My Photoshoot Errand - My experience in front of the camera during my Wedding

I know I am kind of late with my next errand, but better late than never. I have written blogs about interesting experiences I had encountered during the course of my wedding preparations. First was when I went out for wedding saree shopping and the next was when I tried my hand in making rasam. I am here with my next interesting- little tiring and highly embarrassing experience- Photoshoot during the wedding.

The most crucial person for a wedding, more than even the bride and the groom, is the wedding photographer. As much as the qualifications of the bride and the groom are checked, the qualification of the wedding photographer holds equal importance. Most of the people who attend the wedding don’t really have the time to witness the wedding as they get so busy meeting their long lost relatives and friends. The only way they can catch up the wedding, the only way the parents of the couple could keep track of who attended the wedding, and the only way the couple could realise what really happened during their wedding is through their wedding album and videos.

Normally being very shy of cameras, I dreaded the thought of me being under the spotlight with those eye torturing lights, big flashy cameras and weirdly angled umbrellas pointing at me, and the entire crowd looking at me- gauging me and my outfit. Since I knew I always gave a strange sheepish smile when on camera (Just like Chandler Bing LOL), my fear knew no bounds. Hence to my utter surprise and desperation, I began practicing my smile weeks before my wedding, privately. I began researching other wedding albums, observing the other brides and their poses and expressions. I was slightly ashamed of myself for getting so self conscious because I was never that kind of a person. But- Come on! This wedding album was going to stay on for years and I didn’t want to be the centre of all the jokes and comments for years to come. I have to secure my position.

With my wedding smile in place, and confidence in tatters, on the morning of my D day, I stepped out of the car at the entrance of the wedding hall. Some of my relatives stood on either sides of the entrance with an awe-struck smile on their face. I felt like a celebrity. Rituals for my entry took place and I started to walk in when the “man of the moment”, the cameraman, stood right in front of me, with his huge camera lens as wide as a crocodile’s mouth blocking my view. All my practice went down the drain and my sheepish smile was back. He asked me to smile happily. I looked at the lens as if it was ice cream (Cold coffee in my case, though). He moved back and fro, left and right, capturing every action of mine. “Oh God! This was just the beginning!”

When I went in to book the photographer, I was shown a marvellous photo album. I was so mesmerised by the style and clarity of the photos that I wanted my wedding album to look the same. Little did I know about the hard work the couple had to put in to get that brilliant outcome. Since candid photography is the “thing” of the day, I couldn’t stop myself from opting that. Knowing that someone is capturing your every action from behind the wall, I consciously began searching for the candid photographer and always kept a constant smile on my face. I can’t let him capture my moments of irritation and annoyance and blow them up, can I?

In course of the photoshoots, I learned there were three kinds of smile: Elastic smile where you smile WIDELY, Teeth showing smile where you flash all your teeth and Normal smile where you don’t smile. Every shot was taken with all the three kind of smiles. While I looked better in one smile, my man didn’t, and where he was great, I looked weirder than weird. Having given the easy exams-standing and sitting, it was now time for poses. When I looked at the sample albums, I didn’t realise one major thing- The huge audience who will witness the entire photoshoot. How embarrassing! As the photographer straightened the angles of our chin, hand and shoulder, I could see the gossip uncles and aunties already murmuring to each other and pointing their scrutinising eyes in our direction. Standing next to my man, I craned my neck to look at his face. The photographer asked us to freeze and keep looking at each other with Teeth showing smile. Just imagine the scene?! NO NO- don’t ever imagine that...LOL Not even a minute, I could feel my jaws shiver as we stood in “Statue”. The all around smirks couldn’t be missed even from a distance of 30 feet. I managed to see even a few shift their position. Since the photographer never said “Time out”, we kept smiling at each other with unaware that the snap was already taken. Imagine the embarrassment! I am not even going to go into the teasing which happened later.

Group photoshoot has a fun of its own as it’s just not the couple under the scrutiny, but everyone. Loads of confusion happens on stage. As our parents introduced their colleagues, friends and relatives, we stood blankly with a huge smile, heads nodding top and down. When standing for the group photo, husbands and wives stood interchanged- You get what I am saying? Then positions were changed, “You come this side, you go that side.”  Amidst all this, they kept talking to us, congratulating us, and even telling golden olden stories about them and our parents, without giving the slightest heed to the camera, silently killing the photographer’s patience. I sadistically enjoyed the photographer’s agony. Just kidding! Nah...Who cares- it’s just you guys- Yes I was happy looking at the photographer’s helplessness. When two men get on stage to wish us, it was always fun to see the hesitation on the faces of the men. Who will stand near the bride? The unfortunate one stood at least a couple of feet away from me and had to be pulled into the frame. Another dilemma moment was when two families enter the stage at the same time from either sides of the stage.

