Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed
—Othello, Act 2, Scene 1
William Shakespeare
The die has been cast. Inked fingers are fashionable in Kashmir now. Another matter it feels like we are fingering our own memories, which unfortunately are short-lived.
So the high priestess of Indian TV, Madame Barkha Dutt, has declared the elections a success. In the television mumbo-jumbo that TV anchors are usually good at, she called it ‘a thaw in the winter chill’ or some related smart crack. Squatting on a dastar-khawan with a few copper tramis laden with wazwan, there was a celebratory ring to her show. It had an artsy feel, complete with vapours rising from the food. Nazir Masoodi's self-control on such occasions must be appreciated.
The participants included Karan Singh’s son, with all the silk in his family heirloom, bound around his neck, and stuffed in his pockets and a KP film-maker (God knows what he has made) in an ill-fitting jacket and huge shirt collars. There was an elegant professor also. PDP’s spokesperson, draped in a black shawl, looked like a wise sage, who knows that success is near. Ofcourse the NC spokesperson, an old pal of mine, tried to sound intuitive but came across as a sailor who knows the storm is fierce and his ship is doomed.
In another space, another channel (I watch them in clutches on Youtube when I have a moment) the rabid Arnoub had assembled (as usual) a dozen people, none of whom he allowed to speak. Going a step further than Barkha, he announced the total rejection of separatism, now that Bandipora has voted 75% and the dawn of a new era in Kashmir. God knows where he wriggled the old fogey Hashim Qureshi from. Since the host has institutionalized the idea of being seriously a joke and a farce at the same time, he easily wasted another 60 minutes of the nation. In an ideal world they would put him in a rehab.
As the season of absurd continues, the vote frenzy has climaxed. Kashmir is very cold around this time and usually boring. Elections, the spectacle that it is, infuse some life into these drab settings. With the BJP rocking the show in the centre, Madison Square Garden and elsewhere, it appears that Modi’s star is on the ascendency. Flush with victory after another victory, he has already announced that India is where stem cell gyaan originated. Taking a clue, his minions are now saying Vedic India (1750–1000 BCE) had helicopters. Obviously by that logic Kashmir straight away belongs to Mohan Bhagwat’s RSS.
I reckon Kashmiris, being politically sharp if somewhat humbug, decided to spoil the party for the BJP. The generic political wisdom is that Jammu and its sphere of influence is under a spell of Modi and his jinn, the crazy as fox, Amit Shah, so lets join ranks and make sure that the saffron ghouls don’t come here in their Vedic drones. The overwhelming sentiment after Round 1, journalist friends inform, is that this indiscretion in the winter chill is not seen as disrespect to old boy Geelani. No way! If he wrote a book of calligraphy, tomorrow, and called it The Delicate Art of Defiance, by God, it will sell like hot cakes. But today people are simply in a mood to vote.
Sameer
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Monday, November 17, 2014
Mehboob Ki Mehndi
Last night Mehboob Beg abandoned the ship. Perhaps hindsight is a good thing but Mirza Afzal Beg’s son didn’t wait for hindsight to dawn on him. Instead he dumped Omar. Like he had dumped Dr Farooq in the past to put Gul Shah on the throne. Then mysteriously he made up with doctor sahib and was politically rehabilitated.
His father, the legendary Mirza Afzal Beg, was Shiekh Abdullah’s lieutenant for decades, and was often hailed as Fakhr-e-Kashmir. He presided over the Plebiscite Front (Ah, how many times have we flirted with this darned Azadi business!) and was the legal brain behind the famous Indira-Sheikh accord.
Beg senior was sent to jail along with Sher-i-Kashmir in the infamous Kashmir conspiracy case. When the Sheikh was allowed to perform Hajj in 1965, he took two people along -- his wife, Begum Abdullah and Afzal Beg. Well all that is history now. In a hurriedly-called press conference yesterday, the NC called Beg junior a chameleon. Politics, they say, is colorful business. People change affiliations like a baby’s diapers.
Here is a clutch of Gupkar conversation from last night that we managed to pick up from our palace sources. It had to be brief because some BSF walla, stationed outside Omar’s villa, went mad this morning and started shooting at ducks in the compound.
A big black rotary dial telephone, without lettering on the finger wheel, comes alive. Sheikh Abdullah used it once to make calls to Nehru. It has become fashionable to abuse Nehru in Delhi these days. Sheikh’s grave needs to be protected in Srinagar by men in uniform with carbines.
The phone rings. Omar, a cross between looking glum and tickled, takes the call.
OA: Yes, dad, it is true. What do you mean how true?
