The Pink Panther Finally Rests!

Inspector Jacques Clouseau: Simon! Where is my Surété-Scotland-Yard-type mackintosh?

Inspector Jacques Clouseau and the Pink Panther series became a legend in Hollywood. And the creator was none other than the comic genius, Blake Edwards. After 39 years of memorable work and 88 years of iconic life, Blake Edwards embarked on the journey of his afterlife.

Although best remembered for the Pink Panther series and his partnership with Peter Sellers, he was also responsible for some of Hollywood's most remarkable romances like Breakfast at Tiffany's and Days of Wine and Roses. Whether you laugh or cry with him, what stands out in memory is his comic point of view; the point of view that reflected his own positive take on life, after all he spent years fighting the chronic fatigue syndrome.

He spent his career looking at different aspects of life and relationships through a funny glass. Anyone who has seen Edwards' work can't deny that his funny glass enabled him to comment on a lot of issues that would otherwise prove to be controversial. Day of Wine and Roses highlighted alcoholism whereas The Party was all about a man in a foreign land.

Edwards comic genius has forced generations to forget their everyday worries and look at life in a new light. His work would continue to encourage and entertain generations to come. 

May the King of Clowns rest in peace!

Gorosthan-e Shabdhan: Beware!

Sandip Ray's latest Pheluda adventure (rather misadventure) hit theatres across West Bengal recently. These are the thoughts of a dear friend of mine after watching the film. Read on:

Being an avid Pheluda reader, Gorosthan-e Shabdhan was not an unknown story. On the contrary, it has always been one of my favourites. You might ask why. It is because at the very heart of the story lies the re-discovery of history and old Calcutta; a subject close to my heart.

Mr. Sandip Ray has previously directed three Pheluda films – Bombaiyer Bombete (2003), Kailashey Kelenkari (2007) and Tintorettor Jishu (2008). I must confess that none of these impressed me. Yet when it came to Gorosthan-e Shabdhan, I was forced to put aside my skepticism, simply because this was Pheluda and this time purely in Kolkata, my and Mr. Sandip Ray’s own city.

Gorosthan-e Shabdhan, Mr. Sandip Ray’s fourth detective suspense thriller on the large screen – adapted from his father’s,  Mr. Satyajit Ray’s creation of a young detective character, Pradosh C. Mitter alias Pheluda – opened in the theaters on December 10, 2010. The first week seemed to have given it the box office returns.

The question remains, is it worth the craze it is craving in the minds of the Bengali moviegoers? Let’s hope this analysis brings to light the worthiness of the film warts-and-all.

Let’s start with what impressed me about the film. Although there is not much to say here, yet there were certain uplifting elements. The film opens with a tone of suspense thriller instead of a whodunit. That is a breather, one must say, since in film mystery is 50 percent boredom and 50 percent shock, whereas a suspense thriller is 100 percent seat-of-the-pants edgy ride till the end.

The title of the film with the names of the cast and crew on marble obelisks and tomb stones, appearing on the screen is a genuine display of a creative mind. The sound track backs it up appropriately.  

So what is Gorosthan-e Shabdhan all about? The plot unfolds around a graveyard of the colonial Raj, which is located in Park Street, an uptown locality of Kolkata. All the obelisks and marble mar mores display the names of deceased English men and women from the period of the Raj. A 20th century letter talks about a prized pocket waist watch of Francis Perigal (England) make, also known as a repeater (another name for a pocket waist watch), which is buried with its owner, Thomas Godwin who was a cook in the durbar of Sadat Ali. The letter is discovered by Narendranath Michael Biswas. His brother William Biswas gets to know about the watch and falls in the get-rich-quick tack and ploys to sell it to a wealthy, corrupt business man and a clock collector. In comes Phelu Mitter and unravels the plotting of the wrongdoers and the clock is returned to its lawful owner – the Government.

A dark evening setup exposes Narendranath Michael Biswas (N.M. Biswas) catching his brother William Biswas red-handed in the act of “grave digging” – no skeletons unravelled in the process though. The fight, which looked more like a struggle, brings N.M. Biswas flat on the ground with a powerful glow from the flashlight illuminating his face and a parallel lightning, which looked more like a wielding machine spark, bringing down a tree branch, which is the primary tell-tale on William’s shoulders. “Will” is thin and powerful to have withstood a strong bark of a tree to expose to his own self and us the thin blood that came out from his upper shoulder. The lightning, the bark and the friction breaks Thomas Godwin’s marble emblem, which, ideally should have scattered in all directions, we might think – let’s discover through the eyes of Phelu.

