Is Afghanistan burning?

"Streets are filled with emptiness. Multitudes throng, but the ebb and flow of life is under arrest. The vivacious Shabnam has gone missing. Will she come back? "

'Shabnam',the 1960 novel by Syed Mujtaba Ali,(set in a burning Kabul 1929, with the monarch abdicating and the rebels taking over) keeps the answer hanging. The eponymous protagonist of the novel is a resourceful person with steely determination, belongs to a well connected family,and is a darling of the masses as well. Yet, it wasn't possible for the author to conceive of an 'all's well that ends well' finale to the story of pulsating hearts that break. It isn't difficult to imagine the fate of a citizen without the qualities of the heroine if placed in a similar predicament. And what if the timeline is moved to 2021,and the novel leaps into reality? 

While fiction looms up into eerie fact, disturbing news snippets of people latching onto airplane wheels to escape the turmoil in Kabul;images of advertisements with female visages being whitewashed to accommodate the policies of the new regime have come up with intimidating regularity. 

Sairaa Karimi, the director general of Afghan Film, in an open letter to the world had voiced her premonition, "If the Taliban takes over it will ban art... They will strip away women's rights, we will be pushed to the shadows, to our houses, and our voices will be stifled into silence. Just in these few weeks, the Taliban have destroyed many schools... "

As rumours of assassinations of public servants and dignitaries from the field of media and culture are making the rounds, Taliban has assured government servants to return to their posts, and promised the inclusion of women in the new regime guided by the Sharia. 

It is a matter of conjecture of how swiftly the pall of gloom lifts , but the policy of wait and watch adopted by the world is as heart-rending a wake as S Tirumati(India's Ambassador to the UN, New York) opines,"Afghan men,women and children are living under a constant state of fear...As a neighbour of Afghanistan, as a friend of it's people, Afghanistan's current situation is of great concern to us in India".

The Taliban is attempting to shed its hard line past with assurances, interview with a female journalist of a television channel, and other measures, but utter dejection and abject helplessness is palpable in Zarifa Ghafari's (youngest and the first female mayor of Maidan Wardak province, Afghanistan) cri de coeur, "I am sitting here waiting for them to come. And they will come for people like me and kill me... There is no one to help me or my family. I can't leave my family. And anyway where would I go?"

Syed Mujtaba Ali didn't tell us where "Shabnam" went, and even with the wind blowing in the right direction,  heaps of unanswered questions are bound to pile up with ach passing day. It's an irony that the only question that has a clear answer right now was asked in the month of August, 1944 -

Yes, Afghanistan is burning! 

The Great Indian Chamcha

Kailash is pulsating with the expectation of breaking news. The interstellar globetrotter Narad has returned from his starry trips and is expected to fill in Ma with the latest from India.

Everybody knows how much Ma hankers for a first-hand account, even though infinity is on her palm top, and she can know everything with a swipe. Gan.s was going to think derogatorily that it was a bad case of virtual reality addiction when he received a cautionary mental message from Dad, ‘Bad thinking d Big Boss is more painful than a Harley Street plastic surgery gone wrong-u will miss breakfast for a week!’.

Gan.s immediately crossed his thoughts, and quickly dumped the complain forming in his mind. Sars had convinced Ma that keeping animals in captivity was passé, consequently Kurt’s peacock was acting dead in a Bollywood movie, and Lakes’ owl was flying skittishly in Bengaluru, causing a tycoon to go bankrupt overnight.

Gan.s loved his mouse, and missed it. But he loved his banana cookies and milk in the mornings even more, so he deleted everything and all was quiet on the east-west front of his mind.

‘Howdy, Nurd! How are the kids?’

Narad’s on- the-road experiences came to his aid, and his face remained as inscrutable as Dhoni’s after a T-20 win, before beaming an ear-to-ear smile like Asrani.

Narad, the cosmic roadie would have managed without Dad’s mental ping,’ Ma is aping Sar’s speech who has gone American with a vengeance after being teased mercilessly fr b-ing n ivory tower pundit.’

