love in the time of sitcoms

PRAGYA TIWARI

ABBAS TYREWALA’s directorial debut Jaane Tu… Ya Jaane Na was precisely what his second outing is not — fresh and self-respecting. Love stories have all been told before, but there is no such thing as telling enough of them. This makes a filmmaker’s job easier — all he has to do is innovate the premise and set a tone that will sustain evenly through plot twists. Tyrewala fails on both fronts. The premise is a cut-paste job from You’ve Got Mail and Notting Hill, with sprinkles from other cult romcoms.

Given that his target audience is the generation that grew up on these films, the exercise is so daft, it is baffling. The tone amateurly mimics the genre of American sitcom that has Friends and How I Met Your Mother to its credit. The coolth and wryness is so surface, the film loses all trace of it by the time it unravels into its dramatic climax. And even the drama is superficial. There is an odd moment of sparkling dialogue between friends, but when the characters themselves are not substantially drawn they can’t really have much to say. In the same way, you cannot embellish a film with dry irony and soul-stirring emotion if the plot is not meaty enough to allow you to feed it.

John Abraham plays Sid, a stuttering geek who volunteers to work nights for a suicide helpline. Mishka (Pakhi) calls in for help and the two of them develop a virtual relationship that runs parallel to their relationship in real life. Not until the very end do the twain meet. A slight take on the superhero genre would have been bright if Tyrewala had allowed it to remain subtle. But there is nothing subtle about this story, which is why it is unable to properly contemplate its central idea — love. Sid and Mishka’s relationship is entirely based on him ‘saving’ her. One is not sure what she brings to his life in turn. Both their exes are ridiculously clichéd caricatures.

One way to talk about love is to move us to mush till we believe in improbable magic. Another is to hold up a mirror to a stark reality. But, not one moment between the protagonists has the possibility of poetry or fairytales. Nor is there a robust commentary on the contemporary urban difficulties of engagement. The riddles of love remain more elusive than Sid’s final stunt over the Tower Bridge. They beg sincerity — which Jhootha Hi Sahi denies them. When even AR Rahman’s music is found lacking in honesty, you know for sure that the film is a literal fulfillment of its title’s prophecy.

First published in Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 44, Dated November 06, 2010

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main47.asp?filename=hub061110thetake.asp

The No.1 Ladies Full Of Agency

SEX AND the City 2 is the bedrock of two baffling outcomes — invigorating the sleepy critic’s tongue with fresh vitriol and firmly entrenching the phenomenon of critic-proof blockbusters. Two years after her marriage to Mr Big, Carrie returns in the sequel with her pack of 40-plus friends in various states of midlife crisis. A thin layer of their marriage, parenthood and work issues is laid out before they are transported to Abu Dhabi to reenact the days of being single, which only series fans are missing more than the characters. So they drink, shop, talk and get all giddy-headed. The little there is of plot and conflict is frothy enough to dissolve in their perpetual glasses of champagne. The screenplay is underwritten — but if you give in, you might see it has the disposition of the holiday its characters take. The film is so easy it doesn’t even make you laugh out loud. Nor cry. All you have to do is lounge around in the comfort you share with these characters that have sauntered back into your life from a brilliant television series of yore. There is nothing this film takes seriously, least of all itself. It is in this context that the most acerbic charges leveled against it implode. And you are left marveling at the commitment of the sort of hyperdefensive postcolonial politics that will creep its way up even a slight evening of cocktails. Especially if there is the Middle East in the mix. One is not sure a film that ends with Carrie and her friends resorting to the burqa to catch a flight on time, was intended to voice any neo-feminist sentiments to begin with. But if that were true, here is a bunch pop-culture icons that travel into the country of the oppressed women and let them save their American selves for a change. In the spirit of irreverence there is a joke about eating French fries through the hijab. But no, they are not lampooning the Arabs anymore than they are lampooning themselves. If anything, they are debunking stereotypes of the victimised Muslim woman by wondering, however flippantly, if she is subject to less prejudice in the post-lib West. It’s not great cinema. But since when does that have anything to do with fun?

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 25, Dated June 26, 2010

THE DEFICIT OF IMAGINATION

PRAGYA TIWARI

THE LAST TIME Mani Ratnam directed a tragedy was Dil Se — a brilliant ode to love framed by Santosh Sivan’s breathtaking shots and underscored by Gulzar and AR Rahman’s sheer magic. Years later in Raavan, empty, pretty frames and wafting strains by the same geniuses play out in search of the director who could give them life. Inverting the prism of Ramayana to understand the viewpoint of the disenfranchised, Ratnam tells the story of Beera who kidnaps Ragini, the wife of a cop named Dev. The cat and mouse chase that ensues is a lazy literal adaptation — horribly enacted, staidly written and entirely forgettable.

