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Hindustan Times
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Hindustan Times
‘BMCLD' by Shreela Agarwal
Often, the point of a film is purely polemical — when the visual medium is a vehicle for social engagement. There are filmmakers who invent languages to alchemise personal histories on the margins of majoritarian experiences, megacities and social systems. Shreela Agarwal, 25, has won a Gold from the MAMI Mumbai Film Festival in the short documentary category for her film on a boxing club that thrived in Mumbai's margins for exactly this brand of filmmaking. It's a film set largely in a matchbox dwelling in Mumbai, and some of its precarious peripheries. The BMCLD (Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation Labour Department) boxing club was founded in 1962 by Rohinton Sethna and sustained with irrepressible passion by state champion and national-level pugilist Bipin Mahida. Over several years, generations of children and teenagers from Mumbai's slums have found purpose and impetus to navigate life in the margins from it. There was a time when boxing in India was dominated mostly by Parsis. Until the 1960s, most national champions were Parsis. Sethna was part of the BMC Welfare Development Program. Parsis typically speak Gujarati, and Sethana came to know about the Gujarati community living near Tulsivadi in Mahalaxmi. He recognised both the talent and the socio-economic challenges ofthe people there and decided to open a boxing centre in the area. That's how the BMCLD club began. Agarwal says, 'He coached there and was also a respected referee. He had been a boxer himself, and over time, he trained many champions—some of whom continue to carry on his legacy.' The BMCLD community is, as the illustrious book by Katherine Boo on life, death and hope in a Mumbai undercity calls, 'behind the beautiful forevers'. And Agarwal's film, BMCLD, is, first, an unflinching look not just at this community's grit, beauty and will to thrive. It's also a familiar reminder of how much of a toll it can be for Mumbai's dispossessed to claim their space and their passions in it. Agarwal came to the world of boxing while studying to be a filmmaker. While completing her bachelor's degree in filmmaking from the Lasalle College of the arts, Singapore, she began training as a boxer. 'I trained for almost a year. When Covid hit, I returned to India. I thought I'm going to continue from Bombay, and compete from there. That's how I met my coach, Bipin Mahida and came to know about this club,' Agarwal says. A serious eye tear during a match kept her out of competitions for a long time, but the BMCLD and its coach continued to be her succour and strength. 'I was in a kind of an existential crisis before I started filming this. I felt it important to step away from the craft to experience life,' Agarwal says. 'At BMCLD, under my coach, I understood what it took for power to flow from my shoulders. It is a spiritual relationship with him.' In its short running time of just under five minutes, BMCLD unfolds with stark-realist documentation of the club's members at work — mostly boys, training before the city wakes up— inside the small slum quarter which is BMCLD's home and where they practise their hooks and clinches under neon lights. 'Half of the film's footage is archival or phone camera videos and the other half is where my Canon 1dx Mark 2 captured them. In post-production, I matched it all out,' Agarwal explains. There's a phone camera shot of a BMC bulldozer razing the BMCLD home to the ground — austere, grainy, and when juxtaposed with static shots of aspiring boxers, almost like a 2024 iteration of filmmaking in the 90s' Dutch tradition of Dogme filmmaking, which sought to get rid of all technical flourishes and gimmicks to extract the power or message of a story without really spelling it out. An example of the best kind of guerrilla filmmaking,the narrative of BMCLD combines real time footage with animation by Anita Agarwal, the writer-director's mother, who is an animation artist. 