Moving Pictures, Moving Words

Doodling

2007-01-17T21:32:00.000-08:00

I wonder if a writer's block can last a lifetime. You see i feel i am half-decent when it comes to writing, but when it comes to writing i am also like one of those fountain pens which have dry ink and gunk plastered on the nib, which just makes dry scratchy noises when it tries to write.
Notwithstanding that rather pleasing analogy, i must say, there are times when i feel that i can only speak, that too in very controlled circumstances, and never write well. Maybe i can be like Socrates who had declared that he would never write, but then i need a Plato who will do so on my behalf. Maybe i just need to start podcasting, but that's a chapter that still has time to begin. Right now i will only try to write these moronic posts as often as possible so that at least the ink doesn't run dry. My brother feels that to be good at writing one needs to write a lot, and often. That's true i suppose, again to return to my analogy of the pen. The only way to make that dry rusty pen start writing again, you first need to doodle and scribble a lot.
That's the gameplan now, "Float like a butterfly" before i can "Sting like a bee" i guess.

Scarlett (22 June 1994 - 10 January 2007)

2007-01-12T04:57:00.000-08:00

Somebody said about their dog, "You taught us to love", i don't want to repeat it, but it is so fitting.

My beloved Scarlett passed away on the 10 of January. It is a hole in my life that may never get filled, and i hope it doesn't. I will always keep a space for her to come and settle when she wants.

Her traces that reman on all of our collective existence will take long before we can accept things. The sound of her long nails around the corners, the hair on our clothes, the food scattered around her bowl, her poo and pee in sundry places, and her pride of place on all the beds and sofas in the house.

And she was extraordinary in that nobody who knew her ever could dislike her or help loving her for she had sucha perennial flow of warmth and affection as was hard for any of us to ever understand.

We were each others constant companion for many stretches this past year, and remained so till the end. It is only now that i felt truly alone in my house despite the rest of my family being elsewhere for a long while even before this. If anyone would ever say: "Oh, so you're staying alone now", i would never think twice before clarifying that, "I have Scarlett with me".

Nobody ever got her name right, maybe she was never meant to be common, she was truly extraordinary for me.

She's taken her place alongside my grandmother (Didu) as my guiding and ever-watchful stars for life ahead.
Her memory i will always try to keep alive by now treating all animals (and humans, those few who truly are divine as animals) like Scarlett and in her memory forever try and ease any others' treacherous way through an otherwise lonely life.

Scarlett -

Beautiful and loving;

You taught us so much

About being better humans.

Look after me, Scarlett. Good girl.

Welcome 2k7

2007-01-05T04:57:00.000-08:00

ah new year. what a plunge, what a lark.
resolutions, yes...learn bengali, lose weight and also be fitter, study hard, read lots, be less critical/cynical, blog more, yata yata yata.
the year hasnt begun very well because of some personal reasons, but to pull happiness out of that is the key. not for myself, but to make myself a medium to spread joy for others.
something i will always try to do is some good volunteer work. thats something that everybody should do but we hardly find the time. but i cannot tell you what a feeling of purpose it gives you. all else comes to naught.
i personally will work for animal shelters, lending a hand and donating whatever i can.
what say, anybody done anything like this? i have only had the oppurtunity 2 times, but that's just the beginning in my life.
happy new year again everybody.

Gandhigiri

2006-10-02T07:56:00.000-07:00

Well, all my loyal fans (explosion of laughter echoing in empty valley) I is back.

I went to watch Lage Raho Munnabhai with my mother (can you hear me?) today at Rivoli. Tickets were almost over so I had to be strict and say “Bhaisaab line mein aaeye” to people behind me who were running amuck hearing tickets were dwindling. got them, though not together, was worried that without me my mother would not follow the movie beyond “Good mooooooorning, Mumbai” (which I have to say was the most irritating RJ line ever, because of its high pitch.)

Well, people have been gushing about this movie, and most of it is pretty well-deserved, but far be it for me to say something is without faults (except Ray and Kurosawa…I’m a wannabe but with a glass of bubbly). It is good fun, but you know that this only works if in this world builders call press conferences and not underworld dons, and if people give sincere advice over the radio and not make up a skit for TRP’s. I am a cynic that indeed the world could do without, but for me the truest line was “Desh toh hamare ho gaya, par log paraaye ho gaye”. Hear, hear.

But, nevertheless do watch it, because the problem lies not with the film but that when people leave the theatre they immediately cut to reality where the movie is a movie and their authority to act like pissoff’s is divine. so in front of me someone spat on the wall of the theatre because their spit is a shower of blessing on the film which audaciously addresses this very issue in a sequence. Wah, Wah. Kya baat, kya baat.

If even one person after watching this movie has imbibed its message enough to think before spitting on the street, I would say a greater award than any oscar would have been received by the film.

As for the real award…no chance…ditto RDB.

Thank you.

(Bow)

Rang De Basanti

2006-02-26T09:05:00.000-08:00

This a non-cohesive review of the last film that i watched in the theatre.
I was otherwise occupied while writing it and hence do not stand by its quality. It is just something that i wanted to write on.
Much obliged for your tolerance.

The Colours of Integrity

2006-02-26T09:04:00.000-08:00

Aamir Khan seems to have a penchant for making films with pro-active characters gunning for change and taking the onus upon themselves to initiate it. If you see his filmography from Sarfarosh to Dil Chahta Hai (relatively speaking) to Mangal Pandey to Rang De Basanti, his characters have been inspired and of the type of an outsider trying to make a dent in the system. And it is maybe these characters who have made Khan an icon because these are characters that people respect. The other Khan to have such a formula seems to be Shah-Rukh Khan who has made a career out of the underdog.

