Lyrical Fortress

Renowned Bollywood lyricist Sameer staggered through the vaulted archway of his study. He lunged for the nearest piece of furniture - a rather hideous chair with purple suede upholstery. Grabbing its arm, the fifty-year-old man heaved himself towards his desk, falling just short. The parquet floor shook. Far off, the last of his guest's cars gunned to life and was driven away. The lyricist lay a moment, gasping for breath, taking stock. I am still coherent. He crawled towards the desk and raised himself up. A voice spoke, chillingly, in his head. "Do not move any further. It isn't worth it." On his hands and knees, he paused, shaking his head slowly. Only fifteen feet away, outside the door, the mountainous silhouette of his grandfather clock rose. It struck deep, ponderous notes. Four a.m.

"You don't have to do it. It's only words." Words. In an instant, the lyricist grasped the true horror of the situation. If I pass out, the idea will be lost forever. Instinctively, he reached for a pen.

His mind, under the influence of an evening's worth of whiskey, protested and he felt a searing heat as he was wracked by a massive headache. He fell forward... struggling against the rising blackness. Sameer closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest of discomfort and regret.

I must pass on the message. Staggering to his feet, he pictured the conversation he has had a short while ago with his friend and thought of all those whose careers had been affected like him... and in parallel of the job that he had been entrusted with. A chain between the two formed in his mind.

Suddenly, now, he knew this was the way to get his point across. Swaying, he gripped the pen.

I must tell the world....

One year later

A relatively unknown management consultant stepped out of his house to buy some groceries. He shivered in the cold evening breeze, and drew his jacket tighter around him.

Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the twenty seven year old had what his female colleagues referred to as an ‘absolute lack of any sort of’ appeal — wisp of gray in his thick black hair, bloodshot eyes, an annoyingly deep voice, and the strong, carefree smile of someone who was down three vodka shots.

He was trying to make a thorny decision between multigrain bread and brown bread, when the sound of the radio in the store cut into his thoughts. It was a song, something about a comely lass named Dhanno. He forced it out of his head, completed his shopping and returned home.

As he lay in bed that night, the song came back to his mind suddenly, not unlike the manner in which the spicy food he had overindulged in earlier came back to trouble him. After a bit, he drifted off to sleep while it played in his mind, unbidden. With a start, he woke up. He sat up, wide-eyed and sweating profusely. "Oh my god!" he thought. "I see it now! The hidden message!"

----------

Ladies and gentlemen, I have cracked it. While the world might dismiss the song above as just another catchy song from a random movie, there is more to it than meets the eye. And the hidden message is so shocking, I have to italicise the fact. And the fact that it has been dressed up to sound like a typical Bollywood song just adds to the overall deviousness of the situation.

Sameer, the lyricist, clearly sympathises with the international Finance/I-Banking community, and supports a return to the practice of possibly irrational sky-high bonuses.

"WTF?" you ask. Hold on to your pants, take a seat and read on. This doesn't require any more suspension of disbelief than your average Farah Khan movie.

Let's go through the lyrics.

People on the floor, come and get some more, people on the floor...

Take it away!

Clearly, the 'floor' here refers to the trading floor, a common reference in the industry. The line, then, makes blatant sense - come on folks, get yourselves some more money! Even the interjection 'Take it away!' in the song serves to reinforce this point.

O dhanno, o dhanno, o dhanno, dhanno hey

Any fool, even I, can see that Dhanno is clearly a derivative of the word 'Dhan' (which, for my Hindi-challenged friends, means wealth). Which this song clearly celebrates.

Main raaj dilon pe karti hoon, manjale hai dhanno naam mera

(O dhanno, o dhanno, o dhanno, dhanno hey)

Ye soch ke mushkil badh gayi hai jaane kya hoga hashar tera

(O dhanno, o dhanno, o dhanno, dhanno hey)

Mere noorani chehre se, na teri nazar hategi

Na tere din guzarenge, na teri raat kategi, kategi, kategi

Dhanno, the personification of wealth, clearly states (and rather cockily, if I may so) that she rules men's hearts, and goes on to sympathize with the bankers' hashar - the fact that they were very hard hit by the increased scrutiny (and subsequent temporary reduction) of their bonus payments. She further explains her irresistible attraction, pointing out that the greed for money (the 'noorani chehra' a reference to the glint of gold) haunts men day and night, affecting their ability to perform other life functions.

"Meh, big deal," you might say. "A bit of a stretch, eh, guvnor?" you might say if you wanted to affect a fake English style. Patience. Look at what's next.

Apni to jaise taise, thodi aise ya waise

O apni to jaise taise, thodi aise ya waise kat jayegi

Aapka kya hoga janaab-e-ali, aapka kya hoga

Oh, Sameer, you clever clever man, you. To further mask the true message, the lyricist lifts this section from a popular song from the early 1980s, thereby ensuring the controversy about plagiarism and copyrights will distract attention from the lyrics and their underlying meaning. But he didn't think he'd have to contend with me.

In this stanza, we hear the bankers responding, addressing the world at large. They say, in a blissfully carefree way, that they will somehow get away with it through hook or crook ('jaise taise', 'aise ya waise'). They compound this brazenness by mocking the rest of the world, feigning concern and asking them how they will survive in the return to the old world order.

Apne aagey na peechay, na koi upar neechay rone wala

Nai koi ronewali janaab-e-ali, aapka kya hoga

The bankers emphasize that the benefits of the high-bonus regime will be shared by all, not just the top brass at the banks. Everyone around them ('aagey peechey') and at all levels of seniority ('upar neechay') will have no reason for sorrow as they will all gain. They end by once again asking, a smug smile on their lips, how the rest of the population plans to survive.

At this point in the video (1:30), there are some gratuitous shots of assets (really, could they be less subtle?) and wads of cash being thrown about to further emphasize the point.

I rest my case. The interpretation of the rest of this song's lyrics is left to the reader as an exercise.

He's good!

(I have a lot of stuff I want to write about, but I'm feeling too lazy to do it. Silly strips are an easy cop out. Oh well.)

Harishchandrachi Factory: Only two thumbs up

I say only two thumbs up because I would have loved to give it more, but am sadly constrained by the fact that I am not Hrithik Roshan.

Harishchandrachi Factory, a Marathi movie, was India's official entry to the Academy Awards in 2009. It tells the tale of Dadasaheb Phalke and how he went about making the first Indian feature film - Raja Harishchandra - in 1913, thereby setting the foundations for the largest movie industry in the world.



Historicals and biographies inherently carry the danger of being stolid, by-the-book informative and boring (Amelia is an example that comes to mind). But it is to the great credit of the writers of this movie that they tell a very interesting story with the right dose of drama and humour to keep one engaged and enraptured for the entire running time of the movie.

While the writing is the star for me, the movie is elevated significantly by the phenomenal performances of nearly every actor who appears on frame. Each character is brought brilliantly to life - the passionate Phalke, his super-supportive and spunky wife, his concerned neighbours, his rag tag bunch of dedicated play actors (special callout to Sage Vishwamitra!), the stereotypical but interesting financiers... I don't know if any of them are regional stars, but they ought to be. The natural delivery, great chemistry and superb comic timing make watching the movie a true joy. The only cardboard characters (in writing and performance) are the British ones - both the firangs in India and those Phalke meets in London on his quest to learn the art of filmmaking.

On the whole, the movie is pitched as a light comedy, which stays clear of over-dramatising Phalke's struggle or glorifying the enormity of what he achieved. It is subtle and simple, and relies on the strength of its characters to tell a fascinating tale.