'The animation was completed on her personal iPad,' Agarwal says. After being demolished from its home, the BMCLD began training at the premises of the Mahalakhsmi racecourse. 'They have recently got a space dedicated to them, where they will soon start training,' Agarwal says. This is Agarwal's third work after The Keeper (2018), a sensitive exploration of family and cultural identity, which screened at Euroshorts, Fresh Wave Hong Kong and the Arc Film Festival, and My Brother (2020), about immigration and sibling dynamics, which premiered at the Singapore International Film Festival and went on to be screened at the New York Indian Film Festival and Dharamshala International Film Festival. At the MAMI Mumbai Film festival, two indie film pioneers noticed Agarwal's distinctive storytelling signature — writer-director Chaitanya Tamhane (Court, 2014; The Disciple, 2020) and Naren Chandavarkar (Moonweave Films, which is behind the recent film festival favourite Baksho Bondi). They are mentors on Agarwal's ongoing docu-fiction project Ringside Dreams, which is being developed, based on the premise of BMCLD. Agarwal's voice as a filmmaker and socially-engaged storyteller is one to look forward to in contemporary Indian cinema. (Short Stream is a monthly curated section, in which we present an Indian short film that hasn't been seen before or not widely seen before but is making the right buzz in the film industry and film festival circles. We stream the film for a month on HT Premium, the subscription-only section on Sanjukta Sharma is a Mumbai-based writer and film critic. Write to her at
Time of India
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Gara Met Gala: How a Parsi heirloom went from auntywear to blue carpet
Once tucked away in family trunks, the intricately embroidered sari is finding a second life on global red carpets, courtesy a new generation of revivalists We're all a bit nostalgic these days. The young romanticising eras they never lived through. The old convinced things were better back then. No surprise then that throwbacks and heirlooms are having their moment. None more so than the Parsi Gara sari after fashionista Natasha Poonawalla sashayed down the Met Gala carpet in a dramatic fishtail made by Manish Malhotra from two vintage Garas and Nita Ambani wrapped herself in its fine threadwork at Harvard India Conference. And just like that, this slumbering textile legacy stirred back into the spotlight. 'When Natasha wore Gara at the Met, of course, we were upset it wasn't one of our pieces,' laughs textile designer Ashdeen Lilaowala, 'but the craft got an international platform. What matters more is that people are talking about it.'The revival of the Parsi Gara isn't just about celebrity cameos but about people like Lilaowalla who are keeping the art of this ancient embroidery alive. And not just among Parsis. 'Eighty percent of our clientele is non-Parsi,' he says. Long before its red-carpet outings, the Parsi Gara had already racked up mileage. As trade grew between Canton and Bombay in the 18th and 19th centuries, Parsi merchants brought back embroidered silks from China. One story goes that a trader asked a Chinese artisan to embroider six yards of silk as a sari for his wife back home. Those early Garas weren't saris in the typical sense. Just rectangular panels without pallus or borders. It was Parsi women who transformed them and draped them with pleats to the right, pallu trailing low, and a peek of white lace. The enclosed field or 'gala' in Gujarati gave the Gara its name. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like 2025 Top Trending local enterprise accounting software [Click Here] Esseps Learn More Undo In Bharuch, elderly Parsis still recall the Chinese traders who cycled in with bundles of Garas sold by the kilo and taught embroidery techniques to Parsi women in exchange for chai. Designer Zenobia Davar adds a colourful footnote: 'It's said, wealthy Parsis would often gift them to their wives and mistresses,' she says. 