Movie Review: "Hichki"

I had an extended weekend this week, thanks to Good Friday, which alongwith Saturday and Sunday make a three-days weekend. With nothing notable to keep me occupied, I decided to watch a movie. Yes, I am a cinephile (and a bibliophile too) and nothing entertains me more than a good movie (and a good book, of course). Having read some great reviews about Hichki in newspaper and in internet, I booked movie ticket for the same. I won't regret my decision. I can vouch for that.

Naina Mathur (Rani Mukherjee's character) is suffering from a neurological disorder called 'tourette syndrome' due to which she gets frequent hiccups which she can't control. Naina is passionate about being a teacher. After many rejections, she finally lands with a teaching job in a reputed school. But the school authority assigns her to be the class-teacher of a notorious class, whose students are known for their below-average scores in exam and their mischiefs. How Naina transforms the class is the theme of the movie.

What I like most about the movie is it's portrayal of a strong female protagonist. Here is a woman who doesn't romance with a handsome hero or sing peppy romantic numbers. She is a woman with a passion for something other than love. She takes her disability in her stride and works to the best of her abilities to achieve what she aspires for.

We all have our favourite teachers in school and college who inspired us. This movie is a tribute to the teaching fraternity. And as Naina says that we remember our teachers, not their salaries despite teaching being a low-paid job. It goes on to portray the dedication of a teacher determined to teach her students, even when the situation is adverse. It depicts those students who are from the disadvantaged strata of society. Though the end was quite predictable, but how Naina made it is worth watching. As she says that the difference between 'why' and 'why not' is just a hichki.

Rani Mukherjee's performance is impeccable as usual. I'd like to say that it's a movie not just for teachers, but for all those who are passionate towards anything in life. It's all about the victory of grit and determination against all odds.

The death of A Marriage

DIVORCE... The very word is associated with some sort of social stigma in India. It sort of makes you a social pariah. And more so if you belong to the female species of mankind. And so the real struggle begins outside the court-room, once I got the final decree of divorce after a long and arduous legal battle. Yes, I am a woman, and I am divorced. The "divorced" word has come to be known as my identity, not just confining itself to my relationship status.

Every separation, every end in relationships, every heartbreak is bound to give you pain. But divorce not only brings pain, but bestows upon you some sense of inadequacy. As if it's entirely my fault. For me being the wife, wasn't I supposed to be more compromising? More adjustable? One friend of mine told me rather matter-of-factly that female species are born wonderful, just because of her endurance capacity. It always has to be the wife in a marriage who is supposed to tolerate every whim of her husband. And no, a husband is not even expected to be a little more compromising, because the Almighty has not blessed the male species with any capacity to tolerate. And a wife means a WIFE only, who is supposed to perform all her wifely duties, no matter how much difficult the circumstance is, no matter whether the wife is working or not, qualified or not. I was shocked to hear these kind of remarks in this 21st century. But then one of my girlfriends pointed to me that all men expects a 'wife' in marriage. Your being qualified and working might seem very attractive as long as you are dating. But once you settle down, all husbands have the same kind of expectations from their wives, no matter whether the wife has a good job that comes with it's own share of responsibilities, or if she is a typical housewife. Please don't take offence, for the friend of mine who suggested this, didn't want to demean any housewife. The job that the housewives go on doing every day is wonderful and they are in no way lesser than their working counterparts. But what the working woman inevitably possess is some sense of independence. Try whatever they may, there is bound to be some sort of limits to their adjustment capacity. And once the marriage goes beyond that limit, they simply quit. My friend herself is a banker in the country's largest public sector commercial bank and unlike other woman of her age, she is still unmarried in her late 30s. Given the kind of demanding profession that she has chosen, she is simply afraid to settle down. But was I wrong when I being a working woman, got married in my mid-20s? The fact is that we all yearn for a companion in our lives. Call it the folly of youth or whatever you may wish, but I chose the wrong partner.

