అస్తిత్వం

The first Telugu story I ever wrote and my first publication in a magazine of reputation. The fact that I wrote a story in Telugu, which Amma liked, which so many people connected to still seems unbelievable after all these weeks.

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అస్తిత్వం
Posted on ఏప్రిల్ 3, 2014 by శిరిష్ ఆదిత్య

నేను నాస్తికుణ్ణి. నిజం చెప్పాలంటే ఊహతెలిసాక దేవుణ్ణి రెండుసార్లు గాఢంగా వేడుకున్నా. మొదటిసారేమో డిగ్రీలో ఫస్ట్ క్లాసు మార్కులొస్తే శ్రీశైలం వస్తానన్నాను. రెండో సారి ప్రేమించిన అమ్మాయి తిరిగి ప్రేమిస్తే తిరుమల కొండెక్కుతానన్నాను. దేవుడు రెండుసార్లు చేయిచ్చాడు. ఇచ్చిన అవకాశాన్ని దేవుడే సద్వినియోగం చేసుకోవట్లేదని వదిలేసాను. ఆ తరువాత అంత అవసరం మళ్ళీ ఎప్పుడూ రాలేదు.


నేను ఢిల్లీకి వచ్చి ఏడాది దాటింది. హిందీ కాస్తో, కూస్తో మెరుగుపడింది కానీ రొట్టెముక్కలింకా అలవాటు పడలేదు. ఇక్కడ అన్నం దొరికినా ఎందుకో నాలిక్కి రుచించదు. పొట్టకూటికని వందల మైళ్ళు దాటి, ఊరుకాని ఊరు వచ్చే నాలాంటి వాళ్ళకి, కడుపు నిండేటట్టుగా తృప్తిగా భోం చేయడమే దూరమవుతుంది. ఛొలె, రాజ్మ, కుల్చ ఇవన్ని ఇంటి దగ్గర ఉన్నప్పుడు వందలు ఖర్చుపెట్టి హోటల్లో తినేవాడిని . ఇప్పుడు రాత్రుళ్ళు ఆవకాయ, పప్పు తింటున్నట్టు కలలొస్తున్నాయి. కళ్ళు తెరిచేసరికి ఆవకాయ లేదు, కొసరి వడ్డించే అమ్మ లేదు. కరెంటు పోయినందుకు కుట్టె దోమలు తప్ప.


పొద్దున లేచి మరొ ఐదుగురితో షేర్ చేసుకునే గదిలో స్నానం చేయడానికి వెయిటింగ్, గడ్డం గీసుకోడానికి అద్దం కోసం వెయిటింగ్. నెత్తిన రెండు చెంబుల నీళ్ళోసుకొని, సరిగ్గా ఇస్త్రీ చేయని బట్టలు వేసుకొని బయటకి పరుగు. బస్సుకి ఇంకో పది నిముషాలు టైం ఉంటే పక్కనే ఉన్న టిఫిన్ సెంటర్లో రెండు పరాటాలు హడావిడిగా నోట్లొ కుక్కుకుంటాను. ఆ టైం కూడా లేదంటె ఆఫీసుకి పరగడుపే. బస్సులో, ఆ జనంలో, చమటలు పడుతూ నిల్చున్నంతసేపు ఒకటే ఆలోచన – ఎక్కడో చలి ప్రదేశంలో, ఎవడో తెల్లవాడు వాడి వాతావరణానికి, సంస్కృతికి అనుగుణంగా కనిపెట్టిన టైని, నేను ఇంత ఉక్కపోతలో ఎందుకు కట్టుకున్నానా అని. ఉద్యోగం అంటే నీ కలలకు, ఆశలకు, ఆశయాలకు ఉరి అనటానికి అది సింబలేమో అని ఒక వెర్రి నవ్వు నవ్వుకుంటాను. 45 నిమిషాలు ప్రయాణించాక దిగి షేర్ ఆటో అందుకుంటాను. ప్రతివాడికి తొందరే కాబట్టి వాడు ఐదుగురు ప్రయాణించాల్సిన ఆటోలో పదిమందిని కుర్చోబెట్టినా ఎవడూ ఏమీ అనడు. డ్రైవరు పక్కన ఇరికి కూర్చొని ఆ మిగిలిన ప్రయాణం కాస్తా పూర్తిచేసే టైంకి తల ప్రాణం తోక్కొస్తుంది. ఆఫీసు వాడు నేను ఆఫీసులో చేసే పనికన్నా, నేను ఆఫీసుకి రావడానికి చేసే ప్రహసనం చూస్తే ఎక్కువ జీతం ఇస్తాడేమో. దిగి డబ్బులిచ్చాక ఆటోవాడు చిల్లర లేదంటాడు.


“మీకేంటి సర్, సాఫ్ట్ వేరు, దర్జా ఉద్యోగం మీకిదో లెక్కా,” అని నవ్వి వెళ్ళిపోతాడు.


“ఒరేయ్, నీకు నువ్వే రాజువి. నీకు బాసు లేడు, వాడితో మాటలు పడాల్సిన అవసరమూ లేదు. నాలాంటి కుక్క బతుకు కాదురా నీది,” అని వాడి కాలర్ పట్టుకుని అరవాలనిపిస్తుంది. కాని ఏమీ చేయలేక ఆ గుంపులో పడి ఆఫీసు లోపలికి నడుస్తాను. ఆరోజు శుక్రవారం అయితే కొందరి మొహాల్లో హుషారు కనిపిస్తుంది కాని మిగతా రోజుల్లో అందరూ ఎవడి తద్దినానికో వస్తునట్టుంటారు. అప్పుడప్పుడు నా జీవితం ఛాప్లిన్ తీసిన మోడ్రన్ టైంస్ లాంటి tragicomedy లాగా అనిపిస్తుంది. నేను ఉద్యోగంలో చేరిన రోజు తప్ప, ఎందుకు వెళుతున్నానురా బాబు అనుకోకుండా ఎన్నడు ఆఫీసు గుమ్మంలో అడుగు పెట్టలేదు.


ఊరు కాని ఊరొచ్చినప్పుడు మనుషులు మారతారు అంటే నేనెప్పుడు నమ్మలేదు. అలాంటి నాకు ఇంటిదగ్గర ఉన్నపుడు అన్నం విలువ తెలీలేదు, ఇక్కడికొచ్చాక తెలిసొచ్చింది. అలాగే తెలుగు భాష గొప్పతనం ఇంకా తెలీలేదేమో కానీ, దాని మీద ఎక్కడలేని మమకారం పుట్టుకొచ్చింది. ఇంటిదగ్గర గెబ్రియల్ గార్సియా మార్క్వెజ్, ఫ్యోదోర్ దోస్తోవ్స్కి పుస్తకాలు చదివే నాకు, ఇద్దరు రమణుల (ముళ్ళపూడి వెంకటరమణ, శ్రీరమణ) సాంగత్యం తోడైంది. అప్పటిదాకా సంగీతానికే కానీ వచనానికి పెద్ద ప్రాముఖ్యత ఇవ్వని నేను వేటూరిగారి వీరాభిమానినైపోయాను.


అలా ఇంటివిలువ తెలుస్తున్న సమయంలోనే, ప్రపంచం పోకడ కూడ అర్థమవ్వసాగింది. మొదట్లో నా కో-వర్కర్స్ చూపించే కాన్ఫిడెన్స్, వాళ్ళ కంపొషర్ చూస్తే నాలో ఈర్ష్య కలిగేది. నాకు తెలియనిది వాళ్ళకేదో తెలుసని, అందుకే అంత సంతోషంగా ఉండగలుగుతున్నారని అనుకున్నాను. అందుకని వాళ్ళతో నేను కూడా తిరగడం మొదలు పెట్టాను. కాని వాళ్ళు తాగి మాట్లాడేది విని, నన్ను వేధించే ప్రశ్నలే వాళ్ళని కూడా వేధిస్తున్నాయని, జీవితం యొక్క అర్థం, దాని పరమార్థం వంటి పెద్ద పెద్ద ప్రశ్నలు ఎదుర్కొనే ధైర్యం లేకనే వాళ్ళు తాగడం అనే మైకంలోకి దిగుతున్నారని బోధపడింది. కాని వాళ్ళు బయటకు ప్రదర్శించే ఆత్మవిశ్వాసం నటనో, స్వీయవంచనో ఇంకా అర్థం కాలేదు.