The painful part of the entire photoshoot was the amount of time the photographer took to click us. Every tick of the minute, the only fear on my mind was if I would ever get food at the end. I took days and weeks to decide the menu of my wedding and here I was unable to eat any of them. My stomach grumbled in hunger and my legs were giving away due to the hours long standing on 3.5 inches platform heels, bearing the weight of my heavy costume. Fatigue filled my entire system, and my mind was about to shut down, when, right at that moment, the photographer asked me to smile with more energy! The timing couldn’t have been any better. I know he was only doing his job. In a way, he was trying to fulfil my dream of having the best wedding album, but at what cost? Sit, stand, turn right, turn left, chin up, chin down, head tilt- I felt I was in my school drill.

Wedding albums give the much needed fulfilment for any marriage, marriage here I mean the ceremony and not the married life. If the album is screwed, the agony and the disappointment over it will stay for the rest of our lives. Also, the biggest drawback is...there is no chance of a retake... :D

Just like our teachers told our parents during Open House, “a little extra effort, your child can do wonders”, a little extra effort from the couple’s side could do wonders to the wedding album. The pain and the frustration you have to endure in course of the photoshoots will help you a lot in the future, just like it helped me write a blog about it ;-)  

My Cooking Errand: My first experience in serious cooking

I could hear my heart beating in top speed. I could sense my hands shaking in nervousness as I gripped the dosa spatula tightly on my hand, balancing the not-so-circular dosa at least one foot above the dosa tava. This was the moment- the moment which would decide my future in cooking, the moment which would decide if I was fit to be inside the kitchen, at the prestigious position in front of the gas stove. A part of me wanted me to fail so that I could get an excuse to say- “Sorry, I can’t cook.” Another part of me wanted me to succeed mainly for pride- “Can there be anything I can’t do?” With million thoughts racing in my mind, and my heart reaching out to the countless Gods of the world, I turned my wrist to let the dosa turn and fall on the centre of the tava! I closed my eyes for a moment and opened it to witness the outcome....Half the dosa was on the tava while the other half dangled outside, screaming to be rescued. I pulled my face in frustration and realised- Cooking wasn’t as easy as eating, was it?

                            

I have come a long way from then. My learnings- Cooking is an art. It needs passion. It needs interest and above all, it needs patience and a heavy dose of common sense. There were times when I used to boast that I know to cook, but apparently, boiling water, boiling milk, grating coconut and rolling bizarre-shaped chapathis weren’t considered cooking. (Pity me!)

Once you enter the ‘marriage age zone’- say after 22 or 23 (sometimes even younger)- the first mission is to acquire the cooking qualification. It was no different for me. The time had come for me to earn my Bachelors degree in C.f.S – Cooking for Survival.

Rasam is like oxygen for both the person who cooks and eats. Both can’t survive without it. On my first class, my mother told me- Rasam- though easy and very quick to make, was also the trickiest dish ever. Get the proportions wrong- the resultant product will stand faaaaar away from ‘Rasam’. I gave the triumphant Rajnikant laugh then, (Hahahaha!) and asked her to just tell me the procedure and then sit back and watch me wave my magic. In 60 minutes, the kitchen which looked like the one in Fox Life turned into the one like in Karate Hussaini’s show (Remember?). Apparently there is a reason why the stove has two burners and we have two hands. It seems everything has to be put into use at the same time. Just like we watch TV, read a book, browse the internet, and chat with friends at the same time, it seems we need to cut vegetables, grind something in the mixie, and let something boil on the kadai at the same time....Oh!

Jokes apart- sorry- facts apart. Let me take you guys through my experience and my personal thoughts while making Rasam for the first time in detail. It's going to be lengthy, so please bear with me. It happened quite a while ago. You can also learn how to make it- or say- how not to make it.

First thing, it’s very important that you are well prepared before entering the kitchen. Hence, with great determination, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, let some motivational filmy songs play in my head (Chale chalo, Vetri nichayam types) and slowly picked up the most important thing for cooking- especially for beginners. APRON! I was told that as many mistake you make in cooking, the ingredients fight back strongly and the first thing they attack is your clothes. Hence secure that first. Get an Apron which has pockets so that you can always have your lifeline with you – Your phone. With everything set, I entered the kitchen with my cooking notebook. I had confidently asked my mother to stay away from sight and true to her word, she was nowhere to be seen and that sent me a strange fear. Anyway, I checked my phone for ‘important’ notifications. Fortunately or unfortunately, there was none. So I got down to work. I checked my notes and began to follow the instructions.

