One Saturday evening we had nothing much to do; hence we decided to go for a movie. When we tried we could only get the tickets for this movie called The Blue Umbrella.
On first thoughts it looks like a children’s movie but if seen with a thought, it tells a deep story - a story of generic human behaviors, of desires to own something we like, something which symbolize our status in the society we live in. It beautifully depicts how something which is a simple appreciation of beauty for someone can be a fanatical greed for the other.
While watching the movie some questions popped up in my mind -
Did I ever feel like owning something which is of no great use to me but brings in certain pride associated with it? I did.
Were I ever so compelled by the desire that I even didn’t shrug off a negative emotion (theft… murder… cheating), if I perceived that as the only way to get it? Sometimes, that happened too.
What I realize is, in the whole process of collecting things through out our life, we forget the reason. We randomly buy things that we rarely need in life. If ever questioned, we counter question to justify our unreasonable acquisitions. (When Khatri was asked by his subject, why he wants the umbrella so desperately, he uses some very random questions as his points for justification.) At last our life is recognized more by our possessions than the soul within. Most of the time, this soul is killed, murdered, sold or lost. But can someone ever live truly happily without a soul? When happiness is a derivative of social recognition and that too for something that we did not create but just possess by the virtue of all the money we hold, it has to be short lived.
One’s desire to own should be driven by the need for a beautiful life and not for the purpose of vanity. When ever we feel like having something, if we ask ourselves - why do you want it, we will realize that there are thousand such things that we want for sheer display than use. There will be things which are useful but we don’t want it for the use but the status it carries along for us. That’s where the error lies.
The way story progresses is the most beautiful part of it - From the unreasonable desire of possession to jealousy, and from jealousy to crime (theft), from crime to the punishment for the crime, from the punishment to realization of guilt, and from guilt, it end into forgiveness and restoration of self-pride.
The movie scores a hit on almost every account of film making; be it cinematography, casting, characterization, sound, script, dialogues and acting.
In these rains, I must say, Blue Umbrella is for everyone.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Confessions of a sad mind
“Look, darling, my new ring. Sweet, isn’t it?” she said and pretended a childish enthusiasm.
He stared at the ring for some time and said, “You are not sweet. You are a slut.”
He appeared as calm and composed as he was on the day he declared that he loved her. They were silent for a long time for their own reasons. Then she almost shouted, “Why the hell it’s like when a man sleeps around, he is called a Dude; but when a woman does, she is called a Slut?”
She was looking at him, waiting for an answer. He didn’t say anything but gave a meek smile. Then she explained herself, “Because, it’s a man’s world. Because a man’s ego is always bigger than a woman’s feeling. Because you, men, feel insulted with the thought of a woman playing on you. And that’s what makes me happy – the insult imposed upon the man in you.”
She felt relaxed a bit after all the reasoning but still wanted to hear from him. He was still staring into her eyes. Her eyes were looking for an answer into his and then they turned weaker.
He got up; moved towards the door. He was ready to leave but returned a few steps. His one hand was in his trouser pocket and the other above the shoulders, holding a leather jacket. He was standing in his usual relaxed posture.
“May be, because man pays for the nights in one or the other way when he plays around but when you play, the payee is still the man.”
He stared for longer than required and, then, left her to the wilderness of the statement he just made. She wanted to reach out to him, hold him and give him a tight slap.
But she could not.
She could not move.
She could not move away from the wilderness of the statement he just made.
It was her fourth break up; his first and last. He never fell in love again because he could never come out of it.
A year had passed since then. One day, Prashant saw Radhika, sitting in the same café as he did, with some guy who looked quite older than her. He smiled. After a while, the guy left; Radhika was still there, all immersed in her thoughts. She had an unusual smile on her face.
Prashant walked up to her. When she saw him, she pretended neither surprise nor shock. It felt as if she was waiting for him. He said, “You remember the count?”
“Oh! Yes, I do. He was the seventh.”
“Was?”
“Yeah! We just broke up.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you. And I mean it as I take your wish in a real sense.” She paused, and then said, “I am happy.”
