The origin of words

I had been taking lessons in French from Richard, a colleague in my institute. I noticed that many words in French have counterparts in English. This is not surprising, because both English and French are European languages and have Latin influences, and the similarities may have derived from a common Latin root. French, Italian and Spanish are much closer to Latin than English (which is a Germanic language). (I am not much well-informed about these classifications. Any comments and corrections are welcome.) I find tracing the origin of words an interesting game. The French lessons gave me a chance to find out some similarities on my own. The French words I will mention are of common usage in the language. (That's why I encountered them in my elementary course.) This is not the case with their English counterparts. Some of them are rarely used. The English and French words are not exactly similar, but can be understood to have come from the same source. Sometimes the meanings are also diffenent, though a connection can be imagined. I will give a few examples below.

marine: When we speak of something related to the sea, we use the word 'marine'. However, the noun 'sea' and its adjective 'marine' sound very different. In French, the word for 'sea' is 'mer', which I think comes from the same source as 'marine' in English. Also, 'sea' is 'mare' in Italian and 'mar' in Spanish.

travail: 'Travail' in English means arduous work. The French word for 'work' is also exactly the same. (The spelling is same. The pronunciation, of course, is different.)

tragic: The French word for 'sad' is 'triste'. 'Tragic' and 'triste' both start with the same consonants, which may have come from a common origin.

chivalry: The word refers to the qualities possessed by a knight, and I first read this word in a school history textbook. I found that in French 'cheval' means horse, and the connection to knight seemed clear.

eternal: For this example I will make a guess. I think it is related with 'été', which in French means 'summer'. Summer has the connotation of a pleasant time. 'Eternal' in English and 'été' in French possibly share a similar root.

parley: I didn't know that such a word existed in English, until I read Sophocles' play 'Electra' in an English translation. From the context it was clear that 'parley' meant a discussion. This can be identified with the French word 'parler', which means 'to speak'. This must also be the origin of 'parliament'.


My interest about finding the roots of words arose from the readings of Indian history. Certain similarities between Sanskrit, Greek and Latin have been important clues about the migration of people in ancient times. There are common features (anecdotes and the names of characters and places) in the ancient texts of India and Iran. In Indian mythology, Indra defeated the demon Vritra and has an epithet 'Vritraghna'. Once I was reading a National Geographic article about an archaeological excavation site in Central Asia. I was surprised when I saw mentioned the name of the ancient Iranian god of war - 'Veretraghan'.

The last anecdote is related to food. There is a cuisine very popular in Bengal called the 'dolma'. It is made from 'potol' ('pointed gourd' in English, 'parwal' in Hindi) - with a stuffing of fish inside. During a visit to Turkey, I had a food item over there which is a stuffing of rice and meat inside capsicum. The striking thing was its name - it is also called 'dolma'! I learnt that 'dolma' is a Turkish word, meaning 'filled'. I had no idea that the name of the Bengali cuisine I liked so much had a distant origin.

Anecdotes of India, two thousand years back

A few months back I read The Culture and Civilization of Ancient India in Historical Outline by D. D. Kosambi. This exceptional piece of work demonstrates to the non-historian that history as a subject is far removed from being a collection of dates and proper nouns; it is a huge puzzle waiting to be solved, involving a systematic and logical approach. The investigative methods in history require inputs from fields as diverse as archaeology, anthropology, linguistics, genetics, geology and statistics. D. D. Kosambi is known for his seminal contributions to the study of Indian history. Interestingly, he was by training a mathematician and a Professor of mathematics at the Tata Institute of Fundamental Research in Mumbai. (I came to know of this fact after joining the same institute to do a Ph.D. in physics.)

After going through Culture and Civilization, I thought of taking up some of the original works dating back to ancient times which are now available in popular editions. One of them is Greek and Roman Lives by Plutarch, brought out by Dover Publications. Plutarch was a Greek historian of the 1st century A.D. and the biographies he wrote of Greek and Roman statesmen are the sources of much of our information regarding these civilizations. The pursuit of knowledge is a virtue which Plutarch glorifies. In proclaiming the greatness of his heroes, the power of the sword is not the only quality he speaks of. Alexander, in his conversations, quotes Euripides and on being brought a precious casket, which was found amongst the treasures of the vanquished Darius, honours it by placing in it the Iliad of Homer. Much of what Plutarch says may only be stories, fiction added to historical narratives. But at the same time, these stories (and not the things that really happened) build the image and perception about some particular person or place.