‘Pranam! Everybody is doing fine!’

‘Do they miss me?’

‘Indians throughout the world are celebrating dad and you. There is this bestselling trilogy about your feats, and even teenagers are shrinking away from ‘Twilight’ to know more about you.’

‘And the latest blockbuster rejoices your name; the heroine is called Jagat Janani’

Ma sniffled.

‘Are my kids joyful?’

‘Ma, they are very happy indeed. They are singing about the new regent-He is India, India is he’!

Ma’s widening smile faltered.

‘Isn’t that an oldie? Didn’t they sing the same song for my poor child as well-‘She is India, India is she’? Is history repeating itself?’

Narad reassured that there is nothing to worry, as there is no opposition left in the land anymore.

‘How did he manage that? What are my own ‘Charlie’s Angels’ doing?’

Narad wised up to the game, decided to be a bit cheeky.

‘Nothing. He managed because they are too busy to do anything!’

‘How come?’

‘Jylan is out on bail trying not to go back to prison; Mamex seems on her way to one, with most of her aides behind bars for corruption. Matalie was playing ‘Hatari’ with stone elephants, and slipped out of the hot seat-otherwise she would have been the first to croon jailhouse rock’.

‘What about the daughter-in-law?’

‘She took ‘Godfather’ seriously, and made her son take charge of the family business. He was no Michael, and the Family is shattered’.

‘None of them were bad to begin with. None of my children are bad. Is it a Great Indian conspiracy so that my sons and daughters would languish?’, Ma’s voice broke.

‘No conspiracy honey, it was the Great Indian Chamcha to be precise. Our kids kept on listening to the wrong people’, Dad had to step in. He did not want her to get hysterical over something that can’t be cured.

‘Why did they listen to them?’, Ma smarted.

‘Honey, the Great Indian Chamcha is omnipresent, and omnipotent in Indian politics. Like our Big B, they are omniscient as well-there is no escape.’

‘I shall destroy this chamcha business forever. Arm my divine armada!’.

‘You will have to sacrifice all your children then, for the Great Indian Chamchas dwell in the minds of movers and shakers. They are infallible, because like one’s shadow one can’t make them unfollow the self’.

‘Is there no solution then?’

‘Patience. Hope they learn from trial and error and don’t forget their lessons’.

Ma’s face was half covered in gloom.

‘Of course, you can tell them to watch ‘Godfather’, and not only read it. In the final act, Connie rules’, Dad chose to be kind.

Ma’s face lit up, and spread sunshine all over her favorite holiday spot.

A bespectacled man sporting a muffler in Mausam Bhavan, Delhi observed that India was shining, but kept silent. The weather statement would reek badly of an erstwhile political slogan, and he was apolitical.

Kingdom of Diamonds,1980
A hilarious moment follows with the antics of The Great Indian Chamcha
Source: Screenshot from the stunning political fable by Satyajit Ray

This post is 'an entry to the Great Indian Blogging Contest as part of Apeejay Kolkata Literary Festival 2015' with www.facebook.comGreatIndianCircus and www.kolkatabloggers. com

Happens Over Coffee

A long time ago, much before Cafe Coffee Day came up with its amazing tagline, coffee houses, and tea shops were sipping the margaritas of the mind while talking about love and revolution , taking apart governments, discussing art and culture, cocking a snook at the world.

It was all happening over coffee, and tea, just like today.

Gouriprasanna Majumdar wrote a song on this dichotomy of the everlasting and the fleeting on a group of friends who met at a coffee house, and Manna Dey sang it.

The rest is nostalgia…

Those coffee house days are no more, are no more

Where have those gold (en) noons gone? Where did they go?

Nikhilesh is in Paris, Moidul in Dhaka – nobody knows more

Desouza, the Goanese guitarist in Grand, shall play no more

A heart-break has put Rama Roy in(to) an asylum

Amal is losing the fight against cancer; life refuses to be a balm

Those coffee house days are no more, are no more

Where have those gold (en) noons gone? Where did they go?

