The Night shows a lot of truths...and as they surface sometimes we want to go under the surface. Six feet under. Yet the morning makes you wonder why beauty exists even in cars languidly getting out of parking lots....in the nightmare and the dream you still remember, in the barren vegetation of Calgary. And deep inside you wonder....is there a purpose behind it all? Or may be, you want to believe in the purpose? So that one can go on, no matter what.... The hills or the mountains, as they are called here...makes you want to believe. Believe that there is peace, believe that you should exist. For something, if not for somebody.. And then, even though there is no other convincing factor, you would like to believe that certain things could be possible....there might not be love, but you could be in love. In love with a song like this:
As I'm fleeting in and out of prescribed and non-prescribed levels of consciousness, not helped by external aids, and trying to cope with the death in the family I realize how many more things are already dead. The problems I'm having is trying to define whether these deaths are natural, whether they are premature, whether they are justified, all these categories being deemed as mutually exclusive. A form of reasoning appears coherent but crumbles down when I try to get to the core of it. And then I realize I never existed and that I can never exist, though I might carry forward the mortal semblances and agendas to appease people, commitments and responsibilities. Yet I pay for myself to exist and a friend and a professional pay through their profession or concern/love so that I exist.
In time, they will also leave, while I try to assess how long this facade has to be maintained. I've already figured out the why-s, and have accepted the deception and unrelenting authority in them, associated with the fact that questioning never helped in finding answers and being at peace with the meshes in my life, but if only I could determine the timeline that would infuse a drop of sanity in my life. Apparently, even though we tend to believe in the freedom of the human mind and ability, we are not supposed to meddle with the timeline. Ludicrous things are also allowed to exist, as well as existences like mine where none whatsoever makes any difference. Guess just have to pull the smokescreen and go on....
Wondering how the word "deadline" found its genesis.
I have a very vague idea on why truth is classified into various categories—such as “ugly”, “bitter”, “sweet”, etc. They work their way without these adornments anyway….and a recurring fact to be well-classified into truth has been the realization on how much irrelevant stuff I have. For me, it’s more complicated than that. The things or stuff….are irrelevant or inconsequential to my daily living but are relevant to memories…or sentimental values so to speak. Things my mother has sent over the years, clothes that I’ll never wear probably, because of their colour or some writing, or because of their associated memories which I want to escape but which I’ll keep nonetheless, papers and documents of yesteryears that has to be kept lest some thunder strikes on their loss—stuff I do not see every day—but which practically lives under your skin, are religiously packed in innumerable boxes and taken along in each of my move. Whoever said “love don’t cost a thing” had no idea on life, or love, or moving for that matter. We move on in our lives, but probably not from memories or sentiments. We just get used to them.
Now…although this is not much of a story that I’m weaving here, our lives are just full of little anecdotes which remind us of narratives read or seen elsewhere. The disturbing fact is that they might remind you of something tacky you wouldn’t wish to be associated with your usual carefully crafted, non-prosaic self-image. Each time I’ve moved, and bought boxes from Staples, I ask for a big cellophane to wrap my boxes, as it’s always, without fail, raining ruthlessly or snowing ruthlessly outside. No, I do not choose the days, but these events are usually marked by very practical urgency and panic-attacks of needing more boxes. And even if it wasn’t supposed to rain/snow that day, it will, with clockwork veracity…and I walk through it and funnily speaking (or embarrassingly speaking)….it reminds me of Kajol in “Kuchh kuchh hota hain” as she stands in the rain on learning that her aficionado belongs to someone else. It was 16 of us in college who went to see the film in 1998 and we were all equally moved by the scene, our cynicism notwithstanding (or probably not so well-developed).
Now that we all are older and barely in touch, when I’m drenched and shivering in rain/wet snow/snow….I think of that scene and think of my friends. As to whether they’d have to move so much. As to how they are and whether amidst kids, taxes, professional deadlines, marital bliss/blues, loan payments……they do miss their less cynical and less wiser selves.
For me, it’s tough to say. The cynicism helps me get through in life and see things with an objective detachment and endure them, and of course, survive each move, and meeting and adjusting with new human beings each time, but it has also replaced the laugh with the smile.
However, it has enabled me to find the sunny side up in everything—even when signing the new contract in the new house—I couldn’t help but realize as to how potential tenants are not allowed to drink, do drugs, and be loud after certain hours or in certain ways for the general peace of others; but when a landlord does it, there’s nothing you could do about it, except move out from the place as soon as convenient. To paraphrase one of my favourite Shakespearian characters, some are born lucky, others achieve luck and…. some have ill-luck thrust upon them. Nonetheless, the third group always wants to belong to the middle group….as they move from one space to another. The journey is made, happy or not.
Not to forget, that in this process, they do gather dust; some of that dust is easy to blow away and some of them remain, irrespective of whether they are moon dust or rusty ones.
In light of making a move yet again, I’ve come to realize a few things on my current city, which, for all obvious reasons, I do not like. Calgarians get offended when I list the reasons of not liking Calgary as a city; actually, that was an understatement… but let’s not get into the way of the main argument and move elsewhere. I’m here to list bits and parts of my moving story. And I’ll start with my pet peeve:
1. Calgarians love pets. So far, I’ve seen:
a) combinations of cats (2 or more cats, breed is usually not specified),
b) combination of dogs (breed proudly mentioned in most occasions),
c) combinations of cats and dogs living under one roof (which should teach us humans a thing or two about life/living)
d) combination of cats and snake
e) combinations of 2 cats and 2 reptiles (listed as caged, type not specified)
f) combinations of cats, dogs and fish
There’s nothing wrong in having a pet. Moreover, without ever failing, I ALWAYS mention how I mean no disrespect to pets or to their adorable and harmless ways and/or their owners. Nonetheless, I’m lectured upon the slightest humble wish of preferring to stay in a pet-free zone on how the pets are better than humans or have cute ways or are non-disturbing….to the extent that one should assume the pets are actually capable of understanding human expressions and speech and are just doing an animalistic gig ala Sridevi in Nagina. On the few occasions when I forget to ask this most important question, owing to tiredness of making endless calls, like Murphy’s instant karma, those homes would always have a pet. And you’d find it out when you’ve made the entire trip, complete with waiting for the wonderful Calgary public transit, in the awesome Calgary weather, and figuring out the address with printed/hand-drawn Calgary maps (hand-drawn as my printer refuses to print these days, in keeping with and being observant of my stressful times).
2. Calgarians differentiate based on ethnic background.
Or, should I say discriminate? This, of course is no surprise…..having lived in Calgary from 2005 and done my moving quite a bit. Landlords and roomies ask where you are from, and their tones, availability of the room change accordingly. If I were to say anything more on the topic, chances are I might do so backed by theoretical explanations (and thereby, reproduce parts of my own thesis) so I’ll simply refrain from it unless one is particularly willing to listen to the ethnic argument.
