I watched Khamoshi (1969) this Sunday and its almost after four days that I am able to fathom its intensity. Masterpiece is an understatement for something as overwhelming as it. I cannot begin to exclaim my awe at Waheeda Rehman's acting, she is perfect, a personification of perfection. Maybe many won't agree at the enormity I saw in Khamoshi, it can be because its appropriate timing and how well I was relating to it. I want to elaborate on the story, the finesse but I'd rather that people watch it themselves. Such an emotional experience cannot be achieved through someone else's words. Another thing that took time and hence delayed this post was a search for other movies that I can talk of while discussing Khamoshi, some came close, but none seemed appropriate enough to stand beside this legend. So this post is purely dedicated to that only movie, though I will be referring to an artist later.
Radha, the role played by Waheeda Rehman in the movie is that of a nurse. Throughout the movie she is seen catering to mentally unfit. Both her patients have sicknesses out of love, abandoned and broken, they seek the warmth of this dedicated and sympathetic nurse who infuses life in them, while draining herself of that very essence. She falls hopelessly in love with Dev (played by Dharmendra, whose face is hidden throughout the movie and only the voice is heard), though this surrender is not fruitful, as she is his caretaker before anything. And when the patient is fit, he leaves. Rest is part of the plot, how another patient (Rajesh Khanna) comes in with a similar dis-balance, and her vitality reaches a point of absolute saturation.
My fascination with the movie is because of many reasons. The sheer beauty of it and how disturbed it left me. No, its not the most gut-wrenching movies I have ever seen, neither is it one of the best plots. But when you witness something so close to your existence, you feel moved at an entirely different level. It threatened me. Threatened me of loneliness verging on insanity. Of this foolish instinct of trying to fix broken things and ending up with bits and pieces of what was once a whole. It is not just me. Many of us have felt this fear of abandonment of ourselves at our own hands, neither is it conscious nor pleasant. Its hopeful. Sickly hopeful. And with the end of this hope, we demolish every bit of sanity. Radha, despite being in love keeps on treating Arun and presents herself as the ideal subject of affection. With any bit pf physical intimacy scratching out memories from her past, she keeps draining herself. By the end, she is tired and fed up. Tired of this constant toil of attaining that state of affection and happiness. Men in her life have been ill, both metaphorically and literally, she can never be more than a nurse to them. Time after time she listens, keeps on listening and healing whereas not once is her melancholia questioned. Khamoshi is a critique on how many relationships take a form of parasitic dependency.
It made me take a look at the relationships I have shared with men. From extremely insecure to highly greedy ones, they seek care and repairing. Want all the pieces to brought together and assembled. But are those assemblies always what you have hoped for? And why are you always the one who runs to fix men up. Maybe it is some idiosyncrasy inside my head, or maybe it is the lack of good men that I feel more comfortable with walking away. I feel more comfortable and at ease when I quietly slip away from their beds and lives without having to take a look at their dents. But in this process, you leave something behind, even though a fragment. But something is missing the next time you plan for a short endeavor. And I know for a fact that there are many women like me, who would rather indulge in an impulse than a prolonged duty of a caretaker But Khamoshi triggered something. A fear maybe. Of what I am not very certain of but it did and that has been haunting me.
Like many others I happen to be at content with my life except for few personal bumps, but they are miles away from ambitions. I don't crave for romantic company as my girlfriends are fulfilling enough. I don't miss long night talks as I have started liking falling asleep on time.I miss nothing, nothing at all. Rather I feel that this path is safer. Though there are nights when you really crave for that special warmth (which I have been mentioning repetitively) and then the rains that have a beautiful introspective characteristic about them. And then its those times when I rise slightly above the rush I am in, of doing this, saving that, thinking this, proving that, earning this and losing that, it is then when I wish for an earthly touch that helps me stay rooted. But despite the absence of it, I turn to my mother.
The artist that I mentioned above is a poet. Leonard Cohen, he might sing and strum the guitar, but what runs in his each vein through all the red blood is poetry. Every word is like a love child of two beautiful Muses. He soothes me, calms me and pushes me aside from the crowd. His voice echoes in my head and then creates ripples in my soul. That man knows women like no one else. Cohen doesn't drip honey from his tongue or speaks smoothly, he is passionate and sublime,. and the sublimity wipes of every corner of your heart and purifies you. There have been times when I would listen to him and loose myself to darkest urges. He would haunt me and then calm me. It was his and only his music that I could hear ever since I watched Khamoshi.
Take your solace in Cohen and let him put you at peace. The rush, the crowd the evil race with yourself and the vicious cycle that usually ends in insanity, put a red silk clothe over all these embellishments you have collected for yourself through years, and sway to Leonard's angelic earthy baritone voice. He might not solve or help those secrets under the red clothe disappear, but he will surely teach you how to pick each item and decorate yourself with it. These frivolous moments I feel of loneliness are exaggerated and of course the threat stands still strong, but as I try harder everyday to attain some peace, I find myself falling deeper into an oblivion of self-doubt and hopelessness, so I let Leonard Cohen dance me to the end of love. Indulge, my love as these few moments of sanity that are left, won't last very long.