But what makes this travesty unforgiveable is that it teased us with the promise of political allegory. Reports claimed Ratnam’s Raavan was modelled on Naxal leader Kobad Ghandy and the film was about to make a strong statement about the poverty wars. Instead Beera turned out to be a Veerappan style lord of armed masses — who could be anything from tribals to dacoits. Scattered between throwaway dialogue is a line or two about exploitation and caste prejudice, but the film establishes neither. The State is represented solely by the police force and Beera is motivated wholly by love, confused impulse and personal vendetta, caricaturing the complexities of the people caught in this most terrible of civil wars. While Gulzar’s provocative lyrics accuse Delhi of cruel disregard, Ratnam ironically pays as little heed to the problems of the masses as the accursed Centre. The focus of the film is the anti-hero who is curiously all good and just. But turning Ravan into Ram does not break a stereotype to open debate, only institutes another.

It is not clear whether Ratnam intended to express sympathy with Maoists and failed but if he did, the only political comment to be derived lies in that aborted intent. So far, his films have decried terrorism in every form. This turn could have acknowledged unprecedented State terror. Ratnam plays with morality, but remains reverential to the philosophy that keeps the real stakeholders out of the frame.

This article first appeared in Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 26, Dated July 3, 2010

That land that forgot Mahatma

FILM: THE SALT STORIES
DIRECTOR: LALIT VACHANI

FILMMAKER LALIT Vachani makes a journey from Sabarmati to Dandi tracing the route Gandhi followed on his salt march in 1930. But to uncover that grand heritage, he must first plough through recent legacies — Godhra, its aftermath and a development policy that condemns the poor.

 Under the iconic Ellis Bridge, an old man wails into the camera begging his slum hutment be allowed to remain. In Dabhan, the guest house Gandhi rested in is now rented out for weddings — to the upper castes only, because “lowcaste people behave like animals”, explains the caretaker. In Surat, where Bapu held his meeting on salt tax, middle-class citizens run a Gandhi laughing club. None of them have heard about the meeting. In Dharasana, where the battle against the tax was won, an ageing Dayabhai is one of the only remaining salt farmers. He earns Rs. 42 for 100 kg. In Dandi, the government is illegally acquiring lands of farmers to build a five-star hotel. The roads that link these sites are strewn with abandoned, bolted temples to the man who shunned deification.

Vachani finds himself arguing with people who justify the carnage of Muslims in stopover dhabas. This is Modi’s Gujarat — culturally and politically crass, as if trying to undo Gandhi’s vision and life with a vengeance. Vachani’s camera offers no hope, but it finds solace in what has not been undone — yet. In Napa, a Muslim majority village, there is perfect communal harmony. A woman at a tea stall talks about talking to Gandhi in her dreams and a 102-year-old Gandhian recalls the march with great zeal. Three days later, he died all alone, Vachani says. All the stories end with similar hopelessness and Modi is jubilant in the state again — his brainwashed supporters brandishing his masks, oblivious of the irony of their portrait in it.

Vachani’s frames are emphatic but honest. The process of filming is a part of the narrative, layering it with its own complexities, but the structure and scheme of the film are clean and clear, so that the heart of the story remains in focus. Gandhi’s last moments play out as we witness the real death of Bapu — the death of his ideas.

This article was first published in Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 41, Dated October 16, 2010 

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main47.asp?filename=Cr161010Inthedoc.asp

The Radia Tapes TV Debates

Post the Second World War, most battles have been fought out through the media – be they corporate, territorial or political. Over the past few weeks, the Indian media has been in the thick of a trickier conflict than it is used to hosting: the people versus itself. The problem is, it is supposed to represent both sides.

