As I see the various tributes pouring in for Yash Chopra on television channels, the heart swells with a welter of emotions. It is impossible to believe that the great man who only recently celebrated his eightieth birthday and announced his retirement is gone. Dengue has claimed an unlikely victim.
My mind goes back to a time 20 years back when Yash Chopra was a sprightly sixty and I was a cub reporter with a popular film magazine. I had gone to cover the shooting of one of the great man’s least known films –Parampara-at a location near Pune. The image that I have of Yashji is of a well-built person who spoke English with an accent but came across as warm and transparent.
When a pesky journalist queried him about the behaviour of one of the movie’s stars Saif Ali Khan, Chopra replied with politeness. He said that he behaved very well and that you had to make allowances for a boy coming from a well to do family.
Yashji also displayed superhuman patience every time Aamir Khan asked for a retake even after the director had okayed the shot. The actor who has a rage for perfection was trying to improve upon each shot of his and the great director was acceding to that request.
And Yashji joined the entire crew for lunch. This was as egalitarian as it got. Quite frankly apart from this I have very little recollection of the visit.
But the heart and the mind are full with a bunch of memories which will go with me to the grave. Memories of pure pleasure that come from watching a Yash Chopra movie. Whether it is the “Mere Paas Ma Hai” gem from Deewar or the intensity of Amitabh Bachchan in Trishul, the “Dekha Ek Khwab” number from Silsila or the title song of Kabhi Kabhi.
While each and every one of these will hold special memories for me and lovers of Hindi cinema, my defining memory will be “Main Pal do Pal Ka Shayar Hoon”. This is not your conventional Hindi film song but poetry of the highest order. It conveys more about life than anything that I have come across from the great movie maker’s works.
Especially the haunting lines
“Kal Koyi Mujko Yaad Kare
Kyon Koyi Mujko Yaad Kare
Makroor Zaman Mere Liye
Kyon Waqt Apna Barbaad Kare”
We cannot but remember you Yashji. For you have now become a part of our consciousness. Something to be transmitted from generation to generation-just like your movies and songs. Just as there is a variation of the song towards the end of the movie Kabhi Kabhi-Main Har Ek Pal Ka Shayar Hoon. RIP but you will live on Yashji.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
A Glimpse into Life from the Mahalakshmi Temple
“I have made a mistake by coming on this trip with you people. It is very uncomfortable traveling by car for such a long time. I should have stayed at home with mummy,” said my six year old son Sanjiv with the gravity of a person beyond his age.
Sanjiv had chosen to accompany me and my parents on a trip to the Mahalakshmi temple in Mumbai. The trip was to take approximately two hours.
“Come on. Your father used to travel by train and bus when he was your age to get to the temple while you have problems traveling by car,” returned my mother. Traveling by bus and train was to Sanjiv taking the road less traveled. Nevertheless my mother’s statement brought back a flood of memories about various trips to this temple beginning in the early seventies. Typically, my family (including my brother) would take a train to Byculla and then the bus to the temple. One of the joys of this trip was that we would get on to a double decker bus. My brother and I would scramble to the front seat and lean over the window just ahead of us as my parents urged us to be careful. The breeze would simply waft on to our face while we laughed delightedly.
After worshipping at the temple, the next stop would be at the canteen in the temple premises where we would gulp down some tea and snacks. This would be followed by a foray into the rocks alongside the temple which led into the sea. Also there would be a wonderful view of the Hajiali dargah.
This time too after worshipping the goddess of wealth, I took Sanjiv down to the canteen. We skipped the tea and snacks but I badly wanted to take him at least close to the rocks. We found out however that no trip was possible to the rocks as the entire place had been barricaded by a fence presumably on security grounds. I was deeply disappointed as I was keen on taking my son to a place which had given me considerable pleasure in the past. The view of the Dargah was however as good as ever. Nevertheless the disappointment lingered. Sanjiv despite his complaints had been able to travel to the temple in style in a car- a sign of the changed times. I could not take him to closer to the sea thanks to the fence. Alas, this too is a sign of the changed times.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Black Hair and the Art of Parenting
Last weekend I was trying to get my son Sanjiv to get ready for a competition. After his bath, I was trying to get him to apply oil on his hair. He was doing his best to avoid it. That is when I thought that my big moment had arrived. “Look at daddy’s hair. It is still jet black and that is because I have applied oil on my hair all my life. If you want to have black hair you too must apply oil,” I said with considerable flourish.
