That the joy of travel lies actually in the journey, and not in reaching the destination, is something that I had heard and read about ad infinitum. But realisation is not always the same as knowledge.

So we went driving. And, we didn't even know where exactly we were going, or how far, or for how long, we would drive. We went, literally, where the road took us. and it took us through some absolutely fantastic stretches. We found food we liked, views we loved and moments we will remember. When the rest of the world seemed to be going a little mad, trying to "enjoy" their year-end, trying desperately to do something that would match up to what everyone else was doing, we made some very happy and very good memories.

And today has been a beginning of so many sorts! Hours-long conversations with friends over the phone, chats full of smiles and laughter, a house that is getting a major facelift, and some very strange music playing on a television screen! (It's quite amazing how female singers all seem to be dressed in their underwear! Wonder what will be left to take off a few years from now?!)

Here's to another year full of truly memorable journeys!

When Rodney King was beaten to a pulp outside of Los Angeles, I was ten years old. I don't remember if I heard or saw anything about it on TV at that time, or if there was talk about it at home (like there was talk about almost everything), but when I saw the trailer of King (the Halle Berry and Daniel Craig film that was supposed to release earlier this year), everything came back to me. I remembered what had happened.

(The film King, of course, was preceded by Kathryn Bigelow's Detroit in 2017. And if my memory of what happened in LA in 1992 had been hazy, then my knowledge of what happened in Detroit in 1967 had been non-existent.)

And now, while reading Paul Beatty's The White Boy Shuffle, King comes back to haunt me.

I am, right now, a little undecided about what is worse: That discrimination at this systemic level exists in a country, especially in the USA, which is believed to be the land of milk and honey by almost all; or that USA is considered to be the land of milk and honey in the first place, when discrimination at this systemic level exists there. I am yet to make up my mind. And equally aghast at both.

I can only speak for myself, and I know what has informed the picture I have in my mind about the US. Literature, films, music, and the stories of family who lived there while I was growing up. What informs the picture that I now have are very, very different things.

So, which books? Uncle Tom's Cabin, Gone with the Wind, and To Kill a Mocking Bird are perhaps three books that have black characters as a significant part of the story. How they are depicted, of course, is an entirely different issue altogether.

And which films? ...I don't know! For, do films coming out of Hollywood really count? Most of the memorable black characters I can remember were side-kicks to white heroes, or villains. Here, too, depiction is the biggest issue.

And music? (Taking a deep breath here, for there are many!) Harry Belafonte and Louis Armstrong were definitely the first ones I listened to. But did I even know what it meant to sing what they sang, especially Belafonte? No. I listened to Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin, BB Kind and Ella Fitzerald, Whitney Houston, Tina Turner and Michael Jackson. And yet, the colour of their skin, forever, remained a mere detail that was very easy to overlook. In a perfect world, that is perhaps how it should be; but given the world's imperfections, I now find it appalling that that is how it was.

I grew up with the knowledge of black history in the US to the extent that populist, feel-good, money-making books and films allowed, with the portrayal of blacks as all-suffering, loyal and noble creatures. A portrayal that is still very much the essence of films such as Twelve Years a Slave, Django Unchained, Hidden Figures, and The Maid. And, by now, I find it stomach churning. In the same way that I find the portrayal of women as good, understanding, care-giving, forgiving, smiling characters stomach-churning.

The reason for the portrayal of blacks (and women) in this unrealistic light is perhaps the same--that somebody else wrote their story. The somebody else who had little idea of what it really feels like to live a life where you need permission to remain alive.

And, of course, the blacks couldn't write their own story... because it's kind of tough to put pen on paper when your hands are tied behind you, and your face is ground into the mud.

A little more than 16 years ago, I was manically pacing the rooms at home, tears streaming down my face, in shock and fury. The news that Daniel Pearl had been beheaded by Al-Qaeda had just come through on TV. The only thing I knew about Pearl was that he was a journalist with The Wall Street Journal who was in Pakistan for investigating a story; that he had been abducted, and killed.

I had been studying for journalism college for a year by then, studying quite hard; and had begun my round of entrance exams. I did not have any idea what it meant to be a journalist--no one in my entire family had any clue either--but that is what I wanted to become. Why? Well, I still ask myself that question. (In that very journalism college, a few months after Pearl's murder, classmates would be poring over a video on the internet that claimed to show the actual footage of the beheading. I watched my classmates from a distance, wondering if this is what really sells--the sight of one of your own being slaughtered.)

My tears at Pearl's killing was because I had no idea that something like this could actually happen. That actually goes to show what I knew of the world, and of journalism in particular.

Sixteen years later, today, I read the obituary of Jamal Khashoggi. I have followed the news, as I do, dispassionately, since it broke. Followed what each party has presented, alleged and defended. And I don't feel much. I don't feel shock, or rage, or, frankly, even surprise. To me, it is news, a development, an indication of certain things.

For, yes, I am no longer that naive, ignorant babe-in-the-woods who is out to change the world. But also because I have seen, in these years, the effects of what can sometimes still be called journalism.

