Scent of Freedom

I miss desperately the reckless early days of my bloom.

Perched on a bike, legs firmly wedged around the variable male figure in front. I miss the slight twist of his fingers that left a roar of energy in our wake and a euphoric laugh emanating from within me. The playful clasps and pecks, conspirational grins at traffic signals. A wind that unabashedly whipped around my skirt, much to the raucous amusement of our fellow bikers. Staring into the twinkling eyes of the other dolled up, interchangeable girls. Knowing I was one of them, and getting high on the blatant, mindless, EXHIRALATING pursuit of sensuality.

Those painful whiplashes of carelessly brushed hair were worth it. The speechless, awesome fear in high speed was worth it. All for one thing – NOT KNOWING. Uncertainity. Unpredictability. Not knowing what I would be doing in 2 hours. Where I would be sleeping in 6 hours. What I would be telling mom in 10 hours.

We could easily have hit a bump in the road and been thrown out under a truck, smashed into ignominious oblivion, a testimony to irresponsible, immoral teenage behaviour.

But we didn’t. We had some of the best nights of our lives. Of my life, at the very least. And then we grew up. Or I did, at least.

And it’s not cool to want to be like that anymore.

Face Off

It's impossible to get lost in Gibraltar. Unless you miss the Rock, which can happen only in one case.

It's pelting rain and screaming gale when the cabbie stops in front of the hotel. Come on in, darling. The eastern prude in me flinches, and then I flush on realizing that it was a harmless greeting. I climb in, and the banshee howls in protest at my escape from her clutches.

Thank goodness for taxis on little islands with wind velocities that pitilessly pound a 48 kg frame. It's all very well to stroll through daffodils in the springtime, but I get my dose of romance in a bus driven by a man with an uppity Oxford accent who lapses into impassioned Spanish at the slightest provocation. Welcome to Gibraltar, potpourri of cultures.

The lighthouse at Europa Point is craftily designed to arouse wistfulness. Standing on the rocky shore, I look across continents and imagine the ships sailing in from Spain and Africa in the days before visas were invented and travel depended upon an itinerary. The UK visa in my passport feels terribly limiting. I doubt any other building would have done the trick.

I hop onto another bus which takes me to the main street. Tax free shops! Delightfully distracting. I count the number of women in thigh-high boots. Nearly all. What a clown I'd look like strutting about in those on sultry Indian roads.

There's a blown glass exhibition and workshop at the plaza. Hmm. White men at work are hardly arresting, lacking the earthiness of their darker counterparts. But the vases are. They stand regally in icy aloofness, already so different from the younger ones sizzling with desire to be moulded in the workshop. I trace the swirls and whorls of colour on the smoothly fashioned surfaces, and the lightness of my pockets weighs me down.

The next bus never shows, so I walk. White limestone looms large at every turn. The locals probably stopped seeing it long ago. It's part of the sky now, ''constant as the Northern Star''. It is lit up at intervals, by massive floodlights from below. But every now and then, the Rock presents a dark face, whether by artistic intent or error of omission.

It's impossible to get lost in Gibraltar. Unless you miss the Rock, which happens when you look up at a dark face. The wind whips tears out of me as I stare into the blackness and lose my bearings.

Then a monkey calls, and I know there is something behind. Thank goodness for life on little islands with pitiless wind velocities and towering black patches.

The Song

Viva la Vida - Coldplay

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing:
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
Once you go there was never,
Never an honest word
And that was when I ruled the world

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People couldn't believe what I'd become

Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

Island Etude

With a lot of things, if you don't do them now, you will never have the opportunity again.

When a film makes you want to go through the oft-ignored credits list, you know it's got something to it. Island Etude is an unassuming Taiwanese film about a boy called Ming (Ming-hsiang Tung) who takes a week-long bicycle tour around Taiwan. At the outset one becomes aware that this is going to be an extremely calm story with no dramatic incidents or twists apart from the constant turning of his wheels. Ming is shown to have a communication handicap, but his easygoing personality invites chance encounters with a host of people he meets along the road... right from an enthusiastically helpful film crew, to a spoilt ipod-waving teenager to a free spirited Lithuanian model.
His trail cuts though a slice of Taiwan's culture and society, exposing him and the audience to local customs, folk art and religious values. Ming discovers the wistfulness of a schoolteacher and the brave suffering of the unemployed aged, experiencing the emotions they invoke but breezing past before they can drag him down.  His aimless determination to carry on through rainstorms and searing hot sun is heartwarming. The point of his travels is to travel, giving a whole new meaning to the act of cross country biking.

The thing that really stands out and makes the film, is the cinematography. Cinematographer Huai-en Chen has also written and directed this film, and there is a harmony in the interweaving of long still shots of the landscape and soulful background music devoid of any lyrics. The characters are realistic and likeable and the actors are without any frills or larger-than-life qualities, leaving it to the scenery to dominate.

Ming's journey is almost entirely coastal, but the sea never gets monotonous with its brilliant sheen, dull mist or crashing white surf engulfing the scene at different times of the day. The setting is essentially modern, with an an endless stretch of developed highways running along the coast. The two are juxtaposed very delicately, one memorable example being where Ming meets a foreign model who is stranded at a railway station, and helps her find a train. In the brief interlude before the train's arrival, they walk on the beach, lie on the rocks and laugh together despite not understanding a word the other says. The ''Pacific wind'', a recurrent theme in the film, runs through her hair and gives it a life of its own. Then she turns around, and is suddenly the only alive thing against the backdrop of a colourless cement factory with tall, grey, unshakeable arms blocking out the sky.

