mene mene tekel upharsin

11 11 11

2011-11-11T17:44:00.000+05:30

Rare date, they said. Comes once in every 11 years. A group meditation is scheduled , at a tony farm in South Delhi, close to midnight tonight. A photo-upload contest capturing the moment and creating a collage on Alt-Del - an online forum for ad professionals to meet offline.

Some things change in life. Some things change at work. Ambitions grow mellower. They grow brighter. 15 years in the profession. 40 revolutions around the sun. 16 followers on the blog. Some 200 friends on FB. Figures, dates, more figures more dates. The last post was the 97th one. The rest of the family travelling to meet my first-born - the 1st time. I was disconsolate then. Am more optimistic now. Time changes. Or do we change over time?

I need to write more often. So do many of us. Do we? Is a status update and a few witty one-liners and smart alecky comments enough to make us feel connected. Should we share thoughts with total strangers under the guise of user generated content, people experts and search engine optimisation?

Come, let's all resolve to lower our guards, everyone once in a while and blog about our lives and times. A dialogue is often better than discourse and allows some room for alternative viewpoints, not easily tolerated in an increasingly polarise, paranoid world. On to the next blog post and may it be better than all the others that we have yet posted.

Greetings!

Miracle or Mercenary

2011-04-03T12:17:00.007+05:30

Dear All,

I had an entirely different idea of what I was about to write. And like many things in life, sudden twists and turns happen that you have no control over.

I had an acrimonious divorce and a messy inconclusive custody case in 2007, which was smoothened over by means of a leaky and dubious mediation agreement, which got violated right from the word go.

But having resolved not to put my (elder) daughter whose mother has her custody, I kept away from the courts and guardian judges.

The mediation agreement, badly flogged like a rape victim by the taliban, held from 2007 to 2010. One friday afternoon in July 2010, I received a Bangalore post marked speed post from my ex-wife saying that she and my daughter had moved to the silicon city alongwith every member of the family.

I rushed across the find the place padlocked and a sniggering househelp sheltering under a tree. A police complaint later, I was ready to take legal recourse to get justice.

Months passed by, but my legal adviser had other fish to fry. Autumn came, Diwali , Dussehra, Christmas, New year all rushed past...all contact had stopped, pending the next course of action. And they stopped letting me call my daughter, as I used to, as per the agreement.

In January this year, I attended the Landmark Forum. Other than its numerous pluses and laughables, I came away determined to reconnect with my (elder)daughter. I wrote to my ex-wife , telling her about the landmark forum and how it helps to heal, to let go of the past and urges to take action to live a powerful and self-expressed life. I asked her to let go of bitterness and requested that we both plan a better future for our daughter. I simultaneously wrote to the principal of my daughter's school and and explaining him the hiatus, requested him to pass on a letter to my daughter.

Guided by a gentler and firmer, newer legal counsel, I communicated again, by means of failed calls, unanswered messages and one sided mails. I sent my new email ID and asked when could I come and meet my daughter.

A single sentence response came: Kindly deposit the backlog of the payment along with the interest as per the terms of the (now tattered and raped) mediation agreement.

The same was duly paid after a generous overcalculation and by then it was February. Next I asked for a time table to meet and bring my elder daughter to see her grieving, pining grandparents and everyone else at home.

I was told that her exams will end by 30th march and I can come and visit post that. I did manage to speak with my daughter after some 6 months, when I spoke to her on her b'day in august, last year. Greedy for a few drops of water, I lapped up each call thirstily.

The miracle, my dear friends, was unlocked by silver keys or rather the greedy, finger-licking counting of currency notes and not by any generosity of spirit.

Postscript: I arrive in Bangalore on 31st March. Unable to meet her even after advance intimation. Spend two days like a forced solitary tourist. Meet my daughter finally on the 2nd . Her uptight-ness slowly dissolves.We stay indoors in the hotel room, where we play catch up. Share Ferrero Rochers and hug the doggy bag. Doodle with the glitter pens and write letters. Catch some of the final match with her and drop her off with a promise to meet again on 3rd that is today. She is more nervous and uptight once again...

Getting ready in the morning today, I receive a cryptic txt msg from the ex-wife that shows me my 'miracle' is at end: my daughter " is running high fever plus cold and cough, so she cannot come."

Suddenly, the trip doesnt seem as successful anymore. My train is in the evening. And an endless, merciless, post-rain sky stretches out across this leafy, provincial feeling city, this afternoon.

END of Story

PPS: Small victories: I need not practice deception anymore or pretend that I don't have a family to come home to - a loving family to which I know I will be able to welcome my first-born to, soon. Very soon. The reconnection with my first-born is made. I will keep the faith. And I will walk on the razor's edge. For as long as it takes.

Yesterday Not Once, But Many Times More

2011-03-19T11:11:00.003+05:30

Variating on a song by The Carpenters. I took my father's record player with a hindi film's vinyl disc( 45 RPM) to repair the two analog sound boxes. The man seized the problem, knew his job and fixed a new connector and soldered it.

We tested the sound and the soulful notes of Khoya Khoya Chand khula aasmaan... filled the air. Soon a small motley crowd collected. Sir, yeh purana CD hai kya? I said it's a record player - playing records. "Baap re" he said. Maine toh pehli baar dekha hai....Kya isme saare baba aadam ke zamaane ke gaane aate hain? went his next musing. I said all films and important albums have discs. That we dont buy them, nowadays, is an altogether different issue.

The repair guy hummed a few bars of the song and started testing the second stereo box. Note that I had actually dragged it to New Gramophone House in Chandni Chowk for the people to have a look at it. They shook their heads and said for 20 years, it hasnt worked.. and we cant find the rubber connector . Or some such. Ditto from another expert in stereos and sound boxes of the digital age. And here the confident repair guy said he would look at it.

Soon enough, we got the second stereo box plugged in and the lilting notes of "takdeer se bigdi hui tadbeer bana le... sung by the immortal Geeta Dutt rent the air from both boxes. I was ecstatic. A job well-done. And a second lease of life for my now getting hep 'Vinyl' collection. Hurray!

Discover love that suits you

2011-03-19T10:52:00.005+05:30

A spam on my email provided me the title. The graffiti in question is about an aditya who is lonely and asks if you want to be my girlfriend, call on the number given. Written in sms argot, on the back of a DTC bus seat, this reflects the instant feel of our times. No longer possible to romance in unisex school buses or U-specials, the lonely soul put his name, number and his desire upfront for instant gratification. One can of course see spray can graffiti all across the city - damning the now concluded CWG, asking forgiveness from a loved one and wanting him/her back in their lives and the succinct but expressive expletive F*** ! in front of a local school. Sorely tempted to add a few words to the pink letter, I overcome my baser instinct and walk past. Whether an expression about life, or a messager surprised and shooed by a school staff while in action, one will never know.

Pulling off the Miracle and the Miracle Maker

2011-02-25T14:56:00.004+05:30

It seems such a world of difference. Yesterday till 4 10 pm we were wannabe parents. Wistfully , hungrily looking at other's kids. Hugging them, petting them, spoiling them when we had a chance. Even having to endure an offspring's physical and emotional distance. And then she comes. After a full term of tensions, false tests and worries of overage parents to be, she comes. And we are suddenly scrambling for names, code numbers 14610, woollens, warm clothing and digital pics to upload on social networks, juggling responsibilities and smuggling in chocolate to the birthing centre. Spending a night of interrupted naps, mopping baby messes, quieting and calming her and ensuring she has her first feed, first photoshoot and first bonding with mother. It's not easy to describe the feeling of being a parent (and for me, once again, after some 8 and half years). But I know and agree - it's the miracle we were waiting for and the gamechanger of our lives. Aarini, the adventuress is here. For her wildcat mom and the jajabor dad. Invoking the blessings of the almighty and wishing she has an interesting life, shorn of the ups and downs that her parents have had.

Alt Del - without the Ctrl

2010-12-07T13:10:00.015+05:30

It almost threatened to stay online. And then suddenly the partner yelled and pointed to her office boardroom. Shouvik, Prathap and big daddy Sandip Vij. Laughing and talking animatedly. Then soon enough, Alt Del's next event the Audio Alternative was in the air. At an exotic sounding venue called Zorba the Buddha. I shook my head - they must mean Zorba the Greek. And after a frantic scampering for invites, we were there.

A drive past tony farmhouse walls, gates, guards and convex mirrors at the junctions. Just a little after Ghitorni - if you are heading from Gurgaon to Delhi - on the MG Road.

A pretty , green landscaped place. Zorba the Buddha. Plenty of meditation and prayer zones, water bodies, and a scattering of ducks and geese. Well chosen venue - we said to ourselves, everything but just a little alternative. Even the washroom was alternative. Cheerful enough to make you want to linger a little longer

The event took its time to warm up and we were subjected to plenty of sound checks, eerie whistles and stuff. Eventually the event got rolling and Dilip Ramchandran - got us interested in why brands should plan and have a 'sound identity' within the context of a brand identity - something as basic as a signature tune, instead of audio being relegated to the back burner - while a film or an audio-visual is planned. Being an on-air promos man - he also showed variations on the same signature for a product on different channels. Sounds great we said and shivered a little at Jaw's theme from John Williams . I personally remembered the violin string repeats from Psycho as my scariest sounds.

The second was a show and tell session where I was personally lost - in the amazingly little known world of blues, southern rock, rock ballads and reggae - ( my trivia knowledge telling me about Rastafarians, Bob Marley and the legendary Ethiopian connection) Anupam Sengupta and his group gave us a wonderful time - almost making us yearn for the rebel teenage years that we crossed and would want to get back to.

Shouvik joined an impromptu jam session and left us with a nugget that what we listen to in the age group of 13-18 - is the music we stay with forever.

I kept staring ( rudely rather) at Uday Benegal - the much acclaimed maverick music maestro - thinking that I had seen him somewhere - much before he was introduced to the crowd. And then remembered that he and his gig had played many years back at the SRCC fest in the North Campus. A friend with us had fond memories of the time, Uday was an RJ in Mumbair - under a pseudonym - presumably not too effective one - as the friend warmed to him instantly.

Uday's story was a personal trip down memory lane with this journey paralleling the rise of homegrown bands who wrote and sang their own lyrics as opposed to belting other singer's popular numbers. Uday left us with an exhortation to blend socio-political messages, the need to protest against scams and wrongdoings, raising our voices for what we believe is right, as part of our communication lives, together with music and the creative arts.

So there we were , more than 60 of us - including young entrants, thirty somethings and forty somethings and several others young at heart - enjoying a balmy winter's afternoon, looking forward to a chilled beer or two washed down with lunch( should have been sort of other way around!)

Lots of us knew each other - some having worked together or connected up online via FB and many we met in the flesh... Prathap and Shouvik - who were the hosts and the moving spirits( literally). One saw plenty of representation from the TV media - NDTV particularly. There was the charming Rini Khanna (many of us still call her Rini Simon from her DD days!) Also seen animatedly networking were Sanjay Trehan (who I have worked with, earlier on, in Montage) of NDTV.com and lately Head of Google and his wife Anita, and still later we spotted a ponytailed Gullu Sen -of Dentsu, catching up with industry friends. A farewell chat later with Sandy Vij of DDB Mudra and we were on our way back. Wishing that a whole lot more could have joined us . Wishing also that we could have had a longer session or another 'to be continued' day. I felt sorry for all my colleagues - who wanted to make it , but had work commitments or were too late in shooting off the request. Was it a rare saturday off for all of us who were there? Or perhaps having been with outfits with eroded or eliminated Saturday offs - made me feel this way. Very liberated. Very fortunate. Thanks everyone, who made this session happen.

Am sure, we would not mind a nominal registration fee at events like these. Last thoughts - a basic name badge for everyone at the Entrance? Perhaps would help break the ice even faster. Look forward to the next event. Even if it means playing hookey from the office- feigning a stomach upset.

Two Bloggers, Two Ruminants and a joyous Monday

2010-05-31T16:52:00.010+05:30

It happened precisely last monday. Our friend from my 2nd favourite place was here. The grapevine shook under the weight of the excitement. Mampi was here. Sumanto had escaped from his near-sinecure job and was already lunching with her and would meet us in the evening at Khan Market.

That's where she'd be taking the bus to Ludhiana from there? From Khan Market? Must be some new bus service or something that I and F-Pinku had no clue about. I pondered about asking them to meet up at Dastarkhwan - back of the Alliance Francaise at Lodi and then we drop plans - as realization breaks over all of us - Mampi texts to update us - it is not Khan Market that the bus is leaving from , but Jai Hind Market. Now, dear Delhites - none among the 3 of us have a clue.

So we rib Mampi nicely and then stick to our original plan. After work, I dive into Bahrisons first where I find the duo already shopping for Mampi's now hot and active UGC project/thesis/research, tee-hee books, books and more books ...

I drag the two to Cafe Turtle - which lives up to its name in its nature of service, whether deliberate or by sheer happenstance. The place is pricey and a fair bit of fried white skin can be found anytime of the day or night. Pluses, tho - airconditioning is chilling, music is under control,decent crowd and no teeny boppers around yelling their b***s off, and because they are not in a hurry, neither do we need to be.

We catch up since we last met. Mampi as the bewildered-by-our-crazy-schedule, taken-aback houseguest. Sumanto is now a big hotshot Joint director at the RS. Joined to who? Jointed at the hip with another moody, broody procrastinator, we chortle.

Mampi tells us about the recent mayhem she has caused in the life of one Anurag of Fiction Circa1857 and Lucknow fame. Apparently they began on first name terms in the process of Mampi trying to locate his work of fiction and some sound thulping later( from his you know who!)he writes to her dripping ice and frost" Dear Madam, Will appreciate it if you address me as Mr. So and So instead of Anurag, in future...
My word, the trouble these maidens create in our lives. Unwittingly.

BTW, did you hear the joke about why Mampi got down at Yamuna Bank instead of taking the Metro till Anand Vihar??? Well, it seems she wanted to withdraw from money from there!!!you see .. bank therefore ATM. Jai Hind Market= Khan Market= I told her that there is another Badshah Khan market...oops Chowk at Faridabad. Would she like to explore that, the next time?

F-pinku joins us a little later and is hungry - and dazed having never got out of traffic, this early in the day. Hear Hear.The place Jai Hind market has finally rung a bell. She identifies the market thing as being near Filmistan. And the puzzle is solved - the bus will come via red fort and pass through Kashmiri Gate and then to the interstate highway beyond.

I keep my organiser ready for jewels and gems to trickle in - ideas for blogposts and Sumanto wonders if I am scouting for business or getting ready for writer-dom. So this post just had to happen.

Anyways, we have a great time, laughing, ribbing, tongue in cheek remarks and burn a considerable hole in Sumanto's pocket - cold coffee, peach drinks, hummus and pita platters( what stingy guys... didnt even give any olives, cucumber pickle or labneh) and a blueberry cheesecake later we get ready to drop our visitor to her bus stand.

All this in between her micromanaging calls to Mum(to instruct driver to drop child to school), elder sibling (sulking), younger sibling (quarelling, who has exams,the next day)Exams, I shake my head in disbelief - in May - must be compartment, poor child like me, giving retest after retest for XI maths.

Mampi's eyes now narrow in rage... she'd have shot me , like in a cowboy flick, if she had a gun. Ahh! But I have a narrow escape as it is the smitten gatekeeper/roomkeeper from the Gurdwara -calling her -asking after the 'bebe' - Attractive, smart , red Puma decal laptop bag(I was trying to nudge it off the bag, on the sly), Reeboks to fly around in...I would call too, if I were the doorkeeper, so he was only doing what was expected of him.

So when we hit the parking lot, our 'sheher ki bibi' suddenly looks worried, turns back and decides to er, powder her nose and we are frantically wiping our faces in the sultry evening heat, yelling to the parking attendant for the getaway vehicle and trying to make our visitor manage to take the that all-important interstate bus, through the maddening evening traffic.

Our knight errant is Sumanto, who not only will escort her safely but is also dutifully carrying her backback(full of Delhi goodies for the people back home, I trust)

We wish her godspeed and hope that she will find a publisher as a travelling companion.For the thesis needs to be published, even though it is hardly ready.

Au revoir till we meet again!

Life: Locked and bolted

2010-05-14T16:26:00.001+05:30

I often ask people around – are all of our activities supposed to be for public consumption?? From bad hair days to loosies to what we ate ( or didn’t eat) for breakfast to what we did , who we met and how exciting a life we are all leading – I can’t for the life of me , understand why and how do we have tell so much about ourselves. Do we need to posture? Do we need others to ratify that we are having a great time and life. Do we need to have a Jim Carrey style Truman show – to tell everyone we got nothing to hide? Don’t we really? Honestly – someone please enlighten me!

Dreams without heads or tails

2010-05-14T15:51:00.003+05:30

An image from one of my uneasy dreams keeps bothering me . I shoo it away and it keeps creeping back. It is of a headless torso that is near naked and suddenly topples over. In the dream it is about me talking to my father and then suddenly, there is no father any more. Just this disturbing imagery – without a sequence or a follow-up.
I sense that it relates to the uneasiness that I have regarding the health of my father – who is all of 83 and seems to have had a cerebral stroke recently. He is regressing mentally. Wants more sweets, is mostly forgetful about ‘now’ memories, his speech slurs often and throws tantrums if I visit him less frequently. The doctor tells me that not much can be done. No intervention, no clearing of blockages. Medication can help, but just a little bit. And so I must wait and watch. And in the meantime, life must go on. Most dreams mostly seem to be about fulfilment that is elusive in real life but here there is a curious foreboding.

