Desicritics Category: Culture: Paranormal

Movie Review: 13B - Not Fear's New Address

IdeaSmith — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 07:40:14 EDT

Flush with the success of my earlier movie plan which turned out such great results, I decided to go one extra and spice up my next movie outing as well. So, I proposed 'Kitsch is Kool'. The idea was to do something unusual with a touch of whackiness, all in the name of entertainment. I decided to pick something different. Comedy...nah, we did that last week. Oscar winners...too bloody high-brow (Besides it was more fun to diss celebrity style)! Drama...umm, show me something else. How about horror? And what could add more ice to the chills than watching it in a rundown, semi-seedy theatre to add atmosphere? No comfortable plush sofas to sink your face into during the scream-moments, no multiplex comfort food of caramel popcorn and seat-delivered colas. Just rattling, creaky rexine seats where your knees bumped into the cold metal of the seats in front of you, each time you shrieked. 13B at Chandan cinema was the plan.

I'd love to tell you how, full of daring and adventure, I set forth with my brave bunch of movie-buff friends. Instead, every single one of them chickened out!!! Even my plaintive sell of

But guys, just imagine the thrill of facing up to your fears! After all, darr ke aage jeet hai!

was met with,

No!! Darr ke aage nightmares hai!

Like that. Hmph, so I ended up mall-ratting as usual and watching 13B in the aforementioned multiplex complete with comfort food. So not kitschy, definitely not kool. Maybe that took away from the experience, maybe my review would have been nicer if we had gone with the original plan.

13B is driven forth by Madhavan who despite his cult status in Kollywood (the Tamizh film industry, for the uninitiated) has failed to make a splash on the rest of the Indian audience. To his credit most people have fond memories of him in Banegi Apni Baat and Sea Hawks but the big screen seems to be rather cruel on South-Indian men, doesn't it? Considering the hero is a very large proponent of a movie's appeal, it already starts off with a handicap.

In addition, 13B is playing in that rather unfashionable genre of Bollywood horror movies. After the steady Ramsay brothers diet of B-grade potboilers (Veerana, Khooni Murda), the Indian audience was introduced to relatively more sophisticated offerings minus the ketchup-blood and clay-masks of yore. Ram Gopal Verma played guardian angel to this movement with Bhoot and Darna Mana Hai. I don't know how commercially successful they were, compared to the other Bollywood fare but they certainely ushered in a new age of horror in Hindi movies.

Cut to the present. The audience has been seeing a steady stream of 'experimental' movies right from the short-length skits favoured by Nagesh Kukunoor to NRI flicks to collages (Darna Mana Hai, Dus Kahaniyan) to audience-targetted films. Purely from a marketer's standpoint, now would have been a good time to take a leap forward in the undeveloped theme of horror movies. By that premise, 13B is over a decade too late. Raat was made ages ago, Urmila's wide-eyed Bhoot has shocked us all years back. What else is new?

The characterization of 13B is extremely dated with a honey-sweet joint family that precedes the generation of saans-bahu politics. None of the characters really stand out. Poonam Dhillon in her comeback avatar could have done so much more, had she just had a bit more to do than look annoyed at being disturbed during her noontime soap viewing. Sachin Khedekar (who shot to fame with Sailaab, a king among Hindi TV soaps) was perhaps a little too larger-than-life for TV but shrunk to his podgy-man frame in the movie. The movie doesn't exactly make the best case for Madhavan to kick-start his Bollywood career either, since he alternates between huffing & puffing up the staircase (what on earth was that about the broken lift anyway??), wide-eyed mania and goofy grins. That boy needs a lesson on not smiling too much, it makes me want to call him Mr.Cheese (and not as in Kya cheez hai!).

What's worse, there was actually a background score! Not a soundtrack to add dimension to the horror theme, a fullblown honest-to-Hindi-movie-goodness, background score complete with running around trees and *shudder shudder* an item song! This was about the only scary thing in the movie (and trust me on this, I'm a real 'fraidy-cat otherwise).