My son wasn’t to be denied his say though. “If you don’t have grey hair now, you will have grey hair eventually.” Words of wisdom from a six year old which stumped a 46 year old.
Now one of the things of which I am inordinately proud of is my black hair. Naturally black, let me assure you. None of the fancy hair dyes that are available freely in the market have ever found their way into my hair. The truth as they say is as dark as it gets. Except that this time the dark truth is a fair picture of things.
Now I am a person who hates to lose an argument as much as my son likes to win one. “Come on Sanjiv, my hair is not going to grey anytime soon. People younger than me have grey hair but your daddy hasn’t got a single strand. My hair will remain black forever,” I said with considerable glee if not triumph.
Now Sanjiv had an answer for this one too. “Daddy you will have grey hair at the time of my marriage,” he said with conviction. I was again stumped for an answer. Granted that this is a generation on the fast lane. Agreed that we live in the Web 2.0 era which is charecterized by user generation content and interactivity. But a six year old speaking about his marriage and being able to co-relate it with the colour of his daddy’s hair. At one level I was amused. At another level I was stunned and even apprehensive and it also raised questions in my mind about my ability to be a good parent. Reinvention I have realized is not only the norm in the workplace but also at home. The Web 2.0 parent can respond to user generated content by only being interactive. Words like empowerment, delegation which have become a part of the workplace lexicon now have found their way into parenting too. As I steeled myself to be a different kind of parent, I caught my reflection on the mirror. The face may have looked grim with the dawn of new realities but the hair was still jet black. The years of applying oil on my hair-not even subscribing to the fad of dry hair during my teenage days- had paid off. My lips creased into a smile with the realization that Sanjiv’s marriage is still some years away and only at that time we will see as to who has won the final argument. Till then it is back to the next dab of coconut oil.
My son wasn’t to be denied his say though. “If you don’t have grey hair now, you will have grey hair eventually.” Words of wisdom from a six year old which stumped a 46 year old.
Now one of the things of which I am inordinately proud of is my black hair. Naturally black, let me assure you. None of the fancy hair dyes that are available freely in the market have ever found their way into my hair. The truth as they say is as dark as it gets. Except that this time the dark truth is a fair picture of things.
Now I am a person who hates to lose an argument as much as my son likes to win one. “Come on Sanjiv, my hair is not going to grey anytime soon. People younger than me have grey hair but your daddy hasn’t got a single strand. My hair will remain black forever,” I said with considerable glee if not triumph.
Now Sanjiv had an answer for this one too. “Daddy you will have grey hair at the time of my marriage,” he said with conviction. I was again stumped for an answer. Granted that this is a generation on the fast lane. Agreed that we live in the Web 2.0 era which is charecterized by user generation content and interactivity. But a six year old speaking about his marriage and being able to co-relate it with the colour of his daddy’s hair. At one level I was amused. At another level I was stunned and even apprehensive and it also raised questions in my mind about my ability to be a good parent. Reinvention I have realized is not only the norm in the workplace but also at home. The Web 2.0 parent can respond to user generated content by only being interactive. Words like empowerment, delegation which have become a part of the workplace lexicon now have found their way into parenting too. As I steeled myself to be a different kind of parent, I caught my reflection on the mirror. The face may have looked grim with the dawn of new realities but the hair was still jet black. The years of applying oil on my hair-not even subscribing to the fad of dry hair during my teenage days- had paid off. My lips creased into a smile with the realization that Sanjiv’s marriage is still some years away and only at that time we will see as to who has won the final argument. Till then it is back to the next dab of coconut oil.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The Kinder Side of Life:
“Please sit down here,” said the old man at the Bank in a classic case of role reversal. The younger man was being offered a seat by an elderly person. The younger man was none other thane me while the old man was one of many who displayed the kinder side of life to me for about three months last year.
The reason for this was that a fall in my office had resulted in a torn ligament. Thanks to modern surgical shoes I was quickly up and about. While the surgical shoes got me back on my feet quickly, they could not camouflage my discomfort. Add to this the fact that I had to often walk around with a stick and the world had ceased to be a stage and had become more of an oyster as I was largely confined to home.
