Adieu, Sachin!

The second test match of a seemingly unexciting home series against one of the weakest teams wouldn't normally be expected to bring one back to watching live test cricket after a hiatus of almost six years, that too in the middle of the night. It's slightly different, however, when the match happens to be the last in the career of a man who was by far the biggest star the game of cricket had ever seen. 

I grew up in a time, when, propelled by the World Cup victory, and through increasing commercialization and media coverage, the popularity of cricket was attaining a level of religious fervour in India. Live telecast of international matches on television brought cricket into the living rooms of the middle class, and it quickly became one of the biggest means of entertainment. 

The nineties in India were not a cheerful period. In a nation ravaged by abject poverty, rampant corruption and communal violence, frustration and disillusionment were widespread, and there was little to look forward to. When almost everything else about the nation was discouraging and sad, cricket became our only source of inspiration. The nation needed heroes. We did not find them among our morally bankrupt political leaders, but among our cricketers; and never ever was there a greater hero than Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. 

There was no IPL in those days. The national team was the only team to cheer for. The passion for cricket got intermingled with zealous patriotism. We did not perceive the Indian cricket team as employees of the BCCI, or even as just a sports team to cheer for, but as representatives of a nation. As the most prolific member of that team, and as the only unchanging face in the squad for two and a half decades, Sachin Tendulkar became the man who bore on his shoulders the hopes and aspirations of a billion people. 

There were no expensive merchandise back then, or even if they were, they were not the means through which fans channelled their devotion. Our veneration was expressed through the excessive purchase of  bubble gums to collect the cricketers' cards that came for free, through posters and photographs collected from sports magazines and Anandamela, and through compilation of newspaper cuttings of scorecards in days when cricinfo was unheard of. If not a religion, cricket in India was certainly a cult, and Sachin was its central deity. The nation was united in the extolment of this man, and his flamboyant straight drives could bring smiles on the faces of a seven year old and a seventy year old with the same ease. 

For the 15 years or so that I avidly feasted on cricket, Sachin Tendulkar was the man to watch out for.  The fall of India's second wicket was always met with a huge cheer in home grounds, often much to the bewilderment of foreigners, for it marked the arrival of Sachin Tendulkar at the crease.  When there was a big target to be chased, we would often only watch as long as Sachin was batting.  Sachin's dismissal commonly resulted in the turning off of a few million television sets, with people grudgingly going back to their daily chores. 

We watched with awe how he amassed hundred after hundred, often under difficult conditions, when all his teammates failed; how he massacred the greatest bowlers of his times with his impeccable stroke play; and how he, often with single-handed efforts, saw India home, match after match. On tours overseas, when all the other batsmen faltered on fast, green wickets, Sachin Tendulkar stood his ground, firm and determined, and saved the nation's grace. We watched how he decimated the Australian bowling attack in Sharjah, how he went after Henry Olonga, how he danced down the wicket to Shane Warne in India and gave him nightmares (literally), and how he slaughtered the likes of Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis and Shoaib Akhtar at the 2003 World Cup. We also watched, often with tearful eyes, his vulnerability: matches where he could not make us win in spite of all his efforts: the world cup semifinal in 1996 on that sinister wicket, the Chennai test against Pakistan where he almost succeeded in leading India to an unlikely victory despite being in excruciating pain. 

Notwithstanding the jokes in social media that predicted a career lasting for eternity, Sachin Tendulkar's retirement was, of course, an inevitability. The fact that he could survive, nay dominate, close to 25 years of international cricket speaks volumes on his tenacity and perseverance. But all good things must come to an end, and so must the career of Sachin. Tonight as I watch the man bat for one last time in an international test match, I cannot help feel sad for having missed dozens of matches in the last six years or so, partly because of being in a different time zone, but mainly because the passion, enthusiasm and romanticism of boyhood and early youth had disappeared slowly over the years.