Sujata is the happiest so far

(Heard) she married a millionaire

Diamonds are forever after all

A palace for home, antique cars galore –she is having a ball!

Nikhilesh Sanyal –a dreamer from art college designed ads

Desouza was content to sit and listen, nobody saw him sad (ever)

Those coffee house days are no more, are no more

Where have those gold (en) noons gone? Where did they go?

Around the table – those hours four

Lit with Charminaar, who could ask for more

Sometimes Bishnu Dey, at times Jamini Roy

Became friends as the debates soared

Come rain, come sunshine – wherever we were

Finished our work so that we could gather

At 4 and be merry than kings (rather)

Till 7:30 when we stood up

Those coffee house days are no more, are no more

Where have those gold (en) noons gone? Where did they go?

He looked like a poet with his bag slung from shoulder

Amal will be forgotten soon

None of his poems have been published anywhere

Talent led him to nowhere

Rama Roy acted in the office drama productions

Reporter Moidul read what he wrote and analyzed the situations

Those coffee house days are no more, are no more

Where have those gold (en) noons gone? Where did they go?

The table is there, but those 7 are missing

Though 7 cups are still steaming

The garden is in bloom once again

Only the gardener has gone missing

So many dreams get born here

So many dreams get so near (to reality)

So many have come

So many will come

(The) Coffee House stays as it was

Those coffee house days are no more, are no more

Where have those gold (en) noons gone? Where did they go?

The Other Sides Of The Moon

Moonstruck is a fairly accurate description of being swept by the feeling of love, and the slightly over the top behavior which it ensues is forgiven with a knowing smile. But how do one forgive when a surging bout of tenderness has ended forever, or what do we do when the emotion visits us at an age when Cupid could be a grandchild.

Sahir Ludhianvi, the ‘magician’ of lyrics, and poems was supposed to have met his ex-sweetheart right after a break-up, in a party –among a roomful of people. What he must have felt is not difficult to guess, but he poured out his feelings on to paper, and it became Chalo ek bar phir se (Come, let us be strangers once again) in the film Gumrah,1963.

Gulzar, the poet filmmaker explored the other side of the moon, with his intrinsic honesty –tracing the craters and jagged edges deftly as love takes over the psyche of sextagerian for a woman half his age in Aise uljhi nazar (Bewitched eyes won’t look away), Ishqiya,2010

Kabir Suman, the singer-songwriter who ushered in a band culture successfully in West Bengal in the early nineties has his own take on love in his Jatishwar (Reincarnation). According to him, the history of true love repeats itself.

Chalo, ek bar phir se, Film-Gumrah, 1963, Lyricist-Sahir Ludhianvi

 

Chalo ek bar phir se, ajnabee ban jaye ham dono

Come, let us unwind our friendship, and be strangers once again

Naa mai tumse koyee ummid rakhu dilnavajee kee

Let me not have any expectations great or small

Naa tum meree taraf dekho, galat andaz najaro se

Nor should you allow your gaze on me to fall

Naa mere dil kee dhadkan ladkhadaye meree baton me

My heart should not show up in my words smoldering slow

Naa jahir ho tumharee kashmkash kaa raj najaro se

Nor should your eyes tell the secret of your rows

Chalo ek bar phir se, ajnabee ban jaye ham dono

Come, let us unwind our friendship, and be strangers once again

Tumhe bhee koyee uljhan rokatee hai peshkadmee se

You too have your demon that stalks and haunts

Mujhe bhee log kehte hain, kee yeh jalve paraye hain

People are always reminding (me) bygones are bygones

Mere hamrah bhee rusvaiya hain mere majhee kee

My shadow still wanders in the alleys from the past

Tumhare sath bhee gujaree huyee rato ke saye hain

You too have those nights with you, smithereens that will hurt

Come, let us unwind our friendship, and be strangers once again

Tarruf rog ho jaye toh usako bhulna behtar

When all that is left behind is decorum; it is best to let go

Talluk bojh ban jaye toh usako todna achchha

When all that remains is a load; it is best to forego

Woh afsana jise anjam tak lana naa ho mumkin

That reverie which cannot be brought to shore

Use ek khubsurat mod dekar chhodna achchha

Is best to be spun beautifully, and set afloat

 

