Beneath a Starlit Sky: Thoughts on 'Highway' and Travelling in Rajasthan

Seeing the Light: a still from Highway

In an early scene of the recently released Hindi film, Highway (dir: Imtiaz Ali), we find its heroine, Heera (Alia Bhatt) stumbling across cracked earth beneath a star-studded sky. She is trying to escape her abductors, who ironically, have allowed her the freedom to attempt an escape. She is alone, petrified and stranded in an unfamiliar terrain.

Something powerful however happens beneath those starry skies and within the chamber of the desert's vast, unrelenting dark emptiness; Heera seems to experience an existential crisis of sorts in which it appears that she has absolutely no idea of her identity. Who is she? Why is she here? And what precisely is she escaping from? And more importantly, what is she escaping to? She eventually returns to her abductors, sobbing and barefooted having left behind her black ballet flats. The shoe analogy continues on in the movie, as we eventually see her in a different pair of shoes and - indeed, Heera appears to have shed her acquiescent personality and adopted another, embarking on a real and metaphorical journey, one that significantly could not have been possible had she still be donning her posh ballet flats. To further extend the shoe/costume analogy, as she transitions from one costume to another, she willingly sheds the garments of her former life for this new one. 

As I watched Heera run beneath the starry sky, I was reminded of a new moon night on a recent vacation in Florida. Given that so much excess light contaminates our urban night-skies, it was a veritable luxury to sit beneath such a clear celestial canopy. As we lay on the beach and examined the sky, using a phone app to identify the individual stars and planets, the sky was no longer just a mass of stars: it was a literal universe of stars with their attendant histories and identities. It struck me that while daylight inevitably conceals the stars, they are increasingly becoming invisible even during the night itself. One of my most vivid memories of that Florida vacation is the unadulterated clarity of the starlight and the pure silence of the sea at night. Thinking of the starried night sky in Highway, it made me revisit memories of my own Indian travels. Was I simply experiencing the outlines of the journey rather than being aware of and appreciating its specific details? 

As Heera contemplates the salt-encrusted earth in another one of the film's early scenes, she mentions that she did not know that she could journey to places as she is currently doing, so accustomed as she is to defining travel through a series of luxury hotels, restaurants, cars and tours. As viewers, we may not necessarily identify with the nature of the journey she embarks upon, both its interior and physical aspects and of course, the chilling circumstances leading to it – what her journey did compel me to do was to meditate on whether I have ever experienced the real India? 

As the film navigates the artery of roads in my home-state, Rajasthan, I remembered the countless road-trips I have taken in Rajasthan myself: yet, they were singularly focusing on one destination to another. I never stopped en route at villages: the huts, the people, and the animals simply flashed past me, as if I was scrolling through the busy homepage of a social media newsfeed. How much of the state and its character was I experiencing? What, indeed, was I experiencing of my country through my travels? 

Waiting for Rain: a still from Highway

The insularity of the comforting, almost soporific existence that Heera leads in Delhi implodes with the event of her abduction; she experiences life pared down to the simplicities such as the gorgeously shot scene in which she stands atop a damp desert dune moments before the clouds will rip apart and rain while her bemused abductors stand at the foot of the dune, obviously understanding her need to stop and reflect. As viewers watching the film, we are privy to being both, witnesses and participants, in Heera's growth; we travel with her through the land that she assumed was home and yet what she knows very little about. 

As a member of the diaspora, revisiting the homeland is always enmeshed in many issues: what are we returning to? This is a home, not the home; this is the home of our heritage but not necessarily the many other components that make us up. So, when we are visiting and travelling through the homeland, the issue primarily becomes as to what notion of home are we expecting to encounter: the ones that our parents and relatives have narrated to us through their stories and anecdotes? The images we see in books, magazines, and the internet? The ones that we significantly encounter in the great visual medium of movies?

I took this image in the courtyard outside one of my favorite Jain temples in Rajasthan just before dusk. Even though there is nothing decidedly pretty/post-card-y about this image, it best encapsulates the spirit of Rajasthan for me

Often, when in Rajasthan, I am unsure whether I wished to experience the Rajasthan that I had abstracted from my imagination, which in turn was inspired by all that I read and saw – or engage with the one that actually surrounded me, pretty at times but decidedly unglamorous and steeped in harsh realities on most occasions. 

Heera's route to discovering her country and herself in the process occurs when the trajectories of her life completely and dramatically veer away from the solidly established path she was walking upon. She literally steps upon the less beaten path, getting a glimpse into the many painful stories and realities that fill the lives of her fellow travelers. 

During my India visits, I often travelled on the AC coach in train-journeys; one distinctive feature of the coach was that the windows were yellow-hued, offering a sepia-tinted view of the vistas that flashed past: it was literally an exercise in nostalgia. 

When I next visit my homeland, I must make a conscious attempt to liberate myself of nostalgia and what my imagination demands and desires from me; I must see my country, my homeland, for what it is and relate to it as it is. It is time to shatter the tinted glass – and see what lies beyond it. 

Sometimes, it is not always necessary that you get a burst of inspiration and enlightenment in broad day-light; on some occasions, a sky full of stars can illuminate you a great deal more. 

