This blog won’t be seeing any updates in the next 10 days. Kindly revisit the old posts if you absolutely want to spend your time here.

While I promise to be back with new posts thereafter, don’t be surprised if the promise is unkept. If there are no posts by the 15th day, then assume that there’s trouble.

However, I hope that things will go as planned. Hoping to return soon.

Sitting on the desolation row,
I looked at the captain’s tower.
Pound and Eliot were not seen,
perhaps gone home having got tired.

The poisonous words were still floating around,
the lover boy done in by them.
Cinderella was sweeping the shining floor
shedding a tear at the pumpkin rotten.

The forces were out there lying in wait,
keeping a tight watch over the bait.
For they knew what it was like
to be on the desolation row.

The Waste Land shimmered
far in the east beneath the setting sun.
The Gatsby’s party had begun
as the lights came on.

Dark it was still on the row though,
the blind Romeo still searching for her,
at the wrong time in the wrong place
with a terribly wronged face.

The man with a little moustache and
the man with little hair
were conspiring against men
of better hair and moustaches.

They talked of speeches and marches,
the centres had come up they agreed,
time to barge in through
the fences and the arches.

The voice was still speaking
from the altar heard by none
for in the madness around,
nobody heard the ancient sound.

‘Can I have a light?’ asked Munro,
wearing a soiled trench coat.
As I fumbled trying to save him,
he went away, ‘Never mind’.

Einstein was long gone,
Newton locked up in prison,
Holmes had lost his touch,
doing time in the desolation row.

I heard the wheels on the streets
they had arrived clattering.
Dickian agents poured out
armed with flushed minds holding sparkling wines.

The power of love sang somebody
as the clock chimed and went on,
they put out their cigars
and brought out their guns.

I blinked and sighed and closed my eyes,
in a moment of panic when
they put a bullet in my brain,
I found I’d been shot on the desolation row.

I got tagged by Kalafudra. Time to play Smart Alec.

1. Last movie you saw in a theater?

Ironman.

2. What book are you reading?

100 Great Science Fiction Short Short Stories edited by Isaac Asimov, Martin Greenberg and Joseph D. Olander.

3. Favorite board game?

Played only one so far - Monopoly. But that’s no reason to put it down as a favorite.

4. Favorite magazine?

Tehelka would be it I guess. I’ve gone through only two editions so far but they had material enough to impress me. If The Illustrated Weekly of India had been in print, it would have been the sure first choice.

5. Favorite smells?

I can’t smell anything despite having a big nose. It’s more interested in poking itself into others’ affairs.

6. Favorite sounds?

Raindrops. The continuous rhythm reminds me of a black and white television set with mad pixels jostling with each other when the transmission fails.

7. Worst feeling in the world?

I guess there are worse than what I feel.

8. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?

I wake up completely blank.

9. Favorite fast food place?

Fast food is not a favorite. So, no place qualifies.

10. Future child’s name?

Yossarian. But there’s a big if to that.

11. Finish this statement. “If I had lot of money I’d….?

‘nt be answering stupid questions such as these.

12. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?

I’ve no sleeping partners… animals or humans, stuffed or otherwise.

13. Storms - cool or scary?

Coolly scary.

14. Favorite drink?

Water.

15. Finish this statement, “If I had the time I would….”?

never wonder what I’d do if I had more time.

16. Do you eat the stems on broccoli?

Yes. Cooked.

17. If you could dye your hair any color, what would be your choice?

I can’t dye my hair any colour.

18. Name all the different cities/towns you’ve lived in?

They’ve all already been named.

19. Favorite sports to watch?

I prefer playing to watching.

20. One nice thing about the person who sent this to you?

Belief in fantasy.

21. What’s under your bed?

Is something supposed to be there?

22. Would you like to be born as yourself again?

No. History is the only thing that can afford to be repeated. Other things if repeated would throw everything into confusion. Moreover, I’d be having deja vu all the time.

23. Morning person, or night owl?

Person always, be it morning, noon or night.

24. Over easy, or sunny side up?

Err… what?

25. Favorite place to relax?

Anytime, anywhere.

26. Favorite pie?

Never had one.

27. Favorite ice cream flavor?

Anything goes.

28. Of all the people you tagged this to, who’s most likely to respond first?

None, considering I’ven’t tagged anyone.

As we were nearing the head of the line, I could make out two burly guards frisking others ahead of us.

‘Aww…. not here too. They have begun to search for terrorists everywhere. That’s so frustrating.’

‘I’m more worried about other things.’

‘What other things?’

‘What if those guards are gay?’

‘What?’

‘…taking pleasure in running their hands over us, feeling with their bare fingers our covered bodies…’

‘Stop, stop!’

‘It could be true in more places than you’d like to believe. The stats prove it.’

‘Shit! Let’s get out of here.’

