A Job Half Done

Their first conversation had few words,

But seasoned it was with measured laughter.

They agreed the tea was good, and the weather pleasant,

And decided to meet the weekend after.

He worked his beard a tad carefully that morning,

And bought her a chocolate on the way.

The laughter was louder, the exchanges friendlier,

They both chimed it had been a lovely day.

He loved her big eyes, and the twinkle in them,

She giggled at his occasional flirt.

Their phones had little time to breathe,

Of things to share, there was never any dearth.

With relentless passion, he went about his days,

She confessed she really liked that too.

He talked ardently of music, but little did she know,

His affections were clinging to a subject new.

Months passed, and their lives went by,

Frequent, they remained, their meetings.

He listened to her, and searched for hints,

But, well, one is never sure of these things.

His patience gave way, and on a casual walk,

He bravely laid bare his aching heart.

All the feelings lay strewn, awash with dismay,

For Cupid had but played half his part.

Why Ranbir Kapoor should not be allowed to marry Katrina Kaif

I am sure this topic or its like has been written about, and for a moment I thought I must check and avoid redundancy, if it be. Yet, if one starts going by that logic, writing would become really tough or rather impossible because people these days write about everything. So I passed.

I will begin by giving credit where it is due. The genesis of this 'theory' lies in a light hearted conversation which transpired as we sat staring at the idiot box, and nibbling at what was left of the 'chicken lollipop', in our living room. The exponent happens to be our newly joined flat-mate, who we shall call Newton, because, as you will come to understand, what he said might be far more critical than the knowledge of F = m.a.

Our friend Newton seemed to be having a quiet, happy meal till he abruptly stopped in the middle of a noodle, and uttered these fateful words... 

"Ranbir Kapoor should not be allowed to marry Katrina Kaif."

(which, thanks to lack of creativity is also the title of this post)

Though, for a flurry of different reasons, we agreed with his premise, being products of a generation spurred to be curious by the likes of Arnab Goswami Albert Einstein, we asked, "Why so?".

This is the point where I shift from the narrative to the descriptive, and would demand complete attention of the reader to a theory, the non-acceptance of which could have drastically hurtful socio-cultural consequences.

Assumptions: 

1. If one has read H.G.Wells' Time Machine and those of its ilk, mankind or author-kind has always feared a dystopian society wherein the class-divide has reached gigantic proportions. That, invariably, leads to bitter resentment and an ultimate clash and an end of the world as the society of that time knows it. We shall assume we DO NOT want to push our world to such a state.

2. We will assume Ranbir Kapoor and Katrina Kaif to be "good-looking" to the way above average extent. And limit our perception of the individual to that of physical beauty.

Clause:

It is often seen that people of equal beauty or the lack of it (strictly by the rules of the world) end up engaging with each other, and eventually marry, have kids and all that jazz. Now, we remain concerned with this system.

Without wasting my time with more words, I will explain this with the help of pictorial representations.

See what this is leading to? Weirdly lumped pockets of extremely high and low entropy. Things will, eventually, shriek and call out for equilibrium, or annihilation. It will be a brutal war - and mind you, the mascara pencil is not mightier than the sword. 

There is still time. The rules must be laid.

Suggested solution

I am certain there are standard beauty metrics which have been designed by jobless driven purveyors of science. So, use them. Form a world governing council and hand them the task of being judges. When children reach the age of, say, fourteen, they must be presented to the council and rated on a scale of 0-10 (also called the Rakhi-Jolie scale). Fourteen, well, because if one can look beautiful at the onset of puberty, they must be asked no questions.

Then order by decree that no nuptial knots shall violate a sum of 15. Problem solved. In a few years, everyone will have one less thing to worry about. 

No Troy shall burn for Helen!

Movie Review: The Hunger Games - Catching Fire

Release date: 6th Dec 2013 (India)
Director: Gary Ross
Rating: 3.75/5

Movies like these are tough to review. For starters, the team behind the movie cannot be blamed for content/storyline, as almost all of that was taken care of by the book this is based on. Secondly, this being the second movie in the franchise, one is constantly looking to benchmark this with the first part and hoping to be pleasantly surprised. And in this case, the makers had a tough act to follow.

They did a fine job of it. Stories of dystopian socieities, an unexpected hero creating a stir, and a subsequent mass uprising are not new to any of us. The fundamental storyline has never been the basis of the success of the Hunger Games franchise. Yet, the movie manages to hold your attention with edge-of-the-seat adventures, choreographed and shot exceedingly well. All this without the 3D label that has becoming a 'given' in action movies of late, and more often than not adds zero value and more eye torture. Undoubtedly, there are moments when the constant flux of life-threatening elements, the deviousness of the game's creators gets to you, but then again, as stated earlier, that cannot be blamed on the movie per se.

The performance of the central characters remains a highlight of the movie, yet again. Jennifer Lawrence (Katniss Everdeen) and Josh Hutcherson (Peter) do a brilliant job of bringing to life a rather uncharacteristic love story. Lawrence, in particular, pulls off another fine act morphing effortlessly from an astute archer, a fearless woman to a poor girl worried for her family, from a heartless participant to a girl unable to understand her own feelings of love - both the direction and magnitude of it (Bah! who knew it was a vector!). Meanwhile, it's fascinating how the kid from the 2005 'Little Manhattan' has turned out to be a fine young man, finally coming out of his streak of unrequited love.

For people who liked the first part, it is time to get tickets to this one. The thrilling sequences, Katniss' fiery dresses, her ability to look ravishing in the most un-glamorous of roles, the brilliantly crafted sets - make for a fascinating two hours and more.

And with that I sign off.

Short story: Helping hands

Although the most cherished day of the week for most people, Sunday never managed to cheer Omi up. The prospect of returning to work the following day seemed to drain the enthusiasm out of him.  It was tough to blame him. A gut-wrenchingly monotonous drone, it was, his routine on weekdays. Being in a rut was not Omi’s concern, though. He was not one who craved for adventure or excitement, nay, not even a bit.

It was on one such Sunday afternoon that Omi received a call from his old-time friend Kabir. After mustering the energy to extricate the phone from a pile of clothes, Omi channeled the rest in sounding sociable enough.

“Hello!”, he shouted.

