Let's Talk Bombay Talkies

So, a couple of days back I (finally) got an opportunity to watch the much acclaimed and the much talked about Bombay Talkies. I am no connoisseur of cinema. I blatantly confess my inability to appreciate the finer nuances and technical aspects of cinema as a form of art. My appreciation of the movie is hardly based either on the apparently superficial parameters such as: popularity of the star cast, merit of the director(s), locales in which the movie is shot (I couldn't have cared less if ZNMD was shot in Satpura instead of Spain), or the more profound aspects such as the intricacies of plot construction, nuances of characterization, art direction, verisimilitude of the story etc. Or maybe these factors influence me subconsciously without my being fully aware of them. All I mean to say is that I don’t go in with a check-list in my hand. 

By and large, I've realised, that the one thing that appeals to me the most in a movie, or any form of art for that matter, is its potency to stir emotions, thrum the strings of heart, as it were. If the movie does that, then, at least for me, it redeems itself of all other inevitable flaws that it has; for art is the extension of humanity not divinity; and perfection is not a human realm. Yes, there's always a better way of doing, saying and creating things. But that should not preclude one from appreciating the beauty of the art form as it stands now.

Perhaps, that's one reason I've never been copiously pleased by Sci-Fi, action flicks, or even thrillers for that matter. I may enjoy a rom-com here and there, but it won't be something that stays with me. Whereas the movies which may be apparently nondescript but manage to ripple my emotions usually persist in my memory, influence me, and become a part of my life.

I was told that Bombay Talkies is my kind of movie. I read the reviews and the broad story line and had an inkling that I might actually like the movie. However, within few days of its release the movie had raked a storm of discussions in the intellectual circuits. The critique was highly polarised. 

Of the many things that caught people's fancy was Karan Johar's bold, serious and overt depiction of a homosexual character in his short story.

 While there was one section of the top crust of humanity that hailed it as the coming of age cinema and commended K Jo's daring, the other section panned the movie for depicting the gay character in a negative light-- allegedly as a "husband-snatcher". 

I for one think that perspectives of the critics on both sides of the fence are a little too loaded. It was a story. And a story should be seen as just that. A story is a small fragment of someone's reality. By passing a judgment on a story we implicitly pass a judgment on someone's reality. While I could not see in what manner was the gay guy trying to "snatch" the husband, I would not be surprised at all even if he were depicted so. Are we saying that queer people are sacrosanct and are not as susceptible to human follies as straight folks? 

In fact, not even once does the wife in question begrudge the gay man or show any sign of resentment toward him. She begrudged the husband. And mind you the grudge was not ascribed to his being gay, but to his deception-- for keeping her in dark, for donning a facade all through their married life. 

I think people missed out on the larger message that Karan wanted to convey through his story (and also by deciding not to marry himself) that while it is not wrong to be gay, it is wrong to be deceitful. 

The story commences on the note: "Homosexual hu main...homosexual. Chakka nahi hu. Na chakka hona galat hai aur na homsexual hona. Samjha!! (I am homosexual not a eunuch. And there's nothing wrong in being either. Understand)"

And the story ends on the note: "...jhooth bolna buri baat hai (it's wrong to lie)". 

I think these two lines sum up the entire essence of the story and define its premise. People failed to read this underlying and subtle message. 

It was not a case of a gay man alluring a straight man to sleep with him driven by lust. The husband was a closeted gay man himself. If anything the gay man should be commended for having such an effective 'gay-dar' (just kidding. lol). 

Surprisingly, I always empathise with women in such cases. No matter what, I somehow I cannot see how under any circumstances--however extenuating-- can a gay man choose to put a woman's marital life at stake. Maybe few years down the line when I am more experienced and more mature I may come to terms with this aspect of queer existence especially in a socio-cultural milieu like ours, but for now, I can't but be a little judgmental. 

For me the high point of the story was when the wife after all the sobbing and weeping breaks into a smile and concludes that now she's free and it's over. I loved the sense of liberation she experienced in that moment. I loved how she felt absolved of the guilt of not being appealing enough for her husband or not being worthy of his love. 

I can't imagine the agony-- that constant self-doubt, that constant guilt of being incompetent, that constant sense inadequacy on the count of not being desirable enough for her man-- of that woman caught up in such a marriage. 

All this while the wife dressed up seductively only to elicit gaze that makes her feel desirable-- something which her stoic husband could not accord her. 

I loved that moment when the wife is shown wearing a blood red lipstick post the confrontation she has with her husband. She was now dressing up for herself and not to please the husband for a change. It is that sense of emancipation that thrilled me.

The husband belittles the gay man, because he is not able to digest the gay man’s courage and unapologetic disposition.  He turns hostile towards the young man not because he was miffed by the unseemliness of the young man’s move, but his own inability to resist temptation. The violence was not the fallout of prudery; it was the fallout of fear—the fear of confronting one’s own desires. The husband saw in the young man what he himself could never be.