With a theme like Sab Khairiyat Hai, I was rather hoping this story would experience a Stepford Wives-esque ephiphany and explore the sublimnal horror of mind-controlled perfection. No such luck. By the end of the movie I'm only left with the feeling that there is someone who's even more petrified of gadgets and technology than I am! After all, my nightmares have never been of spooked television sets (even if I did entertain a haunted lift once). It looks like the makers were rather spooked with the idea of making a movie too. If you're looking for chills down the spine, ask a friend to dump an ice-tray down your shirt. Don't bother with 13B.

Novice Interpretation of Dreams

Suresh Naig — Sat, 7 Feb 2009 05:12:35 EST

Do dreams have meanings? This single question had generated many answers in the past and I am sure many more are in the queue. Many a time a single dream would throw different meanings, and all the meanings might appear right. I started reading many books to understand my dreams, but the more I read the more I was confounded and I solicited the views of many learned pundits to decipher my dreams.

Had it not been for the recurrent dream, I would have stayed happy like all my other friends, singing duets with Hemamalini and Waheeda Rehman, around a tree. My dream was like a cardiologist’s expression of a certain heart condition- "regularly irregular", in haunting me.

For a very long time, I used to get up in the middle of a night, soaked in sweat. I used to dream an elephant chasing me and my feet stuck in ground like an automobile stuck in slush, not in a position to move. By the time the elephant comes menacingly close to me, I used to get up from the bed soaked in sweat. The dream was recurrent for two reasons, primarily because of my fear of the huge animal and secondly, not even once I had allowed the dream to complete, by waking up in the dead of night. Taking pity on me, a wise man in our neighbourhood, who was respected for his divine disposition, advised me to visit a local Ganesha temple regularly for 21 days to rid of my haunting and incomplete dream. Closing his eyes in trance, he pronounced that I had left a vow unfulfilled in my earlier birth to Lord Ganesha, which gets reminded in this birth through the haunting dream.

My visits to the Ganesha temple had to be abandoned in less than two weeks, since the regularity of my elephantine dream increased with my regular visits to the temple. The wise man was very creative like all soothe Sayers, he declared, ‘God wants your previous karma to linger for some more time and that’s why you could not complete your 21 days visit to the temple’, which I believed for a long time, until I came across a well read person with a scientific bent of mind, who believed little in God and very little in previous births.

He narrated the famous dream of Singer, which was instrumental in perfecting the sewing machine. He said, ‘Singer had perfected everything other than the needle for the sewing machine. He was confused as how to mount the needle in sewing machine, which had a hole at its hind portion. One night he dreamt, that he lost his way in a forest and surrounded by aborigines. He suddenly woke up and got an answer for his pressing problem, because he saw all the aborigines were carrying spears, with a hole in the front.’ My session stopped with him as abruptly as it started, from his very first proclamation. He told me with an air of superiority, ‘all your dreams, I am sure would have been only in black and white and never it was colourful.’ He had only reproduced what he had imbibed from many books and had it not been for the timing, he would have succeeded in convincing me.

Only the previous night than his pronouncement, I had dreamt Rakhi attired beautifully in a pink coloured saree confusing me sufficiently, since that saree was the favourite of the most favourite girl in our neighbourhood. As I grew in age my fear transformed to inquisitiveness, to find the climax of my dream which was prolonging like the never ending TV serial, but to no avail. The dream had abruptly stopped, queerly coinciding with my marriage. However I could not muster enough courage to discuss the haunting dream and the timing of its culmination, to my healthy wife who always considered an hour-glass figure as unhealthy.

There was one dream which turned out profitable for me, due to an innocent interpretation by a wealthy aunt of mine. When I narrated a phenomenal dream of mine, of visiting a temple in a wooded area on a river bank, and curiously worshipping the presiding deity carved out of an onion, my aunt became emotional and said that her family deity, “Marthanda Bairava”, who is fond of accepting onion as offering, had blessed me through my dream. That dream was phenomenal, as it bestowed on me a sizable inheritance from her, but the real reason for that dream was due to my unusually high quantity of raw onions ingested during dinner from a Marwari Bhojanalya and going to bed without brushing.