“Boys! Guess what, I am getting married.”, Kabir animatedly spelled out in one single breath.

Considering the innumerable wedding invites- some earnest, some not so much- that he had received of late, and the never ending stream of gawd-we’re-so-happy honeymoon pictures on his Facebook, this should not have come as a shock to Omi. Yet another friend taking the bait, right? This, however, seemed different. Omi knew Kabir from school, and when one doesn’t meet their school friends too often after their paths diverge, the image of the school bag carrying, puberty stricken teenager is hard to shake off.

After a few incomprehensible mutterings which might have loosely translated to ‘Wow!’ in some east African dialect, Omi let out a joyous “Congrats!”. He was, really was, delighted for his friend, especially as Kabir’s excitement was almost abrasively palpable even with the hundreds of kilometres separating them. 

Kabir had left a lucrative job and stationed himself in a small village close to his native place where he co-managed an NGO which was trying to promote education for the girl-child. His co-manager, it turned out, was the one he was entering into companionship with. And with the cause-driven couple, Omi was not entirely surprised when Kabir announced that the wedding would be held in the same village as per his to-be’s wishes; “brimming with tradition”, as Kabir had put it.

“Aha! Destination wedding.”, Omi jibed, eliciting a flurry of expletives from the other end.

“How do I reach there?”, Omi followed it up with another question. 

“Ok! So the roads are rather intractable. There is only one train from Delhi…”, Kabir paused, “… which passes by the village station. It slows down a trifle, so you can jump off and that’s that.”. Kabir had to wait longer than usual for a reply.

“You’ve got to be kidding me”, was all Omi could manage.

At this juncture, it is only meet that we get to know a bit more about Omi, and why this rather doable action plan seemed so preposterous to him. Omi was not immensely athletic. Well, perhaps, that is putting it too mildly. His always-ready-to-fall glasses, well-rounded paunch and uncannily slow reflexes made sure he excused himself from any activity that required more physical rigour than one’s morning chores.

“Well, you’ve got to move your vegetable self for this!”, the other end of the line shot back. Meanwhile, Omi was busy trying to think of alternatives - pulling the chain seemed to be one.

“Don’t even think about pulling the chain.”, Kabir continued, almost mysteriously reading Omi’s mind. “It is a small station but, for some reason, has a lot of police. They will harass you no end with questions and are even more suspicious of city lads like you. It’s no big deal. Get off as soon as the platform starts. As mentioned it is a short strip, and has a bridge adjoining so there is no getting off after the train crosses the station, where it picks up speed quickly too.”

“Oh well! Exactly what I wanted to hear.”, Omi shot back. Then he realized it was better not to spoil the moment any further, and with a dangerously sharp twist in tone, said, “I will manage.”. Kabir let out a few exultations of joy and hung up, crazily blabbering about the zillion calls he still had to make with little time at hand.

Soon after, Omi immersed himself in booking a ticket on the train Kabir had mentioned. A part of him was excited, for the wedding of course, and he could not help but feel a tad thrilled about his impending adventure. Yes, one must reiterate that his routine had turned extremely dull.

He spent the next few days finishing off work at office, getting his own clothes and a suitable gift for the couple to-be. And before long, the day of the journey had arrived. 

The train was supposed to cross village Dhawarval at 3 pm, which just gave him less than two hours to get dressed and make himself available for the ceremony. The journey was rather uneventful during the initial part. However, Mr. Murphy seemed to have woken up  from his slumber and stirred into action during the second half. 

With a hundred kilometres left, the train halted abruptly. Looking out of the windows, there seemed to be no station in sight. The murmur within the passengers paused with the appearance of the ticket teller. “There is a small group of farmers protesting on the tracks. So, we are in for a slight delay”. A collective sigh of dismay shot through the compartment as the teller hurried away before further questions were doled out to him. 

Omi instinctively began his tete-a-tete with the almighty beseeching him to keep the delay to the minimum. To his own surprise, he gathered himself rather quickly, and thought it might be a good idea to talk to a few of his co-passengers, hoping some of them might be regulars and may be able to comfort him about his plan of action. Thinking so, he cleared his throat, perhaps a bit too loudly.

As he already had the attention of the travellers in his vicinity, he passed a sheepish smile and introduced himself. He received a few nods in return but little response otherwise. He continued anyway and talked about how he was supposed to get off at the village station, and was not entirely looking forward to the same. Here, almost as if on cue, a young portly man with an amusingly wavy moustache jumped into the conversation.

“Oh! That is no big deal, sir. The village folk do this all the time. Caution is always recommended, for a first timer, surely. I will help you, if you so wish.”, he spoke without pause, the excitement in his voice almost making him sound delirious. Somehow, the offer of help from a self-proclaimed veteran seemed to comfort Omi who replied he would be happy to have help. The feeling of comfort suddenly spread itself across the compartment as the train began to chug, and within a few seconds, they were rattling along to their destination again.

With the renewed chatter, it was not too long before they entered a vast tract of arid land which lay right before the Dhawarval platform. Omi’s new found well-wisher indicated that he should ready his belongings and position himself at the door. “Timing is key, my friend”, he quipped and laughed raucously as he saw Omi’s face tense up. Now, both of them moved to the nearest door. It was a curious sight - vast expanse of land with no habitation whatsoever, trees few and far in between, and the abrupt appearance of a stray animal from time to time. Looking out made Omi feel dizzy though, so he turned back and exchanged smiles with his stranger-turned-saviour.

Seeing Omi’s anxiety, a few more passengers had joined in to pep him up. The platform was now in sight and the train had slowed down considerably as Omi readied himself like a man on the battlefront. His fellow lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when the time approached, blurted, “Now!”. Omi lurched forward without much delay as the on-lookers beholded the sight with bated breath.

“Keep running and sustain the momentum or you will fall”, he remembered from his textbooks in school. They also advised against jumping off moving vehicles, but that ship had sailed already. Admirably, Omi landed with precision and maintained his running step with amazing dexterity. His co-passenger broke into a brief applause which Omi gratefully acknowledged by waving and letting out little shouts. The train was steadily gathering speed now. Omi, out of sheer excitement, was still running, with a trolley bag in tow and one hand in the air, partly waving and partly celebrating the success of his endeavour. A few hours from now he will be all dressed up and dancing at Kabir’s wedding.