వాళ్ళతో అర్థరాత్రి వేళ సిగరెట్ల కోసం, చాయ్ల కోసం బయటకి వొచ్చినప్పుడు మరో ప్రపంచం కనబడింది- మోడ్రనైజేషన్ యొక్క మరో కోణం. చెత్త ఏరేవాళ్ళు, రోడ్లు వేసేవాళ్ళు, బ్రిడ్జిలు కట్టే వాళ్ళు. వీరంతా నేనుండే ప్రపంచంలోనే ఉంటారన్న నిజం కనబడింది. వాళ్ళు నా కోసం పనిచేస్తున్నా, ఒకరకంగా నేను వాళ్ళకోసం పనిచేస్తున్నా, మా ఇద్దరికీ ఒకరి గురించి మరొకరికి తెలియదు. కాని ఇద్దరం ఈ సంసార చక్రంలో భాగస్వాములమే. ఈ నిరంతర పరుగు ఎక్కడికి, ఎందుకు అని తెలియకపోయినా ఇద్దరం పరిగెత్తాల్సిందే. నీట్స్చె, కెమూ, సార్త్రె వంటి 20వ శతాబ్దపు పాశ్చాత్య తత్వవేత్తలు చెప్పిన అబ్సర్డిస్మ్, నిహిలిస్మ్, ఎగ్సిస్టెన్షియలిస్మ్ నిరూపించే ఉదాహరణలు ప్రత్యక్షమయ్యాయి. యంత్రాల్ని చేసే పనిలో పడి మనం మనుష్యులం అన్న సంగతి మరిచామనిపించింది. ఉద్యోగంలో చేరిన కొత్తలో ఎవరన్నా నన్ను రిసొర్స్ అని అభివర్ణిస్తే వొళ్ళు మండిపోయేది. నేను ముడిసరుకుని కాను, మనిషిని అని అరవాలన్నంత ఉక్రోషమొచ్చేది. క్రమేపి అలవాటైపొయింది.


ఇలా జ్ఞానానికి-అజ్ఞానానికి, నిజానికి-జీవితానికి, ఆత్మస్థైర్యానికి-నిస్సత్తువకి నడుమ కొట్టుమిట్టాడుతున్న నాకు వెంకటప్పతో పరిచయమైంది. నేను, నా స్నేహితులు ఎక్కువగా వెళ్ళే సర్దార్ హోటల్లో వెయిటరుగా వచ్చాడతను. ఈ దేశంలో కూలి రైతైన తండ్రికి పుట్టి, సరైన పౌష్టికాహారం లేకుండా పెరిగి, చిన్నప్పటినుండి అయినదానికీ, కానిదానికీ మాటలు పడీపడీ తన హక్కుల కోసం కూడా పోరాడలేని పేదవాడు ఎలా ఉంటాడో, అలానే ఉండేవాడు. బీడీలు తాగి తాగి సొట్టలు పడిన బుగ్గలతో, సగం ఊడిన పళ్ళతో నవ్వుతూ పలకరించేవాడు. ఆ హోటల్ కి ఎక్కువమంది తెలుగువాళ్ళు రాకపోవడంతో నాకు, అతనికి బాగా పరిచయం పెరిగింది. తనది కర్నూలు జిల్లాలో ఒక చిన్న గ్రామం. వడ్డీ కట్టి వ్యవసాయం చేయలేక, పట్నంలో అయినా పని దొరుకుతుందేమో అని హైదరాబాదు తరలి వచ్చాడు. అటునుంచి నాసిక్, సూరత్, ఛంఢీగఢ్ లో కొన్నాళ్ళు పనిచేస్తూ నాలుగురాళ్లు ఎక్కువ సంపాదించుకుందామని ఢిల్లీ చేరాడు.


నేనెప్పుడు వెళ్ళినా ఆంధ్రాలో ఏం జరుగుతుందో అని సమాచారం అడిగేవాడు. అప్పుడప్పుడు తన చైనా ఫోన్ లోకి కొత్త పాటలు వేసివ్వమని కోరేవాడు. నేను వెళ్ళినప్పుడల్లా నానులో బటర్ ఎక్కువ వేయిస్తాడని నా స్నేహితులు జోకులు వేసేవాళ్ళు.


ఒకసారి, “మీరు ఎప్పుడు వచ్చినా చూస్తాను బాబు.. మీరు నలుగురొచ్చినా, ఆరుగురొచ్చినా పక్కవాళ్ళతో మాట్లాడడం కంటె మీ ఫోన్లు చూస్తూనే నవ్వుకుంటుంటారు, అస్తమానం ఏవో బటన్లు నొక్కుతూ ఉంటారు. అసలేముంది బాబు అందులో అంత?” అని అడిగేసరికి నవ్వేసాను. తనకి ఫేస్ బుక్ గురించి, ట్విట్టర్ గురించి ఎలా చెప్పాలో తెలీలేదు. నేను ప్రయత్నించినా తనకి అర్థం కాలేదు. కాని కాసేపటికి తను అన్నదాంట్లో తత్వం గ్రహించి, ఎంతమంది నడుమ ఉన్న, ఎంత కనెక్టెడ్ గా ఉన్నా మాలో ఇంకా జీవిస్తున్న ఒంటరితనాన్ని తలుచుకుంటె బాధేసింది.


వెంకటప్ప పరిచయమైన మొదటి రోజు నుండి నాకొక సంకోచం మొదలయ్యింది. ఆ హోటల్లో బిల్లు తీసుకొని కౌంటర్ దగ్గరే కట్టాలి. దానితో అతనికి టిప్ ఇవ్వడం ఒక సమస్యగా మారింది. తను డబ్బులకోసం ఇవన్నీ చేస్తున్నాడా లేక నిజంగానే మనవాడని అభిమానం చూపుతున్నాడా? నాకంటే వయసులో అంత పెద్దయిన వాడికి పది, ఇరవై చేతిలో పెడితే బాగుంటుందా? లేక ఈ నా సాయం తనకి నిజంగానే ఉపయోగపడుతుందా? నేను డబ్బులు ఇస్తే తాగి తందనాలు ఆడతాడా లేక పిల్లల చదువుకో, వాళ్ళ ఆరోగ్యానికో ఉపయోగిస్తాడా? ఇలాంటి ఆలోచనలన్నీ మనసులో మెదులుతూ ఉండేవి. అవసరం ఉంటే అడుగు అని చెప్దాం అంటే, రేపోమాపో నా తాహతుకు మించిన రొక్కం అడిగి నేను ఇవ్వలేనంటే పరువుపోతుంది. అందుకని ప్రతిసారి బిల్లు కట్టిన తరువాత తన వైపు కూడా చూడకుండా దొంగలా బయటకి పరుగుతీసేవాడిని.


ఇలా కొంతకాలం గడిచాక నేను ప్రాజెక్టు పని మీద బెంగళూరు వెళ్ళవలసి వచ్చింది. తిరిగొచ్చాక చాన్నాళ్ళకు గాని ఆ హోటల్ కు వెళ్ళడం కుదరలేదు. కానీ నేను వెళ్ళిన రోజు వెంకటప్ప కనిపించలేదు. ఏమైందని కనుక్కుంటే నెల క్రిందట చనిపోయాడని చెప్పారు. నేను నివ్వెరపోయాను. అతనికి క్షయట. తన ఇంటి చిరునామా కనుక్కొని, అతని కుటుంబాన్ని ఒకసారి పరామర్శిద్దామని బయలుదేరాను. తండ్రి లేని ఇంట్లో ఆ పిల్లలు తిండితిప్పలు లేకుండా ఉంటారని, వాళ్ళావిడ పసుపు కుంకుమలు లేకుండ ఒక మూల కూర్చొని ఏడుస్తుంటుందని.. వాళ్ళకి ఇవ్వడానికి పర్సులోంచి వెయ్యిరూపాయలు తీసి పక్కకి పెట్టి, వాళ్ళని ఎలా పలకరించాలో ఆలోచిస్తూ వాళ్ళ గుమ్మం ముందు నిలబడ్డాను.