Doc: Faan ha karov atey saersi.
OA: Talk in English or Urdu, dad. What is Faan?
Doc: Kihi na. It is the Muftis, I know.
OA: Why blame them? It is our deadwood.
Doc: Haya potra if we lose men at this rate, soon it will be you and Nasir alone left in the party.
OA: Mehboob wanted to be a hero.
Doc: Hero, my foot! What is happening in Beeroh (Beerwah). Put a pheran on and visit Beeroh daily, booztha.
OA: I tweet daily, dad.
Doc: Haya only journalists read your tweets.
OA: Mehboob was bad-mouthing them till Saturday.
Doc: Beg calls Mufti a ‘visionary’. Jigar ha dodum. It was like a dagger in the bosom.
OA: We are the only and the oldest nationalistic party. They can’t possibly take us on.
Doc: Haya Sheikh Ghulam Rasool tya nivok. Kuni na rood na kah.
OA: You know dad I was joking with Devender last night that they have Ashiq and Mehboob both.
Doc: You think it is funny! That Devender’s brother is BJP’s CM aspirant.
OA: You trusted Karan Singh’s son Ajatshatru. He is also supping with the devil.
Doc: Hay kus tavan.
OA: Electoral politics, dad. PDP's time perhaps.
Doc: It should be Al-bain always.
OA: Let Mufti yield the broom.
Doc: Kursi is important.
OA: Now what?
Doc: Make sure no one takes the leader of the opposition kursi from you.
@Sameer
His father, the legendary Mirza Afzal Beg, was Shiekh Abdullah’s lieutenant for decades, and was often hailed as Fakhr-e-Kashmir. He presided over the Plebiscite Front (Ah, how many times have we flirted with this darned Azadi business!) and was the legal brain behind the famous Indira-Sheikh accord.
Beg senior was sent to jail along with Sher-i-Kashmir in the infamous Kashmir conspiracy case. When the Sheikh was allowed to perform Hajj in 1965, he took two people along -- his wife, Begum Abdullah and Afzal Beg. Well all that is history now. In a hurriedly-called press conference yesterday, the NC called Beg junior a chameleon. Politics, they say, is colorful business. People change affiliations like a baby’s diapers.
Here is a clutch of Gupkar conversation from last night that we managed to pick up from our palace sources. It had to be brief because some BSF walla, stationed outside Omar’s villa, went mad this morning and started shooting at ducks in the compound.
A big black rotary dial telephone, without lettering on the finger wheel, comes alive. Sheikh Abdullah used it once to make calls to Nehru. It has become fashionable to abuse Nehru in Delhi these days. Sheikh’s grave needs to be protected in Srinagar by men in uniform with carbines.
The phone rings. Omar, a cross between looking glum and tickled, takes the call.
OA: Yes, dad, it is true. What do you mean how true?
Doc: Faan ha karov atey saersi.
OA: Talk in English or Urdu, dad. What is Faan?
Doc: Kihi na. It is the Muftis, I know.
OA: Why blame them? It is our deadwood.
Doc: Haya potra if we lose men at this rate, soon it will be you and Nasir alone left in the party.
OA: Mehboob wanted to be a hero.
Doc: Hero, my foot! What is happening in Beeroh (Beerwah). Put a pheran on and visit Beeroh daily, booztha.
OA: I tweet daily, dad.
Doc: Haya only journalists read your tweets.
OA: Mehboob was bad-mouthing them till Saturday.
Doc: Beg calls Mufti a ‘visionary’. Jigar ha dodum. It was like a dagger in the bosom.
OA: We are the only and the oldest nationalistic party. They can’t possibly take us on.
Doc: Haya Sheikh Ghulam Rasool tya nivok. Kuni na rood na kah.
OA: You know dad I was joking with Devender last night that they have Ashiq and Mehboob both.
Doc: You think it is funny! That Devender’s brother is BJP’s CM aspirant.
OA: You trusted Karan Singh’s son Ajatshatru. He is also supping with the devil.
Doc: Hay kus tavan.
OA: Electoral politics, dad. PDP's time perhaps.
Doc: It should be Al-bain always.
OA: Let Mufti yield the broom.
Doc: Kursi is important.
OA: Now what?
Doc: Make sure no one takes the leader of the opposition kursi from you.