PS: And on the same page as Khashoggi's obit, was an article about US military engagement in Afghanistan. It's been 16 years, and those buggers still can't get their heads out of their arses to see the royal fucking mess they created. Maybe, like Vietnam, it will take them a quarter of a century to admit they failed.

So, I watched Secret in Their Eyes.

It's a rare kind of film, coming out of Hollywood, and that too with three of the biggest names in the industry. What makes it rare is the abject absence of dramatics, and the supremely taut drama that holds it together.

I knew the general plot of the film before I sat down to watch it, so I was prepared to switch it off at any moment, thinking "I know what happens now". But no, I never quite knew what happens now. Not even till the very last moment of the film, when the screen went blank. And that, too, is a rarity.

Julia Roberts continues with what she started in August: Osage County--looking her non-glamorous best, and finally portraying characters you don't want to fall in love with. Nicole Kidman has been doing this for a little longer, although looking good remains part of the job in this film. And there is Chiwetel Ejiofor. I haven't, honestly, seen much of his films, so I am not sure if this is his usual self on screen, or an exception in any way. Highly watchable, either way.

The film is, broadly, a revenge drama.It is a remake of an earlier Argentine film that won an Oscar in the Best Foreign Film category, and most of those who have watched both believe this is a rather poor remake. Which might be the case.

But regardless of how good or bad the film is, what struck me was what it is really about. It is about revenge, yes; it is about a grieving mother, yes; it is about unrequited love, yes; it's about the politics of police investigations, yes. But what it really is about, is friendship. And, somehow, no one who has written about the film seems to notice it. It is really the friendship between Jess and Ray, that is so rare in films, perhaps even literature. Ray and Jess have not been in touch for 13 years; and yet, Jess never quite left Ray's life. She consumed it, in fact.

There have been depictions of friendships on screen, of course: There is the much cliched Jai and Veeru of Sholay, there is Thelma and Louise, there is Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and more. But same-gendered friendships are more common, than opposite-gendered ones. Because, somehow, it is very difficult to perhaps imagine--for the writers as well as the audience--a straight man and a straight woman being friends. There is, of course, A Long Kiss Goodnight (one of my all-time favourites). But Sam and Mitch were also partners in crime, and crime-fighting.

Friendships are perhaps the most underrated and over-abused relationships in life. Why? I don't know. Perhaps because we are made to believe, from a very young age, that there are other relationships that are more important. Important because they are perhaps more "useful"--friends remain so as long as they serve a purpose; when there is no purpose, there is no need for that relationship any longer.

This has happened so often in my life, that it never fails to make me smile. It always amuses me that wee bit to see yet another of these 'friends' fall from grace, show themselves up for what they really are, and bite the dust. And it always makes me happy about the few in my life who have never left my side, nor I theirs.

That's what made Secret in Their Eyes so good to watch. To know that there are some who will never quite leave.

Every now and then I am amazed at the speed at which time has been rushing past. And visiting this blog every now and then just affirms my amazement. I receive a comment, a notification, and I come back to it, and am left smiling at the life and longevity of these posts.

And thanks to everyone who keeps coming back to this, along with me.

So, for some days now, I have been thinking about what to write here.

It would be quite a shame if I didn't write anything at all this whole year. Because, strange as this may be, it looks like there are still people who read this stuff! And, even if there was no one, that would hardly be a reason for not writing.

One of the biggest reasons, perhaps, for not having written is the fact that there is so much cramming my head, that it is a massive task untangling just one thread of thought. There is no way that that one thread is not going to drag along a massive web behind it. This, in turn, reminds me of a conversation with a veteran professor at Oxford. So I asked her a question regarding my paper, and she kept silent for a while, then heaved a sigh, and said, with some resignation, "It's very complicated." And then we both laughed. Because the more you know, and, more importantly, the more you understand, the less you are able to give quick, intelligent, perhaps even intelligible, answers. Because with every line you say, you run the risk of that massive web looming over you. More often than not, it's just better to keep quiet.

But what actually pushed me to write today is a somewhat unusual reason: Shashi Kapoor has died. No, I am not going to write an obituary. I hardly can. (Oh, that's one more thing that happens the more you know about something--you also realise how much you don't know. It's all very inconvenient!) The newspapers are flowing with tributes. I don't know if there will be any retrospective of his work on any of the channels. But given the state in which the Kapoor archives (if you can call them that) were kept at RK Studios, I wonder how many of his films survive, and in what state, with whom.

Thing is, six years ago, there had been a rumour that Shashi Kapoor had died. I remember that. And at that time, I had thought that this is one thing about actors that is so unnatural--they stay immortal through their work. Forever. You could say that all artistes are immortal, then. Yes, perhaps, but not in the same way as actors, or singers. Because only actors and singers have an actual physical part of themselves preserved in some way.

I don't remember exactly which was the first Shashi Kapoor film I had seen, but most likely it was a song from Sharmili. Probably its title song. I remember trees, and snow, and woolen clothes and caps. I don't remember how old I was; five, six. I think I was also told that he was Shammi Kapoor's brother. And how did I know who was Shammi Kapoor? Why? It was that fat man in the Pan Parag TV ad, of course! "Paan Paraag" he would bellow into the camera.

