'Miyar House' is scheduled to be screend at the Tata Theater in Mumbai at 2.30 PM on the 6th of February as a part of the Mumbai International Documentary Film Festival (MIFF).
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday, May 29, 2011
To be alone
In The People’s Republic of China, thanks to its one-child policy, I believe there is a generation of people who have grown up without having an aunt or an uncle. At some point in life, as it grows up, the single child would be having no relatives at all; except its spouse and its own single child, if any!
It is frightening to be alone.
The Tripbase award
My blog 'Movie Murmur' has been awarded 'The Tripbase 2011 Blog Award'. in the Mumbai category along with a few other Mumbai based blogs.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Miyar House
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A still from 'Miyar House''Miyar House' is a 76 mins documentary film that took ten years in the making - blame it on fear, confusion and lethargy! But finally when it is ready now, despite any any institutional funding, I am pleased with the results. I thank Ajay Raina, Sameer Mahajan and Santosh Kumar for helping me realise this film.
Other links
Sunday, January 09, 2011
A Random Day
A friend of mine sent me a sms the other day, to ask if we could meet at four in the afternoon at Infinity. Around two, I boarded an auto to Adarsh Nagar. Normally, if I asked eight autos, the ninth one would give me a boarding pass. But this auto driver was special, he was just the second! As we passed the flyover that is being constructed on the S.V. Road that would head right on top of the Western railway tracks and go into Jogeshwari East, I found myself saying, ‘If this is completed, any and every auto from east would come to West and visa verse’. The auto driver saw the half constructed flyover, but choose to keep mum. Maybe he was not interested.
‘Do you know how long will it take for the flyover to get completed?’ I persisted. ‘Don’t know sir… But there is a lot of money in this flyover business’ he replied. ‘Ah… so he does talk...’ I thought. And then the words began to flow, ‘Sir, they keep constructing these flyovers where ever they get space. And when they don’t get the space, they divert the route and change the alignment’. As I began to wonder about the methodology used for such a change of plan he seemed to have read my mind, ‘they have powerful engineers who can turn the course of the flyovers when people on whose homes they are being constructed, object to the existing plans’. I remembered a Tulu language novel that has an old idiosyncratic character who is obsessed with the idea of changing the course of the river. I was also reminded of Shree Atul Bihari Vajpayee and his massive river linking scheme.
A few minutes further, just before we entered Adarsh Nagar, there was a traffic jam. A few machines were crushing road side establishments. Some quick flashes - a newspaper clipping on BMC’s demolition drive on illegal construction, slum dwellers, Shabana Azmi and Anand Patwardhan. Tin sheets got crushed; bricks fell down, the inner walls could be seen, wires were left dangling, people watched in amusement and the cops supervised. Unmindful of the honking vehicles, my excited auto driver stopped the auto to join the party. ‘You should never buy such establishments. When you get it for a cheap rate, you should know that something like this would happen at some stage’, he advised me. ‘Where are the sellers?’ he questioned as he resumed his drive. ‘They have made their money and are nowhere near’, he himself answered speeding up his auto without even bothering to look at me through the mirror.
As we took the turn towards Alok’s studio the driver suddenly yells, ‘Ladki… (Girl) Sir, ladki…’. Thus I was forced to see a young fair girl wearing a mini skirt talking to a man who had just got down from his huge car. The man looked like a xerox copy of Randhir Kapoor who had a beard. ‘They are all film stars, sir’, the driver beamed as he slowed down his auto. Why would any film star wear a mini skirt and walk on high heels on the uneven mud-stone road that leads to Alok’s studio? But before I could express such doubts, a Martuti van parked by the road caught my attention. It was a mobile idli-vada-sambar joint, and office goes were hogging plate after plate. ‘I have seen vendors who sell idlies on cycles, on hand carts, but on Maruthi van…? People have really developed’, not to be undone I chipped in my expert comments, distracting the driver away from the mini skirt, which by now had become an image.
But by the time the driver scanned for the Maruthi Van, we were on another turning and I had found my destination – The Film Writer’s Association (FWA). I had to register my screenplay before I submitted it to any prospective producer. ‘Thanks, my day is made. You have chosen to sit on my auto and have made me see a variety of things today sir’, the auto driver was grateful as he dropped me, ‘from a flyover that bends, to the BMC demolition and to the film star’s mini skirt.’ He promised to see the Idli vendor on the Maruthi Van, as he took the road back.
To my utter surprise, the FWA was almost empty. Another flash dialogue escaped my mind – a well known mainstream filmmaker had once asked the press, ‘Where are the film writers in India?’ The FWA had then got angry. ‘Today is a Thursday. Mondays and Fridays are the busiest’, said the smiling clerk. A registration officer of FWA has to sign every paper of your script before it can be called as registered. I sat before the bearded old man to help him turn the pages. And then, suddenly I saw the name plate. It was the legendary B.R. Ishara, the man who made films like ‘Chetana’; films that helped FTII graduates to find a place in the mainstream Hindi cinema!!! Some more quick flashes in my mind - among other things, the legs of a skimpily clad girl in the poster of the film ‘Chetana’. He must have been surprised when I grinned at him. He wouldn’t have known that it was a grin of recognition. It did not matter, for I had just seen the man who had created that poster which used to come in my dreams, long ago.
At four thirty, as I gulped down a glass of buttermilk at the Food Court at Infinity, my friend came rushing in, apologizing for being late. He had a meeting with a producer of TV serials, to whom he had narrated three to four concepts. ‘I want to project myself as a creative director. I have eight to ten concepts ready. I am tapping the tap, but the water never flows,’ he exclaimed in angst. As I was figuring out what it actually meant he continued, ‘I once met a producer who asked me on my face – how are you a creative director? A creative director today is almost an agent for the TV producer who gets his project approved at the channel office by whatever means – money, wine and women!!!’
I was a kind of shocked, for I was ignorant of this. ‘So was I that day. The producer had then said - if you don’t do all these things you cannot be a creative director. You are something else’, he continued in anger. He was apparently taking great pains to explain to everyone in saying that he is not ‘that’ type of creative director, but a ‘creative’ creative director – the one who conceptualizes a serial, takes forward the story with a team of writer and gives inputs at the edit. Once upon a time he was a film and video editor. ‘Where was my creative contribution in editing? They neither give money, nor the credit. And everyone has an edit set up in their bathrooms. I therefore have stopped editing, as it has become unproductive’, he questioned and complained.
‘Well, I hardly do TV these days’, I apologized to which he stared at me and asked, ‘Are you friendly with any star?’ I scanned my mind, pressed the refresh button, scanned it again – but nothing emerged. ‘The corporate houses who have recently ventured into the film industry offer a package to a star whom they think would be beneficial to the products that they make. They need a face value to add to their brand value. With a national award under your belt your brand value has increased, but you need a face value.’ I scanned my mind for the one last time – but from MGR to Salman Khan to Nirmal Pandey; none of them were actually my close friends.
‘As far as me, I am not into films any more. But I have many TV concepts ready - reality and non reality shows. I think I will register them at FWA on Monday. I want to be a creative director, and by creative director, I mean real creative director,’ he blurted out. He was on the lookout for the right nomenclature. ‘Honorary director, as in honorary president or honorary secretary of any organization’, I suggested. We both laughed wickedly. By the time the TV monitor at the Food Court had already suggested that Rahul Dravid was out caught behind in the slips, a mother-teenage daughter duo were lapping up ice cream cones, Makarand Deshpande’s meeting at the far off table was over and my friend’s mobile battery was almost down.
Back at home, I checked my mails. My sister had sent me an email which had some photos of my parents as attachments. Over the last year, they had expired within a span of five months of each other. I was seeing these photos for the first time, and they were very disturbing. It gave a glipmse of thier life together, maybe just before thier death. Although they were smiling, the physical suffering that they had endured when they were alive was very much evident, for all to see. Or so it seemed to me. I had no courage to stare at them. It then suddenly occurred to me that I had failed to fully realise the extent of their sufferings when they were alive and that the whole world around them knew of it, but for me.
As I slumped on my bed that night, I could not but help remember the edited words of the auto driver, ‘Thanks. You have made me see a variety of things today’.