Indeed the old man was not the only person who displayed this side of life to me during my short travails. On the rare occasion that I stepped out o f my house, the people in my building (mostly the elderly) wondered how I was managing since they had seen me take my brisk morning walk regularly. One of them said,”Tumhe nazar lag gayee,” meaning that an evil eye had befallen me. Even that much maligned species, Mumbai’s autowallas often melted enough to ferry me over short distances or literally go the extra mile.
I have now resumed my walks and my life. As I look back, I am filled with a sense of gratitude to all those who conveyed their good wishes to me during a rather trying period. And who can forget Nimish, Gurdeep and Vidhata the three original angels who ferried me to hospital after my fall in the office or my boss Srini who lent his car for the purpose.
This tribute to the kinder side of life would not be complete without a special reference to my friend Deepak. Early on in my treatment, a decision had to be made as to whether I should opt for the surgical shoes which entailed a sizeable investment or opt for the conventional cast. All of us friends when we have a medical problem immediately get in touch with Deepak. Sure enough, I was dialing Deepak and he had the answer as usual. “Ravi, I know you. You are incapable of sitting still and being in a cast will hamper your movements no end. This will totally demoralize you. Forget the cost, just opt for the shoe,” he said. That decided it. Needles to say that Deepak’s words were prophetic and his advice was based as much on the psychology of the individual as on medicine. Looking back, I must say that being mobile made a huge difference to my treatment. And it was more mental than physical. In the immortal words of Jeeves, Deepak the best doctor to walk the planet without a formal medical degree had grasped “the psychology of the individual.” Thank you Jeeves, I mean Deepak.
The reason for this was that a fall in my office had resulted in a torn ligament. Thanks to modern surgical shoes I was quickly up and about. While the surgical shoes got me back on my feet quickly, they could not camouflage my discomfort. Add to this the fact that I had to often walk around with a stick and the world had ceased to be a stage and had become more of an oyster as I was largely confined to home.
Indeed the old man was not the only person who displayed this side of life to me during my short travails. On the rare occasion that I stepped out o f my house, the people in my building (mostly the elderly) wondered how I was managing since they had seen me take my brisk morning walk regularly. One of them said,”Tumhe nazar lag gayee,” meaning that an evil eye had befallen me. Even that much maligned species, Mumbai’s autowallas often melted enough to ferry me over short distances or literally go the extra mile.
I have now resumed my walks and my life. As I look back, I am filled with a sense of gratitude to all those who conveyed their good wishes to me during a rather trying period. And who can forget Nimish, Gurdeep and Vidhata the three original angels who ferried me to hospital after my fall in the office or my boss Srini who lent his car for the purpose.
This tribute to the kinder side of life would not be complete without a special reference to my friend Deepak. Early on in my treatment, a decision had to be made as to whether I should opt for the surgical shoes which entailed a sizeable investment or opt for the conventional cast. All of us friends when we have a medical problem immediately get in touch with Deepak. Sure enough, I was dialing Deepak and he had the answer as usual. “Ravi, I know you. You are incapable of sitting still and being in a cast will hamper your movements no end. This will totally demoralize you. Forget the cost, just opt for the shoe,” he said. That decided it. Needles to say that Deepak’s words were prophetic and his advice was based as much on the psychology of the individual as on medicine. Looking back, I must say that being mobile made a huge difference to my treatment. And it was more mental than physical. In the immortal words of Jeeves, Deepak the best doctor to walk the planet without a formal medical degree had grasped “the psychology of the individual.” Thank you Jeeves, I mean Deepak.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The Eighties: More than just “Ooh la la” and Oomph
I am a great fan of the relatively new music channel Sony Mix which is devoted exclusively to music. A few days back I was watching their programme “Hits of the Eighties” and was waiting for one of the so –called songs that defined the eighties. The films of the eighties have been a lot in the news thanks to “The Dirty Picture”. The movie is not only supposed to be a biopic on the late Silk Smita but also some kind of a reminder if not a tribute to the eighties. ‘Ooh La La from “The Dirty Picture” has become some kind of an anthem to the eighties. In short the movie and the song have become a symbol for some very crude music\movies and by extension the eighties.
