cUt!​ ​cUt!​ ​bAn!​ ​bAn!

On​ ​what​ ​it​ ​means​ ​and how it feels to​ ​be a creative​ ​artist in a Democracy, ​and​ ​to​ ​be​ ​censored​...


By​ ​Murali​ ​Gopy

“The​ ​Illiterates​ ​of​ ​the​ ​21st​ ​Century​ ​will​ ​not​ ​be​ ​those​ ​who​ ​cannot​ ​read​ ​and​ ​write,​ ​but those​ ​who​ ​cannot​ ​learn,​ ​unlearn​ ​and​ ​relearn.”​ ​said​ ​Alvin​ ​Toffler.​ ​While​ ​speaking​ ​about the​ ​illiterates​ ​of​ ​the​ ​21st​ ​century,​ ​one​ ​surely​ ​needs​ ​to​ ​paste​ ​a​ ​disclaimer​ ​before​ ​one goes​ ​into​ ​the​ ​perilous​ ​process​ ​of​ ​opening​ ​one’s​ ​heart,​ ​to​ ​the​ ​keyboard.​ ​So​ ​here​ ​it​ ​goes: “All​ ​characters​ ​and​ ​panels,​ ​depicted​ ​in​ ​this​ ​article​ ​are​ ​fictitious,​ ​and​ ​any​ ​resemblance​ ​to any​ ​demon​ ​or​ ​man,​ ​living​ ​or​ ​dead,​ ​is​ ​purely​ ​coincidental.”

It​ ​is​ ​the​ ​early​ ​hours​ ​of​ ​another​ ​ominous Friday,​ ​the​ ​25th​ ​of​ ​August,​ ​2017,​ ​as​ ​I​ ​key​ ​this​ ​in.​ ​Ten days​ ​have​ ​gone​ ​past,​ ​since​ ​India​ ​celebrated​ ​71​ ​years​ ​of​ ​her​ ​Independence,​ ​from​ ​the British,​ ​who,​ ​in​ ​the​ ​words​ ​of​ ​one​ ​of​ ​our​ ​most​ ​eloquent​ ​votaries​ ​of​ ​what​ ​I​ ​would​ ​call designer​ ​patriotism,​ ​left​ ​this​ ​land​ ​after​ ​gifting​ ​her​ ​“an​ ​era​ ​of​ ​darkness”.​ ​The​ ​darkest​ ​hour, my​ ​tricolour​ ​man,​ ​is​ ​now!​ ​And​ ​so,​ ​is​ ​the​ ​“finest​ ​hour”.

I’m​ ​unable​ ​to​ ​sleep.​ ​Unable​ ​to​ ​know​ ​from​ ​where​ ​I​ ​should​ ​start. But​ ​start,​ ​I​ ​must.​ ​Sleep,​ ​I​ ​ought​ ​to. My​ ​frustration,​ ​in​ ​my​ ​modest​ ​capacity​ ​as​ ​a​ ​writer,​ ​stems​ ​from​ ​the​ ​fact​ ​that​ ​I​ ​actually​ ​miss the​ ​British,​ ​because​ ​they​ ​gave​ ​us​ ​the​ ​silly​ ​solace​ ​(just​ ​about​ ​enough​ ​to​ ​battle​ ​this insistent​ ​insomnia)​ ​that​ ​we​ ​were​ ​actually​ ​fighting​ ​a​ ​foreign​ ​force,​ ​who​ ​were​ ​conveniently held​ ​responsible​ ​by​ ​us​ ​for​ ​all​ ​the​ ​ills​ ​that​ ​we​ ​saw​ ​here. They​ ​are​ ​gone. We​ ​remain. With​ ​no​ ​excuse​ ​left. And​ ​with​ ​no​ ​other​ ​way​ ​than​ ​to​ ​tackle​ ​ourselves.