When a relationship that was long dead, got legal approval finally, I thought my battle was over. But again I was wrong. That was actually the beginning of another struggle. The struggle to raise a kid single-handedly. The struggle to face the society with my 'divorced' tag. The struggle to take in good humour all the suggestions offered by all and sundry. The suggestions ranged from advice of second marriage to advice of visiting the beauty-parlour more frequently to attract more suitors to advice of changing the frame of my specs because somebody thought that I look like a grand-mom in those specs. Nobody asked about MY CHOICE, as if 'choice' is something reserved for the more privileged sections of the society. A divorced woman, that too a single mother, must be more than happy if she manages to impress a guy enough to lure him into a marital alliance with her. Here it doesn't matter whether that guy doesn't manage to earn half the woman, or if he is twice her age. All that matters is he is doing a favour, almost some sort of social service, by his mere approval to allow a divorced single-mother to be his life-partner. Some men even go a step further. They assume that just because a woman is divorced, and still in her youth, means she has some unfulfilled sexual desires that can be taken advantage of. She must be readily available and at the slightest drop of hint from a man, she will be more than willing to go to the bed with him.

But what the world fails to acknowledge is the strength of a single woman. A divorce is not the end of the world. At the end of the day, it's just another failed relationship. If the world perceives it differently, then the real problem lies with the world, not with me. After all, I am independent and financially secure to take care of myself and my son. We don't need your sympathy. And what I have is just the tag of a failed marriage, a failed relationship. Please don't assume 'divorce' to be a contagious disease, for it is not. It's the struggle that I went through has shaped me as a person. I am more matured, more strong, more calm today. Years of struggle has made my roots go deep inside the earth, making me less vulnerable to storms. And so, I rise again like a phoenix from my failure, my heartache, my pain.

This post titled As A Divorcee, I Am Considered Fair Game For Everything. What About MY Choice? has been published on Women’s Web as a Featured Post. Featured Posts are a careful selection of highly relevant and interesting posts picked by the editors of Women's Web each day. Here is the link to it: Click here.

 

The sliver of A Little Joy in my life

Helping my son to ride his bicycle gives me immense joy. As a teenager, I had a predilection for cycling. Even now, I fondly remember those days when I used to fly like a free bird riding my bicycle and my cycle often clashed with others cycles or pedestrians and the subsequent angry look that they used to give me. And when I remember the shame and embarassment which I faced while riding my cycle wearing a saree, my pallu entangled in one of the wheels, I giggle like a 15-years-old girl. Now that I am a mother myself and help my boy riding his bicycle, it takes me back to my own childhood. After all, these simple joys of ours go on to make an entire life. Life would have been a drab and colourless existence, if it was to be devoid of all such little joys.

I am joining Teabox #LittleJoysOfMine contest in association with Women's Web, where we celebrate happiness in daily lives!

Letter to an ex-husband

Dear A, 

I don't know why I am writing this letter to you on a public platform. But then, my life has always been an open book, though I don't allow everybody to read that book. Over the past few years, I have always wanted to tell you so many things, but somehow I've not been able to do so for one reason or the other. Today after a gap of so many years, when I try to pen down my thoughts, I am at a loss as to where to begin and where to end.

This is the month of February and love is in the air. February is the month of romance and February reminds me of you very often. No, I don't want to remember you anymore. All the times that we have spent together, be it good or bad, lost their relevance the moment we got the decree of divorce. But then, I am a human after all, not a robot. So, over the years, try whatever I may, I have not been able to erase you completely from my memory. I don't use anymore the expensive Titan Raga wristwatch that you gifted me on our second wedding anniversary. I am back to my good old inexpensive wristwatch. After all, a price tag can't determine the worth of all objects. My old inexpensive watch has shown me many good times in life, whereas yours has only shown bad, difficult times. I don't wear any of the sarees that you gifted me. I can't bear their very presence in my wardrobe. But over the years I have come to terms with the fact that I have to live with your memories. I can't escape them.

Sometimes I wonder now-a-days that what went wrong with our relationship. We both loved each other. Still, our marriage failed miserably. One thing that I learned from this marriage was that we need something more than love to keep a relationship going. If you ask me, what that something is, then again I am unable to come up with a definite answer. Perhaps, it was maturity. After all, we both were so young, so inexperienced at that time. Remember the time when we kissed on street? All these seems so childish to me now. Or may be, it was trust that is the foundation of any good relationship. Down the years, the trust evaporated from our relationship, leaving it fragile.

Whatever may it be, the greatest lesson that I learned from my marriage with you is that no other love can be greater than love for self. Your love left me in tears, on the verge of being a psychiatric patient. Now I am happy being myself. This Valentines' Day, I took myself to a movie date, bought gifts for myself and treated myself with an ice-cream. But one thing that I find difficult is getting into any relationship. I don't know whether I'll ever be able to get into any normal relationship.

