Movie Review: Lunchbox (2013)

Release date: 20th Sept 2013
Director: Ritesh Batra
Rating: 4.5/5

Every once in a while, one comes across a movie or a book where it is hard to find a central message the creator wanted to send across. However, in remarkable fashion, it leaves you with a string of powerful sequences, words so profound they seep through your head, bounce off the pit of your stomach and well out from your eyes. Lunchbox is one such masterstroke.

In a mere 100 minutes, this movie packs more emotions, more stellar performances, more food for thought than there was in some decades of the Indian movie industry's existence. The believability of the movie is striking. The eccentric neighbour aunt (who in a sharp contrast to our PM has no face but acts through her voice), her partly amusing, partly heart-warming relationship with our leading lady Nimrat, the kids playing on the streets, Irrfan the scrooge, Nawaz playing the enthusiastic and emotional commoner, and a brilliantly captured sneak peek into the much-revered Dabbawallas - the creatives behind this one sure had a rich palette.

The stalwarts - Irrfan and Nawazuddin just do their usual thing, while Nimrat Kaur surprises by beautifully carrying off a poignant, de-glam role- her big screen entry being nothing short of stellar. It is adorable how Irrfan, a middle aged government employee, communicates with an unknown woman, spelling out his replies in very formal english. It is endearing how he, matter of factly, calls her his girlfriend and then blushes a bit. It is crushing when he writes about how he remembers his now-dead wife and rues every moment he spent away from her. It worries you when you hear Nimrat's morbid words, and pray she doesn't harm herself. It is a treat to watch the audience around you sitting silently, attentively watching the story unfold, and then spontaneously laugh as Nawaz or Irrfan dole out witticisms right in the midst of moving sequences.

The ending, as one would say, leaves you craving for more. There is a lot left unanswered. The director chooses not to give what the Indian audience looks for - closure. Here, though, lies the brilliance of it all. It makes you think, look back at all the questions the movie raised - about love, about growing old, about fresh starts, about relishing those little joys of life and about memories and our undying need for nostalgia.

Also, there is hardly any music. Wait... did I say no music? Sorry, I just meant there were no instruments being played.

The Rakhi Sawant of writing

This one might count as libel, and were this blog any popular, might have ended up in me receiving a defamation suit from Ms. De's lawyers. However, I am sure I do not run this risk and spew out my venom with unabashed abandon.

The ET back cover ran a half a page article by Shobhaa De drooling over our new, drop dead gorgeous RBI governor. Why do I have a problem with that? Actually, I don't. Plus there have been a horde of other columnists who found it more apt to talk of Rajan's impeccable demeanour and 'chiselled' features (This FirstPost article points to some of these) rather than the measures and policies he is trying to put in place.

Although, the fact that the ET editor gave this such incredible amount of print space and topped it up with a front page marquee amazed me no end. But then I thought - Times Group. Sell Out. And the dots connected. What this did, however, was bring forth the copious amounts of bile I had inside me against Shobhaa De and her tribe of desperate socialites, who have somehow been taken rather seriously by the world.

I have read quite a few pieces from her (she is tough to avoid with almost everyone lining up print space for her), and also remember having skimmed through one of the books she wrote for her children 'Speedpost'. To call all her writing 'trash' might be a bit too harsh. Yet, to call a lot of it that, would be plain and simple truth.

Even in the case of the article in question, the part where she behaves like a teenager and goes ga-ga over Rajan is not what is irksome. What pains the reader is her juvenile, sketchy style of writing (I am sure she knew this was going to a premier business newspaper). Humour, or rather the attempts at it, are pathetic at best and horrific in general. I gave her the benefit of doubt and read through her blog.

Sample these witticisms (puns, double entendres, etc.) from this article and her blog.

"... I went ahead and tweeted (will this woman never learn?) about his appointment, calling him the Ranbir Kapoor of Banking (note the spelling — banking, there's an 'a' in this word, not an 'o')."

