It has been quite a stimulating two weeks. The weather is still a-weeping and I have not been at my chirpiest best. There is always a pro and a con to being intellectually stimulated when you are low. While you obviously tend to enjoy less, whatever you are doing or reading or watching, you absorb a great deal more. In your eagerness to distract yourself, not ponder over what is bothering you, you concentrate harder on what you have at hand. I am in a pickle, actually – I do not know whether it is a good thing or bad.
The Kite Runner made me cry. It is not about being a wimp – there is nothing wrong with a man crying. The sheer canvas of the novel, the expanse of the time-character-space relationship blew me away. Here was a novel which spoke of the most uncomfortable subjects with such unnerving ease. And Hosseini’s innate ability to describe disaster and longing with such poetry made me fall in love with his language – lyrical, but not stretched. Then came Thousand Splendid Suns. I could not finish the book in one go. It depressed me beyond measure, almost to the brink of creating a misanthrope out of me. I read the first few chapters and gave up on it. I lost faith in people, and started believing that pain and suffering was the way of life. To have this thought hovering above your head is depressing enough. I accepted it. Then, one day, I heard someone talk highly of how much hope and faith the book instills. The shock itself made me painfully finish it. Other than War and Peace (for completely different reasons), this was the only book that had proved to be such a troubling and harrowing an experience. The pain it hurled made me blind towards the literary qualities it possesses. I wish to read the book again. I do not know when.
So, there was this contradictory feeling of fear and anticipation at the same time when I got hold of his latest – And the Mountains Echoed. I did not know what to expect. More pain? Depressing human conditions? A feeling of all-consuming helplessness? I knew there would be Afghanistan in store; lots of it. But it is Hosseini – Afghanistan is both disastrously beautiful and beautifully disastrous on the same page. The ruthless terrains complement the snow-clad valleys and azure skies, the glamour of yesterday meets the poverty of today, the sophistication of the language is interrupted by painfully long silences. He knows how to make sorrow beautiful. And how to make you feel apologetic about beauty.
The book spans across years in the form of short stories about people inter-connected with each other, often estranged and brought together at interesting junctures in their lives. A host of wonderful people – Abdullah and Pari, Parwana and Masooma, Nila Wahdati and Nabi, Idris and Timur – and their second and third generations growing up in Pakistan, America, and Paris, take the novel around the world like feathers fluttering about, carrying different emotions and relationships on each fibre. While Abdullah and Pari are separated, we go back in time to be audience to Parwana’s jealousy towards Masooma and their final goodbye in the desert. We soon hurtle ahead to Nila bringing Pari up in Paris, in a whirlwind of alcohol, men, and poetry. The unrequited love of Suleiman and Nabi, an extremely mature and platonic relationship of the likes that I doubt has ever been read before, a small snippet about their neighbours Idris and Timur in the US, Abdullah and his daughter, Pari, who grows up to finally meet her namesake, Iqbal’s son trying to regain his homeland – the stories move like a movie, and the reader rise and fall with the crest and trough of every line.
While I was reading this book, Ghanchakkar released on its slated Friday. It is a Vidya Balan film – reason enough for me to watch it. Add Emraan Hashmi (I have come to have some faith in him now), Namit Das, Rajesh Sharma, and Rajkumar Gupta (I still have not forgotten Aamir) along with her, and the reason just got too ‘pregnant’ to ignore!
The film lets its audience down because the walk uphill was just not worth it because the view from the peak was a big, well, let down. The film creates a brilliant premise – a crook comes out of retirement to crack a final heist, only to forget where he hides the loot, with an oddball wife and sidekicks for company – and is supported with respectable performances from the four-person cast, music, and film making. The writing fails the film. The climax is just not worth it. It is just like climbing the Everest and being treated to an aerial view of Dharavi from the summit. While the climb was quite worth it, the view from the top leaves a very bad taste in the mouth. The suspense was well created which is definitely commendable and Namit Das shines (watch him in ‘Stories in a Song’ – a musical treat by Sunil Shanbag’s very talented theatre group). Vidya Balan was unnecessary and Emraan has finally shed the ‘kiss’ from his kismet. Mr. Gupta, you could have done better. Special mention of the absolutely hilarious Utpal Dutt-Jai-Veeru sequence. Also, catch Namit Das having phone sex in an extremely outlandish scene. Also catch him bullying a couch potato to give up his veggies. If only bits and pieces made a pie!
