"Jai Whore!"
Dharavi International Airport, Mumbai.
A blind beggar child, an underage prostitute and a rioting mob stop in their tracks - to see a bunch of strangers take a profound interest in their strange land. (The rumour is that futures are likely to change forever after concerned fellow citizens of their country have their souls moved by the film. This film, being shot in their real slum shady)
Scene 1:
Danny is boyling in the sweltering Thursday heat of Mumbai. (Bombay, Mani Ratnam? At least for the sake of your better riot scenes?) His thanda matlab cocaine-ko-laa is not helping enough. "Cut!" he screams. This British Stranger, lovingly caresses the excreta of his colonial (no pun intended) intestines, 61 years, 5 months and 28 days later. A child runs through it, for his autograph. Finally, he can put his critics to rest. With an overdose of trains, trains and more trains in this film, no one would ever complain of not spotting a single one. Except for the child whose eyes are gauged out with the same boyling poison. The censors, strangely, decide to turn the same blind eye that gave Ghajini a U certificate, to Section 2 (iii) (a) within The Guidelines of the Cinematographic Act, which clearly bars showing such brazen abuse of children.
"Jai Whore!", the little child says, as he goes back to his begging bowl and wails "Darshan de Bhagawaaaaaaan!". The irony of a forcibly blinded child asking for "darshan" comes to naught. As it is intended to.
He fades into the omnipresent Black.
Scene 2:
Dev P. (not D. - that's the subject of another emotional atyaachaar) is batting his brooding eyes, like a petal (or patel?). It's not his to reason why the Strange British accent, or his Kafkaesque metamorphosis from a real victim of battered childhood to a polished NRI. It's not his to reason why he shouldn't be holding aloft the Globe. It's the underage prostitute's to dye and be done. "You know what is cost of popping a Cherry?" the quiz-master asks DevP. "Especially if it belongs to a 12 year old?" With all the mainstream newspapers brazenly advertising classified sections for "home & hotel escort services by models/russians/air-hostesses/housewives/college students/actresses", he knows and confidently answers the difficult question. He goes on to win the "pop"-quiz, marked by a round of thunderous applause. Another virgin silently bleeds.
"Jai Whore!", the child prostitute congratulates him and thanks the leading Indian newspapers for allowing ads that peddle sex, as she is whisked away by her pimp. It is unlikely that her plight will change anytime soon, no matter how many millionaire slimes doggy her.
She Dissolves.
Scene 3-300: Quick inter-cuts.
Vikram Swarup is busy digging up the dinghies near his South African embassy for a sequel - Bachchan is egging him on with "a dirty underbelly exists in every country. Go fetch! Go fetch!" Frieda Pinto is (finally) moving out of Malad West to a better place. Hopefully she will tell us where that is. Irfaan does the Khan-Can, after a close shave with Billu Barbarian. Anil Kapoor inexplicably yells it's his fucking show before you can count Ek-Do-Tintin-ka-Four. We all know it's not. Rahman chants "Maa Tujhe Salaam Bombay!" and break's his Roja, becoming the first Indian to settle a long pending musical score with the Oscars. Airtel makes more dough from ringtones than providing quality network coverage or uninterrupted phone calls. The computer is locked, stocked and well-hung in utter disbelief. Alexander Dumas, the Three Musketeers and D'Artagnan turn in their grave. Milady smiles like the fleur-de-lys, finally vindicated. The rioteers move to Mangalore to thrash the daylights out of young girls drinking beer in a pub. "Jai Whore!", they chant while holding Rama's bow in the Right wing, wrong hand. Skulls are battered, breasts fondled and panties tugged at, to protect "Indian Culture". A culture as old as Soma and Kamasutra. And as recent as the word Slumdawg and of wanting to be a millionaire.
WE END.
End Credits Song:
1. To stop abuse of children take up the welfare of at least ONE child, in your area or donate a couple of thousand rupees to someone who can.
2. To stop newspapers from publishing classified ads that solicits prostitution and escort services, call the leading newspapers editorial department and demand they be pulled off
3. To stop vandals from rioting and attacking, act/speak out everytime you feel abused. Even if it's on your friggin blog. Every revolution also needs words.
4. If you can't DO anything, sing "Jai Whore!" 1011 times every day and watch the problems that plague you disappear. Who knows, you may get 11 Oscar nominations and one golden globe, albeit unfit for residing upon.