 1. Rinse 2 cups of toor daal, add a glass of water, add one tomato (as a whole) and put it in the cooker to cook. 6 whistles. Then 5 minutes in sim. (Varies from house to house, from cooker to cooker)

“2 cups? Which cup? Tea cups? Or the water measuring cups? Or was it the drinking glasses?” I scratched my head in confusion. I pulled out the toor daal container and was relieved to already find a small cup inside. (Thank you Maa...). I followed the rest of the instructions as I had written. “It’s not that difficult as Amma said,” I though. 6 whistles. 5 minutes in low flame. I reminded myself. I had the timer ready with 5 minutes on clock. “I am not going to leave any room for error,” I said confidently to myself.

Since multitasking was the order of the day- I looked at point number 2, with my ears still waiting for the whistle signals. 

2. Take some tamarind (a small ball) and let in soak in hot water. (Procedure differs from house to house, from person to person) Add some jaggery along-optional.  

SOME!?!? What does SOME mean? Some tamarind - Some jaggery. But how much? Size of a ball? A golf ball? A tennis ball? Or a football? From an old jar specifically assigned for tamarind, I pulled a substantial piece out and stared at it as if it was a bomb. Of course- it was no less than a bomb. I get this wrong- my dish was bombed. The stickiness of the tamarind on my hand was irritating me and so I quickly washed my hands and put the tamarind in a small cup. I added three small pieces of jaggery (One for me, one for mother and one for father). I let it boil for a few seconds and kept it aside.

“Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss”. The cooker whistled sending me in bewilderment. Shock. Fear. “Was that the first whistle or did it whistle before? May be it’s the 2^nd. “Ssssssssssssssssssssss”. I fixed the number to 3 whistles and stood idly waiting for the rest of the whistles to be blown. Can’t lose count again. Putting the flame in low, setting the timer to 5 minutes, I walked to the next step.

 3. Extract tamarind juice.

I have seen my mother and grandmother do this a lot of times and hence I knew I had to use my hand to extract the juice and not the juicer. Using the tip of my five fingers, I squeezed the warm tamarind, to see the colour of the water turn into dark brown. I felt I was in chemistry lab, with colour of water changing and all- not to forget the apron did feel like I was wearing a lab coat. Anyway- I continued squeezing and then finger-filtered (miserably) the juice into another vessel. Then I poured some more water and continued the process. (Timer screamed. 5 minutes was over. I switched off the stove and put the cooker aside.). I wondered how long I should continue the juice process. I mean- “how much juice do I need? A vessel full? Should I keep adding water and keep extracting? I mean- I wanted to make a vessel full of rasam, so I would need a vessel full of tamarind water too, right? Uhmmm...The colour of the water isn’t changing anymore.”  I decided to stop the process. If I wanted more rasam, I will add more water at the end. Throwing the tamarind waste aside, I filtered the juice once more (using a proper filter now), and then put the vessel on top of the stove- the other burner.

 4. Boil the tamarind water.

“In what flame? Should I keep it in low flame and let it boil or should I up the flame? But if it boils, the water will evaporate and the level of rasam will come down, wouldn’t it? Always safe to play safe.” I kept in medium flame and stared at the tamarind water, silently pleading it to boil faster. I was losing patience. I was getting bored. And above all, I was feeling hungry. I looked at point number 

5. Add asafoetida (not powder), salt (rock) and rasam powder (yellow cap, small bottle) - 1 tbsp.

I wanted to hit myself. I haven’t made any note on the quantity of salt and asafoetida.

After a five minutes search (and misplacing almost all the containers in the shelf), I found the needed ingredients. I took the dark brown asafoetida cake to pull some of it....What on God’s name was that??!!! It was harder than a diamond. I couldn’t even get a grip to pull some out. And it smelled strong... “What should I do? Skip the ingredient? No. May be I should cut it.” I used a knife on it but no luck except the knife got stuck in it, taking me 2 minutes to save the knife alive. The tamarind water had started to boil and it was high time I dropped the ingredients. I used all my strength again and pinched the cake to pull some out of it. I got a small piece, accompanied by a burning pain in my fingers. Something was better than nothing. I dropped that small piece into the boiling tamarind water. I took a handful of rock salt from an old (sentimental!) jar and dropped it into the vessel (dropping some on the floor too). Rasam powder. I found the yellow capped bottle, took a spoon full and dropped it. The colour changed. “Phew!” I was getting somewhere... “Yep. The end of the instructions.”

6. Once boiled, add the cooked toor daal and tomato- mashed.

I kept my ears close to the cooker to see if it was still singing and humming. It was silent. I slowly opened the cooker to have steam blown all over my sweaty face. I scurried for the idikki (gripper), and pulled the hot vessel out. Good. The dal was cooked- over cooked actually. I picked the matthu (blender), which used to be my toy when I was young, and blended the daal and tomato. Battle of the Equipments! As I twisted the blender in steady speed, the vessel rotated as well, splashing hot daal on my hands and apron. In order to position the very hot vessel, I had to use the gripper, but in that case, I couldn’t use the matthu as I needed both hands to twist. (Confusing, I know) OH MY GOD! I closed my eyes calming myself and continued with the job, struggling with the kitchen equipments. The mashed dal and tomato was ready. I was waiting to pour that into the work-in-progress (WIP) rasam.