@Sameer
Friday, October 03, 2014
Haider: Shakespeare in Srinagar
Haider suffers from a fundamental flaw. It attempts to marry the Kashmir narrative to Hamlet, a famous play by William Shakespeare. The Bard’s play (written between 1599-1602) is about ‘revenge’ while Kashmir, any dispassionate observer will tell you, is essentially about ‘aspiration’. Whilst it is sincere, even daring, of Vishal Bhardwaj to make a very different film, I reckon he may have ended up confounding it. Hamlet is a revenge saga. Haider has revenge as a recurring theme running for most parts. Kashmiris seek no retribution. Ask any random Kashmiri. It was and always has been about aspirations.
I had a lump in my throat when they showed naked men being brutally tortured in Srinagar’s infamous incarceration centers. Waves of young men have been through that torment; those godawful times when spelling out the word ‘Freedom’ meant you had to undergo third-degree. Democracy has its moods, you see. Times have changed. Kashmiris are now writing furious books. The problem is that audiences in India do not consume much literature. They consume movies. That is why Haider becomes important. It rewinds us back to the dark 90s and the political intrigue at play during those days.
Given that Bollywood usually ends up making trashy films around Kashmir, Haider indeed sets the bar a notch higher. It has its strong points and a number of weaknesses. The story drags at times but captivates you in equal parts. Dreary skies and a silent snowfall, captured almost poetically, transports you smack to countryside Kashmir. Watch it for lovely cinematography; watch it for the Kashmiri accented Urdu and English words (deliberate, beautifully delivered) and some powerful acting.
Kashmiri peculiarities, like our accents and the way a majority of us speak English and even Hindi/Urdu has been nicely outlined. Vishal has captured the oddity that a lot of non-Kashmiris may not notice – our emphasis on Vs and Ds for instance -- when talking in the Queen’s language. Shraddha Kapoor, playing Shahid’s love interest, effectively conveys this when she says lo-V-ed (with an emphasis on V), much to the delight of her lover and the Kashmiri audiences. This requires a keen ear. Her unearthly crooning of a Kashmiri folk song in the snow, towards the end, is equally poignant.
Tabu is a class apart. She reprises the role of Gertrude powerfully. The turbulent relationship with her son Haider, who resents her for falling for his uncle Khurram (Kay Kay in a career best performance) after he conspired to have his Tehreek- loving brother ‘disappear’ has been beautifully handled. There is an undertone of Oedipus complex and a subtle erotic tension between the mother and son, which surely is part of Hamlet, but could have been easily done away while dealing with a sensitive topic like half-widows.
Not a masterpiece by any stretch of imagination but a sincere effort. Never before has a film of such intensity been attempted on Kashmir by Bollywood, so this is definitely a first. As long as the medium of movies – in this case Haider -- initiates a dialogue about the dark secrets of democracy – custodial killings, disappearances, half-widows – I am all for it. There indeed is a danger of compartmentalizing the tragedy of Kashmir into neat boxes of human rights abuse and harsh laws like AFSPA. In some scenes the film adds nothing new with its standard Bollywood-style pontification to the gumrah natives.
There are several compelling moments in the film though. Haider’s thoughtful conversation in a single-shot frame with his mother leaves you shifty; there is a hauntingly surreal scene at the clock tower in Lal Chowk, Srinagar’s focal point. A power-packed dialogue – at once philosophical and abstract -- in which Haider weighs the moral ramifications of living and dying is insanely real. Comparing death to sleep, he talks about the end to suffering and uncertainty it might bring, paraphrasing the iconic Shakespearean adage: To be, or not to be: that is the question.
Curiously the protagonist uses the word chutzpah at key points in Haider. Vishal – or Basharat may be – has smartly inserted the Hebrew word to reflect a double entendre – or a double-edged sword – depending upon how you see it. Chutzpah rhymes with both AFSPA and a common Hindi profanity. Since Kashmir is often likened to a paradox, wedged dangerously between two nuclear-armed nations, the film-maker appears to draw attention to the tomfoolery of it all. Ironically they get it wrong. Chutzpah is pronounced Khutz-pah with K.
The confusion prevails. No pièce de résistance this. A very good film.
@Sameer
PS: You can safely ignore the cynics and morally f*** up Twitter nationalists.
I had a lump in my throat when they showed naked men being brutally tortured in Srinagar’s infamous incarceration centers. Waves of young men have been through that torment; those godawful times when spelling out the word ‘Freedom’ meant you had to undergo third-degree. Democracy has its moods, you see. Times have changed. Kashmiris are now writing furious books. The problem is that audiences in India do not consume much literature. They consume movies. That is why Haider becomes important. It rewinds us back to the dark 90s and the political intrigue at play during those days.
