Sometimes when you have had a bit too much of reality, any fantasy seems worth the sell. Rockstar in that sense is not just any fantasy though. It is something that can be believed in parts. If you have a different story to tell, it will surely keep one occupied for most parts.The songs blend in beautifully into the story. And you realize that it is fair to have Mohit Chauhan sing all of them, keeping it consistent with Ranbir's voice in the movie. This is commendable in a world where Akshay Kumar can end up with Rahat Fateh Ali's voice without anyone's bother.
There was a certain potential in the film, which if had been realized fully, could have become a poster film. Poster film is one that would make you wish you collect a poster and frame it, some years later. It had that kind of an art to it, specially the still shots and slow-mo. The DOP (director of photography) has left his mark.
If one cuts the hype around it, has their own small list of favorite songs sitting in anticipation, and appreciates the classic Imtiaz Ali first half humor, they may not be as disappointed as certain reviews are making it out to be. It does appear, though, that there has been some serious editing, in which they have probably cut out something relevant as well.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Life; as usual.
He had an off that day. It was bit unlikely for one of them to get a day off when the other did not. There was never a debate over their company’s holiday policies. Both seemed to be doing as well. Today was that odd day though, when only he was at home.
There was not much that he learned to cook, and this seemed like a concern today, because he was planning to. Between them though, he made up, because what he lacked in cooking, he made up in cleaning, a trait he borrowed from his Dad, cleaning was something that he could put his mind to, and that made it not as mundane.
Today he had decided to do both however. Waking up late, he figured she had left already. Like a dream that you are reminded of once up, he recollected a faint peck on his forehead that she left him with before leaving for work, confirmed later with the maroon lipstick mark he saw on him, in the bathroom mirror. He made himself some black coffee and followed his daily routine of reading the newspaper sitting on the floor. Reading the papers sitting on the floor, over a cup of tea or coffee was in his mind the best compliment one could give to a quiet morning, so much so that the content in the paper seemed to play an irrelevant role. In today’s journalism and reporting, he felt anyhow, that irrelevant was a fairly apt word.
A late heavy breakfast of omelette, bread cheese and jam, juice and bowl of cornflakes made up for lunch as well. The spread on the table, and the ease of making it made breakfast a meal he always looked forward to. The heavier he made it, the better he slept in the afternoon. And there were few things as fulfilling as the thought of a weekday afternoon nap. He finished eating and made himself another cup of coffee before setting out to clean the house.
Once done with the required cleaning, he realized that he had not called to check how her day was going. There was no set understanding they had on this. Theirs was not a couple that had some clear rule of not calling or calling. They just had phases, of either checking up, or not. And these phases balanced themselves out. If they didn't, there would be an argument, which would set the matter in perspective. In that sense, he always found an argument a welcome effect, in hindsight. He tried explaining that to her later, but she found it principally incorrect to approve of an argument to ever have a positive connotation. And because he could understand what she meant, he did not push the matter much. It was just a matter of opinion after all.
Waking up after his much fancied afternoon nap, he ran in his mind the list of vegetables he needed for making a salad, which would go along with small portions of rice and the only dish he had managed to learn, chicken curry. He spent some time listening to Mekaal Hasan Band with some tea he made for himself. Music for him was more than a matter of the music itself. It was a set up. A cup of tea, with the sun nearing its descend, called for certain sounds. And nothing seemed more apt than the voice of Javed Bashir, one that he had found fitting into umpteen situations since the first time he heard them.
While he was picking up the vegetables at the vendor, he noticed a frail, but clean looking man next to him asking for the price of potatoes. Once the vendor told him how much it cost, he stood in a corner with an expression that resembled control in a part and contemplation in another. He was keeping his face in control, while trying to cover up what he contemplated. The vendor seemed a bit annoyed because the frail clean man was disturbing him while he made a big sale to a guy who pretty much bought everything on impulse, and that was Him. He, however, could not help but notice what the frail clean man was up to. A little while later the frail clean man walked up to ask how much would paav kilo ( paav, hindi for a quarter kilogram) of potato would cost. The vendor seemed annoyed at the silliness of the Ask. For the vendor, it was a small portion of what cost nothing much. For the frail clean man though, it meant dinner. He however noticed the gathered control and self respect on the frail clean man's face. He could have given the potatoes he bought to the frail clean man and felt a better human than being a mere observer, but that expression on the frail clean man's face held him from doing that. The man would not even look at him, though those two were the only ones shopping, and that in itself was the most dignified display of self-reliance in adversity. The frail clean man just waited patiently for the vendor to get done with him. Once he was done buying his set of vegetables, he left leaving the man behind. His bag seemed much heavier than it really was…
This, he decided, was what he would share with her today when she came back from work.
As planned, he cut the vegetables and cooked rice and chicken. She preferred her salad in a minimalistic dressing that he knew needed to be worked on only once she came in. After cleaning up the dishes, he took a shower and waited watching TV over mug of beer.
She walked in later than usual. The expression on her face said it all, she had a bad day. He knew there won’t be much of a dinner today.
He asked her, “How was your day?”