Since Open and Outlook made public the transcripts and tapes of tapped phone conversations between political and corporate lobbyist Niira Radia and the who’s who of power corridors, there has been mass outrage on social media, cornering mainstream media to tackle the issue head-on. The tapes reveal fixing and power brokering in connection with cabinet formation, the 2G spectrum scam and the tussle for natural resources between the Ambani brothers. Even though a large number of the tapes released have prominent journalists engaging with Radia, in the scheme of frauds playing out, their role, at most, is peripheral. The debate, however, has been focused on them—Barkha Dutt, Vir Sanghvi and Prabhu Chawla in particular. The media is the only estate the masses see as an extension of themselves and trust to take on a mighty, corrupt and apathetic political class. So this disproportionate outrage is understandable but the media, has been caught unawares. It has no fix on how to manage this outrage, and obvious discomfort has been the leitmotif of its efforts to address the issue.

There have been only three big television debates so far, and all three were delayed responses, given the cycle of 24/7 news channels. The most talked about of these was hosted by NDTV. Manu Joseph, editor, Open Magazine, Sanjay Baru, editor, Business Standard, Swapan Dasgupta, senior journalist, and Dileep Padgaonkar, ex-editor, Times of India were called on to question Barkha Dutt, who has become the unwitting face of the controversy, on her involvement. The debate was conducted from an attempted moral high ground, with NDTV declaring it was the only channel opening itself up to questioning from all the media houses implicated and giving Joseph a chance to be a part of this, even though Open did not ask for Dutt’s response before carrying the transcripts. Dutt, however, was clearly not prepared to meet this standard and remained bitter and combative through the show. She later defended her aggravation saying that it was a natural response to the smear campaign against her and one cannot grudge her that. But if she had decided to take on a show like this, perhaps she should have come better prepared to leave emotion out of it and present her case calmly.

Dutt had some important points to make about the interpretation of the material, but they were largely lost because of her constant attacks on Joseph. At several points, she took on a condescending and dismissive tone, challenging Joseph’s understanding of political journalism. She shouted at him for not getting in touch with her before publishing the material and insinuated a conspiracy behind Open not carrying the transcripts of Prabhu Chawla’s conversations with Radia. Hitting out against a hoarding put out in Delhi she said, “I am selling your magazine for you.” Joseph’s response to that – ‘You are pretty’ – was perhaps sexist, even ‘misogynist’ as Dutt labelled it, but the tone for the conversation had already been set by then.

Joseph was not given the space to make his points during the show. He repeatedly asked her just one question: Why didn’t she see the involvement of Radia, who was also representing Ratan Tata and Mukesh Ambani, two of the biggest players in the telecom sector, in lobbying for the appointment of the telecom minister as a story in itself – first in 2009, when this was playing out, and then in 2010, when the scam carried out by A. Raja, (the candidate Radia was pushing), surfaced. Dutt’s simple answer, ‘What is a story to you may not seem like one to me’, can be extended to the 2009 issue, but does not quite explain the connection not being brought up when she was reporting the scam in 2010. Joseph chose to answer the question of whether the manner in which the transcripts were published was ‘good’ journalism through a column posted subsequently on the Open website. But while he put up a soundly argued defence of the choice, he laced the piece with sharp jibes at Dutt, beginning with ‘Everything Barkha Dutt says can be downsized by 750 words’. Taking the petty nature of argumentation, bridled by personal egos, further after both parties had had time to reflect was an unfortunate decision.

The other panelists on the show asked Dutt why she claimed to have acted as a mediator between the Congress and the DMK when she says she didn’t and why was she approached to do so at all. The questioning was tepid because they accepted her explanation without further argument. The essential problem with their conversation was that it was reduced to a debate between journalism as it is taught in schools and practised on the ground. Their questions came from an ideological standpoint that seemed unnatural for them to take- given that they have spent longer than Dutt understanding how the innards of high-profile journalism really work. One is curious about the bases on which Dutt chose these high priests to question her. On the one hand, social media was abuzz with skeptics claiming they are her friends and will help her whitewash the allegations; on another, it seemed unfair that journalists who can easily be questioned on their own professional standards over a number of issues are being afforded a space to grandstand over Dutt’s misery.

Karan Thapar’s show on CNN IBN with Baru, N. Ram, editor, The Hindu, Dilip Cherian, lobbyist and communications consultant, and Joseph had the same air of sitting in judgment. Thapar did invite the accused journalists to be a part of the proceedings but they declined. He asked the panelists if they ‘believed’ Dutt and Sanghvi’s explanations and the proceedings were reduced to an improvised courtroom analysing their conduct- a ‘them’ versus Open and Outlook argument. N. Ram, who was also a part of the Headlines Today debate (with M.J. Akbar, Chawla, Sanghvi, Cherian and Hartosh Singh Bal, political editor, Open), in particular, pronounced definitive summary judgments against Sanghvi and Dutt, without explaining his stand clearly. He used the phrase ‘my verdict’ with no irony whatsoever and expressed gratification that no one else seemed to be buying Dutt and Sanghvi’s explanations either. He went ahead and suggested that they should be sacked, asking the Indian media to raise its bar to match that of the BBC, Financial Times and New York Times. In the same vein, he declared that Chawla had no charges to answer and was innocent. Chawla, who could not decipher this clearly on live TV, reacted by accusing N. Ram of advising the Sri Lankan government.

