Crumbs of Life

DO YOU KNOW WHAT ZENZIZENZIZENZIC MEANS?

2011-09-08T00:53:00.001+05:30

With a piece of white chalk the boy wrote the letters N.O.Z.Z.L.E across the blackboard and then turned around to face the class. The teacher walked beside him and updated the scores. "It is a tie", she announced. By then, the group of students to his left had already started drumming a victory tattoo on the desks.

* * * *

These days if you ask me what my favourite word is, I would most likely say 'Vespertine'. Sometime ago it was 'Serene' and before that it was 'Demarche'. But these are just passing fads - pop protests compared to epic class struggles (excuse the rather topical analogy). The fact is that I have a perennial affinity towards words starting with the last letter of the alphabet. From little, informal ones like 'Zizz' to the more elegant 'Zephyr'. Sometimes this fixation extends to names of people and places leading me to wonder whether I tolerate Zack Snyder and Zach Galifianakis purely because of their names.
This mild obsession was definitely not something I was born with. My interest was piqued after a rather interesting half an hour on an otherwise dreary day at school a long time ago. We were enjoying a rare free period while the teacher was trying to keep the class engaged. She thought of introducing the class to a simplified version of SCRABBLE®. Discerning readers may notice the registered trademark symbol, to indicate that SCRABBLE® is a Hasbro trademark. With all the brouhaha about IP rights these days, you can never be too sure. Coming back to the story, in the modified form of the game each letter was assigned a fixed value No double or triple-letter scores, no double or triple-word scores. In short, no frills. The class was divided into two teams - one on either side of the aisle. The blackboard doubled up as the playing surface as well as a scoreboard. Right from the beginning of the game we were trailing behind the other team, which I suspect had a few experienced players in it. With each move steadily increasing the gap between the two teams, there came to a stage where we were 20-odd points adrift. To make matters worse, the class was almost about to get over by then and we had time for one final move before the bell rang. Our team looked nervously at the blackboard. Tension writ large on our faces, each one of us was trying to somehow concoct a word which could make us win. It is amazing how even in small, inconsequential contests like this where victory or defeat hardly matters, no one wants to lose. Among the maze of letters on the blackboard, there was a 'N' we could start with and an 'E' to finish with four words in between. We were looking at each other, racking our brains trying to find the word we needed. With the other team staring at us and the bell about to ring, our minds were threatening to go completely blank. We had almost given up trying when like a rabbit conjured out of a magician's hat, the word popped out of nowhere into my head. I scribbled it on my notebook and a quick calculation later, I strode towards the blackboard.
Of course we did not win, but a last-minute tie is almost as honourable and called for hoots of joy and energetic desk thumping. Later that night, I scoured through my copy of the Longman for a word which might have won us the game. I could not find any (which made me feel a little relieved) but it did not take long for a strange fondness to develop.

DISSOLUTION

2011-02-03T23:20:00.001+05:30

Back, with a vengeance, to elixir.
Fistcuffs, after a long time.
Anand Patwardhan replies to my mail.
Helping a frail, old man carry his bag during the walk home.

And still a million deaths each moment. And still surprisingly alive.
Sloshed, sirs and ladies, I am sloshed.

AT THE AIRPORT

2011-02-02T15:21:00.000+05:30

At the domestic terminal of the airport, there are two entrances - one marked 'Passengers' and the other, 'Visitors, Passengers and Staff'. I ponder for sometime over which one should I use, since technically I do not fall under any of these categories. I decide on the second entrance assuming that visitors is a general term which should include intruders, voyeurs and trespassers also.

****

The elderly man stands beside the shiny aluminum barricades waiting for his family. He looks at me.
"Kisi ka intezaar kar rahe ho,beta?"
"Umm...Shayad."
They arrive presently - daughter, son-in-law and grandson. She hugs him over the barricade, sobbing softly. "Arre! Arre! Ro kyon rahi hain?" he asks trying to hold back his own tears. The kid, his grandson, looks on bewildered, perhaps a little embarrassed too.

****

The arrivals board has stopped working once again. It doesn't seem to bother most of the people. They do not need the whirring of plastic cards on a mechanical board to announce the arrival of someone they know. Afterall, what are those dainty cellphones for?

****

Why am I here? I do not have an answer. It is not necessary for every question to have an answer.
(Sample : What makes YOU wait for tomorrow? The optimistic belief that it will be better than your today?)
Apparitions. Visions. Living ghosts. Dull, throbbing pain. Reality.
I feel like a heel. Knots in the stomach.
Stuffy. Must get out.
Luckily, the bus outside is just about to start.

FILMS TO KEEP ME ENGAGED

2011-01-30T18:56:00.001+05:30

Watched these during the past week as a diversion from.... Anyways, here are my short takes.

127 Hours - Energetic to the point where it ceases to be a survival saga and becomes a Gatorade-fueled sprint.
Monty Python And The Holy Grail - Uproariously funny. Even the opening credits make you laugh.
The Pink Panther - Two P's. Peter Sellers and promiscuity. The laughs come from the former.
Ardh Satya - Circumstances are bigger than the man. The poem below which Om Puri recites in the film, encompasses its central idea.

Chakravyuh mein ghusne se pehle,
kaun tha mein aur kaisa tha,
yeh mujhe yaad hi na rahega.
Chakravyuh mein ghusne ke baad,
mere aur chakravyuh ke beech,
sirf ek jaanleva nikat’ta thi,
iska mujhe pata hi na chalega.
Chakravyuh se nikalne ke baad,
main mukt ho jaoon bhale hi,
phir bhi chakravyuh ki rachna mein
farq hi na padega.
Marun ya maarun,
maara jaoon ya jaan se maardun.
iska faisla kabhi na ho paayega.
Soya hua aadmi jab
neend se uthkar chalna shuru karta hai,
tab sapnon ka sansar use,
dobara dikh hi na paayega.
Us roshni mein jo nirnay ki roshni hai
sab kuchh s’maan hoga kya?
Ek palde mein napunsakta,
ek palde mein paurush,
aur theek taraazu ke kaante par
ardh satya.

True Grit - Coen brothers and Jeff Bridges. One combination which can never fail. Listen to Iris DeMent's haunting rendition of "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" here.
The Ice Storm - A perfect film about imperfect people. Perhaps the best Ang Lee film that I have seen. Splendid performances. I have to read the book.
The Wind That Shakes The Barley - An achingly somber look at the Irish War of Independence and its effects of the lives of those involved.
Inception - Lost in the intricacies of the plot...a bit of a let-down.
The Host - My (new) favourite monster movie. The monster is merely incidental.
Buried - 94 minutes. One character, one setting, one heck of a Hitchcockian thriller.
Black Swan - A dark story about the artist's quest for perfection. A soaring background score. Natalie Portman was the perfect casting choice.
Bhopal Express - Nothing that we did not know, but a compelling watch nonetheless. How did Nethra Raghuraman land up in the film. Hijacking Raghu Rai's "Burial of an unknown child" is a major peeve point though.

WHEN LINKLATER LED TO 3 IDIOTS

2011-01-09T14:39:00.002+05:30

The film that first introduced me to Richard Linklater was the the delightfully intimate, conversation-oriented 'Before Sunrise'. I did not like it immediately the first time I saw it (which was a long time ago). After all, how much fun is there to be had in watching a guy and a girl walking around aimlessly on a summer night in Vienna taking about love, life and everything in between. My views, of course, have changed considerably with subsequent viewings over the years. Two other films that I watched very recently while on a Linklater phase are 'A Scanner Darkly' and the indie-film 'Slacker'. The former, a dark, chilling work based on the book of the same name by Philip K. Dick has an unique visual style achieved through rotoscoping which makes for an impressive viewing. 'Slacker', on the other hand, is a look at a day in the life of a group of slackers and oddballs in Austin, Texas ranging from a UFO believer to a conspiracy theorist. The film does away with the conventional concepts of story or structure, relying instead on seemingly random conversations and scenes as it offers glimpses into the way of life in Austin with the air of some silent observer standing on a busy street corner.
The clip below, however, is not from any of the films mentioned above. It is from a run-of-the-mill, campus comedy 'Slackers' which I downloaded mistaking it to be Linklater's 'Slacker'. Yup, an overlooked 's' and four wasted hours. Well, not exactly because it contained this scene:

which is highly reminiscent of this one from '3 Idiots':

Agreed that both are based on a quite popular joke, but how is it that the manner in which the characters toss their answer-sheets and professor's pleading cry for for their names/roll numbers towards the end are almost identical? Go figure. And when you are doing that, do play a spot-the-differences game with a video of Audrey Tautou leading a blind man through Paris in 'Amelie' and a very similar one from 'Ghajini'.

