slow news day

I seriously did mean to have written something presumably funny, or have watched the fireworks, but all the thunder and rain put a damper on both. I ended up watching the Daily Show clips on the internet until I was reminded of ways to enjoy chronic flooding...

another one for my pandora's box

Jonathan Rhys-Meyers
Match Point.

SEW: Protest Donkey

"It is difficult for man to understand something if his salary depends on not understanding it"...and thus donkey-labour. Which can lead to asinine situations, to say the least.
photo courtesy: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/5128250.stm
quote courtesy: http://www.climatecrisis.net/

my maa is better than your mom!!

your mom:
She's 40, doesn't look it, sexy, in a motherly kind of way, soft-spoken, and has 12 kids. And her tummy is flatter than a pancake, or a witch’s tit (whichever).
Her idea of good parenting is love, understanding, guilt, spontaneity, and "talking the talk" when the time is right.
She had been wanting to bear a dozen children since her highschool days. Career is “in”, because she is "a today's mom" (and 12 unruly, obnoxious children don't come cheap)... ... but, spends 75% of her time cleaning after her conceited, self-absorbed, needy kids, and feeling guilty about ever wanting to have a career. The rest of the 25%, she continues to love and understand them more.
Her husband is some ugly, old... umm... person, who thinks she’s irresistible, and their love-life is hot, hot.... hotter than the horniest of jackrabbits (hmm... ). The kids throw food around breakfast table, and set the neighbour's house on fire. But, hey, as long as they have each other (and can keep laughing at the neighbour's expense)... it's all good!


my Maaa:
She is this once-pretty, over-weight, middle-aged lady with charm and grace. Her tummy is... umm... always covered with the aanchal of her designer sari. She is a home-maker, and has always dreamt of being one since her elementary school days.
She has two sons. “Chhoto poribaar, shukhi poribaar” (trans. small family is happy family and this is south asia). Her idea of good parenting is telepathy and "a mother's instinct".
She spends 60% of her time sitting and moping over her two sons, 20% of her time fake-frowning at her husband, 10% of her time polishing her baubles stashed away for her future daughter-in-laws, and 35% of her time praying… with a thali (plate) and diya (candle) in hand. No, that didn't sound right. Actually, 120% of her time standing with a thali and diya in hand.
Her husband is "pati parmeshwar", her God. They have a playful, romantic relationship, where romance is "implied hand-holding" when the children are not around. She is loyal and respectful towards him and shuts up when he tells her to.

Strange Encounters on the Web (SEW)

BUDGET FLIGHTS. This is easy – don’t take them. Whatever you do means nothing if you just fly aimlessly around the world. Take the train, boat, whatever, but stop the weekend dashes that cost you less than a meal out. If this is a sacrifice – make it.

A bit Woody in the KJ World

Ever watch Kal Ho Naa Ho? I did, partially. The first hour of it. Didn’t bother with the other two CDs. Anyway, I noticed something which hasn’t quite panned out into any deduction as yet. KJ actually bothered to thicken and inhabit that wall between his perfect botox worlds – those plasti-icky interiors and the gaudy exteriors. And so, the porches received butts, the windows a peek or two, and the streets…well, some disco on taxis. It was as though Woody Allen had moved to Jersey (it is a bizarre world we are talking about, after all!) for a day. On the other hand, KJ overstayed his welcome…and the rest of the time it was all about [to] love…
…is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But, then one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer, to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love, to be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy, therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness… I hope you're getting this down. (W. Allen, Love and Death)

... life is a lemon, and I want my money back!

Two youths, high on life, go on a tumultuous road trip, with an agenda to explore the abundance and vastness of their juvenescence, unmistakably initiating with the carnal. One woman plays the catalyst. A life-altering adolescent episode forces them into adulthood. There are no lifeguards on the shore when the tide finally recedes.
"Jealousy knows more than truth does"... a wise man once said. The “dynamics of three” miserably fail, because we are sensitive and possessive creatures after all. And best friends turn into cordial strangers.
... aaah... Gael!

Alfonso Cuarón's "Y Tu Mamá También”

the Goddess in me is my greatest aphrodisiac…

Worship me for my power, that of creation, and that of destruction, that of generosity, tolerance, kindness and forgiveness, that of beauty and wisdom, and that of rage and cruelty.

