The Tigress Gets an Outing...

Stories are weird beings. Sometimes they jump out, fully formed like Athena, from your head and take very little polishing. Or else, they seem to begin with a scrap of memory, or conversation, or just an image and feel like an interminable CPWD project. And those, like CPWD projects, even when they are complete, feel a bit spiky and ugly and a bit off. And then, sometimes, it seems that decades of memory, fantasy, speculation, experience and conviction, all come together to form a tight little knot. Something of the sort happened last year, when I wrote a tiny story about a woman suicide bomber.

Somewhere in the back of my mind were the horrific images from the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi - one reason Dhanu seemed like a good name for one of the characters. Then there were images from Mani Rathnam's Dil Se, all green and humid like memories of my childhood in the north east. And overlaid on the top of it all was the hegemonic discourse primarily from western media and governments that insists that suicide bombers are either deluded dupes, hate-filled fanatics or psychotic killers. No Hollywood or European director is going to a take a chance with a film like The Terrorist or Dil Se in the near future!

But more specifically there was a telephone conversation about the Aamir Khan-Kajol starrer, Fanaa! Some friends who had lived over two decades in the USA (and have returned since to India) called me up in distress and fury. How could a terrorist be shown to have a "love life," they asked. Wasn't this a mafia-run Bollywood pandering to the nefarious Middle East? Wasn't this threatening the Indian nation-state and indeed, all morality? Wasn't this sympathy for a mass-killer undermining the morale of our law enforcement officers and soldiers?

All their arguments were distilled from post-9/11 American media, with resounding echoes in the various European ones. In face of their passion, all my arguments sounded hollow, sentimentalist, pathetic even. I pointed to the ways the film echoed Mother India, that it was about taking a stand against "terrorism" even when it was at personal cost. That in India we walked a fine line that ensured that we didn't succumb to seeing any "other" as non-human. But to no avail! My friends remained angry and distressed. And I found myself wondering why they believed a "terrorist couldn't love anyone"!!

Perhaps it was that question that provided the final spark for the story. From nearly fifteen years of wondering and questioning why some people chose to kill by dying, a tiny narrative was born. It brought together every news report and book I had ever read about terrorism. And yet, strangely enough, it went back to those first images of Rajiv Gandhi's assassination with blood-soaked pinks and greens, of fragments of flowers in the midst of the charred horror. And to those initial identi-kit sketches of Dhanu in the newspapers.

Not surprisingly, the story as it was born, set itself in Sri Lanka. With its deep emerald woods. With rich silks and heavy perfumes. With a Black Tigress at its centre! And it distilled all that I had read and heard and watched for over fifteen years.

I have been saddened by some of the responses I have received for the story. It is not a justification of those who die to kill. It is not even a justification of those who kill. The story questions all of life that drives them to such a step. It is a step at understanding. Because as my grandmother always told me, "with understanding shall come the solutions."

The story, Tomorrow the Tigress Will Hunt, is out now in the new issue of The Drawbridge, along with a lot of other thought provoking writing.

I think its a sad story. And one that makes me angry. And its a story that needs to be told.

Aaja Nachle: Making Room for the Prodigal Daughter

Sometimes a film comes around that is groundbreaking. Yet it is often the film's very off-beat quality that supposedly all film critics crave that ensures that our hubris-ridden, utterly idiotic media buries it. Something of the sort happened to The Rising: The Legend of Mangal Pandey and Swades. And Indian media can take now great pleasure in having buried one of the most thematically interesting films of 2007: the Madhuri comeback vehicle, Aaja Nachle.

Aaja Nachle - logically - is considered la diva Dixit's comeback film. The media (and her most famous if oily fan - Madhuri par Fida Hussain) expected the sex-bomb of old lighting up the screen. What they got wasn't India's wet-dream girl but a woman so powerful and secure in herself that she is beyond even dreams of attainment for most men. Such was the immense power of la Dixit's performance. Of course, the permanently adolescent Indian men threw their toys out of the cot and insisted that if she weren't going to be their fantasy, well then they didn't want her at all.

But there seems to be a slighly more upbeat coda to this media-led funeral: made on a small budget, the film continues to run in small centres around the country and will most likey recover costs.

