A Non Critic’s Thank You Note to Shahrukh Khan

Respected Sir, (or Soldier if you prefer the latter prefix), I would like to reach out and convey my heartiest congratulations on your latest entrepreneurial endeavor – Jab Tak Hain Jaan. It is indeed an inspiring challenge thrown at us, the boring, non UK living, middle class working, Sunday movie goers – the chance to understand the intricate language of Yash Raj love, and garner resilience. The resilience to find true love like you did, and also bravely trudge through the second half of your movie.

It is truly amazing to witness your magical transformation from a Ray Ban wearing, bomb diffusing Army dude, to snow sweeping, Hinglish speaking, odd jobs man singing on the streets of London while juggling sea food and impressing difficult Gora Bosses. Your respect for all professions and love for menial work probably prohibited you from employing your white collared scientific skills (used to diffuse bombs and protect Indian citizens in Leh) to apply for employment in London, not involving a shovel or an apron.

You follow your passion, and sing sufi songs on train stations, earning just enough to buy LL Bean sweatshirts and Timberland footwear, leaving the audience to ponder and further analyze their own CTCs. Sir, to call you versatile would be a shameful understatement.

It is crucial at this point to mention your beautiful co – star Katrina and give recognition to her stupendous contributions to your fairy tale. Simply because she proved to be the perfect princess, that fairy tales cannot do without. We, the audience, love her hair, envy her overcoats, adore her boots, and don’t mind her speaking intermittently either. We accept her pretty figure as she requests you to teach her to sing Punjabi Sufi, congratulating her as she could not have found a better music professor in the entire city of London. We laud her efforts to improve your rustic English, to help you wait tables.

With copious amounts of classic Yash Raj direction, she skips and hops (not in chiffon saris but chiffon dresses) from one end of the London Bridge to the other falling more and more in love with your charismatic leather jacket, Ricky Martin humming bad ass. So much so, that she becomes a total bad ass herself amidst other hot, skinny booty shaking tunnel girls, gyrates to street dance beats and does perfect boob moves, pelvic shakes, in an exciting road to discover her true slutty, drunkard self. Such is the power of your love sir, that it forces us to question the inward, non-controversial behavior of mature, educated girls and the challenge the necessity of following basic social decorum.

Alas, how can we not thank the other most beautiful skinny dipping segment of this panaromic production – Anoushka. She brings a certain vibrancy to the entire tale of love, through her imposing, barf inducing chubby bubbly, hot pants wearing, ganji clad talkative yet lovable self. Once again sir, the love oozing out of your black skin tight t-shirt body traps this butterfly who would have otherwise continued to enjoy to dance in between lecherous stares of junior army officers and pick flowers with random villagers in Leh. You successfully transformed the sex starved, break up loving “IT” girl into a generation y version of the chiffon sari wearing all time lovable (and lustful) Indian heroine.    

And all this you achieved sir, by just crashing conspicuously twice on the streets of London, first losing the girl of your dreams and the second time losing your Indian Army Man memory. Of course at this point, the sympathetic audience wished they lost their memories via consequences of “retrograde amnesia” themselves as well. As the symbolic brain sat on the doctor’s table on screen, you questioned the audience’s brain power – to defy logic, and create illusions, to discover new boundaries of reason and innovate, create new ideas and most importantly new medical ailments and cures.

Sir, you have given us what only a few movies could have achieved in today’s age. Patience – to sit for 3 hours on Sunday late afternoon through simple no logic content. Grateful – towards the movies bestowed on us by Yash Raj productions a long time ago and that now thankfully, the same have stopped now in principal. Empathy – towards oneself and other audience members of being united in suffering.

Thank you Sir, once again. Jab Tak Hain Jaan was a truly moving cinematic experience and definitely much more thought provoking than the ON Undergarments Ad.

Thank you note to Mr. Adajania - Director, Cocktail

Dear Mr. Adajania,

It is with great indebtedness that I write to you to thank you – for proving to be an instrumental force in my understanding of life and life’s serious issues through your movie – Cocktail.