Wait, who was this grabbing his shoulder? He looked up in alarm and saw two men leaning out of the hastily speeding train. They had steady hands, and he was now stuttering along, his resistance to their pull paling every second. The men had innocent smiles and one of them kept shouting, “Don’t worry, sir. You city folk, I tell you. We do this all the time. Take a big stride forward and jump in”. Omi’s bewilderment had turned him into a brick. His momentum and the men’s gigantic grip was now pulling him aboard the train. 

“Careful, you will get caught in the gap.”, one of them shrieked. Omi woke up from his daze to move his feet off the gap, and, with little choice, onto the train’s risen pedestal. With one last pull, the group of men got him onboard. A cackle ran through the group, with innocuous jibes about how the city’s comforts makes pansies out of men.

Omi stood staring at them blankly. As the train hurried onto a bridge overlooking an aberration of a rivulet in the midst of the parched land, irony seemed to be pervading across the elements. 

Diwali nahi, woh wali

Here again is the festival of lights,

Of sweet somethings, and sparkling nights.

Of walls repainted with gleaming whites,

Not to forget, the annoying cacophony and drunken fights.

It starts with maddening crowds,

And ends with it too.

“I merely want a lamp, sir”,

“Duh! Get back in the queue.”

“Knock! Knock!”, “Who’s there?”,

Friends with a gift of little use.

No time to talk, we’ll see you next year, 

“Gee! Thanks for the exceedingly tacky hues”.

Buy new vessels today and vehicles tomorrow,

Makes sense to follow the customs staunch.

Carefully pop one laddoo in your mouth,

While you rest the other four on your paunch.

You say the festival brings joy to everyone,

Have you seen your shivering Dog?

Cared about the harried traffic policeman,

Or the sweeper clearing the litter, amid the settling smog.

Back came this year the festival of light,

Of half-understood rituals and customs trite.

Let not the festive spirit rot away with blight,

Fill it while you can with kind deeds, and faces bright.

Of life and storytelling

I am an ardent storyteller. I have always loved relating the day's incidents, some experience of mine - pepper them with vivid details of the scene, the people, their expressions, their intents. I am wont to meandering into sub-plots, losing one story for another 'more appealing' incident. This is, perhaps, why I love the Bollys- and Hollys- of the world. This is, definitely, why I blog.

At times, well, at most times, my friends wonder how I remember tiny, largely insignificant incidents, even from the time I was in Class I, err, maybe even earlier than that. However, I am of the opinion that most of us do. The memories are hardly ever amply clear. Surely, there is a messy yet elaborate muddle of emotions, usually accompanied by sketchy visuals, and a complete lack of audio bits.

Stories, fictional or describing real happenings, are constructs. Yes, there are certain immutable aspects to every narrative. Yet, how often is it that the way things play out changes form, emotion depending on your situation, your company, your mood at the time of narration. There are always blanks to be filled. That one can choose to fill them at will is exciting, delightful and horribly dangerous at the same time. 

There are times when these gaps are filled for you by other people. Think about it. How many of your childhood memories are actually your construction of vague recollections, repeated narrations of those incidents by your parents or older siblings, and in all likelihood, varying quantities of sugar and spice that you add as per the occasion and audience? Mind you, however, embellishing past stories with a bit more colour is not to be confused with outright fabrication. 

In most cases, the narrator is equally convinced that things actually panned out in the fashion he is telling the audience they did. Take for instance. You are sitting with a group of friends and happen to crack a biting joke on one of them. Now, of course, you are friends and don't expect the remark to be taken seriously. However, as you head back two people tell you that they could see the person in question looking uncomfortable by the remark. You are fluttered and try to look back on the setting, your faint recollection of your friend's face after you doled out the comment. And the more you think about it, the surer you become that that, in fact, was the case. The smile you remember on your friend's face, slowly, unknowingly, starts looking more forced. Then you get convinced there was a hint of dismay. Till you are certain you missed an obvious frown there.

It's fascinating how the human mind works. It's even more remarkable how collective memory works. The individual. To a group of close friends. An entire community. We are all just painting out surroundings the way we want to. It doesn't matter if you paint them red now, if later everybody's going to remember them to be blue.

Being happy does not just take one to believe in a better future, but, at times, it requires one to pick up a palette, and add some colour to the past as well.

Movie Review: Besharam (2013)

Release date: 2nd Oct 2013
Director: Abhinav Kashyap
Rating: 1.5/5

So, the Kapoor khandan (Rishi Clan) decided to cut the noose slack, let their wild and sleazy sides free and create dhamaal on screen together. But alas! Failure was never more painful.

Besharam is about being loud. About being a ruffian who even the traditional mummyjis adore. It is about speaking in uncomfortable haryanvi, and getting it wrong. Besharam is also about trying too hard, and falling flat.

The storyline is a mess. If the audience thought Barfi was a rip off, piecing sequences from tens of movies, this one borrows its content from hundreds. There is, of course, Ranbir doing his I-can-do-anything-coz-I-am-so-adorable, as he subjects the audience to his chest hair and near glimpses of his behind in a 'shower scene'. The female lead, Pallavi Sharda, looks a tad too old for her debut. However, after a little getting used to, you can see that she actually manages to do a fine job of a horribly scripted role.

She reminds you of how Yami Gautam, for no reason at all, falls for Ayyusshhmaann in Vicky Donor, who before that, leaves no stone unturned to piss her off and harass her. She fades into oblivion in the last bit in the movie, and her importance to the movie can be gauged by the fact that if you google Besharam's cast, google does not even pop up her name. And also, she packs in good dancing skills, her choreographer should have been kinder to her.

And then there is a flashback to Mr. India, with Babli bhaiya donning Arun bhaiya's hat (and chest hair, I suppose) and the kids getting kidnapped by superbad Javed Jaffry, whose talents have been ridiculously wasted in his role as a villain. His villainous pursuits, and his and his entourage's fight sequences with the hero clan try to recreate the blitz, the wham-bham from the Dabangg franchise, but completely lack the flair.