It​ ​is​ ​almost​ ​like​ ​a​ ​zombie​ ​siege,​ ​now.​ ​We​ ​cannot​ ​even​ ​wink,​ ​for​ ​it’s​ ​our​ ​own​ ​legions,​ ​who have​ ​turned​ ​into​ ​white-walkers​ ​(thanks​ ​to​ ​GoT),​ ​braying​ ​for​ ​our​ ​red.​ ​The​ ​Indians​ ​of today​ ​sleep​ ​and​ ​wake​ ​up​ ​with​ ​the​ ​enemy​ ​within.​ ​The​ ​battle​ ​now​ ​is​ ​with​ ​one’s​ ​own​ ​alter ego,​ ​which​ ​makes​ ​love​ ​with​ ​a​ ​borrowed​ ​sex​ ​toy​ ​of​ ​liberal​ ​thought,​ ​comes​ ​on​ ​to​ ​the pseudo​ ​intellectual​ ​beds​ ​of​ ​unapologetically​ ​colonial​ ​bedrooms,​ ​and​ ​yet​ ​squeaks, squeals​ ​and​ ​moans,​ ​in​ ​absolute​ ​carnal​ ​bliss,​ ​about​ ​the​ ​Independence​ ​that​ ​we supposedly​ ​fetched​ ​up​ ​to​ ​our​ ​own​ ​throats,​ ​on​ ​that​ ​midnight​ ​of​ ​71​ ​years​ ​ago!

Are​ ​we​ ​Independent?​ ​Yes!

Are​ ​we​ ​free?​ ​No!

We​ ​are​ ​just​ ​glorified​ ​victims​ ​of​ ​sustained​ ​propaganda,​ ​that​ ​we​ ​are​ ​full-y​ ​free. Are​ ​we​ ​pint-free,​ ​then?​ ​No,​ ​again! We​ ​are​ ​just​ ​about​ ​quarter-free,​ ​and​ ​that​ ​too​ ​is​ ​a​ ​stingily​ ​scheduled​ ​quota​ ​served​ ​to​ ​us by​ ​every​ ​incoming​ ​Government,​ ​as​ ​a​ ​consolation​ ​prize​ ​dressed​ ​up​ ​as​ ​an​ ​award.

Every​ ​real​ ​citizen​ ​of​ ​this​ ​land,​ ​who​ ​I​ ​know​ ​of,​ ​holds​ ​a​ ​serious​ ​grouse​ ​in​ ​his​ ​or​ ​her heart—​ ​​ ​a​ ​cancerous​ ​complaint,​ ​which​ ​rots​ ​as​ ​deeply​ ​as​ ​it​ ​spreads​ ​widely​ ​into​ ​his​ ​and her​ ​being.​ ​It​ ​hurts​ ​him​ ​and​ ​her​ ​deeply,​ ​retires​ ​him​ ​and​ ​her​ ​prematurely,​ ​and​ ​finally,​ ​kills both​ ​with​ ​a​ ​deftly​ ​patronising​ ​sucker​ ​punch.​ ​Since​ ​I’m​ ​not​ ​Mahatma​ ​enough​ ​to​ ​identify entirely​ ​with​ ​these​ ​comrades​ ​of​ ​mine,​ ​let​ ​alone​ ​voice​ ​their​ ​concern,​ ​let​ ​me​ ​just​ ​push​ ​the keys​ ​to​ ​give​ ​at​ ​least​ ​a​ ​meek​ ​draft​ ​to​ ​my​ ​own​ ​turbulence,​ ​from​ ​where​ ​I​ ​stand.

