Blank.

The world quietly disappoints most, I think, when it comes to the lack of glamour and drama in what we look forward to on a Monday morning. It's the sort of thought that makes you stare vacantly at roadsigns or those massive alien power transformers, from a clear complicated black to a grey haze in the distance and then heave your chest slowly and let a sigh escape only to have yourself turn unconsciously back to where you really are.

It's not like we all want to be movie stars or musicians, or even their PAs, but nostalgia plays in your head with film grain, and slow-mos, and diffused glows. It's the sinful escape of a part of you that wants to be bigger than your body.

And then it applies to everything else. You aren't angered or any emotion so strong in sound or might, it's dreamy dismay. You probably never even wanted to be a movie star, perhaps an air force pilot or truck driver or just wanted to pull through a masters degree in something average and commonplace, most conventional, normal and yet even now, there lies a reluctant sigh. Not in what could have been, but really, in what is and much to your calm unease, in what always will be.

There stands only one thing in between the foreboding silence and quiet appreciation (and often, relief in what, thankfully, still is). And that, I find, is love. And its opposition.

Love brings in all that is perhaps missing. Sure, it still lies in eyes of the beholder. The drama of romance, the passion of yearning is often lost on those that refuse to want to see it. But it seeps in through the cracks in moments of introspection. Stand and stare. Breathe. Deep. Take a bite out of it all and you probably find yourself in appreciation, smiling, glowing, even. The eyes won't lie.

Hate, even, is a strong, overpowering emotion in its many degrees. I think people refuse to admit to hate. Diplomacy closes a door, struggles against it, like shoulder on wood thudding against intermittent forces of expression. And hate is so strong a word. We don't want to hate. Dislike, maybe. But hate, no. I've hated. Most dearly. Senior supervisor in school. I'm most certain it took a lunge past dislike. And I don't mind it. It makes me no lesser of a person. No more of it either. I've also loved. Chunks of you and someone else, dancing in limbo till there is a mystifying imbalance persisting to see-saw through its existence. It's no form of idealism. But it is real. It isn't a sigh.

You don't let me speak.

I've never particularly understood the idea of going into a movie with high, or low, expectations. I don't think I do. I mean I find myself watching both inane and considerably better movies on the same night. I believe you probably need to give it all a chance. Even Ram Gopal Verma. Maybe.

I think Hindi cinema today needs a couple of chances. What with the herd of newbies on the block. Amazingly, most of them don't seem to be finding their way through the ropes and trials of an otherwise unforgiving industry.

First with Ayan Mukherjee and Wake Up Sid, then Abhishek Chaubey and Ishiqiya, both comfortable performances by debutants. In strolls in another.

Vijay Lalwani, the story goes, spent some time on his script for Karthik Calling Karthik before the likes of Farhan Akhtar and Ritesh Sidhwani garrisoned the troops for him. The key to the movie, now that I've seen it, is not just the story, but its treatment.

Karthik Calling Karthik is an almost surrealistic exploration of the life of a psychologically-challenged protagonist. This is no spoiler, mind you. If you are not capable of catching this bit at the very beginning of the movie, the treatment of the rest of the story is probably not for you. It is never a well kept secret that Karthik Narayanan has problems. The story keeps you hovering over all that unravels and slumps due to the illness. Lalwani's intention, from my understanding is to keep you on Karthik's toes. His highs, his lows and else, from his eyes. The screenplay paces itself most uniquely, dragging through the inevitable rings of the phone and racing through his love for Deepika Padukone's character. Allowing to wallow in the lows and never allowing the freedom to dance in the highs, a strong reminder, which you'd probably catch while viewing the movie, that you're always expecting the next call. Always.

Do not go by what anyone tells you about this movie. Not even me. You need to watch this one for yourself.

Personally, I'd ask Vijay Lalwani to take a bow. Farhan Akhtar leaves me in awe. He is, most surprisingly, an actor of amazing depth. I dearly hope he keeps at his directorial skill but in no way is he letting anyone down, leave alone himself. Deepika Padukone, I add, looks better with every movie and more significantly, has shown she can do what she's put out there to do. And well.

We are in quite the era of Hindi cinema, transitional, reformative and daring even, and no one seems to notice.


(Credits: Tarun Menon)