Now for Kapoorji Senior and his missus - Sir/Ma'am, we really hold you, your talents in deep regard. What you do here only makes us remember the good old days and sob. Crass comedy, of this kind, is completely unbecoming of your stature in the industry.

Okay. Ignore movie. Sad music (save bits and pieces of some songs). Hoping you don't become too complacent too soon, Mr. Kapoor Jr.

P.S. Well, special mention for Babli's friend played by Amitosh Nagpal - who saves the day with his comic timing. Alas, there is precious little of him in the movie.

Movie Review: Lunchbox (2013)

Release date: 20th Sept 2013
Director: Ritesh Batra
Rating: 4.5/5

Every once in a while, one comes across a movie or a book where it is hard to find a central message the creator wanted to send across. However, in remarkable fashion, it leaves you with a string of powerful sequences, words so profound they seep through your head, bounce off the pit of your stomach and well out from your eyes. Lunchbox is one such masterstroke.

In a mere 100 minutes, this movie packs more emotions, more stellar performances, more food for thought than there was in some decades of the Indian movie industry's existence. The believability of the movie is striking. The eccentric neighbour aunt (who in a sharp contrast to our PM has no face but acts through her voice), her partly amusing, partly heart-warming relationship with our leading lady Nimrat, the kids playing on the streets, Irrfan the scrooge, Nawaz playing the enthusiastic and emotional commoner, and a brilliantly captured sneak peek into the much-revered Dabbawallas - the creatives behind this one sure had a rich palette.

The stalwarts - Irrfan and Nawazuddin just do their usual thing, while Nimrat Kaur surprises by beautifully carrying off a poignant, de-glam role- her big screen entry being nothing short of stellar. It is adorable how Irrfan, a middle aged government employee, communicates with an unknown woman, spelling out his replies in very formal english. It is endearing how he, matter of factly, calls her his girlfriend and then blushes a bit. It is crushing when he writes about how he remembers his now-dead wife and rues every moment he spent away from her. It worries you when you hear Nimrat's morbid words, and pray she doesn't harm herself. It is a treat to watch the audience around you sitting silently, attentively watching the story unfold, and then spontaneously laugh as Nawaz or Irrfan dole out witticisms right in the midst of moving sequences.

The ending, as one would say, leaves you craving for more. There is a lot left unanswered. The director chooses not to give what the Indian audience looks for - closure. Here, though, lies the brilliance of it all. It makes you think, look back at all the questions the movie raised - about love, about growing old, about fresh starts, about relishing those little joys of life and about memories and our undying need for nostalgia.

Also, there is hardly any music. Wait... did I say no music? Sorry, I just meant there were no instruments being played.

The Rakhi Sawant of writing

This one might count as libel, and were this blog any popular, might have ended up in me receiving a defamation suit from Ms. De's lawyers. However, I am sure I do not run this risk and spew out my venom with unabashed abandon.

The ET back cover ran a half a page article by Shobhaa De drooling over our new, drop dead gorgeous RBI governor. Why do I have a problem with that? Actually, I don't. Plus there have been a horde of other columnists who found it more apt to talk of Rajan's impeccable demeanour and 'chiselled' features (This FirstPost article points to some of these) rather than the measures and policies he is trying to put in place.

Although, the fact that the ET editor gave this such incredible amount of print space and topped it up with a front page marquee amazed me no end. But then I thought - Times Group. Sell Out. And the dots connected. What this did, however, was bring forth the copious amounts of bile I had inside me against Shobhaa De and her tribe of desperate socialites, who have somehow been taken rather seriously by the world.

I have read quite a few pieces from her (she is tough to avoid with almost everyone lining up print space for her), and also remember having skimmed through one of the books she wrote for her children 'Speedpost'. To call all her writing 'trash' might be a bit too harsh. Yet, to call a lot of it that, would be plain and simple truth.

Even in the case of the article in question, the part where she behaves like a teenager and goes ga-ga over Rajan is not what is irksome. What pains the reader is her juvenile, sketchy style of writing (I am sure she knew this was going to a premier business newspaper). Humour, or rather the attempts at it, are pathetic at best and horrific in general. I gave her the benefit of doubt and read through her blog.

Sample these witticisms (puns, double entendres, etc.) from this article and her blog.

"... I went ahead and tweeted (will this woman never learn?) about his appointment, calling him the Ranbir Kapoor of Banking (note the spelling — banking, there's an 'a' in this word, not an 'o')."

"... There was another one about Indian guy’s (sic) and their attitude to virginity (they all want to marry one). Bang on, again (pardon the lousy pun)"

Now, I am sure these were funny when Ms. De was in middle school. Not anymore, not fifty years thence. Not from someone who is touted as one of India's leading female columnists.

And I cringe every time writers belonging to the so called 'elite' throw in hindi words to show their connect with the masses. Just scroll through Ms. De's blogs to know what I mean.

Ok, haha, bad grammar, from the article mentioned here:

Well, I am being a bit of a prick here, so I will let my reasons out. I have a bone with her ever since I read one of her article carelessly branding 'Sholay' as a movie with palpable gay overtones. Unfortunately, I cannot trace a link to this article but I remember reading this in an India Today edition some years ago. This, in my opinion, is what writers like Shobhaa De thrive on- writing something brash, nasty, ridiculous enough to grab eyeballs. Alas, she has driven me to stoop to her level with this piece.

We make this mistake often. Handing out people more than their due. It is tough to leave Chetan Bhagat out of this. Now, I am not a Bhagat-hater and actually think he has a certain charm with his novel writing. Yet, to give him authority to talk on politics to morals to sports is really pushing it. 

Well, that brings me to the end of my vitriolic rant. I respect all the people mentioned above for certain reasons. Infact, just before I sat down to write this piece, I found this piece De had posted this morning airing her views about the rape case verdict. Well written and completely mirrored my views. 

So, anyway, all the best to Indian writing. We need them in all shapes and sizes, don't we? So, we'll let her be.

On behalf of the thin-kind

I have been blogging rather frequently of late. So, yay! And today's a first as I write this blog waiting at the Mumbai domestic airport on my way home. I have a few minutes to kill. I had planned to take a quick nap reclining on the lounge chair, yet, as I leaned back, my head banged against a bald pate. Turning around quickly, I muttered a few apologies and gave up on the idea of the quick nap. Maybe, I will do that on the flight.