I am Aphrodite, Persephone, Minerva, and Bellona. I behold the essence of Kali, Durga, Lakshmi, and Saraswati in my soul… and I am Gaia, the Mother Earth in my being. I tolerate and forgive you for being naïve, greedy and self-absorbed, pamper you with love and kindness, and guide you through the joys and pathos of life... in return of your utmost devotion. And when I am wronged, I can destroy you by taking it all away.

alas! my KJ moment:
Luisa suffers from the classic “Mother Earth” syndrome, wronged by her cheating husband. She desires to acquire the empowering role of the giver, to be worshipped in return. Why justify her actions with a medical condition or a terminal disease? She, like any other woman, is capable to switch over to her goddess self, regardless.
Alfonso Cuarón's "Y Tu Mamá También” (And Your Mother, Too)

the inconvenient truth

...of how i learnt to love the earth [ in time ]

1. Plan an expedition	2. Say your goodbyes
3. Get a jeep	4. And the ladies
5. Take a walk.	6. And the sights
7. And a break	8. Meet the locals
9. ...but carefully	10. End the day with fireworks.
	taubah! taubah!

[e]the_real nothingness, but with something happening.

after the Ether and nihilty (june 19, 2006)_The nonfeeding stage between the larva and adult in the metamorphosis of ...?

SOMETHING VERY FRAGILE AND BEAUTIFUL IS AT RISK!!!

anjali: a_pathetic introvert	rahul: charismatic yet weepy class bully
aman: the sanctimonious sacrifice	tina: the gifted ...ummm...???

the Ether and nihility, part-II

“… and Hoshino grew up too fast. Too rapid growth. Early shedding soon. But the world around us doesn’t allow the precocious among us to shed their skin so easily. A fully developed pupa can only slowly rot…”

The Ether is a world of 'tranquility lost' parallel to the physical and never intersects . Liliphilia, the online fan-club, a pseudo-mythical domain of modern cyber pop culture, eludes to bring the angst-ridden sociopathic adolescents together, only to capture the desolate, dehumanized vacuum they are drowned in. Something very fragile and beautiful is at risk.

The pupae:

yuichi: the apathetic, classic introvert	hoshino: charismatic, over-achieving class bully
tsuda: the innocent sacrifice	kuno: the gifted pianist

the Ether and nihility, part-I

All About Lily Chou-Chou
A Shunji Iwai Film
2002 Japan; Genre: Drama

The 14 year olds:
Yuichi Hasumi, Shusuke Hoshino
Yoko Kuno, Shiori Tsuda

borrowed from a stranger

"... Learn to love the fool in me---the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool. "
Theodore Rubin

History part dos: Bollywood + 1914 = 1962

Sharat Chandra Chattopadhyay's 1914 Bengal is “hard work”. 1962 is rather easy. The 1960s Bengal serves Bollywood the necessary exoticism, glamorous backdrop, and all the spicy masalas for this tender love story of Parineeta to unwind and unfold. 1962 has made 1914’s Parineeta glamorous and sellable.

The photogenic Kolkata (Calcutta), ‘The Paris of the East’, the “city of chaos, kindness and class”, is at its best with wonderful panoramas of the Howrah bridge, the Victoria Memorial with paanipuri stalls, the vibrant city life, snail-paced trams, and eccentric beggars. The avant-garde females play 3-cards, wear seductive sarees, sleeveless/backless blouses, and throw provocative, coy looks at perfect strangers. Songs, songs, and more songs ... for the moulin rouge, the drunken soirée, the risqué cabaret dancer and her redder-than-red pout (1914 was kind of moronic that way). Songs, songs, and more songs ... and love happens! Arteesh hero Shekhar, is in designer-clothes, has a huge-ass piano, a guitar, a cigar, and Elvis soundtracks. The dadd-ee’s girl has a friggin' hinglish accent. Songs, songs, more songs… make the beefy, middle-aged Girish, with receding hairline, dance and prance to Bollywood tunes.

The recipe sells. The sixties does wonders for pocketing that poor rickshaw wala’s hard-earned 5 bucks. On a side note, we must agree to overlook some small shortcomings though… such as, how the famous Tagore song “phuley phuley dholey dholey” was transmogrified beyond recognition into some incongruous medley… a khichuri nobody in 1914 would’ve dared to think of. Or how the garden fountain became a tool for breaking brick walls, rather than just being boring and keeping the birds happy.
P.S. Sharat babu, I sometimes feel they would just leave you alone.

