Slumdog Millionaire - The Review

Given all the hype surrounding the overseas release of Danny Boyle's film, I was left wondering when I would get my hands on it. Yesterday I did. So, yeah, what is my verdict?

I wasn't expecting this, at least not in this way. Even though I'd heard the story (like I said in the last post, it matters not if one knows the plot beforehand-- good films still remain essentially good). Not this.

No spoilers this time. None at all.

A few random thoughts that crossed my mind: first, this is a film that was aimed at the awards right from the starting frame (and seeing the Golden Globes, seems the arrow's hit the bull's eye). No two ways about that! But wait, so was Forrest Gump, and I love that one so! Yes, I am very happy for Rahman-- but honestly speaking, this is not his best. Let me, therefore assume, that this is what Rahman should have had long before-- for all his scores that bettered Slumdog Millionaire's and didn't get recognised widely. Mind you, I'm not saying this is bad: nice and all, just not the Rahman I've loved for so long. Two, if you pay attention to details, logical ones especially, then perhaps you won't like this movie at all. Right from the start there are obvious gaping flaws in logic: no television audience jeers a poor call-centre assistant on a game-show (and especially one as widely followed and discussed as Kaun Banega Crorepati, or maybe if you prefer this, Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?) just because of his profession. Moreover, no television anchor, if he ain't insane, talks that condescendingly to a contestant on air, as low as his social or economic background may be-- this is national TV, mister, and one is under the constant gaze of both the junta ki adalat and the ever-on-the-lookout-for-some-spicy-story media. Flaw number one. And then, how do slum-urchins suddenly learn such fancy English (granted that Jamal, the protagonist, works in a call center: so what! And aye, English with a proper Amrican accent; take that!)? Flaw number two. Like I said, this is a film aimed at the awards. After all, we can guess that the awards jury prefers films that they can easily comprehend-- so bye-bye subtitles, as far as possible (the portions where they are present, though, are unique in a little detail-- we'll come to that later). Flaw number three: a bit too much of co-incidences, but that I guess is one of the best things about the movie. And finally, the biggest flaw: it is not quite clear how or why Prem, the anchor, deduces that Jamal is a cheat and betrays him to the police. Enough about flaws, now (though there are still a bit too many that can be named).

The good thing: Boyle's treatment of a disarmingly honest script that adheres not to reality, nor pretends to. If you are a wide-eyed fan of Amitabh Bachchan flicks of yore; yes, when he was the 'angry, young man' going through bad times, getting his ration of dishoom-dishoom, punishing the baddies for all the pains they'd inflicted on him in an adrenaline-pumping climax, and bagging his heroine at the end of the film (each one screaming HAPPY ENDING in your face)-- this is what you'd been waiting for, for long! Oh wait, the Big B does actually appear in the film, and what a delightfully repulsive scene that is. (In case you're wondering about the oxymoron, go watch!) Did I say something about subtitles before? Yes, maybe a minor detailing, but the whole load of enthusiasm and energy oozing out of every frame in the movie leaves it's indelible mark on the sub-titling too: they pop up in lively bubbles as the characters speak, instead of staying far away from all the action down under. The camerawork is fascinating and fresh-- remember Dil Chahta Hai?-- and does justice to the repelling yet adventurous tumult of the Mumbai slum-world. If Aamir used exactly the same setting to depict a dark, brooding atmosphere holding God-knows-what terrible secrets in it's womb, Slumdog Millionaire romanticises the will to live, even inspite of all the filth and sickening poverty. Not bad, that!

Which brings me to the final and most important bone of contention regarding this film: an issue that has been addressed in some blogs and internet forums I happen to frequent. The portrayal of India. Given the kind of skewed idea of India that some westerners still donning their imperial sunglasses have-- that of snake charmers, fakirs and derelict maharajas living lavishly as their subjects rot away (a bit of an exaggeration on my part here, perhaps)-- was it apt to portray that part of Indian society which is among the most deprived in such vivid detail? Isn't it going to strengthen the flimsy picture of our country that firangi-s have? Well, yes and no. Also, why choose a call centre, of all things, as the workplace of Jamal, our protagonist? Isn't that another stereotype? Deja vu: yes, and no. Yes, because it is largely true that India has both a booming call-centre/BPO culture, and one of the largest, if not THE largest, population of desperately poor people in the world. The problem is that it does not give the complete portrait away; and therefore inspite of being largely applicable to our society, it is not exact in it's statement of truth: hence, no. The danger of India getting cornered and stereotyped in the eyes of the western world remains: but that is a risk not quite as bad as the truth itself. So, even though I agree with both parties in the debate (and realise the ramifications of such stupid stereotyping), I refuse to join either.

So, your final question, I suppose. Did I like it? Should you go watch it? A resounding yes to both. This is NOT the best film of the year. Far from it, and far from intellectually rousing territory. This is NOT flawless cinema, nor is it revolutionary. What this IS then: a strangely uplifting tale of hope, fate, love and conscience (Salim's murder scene is brilliant, and that I must single out for praise). Go watch it. Your rationale will possibly discard it, your heart won't. This is, as a recent Hindi movie name suggests, a marriage that God decreed-- a union of the heart of 70's Bollywood (sans the cheese) with the technique and elan of Hollywood. So gobble it up! And take your pick. You either love it, or you don't. As for me, I do.

Requiem For A Dream

When Darren Aronofsky started out with his second film project (his first was π), he already had garnered a cult following. It suffices to say that by the time this second film was out, there was already a buzz in avid-film-follower circles. Requiem For A Dream (henceforth shortened to RFAD) just served to intensify it.

For long, I'd been thinking about writing a film review without plot spoilers. I have experimented with that form of reviewing, as such (though not on this blog), but it occurs to me now that revealing the story does nothing to spoil the cinematic experience-- good stories necessarily do not make good films, and anyway, films that cut the mark are much more than an enactment of a superb screenplay. Cinema is (and not 'has') a language of it's own: the charm and enjoyment is in reading the story in the film's own language through the individual's eyes. A second reason for me to stick to my old habit of revealing the story is that I have found out that no review is complete (of course, according to me) without my thoughts on why certain things happened the way they did in the film. Which necessitates revealing the story-- it's odd for me to pick out a random scene from the film and ponder about it's ramifications and importance, without knowing what preceded it! I am a person who judges any matter at hand subjectively. Objective, rigid or technical finesse is not my forte, and that I frankly concede. Which, in fact, is what differentiates me from the professional movie reviewer-- he usually confines his analysis to an objective plane; I, on the other hand, take things a bit too personally (which, practically, is impossible for the pro) to be objective. To cut it short: the spoiler-free reviews I wrote looked like a mere amalgamation of adjectives to me, with personal observations that cared not to mention what induced them. Hence, for my purposes (which is in encouraging some reader to look out for a good movie), meaningless.

