Of voices seldom heard

Brought forward, at times, by deep anguish,
Or well up I do in moments of joy.
I make my way in the most heartfelt hug,
And present myself in that aching goodbye.

Sheepishly do I surface at the brim,
Treacherously does my head dangle.
The heaviness within bears me down,
Briefly in the whiskered parapet I entangle.

Downwards I glide before I know,
Daintily meandering the gentle cheek.
With a moment's pause I fling myself,
My friend, I aren't a mark of the weak.

I look back up in the midst of my fall,
I see it, my coterie, come along.
We touch the ground before we know,
The downpour turns into an eerie song.

Motionless, I sit here in silent consent,
As others of my kind join me.
Our heads bowed in gloom, and backs bent,
Under the weight of silent melancholy.

At times heartless feet trample me,
Sometimes I splutter on the earth's rusty face.
Frequently, I am met with a remorseless shrug,
At times, spurned with pitiless disgrace.

Yet, on occasion, there's a palm outstretched,
That ensconces me in its soothing grip.
Those hands, I tell you, are for the keeps,
Hark! Hold on, and let them not slip.

The Shape-shifter

It is the wakefulness of the night,

Also the deep recess of slumber.
It jives in drunken revelry,
Reclines in a mood utterly sombre.

It gallops amidst endless chatter,
Then rests beneath sheets of silence.
Twinkles through conversing eyes,
As they rebel against the shyness.

It is in the tolling of the temple bell,
In the cry drowning the death knell.
Remains ensconced in that warm hug,
And in her cheeky, playful tug.

It's in the sounds of the sea,
And the gentle touch of breeze.
In the shade of flowing hair,
In her unwitting elbow squeeze.

It's the flower basking in the sun,
And in the grin behind the veil.
It is the heart’s most ardent wish,
But more often, its greatest ordeal.

Love, it be told, is a boggart.

Gurgaon, Bad Gaon

It's been just over three months since I packed my bags and moved from the city of dreams and Bolly-culture to a city where the Kingdom of dreams is the closest thing anyone has seen to culture. I would have been glad to present an all-informed viewpoint on the perennial Mumbai vs. Delhi debate. However, in my three month stay in NCR, I have been to Delhi as much as I ventured north of Bandra in my two years in Mumbai. Once.

Still, Gurgaon was surely something I could and wanted to talk about. Gurgaon is a quaint, dusty town in most parts. It is a steel and glass laden metropolis in the rest of the pockets. My initial attempts at describing the city in verse had only shaped thus...

Not far from the heart of India,

Thrives a city rising on its feet.

Few verses ever tried to capture its colours,

Time for one such ’tis meet.

Towers of concrete mar its skyline,

Clouds of dust loom in the sky.

A rattling metro threads across it,

Its teeming millions it does tie.

... when I realised that the poetic form was way too romantic for what the city stood for.

Romance is music. Music in G-town (sounds cooler, innit?) is limited to the cacophony of blaring car horns and giant drillers. If you happen to be riding in the midst of the traffic, the roads will make sure you dance to the uncanny rhythm as well. This, however, is only till you meet the party pooper standing right ahead of you, complete with a peering gaze that forces you to stop in your tracks. That of the wandering cow. You might be alone but they rarely are, their tongues playfully running over the other's face, subjecting you to a PDA you never asked for.

Something like this is what I am talkin' bout

And this is during the day. It is hard to describe the Gurgaon roads in the night time. As per the holy texts, in the Beginning, God said, "Let there be light", and it does seem that the municipal council of Gurgaon are the most disobedient of atheists. What makes this situation even more ridiculous is the number of tree trunks that keep popping up from nowhere in the midst of crowded roads. 

And it is the contrasts that are discomforting. There are places where one can enjoy the most delicious of world food in the most luxurious of environs, yet the approach to them is a road indented with craters the size of Deepika Padukone's ... courage. 

