Sob Saree…

I remember the time I was young and freshly weaved. It felt good to come to life after a treacherous 10 hours of weaving. I felt special, as I was one in the elite hand woven group. All I wanted, all any silk saree has ever wanted is to be worn and shown off. We all knew we are going to be replaced by a younger and better looking saree. But me, I was too beautiful for thoughts like that.

With three different colour silk threads running all over my body and feet adorned with thick zari, I glittered like a star. My pallu, embellished with crystals had enough zari to buy a silver chalice. I knew all the others were jealous of me. The weaver’s wife said I would fetch them at least 2 lakh rupees. I looked around at all the other sad looking sarees. Not that they were not handsome but none could even dream about being me.

As the weaver’s wife started stacking sarees in the cupboard, I made up my mind not to fall into the company of those measly looking sarees. She picked me up and the light hit me at just the right angle. I shined as she ran her hand on my back. After some conversation with her husband she wrapped me up in a velvet cloth and kept me on the topmost shelf, away from all the others.

The next day I brought them some more good news when they sold me for three lakhs to the local supplier. As he carried me into his store room, I was astonished to discover that I was not the only good looking one. There were at least three of them in my league. Few days later I travelled with the local supplier to the saree store in the city.

It was a long day and by the time they reached my price range the store had closed. The owner’s wife had sent them some food, coffee and a little brat (I guess he was the owner’s son). Wisely deciding not to have the food the men pulled out a few plastic cups and started drinking coffee. I was pulled out with the three other sarees and placed in front of the owner. He and his associates looked at us as we preened in whatever way possible. As he was placing me down, I saw the brat running towards him and I heard him scream.

In that instant my life was changed forever. With searing hot coffee all over me, I was no longer the special one. The owner and supplier started fighting over my price with neither of them wanting me as I winced in pain. I was reluctantly purchased and sent off for a dry wash. They tried hard to first make me look beautiful and then to sell me. No one would even look at me. I had been scarred by all the dry washing, I started loosing color and they started thinking of how to use me better. I was left sitting in a corner as all the other sarees looked at me when they walked out of the store with the customers.

From being kept in a velvet cloth all by myself, I had been reduced to the bottom of a clearance bin in a bargain store with people clawing at me from all directions. Not because they wanted me but because they grabbed anything they could once they got through the huge crowd around the clearance bin. It has been days since any one folded me.

As I lay there neglected, staring at the dirty floor through the transparent container, I thought to myself “Will this never end?”

-Divya Ravishankar

Last week my mom, sister and I were shopping for some sarees. This is an elaboration of a small thought I had then.

The Dirty Picture – My Thoughts

The Dirty Picture, directed by Milan Luthria and produced by Ekta Kapoor is a movie loosely based on Silk Smitha’s life. It stars Vidya Balan, Naseeruddin Shah, Tusshar Kapoor and Emraan Hashmi.

Silk knows her USP and uses it to her advantage. She is unapologetic about it and believes that she is the best. Vidya Balan shines as the audacious Silk. She plays Silk with a lot of oomph but it never feels vulgar. She manages to portray Silk as a human being and not turn her into a caricature even with all the skimpy outfits, cleavage display and rolling around in oranges.

Ably aiding her are the amazing dialogues by Rajat Arora. Gems like “Amma, log sochte hain aadmi hi sab kuch hai. Par aadmi ko jo chahiye woh sab toh mere paas hai. Toh kaun bada.” are scattered throughout the movie. The actors, Naseeruddin Shah, Tusshar Kapoor and Emraan Hashmi fit their roles like a glove. The over the top movie star, the aspiring writer and a struggling director turned actor each come into Silk’s life at different junctures. Each of their relationship with her is unique which also shows the growth in her maturity.

Although the story does ample justice to the meteoric rise of Silk, it is not as gracious when it comes to portraying her downfall. Her vices are plenty. She is always holding a glass of alcohol, suggesting she may be an alcoholic. She manages to always choose the wrong men and get her heart broken, suggesting how lonely and depressing her life is. Yet the reason for her sudden downfall is not outlined clearly. It is like being confronted with a multiple choice question where each and every audience member can choose what they like to be their reason for her downfall.