My mother’s instructions said the tamarind water had to boil with salt and other things for at least 5 to 7 min. I had put that on the timer and was waiting for it to wail. With nothing to do, I pulled out my phone. Seven notifications. As I walked through them, I heard a ‘ssssshhhhh’ sound, like waves in the beach. I raised my head to see the WIP rasam rising and about to flow out of the vessel. “What is happening? Did I add milk? Why was it about to flow out?” I lowered the flame immediately, threw the phone back into the pocket, switched off the timer before it shouted, and poured the mashed daal into the vessel of boiled tamarind rasam powedered water.

7. Pour daal. Pour water.

“How much water? Till the edge of the vessel? There is just few centimetres of space left in the vessel. What to do? The rasam seemed already watery enough, but but but I SHOULD add water according to mother.” I poured in a glass of water, taking God’s name. The vessel was COMPLETELY FULL.

 8. Let it boil for some time. Add coriander and curry leaves.

The rasam was on the verge of spilling out. I had to go to the fridge and bring the curry and coriander leaves. “Will the rasam look after itself? Or will it be naughty again and try to jump out? May be I should switch off the stove and then light it again?” The rasam wasn’t boiling yet. I ran to the fridge, pulled out the containers and ran back to my rasam. It was still snoozing. Relief. With no intention of confusing myself this time, I took equal number of curry leaves and coriander leaves (no partiality you see) - washed them, cut them, and put them in the rasam.

I tried to smell the aroma- but there was none? What was wrong? When my mother or grandmother used to make rasam, it used to smell so good. Why was there no smell at all? May be it was like when we use perfume. We can’t smell it, but others can. Convincing myself- I went to the last and final point.

9. Season it with ghee+mustard.

Now this was where there could be counter attack. Mustards, though it looks very small, are capable of causing heavy damage to human beings. After letting the specific seasoning karandi heat for some time, I added the ghee. It melted before I could blink. It was time for the mustards. Standing two feet away from the stove, with just the hand stretched, I dropped the little bombs into the karandi. It fluttered immediately, throwing itself around the kitchen. I dropped them instantly into the rasam and it ‘wooshed’.

That’s it! The rasam was ready. Congratulations! It looked like a rasam...but did it taste like one? TASTE! Who was going to taste it? Terrified, I took a spoon of rasam, blew air on it to cool and dropped it inside my mouth. I stood for a minute pondering. Two things were very clear. 1. It is easier to taste food made by others. 2. Something was definitely wrong with the rasam. Was it too salty? No. More salt was needed actually. No. It was too sour. No. Too spicy? No. I should have added more rasam powder. No. Screw it!  At least I didn’t throw up.

I looked at the watch. Yippee! I managed it to make it in 60 minutes. That was good speed, right? It was verdict time.

If my father felt any sort of stage fright, he didn’t show it on his face. Mother and I looked at him closely, as he took a spoonful of rasam and rice.

‘Superb! Amazing!,’ said my father instantly. ‘If you are cooking so good the first time itself, I am sure you will become a master chef very soon.’

I smiled widely. Of course he is going to appreciate me. He is my Dad. He just can’t say a word against his princess daughter, can he? I looked at my mother who took a spoon of my masterpiece.

She smiled. ‘One learns cooking from mistakes only. This is good for the first time. Just add some salt, some more rasam powder, less jaggery, less tamarind- you are good to go.’

I couldn’t even feel happy for the polished criticism mixed nice words. All I felt was exhaustion.

‘Cooking is all about imagination. Innovation,’ said my father.

I thought to myself, “I can’t even follow the given instructions and he is asking me to innovate?!”

My mother said, ‘Remember. This is just the beginning. Soon, you should be able to make a rasam, a sambar and a vegetable curry in 60 minutes. That’s multitasking! Also- there is morkuzhambu, puli kuzhumbu, poricha kuzhambu, aviyal, payasam, pongal, vegetables of a million variety and sweets and savouries of a billion variety which you need to learn and mix and match.... every day.’

‘NOO!’ I exclaimed like someone in Hindi serial. I could feel cameras circling me, capturing every part of my shock, ending with at least four- BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! sound at the background. ‘Come on! That’s more than a single semester syllabus. And to make three or four dishes in a matter of 60 or 90 minutes is IMPOSSIBLE.’

I knew what the next line would be, ‘Nothing is impossible.’

I have come a long way in cooking after this first experience. Apart from cooking, I have learnt a lot of managerial skills too. Like- when cooking, you should also learn to attend telephone calls, attend door bells, clean up the house, wash the vessels, refill the ingredient containers, and a countless other things. I have also realised, I have been so wrong all these years. There is something more difficult than differential and integral calculus.

