Arnie's Arena

Worship, Arts Fair, or High-Society Wedding?

2010-03-19T11:39:00.003+05:30

Durga Puja is also a festivity of Good (Ma Durga) winning over the evil (Maheshasoora the demon). It is a worship of the power of Good which always wins over Evil. Durga's Puja is celebrated from the sixth to tenth day of the waxing moon in the month of Ashwin (Aahin in Assamese), which is the sixth month in the Hindu calendar. In the Gregorian calendar, these dates correspond to the months of September and October.

The actual worship of the Goddess Durga, as stipulated by the Hindu scriptures, falls in the month of Chaitra (Sote in Assamese), which roughly overlaps with March-April.

Since the Goddess is invoked at the wrong time in September-October, it is called Akaal Bodhon (or untimely invocation). In the Ramayana, Rama invokes the goddess Durga in his battle against Ravana. Although she was traditionally worshipped in the spring, due to contingencies of battle, Rama had to invoke her in the autumn akaal bodhan. Today it is this Rama's date for the puja that has gained ascendancy, although the spring puja, known as Basanti Puja, is also present in the Hindu almanac. Since the season of the puja is autumn (or Shôrot), it is also known as Shôrodia puja.

The pujas are held over a five-day period, which is traditionally viewed as the coming of the married daughter, Durga, to her father, Himalaya's home. Although it is a Hindu festival, religion takes a back seat on these five days: Durga Puja is a carnival, where people from all backgrounds, regardless of their religious beliefs, participate and enjoy themselves to the hilt. In Kolkata alone, more than 2000 pandals are set up, all clamouring for the admiration and praise of the populace. Durga Puja in Kolkata is often referred to as the Rio Carnival of the Eastern Hemisphere.

The first such Puja was organised by Raja Nabakrishna Deb of the Shobhabazar Rajbari of Calcutta in honour of Lord Clive in the year 1757. The puja was organised because Clive wished to pay thanks to the divine for his victory in the Battle of Plassey. He was unable to do so in a Church because the only church in Calcutta at that time was destroyed by Siraj-ud-Daulah.

Durga Puja was popular in Bengal in the medieval period, and records exist of it being held in the courts of Rajshahi (16th century). It was during the 18th century, however, that the worship of Durga became popular among the landed elite of Bengal, the zamindars. Prominent Pujas were conducted by the landed zamindars and jagirdars, enriched by British rule. Today, the culture of Durga Puja has shifted from the princely houses to Sarbojanin (literally, "involving all") forms. The first such puja was held at Guptipara.

As one who has visited Durga Puja across Delhi, West Bengal, Orissa and Assam, I would not hesitate to say that Durga Puja is the largest outdoor art festival on earth. In the 1990s, a preponderance of architectural models came up on the pandal exteriors, but today the art motif extends to elaborate interiors, executed by trained artists, with consistent stylistic elements. The art motifs observed have been history (ancient civilizations like the Incas and the Egyptians), mythology, science – and even the Titanic and Harry Potter!

In Delhi, there are approximately 400 registered pujas, which are celebrated with great fanfare by Bengalis, Oriyas and Assamese settled in Delhi. Unlike most of the Durga Pujas in Kolkata, the atmosphere in Durga Pujas celebrated across Delhi, in general, are less commercial and more religious affairs.

In Orissa, Durga Puja is celebrated in two different: apart from the different pandals (called "Medho" in Oriya), devotees also worship the deity in Shakti Peethas (temples of goddess) with proper rituals for 10-16 days, the period known as Shodasa Upachara. Dussehra in Nepal is called Dashain. Interestingly the oldest Puja to be conducted at the same venue is in Rameswarpur, Orissa, where it continues for the last four centuries since the Ghosh Mahashays from Kotarang near Howrah migrated as a part of Todarmal's contingent during Akbar's rule.

As Nepal is chiefly a Hindu nation, the pattern and dates of the festivals coincide with those of India. Durga Puja is organised by the Indian diaspora in the US, Europe and Australia. Although pandals are not constructed, the idols are flown in from Kumartuli in Bengal. The desire by the diaspora to keep in touch with their cultural ties has led to a boom in religious tourism, as well as learning from priests versed in the rites. Also recently, the immersion of the Durga idol has been allowed in the Thames River for the festival which is held in London. In the US, the pujas are often hosted during weekends.

According to historian Benudhar Sarma, the present form of worship of Durga with earthen idols in Assam was started during the reign of Ahom King Pratap Singha. The King heard about the festivity, the pomp and grandeur with which the King Naranarayan of Koch Bihar celebrated Durga Puja from one Sondar Gohain, who was under captivity of the Koch raja. King Pratap Singha sent artisans to Koch Bihar to learn the art of idol making. The King organised the first such Durga Puja celebration in Bhatiapara near Sibsagar. Previous to this, the Devi was worshipped only in Durga temples like Kamakhya, Digheswari, Maha Bhairabi, Ugrotara, and Tamreswari.

Now-a-days, the Durga Puja is mostly a community festival celebrated in all the cities, towns, villages of Assam with great festivity for five days. The Pujas in every corner of Guwahati are mostly spectacular and sumptuous extravaganza. The lighting done by mechanics borrowed from Siliguri – a bit of a drain of resources. And in all this opulence, perhaps a bit of the spiritual significance is silently lost.

Durga Puja in Guwahati has become more a celebration of wealth than a celebration of the soul. The general people cannot even go near the Durga Pratima for worship in most pandals. But the Durga Puja at Shanti Sabha is different. The lights here are for illumination, not for dazzling the devotees with the opulence of the organisers. In this puja, you will get to offer your anjali, and you will get your prasad. On every day of the Puja, after the puja is over, you will get your payash (kheer) and khichdi served in the first floor hall. You will get to join in the celebration of Assamese culture in the Ozapaali and Bhawna.

And most importantly – you will have the opportunity of having a quiet word with the Divine in a genuine Puja – not an arts fair masquerading as a high-society wedding!

Draupadi and the Mango

2008-09-24T12:59:00.002+05:30

This story in Kashiram Das’ Bengali Mahabharata does not occur in any of the Sanskrit versions, but is also found in the Tamil version of the epic. Both must be drawing upon a common source that has not yet been found.

During their wanderings in the 13 years of exile, the Pandavas and Draupadi came upon a lovely ashram with many trees laden with fruits. They decided to rest in that spot for some time. Suddenly Draupadi’s eyes fell upon a mango dangling unseasonal from a branch. She asked Arjuna to pluck that mango for her. Arjuna shot a divine arrow and brought that mango to his beloved wife.

As she was about to eat the mango, Lord Krishna appeared and told them that they had committed a grave misdeed. Yudhishthira grew most anxious and asked Krishna what he meant. Krishna told them all that the ashram belonged to the sage Sandipan who even the gods and the demons feared.

“For ages Sandipan muni has lived in this forest. Every day at dawn, he leaves for his meditation and fasts the whole day. Every day a single mango ripens on this tree. When the muni returns in the evening, in great satisfaction he plucks the mango from the tree and eats it. Returning from his penance to the ashram and not finding the mango, the muni will turn you all into a heap of ashes. Alas, Partha, what have you done?” said the lord.

With folded hands king Yudhishthira, asked Krishna a way to save them all from Sandipan’s wrath. Hearing his words, the lord said: “If the tree appears just as it was when the mango was on it, then all can be saved, O king.” When the eldest Pandava asked him how that miracle could be achieved, Krishna told them that that if they all spoke the truth about whatever was uppermost on their minds at any given moment, the mango would go back to the place it came from. All six of them undertook to do as Krishna asked them to.

First spoke Yudhishthira: “Every day I think that if only I could regain my past prosperity, day and night I would perform Brahmin-feeding yajna.” The unseasonal mango rose upwards to some extent, astonishing everyone.

Then said mighty Bhima: “This is what I think day and night: with blows of my mace, I’ll slay the hundred Kauravas. I will shatter Duryodhana’s thigh with my mace, and rip open wicked Duhshasana’s breast with my nails.” When Bhima had spoken, the mango rose further upward.

Aruna said: “This rises in my mind all the time: that with weapons as numerous as the dust will I cut down the wicked Kshatriyas. And I will slay valiant Karna with a divine arrow.” Then the mango rose further upwards. Now it was the twins’ turn.

Nakula said, “Ever I think that when the ruler of Dharma will be king again, I will examine and report to him the kingdom’s good and ill.” Sahadeva said, “Ever I think of how returning to the kingdom I will forget all sorrows in looking after our mother.” Then the mango rose further upwards, almost touching the branch.

Then, slowly, softly, spoke Draupadi: “This is what I think of day and night: all those wicked persons who have pained me so much, at the hands of Bhima and Arjuna, they all shall be slain. All their women will weep in sorrow and I, delighted, will secretly mock them.” The moment Draupadi said this, the mango dropped to the ground again.

Terrified, Yudhishthira burst out: “Why did the mango fall down? Tell us, Krishna.” The lord replied: “Drupadi ruined everything - she spoke all false words.” Hearing this, Arjuna became furious and strung an arrow on his bow. He said: “Quickly speak truthful words, otherwise I’ll slice off your head with this sharp arrow,”

When Arjuna spoke thus, Draupadi spoke the truth casting aside shame: “Lord, what shall I say? You know the spoken and unspoken thoughts of all. When I saw heroic Karna at the syayamvar, since that day I often think that had he been Kunti’s son, then I would have had six husbands.” When she said this, the mango shot up that very moment and was on the branch of the tree as previously. Acknowledging this a miracle, all were delighted.

But mighty Bhima, who loved Draupadi the most roared with anger, “Is this your conduct, evil-minded woman? You have five husbands, yet you secretly desire one more? What made you turn to such evil ways? As long as your mind and heart favour the enemy, who can trust you?” Saying this, lifting his mace, in mighty fury Bhima rushed to slay Draupadi.