But what about the movie itself? Well, for the first time (as far as I can remember) in mainstream cinema, a film makes room for the return of the prodigal daughter. Madhuri's character, Dia - the story is told here in flashback - not only elopes with her white, American lover (oh horror!), but soon after divorces him, and raises their daughter by herself. Her scandalised parents cut off all contacts with her and move to another town, hoping to live down the "shame." Not too long ago, the conventions of popular cinema would have required that any of these transgressions be punished by Dia's death and humiliation. But this is the - ahem - new India - and in this shiny bright country, even prodigal daughters get a second chance.

Dia can not only come back to her hometown, but make peace with a jilted suitor, charm the local thug-politico, put up a successful theatre production, and in the process, find a potential new love. The NYTimes lamented that the film didn't provide a 40+ woman with more of a personal life. But then the film is not about Dia's personal life - especially in Hollywood terms, ie, her loves and lovers - but rather about her reclaiming a lost heritage - of a dying dance school, of a rejected childhood, of a lost past. The film in all senses is about Dia's return to her hometown, embattled but triumphant, angry but forgiving, and finally, accepted by those she considers her own. It is a measure of the filmmaker's courage that this is even deemed possible on celluloid.

Interesting - and often amusing - subtexts of the film include a clever critique of an ignorant young man (the suave Kunal Kappor barely fitting the role of the small town thug) destroying his own heritage in name of resisting "foreign culture;" a Cosmo-style solution for spicing up a boring marriage with a bit of experimentation; and a Cinderella-like transformation of the town tomboy-hoyden (played yet again by the ever-ubiquitous Konkana Sen). Yet there are more complex themes that resonate with the new India.

In this India, even a hereditary Raja sahib must win his elections, and run the risk of losing the next one if he doesn't provide all that he promises to his constituents. No Eklavya-style grateful, forever loyal peasants then in this view of the country. Played with great flair by Akshay Khanna - who once again reminds of his initial promise from Border as an actor - this local politician is not only fair but also tough. He can flirt and charm, but also engage in real-politik. And yet at heart, he remains a good man trying to bring change to his lost mofussil constituency - perhaps a growing indicator of pending changes in Indian polity and a bit of wish-fulfillment combined.

Now the problems with the movie - and yes, there are quite a few. For a film purporting to be Madhuri's comeback, the camera-work is noncommittal at best. In fact, rarely has Madhuri been shot with such lack of passion, with most shots seeming as if the cameraman Ritesh Soni was too scared to approach the diva. For all her career, the camera has adored Madhuri but in this film, the camera seems a little too overawed to shoot her.

And yes we know this was a small budget flick, but surely we didn't need the sets to be quite sooo tacky. Even small towns have their charming spaces - remember Umrao Jaan with the dingy, decaying interiors. Or Bunty and Babli with the dusty little towns as appropriate playgrounds for the mischief-making duo? Surely the art director should have been pulled up for this?

Second - Saroj Khan's pizzazz was missing in the choreography especially for Madhuri's numbers. With a folksy, peppy, musical score, this film was a perfect vehicle for another Madhuri-Saroj collaboration. But alas! Yes the choreography was interesting, quite stylized, even quite innovative. But Madhuri is not a Rani Mukherjee or Preity Zinta or Kajol. She can actually dance! Remember her in Devdas? Remember Maar daala or Chanak Chanak? Now compare her in Jalwa or the film's theme song. That athanni-chavanni hip shake could be achieved by any two-bit actress, why waste Madhuri on those? Despite its overt dance theme, Aaja Nachle does not capitalise on its greatest asset - Madhuri's ability to dance!
And finally, I know we live in a plastic age, but Madhuri, WHAT have you done to yourself? Obviously la Dixit can afford, and has the intelligence to select, a better surgeon than Aishwarya, but could we have laid off the botox just a bit? A re-done face meant that Madhuri's formerly mobile and expressive face lacked that famous magical ability to emote. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile was just as bright. But the brows remained uncreased, the eyebrows shot upwards in strange angles, and the smooth cheek never showed a crease. Compared to the devastating, harrowing beauty of Chandramukhi in Devdas, Aaja Nachle's Dia may be fresher but she is also utterly plastic. This may well be a reason that the camera never lingers on her face. Perhaps doing so would have exposed the extent of cosmetic work the diva has managed to get done.

