article, life, literature and books, movie review, Review

13 Reasons Why (not)…

I fell in love with season 1 of 13 Reasons Why. My tryst with binge-watching started out with this series and in spite of not having read the novel on which the show is based, I could relate to all the characters, having had a turbulent high school experience myself. I admired how the show, although mired in moral ambiguity, showed multiple sides of a single story, which was the fallout of the suicide of a Liberty High student – Hannah Baker. The show explores different themes which have been brushed under the carpet, especially in India. Sexual assault, drug abuse, depression – all had been dealt with grace, without patronising any character. It had a lot of grey areas fit into one screen.

Season 2 does just the opposite.

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Credits: Netflix

The show picks up 5 months after Hannah’s death, and this time, the episodes start with voiceovers of characters who are testifying in a civil suit filed by her parents against the school. Liberty High is the same bleak place that it was in the first season; however, the events are more sinister and show a deeper problem than we’d ever expect. Slowly and steadily, all characters are stripped off their secrets and the pace of the show trots towards an end that is as ghastly, and prone to criticism, as the final episode of the first season.

Hannah’s batchmates, parents, counselor and an old classmate, everyone takes the stand in this 13 episode marathon. Their narration is like a personal address to the audience. It is probably the most gripping part of the series. Their side of the story may leave a lot of strings untied instead of helping you make sense of why Hannah did what she did. The storyline is so starkly different from that depicted in season 1, that it does not bear an iota of conviction. It does more to pour old wine into a new bottle. The show is all drama and little sense; we are introduced to more bullying, victim intimidation, drug abuse and assault which borders on forced storytelling. No amount of screen relief is a relief.

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Credits: Netflix

However, it’s Tyler’s tragedy that is the most jarring and troubling aspect of the show. While most of the season was spent dredging up the past, Tyler’s struggle with social identification, peer pressure and his slow descent into a violent streak shows a problematic depiction on the producers’ part. It is sad that the premiere of the show coincided with an actual shooting in a Texas school that left 10 dead, underlining how the debate around gun-violence needs to be deal with care. However in the show, Tyler’s growing obsession with guns is a precursor to the finale episode. His abuse at the hands of Monty and his minions is one of the most horrible scenes I’ve witnessed in my life – the graphic depiction felt unnecessary. His abuse seems to justify his decision to almost massacre an entire school. Also, it appears to be a last minute deed to balance the scale of gender by discussing sexual abuse that happens with men, albeit in a hurried manner. Also letting Clay deal with Tyler in order to break his trance is tipping the iceberg in a dangerous direction, one which could’ve gone the other direction with a lot less ease. It is important to discuss the repercussions of senseless bravery.

The mysterious polaroids is a plot device that is put in to take the narrative of the season forward, implying how Bryce’s corrupt character is far more sinister that shown in the first season, how the culture of Liberty High does nothing to prevent sexual assault and mental trauma. In his conversation with his mother, we finally see how cruel and depraved Bryce is. It is only his character on which the story takes a rigid stand. But post that, the polaroids are an unnecessary, complicated addition, sending the characters on a blind goose chase, which is evidently felt as the end draws nearer.

Every other character oscillates between the black and the white when their story is narrated, so much so that the show ends up condoning the actions of the students. Alex, who shot himself in the first season, has survived the ordeal but is left with physical and mental scars. Justin, who took to the streets, is found by Clay who tries to wean him off his heroin addiction. Jessica is dealing with the scarring reality of attending high school with her rapist. Tony finds love, but he too has to face his demons this season. The show tries to humanise the trials and tribulations of the young protagonists to an extent that they portray all the actions as having emerged from a harsh reality and an unfair system but not as a product of their own choice. But there always is a choice.

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Credits: Netflix

The one thing that 13 Reasons Why season 2 gets right is the absolute shock that awaits the parents of various protagonists. From Hannah’s mother’s struggle to maintain sanity in her world that is falling apart at the seams, to Clay’s mother trying to hold on to whatever remains of her son after he has lost his love, their struggle is a reminder of how important it is to involve parents in a constructive dialogue with their kids. Parents know of our struggles and vices, like Bryce’s mother did, but it is the egotism of a parent, that Bryce’s father epitomizes, which convinces them that for whatever reason, their child is different from the crowd. Clay, in a very telling scene, says to his father ‘…maybe we are trying to protect you’. It is this chasm, between reality and a perceived reality of the parents, that needs to be bridged through communication.