By the end of it, the debates were playing out like farces – half-hearted attempts by mainstream media to clock coverage on the issue and save face rather than actually wade through the morass that the tapes have uncovered. But in order to wade through that morass, they would have had to bare the actual machinations of the media as part of the establishment today. It is for the same reason that Sanghvi, Dutt and Chawla’s explanations did not convince us. They were all forced to mince words that would have gone to the root of what mainstream media really is today. What they actually seemed to be saying is this: we are no more guilty than our peers and colleagues, we are only walking the lines constantly re-drawn by a fraternity trying to catch up with the proliferated existence and importance of their medium. Words like ‘corruption’ and ‘quid pro quo’ were thrown around a number of times in these shows, but the point at which we need to start debating these tapes is to define what these words mean in today’s context.

The case against Dutt is the weakest of all. She is neither negotiating how she will carry a story nor asking for an opportunity to lobby for the DMK. She has also been the most willing to take questions on the issue from all quarters, despite her loss of poise in the debate. And her explanations warrant benefit of doubt. As she pointed out on the show, the mobs outraged against her keep shifting the goalposts, without a clear sight of what she is being accused of. But she is far from acquittal in public perception. The select quarters of the media that are responding to the crisis by ‘introspecting’ are doing so by either skirting the question of culpability or assuming the accused are guilty. According to reports, Rajdeep Sardesai was attacked by a majority of speakers in an Editor’s Guild open conference last week for supporting Dutt’s case even indirectly.

In an environment charged with loud rhetoric, the only way to afford these journalists a fair trial is by treating the tapes first and foremost as sociological documentation rather than hard evidence. And then by beginning to ask some very fundamental questions. For instance: is a journalist only corrupt if she is found guilty of accepting a material reward for her services to Radia? Is lying to a source corruption? Is shafting elements of a story to retain favour with a source for many a story to come corruption? Are you a corrupt journalist if you prioritize bagging a great story over safeguarding the interests of humanity or a nation? Are you a corrupt journalist if you are posing as one? And is a corrupt journalist an altogether different beast from a cynical, news-hungry, political journalist, as Dutt insinuated herself to be in a moment of wry introspection?

There are other questions too. What role does the audience have in shaping the ethics of these journalists? Are we willing to pay for news that corporations wont subsidize? Are we willing to be more judicious in how we reward our channels with the TRPs that sustain them?

Until every side in this conflict is willing to deal with these questions and their aftermath, the real debate over the Radia tapes will not be televised. It is also time to hold the shock and awe. How long can the journalist evade being a target while hosting wars on her medium. How long can the audience expect to be privy to increasingly gory battlefields without being prepared to accept that everyone on it has to eventually pick a side.

Pragya Tiwari

Not Without Our Farmers- I Want My Father Back Review

“GLOBALISATION IS nothing but the ultimate takeover of the planet’s resources by a few companies, whereby the freedom of the species and human beings will be killed by them,” sums up Suma Josson’s film, I Want My Father Back, after taking us through Vidarbha’s agrarian crisis and the resultant suicides. It is in the extremity of this view that it sets itself up as propaganda. Visuals that act as mere illustrations to the spoken narrative only augment the public service feel of this film. The problem with ignoring the aesthetic demands of the medium is that it greatly reduces the documentary’s potential to appeal to more than the mind — to actually move you.

As a journalistic exercise, the film is thorough, carefully sifting through all the aspects of the crisis from its singular position of the State as a homicidal conspirator and Washington ally in exterminating small farmers through its deliberate policies. The Green Revolution has favoured agents of globalisation over small farmers. Mono-cropping, abolition of mandis and Bt cotton seeds are wrecking agrarian economy, bio-diversity and animal and human health. Corruption at all levels is reducing the farmer to a loan junkie, condemned to fatal poverty. While few can argue against the failures of the policies in question, not providing a counterpoint to the State as a pure demon with an insatiable murder wish dilutes the credibility of a sound argument.