వెంకటప్ప తెలుసా అంటే ఒక పదేళ్ళ కుర్రాడు లోపలికి రమ్మని కూర్చోబెట్టి నీళ్ళిచ్చాడు. ఇల్లు ఒక పేద కాలనీలో చిన్నదైనా శుభ్రంగా, కళగా కనిపించింది. లోపలి నుండి ఒకావిడ వచ్చింది. లేచి నించుని నమస్కరించాను. నాకు వెంకటప్ప ఎలా తెలుసో చెప్పాను. ఇప్పుడే విషయం తెలిసింది అన్నాను. రక్తం కక్కుకుంటే ఆస్పత్రిలో చేర్చారని, డబ్బులులేక, ప్రభుత్వాస్పత్రిలో సరిగ్గా వైద్యం అందక మూడు రోజుల్లో పోయాడని చెప్పిందావిడ. ఆవిడ గొంతులో నిరాశ, నిస్పృహల కోసం వెతికాను. దొరకలేదు. ఎలాంటి నాటకీయత, తొట్రుపాటు లేక, నిదానంగా జరిగింది జరిగినట్లు చెప్పింది. ఆవిడేదో బట్టల ఫాక్టరీలో పనిచేస్తూ పిల్లల్ని పోషిస్తోంది. ఆ ముగ్గురు పిల్లలతో ఆవిడ్ని అలా చూసేసరికి ఎందుకో మా అమ్మ గుర్తొచ్చింది. పిల్లలపైన అదే ప్రేమ, జీవితాన్ని ఎదుర్కొనే అదే ధైర్యం. వాళ్ళని ఓదార్చడానికి వెళ్ళిన నా కళ్ళలో నీళ్ళు తిరిగాయి.


ఏదన్నా అవసరం ఉంటే కబురు చేయమని బయటకి పరుగు తీసాను. జీవితం అంటేనే భయం వేసింది. రేపు నేనిక్కడ రోడ్డు మీద మూర్ఛపడి పోతే నేను తాగి పడిపోయాను అనుకుంటారు గాని, ఒక్కడు కూడా నోరు తెరిచి గుక్కెడు నీళ్ళు పోయడు. నేనేదో రోగం వచ్చి పోతే నా ఇంట్లో వాళ్ళు రావడానికే ఒక రోజు పడుతుందన్న ఆలోచన రాగానే ఒళ్ళు జలదరించి పోయింది. మది నిండా ఇవే ఆలోచనలతో ఎక్కడికి నడుస్తున్నానో తెలియదు కాని చాల వేగంగా నడుస్తున్నాను. హఠాత్తుగ గుడిగంటల శబ్దం వినబడింది. పక్కకు చూస్తె వెంకటేశ్వరస్వామి గుడి, మంగళహారతి వేళ. బూట్లు విడిచి నెమ్మదిగా లోపలికి నడిచాను. పెద్దగా జనంలేరు. వెళ్లి దేవుడి ముందు నిలబడ్డాను. అప్రయత్నంగా చేతులు జోడించాను. కళ్ళలోంచి నీళ్ళు కారడం మొదలైంది. గుండెబరువు తీరేదాక వెక్కి వెక్కి ఏడ్చాను- ఆ దేవుడి సాక్షిగా.
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An appreciate review of the story in Saaranga Magazine.

అస్తిత్వం: శిరీష్ ఆదిత్య


ఢిల్లీ నగరంలో ఒంటరిగా వుంటున్న ఓ తెలుగు యువకుడు తెలుగు మాట్లాడే ఓ హోటల్ సర్వర్ తో పరిచయం పెంచుకుంటాడు. ఓనర్ కి తెలియకుండా అతనికి టిప్ ఇవ్వలేని చిన్న డైలమా. అది ఇవ్వకముందే సర్వర్ చనిపోవటం – ఇదీ కథాంశం. జీవితం తాలూకు అభద్రత, అజ్ఞానం, అనిశ్చితీ అసలే కుదిపేస్తున్న ఆ సమయంలో – వెంకటప్ప మరణం జీవితపు క్షణికత్వాన్ని కథకుడికి ఆవిష్కరింపజేసి, నాస్తికుడిగా ఉన్నవాడిని గుడి మెట్ల మీద నిలబెడుతుంది. ఈ కథ కూడా ముందే చెప్పినట్లు మంచి భాష, కథనం వల్ల చదివించేస్తుంది. చివర్లో యువకుడు వేసుకునే ప్రశ్నలు, మధ్యలో వెంకటప్ప వేసే ప్రశ్నలు ఆలోచనలు రేకెత్తిస్తాయి. కథాంశంలో మరి కొంత కసరత్తు చేసివుంటే కథకు కండపుష్టి కలిగుండేది.

The Incessant Storm

I wrote this story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2014. How the competition works is that each participant is randomly allocated to a heat and he has a week to write a story by working around the conditions set by the judges. I got selected in Heat 22 and the three pre-requisites for my story were, 1. Genre- Action/ Adventure, 2. Central Character- A Mafia Boss and 3. Setting- A storm, which explains the foreign setting. With the clock ticking and me having absolutely no reading experience in the genre, I took movies as a inspiration. From Reservoir Dogs, I took the idea of post-robbery tension and from Johnny Gaddar, I took the idea of turning the whodunit into more of a how-is-he-going-to-come-out-of-it. As you will realise when you start reading, I took my inspirations rather literally and copied unashamedly. Not much of a surprise then that the story didn't get through to the next round. But I had great fun writing it and it'll remain a special memory. And though technically this never got published, I look at it like an assignment written for publication.

Written in February 2014.

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The Incessant Storm

Five men rob a bank. That’s the easy part. Now, they have to split the loot.

 As he heard the crowd walk out of the metro station, Ralph checked his watch, took one long drag of his cigarette, crushed it under his foot, upturned the collar of his overcoat against the biting wind, dug his hands deep into his pockets and walked towards the oncoming crowd. He spotted his man coming out with a brown bag, their eyes met, the man curtly nodded and Ralph followed him, maintaining a certain distance, until the crowds thinned out and they had reached a dark, empty alleyway.

As Ralph approached him, the man set the bag down and blew air into his gloved hands.

“It’s fuckin’ freezing. They say the storm’s going to stay for a few more days. And the bag’s heavy as a dead-fuckin’-pig”

“Is it all there?”, Ralph asked, nodding towards the bag.

“What do you think?”, he grinned, “All two million of it”

Ralph unzipped the bag and checked it. Stacks of bound notes. He zipped it, picked it up, took the Glock out of his pocket and shot the man right in between his eyes. Yes, the bag was heavy as a dead pig but it didn’t matter.

                              *

“What do you mean he didn’t come? Paul handed him the bag and saw him get into train”, the boss said and added, “You still can’t reach to him?”, to Marty who was trying on the phone. “And where the hell is Paul? He said he was going to be here three hours ago”

It was past midnight, Ralph was nursing his second drink, and as he sat down with Marty and Steve, he knew the long night stretched further ahead.

“Let’s get this straight”, the boss said, “Paul and Marty walk into the bank at 2:00 in the afternoon. They walk out with the cash in two bags at around 2.15. They drive four blocks away to the other car, change their clothes, dump all the money into a bigger bag and drive to the station where they’re supposed to meet Frank. Paul hands over the bag to Frank-“

“No”, interrupted Marty, “I handed over the bag to Frank. Paul got a phone call and said he had to leave urgently”

“You said he left after he handed over the bag”

“No, I said before. And I have been trying to reach him after I dropped the bag off but he isn’t picking his phone up”

“So, we now have two people missing. Guys fork out and look for them. I want them here”

Ralph and Steve went looking for Frank and Marty went the other way looking for Paul.

“I don’t trust the guy, man. I heard Marty say Paul handed over the bag and now he’s saying he didn’t. And what’s this urgent business he’s talking about”, Steve said lighting his cigarette. “I was there, I created the accident and caused a traffic jam so that the cops would be delayed. And I saw his face, Marty’s face, as he walked out of the bank. And something about it didn’t seem right. I knew there was going to be trouble right then, man”

Ralph wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“What do you think, man? And if Marty killed Paul and took the money, where the hell is Frank? He would’ve called up the boss and told him that Marty hadn’t turned up-“

“But boss didn’t want any of us to call each other, right? In case all of it could be traced back. Which is probably why he didn’t-”

“Yes, but if he didn’t get the money anyway, what’s the issue in phoning him? So, he must’ve gotten the bag, in which case Marty isn’t lying about Paul”

The snow fell on the windshield, staying for a fraction of a second before the wipers pushed it off. Ralph drove ahead.

“But the other possibility could be Marty killed both Paul and Frank”, Steve’s eyes shone. “That explains everything. The two people he was in contact with are missing. Mate, I have a gut feeling about this. Tell you what, drive to Marty’s place”, he said tugging at the steering wheel.

“Hey, what the fuck? We’re going to look for Frank”

“No, I’m telling you. Marty’s got the money. And we can catch him red-handed”

                              *

“Hey, what are you doing here?”, a visibly shocked Marty said as he opened the door.