With a slight smile, the lord seized Bhima’s hands. Then he said: “Without cause do you slander Draupadi. She spoke not what she desired but what she feared. The cause of this is secret and it is not proper to reveal all now. After the king has returned to his kingdom and has sat on his throne, then will I specially reveal all to everyone.”

Hearing this response from Krishna’s mouth, heroic Vrikodara sat down restrained. And they all thought about what Krishna said as he prepared to take his leave. But this was all his maya: Draupadi had always prided herself as the supreme sati nari, and to break her pride was all this arranged by the lord.

Who's the Best Blogger of Them All?

2008-06-03T18:08:00.005+05:30

“What is quality blogging?” is a question that confounds most active bloggers.

To me, a blog is nothing but what its etymological base suggests: a web-log, or an online diary. Each person who maintains a diary writes whatever he or she wants to write about in his or her diary. Similarly, since a blog is just the online version of the diary, every blogger has the freedom to write whatever they want to in their blog. Some people use their dairies just to jot down quotations they read somewhere and liked, and some others use their diaries just to collect good jokes for the after-dinner speeches. Others write deeply personal thoughts in their diaries.

And so it is with blogs: every blogger has their own agendas. A lady blogger always posts her favourite poems – some her own poetry, others she read somewhere else and loved. Another blogger wants to share her darkest secrets, her most rebellious thoughts. As long as both are successful in their agendas, they are both quality bloggers for me, and I read them both with equal interest.

The other aspect of the weblog is that unlike conventional diaries, blogs are social, since they are meant to be read by others apart from the writer himself or herself. And so the good blogger is one whose blogs are understood and considered worthy of perusal by others. Good writing, as far as the language skills go, then becomes all about picking up topics that can be of interest to the most number of readers, or by the greatest variety of readers. Good grammar gets relegated to the background – if a blogger’s post is understandable, that grammar is good enough.

One prominent blogger’s level of erudition and his language skills are beyond most of us average bloggers, but he is read much less than another younger blogger, whose grammar may not be perfect, but is widely read because he posts stuff that is indeed very funny, and much easier to understand. I read both of them regularly, but for entirely different reasons – to learn from the older blogger’s experience of life, and to feel refreshed by the younger one’s uniquely fresh perspective on life and the idiocies and idiosyncrasies of his daily routine. Since most blogging is done on social networking sites, the most popular blogger will be one who will not only write to be understood by the widest variety of readers, but one who will always keep on thinking of new ways to involve the maximum number of other bloggers in “group activities”.

So who do I think are the best ? It has a little to do with my definition of quality, but a lot more to do with my personal tastes. I read someone for his imagination and another for his lovely use of words. I enjoy equally a male blogger's delicious political incorrectness and the bravura bravado of a female blogger's articulation. I adore the sensitivity of one, and admire another's command over the language. I venerate the starkness of one's prose and the lushness of another's poetry.

But my single favourite blogger is the one who is highly versatile, can write on all kinds of topics in all kinds of styles, has above-average writing and grammar skills, and is consciously aware of blogging as a means of social bonding. Who among the ones you read do you think meets these criteria?

Mirror, mirror in the hall, who's the best blogger of them all?

Never Sleepless IN Delhi

2008-02-29T12:06:00.003+05:30

The old joke about adoption being the height of laziness does the rounds of my mind each time anyone talks about the modern-day panacea – the Viagra Pill. My meddling mind wanders to the Biblical injunction against the deadly sin. No, no, I am not referring here to the sin of Lust. What I am alluding to is another of the Seven Deadly Sins – that of Sloth. Or plain laziness, if you prefer a simpler term.

Unlike my illustrious grandfather (who industriously ran our family chemical industry and oversaw the working of our family farm till the day his 90-year-old body gave up the ghost), or his equally worthy son, my sire (who doubles up as our plumber-cum-carpenter-cum-electrician-cum-mechanic-cum-odd-jobman even at almost 65), I am an extremely lazy individual. Maybe it was just the caprice of Mother Nature, but by the time it was my turn, my ancestral legacy of industrious capacity had exhausted itself.

I sleep (my daily quota of ten hours) in the same jeans and tee shirt I wear to office, because it is too much of an effort to change into any shorts or pajamas at night. I prefer poached eggs for breakfast, because it is too much effort to make omelettes or to boil the eggs – you have to chop onions for the former, and remove the shells to eat the latter). In the old days before office lunches took care of the problem, I used to have Maggi for lunch and dinner. Not because I liked it (in fact I detested it), but because it is too much hard work cooking even the rudimentary khichdi. And as you must have guessed, anything that requires effort is an anathema to my sensitive soul.

Unlike me, Neel is no Accident of Nature. She is, as she claims, the culmination of centuries of effort (in avoiding any sort of effort) on the part of 17 generations of the honourable family. This pinnacle of sloth, the marvelous end product of impeccable evolution, has Rip Van Winkle as her revered idol. Neel claims that her four-hours-a-day afternoon siestas are not indicative of any deep-rooted idleness – they just reflect her fervent belief in the principle of conversation of energy. And why does she need to conserve her energy, you may well ask. With a gentle smile playing on her face, she will reply: so that she can prepare for her twelve-hour nightly sleep with great gusto!

Haiku Collection

2008-02-13T19:41:00.003+05:30

Till a month or so back, all I knew about haiku was that it was the name of a brand of saris popular centuries ago. I do not even know if this brand still exists. But I recently had my senses ravaged by the beauty of this art form.

For those who are equally clueless, a haiku is a three line poem. The first line of a haiku has 5 syllables, the second line 7 syllables and the third line 5 syllables again. Thus a haiku is a three-line 17-syllable composition in the 5-7-5 format.

Explaining what a haiku is tough enough. Writing one is tougher still. Especially for some one who has no sense of awareness whether a word has two syllables or three syllables or seventeen for that matter.
But by far the toughest part is the actual poetry part of the haiku. A haiku is supposed to compress into a few beautiful words a very large expanse of meaning. For one who is totally untalented in poetry, attempting a haiku is nothing short of masochism.

Here are a few of my haikus. Or hokkus or hakka noodles, whatever you may choose to call my efforts.

Culinary:
Hate vegetables
All veg food is really sad
Why is it not meat?

Natural:
That was really cool
When we fell down from a boat
Did not break any bones!

Seasonal:
Brutal cold winter
Gives way to summer warm when
I light cigarette!

Sociological:
She wastes all her hours
Chatting with me all day long
On office bandwidth.

Autobiographical:
Pink tube of beauty
Fair and lovely I use now
To be less ugly.

Romantic:
Can real love blossom
Internet age and online
Anonymity?

The Romantic Legend

2008-01-15T13:24:00.000+05:30

Denzil, Noel and Philip were brothers. When I first saw them in junior school, Denzil and Noel had already been teaching at my school for over 25 years, and were both in their early 50s. The youngest brother Philip had been teaching for close to 15 years, and he was in his mid 30s.
They had lived together all their lives, three confirmed bachelors whose only love was an eclectic and huge collection of music records. They were hugely popular as far as private tuitions went, not only among our schoolmates, but also among other school students. Not only because they were all very good teachers, but also because all the kids loved to study with all those wonderful old English numbers playing softly in the background.

All three were very heavy smokers. Each of them would always stop in the open corridors in between classes, and drag deep into the wonderfully blue smoke. The heavy smoking went very well with their image. Especially with tall, rangy Denzil, who reminded every student of Clint Eastwood and his ever-present cheroot.

Denzil was the teacher who was in charge of the school library, and he was always willing to bend the rule that a student could borrow only one book at a time. He always encouraged voracious readers like me to borrow a library card from a fellow student who was not that interested in reading, and use those extra cards to pick up two and sometimes three books at a time.

Noel was short and bald, and had a small neat moustache. He was a dapper little gentleman, and extremely fast on his feet. Little wonder then, that he was the teacher who was in charge of the dramatic and performing arts clubs of the school. Philip’s extra responsibility was as the school photographer. He was always so good with the lens that our school never needed to pay any studio to cover any school function. Or to click the class photographs every year.

A decade passed, and I reached class 10. Denzil was to retire in another six months when he suddenly took ill. Lung cancer, the doctor said, which did not really surprise any one. He took 3 months leave from the school, but died within two weeks. The whole school turned up for the funeral, and as a tear escaped Noel’s eyes, we all joined him in remembering the handsome man we all loved. Philip, not quite unexpectedly, went about clicking the whole function, as if he would collapse the moment he stopped indulging in his favourite hobby.

A little before the board exams started, we heard that Noel went to the same doctor and heard the same diagnosis. He had never really recovered from his brother’s death – they were only a year apart in age. The day he heard the diagnosis, he just took to bed, and never got up again. With a month, the lovable little man too was dead.

That day, Philip had a heart attack. Two brothers gone within a year was just too much for anybody to handle, I guess. Thankfully he recovered slowly, and wisely decided to kick the bad habit before it kicked him too. Suddenly all alone in the world, Philip got a little too close to the domestic help who had cared for him through his illness. She was a young Christian girl, and was apparently too overawed by the Anglo-Indian gentleman’s attentions to resist.

Tongues started wagging when the young girl started gaining too much weight much too fast. He was a bad, immoral man, you would have all concluded by now, but you would be wrong. When he observed the afore-mentioned weight gain, he took the girl to the gynaecologist. When she confirmed their suspicions, he was overjoyed. He asked her to marry him, and she readily agreed.