PS: Happy New Year to everyone landing here.

THE SENTINEL OF THE PAST

2010-11-28T21:37:00.004+05:30

She knew she was dying. She had felt it in her tired, creaking bones when the sad morning seeping in through the shuttered windows had first woken her up to the prospect of yet another dreary day. She had not bothered getting out of bed, quite convinced by the forebodings of her morbid instincts. Outside, the stirrings of the morning and the bustle of noon were long gone, replaced by the quietude of a sleepy afternoon. And apart from her laboured wheezes, the only sounds that broke the silence in the room were the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, the far-away voices of children at play and the occasional, rickety cycle-rickshaw lumbering by. These were for her the only signs of a world which was still in motion, still alive. From her ancient bed in the musty room, she looked around, acutely aware of the decay that had set in. The mirror across the room, once proud and shiny, was now stained with dark, ugly splotches where the silver-coating had fallen off, termites, gnawing away at the wooden ceiling for years, had left it hollow with trails of mud running across it and unsightly cobwebs clung tenaciously to the corners of the flaking walls, swaying ever so slightly once in a while. An unbearable, suffocating stillness filled the house like a heavy mist. She found it strange to think that there was a time when these very walls echoed with familiar, reassuring, everyday sounds. She remembered the playful screams of carefree children, the robust laughter of grown-ups in control of their lives, the clatter of wooden doors and windows being opened and the cacophony in the kitchen extending late into the night. Those memories of the past were a sad contrast to the empty silences of the present. Between then and now, time had marched on unchallenged, merciless, leaving in its wake only forgotten relics such as the crumbling house and its solitary occupant. It had been more than a decade since she had been living alone. One by one, everyone from the younger generations had left. This city, entangled in its own heritage unsure whether to lurch ahead or cling on to the remnants of an increasingly distant past, did not appeal much to their ambitions. She, of course, did not hold any grudges against them. They had made their own choices, she had made hers. She had chosen to stay behind to honour the debts of memories and sentiments attached to the house.
She wistfully thought of the days when troops of impatient children would gather around her confessing to her their innocent secrets. She was their friend, their confidante. Their parents did not mind her too for she went about in her quiet, unobtrusive way. For them she was a ubiquitous feature of the house. Almost like an extension of the house itself, occupying their consciousness in much the same way as the half-century old, antique radio under the staircase. They went to her for the occasional advice on matters relating to customs and traditions or when they needed an opinion on a particularly delicate decision. She was a significant cog in the intricate mechanism of a large, functioning household and she kept it running as best as she could even when the signs of eroding familial bonds became impossible to ignore. When the first few started leaving, she was saddened. But she also believed them when they said that they would return back someday. She waited until their promises turned to doubts, the doubts into regrets. Some of them did insist on taking her along with them but she proudly refused, preferring rather to remain in the house where she was born and where she had spent her entire life. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a line of ants emerging from a gap between the wall and the window sill. They looked busy and purposeful as they scurried around on their tiny legs. She gazed at them for some time and a sigh escaped her shrunken lips. When she had refused to leave the house, she was quite prepared for the loneliness, the absence of someone to talk to. She did not mind the solitariness, she assumed that she would get used to it which, in fact, she did. But back then, she did not realise that there was something more intolerable than loneliness – the meaninglessness of life, the struggle to find a reason to live. For some years now, it was her vestigial existence that frightened and embarrassed her in equal measures. It was an existence made more difficult by the blissful remembrances and recollections of the past rather than being assuaged by them.

PS: This post is a result of a random conversation during which Modern Exile pointed out the reassuring nature familiar sounds.
PPS: The last two paragraphs went missing during a tweak...sheesh!

AD PARTLY NAUSEAM

2010-04-28T01:16:00.001+05:30

The recent Havells' commercial by Lowe Lintas - the one involving the hangman - looks mighty impressive, initially.
Well directed and expertly shot, the commercial poignantly conveys the hangman's remorse through the use of muted colours and bleak landscapes as he the trudges his way home after yet another hanging. The actor who plays the hangman's character also impresses in the 30-odd seconds that he is on screen. The self-conscious, guilty expression after he pulls the lever, the almost surreptitious acceptance of wages for the odious work, those mournful eyes and the final, faraway look of contemplation puts many over-paid, under-performing stars to shame. The commercial is a study of pathos until the point where the voice over, presumably of the hangman himself, reduces it to sheer banality by saying, "Zindigi mein hum sab ko paap karna padta hain. Kuch to punya kama sakte hain, bijli bacha ke". Roughly translated it means, 'We all commit sins in our lifetimes. At least, some merit(of performing a good deed) can acquired by saving electricity'. Through this line, the commercial implies that one can partly absolve their sins through the simple act of conserving electricity. And by involving the concepts of sin and virtue, it also seems imply that the hangman is guilty of conscious wrongdoing, in spite of the fact that what he is doing is a job which someone has to do. Both of these implications, seems to be a despicable trivilisation of concepts of which, I feel, no one in the creative team of Lowe Lintas fully understands. Not surprisingly there have been some strong reactions from viewers regarding this commercial. R. Balki, Chairman and Chief Creative Officer, Lowe Lintas, meanwhile says, "...personally I’m very comfortable with uncomfortable advertising...I think the hangman film is possibly the best ad we’ve done for Havells".
Interestingly Adoor Gopalakrishnan's award-winning 2002 film, Nizhalkkuthu(Shadow Kill) also deals with a similar subject, ruefully I haven't had the opportunity to watch it yet.

And since we are speaking of commercials, I cannot help mentioning Ogilvy's latest Limca 'Doobo Taazgi Mein' commercial directed by Vinil Mathew. R. Anand once again does a fine job of composing the music while the inimitable Swanandh Kirkire provides the lyrics. And although this one does not better the first commercial in the series, which I had written about earlier, it is great to watch and listen to nevertheless.

FRAGILE IMPRESSIONS

2010-04-05T17:30:00.005+05:30

The man on the table to my right eventually manages to catch the waiter’s attention. He asks for his whiskey and coke to be repeated. As he waits for his drink to arrive, his fingertips tap on the glass table in tune with the song playing on the overhead speakers. He looks around the bar, smiling expectantly at everyone with the eagerness of a child wanting to share some happy secret. I have spent enough time in similar company not to realize that he is tipsy and right now there is nothing more that he would like to do than to talk. So, when his gaze meets mine, I gesture towards the empty seat across my table. He obliges without any hesitation.