I am certain that when you titled your project, it was with a rush of several mixed cocktails at a loud club in Mumbai that you concluded the impact of your movie on us – the new age, pub going, party hopping, skimpily clad, shallow young Indians.

The same has been successfully highlighted in the movie when the cinematographer decided to throw around the super hot Padukone at various high tables of the London night club. This delightful characterization of the protagonist, I am sure, has managed to confirm the vivid imaginations of many mothers about their daughters – who can safely conclude now that their daughters go out every Saturday night dressed in pink bras gleefully showing from their almost visible outfits.

Thanks to you, we can all now happily stock up on Wine Bottles instead of milk – simply because our poor hardworking parents, who have worked endlessly to give us a comfortable life, do not have the time to understand our problems – the serious ones, like not having the 99^th pair of Jimmy Choo heels, the Diesel ensembles or crushes on middle aged, obnoxious men.

I must also congratulate you on capturing the other side of the Indian youth – depicted in excruciating detail by Penty. Firstly, the character has been effectively created as a determined and assertive young woman who chooses, against all influences, to wear pants, even in the absence of the overbearing Punjabi mother. This truly differentiates her from Veronica, who beseeched by her non caring parents, decides to become the original rebel by disregarding the importance of lower body clothing.

It is truly amazing and commendable how you have used imagery – that of a knit sweater and gota lined salwar suit, complete with a box of Indian mangoes to describe the innocence of Meera, the poor darling, who has clearly no idea how to travel to a cold country owing to her rural background. However, what is most wonderful is that once in London, she has absolutely no problems in finding employment with a top London based graphic design agency within weeks of setting foot on foreign soil.

This, sir, gives hope to thousands of highly educated young Indians, who return every day without success from their Visa interviews, despite possessing impressive degrees and knowing what to wear when travelling to a cold country.

 The character that touched me the most was that of Gautam, who couldn’t have been portrayed any better than by Chote Nawab – congratulations once again sir, on your perfect selection (so nice of him to pay for the production as well). He perfectly played the role of the irritating, obnoxious, idiotic middle aged man you meet at a club and immediately start thinking of reasons to run to the loo so that you don’t have to see him ever again in your life. You have also through his character successfully promoted many of society’s conventional (superficial) ideas – such as all air hostesses are idiots and can flirt with anyone, even an irritating bearded passenger who confidently juggles between letching and passing lewd comments.  My respect for him grows even more when I see him swagger into his office dressed as Investment Banker – making me and the rest of us question the T Shirt and Jeans wearing IT geek seen walking around the IT Park of India.

The story interwoven around these three characters is truly inspiring. That an aging casanova who does not mind bedding the wild cat at his convenience while choosing the straight faced, braided Indian beauty to marry finally is something that probably every man with oriental roots is obligated to carry out with sincerity.  The example set by Gautam would surely encourage thousands of the under 30 Indian males to go out and get close to women who openly party but allow them to only marry those girls who chose not to venture on to the bar during their nighttime escapades.

Sir, on behalf of the entire Indian youth, I thank you for taking cognizance of our emotions and opinions towards our relationships with friends, parents and lovers. Your explanations throughout your movie have directed us towards obtaining the finer balance between the various aspects of life – on maintaining shallow standards in life and throwing tantrums for not achieving milestones we don’t deserve.

All this Mr. Adajania, I have learnt from your project, without even watching the second half. I sincerely apologize for my lack of ability to comprehend and further appreciate the finer nuances of the gamut of colors you threw upon the 25 inch Inox screen for us to absorb.

After all, it was 11:00 PM on a Tuesday post a 12 hour work day, and even though I spent Rs. 150 for my ticket, I couldn’t go beyond the first half in fear of losing my mind while witnessing your heart rending portrayal of the mindless Indian youth – very well dressed, in their defense.