*****

This piece originally appeared in India Currents 

Photo credits:

Highway stills: various internet sources

The Grand Budapest Hotel: Wes Anderson's Cabinet of Curiosities

Study in pastry pink: The Grand Budapest Hotel poster

I still remember the first time I encountered Wes Anderson's utterly distinctive cinematic voice: it was during my undergraduate days where the university student cinema showcased a preview of The Royal Tenenbaums before its official release in UK theatres. The student cinema held an all-nighter once every term, showcasing an assorted variety of films - and The Royal Tenenbaums happened to be one of those films which I definitely would not have thought of seeing at the time had it not been for the all-nighter. As the sepia-hued, darkly comic frames unspooled across the screen, I was instantly intrigued and transfixed by the quirky parallel worlds and characters that Anderson had created - and I still consider it to be amongst my favorite films.

A still from Darjeeling Limited (incidentally, I have been to this very temple!)

Having said that, I ironically didn't see much of Anderson afterwards though apart from The Darjeeling Limited. I didn't think it was particularly remarkable even though in signature Wes Anderson fashion, it was a veritable visual delight: beautifully photographed and presented what with the fabulously, minutely detailed train and photogenic detours within Rajasthan (and featuring my favorite Adrien Brody!) However, as soon as I saw the trailers of The Grand Budapest Hotel, which revolves around a concierge, Gustave on the run along with his most trusted employee, the hotel-lobby boy, Zero in a fictional European country in 1930s, I waited with bated breath to experience its ornately constructed fantastical universe, each frame warranting attentive watching.

One phrase that I have discovered and adored this year happens to be 'cabinet of curiosities' (also known as cabinets of wonder). The first time I stumbled upon it, I immediately conjured up a large, wooden, glass-fronted multi-sectioned cabinet filled to the brim with all sorts of curiosities: it was almost akin to peering into someone's imagination. And indeed, when I researched it further, the original meaning of the 'cabinet' in the phrase was in fact room, the multiple rooms and the encyclopedic range of objects they contained physically reflecting the length and breadth of the collector's interests and preoccupations; they were said to be precursors to modern-day museums,.

Purple meets Red: Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) and Zero (Tony Revolori) converse

Pastel love: Zero and Agatha (Saoirse Ronan)

Having recently watched The Grand Budapest Hotel and attempting to distil the experience, it occurred to me that the best way to describe it would be through the prism of 'cabinet of curiosities', or as I interpreted it anyway - and the art direction would be the ideal place from which to start as the way the film looks is so crucial to the viewing experience. Each room/space in this film represents a specific, specialised imaginative space and considering that the film richly establishes multiple interior and exterior explorations of space, there are myriad universes to visit. We see flourishes of old-world hotel hospitality in a grand hotel, brutal rigors of a prison life, a pastry-maker's attention to her delicately constructed pastries, the baroque drama of a palace and family feuds encoded within them, and a murderer's menacing weapon-like rings. Each room and space therefore becomes a theatre in its own right, meticulously appointed with backdrops, objects and stories - and the performers thoroughly engage with the spaces, the spaces defining them and vice versa.

Adrien Brody behind a fortress of a desk

For example, in one scene as Gustav and Zero converse in deceased Madame M's palace, they do so in front of a window beyond which lies the pantry - and foregrounded by a cactus. What significance does the cactus hold? And yet, even when they depart from the frame, the camera lingers upon the cactus, almost as if the cactus is about to reveal something profound. Yet, that can ultimately be said of all the objects that populate this film, whether its the delicately constructed pastries, a painting in question (which implicates Gustav and Zero), a book of romantic poetry..

A fictionalised novel: The Grand Budapest Hotel

Whether its the process of creating or acquiring it, art plays a central role in the film and perhaps, it is no surprise that at times, the distinction between painting and cinema blurs in the film, creating a bizarre, surreal visual cinematic canvas. Anderson creates impressive gateways for the audience to access this universe and they happen to be composed of words: a confidential letter, a will, an unique coat/cat check, an inscription in a book, lines of poetry being quoted, and a lawyer's room wallpapered with precisely arranged books, to name just a few. Considering that the film is based upon the writings of Stefan Zwig and that it structures itself around a fictional novel, The Grand Budapest Hotel, words hold much currency indeed.

Critics have commented upon the box-like narrative form that Anderson uses for his films - and indeed, this film is a veritable Russian dolls of boxes: it is in fact a museum of Wes Anderson's imagination and the eclectic collection of curiosities populating it.

I can't wait to see what he comes up with next!

Image sources: various, Internet

The Stream of Consciousness/Poetry: Boxing Memories via Instagram

Multiple Memories, Pittsburgh

On a recent long-haul flight, I ended up re-watching the Hindi film, 'Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani' and something about the opening scenes snagged my attention. The leading lady, Naina (Deepika Padukone) is reminscing about a life-changing trip to Manali she took several years ago and once she eventually finishes flash-backing and drifts back into the present, we find her surrounded by keepsakes she has preserved from that trip. It got me thinking then about how I too once upon a time used to similarly and carefully preserve objects - notes, cards, gifts, trinkets - which had great sentimental importance and store them in pretty boxes...and more importantly, why I no longer do so anymore. Coincidentally, soon after I landed home, I received a message from friend and fellow blogger, Khadija, telling me how many things she had recently donated and how she finds that she doesn't seem to attach importance to these objects anymore. "I don't want things anymore," she told me. "Suddenly, they have no meaning and are just taking up space."