Plutarch's view of India finds detailed mention in his Life of Alexander. The first Indian king whom Alexander encountered was Taxiles. (He may have been the ruler of Taxila or Taksasila in north-western India. 'Taxiles' is the name given to him by the Greeks. Plutarch, it must be remembered, was writing his account four centuries after these events took place and some of the historical facts may have been lost by then.) Taxiles was known as a wise man. In his conversation with Alexander, he opined that wise men should fight only for water and food that sustain life. 'As for other riches and possessions', said Taxiles, 'as they are accounted in the eye of the world, if I am better provided of them than you, I am ready to let you share with me; but if fortune has been more liberal to you than me, I have no objection to be obliged to you.'

The ascetic sages of India were referred to as the gymnosophists. There is a tale of ten gymnosophists who were imprisoned by Alexander and asked to please the emperor by answering his questions. One of them gave a striking reply on being asked which are more in number - the dead or the living. The gymnosophist answered, 'The living, because those who are dead are none at all.'

When the Greeks decided to stop their march into India and turned back, they were accompanied by an Indian philosopher called Calanus. Somewhere in Persia, he requested that a funeral pile be built. Calanus embraced death on a burning pyre out of his own wish, and silently. The western world saw another such incident a few centuries later when an Indian, who came with Julius Caesar to Athens, immolated himself. Plutarch writes that even during his time, Athenians would show to visitors a memorial called 'the Indian's monument'.

The most famous of historians, Herodotus (5th century B.C.), never came to India, but his story of the gold-digging ants in the noth-western parts of India has intrigued people for long. The sand of the desert was said to have gold dust mixed in them. The giant ants would bring them to the surface while digging their mounds and the gold would be collected by the local tribes. This reference by Herodotus had often been dismissed as fiction and a result of hearsay. Some researchers have claimed that a species of rodents share a resemblance to Herodotus' ants. I had read about Herodotus' works mentioning these 'gold-digging ants' on the internet. Recently, I was also reading the Mahabharat, in the Bengali translation in prose form by the noted writer Rajshekhar Basu. I came across a curious reference, in Duryodhana's dialogue with Dhritarashtra where the former speaks of the wealth possessed by the Pandavas.

'Those who live by the Shailoda River in between the mountains Meru and Mandar - the Khas, Parad, Kulinga and other tribes, have brought loads of ant gold, which ants dig out of the ground.'

This is quite interesting. The story of the gold-digging ants, whatever the actual creatures may be, was prevalent even in India and not a figment of Herodotus' imagination. Rajshekhar Basu remarks in a footnote that these ants are also mentioned in Megasthenes' travelogue of India.

Istanbul

Istanbul had offered its first glimpse from the air, stretching on the shores of the Sea of Marmara, in green, red and white. I had little time to read up some guidebook before leaving Mumbai. Time was short. Next day, early in the morning, I had to leave for Dalaman. Thankfully, the most famous landmarks of Istanbul are located very close to each other, in Sultanahmet. This is the place which used to be Constantinople. Starting off from the airport, the Havas bus rushed through the avenues, lined with flowers, revealing a city very much European in its look. This was my first trip abroad. Therefore, what I consider to be European is certainly not based on experience, but on impressions developed from secondary sources. I was uncertain what to expect from the city that had been the centre of Christianity during the Byzantine Empire, then of the Islamic world during the Ottoman Sultanate, and over the last century searching for a new identity under the modernisation drive initiated by Ataturk.





The walls of the Hagia Sophia are like pages of history, bearing the marks of the great empires which have ruled over it. Sometimes I find that I have an aversion to being amazed at first glance. The gigantic basilica is an outstanding architectural achievement. When I stepped into the historic monument, my immediate reaction was not that of awe (contrary to what one reads in guidebooks), but an eagerness to understand its place in history, as if looking for evidence to convince myself about its greatness. That's not so difficult, once it is realised that its a structure dating back not to a few centuries, but 1400 years. From 552 AD, it has stood witness to rise and fall of civilisations on the shores of the Bosphorus, built as a church and then converted into a mosque. If I had a lot more time in hand, I could have spent hours gazing at the mosaics of Jesus and Christian saints, the fine carvings on granite, the motifs and Arabic calligraphy on the dome and the stained glass windows of the Ottomans. The marble pedestal of the imperial door bears another mark of thousand years
gone by - a depression caused by the chariot wheels of the Byzantine emperors.







