Quotidian Quotes

Slavish

2012-01-27T04:23:00.001-08:00

Independent movie directors frequently churn out interesting movies. And by that most people mean different (or did I just mess that up?). But if someone were to ask me what I thought of certain movies by certain independent directors, I would think intimate. Often, the movies reveal too much about the directors themselves (well hello Wes Anderson, we know you love the kinks). And then there are other times, when the movies reveal too much about you. This facet especially, can seldom be captured by the expensive, glittering, larger-than-life, populist films. How can such movies afford to show you glimpses from your own life, when you pay good money to forget exactly that for a while?

This feeling of intimacy was reinforced when I plowed through Jim Jarmusch’s impressive repertoire. Indeed, he is the man who is sometimes, somewhere credited as the father of the American Independent Film Movement (so really, who better than the man himself for a commentary on indie films). As I watched Stranger than Paradise, I remarked at how well the movie came together, not because it paced successfully through to a conclusive end (as only how a winning story should), but because it paced languorously, scene-by-scene, onward through to no logical end, no real conclusion, leaving that subdued, confused feeling in your chest because the credits are rolling but you are yet unsure if you should get up from your seat. I sometimes get that feeling when I try to ascertain if I have achieved my short-term goals (yes, there are no upsides to being a planner). After that mental tick-off the list, I feel a strange sense of disquiet, waiting for life to stop for a second, for the credits to roll, to get up from my seat, stretch my arms, and head towards my bed to switch off for the night. But nothing happens. There remains, as always, more short-term goals to accomplish, more movies to watch.

Broken Flowers, in contrast, actually had a linear narrative that was headed towards the finish line, or so it tricked me into believing again. The ingredients were ready and waiting. There was a plot, a protagonist, a receding character with a receding hairline who injected ironic humour in short bursts at irregular intervals, fast cars (ok, not really) and hot women (will you look at Tilda Swinton?), and oh yes, a mystery waiting to be solved. There had to be a conclusive ending, I calmed my fluttering heart. There just had to be. This time round, there were multiple, discrete stories within a story, and multiple, coupled scenes within those stories. But the whodunit question was never answered. Indeed, the movie even recognized my growing trepidation, and threw random faces at me. Maybe him? It seemed to taunt me. I sighed and settled back. There was a vague thread of reconciliation reaching out to me. The movie was trying to tell me something, something else altogether. But I think I had stopped paying heed to the signs, a long, long time ago. You hear what you want to hear, you see what you want to see, and when you realize that it has all been one horrible mistake, you stop for a second, take stock, reorganize, and continue trying to fit the mismatched jigsaw pieces.

And then there are, of course, just stories. Simple, solitary, specific stories. Characters weaving in and out of the larger narrative, often never even bumping into each other, when they really, truly should. A Night on Earth is probably my favourite Jarmusch movie. Filled with stories of such significance that they can become your life’s marginalia or paraphernalia, depending on who is watching. It satisfied that gnawing urge to see something through to its logical conclusion, at least once every thirty minutes. Equating a provisional finale with meaning, magnitude or fulfillment helps me get by, I realized with a start. But how did Jim know that?

Really, how?

Of the Rich and the Famous

2012-01-24T21:22:00.001-08:00

In reading about V.S. Naipaul’s lifelong whims and fancies last night, I continued to be surprised by how pedestrian yet theatrical the lives of revered (well, maybe Sir Vidia cannot be considered revered completely) celebrities can be. In effacing the shadowy yet strident barrier that separates who we do not know from the what we do know, in trying to wrap our minds around the affected distance and the delicious access to the rich and famous, we are at once craning our necks to catch a glimpse of them from behind reinforced brick and stone, and absorbing gory details of their lives as if over sweet tea and buttered toast in their living rooms. What is it about celebrity-hood that suddenly makes them less human? That the banal reoccurrences of love, sex, and rock-n-roll is suddenly propelled into a glaring light that may be all too unbecoming.

More often than not, the stories deserve the attention they get. In the intoxicating trappings that accompany the lurid lives of the rich and famous, we find escape from our routine and conventional stories. Often, such intimate details may reveal a side of the celebrity that we had been kept in the dark about. If unruffled, collected, stoic Jinnah could only betray any emotion at Ruttie’s funeral, his broken, ailing, dead wife (I have suffered much sweetheart because I have loved much. The measure of my agony has been in accord to the measure of my love.), then we are suddenly privy to real and raw emotion. Real only because it bared itself only in trying circumstances, and raw because the world was waiting to pounce with bated breath. Sometimes though, we are surprised to find a natural thought process in the events of a celebrity’s life journey. Sir Vidia loved Margaret because she satisfied him sexually in a way that Pat could not, and he loved Pat because he could never churn out what he did without her unfaltering and forbearing support. He could love either, and leave neither. It made him a crummy human being, sure (I was liberated. She was destroyed. It was inevitable.), but there was awareness here, a sense of what was going on that was far removed from the haze of drugs, alcohol and hysteria. It suddenly reduced Naipaul to a fragile, imperfect human being. And really, is there any other kind? Celebrity or not?

I think what continues to surprise me is that tomorrow, suddenly you and I could become rich and famous. Because the urges are the same, the will (or lack of it) to fight our demons eternal. Really, we are just as normal as them celebrities. Somewhere, sometime some real talent, fine work, and good luck needs to surface to make our personas well-known, our memoirs interesting, but I could just as easily shed a tear for you, my darling, and continue to love you imperfectly as is my curse to do.

Of Intent and Action

2012-01-19T01:39:00.001-08:00

Although it has been of little or no concern to me as to what the creators of the lovers of the past and present are engaged in professionally (although future prospects may duly suffer an odd inquisitiveness regarding their dear father’s station, but more on that later), it has been brought to my notice that, rather curiously, this has borne a tendency to reflect the imperceptible shift within my own professional aspirations. No, I gasped in horror, when I realized the dire implications of such an allegation. It is a co-incidence, I insisted. And then I laughed to disguise my obvious displeasure at this somewhat slapdash claim. A good liar would never call himself a good liar (because that in effect would render it a rather honest observation), noted someone wise, but really a good liar would lie and be truthful in equal measure to throw the chary off their bloody trail, even when unnecessary (a sure sign of the dubious and the dedicated). The plan was to convey a sense of flippancy and discontent in turn, to detach myself respectfully from the careless, the astute observation, at least temporarily, so that I could ruminate upon it in peace later*.

And then I thought back on certain nights, where alcohol and laughter overflowed, or certain days when some good-natured ribbing broke ice and raised eyebrows. There was a time, I realized where I was the person who held a special affinity for boys with fully-functioning four-wheel vehicles, and declared pink as my favourite colour. It was interesting because these judgments were pronounced based on my actions, rather than intent, which can be as inconsequential (or otherwise) as you want it to be. It is that fine line between manslaughter and murder, between running over that guy dressed in black from head to toe on a cold, impenetrable night, and slaying your husband’s alleged paramour because she does kiss so much better than you, darling. Or maybe I am getting too serious.

In any case, when I was positioned as the car-boys and pink loving girl, my intent had been pre-determined on populist (but there exists a “fine line” between that and popular as well, but we will leave that for another day) demand. And while I protested feebly, at some point, I could no longer remember (or care) if I just happened to have guy friends who had a car lurking in the back somewhere (because I had met them while requiring assistance in finding my way back through the warrens of our precious little hamlet) and if I just happened to possess many pink items (because on my limited budget, the pink items always seemed to be the most reasonably priced), or if maybe I did actively seek out these traits in my men and my merchandise (but would you believe that?). It turns out, that sometimes, action and intent can get so entangled that they begin to resemble an isolated, solipsistic state of being. Indeed, I am what my intentions are, and what my actions will dictate. But most of the time, I am just what my actions-intent (or intent-actions) are conveying to the world outside.

And while quite often, and surprisingly, I find that my intent is indeed being (rather inadvertently) shaped by my actions, I want to take a step back and distance myself from the more invidious of conclusions, because it really, really isn’t true (this isn’t a trick) and because for all practical purposes intent should dictate my actions (this isn’t the court of law). And yes, quite often, my actions will make me deliberate on my intentions in the first place, and possibly even jump forward to make rightful space for my intent to wedge itself in before my action (oh alright future-husband, what does your daddy make?). But frequently, this can be rather bewildering, because really, I quite hate pink.

* and of course, to emulate the tactics of a liar because that’s what they would do to throw you off, but are we clear that I wasn’t trying to be dishonest myself?

The Rich and Almost Famous

2010-09-06T00:24:00.003-07:00

I stood in the yielding mud with my best shoes on. As my heels dug in with every step, my heart sank a little. I was just a regular girl in the middle of the horse stable in all my finery (floral, fitting dress and fancy shoes) and an irregular heart. But I sucked in my breath (and my tummy) and hurried behind Maanan - my host for the evening. He pointed at Blue Moon, a handsome guy with a shining coat and profound eyes, and declared him his favourite. I stopped before Blue Moon and made eye contact. If the favourite horse of the richest man in Uganda can wallow in the mud then so can your shoes, he breathed. I straightened my back, corrected my gait, and weighed on my heels. The awkward light-toed walk instantly disappeared. All was well in la-la land again.

Later that night as the guest sat by the sparkling pool in the teasing winds of Jinja, I relaxed with a glass of pinot-noir in my hand. Olga, Jill, Emily and I were staying in a nearby resort and had just missed the first ever organized polo match in the history of Uganda. As the sky above sparkled and the wine flowed, our excuses for missing the match became more animated. Emily arrived late from Entebbe. No, Jill was getting us fresh bagels. Actually, Ishita took forever with her hair dryer. You know what, Olga drove Jill’s car like a maniac and that’s why it smoked and smoked and we screamed and screamed. Amidst the lazy banter and the cheerful company, I etched in my memory my first brush with the rich and almost famous of Uganda.

After dinner, as we were driving towards the local lounge Jill’s car smoked and smoked and spluttered something indecipherable and finally died. Luckily I managed to pull over to the side of the road, Jill congratulated herself. The cars whizzed by, vaguely conscious of our bright parking lights and Olga made a quick call to Maanan. Damsels in distress, she SOSed. Minutes later, he was by our side taking complete control of the situation. He knew some people, he said. He left Jill’s car at the closest petrol station (it miraculously made the 50 meter journey) and shook hands with the owner in a significant way. Yes, Maanan knew some petrol station owners and car mechanics too. The distressed damsels piled into his SUV and made it to the local lounge.

The night ended uneventfully after a round of drinks and a repaired car. Jill drove it back to our resort with steely determination. We had breakfast the next day and sunbathed for a while and I didn’t think this particular weekend needed a special post. Because, it still hadn’t sunk in that the rich family in Uganda was really the richest family in Uganda. Or that the polo match was the first ever in Ugandan history. Or that it would make Tuesday’s national daily. All I understood at that point was that I had vacationed at a rather lovely resort and dined with some affluent people. Nothing significant.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
But things changed that weekend when the half English-half Japanese beautiful man fell in love with me at the sunglass party. You know, he whispered over the din, and this may sound very cheesy but you have the most genuine smile I have ever seen. I widened my smile at him and nodded vigorously. Yes, you are right, that was cheesy. My lower teeth appeared and joined in the gambit to flash a full blast of sparkling pearlies. The beautiful man staggered a little and leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek. My jaw began to ache.

As the night wore on, we kept exchanging small talk. We also exchanged our sunglasses. The beautiful man told me that he had found his red pair in Tanzania. When a boda driver appeared out of nowhere and almost killed him, the beautiful man had asked for his fanciful shades. It is the least he owed me, he explained. I kept smiling my genuine smile.

But he didn’t forget his glasses. When it was finally time to leave at the magic hour, Olga and I said our goodbyes and started walking away. The beautiful man came running after me. My glasses! He shrieked. You know how precious they are. I nodded solemnly, remembering the barter of life and death. We exchanged sunglasses. And that was that.

But I never would have been invited to the private dinner party at Maanan’s house again had it not been for the beautiful man. And I never would have realized that Maanan was related to the who’s who of Bollywood. You mean, you are Mumtaz’s nephew, I asked. He laughed and whipped out his fancy cellphone with photographic evidence (not of Mumtaz, but Zayed Khan and Fardeen Khan). My red sunglasses and the boda driver, the beautiful man sniveled in the background. But I paid no attention. After all, are the stories of the lives equivalent to fake plastic glasses really significant?

And as I lay in my own bedroom in Maanan’s mansion that night, far away from the cheery conversations in the pool bar, I realized I was out of my element. Only minutes ago, Maanan had offered us a ride back to Kampala on his private plane. I pinched myself hard and realized that there was no way back. I now hobnobbed with jet owners and mansion masters. I now woke up to dancing peacocks outside my window. I now was on first-name terms with handsome horses. I now understood the rich and almost famous.
......................................................................................................................................................................
And I now effectively greeted and bid adieu to my fellow inmates with sprightly kisses on both cheeks.

But you just kissed me on one cheek, I had said to the beautiful man when we were saying our goodbyes.

Because I want to remain significant, he had replied. Two cheeks mean nothing special.

I gave him a sidelong look and continued to kiss the rest goodbye.

Yes, he murmured softly. Two cheeks is just one too many.
......................................................................................................................................................................