However, with a crackling first half and an average second half this movie is miles ahead of many Bollywood movies. More power to Ekta Kapoor for choosing and trusting this subject.

Watch “The Dirty Picture” to get a glimpse into the life of a bold woman who will leave you yearning for more.

-Divya Ravishankar

Death in a family (Fiction:Part 3)

Son’s perspective

==============

It is the creepiest feeling in the world when you hear your mother say “Appa (Dad) is no more.” “What does she mean no more?  I spoke to him just 2 days back.” I got out of the bed and tried to gather myself as my wife was off to wake up the kids. I called the travel agent and arranged for flight tickets. They were so costly, I almost thought of going just by myself. My wife was on the phone calling my sisters. “Appa, what happens to dead people?” my 5 year old daughter asked as she came into our bedroom. “They get to sleep peacefully in god’s house.” I told her. My 10 year old boy followed her “First Appa will burn thatha’s(grandfather) body.” he whispered and she started crying in fear. “Gautam, you really need to control your tongue.” I told him sternly as I picked up my daughter.

A few hours later when I entered my parent’s house. I saw my dad lying on a large slab of ice. My uncles and aunts were so eager to let me know how sad they were that I did not get a chance to grieve. The most frustrating part was narrating the story to each and everyone who came. The first thing they would ask without fail was “How did this happen?” “WHAT DOES IT MATTER?” I thought. I would just finish telling someone and next person would ask the same question. I contemplated printing it out and distributing it as pamphlets at the door so people would stop bugging me.

The idiosyncrasies did not stop there. I was told the next day as we were returning from the crematorium that I would have to go pick out a gold ring. Apparently I fulfilled my duties as a son by saying bon voyage to my father. I had just placed burning coal on my father’s chest and I need to buy a piece of jewelry for that. Who comes up with stuff like this?. I was then dragged along to the shopping mall where my wife and my sisters were picking out new clothes for all of us for the 13th day rituals. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell everyone to leave me alone for just 15 minutes so I could mourn the loss of my father but I sat there helplessly holding my daughter’s doll as she tried on some clothes.

The whole family decked up in new clothes stood by me as the pundit gave me the ring and everyone gathered saw us feeling relieved that we had moved on from the loss. I don’t think I can ever move on. I will always miss him.

–Divya Ravishankar

Background: Write about a death in the family from the POV of the deceased, wife and son. This is what I came up with.

Wife’s pers: http://chotubowlofsoup.wordpress.com/2011/11/10/death-in-a-family-fictionpart-2/

Deceased pers: http://chotubowlofsoup.wordpress.com/2011/11/02/death-in-a-family-fictionpart-1/

Death in a family (Fiction:Part 2)

Wife’s Perspective

===============

“God you are gone, you are really gone.” I thought as I walked away from my husband and called the doctor. “Why did you have to leave first? You were always selfish like that.” I thought as I ended my conversation with Dr.Parekh and dialed Akshay’s cell. My eyes were still moist with tears. “Amma. Is everything ok?” Akshay asked as he picked up the phone. He was always very intuitive. I often wondered whom he got that quality from.

I was sure Akshay would call Sunaina and Vidya. After breaking the news to him and then talking to my daughter-in-law, I waited for Dr.Parekh at the door. “Who will wear that silk saree you bought me a few days back? Your sister is now going to ask me for my metti (toe ring). That witch always liked them.” “Mrs.Balan…Mrs.Balan” Dr.Parekh called out as I was lost in deep thought. I took him to the bedroom where he began to examine my husband’s body.

By now the neighbors were awake and had realised what was happening. Some people walked in to console me. Seeing them I only cried more. “Why am I crying? He is gone. He is not going to return.” I kept telling myself but was unable to stop. I think I was more embarrassed to be seen this vulnerable. Dr.Parekh gave me his written statement and left after expressing his condolences.

