On the Coinage of a Phrase

Genre-elitism: noun. 1. The condescension evinced by an individual convinced of the superiority of his musical tastes.
2. A sense of entitlement, which is induced by an individual's firm belief in the supremacy of their favourite genre. 3. It is manifested by disparaging or disdainful comments about any other genre; along with spiteful, sardonic remarks about those who like genres other than their own. 4. Their sense of self-worth seems to have been derived entirely from their taste in music.
Genre-elitism is usually unacceptable and unforgivable beyond the age of fifteen (or sixteen, at the latest).
Related Forms:
adj. genre-elitist, noun. genre-elite

Aisha kyu?

A realistic, albeit annoyed, interpretation of Aisha

            The recently released film Aisha had created quite a hubub prior to its release, particularly amongst the urban, college-going youth. On seeing the trailers, it is not too difficult to guess why – the effervescent, barely-past-adolescence Sonam Kapoor, Ira Dubey, Abhay Deol, and co. seemed to strike a chord as they fretted about “sixteen pack abs,” and being eternally single while waltzing around high-end malls. The promotional snatches seemed to promise a glossy, cheerful, and luxurious romantic comedy, a genre that still seems relatively novel in the Hindi film industry. However, the movie, in its entirety, seems to induce a different response.

            Aisha tells the tale of an ostentatiously wealthy girl from Delhi. She seems to while her time away by shopping, socialising, match-making, baking elaborate desserts, gardening with possibly branded gloves on, and organising events free of charge. It is hardly surprising, then, when she squeals, “I love my life!” in one of  the many voice-overs in the film. Of course, in the course of the film, she asserts that she hates her life, and the hate is induced by several trivial complications, most of which she brought onto herself due to her meddling and misunderstandings. Eventually, all’s well that ends well.

            One of the most significant aspects of the film is not only its female-driven cast, but crew, too. The director (Rajshree Ojha), script-writer (Devika Bhagat), producer (Rhea Kapoor), and casting director (Amrita Sehgal) of Aisha are, as their names suggest, women. It leads one to the inevitable question of how (and why!?) a crew consisting of women alone could create a protagonist, who seems to be the epitome of utter cluelessness, and the diametric opposite of how one would perceive an intelligent, city girl. Having firmly ventured into the 21^st century, it seems feasible to believe that the damsel-in-distress has died a ntural death. Ojha, Bhagat and Sonam Kapoor, on the other hand, seem to be intent on resurrecting the deregatory female archetype through Aisha, who does not bat a heavily made-up eyelid before promptly calling her knight-in-shining armour when her car breaks down. Nor does Aisha have any qualms about abandoning her decidedly gullible friend, Shefali, at a guesthouse in Delhi, with a man she herself seems to dislike vehemently. The director described Aisha as “an extremely frank and open-minded girl, who loves to live in her own fairytale world.” How “open-minded” is it to evince disgust for the “middle-class”, and to discourage marriage solely because the boy (Saurabh) doesn’t belong to a higher strata of society? Buying criminally expensive apparel, and facilitating a make-over to ensure a match for the “behenji” friend doesn’t seem too “open-minded” either. In addition, it is all very well to spend one’s childhood in one’s own personal universe, when noone else is affected by it, but when an influential twenty-something girl refuses to emerge from it, it isn’t endearing in the least, but incredibly annoying. The implied empowerment of a women-centric cast and crew is negated by the plot, which, eventually, relegates the female characters in the film to women who are defined by their respective partners, and who do not hesitate to spend their father’s money (Rs. 53,000, to be precise) in one gigantic shopping-spree.

            Sonam Kapoor’s character moves from one disastrous event to the next, and brushes them all off under the guise that she was “only trying help.” Realisation does strike during the second half of the movie, after all her friends simultaneously seem to declare, “We are not your projects,” or something to that effect. After weeping, and drinking Moet through a straw, Aisha decides to apologise. While all the characters are magnanimous and forgiving, for the audience, it seems like too little, too late. Ojha described the film as a “coming-of-age” film. Nonetheless, Aisha does nothing to endear herself to the audience before she came of age, while she was coming of age, and when she does apparently come of age.Unlike Udaan, which is touted to be a coming-of-age film, too, and which is one, in the true sense of the phrase. While Abhay Deol’s character, Arjun (Sonam Kapoor pronounces the name as “Archan”), seems to represent the voice of reason in the movie, and does try to rectify the damage Aisha incurs, one can’t help but question his presence in such a film. Ira Dubey, Cyrus Sahukar, and the Angelina Jolie-esque Lisa Haydon deliver competent performances, and act as foils to the uni-dimensional Aisha, and the uni-expressionistic Sonam Kapoor. Another grouse against the movie would be its similarities with Clueless (1995), wherein Alicia Silverstone plays a rich, teenage girl, who takes a “lame” young girl under her wing. Certain scenes, such as the one where Shefali gets rid of her ex-love’s belongings, are identical. Since Aisha is, apparently, inspired by Jane Austen’s classic Emma, it seems quite ironic to find scenes from a highschool movie duplicated in the film.