Season 1 called on our empathy, the exact emotion that was denied to Hannah. We went on to give it to all characters regardless. The show became a collective call to all people, institutions who continue to pass the buck, to parents who themselves are victims of this system. But in season 2, the entire base on which our sympathy was triggered for the characters is turned into a fallacy. Hannah is stripped of all honesty, her constant ghostly presence is dredged to a point you hope she disappears from the screen. By trying to uncover a new mystery about Hannah’s death in a facile manner, 13 reasons why gives us enough reasons to give it a miss.

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drinking, life, liquor, ode

My tryst with rum and an ‘Old Monk’ I won’t remember…

My dad loves rum. As a teen, I never understood why. My throat would burn with each sip and every whiff smelled of nail polish remover. Stealing sips from my father’s drink, I wasn’t too keen on it and would immediately retreat to a familiar sweet taste of my fruit beer (duh!). Two years short of my quarter-life crisis, with almost no money in my pocket and an array of experiences, I am much wiser.
And I love rum.

* * *
Two days ago, a barrage of tweets and posts exploded, and people paid obeisance to a man I had never heard of. He ran a company I hadn’t heard about and they chanted numbers I couldn’t concern myself with. For a country that obsesses over Old Monk, the man behind it went unnoticed for 88 years. Until this week. Kapil Mohan – who popularised the much-loved dark rum, and one who gave us many a night that we cannot really remember – passed away after a cardiac arrest.

As a mid-twenties woman, on the lookout for cheap liquor, Old Monk had been a companion since the time I could differentiate between my spirits. When I moved to the city to start my job, my dad, while dropping me off, handed me a bottle of our common love, as a reminder of all the good times we had together. My mum had rolled her eyes and given me a shy smile of approval. My friend and I, to celebrate our college, drank to our favourite songs late into the night in the girls’ hostel, after sneaking in a bottle of rum. We had it neat, and it’s safe to say that she does not remember much of the night. That was Old Monk for me. Love. And memories.

While most were downing Tequila or raising lagers to good company, I confided quite a few tears to the sinfully amazing cocktail of rum and coke. I was a rum loyalist, much to the chagrin of my male friends. Wine, they said, is what girls preferred. Beer, if they were ballsy enough. Well, I beg to differ. But Old Monk did more than just lift my spirits- it was an equaliser.

No I won’t preach for preaching sake. But poor or rich, men or woman (yeah!), heavy pockets or light like mine, Old Monk was our go-to liquid sin whenever the occasion arose. And boy do these occasions come by regularly! The weirdly shaped bottle was a regular feature at our parties, and more so if the nights were bone-numbingly chilly in the northern subcontinent as they are now. I never bothered to look up who brewed it, or where the breweries were. Like most my age, I was busy looking for liquor at 2am in the night, banging on closed shutters.

And am I poorer for it? Yes. Kapil Mohan left behind a legacy. Even if he did not leave his name etched in our memories. He was awarded the Padma Shri for his contribution. I will probably not think of him again after I am done penning this down. But I sure will, whether in good times or dampened spirits, go back to the rum this Old Monk left us. And in that memory, this day, I raise my glass to a man I never knew.

article, free speech, life, literature and books, REALISM

The Handmaid’s Tale: Why adaptation of Atwood’s dystopia deserved the Emmy

“We lived as usual, by ignoring. Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.” – Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

Who could’ve predicted that a dystopian show could give online streaming portals a run for their money? The king of streaming did shake in its place when “The Handmaid’s Tale” won eight Emmys very recently.  And that is no mean feat.

What is so eerie about Handmaid’s tale is how close it is to the nightmares in the present cultural context. It instantly drives home the fear of a totalitarian state, towards which the ideological warfare in our times is pointing. To take women as pivots in a story and do it justice, all the while staying true to the essence of the novel is marvelous. The producers have contemporized Margaret Atwood’s dystopia by the same name and given us something that is beautiful yet horrific in its portrayal. The Emmy was well on its way.