She replied, “Can you make me some noodles?”
Noodles were her comfort food. It was something that even he seemed to agree upon. He thought women had an incredible knack to physically transform an emotional state. Food for emotions, clothes for moods, and many such. It was something he wanted to observe, and even learn a little about. After she took a shower, she slipped into one of his Boxers and Ts. The physical expression was clear; she did have a bad day at work. Though on most occasions, she wore his clothes only when she missed him, and she told him about it later. He knew there was nothing much he could do now. She had to be left alone through her routine. Once that time was up, he would try walking into her zone.
“Would you want to have the noodles in the bedroom floor itself? ”, he asked.
She nodded, with a faint attempt at smiling.
They sat beside the floor lamp next to the book-shelf with their bowl each. The chicken would have to go into tomorrow's lunch he thought, and the salad could last a day or two. The rice could not be saved. He thought about the frail clean man. Then he looked at her pretty face, and nothing seemed to matter beyond that for the time being.
“I don't want to work there, “she said, like she would on a day like that. He heard her through. She slipped into bed after that. He spent a little while cleaning the dishes. He then took a shower, changed and joined her in bed. They made gentle love, and slept like nothing really mattered beyond that moment..
There was not much that he learned to cook, and this seemed like a concern today, because he was planning to. Between them though, he made up, because what he lacked in cooking, he made up in cleaning, a trait he borrowed from his Dad, cleaning was something that he could put his mind to, and that made it not as mundane.
Today he had decided to do both however. Waking up late, he figured she had left already. Like a dream that you are reminded of once up, he recollected a faint peck on his forehead that she left him with before leaving for work, confirmed later with the maroon lipstick mark he saw on him, in the bathroom mirror. He made himself some black coffee and followed his daily routine of reading the newspaper sitting on the floor. Reading the papers sitting on the floor, over a cup of tea or coffee was in his mind the best compliment one could give to a quiet morning, so much so that the content in the paper seemed to play an irrelevant role. In today’s journalism and reporting, he felt anyhow, that irrelevant was a fairly apt word.
A late heavy breakfast of omelette, bread cheese and jam, juice and bowl of cornflakes made up for lunch as well. The spread on the table, and the ease of making it made breakfast a meal he always looked forward to. The heavier he made it, the better he slept in the afternoon. And there were few things as fulfilling as the thought of a weekday afternoon nap. He finished eating and made himself another cup of coffee before setting out to clean the house.
Once done with the required cleaning, he realized that he had not called to check how her day was going. There was no set understanding they had on this. Theirs was not a couple that had some clear rule of not calling or calling. They just had phases, of either checking up, or not. And these phases balanced themselves out. If they didn't, there would be an argument, which would set the matter in perspective. In that sense, he always found an argument a welcome effect, in hindsight. He tried explaining that to her later, but she found it principally incorrect to approve of an argument to ever have a positive connotation. And because he could understand what she meant, he did not push the matter much. It was just a matter of opinion after all.
Waking up after his much fancied afternoon nap, he ran in his mind the list of vegetables he needed for making a salad, which would go along with small portions of rice and the only dish he had managed to learn, chicken curry. He spent some time listening to Mekaal Hasan Band with some tea he made for himself. Music for him was more than a matter of the music itself. It was a set up. A cup of tea, with the sun nearing its descend, called for certain sounds. And nothing seemed more apt than the voice of Javed Bashir, one that he had found fitting into umpteen situations since the first time he heard them.
While he was picking up the vegetables at the vendor, he noticed a frail, but clean looking man next to him asking for the price of potatoes. Once the vendor told him how much it cost, he stood in a corner with an expression that resembled control in a part and contemplation in another. He was keeping his face in control, while trying to cover up what he contemplated. The vendor seemed a bit annoyed because the frail clean man was disturbing him while he made a big sale to a guy who pretty much bought everything on impulse, and that was Him. He, however, could not help but notice what the frail clean man was up to. A little while later the frail clean man walked up to ask how much would paav kilo ( paav, hindi for a quarter kilogram) of potato would cost. The vendor seemed annoyed at the silliness of the Ask. For the vendor, it was a small portion of what cost nothing much. For the frail clean man though, it meant dinner. He however noticed the gathered control and self respect on the frail clean man's face. He could have given the potatoes he bought to the frail clean man and felt a better human than being a mere observer, but that expression on the frail clean man's face held him from doing that. The man would not even look at him, though those two were the only ones shopping, and that in itself was the most dignified display of self-reliance in adversity. The frail clean man just waited patiently for the vendor to get done with him. Once he was done buying his set of vegetables, he left leaving the man behind. His bag seemed much heavier than it really was…
This, he decided, was what he would share with her today when she came back from work.
As planned, he cut the vegetables and cooked rice and chicken. She preferred her salad in a minimalistic dressing that he knew needed to be worked on only once she came in. After cleaning up the dishes, he took a shower and waited watching TV over mug of beer.
She walked in later than usual. The expression on her face said it all, she had a bad day. He knew there won’t be much of a dinner today.
He asked her, “How was your day?”
She replied, “Can you make me some noodles?”