A blind beggar child, an underage prostitute and a rioting mob stop in their tracks - to see a bunch of strangers take a profound interest in their strange land. (The rumour is that futures are likely to change forever after concerned fellow citizens of their country have their souls moved by the film. This film, being shot in their real slum shady)
Scene 1:
Danny is boyling in the sweltering Thursday heat of Mumbai. (Bombay, Mani Ratnam? At least for the sake of your better riot scenes?) His thanda matlab cocaine-ko-laa is not helping enough. "Cut!" he screams. This British Stranger, lovingly caresses the excreta of his colonial (no pun intended) intestines, 61 years, 5 months and 28 days later. A child runs through it, for his autograph. Finally, he can put his critics to rest. With an overdose of trains, trains and more trains in this film, no one would ever complain of not spotting a single one. Except for the child whose eyes are gauged out with the same boyling poison. The censors, strangely, decide to turn the same blind eye that gave Ghajini a U certificate, to Section 2 (iii) (a) within The Guidelines of the Cinematographic Act, which clearly bars showing such brazen abuse of children.
"Jai Whore!", the little child says, as he goes back to his begging bowl and wails "Darshan de Bhagawaaaaaaan!". The irony of a forcibly blinded child asking for "darshan" comes to naught. As it is intended to.
He fades into the omnipresent Black.
Scene 2:
Dev P. (not D. - that's the subject of another emotional atyaachaar) is batting his brooding eyes, like a petal (or patel?). It's not his to reason why the Strange British accent, or his Kafkaesque metamorphosis from a real victim of battered childhood to a polished NRI. It's not his to reason why he shouldn't be holding aloft the Globe. It's the underage prostitute's to dye and be done. "You know what is cost of popping a Cherry?" the quiz-master asks DevP. "Especially if it belongs to a 12 year old?" With all the mainstream newspapers brazenly advertising classified sections for "home & hotel escort services by models/russians/air-hostesses/housewives/college students/actresses", he knows and confidently answers the difficult question. He goes on to win the "pop"-quiz, marked by a round of thunderous applause. Another virgin silently bleeds.
"Jai Whore!", the child prostitute congratulates him and thanks the leading Indian newspapers for allowing ads that peddle sex, as she is whisked away by her pimp. It is unlikely that her plight will change anytime soon, no matter how many millionaire slimes doggy her.
She Dissolves.
Scene 3-300: Quick inter-cuts.
Vikram Swarup is busy digging up the dinghies near his South African embassy for a sequel - Bachchan is egging him on with "a dirty underbelly exists in every country. Go fetch! Go fetch!" Frieda Pinto is (finally) moving out of Malad West to a better place. Hopefully she will tell us where that is. Irfaan does the Khan-Can, after a close shave with Billu Barbarian. Anil Kapoor inexplicably yells it's his fucking show before you can count Ek-Do-Tintin-ka-Four. We all know it's not. Rahman chants "Maa Tujhe Salaam Bombay!" and break's his Roja, becoming the first Indian to settle a long pending musical score with the Oscars. Airtel makes more dough from ringtones than providing quality network coverage or uninterrupted phone calls. The computer is locked, stocked and well-hung in utter disbelief. Alexander Dumas, the Three Musketeers and D'Artagnan turn in their grave. Milady smiles like the fleur-de-lys, finally vindicated. The rioteers move to Mangalore to thrash the daylights out of young girls drinking beer in a pub. "Jai Whore!", they chant while holding Rama's bow in the Right wing, wrong hand. Skulls are battered, breasts fondled and panties tugged at, to protect "Indian Culture". A culture as old as Soma and Kamasutra. And as recent as the word Slumdawg and of wanting to be a millionaire.
WE END.
End Credits Song:
1. To stop abuse of children take up the welfare of at least ONE child, in your area or donate a couple of thousand rupees to someone who can.
2. To stop newspapers from publishing classified ads that solicits prostitution and escort services, call the leading newspapers editorial department and demand they be pulled off
3. To stop vandals from rioting and attacking, act/speak out everytime you feel abused. Even if it's on your friggin blog. Every revolution also needs words.
4. If you can't DO anything, sing "Jai Whore!" 1011 times every day and watch the problems that plague you disappear. Who knows, you may get 11 Oscar nominations and one golden globe, albeit unfit for residing upon.
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