we all need to tighten our belts

Now all those who have been cribbing about 'Dil Bole Hadippa' do not know that it is a stalwart effort to pitch into the recent austerity drive undertaken by the government. How so, you say? Well, for instance:

1. Rani Mukherjee summoned Manish Malhotra to her bouidoir. The floor was covered in old costumes from 'Bunty and Babli', 'Chalte Chalte' and 'Laaga Chunari Mein Daag'. "Cut and trim these, Manishji, and make new out of old", she pleaded and Manishji did just that.

2. For most of the film, Rani dressed as a Sardar boy in dreary tracksuits and a white pagdi. She let her freckles show and saved tons of expensive MAC make-up.

3. Shahid Kapoor did not have a haircut throughout the shoot schedule. He is soon going to auction his mane on Farah Khan's show 'Tere Mere Beach Mein' to the highest equestrian bidder, and give the money to Rahul Gandhi to fund his next undercover foray into Uttar Pradesh.

4. Shahid also re-used the character and expressions from 'Jab we Met', i.e. a cold blank look, and minimal smiling. As all beauticians will tell you, this reduces wrinkling, thereby reducing the need for Botox and other surgical treatments necessary for actors at a later age.

5. Sherlyn Chopra and Rakhi Sawant as usual supported the cause with enthusiasm and loyalty by wearing just enough clothing to avoid nudity, thereby saving on fabric costs.

6. Pritam rehashed old tracks from 'Jab We Met', 'Singh is King' and several other films, thereby saving lots of creative energy and earning many carbon points. Julius Packiam saved on scoring background music tracks by reusing old tunes from old Yash Raj films.

7. Ditto for Jaideep Sahni, who worked with 50 words, scrambling them over and over again to create 7songs. This has also created a new game for the listener, called 'Unscramble' which will be launched soon by YRF in association with Big.

8. Ditto for Vaibhavi Merchant - same old, same old.

9. Jaya and Aparajita wrote dialogue for 30 mins of the film and then used it as a loop through the film. They also used Indira Gandhi, Jhansi Ki Rani and Kiran Bedi as references for the closing speech on women's emancipation. This has saved many forests. Also, since the actors needed to learn fewer lines, it meant shorter rehearsal time and shorter shooting schedules, saving on production cost and workers' wages.

10. The line producer Padam Bhushan saved on location manager fees, location recce costs and location hire costs as he decided that the mustard fields used in previous Yash Raj Films would continue to work their magic, especially since they are now given to Yash Raj Films at a phenomenal discount.

11. Wherever there are excesses, they are used to the maximum, since no waste is gain. For e.g 4 bowls of expensive dry fruit are quaffed by Anupam Kher and Dalip Tahil while they sit on drawing room sofas in the middle of nowhere, watching cricket matches. It should be made public knowledge that the 4 bowls were covered with cling film between takes and thus used throughout the shoot in various scenes. Also, takes were kept to a minimum to reduce the amounts of dry fruit quaffed by the veteran actors.

12. Similarly, Sudeep Chatterjee used all the camera equipment given to him to maximum limits. No track, crane, jimmy jib was left idle for even a single minute on set, the camera was kept moving throughout to ensure that money's worth was extracted.

13. Poonam Dhillon was taken off the shelf - what a beautiful example of recycling!

14. Through out the making of the film, the director Anurag Singh stayed away from the set. Thereby he not only abstained from his director's fees, but also accomodation, food and other perks. Yash Raj Films cannot show their gratitude to him enough.

15. Particularly since Anurag helped them in their endeavour to make a fabulous flop. The common masses stayed away from the film and the middle class and the poor of the nation learnt how not to spend their hard earned money on cinema tickets. A valuable lesson indeed!

fashinista banno or an old horse with red reins

I had been eye-ing a red bag in Hidesign since months.

It was not always the same bag, but it was always red.

Once again, I went in to the store, and saw the perfect red messenger bag. I took it carefully off the lurching mannequin, and slid it over my shoulder. One hasty look at the mirror, one covert look, one over the shoulder look and I dropped the bag, and walked out. A few steps away, and I turned back to look at the store, wistfully. The bag was calling out to me.

I wanted Teja and Dhanno to convince me, either to buy the bag or forget it. They were tapping their feet, and clicking their fingers, and looking everywhere but at me.

I said: "It would look too much, no? Everyone would say, an old woman carrying a red bag."

Dhanno said: "But that's what you would be, isn't it? An old woman carrying a red bag. So how does it matter?"

What I had wanted her to say was: "But you are not old, Mama!"

There's not much to be said for dinning 'honesty is the best policy' into your child at a tender age. Because sooner or later, she hands it back to you. I let out a sigh and took a couple of steps towards the store again. Then sighed and turned back.

Teja, knowing well that the sighs if ignored, threatened to take over our domestic arrangements over the next few days, said: "Why don't you just get it?"

