Cutting Chai (with) Arun Krishnan

2002-06-22T13:43:00.000-04:00

Aamir Khan: A chance meeting at a great first showing of Lagaan in New York.

Like countless fellow Indians, I felt disappointed when Lagaan didn’t win the Oscars. Not due to a sense of patriotism – at the present, I am enjoying my chocolate banana crepes in New York, thank you very much – but because I had a vision. A vision where Aamir was sitting in a dark room on a rickety wooden chair, hand in head and a cartoon bubble saying, “Oh God.” As a decent human being of good upbringing and upright disposition I like to see my friends happy. How could I then not feel sad, when some of my friends over the last many years have included Munna from Rangeela, Raj from QSQT and Sanjay from JJWS?

All these years a sneaking suspicion that the real Aamir Khan would be a soft spoken man who was more into his work than his image was proved right when, during the screening of Lagaan, I had the good fortune of running into him at the Film Forum theater in New York City.

Following a spate of good reviews in publications such as The New York Times and The Village Voice, the hall filled up rapidly on the first Friday of the movie. When the last few seats at the very front had been filled up by some brave people, who had seldom watched a three and a half hour movie before, the show began. The audience was very taken instantly by Amitabh’s deep baritone and the cinematography, which brought the deep brown earth right into their hearts and homes. Incredulous peals of laughter that accompanied the start of every song hushed themselves as naked eyes took in the choreography and music. And then, right on cue was the intermission. An air of awe sat on every seat in the auditorium, the kind of atmosphere that results when tiredness disappears as a result of complete severance with anything remotely real and routine. I was quite pleased, being of the opinion that a good dose of Bollywood is what the world needs, what with the depressing headlines in the newspapers everyday (and people, this is beyond Indian cricket).

As I stepped outside, inhaled some nicotine and exhaled some satisfaction, I saw a man slouched against the wall. “He looks a lot like Aamir Khan,” I thought to myself. After another drag my tired mind had the situation completely figured out. He looks like Aamir Khan because he is Aamir Khan. I began to approach him with the objective of saying “Hello” or something novel like that. But I think I saw him slouch further as he eyed me from the corner of his eyes. I didn’t want to be one of those intrusive fans; he would talk to his wife about at the dinner table. One reads frequently of human shields being employed in places like Jenin, when approaching unpredictable targets. To drag my girlfriend out of the restroom line and flutter harmlessly behind her as she approached him was the work of an instant. She was viddying her first Hindi movie and found it quite difficult to conceal dreamy looks of lust as she approached him.

“I have come to New York to check out the reaction,” Aamir explained. “Very nice, excellent,” we reassured him. (I was going to add “Exquisite,” but controlled myself.)

After that Aamir held floor with very down to earth, factual answers. The number of people around him grew at a steady rate, but as is borne out by the dialogue below, his answers were soft spoken, not indulging in needless mediocrity or grandiose hyperbole.

Me: I have loved all your old movies since QSQT.

Aamir: Thank You.

Me: I don’t want to appear like one of those fans who intrude on your privacy, but…(how do I complete this sentence?)

He completed it for me by laughing.

Girlfriend: The dances were so beautiful.

Girl 1 of Bevy Of Girls Around Him: We are members of an African dance troupe. What type of dances are these?

Aamir: It varies, some parts the dancing is classical, just like the Radha dance.

Girl 2 of B.O.G.A.H.: Do you sing your own songs?

Aamir: No, I have a singer.

Girl 1 of B.O.G.A.H (to me): Are you the producer?

“No, no, just a fan,” I said reassuring her (and Aamir), as I felt around in my pockets for the dollar fifty that would pay for my subway home.

Girl 3 of B.O.G.A.H: How is this movie different from other Indian movies?

The correct answer to this might have been, “Its very well made,” but Aamir pointed to me quite graciously and said, “Maybe you should ask him.”

Me: “No, no” (accompanied by empty fencing moves with hands to signify protest).

Aamir: “It’s a period film. And deals with sports too. This is quite unique in India. Also the clothes are very traditional. Indian audiences prefer actors with modern clothes.”

“Like Dil Chaahta Hai,” my girlfriend said in an exhibition of shameless namedropping. (What she knew about Dil Chaahta Hai would not fit on the back of a postage stamp).

