Correlation

Headlines for today : In the wake of the Raj Thackeray-led Maharashtra Navnirman Sena's hate campaign against north Indians and non-Marathis, the Supreme Court on Thursday struck a patriotic note by saying that "all of us are Indians" and there is no difference between people coming from various regions.

Im glad of this patriotism, better late than never. We need it. After all we are Indians. Lets do away with tags like castes, creeds, regions, hindus, muslims, christians, minorities(whatever that means), majorities(and woteva that means 2), females, males, tribals. Lets have common rules for everyone. Like maharashtrians should work hard and compete. Like I heard some people shout, Its the survival of the fittest. Or is it?

Wish I was standing in the engineering line in this era. No reservations for navy, army, dalits, OBCs, minorites(again). No college level reservations for Gujuratis(in Maharashtra, trust me, our college had reservations)!! No city centric struggles. Allow full access to everyone to all MBA colleges in Maharashtra through CET instead of just 5% of outsiders. We are Indian. Period.

Lets all talk in Hindi in Chennai(we are all Indians, remember), and lets donate land for the good of the state you have been staying in for more than 10 years, instead of a homeland(AB babyyyyyy). Whats a homeland in a country full of Indians??

And while we're at it, lets allow people to roam about with guns in their hands and wave them at the police(who needs em anyway), but ofcourse dont hurt 'em, lets give 'em the benefit of the doubt.

Note: The author hates violence, be it from MNS or whoever, but she also hates hypocrisy. She has no political bias, except that she's one of those few unfortunate majorities, for whom no one will ever fight, she's too far from ever being a reserved category(unless I add an e to my surname), too far from owning and donating land, and has to listen to too many people griping about how badly crowded and unsafe bombay has become and how narrow minded maharashtrians are 'coz they are anti migration into bombay in the same breath.

Reel-view

I think "The Devil wears Prada" is at least close to being called "Fashion", unlike the actual Fashion movie. The Fashion movie is nothing about the way the fashion industry works, the way business is done and undone, the non glamorous employees of the glamour world.

Instead it's about one woman's success, what she does, willfully, without the demonized male parties asking her to, and the tag line says, you have to give up more than just your morals. It implies unwillingly. But it's not unwillingly. The protagonist dumps her boyfriend, and starts smoking. She dumps her baby and starts sniffing white powders. Really now!!

Maybe this movie should have been called Models. Or even Showstopper. The movie goes on and on about Priyanka and Kangana vying for the show stopper spot, and no other model is ever shown to be jealous about it, except these two. Another problem is too many characters. It gets really disconnected. Like the photographer guy is given two tiny scenes in the movie. What for? The movie breaks apart with such meaningless additions.

Unfortunately, everyone has acted damn well, which makes the waste of talent in a disastrous movie, more pronounced. Like the last scenes where Priyanka walks out as a showstopper (again) with tears in her eyes, but a haughty face, and eyes that tell the world, "I'm still one up on you".

Or the tortured, slave of habit and abuse, Kangana (they should reduce the volume when she speaks though, I almost went deaf; and also give her diction lessons maybe). Or Sameer Soni, who makes his preferences evident, oh so subtly.

This movie is not at all true to its subject. It's an over the top dramatized movie. These stories can happen to anyone who gets really successful, fashion industry or not.

I'd rather see a movie on how the Panache guy got to where he was. How he arm twisted all the designers to almost own their souls. Or how the established designers keep up appearances or quell talented budding designers. Anything but the overused stereotypical characters like the bollywood designer that cater to the masses to get a few cheap laughs.

Some final thoughts - I wouldn't have killed the movie, if Madhur Bhandarkar hadn't made it. It was not research. Anyone story writer could come up with a story like that, without actually knowing anything of the Fashion industry. I think in the end, he too couldn't really give away the real dirty and grimy secrets of a closely associated industry, and used a rehashed money making formula; instead of an eye opener.

Patience was not new to him. Over 20 years, the main part of his job profile was waiting, without losing his temper. He could do that, wait for hours and hours before he was called upon, and still not appear grouchy or dissatisfied. No one ever fired him, he quit, and he was in demand, he knew his stuff well. Never voiced his opinion, never spoke unless spoken to, never pried, and never ever gossiped. He was even impeccably clean, and had perfected conversational English, nothing fancy, just enough to know what they wanted him to do.But this time…he quelled his growing irritation, as a sharp knock on his window broke into his reverie. He glared as her assistant opened the door for her, and smiled as he bade her a nice evening. He waited, with long years of discipline, as she got in, smiled at him and told him to drive home. He didn’t smile back, just stared stolidly ahead, as if he could wish her away, and as she settled down, started the car.

