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Showing posts with label social. Show all posts
Showing posts with label social. Show all posts

Monday, July 16, 2012

The story of justice

It is so heartening to see such a massive public outcry and media coverage opposing the animalistic acts that took place in Guwahati recently. In what seems to be a moment of pride for the media, something that has given the people of India another reason to believe, I’d like to remind you all, especially those belonging to the fairer sex, about an incident that happened in 1990. An incident that involved a 14-year-old named Ruchika.

Ruchika Girhotra committed the grievous crime of allowing herself to be molested by a respected gentleman who happened to be an inspector general, whose name I shall not reveal, for it shall bring great amount of shame and disrepute to a man who has relentlessly served our country throughout his illustrious career.

We live in a country that believes in Karma and providence. The rest of the story justifies this belief.
The gentleman in question was the president of the Haryana lawn tennis association when Ruchika committed the heinous crime. Prior to the incident, the gentleman was popularly known as the policeman who happily played tennis on a clay court that was built on an encroached government land.

The gentleman was known for having an observant eye that effortlessly recognised talent and hand-picked Ruchika, a promising tennis player, for special practice. In connection with this, he asked Ruchika to meet him in his office. There he casually molested her. The extremely disobedient Ruchika made a big hue-and-cry of the small issue and complained to her parents about it. It is blasphemous to report any form of molestation in India, to anyone including your parents. Our scriptures are full of stories that highlight the consequences of blasphemy. Poor Ruchika probably didn’t read them properly and hence had to pay the price, quite rightly at that, for having committed the unpardonable crimes of 1. Allowing herself to be molested. 2. Reporting the same to her parents.
The parents, like fools, tried to drum up support and question the powerful gentleman in question. The gentleman then realized that it was high time that he swung into action and did something about the egregiousness on display. He called friends and well-wishers from his caste and intelligently coupled the sheer weight of their populated presence with that of the power oozing from the chambers of political muscle he had access to. The assembled group that had divine intentions and the backing of ex-MLA J S Tikka, protested democratically by raising slogans in front of Ruchika’s house.

All good men enjoy the support and blessings of the higher authorities. The gentleman in our story was no exception. He seemed to enjoy the unanimous support of all MPs, MLAs and CMs from his state, regardless of the party ruling it.

Lesser mortals don’t deserve education. The “Sacred heart school for girls,” Chandigarh, which has sacrosanct milk overflowing from its apposite name, realized the truth behind the preceding statement and immediately expelled Ruchika. Some bastards tried to prohibit the school authorities from doing the right thing. Unfortunately, the school authorities had to incorrectly accuse Ruchika of not paying the fees and expel her. The immoral acts of a few miscreants sometimes lead to revered institutions having to stoop down to levels not down to them to restore justice. This was one such event.
After her dismissal, Ruchika confined herself to the comforts and company of the four walls surrounding her in her room. She unjustly protected herself from being followed and abused by our gentleman’s henchmen. But the gentleman’s saviours and the guarding angels of divine justice on this holy land realized that Ruchika’s father and brother were also partially responsible for Ruchika growing up to be the vamp that she is( ‘was’ actually, but let me finish this part first).

So they framed false cases against Ruchika’s father and brother. Five cases of theft were filed against Ashu, Ruchika’s 10-year-old brother. Ashu was also subjected to continual physical torture. His feet were tied with a weight. A roller was rolled on his legs and thighs. While still in illegal confinement, Ashu was taken to his house and beaten mercilessly in front of Ruchika by the gentleman. Ashu was paraded in handcuffs in his neighbourhood to elucidate the evils of messing with a reputed gentleman to the commons. The benevolent gentleman took mercy on the little boy by not acting according to the garudapurana which demanded tossing the boy into boiling oil.

The gentleman however kept Ashu in confinement until an act of cowardice on Ruchika’s part unfortunately necessitated Ashu’s release. Ruchika committed suicide by consuming poison. Men of justice rarely get a reason to rejoice and celebrate. The gentlemen finally got his. He threw a party to celebrate the occasion!