Who Is An Intellectual?

Suresh Naig — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 07:08:08 EDT

Who is an intellectual?

A recent issue of English weekly said, that intellectuals in Tamil Nadu want Nalini - one of the accused in Rajiv Gandhi assassination to be released, having spent 17 years in prison.

It had even named the intellectuals, that set me think.
Who is an intellectual?
What are the pre-requisites for an intellectual?
Who confers the title "intellectuals" on persons?

My search led me to some interesting conclusions, which I wanted to share with you all.

English dictionary defines intellect as "the faculty of reasoning, knowing and thinking, as distinct from feeling", and naturally an intellectual should possess all the above faculties. Feeling is emotion and emotion always clouds thinking and reasoning. The emotion of love would not allow a father to accept his son as an accused, in spite of strong evidences and proofs. However in India, to be an intellect, one has to have strong feelings; feelings of compassion, love, hatred and wishful thinking towards set notions.

An intellect in India should always be anti-establishment; however it is preset with riders. As long as the establishment is pro majority religion, by opposing the act of establishment under different intellectually invented phrases one can get entry into this elite club of intellectuals. But any action by a person belonging to a minority community or by certain criminals under the garb of social cause should be watched with stoical silence, to qualify for an intellectual in India. If one loses sleep over these causes, his entry into this elite club of intellectuals is expedited.

During my college days I had admired many of my peers, who were considered to be intellectuals for they appeared to have a very deep knowledge on different subjects. I had admired their depth of my knowledge, for they have used repeatedly certain vocabulary, the depth of which was unfathomable for me. Most of the times it was alien for them too. May it be economics, sociology, management or politics. Many of them appeared stoned most of the times; they had the capacity to stone wall any uncomfortable questions, by another question making it uncomfortable for the inquirer.

I wondered at the source of their knowledge and found belatedly that they imbibed all their knowledge from select libraries and select lectures. On getting exposed to only select literatures and books from these libraries and select lectures, they developed the "stoned" look of intellectuals.

What is common among these intellectuals? Until the disintegration of USSR, they were expected to eloquently defend the policies of Kremlin. They all did it so well and blissfully, defending even the worst incident of shooting down of a passenger plane by Soviet air force, justifying with reasons, which I doubt whether they believed themselves. When the intellectuals were happy with their blissful liberation, Moscow was proud of their ignorance, for they defended the Soviet aggression of Afghanistan, better than the Soviets.

In India, to be an intellectual one has to be a 'selective atheist'- a coinage which has no parallel anywhere in the world, and that's why they are celebrated as intellectuals in India. But these intellects are strictly refrained from even commenting at the practices of other religions, which would disqualify them from the elite club of intellectuals. An intellectual in India is not expected to reveal his Hindu credentials; however any person from other religions can do so, without getting disqualified.

There is another easy way to get entry into this elite club of intellectuals. Do not believe in anything, on which majority of Indians have belief, to qualify for an intellectual, for the intellectuals believe that most of the Indians are gullible fools.

The White Lady Of Bangalore Airport

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 13:50:43 EDT

Teaser advertisements on Radio Indigo in Bangalore have been asking people why they want to leave Bangalore and even have a site where people can give their reasons. No one can stop anyone from leaving a city to find greener pastures but they stand warned not to travel by air. Bangalore's spanking new airport is apparently haunted by no less than a white witch.

The witch, I mean, lady supposedly walked on the tarmac and was noticed by a pilot, the plane got delayed and obviously there was nothing, further on she hitched a ride with the airport officers and then disappeared. No official report had been made about the incident but Bangalore is rife with all sorts of rumors about this mysterious lady. Newspapers like Mid-day and even Radio Jockey Rohit Barker made fun of the ghost.

It doesn't take long for rumors to become urban legends. And legends then are treated are facts. Delhi had its flying monkey man, there was the 'nale ba' witch in Bangalore, and now the city has its own airport ghost.

