Take that, BCCI!

This article has also been published here on CricketCountry. I do not typically cross-post, but this somehow had to be posted.

***

Remember, BCCI?

The day when you thought that the IPL was a big thing? That auctioning players like cattle was a neat idea?

The day when that ostentatious opening ceremony at Bangalore took place, five years back, followed by Brendon McCullum's carnage?

You told everyone that IPL was "the greatest show on earth", or something on those lines, remember?

You thought cricket was about glamour, glitz, and loud music. You showcased female flesh outside the boundary lines to add to the appeal of the tournament. You organised lavish post-match parties and publicised them. You renamed sixes to DLF Maximums (and thought it sounded cool).

You thought everything was gettable if you had enough cash.

That man Shane Warne proved you wrong, remember? Along with the Rajasthan Royals management, Warne had hand-picked players he wanted on a shoestring budget by IPL standards, and went on to win the tournament on strategy, skills, commitment, and passion. And by passion I do not mean choreographed celebrations after taking wickets.

You possibly thought that it was a lesson for the franchises to learn, not the organisers. What you did not realise that though money is important, there are some basic things that cannot be tampered with.

The same holds for tournaments. Spend as much money as you can, glamorise it - do whatever you can. But do not tamper with the basics – the aspects of cricket that have made it the Queen of Sports. The basics are crucial. Warne showed you why, and how. But you didn't get the subtle message. It was possibly too subtle.

For heaven’s sake, do not compare this with the English Premier League or the Spanish La Liga. The sport of football is structured in a club format. Cricket thrives on international contests, not club competitions.

Do you know how it works in cricket? Have you ever seen Australia or England touring other countries during their home series or domestic seasons? You never will. The Indians go, of course. I’m not saying that India is the worst team of the three. I’m emphasising on the intent of the boards, BCCI – not the potential of the teams.

I know you will mention Kerry Packer. Do you know what Packer did? Packer had revolutionised the entire payment structure and levels of cricketers worldwide, and once the board agreed to him, he withdrew and made a truce, happy with his television rights.

He brought in coloured clothing and white balls and black sight-screens to the sport. Yes, I know they look ridiculous. But Packer's conflict was with the board – not with the sport. He did not ridicule the sport. He did not tamper with the basics. ICL did the same. Additionally, they also tried something different, like using the Jayadevan’s Method instead of Duckworth-Lewis. Neither did Zee try to prove that ICL was bigger than the game. They were taking on a board, not the sport.

Do you think you've gone the same way? You're not countering a board, BCCI, or standing up for some players' rights. You ARE the board. Not only that, you ARE the richest cricket body. You have enough power to ensure that DRS doesn't happen universally; or to make sure that a Bangladesh tour of India is the only possible tour that hasn't ever happened since the inception of Test cricket. Just because it wouldn't have generated enough revenue or interest.

You could have changed the world of cricket for the good. Did you ever try to do that? Don’t you think it would have generated enough revenue if you did?

Remember when you tempted Chris Gayle out of national commitments? Remember when it was because of you that Lasith Malinga quit Test cricket? Remember when it was because you showed the moolah that a legend of Ricky Ponting's stature came out of retirement to ridicule himself?

I don't blame you for all that, BCCI. Gayle, Malinga, and Ponting were lured by money, and their decisions were their own. But what you did not realise, BCCI, that though incidents like these were personal triumphs for you, there was always a flip side to it.

You did not realise that the players who can forego their national commitments for greed are very likely to go a step further: if you had bought them, they're quite likely to sell you out as well. You have created the greed in them. Punish them, ban them if you feel like, but the joke is on you this time.

You have made the cricketers realise that IPL pays them enough to make them less interested in international cricket. The day is not far when the bookies will pay them enough to make the same people have the same attitude towards you, BCCI.

What was that again? Hansie Cronje? Salman Butt? Or that teenager who was all set to become the next Wasim Akram? Or the others like Salim Malik or Mohammad Azharuddin?

They were stray cases, BCCI. Greed has, and always been there. Some people are born with it, some others are tempted. Match-fixing happens; they always have.

The difference between them and Sreesanth and co. is the simple fact that it was YOU who had sowed the seeds of greed in the hearts of these players, showing off your unabashed, perverse hunger for power. They would probably not have wanted more money if you had not shown them the way.

These cricketers have set the ball rolling. Dark days lie ahead of you, BCCI. Very, very dark days.

***

PS: My heart goes out to you, Rahul Dravid. You remain one of my heroes, and will remain one of the greatest cricketers and ambassadors of the sport. I know you feel betrayed. But then, if this is the beginning of a bailout of cricket from the ghastly clutches of IPL, I think you'll accept it the way expect their heroes to do.

Where have you been hiding, Karan Johar?

Disclaimer 1: This is not a review.

Disclaimer 2: This articles contains spoilers.

