Sunday, June 14, 2015

The Book Thief: Book Review



Book: The Book Thief
Author: Markus Zusak
Published in 2005
Awards: Commonwealth Writers' Prize, Publisher's Weekly Award


Some voices have color, a distinct hay. If death were to have a voice, I presume it would be blue, with a tinge of gray on the borders. When death speaks in his solemn voice, we ought to heed well to it. That is the truest voice we hear in all our life. It is true, absolute and unmoved by those who hear it. Death is the narrator of this story. It is not a cruel voice, not even furious. If anything, it is a voice of infinite calm, almost serene, although tired at times. Death for Markus Zusak is Conrad’s Marlow. It is the story –teller, and also a participant in the story.

The Book Thief is a story written in the backdrop of second-world war, in Nazi Germany. It goes exceptional talent of Markus Zusak that he so delicately creates the world of a small German Town, in the throes of the volatile, history defining times. It was a time of sadness and violence, of dying men and women, of hope in the testing times. Such are the times when the goodness and evil, both reach their loftiest and the most grotesque proportions.  It is almost unbelievable that Markus Zusak is an Australian writer who was born in 1975. It is pretty common for authors with MBA to write stories on the backdrop of their colleges and from Bengal to write one heavy with Bengali nuances. To be raised in Australia, four decades after the World war, having written such a lovely book, speaks well of the enormous talent of the writer. Even a rare possibility of author’s mother, Lisa being Liesel Meminger, doesn’t take the credit away.

This is not a political novel, this is not the story of war, and this is not even a story about death. This is a story in world of decrepit desperation. This is a story about hope, about life, about the power of written words. This is the story of Liesel Meminger, orphaned. It is written in, well, a different style than all that I have ever read. The language is poetic, even though sentences are not long-winding. The style looks like a journal. It opens in the year 1930 in a train. This is where she loses her little brother and meets death for the first time- a girl of nine. She doesn’t speak good German, doesn’t read. She is a little girl with sketchy schooling. She is on her way to join her foster parents, in the middle of a brutal European winters. The war is looming, Hitler’s armies, official and unofficial are everywhere.

She reaches Himmel Street with a book- The Gravedigger’s Handbook in his hand. She meets the kindest man she has ever know, kind and righteous. Hans Hubermann, her foster father is as the writer tells us, an un-special person who had the ability to appear in the background, even if he was standing at the front of the queue. He was always just there. For an adult this could mean nothing, for as we know, for a child, this is one very important thing- the quiet certitude of the presence of the parents. Hans Hubermann had eyes that were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting. And Liesel Meminger understood that Hans Hubermann was worth a lot. We discover in later pages the kindness, the righteousness, the humanness of the man which makes him so likeable, so special, in spite of ordinariness with which he is introduced in the story. For Liesel, in the throes of grief of losing her family, reeling under sudden shock of profanities she has just encountered in the person of her Foster mother, Rosa Hubermann, foul-mouthed woman, she knew as Hans Hubermann winks at her, that she would have no trouble calling him Papa. Isn’t that what fathers are, silent, benevolent presence, with a sense of quiet about them? This is what Markus calls his thereness. The girl knew from the outset that he’d always appear mid-scream, and he would not leave. Liesel, the orphaned girl troubled with the nightmares about her brother’s death needed that.

Liesel turns ten holding that little book which connected her to the world she had left behind. As was the convention, she becomes Hiter Youth, and joins the junior division of BDM. The book doesn’t make political statement, it is not shrill in the voice. It tells the facts as they must have been and leaves it to the reader to judge. It tells us about the ten year olds being taught to get their Heil Hitler..working properly. ..taught to march straight, roll bandages and sew up clothes. Liesel by this time has settled into childhood in her new foster home, helping Rosa with her laundry, collecting and delivering the clothes in the town.

This is when she meets the affable and naughty friend of hers, Rudy Steiner, the next door boy obsessed with Americal athlete, Jesse Owens. They meet the way most kids who later become best friends meet- not liking each other. A snowball in the face is perfect beginning to a lasting friendship. Children are children and even worst of the wars, the crassest of the cruelty cannot take away the little joys of the childhood. Rudy keeps on pestering Liesel for a kiss, and amid pulling her leg, playing football, facing the Nazi directives and a ruthless war, they grow friends.