Perhaps, Sachin Tendulkar's retirement makes us sad and contemplative not only because we would never get to see him live in action, but also because he was a symbolic link between the present and the past, because he was like a living memory from a period otherwise only remembered through fond reveries along the streets of nostalgia. With him gone, a bit of our childhood is gone forever.  

Sachin Tendulkar leaves behind him a legacy comparable to few before him. We do not know yet the future of his records, or of his fame. Surpassing the runs and the number of hundreds he scored is going to be difficult, but not impossible. Perhaps there will come a day in our life times, when all these records would be broken, and new heroes would come to dominate the cricketing world. It is also possible, that some time in the not so distant future, test cricket would be deemed obsolete and rejected by the fans, one day internationals would become rare, and Twenty-20 would be the only form of cricket watched and appreciated. In such a hypothetical but not particularly unlikely future, the glory of the man who for over twenty years bore on his shoulders the hopes of an entire nation would be gradually forgotten. The happy memories that he leaves with the men and women of our generation, however, would last as long as we live; and we would, when we are old, frail and infirm, proudly tell our grandchildren that there once was a man called Sachin Tendulkar in this nation, and that we had seen him bat.   

Half-life

To quote one of our teachers from high school, our birthdays are the results of biological accidents, and as such, there is little merit in making a big deal out of them. Our ages too, one can say, are just numbers,

In Physics, half-life is defined as the time required for a quantity to fall to half its value as measured at the beginning of the time period. The term is primarily used in the context of radioactive decay: "the carbon-14 isotope has a half-life of 6000 years" implies that if a sample contains 100,000 carbon-14 atoms today, then 6000 years from now 50,000 are expected to remain, while the rest is expected to wither away.

Unlike carbon-14 atoms, human-beings are in general, not known to be radioactive. However, if there were some ways to quantify the vitality of our spirits; then there's little doubt that that quantity would undergo a decay much similar to that exhibited by radioactive substances. I'll venture to say that the half-life associated with our species is 30 years. That is not to say that I assign a pessimistic life-expectancy of 60 years at birth; it only means that when we are 30 we lose half of the life-force that we are born with.

On my thirtieth birthday, therefore, I reflect on how I expended the first half of that force. I remember my days as a child: the trinkets that my mother used to bring for me  on her way back,  our regular vacations to my grandparents' place at Santiniketan and the long walks with my father, and the stories told by my grandmother; who had a remarkable memory and knew all the classics to minute detail. My retrospection is filled with a myriad of fond images and experiences: of cheerfully jostling through packed crowds in Kolkata during Durga Puja, of playing cricket in severely constricted spaces, of the summer holidays spent immersed in Tintin, Enid Blyton and Satyajit Ray, of the games that my cousins and I used to concoct  and play, of the cricketers' cards that I used to collect and that I eventually started manufacturing on my own, of the poems and stories with which I filled hard-bound notebooks, of the stuff that I used to write in my journal; and so many more. I think of the things I learnt and the stuff I forgot; of the friends I made, and those that drifted away; and of the girls I had crushes on and those that developed a fondness for me. I recollect many trivialities and many of the little pleasures of life that had chanced upon me. For thirty years, I have had the joy of experiencing the sights, sounds and fragrances of this planet and that in itself I find fulfilling enough. 

But while the ride this far has been fascinating, the path ahead, still, is fraught with sudden turns and detours. It is generally expected that by the time one is thirty, one's life should be settled or at least in the direction of being settled. The lives of many of my friends approaching thirty follow this norm. They have good jobs, years of professional experience, regular salaries, well-planned financial investments, and loving spouses or fiances. Some of them share pictures of their children on social media while some share pictures of the houses they have purchased; some others do both. Most of them, while pursuing their career and personal goals, seem to be converging steadily towards a state of order and stability, towards a life that is regular and secure.

About thirty years ago, when my parents observed their thirtieth birthdays, they were married for six years, had  stable jobs in academia and were expecting a child. Of course, they still had a long journey ahead, but they knew where they were going, the path was in sight. 