Here comes the President.

2010-08-07T01:46:00.000-07:00

In the middle of Katwe our jeep sputters some and over. Traffic around closes in, the air becomes thicker and blacker. The heat does little to help. Why does everyone look dead? The humming flies zone in. Oh dear.

Suddenly Rashid springs to life. "There!" he raves, "There goes the president!"
Olga and I turn instinctively. A president sighting? I crane my neck some more to snatch a glimpse of majesty, magnificence or money. Or even a retinue of screeching sirens. But all I see is a newspaper seller staring back at me. Rashid's animated gesticulations stir something viral in him. He begins to move faster.

"That?" wonders Olga aloud, "That is your president?"
"Yes. He was president for a year." Gesticulate. Animate.
"Did people love him? Was he a good president?"
"Yes. Yes."
Olga and I look at each other. The newspaper seller/erstwhile adored president was now standing right next to our car now. We look at him and wonder.

"Well, at least he is flexible with his jobs?" Olga ventures.
I mumble. The heat seems unbearable now. The country feels hotter somehow. No, dear.

Rashid points at the newspaperman/ex-president who is no more adored, "He is dead. May his soul rest in peace."

Olga and I turn slowly, scared and stare at Binaisa's face on the newspaper. The air clears up and the airconditioning is working now.

Right, dear.

That night many years ago

2010-02-25T20:11:00.000-08:00

The cruise had docked for the night and the air was balmy, but boisterous. There were lights and people a short distance away - melody and mirth coming together in a mad frenzy that could only be a bride in white and a groom in black surrounded by colour and chaos. I was just a hop, skip and swim away from an Egyptian wedding. And it all started when my mother came dashing through my door.

“There is a wedding a little distance away. I know two girls who are going. Quickly! Get ready!”

“What do you mean, get ready? I am in bed. On the Nile. I am in bed on the Nile! Do you realize what a rare luxury that is?”

“Stop being so boring! Get ready and go!”

Truth was I didn’t just want to walk into a wedding in Egypt without an invitation. I wondered how we would be received? Unsolicited wedding entrances was just something I hadn’t bothered to look up before I boarded that flight from New Delhi. But my mother stood at the door, waiting. Suddenly, I could feel her excitement begin to seep into my bones. I got out of bed and into my ensemble for the evening – jeans and a t-shirt. I grabbed some lip gloss, ran my fingers through my hair and stared at myself in the mirror. There was no danger of the bride turning purple with jealousy.

Irresolutely, I walked towards my partners-in-crime. They were French. And spoke just enough English. Which did away with eclectic starts to small talk, given that our short journey to the sewan was peppered with various phrases explaining where we would be sailing to yesterday. I blinked. They consulted. “We mean tomorrow. We will be sailing to Philae tomorrow.”

By this time we were standing before the entrance to the sewan. I took a deep breath and hurried after my co-wedding crashers, and walked right into the middle of the celebrations. There was music and dance and many, many people. Some of them noticed us right away and came to greet us with warm, wide arms. “You Indian?” “You French?” “You blonde?” “You Amitabh Bachchan?”

“I mean, do you know Amitabh Bachchan?”

“Not really. He moves in glitzier circles.”

“Well, we Egyptians love him!”

And with that he grabbed my hand and pulled me in to dance. Everyone had formed a circle around the bride and groom who were holding hands and dancing. But not for long, because they had to be informed about the foreign, exotic trespassers. The French and I went ahead to congratulate them. The groom was most excited to see us, but the bride (and I remember her face all these years down) had eyes only for him. She held onto him and gently swayed. I smiled. They were beautiful.

I will remember that night for more than one reason. I was being welcomed into an intimate celebration of love, welcomed amongst family and friends, welcomed with such adoration in a land where I had arrived only days ago. It was also a night where the French and I received our first marriage proposals. My suitor took me straight to meet his mother. She kissed my forehead and told me I should marry her son. I was worth every camel she could lay her hands on. I smiled apologetically.

Before we left, tired and content with our fill of an authentic Egyptian wedding, my suitor walked up to me. He handed me a coin. “This is for good luck. And because, I always want you to remember me.” I took it, thanked him and turned away.

But I had only taken a few steps towards the cruise, when I turned. I stood under the stars, surrounded by the calm of the night and the secrets of the river. I looked at the coin in my hand. And wondered.

My Man

2010-02-14T15:39:00.000-08:00

Why do I love the man that I love? Because, he ran after that Sikh man clad in a half-sleeve shirt in the foggy, foggy nights of the wintry season that was. While I swerved the car into a calmer and lonely spot, my man, he navigated the honking cars and the twinkling headlights to find that Sikh man. I lost my man in the rear-view mirror. But I had lost that Sikh man five minutes before.

As that Sikh man with his trove of incense sticks had approached us, I had whipped out a tenner in a chronic demonstration of magnanimity. But that Sikh man had thwarted my gesture in a sweeping statement that made me stop breathing for a second, but only for a second. He said but didi, I will not accept your charity, buy instead some of my incense sticks. But how could I part with my bunch of tenners when I had others to hand them out to? I needed a second to think! But that Sikh man had handed over a box of sticks, taken the tenner and moved on swiftly while the signal stayed a searing scarlet. My face crumpled.

And amidst my heaving sobs that had eyes from without fixated within (but could they really see into me?) my man, he took a deep breath, asked me to wait for him at the corner, turned, opened the door, and walked out purposefully. I turned and waited in my calm, lonely spot. Headlights whizzed by, and the night sky pressed heavy onto my heart. I waited in anticipation. What might happen? Were more incense sticks destined to exchange hands? Or were they to stay firm in search of a more wanting home? What would I do with them anyway? Maybe part with them as an exotic souvenir? Maybe never light them and forget their purpose entirely? Or was the night sky in favour of that Sikh man? Was he going to end the day with a bolt from the vault? Was he finally going to buy himself some warmth? Or was he too far away already to be found in the crowded, chaotic confusion that surrounded?

My heart was beating, it was impatient. I peered into the rear-view mirror again and I spotted him, my man. He was walking towards my parking lights, he had seen me. But I couldn’t understand what his gait possibly communicated. Incense sticks? That Sikh man? Who won? Who lost? Was any of this really about that?

He opened the car door and slipped in. Handed me packs and packs of incense sticks. Rubbed his hands, it was freezing. I smiled. It was really about this. This very moment that melted my heavy, beating heart in a sweeping show of serendipity. I had my man beside me, and I wanted to stay just a while longer. Forever ,if possible with this kind, loving man that he is. I started the car.

The night sky was on my side.

THIS IS A LATE NEW YEAR RESOLUTION

2009-06-20T13:21:00.000-07:00

Because, one is trying an experiment. To begin with - a post once every two days. But days that begin Indian time, and end two days later American time. Oh, but do you not realize? I am trying to hoodwink you. Now, how may I inflict my stellar intellectual vestiges on thy divine self? Do you want me to relate music drivel, sing cinematic praises, else reflect bookish platitudes? Or might I attempt to reveal my divine self to thee - little by little. But you see, I have so little to tell.

Suggestions welcome. But since you have been far and away for so long dear friends, I think this one just might be my call.

ZE HIGHER FORCES

2008-09-25T13:17:00.000-07:00

Despite our rather grudgingly approved sabbaticals (by the higher forces of course) we have been awarded. An award. And we must pass it on.
But first, we wish to thank Mr. Lounger from the lounge of Imam Wapsoro. For his undying support and much looowe.

And we must pass on the cheer. Cheer that shall probably never be heard or seen. But cheer that will send ripples of positive energy that will affect somebody, something somewhere. Because you see, we believe in such things. The higher forces, of course. Cheering on then:

Jabberwock: We love him because he has good taste. And then there is nostalgia. And then there was none.
Szerelem, Szerelem: We love her for her passion. And her obsession.
High Heel Confidential: For teaching us big things. Expensive things. Oh-so-fun things.
Purely Narcotic: For being sensitive and flitsy-flootsy fantastic.
Imam Wapsoro: But of course. For trying. And triumphing.

Toodles then! Until next time :)

WELCOME ME

2008-08-26T15:47:00.000-07:00

I shall call it a sabbatical. An unnecessary sabbatical. But here we are and back on the road.

Whatever prompted me back into the deliciously real world of blogging again? A class assignment. Yes you heard me right. If facts are to be believed then 80% of a 1 credit course dedicated to blogging shall contribute towards my final grade. And the first question is ‘Who am I?’ Easy? But, of course.

About as easy as back when I was preparing for my TOEFL examination, and the voice prompt egged me on to describe my room and dumped a 10 second timer on me for necessary preparation. And so I spluttered “My room is….erm…large. It is bright and colourful. I love my room. Uh…” Nervous laughter punctuated the monstrosity of a meaningless sentence. Describe my room? I can talk how digital technology is revolutionizing the microfinance sector, and how the Global North needs to stop monopolizing. Period. But describe my room? Splutter. And then some.

Since when did I become such a complicated creature that the details in my very own bedroom started escaping me? The deep magenta wall, flanked by light wooden wardrobes with inward ridges. The giant television set that still has cable, covered by frilly peach fabric. Just about worse than Nat Geo in Hindi. But just about. Because, really I watched MTV Splitsvilla all the time.

Therefore, ‘Who am I?’ will be answered. With much aplomb and symmetry. But it really isn’t as simple as I would imagine. For starters, am I a Grad student? A Post-Grad student? Did I just complete my under-graduation? Or those nights I spent away in a desultory daze courtesy copious alcohol, were they not really celebrating my graduation? Sigh. Welcome me to the United States of America.

Love.

'TWAS A GOOD PLAY

2008-05-09T12:19:00.001-07:00

The light comes on to reveal a staid, wooden table. One of the legs, seemingly shorter, lulls the staid, wooden table into an inconvenient motion. Until suddenly it jerks her into conversation. She is sitting opposite him. And in their loose, daily attire they start talking about super-heroes.

She: Really?

He: Yes, I am serious. I posses actual superpowers.

She: Uh huh. And what might these superpowers be?

He: I cannot tell you. When I start telling people, they start...(emphatic pause, deliberate stare)...dying.

She: Err....

He: Yes, I kill people with my talk. That is indeed my superpower.

She: What do you mean? (darts a look here, darts another there.)

He: It can be quite gruesome if I so wish. It takes the beginnings of forming my lips into ovals, moistening my lips, and expending the slightest whoooooosh of a word. I can feel the world around me spinning, Yes, I can feel it. There is a sudden energy that suddenly grips me. I feel like my brain is aware of a brand new consciousness. A world with my victims, and a world without. I have the power, the simple power of only talking about this power. And then the schism penetrating my consciouness, vanishes into thin air, taking with it the victims as I so desire. It is devastating my power, in execution and in style. Such ultimate power, all contained in a little, itchy ball dying to escape my throat...

She: (yawns)

He: (looks away, defeated) Well, looks like my superpower is to kill people with my talk.

DEAR FRIEND

2008-04-02T11:48:00.000-07:00

Dear friend,

Once upon a time there was her, who promised with fancy. She beheld wistful glimpses into the future resplendent with gaiety and promise. Yet, she rued her failing friendships from the past and nodded solemnly.

‘One day we will leave. And you will be here and I will be there. It won’t be the same you know, and I cannot bear to think about that. I don’t know what I would do without you.’

‘Why? You will be here and I will be there. Once you are used to the difference, the distance won’t matter.’

‘It hasn’t worked in the past. Why would it work now?’

But it would. If only you had remembered me there, flung from a social extravaganza into a life less lively. Adapting to the old family that reared its brand new façade and grunted to enliven conversation. I didn’t laugh the same way, or cry the same way. I didn’t grant the same way, the way I did when you were my family.
What good really is nostalgia? What good, when you have chosen your life. Sometimes you curl up in your bed struggling under the heavy darkness alive with a strange kingdom, and you think of me. Your hand reaches to me amidst doubts and self-pity, but the blackness prevents you from seeing straight and you retract. I call the next day and you half sob. But my heart has become impervious and I strain it. But my heart has become impervious.

What good are these words that will never reach you? Dear friend, I remember you with a touch of mirth. But the pending has assumed the past. It would not work now.

Love,

Dear friend.

KITHS KINS AND THE SHINS

2008-03-28T10:54:00.000-07:00

There is an airplane waiting to whisk me away to distant waters. No, the airplane is not a metaphor for my warty frog waiting to receive a double dose of my minty mouth (for I do brush with minty toothpaste that promises to kill my plaque as well. Revolutionary toothpaste! Such a breath of fresh air.) No, the distant waters are not the gingerbread house made of gingerbread in ginger flavour that is cosy and comfortable and homely and fairy taley (and edible!) all at the same time. 'Tisnt.

I am expected to board the flying contraption and cross borders to alien countries with contentious space-folk stories and elaborate millitary plans. Oh but the Cold War is past and we are in the grip of a whole new horror. Obesity! Wait. And....anorexia! Well, I am expected to land in the midst of a dichotomy anyway. Excellent.

And one is gripped with an all-too-familiar feeling of the throat constricting, struggling to force our affected greetings while blinking rapidly. Because the new compatriots will not always understand. And will probably not take too kindly to your love affair with Nutella, tequila and the dream back in wonderla. And when you ask them if they know your kith & kin because the chances of knowing them from a billion strong is not entirely negligible, they will rationalize. And sometimes laugh. And then this love affair will dwindle away as a one-night-can't-stand.