More prominent version of Disclaimer 2:

*** THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS SPOILERS ***
*** IT MAY NOT BE A GOOD IDEA TO READ THIS IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED BOMBAY TALKIES AND INTEND TO WATCH IT ***

Bombay Talkies was a nice experience overall. It was the perfect homage to Bollywood (not Indian cinema) in the most unexpected possible manner. All four directors - and the item-song - pay tribute to Bollywood in a fashion different from the other.

There was Anurag Kashyap, arguably the greatest Indian director since 1992, holding up the rear (with his movie Murabba) - and coming out of his comfort zone of the darkness that defines his movies so vividly. It was about a dream, about a unique song, and about Amitabh Bachchan. Though this was the weakest of the four movies (if you know me, you would probably know how hard it is for me to criticise Anurag Kashyap), you cannot miss it if you're an Amitabh Bachchan fan. Or even a murabba fan.

There was Dibakar Banerjee, who chose the easiest path in his Star - to adapt a Satyajit Ray story, to cast Nawazuddin Siddiqui, and to recall the almost forgotten (but a theatre great) Sadashiv Amrapurkar. There was beautiful camerawork (like a remote-controlled car moving crossing the path of the real cars - epitomising the protagonist's character), the single shot during Nawazuddin's rehearsals, and many others. It also showcases the father-daughter relationship beautifully, and the protagonist's dreams of being a hero in his daughter's eyes. It was also the only movie that involves an active participation in the movie, and is definitely the best of the lot.

There was Zoya Akhtar, who, being fully aware of her limitations, came up with a beautiful movie (Sheila ki Jawani) involving two children - siblings - pulling off excellent performances in a movie with a supposedly controversial plotline. Ranvir Shorey impresses, but shows enough sense not to try and take control of the movie - and sensibly acts in an undertone - remaining in the backdrop all along. It also features Katrina Kaif in a delightful appearance, and is a nice embodiment of Bollywood's direct representation on Indian people, albeit in a non-trivial, if dark fashion.

There was also the much-awaited item song, featuring the who's who of Bollywood, first individually, and then together (a scene where Anil Kapoor - even at this age - was easily the one who stood out), which also had Aamir and Shah Rukh Khan in the same frame, something that had evaded us for years (read Q9, part II of this quiz by Diptakirti for more details on this).

***

That brings us to Karan Johar.

I was taken somewhat aback when I had first learnt that Karan Johar would be one of the four directors of this movie that was supposed to be a tribute to 100 Years of Indian Cinema. Agreed, it had to be a Bollywood director, given that it is a Bollywood production.

Among the other three, Anurag Kashyap is already a living legend, and Dibakar Banerjee is getting there. I was a bit skeptic about Zoya Akhtar (even after Luck by Chance, and especially after Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara).

After all, there was Shyam Benegal, who still directs, and has produced a masterpiece like Well Done Abba very recently. There was Shimit Amin, brilliant and innovative. There was Vishal Bharadwaj, soulful and at times, dark. There was Nagesh Kukunoor, producing brilliant movies on a consistent basis. There were Ram Gopal Varma and Priyadarshan, who keep on oscillating between the outstanding and terrible (which made them risky options, I guess). And of course, there was Rajkumar Hirani.

Why Karan Johar, then? Did they want to make the movie a commercial success? Was that the only reason? Even if that was true, what was wrong with Rajkumar Hirani? I simply could not digest it.

Let me go to the beginning. I had disliked Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (I had written about my experience of watching it) with a passion.

I had simply loathed Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham (to the extent that I had blurted out YES! when Amitabh Bachchan slapped Hrithik Roshan in the movie.

I had sat through Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna, though it was a complete hash-up version of what could have been made a nice movie.

I thought My Name is Khan had all the potential to become a great film. It was also Johar's first effort to do something different. It seemed incoherent, but was generally a nice watch. In the discussion panel mentioned here Karan Johar had a blast at censorship: he claimed that about a quarter of lines in My Name is Khan had to be left out, not because of the Censor Board, but because of the pressure created by the Government of certain states.

As for Student of the Year, I had felt no urge to watch it. I don't even know what the movie is about. Chances are that I'll never watch it, either.

HOWEVER.

There is a big HOWEVER.

I have also felt that (don't laugh) Karan Johar has always had the potential to become a good director. It's not that he can't. It's just that he won't. Somewhat like Shah Rukh Khan in front of the camera.

I won't go into the vivid portrayal of Rizwan Khan in My Name is Khan, which is easily the best Karan Johar movie till date. Not only did the movie address various social and political issues, it also handles the relationship between two individuals amidst all the turmoil - and it handles that quite capably. Given that 25% of the scenes had to be left out, it would probably have been a very good movie.

I will emphasise on two smaller, much-viewed, but less talked-about scenes. The first one is from Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham (one of the most horrific movies of all time). However, as the movie drones on, and the main characters all assemble, intentionally or otherwise, in a mall, Karan Johar pulls off a poignant scene that takes your breath away for a couple of minutes or so.