I said: "Yeah. I can probably use it for a few more years. Then I'll be older. And that will be just be too old for a red bag."

Teja said: "You'll never be too old for a red bag."

Dhanno said: "Yeah, as if. You are never going to give up your jhataak pink, are you? Or purple? Or yellow?"

I grinned.

This time, I ignored the swinging of the mannequin and grabbed my bag from its shoulder and marched with it to the cash counter. Anyone could see that the red bag was going to give me graces Nature had not conferred on me.

With flamingo-pink rainy sandals, and my tomato-red messenger bag, I made quite a fashion statement on my last documentary shoot. Specially when I teamed them with my lime-green capris and rose-pink lipstick.

whoever said old films were slow?

Bimal Roy's "Parakh" (1960) opens thus:

A postman is limping down a dusty road, from a great distance, with a heavy bag. He enters a yard. A little boy runs across him. He asks the little boy to call his sister.

The postman goes in, and puts down the bag. The postmaster says - You have a lot of mail today. The postman says - Yes, it is because people write too much. Job requests, love letters, letters of complaint.

A girl comes in. The postman asks her if he can have a cup of tea. She says yes, but there is no sugar.

He says, he will go get it. She is hesitant, how often can he get it? He says not to embarrass him, for it is God who gives, who is he? He goes out.

The postmaster asks the girl to take over for some time while he goes in to look at his ill wife. The girl starts stamping letters.

Outside at the counter, a man appears. He wants to make a money order.

When she replies, he is surprised, Oh it's you. She asks him to come in.

He comes in behind her, she keeps stamping the letters, not looking at him.

He asks her what she is doing there. She asks him why she cannot work. She is the postmaster's daughter. He says if she was the postmaster, he would make a money order everyday. She says with a schoolmaster's pay of 7 rupees, how would he manage to make a money order everyday. He is quiet. He looks at her from behind, and mutters, "That is why.."

She is apologetic for hurting him. She asks him where he has been.

He says he is so busy, there is so much to do. Since the elders of the village won't listen, the school boys and him have decided to clean the village on their own. She says why bother about doing good for others, when one is in such a bad shape one self. He says that if the country does well, all of us will do as well. And aren't you a part of the country too?

Someone calls from outside. Both shuffle guiltily.

Pandit enters. School master leaves hurriedly with an excuse.

Pandit asks for girl's father. Postman enters. Girl leaves to make tea. Postmaster enters.

Postman and Pandit get into verbal spat. Postmaster intervenes. Pandit leaves, insulting Postman as low-caste.

Postmaster scolds Postman for being rude.

Postman says Pandit is horrid. The other day when he entered his house with a letter, Pandit made a big show of cleaning the house with fresh cow dung. When he went the next day with a money order and asked Pandit if money would be acceptable from his lowcaste hands, Pandit threw him a shloka which justified his taking the money.

Postmaster says whatever it is, Postman is new here, and must respect elders. Now quieten down, and get to work.

So, in virtually one scene set in the post office, within the first 6-7 minutes of the film, we meet 6 characters and one off-screen character. We learn a little bit about each character, what they are like, what they believe in, and what their problems could be. We also get a glimpse of the village where the post office is, and the country where the village is, and the problems that beset it - unemployment, poverty, caste. Not only that, but the premise of the film is set down as well - money, and the greed for it.

Contrast this with what most Hindi films do these days. The exposition is reduced to a verbal introduction of each character, this is Bunty, he is blah blah blah. The voice-over has the air of being slapped on after the film is edited, and it's amply clear that the who? where? why? what? of the story are not clear to the audience.

rush hour

Salaam says he is 11. He looks 6.

Salaam says he sniffs cloth only sometimes. How many times, I ask? He says once. A day, I ask? Or twice, he says.

But I don't like it, he says, as he wolfs down the pav bhaji I have bought him. It makes me want to sit in one place and not move, and I don't like that. But sometimes, he says, when there are too many thoughts in your head, and there is no money, and you are hungry, there is too much tension, then .. it makes you forget you are hungry, he says.

A little child, I think, should not be having so many thoughts, so much tension in his head, but what do I know?

Later in the train, I watch a woman fill up little boxes in a notebook with the name 'Ram'. It seems to work for her because in a compartment filled with tired women, her smile comes most easily. The woman sitting next to me fiddles with her cell phone, it goes beep, beep, beep, beep.

My mother sits before the TV almost all the time she is awake, sometimes even when there is only blank noise on it. Like all daughters, I wonder what will become of me when, if I become like my mother.

I think, perhaps it is the city. There is not enough space for any of us in it, leave alone our griefs, our tensions. There is not enough space to let our pain dry out naturally like sweat in cool air.

We all need to sniff a solvent of one kind or the other, I think, noise, music, films, more noise, books, more noise, to burn up our thoughts on the spot, for there's no space to let them go.