Central Park(ing)

A lot of the above is the fault of each and every inhabitant. The utter disrespect for rules and apathy to the common good is mind numbing. I clicked this picture on the left on a bustling evening. The spate of cars one can see is actually a passage in-between the dividers which the car owners thought was fine to park in and block. Their car is parked is all they could care about.

A massive shift in scenario is difficult in a social milieu where the men climax by thrusting their car keys to the sound of whirring engines, and the women (those who get approval to come to being) either keep their mouths shut or blind themselves in a heady mist of rouge and talcum powder. 

However, all is not lost. Gurgaon is still more of a town eyeing the future of a city. The elements of transformation are at work, every single day. And change is slowly, and surely, brewing. Or rather, micro-brewing.

Kitaabein bahut si likhi hongi tumne...

The last few days, more like the last couple of months, have seen the pillars of the nation - the government, the bureaucracy and the judiciary descend into a veritable kitty party. In the beginning, everyone is eating, drinking and hi-fiving and all that. The moment the crowd wraps up, the sly ones take to bitching and totally irrelevant slanderous talk.

Yes, grumpy old men and women, at times, behave alike. And if this blog were any popular, I would be joining the ranks of Airtel, sitting on the National TV and participating in a debate one-sided fireball slinging match with the Goswamis and the Dutts.

But, I digress. It is amusing how everyone is clamoring for their last bit of flesh from the Congress carrion. Indeed, the rise and fall of the Indian National Congress has many valuable life lessons. Besides, of course, those of not letting your sons dope too much, and arranged marriage.

One must, however, note that Natwar Singh's latest book might be the sole proof of RaGa ever having seen a task through. Convincing his mother to take such a big decision is especially commendable since he did nothing that Indian kids are supposed to do - like scoring more than Sharmaji's kid, finding a homely bahu and not throwing tantrums and tearing paper and jazz.

Soniaji's remark in the face of crisis was astounding. "I will write a book too.", she bellowed. Theek hai!

It bewilders me how the book is a revelation anyway. If you really thought the reins of the country were in the hand of Manmohan Singh or bought the 'inner voice' rant of Ms Gandhi, you must be the kind of person who believes that WWE is for real, and that Santa Claus is imaginary. No! shut up. I dare you. Ahaan? But my stockings were full last Christmas!

In all of this, the only person I feel for is poor old Mannuji. Maybe, after a decade of silence, he will write a book too. Or better, someone writes a book and tells how the PM we saw was a robot and we find good ol' economist Mannuji gagged up in a cellar. And like he freed our economy in the 90s, the thankless billion go and set him free as well.

P.S. I feel sad for having one-sidedly bashed the Congress, esp. as I am no BJP fan. But I fear the age-old expression - what was it again? "Shah, aur Maut"!

Poring over pouring

A tinge of grey mars the heaven’s azure,
Ushers in soon a merry pitter-patter.
A moment apt for hot coffee or tea,
I am inclined to prefer the latter.

As drizzling clouds lazily drift away,
Awash is the city with colours bright.
A few colourful umbrellas dot the black canopy,
From my window, ’tis a remarkable sight.

Yet as the puddles start to brim up
Some, more busy, begin to resent.
As annoyed traffic clogs the streets,
Blaring horns echo the peacock’s lament.

Choosing footwear is a daunting puzzle,
Shoes soak, and slippers get sticky.
Most plans end up with staying indoors,
‘Coz raincoat or umbrella - that’s a problem tricky.

Yet for the momentary relief from blazing heat,
We await the first drop every year.
For the little joys it brings forth with it,
The discomfort one must bear.

Sounds of the Sea

Yesterday, the sea spoke to me,

It’s murmur, though, was faint.

Came to the ear but in the eye of the mind,

A picture it did paint.

Seated on a concrete ledge was I,

My feet hanging much above the tide.

The waves were crashing gently beneath,

On countless memories they did ride.

Friendly voices chirped beside me,

An unending expanse lay ahead.

In that instant, the buzzing streets behind,

Were muffled to the silence of the dead.

