Desicritics Author: Aditi Nadkarni

India's Post-Independence Fight For Freedom

Aditi Nadkarni — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 00:55:37 EST

Let me cut right to the chase here. This is unacceptable. Let me say it again for emphasis. It is not just bothersome or even upsetting. It is unacceptable. In the 21st century, in a democratic, secular nation, what has been going on, festering like a recurrent lesion, sprouting in every part of India, is just, simply unacceptable and will not do.

In case you are wondering who it is that's going to stand up to it: we are. We will not allow our freedom to be violated and we will make sure we protect the independence we fought long and hard to get the first time around. We have come a long way. We have seen the change and been the change. So who better than our pioneering, hot-blooded breed to stand up to the revolting and shockingly regressive acts of a few who feel threatened by progress.

They are just acting out of fear. It is obvious, isn't it? They attack in packs, afraid to be the lone ones incriminated. They target women and assault safely from behind the vague curtains of culture. But we all know that it isn't their culture that is in grave danger. Their position, their power and the extent of their bullying is in great peril. The places where they once ruled the roost are now turning into big, bustling cities making them feel like small, insignificant fish in a big sea.

Institutions and companies have transported the educated, smart crowd into the vacuum in which these bullies once enjoyed unfettered omnipotence. Now, in place of the void, there is a young, vivacious bunch of professionals, men and women who work hard and party hard and do so shoulder to shoulder. These people are harder to manipulate. This crowd has not just taken over, they threaten to pull into their growing ilk, the younger ones too. Business are bending over backwards to accommodate the needs of this new species and everything that once belonged to the bullies is now up for grabs. So they are retaliating. They are like petulant little children who couldn't have all that they demanded, hated sharing and so now are acting up. Therefore it is up to us, the educated class to teach these spoiled little brats to grow up and stop reacting so bizarrely to change. We must do it in a manner that is as different from theirs as is humanly possible.

So now comes the big question: how do we do it? How do we make our presence known? The answer may seem too simplistic because it sits smack in front of our faces. Think about it: we travel through these cities like one stream of blood, flowing steadily, keeping the city alive, stuffed in trains, piled into buses, walking along the teeming streets. Even partying and a trip to the movie theater is all the more fun with a group. We work in teams and are all the more effective for that. We discuss films, fashion, clothes, the economy, the job market and even our health problems. Yet this fear of walking out on the streets of a free country seems like a personal problem, like we were alone in that walk, like when a bully arrived with his little gang and punched us in the face, we would be all by ourselves and the world around us would just suddenly go blind. What we forget is that in this lonely fear too, we are still together. In this anger against the unfairness of the situation, we are together. We can if we decided, be together in the one resolute determination of not letting a handful of insecure men undo all that we have put into making our cities. So the answer is simple. Whatever it is we do, we do it together.

We celebrated Valentine's Day battling fear and took the threats in our stride defanging the demons with the pink disarming humor of our proud underwear. With the International Women's Day approaching, it is time to get serious. In our busy, routine lives we have underestimated the power of silent, non-violent protests. All it takes is for people to stand at a side-walk with banners to get word around. Some major struggles were won with this strategy and somewhere along the line we just shrugged and rolled our eyes at the quiet potential of public demonstrations and satyagrahas. Maybe we started taking our precious freedom for granted and needed to be reminded that we simply cannot. We have to earn it and when someone tries to snatch it, we fight for it.

It is important, I feel, in today's world to use media smartly. Instead of constantly criticizing media's inadequacies, we could use it as a tool. Find a niche and throw yourself into the swift current of this ever growing medium. Find a female leader in your area who is looking to make an arrival on the political scene. Do a little research. If one political party is making your life difficult for wearing jeans and celebrating Valentine's Day and there damn well must be another party that will fight for your votes, or can be persuaded to do so.

Find a celebrity who is willing to make your cause their own or give your movement their support and voice. Find a television network, a newspaper or a magazine that will run your story and provide your opinions with a voice. Find an artist who will put your thoughts into a slogan or a creative, riveting poster. Write to your city officials, your ministers and drown their offices in letters of your indignant protest. Just remember that one or two voices are easy to be ignored. If you are fuming over a coffee mug at your kitchen table, take that rage to a medium that will express it in the most noticeable manner possible.

Haven't we whined about a dysfunctional system for too long? When has this "system" ever worked? Maybe we just don't realize that we are one of the appendages of this faulty system. If the system is not working, we, as a group could propel in into motion. What will it take for us to get off our bums and make a placard with a strong message on it? This is not a women's liberation movement at all. Genders cannot be fighting alone in a battle such as this one. It could be your sister wearing jeans, coming home from work. It could be your teenage daughter walking back from school or college, the neighborhood aunty who brought you food when you were sick, a dear friend or your colleague. Most importantly, it is them today and it could be you next.

Let us review what the odds are of your being targeted next. You have a very high chance of being next on the hit-list if you answer 'Yes' for any of the following questions. Are you considered an "outsider" in Bangalore or a non-Maharashtrian in Maharashtra? Do you party? Do you meet up with friends at pubs? Do you wear jeans or clothing that may not be considered "Indian"? Do you eat pizza or meat? Do you drink alcoholic beverages? Does your religious persuasion always match that of the political party currently raging a mini-war in the nation you know of as secular? Do you send children to convent or English medium schools? Do you have a spouse of a different religious persuasion than yours? Do you have friends of the opposite sex? Are you married to the girl you are driving home from work or who you happen to be having dinner with? Are you non-conversant in Marathi in Mumbai or in Kannada in Bangalore? Are you a blogger or a journalist who expresses their opinions about politics, culture, media and religion? In spite of your qualifications and the six figure salary, do you have no clout with the local law enforcement or political activists? Before you fall asleep at night you should take a moment to wonder which one of these labels will be tagged onto your identity and turned into a vice or a disqualification; which one of these labels will plant nagging fear into your routine as you go about working to make a living, partying to rid your stress and walking on the streets of a country whose freedom you celebrate once a year on a public holiday. India did fight a freedom struggle years ago and it is high time that yet another quest for independence begins.