My life, on my thirtieth birthday, however,  lacks more or less everything that society assigns value to. It would seem that I had clearer directions when I was twenty, than what I have now. I am still a graduate student, working towards an academic degree that, while self-gratifying; has little utility in the market, and my only experience in the industry was for a mere 10 month period some 6 years ago. Far from settling down, I have little interest in spending the rest of my life in the same country, even continent; and have no idea where I would be living in, in a year from now. Finally, the prospect of me marrying and/or starting a family is slightly more far-fetched  than that of an asteroid colliding with the earth. 

And yet, it is this uncertainty, this lack of direction, that makes the journey exciting. Like a particle undergoing Brownian motion, a life without stability can go in any direction whatsoever. Instability and lack of planning give rise to a lack of rigidity; potentially keeping open a sea of possibilities, and between a stable life of perpetual boredom and an uncertain life with the potential of unexpected surprises, I have already made my choice.  Today, therefore, I do not resent my uncertainties but revel in them; and when I think of all the places I want to visit, of the languages I intend to learn, of my unfinished novel and of all the remarkable things that can happen, I see no reason why the second half of my life's energy would not be spent in a way at least as interesting and as fulfilling as the first. 

Lest We Forget

It has been exactly a month since the incident. Culprits have been arrested, we hear. Attention of the press has predictably drifted to regular topics. The black circles have mostly disappeared from  facebook profile pictures; and status messages are no longer dominated by angry outbursts. Apart from a few protesters at Jantar Mantar; for most of us, concerned or unconcerned; it is back to business as usual.

This was neither unexpected nor unusual. It is as natural for us to be alarmed, appalled, upset and angry when something bad happens; as it is for us to forget and eventually move on. Sensational news gets us excited and charged up but only for a limited period. Our lives are far too complex, far too eventful, far too burdened with our own petty problems to let anything linger for beyond a threshold period. Except for those affected directly, unpleasant news gradually gets buried under layers of busy life; only to resurface when something unpleasant of a similar kind happens again. The fire that devastated a building on Park Street, Kolkata in 2010 was largely forgotten until a similar tragedy happened in AMRI a year and a half later. Memory of the terrorist attacks in local trains in Mumbai in 2006 resurfaced in public psyche when the siege of 2008 happened. The massacre of Aurora came back to haunt us after the shootings at Newtown. It would have been more beneficial perhaps if we had better memories; for if such issues continued to make us ponder; we would have continued to push for reforms long after the events ceased to be subjects of recent news; but that is not how society works. In that aspect, the incident of December 16 is not unique. Like everything else, the frenzy associated with it, too, appears to have been a passing phase.

There is, however a significant difference between what happened in Delhi that night and other disturbing news that bring forth public response. As much as a lot of us would like to think, the former was not an isolated tragedy; not a random act of insane brutality. Rape (and other forms of sexual violence and molestation; and subsequent torture and murder) is more prevalent in India (and indeed, the rest of the world) than one is perhaps inclined to believe. According to the United Nations, there are about 20,000 rapes reported per year in India on an average; for the period 2004-2010; and the number seems to be increasing steadily (22,172 in 2010). This, one must keep in mind, is the number of recorded incidents; and rape still remains the most unreported criminal offense in the world; more so in a conservative country as India. Add to that the fact that Indian law does not recognize marital rape as a criminal offense. Indeed, 20,000 per year, then merely gives a lower bound to the number of incidents; i.e., there are at least about 60 cases per day. When one adds to that, the myriads of cases of "eve-teasing" (which, by the way, happens to be a strange euphemism for sexual harassment ) that happens across the country everyday, one only begins to get a picture of the seriousness of the problem.

What happened on the night of December 16 was horrifying enough to say the least. What is even more horrifying is that rape is so common in our country that it is no longer an issue of significance at the national level. It does not make frontpage news; nay, news even; as long as the venue is not high profile or the incident does not involve sufficient savagery. Unlike lunatic gunmen, brainwashed terrorists or irresponsible building personnel; sexual offenders strike every day; and if even a tiny fraction of such incidents were to be covered by the press as news of prominence; it would but be hard even for a patient of the most severe amnesia to forget and ignore. It would then be exceedingly difficult not to accept that violence against women is a serious problem intrinsic to our society.