"... There was another one about Indian guy’s (sic) and their attitude to virginity (they all want to marry one). Bang on, again (pardon the lousy pun)"

Now, I am sure these were funny when Ms. De was in middle school. Not anymore, not fifty years thence. Not from someone who is touted as one of India's leading female columnists.

And I cringe every time writers belonging to the so called 'elite' throw in hindi words to show their connect with the masses. Just scroll through Ms. De's blogs to know what I mean.

Ok, haha, bad grammar, from the article mentioned here:

Well, I am being a bit of a prick here, so I will let my reasons out. I have a bone with her ever since I read one of her article carelessly branding 'Sholay' as a movie with palpable gay overtones. Unfortunately, I cannot trace a link to this article but I remember reading this in an India Today edition some years ago. This, in my opinion, is what writers like Shobhaa De thrive on- writing something brash, nasty, ridiculous enough to grab eyeballs. Alas, she has driven me to stoop to her level with this piece.

We make this mistake often. Handing out people more than their due. It is tough to leave Chetan Bhagat out of this. Now, I am not a Bhagat-hater and actually think he has a certain charm with his novel writing. Yet, to give him authority to talk on politics to morals to sports is really pushing it. 

Well, that brings me to the end of my vitriolic rant. I respect all the people mentioned above for certain reasons. Infact, just before I sat down to write this piece, I found this piece De had posted this morning airing her views about the rape case verdict. Well written and completely mirrored my views. 

So, anyway, all the best to Indian writing. We need them in all shapes and sizes, don't we? So, we'll let her be.

On behalf of the thin-kind

I have been blogging rather frequently of late. So, yay! And today's a first as I write this blog waiting at the Mumbai domestic airport on my way home. I have a few minutes to kill. I had planned to take a quick nap reclining on the lounge chair, yet, as I leaned back, my head banged against a bald pate. Turning around quickly, I muttered a few apologies and gave up on the idea of the quick nap. Maybe, I will do that on the flight.

So, well airports. Always an interesting picture here. Always amazing to see hordes of people even in the wee hours of the morning. Ok, I'll cut to chase because my flight is boarding already. Recently, all the airlines decided to cut down on the facilities, so to say, unbundling them into value added services. One of the impacts there was the reduction in permissible check-in baggage. It's down from 20 to a mere 15kg on domestic flights now! Quite a trouble, I must say. I had little to carry on my trip today and yet I scraped through with a 14kg check-in. Charges for each extra kilo are rather steep.

So, here's my point. I, me the human being, am not a very 'weighty' individual - in purely physical senses of the word. As I stood in the queue, I noticed quite a few, let's just say, bulky individuals boarding the same flight. Darn, I am sure some of them weighed twice as much as I do. They get a 15kg check-in limit. So do I. Sort of unfair, don't you think?

The time has come for my oppressed kind to raise our voice. I, hereby, urge the several airlines in service to give my argument its due consideration. Ok, I really have to rush for my flight now.

----

Holla! Just another shout-out. I thought, now that I had the opportunity, I would grace my blo…

…og with a few words penned at cruising altitude.

Here, floating merrily above the clouds,

Far, far away from the madding crowds,

My blogging instincts are at an all-time high,

And I would post this right now, if only my plane miraculously got wi-fi.

Off to sleep for the next hour and a half.

Love potions, anyone?

Now, considering something I shared via my Facebook account yesterday, I might be charged with repeating this theme too often. However, more often than not, people my age (who I believe form a large part of my readership) have gone through this phase called 'Louuve failure'. Hold me guilty for being a little sexist here and writing this from a guy's perspective, but here it is.

Ever wonder why one remains enchanted even after things are categorically 'over' in an attempted love affair. It is magic, of course. And surprise, surprise. It has three acts to it.