Aamir laughed and tried to look suitably impressed. And that was his demeanor. Like a nice gentle breeze, pleasing and devoid of any overbearing image.

We stepped back into the theater to watch the rest of the movie. Needless to say, in such a race divided society, the audience clapped when Kachra was included in the team. They nearly sang “O Palaanhare” and cheered vociferously every time a shot from a village made bat sailed over the boundary ropes. After the movie, when we stepped out the bevy of girls around him had grown larger. He was a New Yorker would put it, “Chilling and kybashing every strand of attitude”.

He took the time to sign a Lagaan postcard, “Lots of Love: Aamir.”

I noticed the “t”. Round, tilted to the right and crossed equidistant on both sides. I made one suggestion and cheesy dialogue. “Subtitle all your old movies for wider audiences,” followed by “Thanks for the perfection.”

Now to end, I must take the liberty of digressing. I digress only to provide a moral. Aesop would have done the same, as he did when we saw a tortoise outrun a hare.

There is indeed a moral for all artists, as well as super artists like Amitabh Bachchan. One should always be about the work, not about the image. In Amar Akbar Anthony Amitabh gets beaten up on two occasions. Is it below his stature to suffer the same fate now? We do like superheroes. But even Superman needs to rest and sleep. And his pillowcases are not stuffed with kryptonite. Just cotton.

Aamir had hinted that he is considering a couple of scripts that evening. We can only look forward to his next character. With character.

2002-06-22T13:40:00.000-04:00

My Neighbor Atal

Faced by threats from the Lahkar E Toyba and the growing popularity of Hrithik Roshan, Atal Bihari Vajpyee (Prime Minister of India) and Pervez Musharraf (President of Pakistan) migrate to Florida. The following are extracts of correspondences recovered from the stomach of a (now dead) street possum.

Dear Chairman,

I am deeply grateful for your accepting me into the society. As a good resident, I vow to abide by all the rules. However, I wish I could say the same about my neighbor Pervez. He plays his radio till the wee hours of the morning (yesterday, I heard him play it at 7:00 p.m.). If it’s not the radio, it’s the TV. If it’s not the TV, then I have to hear him recite offers from discount coupons in the Miami Sun in a loud voice. He also has a habit of singing loudly well after his shower. I approached him with a view of ask him to stop violating and infiltrating my airspace. I even softened my stance and asked him to sing ‘Raindrops on Roses’ instead of ‘I could have danced all night’. He refused me flatly. I am vexed.
Puzzled,
Atal.

Dear Chairman,

I am thankful that you have brought Atal’s complaint to my attention. I must hasten to add that Atal is responsible for all the noise on our floor. He throws parties constantly and does not invite me. He even invites Mr. Brown, who is rumored to have bacon and sausages first thing in the morning.

And his behavior towards Mrs. Wickremasinghe is nothing short of scandalous. Just the other day, I saw him hold open the elevator door for her. When I reprimanded him on his behavior, he said, “ She’s not Sindhi.” When I asked him as to what that meant, he said that ‘he prefers the Palm VI to the Ipod.’

Quite objectionable behavior. Not to mention mysterious.
Regards
Pervez.

Dear Lal Krishna,

How are you? I miss you, you being so far away in India. I must say that fate is treating me like a stepson again. Florida is a beautiful state, though it is difficult to find toothpaste sold in sachets. Also, I find much to my distress that Pervez is my neighbor. Just yesterday, we were arguing about the origin of Nan bread. I insisted it was India, though he kept crediting the people of Baton Rouge.

Lal, as you know I have been celibate for many years now. For the first time, I am in love with a woman. She is a widow and the name on the badge of her hat said “Mrs. Wickremasinghe.” I don’t know her nationality, but by the way she walks, I can tell that she is not Vietnamese. We exchanged words yesterday, as my foot got caught in the elevator. I said, “How are you?” and she replied, “Fine, Thank You”. Did you hear that? Burning words of love! I am sure that there are many more to follow. I have decided to look my very best and plan to drop off my teeth at the cleaners today.

Sa re ga ma and so on,
Atal.

Dear Chairman,

I am distressed to say that Pervez has adopted a dog from the street. It barks incessantly all day and even drowns out his singing.