Strangers on a Train - Last of the FilmFest

2010-05-14T15:40:00.002+05:30

Strangers on a Train : Farley Granger, Ruth Roman, Robert Walker, Leo G Carroll, Patricia Hitchcock.
Review: The film opens to a train station and close-ups of polished black shoes and another of that white tennis shoes. The two pairs grab our eyeballs and we are whisked away to yet another spine chilling tale.
Bruno is a tennis fan but seems to know far more than necessary about the private life of his idol Guy Haines – the fact that he is seeing a Senator’s daughter even though he has a wife.
He proposes to exchange murders – he will kill Guy’s troublesome wife so that he can be with his loved one and Guy can return the favour by finishing off Bruno’s controlling father.
Guy brushes him off, only to have left his lighter behind. Bruno calls him, finds out that the wife will not divorce him, urges him to agree to his scheme. Not just that , he follows Guy’s wife as she appears and she mistaking his following for admiration, lets him follow her to her inevitable end, at the isle of love –in the amusement park. The spectacles of the lady, showing her last moments and the strangling, is unexpected and chilling.
The train is a recurring motif as Guy is accused of murdering his wife the only person who can give him an alibi on the train, was drunk to the gills and is hopeless.
Bruno now chases him, demanding that he fulfil his part of the bargain. Pursued by both a friendly plainclothes police shadow and Bruno, Guy’s fiancée latches on the plot when Bruno is fixated on Guy’s spectacled sister-in-law the young Barbara. He passes out , nearly re-enacting the murder of Guy’s now deceased wife, and strangling an innocent lady in the process.
Guy’s refusal to kill Bruno’s father drives him to plant the lighter and get Guy implicated .
The decisive tennis match between Guy and his opponent and the intercuts help build the tension in the film just as Bruno loses the critical cigarette lighter, regains it and hopes to plant in the isle of the Amusement park where he murdered Guy’s spectacled wife.
The police have been given the slip and begin to chase Guy in their quest to get the murderer. The speeding runaway carousel provides both comic relief and tension as Bruno and Guy battle it out to the finish.
Finally, the carousel shatters and breaks up and among the people hurt, is the greviously injured Bruno. His life ebbs away but not his hostility. The lighter in his hands and the park attendant who recognise him from the night of the murder, help to allay suspicion and give hope to Guy that all is not lost.
The same scene as that of the beginning builds up at the end where another eager tennis fan recognises Guy and the now wary Guy moves away with his loved one to find another empty carriage – no more complications this time.
A fast-paced film, in which morals and ethics are given the go by. Even our tennis pro Guy, in the heat of the moment, is not quite above threatening to kill his wife, even though he really doesn’t follow through. “Actors are like cattle”, said Hitchcock and his actors are there solely to entertain, murder or get murdered and disappear.

Hitchcock Film Fest Contd 2

2010-05-14T15:33:00.005+05:30

Shadow of a Doubt : Teresa Wright, Joseph Cotten, McDonald Cary , Henry Traves and Wallace Ford
Review: The film is a cinematic tale of a perfect middle class American portrait – a tale – marred or tarred if you will, by a tainted brush – that of the presence of Uncle Charlie.
His namesake niece is the most intuitive of three siblings, growing up impatiently in suburban American – longing to be a somebody in a bigger city. So when her uncle Charlie – dodging pursuers, throwing money about - for some reason we can’t cotton on immediately – sends a telegram saying he would want to be with his sister’s family and his niece, she is naturally delighted.
Nonetheless , we start sharing the uneasiness of ring gifted to young Charlie and we begin to, like her, dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s. That violence lurks beneath the veneer of easy camaraderie is only too evident when Uncle Charlie wrestles away the newspaper from his playful niece that could focus suspicion on his activities as the Merry Widow Murderer.
The arrival of two people on a survey mission helps speed up the pace and the romantic interest too helps build towards the exciting sequence of suffocation of young Charlie in the Newton’s garage.
Morbid black comedy prevails on a second level where Charlie’s dad and their lonesome neighbour indulge in murder motives and weapons – constantly trying to outsmart the other.
There are times when Uncle Charlie very nearly gives the game away when he talks disparagingly about well to do widows and how the earth would be better off without them. We are uneasy but not quite sure. Is he disturbed, does he need help?
Charlie wants her uncle to go but he, has other ideas – including trying to get rid of her. So just as we breathe a little easier – we are confronted with yet another danger to the one person who can reveal all.
The ring with its inscription engraved with someone else’s initials is the key to unmasking her uncle and young Charlie manages to do just that. At a party given in his honour uncle realises that the game is finally up. Flamboyantly he turns it around into a farewell party.
He leaves in the way that he came – with the family seeing him off , but with none of the joy that accompanied his arrival. Curiously we are left with a niggling doubt – was he the real suspect or was the man caught on the east coast, the real McCoy. We heave a sigh of relief, but we will never know for sure. And nor will young Charlie.
A black and white film with characters in so many shades of gray that we can clumsily pick at some of them and yet, identify only a few.

Hitchcock Film Fest at American Center

2010-05-14T15:29:00.003+05:30

Rope : James Stewart, Farley Granger, John Dall, Constance Collier, Joan Chandler, Edith Evansson
Review: The film opens to a terrifying shot of a person being throttled – strangled by a rope in the interiors of an apartment. The camera never really leaves the apartment – it follows people within and sees them out. We are therefore always spot on – the unseen voyeurs as much as prisoners being forced to witness the event and its aftermath . Brandon and Philip are two friends have done away with their friend David and cocksure Brandon actually has the gall to invite David’s parents, their former schoolmaster Rupert and some friends for a party – the purpose of which no –one is quite sure, but proves to be their undoing. Janet who is the dead David’s fiancée, is disturbed to see a friend who she was intimate with, at some point. The strangled David is kept in a chest so that he can be disposed of, after dark and we are treated to the necrophiliac act of the chest serving a table from where people help themselves.
There is a high point of dramatic tension as the housekeeper brings up the books from the dining table and is all set to open the chest to keep the books back in, we are a hair breadth’s distance from a scream .
The denoument is somewhat predictable – as the wrong ones will be hauled up, but we are always wary of Brandon getting ready to shoot their suspicious schoolmaster if he does discover the body, he is not meant to. Eventually, it is sensitive, jumpy pianist Philip who gives the game away – and we are all the time thinking – he is the one who strangles chickens and a man is just a step away.
The rope is a valuable thing – by itself it’s a mere rope but because of what we have witnessed and the characters – increasingly jumpy - view it – the rope assumes sinister dimensions.
The film’s principal characters throw up an interesting standpoint – those among us who are intellectually superior can decide to do away from lesser mortals – the Nazi leitmotif for the horrors perpetrated during World War Second. And their schoolmaster answers – who is to say and who is to decide. Can we take away life just as we can give rise to new life?
Disturbing questions. The film had merely 8 cuts – and this speaks volumes of Hitchcock’s technical finesse as well as a master storyteller . We can find glimpses of this static camera angle later on in Rear Window as well.

New Economy, Redundant Me

2010-02-10T13:25:00.003+05:30

Last night, while waiting for the nth time outside my partner’s office, I idly watched a solitary woman get up on the back of a huge Innova , her strolley on the co-passenger’s front seat. It triggered off a storm of thoughts.

In the new economy we talk business, we talk targets, we talk about promotions. What we don’t talk about or want to, is prudence. Being careful about resources that we have. Thinking about maybe we can slow down our environmental degradation. Maybe we can avoid our poisoned lakes and rivers like America did and then started thinking about mitigating the adverse effects on the environment.

We seem to need things to be larger than life, not reflective of us as we are. That vehicle could have been a smaller, a fuel efficient one – but the lady’s desig, not to mention derriere, would be slighted by such an affront. She would even start worrying if the bosses were upset with her or whether she had fallen out of favour.

In the early eighties –when I was growing up in Delhi – ( yes, yes this is an old man talking about the old pre-liberalised economy) – it seemed a nicer place – lesser vehicle models to choose from, less congestion, less crowding and lesser commuting time even by the ramshackle DTC buses and their redline, blueline, greenline and whiteline avatars. One thing stood out. Money had value. Resources were limited and carefully utilised. Things were repaired until they would not work anymore. No one wasted and dumped things, they way we do now. Plastics – hard soft, recyclable, non recyclable, were much less. Cloth bags, flax bags, jute bags abounded. We were not thinking of the environment yet. We just didn’t want to or didn’t have the means and the wherewithal to dirty everything around and ‘waste’

We are now in a globalised economy – where ramifications of sneezes in Dow Jones can be heard and felt from across Dalal Street and Hang Seng. We think nothing of fuel-guzzling environment unfriendly measures all around. Hell, we don’t even care who does what. We don’t worry about the stink that the Yamuna leaves – its faecal coliform bacteria count being 10 times the acceptable limit.

As long as we and our closed circle can get by. I always thought a credit card was meant to help in terms of emergency – and now all we see around us are the fruits of borrowed capital and flaunting.

If we are out of work for a while, we don’t have the means to handle our budgets for a couple of months – so scary has our lifestyle become. Saving is dirty – and must be done to get the 1 lakh tax benefit and for the rest let’s eat drink and be merry for tomorrow we must die or get killed.

Still-born dreams

2010-02-10T11:37:00.001+05:30

A maid
Her presence or the lack of it
Is the conduit of our hopes and dreams
Dreams of a hot meal, after a hard-day’s work and commute
Dreams of a baby and a bright-eyed puppy
Dreams of Johnson’s Talcum powder, wails, gurgles, nappy changing
Dreams of coming back to folks and chatting over dinner
Dreams of folks being fed , groomed and odd jobs being taken care of
Dreams of their laughing, getting affectionate, of being grandparents throughout the week
Instead of a mere 6 hours on a weekend
Dreams of having my first-born in the house
Her cavorting, cajoling, threatening,
Her getting the childhood treats that we all got
And forgot.

The long short break

2009-11-22T14:14:00.003+05:30

For want of a better title to the experience, let’s call it 'The Long Short Break’, shall we?

What happens when you take-off quite suddenly from a frenetic work schedule? When your team lead and team members are low in morale, confronted with daily bouts of anxiety about their survival, about the next month, the next week or even the next day? What happens when you pack in 3 hours flat, amidst rapidly chilling weather for a 5 day trip to the sweltering tropics? What happens when you are preparing to dredge memories of almost 22 years of a place that you visited last with your family?

And indeed what happens when for the first time in nearly 38 years, you willingly surrender to the avarices of an end-to-end packaged trip by none other than an online travel and trip organizer!!!

This is what happened when I and my partner decided to take the Tour de force – ah! The Tour de Andamans from makemytrip.com

It all began a little over a month ago, when we sifted through packages to Sri Lanka (now with the tigers gone, it seemed promising), narrowly missed deciding on Sikkim(where I had been previously) and overruled the North East (with their clunky inner line permits and law and order uneasiness) and settled on Andamans for a break.
Applying for leave was the more manageable part. The hotel bookings, the travel details and the subsequent hotel upgrade slowly trickled in – not without a few anxious moments, post the prompt payment acceptance.

Even booking a taxi for the airport was smooth. What was not however was the planning part of the trip – the itinerary looked innocuous enough. Seemed like we’d have a restful break - God knows my partner deserved one after her back-breaking, teetering-on-the-brink, pan-NCR client service meetings. We both packed very little. I knew the heat would be on the higher side, having been there earlier in January as well as the rivulets-of-sweat trip in humid, coastal Kerala, at different points in time.

I had also been ribbed enough on side-businesses and extra incomes coming in handy; so kept the end destination a little fuzzy to my colleagues – murmuring about needing to visit Kolkata for a few days – me!! Kolkata? Wild horses couldn’t get me there, screaming and shouting . People ought to have smelt a rat if they knew me enough! But in these days who does and who wants to know people better if they can add friends via Facebook, stalk their activities and then pretend to know a lot about them, their lives and so on?

But I digress. On the fated day, we wake up in time, get ready in time, the electricity stays, oh joy... for the hot water bath traditions that we have followed for all these years and the taxi guy arrives ten minutes to 4 am. I love that guy! We reach the airport with plenty of time to spare. Having recently been to the spanking new pipe and glass Terminal 1D for an office-sponsored break to Udaipur, I am a little proud , showing my partner the areas around. We check in comfortably ,tho’ forgetting to ask for decent seats and my partner -the retail guru - wants to check out the tenants and branded outlets around. We mooch around and then walk-in through the security detail where a guy is putting his shoes and socks in the plastic tray for the x-ray machine. Our hearts skip a collective beat. Has there been a bomb alert? Is this guy being unfairly racially (read: ethnically) profiled? Two Kolkata-bound business travellers – bongs, it seems, take off their formal jackets to get them screened. I do likewise, with my camera jacket, wisecracking to the two "hope they stop at this and not ask us to take other things off, too". The mood lightens. It’s a crowded early morning flight on Jet-lite. Portblair via Kolkata. It is not dawn yet. The blue lights on the runways and tarmac look like stars out of a fairy tale book. Stars shine down, or stars on the ground?

We take off but before that I decide to tell my team lead that I am travelling beyond Kolkata – what if the mobiles don’t work there and there is an emergency? Moronically the SMS travels to my partner instead, when she discovers it in Kolkata.

We convey our well-being to the world at large at Kolkata, when the aircraft is checked and as transit passengers, our boarding passes checked too by a buxom bongshell. The aircraft fills up yet again and there is this entire crowd ready for a holiday in the Andamans. We buy some food on this leg of the journey too little, too late, too overpriced. The people around have their parathas, achar and subji and the aroma wafts all around. The stomachs rumble, grumble and curse.

Later, we learn that most of our fellow tour members have been part of the same flight. A little before noon, we land in Port Blair. The landing is similar to the green forested areas, we overflew the last time and the greens clear out suddenly likewise, to the runway. The airport though, feels bigger and the landing strip definitely broader. The announcement of the ground temperature outside 32 degrees Celsius, catches me unawares. I start to peel off my clothing content to remain in a Hanes vest and pajamas. Decency stops me, halfways.

My partner’s name shows up on the placards and we are herded into a corner. Other tour members arrive. We size each other up. There are 4 of us in a match box Omni (when will they phase these horrendous models out or create better ventilation ?) There is a chatterbox of a lady who kicks up a lot of fuss and seems to me - an edgier, activist version of my partner. And her husband who later turns out to working for the Shipping Corporation. Activist Lady is uneasy about our bags being bundled into one vehicle and is worried for them. I could have told her that people here are less interested in bumming other’s baggage than in getting on with their lives. Another reason to reinforce my impression about the place’s honesty, I’ll relate later.

We have a 25-minute drive through a leafy green town, that still looks just as somnolent and peaceful as I so it over two decades back. It’s a Friday, I remind myself and suddenly we spot the sea – glimpses here and there across the winding roads. We arrive at Corbyn’s cove and the Peerless Sarovar Portico – our beachfront resort. Possibly the only one – on the entire island. It looks cool in refreshing white and aqua tones. As we check in, a welcome drink in hand, we get a room one floor up, from where we can catch the sea in the distance. Lunch is on us as part of our MAPAI . We have a quick toe-wetting at the beach and decide to come back to it, later. Post a short rest, we are ready to be part of a ferry ride to Viper island – sounds scary that. We also see the Chatham Wharf – which is connected to the main Port Blair island via a sea bridge. There is also a huge naval presence with some grey mean-looking Frigate class destroyers, whose snaps we must not take. We see this humoungous floating dock that repairs ships mid water!! We take in Mount Harriet – a green peak on one of the islands, which we shoot past on our right and quite a few other places – other British sounding names. We moor at a jetty on Viper island which is where we find unmistakable signs of ravaging by the Tsunami – lopped off coconut palms, shattered walls and building and weird deposits of mud and sand that look quite out of place. The place’s claim to fame is a hanging room and a courthouse – the place being the first ever kalapani for Indian prisoners – during British rule.

We head back and arrive straight into the sound and light show at the cellular jail. It begins to drizzle gently and then a little steadily. The mood is sombre, at times heart-breaking. People there do their bit to create Brechtian A-devices, they chatter to each other loudly or relay back news to their nears and dears on that ghastly device - the cellphone.

We decide to share a ginger tea and then it’s time to head back – for a well-earned rest at the Hotel.

Day 2 Saturday : Day breaks early in these parts – 4 00 am is crack of dawn and we are up – ahead of everyone else, ready for the transfer to the jetty at 5 am. The younger couples especially those on a honeymoon real or perceived – lag behind. The ferry is at 6 now delayed by our group of 18 to 0630. Our Omni seizes midway. In the hurried transfer to another vehicle to catch the ship at Phoenix Bay for Havelock I leave my precious Pentax SLR behind. Much later, we discover it is missing and request the tour people to take care of it. We are now one camera down – with a Kodak auto-focus being our only saviour. The ship is enormous – I learn of Aft , Forecastle and lower decks and upper decks. We finally settle down to a wonderful breezy section just below the steering section. We spot flying fish, something we have only heard of – before this . They jump out of the ship’s way and glide some distance, before diving back into the sea. It's spellbinding just as mesmerising as the wake of the fast moving ship - that draws us in inexplicably. People have been known to jump in to get near to this fascinating sight. We are both fine sailors, we discover. No seasickness, whatsoever. The shippie gentleman tells us the trick is to have solids inside, and not too much water.

2 hours on the ship and the deep seas, now blue, now green and the deep forested islands in the distance for company – it is a sight for sore eyes for people like us, used to bumper to bumper traffic on the DND and ring road stretches, day after day.

We arrive at Havelock a little after 8 although the light makes it feel much later – possibly 1030 or 11 in the day. We are transferred to a serene property – swiss style wooden chalets standing end to end around a central grove of coconut palms, hemmed in the sea in the distance. The check out here is 11am though and we wait to get our rooms.
It is low tide and we wade out in the coral strewn beach and paddle out to knee and waist deep crystal clear waters, where we can see our own toes and everything else in between.

Not too many people on the tour join us though – the salt in the water perhaps puts them off? Or the fear of sunburn and darkening complexions? So sad though that people travel all this way and are wary of the waters that are so close. Afternoon sees us on an Omni to Radha Nagar beach – rated by Time to be Asia’s third best beach. Wonder who are the first and second??? It is true the beach is clean and not too scary in terms of the surf and breakers. It is restless and energy filled enough to challenge you to go farther. I strike up conversations with a fellow tour member – an advocate who lives not too far from us in Delhi.

The rest of Havelock is a peaceful place – with lots of East Bengali settlers who have made it their home, generation after generation. They are at peace. Not too keen on Port Blair and even less keen on the mainland. A marked difference from my earlier trip where we met people wistful about 'back home'.

The place has hibiscus flowers, coconut and betel leaf palms in plenty. The markets are abundant with fruit and vegetable and there is even a decent bakery or two. The night is peaceful, the cicadas chirp and the stars look closer. It is as close to a tropical paradise that you can ever dream of.

We arrive after a long walk to the resort to find the beachfront stacked with firewood and the hotel guy ready to light it up for a honeymoon couple. What kind of nuts actually pay extra to get warmed even further on a balmy tropical evening? Bollywood influences at work, we shake our heads resignedly. Our beach side dinner turns out to be dinner at the buffet zone, everyone grumpy.

Day 3 is Sunday and we splash around at our now-familiar private pool aka the beach and call out to fishing boats passing us by. Supposed to check out by 11 am , we decide to skip the optional snorkel and coral watch on Elephanta bay and instead head to kala pathar beach. We see dozens of small hermit crabs who have grabbed empty clam and oyster shells and are running around with them. A treat for all those in the rat race.