Filling the moment with boundless joy,

Was the magic floating through the draft.

My reverie went on till a playful drop,

Pulled me out with a tingling start.

I looked around at familiar faces,

Wishing I could hold the instant forever. 

Yet, like the waves, fleeting it shall remain,

Memories, to eternity, we shall savour.

It's a bird, it's a plane. No, it's a pizza!

Drones. They are here. Only this time they are not playing big brother in war ravaged deserts but playing postman waale bhaiya. And surprise, surprise, it's not Bezos but some bozo from a lesser known Pizzeria in Mumbai who has stolen the thunder with the successful aerial delivery of a - Pizza. Which, of course, is apt since it might not be a great idea for anything of Italian origin to be on the Indian roads these days.

Pakistan aaj se tumhe "Flying Pizza"
ka khitaab deta hai

The technology had been in the works, and had been a subject of great hullaballoo among internet junkies, who were obviously delighted by this further reduction in human effort. There is no doubt about the fact that this is a game changes, and quite literally so as it changes a very fundamental and quintessential aspect of our lives. The Chidi Udd face offs.

The novel experiment, however, has already ruffled a few feathers, with the Mumbai police now seeking an explanation for doing this without their permeesan. Terror strike and all that threat via the aerial route. Little do they know that years of enmity has already been avenged by unleashing Ramiz Raja's commentary on our hapless cricket-watching souls.

There are obvious troubles that need to be tided over before the technology comes to daily use. Birds, for instance.

Imagine this drone peacefully sailing over the rooftops carrying a sinful Meatzaa. Right next to it is this part confused, part elated vulture going, "Freakin' flying dead meat! w00t w00t!".

And then there are other problems peculiar to India as well. Let's face it. Despite all the regulation, effort required and actual risk from it, people actually steal electricity from poles. Who is to say the same people won't man their terraces with a watchful eye, see a poor little drone carrying food fly by and batter it to submission with something as innocuous as a rolling pin?

Well, for now, this is an exciting attempt. Will this technology actually deliver? Or will it remain as it is now - up in the air? Only time will tell. But remember, drone't panic.

'Pyaasa' in the times of Facebook

So, I recently watched the much revered, some say arty (euphemism for ‘boring’ for most movie goers) flick from the fifties ‘Pyaasa’ with Guru Dutt, Waheeda Rehman, Mala Sinha et al. 

It is one remarkable movie and incredibly ahead of its time. So much so, I thought it should be (re)made now. Just imagine!

The basics

We’ll stick to the core theme. That is definitely the heart of the movie. So a poet unable to find his peace in the machinations of this world it is. However, we’ll have to redo the cast. ‘Coz I ain’t asking Waheeda ji to play a seductress now, and well, Dutt sahab is now de… oops.. zinda hai, zinda hai, hamare dilon mein.

So, who’ll be the poet? Manoj Bajpai? Although I am dead sure he will pull it off, somehow his magnificent job of Sardar Khan in GoW is so stuck in my head, I just can’t think of him as this melancholic shayar. Farhan Akhtar could take up the challenge, but na! 

Irrfan Khan, then. No questions. We have our male lead.

Who, then, for Meena (Mala Sinha)? I suggest Kareena. She does a fine job of being demure and bitchy at the same time. **cough** married for money & prestige **cough**. Has fine eyes with hints of sincere longing. 

Some more characters. Mr. Ghosh - the wily businessman who mints money and treats everyone like shit. If Kareena agrees to play his wife, I might consider casting Himesh here. Have you seen his slick hair, three-piece wearing retro avatar? Easy to hate. Snooty and pretentious flowing in the bloodstream. 

If somehow this deal doesn’t go through and mostly because Himesh will bring a lot of audience hate to the movie, Piyush Mishra could be called in. Have you ever wondered he looks quite a bit like the original guy!

                                  

 

Johnny Walker - funny, good natured barber. Ignoring obvious choices like Rajpal yadav, Johnny Lever, etc., I might want to experiment with funny-man RJ Mantra. Or maybe, Kiku Sharda. Ok, Kiku it is.