Which is why I love The Shins.

Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.
Only, i don't know how they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet that i was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.

And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.

Wish me luck. Please.

NOSTALGIMMICKS

2008-02-29T11:14:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't told you, but I have had rather intimate ties with theatre. While co-directing a play two years ago for the theatre group Dramanon (which incidentally has its reach in Manipal, Bangalore and Hyderabad if you are interested) I had written a heartfelt Director's note. I suddenly found it and am reproducing it here to gain your acceptance a tad bit more. I am kidding.

Here in it's original and undiluted form:

It all began that bright, sunny afternoon when Dramanon converged at our revered rendezvous point; the script was decided upon, some dates finalized, designations nominated…and we were rolling again! And thus, ensued a recycled reaction of regular entertainment, daily jokes, frequent bouts of stress and screaming sessions, intermittent paranoia and the eleventh-hour chaos…

The script impressed me from the start. It was simple, warm and celebrated a wonderful intimacy between characters so real and so exaggerated. The humour catered to every genre-slapstick, cinematic, situational and even the pun patronizing types! The moral was not preaching, yet explained so much. And we had the pleasure of working with some very intelligent actors, who could interpret their characters beautifully and slide into their skins with the utmost ease. Even when we made them repeat their dialogues again and AGAIN, they flitted through with a smile on their faces. And when we would get down and dirty with the tiresome psyche of the characters they would listen patiently and improve tremendously. A truly talented bunch…my heartfelt gratitude.

The production team leaves EVERYTHING for the last minute, and in those last hours ticking away mercilessly, works day and night sacrificing sleep, food and mental sanity to leave no stone unturned. They are the real heroes behind the scenes…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream.

And finally my co-director. Dramanon had a bipolar-director-disorder going with Dhruv and me arguing over few things, and agreeing over fewer! But this guy is something! Immensely capable and definitely cooperative…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream and cherry on top.

And now presenting to you my swan song…

Sigh. Good ol' days.

JODHAA AKBAR

2008-02-18T08:22:00.000-08:00

We expected fantastic stuff from a 40 crore budget and Ashutosh Gowariker. Because we all liked Lagaan and Swadesh, albeit their rather patience-testing durations. The former was a fictitious event based in pre-independence India and hence, Mr. Gowariker had his creative imprimatur to tweak a character here, to tune an emotion there, to finally produce Lagaan as it was. And Swadesh again was heartwarming. Modern when it had to be, rural when it had to be and entirely inspirational. And yes, we did overlook the obvious lack of chemistry between Shah Rukh Khan and Gayatri Joshi. And we lived.

But Mr. Gowaiker why-ever did you get so confused with Jodhaa Akbar? Were you thinking 'I want to direct an epic love story, a union of hearts, a union of minds, a union of skills and a union of religion?' or were you thinking 'I want to direct a period movie, resplendent in all its glory, intrigue and historical accuracy.' Because what you finally did deliver was a perfect pastiche of incongruous ideas.

If twas' a love story you were looking to depict, then I can digest that the infamously lascivious Mughals' descendant became a one-woman man for his wife from an evidently political alliance (Of course, his grandson Shah Jehan did reject his ancestors' wanton ways for Mumtaz Mahal. Of course, Mumtaz Mahal also went ahead to die in childbirth, incidentally while giving birth to her 14th child. Our very virile Shah Jahan impregnated her more than once due to the lack of a most effective contraceptive - polygamy). So Mr. Gowariker, you wanted to create the perfect love story that our monogamous minds could accept and cherish. Love that arose from the darkened depths of political interests and religious discontent. That left behind deceit and conspiracy in its virgin wake. Love in the time of mughal-era. Marquez would be proud.
But then why would we have to sit through three and a half hours of historical events, all well-researched I presume? Because it was a love story right?

Oh but you wanted to direct a period film! Aaaaaaah. But then why no mention, however fleeting, of Ruqaiyya Begum or Salima Sultan, Akbar's 2 wives from before his marriae to Jodhaa Bai, and very much a part of his principal queens? Yes we know you included a rather prosaic disclaimer warning us that there are various names for Jodha Bai, but did you have to pander so much to the Indian sensibilities that you just dropped essential facts?

A Mughal epic was attempted at, but the Mughal era can never be created without a consistent portrayal of their stories on the battlefield, and their stories in the bedroom. The Mughal era that saw tolerance under Akbar, but if one version is to be believed, intolerance when it came to Jehnagir entering into wedlock with Anarkali. They saw the golden age under Shah Jehan, yet intense deceitry and conspiracy amongst his progeny. The Mughals just shouldn't be reduced to eye-gazing, coy-smiling lovestruck stars.

Ok, ok but yes we concede that Hrithik Roshan was better than decent. Aishwarya Rai looked pretty, dainty and all those wonderful adjectives. And hell Sonu Sood (do you remember him from Aashiq Banaya Aapne? No? I thought so) was pretty darn good. Give him some good films please, he has some latent talent that boy.

STRANGER THAN FRICTION

2008-01-18T05:40:00.000-08:00

Meeting a stranger for the first time can be quite the daunting task. You might hope for stranger person to hold on tightly to a bright conspicuous sunflower, but stranger person might announce a dull, pedestrian sweater for tracking intentions. You might scan the ambient area for one black sweater and wave at quite a few black lovers. Oh, yes there are quite a few of them. Now you know.

Your accent might become more polished and purrry, your intonation deep and purposeful. Yet at the exact moment of ejaculating the purrrr-fect 'Hellooooo...', irritating cab driver might bombard you with calls and castigations because you forgot to inform him that you didn't require his services. Never mind that four other cab drivers called before him. Yes, there are quite a few cab drivers as well. Now you know that too.

You might bare your teeth a lot, with a desire to model your flashing 32. But conversation might dwindle as pearly whitened orifice might scare more than share. Inebriation might evade your tight purse strings, loose cigarettes might evade your very premises, knowledge might evade Ralph Waldo Emerson's transcendentalist works. Conversation threatens to burn an indelible improper impression.

And then you discover that investing in windmills might save you a whole lot of tax, that Bengaluru was crazier than you imagined, and that there are scarier things than two drunk souls driving a car without a license, getting caught by cops in the middle of the night.

Meeting someone for the very first time can be stranger than friction. Because sometimes there just isn't any.

INCREDIBLE INDIA

2007-12-19T04:58:00.000-08:00

After a really, really long time I introduced some colour into my drab, corporate-corrupt life. I was contemplating exit routes in my soporific yet stay-put-till-it-is-time-to-go-home environment and fleeting through random sites when suddenly I hit the Incredible India website. Pause.

The site is attractive to say the least. There is colour of every possible hue and tone, all co-existing in a riot of contrast. And it makes such a difference to note that, our country with all its diversity is represented and packaged in a manner completely befitting.

What is certified genius though, is the concept of Microsites. We have entire portals dedicated to such offerings as Indian Heritage, Crafts of India, Come to Paradise…We are routed to striking interfaces complete with extensive facts, figures, fairs and festivals.

Incredible India is a very guided site. The home page itself offers you a composite view of pretty much all that the site has to offer. The photography is exquisite, the colours are vivid and rich, navigation is simple and a pleasure! I therefore recommend – traverse then travel. Incredible India will leave you yearning for more.

BOLLYWOOD MANIA I

2007-10-27T08:19:00.001-07:00

No, but I love Bollywood. And recently I have been gorging on 'em so a post on. Yes.

First I must, must talk about Johnny Gaddar. Two factors drove me to watch a movie on a hot, weekday morning.
1. Neil Nitin Mukesh (Very good, very good guess. One golden star.)
2. A close family friend who looks god-o-god-o-why steaming hot in the item number Dhoka. (Can I have my golden star back please??)
A 'suspense thriller' say most critics. But I beg to differ. The movie was slow really, I was eating my popcorn (buttered yes, which is why I am NOT in Dhoka. Hmph.) faster then the story was advancing. And our praaji Dharmendra ji was tightening every muscle in his jaded body and struggling to deliver. Poor man. Not that he is a mediocre actor ordinarily, but his golden days are past. And his diction? Goodness! Disappointing choice. Really.
But have I given you the impression that I did not enjoy the movie? Oh, but I did I did! It deserved every star part of the 3 and a half rating that TOI awarded it. The casting (barring our bigamous praaji) was great, almost comparable to Chak De's actually. The performances were energetic, never once over the top. Yes, that includes Neil Nitin Mukesh. So what if I am being a tad generous, it's his first movie (and must I mention the weak-knee-me-be pink shirt and grey sweater combination? Yes? Fiiiine.)
More than being a thriller, the movie was all about how somewhere, sometimes things just don't work out the way you envisioned. It could have paced up, included some ambient OST to set your pulse racing, brought out the flashy cars, flashier women, showcased some tightballed fists and slick arms, oozed some blood and lots of tension. It could have tried to be plain, boring racy. But slow and steady sure does win the race, especially when you stick to some good ol' Vijay Anand and James Hadley Chase inspirations. I must mention Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy's awesome soundtrack. A-W-E-some. There :)
Worth a watch for a pleasant surprise. I vote!

I also caught Laaga Chunari Mein Daag recently. I am a sorry sucker for colour and some impressive cinematography (I looooove Sanjay Leela Bhansali movies. Sigh.) So I trotted along to catch the movie. But there was sooooooooooo much potential!! A Banarasi setting could have exploded the big, bad screen into a riot of clashing colours. But why were there jazzy, fake-y sets most of the time? Huh? Why? Too much light, too less capturing of true colour.
But what I loved about the movie?

1. Choosing two of the tallest, cockiest men in Bollywood to play the parts of blood-brothers? Perfect.
(Doesn't hurt that they are yummy-dummy-delicious too. When Kunal Kapoor kisses Konkona Sen, I swear my heart let out an inadvertent banshee wail. Woe please be me. )
2. Jaya Bachchan. Perfecter.
She is positively brilliant! After watching Dharmendra's exhausted act, Jaya Bachchan's indefatigable and near-perfect performance was wow! An established actress she is, part of the Bachchan we-are-perfect-actors-now-that-aishwarya-also-joined-us too. But watching her efforts translate into a natural ease on the screen was refreshing.
Especially when compared with Rani Mukherjee's performance. Whatever has happened to her? Brilliant often, but I cannot fathom how her effortless acting just did not rear it's pretty little head in this movie? Oh well I still have faith in her.
Konkona Sen wsn't bad. Acting wise. Her whole dancing-around-the-trees routine? The less said the better.
On the whole, the movie was a disappointment. It tries hard but just crosses the line over into too-melodramatic-to-digest land. The title OST was the clincher. The song, the picturisation, the trying portrayal of newfound pain - awful. And a pity too, because it really did have so much potential.

Well at least the buttered popcorn never lets me down :)

LA BELLE ÉPOQUE AND OUR CHRISTA KIEFFER

2007-09-25T01:00:00.000-07:00

Came across this. Actually long, long ago but decided quite suddenly to let you know. Stunning and sublime really, Christa Kieffer's oil on canvas captures a world of rich, glittering colours and a golden glow of the quaint streetlights in the pinkish hue the retreating sun leaves behind. She does it deliberately too, 'To me, the transition of light is espeically appealing.' Christa Kieffer does it with a rare finesse. Even to my untrained eye, her work assaults with such a stark longing, that I immediately want to click my golden shoes together and find myself back in 'The Beautiful Era'.

The beautiful era - La Belle Époque. An era before the world was ravaged by the great wars and went on to achieve the distant dream of Socialism to kill all traces of privilege by birth. The more profound reflections apart, I think what suffered the most was the style of dressing.

Edwardian wide-brimmed hats and Victorian waist-squeezing corsets, donned with Etonian jackets to complement that hour glass figure - a thing of the past. Kieffer's work although captures the earlier dressing styles of this era. The mega sleeves, the rich gowns - a true indicator of your social standing and pedigree. And now pedigree determines only the price of the next dog I wish to own. And righ gowns are donned by anyone and everyone on their wedding day. Socialism retaliates with free and fair personal identity.

Not much of a post, but some of vicarious nostalgia.

OF THE LAST MUGHAL AND GREATNESS

2007-09-20T00:21:00.000-07:00

There are times when you encounter art, artisans, arti-ness and a subjugating feeling of acute dwarfness overpowers you?
Like when you are sitting a bloating, gloating Indian for all purposes on paper, and along comes a William Dalrymple, a Scottish enamoured by the great city of Delhi (he compares the history, the culture and the aura with that of Constantinople and Cairo) and more so, by the little remembered (No, the Taj Mahal doesn't count as Mughal-only memory) House of Timur and it's descendants.

The Last Mughal who Suraj thought was Aurangzeb, who you might not remember either, who my grandmum remembered as 'The Great Bahadur Shah'. Bahadur Shah Zafar - The Last Mughal. Great? As the ripe and feeble octagenerian, greatness of strategy and strenght of conviction and mind was the last thing that could be attributed to the old and fragile man. He remains buried with a less-than-monumental architectural excuse remembering his death and inhaling his forgotten, decaying life in Burma.

