‘Instead of removing middlemen from and relinquishing ineffective governmental control over food procurement and distribution, leaders of our country are busy campaiging for themselves. If they are popular and care for the people why do they need to travel in local trains. Imagine the number of passengers who got stranded on the station that day because politicians and their security personnel usurped their compartments! Inflation is not going to come down till megalomaniacs are deflated.’


[Done during the Djokovic-Tsonga match at Australian Open 2010.
Inspired by Ms Patil's Babelfish.]


… and crazy fans who went over and said that they could empathise with his need to shun the world so full of phony bastards used to be told they possibly couldn’t, else they wouldn’t be there to disturb him. And so we love him.


It was pleasantly surprising to see our trusted old A. K. Hangal as the Iron Man in Lord Mountbatten: The Last Viceroy. For once, he was not helpless. And also to our surprise we found out that a very young Alok Nath, a rather young K. K. Raina and a very middle aged Mohan Agashe have starred in Attenborough’s Gandhi.

We almost died laughing watching Jalal Agha’s cameo in the movie.

‘Are you Christian?’, he asks the white man Charlie.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I know a Christian. She drinks blood’, he says and continues, ‘Christ’s blood, every Sunday’ and finishes with an innocent smile.

This Republic Day’s eve has been full of wonders!


Ever since we’ve been out of school, national holidays make us feel miserable without fail. Last year was no different and there’s no reason why this year should be. Tomorrow we plan to wake up late and watch TV and crib about the nation going to dogs and vilify the defence forces for rejecting candidates like us and then go back to sleep after a heavy lunch. We think we represent a rather large segment of the Indian population that comprises of people like us – lazy and idiotic. Meanwhile we feel better of ourselves reading Ms. Rand’s writings and pretending to be movers.


There are times when one is torn between the duties of birth and askings of the self. Abstinence or indulgence? Submission or rebellion? While birthright entitles to certain non-gratifying satisfactions, the self tempts to take pleasure in rather sinful affairs. But who is to say what is sinful or otherwise? Is there a code? And if it’s there, who’s to ratify it? And who’s to approve of the approver of such a code? Sitting at a biryani joint watching others gorge down mouthfuls, I wondered if Basant Panchami eve was going to be as hard each year.


We always knew Parikshit Sahni was a man worthy of our admiration. He’d proved it silently and steadfastly over the years. Imagine our amusement on reading this. And to realise that we haven’t watched him in the said role! We however think that his classic response to Tarun Bose’s  ‘Kaun ho tum?’ as a debutant in Anokhi Raat is the best he’s delivered so far.


Sham!

08Jan10

We return late at night, walking in the dark, stepping in potholes, on sleeping dogs who yelp and run away, over twigs that shatter the deathly silence. Winter nights unlike summers’ are dry, lonely and devoid of fanfare. We turn back at times to reassure ourselves of the absence of stalkers. Some nights a restless dog or two follow us.

The world a sham, life a farce,
keep me away from those,
who are in the business of cutting throats
or kissing arse.

We climb up the brightly lit stairwell, pausing at each landing and wandering our eyes over each of the doors that lead to different flats. Trash cans half filled, milk packets ripped open staring out from them greet us at each door. We overcome the urge to knock on some of the doors, especially ones we know shield interesting people. We go into our flat, closing it immediately after us. The cold air follows uninvited. We take in the room in the dark, stand at the window and see the distant lights. Few cars still on the road, partying young people, doctor visiting old people, romantic lovers. We sigh and take up a book half heartedly. We look at the phone a thousand times waiting for a call. We know none will come. They never come. We pillage the kitchen shelves for something to eat. Mouldy bread, stale juice, sour milk, we throw in the trash. We switch on the television and then switch it off.

Stranger in the room,
dark eyes, white hair,
as terrifying as pitying,
in the mirror of doom.

We go to bed hungry, draping ourselves with that tattered blanket that reminds us of our childhood. We fall asleep thinking of the morning that awaits us.


13 years after cohorting in cooler climes for Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, Raj Zutshi and Aamir Khan teamed up again on a dusty cricket ground on the sets of Lagaan to play the innings of their lives that ensured non-payment of taxes to the British Raj. Watching the movies back to back made me realise that Zutshi has been under utilised in the industry, much like the many others who we are fans of and who have sadly faded away over the years. Our plans of conducting an obscure ‘Hindi TV and Film Industry’ quiz were unanimously voted down by the quiz club at work and thereby went up in smoke our efforts to cultise these actors who we’ve grown up watching in career defining roles. One can only do so much here. It’s at times like these that we miss Mr. P. By the way, we never knew that till recently, Raj Zutshi and Aamir Khan were related.


On the Road starts as a journal of a foolhardy road trip but by the time it ends, transforms into a rather holistic account of the beat generation spanning over three long years. Sal’s trips on the three occasions, while similar in their purpose, are quite different from each other – while the ‘47 journey is mostly hitchhiked in the company of vagrants, ’49’s is undertaken with Dean in a stately car and that of ‘50 is down south to Mexico in a rickety wheeler. I was tempted to compare the third trip with Guevara’s, but realised in time that while there sure were some similarities, they were different in spirit and in their outcomes. On the Road is a vivid account of travelling through the American continent that touches upon on a variety of topics – beatness, bebop, existentialism, mysticism, unemployment, social stagnation and so on. Kerouac doesn’t take sides in his novel, nor does he question the society or its inhabitants; he just portrays things as they are. Dismissing this work as just another beat literature piece would be a pity.