Not at all ashamed of his liaison with someone socially inferior, he threw a huge party to celebrate his wedding. He not only invited the whole school, but also went and invited each and every one of the ex-students who had ever taken tuitions from him or his elder brothers. I was in Delhi at that time, but my friends who attended, told me that it seemed the whole of the city had descended on the function. The official figures by the caterers put the count at “only” 4250 dinner guests, but it seemed that nearly 10 thousand people turned up. Of course, many may not have eaten, so both figures may well be compatible with each other.

For once, Philip was too busy to click photographs, so the school authorities happily obliged and hired a studio photographer.

Epilogue:
Seven months later, they had twin sons. Young Denzil and Noel are now 13 years old. Philip retires next year, and his lungs are fine: his wife never let him smoke again. His other two vices remain intact – he still clicks photos, and he still listens to Western oldies while teaching his sons and assorted other people’s sons and daughters. He was hugely popular before, but now he’s a romantic legend among the youngsters. His crusty older brothers must be a bit envious, but very proud.

I Will Buy a New Ear

2008-01-09T15:39:00.000+05:30

Another year has passed. I'm a little bit older, a little bit wiser, a little bit rounder, but still none the wiser.

All optimists stay up until midnight to see the new year in. All pessimists stay up to make sure the old year leaves. But both categories insist on making new year resolutions, and what is worse, insist on telling you what their resolutions are. They forget that good resolutions are simply checks that you draw on a bank where you don’t have any account.

So here’s my New Year's Resolution - to tolerate fools and fishes more gladly, provided this does not encourage them to take up more of my time! Entirely for your perverse pleasure, here is the list of my ten alternative New Year Resolutions. I considered each of them carefully before settling on the one finally selected:

I will answer my snail mail with the same enthusiasm with which I answer my e-mail.
When I hear a funny joke I will not reply: "LOL... LOL!"
I will balance my chequebook properly. How about balancing it on my nose?
I will not look at pretty girls. It’s depressing to find out exactly how many people there are who will never notice you.
I will not look at pretty boys either. I am neither a deviant nor a paedophile.
So many women, so little time. I will make more time. Only to be disappointed again.
I will not tell the same story at every get together. I will think of new ways to torture my few listeners.
I will not encourage the kids in my society to pee down from the top floor at the people passing below.
I will remember it isn't worthwhile wrestling with bulls - you get all muddy and the bulls just love it!
I will take neither myself nor any of the above seriously.

Maids in Leather Pants

2007-12-12T11:00:00.000+05:30

At lunch today, I overheard a few women colleagues discussing their maids animatedly. One of them suddenly piped up in a sarcastic tone: "These maids have turned so modern nowadays! I saw my maid on her off day shopping in the local market, wearing jeans, lipstick, and high heels!" As the others on the table went “ooh” and “aah” at the apparently scandalous behaviour, I started thinking.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you are saying: “Arnie and thinking? Is that not a contradiction in terms?” Well, all I have say to that is that just because it is office, that does not mean that I sleep all the time. I do have to wake up sometimes, especially when I am eating. Otherwise there is a tendency to push food into my nose, and that is not really an elegant sight. And when I am awake, and the food is in front of me, I have to think of things other than food. So maid servants are as good or as bad a topic to think of as any other.

Which brings us back to what was I actually thinking about maid servants. No, you filthy minds, I do have not that kind of perverse thoughts about maid servants. Even if those maid servants are cleaner than normal and stylish enough to wear jeans and high heels.

What I was actually thinking is why do people have this tendency to fit everyone else into comfortable stereotypes? What is so wrong in a maid wearing jeans? Or, for that matter, in the maid wearing leather pants and tank tops, if it pleases her? Not only will it be a pleasant change from the coconut hair oiled middle aged sour-mooded specimens that are the norm in Delhi, it is also a striking a blow for equality of the sexes. After all, the guy who comes to wash my car in the mornings and the guy who delivers the newspapers both wear jeans, and no body seems to find that shocking in the least.

So what's so wrong in a maid wearing jeans? Isn't she a human being with her own likings, her own aspirations, and her own young heart which wants to follow the latest that the so-called social superiors claim as their birthright? Especially when the social inferior is in better shape than the scandalized social superior, who, charitably put, resembles a giant pumpkin as she is 5 foot tall and 4 foot broad?

Boys Don't Cry

2007-12-05T13:59:00.000+05:30

He had left his hometown in sleepy Assam for the first time and gone all alone to big bad Calcutta for his college studies. Two days before his exams started, a national movement broke out in full flame, and engulfed the nation. He had never heard much about the Independence movement in Assam, and his youthful dreams were engulfed by the magnitude of what he saw in Calcutta.

Resolving that the least he could do was quit wearing foreign clothes, he went and bought some khadi kurtas and dhotis. From that to joining the nationalistic movement was a small step, and soon he told his parents that studies could wait: the important thing was that the nation should be free of foreign rule. His parents understood and gave their blessings. Within two months, he was in jail. He was beaten up rather badly every day by the jailors, but did not utter a word in protest. After all, the British were not exactly known for their leniency during the Civil Disobedience movement. And boys, of course, don’t cry.

By the time he was released, he was a changed man. He had almost forgotten to smile. Deciding that he was too old to study, he turned to tilling the land like a true swadeshi. Independence came soon to the nation, and his parents decided that the best way to celebrate that was to get him married off. After a year, he was blessed with a baby daughter, and a year after that, with a son. Unfortunately, the girl died within a year of the brother’s birth. As he went to bury his little daughter, he tried to be philosophical about it. Men, of course, don’t cry.

The son grew up quite healthy, and five years later, it seemed everything was turning out good as they were blessed with another daughter. This one survived till three years of age, before she too succumbed to the same symptoms that had afflicted his elder daughter. He was stoic about this death too: after all, grown men don’t cry.

Another ten years passed. He had another son, who too was perfectly healthy. He always wanted a daughter, so when his wife unexpectedly got in the family way again at almost forty, he was overjoyed. Medicinal care was much better now, and the birth was perfectly normal. The little girl grew up as the apple of her parents’ and her elder brothers’ eyes. But tragedy struck again when the girl suddenly fell seriously ill when she was eight years old. The doctors tried their best, but two months later, she succumbed to her mysterious ailments. He was shattered inside, but the boys and their mother looked up to him for strength, and he could not fail them. After all, middle-aged men don’t cry.

A decade passed, and the elder boy got married. When his daughter-in-law was expecting, he half-wished that it would not be a girl, because he was convinced that the girls in his lineage were cursed. But his grand-daughter was healthy, and this time he did not have to cry. Another grand daughter followed, and he was overjoyed that the curse was finally lifted. When the younger son too produced two girls, the now elderly gentleman showered all his affections on the four little girls.

His younger brother and his two sisters passed away within five years of each other. He missed them in his old age, but after a lifetime of self-restraint, he could not shed any tears at any of their deaths. Old men, after all, are not supposed to cry.

Yesterday he passed away as quietly as he had lived. He hated bothering any one, and went away with as little fuss as he could muster at the age of 83. When his youngest brother heard the news, he took it hard, but did not cry. After all, his brother had taught him that grown men don’t cry and he had taught that same lesson to his own son.

So when he called me up to tell me the news, I could not weep either. After all, boys don’t cry.

Come On Baby, Light My Fire

2007-12-01T11:00:00.000+05:30

Thank heavens, I have given up smoking again! God, I feel fine. Homicidal maybe, but still fine. I am a different man ever since I quit smoking. Yes, I am now irritable, moody, depressed, rude, and nervous! Giving up smoking is very easy: I do it once every month. See, it has already been 2 hours since I quit smoking, and I’m already writing like a mass murderer.

A girl I was seeing seriously objected to my smoking. I had to quit, she insisted. So I did quit. I quit seeing her. After all, she was a lot less capable of lighting my fire than a cigarette. That was a terrible pun, I must admit!

Good food, good sex and good sleep: to these three basic needs of sanity, man has added nothing in the past five thousand years apart from the good smoke. They threaten me with lung cancer, and still I smoke. If they'd only threaten me with hard work, I might quit smoking for longer than the couple of hours every day I manage. I insist that the cigarette helps me lose weight too: one lung at a time.

Fame is a Fickle Thing

2007-11-28T12:27:00.000+05:30

There are people who are born to fame. Peope would have known about Abhishek Bachchan even if he had been as much of an actor as Kishen Kumar. Though Abhishek and the others might crib about the enormous pressures of living up to daddy's shoes, inherited fame is pretty cool. You have it made, all you got to do is try not to mess it up.

Raj Kapoor's three sons were all born to fame. Though only one of them ultimately remained famous, I suspect it is more to do with their names. If you call your favourite son Dabboo, the son will try his earnest best to make a Dabba out of his life. If you call another son Chimpoo, the idiot will try to be a chimpanzee all his life. But if you call him Chin-two, all he needs to fear is having a double chin. Which is all right, as that family seems to develop multiple chins even without the benefit of weird names.

And then there are those who achieve fame. Chief among this kind are the ones like Paris Hilton. You know, those who are famous simply for being famous. I actually went two years reading about Paris Hilton's escapades trying to figure out why she is so famous, till I learnt to my chagrin that her sole claim to fame is simply that she is famous!

The Sleeping Ugly

2007-10-29T17:57:00.000+05:30

I suddenly woke up with a really bad headache. It's the third week of the month: too early for next month's salary to come in, too late for last month's meagre alms to continue to last.

Was it a hangover? I must have consumed too many Red Bulls last night in a fatally doomed effort to be energetic enough to attend work today. I think I should have listened to Kapil Paaji and stuck to Boost!

Actually, I really should just stop trying to sleep in office. I call it office and not workplace, because I don't really work here. I just pretend to work, just like they pretend to pay me.

The good part is that it's almost 12 o clock, only an hour to go for lunch...and lunch is FREE here at office.