Thorough as the research may be, the success of narrative journalism lies in the arrangement of the evidence and its potential to engage with the reader. This film leaves you at sea with its relentless onslaught of information and opinion, to fish for points you can take home.

The problem of Vidarbha links up with Naxalism and the future of the country in every way. When you let a farmer die, you let the songs and life of the soil die slowly too. And nature, unlike man will not take deliberate termination lying down. Those who live in and around Vidarbha are protesting and crying before killing themselves. None of their pleas are picked up by the mainstream media. And in that context this film, for all its shortcomings, is incalculably precious.

(As it appears in Tehelka)

Fields of Death- Review of Harvest of Grief

In popular imagination, Punjab is the land of agrarian abundance, picked for its fertile promise by the harbingers of the Green Revolution. And to date it provides for the bulk of India’s food needs. But within a decade of the revolution, seeds of agrarian crisis had begun to sprout in the land of promise. Anwar Jamal brings forth the yield from the darker side of Punjab’s paradox in his Harvest Of Grief.

Like the film points out, the Indian farmer has always been struggling with debt. What differentiates this climate of death is the cumulative nature of this debt coupled with receding opportunities for him to be able to pay up. At the heart of shrinking opportunities are the policies of the Revolution that are challenging the existence of small farmers in the absence of laws to protect them from utter desolation. But the politics of the state is committed to these policies in a way that makes it impossible for critical feedback to be integrated into their rigid implementation.

And there cannot be feedback more critical than the incidence of 40 to 80 suicides per village in certain areas. Jamal’s camera takes us into the living spaces of the dead, baring the catastrophic consequences for the families of the deceased through artful frames that canvas their testimony as well their silence. His eye is intrusive but never vulgar, like the tool of an artist chipping only to carve meaning. He distills the grief of his subjects offering us bitter fruits of their helpless plight, humanizing what is otherwise mere numbers on a broadsheet. The choice of accompanying folk music etches the plea of the forsaken as only their own songs can. The film focuses on this emotional core, contextualizing it with the essential theory of the problem but steering clear of the pitfalls of didactics.

The central force of Jamal’s visual document is directed towards the state machinery that is rigging figures to deny the suicides and their cause, depriving Punjab of the little relief the centre provides to other affected rural areas in the country. In a moment of entrenched irony, as relatives of one of the hundreds of farmers who have leaped into an irrigation canal, wait to recover his body, this central force becomes overwhelming. The state might remain impenetrable to desperate petitions but there is hope in the filmmaker’s impassioned attempt to move us enough to want to make a difference to our own people.

(As it appears in Tehelka)

Out of Touch of Evil- The Raavan Review

The last time Mani Ratnam directed a tragedy was Dil Se- a brilliant ode to love framed by Sivan’s breathtaking shots and underscored by Gulzar and Rahman’s sheer magic. Years later in Raavan empty pretty frames and wafting strains by the same geniuses play out in search of the director who could give them life. Inverting the prism of Ramayana to understand the viewpoint of the disenfranchised, Ratnam tells the story of Beera who kidnaps Ragini, the wife of a cop named Dev. The cat and mouse chase that ensues is a lazy literal adaptation- horribly enacted, staidly written and entirely forgettable. But what makes this travesty unforgiveable is that it teased us with the promise of political allegory. Reports claimed Ratnam’s Raavan was modeled on Naxal leader Kobad Ghandy and the film was about to make a strong statement about the poverty wars. Instead Beera turned out to be a Veerappan style lord of armed masses who could be anything from tribals to dacoits. Scattered between throwaway dialogue is a line or two about exploitation and caste prejudice, but the film establishes neither. The state is represented solely by the police force and Beera is motivated wholly by love, confused impulse and personal vendetta, caricaturing the complexities of the people caught in this most terrible of civil wars. While Gulzar’s provocative lyrics accuse Delhi of cruel disregard, Ratnam ironically pays as little heed to the problems of the masses as the accursed centre. They are portrayed as violent barbarians with little care in the world. The focus of the film is the anti-hero who is curiously all good and just. But turning Ravaan into Ram does not break a stereotype to open debate, only institutes another. It is not clear whether Ratnam intended to express sympathy with Maoist ideologues and failed but if he did, the only political comment to be derived from this film lies in that aborted intent. So far, his Hindi films have decried terrorist violence in every form. This turn could have acknowledged unprecedented state terror. From times immemorial our Gods have been spawned by entertaining epics. Ratnam plays a little with morality, but remains reverential to the philosophy that keeps the real stakeholders out of the frame.