***

I was almost in love for an hour today with a woman who writes Shelly.
(Sorry, I seem to have confused you. Let me start from the beginning.)
It was the day before yesterday. I was returning from the office in one of those yellow taxis after another long and unbearable day at work. I lit a cigarette, closed my eyes, rolled my head from side to side and tried hard not to think of anything, just like they had demonstrated during the ‘Health at Work’ week. I don’t know whether you have ever tried that last part, but it is always a futile exercise. Nonetheless, I stuck to the closed eyes and rolling the head routine. When I opened my eyes, I saw on the far side of the seat a book, which by the look of it, appeared to have been left behind by some previous passenger. The drive from the office to my home is long and slow, primarily because of the traffic which peaks at that time of the evening and since I had nothing else to do to while away the time, I stretched sideways and picked up the book. It was not really a book but one of those expensive, leather-bound notebooks that you gift to people. On the top right-hand corner of the first page was a phone number. There was nothing else written anywhere on the notebook which could help in identifying the owner. The rest of the pages, except the last few blank ones, were full of what looked like poems. All of them were carefully written in the same uniform slant which indicated that an appreciable amount of time and effort had gone into it. There was something about the notebook which told me that the owner must be missing it pretty badly. Leaving it there in the back-seat of the car would be a shame. For all I knew, the taxi-driver’s kids would be making aeroplanes out of its pages the next day. I decided to take the notebook home with the intention of finding the owner.
(Ah! Here is my drink. Could you bring the ice-box too?)
After dinner that night, I called up the number on the notebook hoping that it would be the owner’s. The voice at the other end was that of a woman.
“Hi…. your number was written on the first page of a leather-bound notebook I found in a cab this evening. Is the notebook yours?”
The genuine yelp of joy was enough to convince me that not only was the notebook hers but bringing it back with me was perhaps the wisest decision I had taken all year. I told her that since I would be pretty busy the next day, so it would be better if she could come down to the coffee-shop outside my office during lunch-time and collect it from me. After I hung up the phone, I leafed through the notebook, stopping occasionally to read a few pages. I know that it stinks of bad manners, but I don’t think you would have done anything much different either. Now, I am not much of a reader having hardly touched any kind of literature since I completed my studies. Going through the notebook, however, I could see that this woman clearly had some real talent. Pages after pages of poems, all of them untitled, written in a style which reminded me of the poems which we had as part of our syllabus at school. She wrote of gods and of men and of destiny and death. I had difficulties in understanding most of it but I could sense that her poems were works of no little quality.
(Why don’t you ask for a refill? Your glass is empty.
Please, I insist.
Very well, a small one then.
Thank you.
Where was I? Oh yes, I remember now.)
So I was sitting there at the café this afternoon, with the conspicuous, leather-bound, notebook on the table in front of me, waiting for the owner to pick it up. I was a bit early in reaching there and was using the time in clearing out the junk from my phone, when the faint whiff of some delicate perfume made me look up.
“Thanks so much for taking all the trouble,” she gushed.
She was older than me by a few years, not particularly eye-catching but attractive all the same. Please don’t ask me what she was wearing. You see, there are two types of people – some who notice that you have been wearing the same shirt every Friday for the past two months and some, like me, who cannot tell you whether the door attendant outside is wearing a white uniform or a blue one. Anyway, she sat down on one of the empty chairs around the table; I was slightly taken aback when she chose the one beside me.
“How can I thank you?” she asked, reaching out for the book.
“A coffee would do fine,” I said, hoping that I sounded neither too curt nor overly enthusiastic. She agreed and ordered a latte for herself while I choose a black coffee with cookies. I have always liked black coffee, all those tall glasses filled to the brim with a heady concoction of coffee and cream don’t agree with me. On hearing my admittedly unusual order for a black coffee and cookies, she cast a questioning glance at me and I had to tell her about the time I had a mocha and then spent the next two hours fighting a sickening urge to throw up every last drop of it. She laughed out loud, amused by the explanation, and proceeded to educate me on the origins of the latte. I had been cooped up in office since nine o’clock and after four hours of highly monotonous work, the coffee-house felt more than a nice place to be in. The air-conditioning was comfortable, the faint aroma of brewing coffee vied for attention with the fragrance of her perfume, low strains of Don Henley singing ‘Hotel California’ floated around and there, right in the middle of all that, was she, explaining to me that the latte originated in California and not in Italy. It was one of those rare sensations in life, few and far between, when everything that you see, hear, think and feel somehow combines in a divine alchemy to unveil a moment of perfection. It is a strange, transient moment, one unburdened with the past or the future, yet destined to be overwhelmed by the realities of the present. And once it passes, all you are left behind with is a pointless regret of not having held on to that magical moment for a wee bit longer. We sat there chatting for a while after this, until our coffee ran out. She talked about aging superstars and classical musicians - things which would have put me to sleep any other time. But back there in the café, it hardly mattered what she talked about. I mean…. I have never felt so good just listening to someone. Everything she said seemed interesting, even enjoyable.
With the bill being paid, I knew it was time for the customary thank-yous and you-are-welcomes. I was, however, still intrigued about her poems and so as she rose to leave, I asked her about them, “Your poems are quite good. Have you ever…”
Before I could even complete my question, she burst out laughing, “You are not really serious. Are you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I shrugged my shoulders with the resignation of someone who knows that he has missed an obvious joke.
She hesitated for a moment - not really sure whether I was fooling around with her- before explaining, “Those poems you speak of…… they are Shelly’s.”
“Shelly?” I slowly repeated, trying to remember where I had heard that name before.
“Percy Bysshe Shelley, the greatest of the English romantic poets!” she exclaimed, this time with visible incredulity.
“Oh, that Shelly,” I said as I vaguely recalled attending some English lectures in college about a poem involving some long forgotten king.
She paused for a moment, looking at me as if I were some fantastic oddity.
“You are strange. But thanks for taking care of my notebook,” she finally said with a smile as she started to walk away.
“You are welcome,” I replied, “At least that gave me the chance to read a bit of Shelly”.
She briskly walked out of the café and got into a waiting car parked by the side of the street. Someone else was driving the car and as it started to move away, I half-expected her to lower the window to wave a quick goodbye. She didn’t, but it hardly mattered though. I had just spent the most beautiful afternoon in a long, long time.

***

He finishes his drink with one last swig before putting down the empty glass with a deliberateness which suggests that he is done for the evening. With a heavy sigh, he then leans back on his seat and looks at me. I think he wants me to say something.
“You can call her if you want to, you still have her number,” I venture, not sure whether that is what he wants to hear.
He shakes his head and says, more to himself than to me, “I remember that as a child I was always fascinated by soap bubbles. I would ask my friends to blow them for me and I would watch them enthralled, as they floated across leisurely in the sun…..myriad colours reflecting from their surface, mixing and melting into each other. Sometimes I tried catching the bubbles but most of them would rise up beyond my reach or would move away a little faster when I missed while grabbing at them. And when I did manage to touch a bubble, it would always burst into a million droplets, its vibrant colours lost forever in the imperceptible wetness in my hand.”
“I deleted her number after she left.”

THE CHOICES WE MAKE

2010-03-05T23:21:00.002+05:30

Have you seen them, the soul-killers. The ones who sit beside you sweaty and forlorn, when you are on your way to your joys . If you had cared to ask them, they would have have told you tales of a thousand sad smiles. But of course you never asked and they never spoke. The two inches between you and them, shall forever be your choice.