'Sometimes, the mistresses received more lavish pieces than the wives leading to a fierce competition over who had the finest Gara!' The stories stitched into Parsi Garas also carried their own whimsy. A spinning motif was called karolia (spider), clustered dots were 'kanda-papeta' (onion-potato), a rooster-hen pattern became 'marga-margi' and 'China-Chini,' a Chinese man and woman. Some even had pagodas, bridges, steam engines and boats. Nature motifs were common as Zoroastrianism is a nature-revering religion, says Shernaz Cama , founder of the Unesco-backed Parzor Crafts in Delhi which has worked for decades to document and revive Parsi embroidery. 'Birds, flowers, gardens weren't just motifs. Every cluster of peonies or birds of paradise was a prayer disguised as pattern.' But as fashion changed, so did the Gara's fate. 'With tastes shifting to figure-hugging chiffons on one side and the khadi movement on the other, the silk Gara went out of fashion.' It wasn't just trends, says Cama. 'Women skilled in embroidery moved into office jobs.' Lilaowala traces its decline to 'geopolitical reasons'. The Communist movement in China disrupted supply chains and as India leaned into the swadeshi movement, elaborate saris felt out of place. Davar calls the 1970s the tipping point. 'With industrialisation, powerlooms replaced handlooms and we lost not just fabrics, but also lost weavers. Some even traded authentic Garas for aluminium vessels.' And so, the Gara retreated into family trunks and was worn mostly on Navroz, in agyaris (fire temples) and studio portraits. Until revival began almost instinctively. For Davar, the moment came when she received two authentic Garas at her wedding. 'It changed me. I felt a deep responsibility to honour and protect this heritage.' Nearly 25 years on, her studio specialises in handcrafted Gara spanning saris, bridalwear, children's clothes, accessories, and home decor. 'We created art that could live closer to people — frames for homes, coin purses, spectacle cases, and cushion covers.' In 2014, UK's Cherie Blair took home one of Davar's embroidered frames to hang in her London office. But Davar's 'proudest moment' she says is crafting 'The Forbidden Stitch' for Nita Ambani — a technique once reserved for Chinese nobility. 'It was so minute and painstaking that artisans would often develop cataracts. Today, we've revived it. Our artisans work under optimal lighting, take breaks and never stitch more than two hours a day, preserving both their eyesight and sanctity of the work.' Lilaowala's journey began with research. 'After graduating, I travelled to China, India and Iran to trace motifs,' he says. In family collections across regions, he began spotting familiar patterns. 'That helped build a repertoire of what Parsi Gara is.' When he launched his label in 2012, it wasn't just to recreate heirlooms. 'I wanted to make something a young woman could appreciate and wear today without needing to know its history first.' But sustaining a slow craft in a fast world isn't easy. 'Each motif takes years of training to perfect,' says Davar. 'A single embroidered sari takes anywhere from three to 18 months.' But time isn't the only cost. 'The biggest roadblock is the price of an authentic Gara,' says Cama. 'Which is why we've tried to tailor the work to fit the purse. The other challenge is that the Parsi women who carry memory no longer want to pursue it professionally. How do we remember the stories and symbols, then?' Davar points to another threat. 'Machine-made pieces that mimic the surface look of a Gara but lack the soul of hand craftsmanship.' Still, there's hope. Parzor, for instance, has trained a cohort ranging from SEWA-trained women in Ahmedabad to Parsi families in Navsari and master craftsmen in Delhi to keep what they call 'a unique multicultural tradition' alive. Lilaowala is determined to change the perception that Garas are 'something aunties wear'. He embroiders Gara onto Kanjivarams, Bandhanis, men's waistcoats and even creates handpainted prints. Not everyone approves. 'After I wove a Gara into a Benarasi, a textile historian told me, 'You've killed the craft! Now it'll be copied in China',' he laughs. 'But you have to see Gara with fresh eyes.'