And​ ​I​ ​warn​ ​you,​ ​seekers​ ​of​ ​Entertainment,​ ​that​ ​this​ ​would​ ​be​ ​a​ ​very,​ ​very​ ​boring​ ​read​ ​as it​ ​comes​ ​directly​ ​from​ ​a​ ​mind​ ​made​ ​dull​ ​by​ ​a​ ​cloud​ ​of​ ​hopelessness​ ​that​ ​stretches beyond​ ​immediate​ ​horizons. Before​ ​getting​ ​drawn​ ​into​ ​Cinema,​ ​which​ ​I​ ​once​ ​considered​ ​an​ ​effective​ ​placebo​ ​to​ ​the now​ ​platinum​ ​jubilee​ ​socio-political​ ​migraine​ ​that​ ​throbs​ ​and​ ​rages​ ​on​ ​at​ ​the​ ​temples​ ​of this​ ​land..,​ ​I​ ​was​ ​a​ ​journalist. By​ ​saying​ ​that,​ ​I​ ​just​ ​meant​ ​that​ ​I​ ​was​ ​into​ ​a​ ​business​ ​mostly​ ​and​ ​covertly​ ​controlled​ ​by vested​ ​interests​ ​but​ ​camouflaged​ ​by​ ​royal​ ​words​ ​such​ ​as​ ​“courage”,​ ​“accuracy”​ ​and “accountability”.​ ​Those​ ​were​ ​the​ ​days​ ​when​ ​we​ ​all​ ​told​ ​ourselves,​ ​with​ ​every​ ​rising​ ​sun, that​ ​in​ ​our​ ​hands​ ​was​ ​the​ ​beacon​ ​of​ ​truth..,​ ​only​ ​to​ ​douse​ ​the​ ​smoking​ ​stick​ ​of disappointment,​ ​with​ ​every​ ​setting​ ​sun,​ ​in​ ​the​ ​seas​ ​of​ ​community​ ​liquor​ ​that​ ​flowed​ ​in the​ ​self-assured,​ ​smug​ ​dungeons​ ​of​ ​fraternity​ ​clubs.

Even​ ​then,​ ​the​ ​little​ ​solace​ ​that​ ​I​ ​always​ ​served​ ​myself​ ​with,​ ​as​ ​“touchings",​ ​was​ ​that there​ ​was​ ​a​ ​destination,​ ​called​ ​Art,​ ​which​ ​I​ ​naively​ ​thought​ ​of,​ ​to​ ​have​ ​survived​ ​here​ ​like a​ ​lucky​ ​boat,​ ​braving​ ​this​ ​devious​ ​and​ ​deceptive​ ​sea​ ​of​ ​make​ ​believe​ ​democracy,​ ​with the​ ​great​ ​flag​ ​of​ ​creative​ ​freedom​ ​tied​ ​firmly​ ​to​ ​its​ ​shaky​ ​yet​ ​steely​ ​mast. This​ ​night,​ ​as​ ​I​ ​lie​ ​floating​ ​in​ ​the​ ​art​ ​and​ ​business​ ​of​ ​Cinema,​ ​I​ ​realise​ ​in​ ​misery..,​ ​that​ ​I was​ ​mistaken. Is​ ​Art​ ​free?​ ​No!​ ​It​ ​too​ ​is​ ​not! ‘Not​ ​Only’​ ​is​ ​it​ ​not​ ​free,​ ​it​ ​is​ ​also...​ ​a​ ​‘But​ ​Also’! A​ ​huge​ ​one​ ​at​ ​that! And​ ​how​ ​very​ ​sadly​ ​so!

Right​ ​from​ ​the​ ​time​ ​I​ ​started​ ​moving​ ​my​ ​pen​ ​for​ ​movies,​ ​I​ ​realised​ ​one​ ​thing.​ ​That​ ​even as​ ​the​ ​artist​ ​gives​ ​his​ ​‘rooh’​ ​into​ ​this​ ​moving​ ​sculpture​ ​called​ ​cinema,​ ​the​ ​system​ ​starts warming​ ​up​ ​its​ ​muscles​ ​to​ ​hop​ ​in​ ​and​ ​prefix​ ​an​ ​“F”​ ​to​ ​his​ ​ART.

The​ ​moment​ ​a​ ​film​ ​is​ ​ready​ ​to​ ​emerge,​ ​after​ ​gifting​ ​a​ ​kind​ ​of​ ​pain​ ​to​ ​its​ ​parent​ ​that​ ​is akin​ ​to​ ​Labour​ ​(or​ ​even​ ​more​ ​scream-worthy​ ​than​ ​that),​ ​its​ ​nemesis​ ​has​ ​already​ ​arrived at​ ​the​ ​vaginal​ ​door:​ ​a​ ​psychotic​ ​midwife,​ ​waiting​ ​to​ ​pounce​ ​at​ ​the​ ​newborn,​ ​eager​ ​to maim​ ​it​ ​into​ ​an​ ​invalid,​ ​and​ ​sadistically​ ​curious​ ​to​ ​know​ ​and​ ​see​ ​how​ ​the​ ​mother​ ​cries and​ ​how​ ​the​ ​father​ ​flounders​ ​at​ ​this!