Of the greatness of the 1857 Mutiny that many remember as the first armed assault against the East India Company for freedom from colonisation and an implicit incarceration. But which for all its misconstrued greatness remained a religious revolt. An initial pre-dominant Hindu army making its way to the great city of Delhi, seeking the hollow blessings of a puppet Mohameddan king (Bahadur Shah Zafar), and rising in revolt to protest against the cartridges rubbed with cow and pig fat. The revolution that killed every British man, woman and child in sight, that resisted the British army for 4 months, that starved and strived and put up a worthy fight, that plundered the city of its riches and its dignity, that disrespected the very idea of a great Mughal king. The revolution that started swaying dangerously towards becoming an out-and-out Jihadi revolution.

But the one thing that was great about the Last Mughal was his ability to recognise and regard the Hindu-Muslim unity, and to persevere to retain that very unity to stand up against the kafirs - the British. An eighty year old man lost in the chaos about him, increasingly aware of the dying line of Timur, seeking solace in his poetry, his beautiful verse, struggling but only so feebly to restore the dynasty that ruled Hindoostan for more than three centuries.

But he failed. He could not stem the depradation, the plundering, the carnage about him. Great then? Broken and weak when the British finally conquered the city and reversed the tables. The depradation, plundering and carnage continued. But under a different army, a different colour. No, there was nothing great about the Last Mughal, the 1857 Mutiny or its rapacious and rambunctious armies.

The only greatness is displayed by Dalrymple himself. For falling in love with the city of Delhi, the story of the Mughals and their white counterparts. For investing time and effort, blood and sweat to go through dying accounts of the 1857 Mutiny and to reconstruct the horrors, the helplessness and the history. For being not an Indian and feeling like one, for being but a Scottish and proud as one, for being a true Sufi artist and only loving. Greatness? That is William Dalrymple.

TAGGING-A-LING

2007-08-28T11:14:00.000-07:00

Joy says I can considered myself tagged. So here goes.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.

Scar on my right leg. Interesting shape, mottled with fairness and positively ghastly! Got it from the scalding silencer of someone's bike. No, I don't remember.

2. What is on the walls in your room?

Oh, Buddha inspired figures on dark blue, within golden frames. I wish I had the Renoirs. I do too. Sibling beat me to it. Hmph. I bet she can't even pronounce Renoir. Of course, they are impressions. Of course :)
Mother Martinet does not allow posters and such atrocities on the pristine walls. Sheesh.

3. What does your phone look like?

May I answer this question in a year? You know, when I actually possess a contraption that can be termed a real, live, functional phone.

4. What music do you listen to?

Oh rock, retro, jazz....a lot actually. A LOT. Right now I am listening to The Dandy Warhols, The Shins, Rare Earth, Link Wray and Howard Shore.

5. What is your current desktop picture?

A black lab. I share computer with sibling and parent.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?

To move down south where my entire social fraternity resides. Preferably with a cushy job. Jesus Saves?

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?

Hmmm...I suppose so. Haven't dedicated much though to it since, you know, it isn't exactly pertinent *cough cough*.

8. Are your parents still together?

Yes. Still. How?

9. What are you listening to?

Refer 4 up and above.

10. Do you get scared of the dark?

Oooh yes. I sometimes sleep with the lights glaring down on my face (and yes the aliens will kill me!)
The aliens are vanquished by light. Duh.

11. The last person to make you cry?

Scotch, my adorable cocker spaniel. He has assumed the family name so yes, he is a person.

12. What kind of hair/eye type do you like on the opposite sex?

Oh there are more important things. Like a broad chest and nice legs. No, I am NOT gay (refer 7).

13. Do you like pain killers?

Next.

14. Are you too shy to ask someone out?

No. But I shall hope that neither are they :)

15. Favourite pizza topping?

Meat and cheese. No wait. Cheese and meat.

16. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?

Porridge. And fruity-tooty cakes.

**Oh and I tag Suraj (yes do it on your poetry blog, yes?) and anyone else I might not know as well as I want to. That means YOU.

BOOKWORMING

2007-08-17T23:34:00.000-07:00

It's been long time post coming. And all relevance of movie-reviewing (refer last post) having been lost, I shall continue with opinionating (yes, yes I invent words) on the plethora of books I have read of late.

First I finished Cat and Mouse by Gunter Grass. He is an artist of detail, with something as seemingly inconsequential as a vulgar Adam's apple being likened to a sly, stealthy game of....Cat and Mouse! Unfocussed on the story-telling, Grass recounts events. And whether or not one is supposed to read between the lines can be removed to discretion because reading this work is all about translating. From powerful words to vivid pictures.

Then I started and finished not one, but two Harry Potters (I remain an unabashed fan). Yes, The Deathly Hallows and The Half-Blood Prince (again). In fact I have read those two so many times over the past month that my sibling and I have been reduced to discussing the loopholes (oh and they are a few!!) in the plot in excruciating detail. For one, why do the ruddy wizards mess up when donning muggle clothes when clearly that's what you are wearing often enough throughout your school life in Hogwarts? Or maybe I have succumbed to the bad habit of mixing books with movies. Maybe.
For two (SPOILER ALERT) why o why does Narcissa Malfoy lie to Voldemort that Harry is dead. I mean if it was the victory celebration that would have taken her to the Hogwarts grounds, that would have happened anyway had she betrayed his thumping heartbeat. Voldemort wouldn't have waited long to kill poor, defenseless Harry. Unless Narcissa knew the curse would rebound. Did she?

Ramblings apart, I continued with Snow by Orhan Pamuk. Before this I had read My Name is Red by the same author and the deviation from the ornate style that he adopts in that is strikingly obvious. But I liked Snow very, very much. They geometry the protagonist discovers in every unique snowflake is confirmed almost immediately to an emotion, a phase he himself is experiencing with a sensitive (yet often aggressive) description. And the story telling is convincing; based in Kars, Turkey inhabited by the much glamourised religious fanatics, the staunch liberals who disavow all such impulses, and the ones stuck in between.

Then the following week I completed The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan and The Squabble by Nikolai Gogol. The Bonesetter's Daughter was a decent read. Compelling and swift. I found the descriptions weak, yet the story of Chinese immigrants in The U.S. was again, cogent.

However, my favourite was Gogol. He is an indiscriminate artist of description. Vivid detailing that infuses electric life into the most inanimate objects. Lovely. Although I was detached from my enthusiastic attraction for a moment when Gogol (like Kundera and Pamuk) insisted on connecting the story to his self , by introducing networks with the characters or some such (Kundera does it in The Unbearable Lightness of Being and justifies it (most implicitly) by announcing kitsch as the foundation of any and every art.) But I grew to understand the cardinal nature of story-telling. Oh well, I suppose I will live.

But seriously, Gogol comes with a golden star and three smiley faces.
:):):)

I LOVE GIVING GRE...

2007-07-19T02:50:00.000-07:00

...especially when I click on that fear-inducing, minatory monster of a button ['Click this and you CANNOT cancel your score'], inhale-exhale in quick, efficient burts and peer through my narrowed eyes trying desperately NOT to see...
But, wait...hang on...noooo...I did well?? Eeeep. [My latest Calvin inspired ejaculation]

Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.

And its true. I managed to whip some pretty ass. And I tell you this, it feels mighty good :)
Life looks good. Beloved friend is flying up north to induce some frolic into my post-GRE life. And beloved parents are flying me up norther [and mostly wester] to lovely, lovely exotic lands. Beloved hair from the hirsute-y body has been removed amidst much cringing. And beloved dresses can be donned again!
And the Osian film festival comes to Delhi on the 20th! Last year I sat beside pretty-miss-perfect Raima Sen and watched The Bong Connection [yes! An entire year before it was commercially released]. It was great fun, as I sat there in the dim auditorium ensconsed most comfortably in a palpable environment of bongness. Not as much from the movie [no, it was not as bong as expected...what a pity], as from the excited Bongs all around me. Talkative maashis (aunties), somber kakus (uncles) and big-eyed baccha log (youth junta). I remember myself smiling a lot.

I have been a regular at the Osian film festival for the past two years. I have watched all kinds of movies; Iranian, Chinese, Indian; silent, colourful, vulgar; and I am so glad it comes now into my wonderfully free life. There is a God.

So I shall be posting my reviews soon. But never judge a book by its cover, or a movie by missquoted's blog entry. Maybe I will see you at the film festival then :)

WHEN PEOPLE CAN SUPERSONIC-SPEAK

2007-07-06T10:54:00.000-07:00

My GRE date is looming large and without much largess unfortunately, and therefore I have little time and inclination to blog comprehensively.
Oh but something very interesting happened yesterday. I heard some mutual funds advertisement over the radio. And co-incidentally watched a mutual funds advertisement on the television the same day. Has anyone noticed the crazed speed at which the guy is speaking at the end of the advertisement, relating the perfunctory precautions? No, seriously. That speed is worth a blog entry!
And then I settled down in bed with some sumptuous viand (yessss!!! Actually a synonym for food. Help!) to get my diurnal (don't ask) dose of Seinfeld. And master Jerry speaks at the same loony speed to tell his mom off over the phone because he is expecting an important call! Talented guys these...
And here I thought I was a fast speaker. So much for divine delusions.

Oh and just as an afterthought, I stumbled upon Christophe Beck recently. The songs have been on repeat ever since. Remembering Jenny and Drink me I strongly recommend. I have not been able to listen to a very versatile collection. For that matter, I am not even sure if Beck is versatile, but it's lovely nonetheless; mellow, mellifluous instrumental (mostly piano) and I quote 'it makes you feel like you are in Europe'. Very OST-ish, the piano has a habit of doing that. Start searching :)

Also discovered The Dandy Warhols. Woo hoo hoo! Fast, frivolous and funnnnnn. I recommend the overplayed Bohemian like you, the Good Will Hunting OST track 12 Boys better and the funky We used to be friends. Thank you Suraj.

And that's all folks! Wish me luck!

NOLANISMS

2007-06-19T05:54:00.000-07:00

Managed to squueze in 'Following' by Christopher Nolan recently. That brings my Nolan grand total to 3 - Memento, The Prestige and yus yus, the afore mentioned. So I have assumed the role of a despairing dilettante and proceed to spew forth my observations.

Nolan has a signature style. Obsessed protagonists who are battling their demons, and all the while Chritopher Nolan is exultantly disregarding chronology. Oh, chronology! Nolan paces back and forth in time, builds up a crescendo of confused events and conflicting appearances, only to end with those precious moments of clarity (although I DID have to watch Memento twice. Erm.)

Nolan's movies have to be watched and regarded with concentration. Else you will miss a beautiful line here, an ostensibly insignificant glance there that will strike you later once the jigsaw pieces fit.

Take for instance, The Prestige ( spoiler beckons so proceed ONLY at your own risk). When Hugh Jackman is reading Christian Bale's journal he cannot for the life of him understand why Bale does not claim responsibilty for his wife's death. Only when Jackman realises that Bale had had him the entire time, are you transported back to that seemingly inconspicuous line. Lovely lovely.

For the record I liked The Prestige the most. It was racy. The concluding minutes were fanatstic with the characters and the audience alike revelling in sudden realisation. And the moment of 'abracadabra' was phenomenal. No, seriously.

Following was interesting. The beginning of the movie very discreetly gives away the apparent similarities of the protagonists, revealing its significance in the conclusion. And then onwards begins the story of obsessive stalking. I would have enjoyed it more thoroughly though had I not already watched a cheap Bollywood imitation starring Kareena Kapoor, Shahid Kapur and Fardeen Khan (but the scene of the bullet knocking off Kareena Kapoor's hair bun was killer!! Every pun intended :))

And there you have it. My Nolanisms.

POWER PREP

2007-06-16T01:33:00.000-07:00

A casual caveat if you bothered to read the previous post: DO NOT BOTHER!

Bother however about this:

1. Proclivity
2. Propensity
3. Predilection
4. Penchant

All mean more or less the same. GRE pandora's pox anyone?

OOOH OH OH!

2007-06-03T11:10:00.000-07:00

With moments to collect and preserve...
and insipid goodbyes to deflect before the bus crawls along grudgingly...
the lachrymals will reinstate my faith in the interminable, solitary hours that succeed...
so will my dull and heavy memory...

I want to write...
about The Great Big Donor Show...
and Garden State...
and how I am not quite sure if I enjoyed cheeni kum...

...And the reflections not quite adequate...
....And the words hanging lifeless between you and me...
.....stun the epicurean I pretend, stifle the ostentation I project...

Oh oh oh. Vacuous, vain, verily dispensing horse-excreta?? Give me some time. I am leaving forever and ever and ever for god's sake!

PRE-RAPHALITED!!

2007-04-30T04:05:00.000-07:00

Just when I was settling down into a comfortable relationship with the great Impressionist movement; declaring my favourites, recognising the Renoir reproductions at my place, differentiating a Monet from a Manet, a Vang Gogh from a Duncan, understanding how the sun shimmers in the painting that started it all, and staring down from the elongated sides of my olfactory nemesis at anything vaguely Dali [although Escher sits pretty on my blog].....I discovered the Pre-Raphaelites. And so lord, bless us all.
Love at first sight happened when I picked up a copy of Pre-Raphaelite reproductions for my ol' man. I liked the reproductions and 'twas inexpensive to procure it [as is the case with most of 'em men hooking up with 'em ladies. Hmph.] and if truth be told, I did not give it much thought. But then I was destined to return to the bookstore in my usual I-have-the-time-but-little-money-to-spare-to-buy-books mode and I was browsing through a catalogue of Pre-Raphaelite art. And I discovered this [please do click on it for a mind-numbing moment of raw helplessness].