The witnesses and people who sympathised with Ruchika got what they deserved. Aradhana, Ruchika’s friend was threatened so much that she married and fled to Australia. Attention seeking lawyers who offered to take up the case for free were filed under some case or the other immediately. The witnessed were accused of being Ashu’s accomplices and filed. Ruchika’s dad, a bank manager, was accused of corruption and rightfully forced into a job he deserved to do for a living: Earth filling.
Justice finally prevailed after sometime. The gentleman, after all the embarrassment, was promoted to the post of an additional DGP and was later nominated for a presidential honour. Most importantly, the case was dropped and it was party time again.

Loud talking media-heads, CBI enquiries, adjourned verdicts, 16 prosecution witnesses, parliament debates, one suicide and 19 years later, the gentlemen was grilled. He was promptly sentenced to 6 months of rigorous imprisonment and was slapped with a fine of a monumental Rs.1000. Thankfully and predictably, justice prevailed. He was seen chewing paan outside the court, 10 minutes after the judgement. He had received a bail from the judge, who had got into a property feud with the Girhotras in the 80S.

The gentleman lived happily ever after.

So my dear sisters, never mess with an influential gentleman. For all the badass girls who could have been in Ruchika’ position that are reading this, remember that nobody will help you, neither the media, nor the judiciary, if and when you mess up with a gentleman. The media especially will talk about you and make you famous. They’ll glorify your existence by repeatedly telecasting videos of you getting molested by gentlemen. Truth alone triumphs; the gentlemen from Guwahati will get away too.

 There have been instances in history when evil elements like Ruchika have succeeded. It has been when they haven’t had to depend on anyone, especially other men. It has been when they have turned to lethal weapons like the pen knife or the pepper spray. Gentlemen are wary of the independent, brave women; they are considered to be the embodiment of all evil.

For those wondering about the gentleman’s name, he’s called thevediya paya here in Tamil Nadu. I don’t know how the rest of India calls him.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

The end


February the 12th was quite an amusing day. I had actually come back from college that very day with a heavy load of books that I had picked up at a fair a week before and I was dying to get my hands on them. It was then that mom instructed me to go to the hospital. I was disappointed, but I didn’t have a choice. Grandpa was ill and there was no one to take care of him. I wasn’t really attached to my grandpa. In fact, I’m not emotionally attached to most people around me.

I had to endure a lot of embarrassing moments that seem to be extremely funny in retrospect. Thaatha( Tamil word for grandpa) seemed to have lost track of reality. He didn’t seem to be aware of the fact that he was actually in a hospital. He thought that he was still in his house. Coincidentally, the room that was allotted to him in the hospital was scarily similar to his living room. His living room has a cot in the centre and a bench alongside. Opposite to his cot, there is a door which leads to the kitchen. Behind his cot is the entrance to his house or what used to be his house rather.

The hospital room had a cot in the centre as well.  Parallel to the cot, there was another cot which had a green bed sheet on it. It was the only hospital in my small town and hence it was crowded outside. My grandpa, according to whom the place we were in was his house, called me closer to him and asked me, “Dai Sudar, why are there so many people outside my house today? What’s happening? “. Aakash, my little cousin who had accompanied me, was grinning while I was pondering over how to answer my thatha’s question.  I gave him a random answer and put him to sleep.  A few moments later, he woke up suddenly and called me closer to him again. This time it was about the cot alongside him. “Dai Sudar, what is this big green banana leaf doing on my bench?” This time I burst out laughing along with my little cousin. I told him that Viji Chithi (Tamil word for aunt) had kept it and will be coming back shortly to take it.

My Thaatha was an independent person all his life. After Paati (Tamil word for grandma) passed away, we asked him to stay along with us. He refused. He held privacy and individual freedom in high regard: both his and ours. So he obviously didn’t prefer being chained to a drips bottle in a hospital room, though it had been hydrating him all along. Once every three minutes, he made a valiant effort to break free from that pipe which had been curtailing his freedom and independence. And every time, we had to disturb our inertia in a bid to stop him from disconnecting that pipe. My Thaatha was a short-tempered man and he saw us as people who were pulling all the stops to prevent him from doing what he wanted. The first two times, when I took his hand away from the pipe, he pinched me hard. Given the state of his body, I could sense that he was giving it his all to stop me.

