Real on Reel

I generally get into debates about movies. The conversation travels all aspects of movies right from the strength of the story to direction, acting, editing music and whatnots. The most interesting of the points that comes across, especially with new Hindi movies is the realism of the movies. How real the movie is? How well it portrays the ‘actual’ situation! Etc. Etc. Now the fun thing is, the better the movie scores in the public reality meter, the better they say the movie is.

Why do I say that this is funny? Very simply put, because people do not know what real is, but a perception of reality exists in their mind. And if the movie is fitting in that imaginary framework of reality, people want to claim that it is a realistic movie.

This might sound like a high handed irresponsible comment, for apparently I am indicting a whole group and accusing them of not knowing much. So, for putting the record straight let me confess – I do not claim to know a lot either. I do not know what the reality might be, but I know for sure what it is not.

Take Page3 for example. It is oft quoted as the best real movie of the recent times. Almost everyone is gaga over how elegantly the movie brings out the reality behind the glamour and the riches. I am inclined to agree that it is a nice movie, but I am not ready to accept that it portrays the ‘reality’. The reason why people want to believe that it is real is this – we live honest lives, earn a decent salary and in general are well to do. But we are not filmstars, or business magnates; we do not have sea view penthouses in Mumbai, we do not drive around in expensive cars. Thus, we want to believe that the people who are able to do this have to be dishonest- otherwise they’ll just be common people like we are. Concluding, our view of the ‘reality’ of the filthy rich comprises dishonesty, lecherousness, lack of character and saleable morals. We expect dirt, we WANT their lives to be ugly in a clandestine way, we wish they’d have broken families and paedophilic tendencies; we want to know that they do not sleep peacefully every night. Happiness is relative- you are happy because you have somebody who is unhappy to make comparisons with. Think about that.

The directors and the producers consciously know this tendency and hence on the box office are movies which are pseudo-real; which unashamedly fling mud on the silken robes of the rich and the famous – the people lap it up, cherishing the taste, and sleeping happily knowing that even the rich are unhappy.

Coming to the second part of my argument- why am I so sure that what I claim to be unreal is actually so? Consider a proof by contradiction. Assume all the people in power (political, financial or otherwise) are morally corrupt. Can you in any sanity explain how every system holds? As opposed to the common view that there are some honest people who make the system stick, I’d like to argue that it takes a large number of honest threads to hold the fabric together and in the process they bear the burden of some weaker threads too.

I am not blind to the fact that there ARE people who are corrupt, and that the slander stories might be true to a large extent; but they do not represent a majority. We still live in a largely honest society. (A cynical explanation to that is that it takes a lot of courage to be morally dishonest, but that’s another story)

The reason why I wrote this article is I want us to have a better, whiter view of the people who make money for us, people who entertain us, people who are inspirations to our children. A cynical world view does not make things any better.

You might call me a hopeless optimist; I’d prefer to be a realist.

Paying off Guilt

Ching ching... the few coins rattle in a dirty bowl. Sometimes even the bowl is missing; it is just an empty wrinkled hand, spread in pleading. You don’t need to look into the eyes to see the pain; the grime on the hand, the gnarled fingers, the mud-stained nails, the pencil thin wrists, the open wounds are enough to make you feel the pain.

I’ve come across the whole wide variety there is – of beggars. The old, the young, the kids, the lepers, the pregnant, the disfigured, the blind, the handicapped, the ones on crutches, the ones on wheelchairs, the ones with grotesque faces, the ones with beautiful pained faces, the ones with no faces, the ones that sing, the ones that bless, the ones that curse, the ones that plead, the ones that cry, the ones that say nothing, the ones in rags, the ones wearing everything they own, the ones naked, the ones that pray, the ones who crawl, the ones who cannot even crawl, the ones who beg in the name of bhawaan, the ones who beg in the name of allah, the ones who beg for their kids, the ones who beg for their old parents, the ones who beg for themselves, the ones who beg alone, the ones who beg in couples, the ones who beg in groups and even as I write, there is some new variety out there on a traffic signal, on the temple pavement, in the railway bogie, in the marketplace, in front of fancy malls, outside exhibitions, in front of theatres, at bus stops, near masjids, near parks, in the parking lot, at eateries: all of them, asking for whatever you can spare.

I have discovered that I can always spare something, coins, even notes. But let me tell you outright, it is not out of the goodness of my heart, or my god-fearing conscience that makes me do it or pity for that matter. I have thought and thought and concluded; the one thing that forces me to shell out something every time is Guilt.