‘To where? They are present everywhere. No matter how many places you change, you got to stand in a line somewhere and they’ll get you… barbers, cloth store assistants, tailors, masseurs, swimming coaches. You can’t escape.’

‘Fuck!’

And I reached the guards, was felt all over and let go. I wore a terribly wronged look, my mind still outraged over the vilification of my person.

‘Relax! They were not gay.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I study their faces… all the time, at every single frisking point. The straight ones detest it as much as we do. There’s this look of pain and shame on their faces even if they are just doing their job. The un-straight ones have that sly smile, take a malicious pleasure in going about doing their duty. This guy looked like he’d burst to tears. He still can’t come to terms with his life… making a living out of feeling men for 10 hours a day. It’s a shame.’

‘Is there no way to escape?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘We are doomed.’

‘Not everyone. Their counterparts are in the line too, eagerly waiting to be … ‘

Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro is arguably the best movie ever made in the Hindi film industry in the bildungsroman genre. When it comes to presenting the moral degradation and the eventual redemption of an ordinary on-the-street person, this movie is a sure winner. It reminded me vaguely of Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay.

Saeed Mirza has cast Pavan Malhotra as the lead in Salim Langde Pe… as the protagonist and Malhotra not only justifies his selection for the role but also provides an insight into the reason for his being largely unseen in mainstream cinema. He is an actor who manages to get into the skin of the character he plays and so would rightfully be a miscast playing the unbelievable characters in the disappointing movies made now a days. That he played Tiger Memon in Black Friday is perhaps only a vindication of his brilliant acting skills that are not meant to be displayed to all and sundry.

Salim Langde Pe… traces the life of a small time loafer Salim Langda who comes from a lower middle class family in a poorer section of Mumbai. Salim has ambitions of becoming rich, preferring the shortest way up. He takes to petty crimes and thuggery, spending his days as a carefree goonda who is often exploited by the local mafia. Having lost his brother in an accident, he often feels neglected by his parents and sees himself as the blacksheep of the family. He is also a religious bigot but that is more due to his ignorance and blind faith in the inciters of communal tension than his own beliefs. This changes when he sees a short film on the communal riots that sweep the city some time in the past. After coming into contact with his would-be brother in law, he begins to see things in a different perspective. His perception of things is transformed and he stands up firmly against what he used to believe in earlier. Taking the responsibility for his sister’s marriage after his father is sacked from his job and fails to find another, Salim finds a job and decides to lead an honest life. Uneducated and unskilled Salim gets a job in a garage and declares in almost a comic manner his desire for becoming the second best mechanic in the world next only to his employer.

The title of the movie is only apt as it forbids the viewer to cry over Salim, a man who has been redeemed having found out the real purpose of his life, and so is not a subject of pity but admiration. Salim deserves respect, not sympathy. There is one scene which could perhaps highlight the whole theme of the movie - Salim goes to meet his future brother in law and tells him that he has begun to see light; then he runs out onto the street and shouts out his name into the night expressing his desire to lead a respectable life. And thus Salim becomes a new man, shedding his ragamuffin image for good, his redemption complete.

The movie features some brilliant acting by Rajendra Gupta as the future brother in law of Salim, Sudhir Pandey as a local crime lord, Makrand Deshpandey as Salim’s right hand man, Ashutosh Gowarikar as Salim’s protege, Neelima Azim as his love interest, Ajit Vachhani as a tea shop owner and Vikram Gokhale as the weary father. It also features a rare dance sequence by Pavan Malhotra, Makrand Deshpandey and Ashutosh Gowarikar. One hears the famous Hawa Hawa song and a couple of stirring ghazals in the movie which only makes things more interesting. Sharang Dev’s music has a longing in it, a haunting gut wrenching feel and a melancholy undertone. There are some powerful scores running throughout the movie. I wish the soundtrack of the movie was available too.

It’s sad to see Saeed Akhtar Mirza not being as active in the film industry as one would like him to be. NFDC which used to produce brilliant movies as these, is in a sorry state of affairs itself. I managed to get this DVD after a lot of searching. If this movie was to be re-released in theatres, I’m sure it’d run to full houses. There is now a trend of looking back into the past and a bunch of successful re-releases such as these would only work to restore and regain the faith of viewers in Hindi cinema.

Watching this movie requires a lot of courage and an unfeeling heart. And one can’t stop thinking about it till long after. Salim Langde Pe… proves that inspite of the crap churned out year after year, niche movies can still rule hearts. The only thing that this National Awardee would be ruing is that it has to share its place of pride among some not so deserving ones. This movie doesn’t lecture one about national integration and religious tolerance rather brings out issues such as these through the events in Salim’s life. This has to be the strongest point of the movie as audiences rarely want to be lectured to. Salim’s journey takes one into dark streets and blind alleys, but it also delivers the promised neverland amid all the murkiness. Just remember, Salim langde pe mat ro.