‘Do you know how long will it take for the flyover to get completed?’ I persisted. ‘Don’t know sir… But there is a lot of money in this flyover business’ he replied. ‘Ah… so he does talk...’ I thought. And then the words began to flow, ‘Sir, they keep constructing these flyovers where ever they get space. And when they don’t get the space, they divert the route and change the alignment’. As I began to wonder about the methodology used for such a change of plan he seemed to have read my mind, ‘they have powerful engineers who can turn the course of the flyovers when people on whose homes they are being constructed, object to the existing plans’. I remembered a Tulu language novel that has an old idiosyncratic character who is obsessed with the idea of changing the course of the river. I was also reminded of Shree Atul Bihari Vajpayee and his massive river linking scheme.
A few minutes further, just before we entered Adarsh Nagar, there was a traffic jam. A few machines were crushing road side establishments. Some quick flashes - a newspaper clipping on BMC’s demolition drive on illegal construction, slum dwellers, Shabana Azmi and Anand Patwardhan. Tin sheets got crushed; bricks fell down, the inner walls could be seen, wires were left dangling, people watched in amusement and the cops supervised. Unmindful of the honking vehicles, my excited auto driver stopped the auto to join the party. ‘You should never buy such establishments. When you get it for a cheap rate, you should know that something like this would happen at some stage’, he advised me. ‘Where are the sellers?’ he questioned as he resumed his drive. ‘They have made their money and are nowhere near’, he himself answered speeding up his auto without even bothering to look at me through the mirror.
As we took the turn towards Alok’s studio the driver suddenly yells, ‘Ladki… (Girl) Sir, ladki…’. Thus I was forced to see a young fair girl wearing a mini skirt talking to a man who had just got down from his huge car. The man looked like a xerox copy of Randhir Kapoor who had a beard. ‘They are all film stars, sir’, the driver beamed as he slowed down his auto. Why would any film star wear a mini skirt and walk on high heels on the uneven mud-stone road that leads to Alok’s studio? But before I could express such doubts, a Martuti van parked by the road caught my attention. It was a mobile idli-vada-sambar joint, and office goes were hogging plate after plate. ‘I have seen vendors who sell idlies on cycles, on hand carts, but on Maruthi van…? People have really developed’, not to be undone I chipped in my expert comments, distracting the driver away from the mini skirt, which by now had become an image.
But by the time the driver scanned for the Maruthi Van, we were on another turning and I had found my destination – The Film Writer’s Association (FWA). I had to register my screenplay before I submitted it to any prospective producer. ‘Thanks, my day is made. You have chosen to sit on my auto and have made me see a variety of things today sir’, the auto driver was grateful as he dropped me, ‘from a flyover that bends, to the BMC demolition and to the film star’s mini skirt.’ He promised to see the Idli vendor on the Maruthi Van, as he took the road back.
To my utter surprise, the FWA was almost empty. Another flash dialogue escaped my mind – a well known mainstream filmmaker had once asked the press, ‘Where are the film writers in India?’ The FWA had then got angry. ‘Today is a Thursday. Mondays and Fridays are the busiest’, said the smiling clerk. A registration officer of FWA has to sign every paper of your script before it can be called as registered. I sat before the bearded old man to help him turn the pages. And then, suddenly I saw the name plate. It was the legendary B.R. Ishara, the man who made films like ‘Chetana’; films that helped FTII graduates to find a place in the mainstream Hindi cinema!!! Some more quick flashes in my mind - among other things, the legs of a skimpily clad girl in the poster of the film ‘Chetana’. He must have been surprised when I grinned at him. He wouldn’t have known that it was a grin of recognition. It did not matter, for I had just seen the man who had created that poster which used to come in my dreams, long ago.
At four thirty, as I gulped down a glass of buttermilk at the Food Court at Infinity, my friend came rushing in, apologizing for being late. He had a meeting with a producer of TV serials, to whom he had narrated three to four concepts. ‘I want to project myself as a creative director. I have eight to ten concepts ready. I am tapping the tap, but the water never flows,’ he exclaimed in angst. As I was figuring out what it actually meant he continued, ‘I once met a producer who asked me on my face – how are you a creative director? A creative director today is almost an agent for the TV producer who gets his project approved at the channel office by whatever means – money, wine and women!!!’
I was a kind of shocked, for I was ignorant of this. ‘So was I that day. The producer had then said - if you don’t do all these things you cannot be a creative director. You are something else’, he continued in anger. He was apparently taking great pains to explain to everyone in saying that he is not ‘that’ type of creative director, but a ‘creative’ creative director – the one who conceptualizes a serial, takes forward the story with a team of writer and gives inputs at the edit. Once upon a time he was a film and video editor. ‘Where was my creative contribution in editing? They neither give money, nor the credit. And everyone has an edit set up in their bathrooms. I therefore have stopped editing, as it has become unproductive’, he questioned and complained.
‘Well, I hardly do TV these days’, I apologized to which he stared at me and asked, ‘Are you friendly with any star?’ I scanned my mind, pressed the refresh button, scanned it again – but nothing emerged. ‘The corporate houses who have recently ventured into the film industry offer a package to a star whom they think would be beneficial to the products that they make. They need a face value to add to their brand value. With a national award under your belt your brand value has increased, but you need a face value.’ I scanned my mind for the one last time – but from MGR to Salman Khan to Nirmal Pandey; none of them were actually my close friends.
‘As far as me, I am not into films any more. But I have many TV concepts ready - reality and non reality shows. I think I will register them at FWA on Monday. I want to be a creative director, and by creative director, I mean real creative director,’ he blurted out. He was on the lookout for the right nomenclature. ‘Honorary director, as in honorary president or honorary secretary of any organization’, I suggested. We both laughed wickedly. By the time the TV monitor at the Food Court had already suggested that Rahul Dravid was out caught behind in the slips, a mother-teenage daughter duo were lapping up ice cream cones, Makarand Deshpande’s meeting at the far off table was over and my friend’s mobile battery was almost down.
Back at home, I checked my mails. My sister had sent me an email which had some photos of my parents as attachments. Over the last year, they had expired within a span of five months of each other. I was seeing these photos for the first time, and they were very disturbing. It gave a glipmse of thier life together, maybe just before thier death. Although they were smiling, the physical suffering that they had endured when they were alive was very much evident, for all to see. Or so it seemed to me. I had no courage to stare at them. It then suddenly occurred to me that I had failed to fully realise the extent of their sufferings when they were alive and that the whole world around them knew of it, but for me.
As I slumped on my bed that night, I could not but help remember the edited words of the auto driver, ‘Thanks. You have made me see a variety of things today’.
Saturday, November 06, 2010
The Preview at Maithreya
Manohar Patel is an agriculturalist and a self styled wild life documentary film maker. He is outspoken and direct in his communication. Srikant Kelahatti is soft spoken, persuasive, methodical and a practicing charted accountant. Both are environmental activists, both love theater and are avid film buffs. They run an institution called 'Maithreya Institute for Environmental Studies.' Conservation of grassland ecology around the Tiptur region in Central Karnataka, illegal quarrying that have all but destroyed the nearby villages and the dumping of third rate environmentally harmful industrial technology by the west are some of the day to day issues that they deal with. Thus, both face physical threats from the anti environment lobby that they have pitched themselves against.In the evenings when they get bored with their day to day existence they call up each other and identify a nearby village – making sure from the electricity board that there is no scheduled power cut in place there. They hop on to a car, with a digital projector, a laptop, portable speakers and a large white cloth in tow, and head to the village. At the village they identify a common spot, fix the white cloth as a screen, connect the laptop, the projector and the speakers and get ready for a show. They throw in a few Dr Rajkumar songs downloaded from youtube in the beginning just to get the audience coming in. And then, when the village gathers, they show Al Gore’s film ‘The Inconvenient Truth’ – they have managed to get a Kannada version of it!
In their initial days, the villagers were skeptical. But these days they always manage a hot debate each time they screen the film – making people realise the importance of conservation and the need to respect nature. After the screening, they are invariably invited to dinner at any one of the houses. By mid night they are back in the town of Tiptur, back to their daily lives. Thus relentlessly and ferociously they have been going on for quite some time now. They now want to start a film club, the preview screening of ‘Putaani Party’ was the first film in their list. It amazed me that they had wanted to screen the film for the Tiptur school kids for six months now!
The newly formed Karnataka Chalanachitra Academy under the guidance of filmmaker Nagabharana recently held a workshop for people who are interested in the film society movement. The idea was to form a series of societies that would screen award wining films in various parts of Karnataka. They would be provided with a projector and the films. Manohar Patel had attended the workshop; but refused to toe the line. Films we will do show – but we wont take your grant; for if we do so we would be singing to your tune and we like our independence. Immediately after the screening Manohar called up Nagabharana and got a promise from him that he would publish a write up about the screening in the magazine that the Kannada Film Academy is come up with.
