AZ India

F E E L A T H O M E www.azindiatimes.com PAGE - 11 May 2019 1-844-AZINDIA Cream Of The Stream First They Killed My Father (Netflix) Loung Ung is 5 years old when the Khmer Rouge assumes power over Cambodia in 1975. They soon begin a four-year reign of terror and genocide in which nearly 2 million Cambodians die. Forced from her family's home in Phnom Penh, Ung is trained as a child soldier while her six siblings are sent to labor camps. The 2017 release has been written and directed by Angelina Jolie and has been nominated for Golden Globe Award for Best Foreign Language Film. The Black Prince (Netflix) Set in the 19th century (India’s pre-independence years), The Black Prince is the agonis- ing true tale of Duleep Singh (Satinder Sartaaj), the last Sikh king of Punjab, who was robbed off his mother, King- dom, faith and lineage by the British. Raised as a Christian 'prince' in England by Queen Victoria (Amanda Root), Duleep's yearning to em- brace his faith, reclaim his identity and trace his roots, forms the story. The fear- less woman who fans and reignites the fire within him to discover who he really is and regain his lost kingdom, freedom and glory, happens to be his mother Rani Jindan (Shabana Azmi). But his struggle to be reunited to his motherland was endless. Directed by Kavi Raz the movie was released in 2017. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (Amazon Prime Video) An American period comedy-drama web television series, created by Amy Sher- man-Palladino, first premiered on March 17, 2017, on Prime Video. The series stars Rachel Brosnahan as the eponymous Miriam "Midge" Maisel, a housewife in 1958 New York City who discovers she has a knack for stand-up comedy. Fol- lowing the premiere of the pi- lot episode to critical acclaim, the series was picked up by Amazon for a two-season or- der on April 10, 2017. The first season was released on November 29, 2017, to positive reviews. The series won three Golden Globe Awards (Best Television Series – Musical or Comedy and two Best Actress – Mu- sical or Comedy for Brosnahan) and five Primetime Emmy Awards, including Outstanding Comedy Series and Outstanding Lead Actress in a Comedy Series for Brosnahan. The second season was released on December 5, 2018. The series has been renewed for a third season consisting of eight episodes to premiere in 2019. NTR (Amazon Prime Video): If you were wondering why in In- dia, especially Andhra Pradesh and Telangana the number 1116 is considered a fancy number and car owners even pay a reservation fee of Rs. 20K to own that number, then you must watch the movies on the megastar Nandamuri Taraka Rama Rao popularly known as NTR which were released this year. Watch the two part movie which tells us his transformation from a reel hero to the ‘Messiah of the Masses.’ NTR Kathanayakudu: In the first part, you can watch the journey of Nanda- muri Tarakarama Rao from a government Sub-Registrar to becoming a Superstar in Telugu Cinema and his motivation to enter politics. NTR Mahanayakudu: In the second and concluding part, the journey of Nan- damuri Tarakarama Rao from childhood to become a superstar, entering into poiltics and how he takes telugu pride to a national level is shown. The movie stars the sixth son of NTR, Nandamuri Balakrishna who plays his own father with Vidya Balan, Kaikala Satyanarayana, Rana Daggubati, Prakash Raj, Sachin Khedekar and Bengal’s Jisshu Sengupta in lead roles. Sunita and Biryani deepa.raneesh@gmail.com By Deepali Kharat "It’s 11 o’clock! She’s late! Who is going to clean all this mess? Why do I pay her if I have to do all this crap myself!" I mumbled as I gathered and dumped all the dishes in the sink louder than usual. As the doorbell rang, I knew it was her. "I am go- ing to have a talk with her today, that's it, this is no way to do a job," I thought to myself as I quickly walked from the sink to the front door. My brisk pace and hard steps were perhaps fueled by the anticipation of an indignant confrontation. I opened the door, and she walked in hurriedly. "Sorry, sorry madam, I am very late today," she said in Hindi, without making eye contact. As she took off the over sized sandals she wore (that were probably thrown in as part of her Diwali bonus last year by some other generous "madam" employer in this posh apartment complex), she covered half of her face with her dupatta. "Sunita! You can’t just ..." I started my entitled, first world rant but it was cut short when I noticed something on her face. Her left eye was darker than the places my occasional depression takes me. "Wait ... what happened to your eye?" I asked her in a surprised tone as if I had never seen it before on her. "Oh, it’s no big deal, really. I fell in the bathroom; it will go away in a few days," she said with rehearsed ease followed by a pretend careless but nervous scoff. "It always goes away in a few days, doesn't it?" I asked her, more gently, but di- rectly. She stood against the wall, refused to meet my gaze with downcast eyes, made several failed attempts at digging a hole in the fancy ceramic tile floor with the big toe of her right foot, her hands tied behind her with invisible chains as if her hus- band were beating her again, looked down demurely, just like society had taught her to do ... what a "good girl" she was! I enjoined her to do the housework later as I made two cups of chai for both of us, and decided to catch up on some "girl talk” that was filled with stories of stolen dreams, forced marriage, shattered lives, habitual violence, and patch-up sex fol- lowed by predictable recurrent violence. "Now my only hope is my beautiful children," she said as she crushed the cookie between her thumb and index finger until it became flour. She rapidly got up, zoomed into the kitchen and started cleaning the mountain of dishes created by my party last night. A party to which I had invited some edu- cated, polished, "well settled" women and had heard the same stories of stolen dreams and habitual violence from the lips adorned by Mac lipsticks while sip- ping the expensive wine that they had brought. This morning wasn’t much different ... the same stories were being told in Hindi instead of in English by a woman who cleaned my house, over a cup of chai in- stead of a glass of wine. In that moment, it hit me that we were altogether, all to- gether in this. We were the pearls of the same necklace, connected by an invisible silken thread. I locked myself in the bedroom, pretended to fold laundry, while a storm of a million thoughts swirled in my seemingly thoughtless mind. She finished her work and promised to show up on time the next day as she dried her hands on her dupatta before rushing out. The house was now so clean it sparkled. It was dirtied the previous night by women and cleaned this morning by a woman who had told me the exact same stories and with the same reasoning, in different languages. I took a deep breath and decided to dive back into my comfortable life but I knew that had forgotten something. Oh snap! I forgot to give Sunita the biryani from the party last night! I ran out the door, in my house shorts, barefoot ... got into and out of the elevator swiftly, worried she had gone too far. Nope, she was there. She was there talking to her husband, and it looked like an argument waiting to happen. "Madam! What's wrong? Did I forget to do something?" "No, you didn't, but are you okay?" I asked. "Yes, yes … this is Deepali madam from the 7th floor," she reluctantly introduced me to her husband. He looked at me from head to toe, his eyes lingered a bit longer on my bare legs. After he was finally done undressing me with his eyes, and after a moment actu- ally looked into my eyes, his smile toward me felt more like a hiss. His mouth smelled of stale country liquor and misogyny. I dismissed his greeting, turned my head to Sunita and said, "I forgot to give you some biryani to eat." "Oh! thank you madam, you are so kind but I would rather take it home, it's my husband's favorite!" she said as she took the Tupperware container from me and walked away with her husband, holding his shoulder, giving his frail body strength to walk. I stood in the middle of the road, the midday sun hot above me and the scorched earth below burned my bare feet as I witnessed unconditional love and pure con- venience walk away, hand in hand. Tell Me A Story... Deepali considers herself to be an unabashed hedonist, nonconformist and virtual pacifist who loves travel, trees, food, sarcasm and writing.