From the third time, the smarty employed a different strategy. He threatened to spit at me. And I obviously didn’t want to be spat at, though my heart kept telling me that it was a mentally unstable old man living in pseudo-reality. I was helpless and hence did what any sane person would do. I called for help, LOUDLY at that. As soon as the nurse came in, I stepped out along with my cousin and as expected, people in the corridor gave me weird, apparently judgemental looks. Unperturbed, we went to the nearby hotel to get my grandpa some milk to drink.

He had low BP and wasn’t supposed to drink anything hot. But my grandpa had been used to drinking piping hot tea early in the morning. So when I offered lukewarm milk to him, he wasn’t satisfied. His big booming bass voice was heard again. “Dai Sudar, milk is not hot. Boil it again and add some sugar”, he said and pointed to the door in front of him. In his house, it would have been his kitchen door. There, in the hospital, it was the toilet door.

 “What are you staring at, enter the kitchen and boil it?” I stood right there, helpless for a second and went blank. The two most obvious things followed. He threatened to spit at me and I called for help again!

At 4 in the afternoon, Chitapa (Tamil word for Uncle) came to relieve me. As I walked back home, I thought about a lot of things. I started thinking about my relationship with Thaatha, the days when he used to take me to school. But one startling visual memory of my grandpa is this image of him sitting and watching TV alone during the last leg of his life, the one post-Sulochana (my paati’s name). That image will never cease to haunt me, the image of a lonely old man not interested in anything in life watching TV only because he had no other choice or desire. His wife was long gone; sons were busy with their own families and grandsons found him too boring. I didn’t dislike him, I didn’t like him either. It’s just that I never felt anything about him.

I was also pondering about how religious my grandpa was, like most people belonging to his generation. He used to be extremely fit and was a perfectionist. He was a very serious person in life; it’s ironical that he contributed to some hearty unintended laughter on the last day of his life.

I then went back to the hospital. He was sleeping. Chitapa, Appa and Amma had reached by then and we were discussing about the various things that had happened that day. Not a single soul in the room, including Thaatha would have imagined it to be his last night alive on this planet. We were so optimistic that he’d be back home in a couple of days that we didn’t even take him to a city hospital. And Thaatha was a person who loved anything and everything cooked at home. So we saw no point in taking him to a city hospital.

I went back home and had a disturbed sleep. Chitapa and Appa decided to spend the night in the hospital. I woke up hearing Appa scream at half past four the next day. He had called mommy’s phone. Mommy was unusually calm and I could hear Appa panic over the phone. I sensed what was happening and sprinted to the hospital. Unlike city hospitals, anyone can storm into an ICU here in Tiruninravur. Thaatha didn’t like the oxygen mask and he wanted to get rid of it. Appa was trying to hold it tight, in vain. He was obviously not able to watch his dad die in his arms. I took over from my dad and held the mask close to his nostrils. After a while, a nurse took over. I went and stood near my grandpa’s legs and was looking right into his eyes. He was struggling to breathe but was looking right into my eyes. Slowly the eyes started losing focus and started looking upwards. I started screaming at him, I told him to look at me, my eyes. The eyeballs rolled back to their original position again. We were making eye contact again. An eerie 30 seconds followed before my grandpa’s eyeballs looked upwards permanently. The doctor, who was adopting desperate measures towards the end, left the room in despair. My thatha slept that day and never woke up again.

Chithi, my cousins and Amma had arrived by then. All of them were crying and I didn’t make any attempt to console them either. I was just shell shocked; I was plainly staring at my grandpa’s walking stick leaning against a cot in the room. I wasn’t crying, I have never cried after someone’s death. But this death had definitely affected me. It was ironical that at 4.15, when the doctors were in desperate need of an ambulance, not a single vehicle turned up. But at 5.45, the ice box arrived within ten minutes of our call.

A slew of rituals that seemed pointless to me followed. I was under constant siege for being lazy. I am irreligious and I just wasn’t interested in the proceedings.  But I wasn’t lazy here. I wasn’t ready to the question the blissful pseudo-reality that everyone lives in. Each person has his own pseudo-reality and it’s unfair to question it because you’re living in one yourself. The body was then taken to the graveyard. The undertaker apparently charged a whopping 7000 bucks to burn the body. It’s funny how people can be extremely heartless and selfish even in times of extreme grief. My dad was obviously not willing to bargain with the undertaker with his dad’s corpse on his shoulders.