I am inspired.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Murthy Saab
The vehicle that Madan had arranged turned at the Corporation circle at Bangalore. I was woken up from my thoughts by Sampath, ‘Where Sir in Corporation?’ I looked around – the Corporation area that I had known no longer existed. I could not figure out where Badami House was located. Twenty six years back I had gone there to attend a film appreciation course. After circling for around ten minutes Sampath finally located Badami House. I ran upstairs, was greeted by an eager official who asked his peon to add a chair in his boss’s office. Another official ensured that the chair actually went inside. It was only then that I was escorted inside, where around fifteen men had already gathered and I was terribly late.
The top official from the information department was presiding over an informal gathering of National Film Awardees from the state. There were two lot of them – This year awardees; it included me and the last year awardees; they had forgotten to honor them. I was made to sit besides Sheshadri, someone from the last year lot. As I sipped the coffee the coffee that was offered, it registered to me that the person sitting in front was the legendary VK Murthy!
He looked at me inquisitively, maybe wondering who I was. I smiled at him, he did not; there was no need for him to do so. Unable to hold his sharp gaze I shifted mine elsewhere. The man who created magic with the light beams that came in between the characters of Waheeda Rehaman and Guru Dutt was sitting in front of me, and I was afraid to hold his gaze! I now realize that it was a crime, an unpardonable one at that. But then, when my gaze shifted back to him, he had lost interest.
Outside I met Prakash, he informed me that Srikanth should arrive any moment. Raja came; Chikaps and Yasku aunty walked in with daughter-in-law in tow. When Arundathi arrived, both lot of awardees were herded on to the dais. Murthy Saab was from the last year lot – the recipient of the Dada Saheb Phalke Award, the highest film award in the country; awarded to an outstanding achiever in the field of cinema, the first cameraman to receive so. His body crumpled as the shawl got wrapped around him. There was no emotion – I thought he would have been better off taking a track shot with Jonny Walker.
As the chief guest spoke my eyes shifted to Murthy Saab again. He was looking like any other grandfather; simple, humble and seemly bored. With a sense of restlessness he looked around and found an invitation on the vacant chair of the chief guest, opened and fiddled around with it. He did not know that I was gazing at him; there was no need for him to know that I was doing so. But I had to gaze; could not have done otherwise. I thought Sheshadri from the first lot saw me gazing at him. And I thought he too shifted his gaze at Murthy Saab with all seriousness that it warranted.
There was he – the man who refused to light up the faces of the junior artist / dancers in ‘Saheb Biwi Aur Gulam’; the man who followed the singing Dev Anand with his camera on the Marine Lines, the man whose close ups created the careers of so many heroines – the creator of some magical images for an equally legendary director Guru Dutt. He had by then got his shawl, the sandalwood garland, a flower bunch and a basket full of fruits. Soon, I got mine. On behalf of us, Girish expressed his pleasure in sharing the dais with Murthy saab. The audience clapped hard; but the man showed no emotion.
I gave a DVD of my film to Arundathi; and when I came out I saw Prakash chatting with Srikanth. Raja had by then gone. I gazed at my tiny nephew sleeping blissfully in the back seat of the car; in the care of his driver. Chikaps, Yasku aunty and daughter-in-law bid fare well and I wondered why on the earth I did not hold the gaze of Murthy Saab in that conference room then – the rookie that I was.
The top official from the information department was presiding over an informal gathering of National Film Awardees from the state. There were two lot of them – This year awardees; it included me and the last year awardees; they had forgotten to honor them. I was made to sit besides Sheshadri, someone from the last year lot. As I sipped the coffee the coffee that was offered, it registered to me that the person sitting in front was the legendary VK Murthy!
He looked at me inquisitively, maybe wondering who I was. I smiled at him, he did not; there was no need for him to do so. Unable to hold his sharp gaze I shifted mine elsewhere. The man who created magic with the light beams that came in between the characters of Waheeda Rehaman and Guru Dutt was sitting in front of me, and I was afraid to hold his gaze! I now realize that it was a crime, an unpardonable one at that. But then, when my gaze shifted back to him, he had lost interest.
Outside I met Prakash, he informed me that Srikanth should arrive any moment. Raja came; Chikaps and Yasku aunty walked in with daughter-in-law in tow. When Arundathi arrived, both lot of awardees were herded on to the dais. Murthy Saab was from the last year lot – the recipient of the Dada Saheb Phalke Award, the highest film award in the country; awarded to an outstanding achiever in the field of cinema, the first cameraman to receive so. His body crumpled as the shawl got wrapped around him. There was no emotion – I thought he would have been better off taking a track shot with Jonny Walker.
As the chief guest spoke my eyes shifted to Murthy Saab again. He was looking like any other grandfather; simple, humble and seemly bored. With a sense of restlessness he looked around and found an invitation on the vacant chair of the chief guest, opened and fiddled around with it. He did not know that I was gazing at him; there was no need for him to know that I was doing so. But I had to gaze; could not have done otherwise. I thought Sheshadri from the first lot saw me gazing at him. And I thought he too shifted his gaze at Murthy Saab with all seriousness that it warranted.
There was he – the man who refused to light up the faces of the junior artist / dancers in ‘Saheb Biwi Aur Gulam’; the man who followed the singing Dev Anand with his camera on the Marine Lines, the man whose close ups created the careers of so many heroines – the creator of some magical images for an equally legendary director Guru Dutt. He had by then got his shawl, the sandalwood garland, a flower bunch and a basket full of fruits. Soon, I got mine. On behalf of us, Girish expressed his pleasure in sharing the dais with Murthy saab. The audience clapped hard; but the man showed no emotion.
I gave a DVD of my film to Arundathi; and when I came out I saw Prakash chatting with Srikanth. Raja had by then gone. I gazed at my tiny nephew sleeping blissfully in the back seat of the car; in the care of his driver. Chikaps, Yasku aunty and daughter-in-law bid fare well and I wondered why on the earth I did not hold the gaze of Murthy Saab in that conference room then – the rookie that I was.
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Sunday, August 29, 2010
The junk that we like…
I own some old dusty diaries – around ten of them, each representing a particular year. They normally contain some hurriedly written phone numbers and host of ‘things to do’ lists - lists that I religiously write each day I wake up, but most times forget to refer to. I must have opened just one of the diaries once in the past two years; and I must confess that I don’t feel like throwing them away.
We all love junk, don’t we? Friend Pankaj Advani loved it so much that he shot the climax of one of his films in a junk yard. And I loved the character who sat on a heap of junk with a stengun in hand – it seemed that he loved his junk. Lilly, a distant relative from Baroda firmly believes that if we don’t use a thing for two years, then it should be disposed off. My second cousin Subbu from Bangalore drastically reduces this time to three months. Wish we had the skill and training to recognize junk as and when it occurs. Most times, we take most of our junk to our graves.
Recently while I was winding up our house in my home town, I found a lot of junk – broken steel spoons, gas stove knobs cut into half, unused plastic ice cream spoons, rusty nuts and bolts, fevicol tubes that refused to open, old switches, scissors of various sizes that wouldn’t rip anything, files pertaining to one Mr. Shankar Gauda, a vague faceless employee of The Life Insurance Corporation of India, a person I did not know of, old greeting cards that had grown ears, photos of gods that were so faded that one did not know which gods the photo frames housed, all sort of dried leaves, twigs, colored powders and stuff that were supposed to have medicinal value, white fungus ridden vintage mango pickles in broken but patched earthen pots...etc..etc…etc...etc… and if you feel like, another etc...
The kabadi wala refused to pay much for the first lot, refused to come for the second and the third. I had to pay someone to get rid of the stuff that filled around eight to ten extra large plastic bags that were probably three times the size of an average cement bag. Wish I had clicked a snap before they were disposed off. But unfortunately during that time, my mobile phone too had temporarily become a piece of junk. And guess what? I was preserving it ferociously, not wanting to buy a new one – because it meant parting with the old!
And then some, I could not figure out if they were junk or of value. The fact that they were preserved meant that they were of value to those who preserved them. Pankaj found great value in the junk yard that he shot the climax of his film. Libraries, museums, the film archives, computer hard disks, drawers, cupboards, shirt pockets, suitcases – they all store junk. They may be of value. It a matter of perception and that perception changes with time. This is the junk philosophy.