On our way back, we stop by at a German Bakery which we had passed by enroute to the beach. We decide on a wood oven cheese and olive pizza and some prawn malai curry and rice. Both are delicious and the conversation with the charmingly chatty Bengali woman, equally rewarding.

We are in time to catch the ferry back to Port Blair where we bump into the same Naval couple with their delightfully cherubic, 15 month baby Samaira – who had a weekend break that coincided with ours – whom we met earlier at Radha Nagar.

The voyage is mostly uneventful except for the fact that the seas now look black and we are in darkness except for the lights of Port Blair – one hour into the journey. People cluster around and chat. Some eat, Some smoke , some are islanders, commenting on the cold storage cauliflowers at diglipur ( the northern island of the Andamans ) and some talking about Indira point as well – in Car Nicobar. The conversation is routine, but for us, the context is outlandish, even exotic. We are aware, we are tourists, here for just a short while.

Day 4 is Monday and I mentally picture the traffic near the Ashram flyover and smile – still 2 more days to go before we get overrun by civilization, again. Post our buffet breakfast, I plague our alternative tour guide Saleem - a gentle Tamil guy, to restore my now elusive Pentax camera. We are on today for a trip to North Bay – for corals and snorkeling and rounding off with a trip to the British garrison at Ross Island - now with the Indian Navy.

We see corals on our snorkelling trip, sea anemones, brain coral, mushroom coral and fish that make 'Finding Nemo' come alive beneath our snorkel masks. Our 20-30 minute snorkel leg has been the most breathtaking part. The high point of our trip. The ferry ride to Ross Island is one of nostalgia for the British – their bakery, their stores, their club, the then and now.

Day 5. Post the first decent breakfast of the trip, we pack our bags and head for a spin to the city centre and the Cellular Jail. We soak in the ambience, watch the world go by and request the obliging gardener at the memorial park for some plants to take back.

Last words: Andamans is a wonderful place. Take it easy though. It is a easy paced unhurrired life. Go with as less disposable plastics as you can. There is already too much plastic garbage piling up – in the islands - we see it all-round, on the ocean surfaces, in the various islands. We must start doing plastic recycling and composting of organic garbage. Let’s use more tidal and solar power. Let’s use electric cars and scooters. Will help a lot given that every vehicle gets 10 litres max in a day – say hello to petrol rationing. Mountain bikes will also help – given the uneven terrain.

Tour groups make sense when you want to pack in too many things in a short while and that too in unfamiliar places – where you don’t know the language, ethnicity customs and people – and are afraid to venture out of your cocoons. Take time out of the itinerary and you'll be richly rewarded. Or else you will be perpetually hopping from resort to resort to resort.

Keep honeymooners and normal travellers distinct- they exist in different worlds and 'tis a folly to try and blend them in.

The food is always an important part of a trip and care can be taken to keep food standards high even if the items are limited. Treat veggies and omnivores fairly, please!

Thanks makemytrip for the complimentary wine bottle. Quite a souvenir that!

Janvi's deferred b'day

2009-08-30T18:21:00.007+05:30

It was everything that we could possibly want. Kishi's sinfully delightful strawberry cream on chocolate cake decorated with marzipan flowers, a host of friends, all of whom had kids who they had managed to marshall into an impossibly crowded mall on a weekend, the family reunited for a while and pure unadulterated dollops of fun for the kids. Only it was 3 days after Janvi's seventh birthday.

The surprise began , just after I picked her up - on her usual saturday visit. Brought her home quickly to change into an outfit bought just for the special day. Puzzled at not quite finding her grandparents at home as usual, she nevertheless cheered up at the mention of visiting the mall. As she had gallopped out of her mum's place without the usual lunch and mandatory water bottle, there was also the hope and promise of perhaps a pizza. And so, we reached the mall and it was a treat to watch her disbelieving face. What! all this jazz for me - kind of expression. The cake arrived next , but our friends and their children all took their time. Meanwhile the clock kept ticking and the exclusive place we had reserved for (and needed to shoo people away from, albeit politely)would have to yield to cootchie cooing couples and teeny boppers. The moment arrived, the cake

was cut and the kids escaped to a playpen closeby. the fact that they hadnt all met before, was irrelevant as they plunged into play and some enterprising moms and maids even passed food as they happily played.

Burgers, pizzas and cokes did the rounds and my girl ate more than she had ever eaten in 3 saturdays. Return gifts were passed and indeed she was curious - not knowing what was inside. I hush-spelled C, U and P to her and she was incredulous - cups for all age groups!! - and then followed by her magical word T, O, F, F, E, E, and all was well. My dad insisted on a return gift and tried to unwrap it and finally gave up struggling .

His cup oops mug was a gentle blue and we insisted that he use it - since he had shattered and blood splattered the kitchen with his last glass tumbler. The old order yieldeth , giving place to the new - was never so true. I think of my dad as the figure of authority -the head of the family and here he is, regressing into childhood day by day. At 83, he throws as much tantrums as my little girl and he is far tougher to handle.

(Thats him, trying to unwrap his return gift)

And so after the kids had stomped and burst as many balloons as they could muster, the deferred b'day party drew to a close, our precious one, clutching another set of bday presents, all thoughtfully selected by our friends - without which the party would never have been quite the same. Thanks people, you are all precious to us. Take good care and walk with us, some more.

Oktoberfest in April?

2009-04-09T13:32:00.005+05:30

Saturday evening was an unexpected delight. We began with a visit to the Lotus Temple Auditorium for an evening of French musique and chansons. A very lively and young group, led by the highly energetic Gabrielle Boda-Rechner. Two compositions were familiar - from our own collection of Edith Piaf – and made us feel special.
When the concert ended , we raced to the German Centre at Max Mueller Bhawan, KG Marg, to catch the 'film night' the second of 3 German films being screened under the open sky.

This was a truly delightful experience – 4 front rows of broad sofas you could curl your feet upon, cushions galore, a breezy April night a choice of Foster’s and Kingfisher and a variety of nibbles. Amidst a very polite, film buff crowd discussing film in hushed tones, we chose to nibble on some sesame toast and some softdrinks; eagerly waiting to catch the film on the giant screen.

The film was by Fatih Akin – a recent Turkish-German filmmaker who has been getting critical acclaim, dealing with issues of assimilation and isolation of Non-white immigrants into White Europe.

The film ended a little before Cinderella hour – an absorbing tale, bucking the trend to end on the simplistic note that marks our kind of cinema.

Reluctantly deciding to pass the next film screening at midnight, we decided to leave.

An icecream cone helped round off an evening of pure delight. Joyous more so, because of the unexpected and novel element of having the stars for a roof – during the show.

The Vanishing Pill box

2009-04-09T13:24:00.001+05:30

The purveyor and recipient of our hopes, wishes, thoughts and dreams in the form of letters, rakhis, greeting cards and all, the once common red pill box of the Department of posts – is now a rarity. The all recognized khaki uniform of the postman is now a light blue shirt and dark blue trouser. People already call them ‘courier wallas’.

Recently looking for a pill box to drop 2 pre-paid business reply cards, I came upon not one, but two of them. Just off Palika Bhawan, ahead of Park Hotel, in CP.

I was happy that my job was done. Sad because of the loss of yet another element from my childhood and adolescent days...

Jaagore? Form 6 being tossed for a six!

2009-04-08T13:16:00.004+05:30

Dear People at Jaagore,

My Election consituency zone falls under 55 Sahibabad of the Ghaziabad Lok Sabha constituency of Uttar Pradesh, part of NCR Delhi.

Today morning I went once again to the Tehsil Office in Ghaziabad near Gandhi Nagar market. at approx. 11 am.

The tehsildar , Shri Satish Chandra Shukla ,told me and several others that they are accepting forms of only those people who were unable to submit form 6 earlier on account of election duty.

If my name is the list or is incorrectly entered, I could come and get it changed on the 16th of April 2009.
Otherwise he refused to entertain /accept any other forms. In addition the same gentleman told us "ab kuch nahi ho sakta - aap october november mein aaiye."

Incidentally, the other senior official Rakesh Chandra Sharma, PCS, who is the 'up-zila adhikari' was not present in his seat, who might have prevailed upon the first gentleman to accept our filled up forms!!!
In the light of the Hindustan Times' news column dated 8th April 2009, that is today, a clipping regarding acceptance of Form 6 in Noida zone, does this not constitute a blatant and flagrant violation of the law?

How can the forms be accepted in neighbouring Noida and not in distt Ghaziabad?

If, as I saw later on, some forms are indeed being accepted later, on the ground that these are election duty officials, how is it that we have two sets of laws for the same citizens and residents of this country???

How is it that you write to me saying that since the electoral rolls are in Hindi, you cannot help me? Is Hindi not the national language?

How is it that in January 2009, when I had gone to submit the same earlier, the same land records officers in the tehsildar office, refused to accept the same, saying the people will come to collect information in your own locality?

How is it that these officials never turned up?

How will you ever face the people and urge them to vote/fill form 6/8 /whatever needs to be done and not be present to help these poor hapless lambs like me and my family and several others, in whose face the doors of parliamentary and assembly democracy are repeatedly being banged, time and time again?

I need answers!!! JAAAGOO RRRR EEEE!!!!!

This way to hundred percent?

2009-03-09T11:58:00.007+05:30

Last week when my daughter came to visit, she made a startling disclosure. The fact that after every exam sheet that she submitted to her class teacher, the teacher pointed out her mistakes made. So far so good.

And then what she says next, blows my mind. Apparently, her teacher encourages her to change her answers. Erase her mistakes. Pencil in the new answers. Voila! And we are done. The way to get high, sorry, hundred percent marks in her exams.

And what class does she read in? Oh, just a lowly first, at the moment. The first step, perhaps, she smilingly informs me, to doing something that’s not quite right. But the end justifies it.

Her class teacher wants everyone in her class, to get good marks. Isn’t that what every parent wants? A seat in a great school. Great marks in every subject. Great grades to pass out with. To land a prized placement from the country’s best companies.

But is this way the right way? Or is it the only way? Only time will tell. For the present, I can only send up a prayer – to the greater force – to give her courage and strength – to help her do what feels right by her. Not by the people around her. Nor by the standards of the world that she will grow up into. Amen.

How could I ever do anything to harm you?

2009-03-09T11:48:00.003+05:30

Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Chocolate ads carried a similar caption, trying to limit the damage control caused by the rumours of
Brominated Vegetable Oil – BVO –a harmful carcinogenic ingredient being added as a preservative – in soft drinks and chocolates, when I was in my mass comm course in 1993.

The same thought crystallizes my frame of mind, when my daughter Janvi does not visit me this week. She has been advised bed-rest by her doc.

It is also not possible for me to visit her at her mom’s place. Apparently, her last week’s diet of home-prepared maggi and freshly squeezed orange juice, readied by me, her dad, has resulted in a case of delhi-belly, coupled with high temperature and a few times of throwing up.

Perhaps, the visit to a friend’s place and the breathless romp with his hyperactive daughter, along with the drive by ‘she who must not be named’ has also contributed to her not deciding to drop by.

This would have been acceptable, but for the fact that barely two weeks back, she had begged off citing her exams. Exams. Final exams that will see her into the next grade. And not to count the countless number of times she has been out of town or needed to meet other people, on her designated visitation day.

The court order places an onerous responsibility on my child. She has to play the balancing act – very skilfully. Appease her mom who has custody over her 6 days and 18 hours a week. And manage her dad and his family who thirst after her – for 6 magical hours on Saturdays and on some special occasions.

I muse aimlessly. I wonder, if her telling the truth gets her into more trouble than she would have, normally. When I met her after a long hiatus, post the court’s intervention to restore my visitation rights, Janvi exclaimed that among other things that she had learnt to do, she had learnt to tell lies.

I made her promise that she will not tell lies, no matter what the cost. In between, she is forced to do so, to save her skin. I am uneasy. Yet, I am forced to compromise. Another day, another explosive exposure. Now she says she will tell the truth. And nothing but the truth. I tell her I am glad. But underneath, there is a feeling of dismay. Her tendency to tell the truth is not being appreciated; it is being used to twist her emotions and blackmail her.

I hope she sticks to her principles as she grows up. And learns that for every love, there is a sacrifice to be made. And like her father, she too chooses to walk on the razor’s edge. Though it may be infinitely tougher, it is the only way.

Survival and Celebration

2009-02-05T16:11:00.006+05:30

I meet a relative this morning. Squeezing a bit of time between looking for my own survival, to lending a hand with helping another survive. And perhaps, thrive. Now why did I use these near contrasting words? My elder sister often used them interchangeably, loosely. Much to my consternation. Today, I am more at peace. More tolerant, perhaps of my own and others' limitations and shortcomings.

I keep thinking and my belief is strengthened further. In these days of uncertainty, each day is a profound lesson in survival . And a celebration of being alive. To see another sunset. To gaze in awe at snow-capped mountains. To hear the soothing sounds of a spring. To glimpse another swell of a seawave. To sniff at a bunch of cheerful daffodils, next winter. To press a chubby cheek and glimpse a momentary smile on an innocent face. And live in the unspoken joy of shared happiness.

I urge the relative I have been talking to, to take a break. To 'thrive' for a while, before she goes back to'survive'. She says she is tired. And sadder still, is without hope. I bid farewell to her. I tell her as cheerfully and strongly as I can muster "I, am not tired. Not yet." Madadayo!(Kurosawa's film of the same name)

It is feverish february. Feverish, because all around me is this frenetic activity of compulsory savings and tax benefits. I do my bit, struggling. Urge others around to do the same. Lest this bogeyman with an unknown face, should carry away what rightfully belongs to us.

And all the while I wonder. Who is this person for whom I save. Why must this money that I work hard enough for, have to go into savings that are locked away with 8.16% interest compounded half-yearly, but that I can't touch over the next 7 years.

A million thoughts buzzing, once again, I step out into the seething mass of humanity. Nehru Place. Laughing faces. Arrestingly beautiful faces and figures. Talking sotto voce into headsets. Secretive smiles. Shared hopes for companionship. Colleagues and co-workers walk together. Talking shop. Bad mouthing their merciless bosses. Walking to their respective vehicles and transport. For yet another end to the day. And a hope for a more merciful tomorrow.

And what, if there was no tomorrow? What good would those compulsory savings do, then? Buy back the smiles that have been wiped away, like water colours leaching from a child's painting ? Staunch those tears that flow ceaselessly?

Would they even be worth the proverbial umbrella for the rainy day?

Pic courtesy :Akira Kurosawa: Film Artist October 8th, 2008 by Doug Cummings ·

Mommy & Friends

2009-02-05T15:07:00.007+05:30

Dusting through yellowed photographs, taking trips down memory lane. Of people long forgotten.Of people who have moved on.Or are no longer with us. I come across this photograph. There she is. On the extreme left. My mother. 'Ma' for all the times that I have been able to utter her name.

And 'mommy' for the sometimes affectionate occasions when I call her over the phone. With 4 of her friends from college. Her youthful times.

Judging from her token jewellery and simple make-up, I gauge that she was recently married at the time of the photograph. And that it was taken in a studio - with a stark limbo background.
I ask her about the photograph. Now all of 77 years, she frowns. Dredges up a couple of names from her memory tank. Remembers the day it was - when the friends had met as witnesses to a friend's registered marriage. Post a treat, they had moved on to this studio in College Street, Kolkata, for a shot that would survive to this day.

I smuggle away the shot for a grayscale scan on my office Vistascanner. And lo and behold, the yellows disappear and Mom & Friends come to life and reality.

A non serious look at secularly peculiar France

2009-01-16T10:59:00.004+05:30

Bad Faith Fr:Mauvaise Foi (France-Belgium)

Cast :Roschdy Zem, Cecile de France, Pascal Elbe, Leila Bekhti, Jean-Pierre Cassel, Martine Chevallier, Berangere Bonvoisin, Naima Elmcherqui, Antoine Chappey, Mickael Masclet, Abdelhafid Metalsi, Xavier Beauvois.

A "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?" for the 21st century, Roschdy Zem's helming debut, "Bad Faith," tackles the problems when a Polish-Jew woman and a Moroccan Arab man have to tell their respective folks they've been sleeping with each other. Non-threatening, topical comedy benefits from endearing perfs by the well-liked Zem and Cecile de France. Neither scripting nor helming will broker world peace, but this enjoyable pic should post nice returns in Gaul and be welcome at Jewish fests worldwide.

Ishmael(Zem) teaches at a Paris music conservatory and Clara (de France) works as a physical therapist with motor-impaired youngsters. The thirtysomething lovebirds think nothing of their ethnic origins and are secular vis-a-vis their assigned faiths. They've been happily together for four years.

Ishmael's widowed mother (Leila Bekhti, wonderful) came from Morocco and still lives in the well-maintained housing project where Ishmael grew up. His best friend (co-scripter Pascal Elbe) is an easygoing Jew who runs a record shop like something out of "High Fidelity."

Clara's parents, Victor and Lucie, are comfortably well-off retirees. Dad (Jean-Pierre Cassel) devotes himself to cycling and Mom (Martine Chevallier) maintains their lovely suburban home. Also in residence is Lucie's sister (Berangere Bonvoisin), who never wed but digs men. She and Clara are very close. When Clara learns she's pregnant, all the issues she and Ishmael pooh-poohed surface with a vengeance.

They're completely comfortable with each other, but breaking down and declaring their love to their families proves very sticky. There's plenty of room for inadvertent insult and unanticipated injury. They also start fearing the roots neither of them previously cared about will be subsumed by parenthood.

Clara starts feeling a tad more Jewish; and Ishmael develops a sudden (if half-baked) interest in observing Ramadan, while insisting their unborn son will carry his late father's clunky first name. The prolific Zem, who's appeared in 32 films the past decade, sprinkles a few timely political barbs throughout the narrative, whose outcome is never really in doubt. Encouragingly, the script ridicules the tendency to blame race relations in France on the ongoing conflict between Israel and its Palestinian neighbors.

While the couple's romance feels genuine, their professional lives seem more forced. Denouement is a tad clumsy, although the message is still clear. Supporting cast is fun to watch.

Camera (color), Jerome Almeras; editor, Monica Coleman; music, Souad Massi; art drector, Marie Cheminal; costume designer, Nathalie Raoul; sound (Dolby), Pierre Mertens, Daniel Sobrino; assistant director, Hubert Barbin.

Reviewed at Max Linder, Paris, Nov. 27, 2006. Running time: 88 MIN.
Review Courtesy: LISA NESSELSON from Variety.com

Doings of Da Dozen Dipsites

2009-01-12T17:54:00.008+05:30

Finally, it happened. The Reunion of the DPS Noida Class of 1989. As chilled beer flowed to the sound of the large chime bells suspended from a branch overhanging the courtyards of the elite Nineteenth hole - Wing Commander Bakshi, gave wings to our reunion dreams. In pastel colour.