But what had been a shocker to me was when I first saw the film Rajkumar. That was Shammi Kapoor?! That was also Shammi Kapoor?!

And now I come to the crux of this rambling. One of the greatest joys of watching films for me has been the discovery of actors in their youth; actors whom I first saw in their middle-age, perhaps even old age. It is only in films that the clocks move backwards. And it is spell-binding.

The first of these actors, of course, was Shammi Kapoor. I could not believe that the man with the chiseled face, frolicking and gamboling, was the same fat man in that ad. Then there was Kishore Kumar. He died when I was seven. I remember that night, when Lakhan-da, running up the stairs to our dining table, gave us the news he had heard on the radio. I remember that moment, thinking, but he was just now singing all those songs? In fact, I had seen Teen Bahuraniyan, and how much I had laughed at the "Bum chiki bum chiki bum chiki bum bum" song! And I knew "Eena meena deeka" as well! How could he be dead?

As I grew up, and then grew older, this discovery continued. The most startling one were, perhaps, of Kirk Douglas and Marlon Brando. Well, if Godfather is the first Brando film I saw, then you can't really blame me if my jaw dropped when I saw Streetcar Named Desire! Who, who can even imagine that Brando could ever look like that!! (I mean in Streetcar!) Douglas I first saw in a short film called Yellow. An aging army veteran, he was in the film. Years later, I saw him in Spartacus. Again, jaw dropped.

As I watched more films, and read more about them, this sense of discovery had somewhat dimmed. Though I was not consciously aware of it. But what brought it surging back was the casual mention of a song, followed by a search for it on YouTube, and then the finding of a film unknown to me. Jagte Raho. And who do I see in it? Raj Kapoor (his familiar Chaplin-esque tramp character), and a young, very young Chhobi Biswas (a drunk one at that!), and--the biggest surprise of the lot--a very young Iftekar who speaks fluent Bengali!! (Yes, Jagte Raho was a Bengali film with Raj Kapoor in his hey days. Quite a coup!)

Iftekar! The quintessential suave, urbane man of the 1970s, who was probably remembered for his portrayal of the upright and daring policeman in Amitabh Bachchan films, if not for playing Davar in Deewar. That Iftekar was playing this energetic-verging-on-loony character in the madhouse that Raj Kapoor finds himself in, in Jagte Raho. (That film itself was a discovery, but that's another story).

And now, Deewar has brought me back to Shashi Kapoor. Conincidence, I swear!

The last film of his that I watched was New Delhi Times. I understand that the film is not easily available now. It never was. It wasn't even cleared by the CBFC easily. And for reasons that will make most recent CBFC fiascoes look like jokes. When the film finally saw the light of day, it won three National Awards, one for Kapoor as Best Actor.

If you really want to know the mettle that Shashi Kapoor is made of--it will always be "is", never "was"--that is the film you should watch. For no matter what else you have watched of him, your knowledge will always have that yawning gap if you haven't seen him in this.


And then, of course, there was that long conversation I had had with Sanjna Kapoor about her parents, and everything they loved. "So why did your father really produce 36 Chowringhee Lane," I had asked, genuinely puzzled. What she had said is another story.

Maybe I shall write about that conversation sometime later. Or maybe never. Because, you know, that tangled web is already threatening to loom over me.

I was reading an interview / profile of Samuel L Jackson, when something made me want to write what I am about to write (although this is hardly the first time that I am thinking along these lines). The article on Jackson showed a scene from his latest film Tarzan, in which he (in character) is running, rifle in hand, along with Alexander Skarsgard who (no surprises) is Tarzan. Tarzan: Child of the civilised white man in the jungle of the uncivilised black man. (And there is Mowgli: A different story, but a similar premise.)

Exactly how many Hollywood films have we seen in which the white man comes to the rescue of a black one? (The last one I remember trying to watch was Finding Forrester. It has been hailed as a great film, but, frankly, I found it to be a load of pretentious bull-shit.) And how many films have we seen in which the man rescues the woman? Too many to remember.

In college, while digging through the books in the library, I had come across this phrase: "History is written by the victors." It was a realisation; something quite obvious, but something that had to be deliberately pointed out to me. But I had not understood the full import of the phrase. It is only now, years later, that I have gradually gathered what it really means, and what it will always mean.

And this not just applies to the political history of the world, but its social history as well. What if the history of the African nations were documented first by Africans themselves? What if Mahabharat or The Prince were written by women? What if Margaret Thatcher was a proclaimed homosexual?

When I have sometimes sat down to even contemplate what history really might have been had the victorious (every form of them--whites, men, upper-castes, heterosexuals, etc) NOT written it, it is like questioning the very foundations of most things that I have ever known. It is like waking up one day and being told that every single thing that everyone has ever told me about everything is probably a lie.

Forget about knowing others, it's almost like I don't know myself anymore.

And that, in a very strange way, can be immensely liberating. Because now I can make myself, without anyone else having made it for me.