As a civilized society, we must remember that curbed freedom is a disease, an epidemic that does not spare a gender or a certain religion. It has uprooted saplings of modern, free thinking from Afghanistan and left it barren under the regime of the Taliban school of thought. This disease feeds on your fear and on the social inertia that has settled over our generation. An active, proud and independent public cannot let this inertia set in. Let it be known that this disease feeds most of all on the little disabling voice in your head which tells you that this is not your struggle, that it isn't your battle to fight. Sadly, this malady spreads, swallowing in its wake our hard-earned progress, until the feeble voice in your head is one day replaced with the grim realization that your own struggle has arrived. The assailant and his prejudice have changed form and you are the next prey. And there is nobody left to fight for you or with you.

Was Vanity Fair To Freida Pinto?

Aditi Nadkarni — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 12:52:14 EST

Let me just start by saying how very pissed I am that Freida Pinto looks like a fifties pin-up model on the cover of Vanity Fair magazine. Let me correct that. A white, fifties pin-up model.

No matter what one thinks of Slumdog Millionaire, we can all agree on one thing: little La Pinto is a darling. She has beautiful kohl-lined brown eyes and a slender figure. And have you seen the legs on that woman? Now when the ample award nominations have inspired movie theaters to start showing the film again, fresh trailers appear with Rahman's upbeat score, the screen lit up with her smile. At the Golden Globes she wore a golden gown. How cute is that? At the Baftas she dazzled even more and the list of best-dressed included her name.

I waited through a string of commercials just because Access Hollywood mentioned Freida Pinto before they cut to the advertisements. They called her "the new star" and even discussed her couture for a total of 7 seconds (yeah, I was counting). Indians might find Freida Pinto a little skinny for their taste. I can already see the South-Indian film industry demanding that she wear a push-up bra before she ever decides to act again. But America seems reluctantly smitten with this debutante. I admit, it makes me happy to see a familiar brown face on the mostly color-blind American television. The only brown I get to feast my eyes on is Fareed Zakaria's and Asif Mandvi's. Anoop Desai was voted off Idol this season and so I am back to taking naps in place of evening television on the respective days.

The last time I saw desis on Access Hollywood was when during an interview with George Clooney, the "Water" team consisting of a saree clad Deepa Mehta walked the red carpet unnoticed a safe distance away from the camera's focus. I was momentarily excited by the sight of a saree on American television. This why Freida Pinto's 7-second appearance on AH made me a happy in an odd sort of way.

So now you can understand why I was miffed when I heard online rumors that Vanity Fair might have whitened La Pinto when putting her on their cover. I took a look at the said picture and whoah! She is as pale as Conan O'Brien. Her magnificent cheekbones have been flattened and the brown in her eyes no longer visible. She is wearing a red, bra-like top and what looks dangerously like a yellow slimming underwear. Her legs still look gorgeous but the glow that was so apparent on her brown face has been replaced by a white-out effect. So lets review what this means for those of us who felt a certain childish pride in watching an Indian person's face flash on American TVs. Her name is not suggestive of her heritage and now that she appears almost white, there is practically no way to tell if Pinto is from India or Sweden. I suddenly realized that the prophecy of this happening was clearly etched out in the name of the magazine itself. With a name like Vanity Fair, what were we expecting, inner beauty with brown skin? That would be such an oxymoron.

Through Access Hollywood, Vanity Fair clarified that the "whitening out" rumors were absolutely untrue and it was just "lighting". Well, in that case other magazines should take swift notes. Apparently, there is a quick tip Vanity Fair has to offer that may save them several touch-ups. You don't need to Photoshop or air-brush pictures to make dark people more appealing in America. You can just take care of it with a little bit of lighting.

My Funny Valentine - Sweet Comic Valentine

Aditi Nadkarni — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 00:22:52 EST

There is something to be said about friends. I mean, they give us their all without expectation. At least mine do. I have friends who will listen to me yap about everything from completely transitory issues such as missing periods or acne to permanent problems that I suddenly have become aware of such as world peace and intolerance. They will never tell me that I am boring them and will loyally stifle yawns. None of them expect rings or a gift, much less a flower bouquet.

They will be completely fine if I don't call them for Valentine's Day or might even be slightly embarrassed if I do. I can just imagine my friend whisper a quick "Hmm, wish you the same but are you trying to murder my love life?" when I scream "Happy Valentine's Day!" through telephone lines while he is trying to chat up a cute girl who having heard my loud Valentine's Day wishes walked away quickly excusing herself.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love them dearly but my family can drive me nuts because, lets face it, that is their job. A year before turning thirty, I have come to accept that as a woman I will forever disappoint my mother. That's it. I feel better just having made that admission. Let me elaborate. My dad once told me of a doctor in his locality who they later discovered was somewhat of a quack. No matter what ailment one brought to Dr.Kamat, he would immediately ask them to stop drinking tea.

"But doctor I don't drink tea" the patient would sometimes respond.

"Ok so don't drink coffee" Dr.Kamat would tell him distractedly, filling out a generic prescription that everybody received unless they were having a heart attack in which case, Dr.Kamat's drunk compounder quickly shoved them into a taxi and sent them to the nearest hospital.

"Umm I don't drink coffee either doctor" the patient would tell him, hoping this information would give Dr.Kamat some brilliant insight into what was causing his affliction.

"You must drink something no....juice, cola, something. Stop drinking that" Dr.Kamat would snap at the confused patient. The poor man would nod and walk away with his prescription wondering why drinking his wife's nimbu sharbat had resulted in such a terrible case of butt-acne.

My mother is like Dr. Kamat.

"Are you drinking enough water?" she will ask without occasion

"Yes mom, I am drinking water all the friggin time" I respond in my high-pitched whiny "talkin-to-mom" voice

"Maybe you shouldn't drink too much water. You should drink a bit less. Too much water is also probably not good" she'll say.

"What's with your skin? Are you going out too much in the sun?" she'll comment, putting on her glasses, her keen stare making me squirm

"I rarely go out. I am always in the office or in lab. What are you talking about?" I answer with a shrug, rubbing my cheeks and forehead as if hoping for the tan to come off.

"Maybe that's what it is. If you stay cooped up at home, you don't get enough sun. You need some sunlight." And so on.

So basically no matter what I say, I'm screwed.