“I know you are. Once again you have insulted the Man, isn’t it?” he smirked.
“You are correct. But only partly.”
There was a long silence. She played with the wine glass for sometime. He sat. Just that, and did nothing else. She looked up, up into his eyes. The gaze was direct like a sharpshooter’s. She said, “Whenever my father sleeps with another woman, I break up with my boyfriend. I feel that’s the only way I can take my revenge against my dad; that’s the only way I can look into my mom’s eyes. And whenever I see her, I see pain smiling and dancing and celebrating its existence. You know why?”
Prashant was not here, at least, mentally. He was thinking about the night they separated.
Radhika, in her usual way, replied her own question, “Because men can only pay but suffering is mostly credited to women’s account. And if ever men suffer, they make it hysterical and then historical. But women’s suffering is coated with a beautiful silence and wrapped into umpteen numbers of fake smiles and empty laughter. To understand that, you’ll have to meet my mom.” She was looking for an expression; He did not react. She thought, “Men will always be men.” She said, “I shall leave now. It’s late already.”
“Do you mind if I accompany you to the bus stop?”
She shrugged with indifference. They walked all the way in silence. The bus stop was almost empty if the thin, old man can be ignored. They stood resting their back on the side bar of the stand.
After an unusually long silence, Prashant asked, “Are you really happy?”
“Why? Of course!! I love it when my ex-boyfriends plead me to return, when they say they can’t live without me. Some did, some still do; except you. But that doesn’t matter much. By the way what makes you ask such a question?”
The question was followed by a pause; and then an abrupt out-of-no-where statement.
“Please come back, Radhika. I can’t live without you.”
Radhika displayed an utter melancholic solemnity.
She asked, “Why…..? Why you say this now, after almost a year?”
He questioned back in his reply, “That makes you happy, right?”
She burst into tears.
Prashant thought: If a person is physically sick one can force him/her to get cured. But for her, it’s her psychological state that is diseased. How can one medicate the psyche without the consent of the patient? And what kind of logic can a diseased psyche formulate to give its consent for a right cause?
He felt something similar to the doctor who helplessly sees a patient dying in front of him in short of an invention of a proper medication for some ridiculous disease.
“Radhika, I remember what you said that night. I wanted to tell you too many things but…” He paused and then continued with the same spirit, “It’s not a men’s world, Radhika. Men don’t rule. They are offered the rule, if at all they rule; like the poor does to rich, the weak to powerful, and the minority to majority. Because they think they cannot fight. They fear they are too small, too weak against the opponent. When one surrenders before the battle begins, it’s not the power of the other party, not their cunningness, not their strategies, nothing in their virtue which makes them a winner, but the loser’s own fear.”
“I don’t fear that bastard. I just hate him. I hate him with the same intensity with which I love my mom.”
“It was fear. Then it graduated to become hatred. Now the subject you are mastering in is Revenge. You are on a revenge spree against your father, the man; but you do not realize that in all this, the loser is still you. Your father is still doing what he wants. Your self-torture has no effect on him. It will never have –for we are born with a free spirit. Now it’s up us to direct it to a right or wrong direction. You can force your will on someone’s choice of direction momentarily, if at all you can, but not for a long time.”
Radhika was looking at him like a kid does to her teacher in a class where she does not understand a single word taught but wants to learn desperately.
Prashant continued, “What you think, your mother will be happy to hear about your self-destruction in the name of her sufferings? Will she not be happier to hear a life for you that she never had– A life full of love? Give yourself a chance, Radhika. Whatever happened with your mother is not your fault. And you are doing no good by making her a reason for your destruction. Come back, dear. Things will be fine.”
“I feel incapable of loving a man, Prashant.”
“You can take your time to come out of it. I shall wait. We will be friends till then.”
“It may take my whole life. I feel you are the most genuine man I have ever met and I don’t want you to suffer because of me.”
“Now, this is not suffering; it’s pure, simple love. If you allow it to be… or even if you don’t.”