ENCOUNTERS

2010-02-07T20:18:00.006+05:30

Sometime ago I was in the town of B. It was still early evening, but being winter, it was dark already and there was quite a chill in the air. The ancient street-lights overhead tried their best to spread some cheer, but with their feeble glow, they failed miserably. With me was an acquaintance - a grizzled old veteran of a utility company who had seen many summers more than me. We stood on the pavement near a quaint little tea-shop discussing a few things. He was more of the listener, for I was the one doing most of the explaining. Beside us stood a motley group of his bosses and cronies. The cars had been called for and we were all waiting for them to arrive.
As I stood there clarifying a few of his questions, I saw a man emerging from the shadows beyond and moving slowly towards us. As he came closer, I realised that he was a tramp who had seen in us the opportunity to extract a few pennies of pity. The acquaintance I speak of, was surprisingly attentive to my words as he failed to notice the approaching tramp who, by then, was standing silently behind him. The tramp was as shabby and dirty as they come and the pale, yellow light falling on his greasy face gave him a sickly appearance. He was in his fifties with a mop of dusty, unruly hair on his head and a month-old beard. He wore a pair of dark glasses one of whose lenses had fallen off. And through it I could see the rheum of years which had accumulated in his one visible eye. The bridge of his spectacles was broken and was held delicately in place with a piece of string. The grime and dust of the streets stuck to his clothes and made him smell like a wet dog.
"Ek cup cha kine debe, baba?" he asked with an expression which sought to elicit pity.
I groped around in my pockets hastily and looked into the wallet for any loose change. I really wanted this filthy man to go away. His stink was unbearable, his presence revolting. But as it always happens, you are least likely to find something when you need it the most.
"Instance ...maane example, na?"
"Poison ...maane venom?"
To say that I was surprised would be an understatement. Every inch of this man's appearance spoke of a life spent on the streets begging and starving for food, of nights and days spent near garbage vats in the company of stray dogs. And here he was, confirming with me his knowledge of English synonyms. It was not only the meanings, which he obviously knew quite well, it was his pronunciation of the words which would put many a college graduate to shame. I took out a ten-rupee note and gave it to him, much to my acquaintance's consternation.
He muttered an almost inaudible 'Thank You' and with much enthusiasm proceeded towards the larger group beside us. A couple of persons in the group, appalled at his filthiness, much like me a little while ago, made their displeasure known. Someone sternly shooed him away. The old tramp, disheartened and disappointed, stepped back and slowly shuffled away into the darkness of an unlit alley nearby.
Presently the cars arrived and as we all packed into them, I sat wondering about the old tramp. I tried to imagine his story. I tried to conjure up the sad secrets which he tried to hide behind those dark glasses. Maybe he had seen happier times before they were cruelly snatched away from him, or maybe he chose to leave them behind on his own. Did he think wistfully of those times, those happier times? Or did he revel in this anonymity, this freedom of his? And somewhere among all these reflections, I strangely became aware of my own prejudices. Any other tramp or beggar and I would have tossed him a coin or two and basked in the false warmth of my own magnanimity. Then why did I give that poor fellow a ten-rupee note? Why was I even thinking about him, long after he was gone. My initial repulsion towards him had converted into an odd fascination. What was it that had changed in the intervening time? Did his apparent education make him more acceptable to me? Did it make him more equal than the thousands of homeless in this great country of ours? Was I guilty of discrimination? But then, isn't discrimination, in its various forms and degrees, something ecumenical ...something which we have learnt to live with? I mulled over these questions till the dual effects of a long day and a smooth ride lulled me to sleep.

MINOR UPDATES

2010-01-15T00:41:00.006+05:30

Will be catching a very early morning flight on Saturday for the annual trip home. So apart from worrying myself to death whether I will be able to wake up at 5 in the morning, I am also looking forward to some much needed ghar-ka-khana, I almost don't remember what it tastes like. Last year's trip was mighty interesting, hoping this year is as good, if not better. I also got the news that we got a new pet at home (not very surprising that neighbours sometimes whisper that things are beginning resemble a menagerie), so expecting some introductions there.
And finally received those gifts from Star Movies for being one of the winners of the Star Movies Indiana Jones Contest which was organised by IndiBlogger. Renie, from IndiBlogger, ensured that the parcel was eventually delivered after some initial mix-ups. Thanks Renie! By the way, this is my post which the judges, much to my surprise, thought was prize-winning material. You, of course, are welcome to join me in contradicting them.
Speaking of prizes, I recently won a DVD of Hitchcock's The LadyVanishes as part of a word-contest arranged at my office. This particular Hitchcock flick is notable for being the first one to feature the double-act of Charters and Caldicott and also for being the first film appearance of the incomparable Michael Redgrave. Not a bad lucky streak, eh? Especially when you consider that I haven't recently added any extra 'Y's to my name or invested in any fortune-bringing gemstones.

So long then. Will try to be a bit more regular with the posts after I am back from the holidays.

PS: If someone has a bookshelf to sell, please do contact me....seriously. Some of my books, strewn across the floor in one corner of the room (see picture below) , are currently in dire need of a shelf of some kind.

PORTRAITS OF A REVOLUTIONARY AND A POLITICIAN

2010-01-10T19:34:00.010+05:30

While cursorily glancing through today's Aajkal (a regional daily), I saw this undated photograph of Jyoti Basu on the first page. What struck me was its uncanny similarity with Alberto Korda's famous Guerrillero Heroico. Here are both the photographs in question.

Ernesto 'Che' Guevara: He lives on in the minds many of this generation mostly in the form of coffee mugs and designer-wear with his image imprinted on them. Considering the ideals that he stood for, nothing could be more ironic.

Jyoti Kiran Basu: After serving as the Chief-Minister for 23 long years, the ailing patriarch lies today on his hospital bed fighting to stay alive each day. Each sunrise, a miracle for him. But somewhere there must be the sad realisation that the people (aided by a hyperactive opposition) now seem to be frustrated with his party's supposed misrule over the years.

Disclaimer: Though these two personalities appear here on the same post, the blog-writer asserts that there has been no intentional effort, on his part, to compare their achievements or contributions in any manner whatsoever :)

LAST RANT OF THE YEAR

2009-12-31T22:35:00.003+05:30

Don't know whether you guys were tuned in or not, but there was this show on NDTV 24x7 yesterday at around 11:45 pm. They were discussing some stuff about Indian cinema. I followed the last 15 minutes. The panel consisted of Priyanka Chopra, Rishi Kapoor, Jaideep Sahni and some critics whom I didn't really recognize.
Nothing surprising there. Rishi 'White Tights' Kapoor was hyperventilating as usual and between his gasps for air he managed to display his limitless ignorance when he said that Hindi films (Bollywood was the term he actually used) were musicals. Well, Mr. Kapoor, in musicals we expect the actors to sing their own lines at he very least. But, of course, you with you lip-syncing to 'Dafli wale dafli baja' would not be expected to know that. He further went on to add that he was the least interested in the actual content of the film as long as it gave him three hours of pure entertainment and some pretty ladies to ogle at. That coming from someone who has been acting for the last forty years.
Even more depressing was Priyanka Chopra's expert comment that her generation, with a short attention span, was one that is interested in instant entertainment. Not for her the concepts of a storyline, aesthetics or other cinematic techniques. If she had her way, it would be masala-films from here on till eternity. No wonder that this observation comes from someone who proudly grabbed eyeballs with her portrayal of a vamp in the cheap imitation of the Hollywood potboiler Disclosure, Aitraaz. Is that her idea of short attention span films? And I do not even want to mention the epic disaster, Love Story 2050. But she could be no further from the truth when she says that an entire generation is interested only in 'instant entertainers'. Maybe she should visit Indian Auteur to realise that the spirit of good cinema is well and truly alive.
The only sane voices, apart from the critics', which were heard were that of Jaideep Sahni and Anurag Kashyap when they spoke about the raw deal that scriptwriters get in the Hindi film industry today. Kashyap rightly said that scriptwriters need to be guaranteed a minimum wage. They should be paid somewhere around 2.5% of a film's budget considering their contribution to a film's performance. Case in point, would 'Jab We Met' have been as successful as it was had not it been for its refreshing script? All, these rants are however a futile exercise when the most talked-about film of the day happens to be about naive college-goers where the actors involved are weathered veterans in their forties. The reason for this strange casting is, ostensibly, the star power of the actors in question. Not much that one can say except, "Et tu, Raju"?