Leafing Through, Pittsburgh

I was quite a bit of a collector during my childhood and teenage days and I must say that the habit still persists; I continue to collect fallen leaves or feathers and will often place them in bowls or dress up my coffee-table with these found treasures. Yet, these objects increasingly hold ephemeral significance for me; as soon as they cease to fascinate me, I do not have any compunctions in bidding them farewell. Unlike earlier times, when I would bring back home a pinecone or a pebble or a shell as a physical, tangible reminder of a holiday or experience and steadfastly hold onto them, I am now finding myself shoeboxing memories, so to speak, in written/visual form. An object can easily shatter or be misplaced or simply disappear...a visual and written record is more durable and permanent, and ultimately, much more effectively bottle the mood and spirit of a moment or a journey. Suffice to say, I would prefer to photograph the object and memorialise in it in that fashion, rather than keeping the physical object itself!

Raspberry-Lime, Pittsburgh

Looking Up, Warwick Art Centre

And so I have taken to recording my experiences - whether its daily quotidian (eccentric flower-bouquets, garlic bulbs, a lady bug) or preserved-in-amber worthy (dramatic sunsets, clear, jade Puerto Rican seas) - in a daily diary and for the past one year, particularly via Instagram. What with my phone being my third-eye, constantly observing and documenting whatever catches my fancy, Instagram allows me to specifically curate these moments. If my phone camera roll is a stream of consciousness, Instagram becomes poetry, streamlining and condensing these moments into intense, singular experiences.

In addition, it has made me even more sharply and vividly aware of the river of sights that streams past me every day; what I earlier may have been oblivious to re-presents itself in form of quirky visual messages instead. I am learning to distil beauty from the mundane and create dream-like stories from a family of otherwise merely sundry individual objects.

Chopsticks, Pittsburgh

Morjis, Muscat

When I cast an eye on my feed for the past eleven months, moments brilliantly leap out to me, like a fish arcing from water at dawn. They are safely stored away in this virtual chocolate box of memories, allowing me to re-experience nuances of these special coordinates of time as if they happened just yesterday, rather than long ago...

How do you preserve your memories? I would love to hear!

Almost-winter musings and notes on an inverted Ramayana: Raavan

Snow+fall

Is it already the of beginning of December? Has winter officially begun its invasion upon the world? I awakened today to a world shrouded in blank whiteness, sombre, stark snow-limned trees outside my balcony, bearing no memory of their elaborately green, leafy costumed summer selves or when their leaves caught fire only just a few weeks ago. As I briefly wandered through the street, walking upon the slushy tarmac, I marvelled at how swiftly the arrival of snow excises all reminders of the previous worlds. Did a cluster of pink roses really bloom in this house portico? Where had the trio of squirrels vanished to? And who ate the blue sky up?

Well, I will be pondering all these questions and more, perched upon my couch and surveying the winter balcony vistas; in addition, apart from cooking soups, baking desserts, and writing, I also intend to Netflix my way through the winter and catching up on a backlog of movies and shows. Since getting married almost a year ago, I must admit that thanks to my husband, my viewing choices have become much more varied compared to my pre-marriage self, which contentedly inhabited the comfort zone of romantic comedies, quirky favorites and Bollywood masala. It also meant that I lost track of the number of times I remarked that I had heard of so and so acclaimed movie and fully intended to watch it one of these days...only to reach for a DVD of an old favorite whenever I did get around to watching something. However, nowadays, my husband and I frequently and feverishly debate over what to watch and in the process, I have abandoned my comfort-movie diet to experience great documentaries, such as Jiro Dreams of Sushi, international cinema, a delightful Iranian children's movie, The White Balloon, and classics such as The Pianist and Forrest Gump, which I predictably had never got around to watching. I have enjoyed all of these but not before initially resisting and insisting that we watch a Yash Chopra romance for the umpteenth time!

                                                                 Raavan's theatrical trailer

The other night, though, we somehow rather quickly came to a consensus on Raavan; I remember wishing to see it in the cinema in Oman, where I was living at the time but it did not linger in the theatres for too long. However, an intriguing re-interpretation of one of our greatest literary epics, Ramayana and furthermore, that too one which inverts and questions the traditional good vs evil paradigm and redefines the borderland of gray was what compelled both of us to watch it...

Raavan's poetry visuals: a fallen leaf

This contemporary Ramayana takes place in milky mist-shrouded hills, ravines, rivers, and forests; rain is also an omnipresent character in this film and the manner in which the camera explores and utilises the landscape while marrying it to the atmospheric elements is what I particularly liked about this film. The incredible photography and Mani Ratnam's signature mode of telling stories through his visuals means that as viewers, we too parachute into the landscape and experience the elements, the sheer physicality of the river-battered rocks or winding through the dense forests or swan-diving off the cliffs. While there is an inclination to be a little too photogenic and embrace the cosmetic (the incredible shots of Aishwarya trapped in the embraces of a tree branch, much like an ochre leaf caught in twigs only serve to make capital of Rai's beauty for the sake of it, rather than adding texture or weight to the narrative ), I nevertheless thought the landscape actively participates in the story in a palpable, visceral manner. 

  

However, as crucial and relevant the landscape is to the film, the moot point is the interpretation or rather, more precisely, the inversion of Ramayana; here, we largely see events unfolding from Raavan's perspective, we become privy to his thoughts as much as those of Dev Pratap, the Rama-figure. Indeed, we do find ourselves sympathising with him, as Rai, who initially resists, fights, and later, begans to develop ambivalent feelings about him - and in turn, Dev, her husband, savior, and whom she describes as god. Who or what exactly is god/villain anyway? In this culture-unspecific landscape, nothing is what it seems: what appears to be dense foliage is in fact men in camoflauge. A gesture of peace from the enemy side becomes blotted in blood. Trust evaporates, leaving behind acidic hillocks of distrust and suspicion. 

