The Last Indian Holiday II

Day 6: The Wrestler.

So I finally watched The Wrestler last night. Darren Aronofsky’s last offering, The Fountain, was a personal favourite. Someone I know, with reference to Aronofsky’s style, claimed he sometimes seems to smart for the viewer. Be that as it may, he has a style, especially on The Wrestler, that illuminates the darker, more complicated aspect of common emotions. He explores scenes of love, lust and ambition in a labyrinth of a screenplay.

Personally, I thought the first two parts of the Rocky series made for really great movies. While the acting prowess of Stallone is not one to be questioned, but instead, joyously experienced, there was undoubtedly a tight edit on both movies, and a phenomenal story that spread over two movies pioneering a slew of underdog stories thereafter. Stallone and Balboa slid recklessly after that, wrinkles, weak punches and a tiring coach in tow.

Rocky Balboa, the last of the lot, is a story of the veteran Balboa coming back for an exhibition fight against the current day champion urged by a cockamamie video-game simulation pretence. The movie is all over the place and not really worth the mention but the reason I bring it up is The Wrestler does all of that and more, right.

Aronofsky portrays Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a veteran pro-wrestler who continues to fight way past his hay day, bleeding over barbed wire and rigged TLC battles in the ring. The view is suddenly very real. Unlike anything you’ve seen before on a wrestling front. There are no predispositions of realistic fighting in a ring or the larger than life impression of wrestlers. It always was a bit of a sham. And Aronofsky doesn’t bolt away from this. In fact, this is the colourful glamorous reality he uses to contrast the real life of Robinson.

Mickey Rourke’s limited expression through most of the movie may be misconstrued as a weak performance initially, almost Stallonesque. But it builds up, slow and raw. Then, a muscle twitch and rogue tear later, and suddenly it’s Oscar worthy. The second half of the movie is heavier, Marisa Tomei and Evan Rachel Wood augmenting the struggle.

The whole movie is 80’s. The colours, the music, the style; the wrestler, even. It’s quite brilliant, especially when Robinson trashes Kurt Cobaine.


Day 8 – Day 9: Cusp.

So watched India make an arse of themselves against Bangladesh today. A twang of arrogance coupled with our inadequacies in trying conditions and we come all the way back to Sachin. Sehwag should probably learn to tone down the Delhi insolence. Yuvraj should kill the paunch. And Laxman should bow out with whatever little grace remains. (Trust he’ll score a tedious 60 odd in the next innings, face-saving and most irrelevant.)

I leave Hyderabad today. And I think there are early signs of the massive trip that lies ahead of me. Germany. It sinks in that I’m leaving a lot behind and I’m not going to be seeing a lot of people for a pretty long time. Weighs you down a little.

10 days of chai, gupshup, great food and lots of sleep, I pack up for Pune.


Day 10: London, London, London…Contortion!

Took a 12-hour bus ride to Pune. If I wasn’t carrying a deceptively heavy bag of my equipment and one of those bags that are too small to throw into a cargo hold and too large to throw under the seat, I’d have done okay. But that unusually large sentence, as you may have already deduced, lays the foundation for a whiny follow-up.

I found myself in a compromising position, almost like a tryst with a gynae saddle. Shooting pains in my thighs through half that journey didn’t help my metaphor.

I stepped off that bus, limp, barely wondering why my groin proved so stiff.

I’ve realized, more recently, that my answers to the often posed “Where are you from?” query are misplaced and, more significantly, meaningless. Neither the decade in Dubai, nor birth in Bangalore, speak for much today. A sense of belonging is miniscule when you’ve lived in 4 cities in 20 years. I think Pune comes closest to a city that I belong in.

Someday I wish to be in a city, belong to a city, where the blind, fresh off the boat, ask me, the one-eyed king, where the closest pint of beer may be obtained.