A great many of us seem to be deeply concerned about ensuring the greatest possible punishments for the perpetrators. Unfortunately, the level of enthusiasm is not as high when it comes to try and identify the root cause of the issue. It is in fact fair to say that there is a general lack of response in that direction. A number of statements have been issued by our leaders; both political and spiritual; and an overwhelming majority of them have placed the responsibility on victims; and indeed, on the liberalization of our society under "evil" Western influence. Western outfits, item songs in Bollywood movies, discos, women staying out after dark, free-mixing through co-education have all been blamed. One leader has made disparaging remarks about the protesting women, while another (who incidentally is female) has falsely accused one of the victims of being a prostitute (with the bizarre implication that raping a prostitute is justified). Sadly, there has been little effort to put these people in their respective places; nor have these outlandish remarks made by leaders been countered by an equal number of balanced, thoughtful remarks from their peers. Over all, there has been a conspicuous lack of a call for introspection from the ruling class.

Elected leaders by and large represent popular opinion. And it is this opinion, this attitude that is the most disturbing aspect of the situation. As long as our press does not deal these matters with the seriousness they deserve; as long as we continue to remain in our state of denial; and as long as we fail to accept that we are a part of a system that reeks of chauvinism and encourages sexual prejudice; we would continue to encounter such incidents. A mere acceptance of the situation would not immediately solve it; but one must identify the disease before even attempting a remission.

Indian Children in Norway- Cultural Differences and the Welfare System

Last month, a bizarre news article reported across various print and electronic media managed to create a significant amount of excitement in India. The incident happened in Norway and involved an Indian family and the Norwegian childcare system.

The family consists of a young couple who are on a temporary visa in Norway, and their two children: a three-year-old son and a one-year-old daughter. As per the reports, the couple lost custody of both their children several months back because the childcare authorities concluded that the care given by the parents were inadequate and did not meet the children’s needs. When the authorities visited the family on a few routine inspections, they were appalled by the various ways in which they perceived the children were being mistreated. They pointed out many anomalies; including:

1. The mother was feeding the children with her hand.

2. The boy was sleeping in the same bed with his father.

3. The boy didn’t have a bed of his own.

4. The mother breastfed the baby whenever she cried instead of following a fixed schedule.

5. The toys that the boy had were deemed inappropriate.

6. The boy didn’t have sufficient space to play.

7. The boy didn’t have suitable clothes.

8. The mother seemed depressed and irritable.

Apparently, representatives of the childcare system started visiting the household after the boy was seen to exhibit phases of irritability in school. Upon a “thorough investigation” that spanned several visits, the representatives deemed the parents unfit for rearing children. The verdict was that the children were to be cared for in foster homes until they were eighteen years old; and that during this period the parents would only be allowed to see them twice every year, for an hour during each visit.

The incident took place in May 2011 but it only began getting media coverage this January; when the parents, after a long legal tussle with the childcare authorities; took the matter to diplomatic levels and got the Indian High Commission involved.

As the news spread, it caused a great deal of furor in India. To the average Indian, most of the anomalies listed by the Norwegian authorities seemed commonplace; indeed in India these are the norms and not deviations. A mother feeding her child with her hand is common in India; as is common for one to eat with his own hands. In a society that values touch and familial affection highly and has little regard for individual space, it is also usual for children to share beds with their parents until they reach teenage. Breast-feeding babies when they cry, again, is the standard practice in India. Finally, it is also not unusual for children in India to have an inappropriate or an inadequate collection of toys and clothes; the Indian family ascribes little importance to these materials in the context of child-rearing.