Yours Sincerely,

A shallow party going 25 year old Indian  

Hunt For Love

She clasped the edge of the pool table in a manner that invited attention to her perfectly manicured nails. Under the dimly lit room ablaze with thumping drum beats and bad vocals, you could make out her dark curls nestled around her bare shoulders. Her eyes shone in the darkness and one could distinguish the distinct bright hazel shade as she looked straight at her target. It was as if to announce to the world her interest in him and invite his attention.

The club was always full of people. Young, old, round, thin, pretty, vulgar, regulars and the new comers. Despite the different caricatures they displayed on the outside – one thing never changed. Everyone was looking for someone – someone they thought they knew, or even more regularly, thought that didn’t exist at all.

For the ones believing the former, all strangers were viewed meticulously and quick mental scan of each was conducted to shortlist a few specimens. Post this exercise, slow attempts were made at establishing eye contact, brushing against each other’s shoulders – all in the hope that at one moment, both sides would be overwhelmed with an electrifying feeling that allowed greater physical proximity. Heavily intoxicated, most would mistake the anguished hormonal sensitivities for such a moment, only to realize the next morning, that their torturous hangovers were more long lasting than the last night’s attractions.

Every night, she would carefully observe each entrant into the club. Most would turn around to give her a second look. Many would be in wonder of her smooth skin and would gingerly take the opportunity to slide their fingers around her bare back with an impish expression. Some would try and come closer. She was always very forthcoming in inviting such attention and mostly would let these hairy masculine fingers cup themselves around her.

The women however would react oppositely – horrified at first and later throwing looks full of jealously as the attention of their men would slip towards her.  After all, what was wrong in indulging them? It allowed them for few moments, the feeling of being in control and in charge – something, they would long for all their lives. She would act coy and look at them for some time before gently leading them onto the dance floor and moving on to the others, craving her attention.

Tonight, she looked especially stunning. The little silver bells that adorned her neck were new and already were becoming a hit among the regulars. Several glances followed her slow yet sensuous strides from the club’s entrance to the pool table, where she occupied her favorite position.

And that is when she saw him enter.

He sported a rugged look, to accessorize his chiseled figure. In a nonchalant manner, he lit a cigarette and leaned on the high table to take a good look around. Their eyes met for a moment – her heart beat doubled as he let out a half smile. Was she truly experiencing a moment of passion with this stranger, should she initiate an interaction? Before she could complete her rushing train of thoughts, he walked up to her. With supreme confidence, he let his fingers slide against her hair and then onto her back, and she let out a gentle moan. The crowd turned around to witness this passionate moment and let out wistful sighs complete with whistles. Even the club’s owner, a handsome middle aged man, paused to observe this unison.

“You know Jack”, the owner shouted across to her new found lover “She is very particular in choosing her men but she clearly has a thing for you! She only let me this close to her after weeks of staying with her – and that too, in spite of seeing me right from when she was a tiny cub.”

Two's Company

At the beckon of the cute looking receptionist, Bitoo strolled out onto his stage, armed with his arsenal, glancing sideways at the long mirror to ensure his scorpion tattoo attracted appropriate attention.  Indeed, his swagger caught the attention of a couple of 40 something women – before they quickly averted their gaze, not wanting anyone to notice them. Bitoo sported a linen shirt paired with a pair of expensive denims complete with a warm smile to top it off.

He greeted me with bright eyes and a grin while I reluctantly got up from the extra squashy purple sofa. I eyed him with suspicion, as most girls would in my position – especially when the person standing before you was going to take control over your most precious possession – for a couple of hours anyway.

I have always found the introductory conversations between two people a little uncomfortable. The process involves one individual trying to assure the other of his intentions – while the other quickly does a mental evaluation on several parameters at one go of the person in front of him. Things become especially difficult if you are trying to express what you want from the other person – perhaps because the same requires crystal clarity of your own mental thoughts- a feat greatly admired and rarely achieved personally by me.   Nonetheless, with the zeal of a fine young woman, full of enthusiasm, I went on to construct a string of dramatic words and emotive noises to express my requirements. He listened to the banter, brooded, looked, and finally smiled, nodding in assurance.