Yes, guilt, that drives me to pay up, every time a pleading hand is spread. I think this is the least I can do, to redeem myself from being a part of a society that causes these people to beg. People keep telling me that beggars are vicious leeches, they beg even if they have the choice of honest hard work, that there are begging mafias and it is people like me who promote this filth on the streets, that if people like me completely stopped giving them alms they’ll look for and find something better to do; but I don’t want to believe them. Even if what they say is true, it is hidden from me, what I see is a sorry face with a pleading hand. For all that might be said about these people choosing to beg; I think of the emotional compromise that the person standing in front of me begging would have done.

The day he would have had to decide that to keep food in my stomach I will have to depend on other people’s pity, the first time he would have spread his hands in front of somebody and asked for money, the end of the first day he would have sat down and counted his day’s collection; the things that would have passed his mind that day, the feelings that would have shook his being that day; we cannot even start figuring them out.

As I write this article; my friend calls me up and says ‘we’re all going to the coffee shop – join us!’. The coffee shop as a concept has evolved. You get coffee, sure; but the accompaniments are unlike a coffee shop; a hookah for instance. The reason I’m telling you this is that this outing is going to cost me about 300 rupees. And when I sit there, staring at people, in their best dresses shelling out huge amounts of money for overpriced food articles I am forced to see flashing images of the beggar I came across just as I entered the shop.

This spending that I and others including you do is a ‘lifestyle requirement’. It is all great and everyone agrees it is great fun. But when I see that hand, asking for money – I feel guilty of having spent that money having ‘fun’ while there are people who have to ask for money to eat. We take pride in the fact that we are free and that my government guarantees me with rights- rights that the beggar doesn’t even know of. And I feel guilty about it.

So, to save myself of the agony of seeing these unnamed faces while I sit at the bar ordering a drink, or buy an overpriced gift for my girlfriend, or watch the late night movie at the multiplex, or treat my friends to an expensive dinner; while I buy myself clothes worth thousands, while I relax in a spa, while I sit cosy in my apartment having a warm meal – I pay up.

Coins, notes anything that I can spare and is equivalent with my guilt rate value. It is cheap bail I agree – but it frees me, even if temporarily, from the charges of being a part of ‘the society’ that is the way it is.

The Rain Gods

The grey clouds have held a pregnant promise for more than the due time. Every evening, they hang heavy, obscuring light and making every expectant eye turn skywards; and then they betray them. Like the girl who gives you that fleeting smile and then goes cold when you approach her.

Remorselessly they sponge clean the sky by night and leave the naked shining stars smiling at the practical joke. The sun comes up in the morning, the sky is blue and the wind balmy; but it does not feel like spring, it is just a beacon lit in the clear expanse of the sky, a rude reminder that it is another dry day of the monsoon.

A draught is imminent, and the city dwellers are a little worried about the water supply next summer. But it does not perturb them – why should it? The rainfall does not decide whether they can afford to send their kid to school this session. It does not decide whether they can celebrate Diwali this year with the same pomp as they did last year. It does not decide whether they can pay the premium on the loan for their house or their car. It does not decide the frequency of their meals. All they’ll probably say is, “Buying the raincoat this season was a big waste”.

I am one of those guys, and I live in a world where nature; in normal circumstances does not decide anything of vital importance, and this huge fact goes seemingly unnoticed. How often have you dwelt upon the weather and its effects on your daily life? Apart from cursing the sun when the air-conditioner is not working or cursing the rain when you have to go out, we do not give a damn to the follies of Mother Nature.

But I realise that I live in a country where the rainfall does decide the minutiae of the lives of millions. Now I have never lived in a village and am used to getting my food from the supermarket; hence I cannot fully comprehend the feeling in the eyes of the farmer, who sits on his haunches staring at the sky occupying most of the front page of my newspaper. All I get is a feeling of dread. I’m not scared of the global warming, or climate change, or the glaciers or anything; what I am really disturbed about is this irrational fear of ever finding myself in the shoes of that farmer. I do not know how I got this idea into my head, but it haunts me.

I’ve had dreams. I see that I have a running debt, I am out of cash; my family is hungry and I have nothing to feed them. My livestock looks sadly at their empty feeding bins, my wife has a knowing stare, and my kids have a blank one. I can no longer look into those eyes and assure them everything will be alright; I know it wouldn’t be. I avert their gaze and walk out to the parched field. I sit on my haunches and scrape the ground with my hands, picking the now withered seeds which held so much of promise a month ago when I pledged the land to buy them. I feel sad, and with searching eyes I look up to the sky; my eyes not searching for clouds but something else, an assurance from a higher power. It is at that moment I hear a click and I wake up. The photograph is on the top of my newspaper.

It is on these days, that I put aside all my rational beliefs; I forget that I am an atheist and that nature can very well be explained scientifically, I just dearly wish that there were a god and that he would be listening to prayers and putting things right, just this once.