Sara Goldfarb (Ellen Bursytn) is an old lady living alone in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, USA. She usually spends her time gorging on delicacies that she can't resist having, and watching infomercials on televisions. Her husband, Seymour, has deceased; and her son, Harry (Jared Leto) prefers to live alone with his friend Tyrone C. Love (Marlon Wayans). Whenever Harry comes visiting, there is usually an altercation between mother and son, and even though Sara acknowledges that her son has behavioural issues, she dismisses an old acquaintance's advice of taking help from the police to sort matters out since she thinks that Harry's just a normal young boy with his share of problems, and moreover, he's her only child. Things get bright and sunny for her one day in summer when she receives a call from a television channel that she's been shortlisted to appear for a game-show/infomercial JUICE (Join Us In Creating Excellence), the same one she religiously follows. The television addict that she is, Sara is delighted to hear the news and starts building proverbial castles in the air. She decides that she will wear the red dress from the proudest and most memorable moment in her life, Harry's graduation, on the big day. The problem however is that she is just too fat to fit into it! A friendly neighbour suggests taking the easy way out of overweight, a strict diet chart. Sara warms up to the idea though the prospect of kicking her favourite high-calorie delicacies dismays her. After only half-a-day of following the chart, she falters on her newly adopted resolution; all the same, she consoles herself with the notion that she is "thinking thin", which it seems, is the most important step in losing weight. The delicacies however refuse to leave haunting her, and she finally decides that it is too difficult for her to suddenly give her age-old ways the kick. But there must be some way out! It's the doctor. Sara is given a dose of amphetamine pills she must take thrice a day and a sedative at night. So now, she can continue gorging on her food, while still losing her pounds. All well, indeed, only until the pills begin to get the better of her...

Harry's frequent altercations with his mother are not altogether unfounded. Harry, Tyrone and Harry's girlfriend, Marion Silver (Jennifer Conelly), are all heroin-addicts. Marion is a budding fashion designer who dreams of two things: one, marrying Harry, and two, setting up a designer store. The problem being that no one has enough money for the dreams to be realised. But enough money for their new plan: the trio decide that they'll enter the drug business, and with the money profited, make it big. Tyrone often thinks of his caring and benevolent mother, and decides that he'll leave the trade once he has made enough to make his mother proud. The money keeps rolling in. Everything looks all fine and sunny for the three young friends. Harry, however, feels a nagging guilt somewhere that he must make up for all the bitterness and negligence that he has shown for so long to his mother. And so, he wants to a buy her a new present. The question is what. The answer, ironically enough, is the thing what has cocooned Sara from all sense of reality: a television. When Harry visits her, Sara is all ecstatic and happy, especially so after she comes to know that Harry has a successful business at last and a girl he wants to marry. In the course of the conversation, Sara reveals that she has been taking amphetamine pills for weight loss. Harry forbids her to continue taking them, saying that those will drive her mad and finally take her life away. Sara brushes away the suggestions saying she has found a new reason to live after receiving the call from the TV channel, and how that has driven away the emptiness of staying cooped up in a big old house with no one but herself to care for. Sara assures Harry that things will all get better now. When Harry tells her about the present, Sara breaks down into tears thinking how her son has finally become caring, knowing quite well deep within that she is fooling herself with the idea-- no gift can compensate for years of uncordial relations; not that easily! The realisation is not missed by Harry too-- and so he promises his mother that he'll come along from time to time, and perhaps bring Marion over for a meal sometime, though he's far from confident that he can keep his promise. Mother and son part for the moment in a semblance of mutual goodwill, though they can both sense the wall that still separates them. It hangs over the scene like a silent and invisible, but almost tangible, barrier.

Come fall, things suddenly start going awry. Tyrone is arrested in a drug bust-up by the police, and Harry has to spend a huge chunk of their cash reserve in bailing him out. Because there have been similar raids in the whole city, getting drugs on the street has become nearly impossible for the trio. Moreover, the cash reserve is all but empty, therefore making things doubly difficult. Tyrone, however hears a rumour that there is going to be a covert drug sale in the rear of a supermarket sometime soon. To have enough money for getting things started over again, Harry swallows his conscience and asks Marion to sleep with her therapist in exchange for money, just for once. Marion unwillingly agrees, accepting it as an sacrifice that must be had to fuel their dreams. This incident, however, marks the onset of a growing rift between the couple. Harry cannot suppress his guilt, and therefore becomes cold and distant. Marion, inspite of loving Harry, cannot forgive him for asking her to do such a thing. With the money she has earned so, Harry and Tyrone go to the rumoured spot on the day, only to find out that they have been fooled-- the suppliers have got away both with the money and the drugs.

Back in her Brighton Beach apartment, Sara is going desperate: the TV channel has not called her again, something that they had promised to do to keep her informed. The desperation coupled with the emptiness and loneliness drives her to take resort in the pills that give her a temporary boost. She visits the doctor, but he does nothing to help her growing addiction. Sara's detachment from reality and her hallucinations keep on mounting to a point when they become her worst fears. Her nervous system is affected and desperately, she starts for the office of the television channel. Realising that she is not in a stable state of mind, the people at the office arrange for Sara to be admitted to a mental asylum.

Harry and Tyrone decide to relocate to Florida where they plan to start things over. They leave Marion behind. To fend for herself, Marion now starts sleeping with people.

It's winter. On the way to Florida, Harry's arm starts wasting away due to repeated heroin injections, till it pains obnoxiously. The two friends visit a hospital, where the doctor calls the police realising that it is a case of severe drug addiction. The police have Harry hospitalized, and Tyrone is forced into a labour camp where he must fight addiction alone. Harry calls Marion one last time promising her that he'll come back soon, and apologising for all the mistakes he has committed: still knowing that he won't be able to keep his own promise. His arm has become such badly affected that it has to be amputated. Sara meanwhile fails to respond to routine psychiatric therapies and she is therefore left to face the last resort of the doctors: electroshock! Marion, on the other hand, continues degrading herself for money in sexual orgies. As a realisation of their ghastly delusions and broken dreams dawn upon them, each person draws back into a fetal position. A dream that recurred to Harry earlier-- Marion waiting in an empty pier-- comes back to him. But this time, she isn't there. Harry has hit a vast cavernous darkness. In her dream, Sara sees herself winning the game-show on television. Harry, a successful businessman married to Marion, is reconciled with his mother. As the two embrace, the crowd cheers on.

Inspite of having a linearly constructed plot, RFAD is a success because it hits the viewer in the right place-- it is bleak, oppressing and relentless in it's portrayal of addiction. It succeeds because it does not allow the viewer a chance to deviate his attention to anything but the subject-- one has the feeling of being bombarded on all sides with a torrent of questions. Suddenly one begins to question one's own dreams-- question if they are dreams, after all, or just comforting delusions that hurt very badly when they fall apart. One begins to question what exactly is an addiction: Aronofsky's portrayal does not concern itself only with drugs, you see. Food and television or even an obsession with a wish, things we hardly ever consider fatally harmful suddenly start taking dark and bleak shades. RFAD traps the user in a claustrophobically small cubicle of very disturbing thoughts and makes him face demons he'd rather avoid. It's the overall uneasiness (as somebody I know described the movie: "It's moving, and when I say moving, I mean the twitching, schizoid kind of movement") that contributes to the film's triumph. For something dark and brooding, things rarely do get better. In a way, this is the cinematic equivalent of, say, George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty Four; so there you get an idea of the exact kind of emotions that go on in one's head after the film has ended. The similarity does not, however, end here. Both are divided into three parts, and both concern themselves with an idea that slowly builds up over time and gives a temporary sense of well-being, until it is brutally shattered and destroyed.

