Raindrop

26th Sept 2015

Tap! Tap! Tap! 

The raindrop taps my windscreen waking me up from my hazy thoughts.

“Remember me Blade Runner?” She says, reminding me of the time I had met her along with the cloud a few seasons back.

“How is the cloud?” she asks. 

“I don’t know well enough” surprised, I tell. 

Saddened but determined she withdraws but clings on to my windscreen but looking the other way.

Minutes pass, “I am sad and bitter,” I say; “I am sad too but not bitter” she replied. 

I describe my life in the last few seasons, how I have not been able to walk and run because I have lost my crutches. How my crutches have become old and frail. She expressed her surprise and told how much she enjoyed seeing me run around the meadows as if there was no tomorrow.

She tells her story. How she had her dreams of floating over mountains and seas and the dream of seeing new countries and pastures…enjoying the weightlessness. How the cloud was suddenly struck by a lightning and had to rain. And she had to drop from the height hurtling towards the ground.

And we both laughed. Laughed at our situations.

“Are you still sad?”, “Can’t we both be happy?” I asked.

“I am happy because I fell on your window screen and made you happy,” she said smiling and slipping down the glass towards the ground leaving a streak of grey and wetness. 

Chalo milke dafna detehain.

Chalo milke dafna detehain.

Let it be buried,

unknown, unsung like an unwanted child,

in the darkness of the night, 

before we change our mind.

With no entries made in the registry, 

and the keeper looking away,
we will be lucky if no one comes our way.

With the breaking of the rays, 

we can wear our smile without fear,

refuse to recognize that unmarked mound,

 which the keeper would have cared.

It would then just be a number, 

a date not to remember,

we would go about living our lives of exemplary perfection,

with the sound of tiny footsteps following us forever.

Sridevi wont die

Sunday, 25th February 2018, 5.30 AM, as I lazily checked my phone; a mention of Sridevi passing away flashes by. I, in my sleepy wakefulness, didn’t register much. A few days earlier Sylvester Stallone was given this treatment and I thought this to be of the same type. I checked site after site and by then it was all over the media and the news of her death was shirking from the headlines.

That, Sridevi the superstar of yesteryears passed away at the age of 54 of a massive heart attack while she was at Dubai to attend a function! The reality of it all sinks in. With all the medical advancement happening around us, any news of a physically fit person passing away at 54 takes time to accept. Being almost of the same age group, you are made conscious of your own vulnerability. Sadness, disbelief, nervousness because of our own vulnerability envelops you.

Laden with conflicting emotions in your heart, you are transported to the year 1982.

The first year in my college, the first few tastes of independence, a period of life when you are tempted to do things which were denied to you, the thrill of breaking the law was not only fashionable but the only way to grow up. Escaping for a movie was the best we could afford to do in those days. Heard from friends that a new girl has arrived and her movie Himmatwalla is about to release this Friday. Some had started collecting money for booking the tickets for the first day first show in bulk. Those days it took only 5 rupees to witness and immerse ourselves in the world of fantasy. The excitement was palpable on that day. Bunking of the class was smoothly executed and we found ourselves safely seated. We were left in the darkness of the hall to deal with our respective dark and lurid fantasies.

The moment of truth arrived and she happened. In the movie, she was introduced in a rather comical situation. Wearing a pair of hot pants and tightly fitting tee she was shown doing a hopping exercise. With each hop her assets would bounce and it kept on happening for good 3/4 reps and matching that were our hungry hearts leaping out of its cage 100 times faster. The scene changed and you could listen to every person in the hall blowing out a cold sigh. The Thunder thighs from the South had just landed with a bang on our filmy subconscious.

It was not limited just to that show in that hall, it happened everywhere. So powerful was the collective sigh all across the country that it heralded a new genre of movies heavily influenced, financed, produced and acted on the southern sensibilities and taste. Riding that tide many actresses made their way to the Bollywood. Himmatwalla was followed by movies like Tohfa, Justice Chaudhury and many such outrageous movies with equally outrageous actors, sets, costume, dialogue, lyrics, storyline, plot, situation, and comedy. Southern kitsch was mainstreamed. So powerful was the tide that major actors were seen wearing Rajkumar style wigs with heavy sideburns and mustaches. It continued for 6 more years till Amir Khan and Juhi Chawla happened with the movie Quayamat Se Quayamat Tak in 1986 - Bollywood was back being watchable.

I never liked Sridevi - the heartthrob of our times, as an actress or as an inspiring personality but can’t deny her impact on our evolving, bumbling sexuality at that stage of our lives especially at a time when assessing a female anatomy was even elusive visually, forget physically. She with her bouncing bosoms and thunder thighs triggered a passionate curiosity of national scale amongst the boys of my age at that time. Later she graduated into more meaningful cinema like Sadma and to me, her best was her role in the movie Gauri Shinde’s movie English Vinglish where she plays the role of a homemaker who sets out to discover the world. She last appeared in a home production called Mom. There were many movies with her on the floor. Don't know what will happen to those movies.

Now, at the age when our coming to terms with dysfunctionality is a necessity, the memories of our youthful awakening are still fresh. You won’t die Sridevi as long as the memories of our growing up don’t! Your name in the annals of cinematic history is permanent.