Truly a dream venue for meeting after 19 years. Many of us had received news of each other from all over the country and in some cases, even away from it. This was an occasion for seeing each other in the flesh, bonhomie, frothing chilled beer and Chinese-style stir-fried snacks and nibbles.

Puneet was the consummate host. Sotto voce commands to the deferential waiters. For beer, vodka, juice, coke and snacks. Not necessarily in any particular order.

Devaraj looked the picture of contentment, having stepped out of pre-revolutionary Russia. An indulgent dacha owner, laughing and chatting with fellow society worthies. Reminded one of 'A day in the life of Ilya Ilyich Oblomov' .

Ronnie aka Prosenjeet Banerjee was a rosy picture of health and well-being. Dressed in a checkered b/w jacket and trousers. Fresh from his vacation in Goa. Seems the divorce business is booming.

Harish (The Bangla way of calling him is absolutely sensored!) Was quiet. The in and outs of Citi - seems to robbed him of his dimpled smile and his characteristic seeti. Didn't quite seem the 'MD Cola' and 'Alpha Cube' Guru Ghantal, that many of us remember him as. Did his bit, collecting our dues, which we all hope, reached the owner.

Avneesh, seemed a trifle tired - guess the burdens of handling your own business can get to your hair and head. Was good to have him around.

Dr Seema looked good, though I kept getting the feeling that she was concentrating more on people's teeth, rather than on what they were saying.

Roopali, deceived to flatter. She did turn up. A big round of applause for
Chris for being a more- than-considerate hubby and taking care of
young Sara, while she was with us.

Rajneesh, threatened to reach before time, slept off, forgot to pick fuel, and arrived late with Doc Seema and Prashant. Business as usual, it seems.

Prashant, the head boy, was once again at the head of things in a black pullover and trousers. Reminding one somehow, of the blood feuds and the brooding Michael Corleone, played grittily by Al Pacino in the Godfather series.

Tarun, seemed very relaxed and happy with work and life, with the Sunday afternoon traffic in Delhi and the fact that he did make it this time around, to the reunion.

Yours truly shaved off his fungus(though inadvertently!) for the occasion. Got well-drunk. Took Snaps. And Potshots. Showed a couple of dirty fingers. Helped Wingco Bakshi get reunited with his phone.

When last seen, one of our unnamed worthies was rolling a joint. Amen to that. And the public school education that we all were supposed to have got.

Pics Courtesy: Devaraj Baul/ Nikon Coolpix DigiCam

The futility of faith

2009-01-08T12:05:00.009+05:30

I grew up and went to school in Ludhiana. In a multicultural, multifaith environment. Where days would mean the strains of shabad keertans wafting from gurdwaras, going to the missionary Sacred Heart Convent School, celebrating Durga Puja every autumn and imbibing secular moral science lessons.

In Standard 3rd, I visited Jammu, Srinagar, Pahalgam and Gulmarg. I learnt, like my daughter does currently, that people of different faiths go to different places of worship (the poison and the hatred that we all seem to exude nowadays are yet to touch her!)

And then in 1981, my father's bank posted him to Delhi. That year began the rumblings of the Sikh militancy. I read horrified about segregated killings. 1984. The carnage continued. The image of a community got sullied. The killers and rioters went unpunished. 1989. Rigged elections deny genuine democracy to the people of J& K. The militant movement emerges out of the shadows of innocent autonomy.

The Soviet Union - a bulwark against religious bigotry, dissolves. Amidst the war drums of another Indian election, the rise of a majoritarian intolerant right. 1992. In order to right a historical wrong, people do another unforgiveable wrong. 1993 . Blasts that hurt members of a faith, carry the echoes of unpunished crimes. 2002. Godhara. A burning train rolls into a carnage juggernaut beyond description. 2008. The murder of a quasi-religious figure turns Kandhamal into a communal tinder-box. The list is endless and never-ceasing.

Common pattern to all and then beyond: The State. Reduced to a bystander, passive watcher, sometimes active abettor of the violence and at best a reluctant implementer of the peace But not once exhibiting the hard secularism, that we were supposed to be. Separating the matters of the state - namely law and order from the faith of the people governed.

Why, even the darling of modern, technologically ebullient India, Rajiv Gandhi, played the communal card with regard to the anti-Sikh pogrom, the Shah Bano case and the unlocking of the disputed temple/mosque.

As I read the anguish of columnists and fellow bloggers, I come to just one conclusion. Practise your faith, but in the confines of your home. The constitution says Freedom to preach, practise and propagate your faith: I say just remove all matters of faith from the public domain and have a uniform civil and criminal code for all citizens. It is no use lamenting for the glorious harmonious times of co-existence. This, may be tough, but it is the only way forward.

Ghajini - Lots of gore on New Year's Eve

2009-01-02T14:18:00.005+05:30

I have been reviewing commenting and recounting about Cinema of the World. All this while, I chose not to see or if I did, not to comment on Boisterous (Mainstream) Bollywood Cinema.

Having always been a parallel cinema fan, I would find it mostly tough to sit through a 3 hour Hindi pic- most of which seemed to lack novelty in storylines. The only thing great was the exotic locales (even though, Sanjay (MotherComplex) Bhansali insisted on making Budapest look and sound like an Italian city in Hum dil de chuke sanam), music(Roja/Bombay/Dil Se) and of course sometimes the special effects(the ET remakes, what were they called, now?) and the seamless (literally) costume changes.

For some reason, I have been at odds with friends and companions over this huge thing - the Big Bollywood Divide - so this Wednesday, when the office crowd decided to celebrate New Year's Eve, by a group booking of Ghajini, I was wary. Another Hindi film!!! Ok, so it turns that this film is actually a remake of an 'original' Tamil Film.

Yes, I do respect Aamir Khan's work - have seen Dil chahta hai, Sarfarosh and Lagaan. But in both these films - I was uncomfortable about the numbers, relevance and duration of the songs - everyone says they nowadays make the money from music rights, so what to do, baba? Must not grudge people their music millions, even if they can't make their box office billions, no?

But before the film begins, we take a preview of a Van Heusen power dressing collection that Aamir apparently wears in the lighter parts of the film. Aha, in-film advertising and brand building. Clever! My girl colleague does her mandatory, oohs, aahs and cho chweets!

The film opens to a professor and his girl students - hollow cheek-boned Jiah khan(last seen and heard being tearfully serenaded by a graying AB in Nisshabd) being one of them, discussing Aamir Khan's medical case and condition of 'Anterograde Amnesia' - a person who having been traumatized - has only a 15 minute memory!!!

Suddenly we see a person being thrashed, trashed and eventually killed with a broken ended tap. My companion asks if the tap will still work, if turned on. Turns out, that this watchman is part of a larger, grimmer search sequence that is only known to the 15- minute memory of Aamir Khan. The bad guys led by a north-Indian ganglord talking in rustic Haryanvi/Rajasthani accents and the police, both are hot on his trail.

The diligent police guy tracks Aamir, thrashes him, ties him up and proceeds to read about his life in the year 2005.

The happiness
The section we see about Kalpana (played by newcomer Asin) who's a struggling two-bit actress model, dreaming of a career in mainstream Bollywood, item girl, costume change et al. Dream sequence ends (ohh! Near a century of film making and they still make them, Mr. Raj Kapoor!) and we are confronted by the harsh realities of living and fending for yourself - not paying the rent, etc in the Media and glamour industry.
The ad film director fortunately, is paternalistic and not predatory. Media Fraternity friends, Comments, please? A happy misunderstanding leads to our heroine, going to town pretending to be linked with the head honcho of the country's leading mobile service provider - a certain Sanjay Singhania.

This part is the frothiest, with our appreciating together with Aamir - the ease and aplomb with which she lies about her big-ticket boyfriend.

Amidst doing the middle class things such as shopping for veggies, eating a watermelon , and riding in noisy autos and on top of a BEST double decker, our hero and our heroine find love.

The 'sampath' who unsuccessfully plays Sanjay for the New Year Eve party is great for the little cameo and we wish we could see more of him.

As the year 2005 rolls to an end for Sanjay/Aamir, we enter the thirsting phase followed by the song sequence and "tu meri adhuri pyaas-pyaas" dream serenade in the desert - where is this - Ramlat al Wahaiba(?) - of the desert sands meeting the beach sands, fringing a vast ocean.

The film then enters the sober and darker phase where you have to be tripping back and forth, to the past via the diary portal, newspaper archives and interviews with people - to try and piece together how this bubbling cheerful, innocent (why oh why, do they have to be so Yash Raj brand pure and virginal?) girl disappears and what makes this business tycoon in Aamir Khan, take on this persona of shaved and stitched head, graffiti on his body, his collection of polaroids and his not-so-safe haven at Hiranandani, Powai - is something I will leave you to make the connects for, yourself.

The disappointing - That Aamir still can't do without the songs - thought he might have learnt from Lagaan. There is a lot of I-Me-Him - which you wish, had soaked and immersed into the character, like Naseer does in 'A Wednesday'. So, here the star is always the star. We are never for a moment allowed to forget that!

Other than that, the happy romantic numbers have intercuts of Mauritius or Seychelles - sadly because we are mostly otherwise in Mumbai. I believe, nowadays, a lot many travel to all three destinations to know which is which and may not necessarily take kindly, to be thought a lil dumber, than they might actually be!

The luminosity - Asin - Aamir/Sanjay's love interest, reminds us all of the spontaneity and the generosity of the human spirit - her helpful nature and her selfless actions , without a thought, make us long for the imaginary yet magical world of Pinkudom. No longer does money or the lack of it matter. It was a lesson for me, especially now that we live in a world where we don't know, for how long we hope to be around.

The darkness - The images of violence, blood and gore played out, where Aamir (aka Sanjay) loses his sweetheart to a brutal warlord and his henchmen.

And the final denouement where Aamir Khan , not only regains his memory, courtesy the threat to his next like-interest, but also dispatches the evil guy to his final destination, in much the same fashion.

As the audience begins streaming out, their paisa vasool, the film plays out to a quiet note, Aamir Khan is somewhere on a bench, opposite the Western Ghats. High on a hillside. Solitary, except for the memories of the past, to give him company.

Aren't we supposed to move on? Perhaps too early. Perhaps Mr. Murugadoss, was simply too fatigued to give it any more thought.

Final Word: It is a myth that only North Indians are a violent lot. Ask Allu Arvind and Murugadoss, Nagarjuna, Chiranjeevi, Raghuvaran, Rajinikanth, Satya (whoever is the guy who plays him in the film with the same title) Mind it!

Here's looking at my first award, people!

2008-12-29T15:11:00.003+05:30

Hmm! I received this award from Mampi. My initial thoughts were wow! An award at last. So what if it wasn’t one from the advertising fraternity for some brilliant work done and recognised. An award is an award. Period. 12 years and earlier, when I settled down to write in advertising, I was told that you had to be an idea person first – or to make connections between hitherto unrelated objects, visuals, phrases and ideas that floated around in our world. And then, to be able to express this in a way that none else has or can. That in short, is copywriting. My mentors, Monojit Lahiri and Sanjay Trehan have of course moved on, from hardcore copywriting and ideating to more conventional writing careers.

So as I contemplate this award on my blog, I wonder. I certainly don’t have anyone to forward this to. In any case, I don’t like forwarding and I find far less time to devour blogs in such humongous quantities.

Hey, what is Brillante – is it a spelling gone wrong? Is it a thinly veiled attempt by a diamond and jewellery manufacturing guy, trying to do a one-up on google’s adsense? Or is this award for real?

I am in a dour mood. The weather is neither clear nor misty. Neither cloudy nor sunny. In this flip-flop ambience, I sit down to do a plus/minus accounting of the year. Wondering if there will be a place to go to, this new year’s eve.(?) Should we be taking a trip out of town.(+) Will we have the monies.(-) Will there be enough work, acceptance and recognition (?)

Net Net, (+)(-) (x) ( /) = Happy New Year, Everyone.

Party Safe. Stay away from the cops. And Survive to wake up to another year of living dangerously.

The Reunion Lunch at DPS Noida -2008

2008-12-23T13:04:00.016+05:30

This one goes out for everyone at DPS Noida, batch of 1987/1989!

Yes, it was a balmy Sunday afternoon. I was hesitating as many of you, who were asking whether it's worth it to make it to the venue or not. Especially when the previous night, I was dead from the waist downwards, on account of organising a barbecue party, drinks and dinner on my terrace.

I think it was a little weird to begin with, especially when the idiots at the gate, actually misdirected us towards the last gate ( here the school buses used to take off, rolling among the dust clouds of red Badarpur sands).

He thought I had come to take an aptitude test!

Eventually I find the right gate, walk in and register to some current film numbers blasting away at a music console!
I find this wonderful mix of people, many of whom look familiar (but aren’t!)
(Wonderful opening gambits for Bakshi and the romantically inclined among us, I do think!)

I spot Mrs. Sarita Madhok, and after a while, Mrs Sital. Ask after Vikram her son. (Where's Sean, BTW?).

Now here's the sad part, I go inside for a quick leak at the primary wing's toilets and in the process, miss the call for the oldest batch student to come and cut the cake.

The cake was yum looking, by the way

A little later, I also spot Mrs. Manocha, our Sanskrit teacher and soon afterMrs Bhatnagar, the senior section biology teacher. We chitchat and we fetch ourselves, some wonderful crouton filled tomato and veg. clear soup.

Soon, lunch is called. Mrs. Madhok, whom I met earlier, brings the present principal Ms. Neena Sehgal to say hello. We have a lively chat about what I do for a living (secretly, I think, she wants to know, why and how I look so rotund and well-fed!) I ask after Ms. Renu Chaturvedi - who it is seems, is now the Principal at either DPS Vasant Kunj or Dwarka.

And Mr PC Chhabra (hold your breath guys!) is at DPS Mumbai: hope he survived the blasts or the blasts survived him (lol!)

The lunch was Indian with a bit of Chinjabi - all of which tasted decent. Eat your hearts out guys, especially the ones away from home-country; the alu-gobhi, dal, chicken were to die for.

While glancing around at some of the sleeveless, black mini-dress attractions, I suddenly spot someone who looks a bit like Roopali Shrivastava at the water point (anyone knows where Roopali Batra is?)

I drop my plate of ice-cream and g-jams and go to look for her.
And yes, it is :Good old Roopali, with quite some grey like me, a child and a spouse. And a great career at Marks and Spencer, to boot.

We hug and suddenly it seems worth it all, this effort to make it to the Reunion Lunch, fighting off sleep and tiredness of the last few days.
Nineteen years, since we passed out of 12th and 21, since 1987. A round of the primary wing did nothing to quench my nostalgia of the football grounds, the SUPW, the crooked potted sections or even the circular brick features. I could have walked on in this place, as though I had never left.
Just one thought, kept on popping up. Guys let's make it happier, with or without the school premises hosting us.

Thanks all of you for connecting up and let's not make this fade away, for another year or time.

And a one-minute's silence to remember Vikram Agarwal- who left us suddenly in 1987.

Once again, Cheers Everyone!

Parjanya

Isabelle Huppert - Merci Pour Le Chocolat Amer

2008-10-15T12:44:00.009+05:30

Yesterday evening was the first of a switch of films from the regulation Friday film screening to Tuesday -( ha! midweek) at the Alliance Francaise de Delhi. We took in the second show of the Les Soeurs Fachees at 19: 30 hours.

A rivetting film, one, in which actress Isabelle Huppert, simply stole the show. Longer after the film ended, she stayed on our minds - the angst-ridden, control freak expression that kept her uptight through the length of the film. As with most films - there was a 'us' moment and a 'never want to be' moment. Isabelle sparkled in her now familiar negative role with more black and no grey. In last evening's show, she's a comic yet poignant monster, a sister of nightmare proportions - Goneril, Regan and all of Cinderella's Ugly Sisters - rolled into one. Her character, the imperious, intolerant Martine, lives in a smart, upper-middle-class Parisian apartment with her husband and child.

Martine's sister, Louise (Catherine Frot), the clumsy, good-natured one, has come to stay to keep an important appointment in town. The balance of power between them, however, is about to change. We learn, quite soon, that all is not as it seems in Martine's world. Catherine Frot's enthusiasm is infectious , a modern day Giulietta Massina seen in Fellini's comically poignant La Strada. She has indeed, if a trifle clumsily, a reassuring air about herself that tells us we can also muddle through life, if our hearts are in the right places.

Isabelle also sparkles in Merci Pour Le Chocolat (2000) where in a similarly innocuous family setting - relationships strain to a point of breakdown and then, finally shatter .
All seems well when Mika (Isabelle Huppert) remarries the pianist, that her chocolate factory owning father had despaired of leaving his business to, Andre Polonski (Jacques Dutronc). But Mika seems a bit too close to Guillaume (Rodolphe Pauley), Andre's adult son with his second wife, Lizbeth - now deceased. Mika, whose father has also passed way, declares herself 'Nobody's daughter.'

Septuagenarian Chabrol, long known as the French Hitchcock, knows how to utilize Huppert's cool brand of calculation. This particular collaboration is full of twists and red herrings and as obvious as the black web Mika literally spins with her crochet needle. Familial tensions begin to mount when Jeanne (Anne Mouglalis), a talented, teenaged pianist Jeanne learns from her mother that, for a short time on the day she was born, she may have been switched with another baby, the son of virtuoso concert performer Andre Polonski (Jacques Dutronc).

Since her budding ability at the keyboard parallels that of the brilliant pianist, Jeanne toys with the idea that she may actually be the man's daughter. She wangles her way into the Polonski household where Andre's first, and now third, wife, our Mika runs her home with an iron hand. A reminder for many of us who tend to take perfection standards too far. When Jeanne arrives on the scene, she notices that Mika has an unnatural concern for her stepson, including the ritual making of the family's nightcap - hot chocolate.

The biggest mystery in the film, isn't what Mika may or may not be putting into her nightly chocolate drink concoctions, but the relationship between herself and Andre. Mika carefully covers her manipulations with an outward perky cheerfulness while Andre, seemingly unaware of the effect of his words, notes Jeanne's resemblance to Lizbeth. Is Andre oblivious or is he using his wife as a patron of the arts?

The deftness which Chabrol exhibits his story (he also co wrote the screenplay with Caroline Eliacheff) is masterly as he develops the characters who populate his web.The ongoing use of a Liszt funeral elegy gives a cheerful sombreness to the film that has a playful feel about it. Chabrol capitalizes on his superb cast, first class story and fine technical craftsmanship to create a high class, subtle thriller.