My Very Own Website

2007-10-23T15:03:00.000+05:30

For those of you who are wondering why I don't blog very often now-a-days, the answer is in the title to this blog. I have started my own website, and writing for that takes up all my spare time.

The name of my website is http://screamviews.com

It's where I'll put up my reviews of contemporary Hindi and English movies. And also write about some older all-time classic movies.

What are you waiting for? Get clicking...

Best Dining Options in Delhi

2007-09-17T18:07:00.000+05:30

My favourite eating places in Delhi:

Karim's (Jama Masjid): The ultimate in Mughlai cuisine in the capital, perhaps the best in the entire world!
Big Chill (Kailash Colony): Continental cuisine to suit all taste buds, this eatery is so popular, there's always a half-hour waiting time.
China Garden (GK 2): Exquisite Chinese cuisine, not the Punjabi-Chinese variety that is so easily available elsewhere in the capital.
Al Bake (New Friends Colony): This tiny eatery offers awesome Mediterranean cuisine. The shawarmas are justifiably famous all over Delhi.
Oriental Bloom (Ansal Plaza): The dimsums here are to die for.
Turquoise Cottage (Adhchini): The top watering hole in the city.
Ruby Tuesday (GK 2): The other watering hole I frequent.
My own home: Thanks to the wife's culinary capabilities. And my own exquisite non-veg stuff.

Hey Babie

2007-07-14T08:38:00.000+05:30

No children for me, and certainly no need or biological urge to have any. People should have babies only when they want to, and are financially, mentally, emotionally and physically prepared to be responsible for another human being not for a day, not for a month, not for a year, but for the rest of their lives. It's a frightening thought, being responsible for someone else's life.

There may be some pros to having a kid, though I personally can't see any. "Emotional bonding" is the one most women bandy about. I'm done with emotional investment for my entire life, it's too low-percentage a game to play. I don't need to live a life where I'll have to think twice before going out or doing my own thing. I don't need a life where I'll have to think twice about what I'm watching because it might be unsuitable for the pint-sized human sitting next to me. I don't need a life where I have to bear the cross of being a role model to any one.

A good reason to have kids is when you're crazy about them, not because your insecure inner self tells you that you'll need company when you are 65 and don't want to be in an old-age home. Should I have kids because my long-suffering parents need to become grandparents? No. Should I have them because all people my age do? Nope. Should I have them because my biological clock is ticking away at double speed? Hell, no, that's like saying I never bought something from the supermarket and now they are on sale and will be out of stock soon.

The Shade and The Shadow

2007-05-25T12:22:00.000+05:30

I am back on the long road. All alone on the endless journey with the scorching sun burning my back. The big tree I had called my own has been chopped off. My only chance of finding a momentary shade is gone.

My shadow wants to leave me too. The shadow is following me only because of the sun, cruel though the heat may be. But who will stand by me in the dead of the night? Can I start a tenuous friendship with my own loneliness?

I walk alone, with just my tears to call my own. Alone again, for ever, on the endless journey of life. The desert is limitless, and the sea shore is too far away.

Be Happy, And Stay Happy

2007-05-24T12:34:00.000+05:30

It is not your fault. Maybe it's just that we no longer seem to have anything in common. Your horizons have broadened. You have achieved so much in life at such a young age. And I stayed the same old man, still driving the same old car. Maybe moving back with me is nothing but a step back. Into an arena where you don't feel the same happiness you do in your new world.

I feel the tone of resignation that creeps into your voice whenever we talk about settling back into the old routine. Maybe you need to be away from me to be happy. And I think we should all do whatever we all need to do in order to be happy. Please go back again and again as many times as it takes for you to be a permanent resident of the wonderful land of opportunity. Each time you need to return for a limited amount of time to find your moorings, I shall welcome you back.

Be happy, and stay happy. Thank you for whatever you have done for me. And thank you for having once let me dream of paradise.

25 Rock n Roll and Country Rock Songs

2007-03-22T13:48:00.000+05:30

Time to wind up the song season. This time it's my list of the greatest rock n roll and country rock numbers. This list is slightly longer than the other two, primarily because the King kept on making too many appearances in the list, and I just could not keep out any of his best stuff.

25. Elvis Presley – Love me Tender: Sung to the tune of "Aura Lea", a sentimental Civil War ballad, this has Elvis singing with little or no musical accompaniment. And yet manages to sound just awesome.

24. George Jones - She Thinks I Still Care: Anne Murray also has a cover version of this song, and even that one's really good. I think it's probably the lyrics.

23. Elvis Presley - It's Now Or Never: The King's take on "'O Sole Mio" makes the Neapolitan song sound incredibly romantic.

22. Anne Murray - You Needed Me: Murray's rich alto voice breaks the boundaries between country rock and pop, but who cares? For those of you who haven't heard this Canadian lady, you don't know what you're missing.

21. Dire Straits - Sultans Of Swing: I know many of you think this song should belong to my rock list, but I insist that this earliest of their hits is more rock n roll.

20. The Beatles - All My Loving: Paul's inspired vocals and Harrison's Nashville-influenced guitar solo on this country-ish Beatles number makes it special for me.

19. Elvis Presley – Jailhouse Rock: For me, this is the quintessential rock n roll number, and the best from the early Elvis era.

18. Bill Haley & His Comets - Rock Around The Clock: the companion piece in spirit to the one above, this is heady rock n roll.

17. Elvis Presley - Blue Suede Shoes: Try listening to this song in conjunction with the two above. Pure old rock n roll magic!

16. The Beatles - You Really Got a Hold on Me: This Beatles cover of a hit from The Miracles has outlived the original. Reason perhaps is the vocal superiority. Features Lennon on lead vocal with George on close harmony.

15. Chuck Berry - Johnny B. Goode: This song arguably had much to do with the establishment of the guitar as the lead instrument in rock and roll, rather than the piano or the tenor saxophone, both of which had been in the running since the emergence of the genre. The riffs and guitar licks are truly memorable...

14. The Beatles - Love Me Do: The Beatles first single has some funky bluesy harmonica by John, and some fantastic high-energy lead vocals by him and Paul with George cheerfully donning the harmony vocals part again.

13. Elvis Presley – Don’t Cry Daddy: This little-known number (by Presley's standards, not by anybody else's!) is hauntingly beautiful.

12. The Beatles - Let it Be: This is Paul at his balladic best. God know why John was not so fond of it...

11. Don McLean - American Pie: Don's allusive song about Buddy Holly's death is an epic song of the spirit of America. This is high poetry, not some soon-to-be forgotten love lyric.

10. Elvis Presley - The Girl of My Best Friend: Another rather obscure number by the King, this song inspires amorous feelings about other people's wives and girlfriends...probably because of the hypnotic vocals.

9. Elvis Presley - Suspicious Minds: How can this man sing so well?

8. Bob Dylan - Knockin' On Heaven's Door: Over 150 covers of this song have been sung, including one rather good one by G 'n R, but the greatest living poet in the English language deserves to be in this list if only because of what he's done to music over the years.

7. Elvis Presley - In The Ghetto: Another great one by the lord of all he surveys...what more can I say about him?

6. John Denver - Country Roads: John Denver's ode to West Virginia is really good, in spite of all it's popularity!

5. Elvis Presley - Are You Lonesome Tonight: "Do you gaze at your bald head and wish you had hair?" the man asked in a concert, showing the versatility of the lyrics!

4. Glen Campbell - Rhinestone Cowboy: Hmmm...everyone know the refrain to this one and joins in gustily, after forgetting how the rest of the lyrics went!

3. The Beatles - Hey Jude: Now what can you say about an eight minute song with a two minute fade? Don't bother, there's a reason why this is by far the most popular Beatles song.

2. Elvis Presley - She's Not You: This is my favourite Presley number, and I can't really tell you why. But it rocks...

1. John Denver – Annie’s Song: Probably the single most romantic song ever written. The song has become a standard expression of love for many people, due to its grand imagery and the fact it could apply to anyone - after all, Annie Denver is not mentioned by name in any part of the song.

20 Favourite Pop Songs

2007-03-19T13:32:00.000+05:30

Carrying on with my musical musings, here's my list of my favourite pop songs. Unlike rock, pop is not really a genre, just a name given to popular vocal-driven songs of any era. Hence the presence of disco, soft rock and blues numbers in my list.

20. Michael Jackson - Billie Jean: Though I am no fan of Wacko Jacko, I can't deny his status as a performer. This song is my numero uno among Jackson's chart-busting success stories.

19. Bee Gees - Stayin' Alive: Falsetto never sounded so cool.

18. Rolling Stones - Satisfaction: The original bad boys' attack on the status quo finds its place on most lists. Deservedly so.

17. Eric Clapton - Tears in Heaven: Clapton's heart-rending eulogy to his son sure tugs at the heart-strings.

16. Madonna - Like A Virgin: The Queen of Pop reinvents herself every five years, but her earliest mega-hit still remains her best.

15. Wham - Careless Whispers: Silken magic. Sugary sweet melody, but works for me.

14. Whitney Houston - I Will Always Love You: For sure lung-power, Houston takes the cake in this one.

13. ABBA - The Winner Takes It All: Thank ABBA for the music...the magic lingers on.

12. Carpenters - Yesterday Once More: The siblings knew how to soothe the ears lovingly.

11. Roy Orbison - Oh, Pretty Woman: They keep on rediscovering this song every decade. Proof of its evergreen magic.

10. The Eagles - Hotel California: Whichever version you prefer, this song really rocks.

9. Carpenters - Top of the World: A really upbeat number that never fails to pick up my spirits.

8. ABBA - Mamma Mia: Another one from the Swedish group. No wonder only Elvis and the Beatles outsell them.

7. Simon and Garfunkel - The Sounds of Silence: Eerily beautiful.

6. Billy Joel - Piano Man: Though Uptown Girl and River of Dreams may find more takers, for me this is the quintessential Billy Joel number.