Maybe before giving strange women rides in the middle of the night, the airport officials should check the womens' feet. Witches supposedly have feet turned backward.

Jokes apart what the deal with the haunting of places by white women in the middle of night? I've heard similar tales of white witches from people belonging to different countries.

It seems open dark spaces, woods and unlived homes are tagged as areas rife with hauntings.

We have all had that nasty feeling of someone watching us when we are all alone, of not wanting to go into a deserted house or even seeing something move from the corner of our eyes that we brushed off as the working of an overactive imagination.

But those who supposedly have undergone 'hauntings' say the experiences left them cold and some even terrorized. I laughed at the spoof played on Radio Indigo about the Malayalee lady who had seen a headless ghost on the turmac but would I laugh if a perfectly sane person swore that they experienced a haunting at the Bangalore airport?

A lot happens between heaven and earth which we know nothing of.

Original Fiction: Park Bench Love

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 15:10:36 EDT

"I like voluptuous women."

She raised a shapely eyebrow.

He looked sheepish and blushed.

She thought he was cute.

"What I meant is- I like women with meat on their bones. I like to hold a woman when I - you know- " He blushed again and shrugged.

She wanted to jump his bones. He pressed his thigh against hers. The crickets in the park whistled, the goldfish swam lazily in the pools and the smell of wet earth moistened by the roving sprinklers assailed her senses. A homeless tramp waved a brown papered bottle at them and hobbled away. It was close to midnight and she had left the party to go out with a friend of a friend. A remote friend.

Instead of coffee he took her to the park. He seemed safe- the boy next door type.

She let him close. She let him smell her hair. She blushed and felt breathless. His fingers lightly trailed over her breasts and she trembled when he pulled the neck of the blouse down and took the plump muscle out.

The nipple peaked like a ripe cherry in the cool air. He licked and she held the back of his head.

The hair on his nape was soft like the cotton from a warm quilt and his teeth hard. He bit and she swooned.

She felt her world churn. She bled from her nipple. He moved up to the base of her neck where the nerve rapped a silent tune and she bled some more. She was a river of pleasure. Death was a pleasure.

He wrapped her tenderly in his arms. Her first and only lover. He liked his women full waisted. There was more woman to hold, more blood, more memories and a warmer embrace even if the love lasted the sweetest shortest while.

The drunk hobo sang a Bob Dylan song close by. A bird fluttered overhead, the sprinklers rotated and the bats looked for sweet fruits. He laid his dead love gently on the park bench and kissed the soft skin one last time.

"So long my sweet." He whispered "Sleep well but know I loved you well if only for a few minutes."

Partial Solar Eclipse Today - Do Nothing

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 02:36:38 EDT

Listen up people! If you are pregnant, if you want to go to the awesome sale at Lifestyle, if you want to cut your hair, your nails, or any part of your body for whatever perverse reasons - Don't!! And while you are at if you are about to take up any new venture - Don't - be it meeting a prospective mate or even getting lucky for the first time.

Hold your horses, your ovaries, your sperms, your purse strings - just hold on. If you happen to be a devout believer, it would be for the best if you stayed at home altogether and did nothing.

No karma is to be implemented. Lead a zombie existence. No food to be touched, hair not to be washed, nothing!! There is bad luck and pollution in the air since there is going to be a partial eclipse!!

A partial solar eclipse will be seen in India on Friday while the north-eastern parts of the country will see quite a large fraction of the disc of the Sun, eclipsed by the Moon.

"The partial eclipse will be seen in the north-eastern region, starting from about 4 PM," Director Nehru Planetarium, Rathnasree, said.

The biggest and the last phase of the eclipse will be visible from most parts of the country, except Nagaland and Mizoram, where the eclipse ends after sunset, she said.

The maximum obscuration of the sun will occur at Sibsagar in Assam.

A total eclipse will be visible in Canada extending across northern Greenland, the Arctic, central Russia, Mongolia and China.

In case any of the above activities are performed or there is the moronic viewing of the eclipse people should report to the nearest 'shudhi' center for isolation and decontamination.