Isabelle Huppert stands out as the smart, sophisticated matriarch who unhesitatingly casts her web to ensnare anyone who threatens to upset the balance she has worked to maintain in her life. She once again portrays a lady with calculating cool elegance and not too far beneath the calmexterior, a ruthless streak that brooks no intrusion from outsiders.

Anna Mouglalis, as Jeanne, innocently breaks in to the Polonski family and, because of her obvious musical talent, attracts the attention of Andre. Mika does not take this intrusion lightly. Rodolphe Pauly gives sullen life to the son who has never met his father's expectations.

The twists and turns of "Merci Pour le Chocolat" are a delight to watch. It is a film that I missed the first part of, but was glad to catch the nerve-wracking finale.

In yet another film, courtesy the French Film Club, Isabelle scintillates in a supporting role and co-conspirator in La Cérémonie (A Judgement in Stone) that tells the story of a dyslexic domestic servant, Sophie (Sandrine Bonnaire) who has been hired by wealthy housewife Catherine (Jacqueline Bisset). Sophie becomes friends with an eccentric postwoman, Jeanne (Isabelle Huppert), and things begin to spiral towards violence. Chabrol presents an ambiguous view of culture and class conflict in this film, which he jokingly called "the last Marxist film, in the light of the class antagonism that surfaces as the film progresses and rears its ugly head, towards the end.

Passenger Seat Driving

2008-09-30T16:49:00.005+05:30

All right, all of us have heard of back seat driving. But who's ever heard of this one? Aw c'mon, you all have been guilty of doing this, some point of time or the other.

When your spouse, friend, partner, significant other drives, you are the one belted alongside- who's job profile includes but is not limited to navigate, abuse, curse, swear, warn, shriek, scream or simply close your eyes shut.

And at times, even to get out and belabour hapless motorcylists and scooterists who insouciantly leave scratch marks on the back, sides, front of the vehicle and wherever else they possibly can.

So here's to all of us! More power! More lungpower and better eyesight than our mates, to help them survive in this mother of all urban jungles, called Delhi NCR.

Nehru Place - The Good, Bad and the Ugly

2008-09-30T16:43:00.005+05:30

Nehru Place – Currently in the cross hairs of the ragged bunch, who are firing crackers in advance of Diwali. It is my deliverance, sometime source for nourishment and drop-off point for office beyond and the journey home. So what do I like or hate about the place?

That it has no wayfinding signs whatsoever. The result? A permeating smell of urine, rotten food, stale beer and pan masala – thanks to a wonderful and strategically located liquor shop.

The nicer parts, who can see pretty young things through the day and love lorn lovebirds cosying up in the evenings, on pretexts of late work in office. The chartereds here practically go to all corners of Delhi and you can choose to pick the timings of clambering on to one of them, when you get free.

All important banks have their representations here. Great food, ranging from biryanis to burgers and pastries, sweets, dosas and chhola bhaturas.

Hungry for more? There’s Rajma chawal, kadhi chawal and kulfi and coffee to round off!

In the late evenings, the smell of anda parathas fill the air and mingle with the floral-fruity fragrances of the corporate women and their male colleagues, lugging their ubiquitous laptops.

Oh did I mention here that the best prices, the best brands and the best deals on servicing of desktops and notebooks happen right .

And software and games are hawked like onions and potatoes. An interesting place, but do visit with an expert, lest you should be led astray!

Kalu and Krayzu

2008-09-30T16:37:00.004+05:30

This post is for all of us who have loved, lost or have had to let go of our canine friends.

It was an ordinary mongrel pup - jet black in colour with 4 white socks. Kalu we called her, though not accurately. Female. With the most liquid eyes that burned with affection and ears that stood at attention all the time. We all fell in love with her, my dog-fearing folks, my daughter with her fetish for cleanliness and all the assorted kids of the neighbourhood.

From time to time, we got her bones from feasts and dinners at home. She was equally at home with bread, milk, biscuits, fish bones and assorted fritters. She drew the line though, at a nieghbour giving her curd , masquerading as milk.

And then, suddenly 4months on, one weekend she was gone. Dead, run-over, or ran away? We don’t know for sure. Apparently some street children had tortured her and after she bared her teeth in self-defence, their elders had thrashed her with a stick.

For a long time, we were disconsolate. The fur brush and tick powder lay unused. For many days on end, we thought it was her rushing out to meet us. But that was not to be.

And life goes on, as we make friends with yet another mongrel near home and on a visit to my partner’s home, I attempt to ingratiate myself with this pure and white as driven snow canine friend, aptly christened Krayzu.

Who is quite an affection-seeker, but nips warningly, when you attempt to pick her up.

Pappu can't blog, saala!

2008-09-30T13:51:00.004+05:30

This one goes out to all those people who shy away from the written word. Yes, the oldest tradition was verbal - where we had memories longer than African elephants and could recite entire scriptures from memory, learned and handed down from our ancestors and forefathers, without writing a letter or scribble.

But. But then, civilisation did progress and then we all, in various civilisations started writing. From papyrus to palmyra to rock edicts and cave hieroglyphs – man started scribbling, creating characters and putting symbols to sounds. Sounds gave rise to words, sentences, scripts, languages and most importantly, to progress and evolution.

So it hurts when there are people among us, who shy away from committing pen and pencil to paper. I have seen this in varied forms – from servicing (yes, that includes you Pinku!) big wigs to art people and DTP, no one wants to commit anything to paper. And then, post an assignment that we spent hours, days and midnight oil on, it is we, the copy guys – who get it and get it bad. “But I never said this. All I said was this.” My art partners, I recall, didn’t even want to fill timesheets and essential official forms. And of course we have people who think listing ‘To dos’ and ‘Groceries and Household items’ is one of the cardinal sins, next to oil changes and eating forbidden flesh. And recently I learn that there are people who get irritated with receiving SMSs, so much that they actually get upset. In all fairness, I admit I too am revolted with that kind of mangling of the language and think that inspite of those flirtatious ‘emoticons’
we cannot express deeper emotions and states of mind or even describe a long process and incident. But in that case, why not just call and slam the person who smses? Oops, I digress. We have forgotten to write letters, now even e-mail becomes cumbersome and texting can be seen or ignored at will.

Where are we headed?

What does FREEdom mean?

2008-09-30T11:53:00.004+05:30

Ok, so this one is an old tag that I had been overlooking, dodging and avoiding. And now, that my 30 post scene is in sight, I guess this post brings me that step closer: So here goes

What does independence mean to you?

Independence for me is where responsibility and free expression go hand in hand. In other words, your freedom ends where my nose begins!

Which for you is your most important freedom?

My freedom not to practise any particular stream of faith, not needing to be dragged, prodded or pushed or bound to a particular place of worship and being able, at the same time to walk into most other places of worship

When was the last time you felt great pride in being an Indian?

When Abhinav Bindra got the Gold Medal in Shooting at the 2008, amidst all odds. And then, the National Anthem that played with a special significance at India's first ever individual gold in Olympic history.

Which moment in your own life you feel best symbolizes freedom?

Very difficult to pin it down when in these uncertain days- everything seems to limit our freedom - of thought, speech, and of course movement. But I would pin it down to sitting in peaceful repose at the prayer hall in the Bahai Temple, when I visited it last

The right ingredients for a perfect blog post

2008-09-30T10:52:00.006+05:30

Yesterday, was one of those hi-post days. Towards partial fulfilment of the self-imposed wager of 30 blogs this September. An astounding one post, each day. Whether you feel up to it or not. Not tough you'd say. But consider, if you reached late one day. Another day, a must finish assignment. No computer with net at home, to luxuriate and write. Yet another day a wonky internet connection coupled with sudden power outages - you get the drift? Now along comes a person who is mortified of fame, criticism and you guessed that right, shies away from comments - making some or receiving many.

So what would I think is a right way to go about posting er .. posts? Find a topic that is topical. Attack it, delineate it and sum it up with a controversial comment as the topping. Add a couple of pics courtesy, the Digicam.

Remember the right balance - not too many pics like my music post and not arid pictureless posts like the ones earlier in the day - about the henna horror or the magi(c) marvels.

Of course, needless to remind all you experienced bloggers and postpeople, the more controversial stuff you write, the more traffic you are likely to get.

And the more you visit others' blogs, the more they are likely to visit yours. So happy posting, blogging and visiting. Seems like the only kind of visiting we all seem to be doing these days

My addictions

2008-09-30T10:24:00.005+05:30

Addiction 1) Going to the Cinema - not any mindless trash, rehash and rehabs. Suspicious of big names and blockbusters. Prefer to stay away from mainstream. Would want to catch offbeat themes and stories. Language can be any, but sub-titles more than welcome.Would want to catch Latin American cinema, Spanish, Hong kong, Australian, Japanese, Chinese and Korean as also African languages.

Addiction 2)Pastries,Cheesecake, brownies and cream-filled eclairs -confectionary of every kind. Wish I don't lose more teeth tho'

Addiction 3)Travel - Right now having seen most of the Indian states and Union Territories, have set my sights on Europe, Latin Americas, Polynesia and Far East.Travel and Tourism bodies may contact for Travel writing purposes.

Addiction 4) Music - Melody and Rhythm is the key. From Hindustani Classical to European classical. From Aztec to Tibetan, From Hebrew, Rastafarian to Arabic and Slavic, folk to ballet music. Can't stand metal,hard and acid rock or trance.

Addiction 5) Intelligence - People who can be great company,talk about practically everything under the sun, moon and stars, appreciate good food and wine, music and poetry to flow, anecdotes, laughter and double entendres

Irrigating our parched souls

2008-09-29T17:01:00.014+05:30

Of late, me and my partner are quibbling a lot.

Small trifles grow into gigantic proportions, refusing to be chased away.

We sat and down and realised the importance of playing music in our lives.

We refuse to watch the mindless trash that goes on in the name of TV.

For both of us it has to be Music.

Music that accompanies our various chores, routine, lively, relaxed or passionate.

For it is music that chases away sadness, makes us reflective, triggers happy times, brings forth images we have known and loved.

So let the music play in our lives and let us all be drenched by melody, rhythm and the sheer joy of listening and going with the flow.

Job Hunt

2008-09-29T16:13:00.006+05:30

In the course of my numerous job interviews, there’s one that stands out. In the midst of sorting out my innumerable collection of precious nothings, jottings, idea files, IT returns, film and music schedules, I am interrupted by the ringing of the mobile. A lady (who else?) checks with me and asks me to come down to Kirti Nagar. Earlier I may have baulked, but now with the zippy metro 5 minutes away, I said why not? Apparently they are branching out from being the best in English language training in Delhi to creating a hotshop for in-house work and perhaps some group businesses. Seeing that I had been with in house outfits earlier too and had seen through their circuses, I said, WTF , let’s check one more too!

So when I finally reach Kirti Nagar, I find the place after much huffing and puffing sandwiched between some of Delhi’s most gorgeous furniture making workshops and showrooms.

Right, I am escorted to this huge waiting room of sorts and given a personal particulars form to fill. Next, I am administered a copy test.

In between, I also take a short nap, out of sheer silence and ennui. I am woken up with a milky coffee and couple of students, come in chattering excitedly in Punjabi!!! So much for learning Ingleesshh!!

Finally one of those mousy looking HR females, mispronounces my name yet again (what’s new, you say!) and ushers me in to see this glamorous, tall, attractive woman, who clearly seems to be in charge( and also looks moneyed!) My heart leaps up – not for the base part but the materialistic one).Today, perhaps I shall finally land a great package, comfortable timings and a decent outfit!!!

She queries me on my experience , where all I have been, why I was not working full-time and also on the radio spot that I have just created – asking me to explain various abbreviations and terminologies. My excitement falters. Next, we discuss the nature and quantum of responsibility ( read money). Finally we collide head-on. She mentions unearthly timings to report in and leave. I get ready to wind down the interview. I tell her I am way past that kind of weird working hours. And that too for a start-up where we could all be told to march, in a matter of months.

We smile and understand each other. I head back to take the next metro home.

Sunita

2008-09-29T16:09:00.006+05:30

On one of her Saturday visits, my girl is inspired to make a match puppet. Fresh from her trip to a makeshift planetarium, conducted in her school premises, she rattles off the names of Jupiter’s moons. For heaven’s sake, Jupiter’s moons!!!

I got to know about them only when in senior school, reading up on trivia for various quiz competitions. She also knows about Sunita Williams – the American astronaut of Indian origin. She christens the match puppet – Sunita. Now there is also a Kalpana. I urge her to become and make a third one – Janvi.

Sunita now guards the entry to her room, which is also marked by a saucy poster of rules.

Gift of the Magi

2008-09-29T14:30:00.002+05:30

The other day, we were handed over an empty plastic bottle, as one of our numerous festive season gifts. An ordinary water bottle, did we hear you say? As soon as you pour chilled water onto it, the bottle turns an arctic blue. The kind that you see with the light of dawn, on a snow covered field.

Me and my partner fight over sipping cold water from the bottle, whenever we can and the one who finishes last , has to chill the bottle again. Am waiting to share it with my daughter, who loves all things magic.

So tracing paper becomes, magic paper, a magnet becomes a magic mover and glue with sparkles become magic glue. So even when we tell her about Santas that can’t be everywhere and stars that are not really gods, we haven’t the heart to tell her that Harry Potter and all the rest are just as muggle-headed and muddle-headed as the rest of us.

Festive Spirit?

2008-09-29T13:24:00.002+05:30

We stand on the threshold of the festive season – the most looked forward to, time of the year. This time, it is Eid, Gandhiji’s Birthday, Durga Puja, Dussehra and Diwali. All in one month.

Amidst the frenetic shopping, visiting relatives, exchanging gifts and surreptitiously polishing off sweets and fried savouries, there is something strangely amiss. There is no real joy in the air. No morning nip, No late evening chill. The flowers fragrance seem reticent. All around, is this uneasy heat. Heat within, hatred without. Bombs explode everywhere. Even close to the places where Delhi’s syncretic remnants stand to this day.

Communities take hardline stances. There is this uneasy feeling of – us versus them everywhere. Even the media is talking the same language. So what do we do: the scattered liberals who have not preached and shouted from the rooftops – the govt version of secular nation, but have tried to practice, feel from within the universal brotherhood of man and women, across all barriers?

We ask our maid who is unsure where we stand in the faith roll-call, to share the festive spirit with us. She is taken aback, unsure. Nods hesitantly. Perhaps one person who will along with us, share our secretive, closet views, on the idea of people above faith.

Brain Drain

2008-09-29T12:30:00.000+05:30

The other day, I accompanied my new office colleagues to a client meeting. We weaved our away through some of South Delhi’s densest traffic zones and landed up at the client’s office. Bang on time. I was so kicked, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Two floors up, and we were finally ushered into the lobby of the client’s office. Only to be told that the main guy who had tasked us and would brief us on the nature and scope of the assignment, suddenly needed to be away, elsewhere. He had therefore sent word to make us comfortable, and if needed, to talk to a minion, to pass the time of the day. Our smiles faded, replaced by mutterings and frowns. The minion offered water and coffee. I wished I had my packet of cake rusks. The air-conditioning was decent. And the sofas plush. Finally, post a happy chat and coffee drained, we decided to head back.

As we rose, I excused myself to take a leak. Rushed to the loo and kept my hardbound official notebook in a hurry on the cistern cover and unzipped. By sheer inertia of motion, the notebook slid across the open window, (and am ashamed to say!) flew into the open air and brained a passerby who was wheeling out his scooter from the stands.

As I looked on mortified with what I had just done, I rushed out leaving my colleagues wide-mouthed in disbelief. Breathlessly scooted down the stairs, rushed to where I had seen the notebook fall and apologized profusely to the shell-shocked gent. He was shaken and livid initially, but then he calmed down as I detailed to him the circs of the incident.

We shook hands and I left him with this question: What if it had been a person who jumped and not just a notebook that fell?

Budha Ghoda Laal Lagam

2008-09-29T10:21:00.005+05:30

Hmm!

So my partner did a sinister thing to me, yesterday. Plagued by comments about various girls, friends, (girlfriends, daughter and work colleagues included) about my white hair patches in places, she fixed me up with a bight red mehendi dye. The mixture gave out noxious weedy, jungle smells, as it dried off. Next, I felt this strange cool sensation and finally my eyes began to close. We finished this whole bottle of cider between us and waited for the weird mix to dry out, for the duration. In between , we also found time to instruct the gardener on his weekly rounds to take care of the landlord's over-grown potted creations.
Finally an hour later, the awful dried mess was washed off and shampooed. My formerly white patch has now turned a ludicrously lurid, bright red. And sorry, it does not blend with the rest of my dirty brown crop, now growing overtime. The herb smell does not let go either. I feel a modern day Faunus, true to my Pan flute and goat-like mischievous tendencies.

Showing The True Path

2008-09-25T15:25:00.005+05:30

Lighted lamp at the Lotus Temple at Kalkaji Delhi .On the way to a music programme at the Bahai Temple, this lamp lit up our path. As did many others of its ilk.

I wonder, in these troubled times, could the answer to conflict and hatred lie in such a temple. No icons, no statues, no idols, no sacraments, no sacred books or scrolls.Only multi-faith prayer times at specific hours of the day and evening. You could choose to meditate or muse about your faith. Relax a little in the quietitude.And drawing strength, rise to face the world. Normally the Temple attracts a gaggle of curious tourists through day - domestic and international. Each thronging to get a glimpse of a new god, a new faith and iconography. And perhaps many among them are disappointed not to see anything dramatic. Merely, a gigantic prayer hall, rows of seats and a quiet peacefulness . As quiet as we all can be, given our tendency to stay connected with work, family, friends and colleagues, through the omnipresent Cellular phone, aka the mobile. There are special evenings at the Bahai House of Worship - when the outer facade of the lotus is illumined.

When I am fortunate to catch such a glimpse, I stare and silently thank its existence and my good fortune at being able to witness such a breathtaking sight...

The Toss Up : Existence or Experience

2008-09-25T15:20:00.004+05:30

Two of my friends from the past scrap me on my networking site. One likes the work that I have done and uploaded onto the blog. The other envies my luck as someone who has led an exciting life so far. Their comments brought me back to the days of YMCA, after graduation.When we sat on the lawns of the Center for Mass Media, after our mass comm classes. Swapped stories, gossipped, had endless cups of tea, ran off to sample crisp medu vadas and chutney sambar opposite Jantar Mantar, listened to a colleague strum songs on a guitar and talked confidently about what we all would do, in the times ahead. I particularly remember how on one occasion I was passionately talking about how if you gave me an interesting and exciting day, I wouldnt mind living even in a hovel. Such silly points of view to take. Today, however I sit up and ponder. To paraphrase Sinatra, I have travelled far and wide - mostly within my land and sometimes beyond the shores, drunk and revelled in its beauty, met interesting people, done exciting things, seen wondrous sights and heard sounds, smelt and tasted things I would not have. If only I choose a comfortable dull existence. Just as I had gotten a break with a leading communications outfit, I saw an alternate path and I took it. I have done that many times. Regretted it at times. Smiled through at times. And justified and classified it all under the label of 'experience'.