5. John Lennon - Imagine: Don't look for the Beatles in this list, but Lennon's immortal ode to world piece is a priceless pop gem.

4. That Thing You Do: This rocking number from the movie soundtrack about a fictional band never fails to set me foot-tapping.

3. ABBA - Dancing Queen: No really a dance number, even with that title. But one heck of a peppy tune.

2. Cliff Richard - Evergreen Tree: The bachelor boy's ode to immortal love is probably the most romantic song I've ever heard.

1. Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge over Troubled Water: This song haunts me. Probably something to do with Garfunkel's vocals. Or maybe it has something to do with those lyrics...

The Greatest Rock Songs Ever

2007-03-16T16:34:00.000+05:30

For no particular rhyme or reason, today I’m putting together a list of what I feel to be the 20 greatest rock songs ever. Please note that I said "rock" songs - that means certain artists and certain songs aren't eligible to enter this list. Maybe some other day, I’ll compile a list of the 20 greatest non-rock songs.

20. R.E.M.: Everybody Hurts: I'm not really a R.E.M. fan, but this one is something special.

19. Beatles: Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds: I love the atmosphere this song creates. It has a very cool, almost inexplicable vibe to it that just draws you in as a listener.

18. U2: Pride (In the Name of Love): I love Edge's ringing guitar and Bono’s impressive vocal performance is truly awe-inspiring.

17. Aerosmith: Dream On: The original "power ballad", and possibly Tyler’s best lyrics.

16. U2: Bad: An intensely emotional sound is what sets this apart.

15. Bob Marley: Redemption Song: This song is the story of Marley’s life, and a call to future generations to "sing these songs of freedom."

14. Metallica: One: The greatest true heavy metal song ever put to tape.

13. Aerosmith: Sweet Emotion: I love this song for the swagger it presents.

12. Beatles: Revolution: A strong melody, good playing, and a song that actually has something to say.

11. Tom Petty: Free Fallin: I don't know a solitary soul who hates this song. That alone is enough to get it on the list.

10. Guns N Roses: November Rain: It's not often that an 8 minute epic becomes a band's biggest hit. But such was the case with G'nR and November Rain.

9. Aerosmith: Walk This Way: Probably the best known guitar riff ever.

8. AC/DC: Highway to Hell: Those opening chords just sound like you're starting on a trip to hell. A whole lot of people can relate to being on a highway to hell.

7. The Doors: Roadhouse Blues: Sounds like a band on a musical rampage. No matter how many people think it’s great, it actually is!

6. Guns N Roses: Paradise City: A six plus minute long hard rock epic, this has one of those unforgettable and great hard rock choruses, not to mention some all around fantastic playing.

5. The Doors: Light My Fire: I love the Doors. More accurately, I love Jim Morrison. Enough said.

4. Queen: Hammer to Fall: I honestly think this has some of guitarist Brian May's best work. It's certainly an under-rated song by a band that had so many great ones.

3. U2: With or Without You: What else can be said about this song? It's probably one of the two or three best songs to come out of the 1980s, and it remains just as inspirational and hopeful now as it did then.

2. U2: I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For: I honestly feel that this is the most honest song ever written.

1. Pink Floyd: Another Brick in the Wall Part II: The only Pink Floyd song on the list. It is almost impossible to calculate how much this song, and the album it was a part of ("The Wall") influenced other bands and artists, but to say it was great is an extreme understatement.

In case you noticed it yet, this list still looks incomplete. That's because the single greatest rock song is not on this list. That's because that song is beyond this list. This one is beyond controversy, beyond argument…and beyond belief…

And that song is...

#Queen: Bohemian Rhapsody: NO song has it over this one.

Old Questions

2007-03-09T12:15:00.000+05:30

The Questions
Why do things go wrong?
Why do I still remember?
Why can I not move forward?
Why am I afraid to move back?
Why does it get so difficult to breathe each time I remember you?
Why do my eyes take on a different light When I look at your old photos?
Why does my voice break each time I mention you in passing?
Why are we apart?
Why are we still alive?

The Answer

I can't deny
Never shall try
Someday these arms
Shall chain you again
If to the cosmos
Our love belongs
Then it shall survive
Every death we die
Remember me do
Till you close your eyes
That day swears
To also close mine…

The Loser

2007-03-07T08:06:00.000+05:30

I hear a silver laugh in the pale moonlight. It sings to me of quicksilver emotions, and of quicksand promises.

It asks me if I could desecrate the temple which I built with my own hands. It asks me if I could defile my idol even if it had feet of clay. I had long worshipped at the altar in silent awe, but my bared heart got a hollow reply, a cacophony of broken dreams.

I had but a small wish, like the child who sought the moon. And now on the sands so white, I see writ a single word. And the waves roar along: "Loser..."

I Will Survive

2007-03-01T20:09:00.000+05:30

You can try hurting my sensitivity or violate my personal space. But if try to emasculate the free striding gait of my original thought, I will not just lie back and shriek impotent abuses at my violator.

I have broken through the shackles, leaving behind the placental comforts of familiar domesticity. I will never allow the solitary voice to be lulled into silence by the air polluted by senile worshippers of mediocrity.

This too, shall pass...and I will survive...

Travelling Light

2007-02-27T15:42:00.000+05:30

I travel alone, and I travel light, all the while warbling a sad little tune. No blue skies beckon in the horizon. I know but vaguely my own destination. I had set out bravely, with dreams in my eyes. Now I'm left wondering where the road does end.

My broken down car with my rundown tyres match my threadbare clothes. The tired stars are my only guide, and my silent shadow my only friend. But I know that I have to keep walking till I come to the seashore. I can rest only when my exhausted feet touch the wet sand. And I can be washed away with the dying jellyfish...

Search for Infinity

2007-02-25T09:06:00.000+05:30

I tried to unravel the web that connects my thoughts, tried talking to my self. I tried to reach the innermost recesses of my conscious reality, tried to reach the native throne of every emotion and creativity. And of course, the throne has lost its one-time lustre. And I have been left bereft of all my moorings.

My consciousness starts to slowly dissolve in the vast unknown. The outside world ceases to intrude, and now there is nothing to fall back upon. The positive absence of nothingness. The presence of absence, the presence of non-presence...after all, all contradictions break down in the narrow vastness of infinity.

I Have Recovered my Eyesight

2007-02-23T15:25:00.000+05:30

In the dark of the moonless night, I can see one more deliberate accident. All the smoke from the crowded pyres can barely shroud a murder most foul and imprudent.

As I look closer, I see the human sacrifice being bathed and made ready. With eerie chants, I watch the macabre procession going down the blood-red streets.

I join in intoning the demonic melody. My bloodshot eyes can see nothing peculiar in angels and devils perishing together.

After six sightless months, I have recovered my eyesight. I shall not sleep again.

The Champion Rat

2006-08-31T11:20:00.000+05:30

I crawl on my belly as fast as I can. I'm trying to feed myself with the dust which was stirred by the feet of those who have left me behind in the rat race. I witness dark clouds overwhelm the skies.

The torrential rains wipe away all the footprints and leave me bereft of the grim comfort of following the beaten track. The downpour lasts for what seems a lifetime. But when it clears, I look all around and grin, when I see that rats really can't swim.

Need I repeat that even if you win the rat race, you are still a rat at the end of the game?

I Believe I Must Die

2006-08-28T10:03:00.000+05:30

I believe that I must die. It is important to do that now. There is too much going on. There is too little sleep. There is too little time for myself. There is too little of myself to make time for.

What would be enough to get started would be to first end it all. I shall slit my wrists, but only with a blunt axe. So that my manicured hands can start to look more natural again. I shall bleed ever so slowly, and the muddy mundaneness of my life will be washed away by the vibrancy of my blood.

I shall be remembered by those around me as the bubbling effervescence of depressive reality. I believe that I must die. And I must do as I believe. Only by my death will I assert the vivacity of my chilling existence.

The Coffee Mug

2006-08-25T15:56:00.000+05:30

I saw a new born baby with wild hyenas all around it. I met a young child wailing beside a dead puppy. I saw guns in the hands of the young, and hatred in the hearts of the old.

I heard a hundred children singing and nobody listening. I heard a thousand people starving, and ten thousand laughing. I heard the jester crying in the shadows, and the song of a poet dying in the gutters.

I met one man who was wounded in love,I met another man wearing a bleeding glove. I'll swim to the depths of the deepest lake,where the assassin's face will always be well hidden. The harsh notes of the coffee mug stirring, and I wake to a reality worse than my wildest nightmare.

All I Have to Do is Dream

2006-08-11T15:47:00.000+05:30

I woke up this morning feeling like a real loser. I had a real bad headache, and just didn't want to wake up. Why wake up when dreams are more psychedelic and infinitely sweeter than the technicolour realities of life?

Was it my hangover? Or was I just too tired? My dreams tire me out, since I run a lot in my dreams. Maybe that's because I seem to have a purposeful life in my dreams at least.

The head spins with the effort to out-think my inner demons. Maybe I should just stop bothering, the demons seem to do a better job running my life than I seem to do myself!

White Noise and Black Cross

2006-08-07T12:05:00.000+05:30

Funny how life has a way of taking things away from you when you least expect it. Funnier still, that you never had much in your life to begin with.

Goodbye, see you on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. Only if you manage to break on through to the other side. I want to break free, but more than that, I want to break that self-satisfied smile off your face.

Another black cross to the mirror. White noise is all the mirror has to offer these days. As it is, objects in the mirror are closer than you think.

A Beautiful Day

2006-06-27T12:48:00.000+05:30

Life moves too fast. The month inches closer to an end before I realize, and half of the year is already gone. Where did it go ? The same is true with life. I have lived more than one-third of it already.

