Paan Singh Tomar: My take on the matter

At the outset, this is not a review. I don’t believe I have the credentials to review a movie. What I can do well within my rights, however, is to tell you what I thought of Paan Singh Tomar. And that’s just what I’m about to do.

Note: This post may be full of what you think are spoilers and what I think is common sense . Hence, (t)read carefully.

After quite some time, yours truly toddled off to the movies to catch Paan Singh Tomar. I didn't know much about the movie except the basic premise and the fact that it had Irrfan Khan in it. Of course I was sold. I was even excited, to be honest.

So, the positives. I’ll tell you what worked for me about the movie. Three things:

1)      Irrfan Khan

2)      Irrfan Khan

3)      Irrfan Khan

If it wasn’t for this brilliant actor and the almost perfect casting, I don’t think we’d have a movie half as decent. It began well. My interest was piqued enough. Irrfan Khan captivated me the moment he set foot into the screen. The amazing presence that man commands is enough for me to keep watching the screen till the end of time. He could be reciting the English alphabet backwards for six hours, for all I care.

First off, Paan Singh Tomar means well. The first half grips you, with Singh’s journey from army person to athlete being completely convincing (but of course, it’s a true story). What touches you the most, perhaps, is the protagonist’s innocence and the beautiful, effortless way Khan portrays the whole ‘Will run for food’ bit. you completely get why he becomes an athlete and you love him. All’s well in paradise till Tomar’s horrible cousin creates property troubles. And up to this point, you’re into every bit of the movie..

Just about here, the screenplay disappoints. You realize that the character development in the first half is good enough just for the first half. It does not flawlessly render into, and explain, the Tomar you see in the second half.

In all fairness, director Tigmanshu Dhulia has tried convincing you of the circumstances in which Tomar turns dacoit. Yes, our man tries to solve his property feuds legally, with the help of the village panchayat and the cops. His son is mercilessly beaten up and no one heeds his desperate pleas for justice. All his efforts fall flat. He tries telling them he’s been an athlete of international stature and should be paid attention to, if nothing else. No one cares a tiny bit.

And then, before you have time to digest all this information and even feel sorry at the man’s helplessness, you see he’s already formed the ‘Paan Singh Tomar Gang’ of 'rebels'. Huh? What did I miss?

What follows is a typical gang war / revenge saga. Somewhere, Dhulia doesn’t want you to forget that Tomar is essentially a good person whose circumstances are to blame for what he has become. Dhulia even keeps  rubbing this point in. But then, he also realises that he can’t really make an audience idolize a dacoit.

Unfortunately, Dhulia’s good person v/s bad person dilemma shows in his portrayal of the protagonist, making the character fall a little flat on its face. Three quarters of the movie down, you don’t know what you feel towards Tomar. You feel more and more distanced from his life’s misery and wonder how Dhulia is going to wrap up this whole drama. Maybe if Dhulia hadn’t tried convincing us of Tomar’s inherent goodness and just stuck to a narrative on his life, we’d have a more convincing movie.

In a nutshell, the second half completely lacked the meat required to support a pretty strong first half. Add to the fact that the story is very reminiscent of Dilip Kumar’s Ganga Jamuna. Just like Tomar, Ganga is a extremely law-abiding, straight-forward person, naïve person whose circumstances make him the village dacoit. But in Ganga's case, you completely get why he picks up that gun and rebels. You are convinced, too. But with Tomar, are you convinced he had no other choice before taking the extreme steps he did? Well, I’m not. 

Another important question. What issue(s) is this movie trying to raise before me?

That sportsmen die hungry in India and that no one cares for them?

That everyone, including the police, is corrupt?

That corruption is prevalent even in the most backward of Indian villages?

That sportsmen deserve justice and will turn dacoits if not heeded to?

That sometimes, when no one gets you justice, you have to take the law in your own hands?

Maybe it addresses all of them, but I can’t say I’m sure. And that’s my problem. I believe that somewhere, the extremely vital point of how this country doesn’t care for its sportsmen is lost in the rebelling and the 'dacoitism' and the family feuds. You can’t link anything in the end, with each issue becoming a separate entity. Take away the entire dejected sportsperson angle from the movie, and it still stands by itself. So why the need for that angle at all?

You can refute all my arguments by telling me this is a true story and one can’t really question someone's life.  And there exactly lies my disappointment. If it’s a true story, then excuse me, but your flawed research into the psyche of the man is showing. I can’t completely sympathize with Tomar, because you haven’t given me enough reason to. I can’t hate him completely, because you keep telling me he’s not all evil. I’m stuck somewhere in between, completely undecided on whether I like Tomar or not. And I’m not sure that’s a great place for me to be in. I don’t even care if he’s caught by the cops in the end.

Well, this could have been a great movie. Maybe you still think it is. Maybe I reason too much. Maybe the way I think is flawed. Or maybe I expect perfection.

Sorry, but Paan Singh Tomar didn’t work for me at all. Your saving grace was that fort of talent, Irrfan Khan, but that says nothing about the movie, does it?

P.S. Where the fuck did Tomar’s daughter disappear to, without a trace? Someone please investigate while I go back to not caring.