Now on to some technical aspects: the movie wouldn't be so admirable had it not been for the treatment it received. The camerawork and cinematography is top-notch, as is the editing. Instead of shooting protracted scenes, the film is shot in extremely short phases, and constructed by juxtaposing such extremely small montages one after the other. The use of time-lapse photography is also frequent. These heighten the growing uneasiness and tension and offers the viewer a chance to judge the slow change in the psychological state of the characters in a comparatively small bracket of realtime. The implementation of split-scenes and the ingenious idea of shooting from either too close, or too far, sketches the characters as individuals alienated from society and reality, while presenting the viewer a chance to simultaneously observe two characters or situations. Also, rare is the film that uses the background score so efficiently, and keep in mind that this is no thriller. Clint Mansell's score is chilling and haunting-- it deepens the intensity of the film manifold. In fact, so good is it, that Aronofsky often uses it even while the characters are speaking. As the final down-spiral during winter is portrayed, the score reaches a hysterical crescendo. Too good! Never since Ennio Morricone's composition for The Good, The Bad and The Ugly has any composer come up with such a remarkable score (not in my eyes). The acting is, surely, good; but the actors don't make the film this commendable (though Burstyn deserves special mention). At the hands of another director and the same set of actors, it would have been just another film with a good intention. The kudos must therefore go to Aronofsky (even in his choice of the composer: in fact, Mansell's career in the film industry was launched with Aronofsky's first). Another thing that I must mention: the use of the infomercial JUICE as a plot-device with much effect. Sara has a sense of apparent well-being when she pictures herself standing on the stage wearing her fine red dress and the crowd cheering her on. The same crowd, however, turns to her worst fears when the hallucinations become nightmarish: the laughing and jeering make her paranoid. Kind of reminiscent of Two Minutes Hate in its depiction of hysteria/paranoia induced by a crowd that thinks and acts alike, which was a plot-device in Nineteen Eighty Four.

Requiem For A Dream is a film that is a bit hard to stomach for some, but one that gets its message across in a perfect way (if such a thing as perfection can indeed be achieved). So watch it!

The phenomenon called 'Singur'

The phenomenon called 'Singur' that’s happening presently in West Bengal, as all sensible people (astonishingly, so many of them!) are saying, is truly grimacing. I hope this *Honourable Lady* will be saluted for ages for giving our state such a brilliant setback in economy. And, just see, what an intellect she is manifesting celebrating “ma-mati-manusher joy”/ “people’s victory” because Tata has bidden goodbyes to us all. Even Narendra Modi’s letters and the disparagement all over the world over this issue wouldn’t aggrieve her. Oh, yes, all the greatest of greatest Economists and their greatest of greatest theories are absolute trash and all of these have actually been formulated as a part of the Big Plot called the pro-CPM-fanaticism!

Well, the question is not about taking any one of the sides right now. Even our *Honourable ruling party*, with thousands of divisions and collisions of opinions amidst it's own members, isn’t on the side of a “pure” economic development. Why at all start the construction of the project when a section of the people were so much unwilling right from the beginning? How much an increase to the vote bank could they have gained from this single portion of the state? Or why not change the name of the party altogether to something like “People’s Welfare Party” or so? Which part of India is still following the ideologies of pure communism/socialism? Or, perhaps, defining themselves as “Communist Party of India”, they are emphasizing this is how exactly communism runs in India, are they??

The worst of all things is this that the old man on whose land the factory now stands, neither gets back his land nor a placement in the industry for his son. Sorry, whose victory is this? Did you say “people’s”?? Amidst the political jugglery, a wonderful boost to the State’s economy is held back. A brilliant prospect of Bengal’s industrial development and redemption of the vast magnitude of the state’s educated and disguised unemployment is pulled to a stop. I expect a long way has to be traveled before the people of West Bengal understand that industry is necessary for agriculture to become an industry – for farmers to live like entrepreneurs. That acres of picturesque farm-lands are also available (in abundance, at that) in Scotland and Wales, but a handful of manpower is complemented by sophisticated machinery and technology there. And, for that to happen here, labour from agriculture has to be absorbed in industries; industries are required in turn to produce equipments, infrastructure and national income; so that, ultimately, both efficiency and productivity in agriculture get a boost.

Contentment is a great virtue. But, where nescience, political exploitation and illiteracy are sewed in, it’s dangerous. (A simple example: coming here for the vacations to a remote town in Orissa, where my father is posted presently, I’ve tried a little deal to pursue the village children over here to come for learning the basic alphabets and the numerals. But, on asking repeatedly the few children in the near vicinity, most of them were aghast by the aspect that they’d have to cut short their playing and wandering hours. A little girl even asked me, “Aap shaadi nahin karengi, didi?”. They couldn’t really see the point in studying the basic alphabets and the numerals. So much so, that they’ve stopped visiting me now and I’m still not having any luck with them… To think that I had actually got enthusiastic students in Bihar and West Bengal! But, this is the condition in most of the rural and tribal areas of our country.) Indian rural people have become far too habituated and contented with the lack of electricity and amenities; paucity and kachcha roads; to understand what industries can bring them. Or as Andre Beteille says, in the 13th October issue of The Telegraph, that Bengalis are far too influenced by the Marxist ideas like the capitalist-worker conflict, the class war etc. as have been preached by the leftist government for the last 30 years, that any sort of logic supporting the LPG policy infuriates a large portion of the local population even now.

Dislodgment of people and occupation has also happened in the past whenever constructions of large-scale and medium-scale industries have been undertaken in several parts of India. Thousands of people have suffered even then – no elevation by any kind of development has reached the grass-root levels whatsoever. (In fact, as a child, I’ve myself witnessed the distress of the poor villagers due to the thermal power project at Kahalgaon, Bihar..) As to what really should be done to avoid such situations of chaos in people’s lives and in the state’s order, I’ll quote one of my dear old bondhu-dadas, Kaushik-da, who has reasoned brilliantly on a comprehensive land-mapping exercise where-by the administration and the authorities should:
“a) make a land inventory of the principal food /non-food/cash-crop producing areas
b) identify the areas, mouza wise or by any comparative index, which are very fertile/productive/value (commercial) –generating ,terming it as A** , 'very fertile' and gradually drilling down to lands of progressively lower value quotients, terming the least of such fertile land as say F**, (Fallow) and arriving at an updated on-line position of the same ,
c) inventorise areas having high rural incomes and categorizing them on the basis of their degree of marketability of produce
d) enumerate areas where large , contiguous land fronts are available and make a productivity-mapping of these areas
e) map out the demographic density of these various land parcels (with differing fertility/productivity) and gauge the socio-economic dispositions of its inhabitants (family -totally/partially- dependent on agriculture/or enjoying alternate source of income etc) ,
f) delineate the land areas which are located proximate to sources of water, power., communication etc and make a stratification of such areas in terms of high/medium/low productivity etc.”