At any rate, as per Indian cultural norms; the reported “discrepancies” were either normal and perfectly acceptable; or too insignificant for anyone to bother. Under all circumstances (barring the rare and unfortunate event where the parents suffered from some severe psychological disorder), separating children of ages one and three permanently from their parents would be considered outrageous by the average Indian. He would opine that the combined negative impact of all the points mentioned above would be far surpassed by the effects of forcefully denying a young child the love and affection of its parents.

The Norwegian authorities, on their part, insisted that this was not merely a case of cultural misunderstanding; that the parents were twisting facts to garner public sympathy; that the decision was made on the basis of a lot of compelling evidence of negligence and mal-treatment and after a considerable deliberation; and that the Child Protection System do not snatch children from their parents unless they have no other option. On the other hand, the fact that an astounding 12,500 children were being taken care of by the system in 2005 in sparsely populated Norway, gives an idea of how proactive the system is.

After a considerable interference from the Indian High Commission, the matter was finally resolved in the first week of February; when the Norwegian authority agreed to hand over the children to their uncle. It appears that the children may finally be re-united with their family; although the scars of an eight month long forceful separation from parents in an unknown land would perhaps only heal with time.

As one hopes that the children get to live a normal, fulfilling life, replete with the affectionate warmth of family; one cannot but help ponder over the cultural differences that seem so prominent in cases like these. We often talk about the underlying traits that are common in various societies and that can function as bases of our unity; but at the same time, one cannot deny these remarkable deviations among cultures that can potentially lead to misunderstanding and pain.

As an institution, the family has withered and weakened in the Developed World over the last century. Familial bonds, love between children and their parents have faded with the growth of individualism; personal freedom has come at the cost of a severance of chains that bonded people together. That effect has not been as pronounced in developing countries; and personal relations within a family still run deep. As Aishwariya Rai had once famously said to David Letterman, we don't have to make appointments to dine with our parents.

Another issue of concern in this regard is the role of the welfare system. While social welfare in many cases leads to a general improvement of the lives of people; there are ways in which it can negatively affect the peace and well-being of individuals; as clearly exhibited in this incident. If not implemented with foresight and deep understanding of cultures; the welfare system can lead to menacing results; even when applied with the best intentions. This incident therefore cautions the system to be careful and prudent when it attempts to interfere with someone else’s lives; it is of course foolish to spend tax-payers’ money in an endeavour as futile and useless as this one.

References:

1. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/india/9035776/India-and-Norway-in-diplomatic-spat-over-children-taken-into-care.html
2. http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/article2829408.ece
3. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2088337/Norwegian-authorities-away-children-Indian-couple-eating-hands.html
4. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-india-16676508

Shifting Patterns in Bollywood

Those who know me well would never accuse me of being a fan of Bollywood. In fact, the accusation has often been the other way round. I've been deemed an aantel (Bengali adjective that ridicules intellectuals) because of my conspicuous disinterest regrading the popular entertainment presented by the likes of Karan Johar and Shahrukh Khan. Nonetheless, there have been occasional moments in my life, too, when I have watched a Sholay or a Kuch Kuch Hota Hai with considerable attentiveness; or when I have glanced, albeit casually, to whatever was shown on the television. I continue at present too, to keep myself abreast of the headlines in the world's largest film industry; and the musings reflected in this particular piece are conclusions drawn from such observations; from the past and from the present.

Whoever has seen Bollywood movies of the eighties and early nineties would probably agree that a majority of the movies tended to relate to a certain socio-economic stratum. The good guys overwhelmingly came from a poor or lower middle class background; their economic condition varying from a state of absolute destitution to that of moderate scarcity; but never of abundance. The bad guy almost inevitably was the obscenely rich and devilishly crooked businessman; who would device the dirtiest of means to harass the poor.

The hero would often take the role of a Messiah of the poor; someone who stands up against smuggling trades of the villain; someone who resists bulldozers that the promoter sends to destroy slums; someone who grows up through hardship and deprivation and one day goes on to avenge the misdeeds perpetrated against his family and his people. We have seen Amitabh doing that role a million times. We have seen Mithun there. We have even seen how wealth corrupts character; through the experiences of one Raju in Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman, portrayed by a young Shahrukh Khan.

