Lootera- A Vintage Romance

Lootera, a film that made me revisit my blog, which I had almost abandoned. Lootera is more a work of a poet the lyrical quality of whose masterpiece will keep you enthralled long after you come out of the hall.

The film is set in a period when romance had that subtle quality about it. Not the in-your-face kind of love, but the one that starts with the eyes and sneaks its way into the heart. And all this happens in its own leisurely pace, enabling you to savour the sweetness. No wonder Vikramaditya Motwane has dedicated the entire first half to let the romance brew between Pakhi (Sonakshi) and Varun (Ranveer).

The furtive glances, the measured silence, the unspoken words tempered with the right amount of passion and longing bring the two star-crossed lovers close to each other.

But Destiny had different plans in store. When they accidentally chance upon each other two years later, their love has been tarnished by feelings of betrayal and longing has given way to resentment.

What Pakhi needs is a confirmation of the fact that she had not invested her emotions in the wrong place, while Varun is a repentant soul desperate to make it up to her.

The film was meant to end the way it does. Had the dénouement been anything different, Lootera wouldn’t have accomplished what it did.

I can’t recall the last time I cried that hard in a movie hall.

With this film, Motwane has set the bar very high for himself. As a fan, I can only hope it’s not his “Last Leaf” .     

Bidding adieu to RK

One by one the icons are falling. Shammi Kapoor, Dev Anand and now Rajesh Khanna. RK’s superstardom and fan following are legendary and much has been said about the effect he had on women of his generation, but I think his magic couldn't be bound within a time frame.

RK was one of my first crushes and when my friends in school were busy drooling over their boyfriends or Salman Khan in Maine Pyar Kiya, I was head over heels in love with Uttam Kumar, Kishore Kumar and Rajesh Khanna. That I was an absolute misfit and at least 10-20 years behind my time had started to manifest itself from then, I guess.

My infatuation with Khanna was inherited in part from my mother. She had an enviable collection of film magazines and a diary where she used to write down the songs from almost all his films. I took over from there and enriched the treasure trove by contributing cassettes and paper cuttings.

I had forever been a Kishore fan and in RK, it seemed, his voice found the perfect face. The songs were to die for, the romantic expressions matchless and the films brilliant. Aradhana, Anand, Amar Prem, Daag, Safar, Khamoshi and Aap Ki Kasam, will always be my personal favourites. I remember having a showdown with my parents over watching Aradhana. It was considered too early for me to watch "roop tera mastana…".

Since then, I have watched, sang and played the song the umpteenth time. It still remains one of the most intense expressions of love for me. Here was a hero who was not meant to be the knight in shining armour for the damsel in distress. He was not the proverbial macho man playing the role of the protector. Instead, he was this breath of fresh air, the sensitive, the romantic kind, who touches your life to make it better, heals your soul, uplifts your spirits and leaves a irreplaceable void when he bids adieu.

He wove magic with that flick of head, that glint in his eyes and that pain-ameliorating smile. He had a certain vulnerability in his eyes that showed through his freewheeling spirit.

The other day, someone raised this very pertinent point overlooked by many till date. In most of the films RK played this unconventional character who either falls in love with a widow (Kati Patang) or shares a platonic relationship with a courtesan with a heart of gold (Amar Prem). In Daag, he played a married man plunged in the midst of a domestic crisis when his previous wife resurfaces.


But the roles that made him what he was were those in which he played a doomed individual with an indomitable zest for life and a deep understanding of it.

The heat is on!

"April is the cruellest month", T.S. Elliot had said. Well, the cruelty has spilled over to May, peaked by the end of it and still showing no sign of abatement.

The heat is at its tormenting best in Calcutta. As far as my memory serves, the city hasn't faced the brunt of the sun's wrath like this in a decade. By the time I leave for the office (around 3.30 in the afternoon), the roads already wear a deserted look with only the heavily-panting dogs for company.

The rickshaw-pullers present a pitiable sight by stretching across their vehicle and trying to maximise their comfort in the most uncomfortable position possible. Yet they manage to steal a sleep. Anyone approaching them for a ride is given a reproachful glance. You are made to feel like the most condemnable tyrant alive on this planet.

Boarding an auto is like entering a furnace, with the cramped space making matters worse. Some auto drivers still have their musical sense intact. They play the built-in stereo at full blast... the choice of songs and the sweltering heat making it the ultimate test of your patience. I, too, am musically inclined but expecting someone to stomach a remixed version of Altaf Raja’s “Tum to thehre pardesi…” is just too much to ask for.

Call of the sea

I had always thought that I like mountains better... their majestic quality, their imposing presence and their silent message that eggs you to aim for the sky.

But that was till I had my tryst with the sea in the temple town of Puri. The first time I laid my eyes on the sea, I instantly knew that it was going to be the beginning of an intense love affair.

They say "those who live by the sea can hardly form a single thought of which the sea would not be a part". For me, the sea had an impact far deeper than that. The vast expanse of water induces a feeling of humility — you feel humbled by the fact that you are just a cog in the larger scheme of things, and proud that you have been allowed the opportunity to not only experience this glory but also bask in it. It seems the incessant waves, hurtling towards you and receding, have been ordained by the ineluctable fate to keep playing to a set rhythm, much like us.