Or it thinking the other way round - maybe those who preserve junk do not know that they are preserving junk. Ah... if only we could recognize junk as and when it happens. To recognize other peoples’ junk is easy; throwing them away at times is a bit difficult. Hesitant to dispose off some of the old family junk, I carried them to my present house in Mumbai. As I was making space to store them, I chanced upon my old dusty diaries – my new junk. I have now resolved that I will dispose off at least seven of my ten dairies, if not all of them.
But boy, don’t we all love our junk? And I haven’t even talked about the junk stored in our minds. That is for some other sunny day.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I am not sure...
I am not sure why have I preserved this for twenty two years.
I am not sure why have I uploaded this on my blog, now.
I am also not sure how long I am going to preserve this.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
To sir, with love...
Certificate of Participation - Course Director Satish Bahadur
I first came in contact with Prof. Satish Bahadur way back in 1983 during a film appreciation course that Magsaysay award winner K.V. Subanna had arranged with the collaboration from The Film & TV Institute of India and The National Film Archives of India in Heggodu, a small village near Sagar, Central Karnataka. With his analysis of films he had then opened up a whole new world for me and I am sure for a lot of others who had attended the various film appreciation courses that he relentlessly conducted all over India. He tought Film Appreciation in the film Institute. By the time I joined the Institute in 1987, he had retired. But by then I had attended many of his film appreciation courses in Karnataka. His passion for cinema was very infectious. An entire generation of film makers and film buffs is indebted to him. To sir, with love...
Satish Bahadur - a signature in film appreciation
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Two errant coconut trees
Way back in the seventies, when we bought a piece of land and began to construct a house, I was promised that I would be able to set up a 22 yard cricket pitch in the empty space within the compound. Though friends and cousins were envious; we made elaborate plans about the matches that we were supposed to play. But soon, when five to six coconut trees occupied the empty space I was aghast! It was a promise broken and a loss of face with my friends.
Today the trees have grown tall; two of them bend towards the neighboring compound. There were complaints that things falling from these trees broke tiles and woke people at night. When I came home, the neighboring lady first enquired about everyone's general health condition and then gently asked me to arrange for a person who could climb the two errant trees, tie metal wires around them, pull them to our side and tie them to another coconut tree. I was again reminded of the broken tiles; and was offered some leftover metal wires that the neighbors themselves had used to tie their own naughty trees.
These days it is difficult to get men who climb trees, exclaimed the friendly Shekara. A few days later a person whom I thought had seen before, mentioned Shekara's name and offered to do the job. He looked at the trees, made mental calculations, pointed out at directions, took a loan of of hundred rupees, promised to return the next day and never came back. It became THE news of the neighborhood. The guy from Bombay was duped of hundred rupees. Shekara too chided me; took responsibility and fixed a date where he could directly supervise the operation.
But the coconut trees would have to wait, for on the D-Day two of my family members had a tryst with a hospital. Gentle general health enquiries of the neighbors soon turned into critical health queries. The coconut tree operation was postponed. The trees can wait, health is important; exclaimed Shekara again. I apologised to the neighbors for the delay. They said, they understood.
The tryst with the hospital ended, but one family member, my mother, had a tryst with her destiny - ambulance, frantic doctors, tense phone calls and a heart beat that stopped. And then the usual stuff - mortuary, cremation, emotions, condolences, glum faces etc. In between I made a feeble attempt to re-arrange the coconut tree operation, but was vetoed by Shekara. Let the last rites get over. If in the process a few more tiles get broken, so be it. The lady of the house upon which the errant trees had leaned had tears in her eyes. She said that my mother was like a mother to her. Well, her son was of my age, she had a couple of school going grand children and it was she who first complaint about the trees. To 'be' with her, I had to drop a few tears myself.
And then this morning, another man whom I vaguely remember, knocked at my door, uttered Shekara's name and offered to rein in the wayward coconut trees for eight hundred rupees. Not to be undone, I called up Shekara. In came Shekara on his bicycle. Eight hundred for two trees is good enough. We should fix him before he slips away. Remember, these days it is difficult to get men who could climb coconut trees and do work for you. Buy nine kilograms of 8 mm metal wire, we will do it in the afternoon. In the forenoon my niece is getting engaged and I would be busy, exclaimed Shekara yet again.
I hired an auto roamed around the hardware shops only to find out that none of them had 8mm metal wires. How tall is the tree? Is it slanting too much? Is the tree worker waiting? Maybe try that shop... and why do you want 8mm? It breaks. Everyone uses 6mm. It is stronger, thicker and sturdier. Well if they say 6mm is thicker than 8mm, it better be. Remember, I am not an agriculturist. And here am I sitting in front of fifty grams less than nine kilograms of sturdy but difficult to tie 6mm metal wire waiting for Shekara and the coconut tree climber to arrive. It is coffee time, its pouring cats and dogs, the trees would be too slippery to climb by now and I bet directing a film would have been easier.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Back again on the plane that crashed...
On the plane that crashed yesterday in Mangalore were Mohammed Ziad, his wife and two of his kids. Ziad was coming to India to attend his mother's funeral. During my college days, he had a VHS camera that was gifted to him by his father who worked in the Middle East. The camera was a novelty at that time – at least in our small town. With it, a few of us got together and shot a video film called 'Happy Birthday' - an emotional murder mystery, whatever that meant. It was my first ever attempt at filmmaking. My cousin Ravi and neighbours Amjad and Prasad were the actors; and yours truly was the director, apart from playing the inspector who arrests the murderer in the climax. By the virtue of owning the proud camera, Ziad was my technical adviser. May his surviving kids, left behind in Dubai under the care of their uncle, find the strength to cope up with this tragedy.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
On the plane that crashed...
Jayaprakash Devadiga, JP as we called him, was on the plane that crashed in Mangalore this morning. I had the opportunity to work with him in my film SUDDHA. We were immensely benefited by his ability to quietly get things done without anyone even noticing it. He also played a cameo in the film. May his family find the strength to cope up with this tragedy. Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Jahaji Music
Good friend Gurpal Singh has something called 'Docus At My Home'. He calls a few friends to his house, feeds them with buttermilk, sweets, herbal tea, normal tea, biscuits and at times with good food; and then shows them a documentary film. The bonus is a discussion with the filmmaker. I saw 'Jahaji Music' at his house, yesterday - a 112 minutes film directed by Surabhi Sharma. It was the second screening of the film at his house.
The film deals with the identity of a generation of Indians whose ancestors had migrated to the Caribbean islands taking along with them their own local music. The identity of these migrants is aptly depicted by the musical journey that they have been taking over the years. The natural artistic collaborations that they have been having with the music of their adopted land, forms a large part of this journey.
The sequences in the film progressively deal with the harmonious merger of two musical cultures. In a sense, this structure of the film itself seems to be its content. One rarely gets to see such amalgamation.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
SUDDHA at Sanehalli
CR Jambe presently runs a theater school in Sanehalli, a remote village in Karnataka. He was also instrumental in running two of Karnataka's well known theater schools - Neenasam in Heggodu and Rangayana in Mysore. In my formative years, I was fortunate enough to have participated in one of the numerous theater workshops that he conducted all over Karnataka. Recemtly, at Jambe's behest, a screening of SUDDHA was held at Sanehalli. Friend IK Bolwar too was present at the screening. The screening aparently went off well. I am thrilled.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Cosmos Mein Panduranga…
We once used to call NSD as the Nainitaal School of Drama - Nainitaal because we knew a lot of guys from NSD who originated from in and around that area. For my diploma film at the film institute I needed two actors and I was sure that it had to be NSD trained actors. I met Nirmal Panday two days before my film shoot – before that I had already cast him in the film. Nainitaal guys Rajiv Katiyaal and Sudarshan Juyal had suggested me his name. Nirmal was full of energy, had immence zest. He was excited about the script. I had a song to record and shoot in two days time, but had no music composer. Nirmal volunteered… and after some bottles of santra (local liquor) I was relieved! The lyrics whet something like this ‘Panduranga, Panduranga, Panduranga… Cosmos Mein Panduranga, Universal Panduranga…’ The tune he set was catchy enough to be sung by all and sundry at the film institute, at least for the next ten days.
… nothing significant about this interaction. In fact, I haven’t even met him for the last fifteen years or so. It is just that when someone is no more, you tend to be reminded of the times you spent with him. Mid forties is not an age to die. But such are the vagaries of life.
