Ayan' YOLO" Mukerji

Coming of age has been a popular and central theme to most commercial cinema aimed at the generic teenager. People like John Hughes made an entire career making mediocre shit like Ferris Buehhler that made every teenager perceive non existent depth to the plot line. Rob Thompson, a leading Pop Culture expert in the United States defines it as the "teensploitation" genre and has been ranting to me about how John Hughes was a market driven douchebag and everything he made was turd.A bit much is what i would say but as does happen with most instances of cultural osmosis between the Cinema in the US of A and India, thirty years later was born the celebrated Bengali Ayan Mukerji.

Wake up Sid was the first that came along that turned every third guy in the hostel dormitory and street corner into a "creative bwoy". Honestly speaking, that year had seen Lakshya, a far more mature attempt at the "Coming of Age" cinema(With a slightly KMG hungover Hrithik though ofcourse). What Ayan did with his film though, was provide a massive boost to the sales of Canon and Nikon as every guy now was not only swiping his Daddys card at Emporio, but was also clicking pictures with puke like 'Sepia" filters and watermarking them . This isn't to put down the industry of photographers at all, but even they within themselves know that a majority of people picking it up was part of a Multiplex sham that was fed to them through the eyes of a likeable but brutish spoilt brat. This is what every 3rd year college undergrad was dreaming of. I mean, the Bangkok made printed Tees he wore were to been seen everywhere on ripped boys in Delhi University who had started to look so much like Ranbeer Kapoor it was worrisome. But time passed, and people didn't really give too much of a shit about Hauz Khas and the DSLR's started to gather dust. I can only imagine a dark rainy night when the MD of Sales at the camera firm probably called him saying a boost was needed. Ayan of course had grown up by now and evolved into someone who surprisingly was even more pretentious .

This was the pits. The semblance of realism that existed in his first was now pissed upon with some really good songs. Perhaps its the crowd at film school talking, but i clearly remember way too many people walking out of that movie saying 'that guy is me'. This film became the ultimate excuse for people suffering from the 'very real' quarter life crisis to quickly make a trip to Spain and party for month, of course filming evry now and then. To travel, you need some money. And to make that money, the least favourable route you could adopt is to be a guy who is clicking pictures of a mythical goat that craps flowers once a decade in Spiti Valley. Coming back to 'Teensploitation", its twisted because making hard personal calls and seeking to live a non traditional lifestyle usually get you satisfaction, but that happens when youre a few years in and can look at yourself not as an emotional or financial liability on your parents,your partner or society. It definitely doesn't happen in the first rain of the season. And also,'Kabira' isnt playing in the background.

Hindi. One Word. Not very old.

I never thought I’d wake up next to Sheila. I mean all of last night was a charade to get into Ramans room. Well, a waste it was perhaps. Well hello there, my name is Robin, you may refer to me Robin da, Robin bhaiyya or Robbie. Jhunku and Tin-Tin are names only my mother and my maashi can refer to me as so I’d rather you refrain. SO let me tell you about where it all began. Last evening was a delightful blend of socializing and indulgence. All of us friends decided to celebrate the 1000TH edition of our magazine by going over to Raman and Sheilas house for dinner. And before there Is even a hint of confusion, let me make clear that I have had the hugest crush on Raman since I joined. You see im the only single one in office,the only one on the good side of 32. Im thiry one basically,single and gay. So Raman and I were playing dumbcharades and we had a bit of a soulmate moment. You know when a friend does something that makes you realize that there is way more here than you could have ever imagined. So he was acting and I was guessing and he started enacting an English movie with the steps to Shahrukh Khans Chaiyya Chaiyya. My mind took me Moulin Rouge. Then Moulin Rouge in Calcutta, Rekha dancing at Moulin Rouge in Calcutta and finally Parineeta. Parineeta. In less than thirty seconds. Raman jumped on to me and said he loved me and gave me the biggest kiss on my cheek. My dark skin sometimes really helps the situation and boy did it help hide the twelve year old blush I had going. SO I decided that time is to get smashed and started pouring appletinis out to everybody. By 3’o clock, I had no idea where I was and what I was doing except feeling someone coming on to me ever so slightly, so I assumed that maybe this is Raman who in some post-‘Onircinema’ condescending way has to decided to explore bisexuality. So I went ahead and received whatever favours I was receiving. Maybe I should have noticed the long hair, or the bindi, or maybe the constant warning of ‘ssshhh,what if Raman wakes up’. I never thought I’d wake up next to Sheila.