3. People list distances as “only 10 blocks to blah”, assuming Calgary is a walkable city; I mean, assuming Calgary has a walk-worthy weather to make those 10 blocks to anywhere. In the same vein, landlords proudly list their property as “10 minutes to C train station” or “15 minutes walk to U of C”, in a city that rarely sees summer.
4. The pricing of rent is directly proportional to size of the bedroom but has spurious relationship with the number of people you’re sharing the living area/house/apartment with.
5. Rental listings usually come with the facility of a kitchen (I’ve seen listing without a kitchen, so one shouldn’t roll their eyes on why I’m stating the “obvious”) but one is not presupposed to cook more often. “More often” entails more than once a week, and “cooking” usually means boiling, brewing or at the most… baking stuff.
It’s considered bad omen to say “never” by colloquial superstition. While I’ve started to religiously believe in “never say never again”, sometimes I can’t help but chuckle at the unique nature of the city, as it is discovered/re-discovered in our layered ways to get by. Of course, the chuckle comes much later, once the feeling of exasperation has bitten the dust and most certainly as I enjoy my smoke and look at the Ursa Major in fortunate cloudless nights in Calgary.
When one goes into hibernating, knowing fully well that probably one's own need or one's own world would ferret her/him out of their comfort zone, does it bother the need to go hibernating in recognition of the fact that one cannot really hibernate and hide and get crouched so that nobody can touch her/him.
It is confusing as to which one is a better choice: to maintain the facade of normalency and go into an emotional hibernation or to get away from it all and try to be true to one's own wants and feelings. In the end, the world will get to you. In the end, there's no escaping the pain even though we take every care to build the walls.
Except when, one has reached the end or have chosen the end; for that, one must know when the time and the means to do it are just perfect and right.
The world laughs at failed attempts, even when you want to shoo yourself away from them.
A light crisp breeze, a clear sky, lots of sunshine, birds chirping, and the surprising privilege to actually see them moving around as they try to cut out the dry twigs and disappear into the pine trees....somehow I was reminded of autumn mornings spent in my native village in Murshidabad district, in West Bengal, India, when we used to go there after Durga Puja. The air used to be just this bit cool, just like this....and just after brushing I'd go on to the rooftop, putting on the loosely fitted red cardigan, waiting to get the feel of waking up slowly with the sounds of the place: the weavers who had started their work already, the birds, the distant radio transmitting sounds of radio stations based on Calcutta, and then Baba would ask loudly from downstairs whether we would drink palm juice, knowing fully well we were not particular aficionados of it, having rarely consumed it. But he would insist on having all of us "that seasonal thing" which "you'd never get anywhere in the world" and that was reason enough.
Just that slice of mornings came back to me, when I wasn't doing any of the tasks above. And then, why do I say mornings? All the mornings had something different to them, but the feel was same....perhaps that is why they collate together as somewhat a single image. And today I was just standing outside a one-storey house....there was powdery snow on the ground, and heaped ones all around, the sounds were of cars starting and traffic signals being started on and off in a distance, and some white Canadian neighbours trying to get something in their cars. Nowhere close to the sounds I'd hear to really feel awake in those distant mornings in a distant land.
But the birds were there, the smell of trees were there, as was the sunshine. And strangely enough, --2 degree C seemed that same level of coolness as experienced in months of October in my native village. Not anymore colder or warmer, just that same level of coolness.
Nobody lives in that house anymore, people are either dead or they have left. It's always known that nobody can't revisit a particular time and space, but then it is probable......or may I say, possible to get a whiff of the same taste even though one is far, far removed from that temporal space.
Though I'm confused as to whether I should thank God or my memory or my tendency to hold on to things for such small pleasures in life. The bigger question is whether to thank anyone at all.....wouldn't a quiet acknowledgement suffice?
Bringing out the “ghee” by tweaking one’s finger is an age-old Indian way to assuage difficult situations. It is apparent that it is indeed used in non-Indian pastures too. With respect to the recent hullaballoo in arresting Julian Assange, the owner of wikileaks, tweaking the finger (or the “reasons” to catch him, if one can) is the only recourse when faced with the impunity of not being offered the customary “ghee” as part of being the rulers of an established status-quo. Indeed, wikileaks among its other endeavours, had been raging a cyber jihad against the equally revered and hated nation of the world—the United States—through strategically timed, leaking of “truth” and thereby debunking the nation’s credibility across eyes that behold. The U.S had to do something—albeit that “something” was shrouded in legal and technological confusion as to what could be done—since Assange had been claiming it as “investigative journalism”, and wikileaks has fought and won over 100 legal challenges since its inception in 2006. Finally, the god of lady luck smiled on hurt parties like the U.S., as Julian Assange was recently arrested, but on charges of various sexual offences, which, he claims to be not true; quite, in the same vein the U.S and U.K. organizations have been claiming news leaked by wikileaks as not true.
Consequently, Assange’s arrest has brought off on the forefront not only a cyber gang war, as visa and mastercard websites were hacked in supposed retaliatory reactions, and the editorial in the Washington Times by Jeffrey T. Kuhner saying that Assange should be treated “the same way as other high-value terrorist targets”, but also the question as to who should control the representation of “truth” and how. Should everybody know everything? Or should news/facts/truth be privy to powers that be? As a recent nationally renowned journalist claimed, it is within every media person’s powers what should transpire and what should not, the overlap of moralistic prescriptions and dominant preferences on “truth” notwithstanding. Post-Matrix (the movie) and post postmodernism, it is common understanding that there is no single truth. Truth is subjective and dependent on agreement by two or more individuals on the experience and interpretation of a particular event, leading to the formation of an emergent consensus on reality. Assange sought to strike on this consensus, and while his arrest on irrelevant (that is, irrelevant to the “real” grounds on which he was most sought after) grounds has led to media and mass speculation on what would happen next, whether one could continue to receive the forbidden pleasures of having sneak peeks in the green rooms of the major powers, the audacious question meekly raised is: whether the U.S. or hierarchical superlative powers could really do anything to silence voices against it?
To revisit this question from a Foucauldian perspective, through punishment, a disciplining process is attempted. It is expected that this disciplining attempt would create docile entities—that would work in unison in economics, warfare, politics and the media—and be subjected to continuous surveillance, recordings and notes for subsequent internalization of the principles of the status-quo. Jeremy Bentham might be dead, but his Panopticon design of the prison, framed in 1785, still continues in latent form, as lesser hapless mortals are watched by bigger mortals without being informed of the process. Is it then really surprising and illegitimate, given the circumstances, that bigger powers would retaliate when the gaze is reversed/directed at them?