Nothing more, nothing less than what was required. Excellent camera-work, capturing every person  on the screen displaying their perfect emotions (I agree that virtually everyone was a good actor, but that doesn't take anything away from the director).

Then, again, there is this beautifully picturised song in an otherwise bland, quirky movie that makes you wake up from boredom and suddenly makes you pay attention to.

My point is - there was never any doubt that he could. He had always shown occasional glimpses of his potential. He just wouldn't, and that made it more frustrating.

And then, in  his Ajeeb Dastaan Hain Yeh in Bombay Talkies, he came to his elements. He was always good at portraying emotions - even in the most ordinary of movies. They used to be Utopian emotions, though. Here, he hits you - and hits you hard. Here, the emotions have been captured, and how!

The movie takes off with a scene that makes you sit up with a jolt. How many Indian movies have you seen that start with a youth pulling his father out of his bed and almost beating him up because the latter had misinterpreted the son's homosexuality: "Main chhakka nahin hoon! Main gay hoon!"

No, Bollywood movies do not start like that. They never had. Especially Karan Johar movies. Would you have ever believed that the first minute of a Karan Johar movie slaps you hard with a strong LGBT message? I wouldn't have, for sure.

You feel the Johar's intensity throughout the movie. The sexual undercurrent; the unsaid eroticism, only the tip of which had been touched; the solace one seeks in Bollywood music; the power of music that makes an adult submit to a child; the brilliant use of two all-time classics (lag ja gale and ajeeb daastan hai ye); the Joharish one-liners. ("Will you come in?" "Will you come out?")

No overflow of emotions. Everything measured out with the precision of a surgeon. No needless song. No uncalled-for mush. No 19th-century family bonding. No adjustment for stars. No uber-rich businessmen. No Kirron Kher.

And then, there was the troika: the surprise package of Saqib Saleem, the emotional mess of Randeep Hooda; and the restrained, intelligent performance of Rani Mukherji, back to her best. Johar's excellent use of the three actors, and getting the best out of them: especially Rani Mukherji, whose subtle array of emotions has been brilliant given the testing, claustrophobic conditions under which the drama unfolded.

Now I know why his section was the first of the four. It was a fitting beginning to an excellent tribute to a hundred years of Indian cinema.

Make more of these, Karan. I always knew you can. It's time you do as well.

***

PS: One of the four movies also features an emu. Called Anjali. I kid you not. I won't tell which one, though.

Ghitorni and Karan Johar

So Delhi it is.

For many people, Delhi is an excellent place to live as long as you're equipped with the basics of life, like multiple firearms, huge stacks of banknotes, large cars, political power, corruption, and, well, that organ of the body whose enlargement procedures often turn up in the form of raunchy pictures on illegal movie download pages. Also, chauvinism is optional, but it does make you feel like a proper Delhi-ite.

Having said all that, the average Delhi-ite isn't really a bad person. He rides the metro, eats a lot of rajma and pneer (paneer for anyone outside Delhi), makes the most wonderful kababs, and takes a lot of pride in living in the capital of the country.

I was asleep in my guest-house, rather peacefully, on a Sunday morning, as all mortal working people are supposed to do. There was a call. Two, actually. However, they ended up being missed calls, since I was doing what every sensible person does on a Sunday morning - which is to cuddle up against a stack of pillows and dream of Mila Kunis.

It was, of course, Bimbabati the Short. She and Satrajit the Tall (both from Patha Bhavan, and hence very cool individuals) wanted to go to a Film Festival at Siri Fort. The worrying bit was that they were keen on taking me as well, for whatever reason.

The schedule read thus:

Auditorium II:
3.30 PM - Dharmputra (A national award-winning Yash Chopra movie that almost no one I know has seen)
6 PM - A discussion panel on 100 Years of Indian Cinema, featuring the four directors of Bombay Talkies: Anurag Kashyap, Dibakar Banerjee, Karan Johar, and Zoya Akhtar.
7 PM - The premiere of Bombay Talkies.

Auditorium III:
1.30 PM - Shonar Kella
4.30 PM - Ghare Baire

Blanket rule: everything was free and open to all, but entry was strictly on a first-come-first-serve basis.

I had long, in-depth, somewhat intriguing conversation with Bimbabati the Short (who shall subsequently be referred to as Bimbabati) and Satrajit the Tall (who shall be referred to as Satrajit the Tall anyway: tall, big-hearted people deserve long names).

There was another critical parameter, though. Bimbabati's maid had not arrived, and without her, that wonderful girl's life was as useless as a dyslexic spell-checking application. So the three of us had another discussion from various locations in Delhi, and built a priority list:
Top priority: Bimbabati's maid; the entire schedule will be laid out as per her arrival
Second priority: The premiere of Bombay Talkies
Third priority: The discussion panel
Fourth priority: Shonar Kella
Fifth priority: Ghare Baire
Sixth priority: Dharmputra

There was a catch, though. As mentioned before, the entire Film Festival worked on a first-come-first-serve  basis; this meant that if Priority Two needed to be met, we also had to sit through Priority Three, which was not a problem. However, this also meant that Priority Six had also to be met - since we needed to be on time for Priority Three.