I don't want to face you ever in my life. But I know the inevitable. After all, we still have a common property: our son. And once he turns eighteen, my custody right will be over and you'll have the right to meet him as often as you want. Till then, be happy in your own life. I have never wanted anything but happiness for you. May God give you all that you desire.

With lot of good wishes,

Your ex-wife.

This post was shortlisted for the blogathon on Womensweb and published on the website.

“All You Need Is Love”. Umm, Sometimes, That Isn’t True

Disclaimer: This is just another piece of writing. If you like reading it, that's all. Don't be judgmental or try to draw any conclusion from the post about the author's personal life. Every opinion of yours is highly solicited, as long as it concerns only with the writing, and nothing else.

A little love-story

Our school-bus is stranded at the junction of four roads. The traffic jam is a common phenomenon at this time of the day. There is traffic snarls all around, busy commuters on the pavement, the December chill in the air and... and, that large billboard on roadside advertising "Lalita Dance Academy". A woman is seen in it, wearing dancing costumes, in a typical Kathak dance pose. Srija is a student of this dance academy.

Well, I haven't introduced myself yet. I am Satyaki Chatterjee, 5-years-old, student of KG in a school in Kolkata. Right now, I am on my way to school in my white-and-green school uniform and red sweater. I commute to and from school in our school's yellow-coloured school bus. Yes, my mom has allowed me to go by school bus now-a-days, as I am a big boy now and I don't cry when going to school any more. After all, I am not a baby any more, right? And I have made quite a few friends in school now... Aryan, Soham, Daniel, Rai, and... and Srija.

Srija is my classmate. I like her right from my first day of school. I still remember that day vividly. On that first day of school-life, the classroom seemed like a wild forest, full of strangers. I haven't known any place other than my home till then. In that unknown classroom, I didn't know who'll look after me, who'll take me to the washroom to pee, who'll feed me when I get famished. Mom was not seen anywhere. I was terrified and I started to cry. Srija was sitting in the desk next to me. Watching me crying, she too started to yell. It was a classroom filled with thirty odd students, all crying, sobing, yelling. Then came the teachers to console us. Our dance teacher, Priyanka ma'm, hugged both Srija and me, and comforted us. Later, when the cry subsided, I noticed her. In her pink cheeks, big eyes and brown traces, she looked really cute. I felt an instant liking for her. Gradually, we became friends and started talking a lot. We even got punished by the class-teacher for talking during class on more than one occasions.

The Annual Day Celebration of our school is scheduled to be held before the commencement of the Christmas holidays. Srija is performing a dance there. Last year too, she performed a dance. And needless to say, it was just fantastic! This year, too, I am eagerly waiting for the day just to watch her performance.

Today is 24th December. The whole school is decorated beautifully with flowers. The school auditorium is full of students. The anchor announces Srija's name. And here she comes. Today she is looking resplendent in her red-bordered yellow sari. She has mastered the dance moves even more perfectly during the past year. I am dazed. Then just when she comes down from the stage, Soham stands up from his seat, picks up a rose which was kept in a large vase within a bouquet of flowers in the auditorium and offers it to Srija. "You were just amazing", he said. Then he produced a Cadbury from his trouser's pockets and offers it too to her. "Soham, you are my bestie", she proclaims. I instantly feel something twinge deep within me. What is it called? Well, five-year-olds don't know it's name perhaps.

Soham's Papa has come from his official tour in Switzerland. "Do you guys know what I found when he opened his suitcase?", Soham is asking us. "What? What?", we all ask in unison. "See, these chocolates." He offered us all chocolates bought from Switzerland. "And this is only for Srija. These biscuits are called leckerlis. They have hazelnuts and they are very tasty." "Oh Soham, you always know what I like", Srija gives him a hug. I felt that familiar twinge somewhere deep within one more time. Then the clock strikes nine and our class-teacher enters the classroom.

The winter season has come to an end. The trees flanking the roads are flaunting new leaves. Once again, spring has come in Kolkata. Our final exam too, has ended.