The Dude and Mr. Quiet were having a conversation about an author and her works. They were in amicable disagreement. I wanted to shout out to them, tell how both of them were wrong. But I hadn’t been invited to it. I sighed and bent down to stare at the monitor at my desk.

The Dude had once asked me about a particular book. Having not read it, I told him that I was ill equipped to comment on it. He had gone back disappointed.

When I didn’t know the answer, I was asked the question; when I had the answer ready, no one even bothered to ask. That’s the irony of life.

Watching Ghostworld sparked off a flood of emotions on an uneventful dusky evening while I lay on that blood red bean bag pitying the world and mocking myself.

Mohammad Rafi made the pathetic coagulated hours flow more freely. I wasn’t surprised for he has always managed to do that with an amazing consistency over the years; but certainly that was the last place I had hoped to bump into him.

The movie Ghostworld itself was a coming home of sorts, reliving the past life and awaiting the doomed future that’s in wait. The relatable movie and the groovy track though managed to bring me back from the dark reverie and land me on the shores of sanity. Thora Birch has given a performance of a lifetime and Scarlett Johansson hasn’t portrayed a more life like character (with the exception of Lost in Translation of course). Steve Buscemi is his usual eccentric and lovable self.

I bet one can’t help falling in love with ‘Skip’ James‘ Devil got my woman song.

Watch the gyrating opening credits here.

‘… and a pinch of red hot chilli peppers. That should provide the sting. It looks like a Queen’s meal now. I wonder if the Prince is going to like it. He’s been in Fool’s Garden ever since Frankie went to Hollywood. Before that, he used to visit Linkin Park.

The cold play and the cheesy radiohead I’ve never liked but then in Dave Mathew’s band, everyone is a killer. Even a scorpion ain’t as afraid of an eagle as the gorillaz are of cranberries. The beatles are gratefully dead shrouded in covers of deep purple. They had been modern talking but fell soon into a slipknot shot by sex pistols over the rage against the machine.

I need to call the carpenters. The doors are always open, rolling like stones, I wonder for who. Of course, Simon and Garfunkel used to come when Michael was still learning to rock. His rapid eye movement used to leave me in a state of greenday. God!

The back street boys being in a boyzone have become unruly lately. I need to talk to the foo fighters of Aerosmith about them. I’m in dire straits now but being in excess had never been my kind of living. When they got the death cab for Cutie, I mourned like the poets of the fall. And now, I only wait for nirvana.’

I bunked office yesterday. There was no particular reason to do so, but there was no reason not to do it either.

I guess I was just tired of the everyday ritual. I needed a break. Routine makes one a zombie. All the windows of thought are locked, power of reasoning shut out. The comfort of a routined life can be stifling at times, to the extent of despair.

I finished a book, started another; watched a movie, saw another. It was different.

As the day passed on, I felt nostalgic. I felt like I’d in my school days. I thought of my friends who were at school having fun, talking to each other, getting punished by the teachers, jostling each other during the assembly, sustaining bruises while playing in the field, copying the lessons from another’s notebook, returning home walking together. I felt left out. Escape from punishment never had been reason enough the bunk classes after the first couple of times. I wanted to be at school even when I was sick. I felt exactly like that yesterday. I think I won’t bunk work for a long time to come.

A Map of the World is Jane Hamilton’s second work I believe. Reading it made me feel sorry for being a human, for being able to reason, for being susceptible to emotions. The emotional impact that the book led me to hurts badly, still makes me shudder. The realisation that seemingly inconsequential moments can alter lives forever makes it dreadful. Once this awareness creeps in, all goes downhill from there. The tone is comparable to Atonement the story of which took place in a different time, at a different place.

The search for authenticity in everyday life takes its toll, the burden grows through daily unseen struggles which eventually tire one out. The paradox of a married life, the ambiguous loyalties and the cruel definition of love can make one fall apart.

Being alone at home after a long time, I had this terrible urge to do it. I refrained. Instead I asked someone else to take refuge in writing about it. It helps. Sometimes.

While watching the epic western, Once Upon a Time in the West, I wondered how Sergio Leone ever thought of taking so wide an angle so as to sweep the entire landscape with minimum effort and still managed to bring out the rawness through intensely shot close ups.

Life needs to be seen in an unbroken spell of minute closeup, the only problem being the lack of a live camera.

I wish the seconds would linger
keeping the rest waiting;
I hope the coming would go,
rewinding the play,
making it possible so.

You wish you were I,
making full fill
and the sun sin;
I wish I was you,
lusting the list,
gunning the gin.

We can’t be singular,
except in terms of grammar,
on the pages etched,
just as us comes
between I and you.

The lovely Bess still waits,
under the shining moon;
Alas he’s dead, shot like a dog
on the shimmering highway.

The stone still rolls,
gathering moss on the way;
the bell still tolls,
for the who they say;
I’m still on the lookout,
oh, only if you may!