Wadia's Workshop: Review of the movie Thappad- By Mr Man

Wadia's Workshop: Review of the movie Thappad- By Mr Man:  "...writers Anubhav Sinha and Mrunmayee Lagoo Waikul do well in turning a solitary slap into larger exploration of male entitlemen...

Wadia's Workshop: Review of the movie Thappad- By Mr Man

Wadia's Workshop: Review of the movie Thappad- By Mr Man:  "...writers Anubhav Sinha and Mrunmayee Lagoo Waikul do well in turning a solitary slap into larger exploration of male entitlemen...

Review of the movie Thappad- By Mr Man

 "...writers Anubhav Sinha and Mrunmayee Lagoo Waikul do well in turning a solitary slap into larger exploration of male entitlement. " 

Says who?

 Some imbecile, feminist, male basher...?

Do I even care what such types think?

Arey, I wasted my hard earned one thousand rupees on this crap called 'THappad'. I deserve a thappad for that...anyway the damage is done. By now you all must have read many reviews of this soppy movie. If you are man read my review and stay away from this movie-if you are a woman concentrate on your happy life and stay away from these feminist types. I am just an ordinary, Indian guy so don't expect very high fi English from me- but rest assured I will deliver my message.

 Unlike our fellow species we men are very pragmatic. Just imagine, if the whole world were inhabited by only women there would be no progress-they would probably be in Stone Age or some such because of their tendency to live in the past.

What were the writers smoking when they wrote the husbands' parts?

We are not all wife bashers like that house help's Sunita's husband: it is these low class, uneducated, slum types who beat their wives and resultant we all get this 'domestic violence' shit. 

So, moving to the male protagonist of the movie, I must be honest. First time Bollywood came up with a hero who doesn't set impossible romantic standards for us males. I mean this guy is real, he loves his job, he is ambitious, he works hard, he provides for his family. The one good thing-the only thing that is good about this movie is: the man isn't ugly, he looks good, he is rich, he is intelligent, he plays fair and he has more to do with real life struggles and no time to dance around trees chasing his wife. Perhaps that's why women reviewers bash this guy's character.

So, they show the wife hurrying down after him as he strides to his car (a Merc no less, I told you the guy is rich and successful and therefore doesn't have time for all this romantic shit) carrying his tea just the way he likes it in a thermos, his lap top etc. They show this scene repeatedly at different junctures. So, anything wrong in that? Arey bhai she is a house wife, this is her job. The man is doing his job. This is life. This is fair. The fact that he misses the exact taste of the tea in his thermos when she leaves him, more than he misses her is so relatable. I mean, wife kaa kaam hai achhi chaii banana...it is her duty to keep our preferences, likes, dislikes as her centre point. 

The climax of the movie, it's focal point is the slap. I mean, I am incredulous, who can make a three hour movie based on just one slap. It was a party scene, people are having a good time, the wife is also having a good time dancing wancing...
I mean, thanks to whom?

 She is the house wife doesn't earn a goddamn penny, they show her teaching some bharatnatyam to the neighbor's kid...so she has to be thankful for all the good things in life-the husband works so hard for. I mean, does the car, the palatial house come for free? Any way I digress. Yes, so in that party the husband gets a call. Things are screwed at work, 
naturally he is very upset. 
He is angry. 
He confronts his Senior present at the party, things get a bit out of hand-the silly wife tries to intervene. She tries to pull him away...lagaa di ek...
he slaps her. 
That's all that happens.

Next day he tries to explain.
 He was upset.
 He needed to vent. 
She is his.
 So he did it. 
Bhai, wife toh hai hi gussa utaar ne ke liye...
The wife goes into Meena Kumari mode. When she does too much 'natak';
 he says, "it's okay yaar, shit happens, people move on."
But of course the movie has to be made, the males have to be bashed, so the wife does not relent. They show other female characters rallying around the wife. The buffoonish father of the wife encourages his silly daughter. But as always it is the mother of the husband who gets it right. She says right after the slap, "ghar ki baat hai...". Practical naa, mothers always get it right. 

Not surprisingly, the wife decides to go for a divorce. 
In a dialogue with her lawyer she says, "mein Khush rehana chahti hoon".

 Arey, what's not 'Khushal' about her life? Bangla, gaadi, pyaar karne waala pati, understanding saas...what more does she want? 

What do women want? 

After enduring this movie for two and a half hours, I still did not get the answer. I mean, there is no answer. 

Men and women are equal. One takes the other gives. It's that simple. See the movie if you want but don't look for any answers. They make the poor husband apologize in the end. Mein hota toh kehta mujhe pata hi nahin meine kya galat kiya. If this were not a Bollywood movie and real life- I am sure 100%- all men would say, "what did I do, it was just one slap..."

By
-Mr Man

TOMATO SOUP-A KNOTTY RECIPE WITH A DIFFERENCE

TOMATO SOUP- A KNOTTY RECIPE WITH A DIFFERENCE 

Warning :- People on fad diets and prudes, please do not touch my post with a barge-pole. I MEANT DON'T READ FURTHER...