My dad is mostly neutral. But sometimes his neutrality is like that of Aishwarya Rai's where you just want to scream "Dude, say something!"

He once read my short story and I sat waiting in front of him, with baited breath to hear some feedback. He finished reading, took his glasses off and got up. I thought maybe he would walk over to me and pat my back. No such thing happened. I followed him inside until he walked into the bathroom. I stood outside only to hear him fart. That was my feedback.

Lets not even talk about extended family. They care so much for you that they have decidedly compartmentalized your life and now have inquiry committees set up for each section. Reproductivity, weight and marital status make up the three big departments and by the end of this concerned scrutiny, you are half the person you once were.

So that leaves us with friends. And it leaves our friends with this beaten down version of us, to deal with our woes, to lift our trampled self-esteem, to assuage our tested patience and soothe our hurt feelings.

Last year, I had to have surgery and just before they wheeled me into the OR, my friend's face loomed over my bed. She held a cell phone in her hand and was taking a picture.

"OMG, what are you doing?" I asked her, nervous in the anticipation of my first surgery ever, my face pink in embarrassment.

"Smile" she said loudly, as doctors and nurses looked on wondering whether or not to tell her that this was not allowed.

"Come on...just one picture, you look hot in that surgery robe and the blue cap" she told me as I smiled into the cell phone feeling like a complete moron.

When I woke up several hours later and suddenly threw up she was already holding the vomit-pan as if waiting for the puke to fly.

"Oh yeah baby!" she said victoriously as if she had caught a frisbee in the pan, "the doctor said you'd be nauseous from the anesthesia" she told me when I looked up confused wondering how she had managed to just be ready for such an unwarranted bout.

Men make amazing friends. They believe that disagreements or fights end when the phone call comes to an end. Can you imagine? One day we have a heated argument and so during the next conversation I try acting all aloof hoping he'll get the hint and apologize. He just chuckles and chortles while telling me about this colleague who was caught looking at some weird porn at work. A few minutes later, I sheepishly realize that he has completely forgotten about any fight whatsoever and even wonder if I had imagined the whole heated argument we'd had two days ago. Now I am starting to get the hang of it. This attitude keeps the friendship child-like and therefore stress-free.

A few years ago I received a V's Day card from a friend. I was surprised. He hated mushy V's day crap and had told me so, many times. I opened the e-card at work and a big blue cloud turned into a pink heart and floated around. And just as I wondered what the hell had happened to my perfectly wry friend, the large pink-heart balloon turned into a humongous, burly, pink, dimpled ass and whats more, it loudly farted. This time I turned pink and wanted to float away as colleagues looked on when the audible offensive rip came from the general direction of my desk area.

In his personalized note he wrote: "Had to show you this hilarious card. I knew you'd laugh". I did.

My roommate and I are the best of friends. I am a Harry Potter fan. She is not. One night, I read late into the night and wept when at roughly 3 am, I found out that Professor Dumbledore had died. That poor, poor, dear old man with his soft beard, I thought, crying into my pillow. I can get weird like that. I will have pent up sorrow that will suddenly be unleashed by stray occurrences, ranging from watching tragic films to hearing Talat Mehmood's ghazals. Anyways, so my roommate heard me weep and came over worried, her sleepy eyes trying to focus on my face in the dark.

"Whats the matter, why are you crying?" she asked me, blinking rapidly, her voice hoarse and heavy with sleep.

"Professor Dumbledore died" I told her mumbling. I don't know what she heard but she immediately put her arms around me

"Aww, how did he die....I'm so sorry to hear that" she cooed

"I don't know" I wept. I probably had been repressing some weird grief that Dumbledore's death had now released.

"Was it an accident? How did the professor die?" she asked her face a picture of concern

"No, that asshole murdered him" I told her as she brought me tissues and wiped my face.

"with his wand" I added, my lip still quivering and she frowned.

"Murder! With his wand? Wait, did you say wand? Wand?!" she stammered, her eyebrows knitted in confusion

"Yeah you know he used this curse and..."

"Which professor is this again? This isn't the professor who taught you Maths who you adored?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, her lips pursed, now fully awake and suddenly having spotted the Harry Potter book on my bed.

When she found out that she had been helping me mourn the death of a character, from a Harry Potter book, she could have fumed, rolled her eyes and walked away, back to bed.

"You are such a drama queen!" she could have told me and dismissed me. I expected her to do that.

Instead she sighed and sat down beside me.

"Don't worry. It's not the last book. He'll come back in the next one...just watch" she told me, with a grave philosophical expression, tucking me in and giving me hope. Professor Dumbledore's death had most likely just been a trigger for some other anguish I had suppressed and even though it found vent in the most odd fashion, she was still there for me.

Two of my very best friends are guys. I have known them since I was a tomboyish teenager. They are quintessential men who love sports, cars and beer. But for my sake, they spent a whole day at Butterfly World in Florida just because it made me happy and I had been feeling low. They had probably wanted to go the beach and watch beautiful, tanned bikini-clad beauties. Instead, they stood patiently in Butterfly World, their hands in their pockets, with tight, uncomfortable smiles, while I clicked pictures and annoying little kids ran around everywhere screaming. They tried very hard to not swat the pretty butterflies that settled down sometimes on their shoulders and hair and even gave me enthusiastic nods and a thumbs-up when I fed two parakeets on my palm.

"Please do not show these pictures to other people" they told me quietly, as we left Butterfly World and headed straight to a sports bar where macho-ism can be painlessly revived.

When I finish a good book, I call them. When I am depressed, I call them and I later find out that they had walked out of a movie theater to talk me out of my blues. When I see a great movie, I talk them into watching it and argue with them when they tell me they hated it. St.Valentine has blessed the celebration of love with his name. Similarly, Plato has blessed friendships between the genders with his name but nobody seems too keen on celebrating Plato's Day. Maybe my post will start a new wave for Plato's Day and annoy those angry Senas even more.