But coming to the actual crux of the movie and the lesson to be learnt from it (thereby serving the purpose of a film) I have to unabashedly admit that it is a strong movie. Many have disagreed with the answer it provides to the question of youth power and the responsibility for change in our lives that is invested in each of us. “A Generation Awakens” is the tagline, but I will comment upon that later. To begin with there are great scenes in the movie that truly serve the purpose to rouse the audience, such as the, now famous, reaching up to a fighter-plane soaring above, saluting the India Gate at night, and even the fantastic high-speed bike-SUV sequence. Very slick, very well made. There are also great scenes of great poignancy that are provocative, some instances being the mock funeral procession of Madhavan that foreshadow the events to come and Waheeda Rehman’s reaction of receiving her son’s possessions.

The portion of the film that stood out for me, though, was when all the principal characters have their first taste of injustice and passivity during their campaign for justice for the pilot’s death and the crackdown of the Rapid Action Force and cellular phone toting politicians, while the common man, woman and child all are subjected to the powerplay of politics. The music is just wonderful as the song plays ‘Kuch kar guzarne ko, Khoon chala, khoon chala’. Magnifique! Hardly do I remember any movie moment in past times that has made me react with clenched fist and grinding teeth, and believe me, such injustice occurs day in and day out. I think that is the message the movie sends.

The taking up of arms and vigilante justice is the controversy of the film, prompting the audience to take their own measures to serve justice. But, that truly is not the agenda of the film, otherwise the characters would not have apologized for it on screen. I think the message is one of decisions, or taking a stand, not to fight but to defend. It is taken to the point to when one has to hit back in order to defend what one believes in, but that is the exception rather than the norm. From my own experiences of social activism I have learnt the importance of realizing that there are things to defend which can otherwise be taken for granted. I believe that everybody should find even just one issue to believe in and stand by it in whatsoever capacity, and then just see how difficult it is to stand your ground. We don’t even realize this. Maybe it is with these colours of reality that we should be bathed, and then maybe we will learn to defend what is our own and everybody’s.

Rang De Basanti, indeed.

2006-01-30T07:08:00.000-08:00

I will never miss you because I can feel that you haven't gone.
I love you, Didu. Be proud of me always.

Help Yourself

2006-01-22T07:19:00.000-08:00

I go this book today, a pirated one (oops), of ‘The 7 Habits of Effective People’, or Successful people, something like that. I wonder how it will be. I have a low sense of belief in these self-help books. They are nice to read, and let’s face it, no book can give us easy answers, but still I feel they don’t live upto the expectations that are created around them.

Now I could be wrong, and often I am, but there are many people who seem to really dig into these books. Are they better at applying these tools in their lives and finding the true worth for themselves? Or do they just have lower expectations? Somehow I was expecting a lot more when I picked up ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ (original copy, left a smoking void in my pocket) and it was more Confucious than Wall Street, wise, yes, changed anything in my life, no. But my brother the investor was born out of this book (you can see for yourself @ journeytowealth.blogspot.com). Another slight disappointment was ‘Johnathan Livingston Seagull’. Good book, vey inspiring and with soaring narratives (pun intended), but somehow I expected a greater story. It was more like a story book, slightly dumbed down, into the form of a fable. And the greatest example of that, the grand masterpiece of this genre (which is not really a compliment) is ‘Who Moved My Cheese?’ Ouch, that book was bad, almost a betrayal for me, really. I mean, I get it, rat race, cheese at the end of the maze yata yata yata, you don’t have to spell it out for me. Rise to my level.

But maybe that’s me.

On a lighter vein, I watched a 45-minute stand-up comedy routine by a man called Russell Peters today. He’s good. He’s an NRI from Canada I think, or the USA (why do they say the US? Every country can be US) and he seems to specialize in identity/racial comedy, being the brown man in North America himself. The one I saw was a TV appearance I believe, Comedy Now. He has great bits on African names, his Indian dad and Chinese shopkeepers. Real nice. The only other stand-up comic, apart from Jerry Seinfeld, that I have liked. He’s 2nd in a field of 2. Jerry Seinfeld is a demi-God to me, and I will try and write about him another time, and try to do full justice to him (and obviously Larry David) later. I am a fan of his show, as you might have guessed.

Redefinition

2006-01-20T20:07:00.000-08:00

“An act like this is prepared within the silence of the heart, as is a great work of art. The man himself is ignorant of it.”
- Albert Camus
---

When the call came one didn’t really know what to believe, about themselves, that is. How far were they lying to themselves, how much of their selves were lying to them.

Or did they really not know?

It was always there in their heads, at the back, locked up like a horrible and powerful monster, not to be let out for cause of the havoc it might flare up in their lives. It was impossible to even imagine how it could change their lives into hollow shells of what it used to be. The call, then, was like the fatal blow that you see coming at you and you close your eyes in hopes that it’ll never fall.

So the father picked up his keys and went to put on a tie, while the mother could do nothing but wait to leave. There was a box of tissues lying on the table, but she didn’t know whether to take them. She might need them later, I guess she felt, but if she took them she would admit that she’d need them. That much she couldn’t afford and she left them there. The granny was in the prayer room, having a fight it sounded like. I guess you try hard to defend your stand even if you don’t know against what? The inevitable? Isn’t that ironic? The TV was still on, as it had been for about 7 hours by now. The same channel, the same news, the same pictures that had changed everything. Even if they switched it off it would repeat itself, it on was at least a distraction.

They sat in the car, and drove out through the gates. The windows were up but there was nobody to switch on the radio. The father did, but it was the same story now, with the words to make up for the images. Not much better. He turned the volume down and drove on, a bit confused, not knowing whether to drive fast or slow. The mother gazed out of the window, at nothing that made any sense; even the tint made her eyes hurt today. She rolled it down, allowing the din to come in and wrap her. It was soothing to be lost like this, to be protected by meaninglessness. Yet the sense was fleeting as the familiar roads shouted to her that she was approaching the end of the journey.