Despite the arrest of Assange, wikileaks declares that it will be back and continue to show the true facts. After all, facts exist independent of human perception and/or experience. Whether a statement is true or not, is largely dependent on certain other facts presented as supplementary evidence. Holding the control and access to those evidence adds on to one’s position in any hierarchy, local, international or informational. To clarify, supervisors hold facts/truth from their subordinates in the office, adults contain truth from children, friends keep secrets too, and percolating these small, restricted scenarios of taking liberties to the broader level, holding down of facts or truth become a classic and fascinating display of power struggles. Changes in regime and powers happen not when one power is overthrown but as Vilfredo Pareto said, one elite takes upon the other. We’d like to believe that the media would behave like the famous character in the cult movie “Gunda”who always professed that he keeps everything open (“mera naam hain bulla, main rakhta hoon sab khulla”). However, the role of the common man is but to accept such transformations in power struggles without much ado, as supporters or followers of one elite or the other and less as initiators or reactors to the proceedings.
They used to say, whoever goes to Lanka, becomes Ravana. As for finding the truth behind things in general, in this such-called age of information, the fun has just begun. Welcome to reality as it continues to ruin our lives, as Calvin says and get more bites, sorry bytes out of it.
They say habits are ingrained. I'd say some are borne out of relationships and stay with their "once upon a time" mark-ups even though those relationships might not be there; or might have changed their form and content. And these habits get so much under your skin that one would wonder whatever happened to the processes of their genesis.....yadi yadi... "whatever happened to us?" etc. As I was engaged in one of such habits, I was listing them.....and they surprized me in their range though I guess I could be spared of any embarrassment as regards their numerical nominality. Here they are:
1. Certain food habits, such as having certain food, in certain ways, in certain parts of the day; though I had the idea that I was fairly open-minded as far as having food in whichever form and at whichever time of the day was concerned.
2. Having throat lozenges (Halls)
3. Music preferences (okay, a tad little bit)
4. writing in dots and ending sentences with dots, with full knowledge of how ungrammatical they are
5. This one concerns the activity I was engaged in as mentioned in the beginning. This I've been doing, even after 31 years.
Sleep in foetal position, in perfect foetal position that is, even with my feet crossed.
Considering all relationships are based on some form of tacit or stated understanding of exchanges, we all probably carry our own unique balances forward while checking off the option of reviving some of them.
“We are all multiculturalists now”, Nathan Glazer, the well-known social scientist from Harvard had called attention to the way of life in 1997 when Americans of all ages, shapes, sizes, colour, political orientation, sexual orientation, gender, race and religion of the contemporary post-civil-rights era subscribed. This society spoke the language of tolerance, and respected the mosaic in diversity. Now in 2010, in both of our capacities as active and passive observers of social reality, we have the options of weighing in declarations of multiculturalism being a workable policy or being an “utter failure” as asserted by Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany. Indeed, opinions on multiculturalism range from being the proverbial sweet carrot waved to attract and assuage immigrant settlement in a new country, to the attempt of putting a square peg on a round hole. Whether or not we are all multiculturalists, the concerned philosophy affects us all beyond having relatives living in Australia, U.S.A., Canada or Germany, in our existences of being citizens in a multi-ethnic country where ethnic diversity is not a recent consequence of immigration.
Stepping aside from debates on whether multiculturalism is an unachievable dream, an empty promise, an assimilationist garb or a cultural commitment to ethnic groups, it remains so that multiculturalism is a demographic reality. Demographic multiculturalism is and will be on the increase in the global north owing to extraordinary regionalization of population growth and global fertility, leading to an unequal and irreversible migration gradient. Based on this actuality, quite understandably, multiculturalism as an official policy promises an atmosphere to retain cultural integrity and heritage for migrating ethnic groups. However, the congruence between policy and practice does not align perfectly as evident in empirical evidences the world over, owing to willingness to accept demographic multiculturalism but dismiss right-based multiculturalism to ethnic groups. The age old debates of melting pot and assimilation, of recognizing and encouraging diversity that exists as an antithesis to integration lies at the heart of multicultural debate which surface in situations of banning the hijab in France, granting of minimalist rights to skilled workers in Singapore or even the murder of Theo Van Gogh in Amsterdam or bombings in trains and buses in London. As onlookers, populist views question the granting of equal and civil rights to new immigrant groups who fail to respect the “laws” of the new country, who do not follow the “original” cultural practices; in addition, these immigrants are found to engage in disruptive and non-integrative practices, many of which are derived from their ethnic lineage that stand in stark contrast to the “basic” culture of a country. A natural question follows: how far should one tolerate difference from other cultures that threaten to move cornerstones of preceding settlers? Moreover, how much multiculturalism is enough to maintain sustainable cohesiveness in contemporary societies? Answering these questions somewhat, a convenient and workable form of multiculturalism is entails active invocation of “tolerance”; even then, in spite of granting cultural rights to maintain one’s lineage, the multicultural festival manages to marginalize ethnic groups and turn them into exotic artefacts to be brought out and made visible when the time and demand is right.
Assimilation, rationally speaking, is offered under bated breath as the veritable survival strategy to escape being branded into specific identity markers and to blend in with the “mainstream”. This involves making simple choices in cuisine such as opting for pasta over curry, meatballs over falafel, making certain choices in dressing like leaving the turban, the hijab and salwars behind, not being overtly religious except when fashionably celebrating Christmas in the contemporary social climate and being able to pronounce in perfect accents, words such as “Wednesday” or “homogenous”. Put another way, any such showcasing that can keep people (migrants or immigrants) off from “blending” with the mainstream/dominant ethnic group is encouraged to be shed off. The tacit assumption remains that multiple cultures can exist together only when lineages intermesh, with differences having the least chance of being perceived in antagonistic terms. Homogeneity amidst heterogeneity or unity amidst diversity remains the covert agenda target of any society, multicultural or not. As they say, “when in Rome, do as the Romans do”; when in Bombay, do as you are told; when in Bangalore, be who you are but respect the locals who are tolerating you.
Worth noting is the fact that the use of tolerance as an idea points to a sense of a privileged position, a sense of superiority complex, a sense of hierarchical content, that allows others to exist, in fitting with the existing status quo. Moreover, the notion of tolerance comes hand in hand with a defined sense of boundary within which new entrants to a community or nation are accepted. As a Ph.D student staying in Canada and researching on immigrants and Canadian identity, I’ve often found that for “mainstream”/dominant Canadians (of British lineage) their sense of Canadian identity is often admittedly derived from the colonial history of ruling the world. This enables a mainstream/dominant Canadian to draw upon a common reference point and justifying the age-old sense of authority when perceiving, defining and categorizing people from different ethnic groups. The question of assimilation, tolerance and multiculturalism, thankfully or not, did not arise in case of colonizing nations when they captured different nations or when they came to settle in the lands of the aboriginals.
Logically speaking, there is a degree to which individuals could assimilate into a new culture. For example, immigrants coming from countries that are similar in linguistic, economic, political, cultural and religious aspects are found to integrate and adapt to the “host” society easier than those who are considerably different linguistically, religiously, culturally, politically and economically. An immigrant coming from England or France would assimilate, adapt and integrate better with the dominant Canadian society than those coming from China or India. Several immigrants to Canada have adapted and assimilated to an overarchical western notion of Canadian identity in terms of customs, views and perspective and have emulated western ways of socializing, dressing, speaking and the like, based on their interaction with mainstream/dominant Canadians. Simultaneously, they have also maintained another exclusive, “ethnic” life and navigating within these dual worlds complete their Canadian identity of being multicultural.