There are a few rules which I have come up with to motivate myself while cooking. I am sharing this with my fellow beginners. If you are a beginner, you will find it useful. If you are a good cook, you will find it silly. If you are an expert, you will find it funny.

5 Rules for C.f.S level

#1.   Don’t panic. That’s the job of whoever is going to eat your preparation.

#2.   Tastes differ from people to people. What seems right to you might seem awful to others.

#3.   After your job is done in the kitchen, move on. Don’t look back.

#4.   Cooking is just another job. Don’t take it too seriously.

#5.   If the resultant dish is not what you intended, consider the dish your latest INVENTION.

Every time I prepare a new dish, a funny experience is attached. Do share it if you have one. Happy Cooking!

Kabali- Movie Review

Rating:

Kabali, as a movie: 2/5

Kabali, for Rajni: 4/5

Took my dose of Kabali! One dose and the Kabali fever is down.

Rajnikanth- the one and only reason for many to have watched this movie. It’s always a pleasure and a splendid experience to watch the SUPERSTAR on screen. No doubt, he has still got it in him- the style, the smile and the attitude. Every scene of his was a visual treat. The entry scene! Wish I had known how to whistle. His pose standing at the gate, the walk, the talk- I have no words to express my excitement and happiness on watching Rajni on screen after a long time (I didn’t watch Linga! LOL). His look with the white beard was too good. I wish he hadn’t taken it off in the later part of the movie. Though I am spell bound by his presence and speechless by his energy, I don’t have any shortage of words for Kabali, as a movie.

Yes! I am a Rajni fan. Yes. I went to watch this movie for him. Yes. I wasn’t disappointed by him. YES. The movie was an utter mess. A huge dud.

                          

The movie surrounds Kabaleeswaran aka Kabali, the good gangster (oxymoron?), the messiah of the Tamil people in Malaysia, who is released from jail after a long sentencing. There is the enemy gang, 43 (Oh yes! That’s the gang’s name), who is desperately waiting to finish off Kabali- their only competitor. The local government is sceptical wonderin if releasing Kabali will give rise to more civil unrest. Whatever it is, Kabali is released and we have a heavy dosage of Rajni for the next 15 minutes or so. The narration then plunges into the core of the movie and this is where the problem with the movie begins. I’ll jot down in points. I think that will add more clarity....

1. Clarity- The primary problem with Kabali is there is absolutely no clear objective. It begins with Kabali wanting to avenge the death of his wife. Then the focus shifts to the foundation run by him. Then it jumps into Kabali’s personal life. And then back to his gang life. As a viewer, I am completely tired of jumping emotions so quickly that at the end, I don’t feel the sadness or the pain of our lead character.
2. The Malaysian setting is very hard to connect. The basic problem being the discrimination of Tamilians isn’t projected with the needed depth.
3. All the scenes of gang 43 are so clumsily taken.
4. Every single character’s loyalty is doubted in almost every scene.
5. The movie might even surpass Mount Everest when it comes to melodrama.

Few questions and observations:

1. What happened to Ang Lee? Did his 100^th birthday turn into his death day? Poor guy.
2. Is Kabali’s suit custom made to hold weapons in his shirt sleeve or coat sleeve?
3. Does Malaysian jail allow prisoners to watch Tamil movies in prison? How did Kabali know about Vadivelu dialogues?
4. Is there a particular reason why villains are always supposed to wear atrociously coloured suits? Dark pink suit and violet shirt? Seriously? Kudos to Tony Lee for even carrying that with a smile.
5. Instead of having Tamil subtitles for Tony Lee’s English, there should have been subtitles for his Tamil. I realised he was speaking Tamil only because there were no subtitles.
6. Medical Miracle Moment: Kumudhavalli’s mental ill health vanishing faster than Usain Bolt. How? Must be Kabali’s magical eyes is it?
7. Yogi and Jeeva? What happened there? Sorry...how? Sorry....when?
8. The foundation wants to change the lives of the youngsters, but is willing to use them for their gang wars just because their cause is good?
9. 5 bullets and Kabali still survives. I believe it. It’s Rajni after all.
10. Who was the actual anointed comedian in the movie? Tony Lee or Jeeva?

Another problem I had with the movie was the unintentional message it was propagating. Violence. There is already so much violence going on, especially among youth. 75% of this movie has just blind shooting and bloodshed. With Rajni being followed so much by people of all ages, I feel a much more disciplined, much cleaner character would have been better. Of course, it’s a movie. Of course, Kabali is a character and miles away from the real Rajni- but how many really understand the difference?

Coming to the performances, Radhika Apte and Dhansika have given extra ordinary performances, in par with Rajni. Apart from that, the supporting cast come across very amateurish.

Moments to look for: Kabali’s entry, his encounter with Cheeni, the stylish fights, the firework shootings at the end. Mayanadhi song is beautifully picturised.