Since the economic liberalization of India in the nineties; there seems to have been a paradigm shift in that regard. The hero and his friends are no longer poor; seldom are they from the middle class. In contemporary Bollywood movies, the main characters are filthy rich! They are either sons and daughters of industrialists preparing to take over family businesses; or MBAs living in the US; or Engineers working in London. They are dressed in designer clothes; they have well-groomed bodies and perfectly gelled hair and they drink champagne. They visit Switzerland and Australia during vacations and they go to Spain for Bachelor Parties. The modern day hero, too, has his own problems; but unlike his counterpart from the past, unemployment or feeding a family is not one of them.

There certainly is a correlation between the shifting pattern in Bollywood movies and the pro-market economic policies; but there is more to it. It would simply be wrong, for instance, to assert that Indians have gotten significantly richer in the last twenty years; for they clearly haven't. The rich and poor divide, on the contrary has widened; inflation rates have soared; and it is a matter of controversy whether there has been any significant reduction in the percentage of people living below the poverty line.

There is data, that shows that the middle class has become somewhat wealthier. This has been accompanied by a high degree of increase in their aspirations and more importantly, in the attitude towards the rich. The rich are no longer a class of oppressive minority that amassed wealth through deception; rather, they are what the middle-class wants to be. The values that traditionally defined the Indian urban middle-class for a large part of the last century are vanishing; giving way to those that are more suited to a consumer-based economy. Outlooks are changing fast, and socialistic ideals of the past are withering away rapidly from the minds of people; to be replaced by a strong desire for materialistic pursuits: a desire to make more money, a desire to buy more things.

My contention is that it is this aspiration among the middle and upper middle class; this ambition to be rich; this desire of emulating the lives of the rich; that more than anything else, has brought about the shift in the socio-economic ambience of the Bollywood movie. For after all, Bollywood caters by and large to the taste of the middle class.

There could certainly be a host of other reasons and factors that are directly or indirectly responsible for this change. It would indeed be an interesting topic in sociological studies to investigate these effects.

Movie Review: Gandu

In many ways, middle-class West Bengal is more liberal and modern in outlook than the rest of India. When it comes to the use of expletives in social life; however, sophisticated and cultured Bengalis tend to maintain a sort of Victorian Conservatism and cringe at the usage of swear words in popular media. The general view about the depiction of sex in media is likewise. Until very recently it was extremely unusual to find any demonstration of a vulgar vocabulary in Bengali movies; except for the somewhat benign (and more socially acceptable) Shala ("wife's brother") or Shuorer Bachcha ("son of a pig") thrown in here and there, and those, too, were rare. In the past decade or so, there has been some change in that paradigm, with some recent movies presenting sporadic occurrences of expletives, including the Ch-words (a family of Bengali equivalents of the F-word and derivatives), especially while depicting the colloquial style of gangsters and goons; in an attempt to make their portrayals more realistic. Nonetheless, such usages are generally very limited and occupy a minuscule fraction of show time. Barring a handful of recent exceptions, nudity and sex have been taboo as well.

The Bengali movie-goer, therefore, was startled last year, upon hearing of a movie titled Gandu, a Bengali slang loosely meaning worthless, or idiot, having the connotation of the word "Asshole" and rarely used in civilized society. Such a name was unthinkable; the word being considered unparliamentary by the urban upper middle-class. The trailer of the movie soon became available on youtube; and revealed scenes and language that would be considered vulgar, nay repugnantly obscene by most cultures, not just Bengali. As the internet-friendly younger generation frantically searched for a download link on torrent (this reviewer included); it was learnt that the movie had obtained quite a few favourable reviews worldwide and bagged a couple of awards here and there. To my knowledge, it was never officially released in India; in all probability, it couldn't pass the censors' scissors.