The next 13 days were just a blur. People shuttling in and out the house, relatives that I had not seen for years showed up. Some were genuinely sad, some visiting for formality and some too curious for their own good. “Are you going to be selling this house?Did your husband have a will? Who co-owns your bank locker with you? Have you already decided how you will be splitting your jewels?Are you going to be living here by yourself?Your daughter-in-law seems sweet enough. I hope she stays that way, if you decide to live with your son.” There were many more friendly questions and warnings that came my way.

Why are they so worried about  such stuff? I am still alive. Aren’t I? Why do they have to talk about inheritance. I hoped that I had brought up my children to behave maturely but deep down, I worried too.

After all the rituals were over and people left our house, I hoped that I could grieve in peace as I looked at my kids sitting at the dining table talking. I took care of each one of them as they were growing up. Now I hoped they would do the same.Lonely and concerned I thought “Why do I not trust my own children anymore?”

–Divya Ravishankar

Background: Write about a death in the family from the POV of the deceased, wife and son. This is what I came up with.

Deceased perspective: http://chotubowlofsoup.wordpress.com/2011/11/02/death-in-a-family-fictionpart-1/

Son’s perspective will follow shortly.

Death in a family (Fiction:Part 1)

I got up like any other day and reached out for my wife’s hand. We have been married for over 60 years and with 2 daughters, 1 son and 5 grandchildren, we hardly have any complaints in life. “Geeta”,  I called out my wife’s name when I could not feel her on the bed. Then suddenly I heard her scream. I saw her looking at me with horror as I opened my eyes. “What happened?” I asked as I got up to walk towards her. I stood up but a weird sensation took over me. I could not feel the cold morning floor under my feet. I looked down and was flabbergasted. MY FEET ARE MISSING, I panicked.

“Just give it some time. It will sink in.” called out a voice from behind me. This young man standing next to me was wearing a trendy t-shirt, a sweatshirt, ripped jeans and some mean looking shoes. “Who are you?What are you doing in my house?” I asked as curiosity, fear and anger took over me at the same time. “Well sir, this is your house no more. I am sorry but you are dead.” he said. I continued to look at him as the news started to sink in. “I am Yama’s (lord of death) assistant. He apologizes for not being here personally but he will be the one handling your case.” he said. “Is this really happening? May be I am just dreaming.” I thought to myself trying to make sense out of all of this. “No, you are not dreaming. There look at your body.” he said as I looked at myself or whatever was left of me lying on the bed. “We need to get going now. There is a lot of accounting that needs to be done.” I was interrupted again as he peeked into a gadget.

“Is that an iPad?” I could not believe my own eyes. “Yes it is. Steve joined us recently. I have to tell you he has really streamlined a lot of things for us.” he then held my hand as I felt us raising up towards the ceiling. “Wait..Wait….If I am really dead….I mean 100% gone…As in I am the soul of me….” “Yessss” he said with some caution.

“Well, then in that case I would like one last wish.” I said. “Last wishes are granted when people are alive but we have some time. So tell me, what is it that you want?” “I want to walk through a closed door. Please, just once. I have seen it in so many movies. Just once…..” I pleaded. “Why does everyone always want to do that?” he let go of my hand and we descended. I floated to the living room and I walked back and forth the closed front door as my wife sat next to my body weeping inconsolably.

-Divya Ravishankar
Background: Write about a death in the family from the POV of the deceased, wife and son. This is what I came up with.
Wife and son’s perspective will follow shortly.

Kishan And The Black Shoe

I loved how the sun peeked into our house through the tiny crevices in the roof every morning. I would lay on the floor looking at the dust dancing in it and wait for my mother to come and wake me up. Ever since my father passed away, my mother had started working as a maid and this was the only time of day she would have for me.  It was a 10X10 room that I called a house. My mom, me, Bholu and my step father shared this space.