Yes,​ ​I​ ​am​ ​referring​ ​to​ ​the​ ​Censor​ ​Board,​ ​that​ ​great​ ​and​ ​official​ ​grand​ ​dad​ ​of​ ​all​ ​moral policemen​ ​of​ ​this​ ​country, The​ ​‘deliverer’​ ​of​ ​the​ ​‘right’​ ​path. The​ ​State-sponsored​ ​bully. An​ ​autocratic​ ​jury,​ ​manned​ ​mostly​ ​by​ ​Toffler's​ ​illiterates​ ​and​ ​defaultly​ ​by​ ​blind supporters​ ​of​ ​the​ ​ruling​ ​class.

Here​ ​you​ ​are,​ ​in​ ​a​ ​self-patting​ ​democracy,​ ​subjecting​ ​a​ ​work​ ​of​ ​art,​ ​moreover,​ ​a​ ​work​ ​of creative​ ​expression,​ ​to​ ​the​ ​mercy​ ​of​ ​a​ ​few​ ​politically​ ​air-dropped​ ​people,​ ​who,​ ​in​ ​the name​ ​of​ ​safeguarding​ ​“propriety",​ ​end​ ​up​ ​becoming​ ​under-cover​ ​mercenaries​ ​to​ ​every incumbent​ ​government.

They​ ​unabashedly​ ​act​ ​on​ ​the​ ​non-printed​ ​diktats​ ​of​ ​the​ ​very​ ​ruling​ ​system,​ ​with​ ​which true​ ​Art​ ​has​ ​always​ ​waged​ ​its​ ​basic​ ​war​ ​with.

These​ ​masters​ ​of​ ​morality​ ​are​ ​elected​ ​with​ ​no​ ​transparent​ ​procedure.​ ​And​ ​they​ ​work​ ​to a​ ​totally​ ​repressive,​ ​outdated​ ​and​ ​prudish​ ​instruction​ ​sheet,​ ​which​ ​has​ ​been​ ​handed over​ ​to​ ​them​ ​by​ ​their​ ​predecessors,​ ​generation​ ​to​ ​generation.​ ​They​ ​judge​ ​films​ ​on​ ​the nerve​ ​and​ ​naivety​ ​of​ ​their​ ​own​ ​whim​ ​and​ ​illiteracy​ ​(Toffler's),​ ​with​ ​no​ ​panel​ ​or​ ​advocate other​ ​than​ ​the​ ​disgruntled​ ​filmmaker​ ​to​ ​stand​ ​up​ ​and​ ​speak​ ​for​ ​the​ ​film.​ ​Personal prejudice​ ​is​ ​given​ ​prime​ ​weightage.​ ​Artistic​ ​priorities​ ​are​ ​never​ ​given​ ​any.​ ​A​ ​one-sided verdict​ ​is​ ​passed,​ ​punishments​ ​meted​ ​out​ ​and​ ​sentences​ ​carried​ ​out​ ​at​ ​‘gunpoint’,​ ​in​ ​a style​ ​that​ ​would​ ​put​ ​even​ ​Joseph​ ​Stalin​ ​to​ ​shame!​ ​Tell​ ​me,​ ​are​ ​we​ ​free?

