In the scalding barrenness of hope, one finds an oasis in the surging romance between the operative and the Iranian nurse.  The latter bound by the dictates of custom in a disorganized displaced environment by war – the other trying to find moorings of family and a filial affection in a society where mobility of values is the custom. Revealing his personal status as a divorcee he counters his new love interest’s charge of being a bad husband by quipping back –“I was a bad husband but she was a worse wife”. The brittleness of the American family contrasted with the clawing stability of Middle Eastern ethos and religious tenets. The restraint that custom can weave into body language and mannerisms stand etched in the character of the nurse in contrast to the innocent overtures of her beau. A society where a visitor home or a shake of hands with a man can have the community gazing on intrusively –cctv’s on two legs- mopping up a slight deviance-  from every parapet. All the while when airwaves of satellite television and the internet are subconsciously smoothening out the wrinkles of cultural isolation -anti pluralist thought in the Middle East living room.  

Those trying to reclaim the lost territory of peace are not the westerners alone; the Muslims too are having their torsos shredded in the fight. The protagonists plea for compensating the family of the Arab who has died in an operation brings to the fore the fact that heroes for democracy are not whites skinned alone or that the rest mere foot soldiers.  A reminder too – not to categorize all humanity constituting Muslims into jihads.  Reminding those who have strayed that there is a waiting mother back home- drugged by an overdose of faith sacrificing these primary obligations common to all humanity leads nowhere.

 The films loud message is taken to an unwarranted sickening height in the denouement, when Leonardo is about to be another sliced head on internet . Leonardo’s  impassioned plea is alike to the director keeping his megaphone to the viewers ear apprehending that his efforts for the last 2 hours have failed which was uncalled for.   Crafty swooping photography that etches the sandy terrain  of the middle east matching the mood and symbolism required for the script, measured earthy dialogues connoting a new middle east- west society and an unassuming yet discernible background score in tune with the cultural ethnic beats – had in fact already told the story.

Leonardo’s sincerity as an actor is evident in the freshness and enterprise that he exudes as a CIA operative internalizing the finer aspects of a foreign milieu and fusing into an alien culture in order to be effective in his portrayal. The film subtly informs that understanding their culture, society language open up ways to tackle terrorism that an indiscriminating missile however sophisticated cannot. In contrast , Russell Crowe heaves around the portly detachment of a macro strategist for whom the terrain is a  just geography viewed from an elevated platform and all that is potential terror are targets to be destroyed- in that resolve sometimes even his own operative is just another pawn!. A deportment of  ease, assuredness and clinical execution of  state policy in contrast to the befuddled frame of mind of those fighting it at the ground level. Martin Strong as the Jordanian Intelligence chief brings alive an outdated charisma and elegance grafting a take away performance that cinema will cherish for a long time. With so many tricks of terror war exposed on screen surely CIA would have a wry flustered grin when the theatre lights up post- show.   

 -younohu

a hanuman with sita on his shoulder,

face painted by stale red and paler white borders,

tail – a rubber pole buoys upto sitas wonder,

traffic constable breaks the ghutka and looks away,

who can intervene he smirks,

when gods are at play ,

traffic lights turn red waiting for ram ,

sita hangs on to hanuman –

the coins all in winter starched hanumans hand.

-YOUNOHU

Now, the telephone rang. It was meant to.  It rang again. It wasn’t meant to be picked up. It rang in the adjacent house. My chair creaked under the jerk of my feet  and the weight of anticipation as I got up. My not yet 20 something body swaggered towards the stairway just as my hero   would have in a movie emergency. Time on the mantle piece did not tick patience any more. That call was for me.  I staggered down. Acha must be wondering why no body picked up the phone. Gosh ! I gulped . what if nobody would. A frightening gloom spread over me as I lurched towards my gate. W hat if they (balu uncle and radha aunty were out) and were going to be late. They could be. It was their house and their phone. We never had a phone. We had booked one. But it took time- 3 years- Waitlisted quota. …….

Today his medical tests would have been done with at AIIMS in Delhi. He had left 14 days back and we would be talking 14 days hence. There was only one reassurance –that was he was in Delhi. Delhi was his hometown. He expressed it not only when he had gulped down his  pegs of grim colored rum  but testified to his belief by making it his hometown even in his office records for LTC purposes as well. We never traveled to Trivandrum – just 5 hours from Cochin but Delhi – it was a pilgrimage that could not be disappointed–chugging it out for three days in the train – For them(Acha and Amma and a little by my sister – they had lived in the delight of romancing Delhi -supping their youth in the hug of its tree canopied thoroughfares, for me it was an adventure stirred by the curiosity of uncovering the mystery of a city that they so tantalizingly narrated and  one in which  I had missed being born in. …………as acha would put his love for the city with vehemence by humming– wo dilli wo dilli ki galian kahaan………… (to be continued)

The telephone continued to ring……………