The Torture Relay Must be Stopped!

Okay, so Tibet is a cause that is particularly close to my heart - I grew up in a hill town near Dehradun amongst Tibetan exiles. My father worked with the exiles and my first memories are of hot momos, sonorous chants, and apparently boundless affection that distinguishes the community.

I saw His Holiness for the first time when I was three and yet that memory lives in my inner eye with a clarity that is inexplicable. I have seen him since on other occasions, wondering how he carries a burden greater than any leader of any people: the responsiblity not only for the welfare of Tibetans - both in Tibet and abroad - but also the leadership of a struggle against an enemy so implacable and greater that any resistance must appear hopeless. And beyond that he must also protect and care for the soul of his nation. Yet he does all this with grace and infinite compassion, with a laugh as innocent and infectious as that of a baby.

Which is why I went out on possibly the winter's coldest morning to protest the PR spectacle with which the totalitarian Chinese regime hopes to drown the voice of Tibet. And I was not alone: thousands of Londoners turned up, complete with dogs, children, families, to show theirs. For our stretch, the protesters were mostly middle-class professionals (this was Nottinghill after all) but extremely vocal. Perhaps that was a good thing because the police were well outnumbered had there been a real intent for disruption. Naysayers suggest that the scuffles have let down the cause of Tibet. Instead, imagine that only 35 of the thousands of people who lined 31 miles of streets were arrested today. If that doesn't shout out peaceful protest, perhaps the world should listen harder.

Another point that needs to be made: much has been made of how politics and sports shouldn't mix. Well, China began the mixing and today was no different. Chinese "thugs" (for that is EXACTLY what they were) formed the inner most security ring around the torch. They wore the pale blue uniforms of the Olympics, disguising themselves as "athletes." Yet these were steely-eyed trained security men, working with horrific cohesion as they pushed out protesters during scuffles and "protected" the torch with something approaching religious fervour. The spectacle of the generally polite and helpful Met shoulder-to-shoulder with thugs of a totalitarian state can only be described as an extreme theatre of the absurd.

So what was the point? Well - the message was sent out loud and clear from London today: China cannot sweep its brutal oppression and steady annihilation of the Tibetan people under the rug by mounting a PR exercise. Even when the PR exercise is worth 30 billion dollars.

What happens next? Well, the message needs to be repeated again and again until it penetrates the Chinese self-delusion. That means EVERYwhere the torch goes, the scenes from London today must be repeated. Go out on the street, fly the Tibetan flag that is banned in Tibet, shame those celebrities who feel that a minute of TV time is more important that human lives.

Simon Jenkins of the Times called for a "tunnel of shame" for the torch this morning. Lets make sure that the tunnel of shame grows right around the world, until China is forced to listen. This may be last real chance Tibet has - if we look away again, it will be too late. Jai Tibet! Jai Bharat!

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.