Ophelia! Ophelia! Sweet, frail, glorious Opehlia! I rushed to pick up a copy of Hamlet [actually I picked up ALL of the four great tragedies] and returned home to devote my new I-have-the-time-but-NO-MONEY-to-spare-whatoever mode to Googl-ing. And I present you with this.
Turns out the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood were a group of seven English painters, poets and crtitcs who sought fit to reject the affectations of the Mannerists [Raphael and Michaelangelo followers] and 'reproduced on canvas what they saw in nature'.
This was their only discriminating feature. Albeit the principles of the brotherhood were laid down in four declarations:

To have genuine ideas to express;
To study Nature attentively, so as to know how to express them;
To sympathise with what is direct and serious and heartfelt in previous art, to the exclusion of what is conventional and self-parading and learned by rote;
And, most indispensable of all, to produce thoroughly good pictures and statues.

These declarations however, were far from stringent, as the Pre-Raphaelites were generous to the individual idea and flair. And although the 'study of nature' lent a very real element to their work, the brotherhood was to eventually split into two; the Realists and the Medievalists who incorporated a spritual perspective in their work. The split, it is claimed, was never absolute but the difference in the work is glaringly obvious.

So, right now I am also hooked onto Hamlet. The moon is the 'moist star' since it governs the tidal waves. Loverlieeeeeeeeeee.

Double whammy did I hear you say??

MOVIE MANIA II

2007-04-11T04:43:00.000-07:00

I managed to edge in two movies last weekend into my raucously busy schedule of imbibing, imploring and immaculate lethargy.

First I caught The Namesake in Bangalore. I did not like it in the least. The book was authored with a slower pace that unravels the story of Gogol Ganguly over the years with certain details stretched thin to leave behind that indelible impression; for instance his first trip to India was important in the sense that it made for academic comparisons to the next trip on the death of his father. But the movie progressed at breakneck speed leaving little room for me to grasp and understand. It disappointed albeit the Bongness put a smile on my face. Annaprashun, and the traditional Bong wedding with the odd white makeup on the bride's and groom's faces made me yearn for papta maach, goopi gayan and erm....Oh! Calcutta.

Didn't do the book justice. Although Irfan Khan was tremendous, Tabu was fine, Kal Penn cute ;-). And was that Moshumi chick steaming hotttttttt, killer legs! Ahem.

I followed it up with 12 Angry Men. And boy, was that some watch. A movie that starts in the courtroom, continues in the jury room and ends on the steps of the courthouse. With 12 (yes angry!) men who divulge not names, not occupations, not any other details that begin to define us as who we are. Nothing except stark and strident reactions. The camera focuses on an individual from time to time for 5-7 seconds, which is absolutely fatal in theatre (focussing the audience's attention on one actor that is), but which just beautifully describes the jury. And we feel an intimate connection with each, trying to understand and defend their actions.
And Joseph Sweeney was much the adorable ol' fella with a piercing glare and larger than life countenance. Provided with some (un)intentional comic relief. Me liked very , very much.
The movie incidentally is adapted from a play and was nominated for 3 Oscars. And it depicts that how often we see just the grime on the glass, and forget to wipe it and see through. Comes highly recommended.

And speaking of recommendations Yann Tiersen has captured my imagination. Google for more details. Watch Amelie for further. And succumb to melodious sin. Sigh.

GREase and GREat expectations

2007-04-04T01:43:00.000-07:00

Circa not so long ago, I had just returned from an exhausting and exhilarating Bombay trip to chaos and confusion over a GRE date which I just did not seem to be getting in either Delhi or Bangalore. Thus, began a self-destructive hours long wait before the desktop, labouring over the eternally confusing ETS website, being admonished at regular and increasing decibel levels by my poor ol' man who just could not comprehend why I had waited so long to get myself a date.

Shine on you crazy diamond me hummed. A trifle chipped chip of the ol' block.

The only date in months before the pattern was to be overhauled was in less than a fortnight in Bangalore. I almost took it.
But after much deliberation I finally convinced me distraught daddy to let me take the test in (hold your breath) TRIVANDRUM in May! I breathed a sigh of relief.

And today Bhopu calls me up to laugh hysterically over the phone. Amid the vociferous ejaculations of suspicious mirth, I was finally informed that ETS had decided to scrap the new pattern. And dates were available again.

So now I have rescheduled my test for the 17th of July in Delhi at a reasonable cost of $40. Cheaper than my Trivandrum trip anyhoo.
And to think I almost gave my test with less than a fortnight's preparation.
Grrrr....

THE ARTIST EYE

2007-03-21T02:19:00.000-07:00

I managed to find time to sit through a movie after long. And I chose Robert Redford’s ‘A river runs through it’ more out of compulsion actually but oh well it inspired this post.

The movie was nominated for 3 Oscars and picked one up, for its excellent excellent cinematography. But I did not quite like the movie. Primarily because it relied too heavily on the narrator’s recounting, accompanied by still photographs to construct the story of a family of fly-fishers. I am unfortunately prejudiced. A movie should flow and move and unravel through the emotions, the words, the language of the actors.

But one line stuck on in my head.

When Craig Sheffer remarked without missing a beat about the perfection of form and of style of Brad Pitt’s fly-fishing endeavours. He affected an affectionate definition. Art.

And really what is art? Grace in language, refinement in advance, poise in stance, colour in view. And sometimes you can find it all around you if you just look a little harder.

When she eats with a rare gratification every meal, and every morsel on the plate.

When he describes with a singular passion and a personal erudition.

When she writes in her calligraphy and tilts back a tad to appreciate.

When he narrates with energy and seamless analogies.

When she sweeps vivid strokes and bright hues and tells not one.

‘Art stares back at itself in the mirror, but truly shines in other’s eyes’*

Yes, art craves the attention of an audience to truly thrive and flourish. To become a means of windfall and thus, complete satisfaction. So we search for art in galleries and auditoriums and museums. When sometimes it stares us in the face. If we only shed our insecurities of a collective approval, the next time he pulls on the cigarette with a pleasant effort to expel it in a streamlined form, maybe art will assume newer definitions.

And I leave you with this:

’This idea of a talking stick (Pinocchio) becoming a boy, it’s like a metaphor for art, and it’s the ultimate alchemical transformation.’

Peace.

*a mischievous manipulation of one of Tarun Tejpal’s many aphorisms. Apologies.

BUSES AND BOYS IN BANGALORE

2007-03-06T20:46:00.000-08:00

I walked into ‘the boys’ house and proceeded to aim some carefully oriented blows at Suri boy’s posterior. ‘Wake him up with a KI-ss not a KI-ck!’ exclaimed Suri boy’s roommate. Minutes later Suri boy groggily theorized that as long as I did not wake him up with a KI-ll, he would live to tell the story [that punster boy him!]

I was anticipating an adventurous day in Bangalore. I was scheduled to meet my external project guide at Mindtree Consultancy, the company I am currently interning in. The office was in Global Village, some 25 km from ‘the boys’ house. After semi-frantic calls to my guide and my project partner, a hurried ablutions conduct, repossessing Suri boy’s ATM and [very expensive] cell phone, dropping him off at his workplace and a forty five minute solitary wait [which included going through ALL 800 of Suri boy’s messages without the imperative imprimatur of course, a random foray into a city-village and vociferous whining to Ara and the group] I was on the bus headed to Global Village. I also managed to sneak in a call to Suri boy wondering [with apparent concern] about his state minus the money and the telecommunication. “Naked.” pat came the repartee. I grinned.

The meeting with my guide was uneventful, save one minor scare where my guide insisted I give a demonstration as to what I understood about my project. I deftly [if I say so myself] digressed to more earthly [and non-academic] concerns of long hours of travel, three year old babies and the beautiful, beautiful Mindtree office. It really was. Colourful and wildly original.
The journey back [this time after an hour long wait during which I had no more messages to read :-(] was tiring, yet I felt a little proud. I have been in Delhi all my life and public transport was deemed unsafe by my parents, which means I either drove or was driven to everywhere. [and no, I ain’t some spoilt brat] I have never really traveled by public transport all by myself, and this was a first. Do NOT take away my lil’ pleasures. Hmph.
On my way back I stopped by Landmark [I incidentally hold a record of ALWAYS coming out with at least one book from there], and picked up Knut Hamsun’s Victoria and a collection of short stories by Wilde which is a happy parrot green colour. Happiness.
Headed back to ‘the boys’ house where I [finally] met B boy’s girl. I liked her instantly and persevered to impress upon B boy that he was tremendously lucky. He balked.
The next two days [yes, it IS becoming an incredibly long post] were spent in gay marathons around the city [and on its very dangerous roads]; a couple of hours in Purple Haze with some Audioslave, David Gilmour, Fool’s Garden and Draught beer; lots of cheese; meeting the respective girls of the respective boys [yes there were more] and swift swoons on being gifted The Last Mughal [by Dalrymple]. It is the most gorgeous book I have laid eyes on in a while.
And of course lending a patient ear to Suri boy’s girlfriend woes. I might have even made things better! Ha! You owe me Suri boy.

Now I am back. Blah.

MUSIC AND THE LYRICISM OF IT ALL

2007-02-26T03:30:00.000-08:00

‘And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.’

-Oscar Wilde

Of the beauty of words, and the sensation blithe that pervades et al; I finally convinced my prejudiced and provincial self to concede to listening to some instrumental music [italics reflect big nose scrunches and cheeky cheeks acrobatics]. That was some months ago. I began with the tried and tested [and inherited] classical paraphernalia and gradually progressed to Satriani and the likes. And every time I heard a piece which engaged in an ‘irreconcilable differences’ attitude with its nomenclature, I would be terribly disappointed.
I was listening to girl in a blue dress* today and I love it! Except it sounds like a woman with short, tidy hair in a grey suit. Walking in an unsullied metallic environment with a determined glint in her intense eyes. Terribly disappointed #1.
But then there is whale and wasp by Alice in chains. Which sounds exactly like what the name suggests.
[but the wasp is a fairy in my head…*grins*]
And of course butterfly etude by Chopin, and it is so fast yet contained…you know how a pretty, colourful butterfly will flit from pretty, colourful flower to pretty, colourful flower.
The funeral march by Chopin again…get it, listen to it, my over-elaborate lexicon shall not help. Terrific.
Traveler [Szerelem pay heed] by Satriani is too furious. Whatever happened to the placid tales of travel, the walk on the sand, the inhaling of the sharp mountain air?? Satriani sounds like he is in on his Hayabusa forging onwards to rape some pretty, colourful Japanese chickitas [but I likeeeeeee Satriani, in spite of his naming transgressions]. Terribly disappointed #2.
Saying goodbye aint half bad…redemption rocks! Starry, starry night is perfecto!

I could go on. But a gossip session awaits with some pretty colourful chicks. Do comment.

*yes I do NOT know who it is by. Any help will be appreciated and NOT remunerated.

WATERS WATERS BABY

2007-02-24T01:50:00.000-08:00

He began with shine on you crazy diamond [and that has to be my favourite, after high hopes maybe]. And some of the other songs I recongnised were wish you were here, the final cut, comfortably numb, the dark side of the moon...songs pretty much anyone would recognise...
And everyone was swaying from side to side in the floyd-bubble which began from where Mister Waters was sitting and cooing [a trifle far from us...ahem...but well worth it!], and its periphery stretched to include us lesser mortals [minus the Oxford Phds in architecture is it??].
And those Phds certainly made their presence felt. We were in a floyd concert and a graphic novel. Especially this song called leaving Beirut, where Mister Waters made his apparent hate for Bush and his kin very obvious, with super animations on the screen behind. To quote a certain Mister Mittal [incidentally our free-pass provider, mentioned in an earlier post] 'feel aa gayeee!'
It was a brilliant concert, there was no sound distinction in any of the ticket denomination demarcations, the graphics were impressive, and although I have been off Floyd lately [have been listening to a lot of Gilmour though] I enjoyed every bit of it.
I was hoping fervently though that he would play the great gig in the sky. It just seemed like that song would fit the occasion...
And the pink, flying pig [trademark Waters apparently] with its loud calligraphy of Kafka rules!, Habeas Corpus, Free at last et al was soooo intentional. I am thinking Animal Farm. More than Animals. Forgive.

And that was that. Super.

BOMBAY TO GO-AAAAAAAAAAAAH

2007-02-15T12:06:00.000-08:00

Currently I am revelling in an inconveniently blah mood. I am busting my ass over the software requirement specifications of a tracerouter [project bluuuuuuuues], and it is entirely disconcerting to imagine the degree of blahness at this early a stage.
The reason I must do this by myself is because my project partner is headed out of town tomorrow for the Surathkal fest. And by the time she gets back, I will be en-route to Bombay. Yeah baby!
I am adequately excited. I will be travelling with my Roger Waters-free-pass-provider friend [yeah yippeee yeah!] who is also striving to get us free entry into some of the city's hot nightclubs. Aaaaaaaaah happiness.