Noodles were her comfort food. It was something that even he seemed to agree upon. He thought women had an incredible knack to physically transform an emotional state. Food for emotions, clothes for moods, and many such. It was something he wanted to observe, and even learn a little about. After she took a shower, she slipped into one of his Boxers and Ts. The physical expression was clear; she did have a bad day at work. Though on most occasions, she wore his clothes only when she missed him, and she told him about it later. He knew there was nothing much he could do now. She had to be left alone through her routine. Once that time was up, he would try walking into her zone.
“Would you want to have the noodles in the bedroom floor itself? ”, he asked.
She nodded, with a faint attempt at smiling.
They sat beside the floor lamp next to the book-shelf with their bowl each. The chicken would have to go into tomorrow's lunch he thought, and the salad could last a day or two. The rice could not be saved. He thought about the frail clean man. Then he looked at her pretty face, and nothing seemed to matter beyond that for the time being.
“I don't want to work there, “she said, like she would on a day like that. He heard her through. She slipped into bed after that. He spent a little while cleaning the dishes. He then took a shower, changed and joined her in bed. They made gentle love, and slept like nothing really mattered beyond that moment..
Friday, October 21, 2011
The Prop
The Theater of life carries the chance to take you from being a Hero, to being a part of the Supporting cast. You become the Prop to someone's Destiny, instead of becoming their Destiny.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Welcome the King..
It was one of those days when he would get back home, drained of his energies, and suddenly get busy cleaning the house. Nothing new, it always started from one thing that seemed a bother. This night it was the gap between the tiles on dining table. He had already tried cleaning it once but it was not too satisfactory. This time he used the dishwashing liquid and an old toothbrush, and it did the trick. And it never ended there; he went on to clean many such corners. Though that night it was not a usual day of cleaning for him. He was more tired than he normally used to be. Normally he would clean because he felt like, or because he wanted to distract himself, and sometimes because the house needed cleaning. But that night he was cleaning against his regular urge, and under a certain compulsion. He was so tired this time that he would keep on coming back for some rest after every part he cleaned. On any other day he would quit. But he went on cleaning in greater detail than ever; Wet-mopping the floor, cleaning kitchen slabs, bathroom tiles, fans, lamps. He did not know why he was doing it, but he could not stop himself either. And this went on till wee hours of morning. Finally when it seemed to him that there was nothing more he could clean, out of will or need, he took a shower, changed and called it a night.
The legend of Mahabali was a story he was told many times around the festival of Onam, the harvest festival of Kerala. While he never volunteered for any cleaning, his normal day before Onam was disrupted by his family moving him around to clean the house. The pretext was of keeping the house clean for King Mahabali, who was said to visit his beloved subjects, in the early hours of morning. And he would enter and bless a house that was kept clean.
Next morning, he was woken up at 8 am by a text message from a family friend. It conveyed Onam wishes on behalf of him and his family. It reminded him of the day about which he had temporarily forgotten.
It did not occur to him till he stepped out of bed, till his bare feet touched the floor, and he could not feel even a speck of dust beneath him. He realized his house was ready, without his conscious intent, to welcome the King..
The legend of Mahabali was a story he was told many times around the festival of Onam, the harvest festival of Kerala. While he never volunteered for any cleaning, his normal day before Onam was disrupted by his family moving him around to clean the house. The pretext was of keeping the house clean for King Mahabali, who was said to visit his beloved subjects, in the early hours of morning. And he would enter and bless a house that was kept clean.
Next morning, he was woken up at 8 am by a text message from a family friend. It conveyed Onam wishes on behalf of him and his family. It reminded him of the day about which he had temporarily forgotten.
It did not occur to him till he stepped out of bed, till his bare feet touched the floor, and he could not feel even a speck of dust beneath him. He realized his house was ready, without his conscious intent, to welcome the King..
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The Wind Up Bird Chronicles (Book Review)
Reading a Murakami lets you live through the world with less reaction and more observation, setting you up for respecting more or less everything. I don’t know if it has got to do with my kind of reclusiveness, or his style of writing. But the story, despite of being one of suffering, becomes desirable. Though I guess the reasons for that are not all that deep. Murakami provides you with a thrill, and it is unique. It is one thing to be surreal and another to maintain its proximity to the real like Murakami’s writing does. The magic is drawn from what you probably have experienced otherwise, physically, but did not really feel mentally. You probably felt five percent of it, which is all you need, to be drawn. The rest is his fantastic imagination.
I had heard somewhere that a good work of science fiction may not have to be something that agrees with the general laws of science that exist, but it needs to be something that sticks to the very logic that it has set up for itself in the process of establishing the story. And this is one element that Murakami seems to have perfected with his book (though it is not a science fiction). At the end of it all, when you come out of the world he created for you, you can see a certain math that was binding it all together.
The fine observations of daily life and near inspiring philosophies that he presents would not sound as attractive if it weren’t for the modesty and in-consequential self-presence that the protagonist manages to establish. It makes for such naturally felt empathy that when comes a moment of triumph; you feel it is like your own. It actually makes me think whether presenting a thought with self-doubt is any less convincing than presenting it with conviction. Self-doubt or self-argument actually allows you to present two sides of a matter. And that is one side more than of one presented with conviction, which, not to forget, already smells of pride and bias.
