Singing with devotion

Baby Kalyani’s family is one musical family. G practices Carnatic music when she cooks. Simultaneously, Baby D (Baby Kalyani’s little sister) sings "Quinkle Quinkle Little Star." And the seven-year old decides to teach me some music too.

Baby Kalyani: Sing. Shri Gananatha.

sunshine: Shri Gananatha.

Baby Kalyani: No, it is Natha.

sunshine: Natha.

Baby Kalyani: No, Natha.

sunshine: Forget it. Let me teach you a devotional song. Sing. Jay Jay Shiv Shankar.

Baby Kalyani: Jay Jay Shiv Shankar.

sunshine: Kaanta lage na kankar.

Baby Kalyani: Auntie, stop singing silly songs! Sing. Shri Gananatha. 

And we continue to sing in a loop all evening. 

sunshine

“Maatri”-monial wisdom

Ma and I are on the phone. I have no need to be politically correct while talking to her. As usual, we are talking Bollywood. I'm telling her about the recent surge of female actors in their forties or approaching forties getting married this year. Urmila Matondkar. Preity Zinta. Bipasha Basu.

"Shobai ekhon buro boyeshey biye korchey." I say. (Everyone is getting married in old age)

Now this is Bollywood gossip. So Ma is clearly offended. And defensive too.

"Buro boyeshey na, mature boyeshey." she sternly corrects me. (Not old age, but mature age) "They are not immature like me, fell in love with the first guy I met and married him. They are just taking their time."

Now what do I say to that?

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Re-cycled

I started biking after some 18 years. Thoroughly out of breath, huffing and puffing, my muscles screaming, I could barely bike a few miles. It did not help that I could not figure out the gears, and there were like seven of them. 

I recently watched Piku, where they showed the 70-year old Amitabh Bachchan suddenly biking to Shyam Bazar and Dalhousie and God knows where one fine morning . That day, he biked like 12-15 miles? 

Given that Bollywood references are a central point in my life, I told a friend how unfit I am, wondering how the old man did it. 

Me: "I don't know how he did it."

My friend (impassive expression): 'Remember, he died the next day in his sleep."

Such thoughtful friends I have!

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Poster Child

I was in the bus, on my way to work this morning, watching people, when a bygone memory from more than two decades ago made me nostalgic. We used to live in a little town, little enough that very few buses took you around, but big enough that the ride to school took about 45 minutes every morning. Every day, my sister and I would hop at the back of the cycle-rickshaw, enjoying the cool breeze and lack of traffic very early in the morning. And all through that ride, our favorite pastime was to count the number of cinema posters of Aamir Khan and Shah Rukh Khan, the two prominent actors in Bollywood. I was a non-supporter, but since sister was an Aamir supporter, my default poster counting went for Shah Rukh. 

We had rules too. Big time. When one of us would be losing, we would make impromptu rules, like the actor has to be visible on the poster to count. Or, we could not count posters that were old, and hidden beneath newer posters. And there was a way of counting too. Whenever we spotted one, the person would shout- Aamir 1, or Shah Rukh 12, making Raju Bhai, the rickshaw puller chuckle. Sometimes, when we felt generous, we would help the other person locate posters. But if we were our default mean selves, we would just say- "Hey, you just missed that poster on the wall, but since you cannot see it now, you cannot count it."

I do not see any point to this game now, but for strengthening counting abilities (it was already strong, I was in the eighth or ninth grade, my sister in the second grade), getting familiar with movie names like English Babu Desi Mem, Guddu, and Zamaana Dewaana, and just staying engaged during the long ride. The game was so pointless, so without any agenda, that it was good. So good that years later, I think about it and feel nostalgic, wishing that I could still be counting movie posters on my way to work now.