History part uno: 0-1939 is the dark age and I am scared!

Hey! I admit. History was never my forte in school, and I absolutely empathize with the attitude Bollywood has towards “period movies”. I know how plain jane it can be! I get tired of facts and figures, and the lectures are like lullabies to my ears. Now this is my take on history as it went down for the Indian Subcontinent, ranging from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal, and the Hindu Kush mountains to the Andaman sea.

There was the pre-Anno Domini times, when emperors used to stomp around in their territories in garish costumes, living melodramatic, fascist, extravagant lifestyles (Asoka). Or there were peace-loving skin head monks propagating Buddism/Jainism, meditating skinny, hairy Sadhus preaching Hinduism, or white bearded Peers propagating Islam, who came from distant Arab on the back of fishes. (Hmm… we do have a piety hang-up, don’t we?). But, these are mostly based on unverifiable, disputable records, and my wild, exotic imagination helps to fill in the blanks.

Then came the post-1940s, when the subcontinent started breaking apart into smaller countries, tasting independence from the British, through revolutions, riots… and all the while taking shape in my head through colorful, graphical depictions of blood and gore. Remember those wonderful story-telling moments sitting on your grandparents’ laps, right before nappy time? This history is home stretch, on familiar turfs… recorded, verifiable and unquestioned (most might agree).

What happened in-between? Good question. That was a “grey area” when people used to wear depressing monochromatic colors, used banyan leaves for utensils and led way-too-predictable lives. The Moghuls (1450-1650) or the Marathas (1650-1750) are exceptions though, for their influences are far too powerful to ignore and thus get the pre-A.D. treatment in my head. Well, at least I am curious about my past!! I want to learn more. I have told my mother I will become a fashion designer when I grow up, and specialize in the evolution of historical costumes through different dynasties. That will be my homage to history! I am a creative and emotional person you see.

Todo, Shekhar, Todo

How to put a hole in a brick wall, in under five minutes: courtesy “Parineeta” (2005). Directed by Pradeep Sarkar. Executive Producer Vidhu Vinod Chopra. Screenplay by Vidhu Vinod Chopra. Starring Sanjay Dutt, Saif Ali Khan, Diya Mirza, Raima Sen, Vidya Balan, Sabyasachi Chakraborty and Rekha (special appearance).

just live and just breathe...

probabilities against possibilities... essence of randomness against choices. Thoughts ran wild across my mind. It is not possible to choose where or when to be born, neither how or when to die. Our births are random occurrences, and so will be our deaths.
… and nothing can be more precious than life itself. Every life is “priceless”, but we still put price tags on our lives and sit down to count the worth of it. This movie made me breathe a little deeper, and appreciate a little more the gift that life is.

sentimental [his]stories

As with all things, it is natural for us to seek a standard of taste in Period Movies; a rule, by which the various sentiments of viewers may be reconciled; at least, a decision afforded, confirming one, and condemning another. Merchant-Ivory – 10, Asoka (see Api's post of May 18th) – well, maybe 4. Okay, 5.
In defense of the PMs that timidly put “inspired rather than [f]actual portrayal”, the difference, it is said, is very wide between judgment and sentiment. Among a thousand different opinions which different men may entertain of the same subject, there is one, and but one, that is just and true; and the only difficulty is to fix and ascertain it. On the contrary, a thousand different sentiments, excited by the same object, are all right: because no sentiment represents what is really in the object.

"trust in me... just in me..."

I was wasting my sunday evening watching some celebrity-couples show on vh1, when Tom Cruise started gloating over how he proposed to his fiancee on top of the Eiffel Tower.. because he loved her so. And then it suddenly struck me. Is it the smile that makes it so sinister? That over-confident grin, with that unflinching stare, and the dead-pan conviction in his eyes... ... made me wait with bated breath for him to break into a muhahaha laughter any moment.

Once I carried these snakes around my neck for a stage show at a zoo in Singapore. And there was this one snake, a yellow anaconda, which kept darting for my face. I swear it had a smile on its face, and a hypnotic fixed stare. Strangely I wasn't scared (suffocated though, with all that squishing), because I knew exactly what that smile meant. It was the predictability of a one-track mind.

When it comes to the crux of it (political or otherwise), Kaa is still my hero... George Dubya looks far more convincing and believable when he doesn't have that silly smirk on his face. I wish TC would try bungee jumping from the top of some gorge without the chord tied to his feet. One less psycho in the world. I ask you, since when has it become so hip to wear one's heart in one's sleeve? Ok, now I am just rambling on... maybe I should call it a day.... or stop watching vh1.

