Guinea Pig Tale

Over the weekend, I had the chance of seeing two films - Aiyya and English Vinglish. Both films feature a woman as the central character and are helmed by debutante directors. Both, incidentally, have Marathi households as their cinematic background. And the music for both has been scored by Amit Trivedi (of Dev D fame). That’s where the similarities end, though. Directors Gauri Shinde and Sachin Kundalkar (both Marathi) have made diametrically opposite films, both in terms of story and quality.   Before I proceed to postulate why Aiyyaa leads nominations for the Worst Film of the Year, I’ll concede that it’s not entirely bad. Rani, for instance, plays the part of the filmi, scent-obsessed Marathi girl with perfection. The music is competent, with songs like ‘Aga Bai’ and ‘Sava Dollar’ superbly choreographed. There are flashes of brilliance in the cinematography too – especially in the climax when Meenaxi discovers the secret of Surya’s scent. None of this saves the film from bei

I woke up in a cold sweat, with my mind drowned in the images of the previous night’s dream – feeling strangely calm.  “No, it isn’t acceptable to me. Father cannot leave like this.” I found myself saying this out loud, in an even tone, with a intent expression on my face. Running... Runnning back to father, before it is too late. Reaching and seeing his smiling face. This was a respite from the usual nightmares, the same every time – seeing Father dying. At least I had seen him smile. But it had become harder and harder to deal with the vivid images, because I knew they were just apparitions of my mind – somehow false, as though someone were fooling me.  That day was the last straw – there was nothing else to keep me from the emptiness. When grief is gone, there is just deep, dark emptiness. Devoid of colour, sound or warmth, like the cold motionless heart I laid my hand on five months ago. There are no more tears - just an odd, desolate disconnection every time I t

The Graph of Life They say is life is full of ups and downs. And it’s true too. Sometimes life is at an ecstatic A level. Then it might sink down to a miserable level C. Most of the time though, we spend our lives floating in the normal B range - neither too happy, nor too sad.  It’s a little different for me. My graph looks somewhat like this:   It’s like someone has stamped on all the peaks. The whole thing sinks down a few notches, and it’s just impossible for emotions to go beyond a level (A#). It’s not like there isn’t any happiness, but you never hit euphoria. Most of your time is spent trying to run away from the horrifying depths of grief, and staying at that crucial level of sanity. As few weeks back, I thought I was close to acceptance and moving on. The numbness was beginning to fade and everything seemed less unbelievable than a month ago. Then one night, while trawling the net, something caught my eye. “Bolton Wanderers player Fabr

There’s layer of fine dust over everything in the house, and I’m thinking of how it will take another week to get the damn thing out of every surface, crack and hole in the house. Now, ordinarily, Hindu families avoid any new construction or major purchases for a year after a family member’s death. This job, however, was started by my father, and so we decided to complete it. I stare outside at the hazy excuse of a night sky and I have a sudden moment when everything appears hollow, shallow and meaningless. Unreal. It’s always at night that it’s the worst. When you’re all alone in the darkness with your thoughts, with no TV or guests or internet to distract you. When it hits you just as hard as the first day that there will be no father to wake you up, smile proudly at your test scores, to sing along anymore. People assume you look for an escape from the sadness, and so everyone gives the same advice: let life go on. I object. I don’t want to move on, or let life go