A stone's throw from the Hagia Sophia stands the Blue Mosque. One has to walk past a host of souvenir shops, simit stalls and a beautiful garden to reach the mosque complex. Ramzan festivities were on, and the mosque complex had come alive with a small fair. I bought a miniature handbag, the Ottoman tughra printed on it, to take back as a gift. Inside it was a small book, having hundreds of pages, printed in minute Arabic font. I was told that it was the entire Quran!

I had reached the Blue Mosque just in time. There was still half an hour left before the prayer would begin, when visitors would be asked to leave. The building derives its name (rather nickname, the actual name being Sultanahmet Camii) from the tiles and stained glasses inside. The interior bears the stamp of imperial Ottoman grandeur. Like so many other tourists, I sat down on the carpeted floor for a while, to contemplate the motifs on Iznik tiles and the intricate decorations on the dome. The most fascinating aspect of the Blue mosque is the stained glass windows. I'm sure the photo would express a lot more than I can write in words.







However, the status of Blue Mosque as the most iconic structure in Istanbul is somewhat unfortunate. That honour should undoubtedly go to the Hagia Sophia. It eclipses the Blue Mosque both in art and architecture, and bears the enviable stamp of a remote antiquity.

Coming out of the Blue Mosque, I once again caught a glimpse of the Bosphorus, and made up my mind that I must reach its shore before evening. Behind the mosque courtyard is the enchanting Araasta Bazar. This extremely colourful place portrays the cultural synthesis in its full glory. The Orient comes alive in a Western backdrop.









There was a contentment that I had achieved the minimal target for the day of visiting the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque, though in a haste. Anyway, there was a lot more to be seen. So I asked people around and set off for the Hippodrome. Most people don't understand English. Some of them do know 'I can't speak English'! However, the language barrier turns out not be a problem, and people make themselves understood someway or the other. What I experienced more than once in Turkey is that if you ask for directions, people will not only make signs to guide you, but may also escort you some distance towards the destination.

The Hippodrome (arena for chariot races in the Byzantine Empire) is now a huge square with a sprawling lawn. Ramzan festivities were in full swing, and there were tables and benches all over with people crowding around them. A host of food stalls had been set up. I didn't realise then that this was all for the occasion of Ramzan. On my way back from the conference (the reason for visiting Turkey was to attend a conference at Turunc, in the South Aegean region of Turkey), I would find this place empty, and the Blue Mosque courtyard deserted.



On the Hippodrome complex stands a granite obelisk with Hieroglyph inscriptions. It looked quite new, making me wonder why such an Egyptian looking thing had been installed in the heart of Istanbul. Then Lonely Planet informed me that it was 3500 years old. It originally stood at the Temple of Karnak in Egypt, and had been brought to Constantinople by the Byzantine emperor Theodosius in 330 A.D.

It was time to head for the Bosphorus by the tram to Eminonu (after having a wonderful glass of fresh orange juice at a roadside stall). So far, everything had gone as planned. A walk by the Bosphorus would be a fitting end to the day. The Bosphorus is 2 km wide. Although both shores are a part of Turkey, this channel is considered to be international waters, providing passage for ships from the Black Sea in the north. I headed towards the small bridge connecting Eminonu to Kabatas, when I heard someone calling out 'Bosphorus cruise.. last boat ...10 lira...' There couldn't be any second thought. I jumped onto the boat and took a seat on the deck. Istanbul resembled some painting. The city has grown on low hills by the sea. The minarets of the Blue mosque were silhouetted against the sun. The Bosphorus breeze was getting colder. My windcheater was tucked away in my transit luggage at the airport. The boat guided down the waters between Europe and Asia, with remarkably beautiful buildings on either side... Ottoman palaces, villas, mosques, modern art galleries.. The city skyline in the distance is dominated by some towering minarets. This may have been the exact sight sailors a few centuries ago would have witnessed while approaching Constantinople.







The boat turned back from the Bosphorus bridge. The sun had now vanished. The wind grew colder. A new image was revealing itself. With the fall of darkness, the lights of the city came up. The Asian and European sides lit up, along with the street-lights on the Bosphorus bridge. The city had taken on a different look.