...but the biscuit is a legend.

and how the cookie crumbles ...

A good lazy afternoon ritual I had, with a brewed good cuppa hot black tea (the real one) and the "petites madeleines" ready to be dipped. And this ‘madeleine’ was rare, almost perfect. The look was pleasing to the eye, the double surface texture intact, ridged versus smooth. The exquisite buttery, lemony treats awaited softening in hot tea, … almost perfect, I thought... ... until I dipped one. The morsel broke off, leaving me fishing about in my teacup for crumbs with a spoon. No fun, this spooning around. The 'crumb factor' ruined my afternoon treat.
Rang de Basanti turned out to be a baking "don't"... a little too parched for my taste. It digressed. The fresh power talents, the energy, the intensity, the fast pacedness, and the wonderful wonderful cinematography woven in powerful diverse background scores, and the promise to stand out.... it had it all. But before it could touch my palate, it became a misshapen blob and immersed into the hot liquid.
A soggy toast this... but I am not giving up. This cookie crumbled, but it still looked scrumptious!!

A new form of desperation

Uh-oh. It feels subversive to distance myself from something, which in the first five minutes embraces me (rather tightly). Yet after those initial moments (rather long and pleasant moments of the first half), I find myself squirming to get a little room from Rang De Basanti – but the struggle leaves me bruised in weird shades of purple. There aren’t many places one can go to, once you have established that there is no place worth going. It is a convenient trap, because then there it is, as if magically the Shangri-la… that place out of the trap. Gratuitous?

gael garcia bernal is swiss

“fruity", "dry" or "clear"? I don't know. All I know is, certain red wines give me a headache every time. I don't have an acquired taste for wine. I argue back, shit is also an acquired taste if you feed yourself enough of it.
I refuse to demonstrate the herd behaviour, yet to my own dismay, would regurgitate some old borrowed, and much re-cycled words every time I take a sip... close my deluded eyes and whisper under my breath, "mmm … simply out of the world!!!"

I prefer the bitterness of dark chocolates though... over caramel cadburys. No fudge, no pink and yellow sprinkles, or crispy crème doughnuts… give me that pure unadulterated bitterness any day... with a tinge of hidden sweetness... that would promise to melt in 3 secs straight.

How I gave up air-conditioning for a day...

If we go along with the whole being trapped in a doll-house thing, then KJ turns out to be a major bully in the nursery. There are other bullies in the nursery as well, and given a chance maybe I desire to do some of the bullying myself, but for now I will present my miserable state through KJ.

Anyway, as I was saying, KJ is that bully kid who gets to play with all the dolls and doesn’t want to share. He only shares hand-me-downs. Maybe once in a while throws one at you to make you run out of the room in tears. Or breaks one of your favourite dolls, by jumping on it till its poor head is crushed and is left there unrecognisable. You see, I think dolls are fragile creatures (no matter if Leo-Mattel says they are made of hardy child-proof plastic), things you dress up and display. They don’t take to rough handling too well. And the more expensive they are, the more specific they become – you know Barbie is not just Barbie anymore – but is Barbie the Nurse-gone-bad, Barbie the AIDS-Charity-bash-Hostess, Barbie the Marathon Runner…there is one Barbie for one role. Lose that Barbie, and you lose the nurse. Unless of course Dad-dee buys you a replacement.

Besides, their walkie-talkie records get scratched and they begin to screech incomprehensibly. The joints in their limbs wear down and instead of marching smartly, or waddling in that cute little way of theirs, they start spinning around like a tap. Their tiny plastic tear sacs get damaged so that they don’t hold water and cry for us to go “awwww”. Playing dolls with KJ, you end up with plastic forms devoid of the fake emotions they once engaged us with, the programmed spontaneity they once entertained us with. And suddenly the nursery feels like The Land of the Dead.