Harishchandrachi Factory is easily the most delightful movie I've had the pleasure of watching - in any language - in a long time. It's informative, inspiring and immensely entertaining. Do watch it if you get the chance.

Now that's a show

Last week, I watched The Manganiyar Seduction. It's a fascinating show featuring performers from three generations of the Manganiyar community of Rajasthan, performing from within a set of thirty six stacked cubicles. Each cubicle is curtained and as the piece progresses, each solo performer opens his curtain and joins in. An artiste's cublicle is lit at times that he is performing. And given that there are about forty performers, that makes for a delightful array of voices, instruments and lights that blend together very satisfyingly in a dazzling visual and aural spectacle.

No, this is not Bollywood Squares

A very special mention must be made of the 'conductor', who also manned the clappers. His animated engagement with each performer - and, in a delightful piece in the middle, the audience - as well as his incredible skill on the instrument had me floored and took the show to a whole new level.

The 'Seduction' in the show's name, by the way, comes both from the fact that the music is brilliant and draws one into the performace, and that the set is inspired by the red light district in Amsterdam.

The Manganiyars are a largely Muslim community from Rajasthan. They are hereditary professional musicians, who have traditionally performed for the local rulers and fat cats as a means of earning their livelihood. Interestingly, they pray to a Hindu god - Krishna - apart from following Islamic teachings. Their recent history and the story of how they rose from desert obscurity to national and international fame thanks to folklorist Komal Kothari, makes for interesting reading.

The Manganiyar Seduction was an incredible experience, and very uplifting. Definitely, definitely worth a watch if you can catch it in whichever part of the world you are.

Read more about the show here.

The good turtle soup, not merely the mock

Of late, I've been listening to a lot of Frank Sinatra. I've had a number of his songs for a while now, but until recently had listened to only a few popular favourites (Strangers in the Night, At Long Last Love, My Way...)

Recently, I decided to expand my Sinatra collection and collect a few more songs. And listen to all of them.

And boy, are they good.

I've been listening to nothing but Sinatra for the last three days (the only exception being the delightful Dean Martin rendition of You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You) and am now firmly a fan. There's something about his voice... it holds me in the same way only a few other voices have held me in the past (Mukesh and Kishore come to mind).

Be it the sad, lovelorn songs, the swinging party pieces or the love ballads, the soaring voice and caressing lyrics envelop me completely every time. I find myself tapping my feet, snapping my fingers or doing a solo slow dance as I listen. Much to the bemusement of my colleagues, of course.

Here are my favourites to date, in alphabetical order:

At Long Last Love	Listen
Forget Domani	Listen
Fly Me To The Moon	Listen
Love And Marriage	Listen
Luck Be A Lady	Listen
My Kind of Town	Listen
One For My Baby	Listen
Saturday Night (is the Loneliest Night)
Strangers in the Night	Listen
The Girl From Ipanema	Listen
The Way You Look Tonight	Listen
You Make Me Feel So Young	Listen

Apologies for the external links - I'm too lazy to create streaming audio.

Beautiful. Stirring. Moving.

A friend of mine recently introduced me to a song - Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se, sung by Mahendra Kapoor - and I instantly fell in love with it. It's from a 1963 movie called Gumraah, starring Sunil Dutt, Mala Sinha and Ashok Kumar. Before I tell you why I love the song, listen to it below.



The situation in which it appears, from what little I know of the movie, is a very interesting one. One that makes the song all the more poignant and moving. Mala Sinha is in love with Sunil Dutt, and they have big plans for their lives ahead. However, her sister dies suddenly and in keeping with the social expectations of those times, Mala Sinha is forced to marry her brother-in-law, Ashok Kumar, for the sake of his two children. Not very long after the marriage, Sunil Dutt visits their home... and they realise their love for each other has not abated. Yet they both know their love is doomed, and can never be revived...

The lyrics are perfectly pitched and suited to the situation, drawing upon the irony and the pain of the situation, while recognizing the impossibility of any hopes that were held for the future. The words sigh, they scold, they mock, they soar, they hint, they whisper, they caress, they plead... Simple yet stunning lyrics by Sahir Ludhianvi who apparently wrote the poem on which this song is based when he came across a ex-lover of his with her husband at a party.

Here are the lyrics:

Chalo ek baar phir se, ajnabi ban jaye hum dono -2
Na main tumse koi ummeed rakhoon dilnavaazi ki
Na tum meri taraf dekho galat andaaz nazaron se
Na mere dil ki dhadkan ladkhadaaye meri baaton mein
Na zaahir ho tumhaari kashmkash ka raaz nazaron se
Chalo ek baar phir se...

Tumhen bhi koi uljhan rokti hai peshkadmi se
Mujhe bhi log kehte hain, ki yeh jalve paraaye hain
Mere hamraah bhi rusvaaiyaan hain mere maazi ki -2
Tumhaare saath bhi guzri hui raaton ke saaye hain
Chalo ek baar phir se...

Ta'arruf rog ho jaaye to usko bhoolnaa behtar
Ta'alluk bojh ban jaaye to usko todnaa achchha
Voh afsaana jise anjaam tak laana na ho mumkin -2
Use ek khoobsoorat mod dekar chhodna achchha
Chalo ek baar phir se...

For those who don't get all the words, here's one Translation [Source]. (IMO, the English translation is nowhere near as beautiful as the Urdu/Hindi original, but still...)

Come, let us be strangers again, you and I.

I shall no longer hope for any favours from you
Nor shall you look upon me with eyes askance.
And my words shall tremble no more with my heartbeat
Nor the secret of your struggle be betrayed in a glance.

Come, let us be strangers again, you and I.

You too have hesitated to give yourself completely
I too wear disguises, or so I am told
The disgraces of my past are my constant companions
And you too are possessed by the nights of old.

When involvement becomes illness it is best forgotten
When a relationship oppresses it is best to break it
When the adventure you are embarked on cannot be completed
One must find a beautiful way out, and take it.

Come, let us be strangers again, you and I.

I find this among the most beautiful songs I've heard in a very very long time. For some reason, it strikes me very deep in an intensely emotional way. It almost moves me to tears every time I hear it. And I don't know why it has that effect on me.

Part of the reason is the sheer beauty of the lyrics - simple yet conveying a very deep message. And the situation in which this song is sung is very touching, as well. You can feel the pain, the desires, the confusion of the characters. Beyond just the context of the song, there's something undescribably sad about the thought and emotion of loving someone/something and losing that love that moves me. It's an emotion that links inextricably, though to varying degrees, to so many others - longing, obsession, loneliness, anger, lust, depression, despair. Emotions that are among those that lay the human soul most bare. Emotions that we often strive to hide from the world, but cannot help being tormented by within the tortured confines of our minds and our hearts.

The first few times I heard the song and went through the lyrics, I interpreted it as it appears on the surface - a song from a man who has to sacrifice his love and pretend it never existed. A song about the irony/helplessness of the situation and doomed love, as well as their need to move on from it. On repeated listening, though, an alternate interpretation struck me - one that's more suggestive. One where the man ackowledges the hopelessness of the situation, but also hints at the possibility of continuing the affair. I felt, in essence, that he was actually suggesting to her that she should leave her husband (or go behind his back) and reignite their love.

For example:
Tumhen bhi koi uljhan rokti hai peshkadmi se
Mujhe bhi log kehte hain, ki yeh jalve paraaye hain
Mere hamraah bhi rusvaaiyaan hain mere maazi ki
Tumhaare saath bhi guzri hui raaton ke saaye hain

I first thought this was in line with the whole let-us-get-over-it theme, but now I feel he's actually makng a case for their affair, talking about how they cannot and should not give it up. The peshkadmi mentioned seems to me a reference not to their (Sunil Dutt, Mala Sinha) romance, but Mala Sinha's forced marriage - he says she's unable to give herself completely to that life.