Her book is then discovered by her Papa, Hans Hubermann. They both decide to read it together. Hans Hubermann as the author tells in the beginning is an ordinary painter and better than ordinary accordion player. He is not a reader. But then, he starts reading with his foster daughter. The find solace in words. He becomes the first comrade of the girl who will soon be called by Death as The Book Thief.  Himself not much educated, he teaches her words, on the walls of the basement. In words they find solace. In a world where lies are abound, minds are not free, words are the only salvation. The best way to kill free thought is the maim and kill literature. Germans of the time, write Markus, loved to burn thing. Shops, synagogues, Reichstags. Houses, personal items, slain people and of course, books. They enjoyed a good book burning all right. In times as such, the father –daughter duo set on the journey to search hope in words. The father sells his much loved cigarettes to buy her books. Then Liesel takes to steal books from the Mayor’s library as she goes there to deliver the laundry, Rudy Steiner- her partner in crime.

In a world floating between innocence and crime, enter Max Vandenberg, the son of Hans Hubermann’s army friend and his accordion teacher- A jew. Max was a fist-fighter before the absolutism of Nazism clouded the whole nation. The brave fist fighter, whose courage, the narrator, death calls stupid gallantry, melts away in time of unimaginable state sanctioned hostility as in the basement of 33 Himmel Street, Max Vanderburg could feel the fists of an entire nation.

Hans takes him in and puts him in his basement. A sacred friendship grows between the father, the daughter and the fugitive. As they say crisis brings out the best and worst of the people as death would say later, “I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugliness and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. We discover the dormant kindness of Rosa Hubermann who takes care of Max, serving her infamous dull soup, through Max’s sickness. Once Max wakes up from his sickness, she rushes to Liesel’s school to tell her, in her voice like needle and thread. ‘He woke up, Liesel. He’s awake. It is in such moments we get closest to our parents when we find that their old, tired cynical eyes can share our dreams. Liesel starts writing for him.


In the end, as Death says about humans, they have a good sense to die. They all die, except for the book thief. Well, she does eventually, but not then. She is literally saved by words, as she sat in the basement reading her book. Rudy Steiner, Mama and Papa, Tommy Muller. All Sleeping. All dying. The innocence of Rudy Steiner, the little boy with hair the color of lemons doesn’t only pulls our heart’s strings in his death. He shakes death itself. Death says about him He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.  He misses his beautiful neighbor’s kiss and will not be able to call again, “How about a kiss, Saumensch?”. This constant phrase from the little boy, with independent, rebellious soul lies hanging for readers to hold on to their hearts, much like the famed, Jay Gatsby’s Old sport. Hans Hubermann’s soul whispers once, as Death would tell us, Liesel  and my heart breaks as a father and as a reader and as a writer, as Liesel bends over her Papa’s dead body and says, “Goodbye, Papa, you saved me. You taught me to read. No one can play like you.”  What her father left for her, we discover towards the end, when Liesel died many years later in Sidney. Death says, ‘The skue was the best blue of the afternoon. Like her papa, her soul was sitting up”. Isn’t this the best that we can leave for our kids, an upright soul which even in death, death finds sitting up? 

This is not a book which ends in sadness. It ends in hope as Max meets Liesel and they survive the disgusting turmoil of the history and years later die, having lived a fulfilling life, sitting up. 

Reviewer's Recommendation:
I am glad I came across this book. You too would be. Must Read. 


Friday, June 12, 2015

The Broken Dream of AAP

See I Fooled You Source: MSN
In a time of universal deceit- telling the truth is a revolutionary act.- George Orwell.  A dream rose from desperation. Hassled by blatant corruption, Indians rose in protest against a thoroughly corrupt government which largely laughed off those protest.

Those in power were not concerned, worried. They were amused, they laughed it off, they asked the people who questioned corruption in embarrassed, scared voices- “Are you nuts?”

Then, suddenly it was Y2k or Java or Cloud to use a technology equivalent. Everyone was doing it and no one knew what it meant. Technology democratized the media and the Social media split into two. It did do something good. It churned the politics and challenged the status quo. It broke the collaboration of convenience among the top two national parties. Narendra Modi was brought in as change of guard for BJP. Many called it attempt to polarize. I do not look at it that way. It was an attempt to offer what people wanted, a fresh face away from the conniving coterie of Delhi Darbar, where power and opposition was charade.