Rajni is known for the following factors and Kabali checks everything:
ü  Grand opening scene,
ü  Title song singing praises of Kabali,
ü  Revenge motive,
ü  Sentiment due to losing someone close and dear,
ü  Stylish fights,
ü  Trademark walk,
ü  Victory at the end.

Rajni fans get what they went for.

Watch it for Rajni. Ignore the rest.

TE3N- Movie review

Rating: 3/5

Cast: Amitabh Bachchan, Nawazudin Siddique, Vidya Balan

Director: Ribhu Das Gupta

A crime investigation thriller, T3EN tracks the lives of John Biswas (Amitabh) and Father Martin (Nawazudin), 8 years after the death of John’s granddaughter, who was kidnapped and consequently died. Martin, then a policeman, failed to capture the kidnapper. John, unable to come to terms with his granddaughter’s death, doesn’t rest and wants the kidnapper brought to justice. 8 years, he visits the police for updates, tries to investigate himself but in vain. Martin on the other hand, resigns his job and becomes a Father. He keeps in touch with John and his wife but has no inclination towards the case. But a kidnapping with the similar MO happens when a little boy gets kidnapped. Savita (Vidya Balan), is in charge of the case and catches the similarity. She takes the help of Martin to put an end to the mystery and nab the kidnapper.  John, on the other hand, continues his investigation and acquires a break through.

                                               

T3EN works most of the time, but still falls short of being a perfect thriller. Why? One reason could be because of its similarity to Kahani- set in Kolkata, Vidya Balan factor; even the story telling is pretty much similar. Though it is credit to Amitabh for playing a very weak character in John Biswas, yet, it’s impossible not to miss the Amitabh in a more majestic role. Somewhere I felt, the character was a misfit to him. The story moves around between past and present, and most of the time it is done clearly. Yet (Yes...another yet LOL), there are lot of things which need more clarification (Can’t reveal as it would be a giveaway). The primary incident is shown too quickly, in bits, without any depth, for all the details to be digested. The director, Ribhu Das Gupta, has done a fairly good job with the script but the screenplay could have been better arranged. Just when you are into the present story, the past comes in, confusing the entire sequence.

The songs are fair, but forced into the story. Cinematography is good. Background music could have been better. BG plays an important role in stories like these.

Actors play their part well. Vidya Balan is good as Savita. The character is more than just a guest appearance. Amitabh as always is excellent. The standout has to be Nawazudin. He is great as a police officer first and then as a Father, ridden by guilt and running away from accepting failure.

T3EN is a onetime watch (Probably twice, if you want to understand better). The story is very interesting and executed well for most part of it. Thrillers of this kind have become too scarce. 

A Long Errand - My Experience with Wedding Saree shopping

‘Silk sarees!’ Pause. ‘For wedding.’ Pause. ‘For my daughter.’

The pride in the voice of the mother could not have been missed by the hundreds of salesmen on the silk sarees shop floor. The anointed salesman gave a confused grin at the family, who were looking at the thousands of sarees arranged in the tall, long shelves. He hunted for the ‘would be’ bride to gift his creepy grin but found her busy on her phone, smashing the screen with her fingers. 

‘Please take a seat,’ said the salesman politely. As the men- the cashier father, the supporting uncle and the excited grandfather took their seats, eagerly looking at the multitude of colours splashed in front of them and discussing among themselves which would best suit their pretty girl; the scrutinising mother, the analytical aunt, the ever positive grandmother, the bored sister and the worried ‘would be’ bride stood in front of their seats, eyes doing hip hop.

The salesman, who went to bring the first lot of sarees- the best of the best sarees to impress the family, to get them all interested, came back with a tall pile of sarees- his selection, his pet pile. He placed them on the soft surface of the table, picked the top saree from the pile, placed it carefully and gently like it was a new born baby, opened it with pride, and showed off the grand work of threads coiled in beautiful designs. His education on silk sarees was ready to be tested as he got ready to answer the usual questions. The creepy grin was back and he looked at the mother with great expectations. The major portion of the sales training included how to quickly find out the decision maker in the family and invariably it was the mother.  

‘Madam...this is the best quality of silk you can ever find. This colour will...’

‘Could you please take that blue saree on the top row, the one above the dull red,’ said the mother, who had already disliked the saree detailed in front of her. Her eyes and mind had already gone for hunt and was back with its first prey.’

‘Madam...that is not of the same quality as this...’ he wanted to first show off his pet pile first.

‘It’s ok...but first let me see how it is...’ the mother said calmly.

The salesman saw no other way but to oblige. Leaving his pet pile of sarees, he took out the one requested. A look of dislike and disgust emerged on the mother’s face. The salesman felt quite pleased. He began to put the saree back to where it belonged when,

‘Wait! Wait! Open and show it,’ said the mother, voice squeaky. The aunt bypassed the grandmother and stood near the mother now, both leaning forward with interest.