I do not dispute for a moment that the mid-eighties was the most vulgar era in the history of Indian cinema. This period is best remembered for the movies\songs featuring Jeetendra-Sridevi-Jayaprada. Crass commercialism conceptualized vulgar art. The majority of the movie halls were badly maintained which made the average middle class family think twice before venturing into them. Add to this a disruptive technology called the video cassette recorder or VCR (It was indeed disruptive although in today’s era of movie downloads it may seem like an antique piece) which allowed people to view the latest movies at home thanks to piracy. The only way producers and theatre owners could make money was to make movies for the lowest common denominator who would flock to the theatres as they had little or no access to these new VCRs.
Now to get back to my original point, I was awaiting some of the songs of the “vulgar” era. What I got instead was gems like “Neela Aasman So Gaya” (Silsila); “Dikhaayi Diye Yun” (Bazaar) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVsIxzMgwVY); “Sheesha Ho ya Dil Ho” (Aasha); “Hazaar Raahein” (Thodisi Bewafai); and “Sun Sun Didi Tere Liye Ek Rishta Aaya Hai” (Khoobsurat). What you have is as good a collection of Hindi songs as any. There are some other songs as well from the eighties from movies like Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak- “Hai Mere Humsafar;” “Dil Deewana Bin Sajana Ke Mane Na” from Maine Pyar Kiya; the party song of the eighties “Ek Do Teen”(Tezaab) and not to forget “Kahdo ke Tume Meri Varna” as well as “So Gaya Yeh Jahaan”from the same movie. Can anyone forget the immortal “Mujhe Tum Yaad Karna” from Mashal or “Sun Sahiba Sun” from Ram Teri Ganga Maili which was another landmark in the career of Lata Mangeshkar. The list can go on really. The point that I am trying to make is that if “Ooh La La” is one reality of the eighties so was “Dekha Ek Khwab” from Silsila. If it was the era of a Bhappi Lahiri, it was also the era that saw Shiv-Hari compose music for Silsila and Chandni. Granted “Ooh La La” was the dominant theme of the eighties but by no means the only one. And Thank You Sony Mix for helping put things in context.
I do not dispute for a moment that the mid-eighties was the most vulgar era in the history of Indian cinema. This period is best remembered for the movies\songs featuring Jeetendra-Sridevi-Jayaprada. Crass commercialism conceptualized vulgar art. The majority of the movie halls were badly maintained which made the average middle class family think twice before venturing into them. Add to this a disruptive technology called the video cassette recorder or VCR (It was indeed disruptive although in today’s era of movie downloads it may seem like an antique piece) which allowed people to view the latest movies at home thanks to piracy. The only way producers and theatre owners could make money was to make movies for the lowest common denominator who would flock to the theatres as they had little or no access to these new VCRs.
Now to get back to my original point, I was awaiting some of the songs of the “vulgar” era. What I got instead was gems like “Neela Aasman So Gaya” (Silsila); “Dikhaayi Diye Yun” (Bazaar) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVsIxzMgwVY); “Sheesha Ho ya Dil Ho” (Aasha); “Hazaar Raahein” (Thodisi Bewafai); and “Sun Sun Didi Tere Liye Ek Rishta Aaya Hai” (Khoobsurat). What you have is as good a collection of Hindi songs as any. There are some other songs as well from the eighties from movies like Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak- “Hai Mere Humsafar;” “Dil Deewana Bin Sajana Ke Mane Na” from Maine Pyar Kiya; the party song of the eighties “Ek Do Teen”(Tezaab) and not to forget “Kahdo ke Tume Meri Varna” as well as “So Gaya Yeh Jahaan”from the same movie. Can anyone forget the immortal “Mujhe Tum Yaad Karna” from Mashal or “Sun Sahiba Sun” from Ram Teri Ganga Maili which was another landmark in the career of Lata Mangeshkar. The list can go on really. The point that I am trying to make is that if “Ooh La La” is one reality of the eighties so was “Dekha Ek Khwab” from Silsila. If it was the era of a Bhappi Lahiri, it was also the era that saw Shiv-Hari compose music for Silsila and Chandni. Granted “Ooh La La” was the dominant theme of the eighties but by no means the only one. And Thank You Sony Mix for helping put things in context.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Balu the Bull
“Balu the Bull, eats stomach full”, chimed a bunch of teenagers including (yours truly) hovering between the ages of 15 and 17.
The Balu in question being no bull but a well built young lad of around 15 with a good measure of adipose thrown in. Not all adipose but a certain amount of muscle too which used to deter us boys from going too far. The combined effect of muscle and adipose was to give the impression of a man who enjoyed his food and consequently beat the inflation rate quite comfortably.
