My Life, My Story, My Direction - Tamasha Review

Having read the mixed reviews, I didn't know what to expect when I went to watch Tamasha. The reviews ranged from ones lavish in their praise to ones sour in their scorn.

The movie opens with my favourite scene - two actors on stage of a play - which operates as the introduction to the main story. From early on it is quite evident that this movie revolves around Ved, the character played by Ranbir Kapoor. He is enamoured by the world of stories and fairy-tales. Growing up in Shimla, he listens with rapturous attention to the local story-teller, attends Shakespearan plays and constantly makes his own fables as a part of his daily routine. The reality-check comes in the form of his societally correct father, who imposes on him to study engineering (we've all heard this story in India). He proclaims he doesn't understand Math, and that his passion lies in story-telling. However, his admission to an engineering college has already been taken care of and there is no turning back now.

Ved's life transitions from following his father's orders at home to following his boss' at office. He is the product manager in his firm, but far from being independent. He is considered sensible, polite, hard-working and 'good', traits he has worked very hard to nurture. The scenes showing his everyday existence, the repetitiveness and the monotony, capture the drudgery of corporate life quite well. All this, is now what he is.

In the midst of all this, he finds time to visit Corsica for a week. We have all seen the trailers and know whom he meets there. He meets Tara, played with grace and aplomb by Deepika Padukone. He helps her out when she is in a tight spot and that's how they get together. But only for a week! They promise to hide their true identities from each other and never to meet again after departing this small French island. They speak to each other in cheesy Bollywood dialogues and make up impromptu situations to explain their next moves. It's a bit stretched in parts but one must sit back and enjoy their chemistry. Deepika looks stunning in this part of the movie. Ranbir plays the affable joker, but some of his lines are over the top. They leave each other earlier than scheduled, with an 'off-limits' parting gift from Tara to Ved.

But alas, the heart understands no boundaries set by logic and rationale. Tara ends up falling in love with the stranger she met on vacation. After a very long time, she finally tracks him down. But, soon, she discovers that the person she'd met on the island is not the same person she finds back home. The stranger on Corsica was impulsive, this man is bound by societal norms. The stranger on Corsica was adventurous, the only adventure this man back home has is their daily dinner at a restaurant. She eventually tells him her feelings, but that's when the problems start. She is vehemently shunted away from Ved's life to wallow in her own grief, We lose track of her character for some time as the narrative goes back to the main character.

Ved, suddenly shaken out of his pretences by Tara, starts to 'act up'. There are times in the day when he goes back to behaving the way he did in Corsica. The problem is that this is not Corsica. And his behaviour gets him into a lot of trouble. Unemployed, lost in love, and hopelessly lost in life, he goes back to his home-town of Shimla, seeking out the old storyteller. The old man is now bordering on craziness. On being asked the 'story' of his own future by Ved, the old man first speaks of a rather gruesome end, He then goes on to say something which Ved takes to heart. This is where he starts writing his own story, this is where he starts directing his own course and this is where he starts leading the life of his choice.

One can say that Deepika's character, Tara, really was the 'Tara', or guiding star, in Ved's life. The movie captures the grief of a 'mediocre common man', stuck in the wrong profession, very well. There are certain scenes where you connect with the actors thinking that this situation could have arisen in your own life. Deepika's role is essentially that of a supporting one, but she brings immense presence to the screen. She has surely come of age in the past eighteen months or so. Ranbir, on his part, is intended to be the star of the show, and he pulls off most of his role accurately. The fumbling, angry boyfriend, the obedient, subservient employee, the rebellious, hurtful, free spirited story-teller, he plays these aspects of his character appreciatively. The music does well to fill up the background, but I don't think this is one of Rahman's more memorable albums. It's decent.

All in all, I have to say that the message of Tamasha is one that everyone should listen to. Following others' orders will eventually lead one to stagnation and frustration. Sometimes it just needs a chance encounter, or a few well spoken words to rekindle the fire of passion in someone's heart. It takes one moment of courage to follow that passion. This can only be followed by a lifetime of loving your 'job'.

Trad Bongs Versus Non-Trad Bongs - Bengalis from the Point of View of a Bong

“E ma, tui machh khash na!” (“Oh My God, you don’t eat fish!”). If I got a Rupee every time someone said this to me, I’d be quite rich by now. Yes, I’m a Bengali. And no, I don’t eat fish. I don’t like Rosogollas and Phuchkas either. I think a few Bengali foodies just fainted…

I heard someone say a couple of weeks ago that the dislike of fish is a fashion among Bengalis of the younger generation. Hello! Fashion? What fashion? Isn’t it my wish what I do and do not put in my mouth and attempt to digest? I don’t see you wearing a low rise jeans or a plunging neckline despite not being comfortable in it. The sweet stink that accompanies a fish has been major turn-off for me since childhood. The mere thought of putting something which smells that stinky, despite however it might smell after cooking, in my mouth is repulsive. But hey! I don’t go around stopping other people from stuffing themselves with platefuls of fish. 