Going through this book is near similar to a flight. It is as if a certain realisation of how the world works made you so light that you were lifted up. And that those realisations took away your sense of dimensions such that you suddenly began to travel in ways that defied direction. However, the controller has it all figured, and those directionless flights are all interconnected, and in the end most of it you will figure. The rest is left to imagine, which I believe is Murakami’s signature.
In all this objectivity I am missing the element of excitement in discovering a treasure of point of views, detailing, passions, imagination, quirks, preferences or way of life. And it is probably because I chose to write this review a bit late. The truth is, while I was reading it, the excitement was similar to one of discovering gold.
I had heard somewhere that a good work of science fiction may not have to be something that agrees with the general laws of science that exist, but it needs to be something that sticks to the very logic that it has set up for itself in the process of establishing the story. And this is one element that Murakami seems to have perfected with his book (though it is not a science fiction). At the end of it all, when you come out of the world he created for you, you can see a certain math that was binding it all together.
The fine observations of daily life and near inspiring philosophies that he presents would not sound as attractive if it weren’t for the modesty and in-consequential self-presence that the protagonist manages to establish. It makes for such naturally felt empathy that when comes a moment of triumph; you feel it is like your own. It actually makes me think whether presenting a thought with self-doubt is any less convincing than presenting it with conviction. Self-doubt or self-argument actually allows you to present two sides of a matter. And that is one side more than of one presented with conviction, which, not to forget, already smells of pride and bias.
Going through this book is near similar to a flight. It is as if a certain realisation of how the world works made you so light that you were lifted up. And that those realisations took away your sense of dimensions such that you suddenly began to travel in ways that defied direction. However, the controller has it all figured, and those directionless flights are all interconnected, and in the end most of it you will figure. The rest is left to imagine, which I believe is Murakami’s signature.
In all this objectivity I am missing the element of excitement in discovering a treasure of point of views, detailing, passions, imagination, quirks, preferences or way of life. And it is probably because I chose to write this review a bit late. The truth is, while I was reading it, the excitement was similar to one of discovering gold.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Black Swan …… (Less of a review, more of a reaction)
Making us question who we are,
Life's high to its deep lows,
Turning convictions into weakness,
Not touching the extremes but till an inch before,
The one that induces crime, but only in intent,
The one that turns instability into a weapon that probes negativity,
And before it bears a consequence that affects beyond self, it transforms it all into art. Streaming it into a single flow,
Running side by side with sanity,
Patiently displaying itself,
Gathering applause for its complexity,
Taking a bow and slowly gelling back to where it all began,
Back to where it started.
Where self has no meaning,
Where everybody is a nobody,
Back to large sea of average,
That place which makes everyone ordinary...till a black swan appears, again.
Life's high to its deep lows,
Turning convictions into weakness,
Not touching the extremes but till an inch before,
The one that induces crime, but only in intent,
The one that turns instability into a weapon that probes negativity,
And before it bears a consequence that affects beyond self, it transforms it all into art. Streaming it into a single flow,
Running side by side with sanity,
Patiently displaying itself,
Gathering applause for its complexity,
Taking a bow and slowly gelling back to where it all began,
Back to where it started.
Where self has no meaning,
Where everybody is a nobody,
Back to large sea of average,
That place which makes everyone ordinary...till a black swan appears, again.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
i am in hate with you
it was love then | and it is hate now,
then the glimmer of assertiveness | now the darkness of agression,
then of protecting confidence | now of over-shadowing pride,
for the living ideals they stood | for the dead rigidity they became,
the impressive surity | the annoying arrogance ,
the perseverant's ambition to try| the
un-reasonable's refusal to give up,
the fur-soft sensitivity | the disgusting self pity,
the beauty of destiny | the casualness of coincidences,
of endless stream of understanding | and bottomless pit of tolerance,
the hope that partnered challenges | the dismay that tagged problems,
the moments of freedom | under the covers of ignorance,
The wonderfull possesion in shivering hands | to the rude awakening of unberable weight,
the once dream culmination | now wrapped invisible in the wisdom of a life lesson,
all that built 'i am in love with you', created 'i am in hate with you'.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The monk who bought a front loading washing machine
It was a quiet night. He sat on the clean kitchen floor. The soft music playing in the back-ground, faint enough, ensured that the night’s still quiet. The bright yellow can of draught beer when poured it into a glass mug, and the fresh and gold bubbles went down, made a sound that seemed like the only note missing in a jazz song.
Sipping into the beer, he watched the front loading washing machine begin its slow and rhythmic patterns. It went about cleaning step by step, rotating at different speeds, mixing at every step what it needed – hot water, detergent and softener.
There something purposeful about watching mechanics in action. The effort is taken away by a device; his effort. As he observed it, he imagined the effort he was not expending. It made him feel lighter.
Automation created the time to observe it….endlessly.