So, well airports. Always an interesting picture here. Always amazing to see hordes of people even in the wee hours of the morning. Ok, I'll cut to chase because my flight is boarding already. Recently, all the airlines decided to cut down on the facilities, so to say, unbundling them into value added services. One of the impacts there was the reduction in permissible check-in baggage. It's down from 20 to a mere 15kg on domestic flights now! Quite a trouble, I must say. I had little to carry on my trip today and yet I scraped through with a 14kg check-in. Charges for each extra kilo are rather steep.

So, here's my point. I, me the human being, am not a very 'weighty' individual - in purely physical senses of the word. As I stood in the queue, I noticed quite a few, let's just say, bulky individuals boarding the same flight. Darn, I am sure some of them weighed twice as much as I do. They get a 15kg check-in limit. So do I. Sort of unfair, don't you think?

The time has come for my oppressed kind to raise our voice. I, hereby, urge the several airlines in service to give my argument its due consideration. Ok, I really have to rush for my flight now.

----

Holla! Just another shout-out. I thought, now that I had the opportunity, I would grace my blo…

…og with a few words penned at cruising altitude.

Here, floating merrily above the clouds,

Far, far away from the madding crowds,

My blogging instincts are at an all-time high,

And I would post this right now, if only my plane miraculously got wi-fi.

Off to sleep for the next hour and a half.

Love potions, anyone?

Now, considering something I shared via my Facebook account yesterday, I might be charged with repeating this theme too often. However, more often than not, people my age (who I believe form a large part of my readership) have gone through this phase called 'Louuve failure'. Hold me guilty for being a little sexist here and writing this from a guy's perspective, but here it is.

Ever wonder why one remains enchanted even after things are categorically 'over' in an attempted love affair. It is magic, of course. And surprise, surprise. It has three acts to it.

The Pledge

During this step in magic, the female centre of attention makes you believe that things are hunky dory. Mind you. There is no palpable, overt expression of love. The commoners call this 'leading on', but well then, the guy in question is no commoner in this circumstance. He is an idiot, and he loves being so. Tongue hanging loose, starry eyed, he roams around and twists and turns every little movement, every little gesture, every little smile into a giant ballad of romance and undying love. 

A wink here. A blush there. Life is never more colourful. And one is never more delusional.

The Turn

Michael Caine says, "This is where the fun begins!". Really?

Ah! Initially, it is. Your affection has now turned into a delusion. The ordinary into the extraordinary. Rings any bells? Now your image of your love interest is no more that of a being. When you see them, there is this giant radiance emanating from them, with, as SRK would have put it, a million violins playing around. All of them playing just that one amazing song of love that you always wanted to hear. Suddenly, the leaves are greener, the roses are ever more ruddy, and everything else is unbelievably picture perfect.

And then, poof!

Just when you, unwittingly, blurted out your heart's one true desire, there is no one out there to hear you. Everything is quiet. Quieter than Manmohan on the parliament floor. You have no freakin' idea what hit you. And then the curtains roll down, and roll up once again in a jiffy, for the last of the acts.

The Prestige

A battle is never lost righteously till there is an adversary to beat you. The disappearing object of affection makes a reappearance here. Well, like Jesus, you would say. Only much less delightful.

And with her is another guy. You had been watching it all very closely. You couldn't have missed this while it was transpiring under your own probing nose. Yet, here it is.

You see the shrug saying 'Told you so!'. Everything is plain and ordinary, as if nothing ever happened - the extraordinary back to the ordinary. Familiar, eh? Half, nay, more was entirely a construct of your darned mind. 

Show's over folks. You never had your money's worth. Nor your effort's. And then you feel your nose and see the red blob over there. No points for guessing who the clown was, and who had the last laugh.

Foreign hand hai, ji

It's quite often that we fool ourselves of being in complete control of our things. From things as simple as dressing up time, lunch time at office, the amount of sweet we like our evening tea, our commute times, our commute fares and a basket of other things we like to program to order.

Yet, more often than that, we end up forgetting the millions of things which can throw this order of things haywire. Something, rather silly, to this effect, chanced itself upon me in the morning and hence here I am writing about it.

Now, my morning schedule between getting up and being in office is tighter than the noose around Syria's neck right now. Alarms are set at absurd timings like 7:09 to ensure an optimum (as much as possible) amount of sleep without being late at office - yes, my office, sorta, has an entry timing! So much for struggling through all those years in school to be in a more 'flexible' environment.

But, I digress. So, I was running this well-strung set of morning chores to perfection today as well, in a bid to leave home between 7:38-39. Usually, post this, I wriggle through this back lane to skip directly to the main road from my lane, where I jay-walk to the other end of the road, and wave like crazy to every empty passing cab. As my office is too damn close to my place, I end up budgeting as much time for the taxi-flagging as much as for the commute. Usually, the 10 minutes to 7:50 are enough to see me at my office door.

Today, I was in for a surprise. Sometime over the weekend, the administration decided to kill my party and fence the divider on the main road. As I joyfully ambled to the main road, my jaw dropped. The entire math had been turned topsy-turvy. I had little time to think. My casual walk turned to a nervous run and, furiously panting, I reached the legit crossing at the fag end of the road and made my way to the opposite end of the road. Thankfully the variables solved themselves, and flagging the taxi took a lot lesser than usual. I made it in the nick of time!

This is just one of those things. Sometimes you come back home thinking of the lovely warm food you are going to have. And then, the cook decides to NOT turn up. At times, you venture out of home with your best clothes on, hands in pocket, whistling away. A bird decides to take a poop on you. Or in Mumbai, the sun miraculously turns to a cloud and lets out its fury on you. Only to turn back to being sunny again in a matter of five minutes.

Actually, Murphy, more often than one would like, wins. Shit happens. Order goes flying out of the window. And that's how life becomes worth weaving ridiculous, quirky tales about!

Brahmacharya quarter over, in theory

With the turbulent times at hand, I am not sure who all of us will or desire to live out a life of 100 years. Yet, the concept of life in our vedas talks of a being living through a century, split into four phases according to the prime roles and responsibilities. And by that structure, my friend, I have managed to wade my way through the first quarter as of today. And here I am filing my quarterly report.