On the sidelines, many people joined in the anti-corruption crusade. They did not in real sense lead the movement. They waited for the bubble to bloat and then stepped in the front and claimed the leadership. Many had at one time or other tried their luck in the grand old party, Congress, and failed to rise through the ranks. There were no ranks, only the kings and the courtiers. Without right surnames, there wasn’t much hope. The other option was BJP. Not family driven, but cadre driven. If you are not RSS backed, tough call. AAP was the new startup taking lateral entries. Junior officers in old industry joined the startup. Stuck with mid-career crisis, they found new horizons. Suddenly they were all at the top, calling the shots, driving the frenzy.

The political party birthed by the media, became the landing station for the media. Just as congress is a party of rich lawyers, AAP became a party of rich journalists. Also Just as Congress as we have it, has nothing to do with Indian National Congress which worked against the British, AAP has nothing to do with India Against Corruption, which worked against the corrupt in the government.

Quickly AAP’s character and features changed. It sacked the founders, foul mouthed the opposition, rewarded and bribed the supporters. Illegal colonies were quickly regularized, political bribes were offered to those who supported the party during the election. An impressive mandate, made Arvind Kejriwal chief minister of a privileged municipality of Delhi. Buoyed by the mandate, the party tried to run beyond its brief. Its eyes were set on absolute rule, mobocracy replacing democracy. That actually brings us to the question – what is the difference between Mobocracy and Democracy? Aren’t both the game of numbers? Well, it is morality which is the thin thread which upholds democracy. Once that thread is gone, it is brute strength of number. That number devoid of moral force can be any grouping of people- a band of thieves or a bunch of thugs. 

The Cookie started crumbling immediately after the elections. The promises were suddenly the commercial commitments on the insurance brochures. The list of conditions which applied was longer than the list of freebies promise. That list and that grievance will be too commonplace for a citizen who has seen politics taking shape out of broken promises for a large part of independent India’s existence.

It is broad, blatant lies which I write this about. It is not about the stupid fight of Arvind Kejriwal with the LG, Najeeb Jung. This is also not about carefully crafted carelessness of Arvind Kejriwal, his ill-fitting shirts. This is about the lying Law Minister of AAP, about Jitender Singh Tomar. The man has been allegedly claiming not only to be well-qualified but also being a lawyer falsely. It is a matter of sheer logic.

Ah, latest news, Kejriwal is now very upset with Jitender Singh Tomar. He claims he was misled. An sharp strategist, ex-IRS, IIT alumnus was misled. He really believed that in the 90s, in the thick of Laloo’s jungle raj, people would travel from Lucknow in UP to Munger in Bihar to get an LLB degree. He really thought that the minister went counter to the usual direction of human migration. From the capital of UP, he went to Faizabad to get graduation degree.

It is hard to believe that Kejriwal was fooled. That he was in party to fool the nation. It was a fooling party, of the fools, by the fools, for the fools. It is hard to believe that he believed like a kid what the law minister told him. On hearsay, he went forward to claim it was conspiracy to defame the minister.
This was followed by erstwhile Law Minister, whose wife went public on charges of domestic violence. Before his wife came on camera, Kejriwal, the benefactor of the loyal, the Yug-Purush for twitter-army of AAP, who would blame polity, police and jury for any blame on AAP, as usual blamed media and of course, the central government.

Mr. Kejriwal must realize that he out of protected environment of National Advisory Council of Ms. Sonia Gandhi. He is watched. When you are corrupt, and conventional, one can blame convention. Not when you came with the claim of unorthodox, clean politics. The layers go lifting when the winds of lies blow wild. Then one notices that there is no Lokpal in Delhi, that for most promises, the CM has not found time to even hold one meeting. When business as usual is brutal and dishonest, one learns to live with it, but not when you pretend to be a change-maker. Once you slip and once we notice that the slip was well-intended and well- planned, even if well-covered, something snaps. You are not then, disliked, you are doomed. A near majority in a pseudo-city is nothing. Ceaser had that in much larger republic, and had much more proven patriotism in him. But the Romans did not forgive him the broken promises. Remember that O false pretender.


Post-script: The News of another AAP MLA with fake degree has surfaced today. The MLA says he had people with me and need not answer anyone.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

Infinite Loneliness of an Only Child


I have been a child. I have been an only child. I have been through a major part of my life believing, it doesn’t matter. Loneliness is not a function of number of people in your life. It is a matter of attitude. So I have been telling myself all those years.