Which in itself can be a whole lot of fun, if you forget the air-conditioned nursery. It is true it can be a bhatti (oven) and that the sand between your fingers and toes can get itchy, but all in all at least there aren’t any bullies (apparently they don’t like the heat very much). Only puppets…at first, I don’t really know what to do, because here I thought all they were good for were as ethnic curios one got from Gurjari. Besides they are all just hanging there, staring blankly back at me. (Which is actually kind of freaky). Used to dolls getting damaged and hence worthless, I am hesitant to do anything. Then I realize that in fact, these puppets have limp arms, and no legs to begin with, so how bad can it get? With no fancy joints, but just a couple of strings that made a mockery of movement, I could mock movement. And as long as I hold up the strings, the puppet stands, kneels, sits, sleeps, faints, bows, dances…this is fun! I can poke pins in it, and I can choose if it yelps or gets tickled. And if I get tired, it gets tired. The point is, in this land of the dead, staring-back-in your-face-limp-ungadgeted toy everything is waiting to be alive again. Nothing gets worn out, except your fingers. Nothing gets scratched except your throat. And nothing gets replaced besides ideas.

When Mum calls me in for dinner, I tell Amol Palekar of what a grand old time I had in his sun scorched playground. Of course I don’t take to heat very well (who does?), and thank goodness for air conditioners, but for now, that cool comfort has just lost its appeal ever so slightly.

(ps: by the way, if you are in search for other fun times, sans bullies, Jiri Trnka, the Brothers Quay, Kihachiro Kawamoto and Garri Bardin are a whole lot of fun. Dad-dee may have to buy the plane tickets to the Czech Republic, England, Japan or Russia, but the trip is definitely worth it).

How golden is black?

Imagine the deepest crevice of the Pacific… where no spec of light ever reaches, and the sound, taste or smell is unfamiliar, incomprehensible and/or nonexistent to our natural senses. ‘Pitch’ does not even come close to describing this black, because it has joined hands with the unknown and the silent. Imagination becomes a foe when two of the five friendly senses cease to cooperate. And our lonely sixth sense has no other choice but to surrender to the only plausible and possible impulse that is fear.

I admit I could not sit through more than 15 minutes of this (highly) “critically-acclaimed”, “one-of-a-kind”, a “milestone” of a movie called Black. It made me wonder about the meaning of black and its affinity to silence (or the lack of it, in this case). How silent is silence in the world of a child who cannot see, hear or speak? How comfortable is silence to a child whose sight and hearing have abandoned him? Or how friendly or fearful is silence for a child to whom the mystery of language has not been revealed? Tragically, this movie outright refuses to acknowledge the omnipresence of silence that engulfs the subject matter.

Based loosely (or rather set tightly) on the life of Helen Keller, here is a child burdened with triple disabilities of blindness, deafness and a severe speech impediment. The all-knowing, ever-perceptive teacher (played by the demi-God of Indian movie history, AB Baby “the one who does no wrong”) takes the child under his wing as an experimentation to his methodical teaching.

The initial 15 minutes of high volume noise pollution was incurred by 15 minutes of high intensity melodrama and verbal diarrhoea between characters at play. I was amazed at the lack of logic behind all the rage, impatience and frustration of the teacher. His infuriated tirade at the child is often associated with vigorous shaking of the child out of her wits (borderline physical abuse?) as he lectures her on the virtues of table manners. The poor kid cannot even hear! (For the ignorant newbie to this genre, “high level of shrieking and noise-making is imperative for “BOND”-ing between characters in “desi” movies.)

While the rest of the audience ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ at the teacher’s dedication, and supposed wisdom, I tweedle my thumbs some more, and wonder if the intention behind all that noise and violence is highly noble. Did the director underestimate viewers’ intelligence to grasp the context, and thus felt the need to spell it all out (a raw insult not to be taken kindly)? Or has silence become a moot point (‘moo’ to some, ‘mute’ to others) in conversations and has lost its golden glory? I dearly hope it’s the first.
Admirably Black is true to its nature... hue and saturation… in the desolation, austerity, and skepticism of the affluent bourgeois family of the Victorian era… or in the monochromatic language of cinematography… beautiful, yet sombre. Yet there is more to blackness than the director wanted us to believe. One needs to fathom both the beauty and the dread of silence that encapsulates black, and understand how to connect with silence and make it less fearful.

Pleased with my analysis, I get up and turn the TV off to find solace in the darkness of the screen and the sudden quietness it ensured. Yes, black and silence can be synonymous. So, here’s a riddle… if black is silent, and silence is golden, then how golden is Black?

