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.”