Well, it was really just my mom, me and Bholu. My step father was more on the come when you need money basis. I never liked him. He would come home drunk late at night, throw me out and ask her to fulfill his needs as a man. What is needs as a man anyway? My mother gives him almost all her salary, which he uses for gambling. She lets him stay in the house and never enquires his whereabouts. What else does this monster want?I would then have to helplessly sit and watch him slap her and kick her to his hearts content. He would then call me into the house and command me to press his feet as he was tired and needed to go to sleep. Scared and terrified, I would comply as I watched my mom gather herself with bruises all over her face.

“Why do we need him amma?” I would ask my mother almost every other day. “Kishan, you should not be thinking like this. We are lucky he accepted me even though I had a child.” “Lucky? Is this what you call luck? Then I never want to be lucky in life” I would think to myself.

“Kishan, wake up it is time for me to leave.” my mom said as she walked into the room. I waited for her to come and give me a hug. She walked up to me and took me in her arms. “You are six years old now. You should be waking up by yourself.” she said. Bholu came running behind her wagging his tail. Bholu was never allowed to sleep in the house as the monster did not like dogs. He hated Bholu more as he would bark and bite the monster if he tried to harm mom. Once when Bholu attacked him he put out his bidi(cheap thin cigarette) on Bholu.  Ever since that day mom keeps him chained behind the house at night. He still barks but that is all he can do.

Just as my mom was about to leave for work she handed me a fifty rupee note and told me to go give it to the monster. He and some other useless characters always sat at the tea shop playing cards. I sat at the door looking at my mom till she disappeared. I closed the door behind me and started walking with Bholu to the tea shop. You had to walk to the end of the street and cross the railway tracks to reach the tea shop. I was very scared of crossing the railway tracks especially because I had heard stories where people crossing the tracks carelessly got crushed by trains. I could see the tea shop and the monster from the other side.

The tea shop was a thin sheet of asbestos held up by four wooden poles and some plastic chairs whose legs had been deformed by the numerous people who had occupied them. The owner sat next to a wooden table where he maintained all the money and there was a boy around my age making and serving the tea.

I reached the shop and saw the monster narrating a story to everyone. “I just told him to go straight and take a right. He was so pleased with me he gave me his shoes.” he said. “What shoes?”I thought and looked at his feet. It was the most beautiful thing I had seen all my life. It was black and glossy. It had thick laces coming out of holes that were wrapped up in black-golden metal. I had not completely  finished appreciating it as I heard “What are you doing here, you filthy rat?”  I took out the money and handed it over to him. The shoes were on my mind that whole day.

When my mother came back in the evening “Can I buy a pair of shoes?” I asked her. “What do you need shoes for?You don’t even go to school” she said and brushed me off. I was a little sad but I never liked to force my mom.

That night after the monster went to sleep, I slowly got up and walked towards the shoes. I quietly smuggled them out of the house. Bholu and I kept staring at them for a longest time. I was mesmerized and Bholu was just looking because  I was. I finally put one foot inside a shoe.I often dreamed of walking on clouds and thought it would be amazing as they were white and fluffy but this shoe felt much better than that. I put the other leg into the other shoe. I then rotated my leg, tapped them on the ground, move my leg up and down. The shoe was so big. It felt like I had a hula hoop around my leg. I decided it was time for me to walk in them. I got  up and had hardly taken five paces, I fell over the wall and screamed out in pain. My mom and the monster came running as I tried to remove the shoes as soon as possible. “What happened?” my mom came running towards me. “He wore my shoe.” the monster grumbled. “What?” she asked. “HE WORE MY SHOE.” he screamed. The monster pulled the shoes out of my leg and gave me a tight slap across my cheek. “Remember not to come near my things again.” he said and walked into the house.

I felt like someone had placed a searing hot iron over my cheek. It turned red with the imprint of the monster’s hand. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Is this why you asked me for a shoe?” my mom asked as she held me in her arms, running her hand over my back. “I will try my level best to save up and buy you one.” she said earnestly. I knew we would never be able to save enough money to buy me a shoe but I nodded as a steady stream of tears ran down my cheeks.