My voodoo doll is passive-aggressive

while still on the subject (May 19 post by toski), guess who's the biggest, most revered passive- aggressor in the history of all passive- aggressors in subcontinental celluloid and literature? It's our very own Devdaas, hands down.
Look at 1900, Bengali literature... ... Manipulative, egotistical, vindictive, cowering, spineless males confronted by their strong, aggressive, conscientious, down-to-earth female counterparts. Think of the females, a Mejodidi (Sharatchandra), a Shorbojoya (panther panchali, Bibhutibhushan), a Charulata (Tagore) or a Binodini (Chokher Bali, Tagore), only to name a few... take stands, put their feet down for love, for dignity, for whatever, even at the risk of losing their all and becoming an outright pariah. These apparent emotional wrecks, have evidently shown far more integrity, emotionally or otherwise.
Fast forward to the 21st century celluloid..... All the glory of modernization / westernization couldn't do much for the spines of our subcontinental males. The hapless hero still wins the love, sympathy & applause of the audience. He is a true successor of Devdaas. Example, Dilwale Dulhania..., KKKK (do you really care what that stands for?), or Kuch kuch... (only to name a few). Seriously, how can you resist those big, teary, sad, beaten-down puppy eyes??? He makes big empty promises, gets beaten up black and blue, exploits the dadima, emotionally blackmails the teen sister-in-law, sits at your feet with a lovelorn, dazed look, and keeps clawing at your leg so you'd give him some more doggie biscuits. And the girl/or her family eventually goes "enough!! You will get what you want ... now stop crying !!" And once again, it's the victory of "True Love", a la manipulation & passive-aggression!!!
all I can say is .... get over it people, its been over 100 years... !!! And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go to my bedroom, and stick another needle up my doll's behind.

We are like that only. Is that okay, ji?

Bashing Bollywood is rather easy – Karan Johar films, even more so. Because logic…not of much importance here. Sab kuchh idea mein hai. [It is all in the idea]. That itself is not such a bad idea, I suppose. In many ways this genre is indicative of what is good and bad about super-duper hits. It is masturbatory, nearly apolitical, only barely satirical, and without larger purpose. What it is not is clever, talented, witty, critical, and wide-ranging in its targets and techniques.

Or so I thought. Much like Dubya (George W.), it is easy to dismiss the apparently illogical. It turns out that there’s logic alright, and it is not obscure, eclectic or dumb (yes, there is such a thing as dumb logic). Insiduous, yes… motivated with an agenda – oooooh.

Take KJ’s breakthrough film KKHH (Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai – trans. Something, Something is happening). On the face of it, a rather soul-crushingly sickening (saccharine-wise), but fairly elaborately composed melodrama on everlasting friendships (I didn’t say that, KJ did – he seems to love to summarize his films before we settle down in our seats with a grandiose “It’s all about…” – feel free to fill in with parents, love, friendship, traditions – yup, those will all work. Come rain, come hail, my love (friendly-like) for you will never fail. It may express itself through jealousy, lust, possessiveness; but itwon’t fail. No, but that apart, my point is that I don’t have any bones to pick here. If KJ wants to create some bizarre, obsessive, static love between his protagonists, fine by me. Seriously. Hey, I even thought the title song was well composed; very well composed – visually and spatially exploring the inherent ambiguity in symmetry brought on by three[some!!!], compared to two . Like I said, very interesting, compositionally… but I digress…

Anyway, back to where the bone is, then. I am gob-smacked over how manipulative True Love [TL] has to be – I mean whether in the guise of a [insanely] prosperous, pouty widower, an eight year old cherub, or a dead mum who even in her last moments is making jokes about her [pouty] husband’s looks – TL basically deploys out and out guerilla tactics in its warfare. Ingenious, but quite disturbing. But TL is no Che. As the protagonist, TL is a kewpie doll. [S]He's cute and cuddly, and quick to back down. [S]He laces actions with some self-deprecation, so you know [s]he's a "regular joe-shmoe," and above all, [s]he makes no enemies. [S]He doesn't take shots, lobs weak spitballs and then cowers under diffidence. It's easy to like TL because [s]he's toothless. Hmmmm, vaguely familiar….

That wouldn't be such a problem, perhaps, if the rest of the recurring characters weren't so damned happy with themselves for being smart and what was the operative word…aaahh-yes, “coo-ool”. It's always the same shtick: find some really stupid person, place, or thing out there in the world – like the caricatures of, first, nostalgia, that Johnny Lever’s character was made into, of progressive piety that was the grandmum or a frustrated spinster that was the teacher -- and pose situational questions implying, "When did you first know that you were insane?" while never breaking the ‘comedic’ delivery. Though the targets don't respond to the irony that's all too obvious, we get to laugh the laugh of the insider.