Poor man's Shashi Tharoor

The two brothers. Manoj Joshi (in pic) and maybe Boman Irani. Can pull off slimy, greedy scoundrels with ease. For the mom, get in Waheeda Ji - also a fitting tribute to the original.

Go for comedienne Bharti for the blink-and-you-miss Tun Tun ji’s appearance. 

Now, for ‘Gulabo’ - the prostitute with a heart full of chaste love. Cliched but we have no choice but to go for Madhuri.

And with that, we have our ensemble!

Keeping the plot, adapting the screenplay

So, we have our hapless poet Vijay, shunned by his fellow men, unemployed and penniless. 

Meanwhile, Vijay continues on his unsuccessful quest to get his poetry published.

To top his misery, his brothers sell his most precious works to the recycler. And he hopelessly wanders looking to get them back. Then one day, he hears a lovely voice reciting his own lines. And our petite Gulabo is thusly introduced.

After a creepy pursuit, some telling off from a flustered Gulabo and the dawning of realization that this infact was the poet whose lines Gulabo was in love with, they both indulge in this unseeming, part endearing, part reluctant kinship.

And suddenly,

One fine day our hero happens to recite a few lines in a college reunion and is noticed by a certain publisher Mr. Ghosh who invites him for a meeting. Delighted that he might have a shot at getting published, he visits him but realizes that all Ghosh requires is a servant (we realize that Mr. Ghosh is suspicious of his wife’s past with our friend Vijay and wants to see him up-close). Unwillingly, he accepts the offer because paapi pet.

Here he bumps into old flame Meena. They exchange a few greetings, old memories and a lot of awkwardness.

These exchanges continue. Inevitably, their past is discovered by Mr. Ghosh who promptly fires our man. Meena doesn’t utter a word. And Vijay sets out wandering aimlessly like before. One fine day he is informed of his mother’s death which comes as a massive body blow. And Vijay, who had been stoic to his suffering, now turns to complete despair.

So, he treads on. But things don’t really look up. And then, one day, while he is sleeping on a footpath with a few other homeless beings, an SUV runs its tyres over the hapless people. And so dies our hero. 

Or so are people led to believe.

A heartbroken Gulabo, in a bid to fulfill the dead man’s dream looks to get his writings published. When she chances upon this…

And so, the book takes shape, albeit virtually. And a phenomenal hit it is.

So much so that publisher Nile no more sells it for free and starts minting all the proceeds. 

But our guy Vijay is still alive. And soon, he discovers he is famous. Not too late post this, the publisher discovers he is alive and unleashes a plan to erase his identity.

And this enormous dose of greed takes over everyone. And they refuse to recognize the real Vijay. Irony hits the audience like a neat shot of rum. Unpleasant.

The real Vijay is trapped in an asylum. Hits a stroke of good luck finally one day, and manages to sneak out. Boards a local to Kalaghoda where his works are being celebrated.

He is bemused to see how people are fawning over the poet Vijay. He bursts into a song and announces his identity. The audience is like, “Woah!”, and in a matter of seconds, his return from death is trending.

Vijay is brought to the podium and recites a few more lines. He mentions, towards the end, that he is pained and will run away from all this.

But fate has something else in store. Post the show, he receives a call from mushy movie maker Kay Joe who says he is buying rights to every damn thing he is going to write from hereon. Soppy high five!

Vijay smiles. Nods. Lives happily ever after. 

Of Wisdom and Wings

At the break of dawn, between the flowers I did walk,
A butterfly’s hue silently beckoned me near.
“Li’l creature”, I called out, “are you free to talk?”,
She mouthed a yes, ’twas difficult to hear.

I asked her if she knew the vastness of the earth,
She rubbed her hands, dusted the sticky pollen. 
Her sullen expression quickly changed to mirth,
“Ye sure ’tis a comma there, innit a semicolon?”.