Just a li'l something

An unkind word,
For a li'l something I said. 
A li'l something I wished for you. 
A li'l something I don't want you to suffer
The way I have. And still do.
You're angry. I'm upset.
Apologise, I did,
Though not wholeheartedly. 
I look out for you, my silly child.
Because I must. I look out for you
more than I do for myself. 
Why, I sometimes wonder,
When you pay no heed to the love.
When you pay no heed to the tenderness.
When you look past the thick,
warm layers of love
I've wrapped around you.
For you to be safe.
For you to be happy. 
For me to take away
all that bothers you. 
Every speck of sadness
that threatens to hover,
A heartful of my love
to drive it away.
Why? 
What's in it for me?
What's in it for you?
Except your gentle, carefree snores. 
And a tearful night ahead of me. 
All this, for a li'l something
I said. 
Just a li'l something. 

A tangled warp of emotions

His undying declarations of love.

Her consistent refusals.

His pesky persistence.

Her impatient refusals.

His promises to keep her happy.

Her change in perspective.

His falling in love more than ever before.

Her seeing him in a different light.

His continuous proposals.

Her 'yes'.

His being over the moon.

Her being in love, finally.

His doing everything to keep her happy.

Her finally having found 'the one'.

His deciding he has found his wife.

Her similar thoughts on the matter.

His making her a part of his world completely.

Her finding communication a tough task.

His not spotting the problem.

Her bringing it to his notice.

His promises of doing better.

Her promises of working at it, too.

His taking her for granted.

Her resentment.

His hurt.

Her blind eye.

His cutting words.

Her cutting words.

His despair.

Her apathy.

His wondering what to do next.

Her knowing exactly what to do next.

His panic.

Her broken heart.

His pleas.

Her stony heart.

His uncontrollable loss.

Her tears.

His awareness of an unfilled void.

Her memory of him.

His memory of her.

Her losing her soulmate.

Oh, that gaping hole for life.

Didn't poop stop being funny at age 5, Delhi Belly?

Perhaps being 24 has really made me older. Perhaps I’m not as ‘cool’ as I thought I was. Perhaps I’m not easily amused. Perhaps, just perhaps, I choose not to go gaga over something just because everyone else has. Or maybe I’m just a spoilsport.

I saw Delhi Belly over the weekend. Thankfully, shows at Fame, etc. weren’t available and we were forced to watch it at Cinemax, a modest multiplex charging 100 bucks a piece. I did turn up my nose at the theatre at first, but 20 minutes into the film, I couldn’t thank my lucky stars enough for the unavailability of shows in other theatres.

I missed the start of the movie by 5 minutes or so (by the end, I wondered why I didn’t miss all of it, but then, I digress). So Delhi Belly is your typical Bollywood confusion saga, where, in a nutshell an (important) package that has to be delivered to a gangster gets interspersed with…wait for it…a stool sample. Runny stool, if you must know.

Riiiight.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like seeing live potty descriptions on the big screen. Neither do I like farts and other scatological sounds filling up my universe for an hour straight. And no, neither do I like hearing obscenities every five seconds. Also, I don’t like tasteless, not to mention unnecessary, sex scenes filling up the screen, either.

And no, not because I’m a prude.

But because, I think everyone more or less excretes the same way. And swears the same way, too. Any reason why I must pay good money to watch tripe like this in a cinema hall? Since when has poop been funny? And when was the last time you heard a movie was given an adult certification ONLY because of extremely needless bad words and random oral sex shots?

My grouse with the movie is just that. Take away all of the above from the film, and you’re left with nothing. A mediocre background score, a negligible storyline, some terrible acting (except Vijay Raaz) and a bad aftertaste. Why Delhi Belly? Because of the loosies it causes. Which in turn gives you an excuse for all the poop references.

Clap clap.

When your premise for the movie is so weak in itself, what more do you expect, really? I think I completely decided enough was bloody enough when Raaz neatly pours the runny stool sample into a napkin.

Haha. SO FUNNY!!! Let’s all ROFL, shall we?

Perhaps what amazes me more than the absolute mindnumbing bullshit on screen (shit, did I say?) was the IQ level of the audience that was present at the theatre when I was. Every swear word (everyday words like your chutiya, gandu, MC, BC, gaand, etc.) were being ROFLed at. People went ballistic when one of the characters washes his butt with orange juice due to the unavailability of water. AND SURPRISE! HIS BUTT WAS STUCK TOGETHER!

HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR.

Let me clutch your neck real tight and laugh some more, please?

Our audiences have the IQ of a rotting cabbage. Or am I still crediting them with more sense than they deserve? It’s sheer deprivation of good, quality cinema that makes people find everything funny. It’s depressing what amazing ratings the movie is getting, from film critics, people I credited with intelligence and other assorted species that were to at least have the brain of cock (cock – rooster #Geddit? HAHAHAHA.)

It’s a vicious circle. Feed the audience shit – watch them lap it up – feed them more shit – because they lap it up.

And yeah, don't even dare compare this shit to 'The Hangover'. 

And Aamir Khan, I'm sorry. I gave you a chance with Ghajini. But with Delhi Belly, I will hate you (like I hate the nonsense you've fed us).