For the past few days, I have been feeling the urge to go back to the place.

Cricket fever

Cricket is no more the sport that I used to know and like. The IPL has changed it beyond recognition. The sport has been stripped of its staid quality and transformed into a curious concoction of 40 overs of hurriedly-played game, skimpily-clad cheerleaders and other needless distractions.

Then there is the curious thing that IPL does to your loyalty. You don't feel the same rush that you experienced while watching a face-off between India and Pakistan. Or for that matter, India against any other team. Much like the team and the spirit, the IPL has managed to divide our loyalties, too. Leave aside Telengana and Gorkhaland, regionalism has crept its way into cricket and how!

I live in Kolkata, so I am supposed to cheer for Kolkata Knight Riders. This apart, there were two other factors that won my vote for the team — Shahrukh Khan and Sourav Ganguly. But that was way back in time. KKR’s disgraceful performance and Dada’s unceremonious exit left me and many more like me flummoxed. What ensued was a love-hate relationship with the team. When the team won, we love-lorn, smitten-by-SRK fans, felt happy for the charmer, but what held us back from an unrestrained show of glee was Dada, the hometown hero’s, absence. Well, you can’t tickle all things Bengali in us and expect us to cut down on the emotional quotient at the same time. My mother, a former SRK fan, has since then shunned his movies and cricket.

Then the confusion got a little more complicated. Dada became the captain of Pune Warriors. Never thought watching cricket would be so demanding!

Friendship

My father used to say that as we grow up, our list of friends gets whittled down to a few good ones. For me, these few are the ones who mean the most. I have heard glorified definitions of friendship, but for me it's just an assurance that they are there.

They are the people who know my vulnerabilities, my penchant for embarrassing myself, my oddities, my weirdest actions that defy logic but still accept me the way I am. They make me feel important and relevant through sweet and small gestures that speak volumes. I know I have the right to be angry with them, speak my mind without weighing my words and tell them I can't take calls because of a sore throat and yet I will not be any less loved for that. They expect me to wish them at 12 on their birthdays, and then call me up themselves to remind me when I forget. There's one who suffer my persistent banters on her Bengali skills with admirable stoicism and another who fakes an error in connection whenever he is reminded of sponsoring a treat. Another thinks I am the most mature and emotionally dependent person she can turn to in distress situations, which makes me think I never knew myself.

I don't know what I have done to deserve them, but I can trade a thousand friends for these few.

Freaky fashion

Today I decided to take up a subject that has eluded me ever since I became aware of its existence and the importance appended to it —fashion. Fashion and I share a mutual awe, the kind that you develop for something remote and incognisable. I have always given fashion a wide berth because of my abysmal depth of ignorance on the subject.  Whenever I try to summon my patience and focus my mind on exploring its marvels, fashion leaves me stumped.

A case in point —  the low -waist jeans. They should come with a statutory warning simply because there is no limit to how low it can get. A rage with the fashionistas, they barely manage to reach your waist. And if you decide to give the belt a miss, then you need divine intervention to keep it from sliding down further. I'm sure even those walking with a new-found swagger after donning that perfect and priceless pair, wait with bated breath for the terrible to happen. I bet they have that fear lurking somewhere behind that oh-so-cool demeanour.

Torn clothes once used to mean you are too hard up for cash to buy a new one. But now they are a statement. The distressed look doesn't reflect your state of being, but is carefully cultivated to notch up a few extra points as a natty dresser. So if your mother makes a dash for her sewing machine to mend your ragged jeans, please show some consideration. She just doesn't get the point, much like me.

A neat no-nonsense hair cut with a side parting and a perfect bhodrolok get-up. Is that your idea of a smart looker? Come, join the club, because like me you are also likely to be written off as too old-fashioned and out of sync with time. Haven't you heard of spikes and hair gels? I have always wondered how hair sticking out of your head exactly enhance your beauty quotient. To me, it looks more like a porcupine on the run. But what do I know of fashion?

That day, I met a friend after eons. As we got talking I couldn't help but get distracted by the little thingy under her lower lip. When I couldn't hold in my curiosity any longer, I told her there was something on her chin. I was almost going to wipe it off myself when she enlightened me on the object. That was a piercing and I was an official ignoramus. I won't blame her if she refuses to acknowledge my presence the next time we meet.

Since that meeting I have become acquainted with other types of body art, too...tattoos to be more precise. They find pride of place almost anywhere on the body. Permanent, temporary and semi-permanent, meaning they can be reworked as and when needed, tattoos are the "in" thing. So what if it peeks out from uncomfortable places? You can't stare at them without running the risk of being branded a pervert. Who will buy your excuse that you were merely trying to admire the art... or whatever little you can see of it?

So basically, I have given up on myself. I have resigned to the fact that I will continue to gape and gasp at these funky expressions of creativity without a clue as to what it is all about.