Gilead (which is what the US has been named after being taken over by religious fundamentalists) is home to women who serve at the whims and fancies of their male counterparts. Fertile women serve as concubines to men, their voices muffled by power and threats. The story revolves around Offred (the very beautiful and charming Elizabeth Moss) and other women, who have been separated from their families and forced to bear children for their superiors.  The narration is in an omniscient first person, which lets us peek into the psyche of the lead and witness the raging internal conflict which is a microcosm of the external turmoil to a certain extent.

I had to pause and process different situations on more than a few occasions. I binge watched the entire season, which is breath-taking in its entirety. The show is layered- it has political overtones, and the show’s target audience is very specific. But it reaches out and connects more people in its portrayal of how sections of this community live without access to basic rights.

Without giving away the plot, the resemblance of the narrative to our world is both awesome and nerve-wracking. Religious fundamentalism with some wacko ideas about creation and women rights, the show can be read as political work on the current plight of women in the middle east. It is also conscious to the debate of pro-life vs pro-choice raging in the United States.

The scenes of power, subjugation and slavery leave you on tenterhooks; the rule of ultra-religious hypocrite bigots makes it eerily like something that is overtaking our own country. People are being killed in the name of religion and ideology. To use old religious texts as blueprints to create an ideal world now and the consequences it may bear has been realistically displayed.

Certain hard-hitting scenes – the demolition of a church, burning of old texts and the underground brothel which houses women who have a ‘little shelf life left’ – all serve to highlight the hypocrisy of their time (and ours). What would we be in a world devoid of free speech, movement, LGBTQ rights and religious order (whatever that even means anymore)?

What I loved about the show is how normal the cast is – you don’t have superbly good looking models parading as serious actors. All the characters are indeed very memorable- you have the crazy woman, the obedient wife, the rebellious lesbian and so many others who give you different perspectives on the issue. A certain hamfisted characterization could have been avoided in the black and white portrayal of individuals. That critique apart, the show spells must watch if you think this world is a circus and we are all either clowns or spectators.

art, life, movie review, psychology, REALISM

Liar’s Dice: Stellar performances and the ugly face of Migration

If you have lived anywhere in Uttar Pradesh, Maharashtra and even Delhi, chances are someone has thrown the word migration around, often as the root cause of an array of issues, be it rising violence, loss of culture, ruin of space and now even stampedes. Thousands of nameless individuals cross state borders around the world in search of food and shelter, often woven in the ambit of an occupation. Migration is a hot cake in today’s political discourse with a volley of nationalistic ambitions that threaten to close borders to nationals of other countries. But immigration and migration are not the center of my tirade. It is a gem of a movie called Liar’s dice.

You might not have heard of it- such gems are often lost in the dirt and squalor of the backyard of Indian cinema because it gets no endorsement or appraisal from celebrities. Surprisingly, this movie, written and directed by Geetu Mohandas received national awards but did not see the light of the day through a theatrical release. I wouldn’t want to spoil the movie for you, which is a journey of a woman who sets out against all odds, with her daughter (and her goat), to look for her husband, who left to work at a construction site. Starring Geetanjali Thapa and Nawazuddin Siddiqui, the cinematography blew me away. From the picturesque Shimla hills to the narrow stifling lanes of Delhi, the thematic essence is maintained throughout. The protagonist’s inner turmoil is palpable onscreen as slivers of emotions rupture your metropolis bubble of safety and bring to you the ugly face of oblivion.

Nawazuddin Siddiqui has time and again established himself as an actor beyond the narrow confines of mainstream cinema and that is his strength. The scheming crowd entertainer Nawaz is a shifty character and the movie derives its title from the game he plays to fleece the crowd. The title would obviously have several connotations – from helping Kamala (Thapa) out while lying to her, to Kamala risking everything on fate when she decides to travel with Nawaz, Liar’s Dice symbolizes a gamble for the forlorn woman. From a scheming vagabond to a considerate companion, Nawaz’s performance is a perfect complement to Thapa’s anguish and fear. Her construction worker husband’s name is a symbol – a unit which represents the mass of faceless nameless individuals who feature as mere statistics in the scheme of things.

While it is hard to portray the ugly truth behind the construction industry’s migration business wherein thousands of workers are brought in from far-flung areas and made to work in dangerous conditions, the director and the cinematographer Rajeev Ravi have managed to give us a glimpse into the characters’ lives and through them, the mystic gaping hole of namelessness, and to that end, of the importance of any one individual in this urban squalor.

article, life, music, social media

No offence Chainsmokers, but I will never attend another concert!