‘Look at the colour combination....how can someone wear a pink and an orange combination saree. Looks too bright and old fashioned, isn’t?’ asked the mother loudly, knowing the aunt would support her statement.

‘Of course. Who wears sarees like these nowadays??!! Could you please show us some new designs?’

‘Wasn’t that what I was trying to do in the first place?’ thought the salesman. ‘Sure Madam. Look at this...Pink and yellow combination is the trend today...’

‘My daughter already has a saree in that combination,’ replied the mother. ‘No pink please...’

‘Oh!’ said the salesman. ‘No problem. Look at this...orange and gold. It would look very grand and elegant on your daughter.’

‘Is there something in yellow?’ asked the mother not giving any attention.

‘What about this orange?’ wondered the salesman to himself. ‘Sure. How about this?’ He picked up a yellow from his pet pile.

‘Not this yellow,’ said the aunt. ‘It’s like headlights. Show a shade darker.’

‘Yes yes...,’ spoke the grandmother. ‘This bright yellow used to be fashion in our days only. Even we don’t wear this yellow now...’

‘Everyone should wear sunglasses to see this I guess,’ joked the aunt garnering laughter from everyone except the salesman. He managed a sheepish smile.

‘How about this green here, Madam?’ The salesman put all his training into effect. He threw open the dark green saree majestically.

Before the mother could even consider the saree, there were immediate protests from the others.

‘Didn’t our neighbour’s daughter wear the same colour for her marriage? We would look like we are copying her. No No...’ said the aunt.

‘Doesn’t matter. If this saree is good, we should go for it,’ said the mother observing the saree closely. ‘This is actually very good.’

The salesman was surprised to see the mother coming to a decision so quickly. Was a new Guinness record going to be created? He wondered.

‘Baap re!’ exclaimed the mother. ‘Rs 35,000. No No No...I asked you to show only sarees within 25, 000. Why are you showing above that? Please show within the range and bring yellow sarees now!’

‘Sorry madam. Sure...I’ll get a dark yellow.’

The salesman, still brimming with interest and excitement, ran to the other end of the floor to find the dark yellow the ladies wanted. The bored sister, slowly moved to the fancy sarees section, trying to find her saree love.

‘What’s there in these sarees? I mean- 30,000 for this one??!’ wondered the father.

‘We can get more than 40 shirts in this amount,’ said the uncle, turning the saree 360 degrees hoping to find the secret behind the atrocious pricing.

‘And these women wear it so rarely. What’s the point of spending so much when they aren’t even going to put it to full use. My wife purchased a silk saree last year for 20,000 and wore it just once,’ complained the father. He could feel his credit cards thumping in his pockets.

‘Stop chattering,’ ordered the grandfather, who sat patiently looking at the displayed sarees.

The salesman was back with 5 dark yellow sarees which he opened and displayed in front of the ladies one by one.

‘This colour will suit the girl very nicely,’ said the salesman as a compliment.

‘This is amazing,’ said the mother. The grandmother immediately pulled that saree towards her to have a closer look. The aunt touched the saree feeling the quality of the material and gave a nod of approval.

‘This will look very good on my girl,’ said the grandmother with a proud smile.

The father and the uncle gave a wide smile.

‘Please no yellow!’ said the girl suddenly, her sunk head floated above the phone for the first time. ‘I don’t like yellow. Get anything but yellow.’

The mother and aunt glanced at each other. The grandmother put the saree nearer to the salesman with disappointment. The smile drained from the father and the uncle’s face. It’s going to be a long day, they thought.

‘As you heard, no yellow then,’ said the mother to the eager salesman.

‘You didn’t even know your daughter hates yellow?’ the salesman spoke to himself.

‘No pink and no yellow,’ said the mother.

‘No red. Red is too common,’ said the aunt.

‘No black or white. It’s inauspicious,’ said the grandmother.

‘I am getting something in green. So please don’t get green...’ shouted the sister from the other section.

‘No big borders. No stones or any other type of embroidery stuff. Pure traditional saree,’ added the mother.

The salesman looked at the ladies, bewildered. ‘Sarees have to be only customized for these ladies. It’s not a recipe to add whatever they like. It’s a saree....’ But all he could manage to say was,

‘Of course,’ he said leaving on his hunt again, repeating the requirements like a mantra in his head.

‘Not a great collection, is it?’ said the worried mother.

‘And who asked the salesman’s opinion?’ commented the aunt.

‘Shall we go to some other store?’ asked the mother looking at the father. ‘JK Silks?’

‘Parking would be a pain there,’ said the father with a strong nod from the uncle. ‘What’s wrong with this yellow one?’

‘Saree has to be a saree, not dumbbells. Just look at the weight,’ said the mother pushing the saree towards her husband. The father had already accepted defeat.