Also, the last stanza:
Ta'arruf rog ho jaaye to usko bhoolnaa behtar
Ta'alluk bojh ban jaaye to usko todnaa achchha
Voh afsaana jise anjaam tak laana na ho mumkin
Use ek khoobsoorat mod dekar chhodna achchha

This too, I earlier interpreted as a reference to their earlier love (the ta'arruf), but I now feel refers to her marriage. The afsaana jiska anjaam nahin hai is her marriage, not their affair. The bojh is her marriage, not their love. And the khoobsurat mod is him offering a way out.

Even the main line - Chalo ek baar phir se ajnabee ban jaye hum dono - seems to indicate not a closing of the door on their past, but refreshing, reigniting, restarting what was there earlier.

Several people I have spoken to - all with significantly greater appreciation of poetry and Hindi music than I have - have disagreed with this interpretation. I realise I'm probably wrong, twisting the words in a way they were meant to be twisted... but some part of me wishes there could be some hope, some possibility of success and mutual happiness in a situation such as this. And so that part of me will continue to believe in this point of view...


Many songs move me, some more significantly than others. Most that do, do so in a happy way, celebrating human emotion and bringing a smile to my face and a song to my lips, getting my feet tapping and fingers clicking. But Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se... it hits me in a wholly different way. And I feel all the richer for it.

[Update: Some lyrics corrected. Thanks, Sid!]

Starter for Ten

I'm reading a really nice book at the moment. (Well, OK, not at the moment, you nitpicking doof. At the moment, I'm typing out this blogpost. But you know what I mean.)

It's Starter for Ten, by David Nicholls. I picked this up at a bargain from a roadside second-hand pushcart, for the sole reason that the story is set around a guy who wants to qualify for University Challenge. I have very fond memories of my times on the show, and hence the book.

I haven't finished reading the book yet, but it's very funny and very well written. It manages to grab the reader and drag him through the tumultuous, chaotic, confused life of the protagonist. All with very sharp wit and crackling humour. Definitely a purchase I'm glad I made.

The reason I'm putting up this post is not really to review the book, but to call out two passages from it that I really liked. 

The first talks about the protagonist's expectations from University life - how he hopes it will help him grow as a person and a man, opening his mind, eyes and soul to a world of new experiences, fresh knowledge and elevated culture. And although this is in a very British context (and in the context of someone completing his A-levels and off do study Literature), it took me back to my thoughts and hopes when I stepped into the world of higher education (particularly IIMA). Here it is:

...on this clear late summer night, looking up at the stars, with my best mates either side of me, it feels as if real life is beginning at last, and that absolutely everything is possible. I want to be able to listen to recordings of piano sonatas and know who's playing. I want to go to classical concerts and know when you're meant to clap. I want to be able to 'get' modern jazz without it sounding like this terrible mistake, and I want to know who the Velvet Underground are exactly. I want to be fully engaged in the World of Ideas, I want to understand complex economics, and what people see in Bob Dylan. I want to possess radical but humane and well-informed political ideals, and I want to hold passionate but reasoned debates round wooden kitchen tables, saying things like 'define your terms!' and 'your premise is patently specious!' and then suddenly to discover that the sun's come up and we've been talking all night. I want to use words like 'eponymous' and 'solipsistic' and 'utilitarian' with confidence. I want to learn to appreciate fine wines, and exotic liqueurs, and fine single malts, and learn how to drink them without turning into a complete div, and to eat strange and exotic foods, plovers' eggs and lobster thermidor, things that sound barely edible, or that I can't pronounce. I want to make love to beautiful, sophisticated, intimidating women, during daylight or with the light on even, and sober, and without fear, and I want to be able to speak many languages fluently, and maybe even a dead language or two, and to carry a small leather-bound notebook in which I jot incisive thoughts and observations, and the occasional line of verse. Most of all I want to read books; books as thick as a brick, leather-bound books with incredibly thin paper and those purple ribbons to mark where you left off; cheap, dusty, second-hand books of collected verse, incredibly expensive, imported books of incomprehensible essays from foreign universities.

At some point, I'd like to have an original idea. And I'd like to be fancied, or maybe loved even, but I'll wait and see. And as for a job, I'm not sure exactly what I want yet, but something I don't despise, and that doesn't make me ill, and that means I don't have to worry about money all the time. And all of these are the things that a university education's going to give me.

The second passage deals with the author's impressions of the participants on University Challenge, when he watched the show as a child with his father. Not all of this is relevant to the Indian seasons of UC (because of the essential Britishness of it all and the timeframe), but there are pieces of it that remind me why I love quizzing, and how I've often been called upon to defend the awesomeness, the thrill, the sheer life-affirming beauty of trivia and arcane knowledge that seems so pointless (and, truth be told, hopelessly geeky) to some but worth so much for us quizzers. Here's a passage (I particularly like the latter half):

The thing that used to strike me most was their hair; great, improbable waves of brittle hair like parched wheat; swooping curtains of silky fringe; Sunday tea-time costume-drama mutton-chop sideburns... if you'd made it on to University Challenge, you'd earned the right to any damned hair-do you wanted. It was almost as if they couldn't help it, as if the crazy hair was just an outlet for all that incredible, uncontrollable excess mental energy. Like a mad scientist, you couldn't be that clever and still expect to have manageable hair, or decent eyesight, or the ability to wash and dress yourself.

And the clothes; the arcane, olde-English tradition of scarlet gowns combined with self-consciously wacky piano-keyboard-ties, the endless home-knitted scarves, the Afghan jerkins. Of course, when you're a kid watching telly, everyone seems old and retrospectively I suppose they must have been young, technically, in earth years, but if they really were twenty, then they were twenty going on sixty-two. Certainly there was nothing in the faces that suggested youth, or vigour, or good health. Instead they were tired, pasty, care-worn, as if struggling with the weight of all that information - the half-life of Tritium, the origins of the phrase 'eminence grise', the first twenty perfect numbers, the rhyme scheme of a Petrarchan sonnet - had taken a terrible physical toll.

Of course, Dad and I rarely got any of the answers right, but that wasn't really the point. This wasn't trivia - it wasn't about feeling smug and complacent about all the things you knew, it was about feeling humbled by the whole, vast universe of things about which you had absolutely no idea; the point was to watch in awe, because it really did seem to me and Dad as if these strange creatures knew everything. Ask any question: what's the weight of the sun? Why are we here? Is the universe infinite? What's the secret of true happiness? - and even if they didn't know the answer immediately, they could at least confer, muttering to each other in low, lisping voices, and come up with something that, if not quite correct, still sounded like a fairly good guess.

And it didn't matter that the contestants were clearly social misfits, or a little grubby or spotty, or ageing virgins, or in some cases frankly strange, the point was that somewhere was a place where people actually knew all these things, and loved knowing them, and cared about that knowledge passionately, and thought it was important and worthwhile...

Lovely book, by the way. Do get yourself a copy if you can.

The worm

I've bought a lot of books since I shifted to Gurgaon. At book fairs. At roadside pushcarts. At second hand shops. During sales periods at bookstores. During non-sales periods at bookstores.

And, until this weekend, I had no idea just how many I had. They were strewn all over the house. Within bags, under newspapers, behind sofas, inside drawers (not the clothing type). Several in their original packaging, unopened and (sacrilege, I know) unread.