This meant that we had to sacrifice Priority Five. We could have done Priority Four and then moved on to Six (and then move on to Three and Two, in that order), but then, Priority One took over. The Maid did turn up sufficiently late for everyone to skip Priority Four.

At this point everything was laid out perfectly: we meet at Green Park Metro Station at 3 PM, watch Dharmputra from 3.30 PM (obviously, reaching before that didn't make any sense: after all it was Dharmputra - and who cared about Dharmputra?).

***

This meant that I could not sleep past 1 PM, which was a tough ask on a Sunday morning with no chore to attend to (including consumption of a breakfast largely comprising of butter- or ghee-rich parathas). So I slept on and on, till I was woken up by that ridiculous alarm tone of mine that could have driven Gautam Buddha mad enough to strangle Bimbisar or whoever existed in his proximity.

I woke up, had a light lunch (by NCR standards), and set off. I took one of those overpriced little green monsters (that are affectionately referred to as auto-rickshaws in this part of the world), reached the metro station, and boy, was I impressed!

It was nothing like the Kolkata Metro, which, I must remind everyone, had started in 1984, and at that time, was voted the the best metro in the world by BBC. However, they haven't really evolved in the subsequent years, and currently looks as out of place as Dev Anand and his mufflers would do in a Durjoy Datta book.

The Delhi Metro, though, is completely on another planet: it's convenient, ticket counters are aplenty, the trains are frequent and comfortable, the announcements are clear, the overall look is quite snazzy, and unlike the linear route of its Kolkata counterpart, it connects the entire city and its four adjacent towns in an intricate network. When I was in Delhi fifteen years back, travelling to Old Delhi from Katwaria Sarai ('Kats' for us) usually involved the same time taken by a newborn to reach a midlife crisis, but these days the distance is covered in a jiffy.

So, Delhi Metro is cool. The train arrived. The doors opened. I stepped inside. The doors closed. I found a seat (this was Sunday afternoon). There was a petite, pretty girl seated next to me reading Amish Tripathi (which, I guess, is a rather common spectacle in a Delhi Metro), leaving me torn between two very strong emotions.

Now, don't get me wrong on Amish Tripathi. He has excellent business strategies, and has a huge fan-following: it's just that I do not like his style. Maybe I'm jealous of his success the way I am of Durjoy Datta's.

Anyway, back to bigger things. The train was traversing the long stretches of green that Delhi has always been. And then, after a few halts, it reached a station called Ghitorni.

Ghitorni.

Now, when I was in Mumbai (rather non-affectionately referred to as paawpuri by me in the past), I had come across some horrible-sounding names, like Ghatkopar, Chinchpokli, or Koparkhairane, and Bangalore has her very own Bannerghatta. But I guess Ghitorni takes the cake.

Ghitorni. Ghitorni. Ghitorni. Ghitorni. Ghitorni. Ghitorni. Ghitorni. Ghitorni. Ghitorni.

Just hearing the name a few times may make you want to jump from a multi-storeyed building, then poison yourself, then hang yourself from the nearest ceiling fan, swim in a lake with giant weights tied to your feet, and then sit casually on the red bench-looking rail of a metro track.

Or worse, go on a lifetime diet of oats, peanut butter, and boiled beetroots. Listening to Himmesh Reshammiya. Reading Amish (there I go again). Watching Fard... oh well, forget it. You get the idea, though.

But still, Ghitorni.

***

Anyway, I got down at Green Park, and was soon joined by the other two. And then, off we went in an auto - the three of us - the very tall youth, the very short youthess, and the very overweight I. The auto meandered through the alleys of the city that boasts of Rahul Gandhi and Jyoti Randhawa, arguably the two most envied males in India right now.

Anyway, we reached Siri Fort, and then bumped against a wall as hard as brick and as contour-free as Arjun Rampal. No, not literally.

THE BOMBAY TALKIES PREMIERE HAS BEEN CANCELLED.

No, I kid you not. They had advertised the premiere on their website all along. That was also the chief reason behind us dragging ourselves from the comfort of our beds. And now, it has been cancelled. And replaced by a 24-minute short film called Bawra Mann based on an extremely convoluted plot revolving around an author who writes erotica.

What was worse, they did not provide anybody with a reason anywhere. No one bothered, either. This, after all, was the city where Chetan Bhagat's first novel was based. The second one too (or was it somewhere else?).

We had a quick discussion. What came first? Sitting through Priority Six (which would guarantee a seat for Priority Two), or Priority Five, which would get over in an-hour-and-a-half or so (but would virtually rule out an availability of seats for Priority Two)?

***

We went for the first.

But before that, let me elaborate on the foyer. You have to give it to the organisers. It was a very informative display, starting from the history of cinema to the regional movies, complete with interactive small screens. The information was so vivid that it even had Tapas Pal's name on it. Beat that.