I would sleep through the summer afternoons as a child, waiting for the evening to descend. I would read magazines and little Pocket-books much to annoyance of parents through the days, haunted by loneliness. I would tell myself, brotherhood or brotherly love is something that can be won over by kindness, charm and what not. I would learn later that you cannot argue with nature. I, in later life, took to writing. Sometimes I wonder why?

When my health suffered, I was to take to some physical exercise. I tried gyms, but with absence higher than the attendance, gave up. Then I took up long distance running and it stayed. Why? What is the common theme between writing and running and why it links to my own solitary existence as a child?

Solitude seeps into your soul as if you were a poorly constructed wall open in incessant rains. You resist, but the water, the humidity seeps in and disfigures the paint inside. A solitary childhood reflects that humid, fungi-infected wall in many ways. The answer is in solitary exercise. To me writing and running is one of them, both being a solitary exercise. They stuck because they did not pretend to have people in them. They are solitary activity of a solitary person.

I look at my kid, riding her little bicycle on the terrace, talking to herself. She says it is a play, a game. She pretends she has friends that she speaks to. My wife, second in a family of four children, shrugs off. She says every child does it. But I can see it. I have been through it. It is a solitary silence that howls through the sad afternoons. You try to be kind. At times, you are there, in moments of support, moments of need before those of the same blood could turn up, and push you away. They will arrive when they have time, turning up with a sense of entitlement. I don’t find it wrong. It is very appropriate. Their sense of entitlement is well-deserved. It is this lack of entitlement which comes the way of only child which is so unjust.

You, being only child, will love those around you as your own. But when it counts, where do you stand? You stand as a stand-by, as a substitute. I have been a little child, and I have been an only child. I know, that child in me, still looks out the windows in the first rains. He still turns around charmed by the beauty of the first monsoons, leaving behind a droplet, slowly travelling the steel window bar. He still looks around to share those moments of tranquil happiness and also he reaches out, lunging towards shadows of feigned relationships to share the moments of sudden sadness. He still believes there is an older brother somewhere in a boarding school- hopelessly and childishly. He finds no one and then he writes.

I wanted to write the review of The Book Thief, a story narrated by Death. What a lovely book that is. It has a little girl, Liesel living with her foster parents, with her papa reading to her, teaching her new words and playing accordion to her in Nazi Germany. But I could not write that. Not this week, not today.

I had my cousin brother visit us for couple of days. On his leaving, I found my seven years old suddenly in tears. I know, my wife, or anybody who has siblings for that matter, will call it a drama of a child. She says, she will miss talking to him and weeps. But I could smell it. The lonely, single child in me can smell it in that fleeting moment of emotional breakdown. She is not the first seven year old to cry. Kids cry all the time. And then another moment, they find something interesting and smile again. She also smiled, suddenly as she always does. What breaks something so badly inside that it'd still creak if I were to laugh one of my phony laughs even today is that she said for the first time that so often she has no one to talk to. With her parents, trying to win a battle of survival with the world and her grandparents trying to win a battle with her parents on behalf of a society which largely doesn't care, what options can the kid have? The honesty- the brutal, sharp honesty in that sentence washed in tears plunged deep in my breast.

It is the same story of a wall weakening against incessant rain, of seeping waters. I can smell the pungent smell of rain falling on the arid summer soil. Even when the summer is far to go. I can smell it, I can smell the infinite sadness of a solitary child. I know she will try to fool herself, with friends, cousins.  She will even be best friends to strangers she meets in her life. Single child is always best friend. They compensate for lack of siblings with friends. I know she will realize as people around go away, get busy with their life. I hope she understands this truth quicker than I did and then start reading, writing, or running. Then you will not have to pretend that your father is your elder brother. Suddenly, I understand much better why Liesel turned into book thief, in The Book Thief. Books are only relation that orphaned girl finds which will survive the transient nature of time. That's why she read books through the world war, and why she eventually became a writer.
I know, she will also smile and have a life of her own someday. She will look at me and tell me that she is alright. But I will know, and we will get sadder together in conspiracy, conspiracy of two only child. I know that smile will hide the infinite sadness of being an only child. I can only tell you, I know. I will never try to fool you into believing that you aren’t alone. You are, sadly, but you will learn faster than me how to handle it. Yours is my life twice-lived. And you are much loved.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Movie Review- Tanu Weds Manu Returns

Kangana Ranawat as Datto and As Tanu
Released: 22nd May, 2015
Director: Anand L. Rai
Writer: Himanshu Sharma
Cast: Kangana Ranawat, R. Madhavan, Swara Bhaskar
Rating: 4/5 (Enjoyable Watch, one point lost on unnecessary love angle of Puppy and needless kidnapping plot)
 