Q1 was largely funded by equity investment from the holding company Mom-Dad Inc. Yes, the great part here is there is no debt - and if at all there is any, it definitely comes with the much used option to convert to equity at a later stage! In my case, the parent company had two older subsidiaries as well, which, fortunately, did well and turned cash generating sooner than expected and have now been hived off in JVs with other well-functioning conglomerates.

That sums up the holding structure and background.

Throughout Q1, our company has maintained a "lean" structure. We gained well in the initial years through able guidance from the parent company, coupled with their efforts to create brand recognition by word of mouth and by getting a healthy dose of first-stage certifications. As years passed, although the reliance on the parent company remained huge, there was a rising need to building strategic partnerships - at times cartels, mostly for mutual cooperation on the road to getting better performance. Our company is fortunate to have found these in the most unlikely of places - Cawnpore first, and then the sleepy metro of Kolkata. While helping improve the work environment of our company, these led us to a stage, more than a year back, when our company also turned cash generating.

Alongside, there were attempts to sign JV agreements with a few 'attractive' ventures, all of which never took off after the expression of interest stage, due to reasons ranging from "lack of cultural fit" to plain and simple 'meh'. Though that has protected cash outflows in the near term, management does not look upon this as very healthy for the initial years of Q2.

Here's most of what our stakeholders need to know from the quarter gone by. As we indulge in the bliss of a happy quarter, management maintains we will be happy with a flattish Q2 as well. Any improvement, which is hoped for, can lead to significant upside. Also, the rupee decline does not bother us as our sister concerns are now earning in foreign currency!

We would like to take this opportunity to thank the parent concern, the sister JVs and the invaluable strategic partners for being there all along, as we raise a toast to the good times to come! 

A Punjabi Delhi boy writes...

Well, I will start this piece with a disclaimer. This is not an attempt to justify 'Chennai Express' (I had better things to do than watch that movie - like blankly staring at my wall) or anything that King Khan does with his life or career. There was a time when I loved his brand of cinema, and now I despise it. And that topic is for another day.

Now, what I am talking about here is the rush of people who seem incredibly hurt by the portrayal of South India (or rather, Saauud India) in the movie (case in point: Letter from Modrrrasssii, although I could never figure out what the point of the article was), who then obviously go up in arms against all north Indians (who apparently are all represented by SRK and his ilk). Having had a lot of close friends from the southern states, and having seen the 'C Exp' trailer, I agree that the stereotyping is taken to ridiculous heights, is gibberish at most times and, unfortunately, is gut crushingly un-funny!

Yet, that is about this movie. Mocking depiction of the south Indian accent, their dressing, their food has been part of Bollywood for ages - the tanned Mahmood, the lungi clad Johnny Lever. There were a few of these that everyone found funny, everyone. That's what brings us to the definition of a caricature - a representation where the subject's peculiarities are presented in an exaggerated way.

Source: Toonpool, by Xavi

Did our dear Mannu (in pic) ever complain, "Bro, my forehead is not THAT big. Thik hai?". Or Mr. Bacchhan ever lash back at his gazillion imitators saying that he doesn't always have a hand to his hips while delivering his punchlines. Exaggeration, to preposterous limits, is an essence of comedy (or some forms of it). So, when someone says 'Yenna Rascalla' as he plunges into a pool of sambhar, and you know it doesn't mean a thing, just believe it might be funny to someone and move on.

Also, I have not seen (not in the recent years of the rise of Indian blogging) Bengalis, Parsis and Punjabis (much famous for their aggro-culture) come out so strongly against all the mockery dished out to their way of living. I am a Punjabi. When I went to my undergraduate college which hosted students from all parts of the country, the usual questions I encountered were, "So, you don't wear a turban?" (if you don't find this surprising, it is time to read on the differences between religious and geographical identities), and "Ha! Punjabi… why are you so thin?".

All punjabis do is fun and dance, and get out their guns the moment they see opposition. Jab we met? The sardar kid in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (I have a tremendous amount of respect for the Sikh religion and the baarah bajna joke sounds sad to me. Especially, because the original connotation of the phrase was actually heroic. Find time to read about it here). Yet, a lot of these depictions are colourful and funny and people have taken them in their stride. There are many like Khushwant Singh who have gone ahead and happily indulged in self-deprecating humour. 

What is painful is how bloggers who write against stereotyping are plagued by a false superiority complex, and a complete lack of awareness and insensitivity towards the other side of the story. Look at how this female Shahana (whose post became a twitter rage some years ago) places Gurdas Mann and Devender Bhullar (who is a murder convict) in the same league. And in the next line announces how everyone in her society listened to MS Subbalakshmi and played chess. Wow! One, she categorically states that Classical music is better than Punjabi folk music. So much for understanding other cultures. Also, she lives in the dream world where one Vishwanathan Anand, and a couple of good performers are enough to justify a culturally superior society.

In a subsequent paragraph, she casually jokes about Indians fleeing Pakistan during the partition. Before I read this article, I always thought that inspite of the vastness of the country, the wounds of partition ran all across our lands. Thanks to this girl, I realised that a lot of us who never heard the stories, never cared.

Then, the venom against Delhi. Yes, a lot is wrong with the capital city. A lot needs to change. Yet, saying that your city is free of vices or houses only the intellectually gifted is just hollow rambling. And most people have a bone to pick with every being in the city. So, the boys have all turned into open-jeep driving, gun-toting brutes whose zippers are as loose as their morals. And, no, there is no sparing the girls either. So, there is one section that is victimized by these uncouth brats, and the other goes to DU, always talks about the latest fashion trends and magazines, and is unquestionably DU(mb). It is not just a sweeping generalisation but one against all sorts of statistics and obvious anecdotal evidence. I am not even going to waste my time justifying my stance here. However, on a separate yet related note, I would like to clarify that Punjabis and Delhites are not necessarily the same.

Till a few years back, when my entire life had been spent staying at home and talking to people like myself, I had a lot of prejudices against people from other communities. A lot of them have been dispelled once I set foot out into the world. Some of them actually turned out to be true. I am sure I am still sticking to a lot of false ones. 