They smiled to each other.
Radhika and Prashant married after thirteen years from that evening.
He stared at the ring for some time and said, “You are not sweet. You are a slut.”
He appeared as calm and composed as he was on the day he declared that he loved her. They were silent for a long time for their own reasons. Then she almost shouted, “Why the hell it’s like when a man sleeps around, he is called a Dude; but when a woman does, she is called a Slut?”
She was looking at him, waiting for an answer. He didn’t say anything but gave a meek smile. Then she explained herself, “Because, it’s a man’s world. Because a man’s ego is always bigger than a woman’s feeling. Because you, men, feel insulted with the thought of a woman playing on you. And that’s what makes me happy – the insult imposed upon the man in you.”
She felt relaxed a bit after all the reasoning but still wanted to hear from him. He was still staring into her eyes. Her eyes were looking for an answer into his and then they turned weaker.
He got up; moved towards the door. He was ready to leave but returned a few steps. His one hand was in his trouser pocket and the other above the shoulders, holding a leather jacket. He was standing in his usual relaxed posture.
“May be, because man pays for the nights in one or the other way when he plays around but when you play, the payee is still the man.”
He stared for longer than required and, then, left her to the wilderness of the statement he just made. She wanted to reach out to him, hold him and give him a tight slap.
But she could not.
She could not move.
She could not move away from the wilderness of the statement he just made.
It was her fourth break up; his first and last. He never fell in love again because he could never come out of it.
A year had passed since then. One day, Prashant saw Radhika, sitting in the same café as he did, with some guy who looked quite older than her. He smiled. After a while, the guy left; Radhika was still there, all immersed in her thoughts. She had an unusual smile on her face.
Prashant walked up to her. When she saw him, she pretended neither surprise nor shock. It felt as if she was waiting for him. He said, “You remember the count?”
“Oh! Yes, I do. He was the seventh.”
“Was?”
“Yeah! We just broke up.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you. And I mean it as I take your wish in a real sense.” She paused, and then said, “I am happy.”
“I know you are. Once again you have insulted the Man, isn’t it?” he smirked.
“You are correct. But only partly.”
There was a long silence. She played with the wine glass for sometime. He sat. Just that, and did nothing else. She looked up, up into his eyes. The gaze was direct like a sharpshooter’s. She said, “Whenever my father sleeps with another woman, I break up with my boyfriend. I feel that’s the only way I can take my revenge against my dad; that’s the only way I can look into my mom’s eyes. And whenever I see her, I see pain smiling and dancing and celebrating its existence. You know why?”
Prashant was not here, at least, mentally. He was thinking about the night they separated.
Radhika, in her usual way, replied her own question, “Because men can only pay but suffering is mostly credited to women’s account. And if ever men suffer, they make it hysterical and then historical. But women’s suffering is coated with a beautiful silence and wrapped into umpteen numbers of fake smiles and empty laughter. To understand that, you’ll have to meet my mom.” She was looking for an expression; He did not react. She thought, “Men will always be men.” She said, “I shall leave now. It’s late already.”
“Do you mind if I accompany you to the bus stop?”
She shrugged with indifference. They walked all the way in silence. The bus stop was almost empty if the thin, old man can be ignored. They stood resting their back on the side bar of the stand.
After an unusually long silence, Prashant asked, “Are you really happy?”
“Why? Of course!! I love it when my ex-boyfriends plead me to return, when they say they can’t live without me. Some did, some still do; except you. But that doesn’t matter much. By the way what makes you ask such a question?”
The question was followed by a pause; and then an abrupt out-of-no-where statement.
“Please come back, Radhika. I can’t live without you.”
Radhika displayed an utter melancholic solemnity.
She asked, “Why…..? Why you say this now, after almost a year?”
He questioned back in his reply, “That makes you happy, right?”
She burst into tears.
Prashant thought: If a person is physically sick one can force him/her to get cured. But for her, it’s her psychological state that is diseased. How can one medicate the psyche without the consent of the patient? And what kind of logic can a diseased psyche formulate to give its consent for a right cause?