Great​ ​conspiring​ ​and​ ​mole​ ​work​ ​allegedly​ ​happen,​ ​in​ ​the​ ​dark​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Censor​ ​screenings. And​ ​since​ ​moviemaking​ ​is​ ​a​ ​business​ ​that​ ​runs​ ​on​ ​deadlines,​ ​with​ ​big​ ​money​ ​spent​ ​on the​ ​production,​ ​it​ ​becomes​ ​a​ ​silicon-soft​ ​target​ ​for​ ​the​ ​bullies.​ ​Every​ ​artist​ ​is​ ​made​ ​to nod​ ​like​ ​domesticated​ ​puppies,​ ​in​ ​front​ ​of​ ​the​ ​CB​ ​hawks,​ ​to​ ​get​ ​his​ ​or​ ​her​ ​movie​ ​out without​ ​random​ ​cuts,​ ​cruel​ ​bruises​ ​and​ ​brutal​ ​beheadings.​ ​A​ ​free​ ​and​ ​total​ ​emergence almost​ ​never​ ​happens,​ ​unless​ ​you​ ​have​ ​made​ ​a​ ​lame,​ ​pointless​ ​comedy,​ ​replete​ ​with masked​ ​innuendos!

Pains​ ​are​ ​taken,​ ​by​ ​the​ ​Board,​ ​to​ ​hurt​ ​any​ ​important​ ​film,​ ​deliberately.​ ​It​ ​is​ ​an​ ​easy job​ ​for​ ​them​ ​since​ ​misreading​ ​its​ ​content​ ​and​ ​missing​ ​its​ ​point​ ​come​ ​naturally​ ​to​ ​them. And​ ​of​ ​course,​ ​they​ ​are​ ​seemingly​ ​selected​ ​on​ ​the​ ​basis​ ​of​ ​their​ ​talent​ ​to​ ​patronise! Appalling,​ ​to​ ​say​ ​the​ ​least,​ ​is​ ​the​ ​average​ ​lack​ ​of​ ​creative​ ​education​ ​and​ ​a​ ​true knowledge​ ​of​ ​history​ ​and​ ​culture​ ​that​ ​is​ ​on​ ​display​ ​on​ ​the​ ​Censor​ ​Boards​ ​across​ ​the nation.​ ​There​ ​are​ ​exceptions​ ​though,​ ​but​ ​what​ ​use​ ​is​ ​a​ ​lovely​ ​rose​ ​of,​ ​if​ ​it​ ​adorns​ ​the inner​ ​wall​ ​of​ ​a​ ​septic​ ​tank!? Things​ ​at​ ​a​ ​Censor​ ​screening​ ​are,​ ​in​ ​no​ ​way,​ ​different​ ​from​ ​how​ ​a​ ​Caligula​ ​or​ ​a Mussolini​ ​or​ ​a​ ​Hitler​ ​would​ ​have​ ​treated​ ​creativity​ ​in​ ​their​ ​hey​ ​day;​ ​the​ ​only​ ​difference being​ ​the​ ​absence​ ​of​ ​capital​ ​punishment.​ ​But​ ​then,​ ​my​ ​dear​ ​friends,​ ​you​ ​don’t​ ​have​ ​to kill​ ​a​ ​real​ ​artist​ ​physically.​ ​You​ ​only​ ​have​ ​to​ ​kill​ ​his​ ​art,​ ​to​ ​see​ ​him​ ​dead.​ ​And​ ​that​ ​is precisely​ ​what​ ​such​ ​boards​ ​are​ ​aiming​ ​at​ ​and​ ​accomplishing​ ​almost​ ​fully.

Censoring​ ​Art​ ​is​ ​a​ ​completely​ ​unacceptable​ ​process​ ​in​ ​a​ ​democracy.​ ​But​ ​it​ ​is​ ​futile​ ​to say​ ​such​ ​a​ ​thing​ ​in​ ​a​ ​country​ ​where​ ​even​ ​basic​ ​points​ ​of​ ​decent​ ​existence,​ ​let​ ​alone civilisation,​ ​are​ ​yet​ ​to​ ​be​ ​driven​ ​home.​ ​Where​ ​patriarchy​ ​is​ ​mistaken​ ​for​ ​culture,​ ​morality is​ ​mistaken​ ​for​ ​correctness,​ ​arrogance​ ​is​ ​mistaken​ ​for​ ​uprightness​ ​and​ ​brashness​ ​is mistaken​ ​for​ ​strength..,​ ​it​ ​is​ ​only​ ​natural​ ​for​ ​dangerous​ ​foolishness​ ​to​ ​rule​ ​over​ ​the subtle​ ​and​ ​the​ ​sublime. Scissors,​ ​I​ ​tell​ ​you,​ ​have​ ​never​ ​ever​ ​in​ ​history​ ​been​ ​used​ ​as​ ​a​ ​weapon​ ​of​ ​mass destruction,​ ​as​ ​it​ ​is​ ​being​ ​used​ ​now​ ​by​ ​the​ ​Indian​ ​Censor​ ​Board!