Was all of this planned? Or did things just happen to me? Some things were planned, and some just fell in place. I sometimes wonder whether even those turned out the way they did because I planned them well, or because they were meant to be.

I look around me, an unlit cigarette in my hand. A few drops of rain, a small bit of sunlight. Sometimes the weather distracts me from my morbidity. The smell of the wet earth is soothing. It is a beautiful day, the monsoons have come. Will tomorrow be just as beautiful ?

The Onion Patch

2006-06-21T08:42:00.000+05:30

Of all the sad stories that I've ever heard, the saddest is the story of the lonely flower. The lonely flower was a rose that stood next to a patch of plants. An onion patch, to be precise.
The air around the lonely rose was so very strong that it literally took your breath away. Normally that kind of privilege was reserved only for roses. Especially because a rose by any other name was always supposed to smell sweet. Always, that is, unless we are talking about this particular lonely rose.

The lonely little rose cried all day and night because it was oh so lonely. Nobody would ever come and play with this lonely little rose. So all the rose could do was question the wisdom of he who had planted it in that bed next to the onion patch.

If one bad apple can rot a whole barrel, why can't a little rose, no matter how lonely, spread sweetness and light in the air around the onion patch? Is that because badness and sadness are easier to spread than goodness and happiness?

Let's test this out. Come and bring your happy souls near me. Let's see if you can cheer me up or I can spread gloom in your life.

Middle Age

2006-06-12T14:04:00.000+05:30

But how can you live for just what you want? You can't. We are the choices that we have made. I made my bed, and now I lie in it.

The whole emotional tone of any romance depends on it belonging to the lost past. Anything looks rosy when viewed through the amber-tinted glasses of time.

I can weave a spell, and it will be based on that particular knowledge of love and self that comes with middle age. A younger man would have just run off. An older one might not have dared to examine his own self so mercilessly.

The story of my life is about a person who understood, with great sadness but infinite acceptance, that the most important things in life are not always about making yourself happy.

The Blunt Hacksaw Exercise

2006-06-08T10:39:00.000+05:30

Spoken words are beautiful, but they die out in the air like the transient lucency of smoke rings. Who says smoking is harmful? Each time I smoke, I have the primordial creative spark at hand. It also helps measuring my days in cigarette butts.

No less transient but even more transcendental is the beauty of the snowflake. Hold me lightly, and I'll sit pretty. Try and grasp me too hard, and I'll melt in your palm. I'll drip out, fall on the ground and freeze again. But then I'll fly out. On a song and a prayer. Far far away, to a time that outlives eternity.

This is not a place where random expressions of grief are welcome. This is a deliberate exercise in pessimism. As deliberate, as desperate, and as painful as shredding your wrists with a blunt hacksaw. Welcome to my arena...

Desperate Laughter

2006-06-05T11:51:00.000+05:30

Two marijuana joints. Then two beers. Then two more joints. And finally three rum shooters for the road. Totally stoned, totally free. No need to make unnessary polite conversation. Is it unhealthy that this mental state feels normal to me?

What is funny is that everyone tries so desperately to maintain their tenuous grip on sanity. Fortunately, I am a poet, so I am exempt from this pathetic attempt. Everyone knows that I am mad, they all know I am very sad. So they feel bad about it, but do not try to change my state.

When I was young, I was a pessimist. Now that I know better, I know that moments of mirth are but futile interludes in the grand epiphany of despair.

Pale Rider

2006-05-19T08:21:00.000+05:30

I woke up early today, and decided that I wanted some cool air instead of my daily dose of bread and eggs. So I decided to play "stare into the horizon".

I looked, and looked some more. And then I saw a cloud of dust fast approaching me. I looked closer, and I saw a very pale horse. The rider was paler still.

And then I understood that it was death. The lone horseman of the apocalypse who could outrun my mind. As I readied myself for my last journey, the horseman spoke to me:

"Some days just happen to be good. Today just happens to be one of those days."

First Death Anniversary

2006-05-10T08:20:00.000+05:30

It's been a year today that I died. A year of existing only in body, grinning at the grisly memories of my departed spirit. A year in which I have become responsible, dependable, and utterly mundane. A year in which I have continually hated myself for having become only a pale shadow of what I once was.

Is this what togetherness does to people? Or only to people whose existence is defined only by independence and nothing else?

I do not fault her. Neither do I think I would have been happier with anybody else. It is just the fundamental weakness of the premise that a structured mind and an unstructured mind could ever look for the same things.

So I shake the cobwebs off, and ready myself to attend my long-delayed funeral.

True Wisdom

2006-05-04T08:29:00.000+05:30

Some pearls of wisdom from that modern giant of intellectualism: Calvin

I say no to drugs, they just don't listen.
A friend in need is a pest indeed.
The light at the end of the tunnel may be an incoming train.
Life is unsure; always eat your dessert first.
Smile, it makes people wonder what you are thinking.
If you keep your feet firmly on the ground, you'll have trouble putting on your pants.
I love being a writer... what I can't stand is the paperwork.
A printer consists of 3 main parts: the case, the jammed paper tray and the blinking red light.
The guy who invented the first wheel was an idiot. The guy who invented the other three, he was the genius.
The trouble with being punctual is that no one is there to appreciate it.
In a country of free speech, why are there phone bills?
If you tell a man there are 300 billion stars in the universe, he'll believe you. But if you tell him a park bench has just been painted, he has to touch it to be sure.
I had a friend once. Then the rope broke and he got away.
Beat the 5 O'clock rush, leave work at noon!
If you can't convince them, confuse them.
It's not the fall that kills you. It's the sudden stop at the end.
I couldn't repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder.
Never underestimate the power of very stupid people in large groups.

What If?

2006-05-03T08:37:00.000+05:30

What if I had been a cowboy? Would have loved to carry those guns, but I think I prefer travelling by an AC car any day over the dirt and smell of an old horse. What if I had been Superman? Super strength and flight would have been great. But I think I'd look stupid wearing my undies over my trousers.

What if I had been a rockstar? Would have loved the attention and the money. But I'd rather not fry my brains with all the drugs that would have been part and parcel of that life. What if I had been an ancient Greek? Would have loved to have an all-round personality (remember arete?), but I can't visualize myself in a sissy skirt.

What if I had been a god man? Beautiful people would have worshipped me. But I'd have to bear a lot of people around me all the time. I'm too much a loner to love being the object of adoration 24/7. I think I'd rather be myself. At least I have the comfort of familiarity. And as they say, familiarity does breed an attempt!

Three Things

2006-04-26T09:53:00.000+05:30

Three jobs I have had:

Movie critic
Salesman for Smirnoff Vodka
Radio jockey

Three movies I can watch over and over:

The Matrix
The Godfather
The Lord of the Rings (I consider them all as one movie)

Three TV shows I love:

Friends
Star Trek (TOS and TNG only)
Whose Line Is It Anyway?

Three vacations I love:

London
The Andaman Islands
River rafting down the Ganges

Three of my favorite dishes:

Tandoori Raan (at Karim's)
Mum's mutton-pilaw
The wife's marchwangan korma

Three sites I visit daily:

Three places I would rather be right now:

Hogwarts
Phi Phi Islands
Anywhere but here at work

The Road to Excess

2006-04-24T18:10:00.000+05:30

It's OK to be clever. But only over here. Do not try it at home. Or anywhere else. Thinking is only to be performed by carefully trained professionals.

Do not think for yourself. Do not think for your neighbour. Do not ever think for your neighbour's pretty wife or daughter. Safer still, do not think.

The world does not suffer thinkers gladly. Drinkers however are suffered gravely.

Do not blink. Do not take your eyes off the road. The road to excess. Only through the doors of excess can you venture out to open your senses.

Black is my mood. Blue is what I feel. But pink is my favourite colour.

Verbiage Most Verbose

2006-04-21T08:14:00.000+05:30

I saw this rather unusual movie last week, and had the fortune of experiencing the most scintillating piece of cinematic dialogue delivery. I reproduce it (after much searching on the net, I must admit) for your consideration:

"Voila! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and villanous vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V..."

The movie in question "V for Vendetta", the actor who mouths this Hugo Weaving, and the guys who penned this The Wachowski Brothers. The movie manages to combine a strong socio-political message in a compact and highly intense experience. Infused with issues that pervade in the global political climate of our times, this movie belies its trappings as a mere action adventure. The acting, the cinematography, the effects, and the general vision of this film make it all very likely that it will reach cult status...

Grin And Beer It

2006-04-18T11:08:00.000+05:30

The Delhi heat is terrible. It would have been truly unbearable (all puns intended!) had it not been for beer. For example, I spent the whole of last Sunday roaming around an amusement park just because the wife had this sudden, uncontrolable urge to do so. I came back thoroughly dehydrated for my efforts. But soon turned into a brand-new man after downing a couple of chilled beers.

There are good beers, great beers, and fantastic beers. And then there are Indian beers, those of the glycerine-saturated variety. There's Foster's that combines the taste of a lager with the kick of a stout. There's Guinness stout, unfortunately not too easily available in India. This one always reminds me of chocolate; though I don't quite know why. Then there's Kingfisher, probably the only decent beer that comes out of India, and also the first that ever touched these lips.

A few good reasons why I prefer beer to the wife on a lazy Saturday afternoon:

10. A beer doesn't get jealous when you grab another beer.
9. Beer never has a headache.
8. You can have more than one beer in a night and not feel guilty.
7. If you change beers, you don't have to pay alimony.
6. To cool off a beer, all you have to do is put it in the ice box.
5. Its okay to leave a party with a different beer than the one you brought.
4. Beer doesn't care how much you earn.
3. Beer won't complain about your choice of vacation--it goes along happily.
2. You can put all your old beers together in one room and they won't fight.