A friend posted a picture of a cartload of red, juicy, almost organic tomatoes (because well…they had been squirted with pesticide) by her well-meaning ‘Mali’. I wrote back saying these tomatoes fill my senses to the brim- I want a bowl full of hearty, tomato soup doused with cream. The heavy rains that we have been blasted with, translated the want into an unabashed craving. This afternoon I caved in- rather I dug in ravenously into a ‘droolicious’ bowl of that craving.

Here’s how I went about it. 

 I opened my vegetable drawer. The cold air caressed my beauteous broccoli and chives, my humble okra and coriander, my exotic, fresh basil and baby carrots. The red tomatoes blushed deeper and their taut surfaces brushed against my callous touch. I cherry-picked them, one by one and placed them in the colander. The water trickled off their tautness. They looked irresistible- with the bubble of wanton water on their red sides.

They were completely jolted as I immersed them in a pot full of boiling water to blanch them.  Their resilience put to a climactic test- they came out crinkled- their red tautness unbroken. Nevertheless they peeled off without resistance.  My perforated spoon spooned them into my blender. They jumped out of their left over skin. They filled my home with a waft that was unmistakably ‘tomatoish’. My tomatoes swirled like mad dervishes- with a boiled onion, bulbs of garlic, some peppercorns and a pinch of pink salt. They danced mellifluously in my jar, their redness rising and ebbing like a flamenco dancer who knows no coyness. 

Into the bumbling butter flowed the redness from the blender jar. It now danced and brushed against the walls of my ancient wok. When the shavings of Parmesan swirled into it- the redness swelled with pride and power- the waft now reached a crescendo. 

In went a bay leaf and a log of cinnamon- because the redness loves bold flavours. It coated the wooden ladle- the ladle that added a dash of cornflour mixed with a bit of water. The ladle was lost in the swell and ebb of the redness. It was loathe to come out.  The ladle spooned the soup into wanton bowls. The whiteness of the cream on it - the redness screamed.

Never the one to be quiet- never the one to be subdued-  the Tomato Soup steamed.

Until it was held by the tongue-engulfed in the mouth-smoothened down the throat. The tomato-soup was eaten.  A deep, guttural sigh broke  out.

 The tomato soup played the symphony of the senses.

Evening Shadows- A short story

Read my story here...I wrote this story for an esteemed portal called #induswomanwriting and I am so happy to be published!

The theme of my story as provided by the said portal is 'Misunderstanding'. I have tried to stay true to something extremely ordinary. I hope you enjoy reading the travel and travails of my protagonist  Tasneem in the Maximum city of Mumbai one rainy evening.

https://www.induswomanwriting.com/the-evening-shadows.html

Please share your thoughts with me. Meanwhile I wish all my readers a meandering monsoon: hope it rains goodies on all of you!

My Darku

You don't have any friends?
Darku, struggled to keep his tone even.
No.
That sure isn't normal.
Why doesn't anyone want to be with you?
I don't want to be with anyone, she snapped.
Oho, that's very convenient and reeks of ego.
Ego is not bad.
And convenience?
Not bad too.
So you claim, no one looks you up, because you want it that way?
Yes.
Then why do you run to me?, Darku asked.
Did his tone smack of laughter?
She hated that.

Are you laughing at me?
There, didn't I say, you are Goddamn egoistic. Why the hell can I not laugh?
When did I say you can't?
You just did.
No, I didn't, I just asked a rhetorical question.
Don't throw big words at me.
Now it was her turn to switch on the smile in her voice.
Rhetorical doesn't always need an answer.
This is it. You are happy when you have the upper hand.
I wasn't looking for a shrink.
You sure need one.
I have you, you sort me out.
Then why shouldn't we meet.
That would make you real.
Oh yes, the real doesn't work for you.
Yes.
You do know, I hate it when you talk in monosyllables.
Hmm.
You...!
Shrinks don't swear.
I never claimed to be one, you said I was.
Hmm.
Does this signal I should leave, our time is up?
Your time.
The hell with you, why do I bother with you!
She laughed.
Her laughter slithered down the dark walls of the small room with the low ceiling.
She dreamt of the the roofless sky.
Darku stole out.
Stealthily the night clambered on.
Until tomorrow, she screamed playfully.

The Prostitute of Amsterdam- a poem

I have a window...

a soul less window, looking out to a dirty canal.

Balloons swam in there deflated and defeated,

they didn't acknowledge it though-

they sneered at my wrinkles, mocked at my bee stung red stained lips.

I tightened my garters, undettered by the sniggering balloons.

O you fallen, mucky beings, you are use and throw.

I countered at them.

I, on the other hand am use and return to.

I flaunt my buyers, those that never let my business recede:

tourists, young virgins, gawky teenagers, precocioius couples,

the weirdos with mohawks and pot, with tattooed pot bellies

are the kinder ones.

I ease them in my little room

the room lives in me

the room with folds- that doubles as a shroud for my couch.

Your room is spacious -taunt the balloons...

that's not good for business!

Most will want the smallest and tiniest, they gloat.

I think of my room, back home in Syria

the bombed walls, the endless roads we ran on to catch the boat,

the slime and slick on the rickety boat,

how I got down to business in the boat itself, 

my room buying me hard, dry bread and water.

Relying on my room, I traversed many hands and lands

till I reached the sin-city.

I work independently, I told the balloons.

They laughed, twirling in the green mirthlessly-

they know I pay a rent to my landlord

for a room which lives in me.