In​ ​a​ ​film​ ​on​ ​Gandhi,​ ​they​ ​will​ ​ask​ ​you​ ​to​ ​keep​ ​Godse​ ​but​ ​avoid​ ​the​ ​gunshot​ ​and​ ​blood!

In​ ​the​ ​story​ ​of​ ​Christ,​ ​Magdalene​ ​cannot​ ​be​ ​pelted​ ​stones​ ​at,​ ​and​ ​Jesus​ ​cannot​ ​be crucified!

Siddhartha's​ ​palatial​ ​excesses​ ​cannot​ ​be​ ​shown;​ ​only​ ​Buddha​ ​will​ ​be​ ​allowed​ ​to​ ​speak!

Of​ ​Krishna,​ ​you’d​ ​see​ ​only​ ​the​ ​flute;​ ​Raasa​ ​and​ ​Leela​ ​would​ ​be​ ​chopped​ ​off​ ​at​ ​the​ ​neck!

Parasurama​ ​will​ ​be​ ​forced​ ​to​ ​sign​ ​a​ ​peace​ ​agreement​ ​with​ ​Kartavirya​ ​Arjuna!

Moses​ ​can​ ​have​ ​his​ ​staff,​ ​but​ ​cannot​ ​make​ ​the​ ​Dead​ ​Sea​ ​part!

No​ ​man​ ​will​ ​abuse​ ​another,​ ​other​ ​than​ ​through​ ​a​ ​beep! No​ ​woman​ ​will​ ​be​ ​harmed! No​ ​animal​ ​or​ ​bird​ ​shall​ ​be​ ​hurt! No​ ​chopping​ ​of​ ​meat​ ​would​ ​be​ ​shown! No​ ​stab!​ ​No​ ​blood! Praising​ ​the​ ​incumbent​ ​government​ ​will​ ​be​ ​allowed! Criticisms​ ​of​ ​the​ ​same,​ ​would​ ​be​ ​A-xed! No​ ​vigilante​ ​can​ ​act! No,​ ​no​ ​love​ ​either!. No​ ​kiss​ ​for​ ​today’s​ ​kids,​ ​for​ ​they​ ​would​ ​become​ ​morally​ ​astray! Not​ ​even​ ​“intercourse”,​ ​for​ ​today’s​ ​kids​ ​are​ ​all​ ​immaculately​ ​conceived!! We​ ​still​ ​are​ ​discussing​ ​fiction​ ​here,​ ​mind​ ​you.

And​ ​what​ ​about​ ​the​ ​adults? Well,​ ​the​ ​humanoids​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Censor​ ​Board​ ​will​ ​decide​ ​how​ ​adult​ ​is​ ​an​ ​adult,​ ​in​ ​this unfortunate​ ​country!!! If​ ​the​ ​creator​ ​decides​ ​to​ ​stand​ ​his/her​ ​ground,​ ​the​ ​danger​ ​is​ ​the​ ​award​ ​of​ ​the​ ​famed​ ​“A” certificate;​ ​there​ ​is​ ​a​ ​business​ ​angle​ ​to​ ​this.​ ​If​ ​your​ ​film​ ​is​ ​restricted​ ​to​ ​adults,​ ​the business​ ​would​ ​be​ ​cut​ ​down​ ​by​ ​a​ ​staggering​ ​60​ ​per​ ​cent​ ​at​ ​the​ ​marquee.​ ​And​ ​no television​ ​channel​ ​would​ ​take​ ​it​ ​in​ ​either.​ ​This​ ​is​ ​precisely​ ​the​ ​point​ ​where​ ​our filmmakers​ ​are​ ​forced​ ​to​ ​kneel​ ​to​ ​tyranny.​ ​The​ ​market​ ​pressure​ ​would​ ​be​ ​so​ ​great​ ​that they​ ​would​ ​have​ ​to​ ​nod​ ​to​ ​all​ ​the​ ​cuts,​ ​beeps​ ​and​ ​chops​ ​whatsoever.