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Partition thoughts

I had a strange realization today. Whenever I think of partition, I think of Pakistan. West Pakistan specifically. But never Bangladesh (formerly East Pakistan). It is all the more strange, because I am much closer to Bangladesh ethnically, culturally, linguistically (we speak the same language), food-wise, etc. I have always wanted to visit Pakistan (the desire being borne out of separation stories from 1947 shown in movies), but never Bangladesh. When I think of Bangladesh, I think of the Sundarbans. I think of tourism, and increasing my country count. When I think of Pakistan, my heart melts with longing, wanting to visit every city and walk on its soil because we used to be one country (although much before I was born, so I haven't really experienced the consequences of partition first-hand).

I've been thinking why, and only one explanation makes sense to me. That we are more a product of what we consume compared to who we are born as. Although I am Bengali, I grew up (still growing) on a steady diet of mainstream Bollywood (that has many India-Pakistan movies, but none of India-Bangladesh that I know of) and Hindi literature. Just like whenever I wrote stories as a kid, all my characters had English names. John, Jane, Julia. Whenever I wrote formal and informal letters during English I exams, it was always to some Frank or Mr. Smith. Why was I, a Bengali girl living in a little town in eastern India, writing letters to John and Frank? I don't think I had ever met an Englishman//Westerner until I moved to the US. So when I heard a Ted talk by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie called "The danger of a single story", I exactly knew what she was talking about. I was thrilled, knowing that there is someone else who has faced the same confusion. The talk is highly recommended.

So that is my reflection for today, that we are merely a product of what we consume much more than who we are born as.

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Knocked Up

I was browsing through movies during a recent Zurich-Newark flight when a particular scene from a particular Bollywood movie caught my attention.

A woman is in the peak of her pregnancy, about to deliver any moment. No doctor could be there on time since one needs to cross a narrow bridge made of wooden planks and ropes to be able to get to the village. So the confident female protagonist in the movie decides to do the child delivery.

"Have you ever delivered a baby before?" someone had the presence of mind to ask.

"Yes," she said confidently. "I have delivered a baby goat before."

That is exactly when I switched movies.

But this ridiculous scene made me think of all the ridiculous ideas Bollywood has fed us about pregnancy. I have never been pregnant, and the only person I had closely seen being pregnant is my mom, when I was little. Naturally, I do not remember much. So back to Bollywood and the bullshit it feeds us about pregnancy.

1.     Ever noticed how when the newly-wed starts to throw up, everyone is worried, except the old matriarch in the family, who has an all-knowing smile? She does not even have a degree in medicine. I used to throw up a lot when I had ulcer. No one had smiled at me knowingly then.

2.     Ever noticed how the background music of Ravi Shankar's sitar (symbolizing love and happiness) changes to the sinister music of drums and trumpets when the woman throwing up is not married?

3.     Ever noticed how a male doctor examines a woman lying unconscious in bed with his stethoscope, checks her pulse, and declares her pregnant? I thought you only declared someone dead that way. Whatever happened to pregnancy kits? How can a stethoscope and a quick pulse check can detect pregnancy?

4.     A woman craving pickles is supposed to be pregnant. I have loved pickles all my life. What does that make me?

5.     Ever noticed the theory where if you hang someone's life size picture on the wall (usually that of the husband), and make a pregnant woman look at that picture every day, the baby will be born looking like that man?

6.     Does drinking milk infused with saffron really help Indian babies be born fair-skinned? Even long after the British left India, the desire to look like one of them didn't leave many of us. Or is this a pre-British fetish?

7.     And this is my biggest mystery question. When a baby is to be delivered, why does the village matriarch always, always ask for a big vessel of boiling water, before shutting the door on everyone? What is the role of boiling water? I hope you don't throw it on someone to induce labor. Do you make tea with the boiling water for the mother? Coffee maybe? Give her a sponge bath? I can't think of any other creative uses of boiling water.

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Bollywood Jolly Good

Friend: You must be feeling like that girl in that movie today.

Me: Which movie? Which girl?

Friend: 1989 A Love Story. With Anil Kapoor.

Me: You mean 1942 A Love Story?

Friend: Yeah, yeah. That movie released in 1989.

Me: Actually that movie released in 1994.