Sipping into the beer, he watched the front loading washing machine begin its slow and rhythmic patterns. It went about cleaning step by step, rotating at different speeds, mixing at every step what it needed – hot water, detergent and softener.
There something purposeful about watching mechanics in action. The effort is taken away by a device; his effort. As he observed it, he imagined the effort he was not expending. It made him feel lighter.
Automation created the time to observe it….endlessly.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A word, to describe a feeling.
He went to the tracks today.Athletics track.After 13 years.He could'nt describe the feeling. He was not even sure if he was thinking. He was not thinking. It hit him only once he reached back home. The road back home seemed new. Like there was something more to that last bend than there was to it till yesterday. He had slept for 4 hours last night, to wake up at 6am and head to the tracks, but he did not get any sleep for two hours, trying to get some once he was back. He lay steady, not sure of whether he was aleep or awake. Seemed like he was sleeping with his mind open. It occured to him that it was some sort of a high. A very different and fulfilling high.
He took rounds of the track, did sprints, stretched and jumped into the sand pit.....Long and Triple. He discovered that he had not lost the touch. He did'nt struggle as badly as he expected to. He cleaned the sand off his legs, stretched on the rubber tracks. Everything came back, like yesterday.
He tried hard to find a word to describe what he felt. His comfort, his mindless-ness, ease and purpose. He was not sure why, that only one came to his mind - Mother.
He took rounds of the track, did sprints, stretched and jumped into the sand pit.....Long and Triple. He discovered that he had not lost the touch. He did'nt struggle as badly as he expected to. He cleaned the sand off his legs, stretched on the rubber tracks. Everything came back, like yesterday.
He tried hard to find a word to describe what he felt. His comfort, his mindless-ness, ease and purpose. He was not sure why, that only one came to his mind - Mother.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Holi Madness – (the one that came right back at you)
It is the apartment building’s Holi Party. And what greater plans can you focus on when the acoustic center of the loud music falls right onto your apartment? I did my formal best to go down and wish a few, but eventually the lack of friends showed. The acoustic center was accompanied with vantage point, yes - my apartment balcony. For the lack of anything else that I could possibly attempt doing, I sat and watched the elaborate proceedings – music, rain dance, and color masti. And when I eventually had enough of observing it, I got my laptop in between the two. So here it goes.
What more can one observe at a rain dance but the rain dance? However if you get the dynamics of the groups right, you can do a lot more than just watch the moves.
The one group you can never miss is the budding youngsters, more teenagers, blessed with agility and grace, and a bundle of self-consciousness. They dish out one dance move after another, fresh out of the latest club dance library. They do one thing very well; make everyone else in the eclectic dance floor feel lesser human. For the sake of nomenclature let’s call them Munni Bieber (sort of defines their preference, attitudes and confusions).
The other group is very similar in age to Munni Biebers, but they also spend their spare time studying and chasing grades (a lot of spare time). Their dance moves are straight out of the Bollywood break they take in between finishing next year’s curriculum. And with every dance move of the same self-consciousness that the Munni Biebers display, these are probably, also in their heads, revising that difficult physics problem. So there is a relative lack in required grace, but they are all priced dance moves nonetheless. For this full-marks display I decided to name them Barkha Dutt Potters (sort of what they might love to be caught doing/being).
The next gang is called Dil Chahta Hai (DCH); because that was the last time they wore a pair of jeans without wondering if they would fit into one (when the movie released). Yes, they are all women. Now clad in their graceful Salwar Kameez, moving to the music, with the moves that defy times, even relativity, but yet break into a frenzy of madness in the middle of nowhere. Their little toddler kids are running around with colorful water guns, wondering once in a while – “what’s wrong with mama!!”.
The next dynamic segment is the husbands of DCH. They are practically doing nothing, as blank as one can be. At best wondering how that pair of jeans would have fitted their women had they been dancing like this a bit more than once a year. Their toddler kids run to them asking for the little pants to be pulled up, and their water guns to be refilled. For the sake of no better name, and for the fear of what may be my next phase in life, I would call them Men.
The last segment-able group is the husbands of women who don’t bother coming to dance floor. They are the fathers of Munni Biebers and Barkha Dutt Potters. They are the morning walkers, active Apartment society members, the ones yelling at the apartment watchman, the ones who once changed their styles with Amitabh’s latest and now their house budgets with Finance Minister’s latest. Their dance movements are much better justified if expressed without using the word dance, but only movements. Their movements too, like that of DCH, break into a mad frenzy, but unlike DCH, there is one reason, more than passion, behind this – liquor. And for that I would call them Daru Power (go get it!)
Latest updates : Munni Beibers have rushed out to look dressed up and gelled before being spotted next. Bakha Dutt Potters have to get back to the seventh revision of their next year curriculum. Dil Chahta Hai women are back home and slowly discovering the two of the ten muscles that they have sprained. Men are back home and still doing nothing. Daru Power had refused to leave the dance floor, made the DJ play two more songs, and are now enquiring for empty glasses and ice, holding something inside a black plastic bag.
What more can one observe at a rain dance but the rain dance? However if you get the dynamics of the groups right, you can do a lot more than just watch the moves.