So why do I have to keep explaining my gastronomical preferences to one and all. I’ve seen how you all look at other forms of meat. Not ‘chikayn’. Never ‘chikayn’. After the holy fish-gods, ‘chikayn’ is the only meat looked at as being of pure noble spirit. Nothing bad ever comes about from having excess ‘chikayn’. So KFC flourishes all over Calcutta. Ok, so the bird is safe. What about the goat? Well, there my fellow Bongo-bashis are split down the middle. Some adore it; others avoid it like the plague. Depending on which side of the fence you sit, it qualifies either as the juiciest meat you’ll ever taste or the rubberiest. And then come the other two types of meat, the ones-that-must-not-be-named; or eaten. The mere mention of those types of meat to most Bengalis is sure to get you struck off their invite list. One is dirty, the other is holy. I wonder who made those classifications. Not as if someone’s asking you to eat them raw. But again, I don’t impose. But still, they do. 

The problem, they say, is that you’re not quite Bengali unless you are able to de-bone the boniest, most foul smelling, pieces of meat with your bare hands and gulp them down, with curry covering your hands till your wrists.

Then there’s Phuchka. You should listen to my fellow Bengalis boasting about how many they ate! “Once I ate 50”, says the local aged uncle. “That’s nothing”, quips his younger fellow commuter on the bus. “I once ate 70, with extra spice”. There’s surely a Guinness world record waiting somewhere. It is said to brighten the gloomiest of moods, encourage the juiciest of conversations and make you feel excellent in general.  Must be alcohol they mix in the water, because that’s the only thing I know which has those effects. And so the model Bengali spends their lazy evenings at his local Phuchka-wala, named appropriately as Gangu, gorging on a few dozen Phuchkas, without worrying about why the same water is used in their dish as well as to wash Gangu’s hands.

When I was younger, no name struck more fear in me than the one and the only – Rabindranath Tagore. 

I’ve got to be careful not to get thrown out of this city with what I say next. Agreed, he won India’s first Nobel Prize. Agreed, he wrote a lot and a lot of good stuff too. But please, have you ever wondered who his target audience was? Was it really the 13 year old student being force fed Mr. Tagore’s works in the name of syllabus? Was that blasphemy I just committed? Well, I guess I’ll find out after I post this. Wouldn’t it be better if his works were taught without the pressure of having to sit for exams on them at the end of the term? Anyway, those are questions for another time and place. The fact that I prefer English authors to Mr. Tagore is also a problem. Is writing his name as Mr. Tagore also a problem? Not Bengali enough maybe, I don’t know. I like reading English because I had good English teachers who were able to generate my interest in the subject. It’s nothing against Bengali. Just my preference. But that’s strike 2 isn’t it?

Then there’s the country’s favourite pastime – Cricket. Or maybe it’s favourite religion? Either way. For a Bengali, before 1996, Cricket meant Sachin Tendulkar. To be fair, Cricket meant Sachin Tendulkar for the whole country back then. From 1996, Cricket meant Sachin and Mr. Bongoshontan himself, Sourav Ganguly. 

They cheered when he hit his famous cover-drive, groaned when he got out, defended him with their lives when he got Tendulkar run-out against New Zealand in the Champion’s Trophy final in Nairobi. Some even dared to call him greater than Sachin himself. Heresy, I say! And then there’s the fact that India has never produced a worse criminal than a certain Rahul Dravid. How they blasted him on our mighty one’s ouster. Ouch! You’d think it was murder! He came back a couple of years later, and retired a couple more years later on his own terms. They said he had been forced. They said he was the greatest. Hold on, what about the other Greatest? Surely, he wasn’t greater than God! And then KKR dumped him after three unsuccessful seasons. We became Pune-ites (for want of a better word) overnight. The discussions were mind-numbing! “It’s only a game”, I thought. They were ready to execute. The next year Pune dumped themselves out. IPL was the forbidden fruit. They missed the chance of celebrating two IPL Championship wins. They took it on the chin with stoic faces and muted applause. My fellows have exiled themselves from ‘India ka Tyouhar’ (that’s difficult to spell in English!).

The year is 2025, Yuzvendra Chahal, the captain of India walks out to the toss. Heard in Behala that afternoon, “Sourav kokhonoi batting nitona ei pitch e. Plus, eta toh day night match. Raate eto dew. Ei shob player ki kore je captain hoe ke jane. Gelo ajke.” (Sourav would never have batted first on this pitch. It’s a day-night game. Plus, the dew factor will come into play. I’m amazed at how such players become captain. We have no chance today”. I rest my case.

Okay, the traditional Bengalis are not all that bad. And no, I don't call myself or my fellow Begalis as Bongs. This post is meant to be a satirical comment from one who is a so-called non-traditional writing about his observations about the traditionals. They sure make for interesting conversation. They love their food, their literature, their history, their culture and their cricket. Also their football. Don’t get me started on the Brazil versus Argentina argument. It could go on all night! They’re some of the most passionate people you’ll ever come across. My girlfriend’s a traditional Bengali and I’ve got no complaints so far. In fact, all this makes for excellent conversation topics. And a reminder, just because I don’t share their preferences, doesn't make me any less proud of all this. It isn't fashionable to be different. Just that I am different.