While the story subtly censures the lie pulled off by the husband all his life, the story also briefly reveals the rather mordacious ramifications of accepting and being vocal about the truth of one’s own sexuality in the land of “Satyamev Jayate”. The young gay man is subjected to vehement violence and barbed remarks (physical and mental torture) at the hands of his own father finally culminating in the ouster of the young man from his house. The price that hundreds of queer children have to pay for speaking truth, nothing but the truth, about something as innate as their sexual orientation. Sad and shameful, isn’t it?

I wonder why people overlooked these aspects of the story and either went about extolling the story or excoriating it left right and centre. 

Like any other anthropological existence, Queer existence too is so diverse and complex that no one film, or story, can do full justice to it or present a panoptic view of it. One story can only portray one dimension of queer reality. Censuring the story is saying as if that particular dimension is non-existent. 

I feel that the best thing about a story —a realistic one-- is that it’s a slice of life. It can be good, it can be bad. It can’t be right or wrong. 

Phew! Well, talking about the other stories: Zoya’s story was extremely endearing. The way it subtly questioned and subverted our notions of (hyper) masculinity was indeed praise worthy. The way the child innocently gives up on hewing to his father's ideas of how boys should be was touching. " But I hate it. Mujhe nahi maarna goal-voal. Goal maaro...goal maaro...goal maaro."

 Honestly, I don’t care even if it was a rip off from some western movie. I loved it! Period.  

I am ashamed to admit that this was the first time I witnessed the genius of Nawazudien Sidique. And I must say all the praises that I’ve heard about him were not even one bit exaggerated. He is certainly a ‘Nat-Samraat’ in making. 

The three child artists were also brilliant. The first one’s unassuming rendition of the melodies from the golden era of Indian cinema (Hindi film music to be more precise); the second one’s mere smile when she sees her father return home with a story was more eloquent than any poesy; the third one’s expressive eyes which dilate and light up when he sees his mother’s stilettos and slips into them tugged my heart. The fine depiction of pathos, helplessness and a consuming sense of urgency on Vijay’s face when he is unable to get through the gates of Pratiksha (Mr Bachhan’s residence in Mumbai) is truly remarkable. 

All in all, I connected with the movie at various levels. It is one movie I’ve seen in a long time that will linger on for some time to come. It was simple (nothing grand or ostentatious), subtle and yet effective. 

                                                             

  

Of Love Awe and Resentment...

Dear C,

I am sorry to have been writing to you so late. It’s been long overdue now. But I am sure you’d forgive me.  Why won’t you. You’re magnanimity personified. I don’t think I even need to tell you how electrified I was upon seeing you after almost five years. You could see it in my eyes, couldn’t you? You could see my eye-pupils dilate as I walked closer and closer to you. In fact, I could hear your presence much before I could see you. I was thrilled. My gait was competing with my heart-beat.  I don’t know what exactly draws me to you. I think, it’s more of intrigue than love.

There’s so much we owe to you, and most of the times we don’t ever realise your importance. I admire how you go on about your business silently, while everyone thinks that you’re just loafing about. They don’t see what it takes to be who you are and how difficult it is to be who you are just because you don’t show it; but when you do, even the mightiest tremble. Now, you see, this is another reason I am so deeply fascinated by you. You wield so much power; and yet you are not bumptious. Well, most of the times. You know your limits well. Your grace, notwithstanding your rather formidable immensity, is something that renders me in sheer awe.   

I could spend hours at length staring at you -- just looking at you meditatively without uttering a word. And I love the way you stare right back at me with the same meditative gaze, as if trying to whisper something in my ears — maybe the secret of life, its origin, or its culmination. I am sure you know it. You’ve seen it all. From you it all began and into you it would be all laid to rest. When I see you I somehow I feel that all my thoughts are being subliminally subsumed by you. And I think you are one of the few who has the fortitude and resilience to withhold them without showing an iota of disdain or alarm.  With you can I be assured that the brine immanent in my eyes is-- and will always be-- less than that in yours. It’s a consolation of a different kind. Maybe you won’t understand.

Feeling your cold body touch mine makes me feel connected to the past, the present and the future simultaneously. I feel as if I am here, I am there, and I am everywhere your vast expanse spreads. I can’t even begin to imagine how you engulf so much in you when even the little that remains bare seems endless. Yes, I feel, that’s one of the most remarkable quality that draws me toward you: you are deep. Unfathomably deep. In others I always seek depth; and in myself I always seek height. Shall I tell you a secret? I fancy my heart as mysterious as yours.

I can’t still forget that night when your entire body was glazed in shimmering moonlight. For the first time, I saw the moonlight dance. It was dancing to the symphony created by the sound of waves swashing against the shore and the bombination of the blowing breeze. A symphony I had been longing to hear for many years now. I only felt bad for there was no one with me on that full-moon-lit and vernal night who could truly appreciate this surreal moment. There was no one with whom I could amble on your shores hand in hand. There was no one to who could recite a poetic verse or two to commemorate this splendid moment. There was no one who could be my anchor on your shores or in my life.  I often say this, and I say it again: I’ve never had very big aspirations. I’ve always looked for joy in small little moments such as these, but when one is denied even those, then, one is bound to feel a little resentful. Won’t you second me, O Mighty Ocean?

With fondest love

aviD