The crux of the matter remains that living with diversity does not necessarily entail a more accommodative or accepting standpoint. Whether multiculturalism remains a successful social experiment or a failure is dependent on whether we consider terms such as “tolerance”, “host society” and “original culture” acceptable and find them okay to live with or assimilate and bury them altogether in our quest for cushioned existence. As they say, there ain’t no easy way out.
The title belongs to a song that almost belongs to my grandparent's era. Since I was small, I've seen this phrase to be used to express something to do with freedom, its resemblance with the suffix notwithstanding. Indeed, freedom is expressed in so many terms and expressions that one cannot but be thankful to the concept of "freedom of expression" albeit all the deterministic forces working their tentacles around it.
This morning, as I looked above the blue sky interspersed with yellow translucent leaves and let out oval smoke rings, I thought I was free. It was Sunday morning, 8:30 a.m. and I was up though nobody had told me to get up so early, though nobody had refrained from doing so, though nobody expected me to, though nobody had anything set aside for me to do, and I had the freedom to leave my phone with the ringer off and be a recluse or be in Regina (though I wish I could be in Riviera). Determinism like the bracketed portion always have their way of sneaking up on us, but I felt relatively free, of assorted levels of bonding and their associated commitments.
And then, I remembered......I mean....letting Manoj Kumar rest for a while, I remembered King Khan showing us what freedom should entail: drinking Pepsi and thereby practising "freedom to be"/"azaadi di ki". Though not hanging on to that thought but predicated on a discussion of the October Revolution, a friend was telling me how the freedom to just do anything and be a consumer of anything was rather worrisome to him; and quite akin to the Marxian chain of thought, he opined or rather, expected that this trend of exhibiting freedom would go on and ascend before bringing everything down. He hoped there would be a rebuilding (of values, ethics, modes of living and principles).
Yet, I wonder whether we the people, in our piecemeal existences do really engage upon freedom. Whether the choice to dress in accordance with what the "market" says, watch certain movies based on what the "market" directs, drink certain potions based on what the market supplies and such other "choices" are not our escape routes from freedom through automated channels of compliances. It relieves us to decide and act on our choices given, and take the path of least resistance to acceptance by our social milieu. So we don't feel alone; but feel that we can do (and possess the powers to do) what we want, and that feeling suffices for the moment rather than the trial and tribulations of it.
I was trying to prepare for a potential "behavioural" interview and realized that 5 years is a long time in erasing minute details of what you did and how. Not the bigger details are erased, like the name of a research project or how I or others went about it; but I couldn't remember how much each segment or a project was developed by me each day and such other things; whether I had faced little problems along the way. Somehow, each of those research projects in my years of working as an RA is striking me as a big jumbled up mass. Probably I'm aging or probably they didn't matter to me.... as that's how memories are supposed to be stowed in our brains. We don't usually remember what happened each day in the past year but we do remember the random moment 5 years back when we liked some brilliant bag of a random co-passenger or that striking face in the escalator or how we missed someone on hearing a certain song or how we were late for a certain day at work or even how we felt the moon was walking with us when we used to walk as kids and look up in the sky and so on....
And then, I came across these:
Pictures that brought back my whole childhood....pictures that provide warmth and memories of almost living in our little ambiotic sacs; when it was okay to stare at these while flipping through the newspaper or "Anandamela" or while it was definitely not okay to gaze at them in our restricted sessions of "Anandalok", "Stardust" and the likes. The "advertise" before the Saturday or Sunday movies when TV equalized Doordarshan were always preferred palatable pleasures, especially when one had to start studying for classwork due on Mondays; in addition to them, however, these print media advertisements were always gazed upon starry eyed.....on the stars in them.
And even then, I had lost, on my memories that is, the sooo-privileged-to-be-so dewy eyed Anuradha Patel, of being associated with anything else other than "Mera kuchh samaan" or ...Ijazaat....or her being the granddaughter of Ashok Kumar. But here she is, making me wonder how did I even forget that this toothpaste existed once upon a time? Well, to paraphrase Nietzsche (with all the due apologies to be used in such profane situations like this)...some things do not come to mind when we want them; but, when they do.....they touch us with their irrevocable molten comforting powers. Though, I guess.....none of us could forget, arguably, our first childhood crush, about whom nothing else was known except him coming from the illustrious filmy family panning over generations. The picture on left is not only Karan Kapoor, but worn out literatures where glamour meant Bombay dyeing or Grasim and definitely Dinesh with Sunny Gavaskar rooting for it or even.....Lakme nailpolishes....hugely predicated by the way Sonu Walia had her fingers playing with the telephone chord those days.
And of course, Vinod Khanna had to look glamourous, a matt finished green soap notwithstanding:
Stars had it then, eh? And some stars had it quite big for posterity to wonder how they had it.....yeh bhi koi baat hain?
The star on left was barely a star as far as I could remember..... in the 1980s I mean. Okay....so yeah..."Hero" was a hit, as was the tune. But to see so many sponsorships heaped on this person makes me say in Malvolio fashion...."..some have greatness thrust upon them". Evidences follow:
I remember the "Savage" blade and the 7'o' clock and the Wilkinson. But Jackie Shroff as a model for an aftershave called "savage" or being too macho to smoke charminar was lost on me.....probably with a good reason.........which again, is probably too subconscious or too politically incorrect to spill. I guess sometimes we smooth out on the edges of our memories for valid reasons, without being too patterned in the process.
As "Celine" once said, "Memories are wonderful things, if you don't have to deal with the past." A dear friend of mine always used to get a little rough whenever I would be nostalgic; get nostalgic while I'm miles away from home. Because memories are not supposed to bring anything to you....except the past, which is what you can't have. Or also because, they lose their meaning...."when you think of love, as something new..."
I wonder though....I haven't been able to forget a single person with whom I've interacted, or communicated for a day or two, or even for a minute or two. For better or for worse. Probably I've forgotten their names....their last names, but not them. And these pictures bring them back to me....from the dead...from the past. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing....I, being a 31 year old, do not care anymore. For me, they create a rustle of moments so precious that I can hardly let go. One can kiss them, but can't say goodbye....at least, not me.
Since it is my blog's birthday, (it's 3 years), I thought I would take one hard look at the craft, without getting crafty. I find I have half of the humour that used to be in the beginning. I have lost time to write more. But dear folks, I haven't lost on the critical introspection. I asked myself, why do I blog? Why do we blog? Why do you blog? And, why doesn't one blog?
I was telling a friend of mine that someday I would write on the Sociology of blogging. If there could be that proverbial sociology of hilsa fish, this should be cakewalk. And what better way to do this cakewalk on the birthday of this blog? (Well almost, I'm just a day late....)
Based on cursory glances here and there, and years of lit review, I take off from from an old and golden adage.