The one group you can never miss is the budding youngsters, more teenagers, blessed with agility and grace, and a bundle of self-consciousness. They dish out one dance move after another, fresh out of the latest club dance library. They do one thing very well; make everyone else in the eclectic dance floor feel lesser human. For the sake of nomenclature let’s call them Munni Bieber (sort of defines their preference, attitudes and confusions).
The other group is very similar in age to Munni Biebers, but they also spend their spare time studying and chasing grades (a lot of spare time). Their dance moves are straight out of the Bollywood break they take in between finishing next year’s curriculum. And with every dance move of the same self-consciousness that the Munni Biebers display, these are probably, also in their heads, revising that difficult physics problem. So there is a relative lack in required grace, but they are all priced dance moves nonetheless. For this full-marks display I decided to name them Barkha Dutt Potters (sort of what they might love to be caught doing/being).
The next gang is called Dil Chahta Hai (DCH); because that was the last time they wore a pair of jeans without wondering if they would fit into one (when the movie released). Yes, they are all women. Now clad in their graceful Salwar Kameez, moving to the music, with the moves that defy times, even relativity, but yet break into a frenzy of madness in the middle of nowhere. Their little toddler kids are running around with colorful water guns, wondering once in a while – “what’s wrong with mama!!”.
The next dynamic segment is the husbands of DCH. They are practically doing nothing, as blank as one can be. At best wondering how that pair of jeans would have fitted their women had they been dancing like this a bit more than once a year. Their toddler kids run to them asking for the little pants to be pulled up, and their water guns to be refilled. For the sake of no better name, and for the fear of what may be my next phase in life, I would call them Men.
The last segment-able group is the husbands of women who don’t bother coming to dance floor. They are the fathers of Munni Biebers and Barkha Dutt Potters. They are the morning walkers, active Apartment society members, the ones yelling at the apartment watchman, the ones who once changed their styles with Amitabh’s latest and now their house budgets with Finance Minister’s latest. Their dance movements are much better justified if expressed without using the word dance, but only movements. Their movements too, like that of DCH, break into a mad frenzy, but unlike DCH, there is one reason, more than passion, behind this – liquor. And for that I would call them Daru Power (go get it!)
Latest updates : Munni Beibers have rushed out to look dressed up and gelled before being spotted next. Bakha Dutt Potters have to get back to the seventh revision of their next year curriculum. Dil Chahta Hai women are back home and slowly discovering the two of the ten muscles that they have sprained. Men are back home and still doing nothing. Daru Power had refused to leave the dance floor, made the DJ play two more songs, and are now enquiring for empty glasses and ice, holding something inside a black plastic bag.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Simplicitychi ani Happinesschi factory (Reviewing Harishchandrachi Factory)
To sit and watch a true story meant only one thing in cinema, to be ready to watch something unpleasant, loaded with struggle, with a world of opposition, and an eventual victory over evil. And when we leave, we seem inspired and armored with some invaluable awareness about a life and time that existed.
So when I sat to watch the much acclaimed Marathi motion picture portraying the life and times of the Father of Indian cinema – Dadasaheb Phalke, I had something like that in mind – a daring real story, of a life that represented a landmark effort, and something in and around that.
And then you watch Harishchandrachi Factory, only to realize how incredibly honestly reality could be portrayed, and how a true story can be told with innocence, humor and beauty.
While a small Marathi community struggled in amazement to the reality of moving pictures entering their lives, the story captures not their anger but the humor, favorable coincidences, support and happiness that accompanied the lives of those who were around it.
This reality is yet exactly how it should have been. The amazements, and amusements, of a conservative Indian community to the foreign creature called moving pictures. And like how everything else foreign that walked into India became Indian, this creature did too, become one amongst them. And so was born the humor, the kinds that I have not seen in the longest of time. Phalke teaches his wife to develop prints, his kids to act, picks his troop from the unusual of places and sees the world through an eye so optimistic that I have never wanted to be a part of an era, more, as much as I have wanted to be a part of his. His obstacles were handled with wit and simplicity, his inspirations and methods had all a touch of innocent dedication and learning.
All I could feel as I sat through the movie was a generous flow of simplicity and a continuous world of happiness. To me it therefore seemed Simplicityachi and Happinesschi factory.
So when I sat to watch the much acclaimed Marathi motion picture portraying the life and times of the Father of Indian cinema – Dadasaheb Phalke, I had something like that in mind – a daring real story, of a life that represented a landmark effort, and something in and around that.
And then you watch Harishchandrachi Factory, only to realize how incredibly honestly reality could be portrayed, and how a true story can be told with innocence, humor and beauty.
While a small Marathi community struggled in amazement to the reality of moving pictures entering their lives, the story captures not their anger but the humor, favorable coincidences, support and happiness that accompanied the lives of those who were around it.
This reality is yet exactly how it should have been. The amazements, and amusements, of a conservative Indian community to the foreign creature called moving pictures. And like how everything else foreign that walked into India became Indian, this creature did too, become one amongst them. And so was born the humor, the kinds that I have not seen in the longest of time. Phalke teaches his wife to develop prints, his kids to act, picks his troop from the unusual of places and sees the world through an eye so optimistic that I have never wanted to be a part of an era, more, as much as I have wanted to be a part of his. His obstacles were handled with wit and simplicity, his inspirations and methods had all a touch of innocent dedication and learning.