They took the parking slip from the guard and drove in. by and by, they made their way to the sepulchral building, painted to look pure and serene, but it had a numbing effect on them both. They opened the door and walked in as it swung back again. The slam was deafening, like an explosion behind them because it was suddenly deathly quiet. The mother’s eyes welled up. The only sounds were the claps of shoes down the corridor and a few other, scattered people scratching away at the forms they were filling out. They walked to the nurses’ desk and explained the call they got. The nurse checked their names against a list and gave it to the father to sign, and then she directed them down one of the corridors to another door at the end. She called out a man, young, in a white coat, without a stethoscope around his neck, but a green mask around his mouth. He gave them each one and asked them to follow him in.

It is strange to be forced down that corridor, just as it is strange to be left vulnerable the violent malignancy of the silence that forces its was into your brain and bangs on the closed doors, and forces you to take a look or breaks it down anyway. In a lifetime’s search for worth, one is sometimes left at such junctures where all you believe is erased and new wisdom is wrought from fire on your mind. So try as you might to clutter yourself to complacency, the time comes, literally, to come clean, to yourself. You shiver.

The mother walked in while the father waited outside for a moment and wiped a tear from his eye with a tissue.

Resurrection

2006-01-20T20:05:00.000-08:00

I've been away for the longest time, haven't I? And a blog ain't nuttin' if it ain't updated. So I'll do the easiest thing possible and put the least effort into it's revival by just posting another story I just wrote. Haw Haw !!!

The Way Out

2005-10-17T08:53:00.000-07:00

This following article is not to be taken as a comment on how I drive, or how I expect others to drive. Do not try this at home (even if you manage to get your car inside).

I took a bus to college today morining after a long time. I usually take a lift with a friend who goes by the stop and I decide its cheaper, more comfortable, and I don’t have to wake up as early. Today he wasn’t comjing, so my change of plans.

The journey was normal enough, except the girl next to me who kept leaning my way because the guy standing next to her was leaning her way because the girl behind him was leaning his way…public transport people!! So , I was nearing college when the bus had to take a turn to the left into the university area, and I happened to look up at the road that goes on straight, and I saw it for the first time. Indeed, this was a road that had been diverted for the most part of my stint in college, and it was opened in july after the metro opened up. I never looked that way because the bus turns before that and even when I drive my focus is on all the other cars leaning on mine because the car next to them is leaning on them and so on. Today somehow it caught my eye because the sky was blue, wide road was wide open and a perfect grey, and the entire frame of this road was so very inviting. It was calling to me (in that 1.5 seconds) to come and walk or drive down smoothly, happily and without care. Somehow I had missed this road before.

And it was funny because I realized that this was a major road that I had definitely traveled upon, and knew well, so such a fresh feeling from it was unfathomable. Maybe I just looked at it differently. Maybe I never looked at it before. Maybe we just need to give things time. Maybe we need to look again sometimes. Maybe all these aren’t maybe’s.

Nobel Announcement

2005-10-13T06:33:00.000-07:00

I’m really waiting for this year’s Nobel Literature announcement.

Oh hey wait, its been announced. It is Harold Pinter.

Mighty interesting for me, I must say. See if you have seen my earlier posts you will see I am discovering a nascent interest in theatre, and so this announcement is some kind of divine approval. Let me look up some information on Pinter.

Born 10 October 1930 in East London, playwright, director, actor, poet and political activist.

Pinter has written twenty-nine plays including The Birthday Party, The Caretaker, The Homecoming, and Betrayal, twenty-one screenplays including The Servant, The Go-Between and The French Lieutenant's Woman, and directed twenty-seven theatre productions, including James Joyce's Exiles, David Mamet's Oleanna, seven plays by Simon Gray and many of his own plays including his latest, Celebration, paired with his first, The Room at The Almeida Theatre, London in the spring of 2000.

He has been awarded the Shakespeare Prize (Hamburg), the European Prize for Literature (Vienna), the Pirandello Prize (Palermo), the David Cohen British Literature Prize, the Laurence Olivier Award and the Moliere D'Honneur for lifetime achievement. In 1999 he was made a Companion of Literature by the Royal Society of Literature. He has received honorary degrees from fourteen universities.

Pinter's interest in politics is a very public one. Over the years he has spoken out forcefully about the abuse of state power around the world, including, recently, NATO's bombing of Serbia. His most recent speech was given on the anniversary of NATO'S bombing of Serbia at the Committee for Peace in the Balkans Conference, at The Conway Hall June 10th 2000.

So now I know who it is that I will follow when I get the time. I am at a precarious situation where I have a resurgence of interest and will for reading, the loss of which I have been grappling with, and ironically now is the time that I need to focus my energies elsewhere, namely CAT. Alas… Even right now I have to divide myself between writing 2 tutorial papers for college by Monday and finish a sizeable chunk of maths course also. Uptil now I have been favouring the latter.

Pujo-accha

2005-10-10T19:30:00.000-07:00

Went to our first pandal of the season yesterday (Oui, je suis Bengali). It was the Hauz Khas one, which is one of our staples every year, it being that my family has long links with that place. It was nice, though a bit hard on the senses though.

See we reached quite late in the evening, about 8 or so, and so there was no pujo or arati happening. It was time for all the munnas and munnis of the neighbourhood to show their talents on stage; whether it be plays, or songs or dances, whatsoever. So here we were on one side praying to Durga Thakur and there they were on the other side proclaiming it was the time to disco. At first it was sacrilege, and my outrage was exploring new bounds, but then I realized, why not?

See I just get up and come to the pandal, these people prepare, and they enjoy it because for them it might be a first step to something they are good at. And although the music was out of place, but the world is changing so you cannot have children dancing to kirtan or baul music now can you? Somehow I felt it was what was the spirit of any good festival and celebration, give everybody a chance and a place.

So Durga Pujo is something of a Christmas (see all Christmas issues of Archie) isn’t it?