Sadly, in case of Platonic friendships, sometimes I feel like I am on this long wait until the guy's wife comes into his life one day and refuses to see how this friendship of his could be "proper". I spend my days fearing that one day, my best friend will turn into somebody's husband, that one day his wife will claim that him and I are just too close for her comfort. It scares me that this one whim might decide the future of a friendship that I have cherished since I was a teenager. These people are the only witnesses who knew the original me. They knew the person before the cynicism of age and experience set in and they heard the laughter that grew inhibited with every passing year. I once told one of them about this recurring nightmare where he and his wife meet me at the mall years later and he refuses to acknowledge me because she might get offended. At the end of my narration, I waited for his reaction. I waited for him to tell me that I was panicking for no reason and this it was a thoroughly stupid paranoia. And instead he giggled.

"Was she hot...my wife in your nightmare?" he asked me cackling at his own joke as I groaned and protested his ill-timed humor. I was secretly glad that he had made light of the situation; how else could I have ever laughed in the face of such credible fear.

Come to think of it, it is even harder for two girls to stay friends through all the numerous life changes. Two women who are such good friends that they are more than sisters, in the United States, are either pronounced gay or are Gayle...and Oprah.

Marriages, romance, children, jobs, geography and in the face of all the chaos, change and exhaustion is the steady, scaffold, the pillar of a good strong friendship that keeps us all going. So I have decided that I won't wait for Friendship Day to come along and pass by unnoticed. This Valentine's Day, I raise a toast and a cupcake with pink frosting to the ones that keep me sane through all the insanity and yet manage to bring in ample craziness when things get more serious than they should. This Valentine's Day I celebrate this one love that hardly ever gets celebrated and the deep affection we have for the unsung heroes of our busy lives.

Here's to you, my friend, my funny, crazy Valentine.

Movie Review: Ramchand Pakistani

Aditi Nadkarni — Mon, 9 Feb 2009 01:03:04 EST

The name caught my attention. It is not every day that we hear the title of a revered Hindu god and Pakistan in the same sentence. I almost wondered why there hadn't be news of effigies being burnt in India based on the name of the film alone. Has the economy stolen effigy-burners of their job or were they just busy with the upcoming anti-Valentine's Day projects, I wondered. As I began to watch the movie, I was surprised that I had not heard much about this beautifully crafted story based on true events.

Ramchand Pakistani encompasses in a relatively simple plot serious issues such as social reform and border security and yet manages to engage us at times in the complex maze of a woman's emotions and then in the mixed humor that always accompanies a boy's coming of age. This is the story of Ramchand, an eight year old Hindu-Dalit Pakistani boy who strays across the border and into India at a time when relations between the two nations are strained by an ongoing war. His father runs after him like any parent would and the duo is immediately suspected of being spies or terrorists from across the border. They land in a prison in India where they are interrogated and every day their hopes of ever returning to their country slowly dwindle. Amidst this tragic tale of separation are the little stories of triumph and Ramchand's adventures.

As Ramchand grows up in a less than ideal environment, the film introduces us to some grim realities. Caste relations in India have formed the basis of historical injustice as well as current politically-charged events that grow volatile every now and then. In the rural areas the poor treatment of Dalits and the issue of untouchability lives on even as our nation plants a flag on the moon. In the cities we hardly think of these issues because they don't affect us and then a film like Ramchand Pakistani reminds us that we can grimace and fume at the mentions of our dirty underbelly but we cannot do away with the precious lives that this underbelly houses. Ramchand's identity represents irony at several levels. He is a Hindu Pakistani Dalit imprisoned in India, a pluralistic nation where Hindus make up the majority, Pakistanis the perceived enemy and Dalits, the "untouchable" lower castes who have for long borne injustice. We have found superficial answers in terms of reserved seats and quotas assigned for these deprived and oppressed classes. However, the rift formed by discrimination at a social and cultural level may take years to bridge or even longer if we refuse to even acknowledge it.

Just as the hopelessness of little Ramchand's circumstances grips us towards the intermission, the film captivates us with the most basic of human emotions. The woman, a mother and a wife, who was left behind by these two pilgrims, struggles with being separated from her spouse and longs for love. The boy grows up in a prison surrounded by the most diverse group one can imagine. Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshi all live as one big dysfunctional family, their lives occasionally punctuated with hope and despair alike.

A child in the dangerous world of adults always makes for a plot that keeps viewers on their toes. Being in a prison, little Ramchand is surrounded by adults whom society has deemed criminal and unacceptable. Knowing that the film is based on true events, I watched the film with constant questions of what would eventually happen to Ramchand and his father. Would they return to Pakistan and reunite with the woman who waited for so long to see her loved ones? Has she waited or has she moved on? Knowing that the film is based on true events, I anticipated the worst and yet was suprised by the film's ending.

Watching a film directed by a woman has always been very interesting for me. Female directors deal differently with humor and emotion in a film. Good female directors, I have noticed, are like deft chefs who balance flavor. They carefully toy with each sentimental nuance of the film, not letting one get ahead of the other. The humor is subtle and even tragedy is somewhat muted under shifting curtains of periodic triumph. The end result for a viewer can be either detached neutrality or a perfectly satisfying adventure infused with a gamut of emotions. Mehreen Jabbar, the New York based Pakistani director treats us to the latter. Cinematographer Sofian Khan compliments Jabbar's directorial genius by capturing the stark contrast of the pale scorched desert region with the richly colorful couture of the women. There are scenes within the film that seem out of an oil painting.

I will never quite fathom the politics and bureaucracy that tempers the otherwise untamed flight of art and so it is beyond my understanding why this film would not be Pakistan's submission for an Oscar this year. I must add, that the lack of an Oscar nomination and presumably inadequate publicity does not stop Ramchand Pakistani from being a deeply moving film.

The World And President Obama: A Reason For The Romance

Aditi Nadkarni — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 04:56:28 EST

The world's romance with President Barack Hussein Obama continues. Is it his broad, uninhibited smile, people wonder, or the fact that he is making such glorious history with just his skin color and a middle name ? Or is it because he is coming in at a time when we all are so desperately thirsty for change. What is it about him that makes us cheer for him, root for him, hope to see him pull a nation out of crisis? The world is truly in love with Obama. Such true love, it is said, is found only when you've found yourself.

