I am not an Amitabh Bachchan fan. I interviewed him some years ago and that was one of the rare celebrity interviews I have done in my 20 year career which took place dot on time. That act of punctuality was refreshing. After I finished the interview, when I came out of the room,. scores of people rushed towards me and asked me. “How was he?’ That was my glamour moment.
I had no intention to watch Pink. My friends suggested that I should watch it. I came up with the logic that you need not convert the already converted. What will Pink tell me more?
I had a change of heart while having lunch in my office on a Monday. The day at work didn’t look menacing. It promised to end on a sweet, hassle-free note. It actually ended like that. So, there was I with my friend to watch Pink.
I am not here to review Pink. I don’t think I am qualified to be a film critic. I loved the three young women actors. They were smooth like silk in their craft.
Pink brought alive lots of dormant memories within me. Pink brought back the life I lived in Delhi in the 90s. Pink made me miss my dear friend from Manipur with whom I shared an apartment in South Delhi. Pink made me relive the horrors of living the life of independent, working women in a highly masculine city like Delhi.
Pink made me think of all the men with whom I had some kind of relationship/friendship. Pink reminded me of a friend who laughed when I was recounting the horrors of being molested near my house. Pink reminded me of one of my high-brow friend’s statement, “You are such a nice person. Why are you sharing a house with this chinky girl? ” As if that was not enough, he added, “They all are so easily available.” (Never knew, women are products.)
It’s rather unfortunate that for the women of India, the mean streets are becoming more brutal. In the midst of all shining superpower talks, woman are being attacked, raped, murdered. A woman was brutally stabbed and murdered in broad daylight in Delhi on September 20. Her only fault was she said, “NO” to her stalker.
I have three young nieces. I hope, they will have the power to say ‘NO’ and there will be young, liberated men in their lives who will respect that NO.
I am still feeling the ache of memories buried deep within me. Almost all my male friends are parents now. They all belong to the creamy layer of society. I am wondering how are they bringing up their sons? Are they teaching their sons about respecting consent in a relationship? Are they teaching their sons to help their mothers in clearing the tables after dinner? Are they teaching their daughters to fly high in the sky without worrying about the length of their skirts?
There’s a kind of dull pain in my heart. I feel like writing a note to my Manipuri friend. I feel like hugging her, sharing a drink with her and looking back at the years that have passed by. She lives now in Melbourne and I am missing her a lot now. I hope our travel plans materialize and we will be able to meet soon.
There’s something tender about art, poems, films and music. They make you go slow. They make you remember moments. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes not beautiful. But they make you remember.
Remembering is a beautiful art.
(The other day, I was having a conversation with my friend about SEO titles. She told me it’s a bad idea to put a film/song name in the headline. Well, I can’t think of anything else other than Pink)