But something was missing in me yesterday. Somehow I didn’t want to go. Not that I have lost my love for the occasion, not at all, but that I somehow felt the time could be better utilized (hah!!) by studying for CAT which is now just next month. That wasn’t a nice feeling.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh

2005-10-09T21:59:00.000-07:00

Is there some technique to opening these printer cartidge containers or is it this ^#$%#* tough for everyone?

Hmmm...the death of me?

2005-10-09T07:43:00.000-07:00

I was thinking of death.

Actually I was thinking of what to do. I was really bored at a point yesterday. Just didn’t feel like doing anything, and yet knew that I hated just lying there. I thought of sleeping, because sleepy is what I thought I felt, but thinking of sleep repulsed me. I was nauseated by sleep.

What was the answer here? What was time now? Every second felt like a weight weighing on me, like a disease asking “How long do you think you’ll suffer and how long will you actually bear it?”

What can I do? What can I do? WHAT CAN I DO?

The answer was simple. So simple that it flitted in my mind without actually even registering for a bit. And I think it was actually 2 or 3 seconds before I paused to go back. Did I just want to die?

And it was strange, and scary. Not scary because death itself is involved, but I realized that death is when life stops. When you cannot go any further, when you cannot do anything, then do you just lie down and stop? And it scared because maybe I may not be ready to die, but death might come because I’ve stopped.

It was a funny feeling. Like a curse almost. If you stop doing, you will die.

[Please bear with this extremely hap-hazard and seemingly foolish chapter. It is just something I wanted to get off my chest as a completely new feeling for me, something difficult to make sense of.]

Run Sumit, Run

2005-10-03T19:46:00.000-07:00

I went jogging today. I figured I was putting on a bit too much weight around the middle, top and bottom everything. I have a 2-week break now and I wanted to make the most of it. See I walk enough through the year, and for some decent results in 15 days I needed to run. So I ran barely a couple of hundred metres or so and I was nauseous.

Man, am I that out of shape? Made me quite upset, but even more so thinking that there are millions of others who can’t even do this (I hope) and that’s bad news for all of us. Shape up People.

Well anyway, I’m reading a play called A Doll’s House by a Scandanavian playwright Henrik Ibsen. Its nice thus far. Actually I have another of his plays in my syllabus so I’m doing a bit og background.

I realized that drama interests me. It seems to be very deceptive in its methods and that makes it all the more pleasurable to unravel. There is a story behind every story ever written, but with drama played out in front of you it becomes more real. Gestures, words, dialogues, monologues, all take on a front which is entertaining and carry with it ideas and profoundities of everyday life. Although we study Modren European Drama, but I want to branch out in due time. I purchased, yesterday, a book called Three Modern Indian Plays – Tughlaq by Girish Karnad, Evan Indrajit by Badal Sircar and Silence! The Court is in Session by Vijay Tendulkar; all possibly among the most famous of Indian Theatre today.

And as Jean Genet has said somewhere, “tragedy is to be lived” – mine lies in the fact that I am yet to see a stage production.

Wins

2005-09-26T06:34:00.000-07:00

I got First among 7 for the spoof, and jointly First among about 50 for the story.
How they?

2005-09-26T06:30:00.000-07:00

Your eye is so big
Like of a bleeding pig
So bloodshot, so perfect
My dear.
It bulges, it quivers
It shakes and shivers
So lively, so deathly
Oh dear.

Be mine, Clementine
So fine, so fierce
Our wedding, our bedding
Will be in a hearse.
Our vows, for spouse
Will be so tender, so true
Like flesh of a child
Or infant too.

Say yes, my success
Will be to dress
You in diamonds
And guts.
My heart is yours
And yours will be mine
I’ll hold it in my hand
And squeeze it time to time.

For life, my wife
I’ll be faithful, ne’er fear
Pluck my eyes,
Tear my ears.
‘Cause once I’m taken
I’ll never be tempted
To dissect or torture
Any other.

And our children
Will be loved
More than any skeletons
Or corpse.
I’ll sing for them
Kill for them
Dance for them
Dear.

So agree
To matrimony
And happiness
Ever after.
Our lives
Be bliss
And blessed
With eerie laughter.

Yours,
E.A.Poe

Hysteria

2005-09-26T06:29:00.000-07:00

Hysteria

Why me? Why now?

It was so perfect in all the rehearsals. I did it day and night. I put all I could into it. Oh, why? why? Why?!

No, wait. It’s okay. I can do this. I was born to do this. I am good at this; no … I am the best at this. I Am the Best at this. Just calm down and think. I’ve done this just about a zillion times, so it must be there somewhere. Now think.

But how can I think like this? Why have they made it so damn tough? Turn those lights down, please. They are blinding me. They don’t let me see clearly. It’s like the sun, it hurts. And it’s so hot, so very hot. At least a hundred degrees, here, now. At least a hundred. The room is shimmering. It’s moving. Its closing in. It’s squeezing me, it wont let me breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Deep breaths. Calm down its okay. There’s time. But, how much time? It time enough? Is it enough?

And them? They who are waiting for me. What about them? Are they here to cheer me or censure me? One slip and I’ve lost them. In fact, I’ve lost everything. But, that cant be. What off everything else? Will everything come to nothing? Will something like this ruin everything? Everything>? But, that’s not fair. And I wont let that happen. I wont.

Ha. I can’t even see them. They should be nothing to me, and I – everything. But, that’s not so. I’ve sold myself to them. I see nothing but them. I stand before them, judged by them, ridiculed by them, castrated by them, cheered on by them. Loved by them.

Make love to them …

No, what is the line? In fact, what Is the line? Isn’t it nothing? It surely isn’t, it must be something at last. Or why else would it be? But, surely it isn’t everything. Surely. It isn’t. It mustn’t be. Yes, definitely not, not everything. Not everything. Everything. Thing. Thing. Think … think … think …

Think.