Given that Bollywood usually ends up making trashy films around Kashmir, Haider indeed sets the bar a notch higher. It has its strong points and a number of weaknesses. The story drags at times but captivates you in equal parts. Dreary skies and a silent snowfall, captured almost poetically, transports you smack to countryside Kashmir. Watch it for lovely cinematography; watch it for the Kashmiri accented Urdu and English words (deliberate, beautifully delivered) and some powerful acting.
Kashmiri peculiarities, like our accents and the way a majority of us speak English and even Hindi/Urdu has been nicely outlined. Vishal has captured the oddity that a lot of non-Kashmiris may not notice – our emphasis on Vs and Ds for instance -- when talking in the Queen’s language. Shraddha Kapoor, playing Shahid’s love interest, effectively conveys this when she says lo-V-ed (with an emphasis on V), much to the delight of her lover and the Kashmiri audiences. This requires a keen ear. Her unearthly crooning of a Kashmiri folk song in the snow, towards the end, is equally poignant.
Tabu is a class apart. She reprises the role of Gertrude powerfully. The turbulent relationship with her son Haider, who resents her for falling for his uncle Khurram (Kay Kay in a career best performance) after he conspired to have his Tehreek- loving brother ‘disappear’ has been beautifully handled. There is an undertone of Oedipus complex and a subtle erotic tension between the mother and son, which surely is part of Hamlet, but could have been easily done away while dealing with a sensitive topic like half-widows.
Not a masterpiece by any stretch of imagination but a sincere effort. Never before has a film of such intensity been attempted on Kashmir by Bollywood, so this is definitely a first. As long as the medium of movies – in this case Haider -- initiates a dialogue about the dark secrets of democracy – custodial killings, disappearances, half-widows – I am all for it. There indeed is a danger of compartmentalizing the tragedy of Kashmir into neat boxes of human rights abuse and harsh laws like AFSPA. In some scenes the film adds nothing new with its standard Bollywood-style pontification to the gumrah natives.
There are several compelling moments in the film though. Haider’s thoughtful conversation in a single-shot frame with his mother leaves you shifty; there is a hauntingly surreal scene at the clock tower in Lal Chowk, Srinagar’s focal point. A power-packed dialogue – at once philosophical and abstract -- in which Haider weighs the moral ramifications of living and dying is insanely real. Comparing death to sleep, he talks about the end to suffering and uncertainty it might bring, paraphrasing the iconic Shakespearean adage: To be, or not to be: that is the question.
Curiously the protagonist uses the word chutzpah at key points in Haider. Vishal – or Basharat may be – has smartly inserted the Hebrew word to reflect a double entendre – or a double-edged sword – depending upon how you see it. Chutzpah rhymes with both AFSPA and a common Hindi profanity. Since Kashmir is often likened to a paradox, wedged dangerously between two nuclear-armed nations, the film-maker appears to draw attention to the tomfoolery of it all. Ironically they get it wrong. Chutzpah is pronounced Khutz-pah with K.
The confusion prevails. No pièce de résistance this. A very good film.
@Sameer
PS: You can safely ignore the cynics and morally f*** up Twitter nationalists.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Four boys on a beach
A sea has no roof
whither warning bombs knock
Just fisherfolk digging happiness
upon sands of time
Beaches of Gaza
with no Iron Domes
Only shore-fulls of sea shell
with sea secrets in them
Merging point of waves
and four little boys
Running on spindly legs
after a soft white ball
Upon small smooth pebbles
carried by the tide
Near a stubborn sea
where fishing is a crime
Leaning against sky
toes deep in sand
Whisper whisping
chasing a tattered ball
Birds, like bumble bees
chirruping on their breath
Suddenly a sea storm
and drumfire from hell
Like sea burnt wood
legs bent at odd angles
Pirates drawn by laughter
horridly asphyxiating happiness
The ball and the beach exist
only the boys don't
Sameer
Tribute to Mohammed 9, Ahed 10, Zakaria 10, and Mohammed Bakr 11, the four boys killed on the beach in Gaza on July 16, 2014.
The art work is by Jerusalem-based Amir Schiby who has generously allowed me to use the image.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Twelve hours in Bombay: A photo feature
Café Moshe’s
Menu of the day:
Muffin
Egg to order
Croissant
Pancakes
Toasties
Sandwiches
Beverages (Hot & Cold)
***
St Joseph’s connection
Aamir
Khan and Rahul Gandhi vie for billboard space in South Bombay. While
the latter has got nothing but his dimples to fight Modi, the former is weeping copious tears these days on his
hit-on-social-conscience show Satyamev Jayate. If you perchance
missed the inconspicuous St. Jospeh’s High School sign in the
billboard litter, that is the oldest school in Juhu. Founded in 1905,
the institution shares its origins with St. Joseph’s Higher Secondary
School, Baramulla (founded 1905). Both schools have their own churches
and graveyards. Faith takes death seriously.