Once I came back to Eminonu, it was time for a fish sandwich. This is a Bosphorus speciality, served by cooks wearing traditional Turkish costume. Within two hours, I would be back at the Istanbul Ataturk Havalimani, trying to get some sleep sitting on a chair. The next ten days would be spent beside the Mediterranean Sea.

Rain

There was nothing extraordinary about the life of Siddharth. Siddharth loved to solve the crossword puzzle over a cup of coffee. He was satisfied with his memories. One of his preoccupations was recounting the days of childhood, the days of silent sun-dried afternoons when he sought refuge in the world of imagination. Younger days had seen him engrossed with the paint-brush and chart paper. His skills were not good enough and he often found himself undecided about the choice of colours. While drawing the rain, which was the most common theme of his artistic efforts, he coloured the falling droplets sometimes in blue and sometimes in grey, sometimes also in black. Black, he felt, was the least appropriate among those three colours.

Siddharth, one morning, was balancing himself on small rocks and boulders as he hiked through the woods, trailing behind his companions. They were a group of friends, who had ventured out of the ever familiar metropolis on a Sunday when the sky wore a thin blanket of clouds. The passion for painting had never left him, and the slope to his right, the unknown trees inspired him to wonder how he could recreate the scene in watercolour. A sound of rushing water permeated the air, distant and faint. It originated from a stream that would make itself visible at the end of the road. Years later, when he would recollect this sound, it would seem to have been preserved in memory with the utmost accuracy. He would associate it with the idea of something unknown, invisible to the world of senses, but whose existence can never be denied.

It wasn’t long before they reached the waterfall. It cascaded down the slope and spread out into a stream. Siddharth stepped into the water, barefoot, felt the cold comforting touch, took a step forward, then another, another, another until he counted fourteen steps. There the stream was shallow. He lay down on the rocky bed, resting his head on a piece of rock protruding above the surface of water. His body immersed half in water, he listened to the jingle of the stream meandering past the rocks. His ears became tuned to its rhythm, there was a periodic beating in the murmur of the brook. He was looking straight at the sky. A few trees towered above the others.

As a kid, the only thing Siddharth could think of drawing was a landscape - a few hills, a river and some trees, maybe a small hut, a few birds and invariably the circular sun. In later years he had explored other subjects, that were more familiar, like scenes from the street, a lamppost beside the children’s park, even books eaten by worms. His subjects had always been inspired by scenes recorded in memory, sights he had experienced in life. On that Sunday, lying on the stream and looking at the sky, Siddharth had the fantastic thought - what if it is the other way round? What if he would draw a scene from pure imagination, and one day come across it in real life, as if his subjects existed because he had painted them? This was the echo of a thought he had heard earlier. Long back, the fictional story about a group of explorers and their adventures in Tibet had captured his attention. Hidden from the rest of the world, there existed amidst the snow-capped mountains a place populated by legendary creatures that the human race has imagined over centuries and millennia. It was the land where the Unicorn lived, it was the land where everyone’s dreams came true. Siddharth, once, had also come across a blind poet who, like many others before him, suggested that a person exists because someone else is dreaming him.

A painting of the waterfall must exhibit the intricacies of motion. Siddharth, as he closed his eyes, could imagine his painting taking shape. He thought of the careful brushstrokes that would illustrate the flow of rushing water, past lasting rocks, in swirls and small whirlpools and streamlines, although the minute details would be lost, those would be too difficult to capture. Often without the most intricate details, that’s how memories are preserved, at the risk of omissions and exaggerations. Siddharth, then, once again remembered his fancy about rain. To this painting of a landscape, he could also add a light drizzle, almost transparent droplets of water coming down from the skies above, and he would colour them in grey. Lying on the stream, Siddharth thought of portraying the rain, he thought of ways that would make it look realistic, wondering how clouds in the sky should be painted, he thought of small raindrops that can fall onto the stream to become part of its restless flow.

There was a gentle, almost indiscernible splash on his face. In a moment or two, he felt a few more of them - small moist drops falling from above. Siddharth opened his eyes. From the skies over him, slowly, slowly, slowly, a light rain was descending upon the blessed earth.

K for... ?