The ensuing laughter broke off the dialogue,
Launched my winged friend with a dainty flutter.
She flitted for a bit and sat on a fallen log, 
Then parted her lips, these words it did utter.

“Spend I my life immersed in nature’s dance,
Weigh it I do in charm, ay’ not in expanse.”

Strictly not-an-election post

I have been on a blogging break, the one-off movie review or rhyme aside. It's not like I haven't been writing during this hiatus - mostly in solitude without sharing it with anyone else - a lot like the break I took from sex a little over 25 years ago.

There has been a utter lack of inspiration. This condition was exacerbated by my clarity on refraining from voicing my ideas on The Great Indian Political Juggernaut - mostly, because anything you say antagonizes at least one section of my minuscule readership, and also because *skhruff* *khuaahh* death!

Gilli gilli goom!

It is mind-numbingly, nut-crunchingly suffocating. I pick up the morning paper - there he is peering through his broad glasses, gesticulating in every random way possible - a distorted victory symbol, abracadabra hand twist and something which couldn't be anything but Fleming's left hand rule (or perhaps, the 'right hand rule' in this particular case).

Then there's the folded arms guy. Come to think of it. There is a reason he is made to stand in the centre of all those people in the posters. If he were on one extreme, the advert would simply be ignored as another fairness cream campaign. Growth se no growth tak. Now in just 9 years. 

Mannu ji is more difficult to escape. Even if everyone just kept quiet, you would be reminded of him.

Then there is the army of revolutionaries, or as I fondly call them, 'The Cough parade'. The perennial victims. Like that studious kid, with possible noble intent, who wanted to top the class, be class monitor and all that. Always running to the headmistress - not because he thought he deserved more, but mostly because he wanted to present the other student's answer-sheet and get marks deducted. Or, he would just put his head down and whine.

Yet, no, they are not the poorest victim of this election episode. That would be my FB Feed. 

Yes. It is exciting time. It is an annoying time. It is an excitingly annoying and annoyingly exciting time. 

  

Movie Review: 2 States

Release date: 18th April 2014
Director: Abhishek Varman
Rating: 3.5/5

This one has all the elements of an entertainer: a story that, in some aspect, would connect to almost anyone's heart, acting that doesn't dazzle but doesn't invite brickbats either, a totally ogle-able female lead, a couple of witty dialogues and an extremely well composed music score.

If you are an IIMA grad, my sympathies,  and wish to relive your days on campus through this, you might be in for some disappointment. The college life, the falling in love, any reference to classes/placements is such a massive blur, it flashes past before you can say, "Oye! Ye campus mein unisex showers kabse lag gaye?". Arjun and Alia look rather out of place in the overall college setup (and I am really not patronizing them). It is, perhaps, not the most exciting of starts to any movie that has been as awaited as this one.

The story and the screenplay does pickup from thereon. Bhagat's storytelling is no shakespearean sonnet, and he indulges in a whole lot of caricaturing to make the state divide as stark as it could get, and create fodder for humour - which does make an appearance on quite a few occasions. As a punjabi, I cannot be completely delighted about the way the community has been presented, but there isn't much given away to the Tamilians, so Seri, Seri! Semma Tambi, etc, etc.

A few words on the young actors: Arjun Kapoor, you can shave your beard once in a while. The guy probably has it in his contract that he will look just the same in all scenes. There is a scene with a 7 year flashback - Kapoor looks just the same. Yes, the six pack and body hugging shirt too. He has fairly good comic timing which is only helped by his droopy resting face.

Alia. Perky performance. A convincing show with the emotional moments as well. Damn cute. Very cuddly. Strikingly sweet.. gobblewobblemush!

A thumbs up to a very believable (read not-bokwaas-dictionary level) Tamilian couple in Revathy and the guy playing her husband. And yes, Ronit Roy pulls off another fine performance as a ridiculously stern and uptight father after Udaan, this time with a change of heart to go along with.