Time of India
22-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Rajesh Khanna turned into an overnight superstar after living in this Mumbai building
Rajendra Kumar's Purchase and Rise to Fame Rajesh Khanna's Ownership and Legacy During the 1960s, the area around Carter Road in Bandra, Mumbai, was far from the vibrant neighborhood it is today. It was mainly home to Parsis and Anglo-Indians, with a line of modest sea-facing houses. Among these was a bungalow in poor condition. According to journalist Ali Peter John, the house was so rundown that no one was willing to buy it, even at very low prices. This neglected bungalow eventually caught the attention of actor Rajendra Kumar, who was just beginning his journey in Hindi to own a bungalow with a sea view, Rajendra Kumar was determined to buy the property despite lacking sufficient funds. As described in Seema Sonik Alimchand's biography Jubilee Kumar: The Life and Times of a Superstar, the bungalow was priced at Rs 65,000, but Rajendra Kumar could only manage Rs 10,000 upfront. He immediately wrote a cheque for Rs 10,000 to secure the deal but still needed Rs 55,000 to complete the raise the remaining amount, Rajendra Kumar turned to filmmaker B.R. Chopra, who had offered him roles in two films, Dhool Ka Phool and Kanoon. He requested an advance payment before committing to the projects. During negotiations, Rajendra Kumar asked for Rs 2 lakhs for both films, while the producers initially offered Rs 1.5 lakhs. After some discussion, B.R. Chopra agreed to pay Rs 1.75 lakhs, with Rs 50,000 given immediately. Rajendra Kumar used this advance to pay the full Rs 65,000 for the Kumar then renovated the bungalow and named it 'Dimple' after his newborn daughter. His career flourished, earning him the nickname 'Jubilee Kumar' due to the success of his Rajendra Kumar decided to sell the Carter Road bungalow. An emerging actor at the time, Rajesh Khanna, heard about the sale and bought the property hoping it would bring him good luck. Rajesh Khanna later became the first superstar of Indian cinema, marking an era of tremendous Khanna's career declined after Amitabh Bachchan entered the industry. Rajesh Khanna passed away in 2012 and the bungalow was sold for reportedly Rs 90 crore. There was also a legal dispute that arose after the death of Rajesh Khanna, specifically involving his alleged live-in partner, Anita Advani, and his family, including his wife Dimple Kapadia and son-in-law Akshay Kumar. The core issue was Advani's claim to a share in Rajesh Khanna's estate, including his palatial bungalow, and her allegations of being evicted from the property and facing domestic a high-rise stands in place of the iconic bungalow, marking the end of an era for the historic property that once witnessed the rise of two Bollywood legends.
Time of India
22-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
How Rajesh Khanna's Carter Road bungalow became the heart of Bollywood's golden era
Rajendra Kumar's Purchase and Rise to Fame Rajesh Khanna's Ownership and Legacy During the 1960s, the area around Carter Road in Bandra, Mumbai, was far from the vibrant neighborhood it is today. It was mainly home to Parsis and Anglo-Indians, with a line of modest sea-facing houses. Among these was a bungalow in poor condition. According to journalist Ali Peter John, the house was so rundown that no one was willing to buy it, even at very low prices. This neglected bungalow eventually caught the attention of actor Rajendra Kumar, who was just beginning his journey in Hindi to own a bungalow with a sea view, Rajendra Kumar was determined to buy the property despite lacking sufficient funds. As described in Seema Sonik Alimchand's biography Jubilee Kumar: The Life and Times of a Superstar, the bungalow was priced at Rs 65,000, but Rajendra Kumar could only manage Rs 10,000 upfront. He immediately wrote a cheque for Rs 10,000 to secure the deal but still needed Rs 55,000 to complete the raise the remaining amount, Rajendra Kumar turned to filmmaker B.R. Chopra, who had offered him roles in two films, Dhool Ka Phool and Kanoon. He requested an advance payment before committing to the projects. During negotiations, Rajendra Kumar asked for Rs 2 lakhs for both films, while the producers initially offered Rs 1.5 lakhs. After some discussion, B.R. Chopra agreed to pay Rs 1.75 lakhs, with Rs 50,000 given immediately. Rajendra Kumar used this advance to pay the full Rs 65,000 for the Kumar then renovated the bungalow and named it 'Dimple' after his newborn daughter. His career flourished, earning him the nickname 'Jubilee Kumar' due to the success of his Rajendra Kumar decided to sell the Carter Road bungalow. An emerging actor at the time, Rajesh Khanna, heard about the sale and bought the property hoping it would bring him good luck. Rajesh Khanna later became the first superstar of Indian cinema, marking an era of tremendous Khanna's career declined after Amitabh Bachchan entered the industry. Rajesh Khanna passed away in 2012 and the bungalow was sold for reportedly Rs 90 crore. There was also a legal dispute that arose after the death of Rajesh Khanna, specifically involving his alleged live-in partner, Anita Advani, and his family, including his wife Dimple Kapadia and son-in-law Akshay Kumar. The core issue was Advani's claim to a share in Rajesh Khanna's estate, including his palatial bungalow, and her allegations of being evicted from the property and facing domestic a high-rise stands in place of the iconic bungalow, marking the end of an era for the historic property that once witnessed the rise of two Bollywood legends.