The world has come to an age, when a generation has been defined. We are a young world now that finds multiple modes of communication and jumps at the mere mention of a novel one being launched around the corner. We will not rest until the next great invention and we will not walk the trodden path, unless maybe we are multi-tasking and creating our own new funky stride. We are interesting people; we are the entrepreneur with political ambitions, the software geek who knows how to party, the news reporter who does stand-up comedy, the hacker who works with law enforcement, the actor who is also an ambassador, the teacher who pens poetry, the waitress who sang on American Idol, the struggling single mom who penned a best-seller, the teenager who does community service and the stripper who became a screenplay writer. We see in President Obama, the young man who chose after college to be a community organizer in South-side Chicago. We see a man who once did drugs and then conquered his demons like we want to conquer our own. We watched him turn a political campaign into a social networking experiment using the very tools that we type away on all day. His literary contributions, his use of the internet in a historic campaign, his sense of humor, his stress-relieving basket-ball game and his dancing skills not only charm us but are things we can finally relate to. His risks excite us and tell us that we too can make a leap of faith. We are a generation that has defined ourselves, set ourselves apart and see in this new dynamic President, a lot of ourselves and more importantly, a little of who we would all like to be. We have his crazy ambition, the "madness" and the "megalomania" that he once said one needs in order to want to be a leader of the free world. But we also strive to have his temperament, that cool equanimity with which he handled disagreements during the campaign. Let's face it, who wouldn't a nick-name as cool as "No Drama Obama".

Years ago, at a Presidential inaugural ball in America, I imagine, people must have been so official, so proper. They must have adhered to all forms of etiquette expected at such a formal event and coyly performed the waltz with their wives like a duty. They must have shook hands with the men and women gathered, saluted army officers. That ball might have been reserved for people of office, the important and the influential and not for a local community organizer or a student who won an essay contest. A black man might not have been allowed attendance at some of these balls. The new President and the celebration of his arrival changed all of this.

He began one ball by pointing out to the the cheering crowds how beautiful his wife looked. To the army men and women in Kabul, he asked if they were Cubs or White Socks fans, putting them at ease in the midst of their new commander-in-chief. He told the band to "hit it" and then added a little twist to his dance with the First Lady, rubbing noses with her as people pulled out their cell-phones to take pictures of them. "At last" Beyonce crooned, "my love has come along". The world agrees.

Bollywood's Coming Of Age

Aditi Nadkarni — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 00:11:43 EST

It all started with my having given up on contemporary Hindi films. I was hopeful after Taare Zameen Par and after watching Race one depressing Sunday afternoon I didn't see the cinematic revolution I had expected. I had also figured out after a Netflixcapade that Chak De India, the last Hindi film I watched with much enthusiasm seemed a lot like the English film called Miracle, except of course Miracle was based on a true story. Having absorbed this, I went into mourning, restricting my Hindi film doses to watching for the second, third or fourth time, classics like Masoom, Katha, Ijazzat and Mandi on YouTube.

And then one day a new name, Nishikanth Kamath, stirred my faith alive with Mumbai Meri Jaan. I laughed and cried and celebrated the filmmaker who finally found Paresh Rawal a role he was worthy of. The very next day, in A Wednesday, Naseeruddhin Shah and Anupam Kher held my attention until the very last scene. I didn't yawn or fast-forward through songs. I sat, eyes glued to the screen, silently applauding two of my favorite actors who thankfully did not settle by spending their greying film years as strict fathers, the perennial villains in desi love stories. The pace was electrifying, the story original and the characters real.

In Welcome To Sajjanpur, Shyam Benegal delighted me further with a simple yet delectable rural comedy that addressed relevant social issues. A modest cast, generous dashes of humor and Shreyas Talpade's acting genius made this film a wholesome and fun watch. Madhur Bhandarkar's style of juxtaposing the real with the glamorous worked in Fashion and I was surprised to find out that the very pretty Priyanka Chopra can, if she tried, act well. More recently, in Dasvidaniya, Vinay Pathak brought a common man character to life. I soaked in this bittersweet and touchingly crafted film, directed by debutante Shashant Shah that has the potential to change how Bombay's middle class views life and relationships. I fell in love with the awkward, bespectacled and podgy protagonist.

Rock On! had me pondering about several things; about what might have happened to Indus Creed, the rock group of the 80s, about what had happened to my dreams of learning to play the guitar some day and most importantly about why I hadn't noticed earlier how very good-looking Farhan Akhtar was! It is always more of a success when one sees new faces in a Hindi film these days and realizes that it is talent being showcased and not merely a family business being passed on cause some star-kid didn't do too well at school.

In EMI, a lighthearted comic plot captured the complicated love-hate relationship between the new and altered Indian middle class and the banks that strive with relentless schemes to catch up with them. Sanjay Dutt is a natural at playing the quintessential bhai and has practically raised the standards for anyone else wanting to play a GGG (gentle-goofy-goonda) character. It was refreshing to see among other things, a more composed and consequently more sexier Urmila Matondkar in a character very different from the over-the-top hysterical damsel that Ram Gopa Verma has had her play in the past.

I saw more. I saw Johnny Gaddar, Manorama Six Feet Under and am browsing sites to see if the seemingly funny Loins Of Punjab is out yet. I am waiting for the likes of Nana Patekar, Atul Kulkarni, Manoj Bajpai to make good while these crazy times of unique plots and talented performances roll.

In the past few weeks I have watched film after film and am wide-eyed at the maverick years of cinema that the Hindi film industry is witnessing. In short, every film was unique and I imagined what the big banners might be doing. Were they scratching their heads wondering what happened to the time when the proclaimed stars and starlets would come out and claim the box office for themselves as the small budget filmmakers took home the consolation prize and maybe a Filmfare Critics' Award? Or maybe they are coming up with a formula to match the present times and create a package that has what today's film buffs need. Maybe they will learn to tap into the free advertising offered by the blogosphere where the new, the creative and the original are spoken about and exalted. Ek Vivaah Aisa Bhi tells us that the Barjatyas stubbornly choose to remain in the past and manufacture wedding videos in place of cinema. Aditya Chopra's Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi did not have a gripping story in with the times and Shahrukh's charm could not make up for the lack of chemistry between the two leading stars. None of the bigger stars have yet ventured into the emerging genre of films which may be a blessing for upcoming actors. Maybe this is their channel into tinseltown.