Take it step-by-step. Ease into it. Slowly. Remember the rehearsals. All those times I stood alone in front of the mirror, holding the script. Barking out those words. Think of those words. Think. They will come. They have to come. What was it? Something not something. Something not something. Something not something. These are the climactic lines, these lines mean everything. These are the simplest words. The sweetest words. The strictest words. They obeyed me then, why wont they come to me now? Wretched line, what was it? Something not something. Let me try saying it in my mind.

___ not ___
___ not ___
Something not something.

Oh wait. Something not to something. Yes. Yes. To or not to. Oh, yes! To be or not to be. That’s it. Yes. Its come. That’s the answer. Yes. Yes! Gad damn it, why did I forget? How did I forget? Yes. It’s mine now.

And I don’t think they realized. They didn’t realize. It's not been long. They would still be on the last line I just said. They couldn’t see me. I recovered quickly. Not more than half-a-second. They are just waiting for my line, not judging it. But, its come now. Its mine. And now I will speak it, the most important line. The best line. Wait and see them when I speak it. For it they will love me. For it they will. For it.

“To be or not to be,
That is the question.”

Suggestions Solicited

2005-09-23T07:02:00.000-07:00

My brother recently was invited to view my blog. He says the titles of my blogs are confusing as they aren’t associated with the rest of it. And here I thought I was ‘thinking out of the box’.

So, in view of such a development I request any other such constructive criticism to be put forward. Mucho gracias.

Who likes Steve Vai?

The Bus Dropped Me Far From My House, Because The Route Was Blocked, Apparently.

2005-09-22T06:55:00.000-07:00

I wrote an existential piece today. I am so proud of being able to say something like that. I wrote an existential piece today. Hah!

I participated in the creative writing event of my Dept fest today. I hope I win. There was something different today, I wrote with consciousness of what I was writing. What I mean is that I knew the power and effect of my words and sentences, and constructed sentences and used words for specific powers and effects. Quite an existential experience itself …

Am I saying existential too often?

John Players is the principal sponsor of the fest, and unenlightened people thought he was some dapper teacher or writer who was to grace our fest. I tells ya…!!! These old ‘uns today.

Penguin is also sponsoring and so they had set up a small stall as well. I purchased Satyajit Ray’s ‘Speaking on Films’ for 200, which is 75 less that cost price. What percentage is that? 75/275*100 is 15/55*100 or 3/11*100 or 27% approx. Not bad at all!!! Better than the darn book fair at least. I want to get the complete works of Samuel Beckett also, don’t know if I will, or even if I should (I have great propensity to splurge senselessly on books). That was about 6 pounds…is 480 rupees…73% of which would come to 4.8*73…365 approx…whatsay? A savings of 115. worth it?

I will post the piece when I can, and I would greatly appreciate constructive criticism on it. Much obliged.

Why do Outlook and India Today both have cover stories on Sex Surveys?

2005-09-17T07:23:00.000-07:00

So what does one think of my first ever film review?

Watched a movie before and since Belle du Jour – Ju Dao and Chungking Express. Both nice, not extraordinary. Ju Dao was about complex/incestuous family relationships, and Chungking Express seemed to me (I didn’t watch it completely or with much concentration) to be about jaded lives, and glimpses of life in life.

The dvd of Chungking Express had some talking by Quentin Tarantino, which was quite unexpected. He was not at all the new-age cool that I thought he would be. He spoke sense, no doubt, but a bit goofy in his expressions et al.

I was supposed to watch Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie (Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie) today, but the screening was cancelled. It is another Luis Bunuel film, and later one, which won the best foreign film oscar in 1972. It is surrealistic, with dream-within-dream sequences, biting satire and much (black) humour. This is from reviews I read off the net yesterday.

Its been raining quite a lot these past couple of days here. It would be equal to what we’ve had through the rest of this year. And I took my car to college today, and man, I don’t know if its cause of the rains, but what a lot of potholes and bumpy stretches. And so many trees have fallen, its sad. Right in front of my classroom is a tree which hasn’t fallen but is bent down to the ground almost and it looks so sad. Do not be surprised, I am strange in my affection for inanimate objects. Excuse me.

Belle du Jour (1967) Dir. Luis Bunuel

2005-09-10T08:17:00.000-07:00

Power and sex – heady and central in this film. Rather, I should say, sex is central; power operates through different people, in different ways, but always in conjunction with sex.

Nothing short of surprising, when one realizes that the sweet, gentile Severine is a masochist. She has been abused as a child, the perpetrator dies, and the dual guilt of her fallen nature and that she might have caused the man’s death makes her consume a kind of desire to be used. She feels she is filthy and wants filth, FILTH. Wants to be called filthy names, wants filthy sex and wants to be covered with filth. I know I am getting carried away, but there’s nothing like the sequence when two people are throwing muck at her; makes you want to squeeze muck in your fist. Powerful.

She cannot perform with her husband; firstly because he is too clean to satisfy this urge in her, moreover she has a sense of guilt, guilt that he is too good for her. So power structures are incoherent and mighty confusing – she is masochist and desires the usual BDSM and he does not dominate her enough, assert his power enough for her to be attracted. But he makes her guilty, guilty that he is so good, while she is so bad, guilty that he goes into a wheelchair, while she goes to a whorehouse. So her sense of guilt is his source of power then.

She finds fulfillment in the whorehouse where she is slapped and pushed and whipped. And finally her ultimate fulfillment comes from the man Marcel, who is an assassin and a hired criminal, who is the ultimate figure of a sadist in the movie. But his obsession with her breaks her joined world when he breaks into her home and then also shoots down her husband. Yet this is not so significant an event by itself, except that her husband is hereafter paralysed and she is his only support.

This film is definitely one of the most understandable of Luis Bunuel’s films, although I got it all wrong to begin with. It deals with many levels of sexual relations and as Bunuel said in his autobiography it is about “exposing bourgeois sexual perversions”. Every man in this film has in the past or present been a client at brothels. How blasé they are about it too.

Well touché to the film. Its definitely very provocative, although rather fun/funny, and incisive. One would suggest Jean Genet’s play ‘The Balcony’ to further delve into the sexual fantasies and reality-illusion, sex-power, power-life binaries that one sees in this film.