Concluding shots...

For me, Ramayana has always been problematic in the sense as in its depiction of Lord Rama and his  relationship with his wife, Sita following their return to Ayodhya and how he doubts/questions her. I always perceived Ravan in entirely monochromatic black, a foil to the hero, rather than as a fully nuanced character in his own right; indeed, the most remarkable aspects that I associated with him were his ten-heads and that he abducts Sita in the mythological precedent to the air-plane, the air-vehicle. While the film does not entirely do justice to its provocative contention of recasting Ravaan and indeed, re-presenting the narrative through his eyes, it made me realise more than ever that there is no singular way of narrating a story and that multiplicity of perspectives allows multiple stories and voices. I left the movie, feeling intrigued enough to learn further about Ravan and locating him beyond the broad strokes of antagonist and adversary...

Has there been a significant movie that encouraged you to radically alter a perspective of a situation or character?

Notes on Looking at Lootera

(Spoiler alert: Very mild spoilers but spoilers nonetheless;)

The first time I saw Lootera's theatrical trailer, I was instantly transfixed; for the past several years, while Hindi films have been witnessing tremendous variation in content, structure, and scope, there had been no one film that I would be yearning to see as soon as I watched its trailer or heard/read about it. Lootera had all the trappings of a cannot.wait.to.see film: its period setting, delicate romance, drama, betrayal, Amit Trivedi's sound-perfect musical score and sumptuous visual presentation.

And so, that's how I spent my first fourth of July in the States: looking at Lootera. No, I didn't see the fireworks; it was bit of a rainy evening and besides, there were enough visual pyrotechnics happening on screen to keep me enthralled.  

In fact, what I will be writing about Lootera is not as much of a review as my impressions on looking at this film; reviews have never been much of a forte of mine and I am much more interested in talking about how how this film looks - and why it's not just merely looks and no substance. Lootera is a fine film and a very good-looking one at that - yet, it's beauty is beyond a cosmetic one of water-color mountainscapes, poetically falling snow, decaying mansions, and old-school romance. It is good-looking in the sense that it compels you to not just merely look at the film; rather, it asks you to look into into the treasure-chest of details, miniature universes, and stories that the director imbues the film with and how it pleasurably enhances our immersion into the film. 

The still above captures Pakhi (Sonakshi Sinha) teaching Varun (Ranveer Singh) how to paint; the presence of trees and leaves are integral, rather than incidental, components of the scene. Based on O'Henry's powerful short story, The Last Leaf and in which painting and the titular leaf plays a crucial role, Lootera has been feted for its painterly frames, each detail serving as a brush-stroke which transforms a painting from mass of pigment and medium into a work of art. It is perhaps no coincidence that the act of painting and the larger significance of painting as a form of bringing imaginary worlds into existence and indeed, reality figures as a central narrative strand in the film. What fascinated me was the attention paid to the act of drawing and painting; the mixing of colors, the fluid movement of hand as it traces lines upon canvas. The act of creating is as vital as the finished product itself and indeed, come to think of it, we quite often do not always see the finished paintings in the film. Does it matter? What we do see instead is how the process of painting initiates and fuels Pakhi and Varun's romance, each brush-stroke bringing them closer. 

However, Pakhi's raison d'etre lies in the world of writing, rather than painting; as she tells Varun in her guileless manner, she would like to become a writer of many books and outlines her wish to be sequestered in her Dalhousie house up in the mountains, the snow falling around around her and she writing and writing and writing. In between her impishly spilling a cup of tea on Varun, coquettishly prettying herself up in exquisite sari, textured shoulder-length blouses, and delicate gold jewelry, chiding her doting father and curled up reading books in the verandah, we significantly observe her thoughtfully writing away in a red leather-bound journal, almost as if she is playfully squirreling away her thoughts. Later, when we see her at a writing desk in her Dalhousie house, her wish having become reality after all, she now almost attacks the paper with her pen, the pen-marks both wounds and text. We are occasionally privy to the content of the text but what we are given more insight into is the very visceral, physical act of writing and what it represents to her: release, balm, amnesia, and even, life. 

Without giving too much away, the film conveys its narrative through two distinctly toned halves, the first and second being set in a sylvan, fictional Bengali village and a Dalhousie house in 1953 and 1954 respectively. The first half sees a beautiful haveli as the principal site around which the narrative unfolds; while the notion of aristocracy must confront threat to its centuries-old entrenched eixstence, the haveli enjoys a pulsating, palpable life of its own: long corridors, multiple rooms and windows, mosquito-net veiled four poster beds, flickering candles and the valuable bric a brac that generations of a family accumulate over the centuries and which turn the house into both a home and living museum.

The physical setting aside, Mahendra J. Shetty's superlative cinematography peppers the first half with chiaroscuro moments, migrating from light to darkness to light, such as the memorable scene when Pakhi gleefully indulges in continually switching a light bulb on and off. At that moment in life, life suddenly offers a buffet of opportunities for her: sunshine picnics, walks through forest, and conversations by a sunset-colored lake and most importantly - love. Yet, darkness is not faraway and we soon arrive in a snow plumed tomb of her Dalhousie house: it is still lavishly decorated and yet, it is sterile, cold, and seemingly for display, rather than to be inhabited in. There is very little by way of color apart from the frightening gush of red blood, which spills out of throats and stomachs - and an ochre leaf. If the haveli is the house of living against all odds, this then is irrefutably the house of death.