            It is true that Aisha never claimed to be a “serious” film, but to lose oneself entirely in frivolity  doesn’t seem appealing, particularly when the “lightheartedness” is coupled with immaturity, and silly, discriminatory behaviour. If Aisha characterises modern-day fairytales, I can’t help but exclaim, “Aisha kyu?!”

Hit me, baby, er, for the first time?

Tragic accounts of relationships gone sour seem to abound. Everyone either has their own story, or knows a friend of a friend of a friend who does. It makes me wonder whether Carrie Bradshaw's assertion in a Sex and the City episode wasn't as ludicrous as it initially sounded - "Maybe we were better off when we thought less, and kissed more."

Lately, I've been thinking about, well, thinking! And the over-analysis most of us seem to dabble in more and more frequently. It's becoming increasingly difficult for me to distinguish between the times there really is a problem, and the times when I'm just creating one due to a self-induced implosion in my mind. As self-deprecating or masochistic as it may sound, I can't help but feel pretty certain that the so-called issue is usually due to the latter. This is mainly because, more often than not, two days after addressing a "problem", I begin to see the futility and insignificance of what seemed like such a grave concern a few days ago. 

I agree, a refusal to address what rankles isn't the most sound advice. It leads to pent-up emotions, which will find a vent in one way or the other. But think about it. Despite the minor grouses now and then, the fact remains that I like you, and you like me (and I don't mean romantic relationships alone). No amount of "discussion and deliberation" about "complications" will change that. Or if my feelings or yours have already altered, a conversation won't be sufficient to change that either. What one really needs, in my opinion, is a way to rid oneself of all those sapping negative emotions.

At the risk of attracting the ire of feminists everywhere, I can't help but be drawn to physical violence as a solution and substitute to the "We need to talk" conversations! Smacking someone is less messy than talking about "feelings", it's utterly satisfying, and it's cathartic beyond imagination. Besides, I need an excuse to pull a Tyler Durden and solemnly say, "I want you to hit me as hard as you can." 

Promise I will be forever yours
Promise not to say another word
Nevermind whats done is done

- 'Still', Foo Fighters.

Here is Now

The question of whether or not one should take drastic measures to protect oneself has been meandering around my mind lately. Should I feel obliged to my future self, and extricate myself from any potentially hurtful situation? Or should I continue to adhere to "carpe diem" (thank you, Dead Poets Society)? The answer, I suppose, is only logical. If you are aware that by doing xyz, you will wind up wounded, it is solely your responsibility to swiftly shy away from the aforementioned xyz.

There is, of course, a catch. Nothing is so very conveniently "cut and dry" in the Real World. There are no labels declaring, 'DISASTROUS' (or 'DELIGHTFUL') on individuals and/or situations, to indicate their impact on one's future. Most of us lesser mortals simply proceed based on our intuition, or learn to "read the signs" (For example, a date who seems to develop a nervous twitch in the presence of law-enforcing individuals is definitely a terrible sign, and must be abandoned; or kept on the bench until desperate, desperate times). However, situations usually acquire an incredibly complex nature, baffling the intuition. The signs, too, are ambivalent at best. At times like these, though it is slightly mortifying to admit, I often resort to Sheryl Crowe's wise words: "If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad/ If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"

Yes, I do indeed worry about the days to come, and how they might be far beyond my depth. I worry, too, about biting off an amount, which, far from being chew-able, is most likely to induce severe choking. Nevertheless, I strive to remind myself that in the "Present misery v/s Future misery" debate, I have chosen to support the latter. Besides, why assume that I will be overwhelmed with unhappiness at all? Isn't it highly fatalistic to undermine oneself to such an extent? As clichéd as it may sound, but right here, right now, is really all we have.

"They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? - - Carpe - - hear it? - - Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary."
- The Dead Poets Society.


(On a ligher vein)


"I SOUND MY BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFTOPS OF THE WORLD."

"It's these cards and the movies and the pop songs...