(As it appears in Tehelka)

The No 1 Ladies With Agency- The Sex and the City 2 Review

Sex and the City 2 is the bedrock of two baffling outcomes- invigorating the sleepy critic’s tongue with fresh vitriol and firmly entrenching the phenomenon of critic-proof blockbusters. Two years after her marriage to Mr Big, Carrie returns in the sequel with her pack of 40 plus friends in various states of mid life crisis. A thin layer of their marriage, parenthood and work issues is laid out before they are transported to Abu Dhabi to reenact days of being single, which only series fans are missing more than the characters. So they drink, shop, talk and get all giddy headed. The little there is of plot and conflict is frothy enough to dissolve in their perpetual glasses of champagne. The screenplay is clearly underwritten- but if you give in, you might see it has the disposition of the holiday its characters take. The film is so easy it doesn’t even make you laugh out loud. Nor cry. All you have to do is lounge around in the comfort you share with these characters that have sauntered back into your life from a brilliant series of yore. There is nothing this film takes seriously, least of all itself. It is in this context that the most acerbic charges leveled against it implode. And you are left marveling at the commitment of the sort of hyperdefensive postcolonial politics that will creep its way up even a slight evening of cocktails. Especially if there is the middle-east in the mix. One is not sure a film that ends with Carrie and her friends resorting to the burkha to catch a flight on time, intended to voice any neo-feminist sentiments to begin with. But if that were true, here is a bunch pop-culture icons that travel into the country of the oppressed women and let them save their American selves for a change. In the spirit of irreverence there is a joke about eating French fries through the hijab. But no they are not lampooning the Arabs anymore than they are lampooning themselves. If anything, they are debunking stereotypes of the victimized Muslim woman by wondering, however flippantly, if they are subject to any less prejudice in the post-lib west. Its still no great cinema. But since when does that have anything to do with fun?
(As it appeared in Tehelka)

Silent Songs Of The Desert

“Will this film benefit us, you think?, Mura Lala Fafal asks his brother. “The world will see how little we have and how we embrace our life”, he answers, “if they understand”. “The filmmakers will make them understand”, Mura offers. “These poor things will make them understand our language? ends his sister-in-law, unwittingly summing up the fate of the documentary they feature in- K.P. Jayasankar and Anjali Monteiro’s Two Day Fair, a chronicle of two days in the lives of Mura and his nephew Kanji, musicians, wage labourers and farmers of the Dalit community of Meghwals living along the Indo-Pak border at the Rann Of Kutch.

With any such film, the primary benefit is always to the audience who engages with a world so starkly different from theirs, interfaced by the filmmakers’ inherently limited interpretation of it. Monteiro and Jayasankar present the two lives as an aesthaete’s portrait, casting the long, languid gaze of an outsider through their camera. The viewer enraptured by the landscape, music and innate beauty of the people, is agreeably not offered an easily palatable narrative of lament or pity. The subjects are poor, exploited, discarded by the democracy that was shaped by carving out a large section of their native land into an enemy state. But they also live outside it’s maladies- like Mura points out quietly- “We don’t have diseases here. We don’t consume what the TV tells us to consume. There are no goods here, no advertisements.” Woven with the camera’s unmistakable love for the landscape, these words tinge our understanding with a sense of longing and distance that is a necessary antidote to clichéd ways of looking across the rural/urban divide.

While Mura and Kanji talk about their passion for music, visuals of them toiling hard for a meager wage grate in contrast. On cue the desert fills in to lend the music an irreplaceable context. This is the perfect backdrop for what the film leaves out of its scope- the articulation of issues that confront folk singers. The art is endangered by a number of factors augmented by rapid changes in a modernizing society that is not willing to compensate enough. Recordings or recitals that package it for a kitsch crazy audience outside, hardly benefit a small section of these musicians; of which a large portion is devoured by middlemen. If the culture is to survive a sustainable model for preservation and growth has to be set up as a self-sufficient creative economy in their native lands. The case argues itself when you hear Mura explain the words of Sufi and Bhakti saints, his tattered garb in an instant transforming from a testimony of destitution to the pride of a malang. They have Kabir. We have his songs on a CD.

(Appears in Tehelka Magazine, 20th Mar, 2010)

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