I stood behind the funeral pyre and watched the body burn to ashes. Beyond the raging fire, I saw people cry. I then saw them leave. And after a point, I was alone. The fire was burning faintly. Director Bala’s words struck my mind as I watched it burn. He once said in an interview that he preferred going to a graveyard to a temple. After all, if peace is what they want, what better place than a graveyard. I realized the truth behind that statement. My grandpa had finally reached a state of eternal peace.

I also pondered over his film Pithamagan. I marvelled at the thought process behind the story, the concept of an emotionless orphan drafted into the seemingly beautiful world of emotional give and take only to be stranded in a limbo after his friend’s death. I was more like the protagonist. I didn’t feel anything towards my grand-dad till that last day of his. Why did he have to make me laugh like that and disappear the very next day? God is a sadist!

I also realized how death effortlessly achieves the equality all of us strive for, throughout our lives. It makes us humble, keeps us grounded and tells us with an evil smile on its face that it owns us. And that it owns all the citizens of the world and remains impartial. I wonder if there can be an alternative to death at all! Death after all, is such a beautiful thing.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

LICENSE TO KILL


The judiciary’s license to kill is a hot topic in the country today. The fate of Afzal Guru, Ajmal Kasab and the three Sri Lankan Tamils charged for the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi hangs in the balance today. On one hand, there are people waiting to get rid of these averred murderers who have put scores of human lives in peril and on the other hand, we have people concerned about human rights, questioning the very logic of a civilized society carrying out an execution. I don’t belong to either of the categories though I’m inclined towards the latter. My allegiance grew a little stronger after I completed watching the Japanese anime series titled “Death note”. Death note not only put to rest a few doubts I had about the moral precision of capital punishment and a human being’s right to kill, but it also got me pondering about other movies that were judgmental about the power to carry out an execution.

Death note is about Light Yagami and his dream of creating a new world devoid of crime after he gets access to the death note, a notebook that could be used to kill people by writing their names on it. The turn of events as the series progressed clearly seemed to indicate the fact that it’s impossible to exterminate misuse for selfish gains when a consummate amount of power is rested on one’s shoulders and especially, when the power allows you to kill another person. It also left me wondering as to how I had appreciated a movie like Anniyan that not only advocated killing but also professed carrying it using the most gruesome methods one could imagine. I finally convinced myself by assuming that I had fallen for the literary genius of the late Sujatha, who had made myself and a million others accept something that would have garnered appreciation only in a Barbarian society.

The Brad Pitt-Morgan Freeman starrer “Seven” is another case in point. The antagonist orchestrates the last of a series of murders in such a way that the termination of his own life is almost impossible and a noble soul who had dedicated his life to saving lives is to carry out the execution which would eventually help spread the message and inspire mislead psychopaths. It’s an undeniable fact that terrorists are trained to be philistine and phlegmatic even in the most extreme conditions of emotional stress and aren’t afraid to sacrifice themselves in an attempt to accomplish their mission. And its also beyond doubt that the terrorists who die in pursuit will be idolised as martyrs in terrorist camps and for all you know, they could be the role-models of the next 16 year old terrorist. So what exactly are we trying to accomplish by killing people who don’t mind dying and in the process of dying, possibly inspire a million others to continue the heinous crimes they had been notorious for throughout their lifetime?

Kamal Haasan acted in two movies that pronounced opposite verdicts on the issue. If Virumaandi championed the cause of abolition of capital punishment, Unnaipol Oruvan, a remake of “Wednesday” seemed to lean towards eliminating terrorists from the face of the earth. As usual, he remained confused and confused other people by equivocating effectively and thus disguising his original opinion on the issue. But it was the mediocre “Payanam” that actually planted certain serious questions in my mind about the absence of too many options as far as this issue is concerned. If at all we are to progress towards the elimination of terrorism, we are expected to make investigative progress which involves questioning captured terrorists and hence detaining them in custody. But once the job is done, they become a financial liability besides the security concerns that are tagged to it. “Payanam” depicted a situation where in a plane is hijacked and the hijackers demand the release of a high-profile terrorist kept in police custody. In such a situation, the police and the government don’t have much of a choice but to release the captive, endangering millions of lives in the process. Plus, all the money spent on the security of the captive, the lives lost in a bid to capture the terrorist to further investigations comes down to nothing.