Time of India
22-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Persona non manga
Bachi Karkaria's Erratica and its cheeky sign-off character, Alec Smart, have had a growing league of followers since 1994 when the column began in the Metropolis on Saturday. It now appears on the Edit Page of the Times of India, every Thursday. It takes a sly dig at whatever has inflated political/celebrity egos, and got public knickers in a twist that week. It makes you chuckle, think and marvel at the elasticity of the English language. It is a shooting-from-the-lip advice column to the lovelorn and otherwise torn, telling them to stop cribbing and start living -- all in her her branded pithy, witty style. LESS ... MORE Held in terror by Don Alphonso and Salim Langda Pray heed the plight of the Person Who Doesn't Like Mangos. Other minorities know naught of our marginalisation, discrimination, the looks ranging from sheer pity to sneer contempt. We are the pariahs of polite company – sliced, cubed, pulped, if not skinned alive and stoned. As the first basket of blushing Lalbagh lifts its hay veil, as the first Gulabkhas spreads its fragrance, the rest of the country awakes to life and salivation. I sink into inescapable hell. Soon the Don himself swaggers through the street, his flag-bearer trumpeting his arrival, 'Haaa- poos!' He overpowers every mall foodhall and street stall, establishing his dominance. His eager followers, nay worshippers, are swept up in the fervour of ecstasy. I get swept into the corners of ridicule. 'You don't like mangos?! What's wrong with you?! Are you anti-national, or wot?!!! Actually, I'm just hungry. There's nothing else on the menu. Especially if you are Gujju. Forget omnipresent aam ras. Even the skin isn't spared but is lavished with the rye-hing no vaghar bestowed on everything from bheenda to teenda. We Parsis seem to have adopted this mangi-ficent obsession along with the language and dress conditions for settling in Jadi Rana's Gujarat fiefdom millennia ago. We cook the ripe mango with mutton like we do everything from tomatoes to turiya. We uniquely pickle it whole, steamed and steeped in a mustard-spiked vinegar, earning brownie points or bucks with this Bafenu achar. Invited anywhere, I sit sullenly sucking my resentment while the rest of the table is spaced out sucking skin and stone. In humble Mumbai bhojanalay or hi-fly Bombabe restaurant, everything else gets its just desserts. Last week, it even drove un-evictable caramel custard off a toff Club's menu; actually, in an 'I kissed thee ere I killed thee' act, it smothered poor pudding to desecration and death. Mango may be the 'food of love' but no one seems to 'sicken and so die' of its 'surfeit'. My old aunt used to clear a shelf of her Godrej almirah for this summer visitor, pacing up and down her balcony awaiting the guy with crate and cry. She's gone to the great orchard in the sky where the aambrosial cup never runs dry, and where no keri appears perfect and ready to eat but turns out rotten at the core. That is 'the most unkindest cut-open of all.' Not just foods, everything bows-out to the 'King'. In my small, local readymades shop, you can't see the tees for this Dawood. I kid you not. Salim Langda, Malda Mastan, Lala Chausa will strut their hour about the state. Accompanied by molls: Don's own Pairi, Neelam, Dusseri, Badami or any aamrapalli as sweet by other name. Right through their stranglehold, we, disgruntled dishonourables, must remain silent. Bound by the 'Aamerta' code. *** Alec Smart said: 'MP mantri's Col Sofiya apology was just naam ke vastey. Just as his slur was naam ke liye. As is Prof Mahmudabad's absurd arrest.' Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