But, with a little prodding from my flatmate, I spent several hours cleaning up my room... and the end result - bookwise - was supremely satisfying. My library, in all its diverse glory, was set. The books are a random selection of random genres. Some expensive, many ridiculously cheap. Some forbiddingly thick (big ones, small ones, some as big as your head (and bigger!)), most easily readable bites. And to be able to see my entire collection - meagre though it is in comparison to the one back home - in one place feels good :)

Life is, sometimes, about the little victories and the small joys.

The Name is Rajinikanth - Errr...

I just finished reading the book The Name is Rajinikanth by Dr. Gayathri Sreekanth. I picked it up at Landmark in Mumbai a few weeks ago, lured by its surprisingly prominent positioning and its surprisingly low price.

This book charts the life of Superstar Rajinikanth, right from his birth as Shivaji Rao Gaekwad in a poverty-stricken family in Bangalore to his current life - the Thalaivar and undisputed king of Tamil cinema.

There's some good, some bad. And I can also look at this from two points of view - one being that of the Tamil movie and/or Rajini enthusiast (though not as much of an enthusiast to call myself an avid fan), and the other that of a reader of books, in general.

And there you go; we have a simple two-by-two for us to analyze this book.

It being a weekend and therefore a period where I have time on my hands, I decided to waste some time laying it out on a slide. Here you go. (Yup, I hear orgasmic shrieks of pleasure from my fellow consultants.)



Let's tackle them one at a time.

Good; Movie/Rajini enthusiast

This book is an absolute treasure trove of fun facts and interesting trivia (In particular, it's a super book for any quizzer!) The reader is taken on an exhilarating ride through his childhood, his wayward and aimless youth, the beginning of his interest in acting while a bus conductor in Bangalore, his days as a student of acting, and then his steady rise in movies. Along the way, one gets fairly liberal doses of insight into his love life (and that of his relatives) and his political and spiritual leanings. Plus a complete filmography and brief plotlines of his major films. This is absolutely as comprehensive and lovingly detailed a tome as you are likely to find on the Superstar. The author has clearly spent a lot of time and effort on research and interviews, painstakingly bringing to life the multiple facets of Rajini's personality. And for this phenomenal effort, she deserves a great deal of praise.

Bad; Movie/Rajini enthusiast

The tone of the book can not even remotely be considered objective. It constantly deifies Rajini, and continually emphasises that he is a blessed being, one whose fame and fortune was predestined. It deals with all the negatives of his early life as mere trifles - amusing little asides to his character - and the good parts of his later life as superhuman (suprahuman is the term used, I think) achievements that prove that he is a great human being. Rajini is constantly shown as screwing up his friends and relatives lives, but he is immediately repentant and with tearful eyes contemplates the wonder of human relations. Bleah. I would much rather have had a more frank story of his life, one that does not suck up to him quite as much. Credit, though, must be given for the fact that the author has made it a point to mention those episodes of Rajini's life, although occasionally watered down.

Also, there's just a little too much about his spiritual inclinations... those parts of the book are (to me, at least) insufferably boring. As also his frequent ramblings on the subject and the detailed map of his astrological past, present and future. But hey, that's just me.

In addition, I felt that the book kind of lost the plot towards the end... the last fifteen years or so, in particular seem to have been dealt with rather summarily. It's almost like the author decided to write only about the transformation from Shivaji to established Rajini, and ran out of steam. The end is outrageously abrupt. I turned the page and found myself suddenly confronted by the appendix. I wasn't missing pages, I checked. The book just... ended. Leaving me very very dissatisfied.

Good; Book lover

The structure of the book is very interesting. Instead of a good old start-at-the-beginning-and-finish-at-the-end flow, it is episodic, interleaving chapters from the present with those from the past. It makes for very interesting reading, and keeps the book very lively and dynamic even though there is no real link from one chapter to the next. If only it didn't end so suddenly :(

Bad; Book lover

Oh my god, this is such a TERRIBLY written book. Terrible in terms of the grammar, the sentence construction and the formatting. Three impressions strike immediately

• The book was first written in Tamil, then translated almost directly and literally into English, using translations of Tamil phrases and very Tamil English. I wish I could give you an example of this, but I can't bring myself to go through the book all over again so soon. In any case, as someone who studied in Chennai for several years, the Tamil-toned English hits one straight between the eyes. Also, in some places, the choice of words is inexplicably bizarre.


• The author has given little or no thought to consistency of format. Quotation marks (single, double) appear on and off at will when there is direct speech; the prose suddenly gives way to business-like bullet points (oh yeah... you like it, don't you, consultants!); the tense and direct/indirect prose keeps switching and changing. And that's just the beginning. For someone who likes reading, and likes reading good English - Salman Rushdie's stories are crap but, by GOD, he writes divinely! - this is extremely extremely grating.


• The proofreader/checker was clearly sleeping/drinking on the job. Or one was not employed at all. How else does one explain the numerous spelling mistakes and punctuation errors? Even idiotically simple things like when the author, describing his important movies, writes, "Pudhu Kavidhai: Two novelties" and proceeds to list three. Grrrrr... quite maddening.
  

I just flipped to a page at random (293, hardback edition), and pulled out - word for word - a passage I felt best illustrates my point (and there are many many many many of them all throughout the book). This passage finds Rajini preparing for his first film shoot, for the movie Apoorva Ragangal.

< - Extract - >

Sunday just didn't seem to pass. Why has time slowed down so much? thought Shivaji, looking at the wall clock, and why is it that I am sitting idly.

He again practised in front of the wall mirror. What could possibly be the role? 'I think I look nice if I play a powerful villain,' he agreed with himself. 'May be KB felt I'll look great bashing up the goons.'

The night reached its stagnation. Time and tide came to a stand still. 'It will never be dawn,' Shivaji kept looking at the sky repeatedly. 'Damn the sun,' he swore.

Slowly the morning crept over, and Shivaji readied himself two hours before the scheduled reporting, combing his hair with his hand and a comb a million times.

He reached the location well before time, and began to take stock of the situation. Suddently (sic) he looked deathly; he clutched his chest and gasped for breath. He looked struck, "Kamal Haasan? I have a role with Kamal Haasan? The director thinks I can act alongside K.A.M.A.L? I hope someone tells me this is no bizarre dream."

< - End - >

I had great expectations from this book, especially given the few glowing reviews I'd read. Now, I love the fact that I know a lot of new trivia about Rajini, but I'm not sure I'll ever read through the book cover to cover again. It's great fun, but rather painful fun.

Dasavatharam - Errr...

I am a huge fan of Universal Star Padma Shri Dr. Kamal Haasan. I think he's an exceptionally gifted actor and something approaching a cinematic visionary. I love the fact that he is not afraid to experiment, to push the boundaries of contemporary cinema.

So it was with fairly high expectations that I went to watch Dasavatharam (Wiki) - his much-hyped magnum opus - last weekend.

If I had to pick two words to describe it, they'd be these: a. Impressive, b. Disappointing

Impressive because it takes guts and talent to contemplate and execute a movie of this scale. Disappointing because I expected so so so much more.

A few thoughts:

Impact
I didn't come out of this movie feeling anything at all. Of his recent movies, Panchathanthiram and Vasool Raja left one feeling on a ROFL induced high, while Anbe Sivam and Virumaandi simply blew one away by the sheer brilliance of structure and performance. Dasavatharam? Nothing. No connect, just a mild feeling of having been let down.

SFX/VFX
As Kamal has gone to town declaring, this does set new standards of filmmaking for Tamil cinema. Maybe even Indian cinema. Some of the visual effects are amazing, especially the often ignored visual effects of having multiple Kamals sharing a single scene fairly seamlessly. Some though, are cringe-inducingly tacky, particularly during the climax.