And number 1. A beer never demands to be taken to an amusement park on a blazing summer day, dammit!

Monday Morning Blues

2006-04-12T09:29:00.000+05:30

"Monday morning blues
You know a prayer will see me through
Monday morning blues
You know I'll make my dreams come true."

Like most people, I do get my share of the monday morning blues. A common affliction for all those whose weekends are filled with action. But unlike most, I know just how to deal with the blues.

I just make sure I wear something blue. That ensures that Monday knows I'm feeling blue. And after having ensured that I've registered my protest, I forget all about it, and get to work!

Do try it. An acceptable alternative would be to listen to blues music all day long while continuing to work!

Things to Do Before You Turn Thirty

2006-04-10T11:54:00.000+05:30

That's it! I've reached there. The significant one, the landmark one. The dreaded three-oh!

Three decades completed, and what have I achieved till date? Time to take stock. I checked out the net, looking for the most sensible list of "things to do before you turn thirty".

And this is what I discovered are my dozen most significant achievements till date:

1) Marry someone in Vegas. Well I did married, does that count? Even though it was in India, not Vegas, it was still the dumbest thing I've done till date.

2) Be an extra on a tv show. I did turn up as part of the audience at a quiz show, and did manage to pick up two prizes by answering questions that the smart ones had missed.

3) Have sex in a public place. Tee, hee...done that too...

4) Go to London and run into the wall at platform nine and three quarters. Did go to London, did run into several platforms, but did not find the train to Hogwarts...

5) Steal something from someone famous. Well I do have a weighing machine that belonged to Sushmita Sen, actor and former Ms Universe. But she gave it to me, I did not have to steal it, so I guess that does not count.

6) Buy a person at an auction. Thank god, I did not have to join the arranged marriage market. That would surely have qualified.

7) Get arrested for something stupid like indecent exposure or disrupting the peace or being drunk and disorderly. Done that...kissed a policeman on New Year's Eve. Got off with a warning though...

8) Fall off a horse. Have fallen off a mule once. And fallen off a bike too many times to count...after having one too many...

9) Use cheesy chat up lines on a stranger. Been there, done it...successful pick-ups 3 out of 5.

10) Be part of a large protest. Was there at the Hyde Park protest against the Iraqi invasion.

11) Cause a fight. Caused several. Enjoyed them all. Tremendously!

12) Have a threesome. Done that too. Both kinds. Too much fun, but too stoned to remember much. Ha ha ha...

The Butterfly Effect

2005-09-22T14:13:00.000+05:30

“Change one thing, change everything” was the catch line of the intriguing movie titled The Butterfly Effect. Can the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas? If you believe the movie, it can. Change one little thing in the past, and it can cause cataclysmic changes in the present.

Moving away from the space-time continuum to more naturalistic flights of fancy, the Butterfly Effect is the meteorological idea that the flapping of a butterfly's wing will create a disturbance that, in the chaotic motion of the atmosphere, will become amplified eventually to change the large scale atmospheric motion, so that the long term behavior becomes impossible to forecast.
The Butterfly Effect, or the more technically accurate term "sensitive dependence on initial conditions", is the essence of the chaos theory. The term first came up in Lorenz’s 1963 paper to the New York Academy of Sciences. Lorenz remarked that if the chaos theory were correct, “…one flap of a seagull's wings would be enough to alter the course of the weather forever.”

Over the course of the next year, the seagull had been transformed to the more romantic and aesthetic butterfly, but that’s a different story altogether…

My Two Cents...

2005-09-03T11:23:00.000+05:30

Being the only child of my parents, I had been to loneliness born. So I made books my friends, and reading my passion. Not that there was too much choice —there was no cable TV, video games, or computers with Internet connections when I was a child.

Having gained a glimpse of the wide world through the wonder of the written word, I tried to snatch from it as much as I could. And snatching was what I did best. Not for me the weakness of asking or the cowardice of stealing.

Whether it was fancy foods or pretty girlfriends, I always had to have the best. Defeating virtual enemies in PC games and real friends in chess, Monopoly or cards – these are a few of my favourite things.

For someone so seemingly in tune with the fast life, my poems are surprisingly nihilistic, furious, and obscure. Maybe my sad little songs are always about the perfect world that seems just beyond the pale.

The Mother of all Music Videos

2005-08-21T15:51:00.000+05:30

Rock music didn't start with them, nor end with them. Though their music was often dismissed as sugary sweet nothings, they sold more records than anybody else. And if you want to know, 40 years later, just what was so special about "Beatlemania", you got to watch the musical romp that goes by the name of A Hard Day's Night.

For all those who suffered through Glitter, Crossroads, Spice or any other of the modern atrocities, this movie is an object lesson in how to make a movie solely for purposes of exploitation, and yet come up with pure genius - one of the smoothest, freshest, funniest films ever. It seems better than it ought to be simply because the lads prove themselves charmingly disarming. Looking and behaving like four errant boys, the four disparate individuals that made up the amorphous group slip nimbly through a script that seems entirely improvised, yet entirely brilliant.

When it opened in late 1964, the Beatles were already a publicity phenomenon, but not yet cultural icons. A Hard Day's Night is smart, irreverent, and doesn't take itself seriously. And it is charged with the personalities of the Beatles. The boys may have had a clone look - matching hair and clothes - but the individuality of their dialogue left one in no doubt which one was John, Paul, George, or Ringo.

The movie is filled with the exhilaration of four geniuses who knew how to have fun while creating pure magic. If I were to pick my three magical moments of the film, the first would be the opening sequence, which shows the Beatles mobbed at a station as they try to board a train. The energy level is just incredible: we can feel the hysteria of the fans and the excitement of the Beatles, and the title song plays in the background. Second is when the boys run like children in an open field, while the magic of Can't Buy Me Love celebrates the notion of doing your own thing.

And finally we have the magic of the concert footage as the Beatles sing She Loves You. As the Beatles perform, they are clearly having a lot of fun. And the fans are all delirious. Some girls scream without pause, some jump up and down, and one tearful young blonde, beside herself with ecstasy, cries out "George!''. All creating a frenzy so passionate that it still, after all these years, has the power to excite. After more than four decades, it has not aged and is not dated: it stands outside its time, its genre and even rock.

The Machines Strike Back

2005-08-14T10:48:00.000+05:30

Why does one eat? To live? To satisfy the taste buds? Or simply to maintain the balance of nature, i.e. retain the input-output balance of the digestive system? As Newton would have loved to put it, what goes in has to come out. In one form or the other. Simple corollary to the rule of gravity, since everything has to find its own level of competence or incompetence. Or incontinence, for that matter.

Coming back to slightly less scatological levels of incoherence, why does the LPG cylinder just have to run empty the day you have unwisely decided to invite people for dinner? That too, when the food is half-cooked, and you no longer have the option of putting it back in the freezer and going out to pick up something from the nearby dhaba? Kismet. Karma. Call it whatever you want.

The fact remains that household appliances can immediately sense whatever you are planning to do, and choose to utilise that very moment in order to assert their importance in your lives. Like the stupid cylinder. Or the bathroom geyser, which conks out whenever you have to get out of the house at unearthly hours of the morning, and need to, like any self-respecting human being, at least wash your face and brush your teeth before going out in public.

Call me schizoid if you feel like, but I insist that vehicles, electronic goods and essentials are all sentient creatures. Capable of acute hearing, and sadistic conspiracy. Don't believe me? Just wait while I tell the tale.Last week, I received a call from an ex-colleague, telling me to come over to the last workplace, and pick up a cheque for leave encashment. The amount? Rs 1700.

I knew I should not have taken the call in front of my TV. The damn thing decided to conk off the very next evening as I came back with the cheque. The problem? A transistor. The solution? Get a new one. The cost? Rs. 1710. There goes the idiot's unexpected windfall, sniggered the idiot box.

Yesterday, my old classmate rang me up to tell me that he could finally return the two thousand bucks he had borrowed from me nine months back. In fact, I had forgotten all about that. Very good, I said, but just to be on the safe side, I went out-of-doors while discussing the whens and wheres of sending the money back.

O how the almighty laughs at the frantic antics of men and mice. I forgot that my bike was parked out-of-doors too. The old pal came over to my place in the morning to return the money. Gloating over the fact that I would now be able to get that cool cardigan I had been eyeing, I was all set to start off for work. When I realised that the damn vehicle just would not start. I took it to the unfriendly neighbourhood mechanic to check it out. The problem? The fuel injector, or some Gobble de Gook like that. The cost of repairs? Rs. 1980.

The Greatest Genius of All Times?

2005-08-06T11:28:00.000+05:30

Sigmund Freud called him the man "who awoke too early in the darkness, while the others were all still asleep". The beginning of the 16th century is the single most significant period of art. It was the time of Michelangelo, Raphael, Holbein, Titan, Correggio and many other famous painters. And yet, the names of all these Renaissance masters pale in front of someone who was not only a superb artist, but also an astronomer, a sculptor, a geologist, a mathematician, a botanist, an animal behaviourist, a musician, an inventor, an engineer, an architect. And probably the greatest visionary of all times.

Clocks, cranes, diving gear, water floats, flying machines, land vehicles, printing press, parachute, robot, lifting jack, water pumps, canals, drills, water craft, bicycle...the list of things sketched by Leonardo Da Vinci several centuries before they were invented by others goes on and on. This guy was actually the man who saw tomorrow. One can never explain the existence of genius, one can but enjoy.

Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code is what brought on this salute to the greatest genius the world has ever known. Nice read by the way, the Catholic church's protests notwithstanding. Aesthetics has nothing to do with either logic or ethics...