Phoonk - If Thoughts Could Kill

Deepti Lamba — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 09:17:20 EDT

I have yet to meet a person who hasn't wished another human being - death at some point of their lives. Obviously none of them decided to actually carry out the act but asked fate to do it for them .

And these are perfectly nice people. People like you and me who open doors for mothers with strollers, give their seats to old people, love animals, make donations and love their families and friends.

But when rage takes over they wish the victim of their rage- death. Maybe its the impotency of being unable to best the person or feeling invigorated by the sheer malicious of wishing someone ill.

To make matters more complicated in cases such as family disputes often one gets to hear of Tantric influencing; that is - when a person actually dies or falls sick, loses large sums of money- accusations of black magic are made quite easily.

Even amongst the educated, many believe that there are those who can harness dark powers/souls to do their dirty deeds.

It never fails to amaze me when people whisper about finding totkas in their homes or driveways. And they then believe that the misfortune was caused by someone else and wasn't an act of fate or sheer bad luck.

That's when they fall victim to pandits, god-men and astrologers. Sometimes its the other way round when the seeker is told that someone had done - 'jadu tona' on them and heavy sums of money is extracted from them to bring 'harmony' back in their lives.

Do I believe in the power of cursing or in black magic- No. Wouldn't half the world be dead if words and rituals alone could kill people?

Wishing someone ill at a heat of moment is one thing but going to a Tantric to ensure the deed is done is like giving supari to a 'spiritual assassin'.

I have a hard time believing that regular people actually go looking for Babas with killing powers. Kind of hard to believe a harried daughter in law saying - Baba kill my witch of a mother in law but its believable that an innocent daughter in law may be accused of doing so.

When the urban educated continue to believe in these arcane superstitions there is very little to be expected from our villagers.

Related Article : PHOONK- Ram Gopal Varma Film

Movie Review: The X-Files: I Want To Believe

Aaman Lamba — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 11:20:43 EDT

The X-Philes might not have been waiting breathlessly for a renewed fix of the once exciting series, wishing to relive the excitement of the first movie feature, yet, they surely had higher expectations from the second - expectations that have been barely met in what might have failed even as a direct to video release.

In The X-Files: I Want To Believe, both Fox Mulder and Dana Scully appear far more jaded and disinterested than they should be, even after all these years in the wilderness. Mulder is still searching for answers and meaning while Scully has decided that Our Lady of Sorrows offers better solace than the unwanted FBI unit she gave much of herself to. They spend much time not quite speaking to each other, and while the same might have been true on the television series, a younger, driven Mulder meant the story was moved along despite, or rather, because of their dysfunctional relationship. Their relationship in the film has moved way beyond the occasional pat on the back to a surreptitious living together, which comes as a real surprise.

Chris Carter prefers to explore the characters' motivations more in this film than the trademark unknowables that we might have expected. It seems at times a cross between a police procedural and a medical thriller than a fast-paced supernatural adventure. The tension is still there, though, and this film might pick up a larger following once it is out on DVD, and with much aficionado-driven analysis.

Without giving away too much of the story, it does not revolve around aliens, and does not go too mystic. Even so, the concept is not quite ordinary, yet one can see the resolution a long while before it actually arrives. The journey is as interesting as the end, though, and the snowy hills of Virginia cover more secrets than just secret medical experiments and rabid dogs. The power of the film lies in the secret sharers rather than the secrets they share.

Additional subplots seem pointless, like the treatment of 'difficult' patients in the healthcare system by passing them off to another provider, responded to by Dr. Scully with the highly advanced technique known as Googling. The 'new' Mulder/Scully duo switch roles, with Dakota Whitney (Amanda Peet) wanting to believe and Mosley Drummy (Xzibit) offering the jaded counterview. The FBI needs to bring a defrocked pedophile priest in because of his supposed psychic abilities rather than a profiler. The nature of his involvement in the larger plot is part of the mystery, but I can say that his history gives us an excellent scene between ASAC Whitney and Father Joe on the nature of self-loathing and forgiveness.