Music
Contrary to what the rest of the world seems to think, I didn't find it a complete disaster. Mukunda is very easy on the ears, and Oh Ho Sanam is good fun as well (until Kamal starts yelling instead of singing in the last 30 seconds). But Kallai Mattum Kandaal is sheer brilliance. Wonderful music by Himeshbhai (although the base tune is copied from a random Malayalam song) and sung powerfully and emotively by Hariharan.

Mallika Sherawat
Ugh. My god, woman. If you're doing a pole dance, at least try to be graceful. Especially if that is practically the only thing you bring to the movie.

Avtaars
Another Panchathanthiram would have worked just fine. Keep Rangarajan Nambi, Balaram Naidu, Govind, Vincent Boovarajan and (reluctantly) Avtaar Singh. The others didn't need you to play them anyway, layers of muscle-stiffening make up and all.

Make up
Oh Kamal, Kamal. Did you have to go for random Plaster of Paris masks for your characters? Not only do they look ridiculously fake, they also restrict your facial expressions and smother your eyes and voice, all of which are key to your normally brilliant performances.

Ego
This, to me, is the single biggest flaw to the movie. Kamal is a phenomenal actor, but has a phenomenal ego to boot. (This, incidentally, is often pointed out as the key personality difference between him and Rajni.) How else does one explain the force-fitting of Kamal-played characters to bring the total to 10, the dialogue anointing one of the characters as Ulaga Nayagan and the my-god-I-can't-believe-they're-doing-this-tacky-self-congratulatory-song Ulaga Nayagane at the end. The whole movie was eventually reduced to being less about the story and more about Kamal giving himself a stage to grandstand.

Which made it very disappointing to someone going in expecting a powerful performance from him.

Oh well. Hopefully his next will make amends.

This guy cracks me up

In a world full of inane music videos that are so outrageously silly they're funny, this guy takes the cake.

Presenting Ishq Bector, an Indo-Canadian hip hop artist.

After the kinky craziness of the surprisingly successful Aye Hip Hopper came the mindblowing ROFL Dakku Daddy. Interesting videos and corny-fun lyrics... a very catchy mix.

Enjoy!



Aye Hip Hopper



Dakku Daddy

Fitna

The controversial anti-Islamist movie by far-right wing Dutch politician Geert Wilders. I downloaded (the torrent is widely available) and watched it today.

Wilder's views are somewhat extremist in nature. He pieces together specific (potentially inflammatory) Sura'as from the Quran and speeches by Imams from around the world to raise the alarm about the growing Islamisation (and radical Islamisation, at that) of the world in general and the Netherlands in particular.

I don't agree with his extremist views at all. In fact, I very strongly disagree with them. They're quite one- sided and xenophobic in nature. The tag of being a 'radical' can just as easily be applied to people from other religions (like the VHP in Hinduism). The holy books of all religions are potential sources of controversy (creationism in the Bible versus Darwin). So this movie clearly presents only one side of the story, and very strongly. Michael Moore would be proud.

I have several Muslim friends and am strongly against the branding of Islam as a violent and terrorist religion. A few misguided radicals are giving the religion a bad name around the world... every religion and ideology has its nutcases (relatively speaking). I guess the world probably needs a little more reassurance (such as this) that the actions of these people are clearly viewed as unacceptable by the larger Muslim community...

Do watch the movie, though. It's worth a watch, if only to provide one context on the issue in Northern and Western Europe.

Details: Wikipedia: Fitna (the film)
The movie: Youtube: Geert Wilders - Fitna the movie (Official English)

"Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore?"

Location: Strand Book Fair, Mumbai

Time In: 1230 hrs

Time Out: 1330 hrs

The spoils, all in mint condition:
Classics:
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce
Sons and Lovers, by D.H. Lawrence
Of Human Bondage, by William Somerset Maugham

Intellectual stimulation:
The Koran (translated to English)
The Dialogues of Plato

Pulp fiction for long flights:
A Puzzle For Fools, by Patrick Quentin
The Last of Philip Banter, by John Franklin Bardin

Miscellaneous:
Magic, by Isaac Asimov
The History of White People in America, by Martin Mull and Allen Rucker
The Litle Pun Book, from Peter Pauper Press

Expense: Rs. 834. What a steal.


Note: The quote in the title is attributed to Henry Ward Beecher.

Kho na jaaye yeh Taare Zameen Par

If you were to watch only one movie this holiday season, I suggest you make it Taare Zameen Par that released today.




(SPOILER ALERT!)

It's a movie about a dyslexic boy who can't seem to do anything right academically and prefers fish and paints to books and sports. It's about how he is misunderstood by all around him (including his parents), and how one special teacher helps him and others around him realise, appreciate and celebrate his inner worth. The beauty of the movie lies in the fact that the movie is less about the dyslexia itself and more about the boy, the relationships he shares with people around him and his feelings... the final 'moral', as it were, being that everyone is different in their own special and unique way; in trying to conform to the world's perception of success, structured thinking, reward/punishment and appropriate behaviour, one loses sight of this uniqueness. And thus, we stand to unknowingly lose these taare zameen par, literally these stars on Earth.

This is easily one of the best movies to have come out of much maligned (and rightly so!) Bollywood this year.

I am not going to review this movie. I do not have the skills to present a compelling review of the movie from a filmmaking standpoint. Nor am I a cinebuff in any sense of the word, to be able to draw academic comparisons between TZP and other great works of the past. I write as a normal member of the audience. And, sitting with a hundred other people in that darkened hall, I lived the life of the troubled protagonist Ishaan through the magnificent narrative of Amole Gupta and the creative lens of the constantly surprising Aamir Khan.

The movie has several things going for it. First things first - the star of the show. No, not Aamir Khan but Darsheel Safary, the young boy who carries the entire movie completely on his frail shoulders. His expressions, his body language, his voice... all draw the viewer into his little make believe world where the letters of the alphabet dance and Captain Bindaas solves math problems in unique ways. Throw in a brilliant supporting cast - particularly Tisca Chopra as the mother and Aamir Khan as, of course, the teacher - and you have an ensemble cast that hits the perfect notes in practically each and every scene.

All this backed by a beautiful story and a strong script, that treads the fine line between sensitivity and mawkish sentimentality to perfection. It involves you in the life and problems of the protagonist, while not drowning one in an overdose of preachiness and melodrama (please tone it down just a little, Mr Sanjay Leela 'Black' Bhansali). The school scenes were imaginatively written and wonderfully shot, evoking deep empathy with Ishaan but also providing a solid sense of nostalgia for one's own school days.

The direction was good - I know nothing of the finer technical aspects to be able to make any sensible comment on them - but full credit is due to Aamir, for ensuring that his star presence does not in any way come remotely close to overshadowing the primary character. And do NOT miss out on the montage of videos played during the closing credits; they're an extremely beautiful collection - moving, cute, touching, disturbing, hopeful...

And last but definitely not the least, the music. Mindblowing. Just the right touches and soft flourishes in the right places to make each song meld beautifully into the story, enabling the filmmakers to stick to Bollywood convention of songs every ten minutes yet use unconventional melodies (Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy) and simple lyrics (Good show, Prasoon Joshi!) to perfectly capture the characters' state of mind. I would strongly recommend the infectious 'Bum Bum Bole' (much better on the screen than on audio), the beautiful, lilting title song and the starkly simple yet meltingly moving 'Maa', which evocatively expresses the boy's loneliness and longing when separated from his mother.

This is one movie you must not miss.

This is one movie that I did not come out of cribbing that I hadn't got value for the insanely expensive movie ticket.