The daubs of paint, the pen racing against paper, and the atmospheric surroundings only serve to reiterate that Lootera is a film of intense soul and feeling - and the aptly-cast group of actors do excellent justice to it. Once again, little moments are just as successful in demonstrating the pathos in the film as the more dramatic ones. When we hear Pakhi's cough wracking her body and choking her lungs, we can sense her desperation for relief just as we empathise with her fury when she hurls a tea-cup on the wooden floor; we feel Shyama (Divya Dutta in a brief but memorable performance)'s mixture of helplessness and sorrow as she dices okra. Pakhi's father, Zamindar Babu (Barun Chanda)'s face is a moving landscape of despair as he confronts the rapidly swirling waters of his life and the chaos they are bringing into his world - and his inability to stem the flood. Varun is more opaque about his feelings though, he is not as much a cipher as a controlled one - and yet, when he allows transparency into his life, all is visible in intense, harsh relief. The film is as much a work of auditory as visual art: falling snow, blowing wind, Dev Anand songs, and above all, exquisite pauses of silence (as Varun poignantly remarks, his desire is to see Chandratal, a lake where no one can hear a single sound, thus illustrating the beauty of silence). By now, we are no mere spectators: we too inhabit that cold house of despair, having written ourselves into the story. 

A few weeks ago, after watching Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani with its good looking actors, good-looking costumes, and good-looking locations, I thought that despite this surfeit of beauty, I came away from the film, feeling incomplete, as if all I had had consumed was the garnish and the actual meal still eluded me. Lootera is like an exquisitely plated and delectable meal, to be admired and consumed, lingering upon as much as its presentation as its taste. Like a good novel, like a good meal, it deeply embeds itself into your thoughts, the nuances of its flavors so effectively marinating your memories that you can still taste the meal long after you have eaten it.

Adieu...Yash Chopra

It's been days since Yash Chopra unexpectedly passed away and yet, I still continue to read tributes to one of Hindi cinema's most significant film-makers. For me, Chopra's cinema counted amongst my favorites, films such as Lamhe, Chandni, Kabhie Kabhie and Silsila having merited several watchings. While Chopra had been largely associated with his signature trademark of chiffons, Swiss Alps, and luxurious escapism*, I feel that one of the greatest qualities about his films and which many of his admirers have highlighted is how he depicted the textured nature of human relationships. Admittedly, he faltered in places, the representation sometimes being uneven and shallow... yet there was a powerfully identifiable element to the relationships and scenarios that he presented in his cinema, which was in deep contrast to the melodrama and excess that his contemporaries subscribed to.

I must admit that I was largely disappointed with Veer Zaara though and was not particularly looking forward to watching his swansong production, Jab Tak Hai Jaan (sorry SRK/Katrina fans!)...even though his romantic films located in a lavish, plushly padded world of spacious rooms, gleaming marble floors, blood-red rose petals, sprawling gardens, debonair men and elegant women, the backdrop nevertheless managed to remain just a backdrop, rather than overwhelming the film's protagonists and story-line. Veer Zaara was a magnificently appointed production yet I experienced a distinct lack of pathos in the narrative and Jab Tak Hai Jaan did not seem any more promising either.

His passing away has made all the difference though and I will now be curious to interpret his last cinematic thoughts...meanwhile, here are some notes on my personal favorites from Yash Chopra's stable:

i) Silsila...

I first watched Silsila during my university days, previously having only glimpsed it in bits and pieces on TV; since then, I have enjoyed re-watching it although I continue to remain hugely perplexed by its ending, which I felt was artificial and in complete dissonance with the film's overall tone. It is now but common knowledge that the original heroines for this movie were Smita Patil and Parveen Babi and they were replaced at the last minute by Jaya Bachchan and Rekha. Keeping the discussion strictly to reel, rather than real, life, apart from some great performances and scenes (Sanjeev Kumar was outstanding and made his presence felt inspite of the electric triad of Bachchan spouses and Rekha), Silsila also had a wonderful musical score. Till date, I can't help but remember the song, 'Dekha ek Khwab' whenever I see a tulip:) I also enjoyed 'Pehli Pehli Baar', which celebrated Bachchan and Rekha's incredible chemistry and 'Sar se Sarke', which is admittedly uber schmaltzy...and yet has been one of my favorite songs for years.

ii) Lamhe

I have written about Lamhe in an alternative context earlier; it's undoubtedly a film that I can repeatedly return to despite the fact that it is problematic on so many levels. A teenage girl, Pooja falling in love with a man, Viren who has harbored an unrequited passion for her mother, Pallavi for many years, the film has been touted as Chopra's most provocative venture. Nevertheless, what I like most about the film is the depiction of relationships: Viren's unarticulated feelings towards Pallavi, Viren's best friend, Prem's unstinting loyalty towards Viren, and Viren and Pooja's mirror-relationship with their mother-figure, Dai-ja are the notable relationships that Chopra fleshes out in detail. Yet, every time I watch the film, I can't help but think of the many other stories concealed within the frames and begging to be narrated: who exactly is Prem? What of Daija?