Following this process, Kaushik-da (yes, given a chance, I’d have published his complete write-up, but for his protests) reasons:
“Then, of course, the process of land acquisition/leasing from Government/private hands, the issue of valuation of such land parcels, displacement/rehabilitation- social and economic/ options of gainful employment- (after adequate training or otherwise) ----and the options of profitability share etc – needs to be discussed threadbare and comprehensively. General Guidelines and Policy Principles may need to be sounded out regarding if the investor needs to negotiate with the landowner/tenant/associated user directly or allows the Government to function as the major intermediary and the detailed process there-of needs to be ideated and debated. This can be arrived at by the principal political parties, with agriculturists, economists, social planners, land-revenue experts, providing the much need technical/scientific/statistical/normative and empirical data base.

For instance, there have been a large number of project-evictees, 'ecological refugees', dispossessed and displaced, sequel to the slew of thermal and hydro power and other capital projects taken up in the past who have failed to receive any kind of worthwhile social and economic rehabilitation packages, despite lofty promises made by the project/government authorities. Can we have a detailed empirical data bank of such instances and factor into the legitimate expectations of these hapless dispossessed (who received paltry recompenses which were, in most cases frittered away in no time in absence of any worthwhile and commensurate employment packages!! ) Mohd Yunus can give us interesting leads here!”

I’ll add to Kaushik-da’s suggestions, that all these demarcations and discussions must be made known to the public by an impartial body in the media. Possibly, all the land-delineations have also been worked out by the agriculture and the industry departments (I mean, the efficient bureaucrats are always at work, see), but the data should be made known to the general public. Else, without the understanding of why a particular land is selected for the erection of an industry, or without simply the knowledge of the data, we can't help people in preparing themselves and making up their minds for the new development. Also, in that way, things will be transparent and administration will be easier.

Anyway, students of ICSE and CBSE boards have read enough of Civics, Economics and Geography to understand what’s happening in their country. What do our dear old ministers and leaders think they are doing out there? Did they believe Hirok Raja-r Mogojdholai-er jontro is applicable here??

Judging oneself

Writing after long on my blog, so I think I will first beg pardon for not giving it much attention for a few months. I don't think reasons are quite necessary (this is my blog, after all :D), so I will avoid mentioning them too. What I will do now is write about a particular thing that has been on my mind all this while: myself. For the first time, I want to put the proverbial pen on paper (you get the proverbial bit, don't you?) and write about myself unabashedly, and honestly, for that matter. I wish I could write from a third-person perspective, like Sir did, but no, I think that will cut out my own views about myself, in a way perhaps inexplicable to the common reader. I cannot think of myself, about myself, through the eyes of somebody else; because that somebody does not understand why I do certain things the way I do, or why I think something the way I do, and you get the drift... (Though, that is not to say I completely understand myself. ah well, just read on, if I have not bored you yet!) However, I can assure a few things: (1) I am as virulent a critic of my own follies, as I am proud of my abilities/achievements (2) My opinion is as unbiased as possible, and (3) Sometimes, my views may border on insanity, so that should not come as unexpected! Another small thing, I won't write down in numbered points henceforth-- do not ask me why.


So, the first thing about me is that I am ordinary. Strange that I should begin this way (and all my previous self-descriptions begin in the same way too!). Matter of fact is that I don't say this just to be a bit modest before everybody, I believe in it. And somehow this is always the first thing that comes to mind when I ask myself for a self-description (those "then really, who am I?" moments). The funny/confusing bit about this point is that I sometimes inherently know that I am not acting the way ordinary people do! Now now, these self-realisations aren't really self-assured pats-on-the-back. They're more like "so okay, sometimes I can stand out from the crowd just because I feel like doing so". Those moments/incidents do not make me proud, they just give me some dollops of reason justifying my existence.

Second thing, I am a self-questioning, and quite often, self-doubting person. I often do not know how I am going to react to a particular situation, plainly because I have known myself acting differently in similar situations on different occasions. Sometimes, I don't even know if I am going to do something at all! Call it whim, if you will, disorder too, if you wish. Which is why I do not have a fixed routine in my day-to-day life, and in the bigger scheme of things. I am pretty sure that adherence to a strict routine would nearly kill my ever-so-volatile spirits-- which wants to do something only when it knows that the job is going to give it happiness/satisfaction. And I can say all this only because I have tried out the other side of the fence too. I have, on multiple occasions before (and at times, even in the present) done things just because they need to be done. The end result of such compulsive action has been almost uniformly the same: lifeless, unenthusiastic (even a few blogposts of mine bear witness to this fact: browse through them carefully, and you'll spot the ones with ease!). This ceaseless self-doubting and self-questioning does not end with action and reaction, though. It extends to the way I look at my own self. But, more on that at some later stage of this post. Let's move on now.

If the reader hasn't noticed it till now, let me spell it out: I have several inherent dualities (or ambiguities, if you want to call it that) in my character. So much so, that it is impossible for me to track down which particular facet of my character is active when (shades of Heisenberg's principle?!).

I have felt, though not completely understood, love. Love that is completely spontaneous, liberating, mesmerising, invigorating, a gush of emotions that flow through your self making it feel well, happy and exalted (maybe I can't describe it any better). Something like what Roger Daltrey sang about in The Who's cathartic Love Reign O'er Me. And yet, I have also felt so completely loveless at times-- just a void in me, nothing that I could feel. Love has given me both serenity and restlessness. Only one other person and the one above us all know how much I have searched for peace in the labyrinthine mazes of the all-encompassing emotion. That search hasn't yet ended, though it sometimes is put on hold indefinitely, and then resumed-- I believe soul-searching is one thing that will go on and on, anyway! So, I've put all my hope and belief in God, and wait for Time to tell me (ah, yes, borrowed this phrase from a favourite Nick Drake song :)).

Now that I have spoken about both love and myself being ordinary, let me say this: I find it sometimes strange and amazing, and often feel quite grateful that there has never been any dearth of people who have showered their blessings and affections on me, especially since the onset of self-consciousness. Even when I least expected love or care, I've had a few people who have unconditionally given me those treasured things (some teachers, a precious few cherished friends, and even some people who knew me for a rather short period of time). It sometimes makes me feel so happy, sometimes a bit ashamed of my own self-- do I really deserve all this? A friend keeps assuring me that I do, as for myself, actually do not yet know. The best part of it is that all this affection keeps reminding me that I need to fashion myself so that I can become deserving of it. *Did I make sense here?!*

Which brings me to one very important thing that needs to be written about: happiness, and its opposite. As with every other thing, I can't quite assure myself if I am inherently a happy or a sad person. Because, I am often quite melancholic and depressed (some think for no good reason!)-- little things I notice (and a lot of others can't, or don't) make me feel quite sad. On the other hand, I can get quite cheerful and happy suddenly (again, for no good reason, it seems to some!) on certain days just because I feel like being so. Yeah, I am mad, and I make no bones about that! Somewhat interconnected is the question of my temper, which is as volatile as my mood. With time and a lot of self-control (and because I have grown up more or less alone, without people to share my emotions with), I have successfully curbed my extreme anger (of which only I know). So even if I am not in the best of spirits, one sees me cool, quiet, and generally averse to speaking. Though, it is worth admitting that I have not been able to completely control my anger-- if disturbed while I am in that quiet stupor, I may just explode for a brief moment before calming down (I detest these moments, and without fail, I have begged pardon for being rude on every occasion these outbursts have taken place, that is, as far as I can hark back and remember).