Star Anando, the TV channel in Phelu’s room reports the previous night’s accident in the graveyard. Phelu switches on the channel and unlike his reticent character jumps up to go proactive on the case uncalled for. The maestro when writing the story gave beautiful scenarios of Phelu’s psychology and research at the time that the case presents itself – a thing to recall here for the sake of reference. While solving a case in Fancy Lane, Kolkata Phelu discovers that it was Nandakumar’s gallows (Phanshi in Bengali) that gave the place its reputed name. The discovery prompts the young sleuth to collect a map of 1932 Kolkata and hover over it on the floor of his sitting room – very visual treatment and truly inviting for a scenarist to incorporate in the movie. But we never, for once in the film, discover Phelu in his own element. Sonar Kella (The Golden Fortress), directed by Mr. Satyajit Ray himself, exposed the detective during his daily yoga with his legs protruding up from the lower half of the frame. Phelu in his present avatar is very stoic, sitting like a vegetable waiting for a news to come to him to make him spring up to action. The character somehow falls out. Sabyasachi Chakraborty who plays the young detective is far from the imagery and tone that the character portrays in the book. He (Sabyasachi Chakraborty) has a paunch and his true age which is close to fifty comes out clean on screen. No amount of acting credibility can salvage the character on screen. On this note, the new Sherlock Holmes directed by Guy Richie is also far away from the looks and the illustrations of Conan Doyle’s or even the BBC Holmes, but it takes a Richie to interpret a character, and mount it more than successfully on screen.

Phelu with his cousin Tapesh (alias Topshe) and his friend and adventure crime novelist Lal Mohan Ganguli (alias Jatayu) sets off for the scene of crime. The discovery of the scattered marble emblems turns the conundrum solving mind of the detective to put the pieces together. But it comes out as a strange visual when we see that the pieces after such a natural catastrophe are lying like a jigsaw puzzle near and about the vicinity only to be picked up and arranged by Phelu Mitter. Where is the search? Where is the action that is so much a grain for films? Instead what we see is the close-up of Phelu and Topshe’s hands arranging small pieces of marble stones lying close to each other with an inter-cut of Jatayu’s smart alec comment – “hmm Jigsaw Puzzle” – turning the serious tone of the situation into a farce.

On discovering that Thomas Godwin requires in-depth research, Phelu visits his know-it-all friend-philosopher-guide and mentor – a Mycroft Holmes in all rights – Shidhu Jyatha (Jyatha = Uncle). Shidhu Jyatha, a human encyclopedia, recalls and tells him about Thomas Godwin’s life. Nonetheless, Jyatha regretfully reminds Phelu about the availability of the Internet and hints at his being an archaic source of information. Wonder why? Satyajit Ray gave Shidhu Jyatha a universal philosophy in Sonar Kella when he told Pheluda, “if I were to do a lot, then I would make a lot of trouble for others’ professional existence Phelu. Therefore, I have not done anything in life. Instead, I have kept open all the doors and windows of my life so I can let knowledge and information seep in.” The open mindedness of an old charm is explicit. In contrast, our director for Gorosthan seems to have kept a sad face for Shidu Jyatha. Phelu spurts that he cannot forgo the archaic habit of coming to his know-it-all Jyatha. Yet, he eventually goes to the cyber café and Jyatha takes a back seat. Why can’t Jyatha, an open mind, be given a laptop, where he fumbles to know more, which he can’t otherwise? For that matter, if Pheluda can have an up-to-date television set and music system then I fail to understand his inability to have a home PC, if not a laptop. Only the director can provide some explanations, or can he?

As the story progresses, trails lead to more trails and land us with Phelu in the Anglo-Indian colonies of Kolkata and into a particular house, which is now occupied by one of Thomas Godwin’s direct descendants – Marquis Godwin. A casket belonging to the Godwin family is used by Chris Godwin’s (son of Marquis Godwin) neighbour, Arakis to bring down the spirit of Thomas Godwin. The drama on screen is less than eerie and Phelu, almost comically, takes away the casket from the planchette table of the Anglo-Indian Arakis.  