Surprisingly, even though I have watched the film countless number of times, I have never been such a fan of its sound-track; as a child though, I simply adored 'Morni' or 'Meri Bindiya' and must have listened to the tape endlessly. As an adult, the only song that really registers with me and encapsulates the essence of the film is the title track, 'Yeh Lamhe'

iii) Chandni

Chandni is a fluffier film in comparison to the ones above and yet, if you peel away the celluloid glossiness of Switzerland, wedding sangeets, Delhi languor and Bombay glamour, and ubiquitous chiffon saris, the film is full of stories of flawed characters, much like a family of cracked crystal figurines. The film is a little more shallow in comparison to the others...nevertheless, as a casual watch, though, it's pretty enjoyable as is fun musical score: the infectious 'Chandni O Meri Chandi', the haunting 'Tere Mere Honthon Pe', and the mother of wedding songs, 'Mere Haathon Mein Nau Nau Chudiyan' are undoubted classics.

iv) Kabhie Kabhie

Surprisingly, even though its title track is a long cherished one of mine (and millions of others!), I haven't watched this film too many times. In fact, I remember watching it alongside all of the films mentioned above as part of a Yash Chopra film marathon during university and while the above films certainly engaged me, I was rather disappointed with Kabhie Kabhie for sundry reasons. The reason why I am including it here is probably because I thought that the film made for an interesting exploration of the intimate relationship between writing/poetry and life. I especially liked Bachchan in his portrayal of a poet and when later having renounced his writing; his rendition of 'Kabhie Kabhie' is one of the most outstanding moments in  the film. Plus, having extensively written poetry during my childhood, I completely related to the sentiments of 'Main Pal do Pal'..but nothing beats the exquisite beauty of the title track sung by Mukesh...

 What is your favorite Yash Chopra movie?

*Yash Chopra showcased plenty of grit in movies such as 'Mashaal' and of course, the iconic 'Deewar' - I remember reading an article about the making of the film in 'Filmfare' when I was a teenager and shocked to learn that Chopra had directed it...so strongly had he become synonymous with all things beautiful and escapist!

Lamhe: Marriage of Places and Spaces

Desert calling: Morni Bhaga...

Lamhe (dir: Yash Chopra, starring: Anil Kapoor, Sridevi, Anupam Kher, and Waheeda Rehman) is one of my most favorite films, period. However, when it was initially released in 1991, it was a huge box office disaster in India although critically feted**; the film was considered a little too ahead of its time then. Twenty two years later on, I wonder how a film revolving around a similar concept will work in contemporary Bollywood, where masala and indie cinema are enjoying a rather lively co-existence, providing a win-win situation for the audience who are privy  and desiring to witness to all sorts of stories. For me, it has made for extremely enjoyable viewing each time I have watched it - that does not necessarily mean that I do not question or find it problematic on many levels though. There is quite a lot to unpack from it and perhaps that is what makes it such an engaging watch each time...

Nunmere Hall, United Kingdom moonlights as Viren's England home

Personally speaking, for me and for the purpose of this post, I am fascinated by the role of place and space in the film. It is set and shot in two places dear to me: Rajasthan (yes, there it comes again!) and England and I find the juxtaposition of the spare, clean, dunes, the traditional architecture, and Rajasthani ethos with the modern trappings of England - the malls, restaurants, and shops, the great mansion, and the abundant greenery -  very interesting. One can also further read into the subtext of the aristocracy in the film - Viren (Anil Kapoor) is a Rajput aristocrat, who has lived all his life in England following the death of his parents and happens to be making his first visit back home when he encounters the vivacious Pallavi (Sridevi). It is his unrequited love for her that so powerfully shapes the rest of his life and those associated with it: nanny/surrogate mother figure, Daija (Waheeda Rehman), Prem, his best friend (Anupam Kher), Pallavi's daughter, Pooja (Sridevi in a double role) and his girlfriend/fiancee, Anita. While the first half of the film focuses upon his younger days and life in Rajasthan, the second half dramatically introduces us to his life in England, where he lives in a ornate, rather extravagantly decorated manor with manicured gardens, swimming pool, and an army of servants (more invisible here than in the Rajasthan haveli!)

Meanwhile, Rambagh Palace, Jaipur is Viren 's 'haveli'

Space plays an equally important role in the film. Pallavi's father has to renounce his haveli owing to property disputes and it eventually culminates in his death and Pallavi eventually marrying her boyfriend, Siddartha and leaving the place. This has implications years later when Pallavi and her husband pass away and Pooja is brought up by Daija in Viren's haveli. "Don't forget, Viren has brought you up," Anita, contesting for his affections alongside Pooja, tells her in a dramatic encounter. "No, he hasn't. Daija has brought me up. I may have lived in his ancestral haveli but he has played no role in bringing me up. To bring up and be brought up - there is a lot of difference there, Anita-ji," Pooja shoots back. In the second half, the mansion becomes a stage in which Pooja's love for Viren is played out while he still oscillates between his memories of Pallavi and denying his love for Pooja.

Pooja's mansion of illusions

This is a film of fluid, double identities: no one and nothing is quite what they are. Daijia, the nanny, becomes a mother figure to both Viren and Pooja. Prem, the best friend, is a confidante to both Viren and Pooja. Pooja is Pallavi's double - and yet she is not. Viren himself oscillates between being the awe-struck, besotted younger Viren, pining for Pallavi and the aloof, reserved, controlled businessman. While he mentally voyages back and forth between Rajasthan and England, he interestingly imagines the desert Rajasthan studded with blooms of the wonderful moments he spent with Pallavi and the lush greenness he is surrounded by in England with a barrenness, an absence.