CHRISTMAS COMES TO MRS. DIAS

2009-12-27T17:49:00.005+05:30

It was Christmas Eve and little Sarah was very happy and excited, as only an eight-year old can be on such a day. She had been good that year and her mother, Mrs. Dias, had promised her that Santa would be arriving at night to leave presents for her on the living-room sofa. Both of them were busy all day in dusting and decorating the Christmas tree, which was actually not a tree at all. Not a real tree anyway. It was a Christmas tree with leaves of plastic and branches of wire with tiny lights arranged neatly on them. Every year after Christmas, they put it away in the store room where little mice ran up and down its green wire branches. They worked on it till the tree was finally all clean and decorated with bells and stars and small pieces of silver foil which swayed gently from side to side if you blew on them. Mrs. Dias and Sarah then stood back and admired the effort that they had put in during the entire afternoon. The Christmas tree made for a pretty grand sight and you would not realise, unless you took a very close look, that it was made of plastic. With the tree taken care of, they still had some work to do for the day, and that was to collect the Christmas cake from the baker's store. Mrs. Dias had earlier thought of baking a nice little fruit cake for Christmas day but when she remembered the cake she had baked for Sarah's previous birthday which had come out all burnt and smoky, she decided to buy it from the baker's store instead.
It had been an unusually cold December that year and so, before walking down to the baker's store, Mrs. Dias saw to it that she and her daughter were properly clad to keep out the cold. It was early evening by then and the streets were full of people who were out for some last minute shopping. A couple of Santas were walking around on giant stilts and handing out leaflets announcing the New Year's celebrations at the Hotel Moonlight. Little Sarah looked at them wide-eyed and wondered why they did not fall off. There were blinking lights of various colours and glowing, paper stars everywhere. Everyone was smiling and everyone seemed so happy, despite the winter chill. But even among all the gaiety and merriment, there were a few persons who were feeling sad and lonely. One of them was Mrs. Dias. It was just after Christmas, a couple of years ago, that Mr. Dias had died leaving her almost alone except for a few relatives who did not really care for her. Though she had managed to keep things together after that, there were times when she felt depressed. And Christmas was one of those times. She remembered the days when Mr. Dias was alive and they would walk around the city on Christmas Eve, hand-in-hand, with little Sarah in tow before having a quiet dinner at one of the comfortable restaurants on Main Street. And as she looked around, Mrs. Dias saw the many happy, young families around her and the memories of her dead husband filled her heart with great pain and sadness. Mrs. Dias, however, did not let her sorrows affect her daughter's enthusiasm in any way and made sure that she did not miss out on any of the joys of Christmas. It was in such a state of mind then, that Mrs. Dias presently reached the baker's, along with her daughter, where they collected their cake and proceeded to go home.
While returning, Mrs. Dias tried to prevent the festive mood from depressing her further. She avoided glancing at the streets while walking and steadfastly kept her eyes on the pavement ahead of her. And maybe it was because she had her eyes on the pavement that that she saw the frail, old, bearded man lying on the pavement on a particularly dark stretch of the street. He was a homeless tramp with hardly any clothes on him and he appeared cold and miserable. As they passed him by, he gave them the most piteous look which would have touched your heart if you were there. Sarah, of course, was oblivious to all these as she was more interested on the balloon seller on the other side of the street. But Mrs. Dias could not ignore the sight. Her own feelings of loneliness seemed hollow compared to that old man's plight. She felt guilty of her own selfishness. This being Christmas and all, she could not ignore the old man. So Mrs. Dias decided to do something about it. When they reached home, she purposefully rummaged through the wardrobe until she found what she was looking for. It was a Santa Claus outfit complete with the belt and the pointed cap. It had belonged to her late husband, who had last worn it two Christmases ago when he was alive. She told Sarah to wait for her while she rushed out to look for the homeless man. She was afraid that he might wander away somewhere and was relieved to find him where she had left him earlier. Mrs. Dias cleared her throat to catch the old man’s attention and extended towards him the clothes that she had brought, careful all the time not to touch him. The old man appeared quite surprised. With slow, laboured movements, he raised his hands to accept the clothes from Mrs. Dias and looked up at her, his eyes glistening with a gratitude that no words could ever convey. And then a wonderful thing happened, Mrs. Dias suddenly found herself enveloped in a gentle, radiant warmth which dispelled all the sorrows from her heart. She forgot the sad memories of her husband and her own loneliness as the spirit of Christmas flooded her with peace and happiness. A mask started to slip away as her countenance lost the moroseness that had clung to her for the past two years. She broke into a bright and cheerful smile, wished a merry Christmas to the old man and walked home with the strange joy still filling her heart. Christmas, to her, seemed beautiful and worth celebrating once again.
Now dear readers, like all good Christmas stories, this story too ought to end here. But then it would be not be fair because it is not yet over and a story has to be told in its entirety or it should not be told at all. So, to the end it is then.
The next morning after Sarah's gifts had been opened and Santa Claus duly thanked, Mrs. Dias announced that they were going to the church. This came as a surprise to Sarah as it was not something which was planned earlier but more surprising was the change that had come over her mother. She actually appeared more beautiful and cheerful than Sarah could ever remember.
On the way to the church, little Sarah asked her mother all sorts of questions which girls her age are wont to ask while going to the church on Christmas day. Mrs. Dias replied patiently to Sarah’s questions as best as she could though she did confess that she did not know the answer when Sarah asked her why a star had five points and not four. As they took the turn where their lane met the main road, Mrs. Dias saw the old man to whom she had given her husband's Santa Claus outfit the previous evening. He was resting with his back to the wall a little ahead of them, but there was something not right about him. As they came near him, Mrs. Dias realised, from the strange stiffness of the old man's body and the respectable distance that the solitary dog kept from him, that the old man was dead. And with this realisation came an overbearing feeling of helplessness. It seemed to her that all her kindness had been futile and that she did not have the power to reduce even a wee bit of the misery in the world. The old man had to die on the streets on Christmas day, without anyone to care for him and she could do nothing about it. He was the harbinger of her new found happiness and now he was no more, the injustice of it all broke Mrs. Dias' heart.
"What is Santa doing here?" asked little Sarah out of curiosity.
"You see sweetie,", said Mrs. Dias with a lot of effort "Santa was up all night leaving gifts for little girls like you. He was very busy making people happy. He is tired now, he needs some rest." And a tear rolled down her cheek.
Meanwhile, somewhere far away, so far away that Christmas and Santa Claus and Sarah and her mother and you and me hardly matter, two souls were having a conversation. The soul of the old man made a funny, chuckling noise that only souls can make and said to the other, "Look at the irony. That was the only time during my years of wandering on the streets of the city that anyone showed any sort of concern for me and now I am dead. And the poor lady you see there, inspite of being the only one to have selflessly helped me in all these years, she is going to feel very miserable for the rest of the day."

AVATAR - A NON-REVIEW

2009-12-18T18:57:00.006+05:30

The age of hyper-realistic cinema is upon us with the release of James Cameron's 3-hour feature for Discovery Channel which incidentally happens to be shot on the exotic planet of Pandora. Yes sir, it is Avatar I am talking about. Initial reviews and opinions regarding this extra-terrestrial epic have been largely positive and slightly disturbing. I mean there have been reports of people coming out of screening halls all dazed and glassy-eyed, with this irresistible urge to go back to the oh-so-real-and-wonderful world of Pandora. Some viewers even came out with a generous sprinkling of glitter on their clothes - a result of getting too immersed in some of the close-up sequences involving the tall, lithe and sparkling blue Na'vi. Such is the power of Cameron's state-of-the-art stereoscopic film-making technology. I wonder how people would have reacted had the same technology been used for some of the scenes in Titanic, you know the ones I am thinking of, the ones with Kate Winslet in them. Anyway, the indicators are clearly there that like most of Cameron's earlier works, Avatar too will be a success. But how big a success will it becomes a more important question considering some reports which state that James Cameron spent somewhere between 200 and 500 million dollars for completing Avatar. And just to put things into perspective here is a list of the Gross Domestic Products of some selected countries as provided by the International Monetary Fund.