All I could feel as I sat through the movie was a generous flow of simplicity and a continuous world of happiness. To me it therefore seemed Simplicityachi and Happinesschi factory.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
reality, beyond words..
There are many a loss that humans can bereave over, arising out of complexities of emotions or irreversability of a past. But there still isnt one that could bring itself to compare with loss of a human life. It wouldnt take even the wisest to close their eyes to sense the void that comes alongside death, if it hasnt, to one of their own, to one who they loved .
Every other loss comes with a subject, or a matter, that can be learnt from, ignored, accepted, rationalised, corrected, cursed, hated or merely well-wished to. For the subject still breathes and the matter still resides in that moment. But death is a reality even dreams dont dare to invade, atleast not the ones we control.
Sometimes i have seen it in the eyes of the old, not out of its comprehension, but out of its inevitability. And it felt cold.
The wisest who chose to call it the biggest reality, may still feel insufficient in expressing it.
So a tear that sheds itself, may be the best that a man can do, to embody the grief, where words fail him...a
Every other loss comes with a subject, or a matter, that can be learnt from, ignored, accepted, rationalised, corrected, cursed, hated or merely well-wished to. For the subject still breathes and the matter still resides in that moment. But death is a reality even dreams dont dare to invade, atleast not the ones we control.
Sometimes i have seen it in the eyes of the old, not out of its comprehension, but out of its inevitability. And it felt cold.
The wisest who chose to call it the biggest reality, may still feel insufficient in expressing it.
So a tear that sheds itself, may be the best that a man can do, to embody the grief, where words fail him...a
Monday, February 7, 2011
Kannur Travelogue (Kerala)
Calicut – Kannur (The Bus Journey)
12.30 AM (Mumbai to Calicut) - He got the plane’s last seat, stiff, without recliner, made comfortable by the music on his iPod. The prepaid at Calicut airport arranged an Ambassador to Calicut bus-stand, from where he would take a bus journey, to Kannur.
He got the last seat in the bus too. The trip smelt of destiny already. Kerala began its routine, with the bus journey, with interesting shop names – Brothers (five shops, huddled together, each a Brothers’, from Hardware to Auto-parts and more, truly brotherly), Hayath, Sastha (later corrected, not as “cheap” as translated in Hindi, but a local God). He noticed the word Fancy on shops, not as their name, but used for the kind of goods sold, like a vanity or a gift store - Biji Fancy, or Geetha Fancy. His co-passengers in bus, a family of three, started popping toffees, bringing back the age old association of Kerala buses and nausea. Driven by ex-military men (allegedly drunk at times), these were most feared four wheeled beast on NH-17. He was relieved at the thought that he was empty stomach. He noticed a series of health clubs (Gyms) along small towns to villages, all looked like the other. All inside small halls, set on first floors of one storied buildings, with identically designed banners, announcing what they did, only named different. One such was named shamelessly Red Bull. So he noted down the name of the sleepy village that had it – Payyoli. Around 10 minutes later he realized that it was not a mere sleepy village. It was a village that had witnessed a high, two decades ago. It was where the sprint queen P.T.Usha began her dream journey, to become an icon of Indian sports history. And to be called Payyoli Express.
North Kerala was new to him. All his trips to Kerala since childhood had been to the south of the State. It may not have seemed too different to many, but he seemed to see the cultural divide, and feel a sense of newness. Bus journey continued. The town of Mahe passed him next, giving a sense of being a holiday destination, and of a preferred beach town. This coupled with another realization, that this was not Kerala, literally. This was a part of Pondicherry, the tiny Union Territory on the east coast of southern India, off the Bay of Bengal. And it had a broken extension here, 650 kilometers away, in north Kerala, off the Arabian Sea. This was something he knew, from map games played on Oxford’s India Atlas as a child, of spotting a given town on a map. Mahe, for its neutrality of sound, was a hot pick. What was new to him was the unpreparedness of passing by it.
He realized every journey is made better by the chances one takes (his was to choose a bus over train), and the excitement that those chances add to every interesting discovery.
Floor-tiles shops, light shops and liquor stores – this odd combination of most seen shops intrigued him as he passed on. He later discovered that the tax exemption for a Union Territory made Mahe a desired destination for purchases like these. He then passed Thalasserry, a small and pleasant beach town, and an eatery named Regency Fried Chicken (RFC). It seemed like the most unlikely of places one would run into in to, next to the bus stand. Not to forget that it looked better than a KFC itself. He came across advertising boards with names of companies that end with International Group that he had never heard of, or other's whose sign-off lines said-'conquering the world', which did not ring a bell that it should have ideally. But Thalassery was beautiful. Somewhere he saw a weathered billboard declaring it as 'god's own country', but if one would see what he saw, they would know that it never need a saying.