First, Some are born bloggers. Like the kid who would write in the last page of the Maths exercise copy of how he hates studying; like the student who would get inspired from Anne Frank's diary and start writing her own (it's more likely that this would be done by a "she" than "he"....take it from me), and even certain persons in facebook or orkut who write one big ass paragraph everyday on how life should be and make sure you notice, comment and do everything possible but dislike that. The innate sense of blogging make these people perform with very little resources as they provide an allay for their expressions. These blogs are sustainable blogs though might not be environment-friendly, since they exclude the alleviation of the reader's mind by defying the laws of social acceptance. One such legendary example is here.
Some achieve blogging through certain rites-de-passage of life, such as attaining motherhood (mommy blogs!), being a superstar (Aamir Khan and Amitabh Bachchan), getting married (wedding blogs for hapless posterity), discovering one's sexual identity, being the research supervisor (yes, there are "how-to" and "don't do" blogs written by the species), sulking blogs that are written after break-ups or other such angst corners.
And, ladies and gentlemen, some have greatness thrust upon them. Like greatbong. Like bongmom. If they don't blog, where would we be? One gigantic quality in them: they blog passionately and are dispassionate on the comments. We, the lesser mortals, bruise easily. Therein, is also a piece of their greatness.
Therefore, Be not afraid of blogging. Grey areas are there not only inside and outside of your head but almost everywhere you are afraid of committing. They are cushions in the world of prickly heat; You or I might not want to belong to any of the above categories, but we can always soothe ourselves through blogging categorically, regardless, and continue feeling that we can't be categorized.And when you need a little abstraction in life, when you need to get away from the gore and grit, you can write anything you fancy and achieve surreal bliss by finally applying the suggested label of "scooters" by blogspot. Heck, somebody's gotta blog about scooters, the primary suggestion by this webhosting redeemer, isn't it?
Consequently, there is a higher chance that you will get into the rhythmic flow, like for example, keep on writing on shooters, hooters, losers, messers and so on. Ever wondered why the "XYZ and messers" named shops are no longer seen? And remember how you used to have the cotton-candy from the seller stationed outside of it?
It's Christmas day today, 2009. Merry Christmas, dear reader.
People usually have turkey today, roasted. Or chicken, when they think of doing something interesting sometime. They might taste good depending on whether you like the cranberry sauce or whether you hate turkey. But the truth is, turkey is served and eaten, disregarding whether it's cold or hot. And you know what? It gets really interesting when someone wants to see whether you have the moronic expression akin to having cold turkey if you are being treated like a chicken. Before you try to decipher the previous sentence, let me share a long joke, probably not without relevance, since it is 25th December.
Jesus and Satan have a discussion as to who is the better programmer. This goes on for a few hours until they come to an agreement to hold a contest, with God as the judge.
They sit themselves at their computers and begin. They type furiously, lines of code streaming up the screen, for several hours straight. Seconds before the end of the competition, a bolt of lightning strikes, taking out the electricity. Moments later, the power is restored, and God announces that the contest is over.
He asks Satan to show what he has come up with. Satan is visibly upset, and cries, "I have nothing. I lost it all when the power went out."
"Very well, then," says God, "let us see if Jesus fared any better."
Jesus enters a command, and the screen comes to life in vivid display, the voices of an angelic choir pour forth from the speakers. Satan is astonished.
He stutters, "B-b-but how? I lost everything, yet Jesus' program is intact. How did he do it?"
God smiled all-knowingly, "Jesus saves."
It's a real joke and generally not considered as a PJ. I wonder why this joke wasn't at all used, in "3 idiots" especially when the moviemakers were being resourceful of all the usual email forwards and jokes one could have encountered since the eternity of Internet. Aal; including the arab sheikh taking a photograph of 5 burqa-clad women. Yeah, it is that up-to-date with Aamir Khan, the protagonist, being the 80% Jesus and 20% Gandhi (coming from Rajkumar Hirani, you ought to expect the latter proportion part for sure). I'm also sure that while making this watershed movie in Indian cinema, where water is coming from a human penis with a hissing sound and helps people in being eletrocuted sometimes, Mr Hirani was as fearless as it could ever be possible for any filmmaker.
Well, when you have the courage to make a movie where flourmills are made out of bicycle, where finding and replacing "chamatkar" with "balatkar" in a word document doesn't really stay limited in paper (or word), where a young engineering male student is shown to strum his guitar in the heat of the night as he is depressed and sings "nya-nya-nya-nya-nya-nya.....jeene do jeene do" only to drown further into gloom and commit suicide out of his inability of completing a battery-operated aeroplane with a wireless surveillance camera within 24 hours, you should be expecting the messiah to appear and solve all your home, neighbourhood and toilet problems, chanting "aal izz well".
To quote from the movie, "Whatever the problem in life is... just always say to yourself 'Aal Izz Well'.. This won't solve your problems but it will give you the courage to face it.."
That tagline should explain it aal......including the photoshopped place curiously named as Ladakh where the messiah lives, ......after he turns a recluse and generously gives the world 400 patents and a kid's engineering school, preceded by delivering babies with the help of vacuum cleaners and curtains.
Only snag--the revelation behind choosing Christmas Day as the movie's release date was increasingly getting visible as time was flowing on. Of course, being a Bengali, helped; as always. "murgi kora" could always be invented and used in a different connotation by this meat-loving ethnic group, and I wonder whether and how Mr Hirani knew about this.
But what the heck. It has got the saviour of Indian Cinema in it, and it doesn't matter counting the number of idiots as long as movie-makers would be counting cash.
All's well that end's well, especially when you had problems. That's the take home message of the last 2009 bollywood blockbuster, apart from the abundant toilet humour; if you didn't like them, you have the only option of using the flash. Not the one in a camera.........the other one.
One of my respondents was telling me the other day, while talking about ties with a friend of hers--that they don't talk much, but that she reads the friend's blogs; and she puts in her comments sometimes. But it's not that they meet so much or talk so much. But my respondent said that she is always checking on the friend's blog, and they communicate that way.
And she wondered aloud the nagging, quintessential question--is it good or bad?
I have a couple of friends with who I might not exchange notes through email or scraps in orkut, but whose blogs I will always visit; some of them were quite good friends in college. Some are people I barely know. Sometimes I do put in my blahs on their imprints, and sometimes I don't.
And I wonder, is the above-mentioned process a farcical mode of communication in the sense that we actually don't communicate, but do it on a somewhat forced skewed direction by feeling the civility to say something when thoughts are written aloud? Is it akin to small talk on a blogger level? Is it page 3? (and me ain't Konkona) Is it stalking and saying "Hi" when you make eye contact with your person of interest (it's easy to see who visited your blog....)?
Is it preferable to anything or should it be nothing?
That reminds me: I have someone coming from Baton Rouge on a regular basis and I don't know who that is; I just know that this person first came to my blog following a link in orkut and now s/he just types the url from memory (thank you and bless you) and reads my blog. Silently, without communicating through comments.