… nothing significant about this interaction. In fact, I haven’t even met him for the last fifteen years or so. It is just that when someone is no more, you tend to be reminded of the times you spent with him. Mid forties is not an age to die. But such are the vagaries of life.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Saangatya...
Come January and a group of forty to fifty film buffs - journalists, poets, writers, media professionals, students, college lecturers, IT professionals, etc - travel from all over Karnataka and gather for two days at a remote village by the Western Ghats. Situated in the picturesque Shimoga district, Kupalli, as the village is called, is the home town of the famous Kannada poet, the late KV Putappa (Kuvempu). His house has now been converted into a trust called The Kuvempu Prathistana. The Kuvempu Prathistana is not just the venue of this Film Festival, but it also facilitates the logistics of staying and food for these film buffs.
The group calls themselves as ‘Saangatya’. Collectively they pool in their recourses – money and goodwill – and organize a yearly film festival – digital projection and DVD screenings. It is not just another Film Festival where delegates hop in from one theater to another trying to catch up with as many films as they physically can. The films here are limited – a couple of features and a few documentaries. The crux of the film festival is the mandatory group discussion that happens after every film. There is no one lecturing them as it happens in a film appreciation course. No filmmaker to introduce the film, receive red roses and deliver a ‘director’s statement’. It is just a group of people watching films, discussing them in order to know and understand what the medium is all about.
It sounds exciting - because the filmmakers are not directly involved. It feels good when filmmakers organize themselves and show films of fellow filmmakers. But this one is coming from a cross section of the society. All of them are film buffs or cinephiles who are trying to develop an alternative system of watching films. ‘Sangaatya’ is just a year old and already they have had two such film festivals. The third is on this month. Since many months they are running a blog in Kannada language where participants can write about cinema. And now, they are also planning to bring a quarterly magazine on serious cinema. On top of it a documentary workshop within the next few months.
The group calls themselves as ‘Saangatya’. Collectively they pool in their recourses – money and goodwill – and organize a yearly film festival – digital projection and DVD screenings. It is not just another Film Festival where delegates hop in from one theater to another trying to catch up with as many films as they physically can. The films here are limited – a couple of features and a few documentaries. The crux of the film festival is the mandatory group discussion that happens after every film. There is no one lecturing them as it happens in a film appreciation course. No filmmaker to introduce the film, receive red roses and deliver a ‘director’s statement’. It is just a group of people watching films, discussing them in order to know and understand what the medium is all about.
It sounds exciting - because the filmmakers are not directly involved. It feels good when filmmakers organize themselves and show films of fellow filmmakers. But this one is coming from a cross section of the society. All of them are film buffs or cinephiles who are trying to develop an alternative system of watching films. ‘Sangaatya’ is just a year old and already they have had two such film festivals. The third is on this month. Since many months they are running a blog in Kannada language where participants can write about cinema. And now, they are also planning to bring a quarterly magazine on serious cinema. On top of it a documentary workshop within the next few months.
Not particularly keen on on watching the films that are thrust upon you at the mulitplexes? Well, try going the 'Saangatya' way...
Friday, October 09, 2009
The ultimate wish list…
A script writing and production software installed in an ultra lightweight laptop.
A soothing alarm clock that wakes you up at 4.00 A.M.
A library of essential books and DVDs.
A film camera and a digital video camera, stored side by side.
A heavy duty computer set up that has the latest version of Adobe Premier that can take in High Definition and that which has a film option.
An Apple set up with Final Cut Pro and Pro Tools installed.
A ‘chakaas’ noise reduction system.
A projector that has ‘danchak’ luminance.
A three bedroom-hall-kitchen flat – one bedroom each for edit, sound and a mini screening room.
E & OE (errors and omissions excepted)
A soothing alarm clock that wakes you up at 4.00 A.M.
A library of essential books and DVDs.
A film camera and a digital video camera, stored side by side.
A heavy duty computer set up that has the latest version of Adobe Premier that can take in High Definition and that which has a film option.
An Apple set up with Final Cut Pro and Pro Tools installed.
A ‘chakaas’ noise reduction system.
A projector that has ‘danchak’ luminance.
A three bedroom-hall-kitchen flat – one bedroom each for edit, sound and a mini screening room.
E & OE (errors and omissions excepted)
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Suddha at Navi Mumbai
The B.S.K.B. is an association of people from a particular community migrated to the city of Mumbai from the districts of Udupi and Dakshina Kannada in coastal Karnataka. One of the activities that it undertakes is the running of the newly formed old age home in Nerul, Navi Mumbai, called 'Aashraya'.
A few days back a screening of SUDDHA was arranged for the mostly Tulu speaking inmates of the old age home. Unfotunatly, for some reasons, it was not possible for me to go to the screening. I guess, it went off well and am eager to know the reactions of the inmates towards the film.
Friday, September 11, 2009
A Filmy Treatment
In a recent hectic outdoor shooting of mine, more than half the unit members had gone down with diarrhea and related illness.
We thought it was the stress, but there would have been shoots that might have resulted in greater stress levels.
We thought it was the food; we had changed at least four caterers - all in vain.
We thought it was the water; but we were supplied with the minral kind.
Did we think that it was the way we handled them that caused the illness....?
Hmmmmmm... I am afraid not.
Could I have avoided the bitterness that followed..?
I regret for not having put systems in place which could have created the possibility of a compassionate man management approach that has nothing to do with a budget of the film.
Sorry, I was ignorant that it needed to happen.
I thank my unit members who despite receiving some 'filmy treatment', never allowed the nastiness to creep into the film.
We thought it was the stress, but there would have been shoots that might have resulted in greater stress levels.
We thought it was the food; we had changed at least four caterers - all in vain.
We thought it was the water; but we were supplied with the minral kind.
Did we think that it was the way we handled them that caused the illness....?
Hmmmmmm... I am afraid not.
Could I have avoided the bitterness that followed..?
I regret for not having put systems in place which could have created the possibility of a compassionate man management approach that has nothing to do with a budget of the film.
Sorry, I was ignorant that it needed to happen.
I thank my unit members who despite receiving some 'filmy treatment', never allowed the nastiness to creep into the film.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The dog and it's tail.
Once an accountant, always an accountant.
Once in doubt, always in doubt.
A hand tries to straighten the tail.
The dog bites the hand that feeds it.
The habit of seperating the production from the film.
Once a film maker, not always a film maker.
Once in doubt, always in doubt.
A hand tries to straighten the tail.
The dog bites the hand that feeds it.
The habit of seperating the production from the film.
Once a film maker, not always a film maker.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Om-Dar-Ba-Dar - a revisit and a few thoughts.
Last week, I managed to watch Kamal Swaroop's 1988 film 'Om-Dar-Ba-Dar'; after almost twenty years. Kamal was showing the film to some of his students in a school of architecture in Mumbai. The hall was petty much crowded when the film began; by the time the end titles rolled in, there were lots of empty chairs.
Not that the filmmaker minded it, I thought. Considering the filmmaking path that he has been walking, maybe he is used to it by now . In the discussion that followed, Kamal in his own subversive manner, narrated the non existent 'story' of the film and its 'meaning'. It was as 'meaningless' as the film itself.
Not that the filmmaker minded it, I thought. Considering the filmmaking path that he has been walking, maybe he is used to it by now . In the discussion that followed, Kamal in his own subversive manner, narrated the non existent 'story' of the film and its 'meaning'. It was as 'meaningless' as the film itself.
The ability to comprehend a chair as a chair...
It takes some amount of discipline and practice to watch a movie without assigning any meaning to it. What meaning would one assign to a ‘collage’? What meaning would one assign to a ‘aalaap’? The manner in which Bhimsen Joshi sings a ‘Bhajan’ could be interesting than the meaning of the ‘Bhajan’ itself.
Is it possible to watch, hear and experience a film on such a level?
Can I, for example, appreciate the shot taking patterns found in ‘Om-Dar-Ba-Dar' just as I appreciate a straight line or a brush stroke? Or can I identify with the rhythmic edit patterns that are used in the film? Or with the sound patterns and the design employed in it?
Is it possible for me to construct a film on this basis – where the form itself is the content and the meaning, subsidiary?
‘The form as politics’, as Kamal Swaroop would say.
Is it possible to watch, hear and experience a film on such a level?
Can I, for example, appreciate the shot taking patterns found in ‘Om-Dar-Ba-Dar' just as I appreciate a straight line or a brush stroke? Or can I identify with the rhythmic edit patterns that are used in the film? Or with the sound patterns and the design employed in it?