“We couldn’t find Frank. We wanted to drop by and check out about Paul. Any news?”, said Steve forcing himself through.

“No. Been to all his hangouts. No one’s seen him since yesterday night”, he said as Ralph walked in. Steve picked up things and threw them about, searching for something.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?”, protested Marty.

Steve didn’t respond and Marty grew visibly agitated.

“You can’t come in here and do shit like this mate. It’s my home. Get out of here. Otherwise, it’s going to get nasty”, he said moving towards Steve.

Just then, from the drawer below his television set, Steve pulled up a bag full of money.

“That’s different money”, leaped up Marty but Ralph had already taken out his gun and was pointing at him.

“Sit down, buddy. We need to talk”, said Steve.

“Listen, there is a misunderstanding. This isn’t the bank money. This is my other stash and boss knows about it. Let’s talk to boss and he can explain you everything”, he said pulling out his phone. Ralph wrenched it out of his hand and as he pushed him back, Marty pulled up his gun and pointed at Steve who raised his arms.

“That’s my money. Its got nothing to do with you. Hand it over”, he said stretching his free arm out and beckoning towards Steve.

“Easy man, no one needs to get hurt”, said Steve handing over the bag.

As Marty took the bag and walked backwards, his gun pointing at Ralph, he tripped and the gun went off hitting Ralph in the knee. Ralph yelled in pain and shot him in the gut before jumping behind the sofa. Steve stood shocked, his hands above his head, unable to retrieve his gun or jump into safety. Marty collapsed on the floor, writhing in pain, as Steve took the bag and walked upto Ralph.

“Are you alright, man”, he asked, before both of them walked back to the car.

Starting the car, Steve called up the boss, “Found the money. Marty had it. Ralph’s injured. We are coming there now”

“What do you mean Marty had it? Paul’s here and he says he handed over the bag to Frank at the station-”

Steve threw the phone down and ran into Marty’s house. Ralph picked it up, cut the call and slowly walked inside. From the doorway he saw Steve trying to revive a visibly dead Paul, pulled his gun out and shot Steve dead.

                              *

“Steve shot Marty and Marty shot him back. Both of them are dead in Marty’s house”, said Ralph as he sat down next to Paul.

“Why the hell did you shoot Marty”, yelled Paul walking onto Ralph, holding him by the collar and lifting him off his chair.

“I didn’t. Marty tripped and shot me. Steve shot Marty and so Marty shot him back. I-“

“Why the fuck did you go to his house in the first place?”, asked the boss.

“Steve thought he’d taken the money and killed both Paul and Frank. And when we went to his house, we found a bag full of money. And so, Steve tried to take the money but Marty shot us”, said Ralph.

“Okay, where is that bag of money?”, asked the boss.

“It’s in the boot of my car. I’ll go get it”, he said getting up.

“Paul will go with you to the garage”

As they descended the stairs to the cellar, their footsteps echoing in the empty space, Paul looked forlorn.

“I’m sorry Paul. I know how much Marty meant- “, started Ralph.

“Hush up, asshole”, hissed Paul, “Once all this is over, I will find out what the truth is and if I find out you were responsible for it, I will blow your fuckin’ head off”, pushing Ralph off the stairs.

Ralph staggered to his car, opened the boot and took out a bag, handing it over to Paul. Ralph shut the boot and turned around to see Paul looking at the bag quizzically. And then the horror dawned on Ralph’s face as he realized that the bag he took out was the one he had taken after shooting Frank. Marty’s bag was in the backseat.

Paul seemed to have read the fear in Ralph’s face because he gaped his mouth open in shock before pulling gun out and pointing at him.

“What is it Paul, what’s wrong?”

“Stop acting”, he roared, “You fuckin’ well know what’s wrong. I bought this bag two days ago. I handed it to Frank today afternoon and despite everything pointing at you, despite me telling the boss over and over again it was you, he believed none of us would be traitors. He trusted you too much and this is how you repay him. You killed Frank; You killed Marty and you killed Steve. I’m going to kill you”, and he shot at Ralph who missed it by a whisker and jumped behind his car. Paul went on shooting and Ralph ran, with the pain in his knee blinding him, scurrying to safety among cars. He found a hiding place behind two cars in a darkened part, and as he sat there panting to get his breathe back, Paul yelled his name over and over again, urging him to come out. Then he suddenly stopped, and as everything quietened, he could hear Paul’s footsteps walking slowly around the garage.

Paul was slowly moving in his direction and Ralph crouched deeper; The air outside howled and sent chills up Ralph’s spine.

“You are never going to get out of here alive. I will find you and kill you”, screamed Paul and shot a couple of round in the air.

And then, click-click. The moment he stopped to reload his gun, Ralph was out of his hiding place, gun in hand, and ran towards Paul shooting until long after the man was dead and he had run out of bullets.

                              *

Jimmy stood outside the subway station smoking a cigarette, cursing the freezing winds and waiting for his man. The storm had killed tens of people and had been responsible for recording some of the lowest temperatures ever. It had been there too long and he sometimes felt it was never going to leave. Just when he was wondering if he should go get a coffee, Jimmy spotted him- a young man, with blonde hair that fell into his eyes, with a big bag slung across his shoulder. He took out his phone to see the photo the boss had sent. It was him.

He followed the man inconspicuously, and when they reached a forlorn alleyway, tapped him gently on the shoulder. He turned back, surprised, as if waking up from a deep slumber. Jimmy shot him in the face.

“Boss, I’ve killed him”, said Jimmy on the phone.

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Yes, he was limping”

There was a pause on the phone line and then, “There is money in the bag. Take it, it’s yours.”

And then the line went dead.

--

Here is the feedback the judges had to give.

''The Incessant Storm'' by Aditya Kashyap 451 - WHAT THE JUDGE(S) LIKED ABOUT YOUR SCRIPT - ...........................The focus of your narrative is innovative. Normally we see what happens in the lead up to the bank robbery - I enjoyed having the chance to see what happens afterwards!..................The plot's twists, turns and motivations make for the possibility of a gripping tale. ..............................   WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - ...........................What if you staggered the timeline a bit? I think you could create more suspense and intrigue if your story opened with the guys searching for Paul and the money, and then you allowed the reader to see what is actually happening by slowly unfolding the narrative...................The story is really only characters discussing events instead of the reader experiencing them, which is the true way to create a dramatic thread that grips the reader. Too much is happening off-screen to make this engaging. …........................

Kandisa (2000) - India Ocean

Published in Stream- July 2013

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Till about twenty years ago, the Indian music scene was bleak. We had Film Music, with its role as just a supplement to the story and the visual, and Traditional Music, Hindustani and Carnatic, with their deep-rooted traditions and musical styles, both unapproachable for the lay listener and unsuitable for experimentation. Folk Music offered a wider spectrum of topics to deal with but somehow never spread across the length and breadth of the country. The Hippie counter-culture movement that spread across US, binding hundreds of thousands of people with a shared ideology of love and peace, was obviously ignited and kept aflame by the garage bands that cropped up in literally every town. Their musical output has since been unmatched and a lot of people still consider the music produced in 1960s and 1970s to the greatest music ever. Though those are personal claims, what cannot be ignored is the impact they had and the culture they encouraged. Bands like The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin among others were incredibly popular among the youth across the world including India. And though we had a few local bands in the 1980s, like Rock Machine and Axecalibre, they still played what was essentially Western music. An indigenous band that was deeply Indian yet had the appeal to go global was yet to arrive.

And Indian Ocean did just that. Born as the brainchild of guitarist Sushmit Sen, a self-taught musician whose style has been compared to that of greats like Jerry Garcia and John Mclaughlin, Indian Ocean is a band whose music that is beyond categorization. Having been influenced by a wide variety of musical genres, he teamed up with Hindustani Classical vocalist and Tabla player Asheem Chakravarthy, a genius of a man who probably was one of the very few musicians in the world can sing while playing percussion. They decided to put together a band that played soulful music and that didn't have to fit into any genre. In a revealing anecdote, in the must-watch documentary on the band Leaving Home: The Life and Music of Indian Ocean, Asheem recalls how they expected to be booed off stage the first time they played but ended up playing for more than two hours because the crowd had never heard anything like that before. After a string a musicians who came and went, the band took its final shape in 1994 with the inclusion of vocalist and Bass guitarist Rahul Ram, a social activist with a Ph.D in Environmental Toxicology, and drummer Amit Kilam, an extremely talented musician who could almost play any instrument he picked up. The band was to stay together for almost sixteen years until the untimely death of Asheem.