I let out a sigh of relief – comforted by the deftness of the craftsman in front of me as he initiated procedural preparations. With ease, he led me towards his delivery platform and plunged into the usual topics of discussion between two North Indians making a living in South India. The cruelty of having do with Idlis instead of Parathas after a night out with friends, surprising disinterest towards foreign clothes brands among the local people very unlike the crowd back home, flashy farmhouse weddings of Delhi versus ceremonial exchange of vows in broad daylight without the presence of a DJ, and other incongruent aspects of life in the North and South that hit on the face with unfailing regularity.

Somewhere along the way, he steered the conversation to focus upon personal struggles – in trying to live one’s own dreams, the monotony of daily work which creeps into one’s life, the undying search to do something different and explore new avenues. To my amusement, I realized that I had begun participating more actively in the discussion, than I could have with a parent, colleague or even a close friend. I narrated to him silly instances at work that upset me, inconsequential worries about the way I looked, the anticipation of the future – he acknowledged every bit, absorbed every detail and encouraged me to continue. All this he did, while continuing to work with his tools to give physical definition to the vague, foggy picture of myself, I had tried to recreate for him sometime back.

An hour later, he gently pushed me to awake from my stupor which had engulfed me while our man was busy with his task, leaving me to my own thoughts. I looked at the reflection of a dreamy eyed 25 year old, with a half smile etched on her face, while the master stood behind me encouraging me to frame a response for his work. The half smile widened – in appreciation and admiration. Bitoo had done a great job.  

I continued to smile as I walked out of the beauty parlour that Sunday evening. Not only had a stranger given me a great haircut and glow around the face, he had also unknowingly helped create a new glow in my heart.    

Would You Care to Listen

You can hear the violent sounds of water running down the stale potholes on the inter - twining roads. The rain prefers the dark nights to explode onto us people – as if to add flavor to the already nauseating upheavals of each day. It encourages auto rickshaw drivers to charge more money, tempt the rich to splash water on a stranded pedestrian, challenge the motorists to withstand prickling drops of water on their glasses – to encourage anger within individuals scale new heights.

Or does it actually give us that occasional opportunity to express our true emotions? Does it provide an excuse to relieve the human mind of the increasing frustration, and anxiety carefully concealed behind glossy smiles, and nonchalant discussions aimed at social inclusion of oneself?

Why is so important for each of us to glow in the laughter and banter of baseless conversations amidst an army of people, while aggressively guard the loud screams inside our own heads for things we truly want others to understand. Is it for fear of being heard and ostracized, condemned? Or is it actually the fear of being completely unheard and unnoticed?

A very famous pair of songwriters once warned the world against the Sounds of Silence, clearly no one heard them. Have we become accustomed to only to acknowledge high decibels levels of thumping club music, rowdy road rages,   and the slogan shouting of the Indian gerontocracy? Does it really take so much effort for a lover to hear the silent sobs of her partner, a child to understand the unhappiness seeping within her aging mother, a teacher to identify the growing frustration within a student?

We clearly are not listening very well.

When did society start to instruct us to prove ourselves by not listening? Not listening to directions, not listening to announcements, not listening to cries of the homeless, not listening to the loud explosions of regular bomb blasts, and most of all, not listening to each other. Do we realize what impact has it had on our friends, parents, co workers, partners?  Does it not further inhibit the development of progressive thought, fresh ideas, new discoveries?

We cannot let ourselves be bound within our inner recesses. We were created to reach out to one another, listen and learn from the other, discuss, argue, agree, disagree, opine on matters. We were created to collectively create egalitarian society. And one doesn’t need to sacrifice a city life and live among the Dharavi slums for that, or donate monetarily towards American do good organizations. One just needs to take out a few minutes to listen – call a friend who you know is hurting, call your mother who loves to hear your voice, sit with a colleague who is unable to perform, e-mail your old professor who taught you lessons of life along with chemistry.

We need to start listening now before someone stops speaking.