Is it possible for me to construct a film on this basis – where the form itself is the content and the meaning, subsidiary?
‘The form as politics’, as Kamal Swaroop would say.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Waiter and the Cutter...
The spoon that gets wiped on dirty pants, serves the dish.
The hand that cleans the nose, winds the negative.
Thus goes the story of the waiter and the cutter.
The hand that cleans the nose, winds the negative.
Thus goes the story of the waiter and the cutter.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Tough, the Missing and the Scratches.
The mantra was to complete, deliver and move on…
But hey, wait… where is the protagonist?
When the going got tough, the tough got missing!
Information withheld knowingly, facts released untimely;
There could be scratches on the emulsion.
But hey, wait… where is the protagonist?
When the going got tough, the tough got missing!
Information withheld knowingly, facts released untimely;
There could be scratches on the emulsion.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Hand and the nail.
The shoot, the edit and the sound generation…
It’s all just a preparation.
The union of Picture and Sound…
The ultimate moment!
Miss this and miss the film.
A hand hammers a nail on to itself.
It’s all just a preparation.
The union of Picture and Sound…
The ultimate moment!
Miss this and miss the film.
A hand hammers a nail on to itself.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Frog and the Pond
Is the film there because of the production?
or
Is the production there because of the film?
Ignoring the film while making it.
A frog jumps into a deep well.
It thinks it is a pond.
********
or
Is the production there because of the film?
Ignoring the film while making it.
A frog jumps into a deep well.
It thinks it is a pond.
********
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Dev D
Me thinks, the most interesting part in the film 'Dev D' occurs only at the fag end of it - when Dev supposedly gets a realization, as a car nearly runs over him. Unfortunately, the events in the film unfold very rapidly after this point and before you can blink, the film ends. It therefore becomes nearly impossible to savor this change in the character’s thought process and hence, in his life. I wished that it had got more screen time and I wished that the purpose of this film itself was this transformation.
Otherwise, I thought, the ‘materiality’ of the film maker with regards to his film was quite evident.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Chemistry
I was sitting on the bench in front of the intensive care unit of a hospital. A close relative was inside. He had just had two attacks of convulsions, he was restless, had no sense of space or time, did not know what he talked nor could he relate to anything told to him. The doctors had opined – it was an imbalance of a chemical in his body – a chemical called Sodium.
I had hated chemistry in my college. 36 or 37 percentage was all that I could ever manage in that subject। Beyond H2O and HO2, nothing would make sense. I remember of even swearing that I would never touch chemicals and chemistry again. Alas, how wrong was I...
As I was wondering about the kind of destruction a chemical imbalance can do to a human body, a young man, whose relative too was inside the intensive care unit, struck a casual conversation with me. When I told him about the chemical issue, he got angry. ‘Does he eat a lot of fruits? These days they inject a huge amount of chemicals into fruits and vegetables so that it ripens early; it surely is the effect of that’, he blasted. I was too sleepy to argue with him; I nodded in agreement.
Two hours later, I still was thinking about Chemistry - that stupid subject that I hated the most. After watching a film, what do people mean when they say, ‘the chemistry between the actors was fantastic…’? Does it mean that the sodium levels in both the actors are equal while they were performing? Or is it the potassium levels that is creating the chemistry?
People also say that with regards to love. Love, apparently, is related to chemicals. When they say ‘opposites attract’, they probably mean that the Sodium / Potassium / Calcium / Oxygen / Sulfur / Carbon Dioxide / Zinc / or whatever chemical levels in the bodies of the two persons who are in love, are drastically different.
Or is it that the chemical levels of the two persons who are in love match well and therefore are they in love? So, if my wife and I fight it out and shout at each other, does it mean that our Fluorine / Magnesium / Rubidium / Bromine / Lead / or whatever chemical levels vary drastically? Maybe we could then just inject the necessary chemical to our bodies and create ‘love’.
Gosh! I never understood all this.
Two days later, due to an increased intake and through through careful monitoring, the Sodium levels of my relative slowly came back to normal. The symptoms associated with sodium deficiency had vanished.
Some prefer to believe that life is no miracle – it’s just a set of chemical reactions. When the reaction ceases, the body stops to function.
It is as physical as that, nothing beyond.
I had hated chemistry in my college. 36 or 37 percentage was all that I could ever manage in that subject। Beyond H2O and HO2, nothing would make sense. I remember of even swearing that I would never touch chemicals and chemistry again. Alas, how wrong was I...
As I was wondering about the kind of destruction a chemical imbalance can do to a human body, a young man, whose relative too was inside the intensive care unit, struck a casual conversation with me. When I told him about the chemical issue, he got angry. ‘Does he eat a lot of fruits? These days they inject a huge amount of chemicals into fruits and vegetables so that it ripens early; it surely is the effect of that’, he blasted. I was too sleepy to argue with him; I nodded in agreement.
Two hours later, I still was thinking about Chemistry - that stupid subject that I hated the most. After watching a film, what do people mean when they say, ‘the chemistry between the actors was fantastic…’? Does it mean that the sodium levels in both the actors are equal while they were performing? Or is it the potassium levels that is creating the chemistry?
People also say that with regards to love. Love, apparently, is related to chemicals. When they say ‘opposites attract’, they probably mean that the Sodium / Potassium / Calcium / Oxygen / Sulfur / Carbon Dioxide / Zinc / or whatever chemical levels in the bodies of the two persons who are in love, are drastically different.
Or is it that the chemical levels of the two persons who are in love match well and therefore are they in love? So, if my wife and I fight it out and shout at each other, does it mean that our Fluorine / Magnesium / Rubidium / Bromine / Lead / or whatever chemical levels vary drastically? Maybe we could then just inject the necessary chemical to our bodies and create ‘love’.
Gosh! I never understood all this.
Two days later, due to an increased intake and through through careful monitoring, the Sodium levels of my relative slowly came back to normal. The symptoms associated with sodium deficiency had vanished.
Some prefer to believe that life is no miracle – it’s just a set of chemical reactions. When the reaction ceases, the body stops to function.
It is as physical as that, nothing beyond.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Paro's PMGP
Those of you who are intrested can catch up with Paromita Vohra's piece called 'The one billion rupee home' published in the book 'Mumbai Meri Jaan' (Mumbai, my love); edited by Jerry Pinto & Naresh Fernandes. It is an exhaustive article that deals with her experiences during her stay in the PMGP colony.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
13\3 PMGP – End
Initially, the agent who had helped me purchase the flat had stared suspiciously at my unkempt beard and had warned me, ‘You are welcome to stay here…. But don’t do anything ‘aise-waise’ (This and that) with our girls.’ I was a bit surprised. Did I look the kind who would do all sorts of ‘aise-waise’ with anyone at all? Not taking any chances, I started to trim my beard and comb my hair regularly.
The original alloties of the flats in PMGP colony treated their film and media neighbours as ‘outsiders’. But the ‘locals’, as we used to call them, were as depended on us, as we were on them. The software boom was yet to arrive. We, therefore, were the neo-rich professionals. And we had the cash.
The original alloties of the flats in PMGP colony treated their film and media neighbours as ‘outsiders’. But the ‘locals’, as we used to call them, were as depended on us, as we were on them. The software boom was yet to arrive. We, therefore, were the neo-rich professionals. And we had the cash.
A journalist from New York once wrote an article on India and the transformation that it was going through due to globalisation. He did some exclusive reporting on PMGP. All of us were branded as 'young Indian yuppies' living in the gettos of Mumbai. I should thank my stars that my uncle, who was trying to find a suitable bride for me at that time, was unaware of this discription.
So, your housemaid stayed opposite you; the cable guy was just a block away, the roadside vegetable vendor resided two floors below, the milk man was on the third floor and the lady next door delivered home made food.
On the ground floor of a building, a ‘Kholi’ got converted into a hair-cutting saloon. In another, a doctor inaugurated his clinic. With in a few days he had a zerox machine and an STD booth installed. Tiny plays schools, tuition classes and beauty saloons mushroomed.
And when a sound recording studio got set up, I got the jitters. Why don’t I set up an editing suit at 13\3? After all, it was a ground floor flat. Business would be great. My friend Rajiv nodded in agreement, but my partner at ‘Dziga Collective’ thought that purchasing an auto rickshaw was a better idea.
Meanwhile activities at 13\3 continued. If a friend fought with his wife, he dropped anchor. While I wrote one of my many soon-to-be-made scripts, he stared blankly at the ceiling. When his wife hunted him down, the fight would start all over again. If a writer had guests at his house, my ‘Kholi’ was the most sought out space for screenplay narrations. Thus, the seeds of many great films were sown at 13\3.