More dualities coming up: intertwined with the question of happiness/sadness, and my temper, is my emotional strength (honestly, I don't find a better alternative for "strength" at the moment). Only a few people know this, but I am emotionally quite feeble. Those who know me, and know me quite well, can judge my mood by a single word I say or a single twitch of my eyebrows. I am that transparent! I cry, perhaps more than girls (yeah, have your laugh, if anyone of you is reading), though not in the "I can create a pool of tears" sense. Just a silent outflow until I feel quite light. Funny that at times, though not always, I don't myself have an idea of the reason for crying, just a inextinguishable urge somewhere to empty my mind of some disturbing thoughts. All of this is not without reason, though. Having grown accustomed to, perhaps even comfortable with, confiding the deepest of my thoughts only to myself (like several others who go through emotional crests and troughs, I do not maintain a regular diary-- for fear that someone may actually discover it some day, I don't know when. The mere idea of someone knowing my deepest thoughts without me directly selecting him/her for that purpose disturbs me, since I know that there is a dark shade to my self too, a dark shade I prefer to keep private, you could even say trapped inside me!), I am naturally more prone to emotional upheavals. Which does not mean that I actually leave all work aside and retreat to a dark corner of some room-- in fact, I am quite a master in being seemingly so happy and contented outside while something keeps on constantly gnawing away in me. I won't lie, I often wish I could just lay off the whole burden and tell someone I trust (there are people whom I deeply trust, that I can assure myself and you too!) everything I feel. But then, it dawns on me that if it would help me somewhat, it would be a whole load for the one who shares-- and hey, even my closest confidantes have their own lives to live. However, little bits and pieces of my heart, I do share now and then with those whom I care for, and who, I hope, care for me too. Funny I should say all this, and then add the next bit-- but someone else's (I mean anyone of my confidante's) emotions I am always glad to share, in fact, sometimes I positively hope that a few people open up and make themselves comfortable in confiding to me. Nope, not saying all this because it'll earn me a few brownie points for being deeply understanding and caring-- it is just that helping someone in any way makes me happy, very happy. So happy, in fact, that I can forget the troughs I sit in (that has happened on occasion, so I definitely know what I am saying).

Ah! Since I am talking about understanding, caring and loving, let me take the liberty of saying that I do care, love and understand, at the very least, those who I deem worthy of it. Thank God then, for I am not Severus Snape! :D I hope everyone who is reading takes note of this: being inherently shy and tongue-tied, I cannot, simply cannot, express to all the people I love and care how much they mean to me. I wish I could say something unabashedly admiring, lovely and appreciative about certain persons, but I always fear someone or the other may cynically misunderstand it to be flattery or thoughtless, meaningless exaggeration of one kind or the other. Yes, I give two hoots about what others think, but this is where "others" get the better of me.

A hostel room-mate often says that I am in the habit of judging people by my own standards, which may well be good or nasty, depending on what you think about me. I cannot pass any judgement on this aspect of mine, just thought I'd concede this point openly here.

I think, that is one thing I nearly always do. I wish, and certainly hope, that I break free from the shackles of laziness that so cripple me at times-- all my own fault too. I am just too whimsical at times, you see. By the way, this reminds me that my tastes and interests are as whimsical, if not more (I thought initially that I'd label them "eclectic", but eclecticism is not to be used lightly, especially when it is me who is the subject of discussion). Before I wind this up, just one more thing to say: I have tried out various things in life, and already have a fair idea of what I really enjoy doing. I have no concrete plans for the future (shades of caprice again, you see!) though I have rough sketches of what I would like to do-- and believe me, that is one long long list. Do not know if life will even afford me the time to do all I love to do, but hey, I at least know something a lot of my contemporaries don't-- the path to happiness! Following my heart through the myriad mazes that encompass it, playing around with light and darkness, solemnity and frolic, ecstasy and melancholy, work and leisure, everything and it's opposite. I embrace life as it comes-- with all the complexities and the quiet, simple joys of living.

Since duality is a running theme throughout this post, it is quite apt for me to end on a note that strikes that chord between opposites yet again-- remember how I mentioned my fear of baring my heart; lo and behold, I already have!

Secret Ballot

Amidst the semi-darkness of the early dawn, an aircraft zooms into sound and view, and drops a rope tied to a large box at its one end. As the reddish black slowly becomes blackish red with the advancement of the dawn, a soldier is seen carrying the large box, his figure dwarfed under the weight of the box. The landscape that we see silhouetted by the reddish yellow glow is one of rocks, shrubs and sands and beyond that a wide stretch of ocean.

The soldier places the box beside a tent on the ground. He opens the lid and stares inside. He draws out a letter, goes through it, puts it back in the box and closes the lid. He turns back now and walks towards a two-storied sleeping cot standing amidst the sands and rocks of the beach. He wakes his mate up from sleep and prepares to replace him (the upper bunk seems to be a storage place for cans of water and food and the lower bunk for sleeping. One of them stays on guard (dunno, guarding what though!) while the other one sleeps). He informs his friend of the arrival of the parcel box and that an agent would be coming to conduct the elections at 8 o'clock. His friend, the second soldier, complains that it's 8:15 already and that nobody has been there yet. The first soldier, annoyed at all the interrogations as he's trying to have his sleep, grunts back a few words of wisdom, "The agent will come sooner or later..." Time suits itself according to situation and people. He requests his friend to shut up and let him have his share of sleep after the long hour of duty. The second soldier makes a fire with a few log pieces and places a kettle of water over the poorly made chulha. He then sits over a nearby rocky bench and drinks his tea, with his gun between his legs, as he waits for the agent to arrive...

This is vaguely the opening scene of the short film 'Secret Ballot', directed by Iranian-Canadian fimmaker Babak Payami. Courtesies Dr. Vinayak Sen film festival organised by JU's Sfuran patrika and http://www.sanhati.com/. As it is, within the first few days of college itself , my favourite spots of hanging around (or better may be sulking around, or brooding... somehow I don't think I'm the sort of person whom you'll find "hanging around" with groups and friends all the time. I've two close friends here, but most of the time I wander about alone) within the JU campus had been marked as the Milanda's Canteen; the Worldview Bookstore, facing the canteen; the large courtyard in front of the Subarnajayanti Bhawan and the jhil paar facing the Arts department. The film was shown in the Vivekananda Hall which lies inside the Swarnajayanti Bhawan, though I entered it for the first time (and now that I've a really magnificent memory to attach with the Hall, I'll look forward to visiting it more often in future). The film ran in Farsi language and was a tale of some Irani village. I followed the film (and loved it actually) half because of the sub-titles and half because of the cinematic language it used. Having grown up watching a number of films in various languages ("variety" in languages of speech, art and style), I've known atleast that a film should be seen through it's own language. And, for that matter, 'Secret Ballot' did have an elegant language of it's own. I'll basically tell the story of 'Secret Ballot', which might be very monotonic for those who've seen this film (my apologies to them), but I'll try to capture certain moments from the film in words, which levels one up in artistic ecstasy.