In a very famous TED talk, Elizabeth Gilbert , famed author of 'Eat, Pray, Love' speaks about the artists often crashing under the heavy load of their own earlier success. While the talk is on a different subject regarding how an artist who gets an early success of such stupendous proportion should handle the enormous stress such a success puts on the artist by expecting further greatness from him, by considering Talent as some outside force, beyond the Artist's mortal persona, I bring it up here for a totally different reason. I was trying to understand the phenomenon which Tanu Weds Manu Returns seems to be on the way to make and contrary to the general fate of any follow up work, how it has managed to do the difficult task of exceeding its earlier version. 

Sequels, more often than not, are commercial decisions. Sequels are rarely made because the story grows beyond the point where it was earlier closed. Rather, often sequels are produced when there is a certain degree of sloth, there is no story, an urgent desire to make money and a movie needs to be made. Most stories like most lives run through a common theme and it is not for nothing that someone once wrote that life is nothing but a tale twice told to already vexed ears. What makes a story stand out is its characters. The peculiarity, the uniqueness, the commonness of the characters is what adorns the story which are well written and like precious jewels make them shine in the ordinary dullness of the usual commonplace world. A lazy writer often picks up much loved characters from earlier edition and makes a story.  For this very reason, sequels fails.
 
For this very reason, Tanu Weds Manu Returns succeeds. The story is an old theme made famous is something plainly stated by Somerset Maugham when he wrote that In every relation there is one person who loves and other who allows the other to be loved. While it does begin with the characters, well-carved Tanuja Tripathi, the strange, ever-Young, and refusing to grown up wife of silent, subtle and unglamorous in looks- Manu Sharma, who after four years of what can be termed as impulsive marriage, is blamed by his colorful, wife for growing like, a ginger. Tanu is desi Madam Bovary of Gustave Flaubert. It is a strange choice of word to describe someone's physicality, but then, it's not for nothing that we call Tanu, unconventional. Hinterlands of UP and Bihar are known for use of unorthodox smilies and proverbs which the director, who had used it in the earlier edition, uses adroitly here. That and his clear knowledge of small nuances the eastern cowbelt, the characters, the smell of the society in eastern UP, early masterly used in his other movie Ranjhana as well, further blooms as the confidence in the canvass that he creates for himself is palpable.  

Madhavan, the ever accommodating Sharmaji, ends up in a mental asylum, on account of the usual marital conflict between ambitious, unyielding force of nature that his wife Tanu is and his own subdued, compromised self which decides it was way too much for him after four years of marriage. The initial charm of wayward behaviour of Tanu of Birhana road of Kanpur fades away. Audacity of youth, however enamoring at an age, becomes obnoxious with the passage of time. The story, in spite of dramatic turns which are oftentimes unbelievable walks on long legs of very, very strong characters and a formidable theme. Tanu leaves Manu in an asylum in London. Feeling emancipated, she reaches back to Kanpur to find that the world has moved on. Raja Awasthy, the lovable gangster, (Jimmy Shergill) who she finds again with an attempt to cling back to her past with the help of entertaining new character, Chintu, is on his way to get married. Tanu is a story of female emancipation gone wrong. She turns up in a towel when her sister's wedding is getting arranged messing the whole thing horribly. She is a kanpuria in London and a Londoner in Kanpur. She flirts shamelessly with both Raja and her new neighbor,  secure in the knowledge that she has a husband, all docile and accommodating, ducked far away in London who she can always go back to. She drinks intermittently, dances in unknown baraats. Tanu epitomises everything which will bring instant condemnation to a man, if only she were a man. She is a woman who simply refuses to grow up.

Sharmaji on the other hand spends larger part of the first half melancholy, lost in the memories of a happy family which ended up unbelievably in an asylum. In between,his old friend, Puppyji (Deepak Dobriyal) whose purpose in life is to assist someone he calls a friend- an adorable, loyal, innocent and yet, maybe Because of it, a failed soul, keeps pushing him to come out of the sadness in which he as an abandoned husband falls. Manu eventually comes out of the squalor of sadness and leaps into love. 
 