Come, let us unwind our friendship, and be strangers once again

 

Aisi ujli nazar, Film-Isqiya,2010, Lyricist-Gulzar

 

aisi ulji nazar unse hatt thi nahi

As if in trance, the eyes won’t look away

 

daant se reshmi dor katt thi nahi

A silken bond is the hardest to get away (from)

umar kab ki baras ke safaid ho gayi

Years have turned white like a shroud

kaari badari jawani ki chatt ti nahi

Spring still drifts in like a cloud

walla ye dhadkan bhadne lagi hai

(The) heart is beating faster

chehre ki rangat udne lagi hai
                                         Face is losing its luster

darr lagta hai tanha sone mein ji
                                      Sleep has become a nightmare (now)

dil to bachcha hai ji

heart thinks like a child

dil to bachcha hai ji

heart acts like a child

thoda kaccha hai ji
                                                      raw –at times

haan dil to baccha hai ji
                                                     heart is a child!

aisi ulji nazar unse hatt thi nahi

As if in trance, the eyes won’t look away

daant se reshmi dor katt thi nahi

A silken bond is the hardest to get away (from)

umar kab ki baras ke safaid ho gayi

Years have turned white like a shroud

kaari badari jawani ki chatt ti nahi

Spring still drifts in like a cloud

kisko patha tha pehlu mein rakha, dil aisa paaji bhi hoga                                       Who knew that the cloistered heart would play such a prank

hum to hamesha samajhte the koi, hum jaisa haaji hi hoga

Always thought, it was a good Samaritan

hai zor karein, kitna shor karein

Throws a tantrum, creates a storm

bewaja baatein pe ainwe gaur karein

Willfully bends the norm

dil sa koi kameena nahi

Winks –as it plays the tramp

koi toh rokey, koi toh tokey
                                           Catch it (someone), hold it (someone)

iss umar mein ab khaogey dhokhe                                                I don’t want to be in the dumps

darr lagta hai ishq karne mein ji

The thought (of love) gives me goose bumps

dil to bachcha hai ji

heart thinks like a child

dil to bachcha hai ji

                                      heart acts like a child

thoda kaccha hai ji

                                      raw-at times

haan dil to baccha hai ji

                                     Heart is a child!

aisi udhaasi baithi hai dil pe, hassne se ghabra rahe hain                                    Sadness has spread like the dusk, it hurts to laugh

saari jawani kathra ke kaati, piri mein takra gaye hain
                   Whiled away time seeking, it took so long for the heart to start beating

dil dhadakta hai to aise lagta hai woh, aa raha hai yahin dekhta hi na woh

(Already) everything is fleeting

prem ki maarein kataar re                                               Love is a killer (I say)

tauba ye lamhe katate nahi kyun                                                 Why is this moment forever?

aankhein se meri hatt the nahi kyun                                                 Why can’t the eyes look elsewhere?

darr lagta hai mujhse kehne mein ji                                                  I feel afraid even to tell her…

dil to bachcha hai ji

heart thinks like a child

dil to bachcha hai ji

heart acts like a child

thoda kaccha hai ji

raw-at times

haan dil to baccha hai ji

Heart is a child!

