One Race to Wipe them All

They set out, riding on creatures, to conquer the unknown and unseen, of which they had only heard of from not-so-reliable eyes and ears. 

Humped, there were numerous; 

fast there were many; 

of the herding type, a few. 

They rode by the night, for the day was unforgiving. They ate a few, drank from the many and numerous- and not just meat or milk.

They crossed deserts, for that was home; 

they waded through rivers; for that was not ever done. 

Then they met mountains, of rock and stone; 

they had seen before only dune that shone. 

Most of the few perished; much of many were eaten. But few of the numerous made it through tough terrain. Thus they marched on with the many left. Most died on the rocks, while the rest were crestfallen from herculean efforts. The mountains asked too much and only the best made it to the land of heaven that lay beyond. They met strange folk, none of whom had seen such strangers as them. 

With some, they shook hands, 

but off most, they took heads. 

The strange folk but naturally resisted, sometimes with fruition, but mostly in vain; for these people knew not of such ferocity as was meted by the men of sand and sun. 

What drove them on was not of import, 

What ensued became stuff of lore. 

Much of what followed was of beauty. 

But even more, of gore. 

The strange folk they met had weak arms but very large hearts. Heaven embraced people who raped it and they called it home forever. By some act of providence, the gory stopped and a lasting truce prevailed, a very uneasy one.

Heaven had just finished nursing its wounds when more visitors arrived. They did not have to fight mountains, for their route was maritime and the munition they possessed was only for defense. Harmless, they proclaimed themselves. Heaven believed, for they were few and came floating on the great seas in their huge vessels. How could they possibly harm us, thought the new natives of heaven. Thus came the vessel-men along with their fare. Only, they weren't fair inside.

Conniving men to the core, they traded in nothing, 

for their mother taught just killing and thieving. 

Cold were their hearts, and warmth was what they found in the arms of the new occupants. The old wept tears of blood, watching the bully tenant hand over the keys to the robber. 

Spice, cotton, silk and emerald they hoard. 

Upon helpless women, much they whored. 

Chivalry was not their writ, of civility they knew little,

In the realm of white, brutes ruled with morality brittle. 

Prosperity was in heaven, for it knew six seasons.

A dozen shades, a hundred tongues, a thousand occasions,
All celebrated for wise old reasons.

The brigands knew just one color and a narrow vision. Thus, they rejoiced their time in the Eden of the innocent. When the wise gave them counsel, they bought these noble souls with promises of better days. 

The wise returned to relate to the old. 

That culture was waste,

that pride is in only yellow gold.

Heaven was elsewhere too. Natives of this other heaven took good care of it and nourished themselves with what it had to give. Alas, vessels reached their shores in haste! The bountiful realm was laid waste with blood and fur of the sons and daughters. The mindless  then planted the seeds, of alien herbs and capital. 

They dug the earth and drew from rock, black oil.

From whence grew industry, upon which sons of today toil. 

Robbers of here and thieves of there, 

were all but brothers,

Their mother thus ordained, that plunders they shall share.

So were bought, sons of the black, sisters of the yellow,

Mattered little, if she'd seen too many winters, or was just a little fellow.

Fathers of the brown were sold.
Mothers of the black were sold.

Sisters, young and old,
wherever there was oil, crop or gold.

Yet they call us today, with their science bold, 

"What have we not, and what hath ye, O' third world?"

Of God they speak, but well do we know,

That all they loved was blood on snow.

Altruism now, is their best show. 

Like it or not, but they see hatred grow.

We seek not vengeance, only fair play. 

Alas, mother earth, it is you who has to pay.

What they did, how do I say,

Colors are your doing, mother,

to engulf you, end of the day.

Bahubali-2- The Conclusion- Movie Review

Rajamouli, I feel for you, 

So many sub-plots and splinters, yet just three hours to pack them all in!

I am a teacher. When the course runs behind schedule, every one in our profession enters panic mode. The classes that are taken towards the end of a term are more often just patch-work, usually covering only what's required and not what's of value. Students too, of all ages and levels, take this as an emergency pill and gulp it down with magnanimity. For the current system of education, this pill is not bitter, but even sweet. In systems more pragmatic and value-based, these short bursts of knowledge dissemination would form matters of severe scrutiny.

But that's just education; entertainment is an entirely different phenomenon, you might say, Mr. Rajamouli. From where I see, you are not running for the Academy or even Nationals; so perhaps you are right. But to call cinema entirely different, I disagree. What students experience and what a viewer watches are not very unlike. In fact, the stakes are way higher in cinema because here the span of attention demanded gets amplified 3-4 times, thus requiring a delivery that's compelling enough to hold on to the viewers' senses.

This you have done, and how! 

Be it the raging cattle, or the humongous elephant carved along the river, the display of super-human strength by the central characters or innovative intrusion tactics in battle, grandeur has been your forte throughout: and understandably so. Without these spell-binding moments, the three-hour sit would be just another period fiction. The drama, the politics in monarchical settings , the heart-wrenching scenes of grief and the cosmetic episode of romance are all finely woven in for the viewer to get lost. And get lost, they will. Visuals and acting have been top notch from the entire cast. For some time to come, Prabhas, Sathyaraj and Rana Daggubatti might have to either take a sabbatical from acting or act like a De Niro to break the moulds they have conjured up for themselves through the Bahubali franchise. The characters have come alive through these men and women on the screen, this much I concede. 

Another factor contributing to the rushes- social media- has also been catered to very deftly. The Kattappa-Bahubali twain has been built in amazing fashion and finally consummated with the death of Bahubali Senior. The much awaited answer is revealed without much aplomb, and justice is done to the story. Screenplay is outstanding, art-direction has a global appeal and the graphics are advanced, to say the least. 

Having said all that, the plot of Bahubali, still cries for purchase. If Amarendra Bahubali has been brought to life, Mahendra Bahubali has been disproportionately given a subdued role. If Anushka takes charge of screen time, Tamanna has quietly languished back-stage. If Bahubali has been avenged in style, Shiva's foster parents have been kept under shadows- in all, there are flashes (in fact, a 3 hour long flash!) of unfulfilled roles and loopholes in the film. This is not unlike what students experience at the end of the term; they realise that they have learned all, yet they can't keep a finger on which is which. There is just too much pressure on their minds to stay focused. 

But the good news is- and this is where cinema is so different a phenomenon- people, in general, will lap up the visual treat and bear with the little inadequacies of story telling to the extent of negligence.

Jai Mahishmati!

P.S: Gold doesn't float on water.