Now that Delhi is far away

'Does it snow there?' was one of the most popular and most juvenile of the many questions we had bombarded our tired father with when he had disclosed to us that he had been transferred to New Delhi and that we would have to spend the next few years of our lives in that city. Having stayed in rural Andhra as infants, in Pune, Hyderabad and Chennai as kids and in Bengaluru as blossoming teens, the prospect of living in the capital of our nation was, according to us (and by us I mean me and my younger brother) was the perfect gateway to the good life. As we boarded the two and a half day KK express towards Delhi, our minds were filled with the colorful images of India Gate, Jantar Mantar, Qutub Minar and Palika Bazaar. Images that we had only seen in strong black ink illustrations in our social studies textbooks published by NCERT. Images that had lured us with their historical greatness in our Tinkle comics. Images that, we knew, would be part of us forever.

With such ambitions aboard, our train finally chugged to a halt in the 37 degree boiling pot called Delhi one merciless afternoon in June 1992. A gush of hot air (of an intensity I had never experienced ever before) rushed into the compartment and wrapped itself all over me as I stepped into the din of Delhi's cacophony. Loud noises that claimed to be speaking Hindi (but sounded nothing like the kind we had been taught in our modest CBSE schools) welcomed us as we zoomed past fast red line buses and faster speaking Dilli wallahs towards our flat in Narayan Vihar (we later moved to Inderpuri). I can still recall a sense of being in an absolutely alien place my first few weeks there. Given the velocity with which the twangs of Delhi Hindi swept across us, me and my brother – who back in our schools were famous for our pristine enunciation of the language – were now feeling somewhat shortchanged at the hurling of 'le liyos' and 'aa jaiyyos'. In fact, it was in my second week there that I had whispered to my dad – 'Can we not go back to Bangalore next year?' indicating to him of confirmed trouble ahead.

But nevertheless we continued to be surprised at every fresh piece of information Delhi kept flinging our way. The first trip to see our new school in Lodhi Estate seemed like a two hour journey as we got a chance to be a part of the mayhem that was peppered all around the roaring capital of the nation. I distinctly remember my brother, wet with reluctance, pleading to dad that he couldn't imagine going this far to school each day even as my poor father consoled him by telling him there would be a school bus for all that. Narrow streets that seemed friendly and welcoming suddenly opened up into generously wide spaces which were lined with large mansions of politicians and guarded by grim looking soldiers standing behind large sandbags with obvious weapons in hand. As we looked in wonderment at the residential areas of the likes of Murali Manohar Joshi or Advani or VP Singh, we couldn't help pondering how we would spend the next two to three (maybe more!) years in this concrete puzzle of a place where people spoke something that wasn't exactly Hindi and had armed soldiers guarding residences.

Then something happened. Once school began, we found more children just like ourselves who had come from the broad horizons of our grand nation and were equally intimidated by their new surroundings. They too, like us, were learning the fundamentals such as a Punjabi and a Sardar are two different things and that there can be Punjabis who don't wear turbans. Together, we were taught that 'liyo' was just another way of saying 'lo' and that screaming 'Oye!' at someone wasn't rude at all. A lyrical collection of such newly acquired tones began coming together as a song while we mastered the art of getting off buses without waiting for it to stop. We juggled with 'aa jaiyos' and 'de diyos' with finesse as we traversed the length and breadth of that grand city exploring everything from panchkuian to Noida to Safdarjung Enclave to Karol Bagh to Rajendra Nagar to Janakpuri. Nothing, it seemed, was beyond our radius of possibilities. I even participated boldly in the under-18 painting contest held at the Lalit Kala Academy and submitted two pieces from my prized collection. That I didn't win anything is another matter but one of my pieces was actually showcased as part of their eventual display. School life ushered in a whole new lease of confidence as the art of haggling with a bus conductor became as easy as biting into warm jalebis near Chandni Chowk. Yes – we embraced Dilli as it gracefully complimented our gesture. Within a few months we had become such regulars in the city that it was impossible for anyone to say that we were the same uncertain and shaky kids from Bangalore who had wondered how they would get to school each day.

Even though I left that city more than 15 years ago I still think of the place as a spot that had given me so much without ever judging me or smearing me with labels. I still think of my school in Lodhi Estate. I still recall the faces and the names in that edifice with fondness. The sight of the misty India Gate in the distance which I would pass each day on the way to school still remains fixed in my mind's eye. The smells and sounds of Jama Masjid still linger within me every time I hear the name in a passing reference. The gasp of excitement we would feel every time our car passed the majestic Parliament building is still very much in the pages of my past. The punch of disappointment we would feel every time we spotted out number 18 bus near Pusa Bhavan each morning still unfolds when I close my eyes. Yes – being the city that patiently endured the pains of my critical teenage years 'that Delhi' will always remain a prominent member of my memory club.

