Peepli Live

Anusha Rizvi proves to be a debutant director whose confidence stems from the trust on her characters. She could have easily resorted to double exploitation, .....exploitation of the sentiments of the audience towards the exploitation of the ever oppressed Indian farmer. Or she could have set the cash registers ringing through mindless comedy, belittling the overused Bollywood-stereotypes, namely the poverty stricken farmer, his ever-wailing wife and the TRP-craving journalist.
Instead she chooses to spice her piece of art in a khatta-meeta style of the local panipuri wala on our roads.

In a time when Bollywood continues to rely on the star power of actors who refuse to acknowledge their limitations of being human, Peeply Live stands out. While in the multiplex, the closest I got to Bollywood (as I have known it all along) was the trailer of Salman Khan starrer, Dabaang minutes before the movie started. In fact every now and then I am forced to get back to the Wikipedia page on Peepli just to get the names of the actors right.

The protagonist, Natha played by Omkar Das Manipuri is the personification of innocence, naivety and congenital poverty. He very easily falls into the trap set by his brother, Budhia. One fine day he declares that he is going to commit suicide in exchange for the “posthumous” remuneration from the Government of India. To his dismay, this sets off a chain of events that draws politicians, the media, shopkeepers and even street circus troops to his cramped household, making his death bell an extravagant celebration. He finally has no option but to abscond, only to land in a similar urban setting.

Budhia never gets any better than his brother in spite of being cleverer than him. He finally ends up as the sole bread winner of the family and gets nothing in exchange for his loss.

Rakesh, the local journalist is the only one who sees the underlying truth. But he has to pay for catalysing the chain reaction that traumatises Natha and his family, with his own life.

The strength of the female characters in the movie was a pleasant surprise. All the three females dominate one man or the other throughout the movie. This is interesting considering the fact that the whole drama is set in rural India, a world where women are not even allowed to have a sense of opinion.

Dhaniya, Natha’s wife starts off with a bang in her first scene by throwing out her husband and brother in law from the house. In spite of incessantly complaining about the state of events and the incompetence of the men of her family, she continues to labour for her children. She does not show an iota of sentiment even after she loses her husband. She is pragmatic enough to think about the posthumous remuneration instead of wailing over the past.

Amma, Dhaniya’s mother in law does not allow her physical constraints to suppress her opinions. Always caught in a feud with her daughter in law, she dares to make her presence felt through sarcastic remarks. The fact that she orders and at times slaps her sons with her skinny palm but only manages verbal duels with her daughter in law, adds to the feministic touch.

Malaika Shenoy plays the convent educated media woman, Nandita Malik. She manages not to become another fictitious stereotypical representation of Burkha Dutt. Nandita exactly knows what she wants to do. Rakesh looks upto her as the ideal journalist. But she is so driven by her need to increase TRPs that she fails to see what Rakesh sees. Her misunderstanding in the climax that Natha is dead is a testimonial to the same.

The unknown farmer who symbolically digs his own grave is a true representation of the plight of millions of men like him. His protruding ribs and fleshless arms do not stop him from labouring his sweat into blood. He is the only one who is not benefited by Natha’s declaration. No one seems to notice his death in spite of the entire media of the Country being stationed in his neighbourhood, ironically expecting the same to happen to Natha.

It is rumoured that Peepli Live was written by Anusha during the peak of farmer suicides in the Vidharbha region. I am not sure if some lives would have been saved if Amir Khan had not pondered so much over its commercial success, but Peepli Live definitely gets its message across.

But as they say Indians seem to be so involved in the present that it loses its sheen as soon as the moment passes. As we moved out the movie hall we overheard two gentlemen. One asked what the time was and the other replied that it is just past mid-night. “Oh, 15th August”, he replied. “Shit,........another holiday lost on a Sunday”, the other complained.

Blood Brothers

There are three vices in me that rise regularly in an ordered fashion with one paving way for the other.