A few days passed and my mother gave me some money and made me the delivery boy again. As I  approached the tracks I saw a large crowd of people gathered around. I walked towards the crowd and overheard someone saying “People really need to be careful while crossing the tracks. Why do they not respect the signal.”. “What happened?” a potbellied man standing next to me asked. I was in the thick of the crowd by then. “Some man was hit by a train while trying to cross the tracks this morning.” came a response. I could not see faces anymore, all I saw were legs. In between the gaps, I saw a lot of policemen and to the side there was blood splattered all over the tracks. Right next to the blood I saw a shoe. Black, thick laces and a soft interior.

–Divya Ravishankar

Background: We were given the tag line “I found a shoe on the road” and had to write a story around it. This is what I came up with.

An apology to the old lady

It was years ago but I still remember it vividly. Like any other morning I bid goodbye to my mom, to begin a boring and a mundane day of a 5th grader. I never liked the early morning 15 minute walk to the bus stop. The sun had just risen but the streets were bustling with activity. I got out of the apartment complex and walked past the loads of people waiting at the public transport stand for their morning commute. I walked past a string of huts on the footpath, with walls made out of left over asbestos and garbage bags and doors made out of rags stitched together haphazardly. The men from the hut were sitting on the footpath having a bath. “How can they have a bath like this? On the street, clothed?” I often marveled. Just then a group of kids from the hut, with hardly any clothes on, ran past me playing with a broken toy car.

As I continued to walk I heard the mumbling. “Is it her?Please god let it not be her?” I thought as a stone landed near my feet. I turned around and saw a lady, short and stout in her shabby night clothes screaming at the kids pelting stones at her. It was her. She was known by many names amongst the kids. The mad lady, The crazy old woman, The psycho. They say she went mad after she lost her husband in the 1971 war. I had also heard that she roams the streets talking to herself and beats people who come in her way or even look at her funnily.

By then the women from the huts had come out and were screaming at her. I looked at her closely, she looked tired. Her eyes had sunk deep into her face and were hardly visible. Her teeth had turned yellow and some of them even had black stains on them. She was still wearing her mangal-sutra(hindu symbol of marriage) and some golden bangles in her hand. The skin on her neck was sagging. A generous amount of dirt was deposited in her wrinkles and she was wreaking of body odor. If you looked past all that, you could see a scared and lonely woman trying to protect herself from all who were attacking her. Both verbally and physically.

She turned around and I saw her hair. It was one big giant lump of golden yellow with some black spots in between. I remembered my friend telling me that she had not combed her hair in over 20 years and if you did not comb your hair for that long, the hair grows veins. It would then bleed if cut. I looked closely at her hair. “Will it really bleed if cut?” I wondered, as a stone flew right by my ear. I jolted back avoiding it. I felt sorry for her. I wanted to tell the kids to stop throwing stones. I wanted to tell the women to stop screaming at her. Just then “Kavitaaaa, the bus is here.” my friend called out. She turned around and looked at me.

I froze with fear and looked at her speculating what would happen. She took one step towards me and I ran, I ran like I had never run before. The fear had eaten up all the sympathy and compassion that I felt for her. I got into the bus and sat down next to the window. I looked at her as the bus drove. “I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude.” I thought. “It is OK. You are just a child.” She thought or at least I hope she did.

-Divya Ravishankar

Movie Recco-Dogtooth

Words for the day. Sea, motorway, excursion, carbine says the voice from the tape recorder as the camera pans to the boy who is listening but is distracted. This is followed by the bizzare explanation of each word. Sea=leather armchair, motorway=strong wind, excursion=very resistant material. This is how the Yorgos Lanthimos movie Dogtooth begins.

It is the story of a husband and wife and their three children. But this family is unlike any other. The children have never been allowed to set foot outside the tall fences around the house. They have been indoctrinated to believe that the world outside is cruel and they will be ready only when their dogtooth falls out. As a result their interaction is limited to each other or with their father and mother. How the circumstances change and how each character copes with it plays out handsomely in the 93 minutes that follow.