Dharmputra, as it turned out, was a quite decent movie, though it had seven very, very lengthy songs. It involved BR Chopra's trademark title music, a bearded Ashok Kumar, a very thoughtful Manmohan Krishna, a young, vivacious Nirupa Roy, a perpetually crying Mala Sinha, a slim Deven Varma, a rare sighting of Indrani Mukherjee, and a very skinny Shashi Kapoor making a topless appearance.

But all in all, a controversial plotline and a powerful script that had caused a lot of uproar in the early 1960s (including riots at the theatres) - and possibly an example of what Yash Chopra could have been like, had he not been lured by European grasslands covered with tendrils of smoke where women in chiffon sarees either sing or whisper to each other.

That, and the information that a temple is also called butkhana ('but' should be pronounced like 'put', but with a soft T - somewhat like বুৎ or बुत). That was probably the high point of the movie.

We did not get seats, though - as a surprisingly high number of people had turned out to watch Dharmputra, which is a quite intriguing fact: Satrajit the Tall, Bimbabati, and I kept on discussing the probable reason for this. Could they have taken the same strategy as we had? Could that many Delhi-ites have realised that the only one to catch the talk show was to sit through Dharmputra (which turned out to be a rather good movie in the end)?

Anyway, we sat to the left of the audience - on the ground - and soon became immersed in the movie. We could not leave for any reason, since the ground seats were in demand as well. All in all, fond memories of film festivals came to my mind, as we shared a single Pepsi purchased by Bimbabati at the foyer.

Somewhere around the Interval (when the word INTERVAL became etched in blood on the screen), a not-too-slim woman started a commotion at one of the side-gates; a few security guards became busy, and she had to be ushered out of the auditorium.

However, as Dharmputra approached a breathtaking climax, Bimbabati, bless that girl, somehow managed to overhear a few stray comments - something related to the fact that the talk show was being shifted to Auditorium I (which was scheduled not to host anything for the day).

This was serious. Surely they couldn't do this to us? I got up and confirmed with one of the guards, and yes, it had indeed been shifted to Audi I (the abbreviation they used to refer to Auditorium I). So we got up and rushed to beat the rest of the Dharmputra audience to Audi I.

***

Despite a rather overweight, middle-aged woman's desperate attempts to misdirect us, we found our way to the humongous Auditorium I - and, surprise, surprise - we even found seats!

There we were, perched atop comfortable push-back seats, waiting for Anurag Kashyap and the rest of the quatret to appear on stage. A heron-like woman clad in a sari kept on announcing (about 771 times or so) that the premiere of Bombay Talkies has been cancelled, and people should take their seats for the discussion panel to take place.

And then, just when we thought nothing could go wrong from there - the girl on stage brought out what she definitely thought was a winning smile, and announced the names of the guests: Kaveree Bamzai of India Today (who was supposed to anchor the show), Karan Johar, Zoya Akhtar, Dibakar Banerjee, and - hold your breath - Dhritiman Chatterjee.

I had half-expected Jai Arjun to host the show. I could not think of anyone more appropriate. But then, you get what you get.

THERE WAS NO ANURAG KASHYAP. HE HAD APPARENTLY LEFT EARLY FOR A FLIGHT.

Now, I have nothing against Dhritiman Chatterjee. If anything, I admire him a lot for his performance in Pratidwandi. But, then, this was supposed to be a talk show on Bombay Talkie, a movie to commemorate a hundred years of Indian cinema - and it was only appropriate that the four directors would assemble together.

Less than 24 hours ago, Diptakirti had given me a first-hand account of how Anurag Kashyap had pulled out of another discussion panel. On that occasion he had been waiting for the scripts of Gangs of Wasseypur to arrive from Spain (his luggage had been misplaced). I just hope that we get to see a masterpiece at our expense, and become a part of history.

I guess you should not expect any more from a city that goes vegetarian once a week because The Great Ape was born on that day.

Anyway, the talk got under way. To her credit, Ms Bamzai held her self quite well among the stars, and so did Dhritiman. It was enlightening to learn that Dhritiman had acted in movies in two different South Indian languages, and Karan Johar used to watch movies in a loop, and was inspired greatly by Guru Dutt. Karan Johar was smart, Dibakar Banerjee quite witty ("you don't have to clap after everything"), Zoya Akhtar dignified, and Dhritiman Chatterjee insightful. All in all, a good session.

***

After the discussion panel the audience was asked to ask questions - which is when the real fun began. The first question came from a random person, who asked Karan Johar "Sir, I have written a script on a Muslim girl - how do you think I should make it into a movie in Mumbai?"

I guess I should mention here that this followed a long, heated discussion on censorship, mostly related to the restrictions they had to face from the Governments of various states and multiple religious groups. It was unanimously accepted that such restrictions were beneath normal individuals, and everyone trying to make a mark as a filmmaker had to face such hurdles.