Dirty Rags

2005-07-25T19:46:00.000+05:30

The sole reason for a fresher's existence is to provide dedicated service to seniors. And to be the general butt of awfully irritating pranks. The sole reason for a senior's existence is to make life miserable for the freshers. If both the freshers and seniors accept this basic truth of human existence, they can lead a happy and mutually beneficial life.

Heads I win, tails you lose: Tell a fresher to wake you up at a specific time, say 5 a.m. When the innocent fresher comes to wake you up, tell him: "Bugger off... it's too early, wake me up after about 10 mins." Ten minutes later, when the poor soul wakes you up again, tell him to give you another call 10 minutes later. Continue this torturous process till it is nearly 7 a.m. Then rise, and give the fresher hell for waking you up so late!

Candle In The Wind: Pointing towards the bulb, and ask an innocent what it is. He'll reply "A bulb, sir." Then interrupt him angrily and declare: "It's a candle. What is it?" This time he's bound to reply that it is a candle. Then tell him: "If it is a candle, then climb up and put it off by blowing at it."

Flying High: When it has been raining cats and dogs the whole day, call a fresher in the dead of the night and ask him to give an accurate weather report in the best dead-jackal style of the guys on Whose Line is it Anyway. When he tells you that it is raining very hard, tell him that he is lying and insist it is a pleasant windy day. Then ask him to give the weather report again. This time, the terrified soul will say: "It's a nice windy day, folks."Then you say: "If it's such a pleasant windy day, go and enjoy yourself with a kite." And then watch the fun as the innocent tries hard in the middle of a soggy hostel field!

Clean Mouth: Tell two freshers to start abusing each other at the top of their voices. When they start, egg them on, telling them their efforts pale in comparisons to your favourite Bruce Willis character. And when the two have reached the incestous level of abuse, tell them that you are ashamed of being associated with such foul-mouthed vermin. And then make them clean their mouths with shaving cream to depollute themselves!

Fair And Lovely: Call a fresher to your room, and pointing to the shoe polish, ask him what it is. When he replies that it is shoe polish, insist that it is Fair And Lovely cream. Obviously he'll agree with your assertion that it is the fairness cream. Then tell him that you are concerned about his complexion, and offer free use of your "Fair And Lovely". And then sit on his head to make him unable to resist your "generosity"!!

Stinky Pete: This is the really stinking one: get a fresher to wash your stinking undies and socks. But do it delicately. Send a message to the innocent that you want him in your room. When he reaches your room, say that you had never called him, but since he had come, he might as well save himself the mental tension of having come so far, all to no avail, and wash your clothes!

Lap Dance: (Corollary to the previous one): After the poor innocent has finished cleaning your soiled linen, tell him to relax because he had worked so tirelessly. Make him relax under the fan. And then when he has loosened up a bit, look upwards at the fan, and then remark that the loft is too untidy. While he works himself into contortions trying to struggle upwards, tell him not to do such un-elegant dance movements. And then order him to perform a cabaret instead.

All the above are guaranteed to win you lifelong enmity from the grateful juniors. And to be repeated by them on the new innocents next year. As they say: "The king is dead, long live the king."

Nightmares Of The Dream Job

2005-07-13T16:22:00.000+05:30

Why does a perfectly sane and happy teenager grow up into a prematurely senile 25 year old? Is it because human life is so tiring? Or more accurately, professional human life? Does a normal day in the office leave one so enervated, that you don't have the energy to do anything sensible with your life? Like sleeping more than three hours at night?

When I say life tires you out, I do not, repeat do not, refer to the inescapable tragedy of human existence: the fact that the world is a tiresome stage, and that we must all play the parts of ignoble buffoons. What I do refer to is the tiredness of body, not of spirit. You know, the kind that infects every member of the human workforce, per se. Thanks to cranky bosses, nitwit colleagues and moronic subordinates. And most of all, the loooooooooong work hours.

The dotcom world has brought in its wake higher salaries, bigger ulcers and longer work hours. Not because there is more to do, but because there are too many distractions. And no, single-track minds, I am not talking about pretty young colleagues. I am referring to the master of all distractions, the ubiquitous web. The typical workday (as opposed to working day!) starts off with the mother of all duties: the inbox.

By the time one has finished checking all the official and unofficial e-mails, read all the non-jokes, sob stories and meaningless newsletters that form 95% of the incoming mail, it is generally one hour too far gone. And then, of course, one has certain moral obligations, like forwarding all of B's jokes to C and D, and then forwarding all the weepy stories sent by C to B and D, and then forwarding all the chain letters of D to F, G, H, I, J, K, Y, and ZZZZZZZ. After all, if one is responsible for breaking a thousand-year-old chain of letters, one is liable to fall into a manhole or have a Newtonian brick fall onto one's head, as so many chain letters direly predict.

By the time these moral obligations are met, one is too dazed to begin working. One has to go off for a coffee break to clear the mental cobwebs. Once the coffee has taken effect, one is mentally aware again. Aware enough to know that he is feeling hungry, and that its only 15 minutes to lunch break. Too less a time to finish any single task, and hence no point beginning anything.

After stuffing one's face for one hour at lunchtime, the next hour of course goes in recovering from the brutally stupefying assault on one's brain cells. What follows after that is the most terrifying hour of the day: the meeting hour, when everyone in the team tries their darnedest best to justify their places in the team.

When the zombied self has recovered from the terrors of the meeting hour, it's time to hit the panic button. The whole day's work, and only an hour left to do it. And hence the need for the long furious hours, well into the night. And the bleary eyes the next morning, when the brain cells can start working only after it is refreshed by silly jokes in the mail. And so the cruel cycle of life goes on.

Aah... what sublime expressions of frustration! That too at the tender age of 25! Sigh...such a long time ago...

The Brotherhood of the Traveling Underpants

2005-07-05T14:18:00.000+05:30

Now that we have a movie called The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, I guess it's now our holy duty to prepare for the following sequels:

Snow White And Her Seven Pants (animation)
Gone With The Pants (epic)
Only Angels Have Pants (fantasy)
How Green Were My Pants (drama)
Rebel Without a Pant (action - all puns intended)
Who's Afraid of Virginia's Pants? (intense drama with Oscar-winning performances)
Hannah and Her Sisters's Pants (comedy)
Who Framed Roger's Pants? (mystery)
The Silence of the Pants (horror)

Mr. and Mrs. Smith

2005-06-21T10:31:00.000+05:30

Saw the movie over the weekend, and can safely assert that it's got nothing to do with either the old Hitchcock movie or the TV series. In fact, I'd be able to safely say that it's got nothing to do with anything! To build up the title characters as super-competent assassins and then have them spend the next hour shooting at lots of faceless characters is nothing sort of criminal. That too when you have such a dream cast.

Speaking of which, poor Brad gets his ass whipped rather badly by Jolie. For all those who think the man's gorgeous and has screen presence, Troy and this movie are enough evidence to the contrary. If Troy showed that Eric Bana has more screen presence in his beard than Pitt has in his whole body (including his skirted, shaved legs!), Jolie shows what gorgeous charismatic screen presence really is.

If only the director had stuck to a domestic comedy or a straight action movie...oh, by the way, Vaughn is funny, when he doesn't have a Stiller to overshadow him.

Thank You, Harry Potter

2005-06-13T00:01:00.000+05:30

Only a month to go for the publication of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and I'm busy re-reading the earlier 5 books in the series. What's so special about these kiddy books, several of my "grown-up" friends ask. My only reply is "read them if you want to know". Several millions of words have already been written about Rowling's bestsellers, so I'm not going to add any pathetic mini-review to that. Let me talk instead about what we used to read when we were kids.

Enid Blyton used to be staple fare. The Famous Five series, the Secret Seven series, the Find-Outers, the Faraway Tree books, the Circus trilogy...all great stuff for the under-10 age group. The 3 Investigators and the Hardy Boys (Nancy Drew for the girls) were for the 8-13 tweens, with the first named by far the best. Alistair MacLean and Agatha Christie were the natural successors during the teen years.

But by the time we were in our college years, we realized that kids just did not read any more. PC gaming and cable TV were much better company for our younger siblings. And then came the phenomenon called Harry Potter. This is just to thank you J.K. Rowling...a thousand Hosannas to you and your imagination...

Schizophrenia Rules

2005-06-07T12:02:00.000+05:30

I never liked Jim Carrey much: but that was before I saw his Me, Myself and Irene, and could immediately relate to his split-personality life. You ask me "why"? I'll tell you. Try my lifestyle for a week, and you'll know. If six days and seven nights of arnie-itis doesn't kill you, I'll take my hats off to you. My shoes and sweaty socks too, if you want.

It all started on that fateful day, six months back, when my mom, giving me her weekly "You're a grown boy sonny, and you need to start thinking about your future" lecture. The f-word here was 'finance'. "Your dad is going to retire very soon, you know, and we can't afford to support you forever". Blah blah, and so on.

That decided it. That night, as I wiped off the three thousand, seven hundred and ninety-second teardrop from my eye, I made a vow to myself that enough was enough: I would become a man at last. After all, I was fast approaching 23, and it's surely high time I stopped being a boy, and joined the ranks of the men.

I had to stand on my own two feet financially. How long could I go on expecting my poor parents to sponsor my vices? And so, at the tender young age of 22, I had to cut my financial teeth. Get a job, and learn to manage academics and career at the same time. This required learning time management. And resource duplication. Apart from the fact that all these management terms sound double-Dutch to me, the plain and simple fact is that it required a whole sea-change in attitude.

After all, wasn't I the person who had made a virtue of idleness? The guy who planned to make a career out of marrying the only daughter of a multimillionaire? The guy whose simple creed in life was "having a poor father is bad luck, having a poor father-in-law is stupidity"? And here I digress again. But hasn't that been the story of my life? After all, isn't work a digression from the high pursuits of hedonistic vegetation?

I wrote this when I was in my first job...zillions of years ago...