Be that as it may, Madhuri reminds her audience why she is one of the greats of Indian cinema. That spot - in the pantheon of stars, alongside Madhubala, Hema Malini, Sridevi - is hers for all history. She also reminds us why there has been no replacement for her in the past five years, despite Rani's extraordinary acting performances, Aishwarya's plastic beauty, Priyanka's glamour puss routines and Priety Zinta's bubbly charm. There hasn't been a dancer in the industry since Madhuri. Not surprisingly then, Bollywood fans haven't found another dream-girl either.

All in all, Aaja Nachle is a lovely little film - more a pearl than a glittering diamond, but definitely deserving of a second, even a third viewing. If for nothing more than as a reminder of what a true screen icon can achieve. And of course, for the hope that in a 21st century India, even prodigal daughters may return home.

In praise of an ancient garment...

Even the most modest amongst us feel the occasional, overwhelming urge to boast about our achievements. For once, I am ready to boast about an acutely feminine achievement. Feminists, social scientists and ideologues will ramble on about the importance of motherhood, coming of age rituals, marriage etc. in a woman's life. While these are universally feminine milestones, the one I plan to talk about today is uniquely Indian.

As a child, my mother would paraphrase a thought from her favourite Hindi novelist, Shivani (or at least I think it was this writer). "Har ladki ke jeevan mein aisa samay aata hai jab usme banarasi sariyon ki chah paida ho jati hai" (Every girl reaches a stage in life when she desires banarasi sarees). Well, since we were from Banaras and iridescent streams of silk, brocade and zari seemed to flow as vastly and bountifully, as the Ganges, I didn't think much about this oft-quoted phrase.

As a teenager, we had moved overseas and over time, sarees became somehow "traditional" and not quite modern in my mind. Of course, I would watch my mother wear hers and envy the grace and elegance that the drapes bestowed on her incessantly active frame. Yet, I didn't feel the urge to try wearing a saree myself.

In my fashion-victim twenties, I bought Thai silk and Kanjeevarams, and raw silk fabrics only to convert them into fashionable and "terribly devastating" evening gowns, copied straight from the pages of Vogue. The dresses all went down to my ankles, slits ran far too high up my leg and necklines were cut as low as I could possibly manage. If my mother occasionally sighed and wistfully fingered the watered silk of a bright red or deep purple evening dress, I ignored her. "Poor silks, all this cutting and sewing takes away from their flow," my mother told me once while we poured over fashion magazines on her bed. I couldn't have cared less, even if I had understood her.

Then, something happened. First, I neared, and then crossed, thirty. And that meant that my body started doing strange things. Despite all the exercise regimens and diet controls, it began to look more like the rounded, voluptuous temple statues instead of the svelte Cindy Crawford of the flat stomach and the angular clotheshorse physique. More importantly, I realised that I wasn't willing to starve myself simply to fit into clothes that really weren’t designed for me in the first place. It also became more important to be myself, instead of looking like a fashion model.

And other strange things began happening. My cooking began to improve. I could just walk into the kitchen and the right spices would find their way into my hands. The balance would be right. Instead of recipes and cookbooks, I would cook with my nose, and eyes, and if you can believe this, intuition! And the final results grew closer and closer to my mother's cooking, and her mother's before that. My brother laughed and called it "cultural memory." I wasn't willing to believe him.

When my first book was published, I began getting invitations to all sorts of grown-up, formal parties, cocktails and book launches, teas and luncheons. And along with the invitations, came the desire to identify myself as an Indian. I needed to "look" Indian! To feel like a part of the literary tradition that had gone before me, even as I forged my own path. And especially since I felt closer to Meerabai and Jaidev rather than Dante and Bronte.

So I began borrowing sarees from my mother's closet. And my god, getting dressed became such a production. Initially, after about half and hour of fumbling about, I would scream for my mother. After the first couple of times, of tears and tantrums, my mother shook her head and announced that "you probably won't wear a saree very often anyway, so let me just put it on for you." This meant that I would stand like a dressmaker's dummy, wearing a petticoat and blouse, my arms outstretched, while my mom deftly draped the saree. Not that it was a daily routine. Maximum may be four times a year.

Sarees were still something exotic, something to wear for weddings and the really formal do's. And most of them still came from my mother's collection. I didn't own one, and didn't want to either.