Whatever works, I think.

Sniffing cloth: A quick, cheap high, sniffing cloth dipped in thinner.

two girls with hats

The worst thing you can do to a girl is saddle her with a sister early on in life. The sister is always going to be more beautiful or more intelligent or more virtuous or more cheerful or more obedient or wear better hats - none of which helps in the making of the confident, tough personality that one ought to be.

Because however rich or famous you become, one little bit of you always knows that your parents love your sister more than you do, which in my case, my mother pooh-poohs till date. And however old your sister becomes, she will always claim that she stuck to the safe and tested path because you were wild and rebellious enough for the entire family, which in my sister's case, I refuse to acknowledge now that we are both in our 40s. Though we took different paths to reach here, I find that we haven't wandered too far away from each other.

My sister and me, here we look happy enough in our hats.

But we spent all our growing up years fighting to the point of driving our mother to tears. It's only when we both got married and left home, that we came to realize what we mean to each other.

Sisters and hats feature largely in 'Holiday' (1938) by George Cukor. Read the rest of the review on Upperstall.

let's learn how to kiss, please

What I'm wondering is what will happen to Jai (Saif Ali Khan) and Meera (Deepika Padukone) once they do get married?

Their 'Aaj' love is so bland, their kisses so like the Rubber-Duck raincoats of school days, dry in a squeaky, rubbery way, the smell of rubber obfuscating the smell of the rain.

Jai seems like a man with no practice in kissing, and if he has had practice, hasn't learned much on the job. Doesn't forebode well for their marital life. (Or is it just that he'd rather have been kissing his beautiful girl, Bebo?)

I liked Meera only in the last scene when she cried with relief once Jai did come back, and then drew away from a kiss, awkward after the long separation. At least, she stopped smiling.

For the rest of the film, I was wondering about her parents, wondering what they had done to her that she needed so much to be so nice, so understanding, so 'smiley' all the time?

She was no less mute than the 'Kal' girl from a small town, Veer's (Saif Ali Khan) love Harleen (Giselle Monteiro). The 'Kal' girl at least metamorphed into ***** ******, and had a reason to be mute (Brazilian playing Punjabi, cut all her dialogues, please!).

Anyway, to come back to kisses, my friend Tanmay Agarwal, who's been having a set-to with the Censor Board for a couple of kisses in his indie film 'Chal Chaliye' has devised a table of censor guidelines set for a kiss. Check that out and more on kisses at his site http://www.chalchaliye.com/ and don't forget to take the poll.

it's called taking the piss

You've been doing a subtle version of the twist, jig and fox-trot for the last 13 & a 1/2 minutes. You've been loosening your facial muscles while contracting other ones in an effort to look normal. You finally manage to find a public toilet and then the gatekeeper demands that you pay up 2 rupees before you enter. You flap your hands wildly and nod your head vigorously and hiss, "I'll pay you later."

In the corridor, the gatekeeper's aunties and nieces in various stages of age, weight and nudity, are sprawled in large pools of water, washing themselves and their clothes. You leap and bound across all of them, in imminent danger of slipping into one of the pools, and adding the contents of your bladder to the soapy torrents of water rushing towards the drain.

Inside the toilet, there is no hook for your bag or your dupatta. Your sunglasses hooked on to the front of your kurta fall off, and you catch them just before they fall into the dodgy contents of the Indian style toilet, immensely relieved that you haven't had to face the moral dilemma of renouncing them or fishing with your hands to procure them back because they are so very, very expensive. Of course, the toilet door doesn't close, so you hold one stem of the glasses in your mouth, roll the dupatta round and round your neck, sling your bag across your shoulder, undo your pajamas, all with one hand, while keeping the other firmly on the door.

Then you semi-sit-squat-stand, and pee, grateful that you learned this trick long ago, much to the chagrin of your more conservative mother. 

And it feels more wonderful than anything else on earth. In your relief, you relax a little, and your hand falls off the door. You remember with a fond smile how your insouciant younger self regularly walked into a 5 star hotel in your hometown only to use the facilities. But the security checks at hotels now could be your undoing, you think. Someone pushes the toilet door from outside and jolted out of nostalgia, you push it back with a loud growl of proprietary anger.

Then you complete all the earlier manouvres in reverse, i.e tying up your pajamas, etc., with one hand and now with one leg thrust against the door as well. Ah, someone may say, "what about washing uhmm your uhmm or dabbing with toilet paper?", and you say "the least said the better, this is as far as things can go with one hand and one leg out of requisition".

You come outside, and your spine is a little straighter, and you could be humming if you didn't see the gatekeeper again signaling for the two rupee coin. "This is supposed to be a free urinal", you shout, pointing at the notice. The gatekeeper feigns a contemptuous ignorance of any written material. You fling a coin down and walk away, thinking well, you are going to be OK for a few more hours at least.

(Would love to see Paro's film 'Q2P')