Friend: Okay, okay. I will not contest your Bollywood knowledge.

Me: And what song were you talking about?

Friend hums a song with full gusto.

Me: Err .... I think you are talking about Manisha Koirala. And that is Salman Khan and not Anil Kapoor. It is Khamoshi. Even the movie is wrong. And so is the year. And it is "Aaj main upar, aasma neechey".

Bollywood discussions make me feel jolly good. 

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Happy Diwali, Bollywood?

I always thought that Bollywood would have a healthy collection of songs suitable for any Indian festival, but I am not so convinced anymore. The lack of an optimal number of songs dedicated to the festival Diwali (optimal number n being greater than five) only reconfirms my theory that ours is a sex-driven race, just like any other species in the animal kingdom. Have you ever thought why there are hundreds of songs for Holi, Sagai, Sangeet, Shaadi, Karwa Chauth, God Bharai, or even Nag Panchami (characterized by the sinuous dance moves of a reptile-turned-heroine-turned-reptile cursed by some black robe wearing evil man) but only three songs for Diwali? I would argue that in a testosterone and estrogen-driven society where macro-level phenomenon like preening, grooming, mate hunting, courtship, marriage, and procreation exist in any random order, there is no respectable place for a festival which lacks the insinuations of the primal needs of man, namely rain, color, hormones, or the need to touch, want, and hug. Come to think of it, there are hundreds of songs not just for festivals, but for seasons, be it the cot-displacing brrrring of the winter when the khatiya is begged to be sarkaoed because of jaada, the jeth ki garmi waali dopahar (where the heroine instructs the hero - aake god mein utha thaam le baiyan), or the obvious tip tip barsa spawning season. After all, what could be so inviting about a festival characterized by crackers, ear-deafening sounds, the smell of gunpowder, and a bunch of cranky policymakers unhappy about noise pollution? Images of a heavily endowed woman in a flimsy white sari drenched in the rain running around while a male chases her with Holi colors rings a few familiar bells. However, imagine a woman gyrating her hips with a bunch of sparklers and crackers in her hand, hurling fire crackers at unsuspecting males every now and then and singing “Wanna be your chammak challo”? I fail to imagine the latent sexual overtones in this setting. No wonder Bollywood has never really considered dedicating entire songs to the pursuit of the celebration of light and sound, two very important concepts in an extremely dry subject called physics. Sure there are songs with occasional shots of the chick and the lad entwined, playing around with a bunch of sparklers (remember the song Mujhse Mohabbat Ka from Hum Hai Rahi Pyar Ke?), but a random youtube search for Diwali songs yields three results, one from the movie Home Delivery which is not really a “pataakha” item song in any respect, an old song from the time of Akbar where Mukesh’s adenoidal voice (although very melodious) of “Ek who bhi Diwali thi, ek yeh bhi Diwali hai, Ujda hua gulshan hai, rota hua maali hai” sets off a chain reaction of melancholy potent enough to extinguish any number of sparklers and crackers in the world (let’s face it), and another song from the year 1946, where the heroine’s sad state of mind reminded me of the day I had cried buckets at the scary thought of turning 30 because I was convinced that I was approaching senility and half-life decay at an alarming rate. Surely the Ramsay Brothers show more tactile actions (also known as touchy touchy) and hanky (s)panky (amongst ghosts and haunted spirits of course) than these songs do. Sure, there is one song in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham where SRK makes the grand Bhagwan Ram like entry, but then again, every song in that movie reeks of showoff, celebration, and affluence. No fault of Bollywood, which is just a reflection of the evolution of human race (or the lack of it), which brings me back to my irrefutable theory that everything in life ultimately boils down to preening, courtship, mating, and procreation. And anything that does not involve diaphanous clothing, the consequences of global warming (bouts of hot, wet, and cold weather, pun unintended), an umbrella, a few bees buzzing over a rose, a cot (khatiya), or even a reptile-dance number to save the mate from the curse of the evil man will never make it to the Hindi silver screen.