Here are a few lines of a very popular song by him:
"Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love "
Radha, the role played by Waheeda Rehman in the movie is that of a nurse. Throughout the movie she is seen catering to mentally unfit. Both her patients have sicknesses out of love, abandoned and broken, they seek the warmth of this dedicated and sympathetic nurse who infuses life in them, while draining herself of that very essence. She falls hopelessly in love with Dev (played by Dharmendra, whose face is hidden throughout the movie and only the voice is heard), though this surrender is not fruitful, as she is his caretaker before anything. And when the patient is fit, he leaves. Rest is part of the plot, how another patient (Rajesh Khanna) comes in with a similar dis-balance, and her vitality reaches a point of absolute saturation.
My fascination with the movie is because of many reasons. The sheer beauty of it and how disturbed it left me. No, its not the most gut-wrenching movies I have ever seen, neither is it one of the best plots. But when you witness something so close to your existence, you feel moved at an entirely different level. It threatened me. Threatened me of loneliness verging on insanity. Of this foolish instinct of trying to fix broken things and ending up with bits and pieces of what was once a whole. It is not just me. Many of us have felt this fear of abandonment of ourselves at our own hands, neither is it conscious nor pleasant. Its hopeful. Sickly hopeful. And with the end of this hope, we demolish every bit of sanity. Radha, despite being in love keeps on treating Arun and presents herself as the ideal subject of affection. With any bit pf physical intimacy scratching out memories from her past, she keeps draining herself. By the end, she is tired and fed up. Tired of this constant toil of attaining that state of affection and happiness. Men in her life have been ill, both metaphorically and literally, she can never be more than a nurse to them. Time after time she listens, keeps on listening and healing whereas not once is her melancholia questioned. Khamoshi is a critique on how many relationships take a form of parasitic dependency.
It made me take a look at the relationships I have shared with men. From extremely insecure to highly greedy ones, they seek care and repairing. Want all the pieces to brought together and assembled. But are those assemblies always what you have hoped for? And why are you always the one who runs to fix men up. Maybe it is some idiosyncrasy inside my head, or maybe it is the lack of good men that I feel more comfortable with walking away. I feel more comfortable and at ease when I quietly slip away from their beds and lives without having to take a look at their dents. But in this process, you leave something behind, even though a fragment. But something is missing the next time you plan for a short endeavor. And I know for a fact that there are many women like me, who would rather indulge in an impulse than a prolonged duty of a caretaker But Khamoshi triggered something. A fear maybe. Of what I am not very certain of but it did and that has been haunting me.
Like many others I happen to be at content with my life except for few personal bumps, but they are miles away from ambitions. I don't crave for romantic company as my girlfriends are fulfilling enough. I don't miss long night talks as I have started liking falling asleep on time.I miss nothing, nothing at all. Rather I feel that this path is safer. Though there are nights when you really crave for that special warmth (which I have been mentioning repetitively) and then the rains that have a beautiful introspective characteristic about them. And then its those times when I rise slightly above the rush I am in, of doing this, saving that, thinking this, proving that, earning this and losing that, it is then when I wish for an earthly touch that helps me stay rooted. But despite the absence of it, I turn to my mother.
The artist that I mentioned above is a poet. Leonard Cohen, he might sing and strum the guitar, but what runs in his each vein through all the red blood is poetry. Every word is like a love child of two beautiful Muses. He soothes me, calms me and pushes me aside from the crowd. His voice echoes in my head and then creates ripples in my soul. That man knows women like no one else. Cohen doesn't drip honey from his tongue or speaks smoothly, he is passionate and sublime,. and the sublimity wipes of every corner of your heart and purifies you. There have been times when I would listen to him and loose myself to darkest urges. He would haunt me and then calm me. It was his and only his music that I could hear ever since I watched Khamoshi.
Take your solace in Cohen and let him put you at peace. The rush, the crowd the evil race with yourself and the vicious cycle that usually ends in insanity, put a red silk clothe over all these embellishments you have collected for yourself through years, and sway to Leonard's angelic earthy baritone voice. He might not solve or help those secrets under the red clothe disappear, but he will surely teach you how to pick each item and decorate yourself with it. These frivolous moments I feel of loneliness are exaggerated and of course the threat stands still strong, but as I try harder everyday to attain some peace, I find myself falling deeper into an oblivion of self-doubt and hopelessness, so I let Leonard Cohen dance me to the end of love. Indulge, my love as these few moments of sanity that are left, won't last very long.
Here are a few lines of a very popular song by him:
"Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love "
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