The movie, in short, is a mixed bag of classic X-Files shenanigans and adult emo drama. It works, but only if you're willing to let go of your expectations and ten years of waiting. If you want to believe, in short.

Playing On Vulnerabilities

Suresh Naig — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 11:32:55 EDT

He was sitting in the waiting hall, already crowded with many hopeful faces, hopeful that the person sitting inside the chamber, had a miracle cure for all their maladies. They were right in expecting a miracle, because they have seen many persons vouching for his efficacious remedy, in the TV programme repeatedly. Though many have realized, that the programme is aired in the bought out time slot, it is the deep seated desire to have a miracle, which had clouded their logical mind.

When compared to all the waiting patients, he was different, since his purpose of visit was also different. He was a journalist doing a small write up in a vernacular magazine on alternative medicine. To make the story lively, he wanted to visit the doctor, nay the “Healer” – that’s what he called himself, and that’s what evinced interest in the young journalist to visit him. The journalist looked very ordinary, like any one of the faces we encounter on the street, or the Railway Station, in his early thirties. Since he had planned his story from the perspective of a patient, he had not divulged his professional identity.

The waiting hall of the clinic, boasted several certificates from several universities both Indian and foreign, both unheard by our young journalist. He had made a mental note of all the certificates, which had all the letters of English alphabet. It appeared to him that the abbreviations of the qualifications were arrived at from random drawing of different alphabets. The young journalist appreciated the marketing brain, of the practitioner, as he called himself as the ‘Healer’ and not as ‘Doctor’. That was his primary USP. Many of the qualified doctors were humble enough to confess that, they only dress the wound and God heals. The self proclaimed physician, with his bought out degrees, had elevated himself as ‘Healer’.

The large waiting room had liberal doses of grinning photographs of the healer, invariably with several famous personalities. In addition, the waiting hall was decorated with the photographs of previous five generations of ‘healers’, secondary USP of the physician. The ‘healer’ was taking elaborately longer time with each of his prospective clients. Some people in the waiting hall were discussing about the tales they have heard about the healer, elevating him to a legend.

In the waiting hall, people of different age groups were engaged in hushed conversation. Our journalist as usual, had to strain his ears, to listen to them. Surprisingly all the waiting patients were only males and some were discussing about the remarkable abilities of the ‘healer’. One was saying that he could find out the malady of a person with just one look and his medicines are very powerful. Our journalist felt, that people say this kind of fable, more to reassuring themselves, than to convince others.

Having enjoyed different conversation, our journalist was ushered in. On entry the ‘healer’, gave a disarming smile at our young friend. The healer was looking like a clown with his bright yellow shirt, tucked inside navy blue trousers, a broad floral neck tie, with abundance of red hue, clumsily knotted, his forehead decorated with sandal paste dotted by vermillion in the centre.

Without warning, two attractive female assistants draped in white saris, helped him out of his slack shirt and trousers. Before he could react and protest, our journalist was lifted on to an examination table. One female was busy pumping the BP meter, the other after silencing him with a thermometer, started to count his pulse. After the preliminaries, it was the healer’s turn to examine him.

His touch was fond and caressing. Our journalist was dazed, but played along. The healer was nodding his head at regular intervals, while doing physical examination of the journalist. After about 20 minutes, he was merciful in allowing our journalist to wear his clothes. While making the journalist sit in front of his huge table, the healer was giving a quick practiced talk, while his hands were busy packing an assortment of powders and tablets in paper envelopes.

The female assistants were withdrawn to an ante room, as if strictly rehearsed. The healer was reassuring the journalist, ‘Don’t worry, you have come to the right place. I shall give you the right medicine, and within a month you will feel like a man.’

The journalist was confused, he said, ‘I already feel like a man’. The healer said, ‘I know what your problem is. Now that the females have gone, you can confide.’ He reduced his voice to a whisper, ‘you know many top doctors of the city come to me for medicine. My medicines are very effective, especially for your problem and I have some really effective medicine for diabetes.’ Our journalist asked, ‘Do you know what my problem is?’