Obviously, such a question did not go very well with the men on the stage. Karan Johar snapped back  immediately, asking him whether he had tried at all. Dibakar Banerjee was less polite, when he retorted that if the only salient feature of the script was the fact that it was based on a Muslim girl (the man mentioned nothing other than that), then it was a doomed script to begin with. Zoya Akhtar maintained her dignified self., and Dhritiman looked somewhat bored, with a what-am-I-doing-here look.

After a couple of more questions came the killer question (amidst a lot of boos): "ye jo aajkal ke movies mein itni chhoti kapde pehne ladkiyon ko dikhayi jaati hai, ye jo vulgarity hoti rehti hai, iske baare mein aap kuchh nahin kar sakte?" (Can't you do something about the fact that women in contemporary movies wear revealing attire, and the amount of vulgarity has increased with time?)

All hell broke loose. Zoya Akhtar could not hold herself back anymore. For someone who sat somewhat quietly for the past hour or so, she showed surprising aggression, and virtually ripped the man apart. In fact, she shouted so much that her words became almost indecipherable.

Karan Johar reacted as well: he simply asked the guy the name of the last Bollywood movie the man had watched, in response to which he simply stammered. But it was Zoya who really ripped him apart:
Aapne Agneepath dekhi hai? (Have you watched Agneepath?)
Jee haan. (Oh yes.)
Kiyun? Kiyun ki aapne chikni Chameli dekhi thi TV pe; aur phir aap dekhne chale gaye. (Why exactly? I'll tell you why - because you had seen chikni Chameli on TV and then went to watch it on big screen.)

The man kept quiet. Someone (one of Karan Johar and Zoya Akhtar) yelled "you think just like a rapist!" The auditorium responded in a tremendous applause. It took me some time to realise that I was staring open-mouthed, gasping at the audacity of the man: making such statements in a group, or among peers was something else: how on earth did he muster such courage to ask such questions in person?

Is this what the world has come to? The moral police doesn't only attack in group, they stand up - alone in an ocean of (supposedly) educated people - and voice their opinions, attacking a few renowned film personalities in public? Mind you, I'm not a Karan Johar fan - I never was - but that's not the point: whatever be the quality of art, it should not be restricted. Certainly not by a bunch of morons whose sole purpose for watching movies is to ogle at women's cleavages during item numbers.

I wonder what Anurag Kashyap would have done to him.

The rest passed peacefully (though there was a roar of laughter when one of the enquirers presented himself as Dr Rajinikanth), and everyone left in peace. The heron-like woman (can I call her Heronica?) announced the end of the discussion panel, and we left.

***

There was a small bit left, though. The foyer was decorated with The Master's artwork - including the rarest of print commercials (Satrajit the Tall took a few pictures) I have never seen before. There were book illustrations, book covers, movie posters. There were even photographs clicked by Him. It was only fitting that I am writing this on his birthday.

We headed for Hauz Khas Village for a hearty meal, but that is another story.

***

PS: I had to pass Ghitorni again on my way back.

Ghitorni. Ghitorni.

***

PS 2: Ghitorni should be pronounced as ghee-tore-knee.

Women, Five

This is a post on women, which, by definition, makes this a serious post. In my opinion, all blog posts published on Women's Day are supposed to be based on women. Yes, I know that this is not Women's Day, but that's hardly relevant.

The objective is to choose The Five Famous Women in my life. Ideally, I would have called them The Famous Five Women, but had I done that, Mary Pollock may have cringed in her grave.

Disclaimer:
Let me make this clear first: these are not women I know personally. These are famous women who have affected me in some way or the other in various phases of my life. Doing the same on known people would be as foolish as a unicorn trying to cook a sausage using its horn.

The list is probably supposed to cross something like a hundred, but I will restrict it to five. Five seems to be a cool number. It's odd, it's prime, and it's a four-letter word that begins with F. It also rhymes with words that mean a lot to me,like jive.

As mentioned above, this is going to be a serious topic. There will be no intentional silly jokes, puns, or even passes at Fardeen Khan. I promise you that. I even forhans and colgate.

There are multiple reasons for me liking these wonderful individuals. Of course, there are multiple reasons for me liking other women as well. For example, there are two very good reasons for liking Ayesha Takia, and a few other ladies as well. On the other hand Lisa Sthalekar was a legendary all-round cricketer who batted, bowled, and fielded well, writes insightful articles, and has an excellent sense of humour. However, she did not exactly have an impact on me, so she doesn't qualify.

This, then, is an ode to The Five. In chronological order, they are:

Dame Agatha Christie
"I specialize in murders of quiet, domestic interest."

The above quote is enough to fall in love with anyone, man or woman, tall or short, blind or blonde, homosexual or heterosexual, shoe size five or nine.

One of the reasons that I repent not being born, say, seventy-five years back, is the fact that I was not a contemporary of Dame Christie. To make things worse, she had passed away a year before I was born - so any chance of having a conversation with her did not happen (like that would have happened if I was, indeed, her contemporary).