With all due respect to Ms Dorothy Smith, it doesn't take long to realize that writing is a reflexive process and a two-way communication; you think of what you want to write, and you also think about the reader who is going to read that and while that defnitely shapes your writing, the reader also communicates with you while s/he is reading your lines on and interpreting them, understanding them, nodding (or smirking) or skipping or re-reading them.
Not that everything must have some utilitarian values per se, but does it actually create/maintain/strenghten any links? This kind of "communication?" Or is it, just there, as a product, to be tasted and/or tested according to availability of time and whims? Does it make others know or understand better?
Or, does it help to understand the mind of people with who you don't communicate as a matter-of-fact in the traditional sense, but which you might do, in a less tangible way, considering you read their blogs (and supposedly, a piece of their mind).
Is a traditional mode of communication a necessary condition to get to know a person? But then, the most basic questions, such as, "How are you?" have always got the most parochial of answers.
Why is it that when you have to say "Happy Birthday" to a person, you need to send a reminder note stating how good they are, how the bonding is (not "kaisa hain yeh bandhan" kind...) between the sender and the receiver and thanking them all for it? Why would personal praising or appreciation has to be so vested in trying to making one feel good on Birthdays? Can we be happy without being reminded what we did for the other person?
I was flooded with the above thoughts while browsing greeting cards for my father. All of them had thanking the progenitor before wishing them Happy Birthday or thereafter. I tried to sift through but it was a stressful decision to choose among the options: (a) the thank-you-and-now-happy-birthday notes and (b)-you-have-been-so-good-and-so-happy-birthday notes.
Whatever happened to "Happy Birthday and lots of love?" or "wish you have fun on your birthday?"
Can you really thank a lifetime?
I don't mean to say that when you cannot do a task, there's no point in attempting it. But delimiting some from others and thanking people for them, who mean the world to you is somewhat unsavory.
Especially when those "thanks" come on the occasion of birthdays.
I wonder whether I would have a single non-thankful card when I get older....20 years from now.
Warning: Entry of arguably offensive nature ahead, read at your own risk. Reader discretion is advised.
With only 2 days to Puja, I have been feeling predictably mellow. Like several last years. Not that I used to make a big war cry on the absolute necessity to see the Kolkata pujas when I was in Kolkata. But I miss the warmth, the new feeling, the being-happy-always kind of feeling among others....and just that generic sense of sweetness that incredibly prevails in those times, in spite of doubting the general aura of happiness like a a Yash Chopra movie, sans the sarsho ka khet but replete with lots of family and friends and unnecessary giggling.
We were just discussing last night, how much of it we have missed, and for how long; the last usual commonplace Kolkata puja was seen in 2001. 8 years have gone through and probably 2 more will go before we will be back to the soil.
Last year, being new in the city, we hardly had friends to go to the Pujas in Toronto. But still we did, as two friends came over and we decided not to miss the dada-boudi exhibition, the Helen-of-today-wearing-the-Mallika-Sherwat-Choli of today things, and such other sinful pleasures. So off we went. At least we have the right to be amused, if not anything else--we told ourselves.
That was one of the 4 big pujas held in Toronto--it was the one arranged by robust NRIs--the quintessentially named Probasi Club pujo. We had khichuri and bhog and etc, looked around, and came home by 3 pm. The whole thing, took 4 hours, including driving for 45 mins (one way) and waiting in queue for the watery khichuri. Somehow we had got tired of the whole thing just on reaching the venue. It was the same old sights, the same old glitz, the same old skins wearing make up, the same old hairs with haircolours.
This year, we have quite a lot of friends to accompany and co-ordinating them has been a little puzzle, towards the objective that we enjoy the puja with everybody albeit at various times, and nobody feels left out. The pujas do not mean anything to me any more, not here, definitely not with the people who arrange it and fill it up, but being with friends, does. So I was planning.
And my husband kept referring to the Probasi Club puja by a certain name, which I understood came from an incident last year that has truly, left a mark, and which to him, characterizes the people who frequent the puja. Whatever it is, with the usual authority vested in me by 7 years in a marriage, I tried to submerge the referral in that particular manner, as was done by him. This was way different than we are used to refer pujos--like the "bharer thakur" (Bosepukur Sarbojonin), or "rail accident thakur" (Santosh Mitra Square), or the Chowringhee Thakur in my mamabari (it is a small "mofoswol" town with a chowringhee no less); this particular name would be an interesting example of onomatopoeia. The incident was like this: S (my husband) went to the washroom. Saw that a kid of 8 years and his father were also relieving themselves. Incidentally, somebody started making some sounds, but of course, under closed doors. The kid started jumping up and down and cried in glee, and in perfect Bangladeshi Bangla, "Paadla saarse....paadla saarse paadla". And he kept repeating.
The father went on doing whatever he was doing without interrupting the kid who also carried on with his expression of happiness, with the word he was using and was allowed to use.
S was so disgusted that he refers to that pujo as "paadla pujo" now.With me trying to correct it and see the positive in everything.Either way, it still remains the P Pujo. Abbreviations, sometimes, are saviours. Truly.
No, it's not about the movie or any review whatsoever. I loved the movie by the way.
It's just me smoking a mental cigarette. Mental, because I don't smoke and could never take it up, ever as keen as I was to receive the feedback from smokers that it helps you to relax and practically dissipates the problem. My smoker friends would exhale through focussed and rounded lips, their eyes and nose all waiting to exhale and let go, and I'd almost feel the "relaxation" hitting me but would get the smoke instead which I hated. So I think it's a good analogy. I would exhale, believe in this huge logic system of relaxing, and the end product could be welcome or not depending on where or who they are hitting.
Problems. Nope I don't have problems but some incidents which keep gnawing and clawing even when you are drinking coffee and just gazing out. There are others who are not your friends or family and definitely not enemies to have that close thoughts on them. But they deserve one more casual glance in our upright and uptight busy schedules.
So one night, I heard sirens and we hear sirens now and then, in this street as ambulances and fire-engines speed across the city. But it was around 3:30 in the night that I heard them and I wished they would go away but they felt they had entered right into my room and they kept blaring. And then I heard some sounds of digging on the ground, of the concrete breaking and drilling. So I had to get up. Looked out of the window and saw some vehicles with flashing lights just right across the street, which unfortunately were unable to drive home the message as to what had happened exactly.
4 hours later, somebody knocked. It was the Toronto police and they were asking people if they have seen something. I just saw their cars and that's what I told them. "err....What happened?" The officer replied, "Nothing...we are currently investigating the incident in the Jamaican Consulate; something happened there".
And I didn't know that a consulate even existed in this neighbourhood.
What I found out later is that even though Google can't find your keys, it can definitely replace the need for a signboard and what you could find about people in your neighbourhood. Though I'm not sure whether it's a good thing or a bad thing. It's just better to gulp it down, like instant coffee, or forget it over like a case in a statistical dataset. Either way, they reflect a pattern.
