Within / Without

She sleeps like the city. Almost unaware of the designs that the sleepless make. But perhaps grumbling once in a while, as a sleepless partner twists and turns. She sleeps like a city that has worked all day, and sleeps without drinking enough water. Waking up in the middle of the night, grabbing a glassful of water. And then falling like a giant, into the emptiness called a bed.

She sleeps like the city, distant lights in her brain twinkling all through the night. Dreams lifted by cranes into different corners of her head and heart. Like call centres operating through the dark hours, some parts of her soul keep answering questions, even as most of her sleeps. One part of the soul tosses the question to another.

She sleeps like the city. With some parts of her limbs and muscles twitching randomly. Jolted awake by the sounds of crying babies, howling dogs, enthusiastic chowkidaars and invisible reptiles. She sleeps like the city, unaware of how many poets write about her, how many men and women attempt to buy their tickets into her heart. Unaware that some people sit in silence, staring at her sleeping form, wondering what promises will be fulfilled as she wakes to another day.

Posted on January 3rd, 2009 by Neha Viswanathan
Filed under: Poetry and Fiction | 9 Comments »

I think of you randomly. Whenever I write a poem, for instance.

I think of you how you would gently mail me, twisting my monkey ears over faulty grammar. Or a misplaced period. How you would then praise a certain turn of phrase. Listening to Rafi last night, I thought of our casual banter.

I am no good at cryptic crosswords. Or I would dedicate each small victory (of one word, or two) to you. It’s barely been four months since you’ve left, and already, it feels like a year. Or more.

I think of you when I remember what power cuts were like. Because in the first two months that we used to chat so regularly, the power cuts in Calcutta would eat up some of our conversation. But you would deftly pick up the threads. You told me that the building’s jenny had died.

I think of you when sometimes I note that the water for my tea boils exactly how you told me it should. “Until the water begins to laugh”.

I think of you randomly. Like when I see an object of utter and unadulterated beauty. Because till a few months back, I could write to you and tell you how lovely something was. And you would never contest it. No matter how trivial it was. Or how special.

Posted on December 30th, 2008 by Neha Viswanathan
Filed under: Rants and Rambles, Self | 8 Comments »

I have now joined the esteemed ranks of those who have seen Slumdog Millionaire. It’s a wonderful film - in parts.

I thought somebody described this as a feel-good film. It is anything but. The thing is, the only positive bit in this film is in the last 8 minutes and you get this sinking feeling in your stomach. So the only way out of squalor, poverty, grime and other such dark corners is a lucky streak at a gameshow. Though, you know that the film is probably telling you something at a subliminal level. That every punch life throws at you, it teaches you something. Etc. Etc.

Some spoilers here - but the general drift is that this is a kid who essentially survives on wits and luck. And he has very little of the latter till he turns 18 years old. Mother dies in riots, childhood friend turns badass gangster, childhood love is pimped, money is short. I’ve worked with street kids in Bombay, so can vouch that such stories are rather common.

Yes, this film is wonderful for your senses. The music is perfect in parts, the visuals are stunning. The slums are stark, but not heartless. There’s not a single kind adult in this film. Which is probably true in the real world. But something bothers me about this film. I don’t want to get too much into it … but poverty sells. It’s almost like everytime you see something marked as a realistic film on India, it almost always is about the poorest of the poor. Yes, that is real - but there are other realities. Not that Slumdog Millionaire has to show any reality that it doesn’t want to show - but watching the film, and more specifically, reading the hype that surrounds it, makes you think a little about why it is that the films about the poorest bits of India go down the best with the foreign critics.

No, I am not offended by it. I don’t even feel defensive. Let’s face it - most of Bombay is a slum. I completely understand if that is far more fascinating than any other part of Bombay.

What saves the film from being cheesy is the stunning performance by the kids. Sometimes the accent feels a bit off. But there’s such pathos in their eyes, that your heart breaks just a little bit sometimes. There is something so touching about the fact that little children are forced to take decisions that not even adults find easy. The premise of the film, recollections pieced together with the questions in a gameshow was fantastic. And just for that, I’d see this film.

But this is what I don’t get. This film takes all this pain to be “realistic” till the last 20 minutes, and then it flips. It suddenly wants to affirm something, and drop you into a certain la-la land. People change, they become kind, everything collapses into the formula. After pumping fists into my heart and making me feel miserable that I come from a country where we cannot ensure that all children at least get a decent meal everyday, you suddenly want to turn around and give me a Bollywood story? It doesn’t work that way. Not for me anyway. It doesn’t “feel good” then, it just feels contrived.

It’s a nice film. It just didn’t make me feel very happy. Which many of the critics promised it would make me. I just felt a little cheated.

Posted on December 29th, 2008 by Neha Viswanathan
Filed under: Music, Film and Art, Shpeshul | 11 Comments »

So I am standing in the queue, waiting to pay for some clothes that we’re buying. A couple ahead of me is studying with immense concentration a poster with an almost naked man in Calvin Klein undies. Woman tells man that she thinks the hairless and gym-going-type man in the poster is a hottie.

The man with the woman who is perhaps a hopeful lover, husband or boyfriend is miffed. He tells her - “You think he’s hot but he isn’t. Imagine if you were to touch his chest - what would you feel?”

She says She imagined it would be smooth. He tells her that she wouldn’t like smooth because he wouldn’t feel like a caveman. She looks exasperated. He tells her, “You don’t know how lucky you are to have a hairy guy like me.”

She rolls her eyes when she catches me smiling and grins once he walks ahead to pay at the counter.

Posted on December 27th, 2008 by Neha Viswanathan
Filed under: Uncategorized | 6 Comments »