Phoonk: How RGV is Barking Up the Wrong Tree!

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had an obsessive inclination towards the Frankestiens, the Count Draculas, all versions of Friday the 13ths (strictly for the birds) and off late, towards the desi Raats, Bhoots, and of course Phoonk.
Ram Gopal Verma (RGV) had impressed me slightly with Raat (1992), where we had a young Revathi getting possessed at the drop of a hat, sending a chill down any ready spine. Bhoot (2003) was even better, apart from the occasional overdose of completely demented sound effects. But Phoonk? What was this guy thinking?

We have a rich young couple (they almost always are, living in a duplex and driving a CR-V), two saccharine-sweet kids, and a nervous mother with a shaking head, to start with. The man in the family is a confirmed atheist until everything in his life turns topsy-turvy, and his daughter, one of the two kids, becomes possessed by some random spirit. Our brave man becomes a believer, gets hold of a thoroughly obtuse quack, and cures his daughter. End of story.

Would you pay good money to watch this? Well, until recently, I would, being oblivious of the total lack of control on the part of RGV. To begin with, it’s bad logic to transform the atheist of the plot into a believer. This is an open invitation to primitivism in a country which is already smitten by Senas and Parishads, and Vedikes of every possible kind.

Back to the rich couple. The man throws out a criminal couple in the middle of some celebration. The couple swears revenge. Unfortunately for the rich couple, the criminal couple knows black magic. Sad.

What follows is a ridiculous blend of The Omen (both 1976 & 2006), The Exorcist (1973) and every other cult horror flick possible. There is a crow that watches everything from a vague treetop, a delirious black magician who wreaks havoc on the kid, and by the end of it all, you wish the sound system of the theatre was non-functional.

For someone who has tolerated absurd horror flicks like Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter (1966) and I Eat Your Skin (1971), I would have soaked in the absurdity of Phoonk too, had a few things been set right. However, the RGV factory decided to spoil my party with a misplaced storyline, bad ideology and demented background score once more. As a result, my horror-hunger continues…

The Gods Must Be Crazy

It was my first ever darshan...of this oft-celebrated, much sought-after, doubtlessly omnipotent, and perhaps a little overestimated Lord of the Tirumala hills.
"You are a degraded non-believer, a blasphemous idiot...an embarrassing partner..." were the various reactions I got from multiple quarters, the last one coming from my husband.

Man! I gotta be kidding to mock the Almighty...the do-gooder, the sole strength, the all encompassing Venkateshwara. I was most definitely a worm of the lowest possible category, much to the chagrin of my family (read husband and in-laws).

After much debate, we set out on a Wednesday night...both of us quite drained out after a hard day's work. A tiring night journey followed, and we reach Tirupati at 2am.
Finally, some sleep, I thought, after our tempo traveler trundled into a hotel patio. Putting a sad period to my wishful thinking, the tour guide muttered, “Madam…downstairs at 2.30…go to ticket counter…line”… What? No sleep? Take that!

Note: People of similar disposition (similar to me I mean, please have a good sleep before feeling enthusiastic about Tirupati)

We reached the ticket counter at 3am sharp. There was a crowd, comprising religious fanatics, semi-fanatics, enthusiasts, and plain sleep-starved non-enthusiasts. On second thoughts, I think I was the only one belonging to the last category.
It took me days, actually months to realize what gargantuan sin I had committed to stand in a queue for a piece of paper at 3 in the morning. After much thinking, I decide to call it plain karma.
We drove to Tirumala soon after, and by 12 in the afternoon, we were in a caged-room, waiting our turn to pay a visit to the idol. The clock struck 1, and we rushed towards the main temple…like famine stricken Somalians, rushing for a stray helicopter full of food.
I finally saw Venkateshwara…starkly surrealistic behind a pale oil lamp. This was supposed to have been my encounter with ultimate divinity. However, my brain had stopped working. I was fighting for breath, for space, for relief, and for Venkateshwara knows what else.
It feels strange to live the ordeal on this post, all over again. When I think of the darshan, all I can say is, religion is a national obsession that India can perhaps do without. If paying homage to your god means running the risk of a stampede, if paying homage means fighting for air, if paying homage means having to stand in a queue beside a reeking sewage pipe for hours, the god’s must be crazy. I am happy as an apparent atheist. My belief in a super power lies within me.