Today is the day of distributing progress reports. "Congratulations children. You all are promoted to class one", says our class teacher. We all take our bags and get ready to exit from our classroom. I was coming out of the classroom when I heard a scream. "Help me! Please, someone help me!" It was Srija. A cockroach was right on her desk, staring at her. And to my horror, her school-bag was still there on her desk. A chill is coming down my spine. Danial, Soham, Rai, all are standing near the door, fear writ large on their face. Suddenly, I felt the need to protect her from this great danger. I opened my bag hurriedly, took out my pencil-box and hit the cockroach with it. Then I took Srija's bag from the desk and holding her by her hand, took her out of the classroom. "Satyaki, you are my bestie from now on". She gave me a tight hug, tears welling in her eyes. Getting promoted to class one can't be more wonderful than this. Isn't it, friends?

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, 

an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

 

This is a WOW post!

 

Review: The Art of Happiness: A Handbook For Living

The Art of Happiness: A Handbook For Living by Howard C. Cutler
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"Happiness is as elusive as a butterfly, and you must never pursue it. If you stay very still, it may come and settle on your hand. But only briefly. Savour those moments, for they will not come your way very often."

So says the proverb. We all seek happiness, but we almost always find happiness to be elusive. In this book, Tibetan spiritual leader Dalai Lama teaches us the art of finding happiness. The book is actually written by Howard C. Cutler, who happens to be a Western Psychiatric. He had many interactions with Dalai Lama and in this book, he has presented the essence of those interactions. He has validated Dalai Lama's words with modern Western Psychological research results. Cutler's own words sometimes seem to be a bit dragging, but Dalai Lama's wisdom is as pure as a glass of crystal clear water, that'll surely quench the thirst of many souls, who have become overwhelmed by the challenges thrown by life. Dalai Lama basically teaches us to be good human beings and cultivate positive traits and eliminate negative ones.

A book to read again and again to find solace. A must read for all.

View all my reviews

At the age of Twenty

If given a choice to pick a age for the rest of my life, I'll definitely choose you, my 20 years of age. No, I am not going to choose 3 years, the age of my first encounter with school, for I have only vague recollections of that age now. I'll not choose 13 years, the age of the transformation from being a girl to being a woman, for that age was full of embarassment. Not 18 years either, the age of being an adult, for in that age I was too busy in preparing for my engineering entrance to think about the facilities of coming of age. 28 years? The age of motherhood? Yes, motherhood is indeed blissful, I do admit that, but then that was a period of turmoil in my life. So, I choose you, 20 years. You are the age full of youthful energy, love for life and lot of laughter. You are all that, and more than that.

"Jisne hamein milaya, jisne juda kiya

Us waqt, us ghadi, us gajar ko salaam

Aye pyaar teri pehli nazar ko salaam

Salaam aye pyaar teri pehli nazar ko salaam"

(The one who united us, the one who separated us

I salute that time, that moment, that clock

Hey love, I salute your first sight 

Hey love, I salute your first sight)

Today, as I sit back and reflect on that age, this song comes to my. Yes, 20 years, you are special, for you made me meet my first crush. And as all of us know, what on earth can be as innocent as the first encounter with love at the age of 20 years? Yes, my crush for him never materialized into any relationship. And yet, I don't have any regret for that now. Because with growing maturity, you come to realize that in any relationship, there are many ups and downs, there are pains of separation, there are break-ups and tear-drops. But not in one-sided crush. In any stage of life, if you remember your first crush, that'll surely lit up your soul and leave a lingering smile on your lips. And I am thankful to my 20 years of age for gifting me that experience.

And I remember one particular afternoon vividly. Back in my college days, I used to be a member of The British Council. On one such day, which was a holiday in our college, I had gone to the British Council Library. I was  searching for the books to borrow. I zeroed on a few and took a paper from my bag to write the names of the books. When I opened the folded paper, I got the shock of my life. Scribbled in the paper was a love-letter, addressed to me. There was no name of the sender, just a "Guess Who" written in the bottom of the page. I knew the handwriting. It was none other than him. That afternoon seemed the most magical afternoon in Kolkata. The fading sun-light had the hue of honey. The traffic seemed to move slowly at Chowringhee. I was not walking, I was floating in the afternoon breeze.

That was the magic of the age of 20 years. The world seemed to be a fair place to live in, the life ahead seemed to be promising, friendships seemed to be ever-lasting, all the peppy Bollywood numbers seemed to be meaningful in real life.

Hey 20, I miss you. But you are always there, close to my heart, close to my soul. Even today, when life seems too dull and dreary, I just remember you. And see, your memories always leave a bright smile on my face. Cheers to 20!

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, 

an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

 

 This is a WOW post!