***
***
Hole in the wall
Bombay has a million hole-in-the wall mini shops. This one sells everything from beedi to cigarettes and betel leaves (Paan) in a tony part of the city. If you wish to make a phone call and do not have a phone, look no further than the quintessential next door cubby hole. You will also get a free tip on how to do a quick jugaad to balance your rickety plastic chair.
***
The very important syndrome
Last
summer when I was in London I saw the British PM David Cameroon
arrive at the Westminster on a silver and black Scott bicycle. A few
days back while driving to work I instantly noticed the G63 AMG
Mercedes-Benz in front of me had a unique license plate number: 1. Over here everyone knows that’s the ruler of Dubai. Out of curiosity I
changed track and sped up to see who was in the driver’s seat. Indeed it was His Highness, driving all alone. No paraphernalia. The electronic reminder to the hoi polloi in Bombay however said it all: VVIP
Visit Today, Traffic Regulated. Inspite of its Kejriwals India’s boorish VIP culture in public
governance refuses to go away.
***
***
Back rubs, anyone
One quick gimmick that marketers have correctly learnt in recent years is that modern life is quite stressful. Working on this knowledge, a plethora of massage centers have sprung up all over Bombay. Like mushrooms. You come across signposts on run-down buses, disfigured walls, tree-trunks and corrugated tin-fences offering relaxing, natural, authentic, Thai, Tantric and a motley other massages. There is a phone number provided. Note: It has a shady ring to it, if you know what I mean.
***
The Don’s den
Amitabh Bachchan is the single biggest cultural export of India. Singlehandedly he epitomises
the country’s soft power status. Naturally his home is a shrine to
millions. If you are new to Bombay and the cabbie detects that,
he will most likely point out the magnificent Bachchan villa on the Juhu
Tara Road to you. Called ‘Jalsa’ (roughly meeting/gathering in Urdu but
I was told it means fun and pleasure also), the 10,000 sq ft property
has attained the status of a Bombay icon. Every Sunday, the guards told
me, hundreds of people stand outside the gate to catch a glimpse of
their superstar, who makes it a point to step out for a while to wave at
the gathering. Now it begins to make sense, Jalsa: gathering. Only
Bachchan knows the meaning but one dare not ask him on Twitter. His
tweets often come laced with strange numbers and humdrum.
***
***
Boot polish
There was a time when films with protagonists working as shoe-shiners were big hits. Raj Kapoor-produced Boot-polish in 1954 won acclaim at Cannes and the Filmfare Awards but the era of 'lived-happily-ever-after' is over. Frankly the existence of shoe-shiners had lapsed in my mind (blame it on my overseas years) until I stumbled across one. Clad in a loose-fitting collar-less shirt, the shoe-shiner went about his job in the most diligent manner possible, unruffled by the din around him. I thought of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva (ex President of Brazil), Alejandro Toledo (former Peruvian President) and Malcolm X (famed human rights activist). All of them had been shoe-shine boys.
***
Pomfret by the beach
You risk the chance of being branded a bummer if you go on the sea shore and come back without having seafood. Perched on the Juhu beach, Mahesh Lunch Home is the most authentic Manglorean seafood eatery in Mumbai. It serves the most delicious crabs, prawn gassi and black promfret curries in town. The USP is home-style food. However if you are into star-gazing (which I am not), you might bump into one of the film-stars. The Kapoors and Bachchans (who live nearby) are regulars. Brightly lit, Mahesh Lunch Home has a relaxed feel and attentive staff. They have something called Clams Kashmir also. I reckon, clams are non-Kosher/non-Halal, though I am not entirely sure.
***
Filmi connection
The Maximum city has a very strong connect with the film industry. Although Mumbai’s train of thought criss-crosses through planet Bollywood, there is little comparison between the teeming masses and the industry's perfumed gaggle. Bollywood is essentially ruled by a gang of two dozen or more people. They are super-rich and comprise of the A-list of actors, producers, musicians, directors et al. Rest are the sub-cast, the also-rans. As a journalist I often get to go and meet up the best film folk. Yes, they smell fragrant and look beautiful and talk in a cultured, clipped manner but you don’t have to even look hard to detect that there is no soul in this enchanted world. Glamour, I daresay, is spurious.
Never meet your heroes, guys.
Sameer
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