The only way, thus, of reaching out to Dame Christie's brilliant mind was through her books. She was the Queen of Mysteries - and even if you leave out Parker Pyne, and Tommy and Tuppence, you still get two major detectives - the likes of which have arguably never been replicated in the history of literature.

There have been writers richer in language (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) or in philosophy (GK Chesterton). Both Sherlock Holmes and Father Brown are peerless personalities. Perhaps, from a critic's point of view, Dame Christie would probably have come third in the list.

However, in terms of weaving a logical plot - and, more importantly - the characterisation of her two protagonists, she has been peerless. Despite all his eccentricities, you cannot help but fall in love with Poirot (and by that I do not mean David Suchet). And Miss Marple, well, could well have been your grandmother's friend from next door.

What set Dame Christie really apart from her peers, was the step-by-step way in her stories unfolded. It almost seemed that you were working on a mathematical problem when you worked your way through the labyrinth of her plot. Seldom has an author been able to write book after book - so logical in structure, so gripping despite the unassuming style of writing, and left the reader so gaping for the climax.

It would have been fun. I mean this. I can really see myself sitting in front of her in front of a fireplace (fireplaces are cool), as she would read the stories out to me in various stages, placing a bet that I would win a fortune for every error I would have been able to point out in the plot; and lose every time.

But unfortunately, as she has mentioned, "The best time to plan a book is while you're doing the dishes."

Sigh.

Diane Keaton
For a long time in his career, Woody Allen, the next thing to God in terms of script-writing, had written his scripts entirely from an proud, somewhat obnoxious, intelligent, skeptic, New Yorker's point of view. He had never even considered seeing life from a woman's viewpoint.

That changed with Diane Keaton.

It is actually difficult to choose one from Keaton's performances. Just have a look at the power-packed performance against Al Pacino in the Godfather series. Or the portrayal of an ageing author in Something's Gotta Give, where she matched the genius of Jack Nicholson, frame-by-frame.

Look at her from 1:45 to 2:00. Had I been Al Pacino, I would never have been able to close the door on her face, irrespective of what the script had said.

Show me one person who looks this adorable while crying. Being a blogger (which makes me a poor man's writer), I know exactly what she is trying to express. The difference is - she can express.

However, it was Woody Allen with whom she formed the greatest on-screen pair that ever was. No other person would have done justice to Allen's magic - and Keaton was more than up to the task. The chemistry was magical. It was not about a single movie - the outrageous brilliance spread across Allen's creations. If Allen brought out the best in Keaton, she was the one who could do the most justice to Allen's masterpieces.

There was something about Annie Hall (not Annie Hall) that keeps you awake at nights, thinking hard and hard over the woman in the movie. The eccentric yet intellectual brilliance, the natural sense of humour, the unmistakable essence of womanhood, the outlandish vintage men's wardrobe, the carefree laughter that makes you stare open-mouthed - in other words, the woman of your dreams. She's too good to be true - and once you've seen Annie Hall, it's a lifetime thing: you'll never be able to get over her.

And the thing is, just like Annie Hall, that not-being-able-to-get-over thing holds good for Diane Keaton as well. Always. Always. It's impossible to get over her once you've got the hang of her. She could make Annie Hall make it past Annie Hall.

Unlike most others, she has graced with age, and looked as gorgeous as women three decades or so younger to her. She did turn up for the 2003 Oscars in a tuxedo and a bowler hat - and looked more in place than any woman else that has ever existed.

If you really want wit, I give you wit as well. Here you go:

Show me a woman who can do better - impromptu. I will be indebted to you forever.

 If only I was Woody Allen.

La-dee-dah, la-dee-dah, la-la.

Sigh.

JK Rowling
JK Rowling ruled my life for close to a decade, and actually continues to do so; the attraction bit has now spilled over to the next generation. I've read stories about her struggling days and her charity, but it's her world that won over my heart. If Dame Christie had been the Queen of Logic, 'Jo' is the Queen of Storytelling.

There has never been a better storyteller. It started with a concept. It ended up being the epic of our times. It spanned over three thousand pages, remained a bestseller for over a decade, has a theme park named after it and has inspired eight nightmarish movies, each one worse than the other.

Comparisons with other champions of the genre, especially JRR Tolkien, are unavoidable. What makes Rowling stand out, though, is the unputdownability of her style. I had committed the same mistake seven times - I had started a Harry Potter book for the first time in the evening. This inevitably meant that I had to stay awake till well past midnight - sometimes even past dawn. That had never happened to me with The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings.

There are other masters who have created parallel universes of their own. Rowling's triumph lies in the fact that her world was not a world of superheroes: it was about the success of mortals over the superheroes, the victory of our intents over our abilities.

I can quote Rowling quotes just like that (can you see me snapping my thumb and middle-finger, rather audibly?), but there is no point. Everyone knows them by heart. It's difficult to point out a single piece from the largest jigsaw puzzle of all time.