The naivete, curiosity and belief in everything they have been taught (irrespective of how wrong it is) has been admirably brought to life on the screen. The abnormality in the children’s life and way of thinking has been portrayed beautifully.

When the daughter asks for the phone and smiles and accepts the salt shaker at the dining table OR when the boy is terrified by the cat (he has no idea what that creature is) in the garden, that he kills it with a hedge clipper as his sisters scream, you cannot help but smile at the satire. When the father lies about the cat being some flesh eating creature OR when he presents a messed up translation for the Sinatra song Fly me to the moon you cannot help but feel sorry for the kids.

The bizarre storyline crawls under your skin and seeps in deeper and deeper as the movie continues. The direction, writing and acting in this movie are topnotch.

Do watch and let me know what you think.

Movie Recco-2 Days In Paris

Some movies are about the intricate storyline, some about the action sequences, some about the music and dance but some are just about the wacky characters and amazing dialogues. 2 Days In Paris fits into this category. It is a sneak peek into 2 days in the lives of Jack and Marion.

Jack an interior designer and Marion a photographer have been together for 2 years and stop by in Paris at Marion’s house for 2 days on their way back to New York from Venice. These 2 days, which are supposed to be spent resting and touring Paris turn out to be nothing close to what they had planned.

Jack’s discomfort with anything new, Marion’s eccentric family, rendezvous with Marion’s ex-lovers and subtle hints of incompatibility between Jack and Marion slowly unfold as the movie progresses.  The movie is held together mainly but the fast paced dialogues which are a pure pleasure to watch.

The conversations between Jack and Marion start off normally and spiral downward quickly, making you wait eagerly for each sentence. One statement acts as a catalyst for the next one and very soon they are on the razor thin line between a conversation and a fight.  The ability of some dialogues which make you feel uneasy and make you laugh at the same time is commendable. The other amazing aspect is that Paris never distracts us from the movie.

It is unpredictable, witty and charming. Do watch and let me know what you think.

One of my favorite scenes in the movie:

In Memory of Shammi Kapoor

As a 5 year old kid all I had to look forward to on Saturdays were the movies on Doordarshan. Like any other Saturday the movie started but nothing could have prepared me for what lie in store that day. The very first song in the movie had the hero driving his fancy car in search of love. What was unique though was his style and expressions. The next song took it up a notch where he was on a boat flirting with this gorgeous woman, showering praises on her. I had never seen so much energy on screen before. He had me hooked, I waited for every little head shake and every little eye movement. I was so drawn in by his charisma that in the climax of the movie when he could not break free of the rope tied in his hands, I was worried sick about what might happen. The movie Kashmir Ki Kali ended but it began my love for Shammi Kapoor.

I have since seen Teesri Manzil, Bramhachari, Junglee, China Town, Tumsa Nahin Dekha and many more of his films. I truly believe that Shammi Kapoor was one of the first few to break free from the cliches of Bollywood. He developed his own style and was a phenomenal actor. Comedy, drama, romance, action he has done it all and with a lot of flamboyance. In fact he was one of the few actors who made his presence felt when he appeared on screen even after his prime, whether it was as Bade Raja Thakur in Prem Rog or as Shrikanth Mathur in Hero.

RIP Mr.Shammi Kapoor…You will be missed….

Below are some of my favorite songs of Shammi Kapoor:

My first memory of Shammi Kapoor. Yeh Chand Sa Roshan from Kasmir ki Kali.

 

Amazing melody, grand sets, Helen and Shammi Kapoor. Oh Haseena from Tessri Manzil.

 

Just his eyes say it all. Dil Ke Jharoke main.

 

A confident man flaunting his lover. Baar Baar dekho from China town.

 

This song made sliding in the snow look like so much fun. Yaaaaaahoooooooooooo from Junglee.