Some Endorsement With Roles Reversed and the Smaller Player Vouching For the Bigger Playah

2005-09-08T08:21:00.000-07:00

He's good. Check out his blog on earning money.
journeytowealth.blogspot.com

My Brother Sold Some Shares

2005-09-08T08:15:00.000-07:00

I’m happy. I’m vengeful (refer bitchy section of my profile). So I am pleased that someone I vehemently dislike has messed up. No details about what, when, when etc. Suffice it to say, such moments when people get their just desserts don’t come along very often. Dunno about Mogambo, but I khush hua.

Hey guys, make me study. I have 2 months till CAT and I’m not studying at all…why am I so self-destructive? Moreover, stupid speed post hasn’t given me any record of my application having reached IIM-L. I sent it out on Monday and it has to reach by tomorrow, Friday. Hope it does, or else it’s a major, major, MAJOR problem. It must have right? Oh please have reached.

Now I’m not happy.

Rap, Crap or Verse?

2005-08-30T08:05:00.000-07:00

Reading the Raven

Reading The Raven, I was craven
And the rhyth did drave’n me, to this poem make’n.

What a time, reading this rhyme
In moist clime, grey chime.
And while, I wile
You smile, awhile
And see that I’ll, blabber and rile.
You see, this is me
What is free, to be
Mimicked, and gimmicked
For a minute, I’m in it.

So f*** it, or chuck it
I love it, I’ll pull it.

This life, my strife
Is drive, -ing my knife
Is it chemical clown, that makes me frown
Or brings me down, hit hard ground.
What sense, what pense
-iveness, redress
Hot flash, watch MASH
Just crash, dash dash.

I’m high, you’re nigh
I fly by, in your sky
You’re pissed, the gist
I missed, your fist.

But Poe, his woe
Knows no, far shore
As I submerge, and purge
Abandon search, for that perch.

Mrs Dalloway is Fun But Hard

2005-08-21T09:28:00.000-07:00

Why do I come here and write?

Its not like it helps…it’s a burden, especially cause nobody’s listening. A tree falling in an empty forest…

Am I my own audience? Only I know what happens and what remains.

Only I know I try to study but cant, but is that right? Only I would lie to myself about something like this. Only I would screw myself and only I would want to save myself.

Only I would want to die

Only I would want to not.

Only I would try without success or fail without trying. Or cry.

Is the world tough, or do I make it tough, or does time really enjoy all this?

Well…just try, na.

Got 95Percentile...Not Saying Much Yet

2005-08-17T06:38:00.000-07:00

Can’t I pick on someone my own size?

Why do kids bother me? I feel utter contempt for smartmouthed bratty kids, which is more than what normal people might. It lingers with me, this feeling of rage, for minutes after coming across such a kid. I’m sure others don’t even give it a second thought, while I actually think about how I should tell his/her parents off or how hard I should slap them (the kids, I haven’t seen the parents).

I know that they’re only kids blah blah, but I feel its never to early to make a kid learn to be well-mannered. Like I was walking my dog, who decided to stop to shit near a group of 4 kids playing (about 8-9 years old I guess). So the alpha male says “Bhaiyya aap isse hataenge, please?” with some rather sharp-edged sarcasm…very Veronica Lodge attitude. Idiot.

Anyway, this is something that they don’t grow out off. I’m part of the last generation (those who are 20 now) who know how to speak without each line dripping attitude, without the generous coating of ‘who the hell are you’ mentality. And although I am told that each batch feels like this, but man…juniors just don’t know how to behave. And the problem is that we don’t know how to be tough…cant take it by force.

So are we doomed to never get the respect that we deserve and that we offer others? Kya koi sanskaar nahi raha? Sadly, I feel not.

New Gateways of India

2005-08-16T06:17:00.000-07:00

My breathing’s better but I’ve this nagging cough now.

I guess everybody’s heard of the attack at the Gateway of India recently. Man that was scary. Just imagine, that out of the blue some maniac comes and slashes you. Its like a scary movie! Really unsettling. But through it all there’s one angle to this incident that makes me glad (now I sound like a maniac). I saw in the news yesterday that there was a man, Salil something I think, who came to the aid of the 2 girls and may have been critical in saving one of them. He heard the screams, say the girls covered in blood, rushed them to a hospital. Applause to him. It is rarely, if ever, that one hears of any good Samaritan, or even a helping hand in time times of need. That was something that made me feel safe, far away here, to think that maybe, just maybe there are more like him.

But again, I want to point to myself. I would like to think that I would have done the same. Probably. But it would be cowardly and selfish of me to expect someone to help me if I am not going to help another. I wonder if I would. In delusional dreams I may kick serious ass, but in real life will I be too scared or even confused to react. That guy said that he didn’t think before acting, and that if he had he might not have helped. Would I think? Would you? Nothing that can be answered…not now anyway.

Changing to a much lighter topic, I was telling my brother, and let me tell those of you interested, Peter England has really good t-shirts – collared with stripes, 300-500 bucks. Also Buddy Davis for pastel solids, check them out if you want.

Jai Hind...Happy 15th August

2005-08-15T05:08:00.000-07:00

58 years old as the world's largest democracy. Sometimes I wonder if that’s a mistake. Power in all hands equals insufficient power in most hands. Blasphemous, it is, but truth be told, we as a people cannot take right decisions. Why else would labourers have 5 kids and drink?

Anyway, I hope you watched Swades. It sends out the right kind of message. This movie did badly, people thought it was too preachy. Maybe they missed the swa- part of swades. I watched Lakshya myself. Good film. Made me want to become an Army man, but I decided to find other ways to serve the country. I will donate to animal shelters and help villages and adopt a child.