Today, in 2011, I sit back and think of moments from those bygone days as I read horrifying stories from that city. I read of such inhumane acts of violence on children, women and men that a shudder runs down my spine questioning me if this was the same city I had spent some of the best days of my teenage years in. What happened? When did that 'dilwaalon ka shahar' become so ruthless and gory? When did the love in the big hearts of those people turn to muck? Why has the skies seen so much innocent blood and tears spilt on those city grounds? Why? How? When? Questions and more questions. As I watch heated debates unfold across the Internet accusing Delhi and calling it names, a part of me feels blue since in many ways I have always carried a bit of Delhi with me wherever I have gone in the world. The image I see of it today certainly does not match the beauty and grace of that muse who sits within the canvas I have built for it over the years. It probably never will. Not with the way each new day brings more horror and wails of woe from within those historic city walls. As I sit in shock and read about the catastrophes unfolding there I am more convinced that the Delhi I had once seen and experienced is now invisible to the naked eye. Gone, possibly, for good.

I am reminded of that 1957 film which was titled 'Ab Dilli door nahin' (Delhi is not far now). According to me that Dilli of my fond past is now beyond my mortal reach. This time, that Dilli of mine, is definitely far away. Ab woh Dilli bahut door ho gayi.

No one killed Jessica - A review

'No one killed Jessica' is an onscreen adaptation of the infamous Jessica Lall murder case that rocked the news time and again a few years ago. The title of the film was taken from a news article that appeared in the Times of India in 2006. Of course, it seems to be an apt characterization of the highly corrupt and ineffective judiciary system our country is gaining quick reputation for.

So we are shown the murder where Jessica is shot point blank by Manish Bharadwaj when he and his buddies are refused alcohol in an upscale party where she is bar tending one night. What follows is the usual power play of Manish's rich and influential daddy trying to pull every string possible to ensure his son walks a free man. Fighting against this is Jessica's defiant young sister Sabrina Lall (Vidya Balan) who is turning every stone possible to ensure witnesses maintain their integrity and help her get justice. But as would be expected from our reliable system, justice isn't delivered. Manish and co. walk out unharmed as Sabrina, understandably, loses all faith in the system and tries to move on with life.

Enter firebrand reporter Meera (Rani Mukerjee). She is being celebrated as the powerhouse journalist who captured the goings on in Kargil just about the same time Jessica's case was making news. Being the arrogant scribe that she is, Meera ignores the Jessica case as being an 'open and shut' case given the abundance of evidence only to find out, years later, that the news headlines reads 'No one killed Jessica'. This, despite the presence of hundreds of witnesses. She then heads out to set things right through a barrage of sting operations and tape leaks thus reigniting the case with fresh energy.

'No one killed Jessica' had all the makings of a brilliant film that could have been a benchmark. Yet, in the heady preparation to create something as inspiring and 'cool' as 'Rang De Basanti', Rajkumar Gupta (the guy who made 'Aamir') unfortunately makes way to some loud clichés. For one thing, he gives Rani a pretty free hand with her performance which turns out slightly counter productive. In a bid to showcase her character as a tough no nonsense journalist, Gupta instead lets her turn out to be a potty mouthed stereotype. He needlessly shows us that she indulges in casual sex and is fond of calling herself (and others!) a bitch every time she gets a chance. How this was relevant to the plot is something we are supposed to decipher. Now, I am no media professional, but I felt the whole act put up by Rani was just too contrived and didn't come out as convincing. Letting her be a journalist with her heart in the right place would have sufficed aplenty but apparently Indian cinema these days needs a generous dose of expletives and rude gestures to make it a box office success.

Then there is Vidya who is possibly the only reason anyone would want to go back and watch this movie a second time. She delivers an extremely convincing performance with her restraint coated silence. Established stars find playing the victim sometimes an open invite to ham their way through it. But Vidya instead chooses to do the right thing and zip up her emotions until when they are required to be exhibited. In fact, I have no qualms in stating that it is her portrayal as the wronged citizen that helps avoid this movie from being yet another painting determined to get preachy about words like nainsaafi and andha kanoon. If you had to, do watch it for her.

The supporting cast is consistent too, primarily Rajesh Sharma (corrupt Gunjaal from Khosla ka ghosla) who plays a cop with very clear gray shades. He has no problems confessing he took a bribe not to smack around the arrested rich kid but he also cares about justice and wants to do what he can to make the truth win. It comes out as a portrayal that stays true to the reality on the ground of how authentic policemen behave in India.

Stories such as these need to rely heavily on the sensitivity of how such untimely and shocking incidents cripple the common man in India. They need to weave their narration around the subtle nuances that form the complex fabric of human emotions. Even though Gupta achieves that in a few select scenes, by and large the narrative, sadly, sticks to commercial formula. On a brighter side, it does remind us once again that people power still matters in democracies. A reminder that will hopefully serve us well as more multi-crore scams are unearthed each year in the glorious nation of ours that is still known as a 'developing' one. For this, I'd recommend giving 'No one killed Jessica' a watch.