Balu or G Balasubramaniam was my hostel mate at the Hindu Senior Secondary School, Chennai where I studied from the eighth to tenth standard between 1978 to 1981. Balu was two years older than me and a bright student. He also loved reading books. Thanks to Balu I was introduced to Forsyth’s immortal work “The Day of the Jackal” and the definitive book on the mafia “The Godfather” by Mario Puzo. Balu would read excerpts from these novels while me and another hostel mate Muthu listened with rapt attention. These readings were conducted during study our in our room. All I can say in mitigation is that at least we read while the majority of the hostel mates pretended to be engrossed in studying while all they were waiting for was the dinner gong.
Apart from introducing me to the great works of crime fiction Balu occasionally helped me with my studies as well. Balu, me and Muthu formed a trio who were well regarded by the warden as well as the students. Looking back I can say with some pride that we did manage to raise the bar as far as education standards where concerned in the hostel.
There is one incident which standouts in my mind. One of my relatives Kavita (another teenager) used to visit me quite often in the hostel. Now the rumour was that Balu had developed a soft corner for this girl. My protective instincts were aroused. Friendship was secondary to the cause of protecting the members of the fairer sex. I did not know how to deal with the situation. I began to keep an eye on Balu. The next time I thought that the Bull was on a prowl I began following him. Balu I think cottoned on and led me to a merry dance. Apart from, a little pain in my legs nothing really came off the exercise. The bull of course gave me a huge grin. As subsequent events were to prove my doubts were entirely unfounded and the whole story in journalistic parlance was nothing more than a plant designed for an audience of one-me.
Soon after Balu alas completely disappeared from my life. After his Class X examinations, he left the hostel. Apart from a chance meeting near Bangalore station, I haven’t seen Balu for over a quarter century. The memories of the man who introduced me to Michael Corleone and the chacal (French for Jackal) however refuse to fade. As Don Corleone said in The Godfather, ”Everyman has but one destiny”. Balu I guess is pursuing his while I am pursuing mine and our paths may never cross again.
The Balu in question being no bull but a well built young lad of around 15 with a good measure of adipose thrown in. Not all adipose but a certain amount of muscle too which used to deter us boys from going too far. The combined effect of muscle and adipose was to give the impression of a man who enjoyed his food and consequently beat the inflation rate quite comfortably.
Balu or G Balasubramaniam was my hostel mate at the Hindu Senior Secondary School, Chennai where I studied from the eighth to tenth standard between 1978 to 1981. Balu was two years older than me and a bright student. He also loved reading books. Thanks to Balu I was introduced to Forsyth’s immortal work “The Day of the Jackal” and the definitive book on the mafia “The Godfather” by Mario Puzo. Balu would read excerpts from these novels while me and another hostel mate Muthu listened with rapt attention. These readings were conducted during study our in our room. All I can say in mitigation is that at least we read while the majority of the hostel mates pretended to be engrossed in studying while all they were waiting for was the dinner gong.
Apart from introducing me to the great works of crime fiction Balu occasionally helped me with my studies as well. Balu, me and Muthu formed a trio who were well regarded by the warden as well as the students. Looking back I can say with some pride that we did manage to raise the bar as far as education standards where concerned in the hostel.
There is one incident which standouts in my mind. One of my relatives Kavita (another teenager) used to visit me quite often in the hostel. Now the rumour was that Balu had developed a soft corner for this girl. My protective instincts were aroused. Friendship was secondary to the cause of protecting the members of the fairer sex. I did not know how to deal with the situation. I began to keep an eye on Balu. The next time I thought that the Bull was on a prowl I began following him. Balu I think cottoned on and led me to a merry dance. Apart from, a little pain in my legs nothing really came off the exercise. The bull of course gave me a huge grin. As subsequent events were to prove my doubts were entirely unfounded and the whole story in journalistic parlance was nothing more than a plant designed for an audience of one-me.
Soon after Balu alas completely disappeared from my life. After his Class X examinations, he left the hostel. Apart from a chance meeting near Bangalore station, I haven’t seen Balu for over a quarter century. The memories of the man who introduced me to Michael Corleone and the chacal (French for Jackal) however refuse to fade. As Don Corleone said in The Godfather, ”Everyman has but one destiny”. Balu I guess is pursuing his while I am pursuing mine and our paths may never cross again.
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