From then on, they played. Because of the extremely different personalities of the band members and what they brought to their music, the sound of Indian Ocean is beyond description. Their music cannot be categorized because it seems to be a fusion of folk, traditional, rock, jazz, Sufi music etc. and also strangely does not carry the baggage of any of them. Their songs do not follow conventional structural patterns, it is almost impossible to predict where a song might be heading, the use of instruments is very novel and sometimes it appears as if the song that ended was different from the song that started. But what can definitely be said of their music is its hypnotic effect on the listener, the feel of its earthiness and an almost unexplainable joy it provides to the soul.

To talk about Kandisa is almost impossible. Its like having to explain what makes a Jackson Pollock so appealing. The seven songs are musically extremely diverse, the canvas of the album is huge and their emotional depth is indefinable. Kya Maloom begins with the haunting sound of Sanskrit slokas and slowly Asheem's voice and Sushmit's melody weave a world around us. Ma Rewa is a brilliant adaptation of a traditional folk song about the Narmada rider and is set to a solid rhythm with its almost river-like melody meandering through the mountains. Leaving Home is an extraordinary example of world-music, its sound is extremely native and the music loops around our head in spirals, taking us deeper and deeper within. Hille Re is the most energetic song in the album and an incredible amount of fun. To listen to Rahul Ram enjoy himself singing simply rouses one's spirits. Khajuraho is a deeply religious experience that makes us acknowledge the cyclical nature of life and the lyrics by Sanju Sharma are just incredible. Sample this- Dhoom machi har nabh mein phoote ras ki phuharein/ Anhad ke aangan mein naache chanda sitare ( At the sight of showers, as the skies erupt with joy, the moon and stars dance at the courtyard of the Immeasurable ). If Khajuraho is deeply religious, Kaun is extremely philosophical. The song is a prayer for peace, and Amit Kilam gets us hooked with that beginning before rest of the band joins in communicating as much musically as lyrically. The final song of the album Kandisa is not just a song. It is an experience, a musical voyage so powerful that it will transport one into deeply spiritual places within. What a song. It cannot be explained but can only be indulged in.

Kandisa is a really old album, released in 2000, and contains some of the bands most popular songs. It is a must have for those who are into fusion but is highly recommended even to those who are into other genres of music. Kandisa is music at its truest and albums like these don't come often.

A Shot at History: My Obsessive Journey to Olympic Gold

Published in Stream- July 2013

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“Hardwork is a talent” -Abhinav Bindra

Abhinav Bindra’s A Shot at History is an ode to old school principles of preparation, practice and perseverance. Hardwork is the man’s hymn and his story is one of struggle for salvation. And with a co-writer of the calibre of Rohit Brijnath, the book makes for a phenomenal read.

Bindra, arguably, is this country’s most popular non-cricketing athlete thanks to the 100-year national drought ending gold medal he won at the Beijing Olympics. Earned, rather than won, is an appropriate word and through his story, as we learn of his obsession with Olympic Gold, we realise that in a sport where even perfect is not perfect enough, how he almost nullified the hand of chance and surprise during the final at Beijing. Bindra is not a romantic’s sportsman. He is not Federer, or Messi, or VVS. He falls into the club of Dravid, Nadal, Keane, the sloggers, the perfectionists, men wanting in inborn talent but abundantly gifted in will power and the willingness to sweat. And like them, an inherent liking led Bindra towards the game but soon enough, the sporting arena turned from a playground to a classroom where he recognised his limits and learnt to overcome them; And the sport turned from a way of expressing himself to a platform to prove himself.

Bindra has had a rather uneventful life, and his upbringing is not as erratic or turbulent as Agassi’s, as he states in his autobiography, Open. He has a family anybody would envy, money to buy him almost anything he wishes for and the love and support of coaches. He is not forced into the sport by a failed relative trying to live his life through a protege, like Agassi’s father or Nadal’s uncle. But Bindra never had a necessity to impress anyone. And this turned into his motivating factor. That when people from far less affluent economic levels seem to be making the cut, then why him, blessed with everything, cannot do it. This is not a story of the underdog, not a rags-to-riches story but that of the man on the other end of the spectrum. The envied rich kid who people think wins because he can afford the best of everything, equipment, coaches and technology. Bindra’s story, in a way, is the revenge of the lucky guy who wants to prove the world that he is a self-made man too.

Right from the beginning it is made clear that Bindra has at his disposal the best of the outside world. What he lacks, but for his liking for the sport, is a natural grace, a born genius’ radiance. But instead, what he has, Bindra repeatedly says, is a gift for monkish discipline, his obsession with winning and his meticulous, perfectionist attitude. In his single-minded pursuit to be the best shooter, in his lack of social skills, in his lack of all traces of erratic genius, he reminds one of Sampras whose obsession with the process shocked Agassi who once said, “I was surprised by his lack of need for inspiration.”

Bindra is a man obsessed with himself, and the book is an objective analysis of his strengths and weaknesses. Unlike other sports autobiographies, this one has so few anecdotes for two reasons- one because Bindra is really young, 28 years old, and two, he hasn’t had much of a life that isn’t related to shooting. But talk about shooting he does well, guiding the shooting-ignorant Indian reader through the intricacies of the sport. The tone of the book, like the man, is rather understated, humour dry and chapters, not chronological, but more like essays on different aspects of the sport. The only time the book takes a rather loud tone is when it talks about the Indian Official and the anger against this country’s bureaucracy is palpable. Also, a jib is made against the media and public conscious, for their need for heroes but their total lack of support for struggling athletes.

A Shot at History is a great read and credit should go to its co-writer, Rohit Brijnath, a sportswriter of astounding talent who Harsha Bhogle once called, “The greatest Indian sportswriter by a long margin.” Brijnath, who has had stints in various highly reputed sports magazines, uses metaphor cleverly for the lay reader to understand the world of the athlete and has an uncanny ability to transcribe mental states. He is one Indian, who in recent times, has elevated the job of sportswriting to an art form. Infact, the last chapter of the book, talking about the dynamics of sport is vintage Brijnath- elegant and exhilarating. Lyrical prose.

A Shot at History: My Obsessive Journey to Olympic Gold is recommended reading. For not only does it introduce us to the world of shooting, but through the eyes of a man who is not ready to accept anything but victory, inspires us into taking action of our lives. Abhinav Bindra had everything without needing to ask. He did not know what to look for. And his pursuit to find a purpose for his life is as interesting as his diligence in achieving it.

Zhang Yimou's Hero- Mandarin- 2002

Published in Stream- July 2013

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They say a story chooses its form, the way it wants to be narrated. That is probably why some astounding novels, like the great One Hundred Years of Solitude, are simply not adaptable. And some others, like The Godfather, are arguably better movies than novels. The same holds true for other forms of art too. What thought can be best illustrated as a painting can never quite reach the same caliber as a musical piece, and vice-versa. Wuxia is a genre of Chinese fiction that deals with the adventures of Martial artists. Though it began as a form of literature, and thus spawned into film and graphic art, no other art form has been able to do justice to its wide canvas, its allegorical nature and its phenomenal depth of character as much as film.

Zhang Yimou's Hero is a Wuxia film that is seductive, beguiling and revealing. Quite simply, it is an extraordinary piece of storytelling. On the surface, it is an action film, which at that point of time was the costliest Chinese film made. It is also stunningly beautiful. But deep within, it is a deeply philosophical movie. It deals with questions of life and death, fear and duty, revenge and realization. Set in ancient China, the story at its core is about two men exchanging stories, one trying to convince the other that all that he is saying is true and the other trying to refute it. A nameless assassin walks into the heavily guarded palace of a king and claims to have killed three of his most feared assassins. He is allowed to come closer to the king than any other human, and as he narrates stories to tell the king how he killed the assassins, he is allowed closer. The king calls it a lie and tells him what he thinks has happened, and so on so forth. What we see is not what has happened but instead, what either of the two are claiming has happened. The magic about the film is that we, as an audience, do not know what truth is too. We are discovering with the characters and trying to uncover the hidden motivations behind the actions of our protagonists. Has Nameless truly killed the other assassins or is it just a ploy to get close enough to the king to kill him?