The streets are deserted today. But while walking Scarlett (my lovely Irish-Setter) I saw some people who may never truly know life and may never be able to day Happy Independence Day. It was a man pushing along a “Machine ka thanda pani” cart helped by a 6-7 years old boy, with his wife walking behind, and a 4-5 year old daughter sleeping on top of the cart, which was rumbling like an earthquake. What day is today for them? A day when deserted streets mean lesser earnings. How happy is that? This is the shape of their tryst with destiny. This is their Swades.

What will we do for them? Help me out, what can we do? How can a nation of a billion sustain itself? China can, why can’t we? Will my writing this help?

Will I help?

I saw kites in the air. I saw blue and white. I saw the family on the street. And now I see this screen. But I don’t see the future, and I don’t know where I figure in it. Why should people remember me for other than family ties? What will I do that makes me worth a second thought?

Enough of that. My brother passed through Delhi on the way back fro Tokyo (am I the last one to realize that Tokyo is syllable-wise the reverse of Kyoto the old capital of Japan). He and my sis-in-law are going away to Manila for a couple of years. So I saw them for the last time today and, in case of my sis-in-law, Friday. Hope it’s a good place - Manila.

Broadband Downloading Isn't All That Fast

2005-08-13T08:44:00.000-07:00

Well asthma seems to be back in my life. It’s been a long time. I wonder if this is one its sporadic visits or whether its back for good. Its one of those times when you wish you’d listen to your mom when she says, “Do yoga”. But the good thing is, I revel in the regained joy of using an inhaler, which is feel is one of western medicine’s greatest discoveries, along with the simple crocin and some other select panacea.

I’m trying out the tratchenberg (or something like that) speed system of basic mathematics. Has anybody heard of it? It’s a book of shortcut maths, that’s supposed to be really good. But the introduction speaks of the man who invented it…a Russian who was a politically outspoken person, caught up in the Russian revolution, then escaped to germany where his propoganda for peace made him a target for Hitler. He was put in a concentration camp, where he did maths to keep himself sane. When he escaped he compiled his theories into what is now this book.

Maths teachers sure were a lot cooler in those times.

So anyway, I bought the vcd of padosan today, mom wanted to watch it and I haven’t ever. So I hope its good. Also got coffee with kishore, a new collection of his songs. Man sometimes one yearns for the great music of kishore kumar and rd burman and m rafi and asha bhosle and so on. Somehow I feel music was a lot more experimental in those days, even the trends and styles of the stars. Maybe its just me, but today actually sems a lot tamer. There’s no special spark in them at large. But maybe that’s just an inevitable outcome of global village-isation. Whatever they try and do now is just another “been there, done that”. Maybe that’s why we like ar rehman so much, the guy’s so damn fresh all the time. Also shanker-ehsaan-loy and aamir khan and rani mukherjee. Mangal pandey should be good, though reports are that the story is flimsy, but I’m willing to forego that for a raging aamir khan and rani mukherjee’s vari vari number. Also, swades, which they’ll show on the 15th on tv, is a good movie with a message that’s also god. Well made movie, and touches all the right chords without being senti. Man, I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or proud (metrosexually speaking) but the yeh tara who tara number in the film made me all misty-eyed.

Anyway, what should I use to download songs and videos? I’m told emule is good, but slow and kazaa has too much spyware and whatnot.

For people like me, the net lives up to its name.

A Funny Thing Happened to Me On The Way to Validation

2005-08-12T07:06:00.000-07:00

So, today my results came. And my record with exams held fast.
This is my part 2, literature. I improved from my part 1 (which isn’t saying much to begin with). But I find it hard to have any bright expectations for any exam anymore. See I am not a good student. The way I see it I am an underachiever. It seems that that fact hurts more than just being bad. Its always been like this. Or at least ever since class 7. before that I was mediocre, enjoying only class 1,2 as high points. But it was when I shifted to delhi in class 7 that I really came down. I can justify that now…impressionable age, new place…fat bong guy being put into a huge big co-ed school (I was in a boy’s school before that from 3-6) with nothing to fall back on. Sure, that was scary. Its understandable now.
But what about after that? Classes 10, 11 12? Where was I then? Enjoying my gained acceptability and growing some roots, never mind if I was a flowering plant or not. Unconscious I guess. I mean where do one consciously let oneself slip? Though my father often asked me if I ever deliberately performed below my capabilities to duck expectations. What could I say to that? I kept quiet. I disagreed.
I scraped through class 12. but things worked out funny. I always believed I was sincere in my work (not studies, but extra-curriculars – even here I was not academically inclined, I was more the helper to the organizers, and not a debater or anything). I could write a bit also. Confidence from there saw me through the eca quota in a good college, although I later found out my being accepted was luck, just because some other guy shifted and I filled the gap. But a gift horse is a gift horse.
I do well now, but only where it doesn’t count. I think. I say. But I cannot put it on paper when it counts. I also do. I’m active in college activities also, or at least I used to be, until someone started shining brighter. And I am not good here where it counts either. I cannot take work, and I cannot show working. I am told these are essential qualities. Just as I was told today that giving an examination is an art that needs to be mastered (I told her I’d try and learn the rules). Thing is, I thought I did the right things this time. I studied was exam-oriented, I completed my papers which is otherwise a problem with me. My mistake…I expected great marks, let myself in for a fall.
But I don’t worry much. Even if I fall, yet I hope, because somewhere in me is this dumb confidence. Somewhere I believe in my integrity and that great things are going to come my way. I’m preparing for CAT now…somewhere I have this completely misplaced notion that I’ll do well here and shine. And even after that I’ll keep shining, I wont burn out.
Even today I did okay…I got 56. problem is, that still puts me in the bottom half of my prodigal class. Unfortunately, that matters.

