Sunday, 8 January 2017

episode 116 time and tied

he turned and there was the key on the table. right next to the broken glass and a smear of red. his eyes focused only on the key. he grabbed it and went to hurl it away.

but her voice cut in... "zara suniye!" please listen...

there she was in white walking toward him, arm outstretched, key in hand. the mazar, the day that di had sent him against his wishes to do things that thanked for wishes being fulfilled. the day he saw her for the second time.

somehow, he couldn't let that key go. part of their connection, this inanimate little object. seemed to have a meaning, though it really shouldn't.

then the red smear registers. it's blood.

"khoon?" why i wonder, the voice over is someone else's or did i really not recognise barun's voice?

quickly, his mind connects dots... he's pushing her, turning away, she's falling.

the khoon is khushi's and it's there because he was brutish once again. the hurt cuts to the core.

"khushi?!" wrenched out of him, just her name.

in the way he says her name there's always something of his intense feeling. every time asr utters her name, he seems to give the lie to a rather famous writer's much quoted line, "what's in a  name?" there's too much in his "khushi" for me to ever think the name was just a physical indicator with no real intrinsic, essential necessity to it. no, juliet, romeo had to be romeo and not any other of name, khushi is inalienably khushi... and always asr had to be asr. which is why the mere thought of an arnav mallick had me in a blue funk, even though his first name is the same. identity, you, all there in that name.

and when asr says, "khushi," it becomes a love story in itself sometimes. like today. i listened to just that one call and heard fear, guilt, desperation, love, care, fear, desperation, guilt all in his voice. if barun sobti hadn't understood that feeling exactly, no amount of directing could have given us that hoarse ragged dear god bring her to me sound.


nor that look.

her left hand wrapped in dupatta she prays, "hey dm, humari madat karo ki hum pichhli saari baaton ko bhool jaaye," help me so that i can forget the past... she wants to live, not succumb, she is a fighter too, and even if it kills her she will do all she can to survive the bleakest hour and look toward light.

the 18 year old promises never to go back to that house nor see uss laad governor's face. that laad gov... that khushi, that girl. the sense of possessiveness in the way they refer to the other, mine to be rude about, ok? how much she wants to see him, which is why a huge promise must be made... like i promise not to eat rice every day, ha. since morning, she's been praying for this resolve, not to see him. because of that key (oh how we like to fool ourselves)... but now, never.

"humne unhe unki mannat ki chabi bhi lauta di... bhool se bhi unhe yaad nahin karenge." how sweet, even by mistake i won't remember him... uppermost in her mind is that awful man still. i believe you must have thought well for me, with this faith she closes her eyes to pray as the conch blows, as the wind rises again. the wind?

and a car comes swishing into frame. a man in a cool grey suit, blue shirt, shades on, makes his way purposefully up the steps of the temple.

the wind grows thicker, insistent.

she's leaving the mandir... he is walking up.

as she steps off the temple hall, her dupatta is caught by the wind and hurled on her face. a "wake up, khushi" from the skyriding gust?

if the parting had been calamitous the night of diwali, equal and opposite reaction is here. a momentous meeting. like no other.

piano notes join the wind as the moments are stretched preparing...

at last, she pulls the veil off and she looks up, only to freeze on the spot. beyond the veil... the most beloved, the most hated face.

no thought, no words, no waste of precious time... la la hm mhm hm hm hmhmmm, the piano goes into happiness, joy, and the sheer sweetness of you in my life. she looks bemused, he slowly takes off his shades, all his feelings in those eyes.

imagine this moment, khushi. all that was everything between you, then by the pool a losing of inhibitions, after that the vicious strike of you mean nothing to me... then a last meeting... again the turmoil. but now at last you've made up your mind though your heart yearns for another reality. yet you will strive... never see him again... never. and then your eyes find him. just that. and the music goes dreamy. what a moment.

"khushi?" again he calls her.

a little unsure, almost gentle... asking?

she walks away. immediately the flare up. so so asr. that tenderness wants a chance but the gussa holds sway. you can't walk away while he is talking to you...

"khushi, main tumse baat kar raha hoon, tum aise nahin ja sakti," i am talking to you, you can't walk away like that.

firebrand waits a bit, then turns and challenges... "kyun nahin jaa sakte? yeh zindagi humari apni hai..." why can't i go? this is my life... i can go where i please when i please and anyway i don't work for you now, so you have no right to order me (that ultra cute northie "aarder" for order).

no right?

through gritted teeth, "don't talk to me like that." what pure unadulterated anger.

he has this thing about being spoken to badly. but i feel he's almost pleading at a level, he can't take her harsh tone, it hurts him. i know, too bad, he's the rudest harshest being of all, but what to do, tender he is of heart when it comes to jhalli.

she never learns. she pushes him... why? what will you do?

and she turns away to leave.

well he has to do what he has to do.

that familiar hold, that grip on her shoulder. she squirms... but today he's here to hold her like that and find out something. slowly his hands starts sliding down her arm, he just wants to see what he'd come here to see. the damage he'd done.

she's puzzled, he's transfixed. he holds her wrist, she jerks her arm back. he is not giving up... draws her arm up holding it gently.. then holding her still, he removes that covering of dupatta from her left hand, and there lies the inch long cut, still alive, bleeding, on her tender innocent hand.

the episode design was built on a neat intercutting pattern between the scenes of two lovers who have decided to part today forever and engagement talk between bua ji and a man who is married but has an unhealthy interest in engagements. we know now that 6pm is the blessed hour just five minutes away.