Then some years ago, something incredible happened. We were shopping for fabrics to make into a dress shirt. I wanted chanderi silk, to make billowy, translucent, romantic shirts to wear with formal trousers and skirts. As we went through the bolts, my brother suddenly pulled out one. "This one is beautiful," he told me. I looked at the vibrant, rich pink shot with blue and green, light as a cloud floating between his hands. And suddenly I knew what my mother meant that cutting and sewing silks would take away from the flow. We checked the width and then got five and a half meters of the fabric. Then came the first adventure of its kind in my life: finding a matching fabric to make the blouse, going to the "matching centre" to find the "fall." I surprised myself as I went through the preparations like a pro. "Cultural memory," laughed my brother again.

For months afterwards, I couldn't help smiling every time I looked at that impromptu saree. The first time I wore it, I felt like Sanyukta, Padmini, Draupadi, Shakuntala, and every gorgeous woman who has ever worn a saree before me. I felt beautiful and seductive, and in one evening collected more complements than I can imagine. Perhaps, it was the saree, or perhaps it was just the joy and pride on my face. You see, that was also the first time I had draped a saree by myself (with a little help from my younger sister, specially with the pleats).

But the story didn't end there. Within months of acquiring my first saree, my best friend informed me of her wedding plans. "Its black tie, but wear a saree if you want to," she told me in a long distance call from Amsterdam. The old, childish me would have hesitated, even wondered about being the only one wearing a saree in a room full of designer evening dresses. The old not-quite-confident me would have found excuses, ranging from the European winter to owning nothing appropriate. But the new me, the cultural-memory-me, wasn't quite so hesitant.

I told my mother, who – in turn - informed her sister and my uncles’ wives. And suddenly, finding the right saree became the most important family expedition for everyone. Flurries of telephone calls between Banaras and Delhi, Allahabad, Lucknow and every other city in between determined the colours I preferred. "Light colours, pastels, nothing bright or contrasting, or eye-twisting. The bride's wearing white and it should complement her." My aunts scoured the saree shops and workshops. No! Nothing light or pastel was available. It was the marriage season. Didn't I know that?

Then my aunt called the weaver who has provided sarees for all the weddings, and childbirths and milestones for the many, many women in my family. He would make a special tanchoi for me, in the plainest pastel but the richest brocade. But time was running short as the wedding dates grew closer. Never mind, the blouse would be made in Banaras itself and the saree would be couriered to me. In the meantime, another aunt had found another saree and decided that someone travelling to Delhi would carry it, just in case the courier was delayed. She called me from the shop, "There is an ivory tanchoi and one pale yellow one which is gorgeous. Which one should I send?" Whichever you like, I told her.

Both the tanchois arrived on the same day. One, the colour of creamy lemon meringue and soft as butter, light as a feather. The other, a burnished gold like the morning on the Ganges in Banaras, and heavy like the river. I wore the heavier one for the wedding. Cultural memory seemed to kick in, even far away from my family as the saree draped itself in one go, the pleats sitting perfectly, without an effort, the pallu just settling itself softly on my shoulder. If I didn't know better, I would have thought my mom had magically, invisibly, draped it for me.

Friends I hadn't seen in years gasped in surprise and delight when I walked in. "Wow, you look different." And that was meant as a complement. I didn't even worry when the dancing started about how I would move. I danced for hours and remembered my grandmother who used to swim in the Ganges in her cotton sarees. She was right. Sarees were dead comfortable!

Through the evening, I smiled when people asked me if that was my "traditional outfit." Even on a dark, cloudy, rainy Dutch night, I felt wrapped in the warmth of the Ganges on a summer morning.

Now I know what mom meant by every girl reaching a stage when she desires banarasi sarees. I have tried explaining it to my younger sister but I think she will have to wait and find out for herself. For now, I just look at my growing saree collection and hug myself. My wardrobe has planned itself out for all the future milestones of my life. The literary awards shall all be received in severe tussars and plainest of Madhubanis. Mr. Right, when he walks in, will be seduced by the sexy elegance of cream chiffon. And if I ever get married, it will have to be in a tanchoi the colour of freshly ground turmeric.

But before I end, let me share a secret. My mom didn't tell me one crucial thing! Once you begin craving banarasis, the benchmark goes up. Now I really want a paithani, to wear for my own daughter's wedding (if I ever have a daughter!). But I won't be complaining if I get one much before that!

PS: This piece was first carried by www.sawf.org , but I just remembered it the other day and felt it deserved a resuscitation.