I was in Delhi for a day this February where I met my friend Sayan. He was raving about Anurag Kashyap’s No Smoking. The same day, my uncle also told me that he was completely awestruck on watching that movie. Call it a coincidence or not, the next morning I was reading Tehelka and it said No Smoking was a different thing altogether! There must have been a giant Kafkaesque conspiracy to make me watch that movie! What else could explain three different and apparently disconnected sources tell me the same thing in less than a day? And that too when the movie is not a recent one, having released in October 2007.

You may not recall much about the movie. It had vanished from theatres as soon as it hit them. The internet refreshed my memory. It was directed by Anurag Kashyap, and starred John Abraham, Ayesha Takia and Paresh Rawal. I had seen Kashyap’s Black Friday earlier. That one was fine, but nothing special.

I watched No Smoking some days back. It is strange, complex, remarkable and exceptional. Without searching for better words, let me say that it is in a class of its own.

The protagonist, played by John Abraham, is an obsessive smoker. His wife completely detests this habit, and after she leaves him, he agrees to visit a centre named Prayogshala where people are treated to quit smoking. That’s when it starts showing signs that it’s far removed from any Bollywood piece you have ever come across. Well, there were indications earlier. John Abraham’s character is called K. Just K. Does that ring a bell? There is an overwhelming resemblance to a novel I have read (and hinted at earlier in this post). But I was still limited by my expectations. This couldn’t possibly be true.

The road to the treatment centre leads K through the shanties. K finds an old man who lets him enter the door leading to Prayogshala. He is led though narrow alleys, down a series of stairs, through dark and obscure lanes. There are strange people staring at him through windows high up on a wall. Now the signs were unmistakable. There could be no doubt that Anurag Kashyap has made one of the boldest attempts you can hope to watch on the Indian screen. He has adapted Kafka.

No Smoking is inspired by The Trial- the remarkable work of literature and philosophy by Franz Kafka. Kafka’s court is Kashyap’s Prayogshala. Kashyap’s K, like Kafka’s Josef K, discovers that he is being watched by everyone around him, everyone else seems to be part of a giant conspiracy that questions his very existence.

Close to the end, there’s a scene where K looks down from a window upon a new entrant to Prayogshala, just like others had been watching him when he was a newcomer. The cycle goes on. K wakes up from a dream. I wondered, what next? Did the director want to say that the surreal experiences so long had all taken place in a dream, that there was no conflict with logic, and Prayogshala didn’t exist in the real world. Or was he going to let the viewer interpret the movie, and leave signs that all was not a dream, that he has consciously fused reality and fantasy to introduce the audience to a genre unfamiliar in India. I was expecting the second, and yes, Anurag Kashyap didn’t disappoint.

It takes tremendous courage on the part of the director (and of course also the producers Kumar Mangat and Vishal Bhardwaj) to make a Kafkaesque film in our country. For this singlemost important aspect No Smoking is a remarkable achievement. The makers must have certainly known well in advance that it wasn’t going to have much of a chance at the box-office. If the audience rejects it unanimously (which it did), it is okay. But what about the critics? It’s fair enough if they make it clear in their reviews that this is not a film meant for all. However, what they penned down were aimed more at ridiculing the movie, rather than reviewing it! I looked up the net for their views.

Khalid Mohamed (Hindustan Times) wrote a highly entertaining piece about No Smoking’s lack of entertainment, didn't show the slightest interest in analytically criticising the film and ended up with a completely trash review. Rajeev Masand (CNN-IBN) did only slightly better, but his article too reads like a box-office predictor, harping on the string that it goes over the head. NDTV's Anupama Chopra is actually good. She mentions this is not a movie meant for the masses, and her criticism has substance, as well as the note that it’s an adaptaion of The Trial.

There's a video on the net showing Anurag Kashyap speaking at the India Habitat Centre, New Delhi. I’ll end on a lighter note, quoting his remark:
'It is very Kafkaesque- the whole reference of the character being called K. K could be for Kafka, K could also be for Kashyap, K could also be for...Karan Johar!'

Slumdog Millionaire

I finally shook of my laziness and started writing about the much discussed movie Slumdog Millionaire. I was going to post a reply on my friend Somdeb’s blog , but realised that my reply would have become longer than his post. Therefore, here comes a new post on my blog.

I found Slumdog Millionaire to be an average film, certainly nowhere close to being a great one. It won’t rank in my list of favourite movies, but I did enjoy watching it. This post has less to do with the movie itself, and more with the reactions it has generated. So let’s begin one by one.