Late afternoon, passing by, he noticed few odd stores with long queues that looked similar to the ones at banks, reservation counter. Just that these if you notice carefully, in fine print, barely legible to on-board bus passenger like him, announced a liquor store. Liquor has the maximum per capita consumption in Kerala. The State government has taxed them heavy (151%) and even declared 1st of every month a holiday, just so that the men would bring their salaries home.
Bus stand in Kannur seemed fancier than some of the airports he had seen. Getting down, he attended to his long held hunger and asked for grape juice at a store. He had imagined it light green, and it turned turned dark purple, because this was Kerala. He had always wondered why this state had a bigger fascination for the darker version than light in grapes. He still does not know why.
Kerala had always fascinated him. He was one amongst them by origin, but an outsider by upbringing. He considered it an advantage, to be able to be one amongst them and yet observe like an outsider. It was a gift to his imagination, and he loved every moment of being in it.
He stood, waiting, in the middle of a sea of people, each of whom knew that he was not one of them, while he knew that he was. His friend came down, few minutes later, and picked him up…
12.30 AM (Mumbai to Calicut) - He got the plane’s last seat, stiff, without recliner, made comfortable by the music on his iPod. The prepaid at Calicut airport arranged an Ambassador to Calicut bus-stand, from where he would take a bus journey, to Kannur.
He got the last seat in the bus too. The trip smelt of destiny already. Kerala began its routine, with the bus journey, with interesting shop names – Brothers (five shops, huddled together, each a Brothers’, from Hardware to Auto-parts and more, truly brotherly), Hayath, Sastha (later corrected, not as “cheap” as translated in Hindi, but a local God). He noticed the word Fancy on shops, not as their name, but used for the kind of goods sold, like a vanity or a gift store - Biji Fancy, or Geetha Fancy. His co-passengers in bus, a family of three, started popping toffees, bringing back the age old association of Kerala buses and nausea. Driven by ex-military men (allegedly drunk at times), these were most feared four wheeled beast on NH-17. He was relieved at the thought that he was empty stomach. He noticed a series of health clubs (Gyms) along small towns to villages, all looked like the other. All inside small halls, set on first floors of one storied buildings, with identically designed banners, announcing what they did, only named different. One such was named shamelessly Red Bull. So he noted down the name of the sleepy village that had it – Payyoli. Around 10 minutes later he realized that it was not a mere sleepy village. It was a village that had witnessed a high, two decades ago. It was where the sprint queen P.T.Usha began her dream journey, to become an icon of Indian sports history. And to be called Payyoli Express.
North Kerala was new to him. All his trips to Kerala since childhood had been to the south of the State. It may not have seemed too different to many, but he seemed to see the cultural divide, and feel a sense of newness. Bus journey continued. The town of Mahe passed him next, giving a sense of being a holiday destination, and of a preferred beach town. This coupled with another realization, that this was not Kerala, literally. This was a part of Pondicherry, the tiny Union Territory on the east coast of southern India, off the Bay of Bengal. And it had a broken extension here, 650 kilometers away, in north Kerala, off the Arabian Sea. This was something he knew, from map games played on Oxford’s India Atlas as a child, of spotting a given town on a map. Mahe, for its neutrality of sound, was a hot pick. What was new to him was the unpreparedness of passing by it.
He realized every journey is made better by the chances one takes (his was to choose a bus over train), and the excitement that those chances add to every interesting discovery.
Floor-tiles shops, light shops and liquor stores – this odd combination of most seen shops intrigued him as he passed on. He later discovered that the tax exemption for a Union Territory made Mahe a desired destination for purchases like these. He then passed Thalasserry, a small and pleasant beach town, and an eatery named Regency Fried Chicken (RFC). It seemed like the most unlikely of places one would run into in to, next to the bus stand. Not to forget that it looked better than a KFC itself. He came across advertising boards with names of companies that end with International Group that he had never heard of, or other's whose sign-off lines said-'conquering the world', which did not ring a bell that it should have ideally. But Thalassery was beautiful. Somewhere he saw a weathered billboard declaring it as 'god's own country', but if one would see what he saw, they would know that it never need a saying.
Late afternoon, passing by, he noticed few odd stores with long queues that looked similar to the ones at banks, reservation counter. Just that these if you notice carefully, in fine print, barely legible to on-board bus passenger like him, announced a liquor store. Liquor has the maximum per capita consumption in Kerala. The State government has taxed them heavy (151%) and even declared 1st of every month a holiday, just so that the men would bring their salaries home.
Bus stand in Kannur seemed fancier than some of the airports he had seen. Getting down, he attended to his long held hunger and asked for grape juice at a store. He had imagined it light green, and it turned turned dark purple, because this was Kerala. He had always wondered why this state had a bigger fascination for the darker version than light in grapes. He still does not know why.
Kerala had always fascinated him. He was one amongst them by origin, but an outsider by upbringing. He considered it an advantage, to be able to be one amongst them and yet observe like an outsider. It was a gift to his imagination, and he loved every moment of being in it.
He stood, waiting, in the middle of a sea of people, each of whom knew that he was not one of them, while he knew that he was. His friend came down, few minutes later, and picked him up…
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