Amer Fort, Jaipur serves as the space of declaration

The film comes full circle towards the end when we find ourselves in Rajasthan once more; however, as opposed to the haveli, it is the fort (or more specifically, Amer Fort) which becomes the space of declaration of Viren and Pooja's mutual love; Pooja has finished narrating a love-story to an audience and is leaving the place when she encounters Viren. Interestingly, rather than utilising the prettiness of the surroundings to the hilt, the fort courtyard is in fact submerged in darkness and the spotlight (quite literally) shines upon Viren and Pooja. In the end, the places, spaces and the scenery eventually all become irrelevant; we are only privy to the crystallisation of a story that began many years ago...and that is the definitive moment which ultimately matters in the end.

**However, the film was immensely successful in its overseas run

Chashme Budoor - May Evil Stay Faraway!

Hope the new year is treating you fantastically well so far, dear readers...well, I had originally prepared something else as the first post of 2012. However, that was a little too intense and melancholy and I thought of beginning the year on a more playful, light-hearted note - after all, I feel that 2011 was intense and dramatic enough already on various levels and here's hoping that 2012 (as long as the Mayan predictions of doomsday this year aren't planning to come true!) ushers in much happiness and laughter for us all.

To kick off the year, I found myself revisiting a favorite film of mine, Chashme Budoor (1981, dir: Sai Paranjpe) - the title refers to a phrase which is associated with warding off the evil eye (more about that later!). Starring Farooque Sheikh, Deepti Naval, Rakesh Bedi, Ravi Baswani, and Saeed Jaffery, this is one of those charming, slice of life films, depicting an era where one could experience time unfurl like a budding flower - where one carefully curated life's experiences, rather than simply rushing head-long into life and having no time whatsoever to acknowledge the presence of flowers, let alone inhale their fragrance. 

The trio: Omi, Siddharth, and Zomo

Revolving around three university students, (unsuccessful) skirt-chasers, Omi (Bedi) and  Zomo (Baswani) and dedicated student, Siddharth (a terribly charming, endearing Sheikh) and their respective encounter swith a beautiful, young woman, Neha (Naval), the film offers delightful vignettes of Delhi life at the time. Yet, even though the film is obviously shot in a metropolis and a capital at that, Delhi being a pervasive presence throughout it, I still funnily enough somehow get a sense of a small-town ethos from the film. Or perhaps, it's just me then ;)

One of my favorite scenes: Siddharth telling Lallan Mian that he will renounce cigarettes if a 'special girl' tells him to do so

The film is a lovely and lovingly assembled mosaic of engaging characters, situations, and places. There is the corner cigarette-paan wallah, Lallan Mian (Saeed Jaffery), whom the students are eternally in debt to  and whom he constantly harangues for money...although he does make an exception for Siddharth. Having fruitlessly chased a girl (Sai Paranjpe's daughter, Winnie in a cameo) after abandoning Omi at Lallan Mian's stall, Zomo's motorcycle spectacularly conks out in the vicinity of huge bungalows and tree-lined  broad avenues. There are trysts in tomb-studded, bougainvillea-strewn gardens, imagined boat-rides in lakes fringing medieval forts, and couples sitting on benches dappled with afternoon shadows of ancient trees' branches. I also particularly love what I subsequently discovered to be the Talkatora gardens, where Siddharth and Neha have their first date and then regularly meet to enjoy their favorite Tutti-frutti ice-cream dessert.

Neha and Siddarth's memorable first meeting

The attention invested in the art-direction also greatly appealed to me: for example, the students' room, whose three walls reflect their individual personalities and functions as  a crucial space in the film, the film-obsessed Jai's collage explosion of film-posters and images or the closet poet, Omi's having pasted on  lines of Urdu poetry on his wall or finally, Siddharth's wall bearing Van Gogh's legendary sunflowers and Mahatma Gandhi's images. At one point, Zomo and Omi refer to Siddarth as Aristotle and one notes in a subsequent scene that Siddharth sits on a chair entitled Aristotle back in his room. During Siddharth and Neha's first encounter in the room itself, Siddarth offers her ladoos and serves it in a tea-cup in absence of a (presumably, clean) plate.

All in all, what is patently apparent is that there is such unadorned, heart-warming simplicity to the film, which is so rich in much witty banter, humor, and good spirits...

Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha in Silsila...and roses

Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha also make special appearances in the film, which is strewn with references to popular cinema and implicitly subverts the traditional commercial Hindi film paradigm (at one point, Neha asks Siddharth, we are sitting in a garden, shouldn't we be singing a song, illustrating how closely interwoven songs were -are!- into Hindi films' structure; similarly, Zomo also imagines his encounter with Neha in a filmi context, echoed years later in the fabulous 'Woh Ladki Hai Kahan' in Dil Chahta Hai ). The insertion of these uber-filmi personalities into the film's delightful and consciously quotidian environment becomes even more interesting considering both happened to star in Silsila (dir: Yash Chopra), which also released in the same year and garnered much attention for its explosive star-cast and the off-screen subtexts. Furthermore, Silsila too is also very much a Delhi film, albeit a much more grand, extravagant one: AB driving around in a flashy Mercedes, coffees and lunches at the Taj, lavish theatre productions, flower-shows, Rekha's super glamorous avatar (fashion fangirly moment: love her clutches!), the sprawling bungalows with their exquisitely appointed drawing and dining rooms - it seemed even the roses in the film possessed a deeper hue and fragrance when having become part of the film's finely tuned aesthetic fabric. We see two different Delhis in films released in the same year itself, each representation of Delhi contingent upon each film's tone and agenda.