It's a tough challenge, to make a living of polite. So, I understand when films like KKHH make the choice to keep their work as light as a soufflé. It's just that at some point, as you chuckle your way through the yummy appetizers, you have to start wondering what you might have tasted, and if you ever got served the main course.

"... and when he was bad, he was horrid... "

July 2002... the last time I learnt something new, when my now-ex, very matter of factly told me “there are 15 shades of grey between the black and white polarities of human personality” (Till now I have succeeded figuring out only 7). Absolute "black & white", "right & wrong", "good & evil" don’t exist. These are clever myths my mother invented to punish me with while I was growing up. It was easy you see. Who has the patience to appease an 8-year-old’s constant “whys” and “hows”?
Eons later, once again I subject myself to the same idiosyncrasies watching a period movie called Asoka. And once again, I witness the same impatience. The director, without my consent, force-fed me what I have already learnt (and later rejected) in my high school of unoriginal thoughts. The Absolute saintly Asoka, and his Absolute devilish counterpart, the Bad Asoka. No wait, since he is the hero we all are supposed to empathize with, he is “the weird, psycho guy, driven by love and betrayal”.
Trouble is, I was eager to feast on an intriguing, hardcore historical documentation on the most remarkable, eccentric, and most powerful emperor of India, Asoka, with all his predatory foreign policies, and puritanical streaks. But, instead, I got stuck with the journey of dharm-asoka to psycho-asoka and back and forth… all for his love for this woman (And, she is not even real!). Well, who again has the time and patience to study the grey shades of human nature and understand what drives them on? It’s the absolut vodka, which when prepared, has nothing absolute about it. Pick a flavor, stir and strain into a chilled champagne glass, top up with apple peel garnish, and serve in style… … whatever looks and feels good, by ongoing trend. And thus, all through out the movie, our hero skips and jumps from absolute psychodom to absolute sainthood … flirting with our moral faculties... and something inside me dies a natural death.

ahem...obviously,

What is at stake is the definition of the truly ‘Indian’, as also the exaltation of ‘our’ culture. From this perspective, Indian culture is seen as best mirrored in the past: in our monumental architecture, our ancient scriptures, our performing arts, our textiles. The emphasis is clearly on a ‘high’ culture, which claimed unbroken continuity with the pre-colonial past. For different reasons, then, expressions are marked by embarrassed negotiation or unduly celebratory approaches to Indian culture. These approaches to culture may not be equipped to deal with the extraordinary transformations and political mobilizations that continually take place. Yet, these changes are ‘cultural’ changes, in the sense that culture refers to ways of life, and more than ever, ways of struggle.

packaged curry anyone...?

...with mint leaves for "mukhvas" neatly packaged on the side.
so, I am watching the Daily Show this evening, like most evenings, and it hits me.
What we are getting is a tv dinner of pani puri. Not that there is anyhting wrong with that - after all, there is the puri, and the pani, and the chana, potatoes, moong - and if lucky, a bit of the masala. Any random mix will do for now....like I said before, neatly packaged and looking very beau-ti-ful. No more debates on whether Calcutta has the best golgappa, or Delhi or Bombay, or (I have to throw this in!) Teen Darwaza. I crave pani puri, and I get pani puri. Besides, by now it has got to a desperation that the idea of eating it will do - in fact with a bit of imagination, I can create the backdrop right from my couch. With a smoke machine. Issue settled, no?

Adopted children make good pets

because they are loyal, full of gratitude, shock-proof (once the initial 2 secs revelation is over), and constantly guilt-ridden.
Reveal their true identity only when they choose to marry the girl you don't approve of. Whoever told you adoption was a risky bargain for wealthy, aristocratic, stiff upper-lipped, "desi" families like yours was totally insane. Afterall, you have given him love, food and shelter. Drive your son to the verge of abusing prescription drugs by admonishing him how his ultra-english upbringing was not good enough to turn his blood to the perfect shade of blue you wanted. Hereditary.. schmereditary. He will come around... because he is, after all, the most grateful and loyal of all creatures.

Give me more...

...because I am going to throw up afterwards anyway. No harm done - diet still on.

