Chicken Noodle Soup

Is what my mysterious allure is reduced to by someone who knows me all too well.... A simple, 'that's why you haven't been on the blog...'. Yep. That is why.
Apparently, all good Indians are meant to be aghast with the hoohaa around Slumdog Millionaire as led by the ubiquitous phenomena himself. The Big B wants to know why it's ok to portray India the way they did, as a seriously 'developing' nation, with a seamy side to horrify all civilised men. Something about every country having it's dark side, and no one ever talking about it. So? This isn't about every other country. It's about mine. My city. The first time I've felt like I've seen it on celluloid through my own eyes. Naked, raw and honest. In all her ugliness, heart, brutality, hope, soul, emptiness and joy bared for all to see. Well, to those who care to look anyway. I understand though, it's hard for an outsider to see what I see - amid the filth and poverty, the bright shining eyes and smiles, the little beggars suddenly transformed into truant children with the changing traffic lights. How can I explain... the duality of it all. Of us. Being Indian. Of living with degradation, accepting it, yet finding happiness in it.
There is so much I'm ashamed of, of the things we do allow to happen, but yet, I accept this is who we are and I'm not ashamed of admitting it. Police brutality. It's real. But so are the good cops. Children being maimed by organised crime for a few more rupees. How often do I tell foreigners - feed them if you feel pity. Don't, don't give them money. It's not about poverty, it's organised crime. Deaf ears, naively believing their generosity will make a difference, shocked at my callousness. The two cheeky little boys selling magazines that I dropped to the next signal, who insisted I read one of their magazines.... No charge Madam! No freeloaders here. How do I explain..... the heart that beats, the soul that shines through despite the cruelty. Happiness isn't always about having a roof over your head or new clothes. Happiness is shared laughter. An unexpected downpour that turns business into a free for all mela. What caught my heart (well, one of the things...) in the film was the blind boy that didn't make it out tell Jamal he's glad that he was able to.... wishful thinking? Maybe.
If I had a magic wand.... for that little girl with the dirt streaked face, snotty nose and bright eyes smiling clutching my ex-car ornament, the young boy who practised his English on me at the Chowpatty signal, for that audacious little girl that nearly gave Darius a heart attack when she asked for ten rupees without blinking (that was the sum total of Darius' financial capability for an entire month those days...)...for all the children of my city... my country.
In true desi style; it's a victory. Good over evil, winner takes it all, truth triumphs and everybody applauds and cheers for the hero and the love of his life... an euphoric figment of someones imagination. But the city is all mine; vicious, cruel, joyous, hopeful...a living heart.