Daughter's Day

2008-09-25T15:07:00.006+05:30

Just for you,

my daughter I would stay without sleep

Just for you,

Every Saturday is yours to keep

Just for you,

Every meal outside, is a celebration of togetherness

Just for you,

Every smile, every kiss every hug and merry laughter,

become more precious than gold and silver

Just for you

Your paintings are more prized than European masterpieces

Just for you

A toothpaste and a baby toothbrush acquire special meanings

Just for you

I hate to go by the clock when it’s time to part

Just for you

The Friday evening call acquires tensions beyond description

Just for you

Your first glimpse at the gates is more joyous than thanksgiving

Just for you

A day of seeing you on the cycle, brings back my childhood memories

Just for you

Hearing you want to fly, become a doctor, be an angel, is the sweetest music of all

Just so that you know Darling Jahnabee, you are my life’s greatest blessing of all!!!

HAPPY DAUGHTER’S DAY

28th September

Arab, Farsi and Turkish - The Middle East section at Osian

2008-09-24T18:03:00.009+05:30

I start this post with a film that we were totally cracked up about. Called Al Gezira – The Island this one was an out and out Egyptian masala movie – with many nods to our … you guessed that right, Bollywood blockbusters. It had drama, love, romance, smugglers, family traditions, blood feuds, betrayals and rescues, miraculous survivals and of course gunfights and fake looking rockets too. The main guy looked like a cross between Rajiv Gandhi and Premnath of the sixties. One was ready to collar – Inteshal Al Tamimi – who curated the Arab and Farsi section for having included such a film in a fest that is unabashedly about celebrating class as opposed to mass.

A far better film was Omar Gatlato – Directed by Merzak Allouache.
An Algerian comedy set in the early seventies – the tight fit shirts and flaring trousers taking us back to our own, films, music and memories. The non-hero(?) has a low-paid job with an inspection unit of the Weights and Measures ministry. He lives in an overcrowded tenement with several generations of his family, in a shabby suburb of Algeirs. He is a good fun guy, enthralled and captivated by the magic of Hindi music and cinema. In a heroic encounter with some hoodlums, one late evening, he loses his pocket tape recorder which has his memories of music and songs .He cajoles and persuades a friend into buying him another By a mistake, he also gets a tape where a female speaks out from a recording. Our hero is ensnared. He must meet the owner of the voice. At least once. And eventually when he does, after several phone calls to her, he turns chicken. And then onwards, his friends call him Omar Gatlato - Omar – (got his throat cut). A watershed film, this gentle comedy examines with shrewd humour, the values of urban youth complemented with Allouache’s effective use of real settings and Algerian street dialect.

The Iranian feature ‘Tanhaee’ – dwelt on loneliness, in the now familiar Iranian interior film setting. Where various family members turn up for the funeral of their father. One member however gets parole from prison in order to attend the same. He is the other – the criminal who has even if unwittingly killed his brother-in –law – leaving behind an unhappy brooding sister and her sad but affectionate daughter. The story is then dwelt from multiple angles – from the elder son and sister –in law of the marked man, his beloved from former days and his mother and the elderly matron at home. Slowly the story unravels as we learn that the criminal, the 'black sheep' Hamid has actually done the noble deed of taking on the guilt of his father who had inadvertently pushed the errant son-in-law after a heated exchange. The brother must be forgiven before the father can be buried and be at peace.
Eventually, all the members of the family are in their own personal islands of loneliness – some actual, some mental, some physical and yet some others, spiritual.

Uzak – (Distant) Turkish
Again by Nuri Bilge Ceylan who films are understood better in his passion for stunning visual and cinematography, opens magnificently to a man against a vast landscape of snow. A country cousin seeking shelter with his better off photographer relative in Istanbul. The film’s atmosphere is cold and bleak. The photographer Mehmet does not feel anything towards his mistress, his ex-wife who wants to talk to him once before she leaves the country and his relative,Yusuf. The cousin is like so many of us, caught in the dazzling sights, sounds and happenings of the big city , but cannot dream of achieving it for himself. The distance between the two men is apparent at once, and becomes increasingly pronounced. Whereas Mehmet is adjusted to big city life and suffers from many of its neuroses, Yusuf is a lonely, eccentric country worker with annoying nervous and hygienic habits, and a sick mother back home he must somehow support. He too is distant, distant from opportunity, hope and talent.
This intimate drama was filmed in the director's apartment in Istanbul, using all his furniture, appliances, rooms, car and so on as the film's props. The actor playing Yusuf is actually the director's real-life cousin, and the actor playing Mehmet is an actual friend, a non-professional actor.

Night comes as the end

2008-09-24T12:55:00.002+05:30

This unusual angle for a street lamp intrigued me and my mobile digicam enough to want to click it. it was a cool evening post rains. Clicked as I walked to get an auto after a hard's day work at my previous outfit.

Each day we start with fresh hopes, ambitions, go-get-it spirits.Some among us can be found chomping wolfing gulping down a sandwich, a hot dog or a even a paratha roll, behind the wheel, atop a vehicle And at the end of each day, many like me, wind their weary way homewards. Some travel by public transport, some on 2 wheels and the more fortunate ensconced in cool comfort on 4 wheels. Sometimes the rains make the evening pleasant. Sometimes the heat and humidity make sweat rivulets run down your entire being.

Ultimately every morning may have its own sets of worries, but the evening thoughts always run parallel. When do I get some rest and do what needs to be done for tomorrow and hereafter...

By Hook or by Crook, Yeh Banega Master Blogger

2008-09-24T12:06:00.004+05:30

Hmm! The reference of the title is the promo that is splashed all over the town - about Remy the ambitious Rat of the disney feature 'Ratatouille' -I thought, it applied to me , in this respect that I have taken on this wager about creating 30 posts this September. That is an average of 22 in the next 5 working days. So how do I go about it? I dig out my pics taken with the digicam on my now stolen N-72 and try and weave stories around them. Hell , I even dust out my story submissions for a contest. En fin, I thinly disguise trivia as relevant to our life and context.

So what would you have me do? The only diarrhoea I dont seem to have is verbal. Trepidation. Brevity. Relevance. Subjectivity. All weapons being aimed at me,much like the kitchen tools aimed at Remy in the poster.

Am defiant. And getting there! Hah!

Serendipity

2008-09-24T11:43:00.003+05:30

He was brooding, missing his steady companion of two years now, when he suddenly made out a female form at the auditorium's entrance. Almost willed her to come and sit next to him. The film had just begun. Suddenly, she bent and whispered "Is this seat taken? He shook his eyes, inwardly exulting as she lowered herself into the seat and he caught a whiff of florals. Pony-tailed, a white embroidered shirt & denims. The film had begun. They studied each other, while the other one wasn't looking. The scenes grew stormy and tender. She stirred uneasily. His pocket buzzing, he requested her to let him pass. Coming back, he found her engrossed in the film - legs stretched full,on the seat in front. Touched her denim leg slightly, whispering, "Excuse me!" Startled, she withdrew her feet, The movie ended. The lights came on. Blinking they glanced at each other. The girl smiled politely and asked, "So you come here often?

Doppelganger

2008-09-24T11:27:00.002+05:30

It all began when Prashant visited their place, one late evening. When he peered from aside the curtain, and then walked into the dining area, Paromita gave a start and sat up upright. She hadn’t seen him ever, but from what Peter had told her, she knew that it was him. She and Peter had been having tea at Desmond’s and Petula’s.

It had been a joyous time so far, but her sixth sense had warned her – there was trouble brewing. Peter introduced her cautiously saying she was a friend visiting. Prashant nodded politely, appraising her curiously. Peter’s parents face fell. How they hated to tell and hear lies, she thought. How every antediluvian and outmoded, she reasoned. Friend indeed! She thought indignantly.

She got up to get Prashant a cup of tea, almost tripping over Kalu – their inseparable, inscrutably black street mongrel whom the family had adopted. She yelled at him, asked him to sit and went to the pantry. Kalu followed her to the kitchen, tail wagging nineteen to the dozen and his huge ears alert to every sound.

Slowly, the nightmare enveloped them all over again– just when they complacently thought that Peter’s friends were all coming back, a fresh worry struck them. Could it be that Ritu , Peter’s ex-wife Shivani’s elder sister was in town? The shadow of threats that had so overwhelmed their lives – would there be another reprise? Last time, Peter’s dad’s luxuriant salt and pepper crop had turned white, almost overnight.

When Peter had decided to walk out with Paromita, his wife’s relations ganged up and thronged his parents’ place. Shouting, screaming, hurling abuses at all and sundry – heckling his mother, Petula who like a withered flower, had cringed and hunched further over the iron frame, she used to, for walking around their tiny flat.

The anonymous, threatening calls last time had been ugly, abusive. But not face-to-face. This time, when Peter walked home to the common area around his flat, he could see some burly men in white Haryanvi style turbans, with his father. When asked, Desmond pushed him aside and said it was something that they needed from him. Worried, Peter dismissed it from his mind and went to sleep

Early next morning, when Peter woke up, to his horror, he found the house nearly emptied of all furniture. He raced through the entire length of the apartment , crying hoarsely to find that the recently bought square glass topped dining table and chairs had disappeared alongwith the knick knacks he and his parents had gathered over the years, travelling within India and abroad. The namdha rug in green and blue over white, too had disappeared , which he had got from Chandigarh, before his first marriage.

By late morning, Peter’s tears had dried. He reasoned, pleaded and cajoled Desmond into revealing exactly what had transpired between him and the burly rustics of the previous night. Little by little the story trickled out. Apparently Prashant had got some strongmen of his native village to threaten his father and ailing mother with dire consequences. Desmond had instead offered the entire furniture of the house to them, on the condition that they be left unharmed.

Stunned, Peter asked him how he could contact the toughs. With great reluctance, his father handed the numbers. His heart thumping, dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Peter dialled the number. A harsh dialect answered at the other end. Controlling his emotions with great difficulty, Peter introduced himself politely, asking him to meet the family, in the evening, as they had something serious to discuss. The man cut the phone abruptly.

The next 24 hours seemed to be a wait till eternity. By evening, the bell rang and the toughs arrived. By their looks, they seemed more mellowed than in the previous meeting.

Peter began, addressing all of them together “You took away all my furniture after threatening my parents in my absence. Only because I speak a language different from yours, doesn’t mean my colour of blood is different. Today you take away my things, tomorrow you enforce a social boycott. Where will all this lead to?” He paced the room angrily “Do you think I will stop breathing or leave this place and go. Or that I will sit here and do nothing?”

The burlies were at a loss. One of them spoke up – “All this because Ritu Madam told us to do and saheb asked us to do whatever we were told.” Another one shushed him and he stopped abruptly.

“Ah! Shivani’s NRI connections working well, still” exclaimed Peter. “Now everything is falling into place. “Alright” he said, addressing the gathering huddled on the cold floor while his mother sat on a borrowed chair from the neighbours. “You did a deal with my father, the last time, now you do a deal with me.

The unshaven burlies, reeking of country liquor, looked at one another and then looked up at him. “Hunnhh” – grunted one of them, approving of Peter’s smooth tongued command of the northern vernacular.

I have approximately 100,000 in my NRI account. With half of that, you will bring my furniture back and with the rest – he paused dramatically – “You will do exactly the same with Ritu Madam, as you did here.”

“If not, I am recording this whole tape and you can tell the story to the police next – not to mention the newspaper and all the channels – which you and your brothers and sisters will be seeing, by the end of this evening. The choice is yours” he ended abruptly, throwing his hands up in the air.

One of the toughs, with a salt and pepper grizzle, angrily lunged at Peter, growling a filthy expletive. From the other room, Paromita stifled a hoarse cry of outrage and wiped her sudden tears on her sleeve.

Peter stood his ground. “Go ahead, hit me”, he dared him, his arms akimbo - outwardly complacent, cringing at the situation. Fortunately for him, the others grabbed the hothead and pulled him back.

The more polite one among them, spoke up. “Give us a little time to talk with one”

“Alright,” responded Peter, “but you leave this place after you tell me yes or no, either ways”.

The men moved away to whisper among themselves, as the ticking of the Grandfather clock grew louder. Glancing at the clock, Peter, noticed that the old thing was running over 30 minutes late. “No wonder they left this behind” he chuckled wryly. If they used their minds better than their muscles, they’d have made a fortune, selling the solid teak of the clock body.

The clock struck the hour belatedly. Loudly.Bringing everyone to the present. The leader had his arm around Peter and said, don’t worry and squeezed his shoulder and patted his back.

“Wake up, it’s getting late” Paromita’s dulcet tones crept into his consciousness, like cool water on a parched throat, as she patted him on his shoulder, urgently. “Here, have your tea now, while it’s still hot,”

As Peter opened his eyes to the harsh light of the summer morning, he saw that he had burrowed under the bedclothes and tightly wrapped his arms around him. The chill of the air-conditioner had gotten to him.

“Sleep well?” she looked deep into his eyes, questioning. He nodded and swallowed hard, and smiled wanly

Getting linked on to the Metro Network

2008-09-24T09:42:00.000+05:30

My locality, Surya Nagar where I have lived intermittently, since 1984, was always beyond the pale. From downright ignorance to amazement at commuting all the way from distant "Ghaziabad", I went through School and college and jobs in Delhi and elsewhere, trying to explain to people, where exactly I lived.

Only very good friends would come to visit.That too very rarely. But now, June 2008 onwards, thanks to DMRC, I am only 5 minutes away from the Dilshad Garden Metro Station.Very crowded, but being a terminal you always can get seats, ACd and most of all the elevated section lifts you surreally, above the grime, honking, smoke and automotive noises of the street.

And before you know it,the doors swish open and you are at the Kashmiri Gate ISBT interchange station! My friends know where I live. And now, folks,it's the right time to drop by and pay me and family a visit. Ahlan Wa Sahlan!

The New Equinox Date

2008-09-23T16:49:00.001+05:30

I grew up learning as did most of my age-group peers that 21^st March and 23^rd September were the two equinoxes . Equal days and nights all across the world.

Funnily enough, currently the most common equinox and solstice dates have now changed. Now they are 20 March, 21 June, 22 September and 21 December, the four year average will slowly shift to earlier times in the years to come.

This shift is a full day in about 70 years (largely to be compensated by the century leap year rules of the Gregorian calendar). But that also means that in many years of the twentieth century the dates of 21 March, 22 June, 23 September and 22 December were much more common, so older books teach, and older people still remember, these dates as the main ones.(And I am one of them!)

The September equinox marks the first day of Mehr or Libra in the Persian calendar. It is one of the Iranian festivals called Jashne Mihragan, or the festival of sharing or love in Zoroastrianism. The harvest festival in the United Kingdom is celebrated on the Sunday of the full moon closest to the September equinox.

Sadly enough, not as many festivals unlike the March Equinox – and we can look forward to shorter days and longer nights.

Toilet Art

2008-09-23T10:21:00.001+05:30

I was only trying to do what Pablo Bartholomew advised budding photographers to do. Shoot the crap out of everything you see or your lens does. As people who live and work with aesthetics and design, this never before creation was too good to be missed. We were told to chase beauty to its lair and it seems we have.

This one happened on a sunday afternoon. Cleaning the 2 loos, the 3 basins and the kitchen sink. As i poured out the disinfectant cleaner, i was struck by the contrasts in the colours, the stillness of it all, then the slow dispersion and finally diffusion and merger of the blue fluid into the water. And then, the camera phone came in handy.

Voila – you have toilet art. Art that would do Dali, Bunuel and Duchamps proud. (I hope!)

Adieu l été! Bonjour la circulation!

2008-09-22T14:40:00.004+05:30

Il est temps de dire au revoir la chaleur torride d'éte.La semaine dernière a vu la pluie intermittente. Les journées sont de plus en plus courte. Nuits de fluage en place plus rapidement. Il ya le parfum de Shewli dans l'air ainsi que l'Arabie Jasmine qui monte jusqu'au langoureusement dans le jardin du propriétaire. On se lève paresseusement - deux alarmes entre une demi-heure. Faire l'amour. Avez du thé. Débat du jour des événements dans le journal et son l'heure de pointe. Petit déjeuner et déjeuner obtenir emballés.

Et puis, tristement célèbre New Delhi du pare-chocs à pare-chocs trafic. Agonise plus tard, encore une fois un lundi matin. J' atteindre en premier. Je embrasser mon partenaire pour la journée.Rendez-vous dans l'bureau.

Far East Asian Panorama at Osian

2008-09-22T13:10:00.000+05:30

I will open this section with a very low-profile film – Bayaning Third World. This quirky feature comes from Philippines – directed by Mike de Lyon . In fact Mike reacted to many eulogy films being made about Dr. Jose P. Rizal and set out to make a film that asked many questions but did not necessarily have all the answers.
3rd World Hero opens with a prologue; we see cut-to-cut stills from an elementary school textbook featuring various Philippine national symbols. It ends with a frame that says “National Hero – Jose Rizal” (Figure 1). The narrator introduces two main characters – a director and a screenwriter – brainstorming on a Rizal film project. It becomes clear that this is a meta-film, a film within a film.
The two filmmakers embark on an investigative research to explore the cinematic potential of Rizal’s biography. We see a series of eclectic flash-cuts as the filmmakers review the “omnipresence” of Rizal in Philippine culture. Rizal had been canonized as a saint by folk religion, memorialised in the one-peso Philippine coin, and revered as a demi-god by filmmakers and historians. In addition, the national hero’s name had been used for every imaginable purpose – from naming streets to funeral homes. When the writer suggests a commemorative Rizal film for the Philippine centennial, the director dismisses it as tawdry, as though Rizal could be sold like a deodorant.

The filmmakers rummage through Rizal’s life and zero-in on a controversial document which allegedly contains the hero’s retraction of his writings, his renunciation of freemasonry and his full submission to the authority of the Catholic church.