The content of the casket is taken out and Phelu discovers two smoking pipes from the British era, a snuff box and the diary of Godwin’s daughter, Charlotte Godwin. Ray in his story created a mood for the reader when he described how Phelu spent a sleepless night over the diary. The movie, however, shows Phelu sitting upright in his chair, hovering over the contents of the diary. The handwritten anecdote of Charlotte Godwin could have been more authentic in form, representing the nineteenth century handwriting of a woman. But the sombre mood gets lost in the background score backing up the montage instead of an ambient soundtrack.

Phelu goes on to describe a vivid account of Charlotte’s family tree and the era of the Raj to Jatayu and Tapesh, and we get to see juxtaposed images over the V.O of Phelu – a good multimedia presentation at best. Whatever happened to new methods of showing instead of telling? Mr. Sandip Ray commented on the TV series – Sherlock Holmes from the BBC production and their value of authenticity. Holmes in one of the acts uses a black board and in another a velvet mood board to stick pictures – surely an innovative contemporary direction. Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes is a case closer in time, if creating innovative authenticity is the point of discussion. Mr. Sandip Ray here shuns all the elements Phelu can use in a pro-technology world (here even his display of the classic blue note book pages would have done).

The climax is a restricted montage of the hyper suspense, which the story brings about in words. On a discussion held by Star Anando (a Bengali news channel) on December 12, 2010 (11p.m), Mr. Sandip Ray stated that the Pheluda movies are getting shorter in duration because he would sooner end his movies than witnessing his audience check their wrist watches in bored impatience. This is the reflection of a director who lacks the ability to hold back his audience with content so they don’t even turn back their wrists for a glance of the time. Hitchcock comments that the duration of the film is directly proportional to the endurance of the human bladder – to rest the case.

Gorosthan-e Shabdhan, for all who have read the story would agree, could be detection in history’s treasure troves, bringing into light a valuable document. The film could have its beginning shots from a map of old Kolkata which Phelu hovers on in his sitting room with an off screen voice from the T.V reporting the previous night’s incidents at the graveyard. The suspense could have also come from the old letter in the hands of N.M Biswas that triggered him off for the search or William… “Will”, being given the offer by the not-exposed corrupt business man. Well there could have been n number of beginnings to the very interesting woven story of Satyajit Ray. What makes the entire movie a sad case is a loose and matter-of-fact screen development and an under-nurtured treatment and all of this in spite the fact that that story is set in his city, Kolkata.

Alas! Another lost Pheluda story from Mr. Sandip Ray; another disappointment!

Homeward Bound

I returned to my country after exactly one year and two months. Was I upset to leave London? May be a little but that was less because of my attachment to the country and more due to having grown used to that lifestyle.

But I was eager to return to India - return to my family and friends. As I stepped out of the International airport, a gush of warm wind hit my face. For most coming to this country it could be a little disturbing. But to me it was my country welcoming me back.

This was just the beginning of memories. Five days later I left for Lucknow. It is my cousin's wedding; a cousin I have not met since we both were nine. I was going back to the house that I had not visited since I was four. I did not know what to expect. The family was excited; they knew all the people - I was blank.

But I guess memories have their own ways. I walked inside the front gate and surprisingly I remembered every little detail. The front veranda where I spent hours playing frisbee with my grandfather (technically my grandmother's eldest brother) and then sulking because I lost, the Eucalyptus tree that no longer stands tall near the front window whose branches I touched while I lazed on the bed inside and bodo dadu told me stories and read me Sanchaita (of course, I discovered the name of the book years later), the balcony on the first floor that is now smaller in size because a room needed extension and the terrace that still held my memories intact.

I had returned to that house after 20 years and yet I felt as if I had never left. There is only one difference that can never be put back to match my memory - bodo dadu (my grandfather) is no longer there, sitting tall, smart and impressive, impeccably dressed, always craving for knowledge and a good, stimulating conversation.

There is a wedding in the house tomorrow, my cousin is about to embark on the most important journey of her life, we sisters are waiting for the moment when we can ensure that the groom has given up every single penny that he brought with him and amidst all this I know that bodo dadu is having his share of fun, watching over us.

The last time I left this house I left with the hope of returning some day but it took me 20 years. This time when I leave I don't know when I shall return. But I know that I shall carry the four year old me playing frisbee and sulking to bodo dadu forever inside me; I shall carry bodo dadu with me even if I never ever return to this house.