Of Boobquakes and SlutWalks

SlutWalk seems to be the new ‘Boobquake’. Twitter can’t stop talking about it, news sites are giving it a lot of coverage (I don’t know about newspapers, I’m going green) while I’ve even heard my fellow women passengers in the train vehemently appreciate a ‘daring’ and ‘bold’ movement like that.

So for the uninitiated, here’s your SlutWalk gyaan. 

Just a few questions, though. 

Does a man’s sexual beast awaken only when a woman is ‘half-clothed’? True that perhaps skin show excites him a little more than he normally would have been, but how about the zillion times I’ve been fully covered, in a three-fourth sleeved kurta and jeans, no cleavage showing, but still had a lewd remark or a boob graze strewn my way? How do you explain this molestation? The amount of times I’ve had to hit molesters on the head with the binding of my book till they wince is not funny. I can safely say I haven’t been showing any skin at any of those times (since I don’t wear revealing clothes), but have had my fair share of eve-teasing thrown my way.

The worst part? One generally can’t do anything about it. There usually isn’t any use retaliating when you hurl your dirtiest swear word back at these men, or worse hit back, because they’re generally used to all this and more. You do it for your satisfaction, but realize you don’t really get any. Slowly you get used to being molested like this, without it playing on your head all day. What do you do but get used to it really, except sit at home?

That is how sad the state of affairs has become.

But then on the other hand are the men who would never utter a lewd word about any woman, even if she was walking naked on the road. Laugh all you want, but I do know men like that. They’d help bash up anyone who troubles random women, let alone women who are their friends or family. Don’t we all know such men, too? Just proves it takes all kinds to make up the male species.

So how do you explain the mentality of a man, really?

And as women, don’t we judge other women who are provocatively dressed? I know I do. I judge a girl who’s wearing a really tiny skirt that barely covers her butt. I know I think a zillion times before I wear something I think is remotely revealing. “Is my cleavage showing?”, “Are the boobs looking too big?” Questions most of us ask ourselves each morning as we dress up.

Are we really as liberated in our own heads as we make ourselves out to be? We fear being judged by all and sundry when we wear certain types of clothing – and the fear rarely has to do with molestation. We fear how we are perceived by everyone around us. If we aren’t confident of whether what we’re doing is right or wrong, don’t expect anyone else around to reassure you either.

Remember, slutty is in the mind. You are as slutty as you think you are. No one else holds the right to call you that, as long as you don’t call yourself that, either.

Happy SlutWalking!

Every once in a while...

(Forgive me for this personal, random post. Just need an outlet, and what better than my own blog?)

Every once in a while, you decide your life is perfect just the way it is. Every once in a while, you’re certain that the way your life is headed is just the way you want it to be. These rare flashes of insight are what keep you going, convincing you that the path you have chosen is right, the risks you’ve taken have been worthwhile, that you’re finally becoming someone capable of taking your own decisions. You heave a satisfied sigh of relief and try bettering yourself.

And then, every once in a while your belief in yourself is broken into a zillion pieces, when something you believe in, are proud of, is shot down by someone else. Someone you look up to, someone whose word is the gospel for you. And suddenly you’re not so proud anymore. Suddenly you wonder if you’re doing the right thing, if you were ever doing the right thing.

Parents, family, boyfriends, girlfriends, everyone close thinks you’re completely in the right place. But how much of it is the bias of their love for you and how much is the absolute truth? How does one go about pacifying self-doubt and self-worth? 

Am I really good at whatever I do and take up? 

Is there a way to ever know?

And then there are the friends. The people you trust with your life. The people who, whether or not they agree with you, will not judge you and hold stuff you tell them against you. Where do you go when someone like this does judge you after all? Phases you out, doesn’t want to talk to you apart from the bare essentials? Will you trust anyone with your darkest secrets ever again?

I don’t think so. If you were to learn from my experience, I’d say don’t tell anyone about stuff no one would understand. How much ever they claim they would. There are some things best left untold, best taken to your grave.

Trust me, it’s for the good of everyone concerned. Or not.

Losing you?

I fear losing you. 
Stupid cliche?
I think not. 
Hackneyed? 
Not anymore.
Scary? Not when it 
Happens to someone else. 


When it's you?  
Shatters my world. 


What world, really? 


The one we've carefully 
Built together? 
Of the home facing the sea? 
Where sounds of your 
Laughter, are what only waves 
Are made of? 

Where love runs through 
The hallways
Like a child, mischievous?


Where arguments crumble 
Like our daughter's dominos?
Where you and I grow 
To love one another. 
Grow older? Better?


Where beauty fades away.
But love engulfs?


Is it the same home? 
The same world?
Is it so brittle? 
A mere domino, 
Is that what it is?


Answer me this. 
You owe me an explanation. 
You give me some answers. 


I know you have none.


Answer me this. 
Wash me of my guilt.
Explain. 
So I hate not my own soul. 


Do this for us. Do this for me. 
Selfishness, I seek refuge in you. 
Wipe away my tears. 
And I shall wipe yours.


For is that not what makes you and me,
My soulmate?