The story by itself is very engrossing, brilliantly shot, well acted and handled with a rare sensitivity. But it does not end there. Like all great films, it acts as a mirror to look within ourselves, to empathize with the characters, to relate with them, to ask ourselves how we would act under those circumstances. Truth, by itself, might be universal but is its knowledge enough to bring one solace? Does avenging one's loss balance the act, does it make one peaceful? Is it worth being the emperor of the world if you are so scared for your life that you do not wish to move out of your chambers? In a culture that equates good calligraphy with good swordsmanship, where the ideal state of a warrior is, paradoxically, not having a need to fight, where the good intentions of a king have unexpected repercussions, having to say what is right and what is wrong becomes the equivalent of walking on thin ice. But then, maybe that is the whole point, to prove that it does not matter what truth is, as long as we are working with the knowledge we have. Or is it that all of us are going to die one day, the King of Qin, the old man playing the harp, and the nameless assassin, and peace with oneself is the ultimate achievement?

Hero asks all these questions. For all those who just want to be entertained, this film is as good as they come. Spectacular sets, gorgeous looking men and women, stunning action sequences, wonderful use of music; This movie is visual poetry. It is elegant, striking and honest. But for the others who are willing to take the journey, it turns into a pilgrimage that takes up deep within ourselves.

Watch it.

Watching Peepli Live- A country's practiced apathy

Published in City Mirrors- May 2013

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Everybody knows the story of Peepli Live. A farmer decides to commit suicide when he learns that the government pays one lakh to farmers who take their own lives; with which his family would be able to waive off a loan. This news leaks out and in an unexpected turn of events captures the attention of major media houses and he is cast into the spotlight. The political class joins the bandwagon seeking a part of the action and inadvertently, tamasha ensues. Sounds more like a slice of our everyday lives, doesn’t it? The film, intended as a satire, soon turns into a black comedy and ends as a tragedy.

Those exact words can be used to describe how this country’s fate played out since the day Dr. Manmohan Singh decided to liberalize the economy. Markets opened up, money started pouring in at a ridiculous pace and the country’s economy began growing so fast that we thought it was some sort of a joke, a satire against the forty years of Nehruvian socialist reforms and the Hindu rate of growth. But then these days, after coming to terms with the disparity in this country, in the agreement of the existence of two Indias, in the pride with which we proclaim to the world that Antilia is built next to Dharavi, our lives have turned into some sort of a tragicomedy. Like the protagonist of the movie, who was initially amused by it all but now wants to escape the hullabaloo. He has gotten himself into a situation he has no idea how to get out of and in a hilarious scene, begs his kidnappers not to let him go. And then the film gets into its final act, where it steps out of its lighthearted approach and plunges deep into the tragedy of human existence. And the fact that we are thrown into the last scene unwarned, despite it being what we see everyday, is what hits us so hard. The protagonist migrates to the city, a dead man to his family, archival material to the news channels, yet another construction worker among the millions who come to cities to build our “Paradise Townships”. What should be going through the minds of all those men, who have been cheated by the people they elected into giving up their lands, who have been forced into leaving their families behind, their traditions and livelihoods and come to cities searching for money and prospects of a better life.

But this movie is not about those men. And though, on the surface, it seems to be taking a jib at the media and the state, it’s too blatant to have an effect. What the filmmaker seems to do is mock us for finding the plight of the farmers funny. And it works brilliantly because moments after we laugh at a genuinely funny sequence, we find ourselves ashamed for doing so. There is no sense of alarm or realization. We know this, we see it everyday. Near our houses, in our office, near traffic signals and in malls. What we don’t do everyday is reflect at our lack of attention. We have so gotten used to farmers committing suicides, women being raped, people dying of curable diseases, our politicians blatant corruption that those details do not even affect us. Those things which were once an aberration are now the norm. Funnily enough, like my 70-year old grandmother was telling a relative who lives in Boston, “The matter that there was a bomb blast and two people died might be news for you. For us, in India, we have gotten used to terrorist attacks so much that we don’t even pay attention”. Like they say, there is a very fine line between tragedy and farce.

It is not that things like these do not affect us anymore. We worry about them. There is a sense of pity, resentment when we hear of avoidable deaths. Rage when hear of callousness of Police when dealing with rape victims. Anger when we find idiots, with absolutely no civic sense, who park cars on a busy road, or those who occupy half the street with bricks and sand when constructing their houses. But we do not act on it. We choose to move on. To ignore plastic covers being thrown into lakes, of illegal drilling of bore wells, of faulty auto rickshaw meters. And that the tragedy of this country. Not its corruption, not its injustice, not its oligarchy. But quite simply, the practiced apathy of its middle class citizens.

Crazy- a review

Published in City Mirrors- April 2013

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I liked Delhi Belly a lot. Despite its wafer thin plot, despite its caricaturish characters and despite it’s sometimes disgusting humour. What I loved was its honesty, its smart pacing and its exceptional casting. Every character in the movie was what it was simply because of the actors chosen to play it. Nobody could have pulled off Nitin if not Kunal Roy Kapoor and Somayajulu if not Vijay Raaz. I know this is meant to be a review of Crazy and not Delhi Belly but when you walk in with the burden of knowing a film is a remake, you involuntarily tend to make comparisons. Director R. Kannan spares us of that effort right away because Crazy looks exactly like Delhi Belly. It took me by surprise when I saw the extent to which the makers went to replicate the environment of Delhi Belly. The walls of the hotel are decorated in the same way, the apartment is almost a replica and I’m pretty sure the jewellery shop is the same. Kannan got the details right but what he didn’t get was the spirit of the original film. 

Quite simply, Delhi Belly is an out and out urban film whose target audience is the youth between 17-30. And when most of this English speaking public had seen the film in English/Hindi anyway, I have no idea why UTV chose to remake the film. And then revamp the script in such a way to invite other sections of the audience. Delhi Belly worked precisely because it was outrageous. Its dialogue was one half profane and the other half stupid. Its comedy, scatological. And it wore its attitude on its sleeve. Crazy, on the other hand, shies away from its inherent motives. It wants to shock and awe, to amuse and surprise, but it fails at every level because it has no clue how it’s supposed to function. 

There is hardly a story. Three roommates, with weird domestic habits, accidentally stumble across a parcel containing diamonds worth two crores. All three of them are facing serious problems- one is getting into a marriage he is not ready for, another is dumped by a girlfriend, and the third one has eaten something called ‘Ileana’ Chicken because of which he runs to the nearest toilet once every two screen minutes. That’s it. That’s the story. It can still be a fun ride if the characters are interesting and the tempo really high. The characters here are stereotypes (meaning you can know everything about them if you’ve seen the posters and they are exactly what they are supposed to be, nothing more, nothing less), the dialogue is below par, Thaman’s music is atrocious and to make matters worse, we have duets interrupting the already exasperating pace. 

To begin with, there was no point remaking a film like Delhi Belly. Crazy was made to make money off the big hit that the original was. This is a contrived film that will bore the hell out of you. If you haven’t seen Delhi Belly, go watch it. Avoid Crazy.
Rating: 1/5

The Kid- a review

Published in City Mirrors- Sometime around April 2013 

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Before I begin talking about this film, I should state when it was released- 1921. The fact that we are talking about a film made 92 years ago is a tribute to its accomplishment. We have all heard about Charlie Chaplin, the quintessential funny man. We’ve seen his photos, tidbits of his short films and innumerable stars try to replicate his charm and comic timing, including our very own Raj Kapoor. But I’m not sure how many of us have seen Chaplin’s work as a director. And what better place to start than his first feature.

The Kid starts off with an opening title that says, “A picture with a smile- and perhaps, a tear”. And true to his word, we realise straightaway that this is not slapstick comedy when we see a woman walking out of a hospital, a baby in her arms, lost and forlorn. It is made clear that the woman is unmarried, the father of the child is uncaring and the world unkind to unmarried mothers and their children. All this in the first two minutes without even the use of dialogue. Chaplin’s use of shot time is minimal, but his power to convey the idea forthright is phenomenal. The mother gives up the child, hoping that somebody would care for it, and after a funny detour, the baby ends up with The Tramp. That scene is exquisitely choreographed, Chaplin’s acting making one laugh out at his utter naivety.
The tramp takes up the responsibility of the baby reluctantly but then five years pass, and the now seemingly father-son duo, share a life full of love, sharing and happiness. Chaplin, who grew up in extreme poverty, makes no effort to romanticize it. The kid and the tramp wear torn clothes, live in a desolate house and get by a meager income, but what shines through all of it is the indomitable spirit of a human to find joy even in extreme hardship. There is a phenomenal sequence where it is shown how they make money working in tandem. Despite being ripped off badly so many times, that scene still is so funny and endearing because there is no pretense involved. And it is a joy to watch Chaplin and an astounding Jackie Coogan as the kid because they share such great chemistry; It becomes so easy for us to believe that they truly are father and son. 