So coming back to the real point after all this rambling: How was Avatar? Well, I don't know. I did not watch it and neither do I have any intention of watching it in the future. And this decision has nothing to do with my aversion towards watching movies at theatres. Not that I am a technology Luddite either. It has more to do with the question of whether it is the content of a movie or the experience of watching it that floats your boat. For me it is the former. Avatar has, no doubt, succeeded in generating a lot of hype with the promise of an overwhelming audio-visual experience but its actual content, it seems, has been relegated to a mere footnote. This experience of three-dimensional realism, of being able to feel like you are actually "in the movie" is perfect for a wide-eyed teenager taking the 3D-world tour during the occasional visit to the local museum. Cinema, however, is a medium not just for entertainment. It is a mirror which reflects our society and culture. It probes us, inspires us and forces us to think. It seeks truth sometimes using themes which are not always conventional or socially acceptable. It conveys to us opinions and ideas with the help of sounds and images. What happens when sounds and images take precedence over the content, when opinions and ideas are lost in the quest for technical brilliance? What happens when the money spent on making a film becomes a factor of its success?
But these are just some of the apprehensions of an unqualified person(that is, me) with some Friday night time to kill and they may well turn out to be quite unwarranted. Be that as it may, for every big-budget extravaganza such as Avatar, there are films like Moon and District 9 whose success make proves that you do not have to go to the nearest 3D IMAX theatre to enjoy a good sci-fi movie. And that is a comforting thought indeed.

INDIAN ADVERTISEMENTS: OBSESSED WITH FAIRNESS

2009-11-21T00:56:00.007+05:30

Universal Studios recently found themselves in rough waters when they removed the names and images of the only black couple the UK poster of their movie 'Couples Retreat'. The usual round of apologies for unintentionally hurting public sentiments followed and things gradually cooled down. This, however, is not an isolated incident. There have been numerous instances of insensitive advertisements which did not go down well with the public and as a result had to be scrapped. But sadly, uproars over such negative portrayal of dark-skinned people seem to be limited to countries other than India.

While it is true that there have been some improvements in recent times with the powers that be regulating the advertisements being aired, the maniac obsession with fair-skin in India continues unabated and so does the sales of fairness products propagating false promises of fairer skin. Abraham Lincoln once famously said, "You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not fool all of the people all of the time". But cosmetic companies selling fairness products have proved this wrong, especially in India and the along the way they have also managed to equate skin-tone with success. And what is more disappointing is the nonchalance with which a few moronic Indian film-stars actually involve themselves in promoting these so-called 'fairness products'. What these companies and the film-stars do not, perhaps, realise is that in addition to the said products, they are guilty of promoting something else too. Something which has a far greater and detrimental impact on society. They are guilty of promoting colourism. This is exactly the reason why, when Aishwarya Rai Bachchan refused to endorse a fairness product from a global cosmetics giant, there was some effusive praise from various quarters.

But ad campaigns for fairness cream are just one part of the story. Advertisement in Indian television reeks of an unhealthy bias towards fair skin. Ancient visitors to India had noted during their travels that the Indians are a dark-skinned race. Maybe if they had seen the ads on Indian television today, they would have changed their opinion. From fast cars to medically-approved toothpastes, nothing in India seems to sell unless a disproportionate number of of fair-skinned people are included in the advertisement. Even celebrities in ads are properly touched up so that they appear a couple of shades fairer than in real life. The middle-class Indian consumer, whenever portrayed in an advertisement, is almost always fair-skinned. The caring father insuring his daughter's future is fair-skinned, the dutiful housewife cooking up a quick meal for her husband is fair-skinned, the little kid extolling the virtues of a health-drink is fair-skinned. Honestly, when was the last time you saw a dark-skinned, Indian character being used to promote a product? And in the rare cases where such characters are used, they invariably denote a specific stereotype. This skewed representation of the typical Indian in our advertisements is an indication of a national malaise. A malaise which, inspite of all our education, still forces us to believe that a lower level of melanin in the skin, somehow, suggests a better lifestyle.

IN WHICH I WRITE A POST

2009-08-20T23:42:00.004+05:30

This sure was a long break in between posts, but if someone is expecting an explanation, well, I do not have any. I have been really busy, but not busy enough to prevent me from jotting a few lines on this blog. To tell you the truth, things have changed a lot in the past couple of months. Change of priorities as they say. Though it does not definitely mean that I haven't been following some of your posts. Keep walking...as one of my blogger friends would say.
These really are interesting times friends. When the opposition party in the world's largest democracy expels one of its senior-most members for an academic work (which arguably scratches some old wounds), you cannot help but lament at the parochial attitude of the people involved. The entire episode just demonstrates the insecurity of a political party which once prided itself on being the face of new India. What they fail to realise is that the new India they speak of has learnt to distance itself from the burden of its factious past and has well and truly moved on.
Also following with avid interest the curious case of Caster Semenya, the South African middle distance runner. Read it up if you haven't yet....this raises some difficult questions which we Indians, at least, are a somewhat accustomed to.
Been watching some movies too, notably Inglourious Basterds and Kaminey. The former signals a return to form for Quentin Tarantino, though by no stretch of imagination can it be compared to some of his earlier works. As for Kaminey, well, Vishal Bhardwaj's versatility doesn't cease to amaze me.... a Guy Ritchie-style movie from someone who made Makdee, Maqbool and Omkara.
Books, as always, are constant companions. If you have the time and the opportunity do read Etger Keret's really short short-stories... he is a genius. There have been some criticisms of his style, but he seems quite okay to me.
So long then.... have a nice time and do excuse my frequent absences.

ONLINE I-T RETURNS AND BOOK DISCOUNTS

2009-07-05T11:48:00.008+05:30

It is that time of the year again when you fulfill the duties of a law-abiding and socially conscious citizen by filing your income tax return. It definitely gives you a proud feeling... if you manage to forget the fact that there are at least a dozen people you know who earn more than you yet pay less taxes or better still do not pay them at all. But for all the good that it does, filing tax returns is not exactly a stroll in the park. There are plenty of opportunities to get lost among those Section 80Cs and Income Tax Acts of 19-god-knows-when. And so for the two previous times in my life when I filed my returns, I took the help of a certain gentleman who professes to be the best tax consultant in this part of the city. But not this time. I had had enough of paying his ridiculously insane fees and enduring his incessant calls about one insurance scheme or another. Preparing my return online seemed to be the best bet. And with TaxSpanner offering a big discount, where else could I go? It was all so simple and hassle-free. A single mail and a paltry payment of Rs.125 and my return was ready in my inbox. I just had to send the prepared return to the Income Tax office in Bangalore and I was done. Sigh! Wish everything in life was THAT easy.
And for all those with a liking for regional Indian writing, Katha is good news. I came to know about them when I learnt that I was entitled to a fat 25% discount (yeah I know, some favourable planetary orientation at work there) on their publications. Their catalogue is interesting indeed, with a collection of translated works from almost all parts of India. Ordered half a dozen assorted titles last week, though I haven't received them yet. Hope the translations turn out to be fine; for more often than not it is poor translation that kills the essence of a good book. But if people around the world can enjoy translated versions of Murakami's work, maybe Katha can do it too. At least it is a step forward. What with all the hullabaloo (no pun intended) that Indian writing in English has created recently, maybe it is time we remember the brilliance of the stalwarts of regional literature.
Update: Received the books from Katha in good condition. Wonderfully designed covers.

MONKEY MENACE

2009-06-17T21:12:00.007+05:30

Witnessed a regular turf war today between a pack of dogs and an angry bunch of langurs. It was a full-blown battle. The monkeys, with their superior teamwork, had the advantage over the dogs and would have defeated them hollow had it not been for some serious help from the staff at the nearby office. It felt similar to watching Discovery channel live but without the explanatory commentary and background score.