 This leaves us with a lot of food for thought though I think the idea that the death of thousands of people killed in a terrorist attack is to be avenged by executing the captive is flawed at the basic level as it thins the line that differentiates a civilised person and a terrorist with boorish ideals. The ability to think without emotional prejudice in times of mental stress is what separates a civilised person from a terrorist, who you would expect to bomb a city at the slightest provocation. The ability to forgive is the most appropriate representation of evolution of the human mind over time.  But do we have a choice when a question mark looms large over the survival of mankind?

The analysis of psyche of a terrorist makes the whole thought process a little more tortuous.  The conditions under which people resort to terrorism is definitely worth taking into account. The book “Mind of a terrorist” (forgot the author’s name) is a good way to start your analysis. The very reason why people oppose terrorists is reason enough to consider their clemency petitions: no human being has the right to kill another. Just like terrorism, the turn of events in life is arbitrary. And unlike terrorism, life deserves this arbitrariness. I think we ought to leave death to the cycle of arbitrariness that dictates life on this planet as far as we can.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Silly question?? I don’t know


This is not going to be a conventional blog post of mine, one that’s going to bludgeon its way past the 1000-word barrier I usually set for myself and end up breaking habitually. It’s about a thought, a question that breezed past my mind as I watched trains screech to a halt on both sides of the platform; as the sweepers waltzed to and fro delicately holding on to one of those brooms that are characterized by long handles; as I was subconsciously trying to steal the attention of the lovely lass sitting beside me though she had dug deep into that novel of hers; as I laughed deep within because she reminded me of this(she was lanky and had long legs as well) 

I have been reading a lot of history of late and as I sat there in my chair observing the surroundings, thinking about what I had read and also fantasizing about the girl beside me, this fellow PROUDHON’S famous assertion, “property is theft” struck my mind. This Proudhon fella is known to be quite a rebel and a controversial thinker. At this point, I won’t be able to conclude if this statement of his influenced my line of thinking, but I thought this post would be meaningless if I didn’t mention his name. After all, how can I afford to call a post about a thought process complete, without contemplating about the origin of the process?


I have always been fascinated by trains and train journeys. Check this . This time, a simple (silly?) question struck my mind. Why does the person who pays more enjoy greater benefits? How many cases of first generation AC passengers do we see today? People who travel by AC or first class compartments mostly do so only because they’ve been entitled to better resources right from their childhood. In other words, it’s pretty clear that they are not beneficiaries of their own Karma, especially students. So why is not possible to have a first-come first serve system where the person who books the ticket first gets to enjoy better benefits? Its implementation is obviously going to be an arduous process, close to impossible I guess. But it isn’t wrong to dream, is it? Whaddya think?

Monday, June 6, 2011

MY FIRST LOVE

Trains have been and will always be an integral part of my life. I wonder what life without trains would have been for me. My dad’s job is of transferable nature, so mom and I have had to travel a lot to meet my dad. Then came the time for me to join a school. I live in a village, so I had to travel about 17 kilometers per day to reach my school< a good school used to be a rarity back then>then I shifted base to the city to study in another school, so I had to travel back by train to enjoy my weekends at my hometown. I’m in the final year of college now and trains have been my tickets to freedom over the past three years. When it comes to freaking out with friends in the city or travelling to destinations across the city, I have not had the misfortune of looking beyond the eternal love of my life. I also embark on trips to various places of interest across the Indian Diaspora every year and the train journeys have made these extra special.

There is something magical about trains. The rhythmic and harmonious sound that’s churned out as a result of the propulsion is music to my ears. The quantum of activity that one gets to witness in a train is unbelievable. The cry babies, the garrulous old men, the irritating girls ceaselessly talking about lipsticks and make-up, the maamas and maamis discussing family problems, the loud businessmen shouting at employees over their phones, the taciturn dude enjoying the evening breeze and music on his I-pod, brainy middle-agers discussing business, politics and cinema, the locallu boys smoking beside the door and discussing something in hushed voices, female vendors spitting paan in between the pointing finger and the middle finger: well a train is definitely not short of characters.