 

 

Kabir Suman, Jatishwar (Reincarnation)

 (I) Won’t live forever,(I) don’t even want to

Life finds a meaning when it seeks you (only you)

Moment grows up fast like a newborn, blinding a reincarnation

Memories of last life, lost incantations

Torn pages of an ancient tome with wind breathes anew

Life finds a meaning when it seeks you (only you)

Cobra’s hood sways with the nostalgia of Lakhinder’s plight

Behula can never be a widow, says Bengal’s sprite

The raft floats twice a day, carrying the same body

Died once, will die afresh –for love I am ready

Born several times; passed away always at your side

Denied salvation so that I did not lose you ever from my sight

We two have come back always for the love of our earth

At times Gangur, at times in Kopai Kapotakksha’s art

Gangur has become Kaberi sometimes (2) Mississippi

Even Rhine or Congo’s idyllic euphony

Lyrics I never wrote, or shall ever write

In people’s songs through the ages, I want you by my side

I sought you out many times, many births ago

When Tathagato blessed our sunset, long time ago

His piety touched you to become a wanderer at heart

As it did me, who picked up a beggar’s shirt

I did cry out for your love then, as I do now

Bless my dream with your love, with bent knees I bow

Barricade the poem of love; with our lips entwined anew

Let a revolutionary kiss witness, as I find you (only you)

A muse to my dreams, you have come several times

I was your desire each time, I was your rhyme

Whenever you broke your heart, you had found me

I had been your man always, forever your land of glee

Whenever you gave birth, I became a father

So many times, our sons, darling had set our pyres on fire

Both of us came back again, as fresh as dawn new

Once again shall come back to say I seek you (only you).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Greatest Stories on Earth

The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Ramayana, and the Mahabharata are the original dynasts of the oral story telling practice – written down and embellished several times over, down the ages. And like all noteworthy bloodlines coming out from the same gene pool, they share resemblances powerful enough to set one off on a journey of what ifs, and whys in the exotic corridors of the mind. The startling similarities that stand out as prominently as the ‘Hapsburg jaw’, could have occurred due to cross – cultural chinese whisper sessions on a telluric level, gifting the successive generations the thrill of the guessing game, and plots and details to be replicated over and over again, in the grand narrative of the human imagination.

Both the Iliad, and the Ramayana can be described as the search for Helen, and Sita respectively though the circumstances leading to their disappearances are as different as chalk and cheese (one eloped, the other was abducted), while the prime mover of the Mahabharata plot line was indubitably Draupadi’s unmitigated desire for vengeance. Forgetting the desensitization of the expression, it is possible to glimpse the genesis of the parochial, and perhaps partly true view of the world’s (definitely true in the ancient world)  troubles emanating from three distinct agents – land, riches, and women, successively leading into the French proverb ‘Cherchez la femme’, when one takes into account that the elopement of Helen with Paris, gave Greece the perfect excuse to lay siege on Troy, which it was eyeing for a long time with the thought of capturing-from the focal points of the three epics.

Similarly, the demon king Ravana’s abduction of Sita can be epitomized as the minority’s simultaneous revulsion and fascination for a female from the majority, closely paralleled in the Red Indian’s equation with the white woman as depicted in the John Ford Westerns and its numerous inheritors.

One thing is certain, that the founding fathers of civilization had a tough time with the distribution and safe keeping of land, wealth, and maintaining the identity of the female half of the population – a problem which exists even today in veiled avatars and to a reduced degree and probability of occurring.

As with the problem of guarding one’s possession, the dawn of civilization must have been occupied with outwitting the other clan as a basis for survival, which gets reflected in use of decoys in the Iliad, and the Ramayana. While Troy remained invincible till, Odysseus had a brainwave in the form of the Trojan horse, Ravana, too, could abduct Sita only with an illusory golden deer which took her protectors away on a wild goose chase. Be it getting behind the enemy lines, or snatching an object of desire, deception remains the absolutely indispensable ingredient from the days of The Guns of Navarone (1961), Where Eagles Dare(1968) to the more modern The Departed(2006).

It is also easy to discern, that such an environment fraught with the fear of loss, and humiliation in the next corner would put a prime value on machismo built up to be legends, as a possible measure of safeguard from secondary threats. Awe is a powerful protective vest, which is why America faltered with the destruction of the twin towers, and was swept by a momentary wave of paranoia in the last millennium. Both, Achilles in the Iliad, and Karna/Duryodhana in the Mahabharata, are demi gods in their almost immortal status. While Karna derived his super power from an armour, and a pair of ear rings with which he was born; both Duryodhana and Achilles were gifted this near immortal status by their respective mothers.