The first among them is jealousy. I was devoid of even slightest trace of this despicable but basic human quality, until that fateful day. The day I heard that incessant wailing for the first time, the day from when I had to share every single possession of mine, the day when I realised that there was a tragic psychiatric ailment called the “mom’s attention calling behaviour”..................The day my brother was born.

Being as human as I was, I always found innovative ways to get back at him, more so when we both were far away from the sight of our parents. I used to pinch him, nag him, brand him with unspeakable words and at times give a nice little push. Until a certain age his only reaction was to open his loud mouth (more than what a hippo could), blurt out his tongue and send out that screeching voice of his. After all he was five years younger.

But things started getting a little nasty after his Fourth birthday. He started to react and react strongly. I was somehow sure that I would never have been as strong as he was at his age. I always attributed this to the fact that my first baby food was farex while his was cerelac, both market leader of their times. Five years was good enough for improvisation.

So from then on it was always tit for tat. If I slapped him he pushed me, if I pushed him he pinched me and if I pinched him he kicked me. A typical duel would last for around ten minutes because by then it would have lasted enough to wake my dad, who would be snoring in his bedroom. I have always wondered how he could sleep for so long without even attending grammar classes.

Though my brother was as strong as me, his reflexes could never match mine. My ear drums would vibrate in a peculiar way on hearing my dad’s footsteps. And given the circumstances there was only one reaction from my brain towards these vibrations, “run...”.

This is when the second of the three vices, “selfishness” shows up its ugly face.

There is a scene which all Hollywood directors, consider indispensable in their adventure movies. The hero and his group (consisting of friends, relatives and of course the scantly clad girl friend) are face to face with a giant monster. Invariably only one person in the whole group has his senses intact at this deadly hour, the hero himself. As a proof of this he says the same word that I do in these circumstances, “run”. But the difference is that he says this for the benefit of his dumb companions and I deliberately say it only to myself. I always knew that if we both run he would get ahead of me in seconds and then I would have to face the monster all alone. But I could never really blame myself for this selfish act. After all, in war, its every man for himself.

I was never an athlete but as they say “when the going gets tough the tough get going”. I had the route by heart since I was both the driver and the navigator. First I would take two long steps to get to the door of the hall and then a sudden left into the kitchen. I had to be careful not to bang my nose on the refrigerator adjacent to the kitchen door. The kitchen was not broad enough and hence one step would be enough to cover it. I never had got enough time to notice my mom busy in her own world probably crushing something in her mixer. I had always attributed the mixer’s noise to mom’s detachment to all the violent happenings in the hall (where by now my brother would have again opened his hippo mouth, even before dad’s cane came next to his ass). But at times I doubted if she could be the typical bollywood ma crying “nahiiiiiiii” at the top of her voice when her Ram and Lakhan were being mercilessly beaten up.

Crossing the kitchen door into the store room was a big problem. My granny was always there busy cutting the vegetables (vegetable rather, my mom was terribly monotonous in her cooking choices). The store room was at a slightly lower level than the kitchen. Hence she would be comfortably seated on the kitchen floor with her skinny legs planted in the store room floor, blocking my way. I had to choose between giving her a gentle push or jumping over her. I always chose the latter.

The jump would land me in the middle of the store room. I just had to be careful not to jump too far into the sink at the end of the room. Then just a left turn, and I would be in front of the bathroom. The bathroom bolt was not too strong. Inspired by the lock opening scene in “Roop ki rani, Choron Ka Raja” I had found a unique way to open the bolt in no time. I had to bang exactly two inches below the bolt and the hideout was all mine.

I always wondered why my meticulous plan never took into account any contingencies. I mean, I never had a plan B in case someone had already occupied my hideout for their daily routine. But I guess the “Roop ki rani, choron Ka raja” trick would work even if the bathroom was occupied. And since my dad would invariably be busy dealing with my brother, I could be sure that it was not him in the bathroom.

All I had to do after getting into my hideout was to take an about turn and latch the door with another bang.