The moment I step inside a train, I make it a point to get myself a seat and observe these characters (any other discerning observer mistakes me to be the taciturn dude type). After I am done with the fun, I get into the groove for some action. I mostly end up joining the brainy uncles discussing economics (banks, fiscal policies, economic reforms, recession etc.), a subject that’ll never cease to fascinate me. I put my hand up for the occasional dumb doubt or giggle at a pun-filled remark. I don’t listen to music when I’m travelling because I’d miss out on fun; I make an exception to the general rule when I travel with my family though.

The aforementioned characters are usually encountered in electric trains in Chennai or when travelling by a reserved compartment in an express train. It’s a different story altogether when I travel by a general unreserved compartment. I prefer travelling by an unreserved compartment any day and I’ve been doing it quite regularly. My friends keep interrogating me about it. Well one main reason is that it’s cheap. And I love the air of unexpectedness that surrounds an unplanned trip. That fizz motivates me! One doesn’t get to see such a variety of characters in a general compartment. In fact, there are only two kinds: the innocent, stupefied person, a common man in the real sense, not the common men the media goes gaga about: his eye sports the glint, the twinkle that you would notice in the eye of a 10-year old when you take him to a planetarium. Not a hint of self-consciousness is noticeable. Next, there is the arrogant transgressor who thinks smoking or drinking in public is cool; a brash youth with coloured hair that doesn’t suit him one bit: the type of guy who plays a petty thief in movies.




I love talking to strangers because it’s a way of making friends and I’d like to slap people who condemn conversations with strangers: every friend of yours was once a stranger idiot! Try striking a conversation with the first kind: its bliss of the highest order. They don’t understand recession, they care a damn about the political scenario, they don’t have to worry about corruption and its consequences, and they mistake you to be abusing them if you mention Anna Hazare or Baba Ramdev. But I have to admit that these people are generally conscious about their religion and caste. They are in love with their place of origin and their surroundings. Love for nature is instinctive. They can give you INTERESTING ten hour lectures (that sets them apart from our lecturers in college) about their kovil thiruvizhas (temple gatherings), oor sandhais(er, temporary malls in villages, not multi-storeyed though  ), riots, relatives, marriages, food and children. They also come up with the occasional wisecrack about cities, culture and this generation. Trust me, these conversations are much more interesting than the “student politics, I’m gonna change the world” discussions. And when it’s time for you to get down, they paint their words with emotion, genuine ones at that!

I usually resort to sleeping when in a reserved compartment during night trips, unless it’s a youngster on the other side, preferably girls. The topic of discussion I’d prefer when I embark on a night time journey with girls is obvious, so I don’t have to fuss about it. With guys, its different, I usually let the other person dictate the course of the conversation; I make it a point to be a good listener and get to know about things I don’t know. Gossip stories in other colleges make for interesting listening as well and it’s preferable to hear it from a girl’s mouth. Girls are good at spicing things up: in kitchens and otherwise.

I recently made my first proper long distance trip in an AC compartment. I hated every bit of it till I got a seat alongside an old fellow on his way to some meeting in Kerala. Apparently, he hasn’t had much education but **maaley! He spoke about everything that makes up the complex cycle of life! By mistake, obviously ignorant about the sea of questions that were to besiege me, I told him that I was pursuing mechanical engineering. And that was it! I am ashamed of the fact that I’m going to be in possession of a b.tech degree in a year’s time!


The writer of this post is also in awe of the MRTS in Chennai and the metro in Delhi. The speed, the grand structures and the network: they’ll never cease to amaze me. He is also eagerly awaiting the arrival of Chennai metro (there is a possibility of monorail making its debut too). But there’s one disturbing thought amidst the ocean of fond memories. I don’t mind the railways treating the AC compartment commuters to spicy food, newspapers, magazines and other privileges. Excusable discrimination. But I think the commuter in the general compartment deserves better sanitation facilities. A parryware toilet in the ac compartments and rusted mugs and soiled toilets for others is definitely unacceptable!



Saturday, July 10, 2010

MY STINT AT THE NEW INDIAN EXPRESS(EXPRESSO)--- CLIMATE CLOCK IS TICKING

Sudarshan Varadhan
Express News Service
First Published : 07 Jun 2010 12:12:25 AM IST
Last Updated :

Half past two, a hot Saturday afternoon and I was typically bored, not knowing what to do. It was World Environment Day and I thought it was time to keep myself updated. Thankfully, the British Council helped me do something relevant and constructive.