This is one movie that I would love to see succeed commercially, if only to prove the point that modern India stills values and appreciates fine filmmaking, and is willing to pay for it and not consign it to the deathly spiral of film festivals and special screenings. It would really anger me if this movie were to crash and burn (as several trade analysts predicted before its release, given its storyline) even as a leave-your-brain-at-home-to-watch-a-marketing-genius-with-six-packs Om Shanti Om rakes in over a hundred crores.

This is now the best Bollywood movie I've seen all year, beating out the astonishingly well made sports movie Chak De! India and the poetically shot, controversial commercial dud (and India's entry to the Oscars!) Eklavya.

So do yourself a favour this holiday season, folks. Watch Taare Zameen Par. If it makes you think about children differently for even a few minutes, it will have achieved its purpose. It will have had the impact and response it aimed for and deserves.

Advice of the Year

It's that time of the year when anybody and everybody with access to any medium creates 'Best of 2007' lists. Newspapers, Websites and TV Channels knock themselves silly trying to come up with innovative 'Best Of's.

Best Movie/Song of the Year.
Best Advertisement of the Year.
Best News Story of the Year.
Best Photograph of the Year.
Best Blog Post of the Year.
Best Fashion Faux-Pas of the Year.
Best Cricketer Unceremoniously Dumped by the BCCI of the Year.
Best Cosmetic Surgery of the Year.
Best Rich Fame-obsessed Degenerate Hollywood Star of the Year.
Best Traffic Control Mechanism of the Year (this should go to Gurgaon's cows)
Best Mobile Phone That's Actually a Phone and Not a Bloody Life-Controlling Supercomputer of the Year.
Best 'Best of' category of the year.

I normally do not give a flying fish about these things... but wait up, bandwagon. I'm clambering on.

So why 'Advice of the Year'? I don't really know. I've never given advice on this blog before. For one very good reason - giving advice typically requires some level of wisdom about the topic one is advising the world about. And wisdom is something, as several people have pointed out to me throughout my life, that I am in very short supply of. I'm still in short supply of wisdom, but the difference now is that I've ceased to give a damn about it.

So here's my pearl:

When send an SMS using your mobile phone's predictive text/dictionary, check the message before you press send.

As always, there's a story behind this.

Flashback...

Actually, wait a minute.

Flashforward...

Before I get into the story, let me make my stand on predictive text/dictionary (which I shall henceforth refer to as PTD to avoid wearing out my fingers) very clear.

I'm a HUGE fan of Nokia's T9 PTD. I find it extremely convenient when typing an SMS, and believe it helps save me a LOT of energy that would otherwise go into hammering out messages on the tiny keys on the phone. This energy can then be directed towards critical tasks like flipping a channel on TV, opening a bag of chips, or scratching the itchy parts of one's body. The PTD rocks... but recent events have caused me to learn a very important lesson the hard way.

Aha! Piqued your interest, haven't I? "Recent events"... Hmmm... the suspense builds... The promise of a twist in the tale! This is like one of those passages at the end of a chapter in a novel that goes

She looked at him longingly as he opened the door and stepped out.
"Do you really have to go?"
He smiled.
"You know I have to, darling. But I'll be back in two hours. I promise."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
She shut the door softly, already going over the lovely evening she had planned for him.
Little did she know she would never see him again.
(Cue to brooding percussion score)


I'm sorry, I tend to digress. More on the recent events and the story in a bit.

Like I said, I'm a huge fan of this feature. I have, however, often come across people who are avowed haters of this function, and much prefer to spell out the words themselves.

Being a man of science, I decided to conduct a comprehensive and conclusive study to evaluate the benefits of predictive text. Here's the highly scientific and rigorous procedure I followed:
1. Approach five people at random and ask them to give me their five to ten most commonly SMSed words
2. Count and compare the number of key presses required with and without T9
3. That's about it

And here, ladies and gentlemen are the results. The format followed below is word (key presses with T9, key presses without T9)

Respondent 1:
post (4, 9)
stupidity (9, 19)
urinal (6, 14)
inhospitable (12, 27)
chocolate (9, 21)
movies (7, 16)

Respondent 2:
Kaka (8, 6)
Mia (5, 5)
television (10, 26)
man (3, 4)
she's (5, 18)
smoking (7, 16)
hot (4, 6)

Respondent 3:
adaptor (7, 11)
strategy (8, 16)
market (6, 10)
paper (5, 8)
place (5, 10)
sunlight (8, 18)
there (5, 10)

Respondent 4:
meet (4, 6)
call (4, 10)
please (6, 13)
me (3, 3)
ok (2, 5)
girl (4, 10)

Respondent 5:
no (3, 5)
are (3, 6)
you (3, 8)
f***ing (11, 16)
nuts? (8, 13)
get (3, 4)
lost (4, 11)
freak (5, 11)

Net result: On average, with-PTD words are 50.13% as long as without-PTD words.

There you go. QED. I rest my case, and all that jazz.

We have now established that PTD rocks, Nokia's T9 in particular. As a result of my fervent belief in the usefulness and infallibility of this feature, I have of late become just a leeetle lax in terms of assuming it will always throw up the word that I intend to use in my SMS.

Back to the story now.

Flashback...

A few days ago. After a long hard day at work, I came home tired and looking forward to a few hours of destressing. I kicked off my smelly socks and settled down in front of the TV. I flipped channels... Survivor China - bleah. Discussions about the Gujarat elections - yawn. Reruns of the World Female Naked Mud Wrestling Championships - not again. And then I happened upon Pink Panther, the movie.

The movie itself is no great shakes, but I have a great deal of respect and admiration for Steve Martin (even post Pink Panther). And so I settled down to two hours of simple entertainment that wouldn't be too taxing for my severely constrained mental faculties.

In the midst of the movie, a friend SMSed me: "Hey, what's up? What are you doing?"

I sent her a reply saying I was watching Pink Panther. I got a reply before I could say "Inspector Clouseau" (Not that I was trying to, of course.) "You're what? Freak!"

Naturally, I was taken aback. People insult me all the time, and to be fair I usually give them ample reason to do so. But this sort of completely unprovoked attack took even a man of steel like myself by surprise.

To make my stand clear, I decided to send my earlier message again. "I'm watching Pink -"

And that's when I realised that T9's default for P-A-N-T-H-E-R is P-A-N-T-I-E-S.

One lives and learns.

Ever wish you were a giraffe? I do.

If there's one great life-lesson I would pass on to future generations, it would be this:

When travelling, always pack an extra pair of socks in your hand baggage.
Let me put this pearl of wisdom in context.

Three days ago, I was in New York. I had a flight to catch in the afternoon, and had decided to spend the morning and early afternoon walking around the city, doing some shopping and meeting friends. What made the plan all the more acceptable was the weather. Mild rain and light winds came together to make it very pleasant and extremely romantic weather for a walk about New York. Sure, there were puddles every now and then, but splashing about in puddles is precisely what the child in every one of us loves.

I was having such a good afternoon that I lost track of time, and only just made it to the airport in time to check in. I sent my bag through, picked up my boarding pass and ambled off towards the boarding gate. I pulled out my laptop (yes, I was working!) and sat down, when a sudden loud squelch and a strong pungent smell assailed my senses.

I looked left. Nothing.
I looked right. Nothing.
I looked up. Nothing.
I looked down. Ah.

A morning romp through the puddled streets of New York in the rain might bring glorious joy to the mind and spirit, but wreaks havoc on one's footwear. My shoes and socks were wet through, and increasingly smelly. I eased my feet out of my shoes to allow them a little air, and nearly gagged. An old man three seats away went into a paroxysm of coughing, and a woman two rows behind me said in a voice that could be heard across the Atlantic, "What in God's name is that smell?!"