I will point out something else, though, that may interest you. It is mentioned here, in the Harry Potter part. Isn't she a genius?

When I finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in the morning (yes, you've read it right), my insides were filled with a vacuum I've never come across, before or afterwards. Ever. The thing is - she had felt the same as well.

Just like Dame Christie, I wish I could be there with her when she planned out the entire series. During her writer's block before Order of the Phoenix came out. When each and every character was planned out. Talk about being at the wrong place in the wrong time.

"Always", Ms Rowling. "Always".

Sigh.

Madhuri Dixit
Growing up in India in the 1980s without being a Madhuri Dixit fan was an impossible feat that no man has achieved. I know quite a number of female fans as well - possibly the only Indian actress (isn't that a politically incorrect word these days?) with unanimous fan-following across genders.

Yes, there were a handful of Sridevi fans here and there, but they were always treated with disdain. They sometimes uttered words like Lamhe or Sadma, but no one seemed to bother. Madhuri was the only actress who could make any script work - against any lead actor (or without one), and adorning any costume.

She could pull off any role. Or any dance number. Even if it involved posing as a fisherwoman. Wearing the most ridiculous costume. Against an orange background.

See what I meant? See? See?

The nation mourned in unison on 7th October 1999. I was among the millions who could not have a proper meal on that day. This is probably the entire nation had felt like on that day (don't miss out on the assortment of emotions). And I was no exception.

Remember that I was well past my teens. I was well past my school days - when my school-bag, and hidden nooks of the house were packed by numerous Madhuri Dixit picture-postcards worth 50 paise otherwise. They could not have been revealed for obvious reasons in a household where Bollywood was perpetually considered taboo.

I shudder to think what they would have done, had they got to know about the Stardust and Filmfare cut-outs. But then, there is a lot you can do for the woman who can outdo an overhyped woman easily.

Why did you have to vanish, Madhuri?

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

Chitrangada Singh
I first saw Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi in 2006. I saw it thrice in three days, and was in a sort of trance. It seemed to me Geeta, played in the movie by Chitrangada Singh, was the greatest female character created in the history of Bollywood. Ever.

The choice has not changed. Never has a female character been as desirable, as sensuous, and as, well, you get the point, right? If you don't, you need to watch the movie - multiple times, if possible.

If Diane Keaton was the epitome of intellect and Madhuri had the most attractive face ever, Chitrangada Singh is the most attractive woman ever. I had never thought someone so young will ever make it to the list, but there you go.

Sadly, her later movies have never been able to produce another Geeta - but then, after Inkaar, I really haven't given up hope. She will pull off another Geeta. Sometime. Some day. Shortly.

I just know this.

Bonus entry: Mila Kunis
Enough said.

A Journey in Photographs - IV

Being in a somewhat sour mood, mostly due to the recent occurrences in the city, I finally decided to vent it where I have always done - here. And since my brain is too tired to create anything decent, I finally decided to do the next sequel of this series.

Remember, most of these pictures were taken using my faithful Nokia E63, so please do not complain about the picture quality.

Do bear with me through this installment. An apology (in advance) to the non-Bengali readers, since some of the exhibits are in Bangla. I will translate and/or transliterate whenever I can, though.

Exhibit 1: So I guess whatever they had taught us was wrong. Kids can have babies.

Exhibit 2: This is an old joke made by the legendary Dadathakur, but I guess I should do a replug - given that I have got a chance to capture it.
Transliteration: Charitraheen Sharatchandra Chattopadhyay.

Exhibit 3: If you do not want to get herpes, syphilis, gonorrhoea, or something similar, that is.

Exhibit 4: Agencies typically service cars, but servicing drivers is a first for me. If you're interested, you can always call and learn what this is all about.

Exhibit 5: Sorry about the picture quality. It says Exterior Interior Ltd. You can interpret it the way you want to.

Exhibit 6: No, this is not a Rabindrasangeet. Absolutely not.

Exhibit 7: I wonder what this clock is used to measure. I have an intelligent guess, though.

Exhibit 8: No comments. The movie is Peechha Karro, a Diptakirti recommendation.

Exhibit 9: Courtesy Tamal. Just an example how things can go wrong if you don't repair things in time. And no, I'm not going to translate this.

Exhibit 10: As opposed to the heavier version. Or the darker version.
Transliteration: The light Swami Vivekananda.

Exhibit 11: No, 6pcs (or 6 pieces) does not mean kima meat. It never did.

Exhibit 12: Either this is where Sita entered the underworld for the last time, or, well... you interpret for yourself. Do note the spelling of 'entrance', though.

Exhibit 13: This is why they call Kolkata a male-chauvinist city.
Transliteration: Bou.
Translation: Wife.

Exhibit 14: You know now who polishes our city clean, don't you?

Exhibit 15: A very, very small lap - will accommodate a smartphone at most; certainly won't accommodate a laptop. I wonder why this is the name of a nursing-home.