‘What do you think of this peach colour one?’ asked the mother pointing at a saree.

‘Very nice,’ replied the father curtly.

‘Not as good as this violet one, right?’ continued the mother.

‘Yes. If you say so...,’ replied the father, slowly pulling out his mobile praying someone should call him to save him from this risky conversation.

‘Pink?’ asked the mother, understanding the father’s attitude.

‘Very nice,’ replied the father.

‘I didn’t even show the saree,’ said the mother with anger. ‘From next time, I am not going to come with you. You are of no use here.’

The father shrugged helplessly. He had never dared disagree to his wife’s choice, but agreeing had also become a sin.    

‘Be patient. Your daughter will get the best saree that you would have never imagined. Just look at her- she is smart, intelligent, independent...how could she not get the best saree? Don’t be hasty in choosing. Wait...analyse...think if your daughter will be happy and then decide. Her happiness is the first priority. If she doesn’t like the saree, then there is no point in forcing it on her. It would be a loss to both her and the saree,’ advised the grandmother.

‘Exactly. There are so many sarees here...I am sure she will like at least one of them,’ said the aunt.

‘I really hope so,’ said the mother with a silent prayer.  

Another salesman hearing their conversation wondered if they were talking about a saree or a boy for the girl.

The father and the uncle slowly got up to let the ladies do their job. They knew they would be summoned at the cash counter at the right time.

The mother and the aunt took a walk around the floor to find the best choice for their daughter.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the grandmother seeing the daughter still busy on the phone. ‘Focus here.’

‘I am just looking at sarees online to see if something attracts me. I’ll ask these people here if they have the same one. Problem solved!’

‘Brilliant,’ appreciated the grandfather.

‘What brilliant?! Nothing like looking at sarees in real and buying it. These online wonline will just put good pictures. When you see them in reality, it would be worse than the worst.’

Silence descended as the daughter saw the point.

The salesman was back with the requested colours. He looked around to find the leading ladies.

‘You show us,’ said the daughter, taking interest for the first time.

After all the sarees were displayed, the girl pointed her finger at a orange and green one with blue borders and looked at her grandparents for their opinion.

‘This will look so beautiful on you,’ said the grandmother very impressed. More impressed was the salesman. At the same time, there was a growing fear in him, and his fear came true the next second.

‘Beautiful? She will look like our national flag. No...no...something else...,’ said the mother, arriving back in station.

The next 2 hours was pure parliamentary stuff. One side picked a saree while the other rejected on the first look. The table was covered by silk sarees instead of table cloth. The mountain on the table was growing while the sarees on the shelves were drastically reducing.

While the mother shortlisted three sarees, the aunt had one, the grandmother had two and the daughter had three on their shorlists.

‘Take away all these sarees...and keep only the shortlisted ones,’ commanded the mother, her eyes and neck still revolving and rotating around the shopfloor.

The salesman, with relief that at least the ladies had arrived at a shortlist, slowly moved the tower of sarees aside...

‘One minute,’ said the mother pulling out an orange saree from under the mounted pile. ‘Wow! This looks so beautiful....’

The daughter was immediately beside the mother...so was the aunt and the grandmother. The bored sister was back with her selection in hand.

‘This saree is like made for each other,’ said the grandmother.

‘I am sure you will look like a princess in this,’ said the grandfather.

‘This has all the qualities that would suit you,’ said the aunt to the daughter with immense happiness.

‘Orange and gold combination- you are going to rock!’ said the sister.

The daughter looked lovingly at the saree, imagining herself in it. The mother was overwhelmed for words.

The salesman clenched his teeth with a frown look. The orange saree was from his pet pile, one of the firsts which he had shown the family, which no one had even noticed then but now...

The salesman smiled sharing the happiness. At least the family had found what they had come for.

The daughter stood in front of the mirror, adorning the saree, with the family looking at her in awe.

‘You are looking so beautiful...’ said the mother standing beside her daughter, looking at the mirror.

‘Great! Call your father...and let’s finalise it...,’ said the grandfather briskly.

A missed call, and the men were back. The daughter showed the saree with excitement and a slight shyness.

A voice erupted from a little distance. ‘What about this blue one?’ asked the mother pointing at a blue saree being displayed for another family.

‘That looks even better,’ said the daughter, running to her mother, leaving the orange saree behind. The ladies were back in business.

The father and the uncle went back to have their 7^th coffee.

The frustrated salesman put himself together. He could feel it. The family was definitely going to zero down on the orange one at the end again.  The number of sarees they were going to see was immaterial. What they needed was just another 2 hours to revert to that decision, satisfaction that no other saree was better than their orange one. Controlling himself from not banging his head, he walked to the place where the ladies stood looking at his fellow salesman’s pet pile.

A family might even allow a girl to choose the boy of her life, but never her wedding saree.