The second soldier (played by Cyris Abidi), one of the main characters in the film (and whom I shall call 'the soldier' from now on. I shall also tell the rest of the story in past tense from here..) waited on the bench beside the beach. A steamer, from nowhere it seemed, drew up on the shore and a young lady (played by Nassim Abidi) landed over from the boat. She waved back to the others on the boat and asked them to come at five on the same spot. The soldier went over to her asking her what she was doing there. She said that she had come for the elections, that she was the election agent and, then, without waiting for a response, she went on (excited and tensed) to explain the election system, shaking the lists of voters and candidates, the ballot papers and the ballot box - "But I thought that the agent was supposed to be a man!", the soldier blurted out. The girl looked up, open-mouthed, at this unpredicted interruption in her plannings of the day's work. She patiently explained, " It doesn't matter if the agent is a man or a woman. The order is given to you that you'll accompany the agent across the desert. Since I'm the agent, you are to follow me." The soldier (possibly still searching for an unnoticed moustache perhaps) didn't get the logic. The whole phenomenon that a city woman, wearing a burqa drawn back from her face, is nothing but actually a government bureaucrat in charge of the local voting (a task that's so much male!), seemed totally indigestible. To add up, a girl who seemed to understand law and legality and seemed more intelligent than himself. The bickering continued for some time, but eventually the soldier ended up bringing the army jeep out of the tent and off the couple went with the ballot-box and the election lists on a very rare kind of an "election trip"...

Consequently, the soldier (and the audience) is pretty impressed by the determination of the girl in collecting votes and making sure that people "feel free on the election day" and that the country must be "democratic" true to the word. A lot of people despised the soldier because he carried a gun. Truly enough, actually, he had considered holding the first voter of the day at gunpoint necessary while he voted and had actually led the poor fellow run and cry in fear. It took a great deal of patience and voice from the girl to convince him that voting was a choice and that guns never could give people the essence of freedom. As the day advances on and as a parallel story runs about how a chord of attraction silently develops between the agent and the soldier, the viewers also come to glimpse into a pathetic world of darkness and negligence. People of this country are mostly illiterate and poverty-stricken. They are simple people and live primarily on orthodox notions of male-chauvinistic ideology. There comes an instance in the film when a twelve year old girl comes forward to vote. The agent has to explain that only people above the age of sixteen were allowed to vote. The girl's mother from behind the burqa says, "If she can marry at the age of twelve, why can't she vote??" The agent opened her mouth to reply, but not finding her voice, she shut her moth back. The bare fact that the little girl didn't marry on her own wish, that is, saying "she can marry at the age of twelve" is how vehemently incorrect lay open right in front of her. That, the child had a whole household to shoulder and give up her childhood wasn't a matter to be credited upon - explaining all of these seemed pointless at the moment. She looked at the young girl for one long moment and then said instead, "The order is as it is. I can't help it..." In this way, almost literally, the agent left no stone unturned in collecting votes from all possible corners of the region. At one point, the soldier asked the girl, "When will be the elections held next?"

"After four years, of course."

"Why after four years?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why can't the elections be held before that?"

The girl stared at the soldier. Noticing the stare, the soldier tried to make it sound if not more polite but pathetic, "I mean, why can't the elections be conducted twice or thrice a year?"

Another memorable incident: they went over near a beach, where electricity from solar energy was being generated. An old man, seemingly the only inhabitant of the region, came out of his hut. On being asked to vote, he shook his head vigorously and protested that he wasn't going to vote for anyone but Allah. His only representative was the Almighty. The girl explained, "But, Almighty isn't a candidate here. You'll have to choose two among the candidates given in the list." The old man didn't seem to understand. He went on, "The only one who has ever met with my needs and demands is Allah. I have sat here for months and years and have looked at the sun and have adjusted the panels to capture it's energy at different hours of the day. I know no human being, not you, nor I, can make sun move as I wish. Only Allah does it. I've known only Allah and he's my only candidate. I'm going to vote for him." Saying this, he wrote the name of his Allah on the ballot paper. The girl sighed and put it in the ballot-box.

It was after 5:00 pm. Dusk had fallen low. Time to go. After a few moments of silence, the girl said, "The boat has left without me."
The soldier replied, "It's just been five. They'll be coming soon. Don't worry."
Impatient, the girl said, "How could they do this?"
Straightening himself, the soldier said, "They'll come sooner or later... Time suits itself according to people and situation."
They parted. But before parting, the last vote that the agent collected was that of the soldier who accompanied her in her strange quest on the strange island: the soldier wrote the name of the agent girl on the ballot-paper. There was a buzzing sound in the background and the soldier's friend appeared running in the horizon shouting that it was an aircraft which had come to take the election agent back. The girl made a rush for the landing airplane and the bird flew off.

The friend informed the soldier that the bed was free for him now. But, the soldier refused. The friend insisted that he had had a long day, that he ought to have some rest. The soldier replied, "I can't sleep. Anyway, I'm not tired today. I'll stay on guard tonight..."Amazed and amused, the friend went off to bed.
The soldier took his seat on the rocky bench, with his gun between his legs, as the sun set down...

Epilogue:

I'll limit my opinions in this part of the post to just one aspect of the film (the post is long enough anyway. I suppose, some readers will find this bit completely out of the context, but, may be, we can discuss the other aspects of the film in the 'comments' section). 'Secret Ballot' gives us a glimpse of a stage of our own lives - a wide span of time squeezed into 2 hours and 15 minutes. The meeting, the budding relationship and the parting - doesn't the sequence seem to be known? It does. I'm not considered if the agent and the soldier will ever meet again. But, the story ends here. And they part.

We meet people. We get acquainted. Some "meetings" remain to "acquaintances". Some go more than that. Some get so deep that their fragrance promises to live for a lifetime. Some do fulfill the promises ["promises" (??)]. And for some - the road forks into two and we take on different paths. Sometimes, our instincts give us a prior-indication of the parting that's coming on, of the painful end these once-upon-a-meetings arrive at. And, sometimes, the ends come in shocks and surprises. May be, it's the wish of the time. As time and life would have it, we think. And then? May be, "love fades away with time"...

Sometimes, it is awaiting. We wait for the right time to come and somehow, we know it'll come some day. We wait for the return of our friends, our loved ones. The roots that once bound us still remain in one of our hearts, with all it's elegance and beauty. We wait.

Sometimes, we choose to forget. We choose to move on. We bury our thoughts and tears deep under what we imagine to be a very heavy and huge boulder. Deep down, we promise to ourselves never to bring alive the memories of the past one's in words. We imagine to forget, but it's one of the few things that we seethe with the deepest profundity in our memories...

"... dine dine kothin holo kokhon buker tol -
Bhebechhilem jhorbe naa aar, aamaar chokher jol.
Hothat dekha pather maajhe, kanna tokhon thaame naa je -
Bholar tole tole chhilo oshrujoler khela..."

People come and they go. 'Secret Ballot' reminds us the rhythm of life. We make friends, we fall in love, we lose them... We meet new people, make new friends, lose them afresh. New smiles, new tears. New hellos and new good goodbyes...

"Shudhu jaaowa aasha, shudhu srote bhaasha,
shudhu aalo-aandhaare kaanda haansha..."

There Will Be Blood

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson
Release date: 11 January 2008 (USA)
Loosely adapted from Upton Sinclair's novel Oil!. Screenplay written by Anderson himself.