Erected Wit and Infected Will

2005-08-10T07:23:00.000-07:00

I used a crowded u-spl bus today after a long time (for those not in Delhi, these are 'special' buses run by the delhi transport corp to ferry students to and from north and south campuses). See i take a lift with a classmate in his car usually. Today's was jam packed, man. bad. And the problem is, i am a very nervous person around women...that is not to say that i'm one of those guys from the ads..."yeh to mera farz tha"...but i cannot stand glares from women in buses etc when i accidentally (never otherwise) bump into them, or brush past them etc. Believe me, this comes from my complete and most siscere empathy for girls and women who have to live in Delhi, the land of erect male minds!!! Note i say empathy, cause i too know how it feels to have these erect minds rubbing against me in the bus (ah the delightful underbelly of Indian society). so anyway, maybe its just me and my worry-wart-edness that makes me imagine it, but today was the same old story. ever had one of those days, when you may be looking from left to rght and just as you scan past a girl she looks up and catches you red-handed...and then when you go back from right to left it happens again...and up-down and so on. you get the picture. and i was absented-mindedly staring out of the window when it seems the girl sitting next to it thought i was looking at her, and made discomforting effort to adjust her clothes. Dammit woman...i empathize, i EMPATHIZE. I'm a gentle soul, i'm not a Delhi-ite in that sense ("guns and guts, only for jutts" plastered across their car)...i think with my mind. what helped was that now these two girls were on 2 opposite sides of my view...so if i turned away to not look at one, guess who spotted me looking at her. please tell me you've had days like these. please tell me i'm not the only misunderstood male around. please tell me its not just guys. Empathize, oh won't you please empathize with me.

My Last Tango In Paris

2005-08-09T07:57:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to know when to let go. When do you know if the other person is ready, or if you are? She had told me, though, that her time had come, that her roller coaster ride was over and she’d gotten her money’s worth. That was quite a difficult calculation to make.

Well, she’d been through the sum of all fears these last few months after I gave her AIDS for our second anniversary. I didn’t yell ‘Surprise’ or any such thing, the doctor took care of that for us later. The only thing that I ever thought about from then on was to never let go of her hand. I didn’t know who would be the first to leave, whether she would go alone or sooner. Well, it was sooner, and now my eyes and my life just focussed on our two hands, both pale – hers anaemia and mine under her hold on me. Her delicate snow-white arms were now slashed by hardened veins and stabbed by a deep needle.

Yet she looked pretty as ever in her blue hospital gown. Her soft blonde hair fell over her face, blocking the bright lights in the room that beat down on her beaten body. They reflected the harsh rays back with defiance and she looked at me. They were such pretty blue eyes that looked at me, she spoke her last to me with out words. Her eyes smiled at me and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting when you come.”

Oh God, how I loved her and how I was afraid I couldn’t face this alone. How I cried when I learnt I gave her AIDS. I got it after my accident when I got blood. She got it after our anniversary, when we made love. We were both quiet for some time as we waited for the doctor to correct himself. Instead we were left to pick up our lives and leave that room only to return when the doctor could help us no more. Later at home I broke down when she was in the kitchen cooking. She ran to me and held me and tried wiping my tears. But, eventually the only comfort I could find was in crying in bed with her as she curled into bed and put my head on her chest and ran her snow-white hand through my hair.

Life since then was about living, and we worked hard at it. All the movies we hadn’t watched and the places we hadn’t been were on our list. We danced every day and cried every night. We even took a trip to Paris, something we had always dreamed of doing. We found such satisfaction in art. The Mona Lisa was not an enigma anymore, we saw that bitter-sweet in each other ever since that day. The French really say it well when they speak of the joie de vivre, they just don’t mention that you find the joy when life is fleeting, or maybe the timing is something we decide for ourselves.

This past week we slowed down when life caught up with us again. She caught influenza and suffered a cut the day we went to the Eiffel Tower. Both took their toll on her weakened immune system .She laughed about it just yesterday, “Ah, Paris has been cruel to its most favoured. It killed Picasso and Van Gogh, and now I join their ranks.” That was not her only joke.

A few days ago, when I returned to her room after my bath I found her motionless on the bed. I rushed to her and frantically tried to wake her, but she didn’t move. I shook her and shouted out to her, but to no avail. With tears streaming down my face I jumped towards the door about to call the doctors, but when she called out to me. “You scare me, do you know that?” I was in shock at that point and I couldn’t even reply. “Is this how you’ll be when I am not there to look after you? Will you be this jumpy?” Well, she’d be proud to see me now, not even a single tear.
Another time I walked into her room and found her up and waltzing. I almost let out a cry of surprise before she quickly grabbed me and pulled me in saying, “Don’t let the doctors see, they think I’m sleeping.”

“Shouldn’t you be?” I asked.

“I know I should, but I couldn’t help it. They were showing that Al Pacino movie where he has this lovely dance with Gabriella Anwar. There’s so much in life apart from what we see, we just don’t see it. I don’t want to spend my last few days in bed. What am I resting for? I want to dance while I can. I got tired of waiting for you so I just started on my own. Now come, come. Dance with me. One last tango.”

I looked at her hesitantly, I didn’t know if she could take it.

“Please, I know you’re concerned, but believe me, it won’t hurt me to lose a few minutes of sleep, but I cannot sleep if I don’t have one last dance with you. So please, come and dance with me.”

I smiled. The most painful smile that I can remember. I took her hand in mine and pulled her to me and grabbed her other hand from behind and we both swayed with music that we couldn’t hear. But we both felt the rhythm that night, and danced like never before. It would be ironic now to say that we danced like there was no tomorrow.

That was yesterday.

I don’t know when the dance ended. I just remember it being very dark out and she was quite out of breath when I tucked her into bed and fell asleep next to her in a chair. I was woken a few minutes ago by a shrill tone from her vital signs monitor. I tried to get up, but I felt something holding me back. I turned around to see her hand tightly clutching mine. I turned to her face just in time to see her eyes closing as she smiled at me. Something in her face was soothing. It was as if she was saying, “Don’t you worry dear, I’ll be seeing you soon. I’ll be waiting.”

Well, the nurses and doctors have covered her body, and just her hand is still in mine.