He felt something similar to the doctor who helplessly sees a patient dying in front of him in short of an invention of a proper medication for some ridiculous disease.
“Radhika, I remember what you said that night. I wanted to tell you too many things but…” He paused and then continued with the same spirit, “It’s not a men’s world, Radhika. Men don’t rule. They are offered the rule, if at all they rule; like the poor does to rich, the weak to powerful, and the minority to majority. Because they think they cannot fight. They fear they are too small, too weak against the opponent. When one surrenders before the battle begins, it’s not the power of the other party, not their cunningness, not their strategies, nothing in their virtue which makes them a winner, but the loser’s own fear.”
“I don’t fear that bastard. I just hate him. I hate him with the same intensity with which I love my mom.”
“It was fear. Then it graduated to become hatred. Now the subject you are mastering in is Revenge. You are on a revenge spree against your father, the man; but you do not realize that in all this, the loser is still you. Your father is still doing what he wants. Your self-torture has no effect on him. It will never have –for we are born with a free spirit. Now it’s up us to direct it to a right or wrong direction. You can force your will on someone’s choice of direction momentarily, if at all you can, but not for a long time.”
Radhika was looking at him like a kid does to her teacher in a class where she does not understand a single word taught but wants to learn desperately.
Prashant continued, “What you think, your mother will be happy to hear about your self-destruction in the name of her sufferings? Will she not be happier to hear a life for you that she never had– A life full of love? Give yourself a chance, Radhika. Whatever happened with your mother is not your fault. And you are doing no good by making her a reason for your destruction. Come back, dear. Things will be fine.”
“I feel incapable of loving a man, Prashant.”
“You can take your time to come out of it. I shall wait. We will be friends till then.”
“It may take my whole life. I feel you are the most genuine man I have ever met and I don’t want you to suffer because of me.”
“Now, this is not suffering; it’s pure, simple love. If you allow it to be… or even if you don’t.”
They smiled to each other.
Radhika and Prashant married after thirteen years from that evening.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
An Evening… :Diagnosed
I received a few critical reviews about the story I published last on this blog. I think either it has been misunderstood by the reader or told ambiguously by me. What ever be the case, I would like to explain a few points raised by my dear readers in best of my capacity.
The general points of disagreements were:
1) What doctor did in the story (not allowing the treatment of the patient being a suicide case) is professionalism of the practice.
2) Why to criticize America? Rather we should learn from them.
3) The story is not relevant in this era. It seems like a story to be told some 15 yrs back.
Very well. I will put forth some random facts about India here now.
The population: 1,129,866,154 (July 2007).
The population of farmers: Nearly 55% of the total population.
The % of population who is leaving farming as a career option: Approximately 50 million people who are part of farming families leave the profession every year.
The suicide rate of farmers: Over 15000 farmers per year.
To answer the first disagreement, let me state that “Suicide is NOT a crime.” To end one’s own existence in a state where one thinks/assumes/decides that he/she cannot survive anymore as a living being, should come under fundamental rights and not as a criminal offence as seen by the Indian law. Now, I understand that, in this perspective or any other (if someone chooses to disagree with me on the above mentioned point), everyone agrees that death or approach of death is always graver than a crime. I also understand that everyone agrees to the fact that the core of doctor’s profession is to save lives to the best of his medical capacities. So being rude to a dying patient is called professionalism? How? I don’t understand that. And even if suicide is considered a crime and treating such a patient is a police case, is it not a better option to start the treatment and call the police? To keep one away from the complexities of a police case and shrugging off the responsibilities of his/her profession is called professionalism? How? I don’t understand that either.