Said woman did not, however, have the time to launch a detailed investigation into the phenomenon as boarding was announced. I sighed, shoved my wet-sock-covered wet foot into my wet shoes and squelched my way through the queue onto the aerobridge into the plane and squeezed into my seat. Relieved at having a relative stretch of peace, quiet and sock-drying ahead of me, I proceeded to take off my shoes. I let out a satisfied sigh. I even went so far as to wiggle my toes in comfort.

One thing I really miss about London is the British sense of subtlety and politeness. Tell them an earthquake has wiped out Dover and they'll respond with a "By Jove, you don't say! How frightful!" Inform them that they have just won a million pound lottery and they'll react with a "Oh, jolly good show!" Block them on an escalator in the Underground, and they'd cough under their breath and say, "If you don't mind awfully, young man, could you please shift to your left just a bit so I could pass? Thank you so much, awfully kind of you. Good day." Order an English breakfast in a pub and the waitress'll serve you your plate with a warm smile and an "Enjoy your meal, love!"

My impression of Americans is, however, just the opposite. Not that it's wrong to be like that. It's just very in-your-face. Look at Donald Trump. Look at Las Vegas. Look at the Big Mac.

Anyway, so there I was wiggling my toes in comfort. Approximately 1.4 seconds later, I felt someone poking me in the shoulder. I turned around to face a very big, very red American woman. "Yes?" I asked. "Put on your shoes, boy, you're stinking up the whole damn plane!" she roared.

Perfectly true, but I'm sure there are better ways of putting it. Hard to argue with her logic though. I sighed (yup, I have quite a lot of practice in that line) squished my wet shoes back on, and settled in for what I was sure was going to be a very podiatrically uncomfortable 8 hour long flight. To add to my misery, one of the inflight movies was 300, which featured Spartans happy and content in their open-toed sandals.

I arrived at Amsterdam, and headed straight for the most remote seating area I could find. I ripped off my shoes and my socks, and threw up into the conveniently placed bin near my seat.

Someone walked up and noticed the empty seats stretched on either side of me. He sat down three seats away from me. He sniffed. He cast an evil looked in my direction. He sniffed again. He got up and left.

This happened to me seven more times over the next hour, even though I had chosen a seat as far away from the rest as humanity as possible (insofar as one can be far away from humanity at a major international airport).

As the area started filling up, and the sniffs became more pronounced and laden with menacing intent, I let decency take over from comfort, and put my shoes back on. They were reasonably dry, and considerably less smelly, so that made the 8 hour flight back to Delhi relatively more tolerable.

The End.

Moral of the story (Just to drive home the point): Keep a supply of fresh socks handy at all times. Or be a giraffe so your nose is far far away from your feet.


Smelly socks, smelly socks your smell is preceding you
Smelly socks, smelly socks it's not your fault...
It's because of me that you're drenched wet
You're causing discomfort to others, I'll bet
You stink like a dead animal that decomposes
Yeah you're no friend to those with noses.
Smelly socks, smelly socks your smell is preceding you
Smelly socks, smelly socks it's not your fault!

This has been a productive week...

For two reasons. And no, I won't tell you both upfront. (Yes, it's a rather cheap tactic to keep you hooked with pseudo-suspense... but hey, what the heck.)

Number One

I watched Sivaji. Sivaji - The Boss. Finally. After all the hype and hysteria. After weeks of conversations with every new person I was introduced to that went more or less like this:
"So, Arvind, where're you from?"
"I'm from Chennai."
"Oh, you're a Tam, eh?"
"Yup!"
"Have you watched Sivaji?"
"Grrrr....."

My watching (or not watching) Sivaji became a proxy proof (or lack thereof) of my Tamizhness, and it seemed everyone and their uncle had watched the movie (including a European in my office!). Everyone except me.

Anyways, I watched it. And my God, Rajnikanth looks fantastically impossibly young. And in no avatar is he more astoundingly stylish than in his bald one. Right from the swishing of his coat to the tapping of his pate. Check these out (I apologize for putting up two heavy videos, but these are just too good to be missed!):







The movie itself was pretty standard. The usual man-takes-on-the-system stuff everyone's come to expect of the director, Shankar. A whole lot of jazz and unnecessary special effects, colours and dance sequences. I found the movie kind of slow in parts. And Rajni's comedy bits really weren't funny at all. All that pointless drivel about trying to make himself fair... (Yes, I get that he was cooking a snook at his own darkness. And yes, I know some people argue it is a brilliantly sharp insight into the psyche of the modern Indian male. Pointless drivel, all the same.) That said, Vivek totally rocks, even stealing the scene from Rajni on multiple occasions! And thankfully, it was slightly less about Rajni the superstar and a little more about Rajni the actor than is usual.

All in all, a fun one time watch. Or maybe two or three. Five if one is just watching the mottai Rajni parts.


Number Two

On the eve of India's 60th Independence Day, I learnt two new drinking games. Two really fun games.

I could describe them in detail (and possibly add some humour to this post!) but why reinvent the wheel when Wikipedia holds the patent? Sorry, that didn't come out as well as it sounded in my head. Anyways, check out the links below

Flip Cup and Beer pong

And just in case you were hoping for some photos of me stone drunk... nah, not happening. :)

Cheers!

Gyaan from Gurgaon

I've been in Gurgaon (Gudganva to the locals) for the last three weeks. It's been a VERY interesting experience so far... On the basis of my limited travels in and around this fine city (damn, I don't think the sarcasm came through as strongly as I intended it to), here are the top five things I learned/realized in all this time here...

Food
MTR's ready meals ROCK! All one has to do is pop them in the microwave for a couple of minutes and out comes fresh tomato rice, pulao, alu mutter and a whole assortment of other Indian dishes. Manna from heaven from a bunch of bachelors with a combined culinary experience that does not extend beyond Maggi. (Coming soon: The Noodle Bar blogpost.) Speaking of which, here's a friendly tip from one who knows: having Maggi more than four nights a week can cause unpleasant sensations in one's stomach. I know people say consultants are always full of gas, but you really wouldn't want to prove them right in a literal sense.

Traffic
This place is chock-full of lousy drivers. To the brim. I do not exaggerate. It is not uncommon to see a large truck zooming down a busy road in the wrong direction, a car choosing to travel half a kilometre in reverse just to avoid taking a U-turn, cycle rickshaws that Apparate out of nowhere (yes, I read Harry Potter 7 earlier this week), suicidal motorcyclists playing tag with Death, tempos carrying 400% their expected capacity careening past red traffic lights, traffic policemen waving their arms about ineffectually as a four road junction rapidly becomes a 15-directional traffic jam... on one day, it took us 40 minutes to travel home from work, a distance of about 1200 metres. The sad part is that it's not enough to be a good driver oneself. The maddeningly lousy road and traffic sense of everyone else forces one to conform, or get a severe knock or two. And yeah, just to add to the fun, I'm going to be buying a car in a month. Good thing I didn't tell the folks providing my life insurance about this.