They are suspicious, believing the retraction to be out-of-sync with Rizal’s character and convictions.
The film then blurs space-time boundaries as it sends the two filmmakers on assignment to interview the key characters surrounding the hero’s life. Rizal’s mother Doña Teodora; siblings Paciano, Narcisa and Trining; his love interest, the Hong Kong-raised Irish woman Josephine Bracken; and Jesuit Friar Padre Balaguer all give testimonies of various shades of grey. The filmmakers finally come face-to-face with the man himself and they are frustrated that he does not provide the answers they need for their film project.

The two filmmakers end up with as many questions as they had in the beginning. 3rd World Hero reaches its open-ended dénouement: Rizal’s formidable body of work, and, indeed, the witness of his life as an exemplary nationalist, will continue to interrogate the validity of the retraction document.
A reprisal of the prologue featuring the intercut images of Philippine national symbols serves as the film’s epilogue. The end frame indicates “National Hero – Jose Rizal”.

I also liked Exodus -

a film that takes the war of the sexes, a conspiracy theory gone awry, over the top, or even a little silly, but it would be more accurate to call it one of the most interesting movies to come out of Hong Kong in a long while. Exodus takes itself very seriously, and with a mix of fine performances and cinematography; you'll feel the same way.

Tim Kin-Yip (Simon Yam) is a sergeant with the Hong Kong police. He is handed a suspect by the name of Kwan Ping-Man (Nick Cheung). Yip begins to take Kwan's colourful statement about how he was in a woman's bathroom video taping and peeping in on them.

As we begin to enjoy and giggle at Kwan when he explains how he overheard a couple of women plotting to kill men...all men, and he was gathering evidence to prove it all. Yip takes it as the ramblings of a crazy man and pays Kwan no mind by wrapping up the paperwork in order to let him go as soon as possible. Yip heads back to his life with his wife Ann (Annie Liu), and the task of helping with the renovations of their new place.

Among other things, Yip also has to deal with Ann's mother (Candy Yu), something that many of us back home have to deal with constantly, especially if heaven help us, our moms-in law active more than an academic interest in our careers and their daughter’s well-being

She's constantly complaining that he should own his own business and be doing something more with his life. Yip's bored with his position at work and and he doesn't give his wife very much attention at home, which results in her acting out in a variety of different activities.

But when Kwan changes his statement to a simple peeping story, and nothing related to a "women killing men" conspiracy, Yip is interested in finding out why his story suddenly changed.

He finds out that his superior officer, Madame Fong (Maggie Siu), spoke with Kwan and that's when his story changed. Yip decides to dedicate all of his time to the case and finds out that a string of men have died in unexplained ways. While looking for Kwan, Yip finds Kwan's ex-wife Pun Siu Yuen (Irene Wan), snooping around Kwan's apartment. The two form an interesting relationship that seems to do nothing more than distract Yip from his investigation. Is Yip just looking for something that isn't there or just lost in the idea of making a difference?

I lost myself in the hunt for the answer and not so much in the answer itself. Yam's performance as Yip was a great spin on the usual police affair, because Yip is just an ordinary, curious guy who just happens to be a cop.

He's not a super-cop or detective extraordinaire – the kind we are used to – in Hollywood films and that makes for a refreshing change. There's also no explosion-laced gunfight with a ring leader face-off at the end either. It's really just a man that wants an answer for himself.

In that, the film has interesting parallels with Manorama Six Feet Under which is also a film noir that debuted at the previous Osian in 2007.

Our protagonist has removed himself from his boring life of dealing with his wife and mother-in-law in order to dive head-first into a shallow case that just happened to be bigger than him.

However it’s the end sequence that is the most powerful – amidst his ramblings the interrogated peeping tom Kwan had mentioned that the women also kill by adding a substance into the food that send you into never ending hiccups.

Finally Yip is being called for a departmental exam. He marches in. Sts quietly and commences answering the questions he is asked. And then the hiccups begin….

Man Jeung (Sparrow) – Johnny To. Hong Kong

From the same land , but completely different in character is Johnny To’s Man jeung or the Sparrow - the opening film of the festival – which we missed the first half hour and wriggled inside to be completely delighted.

The fragrance of the jasmine and tube roses made the atmosphere even more delightful in Siri Fort 1

It’s quintessentially a love story that comes as breezy as a chance encounter, leaving nothing forced (unlike many cringe worthy romance flick that always choke romance down audience’s throat).

But then again, it’s about delicate manipulation and deception among a bunch of pickpockets. The best part about Sparrow would be how the Director and his collaborators managed to merger both settings together to form a memorable love story.

Without over dramatizing the human emotions, Sparrow is effective in pulling out the different facets of love. From the luring attraction of the first encounter that sets hearts fluttering, the foolish moments of the love struck and finally to the ultimate acts of sacrifice, are delicately described in this movie.

However, it’s not lovey dovey all the way as Sparrow touches on the ambiguity of human that weave a bland of noir feeling about it. Kelly Lin shines as the mysterious woman who charms effortlessly into the hearts of men with questionable jobs. Her portrayal of a frail helpless woman who is undeterred in seeking resolution for her dilemma was as joyful to watch as Simon Yam’s performance.

Simon Yam had once again subtly slipped in another fine performance for Director Johnnie To after so many collaborations. There isn’t any emotional scene for him but he captures the viewer’s heart with his enigmatic restrained charm

Captivating actors aside, this movie relies heavily on it’s soundtrack and cinematography to deliver this “moody” piece of work. “Moody” in the sense that it does not mean grumpy but the type of emotional delights that it set the viewers in than impressing with the intricate of the plotting and showmanship.

The amazing soundtracks by Fred Avril & Xavier Jamaux are pretty much the soul of this film if Kelly Lin and Simon Yam represent the bodies. The catchy beats from the jazz mixed with a distinct bland of oriental tunes, resulting in a light hearted sexy sensual smooth mood that is easily the atmosphere of the films

The film is as much a cinematic love letter to the city of Hong Kong. With an eye for the iconic features that define Hong Kong, this majestic sweeping viewpoint actually transforms the busy city into a city that’s as lovely as Paris itself, helping to create an open, spring feel in a bustling tropical megalopolis.

Sparrow is a simple story that ultimately relies on the story teller, the soundtracks and cinematic angles to create atmospheric medium to fall in love with. Not everyone falls in love the same way but if you happen to like a whimsical spontaneous chain of events and don’t rely on cliches to tell you that love is in the air, Sparrow might just steal your heart.

The end scene does when they let go of the woman who has in some measure, stolen each one of their hearts and then life in the city goes on – with all 4 comically balanced on a single cycle

Osian Cinefan 2008 Revisited Part-1

2008-09-17T12:29:00.000+05:30

My partner has been at me, haranguing me to write my impressions of Osian 2008. Held between 10th and 20thJuly 2008, my catching the festival and having my loved one accompany me to many of them, are both wish fulfillments of sorts. I had a tiff with the people at work and told them I needed to be away for a while. And escaped to catch the films. Not knowing, not worrying about what I would do when the gig ended.
I caught a host of them , and in my mind's chronology am starting with Kobayashi's Rebirth –

The Japanese film whose repetitive sequences of mindless mundane habit reminded me of an earlier –Greek-Cypriot film – Honey and Wine. The tale of vengeance, alienation and finally forgiveness. A rebirth in our lifetime.

Uc Maymun – Three Monkeys by Nuri Bilge Ceylan – the Turkish film that is so close to our urban lives that it is truly frightening. A driver takes the rap for his boss’s accidental hit and run case and his life slowly, inexorably turns upside down.

Wong Kar Wai’s My Blueberry Nights disappointed except for its two image sequences seared on our consciousness the icecream melting slowly around a delectable wine-maroon looking luscious blueberry , and that of Jude Law kissing Norah Jones upside down as she slept.

The Iranian film Takhte Siah – by – Makhalbaf – Samira non Mohsen, stayed on long after because of its unusual them. Two Kurdish Refugee teacher looking for unwilling pupils – to teach and to earn their living. The woman pupil with her child when her teacher husband abandons her.” Taktha rosh , my heart is like a train. So many come onboard and so many get down at stations. But my child, he stays forever”

Of the package dealing with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict between my partner and me we took in a mix of Lebanese, Israeli and Egyptian films – of these Nadia Kamel's Salata Baladi – Country Salad – stood out. Not only did it use a mix of documentary and feature , it touched upon the mostly taboo topics of a mixed family of Copts and Muslims who for decades are caught in the conflict to desiring to meet and revive lost ties with relatives who are not in Israel but are also Jewish immigrants. Country, travel problems nationality, passport control all become immaterial as human emotions overwhelm and hold lessons for all of us in our multi-ethnic, multi-faith, multi-lingual identity.

Mai Masri’s 33 days is a graphic description of Israeli shelling of Beirut’s Shiite strongholds in the aftermath of the Hezbollah –Israeli skirmishes. Unfortunately , even as it extols the benign side of Hassan Nasrallah, it feels far too lopsided and does not hold any hope for coexistence but talks of eternal conflict and uprisings. Real but sad.

Hakala Hasurit – or the Syrian Bride was set in Druze country – the Golan heights where the Druze live – on Israeli passports but without a Nationality was intriguing but kept the Israeli character milk white. Guess the Israeli director needed to pass his country’s sensors, too.

Volker Schlondorff – of Tin Drum fame is masterful in Ulzhaan – a Kazakh, France and German co –production – where we have a white Caucasoid protagonist who is caught in a fruitless quest for his missing family, a Kazakh girl who grows to care for him and a shaman-illusionist-tradesman who is constantly reinventing himself. The quest life’s deeper meaning, the search of a mythic place at the end of the world, the wish to vanish in the face of a deep mourning - all this can sound pathetic, esoteric not to say ridiculous. But when this character is inhabited by a down-to-earth actor as Philippe Torreton and his journey takes him to a place as real as Kazakhstan, the metaphysics soon turn into a very personal, poetical tale.A young Frenchman, Philippe arrives in Kazakhstan fleeing from a family tragedy. He wants to go to the Khan Tengri mountain, where back in the days, shamans came to die. And this is his aim, too. His car breaks down, he continues afoot, thousands of kilometers. Eventually, he buys himself a horse. The horse’s owner, a young nomad and teacher, follows him in order to look after her horse. She becomes his involuntary guardian angel. Finally, the experiences made during the wandering save the Frenchman from death.

The Flight of the Red Balloon

by Hou Hsaio Tsen was good in parts but the balloon is lost sight of -in the intricate and warm story of a Chinese puppetry and drama student - a talented woman who gets involved in the lives of a single French mum and her child. The red balloon – the original black and white story is far more coherent and therefore credible – albeit in Black and white.

How can one possibly forget the afternoon screening of Shohei Imamura’s Ballad of Narayama which played to a packed hall, thanks to it being plugged repeatedly as well as being preceded by an enthusiastic introduction by the film aficionado(why don’t we see them more often , elsewhere?) But the film lived up to its promise – with a storyline set in Japan’s far north – where a primitive community lives by its own peculiar rules. Food is scarce and the oldest must journey to Narayama – the mountain spirit. The images of sexual violence and primitive emotions come spilling out – but the story is chilling and unrelenting in its portrayal. Will we ever have the guts to do a film like that here? And more importantly, will the fat producer and the lean hungry director survive a film of that genre?

One Bengali film – that we did catch was Anjan Dutt’s ‘Chalo Let’s go’ –

where the storyline had similar names and was similarly as in Ray’s Aranyer din Ratri, but that’s where the similarity ended. This one is set in today – young men who have lost their moorings, one of them who has his idealism intact but fails to pass crunch situations, another who follows every girl he meets like a lovesick puppy, independent career women who can hold their own, a pornography loving pedant, and a fortune huntress cum thief who turns the tables on her aged playboy companion. The film is funny in parts, and one wishes the director had imbued some of them with more depth. The future perfect glimpses we were shown, took away from our curiosity about the characters present.

The osianama shall continue…

What does it take to write a new post?

2008-09-17T10:09:00.001+05:30

Does it take a new job? The right mood? Arriving in time for office? Fulfilling a promise made long ago? Less work on my plate? Hurting a loved one? On seeing her hurt at something that has happened? Feeling nostalgic about when I had the time but not the inclination? Having better weather all around me? Having the luxury of a connection at home? Or the luxury of getting home early, cooking a decent meal and waking up refreshed and fulfilled? The answer is probably – all of those, even if it in parts.

I force myself to write. Not because I don’t want to, because I am stupefied by what I see around me. What I read every morning and sometimes hear on radio and see on TV. I feel that anything I write is but a whimpering apology of the enormity of incidents all around us. Yet the chronicler within me, lazy and brooding is pulling me up, by the roots of my hair – like the child in Jean Christophe – “March on! March on! “ he says.

Passion and Pain

2008-09-03T12:15:00.000+05:30

He is a new father
You are a recent wife

Yet strange are the twists of life
That the two are not parts of the same whole

Fathers do not give birth
They are the seeds from which the fruits emerge

Yet when they gloat over
Do they realize the yearnings and the pain

Do they even know the stirrings of storms within
Where dreams are still born and yawning abysses stare

Where the present is forever under the shadow of sadness
Of tattered dreams that were once woven with passion
Of broken shards of longings, now lying neglected in our consciousness

Do they know?
Do they care?
Do they even pause and think
Or spare a tear in the corner of their eye

I wish them all happiness
And that, they at least, may
Forever be bathed in warmth and happiness

And we too, can exorcise our pains and start anew
Someday.

Playing Tag or Getting Tagged?

2008-06-23T15:01:00.000+05:30

I'm: a moody broody entity, who longs to be happy underneath
I think: we all have it within to improve the way we live, talk and behave with each other
I know: that I could do better with my life, but choose to enjoy this phase of lull and quietude
I want: the rule of law in my country, better public transport and better living standards of people behaviour in public zones

I have: a loving family and an even lovelier fellow traveller

I wish: I could work when I wanted to and not to pay my bills
I hate: being pushed to do things that I would have done anyways
I miss: the simple joys of playing with mud mountains and carving paths and canals as a child
I fear: the loss of people who have loved me selflessly and continue to do so.

I feel: the presence of a greater force – amidst the mountains, roaring oceans and unending valleys
I hear: the wind whistling through narrow valleys as I trek to a lonely mountain
I smell: the voices of people long gone, from the city, from my life and from this world
I crave: the sight of a welling bluegreen sea wave as it roars to the shore and ebbs
I search: for beauty, often in unlikely places
I wonder: If being settled is the same as being stagnant
I regret: Not having thanked enough, the kindness of many a stranger
I love: traveling to places known, heard and unknown
I ache: with the thoughts of people who could have been dearer
I care: for the wounded, the less fortunate, the underprivileged, the meek and the humble, whom this ruthless world is grinding into fine powder

I am not: a leader, but a worker, an implementor and an executer of things
I believe:
I dance: to the now slow, now fast, now no-particular rhythm of a Lizst Rhapsody

I sing: of the songs that I heard and recited in school, at home, on the gramophone and of relatives laughing through on family soirees
I cry: when I hear a beautiful verse, a dialogue from a film, a word from a loved one or a tune that harks of forgotten happiness

I don’t always: behave rationally when stressed
I fight: rarely nowadays except when I am pushed to the wall
I write: To earn my bread, bacon and all the goodies that make me rotund
I win: when the people I am with, also wear the same broad smile and share the priceless look of joy
I lose: when I am on a winning streak and often regret it afterwards

I never: can tell lies with a straight face
I always: go deep into depression before I can climb out of it myself
I confuse: good English skills with a high degree of moral and ethical values
I listen: to the sounds of my inner self amidst the crush of a modern hectic schedule
I can usually be found: trying to locate the XXX CDs my wife hides and dumps

I am scared: about places that are dark and have no roads
I need: to be reminded often that there is life beyond my career and to write for sheer joy
I am happy about:the fact that I still have my generation and life, both to look forward to

Prometheus Unbound: The world can be a better place, if all of us decide to do something about it.

Endgame: Interact

2008-06-04T12:08:00.000+05:30

A person who appeals who appeals to me at a baser level
Emotionless, non-vulnerable, no finer sentiments
Just an over-consuming, all pervading desire
A spark ignited is now a bush fire.
Yet save one, none need know about it.
Why I ask myself does it happen, and I know the answer
The slot has remained cold and empty
Yearning to be fulfilled
And hope arises, phoenix like.
each time and calms down.
and opportunity is replaced by importunity
and eventually cold reason
strangles the warm body of emotion
of all I see around me, I see a little of myself
that I could have been and was not
and perhaps this is the greatest pit
that I dig for myself each time.

HUM

2008-06-04T12:07:00.000+05:30

Inspiration struck in the middle of the noon
At the library, where I sat in a brown study
To think of this creature of a weeks acquaintance
Limpid pools and puppy fat.
Privilege flashing in her countenance
A first evening of promise.
A glance, a touch and a word
Of my endless chivalry outside
And the fire of desire within
A chilly autumn days walk
And a light hearted attempt at gauging
Romance doesnt bloom in the jungle.
It flowers in buildings
Between the 90s girl and the 70s guy
keep up the search, buddy he says
and a restless creature
provides the inspiration
to carry on with endless Saturdays and Sundays,
alone and friendless

Triggers(Oh! When will it rain)

2008-06-04T12:06:00.001+05:30

What is an experience
can it be put in words
can happiness be described
will it capture the mental feeling
will you be nostalgic afterwards
will you want to relive it, again
desribe your own happy moments
what do they constitute of
is it achievement
is it fulfilment
or is it an yearning in perpetuity.

Night and fog

2008-06-04T12:05:00.001+05:30

A saturday passed without you
But it was no ordinary one
A day when we were to meet but fate willed it otherwise
A tryst with a job offer
And I learnt later
Without a hint, you had returned the book that I gave
For me, it was like the investing in thoughts, words and fantasies
all exposed to the harsh daylight of reality
I thought of you all day I slept to exorcise it
And then at night, dear romantic Elvis
Brought it all back
And as I write I think of what the week will bring
Cinemaya and the though of meeting you and asking you out
And to tell you that you are
The only anchor in my life
My touch with sanity
With beauty and with all that is good
As it should have been, always
And forever
I admire your fortitude your ability to keep your family together
because my family is no longer mine
only a veneer remains,
inside we are all hollow men

Pastel dreams

2008-06-04T12:03:00.000+05:30

Thank heavens for daylight
Which does clear the air,
of forbidden passions & hidden desires
A single Sunday out
Like Ilya Oblomov’s pastel day out
Makes a whole world of difference
What are we all looking for
To be happy, to love and to be loved
And yet in all this,
fighting pain, regrets and tears.