"tumhe" his voice is clouded, unclear... as though in shock. she's hurt, she bleeds. he feels his blood draining out. these are strange chaotic feelings, not that sweet thing poor khushi believes love is.

he gathers himself... swiftly, huskily, and unbelievably sexily, "tumhe chot lagi hai," you're hurt.

"toh, aap se matlab?" so, what's it to you? yes, she is cut to the heart by his cruel words and will give some of the real chot he's given her right back to him. that "matlab" thing.

altercation again. what's your problem, why are you bothered. stop the tamasha... till he takes command.

"humara haath chhoriye," let go of my hand, she's reaching another level of anger. when lovers quarrel, why is it that anger always seems to arouse other passions, something sexual? but not when you fight with someone who means nothing to you.

dark saturnine look.

he has taken out a handkerchief and started dabbing the wound. uuhhh, an indrawn breath from her. oh it hurts.

that cut and that uuhhh reminds me of cut through. he seems to have achieved this cut through with her and she with him from that first moment. in a world full of people two strangers meet, and they register with each other instantly. it's rare, there's a sense of meant to be in it. even if both walked away from each other at this very moment, never will either forget the other nor not get a thrill, a pleasurable uuuhhh if they thought of the other.

it's almost six.

had to be recorded on shyam's watch. nice touch.

bells ring, conch shells sound, the auspicious hour is here, the chants begin... om swasti na indro... the peace prayers then the mantras to dm... and on the temple grounds, a  young man with no faith in idols or god as we understand the word, holds a dm worshiping young girl's left hand and starts tying a gauze bandage on her ring finger. the finger whose nerve they say connects straight to the heart, the way a key connects to a girl, the way the thought of her hurt connects to a desperate love.

the beauty and sanctity of this moment is paramount and creatives have given it all they have, the camera movements, the lighting, the sound, the pace, all of it.

asr and khushi are tying some sort of knot,  feels like it is for life. (and believe it or not, as i write this sitting in a hotel room in sydney facing a garden with a beautiful church right beyond it, the church bells ring joyous and jubilant... a wedding is on... my daughter said two weddings are on, she saw two brides and two bride grooms... make whatever connections you will of this fact).

when he held on and put his hand in his pocket to pull out the bandage, it was the most beautiful moment for me somehow. he'd carried a bandage for her, he came all the way just so he could take care of the wound the girl who means nothing to him has got thanks to him. he would tend to her... not anyone else... he. if he could hurt, he could heal. his khushi, his responsibility. he stood before all and drew her near and tied the bandage over and over till he was certain it will protect her.

what must she have felt when she saw the first aid preparation. bet he also put some ointment, etc. she just watched him do his work. the significance of it all somehow not lost on her. dm watched over them, the creatives were not taking any chances that you didn't get the point.

but really, even without dm, even without mahurat and all the chanting, just by itself the whole thing was magical. and  desperately beautiful.

there are many reasons i can never have enough of bad boy asr, this is one of them. that revelation of a loving heart behind khadoos, and none of your soppy nonsense... though he wants to bawl at having hurt his dueling partner, he is practical, all set with things of use, not just silly sweet words. months later, even as he went nuts, he will think of a mangalsutra and sindoor because even though he hates her, she needs them to even think of a thing called marriage. crazy man.

a handsome devoted man, a gorgeous in love girl, and an attraction that pulls them even when they push each other away. how intimate, how loving his hands on her soft ones, making pain go away. another glimpse of this thing called love. wonder which rasa.

she watches silently. he works absorbed. just a couple of times he looks at her. nihatya, unarmed, as he is,  feelings evident... no rancour.

it's done. she's all flustered after that rapt attention. if he looks at her like that any more...

"humne mana kiya tha na," i'd set not to. she's retreating to agreed battle lines.

offense is the best defence and in seconds both warriors arm themselves anew. "aap kya chahte hain humse," what do you want from me... would he ever be able to answer that.

"beta, leo arati," god walks in to help the two.

and the nastik, the atheist, offends the astik, the theist, again.

bhagwan, kismat talk... meri marzi, my wish, too. and so she goes all the way to, some day you'll realise the hand of god in everything, but that day i won't be there.

what an opening for a shatir fighter. why that day, returns he promptly... now, this minute, get out of my life. warriors take position. a song going crazy trying to make head or tail of this chaotic twosome.

the synchronised turn away. the walking away from each other. both committed to never seeing the other again. lovely. the most stylish put back of shades in the history of the planet. aviators, i think they are called.

shyam has put babu ji through hell again to get that ring on her finger. he deserves a noose around his neck. "suhag ki sej paane ke liye arthio ka dar dikhana padta hai," to get the wedding night bed one must put the fear of the death bed into people. the sick twisted cretin, with its disturbing knowledge of the human mind alerting all who watch to the game of manipulation.

my last thought, khushi had looked so sad, so terribly heart broken as she's walked away from rm a while ago. she really felt all was over. but that appearance of her hotshot in his deadly glasses with his arms and ammunition, that broken "tumhe," everything seemed to put the zizz back in her, and she was all take on the world, show you what i'm made of as she stormed of. lot of ishtyle in our man's stride too. obviously, they both knew all was far from over. though they were never gonna meet again. ever. samjhi tum?



ahamiyat and bandagement episodes
episode rambles

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