The healer gave a condescending smile. ‘I know, you are looking for a “raise”, which is not happening’. Our Journalist was impressed for the first time. ‘How did you know that?’. The healer replied, ‘That’s the problem with many of the “self starters”, now the journalist was confused for a moment, but quickly recovered. He wanted to play along to extract more information, and the healer to extract more money. The healer asked him ‘What kind of medicine do you want? Gold, Silver, Super Special, or Special.’

He settled for Silver, and solicited more information on his medicine for Diabetes, so that he can bring his father for consultation. The healer said, ‘My medicine for diabetes is very effective, which is our family secret for over five generations. Had my Grandfather or father wanted, they could have sold this formula to a foreign company and made huge money. Our intention is to only serve humanity.’ He was quick to add, ‘this money we are taking from the patients, is only to collect valuable herbs from the Himalayas, which is very expensive.’

He reduced his voice to a whisper and declared, ‘You know many famous doctors in the city come to me, for blood pressure, diabetes, and I have medicine even for renal failure. If a person takes my medicine continuously for three months, they get cured of diabetes and there is no need of taking insulin at all.’

Our journalist was richer by a few juicy bytes for his article and poorer by five thousand rupees, which the healer snatched away from him for consultation and medicines. The journalist was the last patient for the day and after the patients have left, the ‘healer’, who was in his fifties, pulled a large pen like device from inside a table draw, opened the cap, calibrated the dosage and took a quick prick of ‘insulin’, his regular before dinner for the past ten years.

Book Review: Stardust by Neil Gaiman

Shantanu Dutta — Thu, 29 May 2008 08:56:10 EDT

Till I read Neil Gaiman’s Stardust, I was of the firm conviction that Fairy Tales were for children. Adults could read and enjoy them an often did but the main audience for me was always children. But in Stardust, the author has come with a work that us a fable, a parable really that portrays life and living, good and evil, joy and sorrow in adult terms, vocabulary and theme.

The story in Stardust is about Tristran Thorn, a young man whose father is a human and mother a fairie and who in a rash decision, decides to go into Faerie Land to bring a fallen star back for the girl he loves. Once in there, he gets caught up in all sorts of adventures. The twists and turns of his journey which is contained in most of the book are filled with parable endowed truths of some sublimity. The backdrop of the book is the village of Wall, a quaint Victorian village on the edge of a dark land of witches, goblins, elves and all manner of strange creatures of whom some are good and some are evil.

There is a unicorn involved among the characters, flying boats that fish for lightning, a trio of evil witches and seven murderous brothers. The border with the land of Faerie always guarded day and night except for a day once in nine years could well represent our own attempt to keep at a distance and often unsuccessfully – the evil outside. Often enough, the unknown and the stranger is always understood or rather misunderstood as some one who is evil, who is out there to harm us, destroy us.

And yet as Tristan discovers, outside the borders, in the land of Faerie, no land and no people can be type caste and good people and bad people exist every where. Some of the witches that he and Yvaine the star who fell to the earth from the skies and who becomes his eventual companion encounter are terribly mean. And yet as they reminiscence later about the witch they wonder if “she transforms people into animals or whether she finds the beast inside us and frees it”

Neil Gaiman captures well the many intangibles that are part of being human and those intangible bonds which outlast the ones that can be seen. As Yvaine the star would one day explain of Tristan himself “He once caught me with a chain…. Then he freed me, and I ran from him. But he found me and bound me with an obligation, which binds more securely than any chain ever could”

At its most basic, Stardust is a good read; a beautiful book, and most of all, perfect for all ages. Gaiman gives his characters real depth & humanity, even the non human ones and by the end of the book, the reader engrossed in all their destinies, especially that of the star Yvaine, who is immortal but can never ever go back to her mother the moon. On dark moon lit nights, long after eventual husband Tristan is dead, the lonely but immortal star climbs up to the highest point of her palace and looks achingly up at the moon lit sky which was once her home and where she will never ever be able to go back. Perhaps the author wants to remind humans reading his book that immortality is not the unmitigated bliss that we some times imagine it might be.