Finally, there are stories in Bollywood! The Indian film director is acknowledging the growing intellect of the masses and catering to it instead of recycling the girl-meets-boy plots. The mother in Dasvidaniya, the child in Taare Zameen Par and the friend in Rock On! all remind us that the "pyaar" they sing about so much in Bollywood has more faces than the two that will sing, dance, hold hands, kiss and eventually marry.

Recently, in speaking of Slumdog Millionaire, Mr.Bachchan on his blog acknowledged the age-long tryst between the commercial and art film industries in India. Films have always been viewed on those lines. What is artful and realistic was assumed not to be of commercial value since commercialism feeds on escapism. But the movies I have been watching lately have the triumphs and fantasy that escapism offers and the realistic depiction of earthy stories that art films showcase. One could call them crossover films; a genre that brings together the popularity of commercial cinema and the delicate craftsmanship of art films. What was parallel cinema, not too long ago, is now intersecting and becoming one with popular cinema. A new day has dawned in Bollywood!

Amitabh Bachchan: Slumdog Millionaire Shows India as Third World's Dirty Underbelly

Aditi Nadkarni — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 12:22:26 EST

Mr.Bachchan complained on his blog that India has been portrayed as the Third World's dirty underbelly in Danny Boyle's film Slumdog Millionaire. It is not good enough for Big B that the city be shown as it is. He wants "Westerners" to portray only the good and the glitzy and leave out the rag-pickers and street-children.

I totally see what he means. It is such bad PR for the whole nation, isn't it? Can you imagine what it would do to our international image if people saw that we have dirty railway stations and snotty street-children? Danny Boyle, should have, like most of us, rolled up the tinted windows of his car in the face of a five year old beggar and snoozed through the soulful renditions of Bollywood numbers by the precocious train-elves in Mumbai locals. Danny Boyle should have with his crew arrived at something like the lit up Eternity or Globus malls in Mumbai and shot his film near the squeaky clean neighborhoods of Colaba. He could've used sets instead of crowded railway stations where one can see the sweat running of off the citizens of this dirty underbelly. Danny Boyle should recognize that our patriotic sentiments are hurt not by the sights we see every day on the streets of Mumbai but by what he puts in his movie.

Slums? Who wants to see Dharavi, leave alone shoot film sequences there. Isn't this precisely why we have the Hiranandani Complex where Akshay Kumar and Govinda have danced. Instead in Slumdog Millionaire we have to see the filthy street children with their dirty, sun-tanned faces reminding us of traffic jams. Doesn't this Boyle fellow know that traffic jams are the number one reason why Bollywood stars arrive late at the Filmfare awards? And how could he show the the beggars! Oh, those beggars shoving their hands through the window and pushing their sooty faces against our polished cars. Why would anybody want to use those in a film about India? Look at our directors, do you ever see Sanjay Leela Bhansali or Karan Johar ever put these in their dance sequences or promos. Learn a thing or two about India will you? We are a nation full of angry Punjabi fathers, kanjiwaram clad middle aged women who quietly endure, sons who arrive in helicopters and daughters who dance around in towels just waiting to fall in love. Sometimes we all wear spectacular turbans and play members of a Rajasthani royal family. But mostly we are dancing on the mountains of Ooty and on the streets of Switzerland.

The truth is Danny Boyle is jealous. The whole of the West is just envious of our dazzling success. Therefore they are hell-bent on covering only what sucks about India: the snotty street-kids and ignore what is so great about India: beach-side bungalows of Bollywood stars. All those who assert that lives in the underbelly are more interesting should read Page 3 of Bombay Times (that is, by the way, where you would find a true portrayal of all things Indian). Slumdog Millioniare just makes us roll our eyes and wonder if Danny Boyle and his team just forgot to read that travel magazine on his flight to India where clear illustrations of Indian stuff are provided. Palaces in Rajasthan against the backdrop of a setting sun, beautiful women performing either Odissi, bharatnatyam or kathak, museums with marble walls, the backwaters of Kerala, the beaches of Goa and of course elephants...no, not the ones causing traffic jams in Mumbai but the ones decked up and paraded for entertainment. With all this cultural paraphernalia to pick from, all these Westerners found worthy of a film were street children and railway stations?

It was bad enough when Bimal Roy incorporated an emaciated Balraj Sahani in Do Bigha Zamin and Mira Nair included prostitutes and street kids in Salaam Bombay. This was Satyajit Ray's problem and Shyam Benegal's too which is why their films were routinely ignored by the panel selecting films to send for Oscar consideration. But the Academy still hunted Satyajit Ray down and gave that man an Oscar on his deathbed rewarding him for all the gloomy portrayals of India that catered to the hungry West. That is how much the West craves poor portrayal of India. You never see them giving an Oscar to Yash Chopra in spite of the magnificent boon he is to the Hindi film industry. What about Aishwarya's touching portrayal of a strong and opinionated girl in Bride & Prejudice? How come the Golden Globes ignored that? I mean the poor girl cried her eyes out ruining her make-up and all in Provoked. The West even had that "wife-beating Indian husband" portrayal to feed on in that film. But no awards whatsoever indicating a clear bias for street children, beggars and crowded Mumbai locals. The U.S has a dirty underbelly too. Who puts it in films? Pursuit Of Happyness does not count since Will Smith was wearing a suit throughout that film. Our homeless people don't.

The bottomline is if the whole issue is about realism and true portrayals then why cast Anil Kapoor as a host? Big B was the real host of Kaun Banega Crorepati and he wasn't even invited to give away an award like Shahrukh Khan was at the Golden Globes. If I were Big B, I would be so pissed. My ego would be throbbing and bruised. But a legend like him would never rant on his blog just because he was upset about something so petty, would he? Never!

Will Technology Ever Marry Public Services?

Aditi Nadkarni — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 01:14:55 EST

As was expected, talk of the Mumbai attacks have died down in global media. With the Gaza war the media now has a new situation to cover. And this how the world operates now I think. Before we have dealt with the questions from one crisis and begun to look for answers, we are tested with another.