Oh yes! I have come back home.

Hakuna Matata

Walt Disney's 1994 animated classic, The Lion King is one of the most popular animated films across the globe. Set in an anthropomorphic African jungle, in very simple terms, it is what we film buffs call a 'coming of age' story. But when this 'coming of age' story comes to life on a theatre stage, you are forced to wonder if really the power of cinema is greater than the power of the stage.

The only word to describe this entire experience is awestruck. And this is not because this is the best musical ever (there are definitely others that are way better). It is because it is a spectacle to see an all animal film being brought alive to stage with such style and panache.

The play follows the participatory format with characters springing in from all directions of the auditorium. It uses every possible theatrical craft - from humans in animal costumes to hollow puppets, from acrobatics to shadow play - there is no device left untouched. The high point of the performance is a live orchestra and six foot, black men move on stage with feline agility, literally.

There are, no doubt, a number of changes and additions to the musical. Rafiki is a female on stage as opposed to the male in the film. There are additional songs and sequences. There are two prominent additions to the storyline. First is when Timon nearly drowns in a waterfall and Simba feels helpless to save him, haunted by the helplessness he felt when his father, Mufasa died. The second addition is Scar's desire to make Nala his mate and Nala's departure from Pride Rock.

The costumes and make-up are the bonus factors. But the real treat are the mechanical headgears of the principal characters that can be raised and lowered to create the illusion of lunging cats. A slight disappointment was that these headgears were given to Mufasa and Scar but not to Simba. I think that would have completed that show.

It is not without reason that the musical has been on stage for so many years and has won a number of awards. And when you see everyone from the age of five to 80 enjoy the performance with the same amount of enthusiasm, laugh at Timon and Pumba with the same fervour, feel together for Simba and Nala, boo Scar's last bow with the same playful dislike and leave the theatre with the same broad smile, you know that it was a real success. It is a must watch for all those who love the film and even more for those who love the stage.

Say Cheese!

Watching a play at London's West End is an experience of a lifetime. A year back when I came to London, there were three plays that I wanted to see - The Phantom of the Opera, The Lion King and The Mousetrap. After a year I got closer to that dream.

Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap is the longest "initial running" play in theatrical history. This means that the play has never gone off stage since its first performance. I was amongst the fortunate who became a part of history. The Mousetrap is currently in its 58th year and I witnessed the 24, 134th performance. 

The Mousetrap opened at the West End at the Ambassador theatre next door in 1952. It was performed here till 1974 when it was transferred to St. Martin's Theatre, without missing a single performance. On this occasion Agatha Christie gifted the Ambassador theatre with a model of a mousetrap as a souvenir, which remains on display in the foyer. It has played at St. Martin's Theatre ever since.

Agatha Christie is known to the world as the Queen of Crime. She wrote about 80 novels and short story collections. She also wrote about a dozen plays but is seldom recognized as a playwright. I am not unfamiliar with her writings; the little grey cells of Hercule Poirot being a personal favourite. The genius of her work lies in the details. Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot are possibly two of the most famous private detectives in the literary world. Their popularity surpasses that of their creators. The key to both the detectives was to concentrate on the details. And yet I recall being partial to Hercule Poirot.

It has been many years since I last read a Poirot mystery. I remember competing with my younger brother while reading Agatha Christie's stories. We had to guess the real killer and the motive and also explain how we reached our conclusion. Years later, sitting at St. Martin's I decided to play the game once again; only this time with myself.

Although plays are performed in the evening, there are limited matinee shows. But in this case, not surprisingly, the play was houseful. It began right on time - 3.00 p.m. As the lights went out and the performance began, I sat back and relaxed in order to absorb every little detail and employ the little grey cells.

To begin with, I could not help but marvel at Agatha Christie's brilliance as a playwright. Her characters and dialogues are no less than those created by the most famous playwrights around the globe. They, like majority of her characters, are truly British. The stage time is 24 hours that is covered in the 2 hour 30 minutes performance time. And during these 2 hours and 30 minutes you cannot help but sit at the edge of your seat while your doubt shifts from the very peculiar Christopher Wren to the sudden arrival, Mr. Paravicini. And yet you can never guess that the real culprit is ... Sorry! I can't reveal the name because in the tradition of this play, I was not only a viewer but also their partner in crime. My lips are sealed! But I must confess that my little grey cells are no match for Monsieur Poirot's.