Answering the second disagreement, I would say I never criticized America in the story. If at all I commented on any thing it’s the way we Indians take our lessons. A NRI, who has never seen India, and who never cared for its people, is loved and cared by the citizen of this country like anything. His/her case will be talked about at every nook and corner (remember the march for the astronaut in the story!!), but we never feel like talking about someone who grow our food. We don’t talk because that fellow never did his agricultural work in America. We believe in copy-paste. We don’t learn - a general case in point is all the realities shows on television these days. And if at all someone is trying to, let me warn, you have chosen a wrong teacher. Now I criticize America- for giving us the wrong lessons and Indians- for happily taking it. There are better teachers, if we so desperately need one. Look at Japan. And why, why can’t we learn our lessons by ourselves? We are one of the oldest civilizations in the world, if my history knowledge is still ok. A leader is born out of innovation; the way we are, is the way followers are made.
Now go up and read the facts again. Do they make any sense?
They do. Let’s see how.
Let’s assume the suicide rate is not a concern. But the kind of effect it has on the employees in this profession is something we should be concerned about. If the population in this particular profession is depleting with such a rate, it’s dangerous to all of us. Food is something whose demand will never ever decrease (See the rate with which we are increasing in number). If there are less people to grow there will be lesser food to eat. Simple Logic. What are going to do then? Eat softwares - we are best at producing them these days? Import food? From where and at what cost? If a nation is not self-reliant for something like food, it’s bound to be colonized and ruled.
So ultimately it becomes the question of my own survival and not the farmers. So I say it’s my problem if a farmer is taking up suicide because it affects my food availability in some way. And hence no story can be stated to be “It seems like a story to be told some 15 yrs back”, if it related to my existence in all these modern years, can it be?
The biggest joke is - it’s not something we can’t do about their problems; but mere ignorance. So what are their basic problems? Unavailability of Irrigation facilities during a drought. Safeguard for deluge. Good seeds and fertilizers.
And we can’t provide solutions for these, sorry, we are not interested. We can devise atom bomb, we can send our men to moon, we can be excellent exporters of softwares; but we can’t provide solution for their basic problems. The joke is done. Please laugh. Laugh until you realize that the joke is on you, on us.
The general points of disagreements were:
1) What doctor did in the story (not allowing the treatment of the patient being a suicide case) is professionalism of the practice.
2) Why to criticize America? Rather we should learn from them.
3) The story is not relevant in this era. It seems like a story to be told some 15 yrs back.
Very well. I will put forth some random facts about India here now.
The population: 1,129,866,154 (July 2007).
The population of farmers: Nearly 55% of the total population.
The % of population who is leaving farming as a career option: Approximately 50 million people who are part of farming families leave the profession every year.
The suicide rate of farmers: Over 15000 farmers per year.
To answer the first disagreement, let me state that “Suicide is NOT a crime.” To end one’s own existence in a state where one thinks/assumes/decides that he/she cannot survive anymore as a living being, should come under fundamental rights and not as a criminal offence as seen by the Indian law. Now, I understand that, in this perspective or any other (if someone chooses to disagree with me on the above mentioned point), everyone agrees that death or approach of death is always graver than a crime. I also understand that everyone agrees to the fact that the core of doctor’s profession is to save lives to the best of his medical capacities. So being rude to a dying patient is called professionalism? How? I don’t understand that. And even if suicide is considered a crime and treating such a patient is a police case, is it not a better option to start the treatment and call the police? To keep one away from the complexities of a police case and shrugging off the responsibilities of his/her profession is called professionalism? How? I don’t understand that either.
Answering the second disagreement, I would say I never criticized America in the story. If at all I commented on any thing it’s the way we Indians take our lessons. A NRI, who has never seen India, and who never cared for its people, is loved and cared by the citizen of this country like anything. His/her case will be talked about at every nook and corner (remember the march for the astronaut in the story!!), but we never feel like talking about someone who grow our food. We don’t talk because that fellow never did his agricultural work in America. We believe in copy-paste. We don’t learn - a general case in point is all the realities shows on television these days. And if at all someone is trying to, let me warn, you have chosen a wrong teacher. Now I criticize America- for giving us the wrong lessons and Indians- for happily taking it. There are better teachers, if we so desperately need one. Look at Japan. And why, why can’t we learn our lessons by ourselves? We are one of the oldest civilizations in the world, if my history knowledge is still ok. A leader is born out of innovation; the way we are, is the way followers are made.