Tanu's look-alike, Ms. kusum Sangwan enters the screen and with her innocent charm melts away Manu's frigid sadness. I must say, that it isn't only Manu Sharma who is charmed by Kusum, the Haryanvi Jat, who studies in Delhi university under sports quota, is a national level athlete, from Jhajjar in Haryana,  and who, well, gives out the pin code but never the phone number to anybody (Phone number main deti koni). Every man in the Theater is besotted by the purity of soul portrayed by Ms Sangwan. Ever since Basanti, the Tonga driver introduced herself in Ramgarh, this is the first time I saw a female character introducing herself in such a memorable fashion. Kusum or Datto as she is affectionately called as we later learn, presumably on account of her frontal teeth which are as pronounced as her child-like honesty and her pride in being an independent, self made young woman is a complex mix of strength and vulnerability, which one falls in love with, admire for strength and want to protect, all at once.

Manu sharma falls in love with the girl, much younger, girl who is Tanu's look alike, much plain looking and muck straight thinking. The charming belle has her own moments of innocent humour. For instance when she sings " I am sentimental' with pronounced Haryanvi accent and asks Manu, "are you getting American accent in my singing."  She, the little child of morrow, doesn't wait for an answer and we go laughing, basking in the beauty of a soul uncorrupted and not yet overwhelmed by the global phenomenon of urbanization. Even the ever-loyal Puppy (Deepak Dobriyal) is vary of middle-aged Sharmaji's Lolita-esque love for much-younger, Datto. He is further propelled to discourage Manu from pursuing this affair once he comes to know that Kusum is betrothed to Raja Awasthy, as audience reels with laughter at the absolute impossible angle coming up. So, Raja, the endearing, small-time gangster and part time contractor finds himself once again against Manu Sharma.  
 
The insane turns also include a surprising acceptance of the relationship of Manu and Datto by latter's elder brother, living in a small DDA flat and supporting his sister through her education and her choices. 

Manu's wedding is all but organised in Jhajjar with Datto, facilitated by well-argued position of her brother about female infanticide and caste issues in the country-side infamous for both. The beauty of the story is that the message is not built into story or vice-versa. It is spoken through the character with the true importance and urgency which the character represents. Tanu goes there, to regain what she still believes she deserves, and no one but she deserves. Every relation needs constant work and many a relations fade away simply because we throw ourselves in self-destructive complacency. Nothing is given in this world and sense of entitlement is nothing but foolishness. We earn a relation through hard work, love, commitment and some luck and we need to keep earning it. There is a Tanu in everyone of us who keeps on faltering and then we find reasons of failure in the other person. Tanu's sense of entitlement makes her mock Manu even at this point when she says, "hum Zara bewafa kya hue, Sharmaji, Aap to badchalan ho Gaye ". Her delusion, her sense of entitlement persists till the very end, when Manu finds himself at that very edge where past breaks free from the present. What Sharmaji eventually does is for audience to go and watch. But for most of us, it is Datto that we root for. She is an absolute show stealer as she brilliantly retorts to Tanu, with all her British accents and haughtiness of a foreign-return fashionista, a 'MyChoice' signature girl with a rebuke that while in spite of all her pretense of emancipation and being a forward looking woman, Tanu can't even buy her on clothes on her own, forget raising and supporting, or even having her kids, so lost she is in her own ambitions and desires. Sharmaji may decide whatever Sharmaji may desire, but Datto wins the day for most audience. Never has earlier a girl in unglamorous sports pants and loose fitting Reebok Tees looked so downright lovable and vulnerable in a movie and yet so strong. It goes entirely to the credit of Kangana Ranawat  to display such a complex mix of strength and vulnerability, of a realist and dreamer, in Datto. It hardly matters that Tanu refers to her as Rebuke against original Reebok. The movies is great watch with a story full of unbelievable incidents, even if thoroughly enjoyable, made upextraordinarily believable characters. You have time-tested Swara Bhaskar with her charming Bihari tilt of language as she tells Tanu, "Paglaa gayi ho kya." It is an eclectic mix of absolutely watchable and brilliantly-played, believable characters which adds significantly to the value of the movie.
 
I came back happier watching the movie, muttering all power to Datto and hopefully so will you. I guess, going back to from where I began this review, it is this newly introduced character of Datto which saves the Sequel from the usual fate of sequels, and the fond affection with which not only this character is created, but it is developed and played. Datto has made the unfashionable dresses and unconventional thoughts, not to mention, a hairstyle which we cannot call anything but boycut (well, that is the term I know, being myself much fashionably-challenged) hair, an object to be cheered for, loved and affectionately protected.

Cheeky Quotes

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