Monsoon

2008-06-04T12:00:00.000+05:30

The clouds finally darkened and it rained
A third meeting and we went out
Complete a morning of unease and desire
To see her and know her
She treated and I protested coz even here , memories stung
But I think, I've matured to take pain more evenly than when I did earlier
She talked about herself, her friends
Her desire to share
I got the feeling that shes many things to many people
Parts of a composite whole
Perhaps not willing to immerse herself or give herself away completely remnants of a tragedy perhaps?
Showed her the poems I liked best smiled shyly at the one that contained the tragic tale glad to see life overcome death.
Shooed out of a swanky joint we walked to the coffee home
Talking of Zamfir and films and avoidable complications in life.
Met a friend of hers who said shes looking pretty couldn’t agree more, I thought
Only, I didnt know if it mattered
And then talked again
this time of nuclear disarmament,
of euphoria and angst,
of conflicts in achievers and non-achievers
the hollow men
and then as we parted I had selfish thoughts
I thought why dont I know you more
What do all your friends
mean to you that I dont or cannot
then I realized that would be imprisoning
a free spirit like yours
somebody who doesnt walk on water
but swims even when the currents are against
I m sorry I said mentally that I thought of possessing you
because until you want
itll be just the way we met.

Ode to the bespectacled beaut

2008-06-04T11:59:00.001+05:30

In a saree she sashayed by
In an instant catching my eye heady adolescence rushes to the fore
Wait impatiently for another glimpse.
Inside we go. O joy she sits in front
With a horrid angry goblin by her side
My bespectacled beaut
Regular features, a look of quiet intelligence
old fashioned specs, her hair gently kissing the nape of her neck
Half mocking I disown my compatriots she won’t tho’
speaks in my tongue as mine goes up in knots
here and now I want to talk to her
Ask if I can meet again
but that was not to be
for neither am I her lifelong companion
nor is she meri Amrita.

Gibraltar

2008-06-04T11:57:00.002+05:30

I have replaced by silence
My tired repetitive thoughts
Only one question I ask
Even if reciprocity is not possible
Can we still not share a few good times together

I shall wait
I shall not give up
For knowing more about you
I feel that I can keep up
Not intrude
But be there when you need me to

1001

2008-06-04T11:56:00.001+05:30

A thousand days of waiting
And yet it seemed it had all been there
Only more falling into place than ever before.

Every evening when I travel, I carry
A small part of you
And wistfully think of a little more
Where do we go from here
I ask myself

And wonder if life has prepared me
for yet another test

A test of patience, passion
joy and tears of regret

Someday somewhere I say to myself
I shall achieve endure and overcome.

Terracotta earrings

2008-06-04T11:55:00.001+05:30

I sit and think of you
How would you look like, at night
With candle light and roses, and your terracotta earrings
I have never seen, anything so fragile
or anything so unearthly beautiful
they remind me of some earrings
that I have known intimately
nestling in the crushed folds of my handkerchief
got ride of in a fit of passion
and forgotten for a lovely summer night

Waiting

2008-06-04T11:53:00.001+05:30

I’ll wait
Wait for your call which didnt come thru
I'll wait
Until you think the time is ripe
wait until you unburden yourself
and let me share some of your problems
because I know, you too like to gauge
and I m willing to submit to test
When it comes to pass.
Here I am stuck in situation waiting in the wings
to emerge brilliantly from the shadows
Or to melt away into the darkness
Waiting, waiting,
sometimes for a job,
sometimes for an interview,
sometimes for an opportunity
and sometimes for people who could have been dearer.

Life is composed of these things I suppose ,
as I watch the world go by.
Yearning reaching out for the sky
Ad then thudding back across to the earth
only to begin again, anew.

Because

2008-06-04T11:52:00.000+05:30

At last someone out there needs me
And yet I pursue another elusive on
A mixture of love and concern
To make someone else your very own

Because
I want to chase and am still scared
Because
I want to know you and am terrified of rejection
Because
The past clings on to me in some measure
Because
There are moments I feel too tired to try
But I am so glad your heart is pristine
Like mine, inspite of the trials and tribulations
Because Id love to protect and still feel vulnerable
IF only once I wish I could speak my heart out
But am afraid you might want to listen burdened with life and its attendant problems
amid the lingering fragrances of your own memories

Perhaps perhaps someday you’ll stop feeling shy
And I’ll stop running away
And in this game of life we both will emerge winners, hand in hand.

Dithering

2008-06-04T11:50:00.000+05:30

So where do we go from here?
Life revolves around twin issues
A job and a companion
Each time one comes into sharp focus
The other tends to get blurry
It’s been a week since we met
I have called up thrice
And hope diminishes each time of seeing you ever again

Possibly my fault, keeping room for people
But the emptiness within craves and your kindness seemed to me
To wash away the collective sadness of many who’ve come and gone
And I sitting here, still dont give up dreaming

Waiting to exhale

2008-06-04T11:48:00.000+05:30

Another week passes
exactly like the ones before…
I clean my home yet again
and wait for your call
Which never comes.
I am filled with hope yet
Because what do I gain
with rejection and sorrow
when all I ask for
is your company and a little time
a heady teenagerish delight fills me
disregarding the past, present and the future
I am willing to wait…
for you to be sure
and this dream to come true
because it ‘s much too delicate
to withstand harsh reality
tell me truly,
isn’t it so that
forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest….
Just tell me
that you too feel the way I do
and I shall remain happy , happy ,happy…

2nd Year

2008-06-04T11:45:00.000+05:30

This week, another relationship came into focus
she, of one year and I
of movies and no-result roses
of gauging and giving up
sometimes, the most beautiful things happen
and you don’t have words to describe
and in this case, you dont have anything
to get a grip on , good or bad.
The whole thing is one strange burden
You neither want to chuck it
Nor do you want to take it longer
The important question being what is ‘it’
Perhaps we’re both whiling away
Our moments of loneliness
Because , neither there is the joy
Of meeting nor the sorrow at parting
Just a nice, balanced companionship.
Only, I am not what I seem
And like a dying man
Clutch at every straw in sight
Self-doubt, self-pity combine to
Reduce me to nothingness
Yet I rise
I rise forth because I don’t have the greatest of all courage, to lie.
I rise because there’s a glimmer of hope and yet there is something to live for
In a place called tomorrow

HOPE

2008-06-04T11:44:00.001+05:30

You fill up my spirit

2008-06-03T10:43:00.000+05:30

I open my mail every now and then
Checking for some word from you
The day is at an end, but work has just begun.

What am I to you
I know what you are to me
But now I grow more and more alarmed
And wonder if things are best left unsaid

I want to see you happy
And now and then, smile along
If that’s OK

Remember one thing though, even if you have loved and lost…
think how much more fortunate you are
than so many others,
who’ve not known this intensity or passion

Never say you are a broken person
because the heart is intact –
and so is your spirit
and I know life will be good to you
for someone who spreads so much cheer and sunshine in others’ lives
you deserve a special place under the sun
it may take a while
but it will happen

As for myself
what do you say then,
shall I get back to my former self and we’ll go on as before
With the delightful memory
That I shall cherish for evermore

endgame?

2008-06-03T10:40:00.000+05:30

Cooling off time
Or is it the time to end everything
I hear stories
I dismiss them
I mope and wait
And then mope some more
I should be glad I’ve
Pulled back from the brink
Or have I
Would it have been dangerous
I don’t know because
I don’t carry a roadmap
To know of how this will end
It’s time to take stock
I know you’ll get by
And I will too
In the meanwhile let me be by myself
With my sweet , fleeting memories,
Tears of joy mingled with sorrow
Thank you for everything ….
Thank you for reminding me of my
Unfortunate existence and creating a
Hat-trick of heartbreaks

The Sounds of Silence

2008-06-03T10:39:00.000+05:30

It seems only yesterday
That we began “talking”
In between so many beautiful things have happened ..
a short walk along the sea
Laughter, fighting, chasing, slinging sand and mild flirtation
I forgot who I was, forgot who you were
For a while , it seemed
we had broken barriers of differences
And come to a simple human level
of liking one another as a guy and a girl

And look at life’s twists and turns
you brood
grow angry and vengeful
wreaking havoc on all and sundry
on the warpath and none is safe…

I want that old person back
More so than ever before…
The one who once described
The dark mountains of Quriyat,
with the twin intensity of awe and fright
and all seemed full of promise , brightness and perhaps
another walk by the shore
on a wintry cloudy day

PS I will send you this when I hear from u first

Vertigo

2008-06-03T10:31:00.000+05:30

One part of me
wants to act like a merry mischievous elf,
laughter, joy and perpetual happiness
but I too, like you, have
a second self
stopping ,hesitating, pretending, grumbling and despairing
I want to stop negative thoughts
just here and now and enjoy the moment..
when you call
to see you, hear you and fill myself with delight
ever thought about how much you can give joy to someone else?
I am now able to let go… easier,
coz this will not be the first time
Coz you know sometimes
that worldly baggages cannot be shed
But yet friendships change and metamorphose
into things that are forever special
I can sacrifice, knowing reciprocity is impossible
And also accept whatever is coming my way
For whatever you choose to share with me
will bloom and add colour to my life
but not a drop will escape into my outer universe

Drunken meanderings

2008-06-02T16:48:00.000+05:30

A friday of happenings, o meanderings and losing a memory
Of a creative director and a director
A splitting headache thatd last the next week thru
Party in the evening amidst smog
Swirling trade fair traffic at Mandi house
And nightmarish Godot like waiting
A party at last and possibly the last
Life changes and how
Remembering the other party at Tuhin’s
I began the music and many unhappy moments later,
Got drunker and drunker without knowing
And crashed out like alight
Deep seated memories of Kishor tucking me into bed
And the lads talking of Shilpi’s legs
Drifted off to a stupor
And awoke next morning
to an unsteady bus ride home.
And today Id again revealed all.
Only the audience was more limited.
Guilt arose within like bile
And shame that I cannot control my innermost thoughts
Resolved to limit it to majorly two
and keep my sanity intact.

Dear Rosemary for Remembrance

2008-06-02T16:47:00.001+05:30

A greeting call to her office
Elicits a pleased response
But of her life and time, she yields nada

May we meet sometime, I ask
I havent been to the library for ages, she replies
Some one is ill, someone is getting married and someone has simply no desire to see someone
Another madness after yesterday’s invite to a stranger on board a bus,
Brings me down a rung or two
From superiority to inferiority in 9 nine years
And what else is there in store
Ive dropped md my ring and resolved to take the bad with the good
Or whatever is left of it.

Autumn Encounters

2008-06-02T16:40:00.000+05:30

Two girls at a telephone booth
One blunt cut one boy cut
Their backs tome, immersed as if
Making love to the instrument

A note of suspicion
Of raunchiness and wildity,
a whiff of naughtiness
As they call up a guy
And one pouts brings mouth close to the other
throaty voice full of desire
They re no boys with us
Shes wearing a thin knit over which stretched her figure to full effect
A breast brushes past
As she takes a second call
Could she be a
And are they too hot to handle
Wonder how itd be like
Would they they come over
To this place
But no where am I
Day dreaming in the evening
My call comes to an end
And I leave them talking still

Smile Spark

2008-06-02T16:39:00.001+05:30

A visitor in the late afternoon
Has been talking long enough.
I hear her voice from afar and am curious
And then it’s time to leave…

As she moves to go, she turns and looks us all over
and I see a wonderful person say
“ I ‘ve seen you somewhere
my legs turn to jelly
around me - past, present and future
melding inexplicably into an unreal afternoon

Long conversations happen - in a tongue I don’t follow
with snatches of English,
hit me with waves of nostalgia
of wonderful people long gone
It’s not with me,though
It’s to my alter ego
although more ego than alter
must be incredible
to meet someone after so many years,
I think

Crushes, defeated romances, marriage,
children, withering away of longings
cannot hide the essential human quality
of radiating warmth and joy
spreading much more around than she realizes

I wonder…
would it be possible to make her acquaintance
scaling the barriers of social norms & propriety
beyond businesses and costs
beyond everything
merely
a fulfilment of an incandescent longing

Oyster shell

2008-06-02T16:34:00.000+05:30

A delicate bubble has burst
Nurtured over 3 days in pain and tension
Happiness that’s ever elusive has a knack of disappearing
A fine moment this morning
a face that held promise
snatches of talks of likes and touches
And a clinging handshake that went till forever
or shame and blush put it part
Another hurried time after lunch
Resolved to call her tomorrow
And finally a few minutes of tension
Put paid to my bubble
A bubble or is it a cocoon
A cocoon I refuse to get out of
And feel reality chill my delicate soul
Blight it to eternity

On the rim of intensity

2008-06-02T16:33:00.000+05:30

there she was intensity personified
eyes piercing into my soul
searching, looking and then looking away
didnt feel like looking at her straight
that would have been rude
Feelings long suppressed come thudding back
conventional relationships restrict.
something drops
white hot stares get exchanged
quickly it’s back to normal
is it there in my mind alone or in hers too?

Smolders & sparks, noiseless.

2008-06-02T10:35:00.000+05:30

Like your namesake,
you too hold an irresistible attraction,
it was first when we met at our place
I thought I was mistaken until
small touches to examine my watch two times
your sitting close on the bean bag
to show me snaps of Europe
and a softening of demeanour when you talk
(silently we both enjoy it )
tell me that you reciprocate
in small measure maybe it is there,
and no words need be spoken or referred to
for I flip when we hold each other’s gaze
and then we break it
(who does it first ?)
if only to restore and compose our sanity…
thanks for everything

Clockwork Clowns

2008-05-30T15:58:00.000+05:30

Two days it took,
for me to know how much I missed you,
two days was all that made the difference
between complacency and impatiency,

From fulfilment to yearning,
we traverse a reverse path
from contented fatcatness to dour loneliness
from a cup of hot shared leaf tea, brewed with love
to a cold cup of coffee from the fridge, dregs and all

From a rumpled bedsheet, nuzzlings, giggles, morning breath and fresh stains
to an attempted cosy nook, wedge between 3 cold pillow
from a caring mosquito coil
to mumbled grumblings and futile attempts to light the same
from a shared bath and sensual cravings to a sterile cold shower
from a hurried breakfast, horlicks in hand
watching the clock and getting into work mode
to munching a stale bowl of scalded porridge
and ponderings in between
we journey inwards

and then longing wells up, like a bucket with a water-pipe
silently, and then spills over and splashes loudly
and then it is time again,
for normalcy, for sanity, for everyday routine
the clockwork we live by and love to hate

S E PA R A T I O N 2 0 0 0

2008-05-30T13:56:00.000+05:30

Golden gate then and now
When in Delhi, optimistic
Hopeful & crazy about western classical
I prayed that a partner I find
Whose desire for muse is as tempestuous as mine

At the threshold able to gauge
And measure, I weigh losses
And gains & ponder
P’raps this too will pass
Or ’I’ll steadily
Plod on the path
Yet the yearning remains
But for a heart so pure
I’d be willing to go the extra mile.

I miss you sweetie
Everything that you do
A bite , an angry look
Or when you throw a book
I listen to the music we both love
And think of the time you laugh
Yearn to be together & work things out
Parting is now a sorrow
Then it seemed ok
7 days is all I can take
more than that I simply can’t make
D’you miss me honey
As much as I do
I know you do
‘cause you liked me tremendously
Then and now.
Yet the distance must come
in between
to make us grow fonder
than ever before

come , we’re about to take flight
to an alien land
although for a short while
these little things will
surely make way
for the mother of all flights
steel yourself and I’ll take you
on the roller coaster that I promised earlier….

Real & reel life

2008-05-30T13:52:00.000+05:30

If it’s a dream
wait for it to settle down before
you write it down and long
after the yearning stops seizing your mind
it happened soon after I saw a youthful teen
one night -lovely, well proportioned, innocent of guiles,
effervescent
in my dream I was as always in a situation
where strict parents come over to my humble living quarters
( from mortification to dizzy heights of joy)
with 2 lovely, inquisitive-eyed daughters

I run away with one named anju
Through a dark corridor
In a blue green swimming costume
We exchange happy glances , sunny smiles and the joy of anticipated happiness
Her father pulls me over from a beach front
And rebukes us for being irresponsible
I protest and say I am an adult
Dread waking up to tell someone
about the Kevin Spacey syndrome.

2008-05-30T13:49:00.000+05:30

It creeps in every now and then,
A chink in my armour
A piercing wistful pain
Of the times gone by
Of a thirst, desire to reach out and satisfy
But yet, earthly bonds
Do still control and cover
Obey I do, listen I don’t
Depraved or hankering
Every now and then.
A touch, a thrill
A shiver runs throughout
Piercing glances are exchanged
Gazes held and then broken
As if to revoke a spell
Or p’raps a resolve
Not to tread dangerous waters

KNOWING AND PARTING

2008-05-26T12:41:00.000+05:30

Your footsteps approached and receded
At last I could work in peace
Peace? I have not known peace for a long time
Only a hopeless longing.

You talk of a sleepy city and comfort zone
I am wide awake and raring to go
It seems like it all has happened before
Or that it was meant to happen
Shall we fight or challenge each other in a tango
Wait for a response of fire in those icy eyes

No… no… it must go on like before
Outwardly, a wooden cask
secured by the bonds of social norms
and inside, the wine has spilled over
and intoxicated every pore of the wood
raising it from death to passionate life

and a parting shot about separation
do not fear it
for it brings freshness in our lives
and helps to preserve the fragrance
of beautiful people long past

STRUGGLES

2008-05-26T11:56:00.000+05:30

Who are you man ,
a bundle of contradictions,
a living wreck of weaknesses and shame???
In life, every once in a while there comes a time.
That you are led astray by a going-nowhere relationship.
Chasing the shadow of someone who can never be yours.
Letting your heart do a somersault,
each time you see her smile..
making the mistake of reading non-existent meanings
from everything that is said.
Oh god my lord…
why do you let someone have so much power over me
that a smile brightens the day in a golden glow
and a frown brings forth rumbling clouds of despair.

TERRACOTTA LEARNINGS

2008-05-26T11:47:00.000+05:30

Dear Shalini of the terracotta earrings.
December is the month of your birthday
and mine how many years has it been?
I often sit and think where are you, what do you do?
I always remember the good times we had together, though brief
Like a rainbow across the sky you made my life meaningful
awakening within me the desire
to capture a fleeting thought and
preserve its fragrance for posterity,
to be treasured and sensed when I want to.

the god page

2008-03-26T16:00:00.000+05:30

they say every good thing must begin with an intonation, incantation and an invocation to the powers that be. so be it. in the name of Ahura Mazda, Yehovah,Buddha, Mahavira, the Hindu triumvirate of Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh, Jesus Christ, Allah, Waheguru and Baha'ullah, i dedicate this post to seeking your blessings and good wishes.So that I may not be found wanting. Not by half or by any measure!