A very happy Diwali everyone, never mind the disappointment Bollywood has brought us.

[P.S.: I thank my friend S who made me notice the scarceness of Diwali songs in Bollywood, something that I had entirely overlooked for reasons not quite clear to me].

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“Mere Paas Ma Hai ... Aur Tumhare Pass?”

They are the reserve stores of love and affection (and adipose). Their pious feet (with sacred dust and all) mark the sanctuaries of the doors of Heaven (jannat) for their sons (not to mention the existential identity crisis of the Bengali men following it). They are mostly seen wearing ill-fitting, neutral colored traditional clothes, salwar kameez or sarees, either black or white (depending on the shades of badness or goodness of characters in movies). They are the storehouse of tears, and they cry for everything, be it when their sons come home wearing cool tattoos imprinted “Mera baap chor hai” (My father is a thief), or when their sons go on to become “Badaa aadmis” (great men) in life. They are endowed with superpowers, sometimes snatching away their kids from the jaws of danger and death, and sometimes banging on bells in the neighborhood Shankar Bhagwan ka mandir till Shankar bhagwan himself fulfils her wishes that usually center around bringing back her son into consciousness, who has been knocked out following an accident that either involves a vehicle, a girl, a communal riot, or a villain. Sometimes motherhood comes without an expiry date, surpassing reincarnation or amnesia/memory loss. It is an amazing feat to be a Bollywood mother, shouldering responsibility of everything, from organizing tea parties to the weddings of their children (be it Tina Munim dancing to shayad meri shaadi ka khayal, dil mein aaya hai, isi liye mummy ne meri, tumhe chai pe bulaya hai, or Kajol gyrating to the music of mummy daddy meri shaadi karwa rahe hain). Neither age, senility, or blindness deters them from fiercely protecting their children, especially sons. They are seen raiding Shivji ka mandir, berating God himself for being mean and unfair. Their faith can move mountains, and in case they have bad night vision, it can be cured by the strike of a lightning or serpents. They are the ones first kidnapped, roped, and harassed by the villain if they have a son who is the hero and has pissed off the bad guy in the movie (not mauled though, that is left for the unwed sister in the movie who no one would have married anyway). Occupationally, they are seen lugging bricks at constructional sites (that will be later owned by their sons as a mark of respect for the mom), ploughing fields, or sewing clothes for the entire community even with a straining eyesight to be able to raise enough money for the son’s education. They are usually called Mamta (not Banerjee), Lakshmi, Savitri, Tulsi, Koushalya, or better still, maatey, amma, or maaaaa!!! They are usually the ones who have the privilege of hugging the heroes, all in the good name of motherhood.

So while the whole world is gushing with a sudden developed love for their mother as Mothers’ Day is nearing, let us remember the mothers of Bollywood, for the way they have touched our lives, living as role models, smothering their children with love and affection, and always being the unselfish, struggling, usually poor but respectable denizens of the movie world who are the strength of pillar behind the success of their sons.

Aruna Irani in Beta (1995):Where mothers could be villains.

While Madhuri’s dhak-dhak shook the country, Aruna Irani shook the image of a good mother with her powerful, dhak-dhak-less performance in the movie. Rightly named Lakshmi, she had her eye on Lakshmi (wealth) and was the depiction of selfishness and greed for a change, where mothers were stereotyped to be these simple women whose love for their children would move mountains. She keeps her stepson from going to school or educating himself, not that it prevented him from getting Madhuri for a wife, many an educated and highly competitive students in best colleges would argue. Of course, things have to end on a happy note, giving the right social message, so she has to have a change of heart, but not without lots of drama, melodrama, tears, apologies, and dhishum dhishum at the end.

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Reema Lagoo: When mommies cause family breakups.