Lootera released last Friday. It always makes me laugh when the names that attract you fail and the one you paid least attention to, shines through and impresses you the most. Sonakshi Sinha, I apologize for having doubted your calibre as an actor. After this film, all I can only wish that you meet directors who want to make you act more and bare less. A simple story of a con man who cheats a zamindar family of all its wealth, falls in love with the girl and breaks her heart on the day of the engagement. A few years later, with the police hot on his tail, he meets her again when she needs her much more than he could ever imagine. Lootera is deliciously warm and artistic in the first half, regaling amidst all the Bengali zamindari finery. Sonakshi (she does not look Bengali at all. But the girl has such big pretty eyes!), Barun Chanda (one of the most handsome Bengalis when he debuted years ago. He still remains unforgettable from his Seemabaddha days), and Ranvir create a wonderful atmosphere of music, finery, and art. While the lead pair lacked the warmth and crackling tension required, it does not stand out as an anomaly. You just wish there was more of it. For example, when Sonakshi’s Pakhi walks into Ranvir’s Varun’s room in the dead of the night, you do not feel the fear-sexual tension-excitement-risk-anxiety emotional combination. But, what the first half lacks in emotional depth, the second half quite makes up for it. Pristinely shot Dalhousie in cool blue tones plays out as a beautiful canvas for the painful meeting between Pakhi and Varun. Layers of heartache, sorrow, betrayal, and illness form a wonderful patchwork supported by fine performances by the actors and crew. While Ranvir had a tough time garnering attention in the first half, he does match up to Sonakshi in the second. Also, the facial hair makes for a visual improvement. The tussle between Pakhi and Varun when he tries to inject her medicine, the encounter with the police in the alleys, Ranvir’s frustrated humour when he sees Divya Dutta pointing the gun at him – all bear proof of a director who is confident of his craft. Motwane should take a bow, he has a winner at hand. Amit Trivedi and Amitabh Bhattacharya are a great team producing some memorable tunes. While the screenplay is a tad too convenient at places, it is thankfully not melodramatic. The VFX team could have done a better job with the final scenes though, but I am sure that is forgivable. A stronger script and sizzling chemistry between the lead pair could have made this film one of the best films of these years.
Both the films, and Hosseini show a tendency to experiment with the female characters, some being more successful than the other. While Balan’s character was definitely different on paper, it failed to do anything for the film and the screenplay. Sonakshi’s Pakhi has range – from a dominating young lass who becomes a die-hard romantic to a woman driven by revenge, pain, and failing health – which allows her to experiment and unfurl wings that had been hidden beneath the Rowdies and Dabbanggs of the world. Hosseini’s Nila Wahdati shines, almost luminescent, because of her beauty and intelligence and eventual tragedy. She spreads across the book, like a spicy perfume, lingering between the pages. From Suleiman to Nabi to her French lovers and her own daughter, she becomes a source of varied emotions evoked across characters. The rustic Parwana and Masooma mirror Nila’s pain and loneliness but lack her glamour and beauty, making them even more tragic individuals. Pari and Pari remain spectators, affected wholly but rarely become major players themselves.
Thus, I remain exhausted now. I look forward to Bhaag Milkha Bhaag and a short trip to Bangalore. I am also itching to write the review for Ship of Theseus which I watched yesterday. I also have to finish reading Nude Before God, a two-decade old novel which I am planning to adapt into a play.
Yes, my hands and head are full.
BEING HUMMUSEXUAL 