From spending on imaginary drinks to being sweated on by shirtless men, my first concert is also probably my last

In which miserable moment did I decide to leave the comfort of my bed and Netflix I know not. But I now know better than to leave my headphones at home, only to suffer an evening of sticky air in an overcrowded ground with people too drunk to even care. I love music, but I may never spend a dime on concerts ever again.

Let me get this straight- Chainsmokers were great. Andrew Taggart and Alex Pall took over the stage after Slushi and damn they were good! And not just because they don’t hurt the eyes but also because their music connects to a good part of the Indian audience. Concerts serve as a platform for bands to share music with an audience in person, give us a sense of involvement in an age of free downloads that render us strangers to the stars we idolise.

While I thought, I was the lone wolf in a sea of people who loved to jump around in tandem on EDM, a lot of people I know and spoke to once the euphoria died down were equally (if not more) disappointed at their experience. Our pattern of music consumption has changed so much. From memorising albums to barely memorising the lyrics of a few odd songs from a plethora of options available, our commitment to music has dwindled. We Instagram/Snapchat our way through a concert, with silly filters only to give our friends on the other end of the screen a temporary pang of jealousy. For me, I believe it is mostly because everything about concerts stands in opposition to why I turn to music in the first place. It is my happy place. I just need a warm corner and good music to make my day and I’d give up Netflix in a jiffy.

*   *   *

Enroute to the event, almost every nook and corner was swarming with people who were downing a drink or rolling up a joint. While I oppose neither, the simple fact that you need an additional kick or even liquid courage to enjoy music mars my opinion of the event even more. My headphones render me into a space so sensitive to my needs that even if only for a while, I blur out the world.

Road to Ultra brought me down to reality the minute I swam through the dense inebriated crowd, which broke down barriers and stole liquor bottles from under the counter or pinched my butt while I stood (very patiently for over an hour, but to no avail) for my drinks. The bar was shut by 7:30 (they were out of drinks apparently), yet somehow all the servers were drunk. One even had the audacity to take a swig from the glass of water that I was finally given after an hour of coaxing (all the while grinning at me sheepishly, asking me to not call him bhaiya). The card we were made to purchase to then procure drinks was a huge help. It got me the pleasure of standing in a queue and argue with a guy who waved an empty Absolut bottle in my face, telling me to put that card in my, well, pocket. The guys dispensing the cards were also a pain in the pocket, if I may. To know the money was non-refundable was I suppose not so much of a surprise anymore. To add insult to injury, what do we as Indians excel at when we don’t get a share of the pie? The crowd let itself loose on the bar counters, hurling abuses we are all well versed in. The bar finally vandalised, people went their way, maybe finally distracted by the headliners. The servers saw it coming before I did and immediately went packing. Splendid.

The euphoria as thousands of people partake in the creation of music is amazing. I reiterate that Chainsmokers were great. But the concert left a bad taste because it evoked feelings opposite to what I usually feel while listening to my favourite tracks. Amidst all the pushing and pulling, pinching and cussing, I felt apart from all those with whom I shared my first concert. Plus, if you are short like me, you were probably also just crushed between sweaty shoulders and even sweatier ribs of people, for God save you if the guy behind you has no shirt on.

 

 

Picture Credit: Google/TimesofIndia.com

article, free speech, Journalism, life, politics

50-50 Democracy: India is a sinking boat for freethinkers

Ramachandra Guha very rightly characterised India as a 50-50 democracy, which upholds certain aspects of democracy with staunch rigidity like elections, while remaining uneasily lax about law and order as well as seething political corruption. India has time and again shown the extent of the culture of intolerance practised in the name of democracy. While ‘intolerance’ may be understood as someone’s democratic right, it cannot encroach another’s right to life and liberty. Taslima Nasreen is the latest (but not the first) victim of this intolerant strain.

Taslima Nasreen, who landed in Aurangabad with the intention of visiting Ajanta and Ellora caves, was barred from leaving her hotel premise by protesters, led All India Majlis-e-Ittehad-ul Muslimeen MLA Imtiaz Jaleel. Her act was deemed offensive to Muslims residing in the city. Taslima has been in the past hounded by Islamist radicals due to her controversial views on Islam, which had caused a flurry in Bangladesh, leading to her exile from the country in 1994. And once again, with an apparent imminent threat to her well-being, she decided to leave.

