So, I grow. And grow.

And forever strain,

With arms weighed

 By  leaves millions

And the bounty - 

Of fruits luscious and

Flowers tender - 

My gift to you, my sky.

Yet, ne'er do you bend,

To touch and caress, 

Except when your displeasure is a bolt,

Through my heart.

But enough!

No more shall I yearn.

And one day, proud sky,

You shall fall,

In million shards blue, 

Around me.

Yet, i will stand tall,

Untouched, unmoved.

Triumphant. Finally.

Hugo

Poster of Hugo (Courtesy: amazon.com)

Hugo is charming. It is almost like a Dickens’ novel comes to life at a Paris railway station. A David Copperfield with just a dash of The Little Princess in her attic and a Javertesque Inspector.

Hugo Cabret is a nine year old fascinated with and with a felicity for machines, especially broken ones. A young boy with simple dreams and simpler ambitions. His world comes crashing around his ears when his father – a cameo by Jude Law – dies in a fire at the museum, where he worked. Hugo inherits from him, a love for mechanics and an automaton that was languishing in the museum storeroom, before father and son duo started to lovingly restore it.

Orphaned, Hugo has to become an apprentice to his uncle, who keeps and maintains clocks around the railway station for a living. When the drunkard uncle disappears, Hugo takes his place clandestinely and evading the strict and sharp eyes of the Station Inspector with a wooden leg and a mean dog. The Inspector’s mission in life seems to be to find orphans and consign them to their rightful place – an orphanage. The only thing that makes him humane is the secret crush he has on the flower girl at the station.

All this while, Hugo continues working on the automaton, trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle, in the hope that his father would have left him a message through the automaton. His life changes once more when George Melies, the toyshop owner at the railway station catches him, trying to steal some machine parts.

To say more is to give up the delightful secrets that the movie hides. I just got to know that the movie is based a book called The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznik. I hope that the book is even more delightful.

The movie, meanwhile, is simple but scattered with gems that surprise you. The sneaking about of Hugo and Georges’ god-daughter, Isabelle, around the station and their sheer delight in watching the pictures move at a cinema hall. The gentle training that the middle aged French lady gives to the smitten Station Inspector on how to woo the flower girl. The lady’s own blooming romance with the portly gentleman, who is unfortunately not equally liked by her beloved pet. The day-to-day scenes at the station, through the eyes of a clock.

You smile, you cry with this simple tale of loss, victory, perseverance and miracles. The miracle of finding yourself and your dreams in unexpected ways. Of not giving up hope. Believing that there is a purpose in everything, like Hugo tells Isabelle, against the stunning backdrop of Paris in twilight. Great words from the mouth of a babe, yet they never seem strained, rehearsed because this child has seen more, lived more than lot of us.

The actors are all very good – from the seasoned Ben Kingsley as Georges Melies to Asa Butterfield who plays Hugo – but I think it is the triumph of the story and Scorsese’s consummate skill that everyone shines equally in this lovely, lovely movie.

I watched the movie on a long distance flight and I think it would be one of my most cherished memories from the trip.

And the Mountains Echoed: A Review

As someone who had loved Hosseini's past two books, I expected certain things from his latest. Not so much formulaic but I was expecting a story from that beleaguered country of Afganistan, that talked of relationships torn asunder and sustained by indomitable human hope.

"And the Mountains Echoed", the back cover tells you, is the story of Abdullah and his little sister, Pari. He is more than a brother to her - he is the father (their own is too careworn to be fully there) and the mother who died while giving birth to her. The book opens with a fable that their father, Saboor,  tells them about another father who makes some difficult choices for the love of his son. The first part of the book portrays the obvious devotion that nine year old Abdullah has for the three year old Pari. Saboor is a man, old before his time, working so hard to provide for his family that all the softness seems to be leached out of him. He is not harsh, just not openly affectionate. His love finds expression in the imaginative bedtime stories that he occasionally weaves for his young children. It is a clear evidence of Hosseini's maturity as a story-teller that he does not have to say these things - he shows them subtly.

Their lives change when the three of them undertake a journey to Kabul in early 1950s - when the country was still relatively peaceful, though the sheen of prosperity could be seen only in the capital. They go to meet the Wahdatis, employers of Nabi, Abdullah's step uncle and the older brother of Saboor's second wife, Parwana.

But just as you think that Hosseini would now trace lives of the brother and sister as they grow up, he throws you acurve ball. He goes back and forth in time, telling the respective stories of different characters - Parwana, Nabi, Nila Wahdati and even the Greek surgeon who stays in the Wahdati mansion in 21st century. All of them are loosely tied, with the common thread of their connection - often distant and sometimes close - with Abdullah and Pari. The overall impression is that the book is less a cohesive novel but more a collection of short stories, with common characters popping up here and there. And the end, when it comes, is not quite a full circle but then life rarely is.

Hosseini's writing style has matured from the heartfelt and simple to sophisticated and articulate, in the style of modern classics. I admire that - his growth and his penchant for learning. The characters are all individuals, with their flaws and perfections, their hopes and dreams charted across a canvas stretching from the fictional Afgan village of Shadbagh to Kabul to Paris to Greece and finally US. This book is probably more daring in its narrative style than The Kite Runner or The Thousand Splendid Suns but yet there is something lacking. It has heart but not the emotions that made the other two so much more. Throughout the book, I kept waiting for that tug at the heart, the emotional wringer (not sappy mush) which is Hosseini trademark but it never came.

Oh, there are lovely scenes galore - Abdullah trading his only shoes  for a rare peacock feather because his sister loves them. Or, Parwana's one-sided love for Saboor, even as he is enchanted by her beautiful twin sister. Saboor as a child telling the twins how the big tree in the village has the power to grant wishes - ten exact leaves on your head a benediction. But, it just needed, perhaps, a little less sophistry.

It is probably unfair - an author's work biggest criticism being his growth and the high benchmark of his own books - but that is just how things are.

Final recommendation: read it. It is better than lot of other books out there - it only falls short of Hosseini's own standards. 

Roads

Once upon a time, there was a girl, barely ten years old, with delusions of grandeur. She thought that she could be a superwoman. She could decide how old she would stay all her life. She could win not one but several Nobel prizes. She could be a CEO, a celebrated author, a, acclaimed scientist – everybody rolled into one. And of course, she would be super-rich and all the people she loved would always be around and never, ever die.

As the girl grew older, her delusions began to fall aside, but slowly. Oh, so slowly. First went the ability to decide her age. Then, the gleaming Nobels. One by one, all of them left her, until just one remained.

But now the time has come to decide if it truly is a delusion or something real that could turn into a regret.

So, I have some decisions to take – not very difficult but not so easy either. That explains in part my absence, though not all of it. Work has been the usual culprit. I hope, however, that things would ease up a bit and I would have the time to choose the right path, even if it is less travelled by.