You see everybody holds stereotypes, and stereotyping is a convenient way to live one's life. Some find their way into media and become harder to shake off. Do you think a New Yorker understands the habits of a Alabama countryside dweller. This is bound to happen more in a country as large and as diverse as India. There's no point drawing out our swords (metallic or verbal) over this. 

It is a brilliant land we have - a smorgasbord of a million flavours. Take a bite from each. It is a heady mix.

P.S. Being a punjabi interested in music, I would like to say something here. It pains me when people think that Punjabi music is trash and all noise, and also believe that Sukhbir and Daler Mehndi define the music of the land. Honestly, some of their works are not really bad. Two, we actually have better dance and disco numbers if that is what you crave for. And, if you are looking for soul, listen to Gurdas Mann, Surjit Bindrakhiya and Hans Raj Hans (and this song Kangna, for I love it). Oh, you don't understand the lyrics? Even I don't when I hear the sounds from down south. Yet, I love the compositions there. Since when did music become servile to words?

Khaabo Peebo Sobo

It's now been over a year for me in Mumbai. As I sit in a cafe on lazy Sunday morning, I realise that although I have written more than once of my experiences in and impressions of the city, my tryst with an unmissable element of the city has escaped my writings thus far. One which resides far from the maddening crowd of the city - in a self-proclaimed uber-cool geography surprisingly called 'town'. Daddy's boy by day. Party hopper by night. The Sobo.

Say 'hello!' to uncle Klein

What follows is a quick guide to identifying one and/or becoming a part of the Sobo brigade. 

The way you dress is crucial. Sobo-hood is not just about wearing the hep brands, it is about carrying them as if it were no big deal. This is where the Sobo separates himself from the Def-Cols and GKs of apna Dilli. Now there wearing a brand means you've got to flaunt it - be it peering from under your pants or emblazoned across your thigh. Anyway, I'll avoid the dilli-gression and flip back to our Sobo. So, yes, keep the Teddy Smiths, the DKNYs a little subtle.

Moving on to where do you find them. Apart from the club and bar night scene, which we will come to later, the Sobo is mostly found venturing on the cobbled streets of 'Cool'-aba, having sunday breakfast at LPQ, or sipping away at Mondegar's and the like. A lot of people end up doing that. So, how do we spot our Sobo? Look for the ones wearing crocs - in all sorts of eye-stinging colours which do not go, at all, with the white or beige three-fourths they are wearing. The brands remain. But why are they dressed like this in an apparently 'chic' place? Because a trip to these eateries might be a much-looked forward outing for a burbs' guy but is a five-minute stroll for a Sobo, and he will amply make you aware of that.  

Another place where the Sobo is found is in the esteemed clubs - Gymkhana, Wellingdon - chatting away with friends, or relishing a game of golf in the greens. Why don't we delve in detail about these habits? That's because if you are spotting them there, you are probably one of them. More recently, the Sobo kids seem to have found their own 'Shivaji Park' in an arcade called Smaaash! Only money spent facing ten balls here could possibly feed all of Somalia. 

Moving on. Unlike the noveau-rich in Delhi, the Sobo does not feel the need to re-iterate who his Dad is to everybody at every restaurant or bar. He lets the enormous tab he runs and papaji's credit card do the talking. After the casual farewell handshakes, non-chalant hugs and the 'take it easy, he calls his driver and his porsche to come park right outside the doorway, as if the paparazzi are going to hound him if he shows his face too long in public.

Well, Sobo is not just a name. It is a way of life. As has been stated already, it is a lot more muted than being from South Delhi. A lot less arty than being a SoHo. But that's how they roll.

With this, I see the waiter approaching me. "How would you like your eggs, Sir?, he asks. 

"Townside up", I quip.

Harry Potter and the Wizards of Bollywood

The 'boy who lived' is a boy no more. He turns 33 today (or so say the record books). For many like me, Harry Potter became an integral part of our childhood, or rather teenage. I distinctly remember borrowing my first read from the school library (and I happened to read 'Chamber of Secrets' first due to its immediate availability. I remember accompanying my mother to the saturday morning show of 'The Philosopher's Stone' in the only movie hall that played english features in CHandigarh back then.

And then, there is another inseparable part of our growing up (and every single day now as well) - Bollywood. That bloke completed a century this year, and knowing this might be the zillionth salute this year, I doff my hat to this world of dreams that has made life more enjoyable in this real one for all of us.

What if both these institutions were one? How would the story of our boy wizard unfolded had one of our B-town showmen scripted it? So, here is a fanciful look at the what ifs...

Sooraj Barjatya

Barjatya missed out on Barty
Crouch's part in the original

The man who defined and redefined puppy love for over two decades. Raging teenage hormones run aplenty in the Potter series, and there is none better than Barjatya to boil them in a syrup of mush. 

Surely, he would have to bring back the Salman of the 90s to pull this one off. And Bhagyashree be the coy Ginny (I love Madhuri but she is just too good to play Ginny). Only this time around, our hero will not have to earn a lakh rupees in a year to impress his love's father. The Weasley mum and dad would be, without doubt, played by our respected Alok Nath and Reema Lagoo ji.

The Voldemort kind of evil has no place in the Rajshri view of the world. So, representing the dark side would be Mohnish Behl (akin to a rich, brash Draco) and a an Umbridge-sque Bindu. Oh, and for obvious reasons, I would see Dilip Tahil as Lucius Malfoy. 

Giving ample support to Potter's cause, and entertaining with his histrionics, will be Laxmikant Berde (God bless his soul!) sans the red hair and with a much-unlike-Granger gaon ki gori  to romance. 

Also, he is not siblings with Bhagyashree, and I will make a lot of technical digressions going forward too, so shut up!

The elegant Bhagyashree in a still from the classic 'Ullu ja ja'

After joyous prancing around the Whomping Willow, heartbreak and longing, above average violence (two instead of one slap), flirtatious coughs and sinister laughs, our man will fight the demons of his past (aided by his blackbuck-shaped patronus) and add another couple to the 'happily-ever-afters'. Sorry, Hermione, no place for you here - your affinity for logic and intelligence hurt you there. 

Ramesh Sippy 

Sippy sahab was way ahead of his time, always. His execution majestic, and stories timeless. And for once, he is sure to give us a Voldemort befitting the hype and the fear that surrounds him.