The Pledge

During this step in magic, the female centre of attention makes you believe that things are hunky dory. Mind you. There is no palpable, overt expression of love. The commoners call this 'leading on', but well then, the guy in question is no commoner in this circumstance. He is an idiot, and he loves being so. Tongue hanging loose, starry eyed, he roams around and twists and turns every little movement, every little gesture, every little smile into a giant ballad of romance and undying love. 

A wink here. A blush there. Life is never more colourful. And one is never more delusional.

The Turn

Michael Caine says, "This is where the fun begins!". Really?

Ah! Initially, it is. Your affection has now turned into a delusion. The ordinary into the extraordinary. Rings any bells? Now your image of your love interest is no more that of a being. When you see them, there is this giant radiance emanating from them, with, as SRK would have put it, a million violins playing around. All of them playing just that one amazing song of love that you always wanted to hear. Suddenly, the leaves are greener, the roses are ever more ruddy, and everything else is unbelievably picture perfect.

And then, poof!

Just when you, unwittingly, blurted out your heart's one true desire, there is no one out there to hear you. Everything is quiet. Quieter than Manmohan on the parliament floor. You have no freakin' idea what hit you. And then the curtains roll down, and roll up once again in a jiffy, for the last of the acts.

The Prestige

A battle is never lost righteously till there is an adversary to beat you. The disappearing object of affection makes a reappearance here. Well, like Jesus, you would say. Only much less delightful.

And with her is another guy. You had been watching it all very closely. You couldn't have missed this while it was transpiring under your own probing nose. Yet, here it is.

You see the shrug saying 'Told you so!'. Everything is plain and ordinary, as if nothing ever happened - the extraordinary back to the ordinary. Familiar, eh? Half, nay, more was entirely a construct of your darned mind. 

Show's over folks. You never had your money's worth. Nor your effort's. And then you feel your nose and see the red blob over there. No points for guessing who the clown was, and who had the last laugh.

Foreign hand hai, ji

It's quite often that we fool ourselves of being in complete control of our things. From things as simple as dressing up time, lunch time at office, the amount of sweet we like our evening tea, our commute times, our commute fares and a basket of other things we like to program to order.

Yet, more often than that, we end up forgetting the millions of things which can throw this order of things haywire. Something, rather silly, to this effect, chanced itself upon me in the morning and hence here I am writing about it.

Now, my morning schedule between getting up and being in office is tighter than the noose around Syria's neck right now. Alarms are set at absurd timings like 7:09 to ensure an optimum (as much as possible) amount of sleep without being late at office - yes, my office, sorta, has an entry timing! So much for struggling through all those years in school to be in a more 'flexible' environment.

But, I digress. So, I was running this well-strung set of morning chores to perfection today as well, in a bid to leave home between 7:38-39. Usually, post this, I wriggle through this back lane to skip directly to the main road from my lane, where I jay-walk to the other end of the road, and wave like crazy to every empty passing cab. As my office is too damn close to my place, I end up budgeting as much time for the taxi-flagging as much as for the commute. Usually, the 10 minutes to 7:50 are enough to see me at my office door.

Today, I was in for a surprise. Sometime over the weekend, the administration decided to kill my party and fence the divider on the main road. As I joyfully ambled to the main road, my jaw dropped. The entire math had been turned topsy-turvy. I had little time to think. My casual walk turned to a nervous run and, furiously panting, I reached the legit crossing at the fag end of the road and made my way to the opposite end of the road. Thankfully the variables solved themselves, and flagging the taxi took a lot lesser than usual. I made it in the nick of time!

This is just one of those things. Sometimes you come back home thinking of the lovely warm food you are going to have. And then, the cook decides to NOT turn up. At times, you venture out of home with your best clothes on, hands in pocket, whistling away. A bird decides to take a poop on you. Or in Mumbai, the sun miraculously turns to a cloud and lets out its fury on you. Only to turn back to being sunny again in a matter of five minutes.

Actually, Murphy, more often than one would like, wins. Shit happens. Order goes flying out of the window. And that's how life becomes worth weaving ridiculous, quirky tales about!