Even​ ​a​ ​bold,​ ​brave​ ​film​ ​can​ ​be​ ​disarmed,​ ​castrated,​ ​ostracised,​ ​banned​ ​and​ ​even beheaded,​ ​this​ ​way.​ ​And​ ​no​ ​one,​ ​except​ ​the​ ​victim,​ ​would​ ​come​ ​to​ ​know​ ​of​ ​this injustice. But,​ ​of​ ​course,​ ​there​ ​are​ ​exceptions.​ ​Affluence​ ​does​ ​count,​ ​says​ ​Mr.​ ​Reportedly:​ ​"And​ ​if one​ ​is​ ​affluent​ ​enough,​ ​one​ ​may​ ​climb​ ​the​ ​wall,​ ​have​ ​the​ ​way,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​route​ ​map​ ​too!" And​ ​thus,​ ​you​ ​watch​ ​films​ ​where​ ​the​ ​super​ ​hero​ ​hunts​ ​and​ ​kills,​ ​within​ ​his​ ​radius,​ ​almost all​ ​the​ ​animals​ ​of​ ​a​ ​particular​ ​cat​ ​family​ ​(which​ ​is​ ​​ ​considered​ ​the​ ​National​ ​Animal​ ​and tops​ ​the​ ​endangered​ ​species​ ​list​ ​of​ ​almost​ ​all​ ​Wildlife​ ​organisations​ ​around​ ​the​ ​world), and​ ​still​ ​gets​ ​away​ ​with​ ​a​ ​‘U’​ ​certificate!​ ​Poaching​ ​is​ ​Universal,​ ​eh? So,​ ​the​ ​point​ ​here​ ​is​ ​that​ ​even​ ​in​ ​unfairness,​ ​there​ ​is​ ​indiscipline!

Let​ ​us​ ​remind​ ​ourselves,​ ​here,​ ​for​ ​at​ ​least​ ​once,​ ​that​ ​fiction​ ​is​ ​a​ ​major​ ​tool​ ​of self-hypnosis​ ​for​ ​a​ ​society.

Fiction​ ​is​ ​the​ ​only​ ​manna​ ​for​ ​social​ ​rejuvenation.

It​ ​is​ ​a​ ​major​ ​off-line​ ​vent​ ​to​ ​all​ ​tendencies​ ​human.

It​ ​is​ ​the​ ​only​ ​mirror​ ​a​ ​grieving​ ​society​ ​has​ ​to​ ​show​ ​itself​ ​and​ ​to​ ​the​ ​rest​ ​of​ ​the​ ​world​ ​as​ ​to what​ ​exactly​ ​is​ ​transpiring​ ​within.

It​ ​is​ ​a​ ​foreteller.

It​ ​is​ ​a​ ​warning​ ​light.

That​ ​fiction​ ​must​ ​be​ ​let​ ​free​ ​of​ ​all​ ​regulations,​ ​is​ ​only​ ​a​ ​basic​ ​social​ ​health​ ​lesson. But,​ ​unfortunately,​ ​we​ ​still​ ​live​ ​in​ ​a​ ​land,​ ​where​ ​basic​ ​lessons​ ​are​ ​taught​ ​after​ ​the complex​ ​ones​ ​are,​ ​and​ ​not​ ​the​ ​other​ ​way​ ​around.