...they're to blame for all the lies and the heartache, everything."

Tom: What happened? Why didn't they (Summer's past relationships) work out? 


Summer: What always happens. Life.

Gaining Perspective

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; 
it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; 
it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; 
it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; 
it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; 
we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; 
we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way."


- Charles Dickens

Ctrl-Alt-Del

Maybe we're all just idiots who don't learn as we go along, but continue to make the same mistakes over and over again in an absurd, cyclical, Alice-in-wonderland-esque world.

Maybe that's just me.

Maybe learning is over-hyped. 

Maybe un-learning is the key to survival. The more you know, the more you have to forget what you thought you knew; or so I would like to believe as of now. 

Maybe the so-called key to happiness is to stop wanting more. But is that the death of ambition? 

Maybe the key is to stop questioning so much. 

Maybe a "maybe" is as certain as you ever can be in this ever-spinning and transitory age.

"What if this is as good as it gets?"

Dear Writer,

Dan: You think love is simple. You think the heart is like a diagram. 
Larry: Have you ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood! Go fuck yourself! You writer! You liar! 
[From the movie/play 'Closer']


"You write such pretty words,
But life's no story book."
[Bright Eyes' 'Lover I don't have to love']


"Mr. Writer, why don't you tell it like it is?
Why don't you tell it like it really is?
Before you go on home."
[Stereophonics' 'Mr. Writer']


The evidence is everywhere. It's time to stop romanticising. Those rose-tinted glasses need to be shelved. Well, at least for a little while, until the glare of realism is too hard to bear.

"Because without the bitter, baby..."

A character from a book/movie I had read/seen a while ago had said, resignedly, "There is always something." Lately, I keep hearing those words over and over in my head (no, not in the unnerving, voices-in-my-head, insane manner). Have you ever noticed how there is, at every point, an incident or situation which either constantly plays on your mind, or bothers you, or is just there, like the proverbial white elephant in the room? Two years ago, it was Parental Trouble - the Meltdown, accompanied by Angsty Adolescence. A year ago it was the more general Existential Angst and Trouble with Friends. Once you got past that, the Case of the Bitchy Absconding Friend occurred. Then, there was the Biggest Bang (not even remotely a sexual innuendo, unfortunately) - the Difficult Relationship, closely followed by its globally successful sequel The Heartbreak. You identify the pattern, and begin to mutter, "Something has got to give," more and more frequently.

Then again, due to that annoying propensity towards contemplation, you back-track. Maybe the continuous series of unfortunate events (to borrow Lemony Snicket's ingenious title) aren't all that continuous after all. It's highly likely that the cliche about life seeming all bad because we don't realise the passage of time during the good times may by true to a large extent. And, of course, as the Stars said, "Live through this, and you won't look back." As for the next disaster lurking around the corner, all you can do is wait, with the assurance that you will be able to deal with it more easily because of the last one, and the subsequent "maturity" it induced.

"...the sweet ain't that sweet."

"It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things."
— Lemony Snicket (Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid)


[Title and black italicized text courtesy 'Vanilla Sky', image from www.xkcd.com]

Cliché (or Touché?)

There are far too many questions, and nowhere to turn for answers (Wikipedia has its limitations). Or so it seems, at least. You suspect that the Answer, the Sign, the insert-another-vague-term-here is glaring at you menacingly a few inches from your face, but you're refusing to acknowledge its presence.

"And I saw it coming
I saw emptiness and tragedy
And I felt like running
So far away
But knew I had to stay
And I know when I'm older
I'll look back and I'll still feel the pain
I know I'll be stronger and I know I'll be fine
For the rest of my days"


- Pete Murray


Agreed, this period of transition is highly...? You can barely find the words to describe the absolute havoc its wreaking, how on earth are you supposed to endure it? Nevertheless, the fact remains that you can either: sink or swim, linger or run, stand still, dumbstruck, or walk away meditatively towards, what you hope are, greener pastures.


Yes, there will be days when your options are limited to just one (and that's not exactly the enjoyable one; it probably includes lying flat on your back, and fantasising about how you can replicate the ancient Japanese suicide ritual called Hara kiri by shoving a sword into your abdomen and slicing your digestive system neatly - Wikipedia has its benefits, too), but, though you can't or won't see them, the other options are right there, waiting to be considered. And they're much easier to execute than locating a sword would be.


So... Sink or swim?
You choose to float for a while.


"Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies"


- Youth Group/Alphaville

(Picture courtesy: www.xkcd.com)