Career options
It appears that most of the employment in Gurgaon is generated by just two roles - security guards and house brokers. Let me explain. Fuelled by skyrocketing growth in the services sector over the last few years, Gurgaon is a city that looks really stunning by night. Twinkling lights, enormously tall buildings and shiny glass in every direction, it's like Canary Wharf spread over about 50000 acres (I don't really know the area, I'm just throwing a figure so it'll sound impressive. Did it?). I've been told it contributes 35% of Haryana's income tax collection. The ever growing influx of multinational firms and their increasingly well-off employees has created quite a housing boom, and complexes of anywhere between three to ten 20-storey buildings comprising residential complexes is the norm, as are commercial complexes that satisfy two primary criteria - a. Glass everywhere and b. Never a normal cuboidal shape (there have to be weird angles, curves, shapes and towers jutting out, for some apparent reason).
More people implies more houses and offices. More houses and offices implies a greater need for protection/security given that the law and order situation here isn't anything to write home about (or rather, is something to write home about if your near and dear ones like reading macabre tales of robberies, road rage, murders and other assorted crimes). Hence, the need for security guards. Every major building has a posse of at least 4-5 of them, so if you're ever out of a job or fancy an alternate lifestyle for a while, you know what to do.
As I said earlier, more people implies more houses being built. And also more people searching for these houses. And also, given how much tax we're paying and how expensive living in this place is, more people searching for houses whose rent won't, ironically, drive them to the streets. Enter the broker. Usually an enterprising local chap armed with his trusty old bike and a vast network of fellow brokers, he is your guide through the frightening, wearying, frustrating jungle of house-hunting. For a commission, he'll take you to a bewildering array of flats that match your spatial and budgetary requirements, introduce you to (usually very well-heeled) landlords and help in negotiations. An extremely invaluable resource in the mad mad world of Gurgaon real estate.

Groceries
Big Bazaar ROCKS. If only because it sells stock that's close to expiry at dirt cheap rates. And has fundoo offers along the lines of "Buy 4, Get 2 Free" on a range of products from hangers to juices to diapers (no, that does not mean I buy diapers. I was merely illustrating a point). Again, this is a godsend for someone who isn't making as much money as he thought he would be (@$#%& taxation, etc) and is looking to save as much as he can in a place where the local populace seems to be oozing wealth from every pore and the cost of living mirrors this fact. And, almost all shopping is done at malls. Huge, glossy, popping-out-at-you-everywhere-you-go, neon-and-hip-young-things-filled malls. There are very few local kirana store type areas around here, and none within easy reach of where I'm staying now... as a colleague put it, "Even to buy a toothbrush, one has to go to a mall!"

Entertainment
In this day and age of mass consumerism and general optimism about the state of the economy, it is apparently acceptable - in fact, quite the norm - to pay Rs. 175 or more for a movie ticket. I believe the average price is around Rs. 225. I haven't actually checked them out myself for fear that my wallet will scream in shock, jumped out of my pocket and down my throat and attempt to throttle me for having exposed it to so fearsome a situation, thereby causing me to die a painful death. Reliable sources tell me the accompanying popcorn costs upwards of Rs 100. My conscience does not allow me to wallow in such luxury, and I look forward to going back to campus and downloading all the movies I want to watch. With a Rs. 20 Maggi + Lime Juice combo to keep me company.

Well, that's it for now. More insights and experiences coming soon!

AC, the Tagged!

I've been tagged by DD! Actually, she tagged me a long time ago... sorry for the delay ma'am :)

The rules:
1. Players start with 5 random facts about themselves.
2. Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 5 random facts.
3. Players should tag 5 other people and notify them they have been tagged.

So here we go...

1. In school, I wrote a poem describing a battle between two much loved teachers fighting over who would take an extra class for us. This poem found its way to the Principal, who read through it, smiled and complimented me on my literary talent!

2. To date, Suraangani remains one of my favourite songs.

3. At one extremely drunken weekend in Oxford during my internship last year, I lost my passport while dancing in an Irish bar.

4. I like Himesh Reshammiya's music, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

5. I have an unhealthy fascination for British Reality TV (with the exception of mind-numbingly-boring, blatantly-exhibitionist, puke-inducingly-contrived Big Brother shows)

Rise, Nandan, Goach, Shrikant, Pps and Vishnu... I dub thee Tagged!

Un Gotha Neeb Nick!

Last week I finally achieved something I've been dreaming of doing since the day I turned two and a half years old. I finally watched a Hungarian movie. And not just one. Now that I was doing it, I decided to go the whole way and watched two of them!

A large percentage of my rapidly dwindling readership is probably squinting at the screen in almost comic bewilderment and perplexity. "A Hungarian movie?!" you ask. "Why on earth would you want to do that?" And I counter with a rather clever (if I do say so myself) "Why not?" thereby leaving you stumped and gasping for breath at the sheer wit and perspicacity of the thrust. Not unlike the proverbial fish out of water, although you are unlikely to die as a result of my stunning counter (which, at the moment this goes to press (or the blog equivalent), stands at 8031). If you are new to this blog and don't get it, just take a deep breath and go read a complex passage on Advaitha. Then come back to this and life will seem a lot simpler. I seem to be rambling, and can't seem to stop. It's like some weird crazy demonic dude has taken control of my mind and fingers and is leading them on a merry little dance along my keyboard. Unceasing and unrelenting, indestructible and indigestible. Dead but not yet. Undead, actually. Wow. Advaitha.

Back to the Hungarian movies. The South Indian Film Chamber is a body that screens a wide variety of movies on a regular basis in Chennai. For just 450 Indian Rupees a year, you get a pass to all their film fests and special premiere screenings in Chennai. Last week was a Hungarian Film Festival. Not being able to watch the widely acclaimed tragicomedy Dad Goes Nuts, Anjana and I decided we'd watch a couple of movies that were played the day after the widely acclaimed tragicomedy Dad Goes Nuts which we were unable to watch during the Hungarian Film Festival organized by The South Indian Film Chamber. Am I repeating myself repeating myself?

The first movie was a really old one, of somewhat poor print. It began rather suddenly and went along at a blazing (and rather ununderstandable) pace for the first forty-five minutes. And then, just as I was beginning to get the hang of it, it ended. The movie was all about a group of farmers who believe in Communism, and challenge their landlord and the local authorities. Several levels of officialdom come to reason with them or threaten them but all fail. Potential imprisonment, mutilation of their limbs and the burning of their harvest does not deter the farmers. One batch of officials is bribed, another seduced and a third simply killed. And, in between each of these, they break into song and dance, usually with their arms across each others shoulders. Other activities include a certain harvest ritual which requires three nubile young girls to be stripped to the waist, and later dunked in a tub. Good fun. Also, they keep saying something like "Un Gotha Neeb Nick!" which means "Rights to the people!" I must say the music was actually very nice, as was the traditional dance... The ending was very well done - lots of symbolism. In the last few minutes, there is a mass massacre, and the last surviving communist shoots the commanding officer with a gun with a red ribbon tied around it. Actually, a pretty nice movie. Will try to find out what it's called.

The second, titled 'Forbidden Relationship' is a far more recent movie. Also, it's in color. Also, it was nowhere near as enjoyable as the first one. It deals wth the incestuous relationship between a woman and her half brother. When she first makes loves to the guy (he's a total stranger to the village; she's known him for about half an hour), she doesn't have a clue who she is. But when she later realises they're related, her love only grows stronger. She's a widow and he's a divorcee (with a slightly shady past to boot), and they find great warmth and understanding in each other. And quite a bit of physical love. They defy social mores and the law to get married. When they have a child however, the courts deem it illegal because the child may be born deformed and they are sent to prison. Separate ones. A year later, they meet again and presto, the second kid's on it's way. Prison again. And back for the next kid. They try to run away from the village, but are forced to return... it's a rather slow movie, but moving in parts. (I mean emotionally moving. Don't give me some crap about it being a moving picture.) Apparently, the movie's based on a true story...

So that was that. Two Hungarian movies in the space of three hours. Kinda fun actually, and decent air conditioned theater. My online research (read Google) hasn't really helped me understand their customs (especially in the first movie), but maybe, just maybe, a native Hungarian stopping by this site will help me out. Believe it or not, this site has actually received eleven visits from Hungary in the last six months! (StatCounter rocks!)

Next dream, an African movie, preferably from East Africa...