'We haven't changed - it's the West's attitude that has changed,' is the loud declaration about the sudden interest in Bollywood, a term we personally find derogatory, as if Indian cinema only existed in terms of its powerful Western cousin. 'We have our own identity,' we insist, 'which we're keen to hold on to.' Even if it chokes us. What a sacrifice! - Remember to add that ai-taim in the upcoming film...and remember to consume miles of celluloid to stretch that choking.

In fact, damn restraint altogether...have 10 different storylines (WOW!) to the one or two in a Hollywood movie - and make it demanding for an actor with action, come-edy, dance and song (never forget the singing and dancing)...every time we have tried to make something smart and too intelligent that has no link with our kal-chur of excess, it has failed. Better to have people vigorously dancing on taxis singing "Its Time to Disco". On with the inane, or insane. Take your pick.

Scripts are not considered that important... with a tradition of making it up as they go along - improvisations…it is being cooked - to a curry. Everything is curry anyway - chicken, mutton, phiss. Extraordinarily, impossibly rich Boy meets girl from slums, which are also not that bad [looking]. They fall in love, and the girl gets a world tour, first class (sadly, no free drinks) - perm between Delhi campus, British shopping centre, Australian beach, Rajah's palace, Swiss Alps, Egyptian pyramids and Scottish mansion. The more mountains the better. Boy’s family – oh, no - the father – objects to girl. Boy wants to dump girl, because is scared of Dadd-ee. But lo! Girl is suddenly all alone! Boy takes pity – how noble. What loving going on. Then is nap time. One wakes up to find The Big Wedding Number, which is a must. If one can fit in happy villagers celebrating the harvest so much the better.
So there we are, after much ogling at good looking boy, girl, even dadd-ee – an empty stomach. Like I said, diet still very much on.

this is for us...

... the movie lovers and the dreamers.
... all the needy, clingy, hormonal sugar-cravers with their secret stash of tissues and tubs of vanilla in the freezer...
... all the bettys, archies and veronica-wanna-bes alongwith their good-old riverdale high...
... yes, i know. You need a shoulder to cry-on because you need love, and wish you had dealt with all your childhood issues already. Or yes, you didn't get that girl in highschool because you had serious self-esteem issues, and a bad acne break-out didn't help much.
... don't we all.
Name one person who doesn't have a secret dream to flaunt his new GAP hoodie (PRADA who?) and turn heads in that sleek chic red thunderbird (environment-friendly doors a must-have) on the first day of college (coed) ... come to think of it, I literally had that fantasy when I was 14.
... yes, we would all love to settle abroad... london, america, italy, who cares... as long as it is somewhere in the west, because .... well, don't tell anyone, but we are all kind of secretly fascinated with the idea of living in the west. But, offcourse, we love our countries to death, I mean don't get me wrong!
... yes, this website is a tribute to all of us who love karan johar movies, because he is one of us, and we all think he is the best thing that had ever happened next to frozen pizzas.

adoration of the KJ

MAY POSTS:
this is for us...
Give me more...
Adopted children make good pets
packaged curry anyone...?
ahem...obviously,
"... and when he was bad, he was horrid... "
We are like that only. Is that okay, ji?
My voodoo doll is passive-aggressive
How golden is black?
How I gave up air-conditioning for a day...

daily allowances

Centennial Celebrations!!! sep 11
Return Flight sep 07
k&-'mit-m&nt sep 06
"How was your flight?" sep 03
bla sequence launched aug 30
pointlessly poignant aug 19
more chu-ha stories aug 12
oh those firemen... aug 12
buying culture by the yard-2 aug 11
one of those days... no point to make aug 09
still a slow news day... aug 08
by the way... aug 08
Me-times and Me-spaces aug 06
So, do you want some coffee? aug 04
heat, sweat and sea breeze aug 03
Traces of subtlety? aug 02


Impaired Vision jul 30
When the inexhaustible got exhausted jul 28
An_other coffee place jul 27
s[L]ight seeing jul 26
Time Off jul 25
my whacky God, where are you? jul 25
Won't you miss me/won't you miss me at all... jul 21
umm... jul 20
noooo.... jul 15
Allez! Allez!...crap, slow news day jul 14
buying culture by the yard jul 07
slow news day jul 04
another one for my pandora's box jul 04
SEW: Protest Donkey jul 02
Strange Encounters on the Web (SEW) jun 30
borrowed from a stranger jun 16
"trust in me... just in me..." jun 05
...but the biscuit is a legend. jun 03
A new form of desperation jun 02
gael garcia bernal is swiss may 31

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