Why do we as a nation promote the culture of intolerance? Books have been banned, writers roughed up for progressive criticism. A myriad of social factors, coupled with political complexities have made the political scenario unaccepting of voices of dissent. Freedom of speech has limits which make it hard, nay, impossible to voice opinions without hurting sentiments. We, as a society on the road of economic progress (and social, I pray), must realise that ‘Hurt sentiment’ is a part of the bargain we make to exercise free speech. We already have reasonable restrictions placed on free speech – no state can concede this right without ensuring the safety of its citizens. But so long as speech does not incite or in Guha’s terms, ‘advocate’ the use of physical violence, it must be a right that our democracy must defend. You may hold opinions in opposition to those of a writer but no sole individual or group can claim authority over the movement of an individual if he/she so wishes. This is undemocratic and unlawful.

Taslima Nasreen believes herself to be a crusader against religious fundamentalism; she desires to prove that Islam is not outside the ambit of critical scrutiny. The author’s criticism, which stems from contemporary political and social scenario, may be flawed. Although Bangladesh has, in recent times, seen many intellectuals being hacked for holding dissenting opinions.  To arrive on common ground, a culture of debate is needed, not that of brute force and hooliganism. A creative confluence of ideas is the bedrock of a democracy, which we promised to ourselves in our constitution.  But a set of archaic rules give the state a lot of latitude in placing limits to freedom of speech, which often pander to religious sentiments above individual liberty. We need to free India from the grip of identity politics that work, through the lens of caste and religious, to effectively throttle freedom of expression. Let the government not cow down to political considerations and rise above to reclaim India from its descent into a dark abyss of intolerance.

article, dharamsala, friends, india tourism, life, LOVE, memories, road trip, traveling, Uncategorized

The Road Trip

We pulled into Dharamsala around as the sun was first rising, with two fingers of light on the horizon. We crossed the breezy but narrow roads into the city limits, making our way to a bus depot.  Rubbing my sleep-filled eyes, I tried to peer through the hazy glass, at the snow-covered mountains on my right, the sky turning the color of light orange with wispy blue clouds at the edges, like froth at the top of a drink. Most of my classmates were asleep, the target of my envy —for the rumbling-swaying bus devoid me of the much-needed rest—considering we had a long day ahead of us.  I had stayed up, flitting in and out of sleep, leaning in, my weight on the shoulders of a friend, who had blissfully slept, much to my chagrin. We walked up to our hotel, with the taste of our exhaustion livid in our mouths, slept on the bed in the same outfit, only to wake up an hour later, drink a cup of coffee in the beautiful terrace area and later, drive to our first destination.

We had the trip of our lives, with the fear of imminent placements put mutually on the backburner. I have no adjectives to describe my classmates— they are the most eclectic bunch of people I have met! Our class would throw their hands up in the air and relax, with music in the background and a cigarette in their hand, than battle out political differences. This educational trip, or so it was meant to be, was a proof of our symbiotic association. We travelled all day, amidst the cliffs which were marked by tall trees along the roadsides, their arms up like they were being frisked. We ambled along a clammy-smelling, muddy trail to the Tibetan parliament in exile, and trudged lazily from a library to a human rights discussion. We braved the sleety rain ricocheting off the rocks. We were bemused by the plight of the young children at a Tibetan Children’s school and amused by the extremely cheap desserts at the Tibetan café.

We would come back to our hotel, exhausted from the day but pumped up for the night. Groups were fluid as people drifted in and out of different rooms with ease, some fumbling around for shampoo, and some for a matchbox. Amidst all the clamor of our incessant bickering and bluff sessions, we all felt united by one purpose—that we did not let our fears prevent us from missing out on this trip. We shared childhood (read embarrassing) anecdotes and danced to old Bollywood jingles into the night (well some did, I slept. Huge regrets.) I trekked — or something close enough to a trek —with my friends, without a care in the world, without any fear of being embarrassed of my child-like naivety. I’d like to think the time spent on a stony wall, within the reclaimed cathedral just off the road, brought us closer to each other. I’d like to hope that somehow, this short tour gave us all memories to store within each fleeting moment. Before we start feeling limited by our lives and jobs, penned in by money or family, we stretched out in our bit of the leg-room and somehow, just somehow, made this tour into the road trip we all dream about.