On Tamasha. Discretion advised.
The other man came on a black Yamaha RX100 speeding through the busy bustling street filled with people, peddlers, wagons and an urban air that stayed still, cool and dry, with wafts of aroma from various eateries lined along both sides and of filth that littered the by-lanes—mixed together, it all smelled delicious— and finally stopped near me. He wore all black— he wore a black shirt and black pants and black leather shoes. And he stopped with a crash that would’ve hurt the other’s groin almost had it succeeded in being qualified as a crash—just other way of saying he stopped short of his groin, in fact, they were both very straight guys—the other of course being me. Turning off the squeaky engine and without removing his Ray Bans, black goggles, like full black…I don’t know if he was a fan of Shani Maharaj, but his color—fortunately enough was wheaty, and by the way, he was a mixed descent…He walked near the other guy, they shook hands and the other lighted Kabir’s cigarette; he smoked such days as these…Talking Maya and a couple of other feminine concepts, in the abstract and down to the very specific, I wished asking The Man if he’d watched Tamasha—but then the other guy, whose name was Raqeeb, yes Raqeeb’s a good name—he heard the words “Imtiaz’s gotten to the height of his art—a fucking artistic work, more than anythin’ else…” Returned Raqeeb, nodding, “It was…But what’d you say of the characters?” He puffed a wee longer and “Perfect.” “eh—yeah, thought the protagonist was the very thing he’d worked the most on, but the other part– his femme fatale if in a sense you could call her–” “Delilah: exactly, that’s Maya is…” he smirked and winked (which of course Raqeeb couldn’t see, for he still wore the glasses) and then turned his head and viewed in the distance, maybe he saw her face there. “ya, he didn’t’ give so much of damn to it.” He then looked over his wayfarers: “Well, that’s how much her part was anyway—cut the four-year passage crap and it boils down to…say what a 10 minute role in a two hour and half movie?”
Raqeeb pointed out to that that was all needed, because the film was centered around the protagonist’s becoming whatever became of him in the end. The other guy was looking at the gurgling road, the gurgles of which seemed to come in fits that suited more a vomit—the happy vomit, if one may call it. “And so is the country’s present picture.” He remarked and returned to the conversation saying “Is that all the feminine role is?” the other replied “Doesn’t have to be necessarily feminine each time—and by the way, it’s always more of a source of inspiration.” “True that. The instructor was the storyteller Mishra, and he’s freaking cool of a thespian…actor, stageperformer for those morons who’d call that exam-oriented vocabulary…Bull’s….” They both prattled a flurry of taboo and slang while Kabir took more drags of the styled tobacco and then said Raqeeb “He will be a polymath in Indian history…” with wonder in his boyish eyes, to which the other served with a scoffing “too big of a goddamn word—still some of the sort, ye. But, today, as also says the movie—they don’t let you be you, let alone multiples of you.”
“By the way…” He continued, “There are lot of aspects of the film that go parallel with other excellent Hindi ones.” Raqeeb nodded in waiting to be enlightened, or so said his expression of the face—Thought Raqeeb, “visage as one’d call it or a better word—countenance, as one’d find in Doyle’s writing, but wait, this is the Indian audience, who ain’t give no shit about the details and English and who ain’t even know much of that, these wannabe Americans got not time to give a shit to all that…” Back to the story, he barely caught up the words mouthed: “The details of the little things, the hills and all the fairy-tale-ish objects, Barfi…Go for the dialogues, the ideas discussed, music…it feels a sequel to Rockstar, then, the story-telling part–” “Delhi 6!” cut Raqeeb, the other smiled and nodded “And the narrative—he’s experimenting with it, and this was more or less akin Rockstar.” “That reminds me—” Raqeeb ejaculated, “What’s that” said the black shirt, “the music–” “Oh…What’s it remind?” “Wait, when’s it exactly that you’re gonna stop being that patronising prick?” The other merely looked away and puffed smoke out—“Chor bazaari—that first song’s visual was very like that one.” “Lyrics great, music bullshit, a waste of the singer and the composer.” “Amen” returned Raqeeb.
“So what are we now, movie critics?” asked the other, finishing his last drag—“moronic of a job, if you ask me.” “Well…” And then he commented on the protagonist’s acting and other aspects relating the literary elements in the movie– “There are a hell lot of references in…You need to have at least a basic know-how of going about a literary piece…Haider was no exception, and Tamasha is just…plain drink without soda or water any other bullshit. Say the mimes he’s done— Dev’s soul would’ve been redeemed— Nirvana, isn’t it? The heart and the clowns all remind of Raj Kapoor, most specifically, what reminds of him more than anything is Ranbir himself, for his acting–” the other agreed “Yes ,he’s getting there gradually—when he talking of stardom quoted a party of Russians escorting the man on their hands above their heads, instead of letting him go in car…” “Yes, you said it right and tight—happy vomit.” “I didn’t say it.” “But you thought it, did you not?” “And what’s that? An oracle?” “A storyteller.” Smiled Kabir, “And that’s what the film is about.”
He continued, “Tu kisi aur ki jaagir is put in his speech, a trailing reference—he’s read Rumi and Urdu Shayari—a lot of it I am sure, and seeing it’s on extinction, the effort named Tamasha is but nailing it—so is the art of story-telling, and of Tamashbeens.” “Who has? O yes, I am proud of him, Imtiaz, and of Ranbir, too. Happy I can say that.” “Too emoitional that shit.” “What’s the problem with it?? They today, are making freakin’ money outta it—emotions, see all the ads and all that shit? The ‘Sikka uchhlega’—the so-thought dark and dirty emotions? The feminist emotions? The emotion called ‘pride’—Maharashtrachi Mastani I mean?” “You speak too much truth!” an eyebrow raised, Kabir went on to light another cigarette.
“Is it bad to make money after all?” mumbled he trough the stick dangling in his mouth, Raqeeb returned, “Well—that’s what the film questioned” “And I say it boils down to a realist-idealist debate.” “Which is fruitless.” The other complemented to which retorted back Kabir “So let’s move on with the story…” “The story?” “Yes, why not. Either be on the bandwagon, or be alone. Forgotten…” “So say you.” “Yes, I say so just.” “Anyway, the guy is a loser at showing India—Europe, he knows what he’s playing at—India—the folk singers of Punjab, if that’s correct to say—Well in the name of Shakespeare I’ll makedo with it, and the Bhojpuri singer—both not so compelling, in fact lousy sketches of Indian art, artistes, and on the verge of intentional mockery.” Kabir nodded to that one and said nothing for a time.
“Ok then, let’s go our own ways. And talking intentional mockery and satire—the hot-shot business executives are mocked very well…” with a satisfied scoff, putting his smoke off by the butt on the railing beside. “Easy-peesy for those not earning, eh?” said the other to which Kabir only waved off. And well, they went their ways—I told you they’re straight, very straight indeed.