Dharam paaji in and as the celebrated Harry Puttar. Things, uncannily, do fit in - the stoic mentor Albus Thak-ore, the funny and caring friend in Bachchan, a little over-the-top Ginny and a way too silent, wise beyond her years Hermione. Buckbeak makes a special appearance as Ginny's flamboyant ride 'Dhanno'.

For years now, kids in this village have shuddered and hastily shut their eyes when their mothers uttered this: 'So ja beta, nahi to You Know Who aa jayega'. For a similar number of years, the wise old Thakore has waited for a hero to emerge and vanquish the dark lord. And thus land our deadly duo. They are making merry with bro-mantic motor rides, getting drunk and flirting with their love interests till the One who is not to be named opens the 'Chambal of Secrets' and ensnares poor Ginny in it. 

"Kab hai Halloween?", rages the Dark Lord

After some song and dance, and Nagini hissing about the huge reward on the Dark Lord's head, our heroes engage in an entertaining battle, as Ron ends up sacrificing his life for the sake of friendship. As Thak-ore moves in to finish a dying Voldy, our Harry Puttar throws him a 'Puhleeez, he's mine' look, and avenges the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of our villain.

The 'happily-ever-afters' make a comeback. Ah! Had to leave Hermione in the lurch, again.

Farhan Akhtar

I have a bone to pick with everyone
in Investment Banking

It's a story about friendship (surprise!) - the memorable moments, the squabbles, the making-up (and making-out) and the sacrifice that comes with it. Harry is not our hero here because he fights and defeats an evil wizard. He is a hero, as he fights his own self to become a better man. 

Our story here is not set in the years at college. It is set in the years beyond that - Harry has now moved to the dark side himself... and become an investment banker. Yes, Gringotts has now moved into M&A and deal financing! Life is perfect - a lavish house, gym-workout in between cracking multi-million deals with consummate ease and, we'll use creative freedom, a pretty Hermione for his wife (Preity for this one, hands down).

Yet, there is something missing. Hermione does not love Harry the banker, but the Harry she met in college. Meanwhile, school time friend Ron (played by Farhan himself) comes back into Harry's life, along with Neville and some others for good measure. Things are uncomfortable till Harry vents out his anger on Ron for having gotten involved with his now-wife in college, and perhaps, still occupying a place in her heart. After a bit of rough play, Ron apologises and both the men hug like the good ol' times.

At this point, Hermione, teary eyed, exclaims "Boys!" and then goes on to narrate how Harry's changed self is the true cause of their ever-increasing distance. Boom! Realization dawns on Harry and he sets out, in the company of old friends, to recreate the Magi(k)c!

Anurag Kashyap

Baap ka, Maa ka, Sirius ka... sabka
badla lega re tera Harry

Mukhiya Voldemort Singh is on a killing spree to assert his dominance, and delivers a double whammy this time by killing both Harry's parents. "Idharva / Udharva?", he shouted inquiring of them whether they will join him or be killed. A moment's hesitation and it was all over. They were innocent people - his parents. His father's only brush with the lord was when the latter had decided to rename the town. He asked for suggestions, and Potter senior, in a bid to attract attention marched on a rath to the lord's house and shouted, "Hogwart! Hogwart! Hogwart!". 

That fateful night, li'l Harry was sleeping under a mosquito net, and managed to escape the dark 'land'-lord's eye. Incidentally, the same night a blood-sucking insect stung him on his forehead leaving a scar.

No, it did not give him the power to talk to insects, but the mark constantly reminded him of the revenge that had to be sought. At the age of 11, he started training under the tutelage of a renowned katta marksman and town goon. There he meets another small-town boy Ron (pronounced as Rone) and smarter-than-thou Her-mohini (Huma, of course). For most part of their school days, they have another friend of theirs - no, not Ginny (we shall be ignoring her more often than not) - but Mary Jane. 

"Beta, tumse na ho payega!"

Only once they are done with the Mary Jane business does Harry (aka Hari) remember his vow to avenge his parents' murder. What followed was a roller coaster ride with Ron trying to carve wands out of trees, Her-mohini trying to look her ravishing best, the Lord's sidekick Malfoy (Malviya anglacized) failing to finish them off - all culminating in an epic face-off where Harry leaves Voldemort 'riddle'd with bullets (you see what I did there!)

Yash Chopra/Aditya Chopra/KJo
Another run of the mill romance. This, however, was shot in Switzerland instead of the more obvious English capital. 

Also, no place for murderous violence again. So, Voldemort is evil only because he has a pretty daughter who he does not want to marry off to our hero Harry. Ya, another thing. Harry's parents don't agree with the marriage as well and announce that he will have to choose between them and the girl. 

Senorita, bade bade sheheron mein
choti choti baatein hoti rehti hain...

Away from her father's eyes, Harry romances Hermione in exotic locales, drives in Ford Anglia (Diesel), and runs across the greens. As this movie is in two parts, at the end of part I, Harry fights off Voldy's goons, his ego and village boy Draco Singh to win the girl's hand. But, things don't look up really as the couple have to move to a distant country away from the chatrachaaya of maa-babuji.

Ronny breaks down as he reveals
his identity to his brother

Part II: Enter young bro (this one's adopted) Ronny. On a mission to get elder brother andbhabhi home. He travels to their place of residence on the pretext of studying advanced OWLs, randomly stays in their place as a stranger, wins their trust and all, and finally pops the question. "Ghar chaliye, bhaiya!". A deluge of emotions ensues, and, unsurprisingly, all is well in the end. The movie ends with their mother running to the door exclaiming, "Mere Harry-Ron aa gaye!"





Ram Gopal Verma
Ok, do we really care? Yes, only in this one, the protagonist is not Harry but Peeves the Poltergeist. 
                                                                     _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

And that's all I could think of, or actually write about without making this writeup inordinately huge. Apologies to Ginny for having ignored her in most stories - but come to think of it, Harry and Hermione should have been together or would have been if Bollywood had its way.

Also, clarification - though I might have stereotyped director styles, wrote sarcastically about their plots - truth remains, I love Bollywood and all there is to it. May their tribe increase!