The Lament

So this is a tale of a sect. A sect of people who hoped. People who revered and venerated a virtue. Not iconoclasts, but people who simply believed that if anything made them survive, it was happiness. It was a challenge everyday, while the creatures that made them shiver every night came and preyed viciously so as to make sure that a dark thought or two would permeate their mind. But all their ventures were in vain as the people of this town were dogged and never stepped out of line. It wasn’t a question of moral fiber as some of the older lot liked to believe. It was the fact that every locust that swarmed in was greeted with a smile and left untouched. Eventually, they reached a stage where the farmers were left with no option but to sense a bitter strain towards the locust. Then came a silence about the town. Ardor and strawberries that existed endlessly earlier were not to be seen really. The kind of a depression the killing of a locust would bring about surprised the vagabonds who noticed the people of the town while smoking their opium and ideating or perhaps just stopped at the well so to see men drink water in a setting so somber that every drop could be heard find its way down their throat. So the breezy young one broke the silence and said “we killed a locust”. “We killed seventy five, that mustn’t take away from our happiness”. She followed it with a dance where she showed her buttocks to the crowd at the well and said “there,you have an adolescent buttock, that apart from rather fine structure only wreaks of desperation to break her people out of a grim”. They stared, smiled and walked away. The next year was hard as the realization had dawned upon the people that they needed to remain upbeat through hard times, that’s how the concept of the Hillers came about. The Happy killers as they were known were the brave men entrusted with the responsibility of the killing of the locusts and the other not so appealing odd jobs that the fancy happy men refused to do. They went about their job with a proficency that was disconcerting as it was amusing. ‘Smile and stab’ was the emblem they carved on the barn they used for their afternoon siestas and the entertainment of the womenfolk. Passionate lovers, they had a stream of women ‘visit’ them . The hillers continued to do so till the drift of the winds shifted with years passing by and the locusts weren’t seen for a few years. They continued to feast,orgasm and grew obese. Suddenly, they were liabilities, once nominated and revered by the ‘happyfolk’ who never got their hands dirty. These creatures of filth were lowlifes who had killed locusts and that oddball man who tried to force himself on the chiefs daughter. The hillers now were barely either of the two,killers or happy. So, they walked out and decided it was time to smoke the leaves that the old men in neighbouring villages smoked to feel profound. Silently smoking for a month, they dawned upon the same realization,that there was a possibility of pigs impregnating the villagers’ wives and daughters but their job was one that would never go. Happy people need hillers. No sadistic obscure reasoning existed, none required. They walked back to the barn and left a message outside for the happy folk. ‘We wont leave , burn us down if you care. But wait ,youre happy folk Not youre scene or would you dare To leave your uptight bubbles, And your idea of happiness, To look at yourselves like us, And perhaps one day grow a pair’ Screw you.

Lunar Eclipse

All in a line.
Contiguous hands,
trembling.
Shy as fuck,
the moon is obscure.
A conversation,
a song, and some moves.
Some days are lived,
others observed,
the rest,
are evanescent.
Failed attempts, tears shed,
and the popcorn crushing heard on the head.
Living and observing,
a stage is reached.
Where special things happen to me.
Meanwhile,
Shy as fuck,
the moon is obscure.

Child Abuse

Where is the little boy? He came up to me.
He must be hiding. Running away from what he fears.
Never did we decide to hold him so tight.
Never did the child know he could put up a fight.
The agony cause by a prick.
The dolor in his eyes.
Set him right, he said.
When he will speak, he will forget.
The Pensieve grows shallow with age,
with time, a handful of memories remain.
They evince happiness and pride,
subtle anguish and vain.
But he knew the child would grow up to love and hate,
just like the others, he would run.
From fear and from villains.
From darkness and from rain.
But droplets of water will make him see,
someday, a past he lived to see.
A past with an older man.
A past that he thought would set him free.
But life's a bitch, it keeps you uptight.
Full of yourself, yet lacking belief.
In cows and bells, some find relief.
Others find humour, go overboard.
Crack others up, and continue to run.

He spoke to us on a rainy day,
with the droplets of rain on his specs.
Devoid of regret, we greeted him,
he smiled, and hugged us, the cocky bastard.
Said he erased a lot of what he knew,
rewrote his past, marshmallows ,angels and little houses with trees that he drew.

He pecked his wife goodnight,
tucked in his son,
and googled Sodomy.

Pataka

A flurry of lights,
A bowl of sweets.

A light in the sky,
The old man looks at.

The moment or two it lives,
and dies in haste.

He stared full of envy,
and looks down at his veins.

A short life,
full of purpose,
is something he would wish for.

A grand child with a pataka,
He has for himself.

He stares with envy,
and looks down at a vein.

The flurry of lights,
a box of sweets,
and a lifetime of pain.

Never Have I Ever

Never have I ever,
stopped.
Never have I ever,
looked.
Never have I ever,
thought.

I walk past them everyday,
hard up and frail.
My affluent ass is at ease.

The comfort of a cushion,
The warmth of a quilt.
Sitting silently,
eating.

Never have I ever,
worked.
Never have i ever,
starved.
Never have I ever,
thought.

I smile at them everyday,
So hard up and frail,
My affluent ass is at ease.