There Will Be Blood is a story of discovery, family, wealth, ego and the unending battle of principles between money and religion. Daniel Day-Lewis plays a silver prospector who, by sheer accident, discovers an oil field while digging for silver down in the narrow shaft of a deserted field somewhere in the US. He suffers a terrible fall and somehow drags himself by sheer power of will to a nearby town-- a piece of suspected petroleum ore tucked in the folds of his shirt for assay. The first twelve minutes or so of speechless acting marks the beginning of this film. Long periods of silence punctuated only by the clank of a spade hitting cold hard stone, and the forced breathing of Daniel Plainview in the narrow dark shaft are the first sketches of a portrait that eventually completes the character of this ambitious man with it's several remarkable traits, follies, faults, and idiosyncrasies. Those first few minutes are also testimony to one fact: Plainview is a man of painfully few words. Unless he really needs to speak, he prefers to keep his thoughts to himself.

Fast forward to 1902 and Plainview now leads a small group of men working on a primitive oil well. In the process of mining oil, a man is killed. But not before Plainview sees his well spurt out the first burst of black gold. Oblivious of a co-worker's death, Plainview is seen rejoicing and revelling in the first contact between him and the black gold he now owns. There's a visible expression of exultant triumph on his features as he smears his hand with the greasy black fluid. That handful of petroleum is more than a trophy to Plainview. It is as essential to him as the blood flowing in his veins. It forms a part of his being. Whether in a soiled pair of workers' overalls or a cleanly cut business suit, Plainview reeks of oil. It is on his face, in his attitude: oil is his only conscience.

Plainview adopts the orphaned child of the deceased co-worker and brings him up as his own son. Plainview names the child, HW, a partner in his oil business-- tugging him along to all business meetings, concluding new leases and contracts with good success (since a child partner gives more credibility to Plainview). A young man named Paul Sunday (played by Paul Dano) visits Plainview and alerts him about the presence of oil in their farm in Little Boston, California, for a rather princely sum of $500. Under the guise of a quail hunt, Plainview travels with his son to the farm and is warmly received by the Sunday family. Plainview discovers that oil is abundant in the area (and also just beneath the land surface) surrounding the Sunday farm and offers to buy the land from the family. Eli (also played by Paul Dano), Paul Sunday's twin, gets more than a whiff of the real reason behind Plainview's interest in the land and manages to get a clause obliging Plainview to pay the Church of the Third Revelation (where Eli is a preacher) a sum of $5000, conditional on the success of Plainview's business.

Plainview succeeds in leasing all the land around the Sunday ranch except a slice known as Bandy tract and owned by a certain old man named Bandy, who refuses to let Plainview have the land until he comes to meet him personally. Plainview's ego forbids him do something like that, and hence he begrudgingly spares the Bandy tract. Meanwhile, Eli personally requests Plainview that he be allowed to bless the rig at it's inauguration and Plainview agrees, only to later embarass Eli publicly when he denies him his request and says a short blessing himself. A worker is killed at the oil-well on the first day itself. The next day, a bigger tragedy follows. A sudden explosion at the well ruins HW's hearing capabilities forever (he was lying close when the explosion took place), and also causes immense losses to Plainview's company. Plainview's eyes burn with fury and pain as he sees gallons of oil, his own life-giving fluid, disappear into red flames and black smoke. It is notable how Plainview rushes to save HW from the accident; notable because we get to know that his concerns for the boy are not yet completely financially-dictated. There is still a morsel of care and geniune affection for the little boy in the oil magnate's heart.

Later, Eli comes to Plainview to have the promised $5000 for his church, only to be beaten and humiliated by Plainview for not being able to cure his son through "faith healing", a practice Eli conducts frequently at his church. Eli returns home thoroughly disturbed and hurt, and in a fit of rage, violently attacks his old father for foolishly selling off such a valuable piece of land for a pittance.

A man named Henry comes to meet Daniel and tells him that he is Plainview's half-brother, showing a diary as proof of his claim. Plainview takes the man into his confidence, even in so far as openly admitting that he despises all men (for he perceives them to be jealous of his power and wealth) and that he can't stand competitors anyhow. A suspecting HW sets fire around the bed where Henry is sleeping, but the man escapes the ordeal. The young boy is packed to a boarding school for the deaf by Daniel for his misbehaviour.

With Henry, Daniel sets out with a map and constructs an oil-pipeline eventually closing on an deal with Union Oil. But, Daniel suddenly grows suspicious of his companion, and one night, at gunpoint, Henry admits to being an impostor. Henry says that he was a friend of Plainview's real half-brother, who has died of tuberculosis and left his diary with the man. Daniel kills the man and buries him at night. The next morning, he is woken by Mr. Bandy who says that he has witnessed the burial. Mr. Bandy even agrees to leasing the land to Plainview, on the condition that he is baptized into the Church of the Third Revelation, of which Mr. Bandy is also a member. Daniel is reluctant to agree to that for two reasons: one, the only god that he believes in is his ego; and secondly, it is Eli who will baptize him. Plainview had earlier witnessed a confession and healing ceremony at the church and had thoroughly despised Eli's extreme leaning towards belief in a superhuman force, besides his flamboyance in showmanship, perhaps, in Plainview's eyes, bordering a bit too much on overdoing his role of a mere padre. But Daniel eventually agrees. On the day of his baptism, Plainview has to suffer the terrible humiliation of submitting before God, that too at the hands of a young boy dismissed and humiliated by him only some time back. For Eli, the ceremony is much more than just an elaborate religious protocol, it is an opportunity to get even with the man who had insulted him so.

The story rolls to 1927 when HW returns to his father with an interpreter and asks permission to resign his role as a partner in Plainview's firm, so that he can start an oil business in Mexico with his wife, Mary (Eli's sister). Plainview, with his strong hatred for all competitors (and everyone in general), disowns the boy on charges of "betrayal"; revealing to him the fact that he was an orphan who he (Daniel) picked up only to facilitate his business deals. HW is hurt, but he stoically only says, this one time, himself, that he is lucky not to have any part of Daniel's character in him.

Eli returns to the Sunday ranch and begs for some money from Plainview because he has wasted money in gambling and poor investments. He proposes a collaborative project with Plainview to set up wells in the Bandy tract (which apparently hasn't yet been exploited). In a last attempt to impose his will on Eli, Plainview makes Eli proclaim that he is a false prophet and that "God is a superstition". Then he reveals how he has tapped off all the oil from the Bandy tract from the wells surrounding the land. A sudden surge of extreme ego blinded from truth by power and money hits Plainview, who reacts violently and kills Eli off by beating him continuously in the head with a bowling pin. In the final shot, Plainview's servant is shown getting down from the staircase to find his master sitting aghast beside the corpse of the victim. When asked what happened, Plainview merely states: "I'm finished". The conquest of money, power, and above all else, oil over his conscience is over, and in a sudden torrent of realisation, Daniel sees the truth that had eluded him for so long.

