Saw her ... yet again

The sparkle of refracted light caught my eye and there she was. The soft sunbeam had hit her hair. From my angle the stray droplets of water sticking to her hair seemed like dewdrops. Light through them had caused this phenomenon of refraction; one that I had studied from a Physics textbook in school long ago. Yet, this was pure Chemistry at work and not Physics at all. The subjective turn of phrase as it came to mind had the corners of my lips lifting up.

Driving through an older part of the city had halted at a red light. A few minutes earlier a mild cloud burst had come and gone. The wispy clouds were dispersing and sunshine peeked through. My damp spirits immediately lifted at the sight of her; the shower that had briefly caught me on the two-wheeler had sprayed those lovely tresses. Droplets clung to them and seemed absolutely reluctant to let go. She was a sight for sore eyes. On a sidewalk bereft of people she stood poised in a very ordinary deep blue dress.

She did cut a very captivating picture in the drab surroundings yet exactly what about her grabbed my attention is something I could not put a finger on. Was it the way she carried herself or was it the sheer ordinariness of her attire and an extremely becoming  chubby face or was it the curtain of dark long, straight hair or her smiling visage; maybe it was all of it. She held a phone in front of her face and tried out a wide smile. Every single one of her 32 white pearls flashed bright. She looked utterly fetching to me but something seemingly was not agreeable to her because she switched on to another expression rather quickly. Now the same smile became a quarter smaller and then a few more expressions were swiftly tried out without a single one meeting her fastidious approval. She frowned intensely. I was looking on rather amused as this was far more entertaining to behold than the dreary traffic around me. And then she looked up, and our eyes met.

My friendly amusement must have got to her and something passed between our locked glances. She raised an eyebrow in inquiry and I indicated her three quarter smile to be the best. I am not blessed with the best of looks and as a designer, the maker up above certainly must have had an off day while creating me. It must be admitted though that where he fell short in his engineering design he over compensated by ladling loads of  openness and chutzpah into my mould, is what I have been told. It must be true too because she immediately acquiesced. In her quest for the perfect selfie, as that is what this generation calls clicking one’s own snaps on a mobile smartphone, she like all women on such occasions was finding it rather hard to decide what suited her best and obviously was searching for another opinion. Being the only one around looking at her very naturally I slipped into that role. It often happened more so at apparel showrooms where glances would meet through mirrors or across distances and a frown or a smile from me has decided a particular purchase for colour, style or a cut.

She quickly refreshed her lip gloss, struck that pose and looked my way. I slowly nodded an approval as she clicked and no sooner had she done it, than she was looking at that photograph to check out the result. It must have been stunning because her smile widened to reach her eyes as she looked across at me and mouthed a thank you.

Just as silently, I inclined my head indicating that the pleasure had been all mine. The traffic light turned green & raising the accelerator I was on my way. Looking in the rear view mirror, I saw the girl walking the other way on the same sidewalk with a noticeable bounce in her step. Something told me that I was instrumental for that spring and it warmed me up inside.

Some seasons are magical and the Mumbai monsoon is one such spectacular season. The torrential downpour is not funny and causes havoc at times but in this month of Shravan the flavour of romance abounds. The umbrella of a few days back, utterly useless in heavy showers assumes an objective importance for lovers or triers. It is the phase of love and song.

As I cruised on my scooter towards my place of work, I wondered whether I would see her again and knew that was quite unlikely. The day passed beautifully as it always does when one has done a good deed and it was acknowledged. Don’t you ask me what again now … I like having this feeling, in fact love it. On my way back home took a different route to break the routine and passed alongside Bandra Bandstand where the rocks banked the sea.

I love the sight of the sea and the way it smashes against these boulders in high tide and in lower tides it’s a spot where lovers would sit, cuddle, nuzzle and do everything silly under hormonal instructions. The rocks are the only thing grey here and far ahead I watched a couple arranging themselves. They seemed like colourful specks on a dull background. The boy was facing the sea and looking out into the beyond while the girl wearing a sunny yellow sari was awkwardly arranging herself on the rock next to him. She looked to be worried more for her sari not attracting any stains from the wet stone. It told a story all its own of a new romance not having found its feet and traction yet. Seasoned love is not bothered about clothes. The scribe in me was noting this account as the scooter approached closer and the girl looked up. Our eyes met for the second time that same day. Recognition flashed as she smiled beautifully and blushed. This time I raised an eyebrow and she looked at the presence next to her; looked up to the sky indicating who knows, but she was willing to give it a try. I smiled back and gave her an all the best wave and moved on.