It’s​ ​here​ ​that​ ​the​ ​fulcrum​ ​point​ ​of​ ​this​ ​note​ ​of​ ​desperation​ ​needs​ ​to​ ​be​ ​stressed​ ​upon. Since​ ​Art​ ​in​ ​general​ ​and​ ​Cinema​ ​in​ ​particular​ ​involves​ ​and​ ​invokes​ ​the​ ​anciently formulated​ ​yet​ ​precious​ ​Article​ ​19​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Indian​ ​Constitution,​ ​it​ ​is​ ​imperative​ ​that​ ​a regulatory​ ​body,​ ​if​ ​at​ ​all​ ​it​ ​is​ ​compulsory,​ ​must​ ​at​ ​least​ ​be​ ​appointed​ ​by​ ​the​ ​Judiciary​ ​and not​ ​the​ ​Government,​ ​after​ ​taking​ ​into​ ​extensive​ ​consideration​ ​the​ ​ability​ ​of​ ​each​ ​member to​ ​rise​ ​beyond​ ​the​ ​dictations​ ​of​ ​politics​ ​and​ ​prejudice,​ ​and​ ​stay​ ​true​ ​to​ ​the​ ​cause​ ​of​ ​free artistic​ ​expression.​ ​And,​ ​of​ ​course,​ ​their​ ​duty​ ​must​ ​only​ ​be​ ​to​ ​issue​ ​an​ ​age-bar certification​ ​and​ ​not​ ​to​ ​cut​ ​and​ ​ban!

If​ ​not,​ ​we​ ​would​ ​be​ ​consciously​ ​ordering​ ​the​ ​euthanasia​ ​of​ ​all​ ​things​ ​reflective​ ​of​ ​the times​ ​we​ ​live​ ​in. While​ ​Cinema​ ​is​ ​thus​ ​chloroform-ed​ ​into​ ​silence,​ ​life​ ​takes​ ​its​ ​toll​ ​uncensored. Elsewhere,​ ​my​ ​friends,​ ​out​ ​in​ ​the​ ​real,​ ​people​ ​are​ ​lynched​ ​by​ ​the​ ​minute,​ ​women​ ​are raped​ ​by​ ​the​ ​second,​ ​corruption​ ​is​ ​ruling​ ​by​ ​the​ ​daylight,​ ​children​ ​are​ ​feeding​ ​on​ ​infinite and​ ​unbridled​ ​sources​ ​of​ ​extreme​ ​porn​ ​and​ ​violence​ ​online,​ ​television​ ​channels​ ​are gorging​ ​on​ ​literally​ ​everything​ ​below​ ​the​ ​belt,​ ​social​ ​inequality​ ​is​ ​scaling​ ​up​ ​dangerously and​ ​jingoism​ ​is​ ​rising​ ​to​ ​alarming​ ​levels.

Art​ ​is​ ​just​ ​the​ ​shadow​ ​cast​ ​on​ ​the​ ​screens​ ​of​ ​time,​ ​when​ ​the​ ​light​ ​of​ ​truth​ ​falls​ ​on​ ​what​ ​is happening​ ​around.​ ​And​ ​here​ ​we​ ​are,​ ​chasing​ ​the​ ​shadow​ ​and​ ​letting​ ​the​ ​beast​ ​be!​ ​The truth​ ​is​ ​if​ ​we​ ​cannot​ ​contain​ ​life,​ ​which​ ​we​ ​certainly​ ​cannot,​ ​we​ ​cannot​ ​and​ ​must​ ​not​ ​try to​ ​contain​ ​Art​ ​as​ ​well.

As​ ​of​ ​now,​ ​the​ ​screen​ ​remains​ ​so​ ​clean...​ ​that​ ​it​ ​is​ ​not​ ​even​ ​the​ ​weak​ ​placebo​ ​that​ ​it once​ ​seemed​ ​to​ ​be,​ ​thanks​ ​to​ ​you,​ ​exalted​ ​ones​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Censor​ ​Board. You​ ​have​ ​succeeded​ ​in​ ​making​ ​Indian​ ​Cinema​ ​a​ ​living​ ​vegetable.

Till​ ​this​ ​twisted​ ​equation​ ​gets​ ​corrected​ ​for​ ​good,​ ​may​ ​you​ ​continue​ ​to​ ​render​ ​all newborns​ ​invalid!

May​ ​you​ ​relish​ ​your​ ​maiming​ ​act.

And​ ​may​ ​you​ ​make​ ​“the​ ​United​ ​States​ ​(of​ ​India)...​ ​great​ ​again”.