And then there have been incidents when I wish we wouldn't think according to the pattern.
Like her who was filling in a form, sitting on a park bench. It was rather, a lawn bench so to speak.....it was just an adjacent children playground area in front of an apartment. She was filling in a form on sexual harassment which asked "What could you have done to avoid this incident?", as well as "Do you think this incident could have been avoided on a different time of the day?"
She was my colleague. And according to the work policy, if she couldn't work over there, some of us would have to continue working there; there = an apartment where we were interviewing people, and where the incident happened on an elevator.
Without going into the whole Victimology and Penology debate, the irrelevance of the whole procedure was quite comprehensible. My colleague was shaken up, and even after that, she continued to work. She drove home from work that day and also drove to work for the usual two hours the next day. As part of getting this job, we all were checked for any criminal records. Nobody bothered to do it on the other side of the fence.
Although the company policy and the high end people told her that she could go to the police, she did not. And although we knew the risks, nobody showed the panic. So much for risk society and creating moral panic, eh? [Is it there only in theory classes?]
And then, people got busy once again. Everybody comes to work, works and then goes back home. We all work hard and party harder. Or try to. "That's the way it is". The surveillance society keeps on working hard as we look around, see people, identify and relate to some of them and yet, we do nothing. Our backs take up all our power of surveillance, thank you.
The perpetrator in my colleague's case would most likely go on in his daily gleeful living, and some of us would probably even meet and shake hands with this guy, sit beside him in the TTC or hold the door for him. With whatever information we have right now, like the building and apartment number, we could still identify the person as well as talk to his wife, which we believe would do little than shaming the perpetrator. This man might not be a psychopath as some colleagues suggested, but someone who "grabbed an opportunity in a situation", opportunity coming in the shape of a female body.
But instead of drawing on personal characteristics, like easy-breezy psychopathy for example, we would always characterize a person based on their ascriptive qualities. It helps to pigeon-hole them, I suppose; draw upon their characters, based on some deductive, ethno-cultural logic. Like almost every good paid cook is supposed to be Oriya in West Bengal, good non-Bengali businessman must be Marwari and taxi drivers must always be Sikhs or Biharis if the first option doesn't work out. Stereotypes are easy comfort cushions to fall back on and pin-hole our frustrations and/or manifold "instincts" when we can't make sense of the booming, buzzing confusion called reality.
My colleague is only human. She also did the same. She said the person had Arabic writings in his home, that probably he is from the Middle-east, and that she also saw a green flag. She mentioned these details when she was still shaken up, before she even filled in that form.
Talking about psychopaths, I was watching this documentary in CBC. Turned out really interesting, as according to the criteria of psychopaths, I happen to know one, though I'm so glad that I'm not in touch with him anymore. And I rather wish that I hadn't met him as a friend. Diagnosing a psychopath who is otherwise quite successful and appears to be normal, the documentary said that a psychopath is someone who has too much of narcissism to start with; he believes in the ultimate supremacy of his talent (if he has one, that is...) and has a grand sense of self-worth. Quite far from prison cells, he could be much closer than you think. Experts believe their number to be as high as one in a hundred. Most of them function incognito in high-powered professions...all the way to the very top. They are found to be very likeable, charming, intelligent, alert, confidence inspiring and a great success with the ladies. They appear to have a self-destructive streak, which is often used to as a tool to gain sympathy from others. They are unable to feel prolonged grief and do not have a sense of responsibility. They lack remorse, guilt, and empathy and need continuous stimulation to counter boredom. They also need consistent and high doses of ego-boosts for successful relationship with others. They always rationalize hurting or mistreating others.
Anyway, as I was saying, that perpetrator of the crime was not known to be a psychopath. And the little conversation and interaction my colleague had with that man, is not enough to characterize him as a psychopath. But it was enough to characterize him as a sexual offender, if nothing else.
But it would always be the "East Indian" landlord, the "Black" woman in the bank, the "European" (meaning non-English speaking have-nots) neighbour.
The other. And demonizing the other.
And saying it as "Hell is other people". When the lens is so twisted, when our mental capacities are this limited to contain our perspectives, "other" people have no other category than be vitriolic.
Really, the poet had asked it too profound. We Ph.D researchers, fret about it when thinking about our project titles, as it should be representative in just a single line of all of the laborious years of toil. Parents think about the name of their babies months before they were born. The name, should represent who the parents are, who the baby should be, as well as be in line with the contemporary generation. I've often felt that rather than tossing away the importance of a name, the question as mentioned in the beginning should be said more with the exasperated wonder--what IS? what should BE? How much can you put in there, albeit speaking less of it?
All in all, names are banners; it flags your attention, holds it, directs it to further significant issues and then....makes you remember them; at least, strives to makes you remember them. It's just not a name, it's an entire story that should be spoken in those few words. Stories that remain in line with your expectation, that sail with the times, yet stretch somewhat to have a space in tomorrow and arch enough to leave their chiseled dust over your head as you walk on and move away from them.
Like films do.
For example, if you would expect that films often represent the society for which they are made, and have this uncanny democratic characteristic in them, in that they rise from people's expectations as well as mould people's choice to build forth a market, you would end up with a partially proven hypotheses. Like I did.
Considering bollywood, I thought it would be a safe bet to presuppose that 1950s would be more enthused with freedom and freedom fighting as tuned with the newly independent Indian society, 1960s would be more akin to coming to terms with the good things in life--the "pyar, mohabbat and ishq", 1970s being characterised by the coming of age what the 1960s started--the Shammi Kapoor and Zeenat and Dev Anand --romancing and solving mysteries and then 1980s being the era of angry young man, 1990s being Aashiqui and Kumar Sanu and the Khans all the way, and 2000s belonging to a motley of star sons and daughters. The dominant paradigm of each decade could be derived from the keywords, which are easily extracted from the names of these movies, that targets the audience in giving out a bird's eye view of what each film is presupposed to showcase. Although, I heard that many senior citizens were fooled and enraged in particularly two occasions in history--when they went to watch "Satyam Shivam Sundaram" and "Ram Teri Ganga Maili" with a particular expectation in mind.
I don't think it could have helped even if the release dates of these movies were in April.
Some days back, I was searching for a particular song online. And I chanced upon something that ignited my urge to procrastinate even further and do this little research. Even though connecting procrastination with research might sound somewhat like a oxymoron, let me clarify. I'm talking about blogger research. I was surprised to find something and then went to do some more searching and re-searching with some generic keywords such as "raat", "insaan", "desh", "pyaar", "Zindagi", "Kahani", and so on to see whether these keywords had any pattern as far as decades were concerned. Preliminary findings with the keyword "raat" gave me this:
Though I've no idea why the use of "raat" or stories about "raat" diminished from 1960s onwards; or why it was in high usage in the first place. Probably the convenience and cost of shootings indoor had much to do it?
Anyway, based on my working hypotheses described in a paragraph above, here's what I found, with running an analysis with keywords. The header of each decade represents the punchline.