Funny is this city and this season, the unexpected happens quite naturally. Twice in a day sure is a rarity and the feeling of fuzzy well-being stayed with me for long. It had been just one of those days when coincidences happen, those that are pleasant. Maybe the being above wants you to keep on smiling and somehow… among the billions of others he put on this earth, selectively locates and blesses you. Love him lots in this mood of his.

Gully Boy : Only Characters , No Actors, a Divine Experience

There are times when one goes into a Lunch home and orders an ordinary Thali. One gets served and while the reputation of that restaurant / lunch home is good, that particular day, each item in it is made with such loving care, it is simply spectacular. One doesn’t look around but simply at ones plate and keeps eating and only after one is finished does one gazes around with a slightly dazed look, a smile creeps up on ones face and an involuntary burp is expelled. This is the connect one makes with the Divine .

Did I just say, Divine ? Call it simply a divine providence. This is what happened when Zoya Akhtar introduced me to the hitherto unknown underground rapper Divine, by telling a story around his art form ; Hip Hop and Rap, his story and that of his fellow artiste Naezy. Zoya Akhtar, is a scintillating movie director and with every offering has only raised the expectation bar. From her very honest first offering “Luck By Chance”to “Zindagi Milegi na Dobara” and”Dil Dhadakne Do” the lady has only gone places but with “Gully Boy” she lays it bare, stepping into the world of underground music into an entirely new ethos in which her story resides, Dharavi, the eponymous slum heartland of this megapolis, Bombay or Mumbai.

Murad is a drivers son who stays in Dharavi and is hooked upwith an aspiring doctor , a firebrand, chit of a girl, Safeena. Theirs is a love story that simply exists, he is hers and she is his. No running around the trees, songs, dropping books after a proverbial collision kind of preamble to it. They are each others and that is understood. Murad’s father is a typical misogynist who into this slummy paradise gets another girl as a wife to grace his new mattress relegating Murad’s mother to the was status. Murad watches all this and is stifled with frustration at his situation yet it his stoic quiet demeanour that reaches out and touches you more than any bombast could. He pours out his angst into fiery words. In his sojourn with his girl he runs into a rapper Sher and is hooked to the art. This is what he wants to do and Sher is the kinda secure artiste who encourages Murad to find himself. In steps an evangelical girl making a project on street music with funds to spare and a song gets made. It is launched and goes viral. Yet in all of this the unsure character of Murad remains unsure, some insecurities don’t die away that easily but a tipping point with his father is reached and he tells him rather quietly. I will not change my dream to accommodate reality, I shall instead change my reality that it is in line with my dream. And just as simply an artiste is born. 

When one only remembers the character, sees only the character and hears only the character and never really looks at the actor playing him or her, it is the absolute pinnacle of a performing artists act. Ranveer Singh has delivered just that kind of a wallop with a performance that simply rocks or should we say raps. He is the soul of the movie and carries it along with the other chameleon Alia, one of the most instinctive performers of recent times, to such another level that one is made a part of the plot. The viewer may have been physically in the cinema hall but the heart has traversed that portal which is the screen that separates the seat from the world created by the director as she tells a story. Vijay Raaz as his father, Amruta Subhash as his mother, Kalki Koechlin, Vijay Verma and every single one of the supporting cast has delivered and how, yet the standout support comes from Siddhant Chaturvedi who plays Sher. This actor is so naturally charming that one sees only the rapper M C Sher. Ranveer Singh has stayed so magnificently in character that there is no pomp or bluster, he just is Murad.  

The camera work and cinematography presents Mumbai in its myriad moods and forms so eloquently and beautifully it is superlative. There is absolutely no disconnect in the distance covered between Dharavi to South Mumbai whether by road, bus or train, Bombay throbs as Bombay does at its various time and geographies.

Zoya Akhtar deserves not just a pat on the back for a job well done she has also got her father the talented Javed to write rap and he does that in style. If I have to summarize in a line, one would be missing an experience if one misses this movie. It is that kind of an ethereal experience.