The Letter

Dear Bhaiyyaji,

Since you had asked me to write to you in detail about my encounter, here it is:

I picked her up from under the flyover near her hostel. She had been about to cross the street when I managed to catch up with her. Half a minute earlier an autorickshaw had slowed down beside her and I had seen her face scrunched up indecisively as she weighed not taking it. When I whisked her into the back of my car her dupatta waved filmically in the breeze. Her glare pierced me, her voice rising in abuses. I felt scolded like a boyfriend who had arrived late for a date. You remember how I love playing that role, to have a finger on the pulse of a woman? Just like I had mine on hers then. I have to admit that it wasn’t easy for either of us. I had instructed Bhola to look ahead, not to interfere and drive at a good speed to avoid the love-sucking thullas. We kept crashing into each other trying to steady ourselves against the pace of the vehicle and our screaming hearts. I held her, tight, close to me, smothering her with a flurry of kisses. She struggled against my roughness but I knew I would change that. I bound her arms with her dupatta and made for her breasts, which had grown perky against my weight, kneading them, licking them. When I felt Bhola slowing down I looked up to check if all was well and was encouraged by the warm soft glow of the nearly full moon. It lit up the safety of the tree-lined avenues that we were passing through. Then I moved my attention to her long neck, caressed her face while I bit into it. I put my hand over her mouth to stop her from shrieking and left it there, knowing that soon she would not be able to control herself. By then she was feverish in her movements. To make sure she was ready, I did as you had so kindly suggested: took off her green-coloured bottoms and sapped her up in my mouth. I knew that got her really going because she kicked her legs about frantically, gasping for air, arousing in me the desire to end her miserable wait. The strong orange light coming in through the windows told me that Bhola had turned onto the expressway. I quickly pushed back my pants and moved in, slapping rapidly against her body. Although, it didn’t take long to get over, much to my

disappointment, I felt alive. She, however, looked spent as she lay curled up in the foetal position. It was getting very late and I knew she would be missed at home. I asked Bhola to turn around, and carefully put her clothes on. I wiped her sweat and tears, and brushed her hair gently. Just as you had advised, I dropped her ten kilometres away from the place where we had started. I made sure she had money to make it back in an autorickshaw. Even then she looked pretty and enticing in her pink and blue salwar-

kurta. As we drove off, my mind lingered on her taste and smell, and my face broke into a contented smile.

As you see, I am truly your blood, brother. And maybe next time you will be with me, to guide and direct me.

Yours lovingly,

Chhote

[Typed as a memo on my meagre phone as an impulse while travelling one evening on the metro, having read 3 days' newspapers in the hour before]

[PPS. This was exhibited as a creative entry in 'Postfeminist Postmortems?: Gender, Sexuality and Multiple Modernities', Annual Conference (2011) of Department of English, DU] 

In the memory of Karna, and an afternoon on Prakash Jha's Rajneeti

The first thing that struck me when the movie began was that this film will be about the prodigal and proverbial Karna. Even if the role of Suraj, essayed by Ajay Devgn, did not enjoy as much space in the screenplay, at the end of the film, just as at the end of every translation of the Great War, Karna emerges as the one more sinned against than sinning. Somehow the story is always about that one character, one that stays with you much after the everything else about it had faded away.

<*Spoiler alert*>

Prakash Jha's film promises a power-packed cast with performances by some of Jha's usuals. Jha tries to step out of the mould of earlier Bihar-centered films like Apaharan and Gangajal. At the very outset, I must admit that it is easy to be disappointed at the lack of precision and originality that is usually the hallmark of Jha's films. This film is caught somewhere between the rajneeti of the Mahabharata and the Corleones of The Godfather, a modern technological rendition. It hits out at dynasty politics (especially with relevance to the current political scene), calling into question, undermining and subordinating family, relationships, trust, loyalty and love to the quest for power, gaddi, paisa.

Nana Patekar, as the willful and cunning Krsna (or Tom Hagen), guides the fortunes and misfortunes of the Pratap clan (who could just as well be Shakuni mama). Arjun Rampal is the hot-headed, unscrupulous political leader, who like the blood-thirsty Bhima (with a heart of gold) or the short-tempered and careless Sonny meets defeat and an unfortunate end. Though, Rampal's acting leaves much to be desired, his diction and dialogue delivery lacking the power and conviction of his contemporaries in the film, especially the seasoned Manoj Bajpayee. But the film belongs to Ranbir Kapoor, ably supported by Katrina Kaif. She has certainly put in alot of effort into the role, especiallu with her accent. Kapoor is almost a revelation, exuding poise, control and a calculating demeanor (of the kind that reminds one of the scheming Iago, and its more recent avatar - Langda Tyagi). But somewhere his PhD persona is lost - the scholar studying the 'subtextual politics of the 19th C Victorian poetry'!) to the machinations of satta.

Two scenes stand out in particular reference to The Godfather - one, where Babulal the loyalist wakes up with his partner murdered next to him and his body covered with his blood. This is reminiscent of the severed horse's head which is used to convince Woltz for a part in the movie. Second, the car blast that kills Rampal's and Ranbir's fiancee's characters.

The film, however, pays only lip service to political struggles, which exist as subtexts. For instance, Devgn's character as the Dalit spokesperson has implications within the field of characterization in the film but does not address any real concerns. Nasseruddin Shah is wasted at the beginning of the film with only one speech (and one kiss) of worth, as he sets the turning tide of destiny into motion. The jhola politics of the left clearly have no place in contemporary politics.

All in all, I would see the film for Ranbir, if for nothing else. And of course to add another tale to the already burgeoning compendium on the versions of Karna.