A few days ago, I read with great embarrassment, an article on Yahoo that detailed how the terrorists had been more tech savvy than the police force in Mumbai. The adjoining picture had a morbidly obese police officer struggling to climb over a fence, his copious belly seeming to arrive roughly five seconds before him. I didn't know whether to feel sorry for his underpaid, engorged being or feel a sense of despair about a system that allows a police officer to be so totally out of shape. This man's daily job description involves using a five rupee whistle and waving his stick around at vulnerable rickshaw drivers. The news report described how the terrorists had arrived with several high-tech gadgets, satellite phones, GPS systems and automatic weapons and encountered police who did not even have walkie-talkies. This would've been a disgrace anywhere in the world but what adds insult to injury is that this was in a nation which boasts of recent technological advances and is home to a significant fraction of the world's lauded techies. I can just imagine several eyes rolling to the skies, wondering what technological advances would have anything to do with the police being well-equipped. This is where we are now. In the 21st century, we can imagine a world where everything can be done with a computer and all things important are digital and user-friendly, except services involving the government. In our dealings with the government, we always expect and grudgingly accept that the paperwork will take time and the service will be less effective because lets face it, the government does not have all the snazzy gadgets and devices that we do. I have viewed my apartment complex using Google Earth and never realized how people could actually use these detailed maps to launch an attack. Today, as we grow, the problems grow with us, multiplying our questions and mocking our simplistic answers. The arms of our technology grow and indiscriminately embrace even the evil-doers in some part of the world. We live in a world where phones do more than phones should. We have i-Pods that can play an obscene number of songs and we can now make international calls for no cost using G-talk and Yahoo Messenger. It remains a mind-boggling fact that everyday technology that one can buy and use for personal entertainment or education is never applied to public security measures. If technology can ease our daily life, it seems obvious that it also be applied in public services. All our taxes can surely buy us a national security environment that matches the times. Apparently, it cannot.

Last year during a visit to Mumbai somebody suddenly screamed that there was a fire in a pav-bhaaji stall across the road. People, just common every day people, ran with full buckets, appearing out of nowhere, from other shops and surrounding slums and they slowly doused the flames. There were even kids who brought pails of water and flung at the flames giggling as they did it, their mirth severely contrasting the blazing crisis. The cook's hand was badly burned and a rickshaw drove him to a hospital. Nobody arrived. No sirens. No ambulances, no fire brigades, no police cars were to be seen. A little distance away, a traffic policeman glanced toward the scene from a paan shop and paid no further attention. There was no 9-1-1 to call and people just relied on the tax-paying crowds to do what needed to be done. I remembered this when watching CNN cover the aftermath of the recent terrorist attacks that shook Mumbai. Survivors and escapees described the brave operations carried out by the commandos and then provided dismal accounts of how no paramedics or emergency medical services were available when they finally ran out of the hotels.

If an emergency system existed in Mumbai, would the police have received a call from someone who saw a gunman sauntering into a railway station? Should security officials have been sitting across the screen, monitoring the events, when the camera captured the 21 year old terrorist strolling away after a shooting spree? We have several hundred traffic policemen in a city that has traffic signals. These policemen do absolutely nothing to ease the traffic jams that clog the roads and yet they can be seen in Mumbai occasionally pulling over a car for their "thanda-paani" when they could be more useful elsewhere.

My question at this point is not what can the system do. I am tired of asking that question. My question is can the people do something minus the system that has repeatedly failed to protect its public? Because, quite frankly, for how long can we, the educated, the thinking and the law-abiding ones be mere victims of a failed and corrupt system? Did our education and our intelligence not arm us with the most basic of all skills: the skill to survive? Remarkably talented engineers graduate every year from the excellent schools in India. In my naivety, I always dream of a day when I will read about this pioneer, techie-genius somewhere in Bangalore who comes up with a system to secure the nation. I don't know how it can be done. I admit that I have neither the skills nor the technological suavity to even begin to answer some of the questions I pose. If you ask me how such a project would be funded, I might say something downright stupid like "Um, private funding?". My questions may even sound juvenile to say a CEO of an elite, thriving techie company. All I know is that even with the availability of all the information at my fingertips, a GPS in my car, an i-Pod for when I workout, a touch-screen ticket kiosk at the nearest movie theater, a car that can call emergency by itself when in a crash, a phone that has stuff on it that I don't even know how to use, I am still unhappy because I am scared of walking in the streets and traveling in the trains of the cities that I love. And not just Mumbai, but any city. In spite of all our stunning global accomplishments we are not safe in any city, no matter where in the world we are. We have all these terms to distinguish "developing nations" from "superpowers". But when a terrorist attack results in a toddler being on a no-fly list in the world's superpower, we realize that there is no first or third world, we may just be one screwed up world, in this mess together.

The merger of technology with public services may if explored bring an interesting turn of events in a nation in terms of the economy. It would be an exciting place for us to start examining how our education, our degrees and all that cool stuff that looks so good on paper could work constructively against those who use their minds for destruction. It may take longer since making something is always harder than destroying it, but will decidedly be more gratifying and fruitful.

The Facebook Breast Feeding Controversy

Aditi Nadkarni — Sat, 3 Jan 2009 22:56:34 EST

In present times, freedom of speech and expression have turned into somewhat of a joke. Unfortunately, while freedom is universal, intelligence, a sense of responsibility and propriety are not. Time and again, debates have been stirred up by this constant struggle to define and balance freedom of expression especially in America where one can find ample examples of abused freedom in both the real world and the virtual world. A recent debate involves protests against Facebook taking down pictures of mothers breastfeeding.

Facebook says it has clearly outlined on its website what the terms of acceptability are for profile and album pictures on the website and has duly taken down pictures after complaints from members. Orkut is comparatively lax I have noticed and so are Orkut (desi) users. Although Orkut explicitly states that pictures of celebrities and copyrighted images are not to be used, so many Orkut users have pictures of movie stars up as profile pictures. A third of the girls on Orkut are Aishwaryas, Kajols and Ranis.

That is just plain annoying and despite of how much we all want annoyances pronounced illegal, it cannot be done. However, I wonder what I would think if someone on my friend's list uploaded a picture of themselves breastfeeding. I wouldn't find it obscene but maybe it is a cultural thing that it would make me pause to wonder why a mom would put up a baby-feeding activity involving her bare breast up on such a public forum. I must admit, I would speculate on the intentions of the woman and I would worry about who may be looking at such pictures. I am not a mother but I am a woman. My personal opinion is that breastfeeding is a personal time between a mother and a baby. Having pictures of that taken and put up on such a public forum is confusing to me.