Ok fine. I lied. I do not care so much about the partying. I do care about the Waters concert though. I have grown up on Floyd, which is why it was sufficiently easy to convince my Floyd-philic folks to finance my Bombay trip. And I will be meeting up with some old friends in a city that I have always enjoyed visiting. Yes, yes. I AM adequately excited.

Now that my project beckons, I must take your leave. But once the blah-o-meter gets red hot, I shall return. Oh yes, I shall.
Maybe the Satriani in the background will help....NOT.
[heeeeeeeeeee........Borat influences.]

MOVIE-NG

2007-02-14T00:16:00.000-08:00

I am a happy child[a tad overgrown but heeeeeeeeee haw anyway]. I have come into a gold mine of movies which I intend to watch over the next couple of weeks.

I had heard so much about Pan's labyrinth that I felt it deserved the inaugural watch. And I must say I was a trifle disappointed. It is an intense mixed genre drama that finds parallels in the worlds of the real and the fantasy. And thus, the insect transmorgifies into a fairy[sadly sounding like a mating cricket], and the wall opens up into a monster's chamber, and death transports you to the higher kingdom of justice[with highly cool seating arrangments I might add]. But there is never a moment of fluidity. The two worlds remain isolated and detached. The only very very obvious link is the crumbling of courage yet its eventual triumph in the face of tyranny.

Now if the insect had remained an insect, but Ofelia saw a fairy. If the monster was not an inhuman carcass with hands for eyes, but a big human hirsute that evoked fear in little Ofelia. And if Ofelia died as she did, but died happy....
That would have been a beautiful merging of the real and that fantasy. Finding magic in the doggedly real lives we live and die. Now that would have been some movie.....

But some great acting, and as always a lovely soundtrack.

I also feel compelled to write about Guru that I watched some days back. I absolutely loved it. It was a goodlooking movie[always a winner!] with some brilliant acting. And it so convincingly mitigated the bureaucratic crimes of a man born of the middle class with its stagnant content and lesser dreams. And the soundtrack was niiiiiiiice. But the clincher was Abhishek Bachchan's lopsided smile, shining white in its honesty and happiness *swoooooons*.

Truly worth a watch.

Next in line - The Prestige, Amores Perros and Borat.

Will keep you posted.

FROGGONE IT!

2007-01-29T05:21:00.000-08:00

16 hours of 24 have been borne with fortitude and fortune. And things are happening. I have started listening to CCR while being attacked by a green, gay frog. Right now it is hiding behind the mirror and I am hiding behind the computer. I would return the poor, frightened thing back to the home it comes from, I really would. But you see strong-legged amphibians are really not the easiest to negotiate with.
I was reading this article today about how ‘tinkering with nature is a bad idea’. More than fifty years ago around a hundred cane toads from Central and South America were released in Australia to check cane crop pests. The toads quickly proliferated to reach mammoth numbers (around 200 million) and is deemed today as one of Australia’s worst environmental debacles, having become unpleasant pests themselves. This ‘assisted migration’ has far-reaching effects on territorial integrity and the food chain argued the author, while the counter view stressed strongly upon massive environmental changes, due to deforestation and global warming, that render species shelter-less and without adequate nutritional sources.
I personally feel no problem can be solved completely unless it is nipped in the bud. And the solution here seems to be to concentrate on reversing, else preventing the damaging after-effects of global warming. And deforestation can easily be checked. Or maybe I am talking out of my hat. Whatever it is, the thousands of species on the endangered list need fast theoretical and faster practical attention.
And right now that tiny frog crouching behind the mirror needs to be helped back before it starves (or attacks me again! Whichever comes first…*praying praying*).
Here froggie, froggie….here froggie…

DAZED AND DAZZLED

2007-01-26T06:29:00.000-08:00

Has anyone acknowledged the smart economics behind series such as Lost, Heroes or 24??
A most heady cocktail of attractive people, intense acting, stunning visuals, strong scripts, better screenplays and the culmination of every episode at exactly the point where you are chewing the nail of your little finger after the nails of the other more unfortunate fingers have been consumed over forty fast minutes. So you keep watching, and you keep watching.

And you keep watching.

I should know. I have been addicted to all three at various points of time over the past couple of months. Currently Sujatha and I am at our nail-biting best with season 4 of 24. We have been sprawled across the bed, ordering in, taking 5 minutes breaks every 5 hours to take a breather. One of the reasons why I haven't been blogging too much.

But I shall be back. After another 18 episodes. And 24 hours of recuperation.
;-)

THE EXECUTION OF SADDAM

2007-01-03T08:32:00.000-08:00

In the middle of a particularly passionate conversation with a friend, he suddenly assumed a momentary garb of amnesia, forgot we were in the midst of an intense argument and asked me what I felt about Saddam Hussein’s execution. I mumbled something unintelligible to which he reacted with an, ‘I think Bush should be hanged till death next.’
Hmmmm….
Truth is I have been mildly disturbed about the execution, its timeline, its nature, and its highly obvious aftermath. I have been hungrily reading any news item, editorial, internet pop-up that only continues to corroborate my own understanding. Which again depends on what my source is.

When I was reading from the CNN website, a particular link interested me. Labelled ‘Protests and Celebrations’ it displayed nine photographs which expressed precisely ONE ‘Protest’ photograph and EIGHT ‘celebration’ photographs. However, there was one link which stated the Taliban’s reaction to the execution, which of course was unfavourable. The fact that Saddam was hanged on the day of the Eid al-Adha Muslim festival which should ideally be ‘a day of forgiveness and not revenge’ angered Mullah Obaidullah Akhund, who was described as ‘a former Taliban defense minister and top insurgent commander’. Very interesting that Taliban is recognized as a ‘military outfit’ by the U.S. and has complete and explicit intentions of overthrowing Hamid Karzai’s government, who incidentally was the U.S. appointed interim president. Thereafter of course he won in a landslide ‘the democratic way’, but not without violent complaints of irregularities [read this]. Taliban’s reaction used ‘infidels’ and ‘jihad’ in plentitude. Purposeful, yet quite ineffective. I smiled to myself.
The BBC site was better. It recorded ‘mixed reactions’ to Saddam’s execution in far more comforting proportions. It also had an interesting yet very political study of the future of Iraq. ‘Things might get better. But things can certainly become worse.’

Bush has shown a serious lack of foresight. By choosing a Special Iraqi Tribunal that was trained by American, British and Australian experts, which went on to execute Saddam on Eid al-Adha, much too early in the 30 days permission since the verdict is announced, he has managed to anger a small but strong number. Plenty of Muslims the world over have expressed their dissatisfaction about the same and subsequently minor imperfections such as Bush’s deep slumber during the execution and his jolly gloating over possessing Saddam’s personal revolver are steadily fuelling the raging inferno of anti-Bushism.
I was watching a reporter on T.V. question a young, Indian girl as to why Bakr-id celebrations had been low-key this year. She replied with a diffident ‘Saddam has been executed.’ The reporter proceeded to ask her if she knew who Saddam Hussein is. She said no, she did not.

Bush does not realize it perhaps, but Saddam-the martyr has been born. And he can only grow.
I am therefore, midly disturbed about the bloody aftermath that awaits us.

Also the person who made the video of Saddam’s execution has been arrested. Although his video quickly contradicted the dignity and rectitude of the hanging in the official video released, I am only glad. Videotaping someone’s last moments is nothing but pitiless and insensitive.

A highly morbid first post of the new year. But such is the world we live in.
Oh well…Happy New Year folks!

GOODBYES AND BADBYES

2006-12-23T00:28:00.000-08:00

'and has it ever been that love has known its own depth until the hour of separation.'
- Khalil Gibran

Truer words were seldom spoken.

So much is taken for granted. Sharing cheery banter, toothy smiles. Sharing toothpaste. Exchanging ideas and colours. Chasing beautiful dreams and beautiful men. Ruffling each others feathers. Ruffling bed sheets. Imposing opinions. And imposing ‘funereal music’.

And perhaps the moment of clarity is truly a timeline of bygone moments, some so real and overwhelming. Others so banal. And so overwhelming.

Because it will never be the same again. ‘My life as I knew it, is gone.’

Yes, we will meet sometimes to grab at the diminishing moments to relive a different age and culture. And we will indulge in colourful nostalgia, rife with exaggeration to make the outsider believe in our colourful lives. Then you or I will extend a dismissive wave and a flippant ‘you should have been there.’

You really should have been there.

Here is to looking ahead. And glancing behind.

KALMAN AND ADDICTIONS

2006-12-07T04:20:00.000-08:00

Is it not delectable?? *smirk smirk*
I am absolutely obsessed with colour these days. Colour and hasty, vivid strokes and deviation. And I'm always obsessing with big, giant, COLOSSAL words.
My stand on Nietzsche remains undeclared. I have his works at home. I have not read them yet. My dad described the 'superhuman' theory to me once. I started reading the Sin-city graphic novels consequently [and if YOU have not then please squat and lay two eggs for me].
As for the ever-controversial mustache I will reserve my opinion.
Which brings us to 'we go to paris instead'.
I wanted to edit that and make that Goa, where incidentally I should be headed tomorrow night if the stars shine bright and they shine right. Goa has been jinxed so far. But I have vowed. I WILL go. And I WILL return with some nice-goa-sand-which-probably-is-a-banned-substance-as-well to prove the same. Hah!
Oh the above painting is by Maira Kalman. Her work is happy and crazy and I just know she has danced to 'The Psycho' OST with a rose dangling from her mouth. I KNOW IT.
I will leave you with a brilliant observation by Jhelum. Look carefully at Nietzsche's arms...two strong strokes starting from the shoulders and dropping to his chest. He has crossed his arms. Aaaaaah...simple and sweeeeeeeeeet.
By the by, my current favourite word is Dichotomy. Does it not bring to mind biology?? Hahahahahaha....apologies.

BAAH BAAH BLAH-CK SHEEP

2006-12-06T11:28:00.000-08:00

What an absolutely tremendous day. My best friend informed me that he had some bad news for me. He had some attendance issues, along the very tremendous lines of 28-30% and therefore had been most ceremoniously detained. I think that is when it struck him that it might be bad news for him as well...he did hmmmm, in his defense.

Baah. I am being tremendously unfair. I was being a complete and wholesome she-dog to him this past one month. What with mini project submissions and reports and sessionals and vivas and exams. BAAH. I was a very stressed out individual. And everytime my poor friend decided to commit the courageous feat of actually calling me up I would rave and rant and scream and pant. So he waited till the my examinations were over to inform me of his tremendous acheivement. Awww...cho chweet *blush blush*.

You might have noticed that I have developed a tremendous soft corner for tremendous.

Also I am on my way to becoming a full-fledged-half-wit-engineer. Joy. Gave my final written examination today. Feels like, well...erm...BLAH.
Downed some alcohol to get the edge off. Laughed with friends some. Worried about my pending internship viva tomorrow. Met up with Gagan and had some good ol' kulfi *giggle giggle*.

Still working on that bloody internship report [it's almost 5!!] about optimisation of databases. Well, at least I learnt what an OLE DB is. At least.

Current life saver: I am the walrus.

OF LOVE, LIFE AND LITTLE ONES.

2006-11-25T14:49:00.000-08:00

1. An overworked Xerox machine.
2. Scattered paper, rough notebooks, blue pens, mismatched stapler and pin sizes.
3. Cigarettes.
4. Coffee.
5. Cigarette ash in coffee cups.
6. A filthy room *gasp! shudderrrr....DIE*
7. Inflicted Insomnia.
8. Expected Inflections *winkie winkie*
9. Unsolicited advice on love, life and little ones.

EXAMINATION SCHEXAMINTAION.

See you after the 6th of December.
Au-revoir!

THANK GOD I AM AN ATHEIST.

2006-11-17T13:20:00.000-08:00

A TRUE BLUE BRESSON-ian

2006-11-13T22:24:00.000-08:00

'The simulataneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as the precise organisation of forms which gives that event its proper expression....In photography, the smallest thing can be a great subject. The little human detail can become a leitmotif.'

Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Tabish once told me that the reason photographers sometimes choose to click black and white photographs is because the subject automatically gets emphasis and stands out with a glaring clarity. I love the nostalgia it evokes. An old school charm, a hint of stories untold, a mist of exciting secrets. Lovely.

Henri Cartier-Bresson chooses a beautiful woman for his subject in this photograph. And if you notice carefully he manages to capture her so sharply and coherently. Everything and everyone else in the photograph is just blurred enough to make her an object of your affection. The shadow of the lady walking beside her falls so perfectly just beside her. I wonder if that was intentional.

This is one of my favourites. Not so much for the photographic appeal as for the significance of the story Henri Cartier-Bresson tries to weave. Stories of devastation and challenges that still give birth to a sublime mirth and joy.
The laughter of children is pure and complete.
Love this one.

Stunning. A man seeking desperate solace from his own self, and losing himself almost inadvertently in the colossus of brick and cement. I have not been able to determine the subject here quite convincingly. Any takes??

My personal favourite. Reminds me of one my favourite paintings called 'The Umbrellas'. Probably the attire.
It tells the story of so many women with similar lives but individual tales.
For me it reflects a satisfied pace and lethargy. In a land of little opportunity perhaps. A conscious capitulation.