The soundtrack doesn't make that much of an impact, barring an obnoxiously loud score for Ming's quick escape from a pair of cops after assisting some philosophy-spewing wayward youths in vivid graffiti-spraying. The closing song, performed on the shore by one of Taiwan's most famed singers, is a moving tribute to the land and the ocean. The poetry was effectively conveyed even through subtitles, which is saying something.

If somebody were to ask what the film is about, one would be lost for an answer. Island Etude may not pack a powerful Hollywood punch, but it is a 2-hour visual extravaganza that must be watched on a big screen.

(Film screened at the Pune International Film Festival 2010)

3 Idiots

What is it about Aamir Khan films that makes them special? There are better actors. There are definitely better lookers. Is it the freshness Aamir brings to the screen, or just good choice of scripts?

3 Idiots does justice to all the hoopla created by the Khan tag and corny pant-dropping promos. An entertainer at heart which also serves as a brutally frank agent for the social messages Aamir likes to spread à la RDB and Taare Zameen Par, it overflows with youthful humour which mercifully steers away from slapstick and vulgarity. The ''scientific'' prank played by Aamir (Rancho) on his senior during ragging sets the tone for the lively engineering college hostel life while giving a glimpse of the character's mental dexterity and manual deftness. He embodies this out-of-the-box inventor/handyman culture - an original and attractive quality for a Bollywood hero. Sharman Joshi’s (Raju's) comic timing is expectedly good, but Madhavan (Farhan) is the pleasant surprise package in his new simple college-boy avatar in contrast to his image as a heartthrob for hip-swaying South Indian heroines. His frozen facial expressions are guffaw-inspiring in the wedding crash scene when they are caught by the lip-curling Boman Irani.

The towering Irani plays the tyrannical college Principal with a priceless scowl perpetually plastered on his face. The film follows the 5 Point Someone storyline loosely, which has predictably given birth to spats between the crew and author Chetan Bhagat. Intellectual property rights aside, the two works of art can’t really be compared since the book challenges academic conformism but focusses more on the romance than on performance pressure and its consequences. Chatur Ramalingam (played by Omi Vaidya) is a great addition to the cast; his inherent slimyness and grovelling invokes your distaste very convincingly. Also, Kareena Kapoor is a different (read more likeable) kind of female lead from the stuffy Neha of the book.

The director Rajkumar Hirani (of Munnabhai fame) takes a bold approach towards certain scenes such as the miserable squalor in Sharman Joshi’s  house. By shooting the house in black and white, followed by seemingly offensive jokes on the poverty of the situation, the otherwise depressing scene takes on a light-hearted, matter-of-fact air. The boyish banter at the end of the scene is a relief – this moment would have been a glycerine freemarket if it had followed regular Bollywood patterns.

And just as you’re smiling at the realism being showed, it’s murdered by an avalanche of tears. The ''last half hour'' has rightly attracted oodles of criticism for the all the melodrama it contains. Aal was not well. Is mass appeal important enough to stretch and twist a story into ridiculous detours and knots? Well, it must be. The film, as it has been said above, is an entertainer first and foremost. But one wonders why audience intelligence must be underestimated every time. Rather than pandering to tearjerker requirements that are totally out of sync with a story’s spirit, a film should aim to raise the bar or change the face of ''entertainment''.

But in conclusion one must praise the shots of the experimental school in Shimla towards the end, which redeem the quality of the story. The inclusion of this scene, depicting oddball mechanical contraptions being used for local indigenous activities such as shearing sheep, gives a sweet and not too unbelievable finishing touch to the philosophy of creative teaching and learning. Another creditable attempt at merging mainstream and social cinema by Hirani and Aamir.

Act 2010, Scene 1

All in all, that wasn’t too bad. The partial detachment was compensated by a monopoly over photography rights, furious leg-shaking (MJ, you owned this year), a satisfactorily chic outfit and gallant young men. Photography is the new purdah. Gazing through a lens and fiddling with the many buttons earns one the right to aloofness. (Perhaps it's time to learn how to actually do it properly.)
The fireworks were beautiful, I looked up at them with my naked eyes, festooned in a vivid masquerade. The first shower of gold sparks brought on startled tears which I held tightly within closed lids. A sigh escaped reassuringly at the realization that the phone was still at my ear. The notorious New Year's Eve network jams had spared us. 

Coffee on the deck. We tear our hearts out longing for that which lies beyond our four walls. But the coffee on the deck smells good, and the terrace beckons. A brief huddle on top, laced with forbidden pleasures and the orgasmic shock of cold wind on tired cheeks. Then ten unsteady feet stumble back inside.

2010. This year I will

Make one heap of all my winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss
And if I lose, start again at my beginnings
And never breathe a word of my loss

To chances!

Stretched

I dreamwalk out of the extraordinary house into the ordinary world, to an ordinary flat, to snatch a few hours of nothing.

Silent spaces hold a comfort that kind words lack. Here I feel strong, unfettered, despite the fascinating despair that mounts as the hours of nothingness dwindle.
Here I will examine my heart strings, test them, lick them, selfishly soak up and revel in every emotion they ooze forth, before I go back to the house that is a home.