While Thetis immersed an infant Achilles in the river Styx, holding him by his heel (which remained the only vulnerable point in his physique); Gandhari asked an adult Duryodhana to stand in front of her open eyes (which she kept covered) without any clothes, which he did with the exception of covering his middle with a banana leaf which made his thighs, the only vulnerable portion of his body.

Needless to say, that both of them succumbed to injuries in those respective portions of the body; Achilles from an arrow, Duryodhana from a mace blow. A legend grows more authentic, if a strand of vulnerability is written in its code, and the trio is a fitting example of the practice.

A time which would require legends of machismo as a safety measure, would also require tales of immense resourcefulness and self sacrifice in their females, highlighting their integrity and loyalty, to prevent any unwarranted advances. Both, the Odyssey, and the Mahabharata shares exemplary loyal female protagonists in Penelope, and Gandhari. While Penelope would save herself from the suitors gathered for her hand in the long absence of her husband Odysseus, by spinning a cloth in the daytime which she would herself unravel in the night (so that it remains incomplete, and keep the suitors at bay, because they have to wait for its completion); Gandhari would put on a blindfold forever so that her blind husband could feel that she was his partner in life, in every respect of the term.

There are other similarities galore. Priam’s blind love for his son Paris, would make him overlook his indiscretions which would lead him on to the greatest one in his life, and that of his nation, i.e, seducing Helen and carrying her off, while Dhritarashtra’s besottedness with Duryodhana would push him to commit a blunder of equal scale and calamity. Achilles would ask his Myrmidion troops to fight, when he himself did not participate in the initial phase of the battle, while Krishna would order his equally formidable Narayani troop to fight on the opposite side, while he himself would act only as a charioteer.

We may find some of their aspects redundant, parochial, gender-biased, and even passé, yet we are living the greatest stories of the world in our lives, we always did.

 

 

 

 

 

Pinterest

Blowups of Madhubala in sepia, ‘from Raveena with love’ shells in Kargil, Sonakshi Sinha on auto rexin, or Bipasha Basu on the wall of a roadside saloon – interest in pinups is an evergreen phenomenon, bridging adolescence and adulthood, art and mayhem, war and peace, the quotidian and the exigency. Pinups are the writings on the wall –be it an army post on the Siachen glacier, or a hostel dorm in Vijaywada, and yes, sometimes even on prison walls (Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption). They are, borrowing from Simon and Garfunkel’s oeuvre, ‘words of the prophets are written on the subway walls’ – potent and meaningful as long as they are not taken seriously. But some do, and a few among them leave behind stories worth telling –tales that walk on tiptoes between the ‘real’ and the ‘reel’. Like Kusum and Penmesta.

Kusum and Penmesta were both besotted. While Kusum is a character on screen, and her obsession easily qualifies to be a timeless adolescent crush for the unreal; Penmesta’s fantasies are a contemporary look at how dreams can turn into reality, though not in the way one envisaged it. Pinups, and the obsession they spill over in the lives of many is fascinating at times, as it has touched the borders of our lives in one way or another, irrespective of the time and place of our births. We identify it to be true in others at least, even if we have not experienced it at first-hand.

Guddi (1971) directed by Hrishikesh Mukherjee, written by Gulzar is a carefree pursuit of the ‘devotedness’, or ‘fandom’ in adolescence and the extent it can go to. Kusum (played by one of the best girl-next-door ever –Jaya Bhaduri), the beloved ‘Guddi’ to friends and family is carried away by the tinsel way so much that when love in ‘real’ life happens to waylay her in the shape of Naveen (acted by Samit Bhanja), she cannot see it for herself. She decides that she is in love with the handsome Dharmendra in a way that is hopelessly teenage from Las Vegas to Ludhiana, and as relevant now as it was then, and shall be forever.