Then the ordeal that brings the third vice into the foray starts. This was a combination of waiting and praying. It was pure “sadism”. All I could pray was that my dad should never stop wacking my brother’s ass or at least that he should wack it so much that He would be so tired so as to spare the efforts on me. But this was not because I wanted to take revenge on him for his kicks and blows through my dad. The manhood in me never allowed me to do that. Men did honourable acts of revenge themselves.

But my dad was strong. After all he was my brother’s dad. He would finish off the first part of his job in minutes and march towards me like a soldier moving towards his enemy’s hideout. Once again my ear drums would catch the footsteps. This time the instruction from my brain was different. It said “Pleeeeeeeead”.

But I never started the negotiation. What if my dad had already decided to spare me. Of course that never happened as he believed in the institution of democracy where everyone except him were equals. So I could hear the roar “Come out, I say”. I could never say why my voice turned femalish after this. It iss some kind of immunity I suppose. “Pls pls pls pls pls dad”, “I will not do it again”, “I was not the one who started” and finally the trump card “Ill fall at your feet, have some mercy”. But, my dad never liked any female voice other than his wife’s. (Interestingly he never mentioned anything about this, it was my mom who used to say this again and again). So, all my appeals turn useless.

And then I hear the ultimatum, “will you come out or should I come in”. I always wondered why I fell for this threat. Now when I think back, the only way he could come in was by breaking the door. But he would never do it as it is he who would be paying for it. But at that moment of misery if someone had told me that my dad would hire a helicopter and directly land on the bathroom roof, I would have blindly believed it.

So finally I gather the strength to unbolt the door. This act was quite contrary to what I did as soon as I got in. It would be far too slower. The noise of the bolt would remind me of the screeching of vultures and laughing of hyenas waiting to feed on my dead body.

After the door opens my innocent eyes (wet with tears) would meet his. It was like the hunting scene on discovery channel where the murderous eyes of the majestic lion stare at the innocent peepers of a trapped fawn (baby deer).

I would take a Jesse Owen’s jump and directly land on the kitchen floor. My granny who was at the kitchen door minutes ago would have vanished in no time. Some time she would move from the battle ground as soon as she saw me over her head. But most of the time, my jump (while rushing towards the bathroom) would have caused a delicate kick on her head. (as I said I was not that good an athlete, not in high jump). I have always wondered why my dad was not mad at me for toppling granny. But little did I know that family feud was not always a saas-bahu affair. My granny was my mom’s mom, not dad’s.

Darwin’s theory of origin talks about a phenomenon called adaptation. Thanks to this I always got better with every jump. But unfortunately Darwin was as democratic as my dad was. It is not just the deer that adapts with better jumps but also the lion. With every jump of the deer the lions’s paws grow stronger, faster and the nails on it get sharper. Invariably the lion would catch the deer.

Dad’s timing is impeccable to say the least. He knows when exactly to unleash his right hand that held the cane. The interaction between the cane and my sensitive-lower-thigh-skin is a very good geometrical, real time demonstration of what a tangent is. A tangent is a straight line (read cane) that just touches a circle (read sensitive-lower-thigh-skin) exactly at one point. But here the case is slightly different. The tangent not just touches but also causes slight deformation of the circle. This deformation would later materialise into a long-thick bloody-red/purple line that would stay on for a week in spite different medicinal experiments by my mom.

I always had excellent concentration. So I would be so focussed on my jump that I would not notice the burning sensation until I reached the hall. But once I reached, a unique harmonic oscillation was generated due to two screams of slightly different but very high frequencies. We both would look at each other with tears rolling down our dilated eyes. I never knew that two enemies who were ready to tear each other apart minutes ago could reconcile so fast. Probably it was the “only a wacked brother can understand another wacked brother” phenomenon. Or it was the “enemy’s enemy is a friend” phenomenon.

We would sit next to each other examining the weird colours of our wounds. This invariably reminded of the “long lost brother found” scenes in the Bollywood movies of late 80s.

We would swear that some day we will have our revenge on our common enemy........................ A day that never came.