All along in the film, a policeman becomes an integral part of the story, and is essentially shown in a positive light, as the righteous, well-meaning authority who works best with the knowledge he has. But soon, as the story progresses and takes a dramatic turn, the authorities (including the policeman), who ironically are working with best intentions, turn into villains because though they are playing by the book and trying to do what is right for the kid, they look at themselves as caretakers who have the right to moral authority, and care neither about the wishes of the kid or the tramp, whose lives they are essentially dealing with. Chaplin’s hand as a writer is so nuanced that we realise slowly what he is trying to convey, that it is easy to follow the rules, but harder to empathize It is easier to order, when we have the power, but harder to listen, understand and make a judgment. From here, though the film is funny in a few shots, we are more concerned with the plight of the tramp and the kid because we believe that they are right for each other. We haven’t seen them for a long time but the scenes involving the two are so wonderfully sketched and acted, that it seems more like we are taking a peek into the lives of a father and a son, two people happy and comfortable in each other’s company. Actually, it seems less like a father-son relationship and more like two accomplices because of the way they share work. The scene involving pancakes proves the same. And though the separation between the two is not melodramatic, it pricks us deep inside because the setup to that scene is very powerful. If and how the tramp and the kid re-unite becomes the rest of the story.

On the face of it, The Kid is an extremely simple story. But it has layers and layers of subtext packed in, and like all great films, assesses the kind of lives we live as a society. The way we look at different people, who we choose to believe, what parameters we measure as important and how we eventually become a part of the whole despite pretending to overcome the shortcomings. The Kid addresses all that. But like the poster promises, it is also quite simply ’6 reels of joy’.

Scores, Credits and a Degree- A take on the Education System in Andhra Pradesh

Published in The Hive- Sometime around April 2011

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It’s exam time and if I don’t crib now, I’ll have lost my chance for another year or so. What is it about exams that causes nervous anxiety to some people and disgust to others. Now, there are all kinds of people in the world and I have a feeling most of them are okay with getting used to stuff, to accept the way the world is and to uncomplainingly and unquestioningly accept the farsight and intellect of all those educationists who’ve devised this system, this education system which has lately been hailed as the finest in the world, and to believe that this is the right path for an entry into the IITs and eventually into Infosys or IIM-A. Nothing against all those colleges or those aspirations. All I’m worried about is where is this taking us; we have schools which start IIT coaching from class 6, which have kids mug up equations and an exam pattern which only cares about how much of his stuff, the student has successfully puked on the answer sheet.

A lot of us have spoken about it, the need to change, the need to revamp and the incredulity of some people who think a well paying software job is all it takes to keep anybody happy. The schools have to be ashamed of the way they’re treating kids. And the educationists more so. Forget about schools, buy a Spectrum all-in-one, do a one night stand and you are an Engineer passing out with distinction. What the fuck is wrong with everybody. I personally know people who’re Software Engineers with an aggregate of 70+ and can’t write a C program. What has a C program got to do with his ability, you ask? Only as much of ability assessment that is done by somebody who’s correcting the answer script, who’s never known this guy and who’s only chance of rating him is that 40 pages of answer booklet that’s in his hands. And all of us know, how much really JNTU corrections make us proud.

I’m no educationist, no scholar not the author of the prestigious “How to Teach and Rate kids 101?. I’m just a student of this acclaimed education system who’s depressed writing his exams because he’s lost all belief in them because they do not kindle his inspiration. Complaining and cribbing, am I? Then let me sound that way. Because though I know I’m better than somebody in the subject, I always end up scoring less because I lack the photographic memory needed to reproduce the answers like they are in the all-in-one.  Maybe that’s a talent too but I didn’t know Engineers had to be adept at writing exams more than writing code.

I’m not saying everybody who’s a 70% has taken the shorter route. Because there are people out there who’ve gotten 70, who’re really good with the subject and who have the ability and deserve to pass with distinction. And isn’t that what distinction really means. What this system is doing is that it’s taking the sheen off the people who really are deserving.  Nobody seems to be trusting in the system anymore, and sadly, nobody seems to give a shit about it.

Ok, I’m done yelling what is wrong with it. I have a right to do that but it also endows me with a responsibility to tell what I think is right. At the core of it, I see three dramatic changes:

1.      Take the emphasis from reproducing to applying. This system has been in place in India for a long time now and it’s high time it evolves. Ten years ago mugging up might have made sense but not now anymore. Anything I want, be it a syntax, or a formula, a stat or an important date or a person’s name can be found at the click of a button. The Web has given us that leeway. Instead of asking what the syntax is, ask them to write a program for an application. And everybody knows everybody studies from the all-in-one. Let the person who’s setting the paper know that no question, atleast directly, should be found in the all-in-one. Solves half the problem.

2.      A shift of evaluation from the External to the Internal and instead of one exam, an evaluation technique which tests the consistency over a period of time. That gives people a lot more freedom to experiment all over the year and to take every class seriously, instead of the “one day batting” everyone does.

3.      And thirdly, most importantly, keep the answer scripts open. Upload all of them onto the web so that anybody can see anybody else’s answer script and ask the person who’s corrected those scripts as to what made him award more marks to one person and less to the other. Keeping it open has the person who corrects the papers answerable and the students know if they’ve done well, they have every right to inquire and ask.

I don’t know if people have pondered over all these but I have a feeling this would make the system better because we are in desperate need of a change. And before I end, the next time you find a school management telling you they start IIT coaching in Nursery or something, slap them hard.

Social Media- Its growing relevance

Published in The Hive- Sometime around April 2011

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In his landmark essay, ‘Is Google making us stupid?’, Nicholas Carr discusses how Google, and the Internet in general, has made us stupider as a species, ruined our concentration power and has altered our psyche in a very short time. He argues that nothing ever in the long history of human civilization has had such an impact on our basic nature as much as the Internet has had in barely fifteen years of its popular regime. But in the end he laments that nothing can be done about it because we have already been engulfed in a media which puts efficiency and immediacy above everything else.

Though the essay does not deal explicitly with Social Media, it does explain the impact of social media on this generation of people. Now, Social Media is a phrase which is being heard a lot these days. Before we go further, we need to explicitly understand what Social Media exactly is. Popular belief is that Social Media just pertains to the Social Networking websites such as Facebook, Twitter, Orkut, MySpace etc. But Social Media is much more than that. It ranges from networking sites like mentioned before to Bookmarking websites such as Del.icio.us, Digg, StumbleUpon and from Video Sharing and blogging websites such as YouTube and Blogger to the most popular encyclopedia on the Web, Wikipedia. To understand this better, we have to break down the term Social Media. Media is basically anything that lets the information out on a large scale and traditional media usually functions as a pyramid, in a top-down approach. Social Media on the other hand, is about giving the power of expression to people. It is about giving everybody an equal chance to shout their opinions, which Newspaper or Television has never been able to do before, and let people express whatever they want to in their own words.

Like every other technology that has taken this planet by storm, the power of the web could not be appreciated until it grew out of bounds to be managed. But by then it had already become the power of people for it to be exploited by a set of few rich people. Social Media has it’s share of supporters and critics alike and usually both within the same person. Before we discuss the cons, it’s high time we appreciate it for what all it has done. To begin with, the Arab Spring aka the Facebook/Twitter revolution owes heavily to the influence of Social Media in those countries. The dictatorial regime could enforce censorship with an iron fist on the traditional media but nothing could have been done about the undercurrent of the uprising floating on the Web. Like one Egyptian activist tweeted, “We used Facebook to schedule the protests, Twitter to co-ordinate and YouTube to tell the world.” Another huge advantage of the Social Media has been in the power of the individual. In his magnum opus, The World is Flat, Thomas L. Friedman talks about the power of the individual in today’s age thanks to the power he is given by websites like Blogger and YouTube to state his views, anonymously if he wishes to. It is this power that has turned people like Julian Assange to collaborate with thousands of volunteers across the globe and get the truth out to the public through the phenomenon that has been WikiLeaks. It is also this power to exhibit talent that has made Justin Bieber, a seventeen year old kid who used YouTube as his platform, one of America’s biggest superstars. Barack Obama has successfully used Twitter to canvass during elections and it is only because of websites like Del.icio.us that obscure but talented web entrepreneurs are getting their share.