Perhaps best remembered for her role as Prem’s mom in Maine Pyar Kiya (1989), a decade later, she was also the Maiya Yashoda in the controversial movie Hum Saath Saath Hain (1999). Things are so right and everyone is so much in love with the concept of family here that you would feel like puking out of the picture of perfection and the excess of goodness. But then of course the seeds of doubts and jealousy are planted, causing separation in the family. But as always, things work out, a few heart attacks and galloons of tears later, and the movie ends on a happy note, until of course the incident of the poaching of the black buck is discovered. Reema Lagoo has been the model mommy in a number of other movies, including a movie named Mere do anmol ratan, that no one remembers.

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Rakhi: When motherhood surpasses the expiry date of life.

The woman always simmering with “Badle ki aag” (need for revenge), Karan Arjun (1995) and Ram Lakhan (1989) are two of her powerful mommy movies (there being many more), where she avenges the villains solely based on the conviction that her sons are going to set things right. With resolve of steel, you should see her challenging the villains Bishambar Nath or Durjan Singh (Amrish Puri in both cases). In one, she holds on to the blood-soiled clothes of her husband murdered on the train tracks, and the other, she is seen challenging in her usually husky voice, “Mere Karan Arjun aayenge, dharti ka seena cheer ke aayenge, blah blah blah karke aayenge”. A very black and white role, she is usually seen wearing either white or black in both movies, with no hint of either sindoor or smile in the movie. She is the perfect example of a mommy who shows us that the bonds of motherhood can surpass any barrier, even reincarnation.

Jaya Bachchan: The mommy jisne …. Bas keh diya !!

This mommy has revamped the entire image of Bollywood mommies. If I remember anything of her in this movie, it is the wealth, the pompousness, the grand clothing, the ornate mansion they lived in, the straightened hair with a hint of white, the pooja-paath and naach-gaana that ensues while her son lands in a helicopter, she getting on a stool to fix the tie of her one and a half foot taller husband, and of course her (only) powerful dialogue in the entire movie revolting against her husband, “Bas keh diya!!!”. She broke the image of the mommies of the 70’s movies who were poor, wore the same cotton sari throughout the movie, and washed utensils at other’s homes to bring up their children. This mommy wears zardosi sarees, lives in castles, and has a husband who dances with chicks at parties.

Farida Jalal: The cool and friendly mommy.

She will always be remembered for her role as Lajo in DDLJ (1995). Although a BBCD mommy, she is the epitome of tradition, dupatta clad and all. A dutiful wife and a mother who tries to be more of a friend that a mother, she is the model mommy for many girls who grew up in my generation, the mommy who wouldn’t rebel against daddy, but who would secretly support her daughter to love and marry the man of her dreams, even if it was an undekha, anjaana chehra from the mustard fields of Punjab. She is a contradiction of sorts, non-conventional with her ideas of “bhaag ja Simran, tu ghar se bhaag ja”, yet conventional, so much that she wouldn’t shoulder the responsibility of permitting her daughter for a summer Eurotrip (apne baoji se pooch le). From the sister of Amitabh (remember the song, dekh sakta hoon main kuch bhi hote huye?) to the mother of Simran, she is quite the person you would want to be your mom if you were the heroine with an angry, disciplinarian dad.

Nirupa Roy: The “baap” of all mommies.

Perhaps no other mommy has played such a powerful role as she did in the movie Deewar (1975), still best remembered for the dialogue “Mere paas ma hai”. Funnily enough, as a kid, I somehow got the idea that her name is Nirupay Roy, that fits her nirupay image perfectly. She doesn’t need to be named anything in this movie, bas “ma” hi kaafi hai. Maaaaaaa !!!! Poor, lachrymose, sullen and sad, oozing with self-respect, both her sons go on to choose different paths in life, despite being brought up with the same values. The suhagan who lived like a vidhwa, working at construction sites and fainting multiple times due to low levels of glucose in the blood, the ma with the hyper functional lachrymose glands, she should rightly get credit for starting the whole movement also known as mothers’ day.