I attended the UKEFF special preview of five short films organised by Nat Geo and the British Council, all of which shared a common plot — climate change.

The first film to be screened was Notes From A Green City, a film about the various measures employed by the city of Surat to mitigate the impact of climate change at the municipal corporation level, which can serve as a prototype model to the other cities.

The second film, Wheeling In Change, glorified the blistering comeback of the least expensive, yet long forgotten green vehicle, the bicycle. The film forayed into the lives of a group of motivated professionals who’re doing their bit to bring climate change to a standstill by cycling their way to their respective offices.

Next in line was Blocks Of Green, which ventured into the relatively unexplored arenas of green buildings in Mumbai and Kolkata.

It stressed on the importance of rainwater harvesting and made the idea of power conservation and control of carbon emissions look ridiculously easy. It provided a refreshing insight into the world of an architect and the obstacles, costs and benefits that he encounters while planning a green agenda. The penultimate film was a piece of cinematographic brilliance pertinently titled Melting Paradise, which layered on the sensitive issue of disappearing glaciers in India’s own Kashmir. The Miracle Water Village, a documentary about the remote village of Hilware Bazaar that receives a scanty supply of rain every year, proved to be a fitting finale. The village that lies on the right side of the Konkan coast receives a meagre 40 cm of rain every year but still manages to reap a fortune year after year, thanks to their unity coupled with a steely resolve to keep things afloat.

Noted celebrity couple Nagarjuna and Amala Akkineni gave voiceovers in the brief interims between the films. The programme came to a close after the audience had a brief interaction with Ajay Bedi, maker of Melting Paradise. The evening left me thinking about a lot of things. I was inspired and motivated like never before. After all, no one wants to see polar bears under palm trees.

MY STINT AT THE NEW INDIAN EXPRESS(EXPRESSO)--- DELICATE ISSUE, DELIGHTFULLY DEALT WITH

Sudarshan Varadhan
Express News Service
First Published : 10 Jun 2010 11:41:00 PM IST
Last Updated : 10 Jun 2010 08:40:04 AM IST

The US consulate, Chennai, kick started the pride month celebrations on Tuesday with the screening of Prodigal sons, the award-winning documentary. This story begins with Kimberly Reed returning to her hometown of Helena, Montana for a high school reunion. Born as Paul McKerrow, but now a lesbian named Kim, she reveals her identity to her former classmates. Kimberly Reed, now a confident woman, is accompanied by a film crew. She thinks she is going to make a documentary about all the shocked faces she will have to confront at the reunion. But all her expectations take a backseat as Marc, her elder brother, enters the scene. Their paths had diverged long ago: Marc was permanently incapacitated in a car accident, and Kim had left her small-town roots on a journey of self-discovery. The rest of the story revolves around reconciliation issues between Kim and Marc as the story wrestles with identity issues. In the end, it has little to do with gender and has everything to do with acceptance.

What this film does is that, it dispels all the popular notions we have about American culture. For all those who thought family culture and inter-family ties were completely absent even in the small towns of America, the director has a raised middle finger as the answer. Secondly, if you thought transgenders are the cynosure of all eyes in all parts of the world and that they get unwarranted attention, “NO” is the answer. In one of the most beautiful scenes in this movie, Kim is watching the annual music fest along with the rest of the people in the village, which stands as testimony to this fact.

The film also takes an unflinching look at the psyche of the transgenders. It poetically conveys the unquestionable fact that transgenders are mentally much stronger compared to normal human beings. After all, they are subjected to a lot of harassments, emotionally and physically, and are often at the receiving end of unwanted vituperations that they obviously don’t deserve. This fact is beautifully translated on screen via the emotional scenes involving Marc and Kim. Prodigal sons is a brave exhibition of truth and the spontaneous twists wouldn’t be believable if they were fiction.

Make no mistake about it; it’s not a film on transgendered lifestyle though it involves a protagonist who’s a transgender. This movie deserves all the attention in the world as it poignantly portrays what exactly the transgenders need. Accepted, they need love and affection but putting things in perspective and focusing on the long-term goal, we have to work towards treating them normally. They don’t require the “special people” tag anymore. We just need to induct them into our society and embrace them like our brethren. So let’s join the bandwagon and support the cause. The movie’s being screened again in the US consulate general auditorium on Friday.