Finally, I did like to make note of the title, Chashme Budoor; when Siddharth and Neha have had a jealous Zomo-Omi engineered tiff, Neha's grandmother (whom I found simply adorable - her interaction with Zomo and Omi in their room is one of the funniest moments in the film) contemplatively shakes her head and remarks, "Kisi ki nazar lag gayi [Someone cast an evil eye].' The phenomenon of 'nazar' or evil eye is common amongst many cultures and in the film, one can even spot a rather nasty looking face which is inscribed upon the friends' dorm room door with Chashme Budoor written below it and prominently appears in the frames at certain times, reminding us of the negative power of the envy-propelled gaze. It made me recall the time I was walking around the Chandni Chowk market in Delhi and was photographing the shops. I saw a rather ferocious face-mask hanging upon the door of one of the shops and while photographing it, I heard the shop-keeper tell me that it was there to ward off the evil spirits. Even in a film otherwise so buoyant and light, albeit with a sub-plot of a spate of kidnappings occurring in the city and which eventually ties up with the film's climax, there is an uneasy subterranean indication that looks can be seemingly deceptive...and not is all as it looks.

Vintage SRK: Koi Na Koi Chaiye...

I have been in nostalgia mode lately: perhaps, it's the end of the year that's put me into it? Anyhow,  last week, I happened to catch Shah Rukh Khan's debut film, Deewana and then, spotted Filmfare's nostalgia issue, celebrating 60 years of Filmfare icons. While the issue itself was a treasure trove for Hindi film buffs, chronicling the icons, their stories, and exclusive photographs, what initially attracted me was the decision to use a 1995 joint portrait of Shah Rukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan as the cover. When I first glimpsed the magazine, my mind immediately registered them as SRK and Amitabh Bachchan, their faces so firmly established in my visual memory...yet, it was only thirty seconds later that I realised they were younger versions of the present selves that I now associate them with. I thought it was a pretty good idea to use this image as the cover (although there is another one inside of a visibly more relaxed and smiling SRK with AB that I personally preferred to the cover image).

I have never really been a fangirl of the Khan triumvirate, I must say. Yes, if given a choice, I would usually prefer to see Aamir Khan's films but it is not as if I *have* to see them - and I am probably amongst the few people on the planet who honestly could not see what the fuss about 3 Idiots was all about, for example (I vastly preferred Raju Hirani's Lage Raho Munnabhai). In fact, my favorite AK movie happens to be Sarfarosh (1999). Similarly, in regard to Salman Khan, I would much rather read his interviews, than watch Bodyguard/Wanted (Dabang was an exception though!). However, when  it comes to SRK, for some reason, I especially have a soft corner for his early films.

Unlike Aamir or Salman Khan, who debuted when I was too young to remember (or rather, could not appreciate the significance of), I distinctly remember watching Deewana with my late maternal grandmother and watching SRK's introductory song, 'Koi Na Koi Chaiye.' Growing up in Oman, we watched practically every single Hindi film that was available on video and as my grandmother became especially fond of Divya Bharati, we wound up watching Deewana more than once. After that, I recall watching Dil Aashna Hai, Chamatkar, Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa, and Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman, which all represented SRK's pre-Baazigar filmography and reflected his pre-official stardom days. There was such raw, unadulterated energy to SRK then, which was such a departure from the established stars of those days and his contemporaries - and an undeniable freshness and newness to his persona, never mind if it was not in the chocolate box cuteness of say, Aamir Khan. (Interestingly, in the Filmfare issue mentioned above, this is what SRK had to say about his performance in Deewana: I am glad the film has done well but my performance was awful. I was vulgar, loud, and uncontrolled. I overacted and take full responsibility for it. I have saved copies of Filmfare from 1995 onwards and it's really interesting to chart the changes that have occurred in SRK's interviews since - I personally think he made much better copy in the 90s!)

I guess, my fondness for SRK's vintage days happens to coincide with a period when I was a huge Bollywood buff: I used to eagerly await for every movie, read all that I could about the stars, and one of my greatest wishes then was to witness a film shoot. Over the years (apart from still remaining clued in onto the gossip - old habits die hard!), though, I have been experiencing much disenchantment with Bollywood - the lens have become jaundiced, and thanks to their instant accessibility via Twitter/facebook /electronic media,  the stars have stepped down to earth and become mortals. Bollywood albeit hasn't quite lost its masala - yet, there is something missing from its palate. Of course, I would be the last person to say that I am deeply apologetic that the era of the masala, formulaic Bollywood film is over...yet, even so, the so-bad-that-they-are-good 80s/early 90s films had a curious charm of their own and whenever I see glimpses of them, I can't help but be transported back to my childhood, that time where it was so easy to slip from the confines of your life and into the rambunctious energy of movies...

Well...before I become too maudlin, here's presenting few of my favorite vintage SRK songs - if you have any that you did like to share, please feel free to do so:)

                                                Koi Na Koi Chaiye - Deewana (1992)

                                          Kya Hua - Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman (1993)

                                    Deewana Dil Deewana - Kabhie Haan Kabhie Naa (1993)


and just to indulge my love for early 90s kitschiness;)

I have a feeling one of my future posts will be dealing with 90s Bollywood fashion...! *rubs hands in glee*