The beauty of the play lies in the fact that even after watching n number of performances you will still await the revelation with bated breadth. Partial credit for this goes to the medium of theatre, as was very aptly pointed out by a friend of mine with whom I shared my experience and excitement. Each new performance, even if performed by the same set of actors, will vary. And it is this variation that brings with it a new sense of mystery every time. But it can be said without doubt that it is the playwright's genius to create a story line that will seem new even after a number of performances; evident from that fact that the play has been attracting viewers for so many years and the audience does not seem to be getting tired.

If London is your next stop then St. Martin's should be on your 'Must Visit' list!

Propoganda Reporting

The Commonwealth Games are on. India is performing in full-swing, both in the games and the organizing of the same. Indians across the globe are proud, or maybe not.

Going through some old newspapers, looking for an article, I came across another article (that should tell you about my newspaper reading habits)!. This was in 'India on Sunday' which is published by the Sunday Guardian, simultaneously from Delhi and London. The article was titled 'CWG proves that we are still in awe of English tradition.'

To give a brief, the article was about the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games. But the writer, Akhilesh Mithal took this opportunity to voice his grievances against the British and the Raj.

To begin with, I failed to understand the relation of the headline to the body of the article. The article began with the mention of the XIX Commonwealth Games. But that is exactly where the connection ends. The rest of the article was a replay of the British Raj. As an Indian, I am not unaware of the Raj and the atrocities faced by my country men at the hand of the British. Neither am I ignorant of the still existent racism. And yet while reading the article I could not help but notice that the writer, Akhilesh Mithal sounded like the real racist. He took the opportunity of CWG and used it to express his own deep-seated, long suppressed grievances against the British.

The Raj ended in 1947. And the most painful result of this was the partition. Nevertheless, it has been 63 years since that day and India has come a long way. Mr. Mithal spoke of the 'awe' of the English tradition but forgot that the language that he expressed himself in was a gift of the same tradition. He attacked the system of education based on Macaulay's infamous Minute. But conveniently forgot that he too was educated in that same system which gave him the power and vocabulary to make this criticism. As it seemed from the article that Mr. Mithal is against the 'awe', he should probably consider joining a Hindi newspaper and express his grievances in the national language.

It was also a little difficult for me to comprehend the need to enlist all the atrocities faced by India as a British colony in reference to the CWG. I saw the opening of the games and nothing there was 'British' except, of course, Prince Charles and Princess Camilla. From the Gurukul Parampara to the various Indian dance forms, from yoga to the train and the depiction of Indian life, everything was rooted in India. If Mr. Mithal had a problem with the western technology used to depict the transformation of the country then I shall be forced to assume that he leads his life without the help of any western technologies.

Mr. Mithal seems to have a problem in appreciating anything good because he chooses to enumerate the negatives and not acknowledge the positives. I am an aware Indian, not blind to my culture or its history. Nor do I fall in the category for whom everything western is revered. Thus, it is important to acknowledge and accept the good and sieve out the bad. A contradiction of this nature does not suit a journalist, especially when he chooses to write for a paper that is simultaneously published in Delhi and 'London'.

The presence of this article in the newspaper was even more shocking because of the name of the editor: M.J. Akbar. Anyone who has ever followed his work or read his book would understand that here is a man who understands the Raj and its aftermath better than most of us. Thus, it was disheartening to see an article of this biased nature published under his leadership.

I would definitely like to congratulate the team of 'India on Sunday' on successfully bringing India to its people sitting miles away. But articles like these make me think that it is unfair to solely blame parties like RSS and Shiv Sena as being orthodox because the so-called progressive, modern, educated Indian is not very far behind.

Losing Fear

After every fight you wait for that phone to buzz. After every argument you wait for that sad emoticon to pop-up and someone to say that they are missing you. After every disagreement you fight your ego to dial that number, face the slash and apologize so that every thing can go back to 'normal'. After every low you wait for that one warm hug. To every place that you go a memory awaits and in every new memory you desire their presence.

The fear of losing a loved one keeps you going back in spite of the distance, the wait, the unbearable pain, the endless tears (although the tissue box is over) and long sleepless nights. The laughs, the jokes, the giggles are much more important than all those stupid misunderstandings. The presence of someone dear; someone to love is greater than your ego. But how long can you hold on to someone. Once the pain subsides and the tears stop and you wake up from a long slumber, the fear is gone, and all that is left is a void and the strength to face yourself.