I want to hear what you have to say about this.

Thank you. And come again.
Yours Bresson-ian.

LET THE MUSIC BE YOUR MASTER

2006-11-13T12:24:00.000-08:00

I have oft wondered as to what I would be minus my music, my books and my movies. Terribly boring I imagine. I have a father who is a voracious reader, an avid motion picture patron and a ravenous musical connoisseur. And the genes were faithful. I have been exposed to a healthy dose of the afore mentioned, although my Dad did try very very unsuccessfully to make me appreciate F1 also. I apologise in earnest, I guess we all have our limitations.
The order of these three has befuddled me as well. And I have finally decided. I can go a day without reading [unfortunately includes the newspaper sometimes], and more than a day without a good, complete movie. But I absolutely need my daily dose of music. Absolutely, completely, wholly.
Perhaps because now when I find myself constantly short on time and wishing there were 25 and a half hours in a day [I loooooowe my thirty minute showers!] I realize it is possible to multi-task only with music. Some tunes that are running through my head these days….[earworms Gagan tells me]….
Lots and lots and lots of Radiohead. I had been listening to ‘hail to the thief’ before I progressed to ‘ok, computer’. Am in love with ‘let down’ and ‘karma police’.
Porcupine tree, which for me falls under the same genre as Radiohead. ‘A smart kid’ is really good. I especially love the way it ends. Keep away if low on cheer and/or high on alcohol. Unless you sometimes discover streaks of masochism. I often enjoy depressing music when sad….err….I did NOT tell you that.
Beatles, Beatles, Beatles! ‘Lucy in the sky with diamonds’ is touching, creepy and reflective all at once. Dangerous. ‘Lay lady lay’ by Dylan is gorgeously romantic. Sigh…
Progressed to some Neil Diamond. Have so far enjoyed only two songs. The much overplayed ‘play me’ and the more enjoyed ‘solitary man’.
Nancy Sinatra’s ‘these boots are made for walking’ is perky and funny, like Cameron Diaz…hahahaha! I know Auyon will love that. The song I mean dum-dum. Also ‘summer wine’ by Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood is very pleasantly Bollywood-ish. Listen to it and get back to me for more on that.

The Ghosh has spoken.
And play on….

HITL(ER)IST

2006-11-10T14:06:00.000-08:00

'Those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it.'

I was reading in the paper recently about the sexagenarian victims of the long muted Lebensborn programme during Hitler’s regime, who met up in the eastern German town of Wernigerode to share their stories ‘in the hope of quelling the taboos and flamboyant myths about the murky Nazi institutions.’
And I was reminded of a favourite ‘chaai-sutta’ confabulation.
‘I admire Hitler.’
This statement always, without fail, evokes only wonder mingled with forgivable traces of disgust. It reflects a vague appreciation of historical fact aggravated by a conscious abatement of a genius’ evil.
It is really an evil’s genius.
The ambitious objective of the Lebensborn programme was to produce pure-blooded offsprings of the Schutzstaffel [SS] officers and blue-eyed, blonde girls, to improve the dwindling population of the ‘great Aryan race’. This was orchestrated under the façade of a welfare home that nurtured and bred ‘racially valuable’ children who, it is rumoured were kidnapped from their homes and brought to these Lebensborn units.
Anyone who could coin ‘racially valuable’ betrays a streak of dangerous bigotry.
Anyone who kidnaps children from the security and warmth of their homes is depraved.
Anyone who wreaks an unprecedented carnage on innocent people to fuel and demonstrate their anti-Semitic theories CANNOT be admired.
Period.
The debate usually starts with a sincere appeal made to my sensibilities to acknowledge Hitler’s superior oratory skills and his outstanding leadership qualities that propelled him to a station of power and made him a force to reckon with. [Ajit abridges that by claiming ‘he took what did not belong to him’ ;-)] I acknowledge it. But to capture the attention of a weakened economy and the diluted morale of a country which was suffering from the effects of a humiliating capitulation [The Treaty of Versailles] is not difficult. To insinuate an ‘internal sabotage’ and a ‘lack of patriotism’ is even easier. And to flush out all Jews from the country to create a ‘Greater Germany’ is a crook’s way out.
History will never forget Adolf Hitler, but she might overlook the nameless victims. History will create Hitler, the personality. But she might reduce thousands to a mere number. History will record the anniversaries of Hitler, but the wounded lived and died an era.
And that is why to admire him is to give him more credit than he was ever worth.

DEAR DIARY

2006-11-05T23:45:00.000-08:00

I am petulant and irascible after sadly outlandish supplications for attendance. 75% is preposterous. No, really.
I attempted some tried and tested techniques of de-stressing.
a) Bumped into Gagan and Prashanth at the canteen who combined forces with Ara to create a sufficiently jocular atmosphere. The subject was me. I laughed. For a bit.
Grrr…
b) Tried writing about relevant topics and significant themes. You know how writing helps you unwind.
Grrrrrrrr….
c) Started listening to a lot of classical music. Can’t wait to tell my dad that I love Catch-22 and appreciate Figaro’s Wedding and The Moonlight Sonata. Maybe it will be easier to get that expensive phone now…
Grrrrrrrr….woof!

But the actual purpose of this inadequate post is to mention what I have been listening to lately.

a) Beethoven’s 5th Symphony – sunny, tiptoeing, climactic and overplayed.
b) Schubert’s Symphony 5 – twilight, the hills, the horizon, dancing in white...the sound of music…hmmmm…
c) Mozart’s Figaro’s Wedding – abandon.
d) Maria Callas’ Figaro’s Wedding – free.
e) Bach’s Brandenburg Concert no. 3 – people, pace, suspenders and top hats ;-)
f) Beethoven’s/Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata – moody. My personal favourite, comes highly recommended.
g) Ravel Bolero is excellent. Most excellent.
h) Oh and Oasis’ Don’t look back in anger is on repeat [spot the odd man out!!]

They call it association, or something esoterically technical like that. This is a ridiculous post. Too personal.
I am petulant and irascible.
You had been forewarned.
Goodbye.

....................................

2006-10-28T06:22:00.000-07:00

I went to collect my original documents from college day before yesterday.
It was a five minute affair and culminated in generous spells of uproarious laughter, after a thorough examination of an old snap of mine and a discourse on how much I had changed since my first year. The perpetrator was this mostly amiable and harmless man whose neck I wanted to snap in two [I grew my hair…DUH!!]
My mood was poetically distant and withdrawn. Mingled with a weighty awareness of nostalgia.
And so it begins…

Sigh…

Meanwhile enjoy the new and look feel of my blog.
Yours warmly.

LOST IN TRANSLATION

2006-10-27T01:36:00.001-07:00

Something I have been meaning to do for a really long time.

Khalid Hosseini in The Kite Runner asks, ‘Is it harder to suffer the loss of a loved one than to suffer the loss of your entire universe?’ [And I do not quote verbatim here.] The question is an almost rhetoric before some thought is devoted to it, but I personally feel that the bereavement of your home, your surroundings, and your familiarity is a formidable loss. Because along with the structural domain you lose every single person, every single object of your affection contained within. Once you lose your foothold in your space, the disorientation can be overwhelming.
In Lost in Translation the protagonists Charlotte [Scarlet Johansson] and Bob [Bill Murray] have left their homes, their universe behind and have traveled halfway across the world to land in Japan. There is a scene where Bob is standing in an elevator, an entire foot higher than all the Japanese around him. And another [one of my favourites] where Charlotte watches a Japanese bride, a slight smile on her face, perhaps believing that marriages are easier in a different country. Their sense of loss and misgivings in an alien land is therefore explicable, yet is only completely understood once their personal stories are unraveled.

Theirs are not tragic stories, of an unhappy childhood or a loveless marriage. Bob is an actor with enough credibility to land up with an endorsement in Japan. While Charlotte is a Yale graduate who gets married to her sweetheart. We are exposed to no financial crises or domestic violence, no anger or fatalities. The only inkling of trouble in paradise is the explicit comfort of their respective spouses, comfort that tends to detach them from the sudden intensity of emotions that Bob and Charlotte experience in a foreign land.
That is one of the reasons I love the movie. I have friends who exclaim, “There is no story!” And they are right. It is not a conventional yarn with a beginning, a body and an ending. There is ONLY a body. Daily, prosaic events that leave in their wake indelible impressions and make a moment magical. When Bob and Charlotte are just lazing around in bed, talking about where they grew up, how difficult marriage can get, the excitement and terrible apprehension on becoming a parent…and they fall asleep with Bob’s hand resting tenderly on Charlotte’s foot. It is an ordinary gesture after an ordinary conversation, but it lends an extraordinary profundity to their relationship. Throughout the movie there is nothing remotely sexual about their relationship. Even when Bob sleeps with another woman, the jealousy that Charlotte feels is probably an outcome of her inadvertent possessiveness, she seeks solace from the fact they need each other in equal measure in a friendship that germinates from chronic insomnia and a discriminating loneliness.
The movie is “Slow!” because it is about two people who are in an alien land and nothing exciting is happening to them. I mean they are partying, getting shot at and singing with a rare abandon at the karaoke. But there is no passion, or wild sex or infidelity issues, which actually would be a forgivable sequence of events given the circumstances. Albeit the differences in their ages and lifestyles, they are brought together in a rare relationship of familiarity and comfort. The movie progresses in mellow hues and reflective undertones. Even when Charlotte is injured, it is a minor foot injury and warrants no excitement. Understated and beautiful.
My favourite scene in the movie is the last one where after the fumbling attempts to bid each other adieu, Bob spots Charlotte in a crowd and runs to her to say that final goodbye. He whispers something in her ear [I have no idea what! Believe me I have tried to listen] after hugging her close. And then he kisses her, and whatever he says to her becomes inconsequential because after days of communicating through words this is the first time he communicates through an intimate physical gesture. In that moment they both realize that ‘they have been found’ in the truest sense of the expression. And then they walk away, knowing they will never see each other again…
Real, rare and rapturous.

‘They went halfway across the world to come a full circle.’
I hope I have convinced you Pai ;-)
Oh and must note, Lost in Translation has a beautiful OST. I am guessing that’s signature Coppola.

FEMINARCISSISM

2006-10-23T11:44:00.000-07:00

I am doing three very useful things these days. I am keeping up pretences. I am being a true Bong [and as any potential India’s child genius will inform you, lethargy is our god-gifted left…err…right. And we exploit it with god-gifted viciousness.] And I am reading a LOT of blogs.
And I chanced upon posts after posts of highly opinionated examinations of Feminism. A word that generates awe, some and ful(l).

Feminism is overrated these days.
Or maybe over-feminism is rated these days.
Pity…

I can understand an attack on the flouting of fundamental human rights. When dirty, dark secrets have to be exhumed to recognize the decay, the stench, the absolute putrefaction of human sensibility. What else could possibly explain foeticide, dowry murders, rape?? Or child labour, mistreatment of the aged, killing because you are angry??
These are atrocities which need to be addressed with immediate deliberation. And I can understand an outfit solely dedicated to the cause of atrocities committed against women. And maybe the women who constitute this outfit can be acknowledged as ‘feminists’ [I do so wish to coin ‘sexagenarianists’ or ‘anti-child-labourists’]. But when the issues start leaning towards reservation for women, or blatant male bashing I start feeling squeamish [and without consuming any Kerala Hotel delicacies thank you very much!].
These are NON-issues. Seriously. We raise a hue and cry over reservation for SC/ST across educational institutions across the country, and rightly so because admission should after all, be contingent on merit, pure merit and nothing else! And honestly, in trying to assist the unprivileged SC/ST contenders the government in fact is fleeing from the real issue. Why are these people unprivileged? Because of an ineffective distribution of resources, of a failed mechanism to mobilize the poorer sections, of a highly facetious program that was intended to provide primary education to all but ended up making some lucky insiders richer.
Reservation for women has a similar tinge. Instead of demanding for the rightful reservation for us underprivileged women, the focus should AGAIN be on merit, and to rehabilitate the provincial mindset which would subsequently accommodate educated and working women in our daily lives. And I believe with rehabilitation and regulation this is possible.
I once overheard in an obviously feministic circle, “Women here are either male haters or male adulators.” And I was greatly disturbed. The idea is to encourage looser communication between the sexes. But the stray comment indicated a great dependency or worse, a greater detachment. It indicated a limitation, a boundary wall that fenced out anatomical adversaries. It was almost as ridiculous as the Berlin Wall – East Germany Communists fencing out the West Germany Fascists [and shooting anyone who dared to crossover!] Almost. And the intensity of ‘feministic’ gestures began grating against my intellect [of what I claim of course].
Such discussions are futile and fruitless. Whether C.S. Lewis is a sexist porcine specimen because the ‘bad guy’ in his Chronicles is a ‘wicked witch’. I mean there are giants on the witch's side in the book, so lets join forces against all tall people? Whether Virginia Woolf deliberately embraces lesbian themes because ‘only a woman can truly understand another’. It could reflect genuine companionship or a communion of minds, and have little relation to the genders of the characters. Because even if the characters are symbols of the authors’ mindset, the characters can be construed as per the readers’ discretion. And such [very] subtle and [very] discreet themes will seldom instigate a revolution of women-degradation or women-emancipation. Period.