The reason I extol the good points of the movie and still hand it a 3.5 is that I am from the camp which likes melodrama, masala and mush. Maybe, there was a way to do this story without all that and still pull it off well enough or better. So, a 0.5 cut for scope for improvement.

TL; DR: Have a long weekend? Do watch. You will have your share of hahas and awwws. It might not be one of the best we see this year, but a finely packed entertainer.

मधुशाला में एक शाम

जब उस दिन बैठे हम मधुशाला में,

तो बगल में बैठे थे नवयुग के बच्चन |

नशे में धुत, थे एक युवती पर टकटकी लगाये,

कुछ ठीक ना थे उनके लच्छन ||

दोस्त उनके केहकहे लगा रहे थे,

"भाभी, भाभी", फुसफुसा रहे थे |

करना तो चाहते थे जगज़ाहिर इश्क़ अपना,

पर जनाब थोड़ा हिचकिचा रहे थे ||

ठहाको की आवाज़ अब कुछ बढ़ने लगी थी,

पहुंच गयी थी तैरती युवती के कानो में |

यहाँ इस आशिक़ के दिल के तार बज रहे थे,

जैसे अमूमन बजते हैं फिल्मी गानो में ||

हम बैठे तो कुछ दूरी पर थे,

पर गौर से सारा माजरा देख रहे थे |

तभी बैरे ने आवाज़ देके सावधान किया,

बेध्याने हम चने का छिल्का ज़मीन पर ही फेंक रहे थे ||

अब युवती के कॅंप में भी गेहमा गेहमी चली,

सहेलियाँ अब उसे चिढ़ा रही थी |

उसके सब्र का बाँध जाने कब टूटा,

यकायक देखा तो वो पूर्व परिचित युवक की तरफ ही आ रही थी ||

मेज़ पर हाथ रख कुछ अदा, कुछ गुस्से से वो कही,

"लड़के, घूरके के देखो ना मूझे तुम यूं!" |

उड़े होश तब युवक बुदबुदाया,

"स्वेर छोटी ड्रेस में बॉम्ब लगदी मैनू" ||

उसके बाद जो तमाचे की आवाज़ हुई,

उससे चरमरा गया था पूरा माहौल |

ये छोटी से प्रेम गाथा बस यहीं समाप्त हुई,

थॅंक यौ फोल्क्स, दैट विल बी औल ||

Knock! Knock! Hue's there...

With daunting swagger his horse he rode,

“Holi kab hai.. kab hai holi?”, he mightily bellowed.

Splat! A water balloon struck his swaying belly,

Ramgarh it ain’t, my friend, welcome to Delhi.

Totally sure of the exact date nobody ain’t,

So in advance, bought the colours and grease paint.

A single day cannot be enough for all the fun,

Un-holi be their intent; gosh! I nearly forgot to make that pun.

Clouds of gulaal have livened up the morning sunny,

Aaj hai paani, paani, paani.

The vibrant clothes present a picture sublime,

Singer Big B gets a massive boost in air-time.

The festival brings with an assortment of sweets,

Also some tomfoolery, and lots of jiving to beats.

Sadly, some err on the tasteless side of merriment,

That their number is on the rise is my only lament.

So, with a prayer for a more colourful world,

I must put an end to this piece of poetry.

And like a father whose son is off to his prom,

I must tell you, “Have fun, but safe you must be!”

Love, New meanings

Sorry blog, for having made you feel neglected. Not sure if it was lack of inspiration, preoccupation of the mind, or plain and simple lethargy. However, here I am and I can be sure that makes you happy.

Yes. I talk to my blog at times. It has been a good listener and this quality of (it?) has lent great balance to our relationship because, as my more animate friends would testify, I love to talk a lot. In the last month and more of ‘blog’livion, I have made acquaintance with several hitherto little known (to me, at least) forms of what we like to call ‘Love’.