Many times, juniors from my film school hopped in with bag and baggage. And when they searched for an alternative accommodation, guess who provided them with an estate agent? That’s right – yours truly. Where did all the deals take place? – Right again, ‘Kholi’ No. 13\3. For anyone who came to my door steps, my principle was simple - stay on as long as you wish and if I am broke, do pay my electricity bills.
There were times when, during my evening walks, a series of local estate agents used to salute or greet me. They generally enquired about my well-being and kept me amused. After all, I gave them business and charged no commission for it.
Kaate Saab (sir), his son-in-law assistant, the ‘Naani’ (aunty) with a big bindhi on her forehead sitting all by herself in her tiny balcony, the friendly independent Rajasthani grocery shop aunty and her two sons; and my ‘bai’ (house maid) who used to call me ‘beta’ (son) to get more things done by me than she ever did herself…
A cousin once remarked – ‘You are so popular that you should be a candidate for the PMGP elections, if at all there were one’. Thank God, I did not take him seriously. Otherwise, world cinema would have truly lost one of its champions!!!
Jokes apart… most people whom I knew or lived along during those days have shifted out of PMGP. But like me, many still maintain their account in a bank situated there. I have no idea why…
At times, when I visit the bank I do bump into a sound recordist friend of mine, who has been staying there for more than thirteen years now. Not that he can’t shift, he just won’t. And he is at peace with himself.
It took me a long time to get out of it. And, I believe, it had got nothing to do with the place itself or its physicality…
It was just the way I looked at it.
So, your housemaid stayed opposite you; the cable guy was just a block away, the roadside vegetable vendor resided two floors below, the milk man was on the third floor and the lady next door delivered home made food.
On the ground floor of a building, a ‘Kholi’ got converted into a hair-cutting saloon. In another, a doctor inaugurated his clinic. With in a few days he had a zerox machine and an STD booth installed. Tiny plays schools, tuition classes and beauty saloons mushroomed.
And when a sound recording studio got set up, I got the jitters. Why don’t I set up an editing suit at 13\3? After all, it was a ground floor flat. Business would be great. My friend Rajiv nodded in agreement, but my partner at ‘Dziga Collective’ thought that purchasing an auto rickshaw was a better idea.
Meanwhile activities at 13\3 continued. If a friend fought with his wife, he dropped anchor. While I wrote one of my many soon-to-be-made scripts, he stared blankly at the ceiling. When his wife hunted him down, the fight would start all over again. If a writer had guests at his house, my ‘Kholi’ was the most sought out space for screenplay narrations. Thus, the seeds of many great films were sown at 13\3.
Many times, juniors from my film school hopped in with bag and baggage. And when they searched for an alternative accommodation, guess who provided them with an estate agent? That’s right – yours truly. Where did all the deals take place? – Right again, ‘Kholi’ No. 13\3. For anyone who came to my door steps, my principle was simple - stay on as long as you wish and if I am broke, do pay my electricity bills.
There were times when, during my evening walks, a series of local estate agents used to salute or greet me. They generally enquired about my well-being and kept me amused. After all, I gave them business and charged no commission for it.
Kaate Saab (sir), his son-in-law assistant, the ‘Naani’ (aunty) with a big bindhi on her forehead sitting all by herself in her tiny balcony, the friendly independent Rajasthani grocery shop aunty and her two sons; and my ‘bai’ (house maid) who used to call me ‘beta’ (son) to get more things done by me than she ever did herself…
A cousin once remarked – ‘You are so popular that you should be a candidate for the PMGP elections, if at all there were one’. Thank God, I did not take him seriously. Otherwise, world cinema would have truly lost one of its champions!!!
Jokes apart… most people whom I knew or lived along during those days have shifted out of PMGP. But like me, many still maintain their account in a bank situated there. I have no idea why…
At times, when I visit the bank I do bump into a sound recordist friend of mine, who has been staying there for more than thirteen years now. Not that he can’t shift, he just won’t. And he is at peace with himself.
It took me a long time to get out of it. And, I believe, it had got nothing to do with the place itself or its physicality…
It was just the way I looked at it.
Friday, October 24, 2008
13\3 PMGP – Middle
The original inhabitants of PMGP were a part of a rehabilitation scheme – The Prime Minister’s Grant Project or PMGP. They had been displaced from their earlier habitat, thanks to a road project that linked two suburban centres in Mumbai. Most were migrants from other parts of the state of Maharashtra.
I had made my purchase from one such lady. It was only much later that I came to know about her profession. She brewed and sold country liquor. Her husband had apparently hanged himself to death and the rumour going around was that his wife was too ‘hot’ to handle.
My building society secretary, with grave concern, had once whispered that the lady was seeing a young but corrupt police constable, even before her husband’s death. I dared not mention any of this to anyone. ‘Budding filmmaker buys flat from a possible adulterous liquor lady’ – this also did not sound good.
But all said and done, my ground floor ‘Kholi’ was quite an ‘adda’ by itself. It had a TV set and so, people gathered whenever there was a cricket match. Otherwise too, people often dropped in with their own groceries, barged into the kitchen, made tea, cooked food, and happily ate it, as if it were their own house. Of course, they did feed me too. But that was really a by-product.
And some generous ones even brought their own ‘daaru’ – in the afternoons, before and after sunset and even at mid nights. Most times I ended up being at the receiving end of their emotional outbursts; mainly relating to personal and professional matters. I also found myself cooking for them, as best I could, so that they eat and then sleep over their ‘angst’. I would thus be relieved of the burden of listening to their woes.
And on few occasions I got emboldened enough to gulp off their ‘daaru’ and give them a taste of my own emotional outbursts – both personal and professional. That was my way of getting back at them. And invariably, my angst increased the following day when I had to clean up the mess left behind – unwashed utensils or puke stains.
One day my roommate, who worked for a then reputed but now defunct media house, had invited around twenty of his female colleagues for a ‘pharata’ party. It was the first time in my life that I had seen so many of them cramped into a 180 square feet area, chatting away to glory as they took turns making 'pharatas'. Needless to say, the next morning, I did get some strange looks from my conservative neighbours and a friendly warning by my building society secretary.
Once when the doorbell rang frantically, I found myself facing my cable guy who led a delegation of eight to ten people – all of them, his friends and family. Also along them was an agitated actress friend of mine, to whom I had introduced the cable guy. Between them, they had a financial dispute.
The amount in question - one hundred and fifty rupees. It was demanded that I mediate. After one hour of hair splitting negotiations and high-decibel arguments, the actress finally agreed to part with one hundred rupees. I had managed to strike a compromise and the cable guy still smiles whenever he sees me.
I had made my purchase from one such lady. It was only much later that I came to know about her profession. She brewed and sold country liquor. Her husband had apparently hanged himself to death and the rumour going around was that his wife was too ‘hot’ to handle.
My building society secretary, with grave concern, had once whispered that the lady was seeing a young but corrupt police constable, even before her husband’s death. I dared not mention any of this to anyone. ‘Budding filmmaker buys flat from a possible adulterous liquor lady’ – this also did not sound good.
But all said and done, my ground floor ‘Kholi’ was quite an ‘adda’ by itself. It had a TV set and so, people gathered whenever there was a cricket match. Otherwise too, people often dropped in with their own groceries, barged into the kitchen, made tea, cooked food, and happily ate it, as if it were their own house. Of course, they did feed me too. But that was really a by-product.
And some generous ones even brought their own ‘daaru’ – in the afternoons, before and after sunset and even at mid nights. Most times I ended up being at the receiving end of their emotional outbursts; mainly relating to personal and professional matters. I also found myself cooking for them, as best I could, so that they eat and then sleep over their ‘angst’. I would thus be relieved of the burden of listening to their woes.
And on few occasions I got emboldened enough to gulp off their ‘daaru’ and give them a taste of my own emotional outbursts – both personal and professional. That was my way of getting back at them. And invariably, my angst increased the following day when I had to clean up the mess left behind – unwashed utensils or puke stains.
One day my roommate, who worked for a then reputed but now defunct media house, had invited around twenty of his female colleagues for a ‘pharata’ party. It was the first time in my life that I had seen so many of them cramped into a 180 square feet area, chatting away to glory as they took turns making 'pharatas'. Needless to say, the next morning, I did get some strange looks from my conservative neighbours and a friendly warning by my building society secretary.