Langurs

Rhesus Macques

All this reminded me of the monkey menace that we had to endure while in hostel and the shameful manner in which we handled it. The monkeys there were not of any particularly interesting species - plain, old Rhesus Macaques. Definitely not at all ideal for the gross Amul Macho ads. But they made up for their lack of glamour quotient with their sheer numbers. When they came down from the hills and ran in hordes on the corrugated-tin roof of the hostel, the awful din sounded like rolling thunder. And since mischief was high on their agenda, things were not generally amicable between the monkeys and their more modern descendants at the hostel. Every time the monkeys visited the hostel they left behind a trail of destruction. Drawers were flung open in search of food, containers were pried open and their contents spread across the floor, heaps of books and papers arranged perilously on tables were knocked down, the pantry in the hostel mess was ravaged beyond recognition. The monkeys also occasionally made off with clothes, clocks, cigarettes and anything else that caught their fancy. Gifts and chocolates, both for and from special ones, too were regularly stolen by the rampaging devils. Such was their menace that they made the cryptid monkey-man in Delhi look like a veritable Simian saint.We on our part did not lose any opportunity to get back at them. In the weeks before and after Diwali, any monkey which was sighted would be attacked with a volley of firecrackers. Though very few of the missiles actually hit their mark or did any serious damage, but they frightened the Macaques enough to bring peace to the hostel for a couple of months. But peace is a rare luxury and it would not be long before the monkeys would be back with a vengeance. It was almost like Gabbar with a band of monkeys raiding the village of Ramgarh with sadistic delight. But just as "...Ramgarhwaalon ne paagal kutton ke saamne roti daalna band kar diya...", so we too decided that enough was enough. There had to be a way out. Accordingly, one fine Sunday, the raiding monkeys were pleasantly surprised to find a sumptuous feast laid down for them in the dining area. What they failed to notice was that except for one small window, all the other doors and windows in the dining area were closed. Boldly but carefully a bunch of monkeys entered the mess and tore into the food oblivious to the fact that the only open window had been closed. The original intention was to scare the life away from the monkeys with lots of loud firecrackers, but mob behaviour is a strange phenomenon which makes people act in ways in which they normally would not have. What happened next was utter carnage as twenty of the hostel braves (honestly, I was not among them) swooped down on the monkeys. Screams and shrieks flooded the air as blow after blow rained down on the hapless bunch. The monkey-god, Hanuman cringed from his abode in heaven and must have cursed entire humanity. To a band of enraged young men, however, it did not matter if they were reborn as vermins and parasites in their next lives. What mattered was revenge - cold blooded revenge. It was fast turning into a blood-bath, when someone mercifully opened a couple of windows. The monkeys which had managed to evade the blows made a desperate dash for escape while the wounded ones slowly and painfully limped away. When the dust finally settled, someone noticed that one of the raiders was lying slumped on the floor of the mess, quite obviously dead. Amidst much hooting and cheering, the dead monkey was suspended from a tree for all his kind to see and fear. Throughout the day it remained there dangling from tree - a grim reminder of his descendants' cruelty. The other monkeys must removed him from tree that night as it was not there in the morning. I do not remember the monkeys coming to the hostel after that day. And though we never had to clean up our rooms again in the aftermath of their raids, we did miss their thunder on the corrugated tin roof.
The guilt hurts most of us even today.

AN ODE TO AN OMELETTE

2009-06-03T01:38:00.007+05:30

Had a bite of an Oriental Omelette a couple of Fridays ago and I was hooked. So simple in its preparation, yet so delicate in taste. Came back home, high on spirits, and promptly wrote this paean to the omelette.

ODE TO AN ORIENTAL OMELETTE

Myriad pubs and seedy bars did I frequent,
Hoping to find the perfect complement.
'Coz the best snack to go with a merry drink,
Was all in my spare time that I could think.

But taste is all about the monies, they said.
The better it tastes, the more you paid.
And so a minor fortune I foolishly spent
In futile search for the ultimate complement.

Alas! In no joint did I ever come across
A flavour upon which a man could gloss.
Or even an inviting aroma strong,
One could immortalize in a song.

All seemed lost, when one crazy, drunken evenin',
On the restaurant menu, below Fish Liver Gin,
I found the beauty I never had met;
It was the humble Oriental omelette.

I swear by Jove, it was a delightful dish.
Stuffed with mushrooms and Parmesan cheese.
Four delicate eggs soft-fried in butter,
Tomatoes and ball-pepper on the platter.

The hard spirits felt strangely smooth
Such did the tender omelette soothe.
And till the very last, broken morsel
It gave me the joy in a kid's carousal.

No more swirling serpents of doubt,
Be it whiskey, vodka, rum or beer stout
The only food on my frugal plate
Will forever be the Oriental omelette.

So what is your chakna of choice?

A STORY OF FATE

2009-05-30T21:53:00.011+05:30

It has been exactly eleven years since the day Mrs. Sharma died. It was a terrible misfortune to befall what had, till then, been a small and happy family consisting of Mrs. Sharma, her husband and their young daughter Tara. It would be superfluous to mention that Mr. Sharma deeply loved his wife because on seeing her lifeless body, the bereaved husband had lamented that he could not imagine life without her. But the death of one unremarkable woman hardly affected the general scheme of things in a planet of teeming millions. It was not a surprise, therefore, that Mr. Sharma remarried within a year of the tragedy and started a new family. His daughter too did not seem too unhappy about the arrangement. Nevertheless, she did sometimes wonder about the new lady in their house whom she was supposed to call 'Mother'. This story, however, is not about either Mr. Sharma or his second wife. It is also not about their daughter, Tara. This story is about the events which occurred on that fateful day, eleven years ago.

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It was one of those sultry days during the monsoons, when the heat and sweat combine to make clothes stick to your skin like a spandex suit. Fans hardly provide any relief from such sweltering heat, yet, the Sharma family had fought through the day under their illusory comfort. Since it was a Sunday, Mrs. Sharma had suggested, during lunch, that they should go to the only air-conditioned movie theatre which had opened recently in the city. "If not for the movie," she had said, in a manner befitting her middle-class existence, "but for the comfort inside". Mr. Sharma had signaled his concurrence with a gentle nod of the head. How was he to know that on later days he would deeply regret his decision? The late afternoon saw Mr. Sharma lock the front door, tug at the heavy lock to make sure that it was secure and then set off, with wife and daughter in tow, for their evening outing. It did not take the three of them very long to reach the theatre and buy the tickets, but Mrs. Sharma's insistence on having an ice-cream ensured that by the time they were at the entrance of the screening hall, the movie had already started. The usher guided them along the aisle in semi-darkness, pointed out their seats with the beam of his flashlight and disappeared into the darkness. Mr. Sharma instructed his wife and Tara to take the first two seats from the aisle while he chose to sit on the third. It was the best he could do to prevent any unwanted attention towards his wife. Mr. Sharma was just about to sit down when a yelp of pain from his wife brought him to his feet. Instantly, a number of heads turned towards them defeating his intent of not drawing any attention. A concerned inquiry from Mr. Sharma revealed that something sharp, probably a tiny nail protruding from the upholstery, had pricked his wife just as she was settling on her seat. This carelessness on part of the theatre owners greatly angered Mr. Sharma and he hurried towards the entrance to look for the usher. He presently returned with him and pointed out the seat in question. There were loud shouts of protest from the seats behind them as Mr. Sharma and the usher proceeded to look for the offending nail. What they found was not a nail but a pin with small piece of paper, about the size and thickness of a visiting card, attached to it. Under the pale-yellow light of the flashlight, Mr. Sharma saw something written on one side of the card which drained all the blood from his face and sent shivers down his spine. Written in clear, bold letters was the message, 'HIV, ALWAYS POSITIVE' and a small signature scrawled at the bottom. The next few minutes went in a daze. In short, incoherent sentences Mr. Sharma told his wife about the horrible turn that events had taken. Mrs. Sharma was strangely quiet for a few moments and then broke out into uncontrolled sobbing when she realized that none of the people she knew had HIV and that all of them thought that HIV was contracted through dirty habits. By then most of the people around them had forgotten the movie and were staring at them with great interest. The usher saw this and led three of them away from the hall but not without young Tara throwing a tantrum about it. Though her husband tried to reason with her, Mrs. Sharma could already see herself ostracized from everyone she knew. All three of them would be treated like lepers; they would become the living dead. Her husband, meanwhile, was thinking of the two logical things he could do. He could either accost the manager of the theatre or he could immediately take his wife to a doctor. He decided on the latter and accordingly came out of the theatre dragging his daughter by the arm and trying to console his wife at the same time. They walked up to the bus-stop nearby, where Mr. Sharma asked the two them to wait while he himself went to hire an auto rickshaw. Inspite of more than twenty people being around Mrs. Sharma and her daughter during that time, no one was really sure what happened next. Some said she fainted, some said she was trying to cross the road, while some even said that she did it on her own. Whatever might have happened but the fact remains that a speeding bus ran over the anguished Mrs. Sharma mercifully putting to an end the intolerable misery she had been suffering from for the past ten minutes. The screech of wheels brought a bewildered Mr. Sharma to the spot and it took him some time to realize that life, as he knew it, was well and truly over. Since one must take care of the living than worry too much about the dead, so in subsequent discussions about the accident, Mr. Sharma never mentioned the part that the pin played in the incidents of the evening thus saving his daughter and himself from a lot of trouble.