Fortunately or unfortunately, all of them have come from vicariously living through the experiences of characters on screen, and not out of personal experience. So, the last three movies I saw, namely ‘Dedh Ishqiya’, ‘Her’ and now ‘Highway’, talk of love. Uplifting, passionate, head in the clouds kind of love. Of feelings that are cheerful, heady and gut wrenching at the same time.

I feel proud when I see that a significant set of people involved in the art of movie-making have started to think beyond the realms of puppy love. Well, it is still a sort of puppy love, what they create in their films, but not between your regular twenty-odd year olds. Dedh Ishqiya tells the tale of a 60-something goon with the heart of a poet falling for a much younger (and much troubled) beauty. Then there is ‘Her’ which, in a rather soul-crushing manner, tells you of a man who is in a relationship with his sentient OS (who, by the way, has the plus of having Scarlett Johansson’s perfectly sensual voice!). And on an extremely different tangent, we have perky, innocent Alia (with a lot of Daddy issues, strictly in the movie) finding her mate in her kidnapper, in ‘Highway’.

If there is one common thread in all these, it is the connection that two souls feel. They say, opposites attract. And it is true, a lot of times. Yet, there are times when all it takes to press the button of your heart is someone who has been through similar experiences, talks about the same things; has the same amount of wonder, and the same amount of disdain. Alia and her kidnapper find their kinship in their desire for freedom from the invisible cage of society. In ‘Her’, an artificially intelligent OS, which is programmed to be a good companion, does not choose to be the owner’s opposite but becomes very much like him. Naseer and Madhuri also enjoy their fleeting moments of romance over their shared interest for art - poetry and dance - which are much the same in essence.

That, perhaps, has been much intense for the beginning of the weekend. Hoping to see more such lovely work from India and abroad, here I am. Clink. Clink. Clink. Raising a toast to the movies.

Look up I did, and beheld the tree above.

To a homeless bird it lent its cosy bark,

Rests its head in the dawn's quiet, but Hark!, 

Do ye not hear the Lord's song of Love?

Movie Review: Dedh Ishqiya

Release date: 10th Jan 2014
Director: Abhishek Chaubey
Rating: 4/5

It's unfortunate that the Saifai controversy has taken some sheen off the release of this brilliant work of art. For apart from the moral faux pas allegedly committed by the stars, there is little else to find fault with.

A review for a sequel (or a quasi stage for a sequel with the 1.5) would merit one to compare it to its predecessor. I remember the first one was a lovely entertainer in totality. Yet, apart from a dialogue or few, I have little recollection of the finer nuances of the movie - which is saying something considering just last night I was able to guess a rather old song from its first few notes and sing along, and it goes thus, "Chudi mazaa na degi... kangan mazaa na dega".

I must assure you that Dedh Ishqiya aapko zaroor mazaa degi. Betahasha mazaa. The mellifluous Urdu delivered by none other than the finest actors of our age Naseeruddin Shah have to rub off on its audience. It would help to know that the movie is extremely heavy on its Hindi and Urdu. But people who don't have Hindi as their mother tongue need not worry. We, the native Hindi speakers don't get a lot of it either. Hence, the filmmakers have been gracious to provide english subtitles. Distracting at times, but useful at most others.

Ok, so where do we start. The performances are exquisite. Everybody from the loud-mouth ruffian Arshad Warsi, the rather grey Huma Qureshi to the lanky, wannabe 'Nawab' Vijay Raaz delivers a very convincing performance. And then we come to good ol' Madhuri. Literally. There is no doubt age has started to show on her - the botox isn't helping, neither is the loud makeup. Yet grace does not wear away with age.

And this role was handcrafted for her. There are small dance sequences where you realize no other leading lady in Bollyland could have pulled this off. There are moments of romance between the aged Naseer and ageing Madhuri when there is no physicality, no words, hardly any music, yet the passion and longing is so intense, it makes your heart cringe.