Matters have boiled over. The day before yesterday, I found dog poo in my apartment. I confronted Pervez with the evidence and accused him of letting the dog in my apartment. He said, “It could have been a pigeon.” I then rightly pointed out that there were no pigeons in Florida. He muttered something about, “Birds of a Feather” and slammed the door shut in my face. I was distressed but misery aroused the dormant poet in me. Allow me to quote:

A gnu, a gnu
An amphibian I once knew
Shades of dust, some marijuana
I knew at once that it was no iguana.

Sparkle sparkle, muscle of fiber,
High in proteins, Tony the Tiger,
Moves to the left never to the right,
To avoid the ant and elephant fight.

I shall recite more, the next time you want to drop over for tea.

Back to the matter at end. I plan to introduce two exhibits at our next meeting: an empty cage devoid of pigeons and the aforementioned dog poo.

Sincerely,
Atal.

Dear Chairman,

Matters at the meeting nearly resulted in a fight yesterday. Atal studiously avoided me all evening, holding the dog poo in front of him like a shield.

I still deny letting the dog into his apartment. Yes, I do feel for the dog. But didn’t Fidel Castro feel for the Atlanta Braves? Didn’t Madonna refuse to change the light bulb in her bedroom during the earthquake in Evita?

History is my witness. I shall continue to offer moral support to the dog. In addition to being harmless, he is also intelligent. I asked him what two plus two was and he bit me five times.

Regards,
Pervez.

Dear Abdul,

Still managing foreign affairs in Pakistan? My advice, be careful of the pakora vendors in Lahore.

Atal, who is my neighbor continues to be irked, as I offer “moral support” to a stray dog. He went on a hunger fast yesterday to protest. He crouched next to an alligator near the lake and refused to eat, even when it politely offered the flies of its back. I ordered samosas from the local Portuguese restaurant and walked in front of him all day. He didn’t budge a muscle, even though they were strong smelling. Then I got the latest tape of Ricky Martin, the one in which he repeats the words “Peas…cabbages…carrots…and honey” 745 times. It was too much for Atal. He ran into the nearest pizzeria and bought a Diet Snapple.

What a victory! You would have enjoyed it.

Pervez.

P.S. I still can’t figure out the nationality of Mrs. Wickremasinghe. I whispered, “run kangaroo, run” as she walked past my door and she gave a puzzled look. I know this much, she is not from Australia.

Memorandum from Building Management.

Dear Sirs/Madams,

The building president has suffered grievous bodily injury, while attempting to eat a pretzel. He has been admitted to the hospital. In the interim, all complaints should be directed towards the old woman on the street who advocates the use of pure cotton in a shrill voice.

Dear Lal Krishna,

Are you so busy that you cannot reply to me? I am very distressed and am thinking of returning to India.

Pervez has threatened to keep his shower running all day, until every hallway, every apartment in our society is drowned under water. I am worried for myself and my fish. Can you imagine the consequences of a watery grave? I have sent of a letter saying that I will only retaliate if provoked and have agreed not to “Turn it on first”

Also our chairman is in the hospital. Mrs. Wickremasinghe broke down in the hallway. It turns out that she has been his lover all these years. Can you even imagine how heartbroken I am? For the first time in my life, I can’t write poetry. I did try. I wrote, “Love is a bitch,” but can’t find words that rhyme with it.

Sad,
Atal.

Dear Atal,

Good you are returning to India. Things are really hotting up here.

I was in a cycle rickshaw in Old Delhi. I saw a Muslim woman carry a handkerchief. I instantly recognized it as the one Lord Rama had used to wipe the sweat of Laxman’s brow in the forest. I noticed keenly that it said, ‘Made in Ayodhya’. I tried to snatch it from her and ended up causing a traffic jam. The policeman gave me a ticket for shouting English in an Indian accent.

On another note, I am really worried about Murali’s health. I was trying to convince him that Vedic Math says that you cannot pronounce zero without the “z”. He got very upset and tried to bite a mosquito perched on my nose.

I will try and locate the handkerchief soon.

Love,
Lal Krishna.

Dear Pervez,

Will you turn off the bloody shower? I can’t go back to India. I am lonely. Lets go and have a drink.
Atal.