Honestly, I never knew about mothers’ day as a kid, or thought that there is one particular day of the year when you are supposed to smother your mother with love (more on Facebook than in real life), but that might be because I wasn’t brought up in so cool or happening a family. I understand birthdays and anniversaries are celebrated once a year, but mothers’ day? Slowly I got the idea, that there is going to be this one day every year, hopefully coinciding with the break after the spring semester, when you should inundate your Facebook page with posts about how much your mother means to you, and how much you love her. You are supposed to bleat like a goat, myaa … myaa… post your mommy’s picture as your profile picture to confuse your friends, and inundate your wall with messages of matribhakti. If you are a mommy yourself, this is your chance of demanding anything from iPads to diamonds, not from your child who is 1 year old and barely knows to talk, but from your husband, all in the name of mothers’ day. Like I wrote earlier, that the love has to keep showing, for it isn’t love if it does not show. So on this occasion of mothers’ day, I am going to remember my mom, who lives halfway across the world, by remembering all the cool Bollywood mommies whose movies I grew up watching. Honestly, it wouldn’t make a difference if I lived with my mom. For thankfully she is one person who does not care about Mothers’ Day.

Happy Matri Diwas mummy log.

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“Rab”bing it in

Note: The reader is responsible for his/her own pinch of salt (s)he will be taking this with. The stuff you read is solely my opinion and it doesn't really matter whether you agree or disagree.

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In a world where truths like mate hunting, grooming, courtship, and shaadi.com exist, not necessarily in that order, the alternative school of belief that preaches that God takes care of your soul mate hunt is somewhat worth debating. Of course reverting to anything remotely related to God for things gone wrong in life is instinctive and age old. But I find it amusing that God challenges the evolutionary school of thought and thereby mocks the concept that man must find his own mate, and in the process, learn the basic skills of grooming, hunting, and courting.

It’s a relief for many I’m sure, especially those belonging to the frustrating, unmet and un”mated” life. A very starry eyed teenager preparing for my boards, I’d sighed in relief when Madhuri Dixit in Dil To Pagal Hai (DTPH) had beamed with confidence upon SRK’s question of how to identify if the person you just met was the one, pointing Heavenword, “Woh tumhe batayega” (God will tell you). I had happily gone back to my chemistry books, a heavily bespectacled and pimple faced high school aspirant, believing in Madhuri’s theory combined with ma’s theory that a good student always finds the right husband. And that too- on time.

Over and over again, Bollywood has tried resurrecting the belief that God is going to take care of something as important, and also as painstaking, frustrating and time taking as finding a mate. 5 years before DTPH, Kajol, in a similarly starry eyed role in DDLJ, had reverted to finding the “anjana chehra” and “jise maine dekha nahi” (The unknown face of the lover she had never seen). The force of God, and equally powerful being the force of the invisible and unknown, had surely made every teenager believe that the man of your dreams was the unseen, unknown stranger who’d knock your doorbell one fine morning, and was of course Godsent.

A decade after DTPH, Rab ne banaa di jodi (RNBDJ) once again tries to infuse similar beliefs in the name of God. Matches are made in Heaven, and are sent to us on planet earth in the most unlikely and untimely way. How else would you explain the wedding of the two protagonist right after the lady lost her fiancé and her father in a matter of days? Because God had made the match long ago in Heaven, and by some quirk of fate, had sent your mate on planet earth and had conspired a co-ordinate crossing in the most unusual circumstances.

I can think of many other movies that preached the concept of God match making and sending us out mates in a weird array of coincidental events. This was meant to be a relief for not just the ones who hadn’t found their mates (God will take care of it), but the ones with mismatched mates. The day you realized you’d married a buffoon for a husband, you could conveniently blame it all on fate and God, that it was God who decided the match, and the only thing important was, not money, not status, not the make of the car he drove, not the team he worked for in Microsoft, but the fact that “Woh tumhe deewanon ki tarah chahega” (He will love you insanely) (Courtesy: RNBDJ). Frankly, I once bought into this theory of God taking care of my single status and sending me the right man at the right time. Probably my stupidity explains the reason why I am still single, and highly run the risk of dying a spinster.

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