Of riots, rights and writers

The past week was not the best one for the writer in me (if there is any). I had an irrevocable writing itch and no inspiration. Well, to be honest potential topics were glaring in my face. Lets say, I had what they call the writer's block.

Nonetheless the week was very exciting. It began completely Dabangged and ended in a verdict!All this was suitably interlaced with many other themes peeking at me from numerous nooks.

To begin at the beginning, yours truly loved Dabangg so much that a review was in order. But it would have been far too clichéd. For a movie that is so beautifully woven out of every possible cliché, I let this one pass. But comment i shall, nevertheless.

Everyone has gone on and on and yawn (wink, wink Vikram Seth) about how only Salman could have pulled it off. The fact is... Yes! Only he could have played the obnoxious yet lovable Chulbul Pandey. The supporting cast was totally superb. Even the newbie Sonakshi, who is much prettier than the other PYTs to join their family business (read Sonam Kapoor) and definitely acts better.

The movie is entirely unpretentious in all ways- the Karan Johar candyfloss way and the Aamir Khan intellectual, candle-light vigil way. It cuts across boundaries and does not alienate anybody. Totally egalitarian. After all cinema is as much a right of the masses as it is of the multiplex-going classes.

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I finished If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino. I do not think I should, rather can, venture into a  review.

Dare to mention a brief thought (or two), though. One question reverberated in my mind- can a writer actually do justice to reading? Would not any thing she reads be just to feed her with motifs for her own writing? Can I ever be an ideal reader? Or an ideal writer? Can I ever be even a good either? 

There are times where an idea lingers in your mind. Not quite taking shape. Can I call it a sneeze that refuses to release itself and bothers you to no end? This is exactly what had been happening with me the whole week. A shadow of an idea would cast itself and make me uneasy, wanting to pour out on the paper. Just as I would write a couple of lines, words would fall shy. Yet, it is not important to have a concrete thought to be able to write. Like right now. You can just let the thought take lead and flow like a river, making its own grooves, shaping the stones like they had never been shaped before, and will never be shaped again.

Perhaps that is what happened to Calvino when he wrote If on a winter's night a traveler. He converses with the reader like a dear friend, a psychoanalyst, an interrogator, and at times a fortuneteller. Through this he converses with himself. It is his journey as much as is mine, and leaves him changed every time the book is read.

Mental note: Have to read more of Calvino; source suitable lenders.

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The week that was, was also the week of the verdict. Much anticipated. I must ask, but, by whom. Does it matter to us only because the issue could have flared up and engulfed us in its wake? Perhaps. I wonder what it is like to be one to whom it matter in other ways as well. Nevertheless, the issue generated some good jokes and one-liners.

Which makes me think that to be shamelessly and perversely chauvinistic in your sense of humour is certainly to be truly egalitarian. Of course, by that I mean humour not only directed at others, but also at yourself. In simpler words, we must learn to laugh at ourselves.

But, without any ounce of jest, I hope and pray (sigh! why would I if the 'if' is true) that if I turn out to be an Avatar (not of the James Cameron type!), the nursing home I was born in would be turned into a place of worship where I and only I am worshiped.