*****************

While Mr. Sharma was still trying to convince himself that the mangled, unrecognizable body lying on the street in front of the theatre was once his wife, a different scene was being played out in a hostel of the government engineering college in the outskirts of the city. Twenty-three youths in the last years of their teens were made to stand in a line in front of their hostel where a few of their seniors had started gathering. It was their daily ragging session - a sort of ice-breaking taken to the extremes. The twenty-three freshmen, with their hair closely cropped and dressed in formals in the warm and humid evening, were a jaded lot. They were a trifle frightened too though none of them admitted it. The seniors sat on the stairs leading to the hostel, sharing a cigarette among themselves while the wretched freshmen stood in attention in front of them. "So are you maggots ready for the quiz?" KP asked with a faux, sadistic smile. All the freshmen moved their heads to indicate an affirmative. It was KP's idea to order the helpless freshmen to watch the movie being played at the matinee-show at one of the theatres in the city and question them later on what they saw. The matinee-show movies were invariably awful and the one which the freshmen watched was no exception. That the theatre happened to be air-conditioned was the sole redeeming factor. "First one from the left, come here", demanded KP. The chosen one came forward slowly.
"You are the one in your batch with the highest marks in the entrance examinations, aren't you?"
"Yes Sir."
"So are you very smart?"
A question such as this was not about right or wrong answers per se, it was about giving the appropriate answers. Previous experience had taught the freshman to keep quiet when the questions were too complicated and so he did not give a reply. A string of the choicest expletives and jeering followed. But that was much better compared to any kind of physical pain.
"OK, then. First question....." KP said."Who is the art director of the movie you saw this afternoon?"
KP was waiting for the answer, when someone from among the other freshmen caught his attention. He beckoned the poor soul to come nearer. There were no questions this time, just two hard slaps across the face which would leave their mark and elicit sympathetic glances from the professors the next day.
"Can you see all of your friends wearing the hostel badge on the pockets of their shirts?"
"Yes Sir."
"Do you know that all new boarders are to wear it at all times when they are in the hostel?"
"Yes Sir."
"So where the fuck is your hostel badge, you bastard?"
"I am sorry Sir, I lost it somewhere."
Two more resounding slaps, this time from another person. It was ARP. "You will find a few extra badges on the table in my room." he bellowed "Take one of them." Smarting under the sting of the slaps and the embarrassment, the new boarder silently walked away. He was back soon with a badge pinned to the pocket of his shirt, it was identical to the ones his friends had.
"It looks good on you" observed KP looking at the card attached to the boy's shirt. Written across it in clear, bold letters was 'HIV, ALWAYS POSITIVE', it also had ARP's signature at the bottom. "What does it say?"
"Hostel-4, always positive. We, at hostel number four, are always positive in our attitude, Sir" answered the young man. One of his cheeks had already started swelling.

Notes:
What are the chances of transmitting HIV through a needle?
Snopes: Pin Prick Attacks

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS (A POST IN 5 MINS)...

2009-05-26T23:15:00.005+05:30

I am really thinking hard about changing my priorities.
Looking for a something new. Seriously. Same ol' job, same ol' life. Nothing to bring the long unused grey cells into motion.
If there ever is a hero in the Mahabharata, it is not any of the Arjunas or Krishnas or any other cunning liar. It is Karna. Having read more than 600 pages of 'Mritunjaya' gives you that kind of a feeling. Good book this. But the translation by Nandini Nopany and P. Lal leaves a lot to be desired. The use of vernaculars like 'Bhaiya' and 'Arrey' makes for some crappy reading. Which reminds me of Upamanyu Chatterjee's 'Weight Loss'. If ever, there is a book which I would never recommend to any of my readers, it would have to be this. 'Weight Loss' has to be one of the most worthless attempts at writing by anyone serious enough to do so. Sheer waste of half a grand and four hours of valuable time. Should have stopped at 'English, August' before picking up this worthless babble. But 'Mritunjaya', on the other hand, is much better....dispels some of the unanswered questions that a generation of kids watching Mahabharata on Doordarshan might have had. Also read 'Green Berets' by Robin Moore, if you have the time (irrespective of whether your favourite colour is red or not). I assure you, it will not be a disappointment.
Watch '12 Angry Men' and Basu Chatterjee's 'Ek Ruka Hua Faisla' and try to decide which is better. Agreed that Henry Fonda is irreplaceable but then you have to appreciate how Basu Chatterjee manages to adapt the classic for an Indian setting and extracts a memorable performance from Pankaj Kapoor. Annu Kapoor too plays his part with aplomb. Readers with a memory of Indian serials/teleserials from the late 80s and early 90s will recognise most of the actors who play the roles of the 12 jurors. 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button' on the other hand is quite a bore. An interesting premise goes to waste here - except for a couple of scenes. What could have been a hard look at some uncomfortable and unusual topics, delves into realms of fantasy and expected dilemmas. Cate Blanchett' s role being the sole redeeming factor. Fincher's 'Seven' and 'Fight Club' were much better. Kevin Spacy's psychotic scream of "Detective....." towards the end of 'Seven' would have put a million Gabbar's to shame.
Also watch 'The Bicycle Thieves'... it is really worth it.

ANSWERING THE CALL OF NEGLECTED LOVES

2009-05-18T19:04:00.006+05:30

What am I up to?
Well, it is a return to life without TV and Internet. The TV went kaput towards the end of last month which in turn inspired me not to pay the Internet bill. And honestly I miss neither(not even the Indian Paisa....err....Premier League).
Loads and loads of books....from Ogden Nash to Stephen King, from Upamanyu Chatterjee to Issac Asimov.
Loads and loads of movies....from Bicycle Thieves to Amores Perros, from Citizen Kane to Road to Guantanamo.
And I have a sneaking feeling that this books-n-movies duathlon will continue for atleast one more week.

Footnote: Managed to get my hands on Batman#534, a part of the 'Batman:Legacy' arc. After all it is not in every issue that you get to see the dark vigilante teaming up with Lady Shiva to prevent Ra's al Ghul goons in Calcutta.

IN SEARCH OF BOOKS

2009-04-26T23:20:00.005+05:30

Been a bit stuck up with work for some days which explains the absence of new posts.
With a bit of time to kill today, I visited some of the second-hand bookstores around College Street. Brought home a 1965 edition of "The Oxford History of the American People" by Samuel Eliot Morison and a 1989 edition of the English translation of Shivaji Sawant's acclaimed "Mritunjaya".
Also found some old war comics which I promptly brought, about thirteen of them.
The entire loot cost an unbelieveble Rs.490.
Sawant's "Mritunjaya" was on my wishlist for a long, long time. So the acquisition today called for a celebration......what better place than the only bar near home which permits smoking.

A QUESTION OF VALUES

2009-04-17T00:42:00.003+05:30

I was talking to an acquaintance of mine, trade union leader Samir B, today. This is what he said, "You will gladly pay Rs.160 for a Cutty Sark but will ask the old woman selling spinach to give you two bundles for the price of one". What followed was a lengthy monologue on the eroding values of the nouveau riche.
Election rhetoric or a rapier thrust to our long dead conscience?