Now go up and read the facts again. Do they make any sense?
They do. Let’s see how.
Let’s assume the suicide rate is not a concern. But the kind of effect it has on the employees in this profession is something we should be concerned about. If the population in this particular profession is depleting with such a rate, it’s dangerous to all of us. Food is something whose demand will never ever decrease (See the rate with which we are increasing in number). If there are less people to grow there will be lesser food to eat. Simple Logic. What are going to do then? Eat softwares - we are best at producing them these days? Import food? From where and at what cost? If a nation is not self-reliant for something like food, it’s bound to be colonized and ruled.
So ultimately it becomes the question of my own survival and not the farmers. So I say it’s my problem if a farmer is taking up suicide because it affects my food availability in some way. And hence no story can be stated to be “It seems like a story to be told some 15 yrs back”, if it related to my existence in all these modern years, can it be?
The biggest joke is - it’s not something we can’t do about their problems; but mere ignorance. So what are their basic problems? Unavailability of Irrigation facilities during a drought. Safeguard for deluge. Good seeds and fertilizers.
And we can’t provide solutions for these, sorry, we are not interested. We can devise atom bomb, we can send our men to moon, we can be excellent exporters of softwares; but we can’t provide solution for their basic problems. The joke is done. Please laugh. Laugh until you realize that the joke is on you, on us.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
An evening in a clinic
It was
I call it a group because there were four people – one old man, an old woman, a thin but tall guy with mustaches and another thin but not-so-tall guy without mustaches; and they all looked sick, all malnourished. The old man commanded extra sympathy because he was faint for some reason.
I was already bored after looking at the few things and few people available in that room, and had cursed the doctor for being so carelessly lazy.
At around
The old man with the ultra sad look went inside the doctor’s chamber. In the waiting room, the group patients were becoming anxious. The-guy-without-mustaches went out, walked around and returned. They had one common emotion on their faces, except the old man as his faint state didn’t allow him to emote. The emotion is called fear, I suppose. I also supposed that they must fear the hefty fee they are going to be charged for being a group of four people. But hey, they could ask for a group concession!!
When their turn arrived, all of them tried to rush into the doctor’s chamber, but were asked to stay back. Only the guy-with-mustaches was allowed with the old man.
In a minute’s time, the doctor came out and shouted at the group - two inside, two out side.
“Get out from here. Don’t you understand it’s a police case? I don’t want to get into all this. Get out, please.”
The old lady from the group started crying. The guy-without-mustaches pleaded in the best possible way he can.
“Doctor Saab, we did go to the government hospital in the morning. Could not get a doctor there. Waited for the whole day. Most of them left by five evening…when inquired, the staff said ‘they all go to their private clinics.’ They gave us your address. They said you are a good hearted doctor. We don’t know anybody here. Please save him.”
The doctor signaled the helper to move them out.
I was the next to be examined. But before anything could start, I asked, "what was the matter with the old man, doc?”
“Oh! He is from some distant village. The crazy fellow consumed poison!! And he was already dead. We can’t cure a dead body, can we? Forget it. What is it you are here for?”
“Forget it.”
I rushed out; or I’ll say, I tried to rush. I found them at the other end of the street. I did not know what brought me to do this but I patted on the back of the guy-without-mustaches and asked, “Who is he?”
“My father.”
“What happened?”
“He was a farmer.”
He tried very hard, but the guy-without-mustaches could not hide his moist eyes and rushed to join his group.
I stood still. Still, in that frame of moment. It seemed like the mist, all around me, was frozen. I fell short of air. I wished I could run.
On the way home, I saw a huge crowd in and around a big burger joint where they sell burgers for only Twenty rupees. And people pay, happily. But out of those only twenty rupees, how much goes to the farmer who produced the flour for that burger? Who knows? And who cares?
I thought all these because I saw a death, may be. But then do we need hundred deaths to stimulate the same thought in hundred other people?
It was already
A thought crossed my mind and I told this to myself, “Long live
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