I am headed to watch the Chronicles of Narnia right now with my girlfriends. Movie, magic, masti is being anticipated with much excitement.
Yes I love girls’ nights.
And I love being a woman more.
But feminarcissists are overrated.

Goodnight.

PS - The snap was uploaded for sheer humour quotient...hyuk hyuk!!
PPS - I NEVER throw stones at boys...ROFL!

TAGONOMICS

2006-10-22T12:33:00.000-07:00

3 books

1. The adventures of Peter Pan, unabridged and illustrated.
Auyon claims it is very rare. ~!@##$%#&_)(!!
Cobainess – ambalika quotes:
‘When there's a smile in your heart,
There's no better time to start.’

2. Catch 22 – current read, ‘Yossarian wanted to live forever or die in the attempt.’
That kills me! – Gagan, you know exactly what I mean ;-)

3. My name is Red - intended read.
A Nobel Prize can do wonders to your readership…right Jhelum??

3 albums

Someone sagacious once said ‘Patience is a virtue.’ And those two startingly scarlet horns sticking out of my BIG hair ensure that I cosciously condemn such generalisations [Aaaaah generalisations…]
Can seldom get through an entire album unless it is assorted stuff.
If it’s one of those songs that ‘will pick up’ then you better have some pretty smooth advertising because if I do not like the beginning, I will probably not get to the end.
But 3 songs?? That I can answer…

1. ‘Let me take you down coz I’m going to strawberry fields…’
Sprinting through my head at breakneck speed. With the wind in my (BIG) hair…

2. The American baby intro[Dave Matthews] – murderous!

3. ‘This is goodbye.’
Porcelain[Moby] – journeying ;-)

3 movies

1. American Beauty – remember that polythene bag that catches the light breeze and just prances about?

2. Monsoon Wedding – I miss home ;-(

3. Lost in Translation – coming soon to a blog near you.

3 thoughts

1. I love reminiscing. EVERYTHING is funny in retrospect.

2. Google is simply brilliant. And sounds uncannily like ‘googly’.

3. Being tagged [highly, higly consciously FYI] lets me pretend that I’m rich and famous and combat those rapid fires. Give me what you got you paparazzi you!!

And I tag myself ;-)

'I WANT TO DO IT ON MY OWN'

2006-10-21T01:29:00.000-07:00

“I want to do it on my own (steam).”
This in reply to why my friend chose to stick to Bangalore when he could have run off to Hong Kong [!!] for his final semester internship. And the wheels in my brain started turning with a screech here and a squeak there, and accelerating with a resounding intent.
Superficially it all seemed very incongruous to me. In this day and age where status whispers, money talks and power screams, such idealistic impulses are lost in the clamour of “ME! ME!” But the conversation ended with me feeling a little nice and plenty warm…
And it was so simple! The very fact that idealism seems like a summit unattainable is because we, as a species, have degraded so far down in our moral make-up that distances have grown longer and any effort has waned into a lingering half-attempt. Our lives have been made so simple by our evolving capabilities that we have devolved into these pampered beings that whip out their credit cards, push some buttons or call poppy up to keep that (in)famous silver spoon balanced!
And sometimes, somewhere, someone will claim that he will do it on his own, in his own way and perhaps in his own sweet time, and you will realize that those are the only kinds who refuse to acknowledge mediocrity, who try to elevate their dreams to loftier planes all the while doing it on their own terms…
…and even if they cannot quite succeed they can still look back and exclaim, ‘I did something that was pretty mediocre once, but it felt pretty damn good to me!’
And that makes me feel a little nice and plenty warm…

**with special thanks to Adam Hummel and my friend in question ;-)

PIXIE DUST

2006-10-06T12:36:00.000-07:00

Because when you are walking down the road lined with trees and their rich, green foliage promises a world of opulence…
And then the seasons change and the birds migrate and the clouds shed…
And you are walking down the road lined with trees, naked and stripped, and suddenly a virulent emptiness assaults you…
Why are people cynical anyway??
Why do they fail to notice the snow-white flakes descending languidly and settling on the bare branches with a meditated intention?
Or the carpet of white that invites you to dance on it with a rare abandon?
Or the sun shining lightly but gallantly, trying to spread some warmth and cheer?
Because ‘all you need is faith and trust, and a little bit of pixie dust…’
Peter sure as hell knew what he was talking about.

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

2006-10-05T22:53:00.000-07:00

I read The importance of being Earnest and made the fatal mistake of succumbing to stereotypes. Therefore when I picked up The picture of Dorian Gray, I was: a) not expecting a novel. b) not expecting a morbid novel. and c) not expecting to be blown away...so after I read the book, I got thinking...
Imagine a portrait which bears your conscience...which bears the consequences of every deed that warrants a judgment in your life. As long as it is relegated to the recesses of your soul, one can sleep relatively easy knowing that one does have another day to purge his soul...a temporary amnesia or abstinence even...
But a visual conscience?? When every action's reaction adds that extra wrinkle to your face, that superfluous tell-tale meandering line on your visage that screams of stolen money, or a nasty remark. I believe the impact on a person's character would be tremendous which is why the book is powerful. We feel a 'prick' in our conscience when we mentally analyse the morality of an unjust action, an unfair thought, a heretic idea. But maybe it is just that, a 'prick'. To physically feel the impact of our actions perhaps our conscience has to be removed from our self, and scrutinised with our own two eyes. In conclusion however, I do believe that very few of us actually have the strength to withstand the decay of our moral beings unfolding painfully before ourselves. which is why unfortunately, or fortunately, the book will, or should, always remain fiction.

MR. EX -> TAKE 1

2006-10-04T11:19:00.000-07:00

When Mr. Ex first strolled by in his sedentary style into my life, I observed with mild fascination. He was tall, lean, had long, luscious locks, dimples with a sensuous depth…and pixie ears. Pixie ears that screamed for Blyton’s rightful royalty. He held a cigarette with the tips of his fingers and attacked his lungs with a deliciously slow drag that left a gaping crater at the base of his neck.
It was an exciting addiction…
I would watch his limbs flow in a graceful rhythm. His gait excited me, I would almost compensate for his lack of urgency with my pacing heartbeat. ‘The only problem with life is that it has no background music.’ And he would smile dangerously every time he caught me reading that on his T-shirt.
The day I confessed was the day Mr. Ex did 12 shots. “Can’t you see he is a bad guy!” I smiled knowingly and looked across. His long, slender fingers ran through his hair and he exhaled with some satisfaction. Our gazes locked for a second and then, he winked. “Inebriation becomes him, he disregards sobriety with such disdain!”
He was walking over, my heart was making a racket. The silver in his pixie ear caught my eye and our gazes broke for a second. By now he was standing beside my table and grinning mischievously.
“The neighbour’s daughter refuses to elope with the Nepali chauffeur. Boring girl.” Here he shook his head. “And moral discretion is exhausting. Care to join me for a session of ‘who can spot the constellation’?”
I shut my eyes, and his voice became deeper.
“It is a clear sky.”
“I am not very good with constellations.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He broke into a smile and suddenly in the dark all I could see was his personal Cheshire cat in the dazzling 32. I let him take my hand and felt his warmth seeping through my clammy palm. But in the clamour in my head I heard the genius of Wilde strike a crippling blow to morality, ‘People are not good or bad, just charming or tedious.’
Oh Mr. Ex was charming all right ;-)

120 MINUTES TO PUBLISH

2006-09-07T04:13:00.000-07:00

This is a humble haranguing of our insufficient education system. Being a final year Engineering student directly translates my limited privileges to uninterrupted and undisputed bunking [unless it is network security which I really should NOT bunk anymore!!] for moments of luxurious rapid eye movement. Therefore when such an anticipated session is relegated most unceremoniously to the back-lanes, and is replaced by a highly disconcerting assembly of two mortals, none of who can quite comprehend the other...I have every right to vent my frustrations in this one-act writing!

Scene 1: I have recently procured the cable required to FINALLY connect to the internet. However such banalities [IP addresses, port numbers et al] are beyond my scope of registry. So I am left fiddling with my desktop trying very desperately to catch any word that might make an iota of sense to us academically-deficient individuals. And incidentally I happen to be a final year I.T. student!! I run to the matron to track down the elusive internet fellows, who with much urgency in their voice inform me that they are in the net-tracker room. Eh? 'Fourth floor!', they insist and point. 'Fourth floor?', I desist and sprint.

Scene 2: I reach the net-tracker room, which is a 30x20 feet cubicle and has this massive contraption with a voluminous mess of cables which instantly silences me into forced seriousness. i mumble something more about the inefficiency of Mission-connect-XIII-block, and less about my affected ineptitude. I am asked to enter the IP address and port number[!!] and report back with any progress.

Scene 3: I report back with no such thing.

Scene 4: I am asked to check whether or not the DHCP has been activated automatically. I stare at the fellow's face as I am transported back to 5th semester. With razor-sharp precision however, bugs bunny imposes on my reverie and I decide to trudge back to my room without making some necessary clarifications!

Scene 5: After going click-happy for a decidedly wasteful amount of time, I make some rudimentary calls to my Comp gurus. I talk at an excited pace about TCP/IP, lan settings...[when in doubt talk fast, few will bother deciphering, and fewer will realise you know S-Q-U-A-T]. I am asked to perform a ping operation. 'Destination host unreachable' flashes at a rate of twice a second, and my computer goes A-W-O-L. I start screaming ‘Virus!’ at a spanking frequency that puts any previous records to shame.

Scene 6: I enter screaming into the net-tracker room. The fellow agrees to escort me back to my room.

Scene 7: My friend is in retreated stages of undress behind the door. I warn her about the imminent arrival of our friend who for some inexplicable reason assumes an air of chaste dementia and refuses to step into the room. We communicate at a reasonable distance of 20 feet from each other, while my friend stands, fully clothed now with a vacuous expression on her face. After a five minute exchange and no headway, my friend wonders aloud at this apparent insanity and retires to watch Munna-bhai MBBS. The fellow shakes his head and assures me that he shall return in half an hour.

Scene 8: It's been two hours now and there is no sign of the fellow. But five minutes back my computer was connected to the World Wide Web.

Maybe the guy did something, maybe he did not. Maybe lady luck decided to be kind. Or maybe just maybe, what transpired in the last 3 hours was a very accurate mapping of our educational system. I study, I mug, I regurgitate, a semester down I have no idea what DHCP even is! But funnily enough it all just works out fine ;-)

THE 'I' OF THE CAPITAL

2006-08-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

I am inclined to believe that the idea of Capitalism is subject to a provincial discourse. One succumbs to the established definitions; Socialism, Communism and Capitalism. The good, the bad, and the ugly. The concepts inadvertently associate themselves with vicarious ideologies in our minds, and we seldom acknowledge the culpability of these defining the layman.
And now I commence with my provincial discourse on Capitalism.
Capitalism has precise implications of ‘self-gain’. And there is a Capitalist that resides in each one of us. The human kingdom essentially, is made up of two kinds, the Capitalist and the Bad Capitalist (here I am resorting to gross generalisations). Personal gain is common to them. And yet personal gain provides the crucial distinction. The former in helping himself, ends up helping others (a beautiful display of Newton’s third law of motion). The latter in helping himself only facilitates the increasing disorder in society (the second law of thermodynamics??) But what remains inherent is the constant endeavour to expedite the infusion of harmony into one’s life. And to notch up a couple of more points in the individual happiness index chart. The law of nature becomes effectively, each man for himself.
A Capitalist is looking out for himself, before he can think of doing the same for others. This, far from being selfish and unproductive, can actually lead to a sound social structure. A composition of self-appreciating individuals can only mean increased productivity and integrity. This reasoning is so fundamental, that it has to be flawed! Clauses which accommodate irregularities must be appended to salvage this basic rationalization.
Imagine a social structure with uniform individuals, their uniformity resplendent in the composite, collected mindset. This is a Quixotic thought at best. Therefore, the Bad Capitalist comes into focus. There is an effective line premeditated by an individual’s scruples that challenges this fundamental reasoning. When black mitigates the cracking and coherent definition of white. When the self assumes magnified proportions and everything else recedes into ignominy. In such a scenario, fuelling selfish motives gathers a pulsating momentum. The Bad Capitalist therefore, submits to the vagaries of the human moral discretion. ‘Fraud!’, ‘Rape!’, ‘Murder!’ scream at us from the newspapers. And the ideal social structure begins to disintegrate. The cause for appreciation and depreciation becomes one and the same.
This discussion maps the economic perceptions onto the human nature because an individual is a system in himself. And very seldom does a person put another before himself. It is difficult for anyone to be a complete Socialist as opposed to being a complete Capitalist. Everyone has a selfish streak, and this does not necessarily have to be subject to acute scrutiny and consequently disregarded as a character flaw. Everyone is motivated to excel professionally and personally. As for working towards improving society and its individuals, some undertake this professionally, while others accord to it a personal touch and contribute to society in their own small way. But this patronage also portends the ever-elusive search for personal satisfaction.
Whenever I am flying, I always peruse the safety regulations’ booklet. It is mentioned there that in the eventuality of an emergency, one must always put on their oxygen masks, lifejackets etc. before helping others. It always gets me thinking…