The visuals are astute - the kind which make even cramped streets, ransacked dungeons and trash piles look wonderfully aesthetic. The dialogues are almost entirely in verse. There is so much in there for the die-hard romantics. Pick-up lines that you could only dream of coming up with. Exhortations of love that ricochet off your mind, your heart, your guts and well out from the eyes. And a special mention to those fine moments when Madhuri endearingly calls out Naseer by his name, almost killing him with fulfilment. "Iftekhar!", she utters. And you, in the audience, are swooning and wishing you were called that.

Well, I hope there are further instalments to this. I hope the Dedh is an indication of the Do to come. I hope our two vagabonds are back with another muse.

The Wolf of Wall Street: the Ad Hominem fallacy

I saw the Wolf of Wall Street this weekend. No surprises there. I believe almost everyone who is one or has kids whose coming years could be scarred by the sequences in the movie did.

Firstly, the movie release in India was delayed - something that has become less frequent of late. Then, I did not get the opportunity to watch the movie on Friday night itself. Evidently, by the time I set foot in the movie hall, my expectations were as tall as Deepika Padukone's legs. A tinge of disappointment was hard to avoid even though I found it to be a very fine work, rife with flamboyance, and delivered in rather astute fashion.

However, there was little about it that blew your mind, in my view. Interestingly, if one were to tell me to comment on a expectations vs. delivery chart, I found a lot of similarities in the output of the movie in question, and another much-awaited series bit from 'Sherlock' which came out almost at the same time as well. Both the pieces were carved out to deliver a spectacle, prove that the creators are not just unafraid of deviating from the usual but take great pains to do that, all the while paying little heed to the narrative.

They are part of the ilk of things wherein if you don't like them, it is assumed that you could not understand the profundity of what the creator was trying to convey. It's always like, "Did you see the the incline of the shadow of the third leaf in the fourth tree in the last scene? What, no? Well, it was in the direction of the 4 o'clock hand in a clock which is precisely when some obscure freedom movement zillions of years ago started! Gosh, how exhilarating!"

Ok, seriously, for those of you who have read the likes of Shakespeare in school/college or, in a context more related to this post, saw the 'intellectually loaded' movies, have you not ever felt that a lot of interpretations of movie visuals, sounds, camera angles, merely a concoction of vastly idle (albeit creative) minds in the audience? Just because these people were great thinkers implies every work of theirs will have layers of meanings that the aam aadmis will then take years to unravel.

Take for instance this review of WoWS, in no less a publication than the New Yorker. Now this guy has this pretty convincing opinion on how Scorsese played a masterstroke in the last scene of the movie by showing the blank faces of the audience, in the process letting the movie audience see a reflection of themselves in awe of the filthy rich, sleazy druggy Mr. Belfort. A rather haunting observation. I have no reasons to say this was not the case. But what if all Mr.Scorsese said was, "Oye chote, camera angle peeche leja. Fufaji ke bacchon ko screen pe dikhna hai."

Well, I am sure Farah Khan showed scenes of the audience watching 'Om Shanti Om' in sequences of the movie 'Om Shanti Om'. I am sure there were people in there going 'Dafuq just happened!'. No one ever said, "See, the audience is being presented a reflection of themselves".

The same with Sherlock, and innumerable other texts, poems, movies in the recent, long back and ancient history. All these writers (and I respect a whole bunch of them for their exquisite words) have at times received undue credit just because someone reading their verses, hundreds of years after they were written, took his creativity a step further, eked out some outlandish derivative of the author's words and exclaimed, "So ahead of his time, bro. So very ahead."

In this category, my favourite is that guy who wrote this beaten to death story titled, "The Lady or the Tiger". That lazy ass thought up this ingenious scheme of free-riding and leaving the conclusion to the reader. More than a century later, poor Indian kids are wondering why the tiger did not gulp up the author himself.

There are times when I believe that a all a lot of people in the world need to is relax. Not make too much of things, because well some things just happen, some people just say stuff or write stuff just because.

Sit back. Enjoy. Get up and, like always, go back to work tomorrow. At times, life and all that there is to it is rather ordinary. And that is perfectly OK!