The film is remarkable because if it is the story of a man who was ruined by extreme ambition and power, it is parallel-ly also a story of how USA became what it is today. People similar to Plainview took the initiative and created the greatest capitalist state of all times; and therefore this film is essential to understand the national psyche of the country that virtually rules our world now. On yet another level, it is a poignant study of the eternal debates between capitalists/economists and religious scholars on the money vs. religion issue. The film is worth special regard because it is neutral, even possibly nihilistic to some viewers: it takes no sides; but softly, if repeatedly, shouts out that blind excesses of either money or religion can be harmful to moral development. It is notable that no characters in this novel, maybe with the possible exception of HW, is shown in the extreme shades of white or black. Both the chief protagonists, Plainview and Eli are painted in shades of grey: the former leaning a bit more towards the dark side than the latter. Eli professes to be a true prophet and yet, he cannot escape the clutches of revenge, rage or avarice. So much so that he is ready to confess that "God is a superstition" just to retrieve himself from a phase of total financial (and moral, if I may add) bankruptcy. Which is actually true in a way, since God ultimately is superstition in Eli's own case-- he never knew or understood The Saviour deeply. The development of Plainview's character is also worth mention in this review: because the man was not always the extremely egoistic maniacal power-hungry beast he became. In fact, his care for HW is quite genuine in the early days. It is only with time that money begins to devour and mislead his conscience, making him suspect and hate all his fellow-men. If Plainview betrays supreme ego, he also betrays extreme loneliness, manifest in his open confession to Henry.

Radiohead's lead guitarist Jonny Greenwood composes a brilliant soundtrack for a period film like this. And lest I forget, Daniel Day-Lewis and Paul Dano are both excellent in the portrayals of their respective characters. Day-Lewis' Oscar is indeed well-deserved. Paul Thomas Anderson is perfect both in his direction and screenplay. This is one film that must be preserved well for posterity.

Finally, the meaning of the title of this film. A phrase from the first of the Ten Biblical Plagues, the film is also a warning bell for us, reminding why it absolutely essential to strike a fine balance in life, without indulging in any sort of excesses. It is as much a visual treat as it is a fine enunciation of the Buddha's Middle Path.

P.S.-- The original post has been edited on 22nd August, 2008 at around 10:00 PM (IST). The author pleads forgiveness for the several grammatical mistakes and instances of plain bad writing that crept into the original (hastily-scripted and blissfully unrevised!) review.

A Tale of the Lost

It all happened quite a long time ago. They were the residents of Gosainpara, Mukundapur. Her father, with a rotund belly and huge moustache (a typical iconic example representing the middle class male-dominated-society) worked in a small grocery store that stood at the end of the lane. Her mother, a homemaker, was the mistress of the kitchen, a kind and a meek personality adorned by the red-bordered white sari worn in the old Bengali style and a big round red Sun of the sindoor drawn on her forehead. The family scene can be completed by the presence of children (and sure enough, there was no dearth of it in her family): they were three sisters (including her) and a younger brother, she being the eldest of all.

She studied in the ninth standard then, in the neighbourhood Malati Girl’s High School. She remembers the small classroom, the small desks and chairs made out of rusted tin – she, solving Maths sums, sitting at her desk at her corner of the room… Two plaits done with red ribbons hung low on her shoulders, the blue blouse and the blue-bordered white sari neatly ironed and pleated – she remembers it was the year she had just started wearing saris… It was then that she met him, her Benimadhab.

The first time that she met him was at the house of her close pal Sulekha. He had just returned to the town from the city, completing his higher education. They used to say that he was a good student – yes, he must have been a very good student… She was just a mediocre student, she recalls, “poor at Arithmetic, but good at literature”. Oh, yes Benimadhab! She had completed the Sharat Rachanabali by then (from the neighbourhood library), but Bibhutibhushan was still her favourite…

Benimadhab came from the city, but heaven knows why that made her realise she wasn’t pretty! She was dark and thin. She also realised that her father was a mere grocery seller – “Would you mind that, Benimadhab??”… Ah, Benimadhab, nothing would stop the hues from blossoming in the spring! No, it did not. Everytime you looked at her, she ran to hide herself, her heart beating, her apprehension giving way to ecstasy… After all, it was her class nine; it was her “sweet sixteen”!

Did you know anything of her feelings, Benimadhab?? She was so sure that you understood her, that you read through her “unwritten saga”, that you also had fallen in love with her… She never uttered a word about it, never a word, never to anyone.

Do you still remember her, Benimadhab?? Ah, yes! You must have said all about those days to your girlfriend, your sweetheart… She saw her only once, beside you, beneath the moonlight – flash of a brighter light, a harder light of truth! Her eyes burned, her throat choked. She didn’t cry... That day, she took the other way to home.

She never said a word – never to anyone. Her tale remains untold, buried deep in a forgotten ally of her heart. The following year, her father died of a stroke. Her mother, a widow now, didn’t have the sun of sindoor anymore adorned on her pretty forehead – a life that was to be led san colour, san taste, san merriment for the rest of it’s time. She was the eldest of all her siblings – “Bordi”. After passing her Madhyamik exams, she started tutoring the girls of the locality the art of sewing: something at which she was very deft and for which nobody seemed to ask her a degree or a certificate. The income was really meager at first and for the first few years, the family of five was almost under starvation. She was insistent on the education of her younger sisters and brother, but the school fees remained unpaid for quite some time… Their mother passed away four years following their father’s decease.

She stirs back to the present, twenty years since she was sixteen – twenty years since “Benimadhab” happened… The sister after her has taken into the profession of a call girl. This sister doesn’t live with them anymore, neither does her brother. Her brother works as a motor mechanic in the city and now resides there. She has remained unmarried – the battle for existence has been so hard that she has never had a chance to brood over her “emptiness” – the strands of harsh reality have stifled down the sobs of a teenaged girl.

I’ve retold Joy Goswami’s poem in my own words, in my very own way (I hope readers will pardon my impudence). The story could have ended where her silent romance with Benimadhab was unintentionally betrayed. But, it didn’t. Probably, because that was simply the beginning of her tale – the journey that had to be hers and hers alone. The craving for a friend, for someone to love, for someone who would stay and walk the life with her, for someone who would be there to give her the littlest of the warmth and support that every person desires – all of it started there. Precisely, “Benimadhab” was the commencement of a barren life, won over with extraordinary blatancy.
“Benimadhab, benimadhab, tomaar baari jaabo,
Benimadhab, tumi ki aar aamaar kotha bhaabo…”
At the end of the poem, a suppressed pain upsurges after all these years and suddenly, she wonders if the chastity of her faminity that she has preserved through all this time was enough a “sacrifice for nothing”; if that would ever be acknowledged by the world at large. She amuses at the stark cruelty of her fate and tests the world with a final question, “Kemon hobe aamio jodi noshto meye hoi?...” [“How would it be if I also took to prostitution?...”]

Epilogue:-

Hers isn’t a Cinderella story and she hasn’t been a Cinderella. Hers is a tale of an utterly ordinary woman (once a girl full of sensuality and perhaps, "possibility") – the Bangla tutor of the local primary school of a small town, the sewing mistress of the locality, the sales-woman at the mini-store, the type-machinist at the Xerox shop… She talks little; she is not pretty neither is she an intellectual; with a serious face but kind features, she is a person we all have met somewhere… Hers is a story of the lost – hers is a story which isn’t found in any of the world epics. Hers is a tale which is to be written yet…