Once when the doorbell rang frantically, I found myself facing my cable guy who led a delegation of eight to ten people – all of them, his friends and family. Also along them was an agitated actress friend of mine, to whom I had introduced the cable guy. Between them, they had a financial dispute.
The amount in question - one hundred and fifty rupees. It was demanded that I mediate. After one hour of hair splitting negotiations and high-decibel arguments, the actress finally agreed to part with one hundred rupees. I had managed to strike a compromise and the cable guy still smiles whenever he sees me.
Acceptance among the non-filmy crowd was slow. But things got easier when I lent some money to a few people, asked my parents to stay with me for a few days, gave access to my telephone to one and all, helped an uneducated youth to get a job and let my ‘Kholi’ be used for social activities like society meetings and photo secessions for voter’s identification cards.
Thus, this ‘lungi’ wearing ‘Madrasi’ soon became fit enough to be considered as one among them.
Thus, this ‘lungi’ wearing ‘Madrasi’ soon became fit enough to be considered as one among them.
13\3 PMGP – Beginning
It was a 180 sq foot ground floor flat that I had purchased during my early days in Mumbai. It was just a stopgap arrangement, before I moved on to a bigger flat. I had planned to stay there for exactly two years. It took me more than thirteen years and a whole lot of persuasion to get out of 13\3, PMGP Colony at Mahakali, Andheri (East), Mumbai.
Initially, when I brought the place, well-wishers had warned me that the number of the house was unlucky. But for me, the purchase was a huge accomplishment – acquiring a roof akin to making a film. In fact, my friend and classmate from the film school, Rajiv Katiyal did comment in jest, ‘Ram could not make a film, so he purchased a flat’.
Yes, technically it was a ‘flat’. It had a living area, a tiny kitchen space and an attached bathroom cum toilet. Back home, my relatives were surprised and even impressed! This black sheep of the family had the presence of mind to buy a flat and that too, within a few years of moving into the city.
But only I knew that this ‘flat’ or ‘house’ that I owned was actually called as a ‘Kholi’ or a small tenement, in local language. Seven such ‘Kholi’ies existed on each floor; each building had four flours and there were seventeen buildings all together. Each of these ‘Kholi’ies must have housed at least four to five members of a family.
Rajiv himself had bought one such ‘Kholi’, in the building next to mine. So had cinematographer V Naravayan and writer Ashok Mishra. And then, there was documentary filmmaker Paromita. Within a year or two, I could see a lot of familiar faces around. Most were starting out in the field of media and film – directors, cameramen, editors, actors, dance directors…
We had our own hangouts, the main one being a tea stall managed by one ‘Shetty’. ‘Shetty’, originally belonged to my state of Karnataka and thus was branded as my friend. If I am not mistaken, ‘Shetty’ was an ex-convict and for some strange reason, I thought it fit to keep this bit of information to myself. ‘Budding filmmaker befriends an ex-convict’ – didn’t sound nice at that point of time.
But the ever-talkative ‘Shetty’ was our man Friday. Keys were left with him so that roommates could collect it. The creative types would sit at his place for hours together and ‘think’ over cups of tea. Credit was provided, so was acidity. The only hitch – the man we all called ‘Shetty’ was not a ‘Shetty’, but an ‘Alva’. But for us, the equation was clear. Any hotel owner in Mumbai is a ‘Shetty’.
The TV industry was on the upswing and a few senior filmmakers that we knew of, had got together to form a body called ‘Channel Dosti’ (Channel Friendship). Or so, we at PMGP had heard. The idea, I believe, was to form a media collective. Soon, there was a meeting at my house. It was suggested by my PMGP colleagues that we too should form a body called ‘Channel Dushmani’ (Channel Enmity). Fortunately, like ‘Channel Dosti’, ‘Channel Dushmani’ too never took off.
But what we did manage to form was a media unit called ‘Dziga Collective’ consisting of fellow FTII graduates. The first and only job of this collective was to weekly sub-produce around eight to ten current affairs programs of three minutes each for Daryl D’Monte.
That meant that we needed at least eight to ten shooting units per week. It all seemed daunting at that time. But believe me, all we had to do was to walk into this ‘Shetty’ joint of ours, and lo, you found the unit that you wanted.
Initially, when I brought the place, well-wishers had warned me that the number of the house was unlucky. But for me, the purchase was a huge accomplishment – acquiring a roof akin to making a film. In fact, my friend and classmate from the film school, Rajiv Katiyal did comment in jest, ‘Ram could not make a film, so he purchased a flat’.
Yes, technically it was a ‘flat’. It had a living area, a tiny kitchen space and an attached bathroom cum toilet. Back home, my relatives were surprised and even impressed! This black sheep of the family had the presence of mind to buy a flat and that too, within a few years of moving into the city.
But only I knew that this ‘flat’ or ‘house’ that I owned was actually called as a ‘Kholi’ or a small tenement, in local language. Seven such ‘Kholi’ies existed on each floor; each building had four flours and there were seventeen buildings all together. Each of these ‘Kholi’ies must have housed at least four to five members of a family.
Rajiv himself had bought one such ‘Kholi’, in the building next to mine. So had cinematographer V Naravayan and writer Ashok Mishra. And then, there was documentary filmmaker Paromita. Within a year or two, I could see a lot of familiar faces around. Most were starting out in the field of media and film – directors, cameramen, editors, actors, dance directors…
We had our own hangouts, the main one being a tea stall managed by one ‘Shetty’. ‘Shetty’, originally belonged to my state of Karnataka and thus was branded as my friend. If I am not mistaken, ‘Shetty’ was an ex-convict and for some strange reason, I thought it fit to keep this bit of information to myself. ‘Budding filmmaker befriends an ex-convict’ – didn’t sound nice at that point of time.
But the ever-talkative ‘Shetty’ was our man Friday. Keys were left with him so that roommates could collect it. The creative types would sit at his place for hours together and ‘think’ over cups of tea. Credit was provided, so was acidity. The only hitch – the man we all called ‘Shetty’ was not a ‘Shetty’, but an ‘Alva’. But for us, the equation was clear. Any hotel owner in Mumbai is a ‘Shetty’.
The TV industry was on the upswing and a few senior filmmakers that we knew of, had got together to form a body called ‘Channel Dosti’ (Channel Friendship). Or so, we at PMGP had heard. The idea, I believe, was to form a media collective. Soon, there was a meeting at my house. It was suggested by my PMGP colleagues that we too should form a body called ‘Channel Dushmani’ (Channel Enmity). Fortunately, like ‘Channel Dosti’, ‘Channel Dushmani’ too never took off.
But what we did manage to form was a media unit called ‘Dziga Collective’ consisting of fellow FTII graduates. The first and only job of this collective was to weekly sub-produce around eight to ten current affairs programs of three minutes each for Daryl D’Monte.
That meant that we needed at least eight to ten shooting units per week. It all seemed daunting at that time. But believe me, all we had to do was to walk into this ‘Shetty’ joint of ours, and lo, you found the unit that you wanted.
It was as easy as that.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Akbar, Krish and Om Agarwal...
In the numerous Saas-Bahu (mother-in-law / daughter-in-law) serials that are currently on air on Indian prime time Television, it normally is the woman who does all the sinister scheming. In one particular serial ‘Pallavi’ is the scheming sister-in-law and ‘Parvathi’ is the wife who effectively counters her sinister designs. The point of contention is normally a man, Om Agrawal in this case; who is portrayed as a dumb and ignorant gentleman, oblivious to the overt plotting that happens around him.
The other day I happened to watch ‘Jodha Akbar’. In the film, Mogul emperor Akbar’s Hindu wife Jodha steps out of her palace in the middle of the night to meet her brother. Akbar’s scheming foster mother makes this encounter look like an adulterous liaison. Akbar believes and within a fraction of a second pronounces Jodha as guilty. She is sent back to her father’s place.
It looked odd to me that the emperor of
Despite the filmmaker’s great eye for the detail, for a second I thought I was watching Om Agarwal in a period costume.
In another sequence in the film, Akbar is shown taming a wild elephant. There is a shot where Akbar, without any support, first jumps on to a wall and then rebounds on to the elephant, to sit on top of it. The elephant is now tamed. It was as if he had flying powers. In another film ‘Krish’, Hrithik Roshan the actor who plays Akbar in ‘Jadha Akbar’ had played the title role of a super hero who could fly.
For a second I thought I was watching ‘Krish’ who had been transported into medieval
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