I watched on Yahoo's video section, an interview with the woman who started a community on Facebook protesting their taking down breastfeeding pictures. The community is called: "Hey Facebook, breastfeeding is not obscene". I agree with the title of the community but I personally do not believe Facebook's actions suggest that that breastfeeding itself is obscene. Putting up pictures of breastfeeding on a public community, though, is another story. There are teens on Facebook who won't exactly look at the pictures and go "Aww, look how cute. Mom feeding baby! That is so beautiful."

No. A more likely scenario would involve teen boys, high-fiving, giggling and taking unhealthy pleasure in ogling at a partially exposed breast. During her interview, the creator of this community launched into a detailed explanation of how even with proper "latching on" by the baby, parts of the nipple and the aureole are visible and women whose aureole is visible should still be allowed to put up their breastfeeding pictures. I kid you not. She actually said all this much to my discomfort. Mind you, my embarrassment was not at the subject matter of discussion but at how far away from the point this woman was drifting in her far fetched rationalizations. She then explained how breastfeeding is normal and therefore pictures of the activity should not be deemed as vulgar content. I agree. The problem is I can almost imagine another girl in some other part of the world using this very logic to justify why pictures of masturbation too should be allowed on Facebook. After all, masturbation too is a normal activity.

What about breast exams? And childbirth? All these are normal activities that one should not look at as vulgar or shameful. Should pictures of all these be allowed on public forums? Where does the freedom end and the violation begin? Where is the line? I want to ask these mothers a question: My friend's thirteen year old son is on Facebook. As moms you must know that just a picture on Facebook is not an appropriate introduction to breast feeding for a 13 year old boy. So how does Facebook protect your right to put up pictures of yourself breastfeeding and his fragile psyche all at once?

A Cancer Researcher At The Scene

Aditi Nadkarni — Mon, 1 Dec 2008 09:18:10 EST

My profile under every article states that I am a cancer researcher. Initially I debated with myself about whether or not to include that, worried that I might sound snobbish or proud, geeky maybe. Then decided to keep it. Firstly, I am proud and somewhat geeky. Secondly, I want people to know when they read my articles, the rail on which my thought-train runs. I want them to know that my scientific thinking tempers practically every thought-process I indulge in.

So today, that cancer researcher in me sat down and pondered about terrorism, in terms of cancer research (can you believe it!). A few years ago, there was confusion within the field about what all could result in a malignant tumor. Some said one gene mutation could do it, others said you would need a group of mutations in several different genes to finally result in a tumor. Today several research studies have established that cancer can be caused by both, one or many mutations in key genes. Our rage against a few machine gun wielding young men confuses us in what could result in a terrorist, a man who saw it fit to rain bullets on men, women and even children. Like a malignant tumor that has the ability to spread throughout the body, his hatred had the potential to devastate nations. Like a cancer, his defect isn't his own, it can find its roots somewhere else in the system, where things went wrong. Like a recurring cancer, this lone gunman's hatred too can find a way to grow somewhere else and return one day. And we always find people who will, in their passion and anger against this violation, pin it to the most obvious answer: "They are all Muslims". In science, we are taught that the most obvious hypothesis may end up being completely wrong and that is why we cannot simply believe theories as if they were factual information. We are taught to investigate the converse theory to ascertain if we are in fact on the right track. A relevant example of evaluating a converse theory would be asking ourselves, if it is in fact Islam then is every Muslim, a terrorist? If the answer is "no" then the next step is to evaluate the other factors that maybe involved in addition to the religion that seems to tie some of these terrorists, possibly, poverty, lack of education.

Surgically removing a tumor has its own challenges. A given cancer should be removed without inadvertent spillage of cancer cells by technical error into surrounding tissue. To do this, surgeons have to first ensure that the tumor is distinct from the rest of the body, tissues, organs that are functioning and are non-cancerous. An error in these steps could cause spread of the cancer. We are all now aware that following attacks on Afghanistan and Iraq, Al Qaeda has spread to 6 more countries. We are also aware that civilians who were not associated with terrorist organizations lost their lives. I once watched a documentary about an Iraqi boy whose loved one, an innocent civilian, standing outside a mosque, was unintentionally killed by U.S soldiers. In this young man's words was a foreboding anger for America, an anger that could very easily be manipulated and propagated.

A significant amount of research in the field of cancer is focused on how to treat a cancer once it is detected. Once the diagnosis is made, the treatment depends on what stage, what organ, the patient's age and several other factors that complicate therapy and may even limit its efficacy. Sometimes it is too late. Sometimes the treatment fails and nobody knows why and researchers like me work at a snail's pace trying to find answers. But there is another fast growing area of cancer research that has a different way to approach this disease before it even strikes. It is called preventative research. You know how even the mere idea of preventing terrorism through peaceful means evokes loud, enraged, frustrated claims of "lefty" and "this will never work" etc.. Well, similarly, this area of cancer research too, very early on, was mocked, even called "holistic medicine". And now, increasing mortality rates, tumor resistance to therapy, recurring malignancies have forced people in the field to take a long, hard look at this alternative approach. I wonder when that will happen with terrorism.

A friend, a physician, commented the other day something that stayed with me. Everything we do in our life, all our actions, our efforts and our strife stand on the one singular pillar of our will to live. A patient who goes through the intense days of chemotherapy and radiation has only one force driving him to oust the cancer that has taken over his body, his will to live. A terrorist who flies a plane into a tower and happily takes the bullets of commandos, had lost his will to live. He came there knowing he would die. He came there knowing he would never have to look at himself in the mirror after having killed so many innocent people. Only sheer hopelessness could take away one's will to live. Call me an optimist, an idealist but maybe preventing terrorism would have to start at finding and eliminating this hopelessness and not just the people who fall prey to it. And finally, it is the innocent, unsuspecting people who go about their lives and get killed when this man's hopelessness seeps through bullets and bomb explosions. It is high time that our will to live is stronger than that lone gunman's will to die.