It do gets sorted out in the ineluctable manner that both life, and Hrishikesh Mukherjee has a special affinity for, in the end, but not before Gulzar has weaved a winking parallel with the legend of Mirabai, and her uttainable love for a divine. One does not require the sang-froid of a Mukherjee, or a Gulzar to seek out the similarity, but one do need their insights to find the roots of a relatively present day phenomenon in the past. Stardust is always going to wreak havoc in the lives of the star-struck, as the divine did/does with the devoted.

Some devotees attain a special status solely on the ballast of their devotion like Penmesta Ram Gopal Varma, whose transformation from the owner of a video rental library to that of a hot shot director of awesome repute is reflected in the rise of Quentin Tarantino, and Madhur Bhandarkar in recent times. Ram Gopal Varma is self-confessed Sridevi fan, who says that he has seen more arduous a fan than himself in a hostel mate who is supposed to have carried on long and uninterrupted conversations with pinups of the star actor on his walls.

Ram Gopal Varma, built this story of adoration of a commoner for a star in his Mast (1999), Kittu (played by Aftab Shivdasani), is a college goer madly in love with the film star Mallika (enacted by Urmilla Matondkar). He never misses any of her films - all of which he watches more than once, and stares for long periods of time at her pinups on his wall. He is in a phase that everybody can identify with even without going through it actually; the hold of pinups is so endemic. The story tries hard to follow an unremarkable course crafted by the likes of Hrishikesh Mukherjee, and Basu Chatterjee in their prime, in which it strays; but what is indeed remarkable about the ode to one’s fantasy is the fact that Ram Gopal Varma, noted for his hard hitting realism, chose to have a romantic but implausible ending (the contrast becomes more glaring when set against his own creations, before and after).

The yearning of a film star to chuck it all for a brand new life full of security, warmth of affection is not implausible at all – on the contrary it may be more common than one assumes, if one thinks about the urge to have a switch that visits most professionals’ mid-career. Nayika Sangbad,1967 - a sweet Bengali love story is based on the same premise, and perhaps it was more successful in the belief quotient because the commoner in the story was played by the matinee idol Uttam Kumar whose charisma superseded that of the ‘heroine’ enacted by  Anjana Bhowmick who while extremely competent was unfortunately short on stardom. Ram Gopal Varma tried to copy life as it is, but his forte is primarily love, and life in the times of violence, and not violence in the meanderings of life per se.

Whatever be the reason, the lukewarm outcome of Mast does indicate that it is difficult to be rational about one’s fantasy, even after one has stopped fantasizing a long time before, and even by someone who has made a name out of rationality as Varma.

What Ram Gopal Varma lacked in the making of his ode to a fantasy, confessed to be shared by him and his milieu, was existent in full force in his protégé Chandan Arora’s directorial debut-Main Madhuri Dixit Banna Chahti Hoon, 2003. It was grippingly realistic, and singed like a wayward flame, but the tale of Chutki (brought to life by Antara Mali), an uneducated small town girl desperately wanting to be the nation’s sweet heart Madhuri Dixit could not be the rage that Madhuri was, and still is to some extent.

One has to justify its dismal showing at the marquee, with the words of T.S. Eliot –‘Human beings cannot bear too much reality’, but Chutki’s unsophisticated explanation of her out of the ordinary aspiration is unforgettable, and holds true for everbody in the clutch of a fantasy –then, now, and forever.

‘Whenever I try to dance like her, a current jolts me from top to bottom’, is what she says in her free, and unschooled demeanor.

Hindi movies have witnessed many changes from the 70’s to the present day, one of them being the change in the name of the city from Bombay and Mumbai, not to say anything about the numerous attitudinal shifts brought by the general passage of time. The inflammation of the self that Chutki alludes to while talking about her fantasy was as true for the likes of Kusum before and after 1971, as for the likes of Mirabai in a different era.

Objects of desire may change, but pinups will be everlasting as desire itself for (as the oldest cliché from tinsel town puts it) the show must go on.