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.