As he drove down the road, his mind automatically went back to the day the guy in the suit hired him. He was happy with the pay, the employer seemed clean of shady dealings, and he had a decent family, all hunky dory, until he reported to work the next day. He was aghast at whose beck and call he had to wait. The employer’s wife. He didn’t have anything against driving women to their childrens' schools and shopping malls as per the employer’s requests. But to drive a woman to work?
He glanced in the mirror, and saw her staring out of the window. He hated her, hated that she made more money than he did, hated it that her employees treated her with respect. After all, she was a woman. His father, in his tipsy confiding moods, had always told him that women needed to be put in their place. They should cook, bear children, keep the house clean, and the husband happy. He had duly tamed his wife, not that she needed taming that is. His friends made fun of him, for being at the beck and call of a woman. He wondered about the culture of her parents, and the spinelessness of her husband, for letting her earn money. In his village, a woman working meant the family was disgraced. He had been employed by the rich of the city, and their women never earned, but this family…His mind drifted to the plan his friends had jokingly made. He wondered if he could one day just drive off with her, she slept through most of the journey anyways. Kidnap. Seemed like a heavy word, he prided in being loyal. But now, he was 45, he needed money, after he could no longer drive. He had loaned his savings to his son, and something told him he wasn’t going to see that money again. His shoulders straightened as he thought of how much her wimp of a husband would pay for her, what he would do with the money, maybe buy his mistress a gold bangle, and get his wife a saree. And save the rest for his old age. He wasn’t a criminal, he reasoned, but this woman deserved it, for being uncultured, and distasteful of her position in society, for shamelessly working with other men. Would treat her right, for all the jesting that he had to suffer, he'd even humiliate her...scornfully he smiled. Each day he was more convinced he would be taking what was rightfully his, that he’d do his bit towards men by showing her, her rightful place; and that the ransom would only be his payment for the service of mankind.She didn’t notice his shoulders slump with resignation, as the guard opened the gate for them, and he pulled into the driveway.
She didn’t know that he was depressed that he had spent one more day with violent thoughts snapping at his heels, begging for fruition. But then they had checked his records, he was very trustworthy, her husband had promised her.

Note: blended ingredients: True story + my musings on the power of thought + musings on crime against women.
In the true story the driver wasnt morally challenged, just sexist.

The Charioteer..1

He knew the time had come, as he stopped the graceful flight of the dark horses with a single flick of the wrist.

He was but a bystander to the greatest battle that would ever be fought, for centuries to come, and he smiled as he thought of how it all came to this, the symbolic war of black against white. It took a lot of doing, a lot of goading, some of it with his help, to bring the goodness finally in resounding strength against the dark warlords.

But he was just a Charioteer, a friend of the warriors, as chosen by those who knew His worth. He smiled at the recollection of how easily the evil prince had fallen for his simple offer; he could take the Charioteer or his army. No match, the prince’s wit against His. With a look of utter disbelief, at how easy the offer was, the evil prince settled for the army, something He had counted on. The truth was, his clan were fierce warriors, and anyone with His army, could strike terror in all the parallel worlds, just by the twang of their mighty bows.

On the other hand, the exiled princes, he wasn’t sure, how they would react, for he went with the same offer to them. But none of them wavered, none of them flinched, when the eldest asked for Him, to be on their side, it didn’t matter, that He had promised not to touch a single weapon of destruction. With humility, and reverence, they requested Him to stay the war with them; the side of the just; and He happily agreed, knowing now, that they had passed His final test.

The war bugles were blown; an eerie silence had covered the battle field, the stench of anticipation touching everyone with long cold burning fingers, the weapons ready to be infused with their own life, breathed in with the skilful hands of their masters. It felt like an illusion, just moments before the thundering hooves had pierced the sky like a double edged dagger, the elephants had stomped in impatience on the scent of blood to come; and the royal chariots had rolled with pride into the vast battlefield.

To be continued...

the man who blogged too much...

Big B blogs....wonder why, but the bigger wonder is that I was curious enough to check it out, maybe out of sympathy for a fellow blogger, or maybe out of nothing else to do. though it might say something about my life situation right now, lets not digress.

So the man writes...now there are millions of people who hang on to his every word, for whom he is everything that signifies super stardom. One would expect a certain amount of restraint, or a certain amount of dignity, or even diplomacy. But no, he responds to vitriolic pieces, with more acid than can be generated in the ankleshwar factories.

Now here is a man, who wields enough power to make atleast 40% of the indian population save water, car pool , and recycle. But he chooses to respond as to why Aishwarya's dress was crumpled at Cannes, a response to a comment made by a certain "I- lost - that -flair -for -writing" De. Or doesnt he know that noone reads her articles any more? Makes me wonder why people become so insecure, the more they achieve. Is it a certain sense of fatality associated with giddy heights of success, is it fear of losing adulation, power, or more morbidly, life?

Or does the use of power one yields, for tackling real issues, make one feel weak and used? Or is it just disinterest for things other than self gratification? Hmm, maybe mr Amar Singh might be able to shed some borrowed light...