Reaction #1: 'Slumdog Millionaire' has been so popular in the West because it portrays the poverty in India.

There is a natural appeal in things which are unfamiliar and strange to us. Extreme poverty, a structure as beautiful as the Taj Mahal, colourful weddings are themes that may be uncommon to an Westerner and therefore these subjects find a resonance among the Western audience. Poverty is the harsh reality in India and it can’t be denied that the picture of misery presented by Danny Boyle is true to a large extent. It’s a truth we know but choose not to be bothered by it. Its our problem that we react when this side is exposed. I find it hard to accept that a movie can become a blockbuster hit in the West only by showcasing India’s poverty. Slumdog Millionaire is a story of hope, and that’s certainly the primary reason it has been liked a lot.

Let me raise a different question: what is it that comes first to our mind when we think of Africa? We are accustomed to think about Africa as the dark continent, characterised by a rich wildlife, miserable poverty and uncivilised tribals. Our clichés about a different culture are based on what we find surprising and unfamiliar, including their negative points. We have no reason to complain.

Thanks to Danny Boyle, the miserable living conditions of slum dewellers has become the talking point of the media. It needed an Westerner to prick our conscience and debate about the reality we often choose to ignore. Isn’t that shameful enough?

Reaction #2: Eight Oscars! Wow! 'Slumdog Millionaire' is a milestone in Indian cinema.

Really? First of all, the claim that Slumdog is an Indian movie sounds absurd to me. But let’s not ponder much over this issue. Winning the Oscar is certainly not the pinnacle of cinematic achievement. Indian films have been recognized worldwide at international film festivals which are are no less prestigious than the Academy Awards and where artists from various countries (not just English speaking nations) judge the entries. Its a notable achievement to win the Oscar, but it can in no way be claimed to be a platform for world cinema. Take for example Lagaan, which was nominated for the Academy Award in the Best Foreign Language Film category. Lagaan is a nice movie to watch and only the third Indian movie to have received a nomination. If the Oscar is assumed to be a good judge, then Lagaan ranks among the three best Indian movies ever and this is an incredible overstatement.

Reaction #3: A. R. Rahman’s music in 'Slumdog Millionaire' is not up to his standards. Why did he win the Oscar for this particular movie, when he had composed much better music in the past?

Its for the very simple reason that the rest of the movies Rahman has composed for are not in English, and they won’t be considered for the Oscars. The very fact that people are surprised shows that the Academy Awards are expected to be the ultimate awards in world cinema. This is a highly flawed assumption. And by the way, the Slumdog soundtrack may be mediocre by Rahman’s standard, but its still great music! Rahman’s composition should not be judged by only the songs featured prominently in the movie. The amazing background music deserves to be listened to separately after watching the film. I’m pretty sure most people don’t even know there’s a song ‘Dreams on Fire’ in the Slumdog soundtrack. Its wrong to judge the work of Rahman by listening only to ‘Jai ho’ and ‘O Saaya’.

Delhi 6

Unconventional ideas and brilliant cinematography- that’s what my expectations were from Delhi 6, the director being Rakeysh Mehra. And yes, he has certainly lived up to them. His proficient treatment of characters had been showcased in Rang De Basanti. In terms of experimenting with new ideas, Mehra has gone further ahead with Delhi 6.

The strength of the movie lies not in the storyline, which is ordinary, but in the rendition. Delhi 6 is a collage. It is a jigsaw of the omnipresent joys and predicaments of everyday life, and the people and places that sketch the life of the city. Mehra paints a multitude of characters on the same canvas. The plot has elements of a typical Bollywood entertainer. But he presents them in a mould that is entirely his own, and distinctly different from the clichés of the movie ‘industry’. Particularly startling is the picturisation of ‘Dil Gira Dafatan’ where the life of New York and Delhi are superimposed. Sonam Kapoor’s dance with a dove reflects a great sense of aesthetics and the cinematography throughout the movie is really good.

Smart making can make good cinema out of a weak storyline. Rakeysh Mehra’s experiments have already drawn a lot of flak for lack of entertainment value. Box office success is certainly not his main aim. In Bollywood, producers are more important than directors and acting skills play second fiddle to stardom. Mehra has managed to bring the creativity of the director to the forefront of his movies. Delhi 6, despite its weaknesses, is a work of art. Mehra speaks a new language.