The State government’s reaction has been an expected one. Some of the authorities are claiming ignorance. While others – fabricating the truth. A few are talking about vaccination drives and exporting dog meat as practical solutions.
Whenever we, as Indians, mourn the lack of good films, we are told that we have great expectations. That we should just appreciate the handful of Indian films that stay true to the art form and shut up about the rest. It is however difficult to forgive the industry for using copyright violations, crass sentiments and a bipolar stance on sexuality to bring Indian cinema to its knees.
And the producers for towering over its sullen figure, with their front-zippers down, sporting a dirty smile and holding a sign that says – No biting please. Sure, entertainment is subjective and what is good for the goose can taste like gunpowder to the gander.
Unfortunately though, Indian filmmakers can follow certain commandments to achieve moderate levels of success. Here are 10 of them.
She’s not a canvas for the weak to paintbrush their dreams in, she’s a coat of paint for the weary to re-imagine the world with
Many summers ago, I was at the Vedanthangal Bird Sanctuary, minding my own business and that of a few passerine birds. Suddenly a shrill sound – tee-tee-tiri – started echoing in the air; as though a celestial object was trying to connect with my brain.
I used to find myself drawn towards the ocean and her charms. The crackling of waves. The distant chatter of fishermen. And the frothing of her tides. The ocean often had me entranced.
I was fascinated with aquatic life-forms back then. It thrilled me to find them near ocean-beds. But most were dead by the time I stumbled upon them. Yet I have caught myself staring their corpses, feeling exhilarated about life.
While in Thekkady earlier this year, I had spotted a stubby bird I had never seen before. I was taking an evening stroll behind the cottage. And there she was, like a doodle crayoned by a prodigiously-gifted child, about 100 meters away from me.
Those with the
are taught to sniff
out the weak;
especially the ones
with the tiniest
mouths to feed.
In the wild, even the cruellest of circumstances doesn’t seem unfair. When a raptor swoops in to prey on an injured rodent, the scales of justice do not tip in favour of evil. If a flock of parakeets evict a new born woodpecker, it doesn’t constitute to a crime.
There’s something intoxicating about new experiences. Good or bad, it leaves behind a sweet itching in our throats; a calamitous aching for more. Yet we remain obsessed about our precious routines too. We hold them close in fear of being asphyxiated otherwise.
Perhaps the truth is that we want some facets of our lives to turn into ticking bombs filled with confetti and love. And others, soggy and lukewarm, filled with predictability.
Birding at new locations is always a thrill. A rejuvenating experience irrespective of how many birds show up. Or whatever happens along the way.
The forest was still and its citizens – cuddling in the mist. The trees looked like silhouettes of ballerinas. And out came the sun with a mild splash to wash the darkness away. It held hostage our dreams in small proportions and our love for infinite space.
You are in an empty parking lot after attending a friend’s funeral. You are holding a water bottle in one hand and twiddling with your smartphone in the other. “We are all dying” anyway. Unbeknownst to you, an elderly and distraught aunt of the departed approaches. She taps you on the shoulder to ask you for some water.
Ping. Someone just re-tweeted your quotation about death. She seems painfully dehydrated but you remain oblivious to her presence. She asks again. Ting. Your colleague thinks the eulogy you wrote on Facebook was heartfelt.