But like every technology out there, Social Media too has it’s share of negatives, the predominant among them being the issues of credibility and plagiarism as well as the amount of time being wasted on sites like Facebook. For exactly the same reasons as above for which Social Media has been lauded, it is also being criticised. The power of Peer-to-Peer networking and Torrents is the biggest problem the Creative Industry faces against piracy. The power of blogs has been lauded upon but with so many news sources out there on the Web, the issues of credibility crop up. How true is this news? And to re-check it, people are still falling back to traditional media which is slower but more reliable. True, Wikipedia is the largest and fastest growing encyclopedia out there but are the facts in it true? Who can tally such a huge heap of data, with more getting added to it every minute? And the biggest problem of them all is the amount of time that is being spent on Social Networking sites updating statuses, Liking pictures and watching home-made videos. The stats in this case are alarming.

Despite all this, the total man hours spent on Social Media are growing all the time. And the fact that they will continue to do so is inevitable. We live in a World where there is information multiplicity every year and all we can do is understand and accept it. Only time can smoothen the process out.

3 books

I read three wonderful books in the last two weeks. Well, read is only two-thirds true. I listened to one, Aman Sethi’s A Free Man, narrated by Vikas Adam. And what a relentless experience it's been. The story of a few friends- footpath dwellers, people who escaped from their homes at a fairly early age, exactly the kind of people we see lying drunk on roads and grimace, is told with uncharted intimacy and careful nuance by Sethi. The lead is a painter ( not of canvases, but of walls yours and mine ), mostly when he is out of money for drinks, called Ashraf who recounts his life with the flair of a thespian, ventures into philosophy much too often and directly answers only when he knows his circuitous story-telling has no patient takers, makes for a rather unlikely hero for a story talking about the ‘other’ India. And the characters that come and go into the narrative are equally, if not more, interesting while describing their travails in Bara Tooti, their need to get out of the stringent society they were born in, how their relationships with people they virtually spend their whole days are still tinged with aloofness and practicality. In that kind of a world, where people are robbed of money and footwear while dead drunk on footpaths, it is understandable.

Sethi constructs the world so powerfully that within minutes we are lost in the gulleys of Bara Tooti, feeling the stench of illegal liquor bars, echoing the belief of Ashraf or Lalu or Rehaan when they talk about a lack of comprehensive meaning to their existence, lapping up on the inside jokes soon and eventually understanding their lives like we’ve seen them live right infront of our eyes. Sethi’s voice is firm but understated, his serious narrative sprinkled with humour so much so that I burst out laughing a few times, his use of colloquial language brings to the proceedings a very earthy feel and most importantly, his observant eye doesn’t miss anything interesting. The structure is anecdotal, which is probably why even without concretely knowing the entire story in a traditional arc, we still get to know our characters very deeply. True, there is some repetition in parts and Sethi’s structure could have been a little more traditional, but these are just ruses to critic on an outstanding achievement. The only books I’ve read that are similar to A Free Man are Gregory David Robert’s Shantaram and Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City. Though the first one can be, at best, described an engrossing tale, I loved the breadth of its scope and its buccaneering hero, and I rate the second one as of the finest books I’ve ever read. A Free Man deserves a space on that shelf. Read it to understand the staggering spirit of human endeavor in the face of utter absurdity, for the language and the control with which Sethi steers us through a very alien world but mostly read it for A Free Man teaches us to empathize with those we share our cities with.

Rahul Bhattacharya’s Pundits from Pakistan covers a topic almost as phenomenal in scope as Aman Sethi’s. The things the two books deal with are worlds apart- one is about the destitute flocking into Delhi, the other is about one of the world’s most glittering sports events, India’s historic of Pakistan in 2004. One is largely set in the confines of Bara tooti, a bazaar in Delhi; The other travels in and around the entirety of Pakistan. And while one is almost microcosmic in its breadth, the other tries to capture the political, cultural and historical similarities between two of the world’s most populous nations. Nevertheless, by and far, both achieve what they set out to. Both are amazing reading experiences, I was practically skimming through pages, both are first books by erudite, globe-trotting, charismatic young writers and both, no matter how rooted in earthiness, are ambitious enough to try and capture the phenomenal depth of human spirit. Rahul Bhattacharya has been compared to VS Naipaul for his second book, The Sly Company of People who Care, and though I am yet to read it, I could find traces of Naipaul in this one. The book is most emphatic when it adheres to the cricket ground; Bhattacharya’s careful exaggeration of lives of sportsmen and the arena of sport finds the right tone to elevate them to the planes of heroism, his deep insight into cricket history provides hilarious comparisons and his very enviable ability to strip a long innings into its essence is used to great effect. But when he moves out of confines of the grounds, the narrative slips up and it does not help that his rather oblique writing style calls attention to the author’s cleverness a few times. Don’t get me wrong, it is indeed a great book, but I thought it would have been so much better if it didn’t contain that tone of intellectual arrogance, the author’s need to look down upon everything that did not confirm to his tastes ( quintessential Naipaul ). Bhattacharya is at his most exquisite, fittingly, when he is describing VVS Laxman bat. Despite the series being not one of his greatest, infact both Sehwag and Dravid played better parts, it is the memory of his glances and cuts that stays vividly in memory long after the book is completed. If you want to get a taste of Bhattacharya, check out his essay on the 281 era and the masterfully built eulogy to Indian cricket’s most exciting and enigmatic pair, Dravid and VVS. Its craftily nuanced architecture with flashes of brilliance is befitting both the wonderful humans, who also happen to be outstanding batsmen. This book is also very funny, but where Sethi’s was hilarious because of the amalgamation of characters in a scene ( the one in train with Ashraf and the bangle-seller is a gem ) and their unexpected behaviour, Bhattacharya’s is more because of his wry, deadpan humor. It was especially in moments of humor that I was reminded inadvertently of Naipaul’s masterpiece, A House for Mr. Biswas, because of the similar way in which Bhattacharya drops a bombshell of a line and had me go back, re-read it and double up with laughter. The only other instance of me laughing so hard while reading was probably when I read that Sardars-Traffic Constable-Traffic Jam episode in Tarun Tejpal’s The Alchemy of Desire. I must have read it six times back to back and still couldn’t stop laughing.

Talking of cricket books, I am in the middle of another thoroughly entertaining and insightful book, It takes all sorts, written by that master of Sports prose Peter Roebuck. Roebuck, with Rohit Brijanth, is my favourite sportswriter on the planet. Following them are wacky and witty Ahmer Naqvi, prosaic and robust Ed Smith, and erudite and romantic Jonathan Wilson. Having grownup on a steady diet of Roebuck and Brijnath, thanks to Sportsstar and Thatha who subscribed for it, and of late Cricinfo and The Straits Times, I fell in love with sports in all its shapes and sizes thanks to their passion and knowledge. But it took me a long time to realize the difference in their approaches to sport. While describing an emphatic cover drive, both of them would be equally tantalizing with their description, but where Brijnath induced that feeling of Godhood descending onto Earth, Roebuck talked of mortals rising briefly to the status of Gods. For one, a Federer forehand was like the baton in the hands of an orchestrator; for the other, it was more like a whip stirring up slumbering horses. For one, sport showcased the pinnacle of human imagination and acumen. For the other, sport was so compelling because of the normalcy and mortality of those pursuing it. Brijnath’s pieces on Nadal and Messi give impression of superhumans; Roebuck’s pieces on Sangakkara and Dravid marvel at men behind those helmets. The former composed sonnets, the latter constructed brilliant prose. It is indeed my great fortune to have access to both their work.

The third book I read recently was Albert Camus’ The Stranger ( the Matthew Ward translation ). Ever since I discovered Existentialism, mostly from Wikipedia pages and sometimes from quotes of writers, I’d been meaning to read Sartre and Camus. So, one day, during a particularly dull afternoon at work, I downloaded the book, came back home and finished it in one sitting. Not much of an achievement because the novella’s pretty slim and also is an immensely compelling read. I loved the vivid description in part one and thought part two was too philosophically inclined without a compelling narrative but I think it is a testimony to the work’s greatness that it is still being read and discussed about seventy-five years after its publication. And for some reason, probably because I'd read Camus was French-Algerian or because the description was evocative, I kept picturising the work of French New Wave masters, especially Godard’s Breathless and Truffaut’s 400 Blows. And oh, I also read this beautiful Sci-Fi story by Kin Liu called Mono no aware, which is eponymous with the beautiful Japanese concept I learnt about while reading Roger Ebert’s review of The Moonrise Kingdom.

And now, I’m rearing to go start UR Ananthamurthy’s Samskara , the AK Ramanujan translation. What a wonderful fortnight it’s been.