After having somewhat forgotten about the movie and the frenzy its trailer had created, I finally had an opportunity to experience it recently; thanks to the internet. It certainly was a strangely interesting experience.

The movie is named after the protagonist; a young guy who lives with his mother, a prostitute. The plot, thin as it is, revolves around the life of Gandu; his frustrations and aspirations. It depicts his relationship with his mother, his experiences with pornography, his visits to the neighbourhood cyber cafe, his friendship with a Rickshaw-puller named Rickshaw, his passion for creating Rap music and finally, his heroin addiction. Indeed, almost half of the movie is a continued depiction of his hallucination while he and Rickshaw were under the influence of the drug. In terms of expletives and depictions of nudity and sex the movie far surpasses its predecessors. Dialogues are richly adorned with profanities and nudity and sex scenes are available aplenty throughout. Some of the scenes would in fact put to shame a hardcore pornographic film and questions have been asked whether there was any artistic necessity for such depictions.

While the peculiarity and the boldness of the movie are striking, there is clearly a lack of substance in the plot. But then again, the movie is perhaps not so much about a central story as much as it is about the ideas it attempts to convey to the audience. A fundamental theme of this movie is addressing the frustrations and perversions of a sexually repressed society. The central character represents this very society. Not only do others call him Gandu, but he himself associates with that name; indicating that he too sees little worth in himself. Rap music is a channel to vent out his anger which stems from his sexual frustration. His complicated relationship with his mother, his constant ogling at the girl at the cyber cafe, his fascination with pornography and his raunchy hallucinations while on heroin; all imply too clearly his state of mind. Indeed, given the nature of the theme, it is no wonder that the scenes are explicit, too powerful perhaps for the general audience (this reviewer included); but meaningful nonetheless.

A second, somewhat less significant theme of the movie is that of a worthless loser dreaming to overcome all obstacles to achieve something big. This is reflected through Gandu's winning the lottery, or his becoming a famous Rapper (it seems that he doesn't really get famous; he only hallucinates of becoming so), or the dedicated attempts of Rickshaw to learn Kung Fu. This of course is a more clichéd topic and has been dealt with at length. A third aspect of the movie is a take on drug addiction; the environment that creates it and the downward spiral that ensues.

The movie is shot almost completely in black and white and has a good number of outdoor shots. There are only a handful of actors; the most famous of whom, Shilajit, is only seen while engaged in intercourse. As the mother, Kamalika, a seasoned actress, has been tolerably good. The characters of both Gandu and Rickshaw have been enacted by newcomers and they have both been excellent. The lead actor, Anubrata, has given a bold and raw performance (Incidentally, he has meanwhile obtained the notorious honour of having acted in a particularly explicit sex scene in another Bengali movie). The middle aged man at the lottery store and the girl at the cyber cafe have both done fine jobs.

Overall, Q, the director (he apparently calls himself by that name) has done an interesting job in creating a particularly unusual movie; the likes of which many viewers may have never encountered. By many definitions it would qualify as porn and yet it would be a mistake to ignore the message it conveys. Many would find the free flow of obscenities and elaborate depiction of sex and nudity shockingly repulsive; and yet these are the things that make the movie what it is.

Parallels between Israel and Pakistan

While Pakistan sees itself as the nemesis of the Jewish State, one cannot help to note the numerous similarities between the two states. Here are a few.

1. Both countries came into existence as an aftermath of the second World War and were earlier parts of the British Empire.

2. The creation of both involved partition that was opposed by many.

3. Both countries maintain hostile relations with their respective severed parts.

4. Both occupy territory claimed by others.

5. Both states were created on the basis of religion; as a homeland for communities that were perceived to be vulnerable.

6. Both are nuclear powers and have formidable armies, as well as (in)famous intelligence agencies.

7. During the formation of both countries a huge number of people were brought in to settle from elsewhere.

8. Both have been strategic allies of the United States of America.

9. Both countries have been victims of terrorism, and at the same time been accused by certain countries to harbor the same.

Of course, there are many differences but listing those wouldn't be as interesting!