A friend once asked me if we could keep love forever. I did not have an answer (surprise, surprise! yes, there are times when I don't have answers, I am at a loss of words!). I still don't have an answer to that question. I still don't know if we can keep love forever. But I know that we can keep memories forever.

Losing a loved one is a lesson in living in solitude. And every memory of theirs guides you in the right direction and protects you forever.

To have one person in your life who loves you selflessly is luck. To have more than one is a miracle. And I believe in miracles.

This is for every one in my life who stood by me when walking away was the most sensible option; for every one who saw me when I was invisible :)

The Best Days of My Life

When you first start college, you feel adult. You have suddenly stepped into this world of grown ups. You are no longer in school; no need to wear uniforms and attend classes by the time table. New set of friends and new set of habits! The pocket money goes up. You can stay out late. The curfew time has been extended because you reasoned with your father that you are no longer a two year old and can take care of yourself. Although your father was not completely convinced; your mother interfered and now you can go to a party and pretend that you’re a rick bloke. You’re in college. You ‘deserve’ your first bike. You tell your dad that it’ll ease down the time of travel and give you more time to study. But he knows better! Don’t forget that he was once your age. You ‘need’ the bike to show off to your friends and impress girls. If only you knew that girls could see right through you.

But girls are not to be outdone. They too have their share of ‘needs’ in college. New clothes, expensive shoes and accessories and the latest chic mobile is a must. Cosmetics do not require a mention because they are as necessary as breathing and thus are taken for granted. It is of utmost importance that your wardrobe has nearly 30 new dresses because you don’t want to be caught dead in the same dress that you wore to your

fresher’s welcome party. They make sure that they find out which student stays closest and farthest to their house. Sociable you’d say! Of course! These details come in handy. Each category has its own value. The ones who stay closest are of utmost importance when you need exam notes because you were too busy admiring the latest colours of the season and forgot to make notes. The ones who stay the farthest are indispensable when you need to go out on a date or a late night party but pretend that you are attending

a study group for a very important assignment that is due the next morning.

This does sound like a generalization. You can always argue that there exist those studious, sincere few who do not lie to their parents and deserve a mention. Look closely, they have been mentioned. These are the students to whom the boys show off and the girls use as back ups.

There is a mystery that is an essential part of college life and is as difficult to answer as the chicken and egg question. You’d expect the outgoing show offs to make a bad show at the exams and the sincere geeks to outshine every other soul on earth. Think again! The party goers plan their next party after the results because they are amongst the toppers whereas the regular geek is still struggling to figure out where he can find the

reassessment forms.

Nobody said life would be fair then why did you assume!

Besides the party animal and the geek, there is a third category of students, popularly known as the rebels. And that is exactly what they come to college for. As soon as they step inside the college gates, they start believing that they can lead and change the world. They have a problem with everything from the classroom chairs to the canteen food. They oppose every single soul on premise and have an opinion about every subject under the sun. They pick fights with the show-offs, bully the geeks and lech at girls but pretend that they care two hoots. These are the students who believe they are the next generation of leaders and spend most of their time drinking tea and discussing politics (more like picking problems with the entire system).

You’d think that they probably feel that the western system is better and want a similar change in their society. But you’re wrong. They hate the western system too because it is ‘capitalist’. They strongly believe that the west is having a negative influence on the society and everything western should be banned.

So you’d ask that what do they want and whom do they follow. What is this big change that they keep talking about and want to bring about in the society? The answer is that they don’t know the answer. They only like talking a lot and sounding intellectual. They live in a glorified past and an even more glorified vision of the future based on books and the words of great men. But the present is not for them. They would not take a step and make the change but would endlessly talk about ‘the need to bring about the change’.

All these and more of these make college memories come alive when years later you return to a reunion party to compare notes. The show offs have become business men, the chics have married those rich business men and are the face of Page 3, the geeks are employed by these business men while they dream of overtaking their empire and their wife and the rebels have become successful politicians.

You’d probably ask where are those who do not fall in any of these brackets and make their own paths. Who were they in college? How do you identify them? They were the ones who attended classes, went to parties and walked the corridors observing each one of you. So don’t be surprised when you see someone on screen or read a character in a book and say, ‘Hey! I can relate to that character. That’s just me!’ Chances are that you know the artist.

Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely co-incidental.

How Racist Are You?

Vihan: Let’s go to Covent Garden. They have the best brownies in the world!


Frida: No Vihan, you’re the best brownie in the world.

Frida was interrupted and chastised for that comment by Betty. Although Vihan, and the other students, realized that Frida meant it only as a joke, Betty took it seriously.

But how could Frida come up with a comment like that, even as a joke? Because we have been pre-conditioned to certain set ideas and norms about people in general; the greatest divide being that between the white world and the rest of the world.

America has been the biggest melting pot of cultures over centuries. But I have not walked the streets of America. Nonetheless, I have walked down the British roads and travelled on the tube enough to notice subtle racial attitudes that the country continues to propagate.

Every non-white is given a second glance. One could argue that it is a general glance of curiosity. But then why doesn’t a white man or woman receive that glance?

British legal documents have a clear divide based on your ethnic origin – you are either White (British/Irish/Other) or you are Mixed (White & Black Caribbean/White & Black African/White & Asian/Other) or you could be an Asian/Asian British (Indian/Pakistani/Bangladeshi/Other) or a Black/Black British (Caribbean/African/Other) or Chinese/Other Ethnic Group (Chinese/Other). Does any of this make any sense?

For documentation purpose I am ready to understand the information of whether you are a British citizen or not. But I fail to understand the need for the other bifurcations. If I am a British citizen then what difference does it make whether I am an Asian or a Mixed or a Black? How would that affect my work and talent?

The Whites alone can’t be blamed as being racists. It has trickled and seeped into every corner of the world. And if you deny then let’s answer a few questions:

1. When was the last time you looked at a man with full grown beard and did not move a step away?

2. When was the last time you realized that you were next to a Muslim and you did not scan him and his luggage for anything suspicious?

3. When was the last time you looked at a leather jacket-wearing black boy and did not stare at him, noticing his every move with suspicion?

4. When was the last time you looked at a white woman and did not wish that you had her skin tone?

Racism may not be as blatant as it used to be but that does not mean that it does not exist. It exists in our minds each and every single day as we step out of our house. We choose to live in denial because we are not at the receiving end. But denial is not easy for those who did not choose their family or their skin colour or their ethnicity, yet have to pay a price.

I should be thankful to my aunt for giving me an Arabic name although I was born into a Hindu family. I am thankful not only because it taught me that human bonds are bigger than ethnic backgrounds but also because time and again it helped me see the latent racism that exists in our society. I can recall the times I was given a suspicious look or a second glance because of my name. I was forced to reveal that I am a Hindu to make them calm down. At that age, I was, for some unexplainable reason, proud of being a Hindu and wanted to
change my name to a traditional Bengali name, thanks to all those people who kept asking me why I did not have a traditional Bengali name. Today, I am proud of who I am, which is beyond the ethnicity that I was born into and the name that was given at birth. I am not the perfect human being but I am proud that I have been able to take a step forward and identify my mistake.

I cannot claim that I am not racist. I too am guilty of racial behaviour and thoughts. I can recall being suspicious of a Muslim, not because he is Muslim but because he is a Pakistani because “all terrorists are Pakistanis”. What I forgot in that moment was the fact that “all Pakistanis are not terrorists”. What I forgot was that terrorism exists within my country too and none of them are Muslims. What I forgot was that a lot of other countries across the globe have terrorism and the perpetrators are not Muslims. Yet, I am weary of a Pakistani but not an Italian, as if the Mafia doesn’t exist!

We are pre-conditioned and these conditionings work deeper than all our education. Would the world be any different for me if I was born a white girl or in Pakistan? May be it would in some respects but would that change the very basis of human existence – all men were created equal in the eyes of God, or were they?

http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/how-racist-are-you/
http://www.nfb.ca/film/jaded

Welcome

I talk a lot, I write even more than I talk, then why the need for a blog...is it because its the latest fad? Maybe! It is because my friends have blogs so I should have one too? Naaaahhhh! Then why? Maybe because its cool to see your name in a weblink. Well, whatever the reason, here it is.

The only rule for this blog is 'agree to disagree.' What I post here is my point of view. No one is bound to blindly follow. Similarly, any comments would be the individuals' own point of view. But, P-L-E-A-S-E no cat fights (or dog fights, for that matter)!

Happy typing :)