Pre-1950s and 1950s: Jawani Ki Hawa
Doesn't gel. Does it?
Whenever I used to think of 1950s, I was more of the impression that it would have some love movies, with sacrifize, azaadi and desh and jawans taking the lead. And of course, Mother India. I think this movie was instrumental in thinking about the 1950s in this manner...we achieved independence in 1947, and therefore, there should be some sacrifice movies and some movies to remind of the bygone sufferings of pre-independent India. That's what I thought. So I searched with certain keywords.
And I found that expectantly, there were a few movies dwelling on life in general, some on Azaadi, and some on patriotic feelings, such as
Desh Deepak (1930),
Desh dasi (1930)
Azad (1940)
Desh Bhakta (1940)
Chhin Li Azaadi (1948)
Desh Sewa (1948)
Apna Desh (1949)
Swarg se Sundar Desh Hamara (1945 and 1959)
Pardesi, (1953 and 1958),
but what got my eyebrows up were the whopping number of movies dealing with "jawani" in the 1950s as well as in the pre-1950s, as compared to the later decades. I think they deserve a representation. The titles of these movies are illustrative, covered quite a range as observed below and of course, needs little description.
Young India, young blood, and hot jawani. Understandably, with our jawans getting the first taste of success, can jawani be far behind?
1960s: Pyar ka Mausam With jawani ka josh being subsided, people flocked to see Pyar, and speak of Ishq and Mohabbat. I'm not sure if people would have loved "Mohabbatein" if it were released in the 1960s and my hunch would be more in the negative, still, 1960s were indeed of Pyaar. No other generic keywords had 1960s so much represented as Pyar, Prem, Ishq and Mohabbat. Well, Pyaar was always there and will always be there, each decade, jawani foregone or not. Prem also had the 1930s brimming with it. If romantic movies had a golden era, among other kind of movies that the 60s are still so famous for, it would definitely be the 60s. This goes with quantity, as well as....arguably, quality.
1970s: Dum Maro Dum
Everybody knows that 70s had it all. It introduced the teenage romance, it had taut thriller movies that kept you on the edge, it had patriotic movies, ...in fact....the 70s turned copious results with each generic keyword. It was difficult to contain it in a category. You name a subject, and the 70s had it. You search with any keyword and the 70s had it. Entertainment was pumped up!
Clearly, the 70s tried to deal with an "all-round perspective" as far as an issue was concerned. Wholesome entertainment was its motto and Hindi cinema, up till then, had really come of age. This would be more evidenced, in the end. Stay put.
1980s: Paap ko Jalakar Raakh kar Doonga
80s really takes the limelight to a new intensity. With the society and films maturing and covering all, suddenly everything gets a nosedive to almost an adolescent intensity; something is found to be inherently wrong, and 80 is almost all about foaming anger, destructive fire, the kanoon being non-existent or malfunctioning and the dushmans being ubiquitious. Consider the following list, and this is a list in comparison to all the other decades, with just the keyword "Kanoon".
And, strangely, 1980s was also the leading decade of Kasam-s; the level of generalized trust onto others, was clearly quite low, and therefore the secure fastening of kasam was squarely put into place with almost everything. Take a look:
Chambal ki Kasam (1980)
Khuda Kasam (1981)
Sanam Teri Kasam (1982)
Kasam Durga Ki (1982)
Teri Kasam (1982)
Kasam Paida Karne Wale ki (1984)
Maa Kasam (1985)
Mujhe Kasam Hai (1985)
Yaadon ki Kasam (1985)
Yaar Kasam (1985)
Mohabbat ki Kasam (1986)
Kasam Suhaag Ki (1989)
Kasam Vardi ki (1989)
Let's move to 1990s now. I hypothesized that with the Khans, Nadeem-Shravan and Kumar Sanu, it would be mushy, maudlin and mellow. Ha!
1990s: Aag se Khelenge
Notice the verb in the above header. It clearly promises to continue to do something. So even with Pyar, pyar and pyar...and Aamir Khan, inexplicably, 1990s has the maximum movies dealing with "Aag", compared with all the other decades. Probably the fire ignited in the 1980s didn't die, even with all the love songs. Thus, though 90s were a decade of getting back to love, it was equally met with aagmark fire on the other front as well.
The aag movies:
Aag ka Dariya (1990)
Aag ka Gola (1990)
Apman ki Aag (1990)
Aag laga do sawan Ko (1991)
Yeh Aag kab Bujhegi (1991)
Aag ka Toofan (1993)
Aag Andhi aur Toofan (1994)
Aag aur Chingari (1994)
Mohabbat ki Aag (1997)
Phool aur Aag (1999)
Aag hi Aag (1999)
2000s: Popcorn Khao mast ho Jao
The 2000s had the butter while it made sure you couldn't smell it. Putting aside the pervasive movies based on love and vendetta, the 2000s is marked by nice bods, star children and of course movie names that wouldn't just give it away. As well as movies with names such as "Let's enjoy", "aloo chat", and "popcorn khao mast ho jao" where the bottomline promised was obviously fultoo entertainment, movies such as "Rock on!!" "Ek Chalis ki last local", "Being Cyrus" wouldn't tell a story in the title. Entertainment IS the keyword in this decade, and variety has no bounds as far movie titles and subjects are concerned. Movies are made on teenager, on gigolo, specifically on NRIs, EMI, as well as on how fake doctors could be good hearts.
The loss of linguistic puritanism is also evident in this decade as you see commonplace hindi words, as represented in erstwhile movie titles like Jab jab phool Khile, Angrakhshak, Hatya, Ghatak, give on to titles like Jab we met, Dil maange more, The Killer, Rules: Pyar ka Superhit formula, Murder, Fool N Final, Raaz: The Mystery Continues, Life in a Metro, No Smoking, Gangster, Girlfriend,Shakalaka Boom Boom, Luck By Chance, as compared to a handful of English titled movies of yesteryears (e.g. Evening in Paris, Around the World, Jewel Thief (1967)
"Company" did not speak of commercial business or the corporate world, but the commercial purpose behind the underworld. "Lagaan" spoke of something to do with "tax" but spoke a very different story than what could have been probably expected before the first day, first show. The 2000s didn't only want that the movie-goer should watch the movie in dark cinema halls with popcorn in hand; the decade focussed its attention on how in the age of trailers and incessant music channels, it could keep the audience in the dark as to the nomenclature of the movies, the theme of the movie, as well as its predictability.
Therefore, came the item songs performed not by one who is specially skilled to do so (like Helen of yesteryears) but regular movie heroines or other curveceous models/VJ. It kept the interest burning, kept in contained and kept them guessing.
When it comes to guessing, I would have to mention this. As far as covering all ground were concerned, the 1970s truly covered all ground. Or, else, claimed to.
Believe that there is peace, believe that you should exist. For something, if not for somebody.. And then, even though there is no other convincing factor, you would like to believe that certain things could be possible....there might not be love, but you could be in love. In love with a song like this:
