Mostly Harmless

Virtually Speaking

2012-01-26T12:30:00.000-08:00

I was talking to a friend today and I ended up insulting her. I tend to do that. Insult friends. But that is not what this post is about. So yeah we were talking and she was telling me that an online friend who she had never met in real life was confiding in her details of her morally questionable love life. My friend wondered what made her do that. It set me thinking.

My friend's online friend, let's call her Cleopatra, went into great detail about her dilemma in continuing/ending a relationship. She talked about how terrible she felt to be in that situation and how much she hated herself for deviating from the path dictated by her moral compass. To me Cleo's need to get it all out was more than just cathartic. Sure, it feels good to own up to one's guilt. It's socially programmed into us from early childhood. But is the perception of guilt that simple? Do people in real life feel actual remorse for their reprehensible actions? What happens when the wrongness of the action itself cannot be ascertained. I believe sometimes, certainly in Cleo's case, the resemblance of one's situation with an archetypal mytheme of human relationships triggers the need to want to be that person who would recognize their error of judgement and sacrifice personal well-being to maintain the balance in the universe. Pretty tragic sounding, this. Cleo is not that person. But she wants to be. Hence playing of the part. To an audience. My friend is that audience. And then there is the GIFT.

GIFT or the Great Internet F***wad Theory posits that given anonymity and an audience a regular person can turn into a total f**k. In this case the anonymity is only partial as Cleo's online identity is not secret. But there is very little difference between the homophobic troll that frequently flames my favorite TV show's tpb page and people like Cleo who tell stories to near strangers about their private lives.

Come to think of it, I and many many of my friends and acquaintances display online disinhibition to varying degrees. Though I imagine it's not always a bad thing. Like when it gives voice to someone who cannot find one in the real world. I just wish I see the good side of it more often than the unseemly one.

Sherlocked

2012-01-15T16:28:00.000-08:00

I was introduced to the BBC series Sherlock by a colleague. I knew it would be good. A classic character re-imagined as modern-day. That's got to be good. Hell, it turns out great even when they just reinvent it without changing the original setting. Guy Richie’s Sherlock Holmes for example. No, no scratch that because then there are monstrosities like Robin Hood, so perhaps it’s got a lot to do with how talented the creative people are who’re doing the re-imagining bit, I suppose. Anyway, I was favourably predisposed towards the show Sherlock as soon as I got the episodes. I watched the ‘making-of’ video which was pleasant and gave a good idea about what the producers wanted to do with the show, which is a good scale to have to measure the inadvertent hits and misses against.

The show is nothing short of extraordinary. The setting is modern day London of the Gherkin and the Eye. It’s amazing how well the original material gives itself for updating, like Watson’s being an Army doctor from Afghanistan with war wounds. Of course our 21 century Watson, played by Martin Freeman, has emotional wounds too, and a therapist. But the updating only adds character to the classic cardboard cut-out. I mean seriously, the original Watson pales in comparison to Martin Freeman’s version. He looks like a serious man who is clearly above average intelligence-wise but has a knack for sounding daft. They are all there – Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Irene Adler and of course Moriarty – but better. There are new characters too and in my opinion they blend in quite well.

At the centre of it all, is Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, a position he invented. He certainly knows how to get the last drop of useful work out of cellphones and computers and fast. He speaks faster than a rapper in that beautiful voice of his that's deeper than Mariana trench. He types like a graduate student in the last week before her thesis submission. He has a network of beggars for news on the street. His keen sense of observation and deduction is a constant cause for irritation to lesser mortals. He knows and doesn’t care. The Victorian pipe-smoking eccentric gentleman is supplanted by a high-functioning sociopath… who wears nicotine patches. Oh what’s not to love?

Benedict Cumberbatch is just perfect as Sherlock Holmes. I last saw him in Atonement and positively hated his guts. In it he plays a hateful ugly character responsible for much of the misery in the lives of the good pretty people. He doesn’t have too much screen time but his performance was such that I remembered him. Watching him in Sherlock has made me his no. 1 fan. He is lovely as far as being a genius jerk goes. He balances the various elements of what makes Holmes Holmes very well. And then there’s the styling.

The styling team of the series should be made to lie down and given spa treatment because they’ve been hard at work and it shows. That trenchcoat and scarf alone would make any ordinary man look like Sherlock Holmes. In them, Cumberbatch IS Sherlock. His hair is moppy, just right for a man-child who can’t be made to sit still for a haircut. He is lanky, pale and well-groomed in addition to being a genius. As I said, what’s not to love?

Moriarty played by Andrew Scott is deserves an honorable mention. He is in every way a worthy adversary. The chemistry between the two is electrifying. Conan Doyle had to make the evil mastermind of Victorian England a professor, a position signifying great intelligence and its rigorous disciplining. Andrew Scott's version has the smarts but God forbid if he ever leans towards reining it even if for remaining sane. No wonder his day-job is in IT.

I've watched the first season so far and even though it's on my laptop I'm avoiding watching the second season. There are only so many episodes. What would I do when there are no more to watch?

Broken/Mended

2011-12-06T12:14:00.000-08:00

Two vows were broken this past few days. One had to do with preserving my pride while the other was there to facilitate self-preservation. I had decided to never visit a friend in his house because he declined a lunch invitation at mine and pretended to be doing so because he thought I couldn't possibly have meant it. I consider myself a sincere person. It was unsettling. But then said friend decided to be in an accident. He was lucky to be alive. This I had to see. Equilibrium established. Now he will have to die first for me to step into his house again.

The second vow was about never seeing a folder containing a set of photographs. Photographs with great emotinoal significance to me. Deeply unsettling photographs. I saw them today. After about a year of staying clear of them. It was with great trepidation that I clicked on the link. My heart took a little time to settle down to a regular beat. I saw the entire folder. All 141 of those photographs. I am pleased with myself. About how they did not affect me as they used to. It is good to feel the passage of time when it it comes with the realization that it has turned open wounds into closed scars. I no longer feel the need for a vow of non-seeing. No fences are required at the edge of wilderness.

Generally Happy

2011-11-30T10:43:00.001-08:00

:) and scared slightly. Why though? Not because I saw a live mummy, no that would make me a monster. Let's see now, what all happened today? I wore good clothes. Love my new red jacket. Reported at work in the wrong shift, was sent home. Played scrabble. Ignored pending things-to-do. Went back in the right shift. Noticed how much I would end up spending on travelling alone today. Instead of the usual drudge-work, spent my time, well, clerking but it wasn't bad at all given I was assisting Zeus himself. Then got a huge load off my chest. Ran into an old acquaintance who looked genuinely happy to see me. Ate a very bad sandwich. Had some really good, and mad, conversations. In the balance of sarky remarks and compliments, earned solid words of endearments. So yeah, happy. And scared slightly. Because, you know.

Let's Make a Deal by Nirmal Raj

2011-05-28T04:24:00.000-07:00

Inside your idle brain, come shine or come rain,
All work and no play all night and all day
Not even half a second of sleep, you see!
Look for me in the details (or check in the fai retails)
When you're loathe to decide -- I'll then come stand beside
Whilst over your shoulder looms the deep blue sea

To your petty conceit placate I'll send my advocate
He'd gladly plead your cases with one of many faces
Of which he has thirty-six, like a pair o' dice
If you are lonely and laust, remember Comrade Faust --
You only need to sign on the dashed dotted line
And I give you on this sorry earth a paradise

Yet I seek no gratitude, only purple attitude
So that folk may call your air yours-truly-may-care
How I shall then take care of you dearly!
But I must speak to you b'cause on your soul there is a clause
That you may haven't knone: let's talk this over phone
Just dial two-thirds of one thousand [well, nearly]

Note: Nirmal is a dear friend and a poet.

IIAS

2011-05-26T23:25:00.000-07:00

The facade was nothing short of imposing, a thing in itself. So it came as a bit of an unfamiliar surprise to walk into the vast portico to actually find ourselves at a vestibule revealing an inside.
Having to share the space with a gaggle of gaping tourists was taking away from the cognition of it all somewhat, it annoyed on occasion, diverted even. The guide repeated what he must every hour, every day... poor man.
All we could do was gape some more, open-mouthed as were to begin with ever since the grey sandstone edifice came into view.
The corridor on the right, untrampled as yet by the purposeful onlooker, deserted, off-limits perhaps, ergo irresistibly inviting, revealed devdar floor boards silently creeping out from under the fringes of the carpet lining the stair hall.
I gingerly stepped in, drawn by the ability of ancient buildings to open into themselves, the invisible vacuum of the unknown sucking me into its interiors.
This moment on the bridge, between the Romantic and the overknown, I had to myself.
Far behind me the tour guide turned, coming closer footsteps growing louder, louder still; trailing, Pied-Piper-like, eager mice-men.
The vision was lost, the thrill of anticipation trod on by too many feet.
No camera could capture it, I can't even recount it properly, acutely conscious as I am of the disconnection between knowing and saying.
Guess all I can do is to remember the feeling. As much and for as long as I can.

Generalize generalize...pull out his eyes...

2011-05-15T11:06:00.000-07:00

Parodying James Joyce cannot be a good idea for a blogpost I know because the point of a blogpost is to communicate with you my reader but the impulse behind this post is a strong urge to be driven by my stream of consciousness, boarding one sailboat after another, guided by the winds, changing direction with every turn of whimsy, words and phrases with personal significance meaningful to me and me alone, stopping every now and then to throw in a punctuation because this is after all a blogpost for, you know, you to read. Making sense is another issue altogether, yeah well, tough luck, cry me a river. No sorry come back, I'll be good, I promise. At least I want to be. Being it is another matter altogether...uh here we go again...oh well.

It's been bothering me for some time, this need that people feel to put you in a pigeon hole so that they can make sense of you. I'm usually comfortable in constricted spaces, I have practice, but it's the idea, the idea that makes me get put off. It's a real downer really, at times. It is. I should mind it more, I think, but I only mind it this much. I don't feel the need to prove every act of someone else's estimation of me wrong, why should I? I don't need a personal validation of my individuality by proving everybody wrong about me all the time.. It's alright. Alright. Alright, it's all right. I'm the hero of my story... and all that. I generalize too, no reason why everybody else wouldn't. But when I do, I know what a foolish thing it is to do. Most people I meet don't. And then there are the ones who I hope could see beyond the generalizations, beyond the ugly habits of my trade. Sometimes I smile a lot to overcompensate for the disappointment. the bitter taste in my mouth. I smiled a lot on the almost lifeless station platform that day.

Waiting To Be Run Over

2011-05-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

There is a truckload of work speeding my way, deadlines whooshing past, and I'm just standing there like a deer stuck in the headlights.

Random List #1

2011-04-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

This is the kind of thing that prompts my friends to tell me to get out more often. Can't blame them. But I like being by myself in my room. And impulse control can become an issue if you've got tons of film and gallons of music and internet without anyone getting on your back to tell you to stop and get back to work.Sky high piles of unchecked assignments can be a huge problem. Last year all hell broke loose. This year things don't look any different. My other problem is that thanks to a very very eccentric mind I tend to remember really random things about films and music and, well, stuff on the 'net. If only I could retain things relevant to my work with the same tenacity. Meh. For what it's worth, here is a list of my favourite actors usually seen as supporting cast.

1. Richard Roxburgh: I first noticed him in Mission Impossible II. He plays the main villain's right hand man in it. Blond and blue-eyed, he is one of the best looking actors in his age bracket.

When I saw Daniel Craig for the first time, I thought he was Roxburgh's ugly version. Wish he had taken on more Hollywood projects. In his native Australia he is a major star and these days appears in a legal drama called Rake.

2. Steve Buscemi: The mad pedophile in Con-Air looks ever so creepy every time he plays a villain.

Villainous or otherwise, his performances are layered and nuanced. Loved him in Interview.

3. Peter Coyote:

The curious thing about Peter Coyote is that he doesn't seem to grow old. He looks the same age-wise in ET and Erin Brockowich which are like twenty years apart. Looks awfully menacing for such a slight man.

4. Chiwetel Ejiofor: He played the main antagonist in Serenity. He also played Keira Nightley's husband in Love Actually and the illegal immigrant doctor in Dirty Pretty Things.

It's almost as if it were three separate people. His performance is always controlled and measured.

5. Pete Postlethwaite: He died earlier this year. He looked funny but was always a good supporting actor, the kind that brings out strong performances from the main actors.

Just see The Usual Suspects (especially his scenes with Gabriel Byrne) and Inception (Cillian Murphy is amazing as his grieving but estranged son) to see what I mean.

Richard Roxburgh, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Pete Postlethwaite have all done Shakespeare on stage to great acclaim (Hamlet, Othello and King Lear respectively). Come to think of it there are several Hollywood actors with extensive stage experience. Maybe I'd do a list about them sometime.

Limca Limca!

2011-04-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

The Limca ads for the last few years have been quite likable. First up is this one which I think came out in 2008.

I loved the look of this video. It could easily have slipped into being stupid on account of being too romantic. Didn't. (Or maybe it did and I didn't notice.) The jingle is written by an extremely talented poet/lyricist and sung by the sensual voiced Caralisa Monteiro. But they had me with the perfectly paired lead. The water splash theme is pure inspiration. Maybe that's why they continued with it in the subsequent ads. The one that came out last year changed the lyrics slightly. The tune was also altered but retained its family resemblance with the last ad.

Although I dislike teasing as a form of courtship in principle but the artistic license in the actual manifestation of the teasing made it palatable here, fun even. It didn't hurt that the guy's cute as a button. Beautiful people get away with so much more than making flowerpots explode into water. But try as I might, I can't help feeling a little queasy with the latest ad in the series.

The jingle is very different from the last two. The feel is more or less the same. The lead pair is also easy on the eye. But what bugs me is the climactic scene in which the guy walks right into traffic and an incoming car metamorphosizes into water. A tree or a tarpoulin canopy or a stationary bike disintegrating into a pool of water is fine but a moving car? Are you kidding me? It would have people into it! I know it's all make-believe but what about internal logic? Manslaughter as a by-product of romance is so not cool. Love the ad nevertheless.

It's weird that though I like these ads they never once made me sway towards actually drinking Limca. You like an ad, you go buy whatever it's selling. That's how it's supposed to work, right? Wonder what the Limca ad guys did wrong.

The Mentalist/House

2011-04-18T14:53:00.000-07:00

I watch too much TV. It's the best way to procrastinate. True there is nothing good on TV most of the time. But there is nothing like a good hour (or ~~two~~ several) of pure unadulterated American drama. Well actually there a many things even better than that, like British comedy and having friends in the real world, but we're not going into that. These days they're showing The Mentalist on Zee Cafe. Last I checked, House used to be aired on AXN. I don't get that channel anymore so can't say for sure whether it's still on or not. I know, my cable guy is useless. For the missed episodes there are the good folks on the interwebs. Okay, I might have a slight impulse control issue but I'm certainly not a TV junkie. Wipe that smirk right off your face. Really? Me? I hardly ever watch it on the TV anyway. So it doesn't really count. Does it? Don't answer that.

Coming back to the topic at hand, first off, I love both The Mentalist and House. I've been watching a lot more of the former than the later lately so it's fresher in my mind. The Mentalist, if I recall correctly, airs at the same time as Dexter on Star World, which again is brilliant. I sometimes wonder if it would ever be possible to have an indigenous show with the same production value as these worthies. I'm not saying We should copy them, but it would be refreshing to see home-grown big budget crime procedure drama that looked slick and was not directed at 12 year olds. *Cough* CID *cough*.

The points of similarity between M and H are more formulaic than uncanny. The brilliant mentalist/diagnostician with a painful past. And a team who they like to tease and torment but would kill for. In fact, a new show called The Body of Proof also tries to peddle the same thing but doesn't work nearly half as well. Devil is in the details as they say.

American TV is no stranger to formulas. Cheers, Sienfeld, Friends, How I Met Your Mother, same idea. Only each show was calibrated according to its time. Think about it. Maybe I'll blog about that, and the deviations from the formula which still became hits, when the whim hits me. Or when I want to run away and hide from work again. For now M and H.

M stars ~~Sighmon~~ Simon Baker., the dishy a**hole from The Devil Wears Prada. Here though, he is a widower helping a government agency solve crime while trying to unmask the serial killer who killed his family. Such an annoyingly endearing smile, such sad sad eyes. Full marks to the stylist for the scruffy yet meticulous look. He wears a three piece suit! His shirts hardly ever ironed and he thrusts his hands in his jacket pockets exactly the way mommies tell all young boys never to. His hair is tousled and he gets crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles. Hugh Laurie has a similar look in H minus the smile. In his case it is more like a scowl. And his attire is also less formal. More like T-shirt and jacket. And oh, he has a cane. Coolest doctor ever. Except he's trying hard to be an egotistical jerk most of the times. Which was totally cool until a medical intern friend of mine revealed he saw House as his role-model. Such a doctor in real life would be a major pain in the a**. My sense of perspective has been utterly destroyed in this regard.

Just saw the time. I should really seek some help. Will probably come back to this at a less inconvenient hour.

Eccentric Memory

2011-04-05T03:47:00.000-07:00

Hate how my memory works. Bought the same book twice within a month. Had no recollection whatsoever of buying it the first time round. Only realised my mistake when I was putting the second copy in my bookcase. "I know just the place", I had thought; and there it was, the same book. The bill preserved between the pages proved it had not even been a month since I bought it. All this when it's part of my job to know about books.

All this, and I still managed to recall the name of a woman who I hadn't had occasion to think about for months. A woman who doesn't even know me and who I know solely because of my love for gossip. Sometimes I think I should have been a paparazza or a gossip columnist instead.

India vs Pakistan, Mohali 2011

2011-04-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

Growing up in the nineties I spent most of my childhood and young adulthood watching cricket. The rise of Sachin Tendulkar, his early landmarks, Shane Warne's bad boy ways, Hansie Cronje's tragic disgrace and death, all these were memorable things as I navigated my way through life. And of course there was Pakistan. Since my early childhood I like million others in the country was conditioned to believe that defeating Pakistan in Cricket was the single act of patriotism that entitled the Indian Cricket team to the veneration fit for gods.

Pakistan. It's got a strange allure, Pakistan has. At least to me. My earliest memory of childhood is of me running around in the playground singing "Hawa hawa" a Pakistani song made famous by the travelling circus back in the day. And then someone on the radio played Farida Khanum and Mehdi Hasan. That day ghazal changed forever for me. During my adolescent I-am-different-from-everyone phase I loved to shock people by singing Dil Dil Pakistan all day. In college as the grunge scene was heating up I lost my heart to the voice of Bilal. And Faisal. During international trade fairs and dastkar melas conversations came out of the intention to haggle at the stall with pretty hand embroidered kurtas and trinkets and surmas. Later with my circle of friends expanding, Pakistan came even closer. But cricket got pushed farther and farther away.

As I grew older, deserted streets on account of a match in Sharjah became a thing of the past. I moved out to a bigger city and a different circle where people got more excited about Arsenal vs Manchester United than a day long or a 5-day long game of cricket. Deteriorating diplomatic ties between India and Pakistan ensured the two teams saw each other less and less.

So when India and Pakistan faced each other on the pitch last week it was a time of great personal significance for me. As it was no doubt for countless others in the sub-continent. It was strange and poignant and tense and cordial and so much more. It made my skin tingle, it made me smile like a fool. To me the outcome hardly mattered. I cheered and gasped as much for Sachin as I did for Shahid Afridi (who by the way has turned out remarkably well considering how ugly he was when he began his career). I had missed it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder as they say. It was perhaps not the most exciting match as far as skill and prowess is concerned. It wasn't even technically flawless. Catches were dropped, centuries were missed. Yet it was the most heartwarming eight hours spent glued to the TV in a long long time.

Flowers

2011-02-26T08:16:00.000-08:00

As far as annual gigs go, the flower show at Delhi University epitomizes unfailing regularity. It is one of those things by which I set my annual watch. There are few other things that remain unaffected by demonic dictatorships and dabangg displays of discontent in this place. And as such the flower show is a beautiful static oasis in the midst of what sometimes feels like a swirling quagmire.

The flower show is an institution. Regular classes are suspended. Individuals and colleges compete for the much coveted prizes in myriad categories ranging from best garden displays to best floral arrangement. The college gardeners live for it. They wear their honours with pride. And the entire university comes by.

Everyone loves it. I mean what is there to not like? Who does not like botanical sex organs?! Flowers as far as eyes can see. If only they were a little more into local gardening and fragrant flowers. But there still are the amazingly huge roses. Exotic lilies. Orchids, gladioli, ranunculae, birds of paradise... It's beautiful. And the entire university comes by. (I've said that already, haven't I?)

Indeed in my younger days the people were as much the main attraction as the flowers. Professors we loved, professors we hated, old crushes, new heart-breakers. And flowers all around. Yes me and my friends were the most jobless set of people once. Things changed with time. Best friends got separated by geography and lifestyle. People got jobs. But the lure of the flower show remains the same. It's a memory mill, the flower show.

Anticipation has been replaced by faint hope. It's just for the flowers now. Mostly.

Home. Alone.

2011-02-13T13:21:00.000-08:00

Looking at the World Press Photo winners a couple days back I came across this picture of a woman taking a self-portrait for her social network page. I love how this photo captures modern urban life. Not just with its main subject but also with the peripheral objects that tell a story of spacial lack and of survival essentials. The bag of chips on the bookshelf I notice with a pang of recognition. I have a half-eaten (oh alright, almost finished) bar of chocolate on my rack. The deodorant, the face creams, the speaker, even the sticky notes on the cupboard (more often used for random doodles rather than for to-do lists and reminders) are all indicators of a lifestyle that this woman here shares with millions of people around the world. My sense of fellow-feeling with her though is not without a certain nostalgia about a time when cultural diversity was a real thing. When people ate things or wore clothes depending on where they came from. When if you were visiting Malyalis you got Thoran and rice for lunch. When Parisians were distinguishable from Muscovites. As the deracinated throngs replace the melting pot generations in this globalised world, one wonders how capitalism managed to be such an efficient villain. If only class could be taken down so well.

The girl in the photo is doing what has become an everyday activity for millions across the world. So many of us have done it; clicked pictures of ourselves for Facebook. Spent hours online looking at updates from friends we haven't seen or talked to in a long time. Or ever, at all. Tina Fey recently called The Social Network a film about how Facebook ruined our ability to interact one on one. I don't think that film is about that but that description of Facebook sounds pretty much accurate. One no longer needs to have one's friends around them. Conversely we pass up moments of connection with people around us in the physical world. Individuals have never been more alone in human history. It reminds me of Norwegian poet Lars Saabye Christensen's Mayday.

Holding cellphones
So many people
I've never seen before
In each corner
Gate
Bus stop
Cafeteria
Under trees
In the park
Looks like
Cuddling teddy-bears
To their cheeks
They're thinking
That it understands
All they say
They must be
Speaking to somebody
Sometimes I think
Can they be talking to each other
It can't be
Such a beautiful dream
Just can't be

Winter of My Night

2011-02-10T13:14:00.000-08:00

The stars
That used to be bright blue
And countless
When I was eight or nine
Have fallen off mostly
Or turned the wick down.
The city breathes like a dying firefly.
The moisture-less wind
Is cold against my bare legs.

Yesterday I heard
The last tenuous strands
Of joyous foolishness
Breaking with a snap.

Purple black
Ink-stained
Morningless.
Winter is all but gone
In this winter of my night.

Jaipur Musings

2011-01-25T09:18:00.000-08:00

1. Rule no#1 of literature mela-hopping -- Never sit on a moodha ahead of William Dalrymple if you are unsure of your shirt's length.

2. Mahmood Farooqui sounds disconcertingly anachronistic when he talks history in English.

3. Karan Thapar has to be the Mahmood Farooqui of modern dastangoi.

4. J M Coetzee looks like your average neighbourhood literary recluse when you almost bump into him.

5. Gandhi WAS delusional, if Alex said he was.

6. In lit fests, well-dressed Sainik-Farmers look best when they keep their glares on and mouths shut.

7. Somewhere between Devanand and Doga the Princeton historian made a Patania feel very proud.

Thrill-ride

2011-01-19T09:53:00.000-08:00

I am in my happy phase these days. It's so scary.

Sulky Hulky

2011-01-15T12:00:00.000-08:00

I'm beginning to believe that melancholia hampers my judgement more than alcohol. Or maybe what I see as a lapse of judgement is a perhaps an aspect of my personality that is just there; what I feel the need to explain away as a momentary lapse is actually as integral to my double-helix as my left-handedness or my lipid profile. Just better hidden most of the time.

In the recent past I've exhibited rude behaviour towards casual friends and near strangers without any real provocation. Say one word and snap, I dish out sarcasm with the heartlessness of a slave-driver. Even my best friends tell me I go too far in retaliating against imaginary insults or invasion of privacy. What is to be done? Dumbness irritates me. Attempts to hide dumbness as simplicity irritates me even more. And then they go and touch, no plank themselves on, a raw nerve. And they do it when I'm sad. The sadder Hulk gets, the sarkier Hulk gets. Grr.

It seems that all I need to do is exercise some self-control. I just don't want to have to do that.

Signs

2010-12-29T07:30:00.000-08:00

Curse this god-forsaken city. I survey the sky for clouds. I am not expecting monsoony ones; little wisps of translucent cirrus would do. Any little bit of white-grey travellers in the azure sky to see in Anish Kapoor’s Cloud Mirror. I saw them back home just a couple of weeks ago. I saw them and my heart sank because they were there and I was there but the Mirror was here and I knew when I’d be here they wouldn’t be here. And indeed, they’re not here at all. At all. The Mirror would go soon and still there is nothing to see in it. I want to see things in it. And I see things in the things I am not getting to see. There are no signs to be taken for wonders. There is the absence of signs. There is the absence of wonder. My eyes are jaded. I listen to stories and I laugh at them. I think I laugh in my defence; to drown my sighs. I’m a fool. A persistent little sucker for sweetness. Still no news of the wandering kind. Still I look.

Edit: The sky is perennially slaty now, I didn't do it, I didn't I didn't. Really.

Nothing Will Happen Between Us by Aruni Kashyap

2010-11-30T06:25:00.000-08:00

Love this poem by noted contemporary poet Aruni Kashyap.

Nothing will happen between us
Another day will come, with paintings all around
Or many such days, with poetry about love, about home
About you.
Sometimes me, sometimes us.
And people will come, will find meanings
In paintings, in poems
and
nothing
will
happen

Amidst these happenings
between us.

Nothing
will happen between
us.

A quiver of songs, you promised to draw for me
And write for you: I promised; so that,
Something does happen between us.
Through the night when he could write the saddest lines,
I wanted to speak out aloud about writing
Someday, in these red-brick buildings history stained
About my happiest moments
So that, so that
Something does happen between us.

But nothing will happen between us
Emotions will be melted down to poetry, to paintings
They will come: shaking heads, hands
Admiring, analysing, flirting (with you).
And I’d look
From a distance, just the way poetry comes to me
From some unknown distance, or the way
I feel when see the images, hear the voices
And know, a poem is descending, ascending, over my body
Vibrating like leaf-tips in a squall
Breaking birds’ nests, striping pre-spring trees.

Tress will stand nude, ode to a beautiful nude, someone would write, like him
Someone would draw, someone would paint,
summer-parched peacocks will sing songs mournful—
like foxes meeting in midnights moony
And yet, nothing will happen between us

We would promise, a palmful of songs
to present each other
and drift apart like clouds blocking the moon
during windy winters chilly under quilts
nothing, nothing will happen between us.

To BFFs, With Love

2010-11-16T12:52:00.000-08:00

My best friend is of the opinion that among our circle of acquaintances I am the most depressive person in my IQ category. It might be true. What is crazy is that most of my other friends would laugh at her if she were to say it in front of them. For most of my friends besides the inner circle believe me to be a living breathing Loony Toon. Always laughing, always up to something funny. Among them and the rest of the world I like to be referred to as that ever-smiling girl with the killer sense of humour. I sometime joke I should be a stand-up comedienne. I am not entirely joking when I say that. I like being funny. I like to make 'em laugh.

It's a peculiar predicament my closest friends are in. The closer they are the most shit they get from me. And tears, and moping, self-loathing. One girlfriend who made the transition from friend to pj-homie was quite, uh, let's say, bewildered by the barrage of tears that formally anointed her entry to the sanctum sanctorum of my heart. I sometimes wonder what makes them stay.

I hate that I need the approval of people around me to feel happy and fulfilled. It stands in direct contravention to my understanding of dignity and grace in other people. I hate it even more that the only people who make me feel unjudged, my best friends, are necessarily to be acknowledged for the gesture by late night crisis calls and muffled sobs. I can never tell them enough how much they mean to me.

Hope this helps with the psychoses.

Despicable Me

2010-11-08T13:28:00.001-08:00

My brother who I live with is getting married in a month and we are moving to a bigger house. Right now we live in a bachelor pad which plank-beds and no drawing room. Big bro meets his friends in cafes or pubs. I have ~~my daaru parties~~ tea with my girlfriends in my bedroom. It works out fine for the two of us. I like my life. Sure there is the inevitable missed breakfast and shitty furniture and less-than-regular lifestyle but it is what it is and I am comfortable with it.

I love my brother very much. But it is also true that nobody gets me more worked up about the smallest things as much as him. I yell at him all the time. He is more than 5 years older than me. He seldom talks back. He is one of the best people I know. All the yelling will have to stop when he's married and all.

My brother's fiancée is a workaholic like my brother and is fiercely committed to her work. I haven't met her yet but from what I hear she sounds like a good person. I wish I were more visibly excited - it would please my brother - but the dominant emotion that I feel is fear. Sometimes even perfectly good individuals just don't get along without either of them being evil or villainous. It scares the hell out of me to think that such a situation might arise in our case. I have a bad track record in this area. I am set in my ways.

It feels terrible to think that I appear far more pleasant and excited when sharing other people's joys and new beginnings but clam up when it comes to my own family. It's not that I instinctively hate my people. It's just that it's easier to take in only the simple fun aspect of other people's lives and discard the rest. After all I don't share life and living space with them. When it comes to my own family the excitement and joy gets coated with apprehensions about lifestyle changes and compatibility issues. ~~And then there is the latent sense of betrayal.~~ All I want is to be happy. And I know it is best to be so without making people around you miserable.

I am going to work real hard on being good. Wish me luck.

City Songs

2010-10-31T04:48:00.000-07:00

I was listening to the songs on my cellphone last night and was thinking about how many of them were about cities. I love cities. I know a lot of people who don't and I can see in what ways the city can be terribly loathsome and insufferable. But there are certain things that in spite of being hateful define city-life and I secretly grow wistful when I'm away from the city. There are cities that I've never been to but I know I'd love them. I'm not naive and I know that experience can ruin my sense of a place but my attitudes are a product of everything that has gone into making me who I am and at this point there is enough reason to love the cities. I'm rambling I think. So without further ado here's the list, in no particular order, of the songs about cities that I absolutely love. (Note- clicking on the songs would take you to their respective permalink pages on Youtube or Hype Machine.)

1. New York New York by Ryan Adams
I like Ryan Adams's sound. Very folksy and rock n roll. But the main reason why I like this song has to be all those New York centric movies I watched through college and of course Friends. That show ran for almost the entire length of my early adulthood. Even though it showed little of the city, all the laughter and tears and hope and gumption and so much more that those six cityslickers embodied is associated in my head with the spirit of New York.

2. Paris by Yael Naim
I don't even understand the lyrics which are in Hebrew and French. But I love the haunting melody of the song. It goes well with my imagination of the city. Brilliantly incomprehensible and romantic.

3. Dilli by Rabbi Shergill
In my opinion there is perhaps no other song quite like this one about my beloved Delhi. It encapsulates my experience of the city as well as my expectations from it. And it is sung by Rabbi "velvet" Shergill. What more do I need?!

4. LDN by Lily Allen
I was introduced to Lily Allen's music by a friend. We don't talk anymore but I still listen to Lily Allen. So...uh...pop-y! Being a student of English literature I naturally have a lot of fascination for London. (I mean, London, come on. Mother-ship!) There are countless other songs that celebrate this city. But I like this one above all else. What cracks me up every time is how this song completely subverts all wide-eyed expectations that a postcol subject like me might have from that glorious city. And oh I just love Lily Allen's quintessential though somewhat exaggerated cockney accent.

5. Bombay Meri Jaan by Md Rafi (OST - CID)
The sights of Bombay in the 50s in the picturisation of this song are priceless. So pristine and uncrowded. Though the song is supposed to be a critique of the city, it is overflowing with so much love. The tune may be plagiarised but the song is sweet and smile-inducing.

6. Moi Eti Jajabor by Bhupen Hazarika
This last song is not about any city in particular but about being free from all cities, towns, and villages, a state brought on by wanderlust. Oh how exhilarating that would be. Not being tied down to one place. Being able to savor the good and the bad a city has to offer, and then move on. I hope to be able to achieve this at least in part when (and if) I have the money. I know this song in another version but could just find this version on the net. So it will have to do.

Last Moment

2010-10-26T02:29:00.000-07:00

Treat every moment as if it were your last. I don't think I understand the concept. What does it even mean? The only thing that sets the last moments of one's life apart from all the other times is that the continuum of moments constituting life ends with them. There are no moments for the deceased after that. This statement sounds glaringly obvious and dumb but explains nothing about how one's actions are played out any differently. Sure there is no room for evaluating one's actions or bearing their responsibility once you're dead. So the only logical distinction between last actions and other actions seems to be the freedom from repercussions. But how does that change anything? And even more importantly, even if it did, how feasible is it to live each moment as if it were your last?

For instance if I loved someone who didn't know about it, would it make sense to tell him as I lie dying? Maybe he'd feel a rush of pity for the dying and hold my hand as I die. Or maybe it would be revealed that he loved me too and if only I had more time we could have had our happily ever after. Neither scenarios are too appealing. I dislike being pitied and would hate any show of it even when I'm dying. Just because I'm about to kick the bucket I'm not magically going to lose my self-respect too. If the person also loves me back it would be just terrible to know how good life would be if only I could live. That would make dying suck so much more.

If the idea of living each moment as if it were your last is taken in the sense of being free from the repercussions then too I don't understand how useful it is to live like that. So I hate my boss and would very much like to slap him if I were to drop dead the very next moment, Would it really maker sense in this case to live each moment as one's last, to go ahead and punch the boss even if one were NOT to drop dead the very next moment?

I think a lot about death and dying. But the point of privileging the dying moment escapes me. I aim to live my last moment like every other moment. To me that is the only way to go with one's dignity intact.

PS For the record, I adore my boss.

What will become of me?

2010-10-21T14:40:00.000-07:00

It's late. I should probably sleep. Or at least prepare for work.Or finish pending projects. But it's a beautiful night and there is a lot on my mind. So off to the terrace.

I love my terrace. Its fairly big and gives my house an aspect of light and lightness. I am going to miss it. We're shifting soon to what I fear is the usual city flat with windows that are never opened and balconies the size of a public loo. I'm yet to see it. Hopefully it's better in real life than what I imagine it to be. But my current terrace is just lovely. As I pace up and down I try to watch the night sky with narrowed eyes. No luck. Just the moon and Jupiter. One of the vagaries of living in a metro is that the city-glow cuts off all optical connection between the stars and the naked eye. I grew up in an electricity-deficient town. At night sprawled on camp cots we identified constellations and played connect-the-dots for hours waiting for the fans to whir. So not being able to see the Milky Way induces wistful sighs. The flickering light dancing on the windows of my front-door neighbours suggests they're watching a film or some such. Wish I could join them. But we don't know each other. I've often seen them lounging in their balcony. There are several standard issue 8/10-s in that flat. I can't tell them apart. I sometimes imagine how our conversations would go.

Back in my room the chrysanthemums I bought yesterday have begun to look slightly droopy. Another day before they're completely wilted. Wish they'd stay for longer. My florist has shut shop (temporarily I hope) and the other vendors are too expensive and out of the way. I'm doing a good job of not thinking about the things that are on my mind. I'm going to try to sing loudly in my head next.

Random Thoughts #6

2010-10-19T10:08:00.000-07:00

I'm sick of it now. Life's been asking the same thing over and over. For so long now. Do I dare eat a peach? Do I dare disturb the universe? No I don't.

Eyes like twin bonfires burning deep inside twin caves. And then by chance I find this song. It goes like Man Ashiq-e Chashm-e Mast-e Aa Rastam... I am in love with my beloved's intoxicating eyes. Give me a chainsaw someone.

Serendipity is a bad thing. Positively evil. It encourages you to see un-connected events as part of a grand plan. Pointing towards a possibility. It brings nothing but hope. That foul deceitful thing. Hope.

I saw a black cat today. It reminded me of the cats I used to have when I was young. I miss them sometimes. I used to watch films with them. How they squirmed and jumped about when Sadaka made her final appearance in The Ringu. I love watching films. I don't much care for drama. More into Scorsese and Christopher Nolan and the like. American Psycho, Empire of the Sun. Travellers and Magicians? I've decided not to like it.

Random Thoughts #5

2010-09-19T10:35:00.000-07:00

Someone I stalk on the net refers to herself in the third person on her blog. On an unrelated note I hate her.

Lovers

2010-09-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

They don't see each other
For days on end.
For months even.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Does it.
Really?

The things, the memories,
Things made to commemorate the memories,
Memories of memories.

Being in love
Is a job.

Me? I'm a
One woman industry.

Ruminations extreme

2010-05-05T13:25:00.000-07:00

I was just wrapping up my daily tour of the net - stalking friends of friends on facebook, reading an odd webcomic or two, checking out the blogs of people who I know but who don't know me, that sort of thing - when I thought of looking up my blog just like that. I hadn't visited it in weeks, not updated it in months. So I had a revelatory moment there staring at a wall of poems covering the entire page. I have no literary pretensions beyond the usual level of delusion that sort of is a professional hazard, so why is it that for the last six months or so I hadn't really thought of writing about life and stuff in plain prose like normal bloggers? That is why I had started my blog anyway, to talk about my life and my work and my opinions on things, right? What's with all the poetry about lurve or loss of lurve? It's not like I ceased to have opinions or that my life has changed so much for the worse that I have absolutely nothing to talk about. Hell, I spend hours on the phone discussing it with friends. Surely I can cull something out of it to update my blog. Which people will read. Right.

I think that is precisely what is wrong with this whole arrangement. I want to talk about my life but I am diffident to have people read it, about casting it to the winds so to speak. Poetry is easy. I don't have to reveal myself. There is plenty of room to hide behind the fictive.There is no telling who reads my blog. Maybe nobody does. But someone might. And I don't really want to tell that someone who I might not know or who I might know and hate about my fears and grief and triumphs. It's not for them to know.

But then what will I do when geography and lifestyle make it impossible for me to actually have my catharsis on the phone with best friends. What happens when all of them get busy with their lives so much that they don't have time for trivial joys and tiny sorrows of my life? God knows it has already happened to several. It is only a matter of time before the others are also lost in their increasingly insular lives. Without having an outlet I would surely explode or be a miserable person who shouts at everybody for no reason or the quiet woman who walked off the roof one day for no apparent reason.

I envy those who offload their mind with ease on their blogs and actually feel satisfaction at doing so. I, I feel somewhat naked, revealing things about myself that only the closest of friends have access to, to an unknown audience. But it is about time I get used to it, enjoy it even. Because if I don't my mind would become a dreary deserted alley that I would be scared of.

It is not much of a choice. Nakedness v/s being lost alone. Let's see what gets me first.

Haiku #6

2010-02-21T09:29:00.000-08:00

Drinking Chinese tea
On the terrace by the tree--
The moon in my bowl.

Haiku #5

2010-02-21T09:26:00.000-08:00

When the day is spent,
I look for answers, and find --
Questions all around.

Chasm

2010-02-02T06:07:00.003-08:00

There is a chasm
Between thought and said,
And in that chasm
There is a world
Of foetus-like hydras
With countless heads,
And there is tea,
And you and me,
And silence.

दूर का आकाश

2010-01-29T01:58:00.000-08:00

दूर का आकाश
नीला स्याह रुका सा
झुका सा
सुन्दर अपरिभाष्य,
मटमैला पनीला धुला सा
घुला सा
वैयक्तिक
स्वयं में मुड़ा सा,
अछूता सा.

If everyone were perfect

2010-01-22T22:44:00.000-08:00

If everyone were perfect
I would be so you
And you would be so me
And no-one could tell
The rebel from the stooge.

Haiku #4

2010-01-22T10:04:00.001-08:00

Saw the Moon God smile

At the faces of flowers

And I cried inside.

कल की बात

2010-01-11T05:08:00.000-08:00

जब पहली बार
दस साल पुराना कोई क़िस्सा
याद आए ऐसे
कि बस कल की बात हो,
कोई वाक़िया, किसी ने कहा हो
कोई जुमला,
या मेरा किसी बड़े हुजूम का हिस्सा हो जाना
ज़ेहन में महसूस करना
पूरे जहां को
और इस एहसास की याद,
याद आए ऐसे
कि बस कल की बात हो
तो सचमुच ऐसा लगता है
कि जैसे बचपन बड़ा सुहाना था.

Strings Concert Review

2009-12-13T01:49:00.000-08:00

It was one Saturday I had waited for for the entire week with eagerness fit for a 2 month old kitten exposed to the smell of fish for the first time. Strings were performing at Ramjas and I was getting to attend. AD (a good friend, love you pal) had casually mentioned it to D last Monday when she had called him to ask after him & then D called me and said Strings. So I traded insults over sms with AD and secured my pass. Anyhoo, the d-day arrived and I at about 6 o'clock I was dodging traffic in front of Ramjas and jostling with teen aged delinquents to get in. After some hiccups, (it would have helped if I had my gate pass to show the guys at the gate but AD had to be all bureaucratic about it, but anyway) I was in. Yay! But my enthusiasm almost completely evaporated when I realised there was no way I was going to get to see the band perform from up close. AD had no inclination to jostle with the rabble and I didn't want to go alone. Then the impossible happened. There I was going on and on about how crazy I was for Bilal and Faisal and AD suddenly says do you really want to meet them and I was like hell yes could you really arrange that and gosh I sound like a sixteen year old. Ho hum, breath in breath out. Wokay. So we went to the makeshift backroom and they were sitting right there. Bilal and Faisal. In the flesh. Bilal has such piercing eyes. Faisal smiles like a boy of six. We shook hands and then I came away. The next few minutes are a little hazy in my head but I've been told I called or smsed friends and pretty much made a complete fool of myself shrieking at the top of my lungs about the incident. AD was at a loss to understand what had happened to me, thankfully there were people like AS around to share my euphoria with. Sigh.

Wait this was supposed to be a review of the concert. Right, about that. Wish my enthusiasm extended to the concert. Sure they started with a bang. They sang old concert favourites like Na Jaane Kyon and Ye hai Meri Kahani. The audience was lapping it up and Faisal being Faisal had the audience in his thrall. But then someone from the audience threw a stone at them. From where I was standing I couldn't clearly see who was hit or how badly but it effectively brought the concert to a standstill. The band packed up and left. The organisers ranted on the stage as we speculated about whether they'd come back or not. I decided to come away but was stopped in the nick of time. They came back. Wish the magic of the first half had come back too. It sadly didn't. It may have something to do with the fact that that instead of singing their own songs they performed Bollywood songs from the 80's and early 90's. I could bear even enjoy Janoo Meri Jaan if it were sandwiched between Duur and Kahani Mohabbat Ki. But having to listen to that and Khambhe Jaisi Khadi Hai with only So Ja to go back to, I found myself talking to strange kids or watching other strange kids gyrate madly to the tunes in what had to be a heavily sloshed state. I came away mildly annoyed but all such feelings were well covered by a cover-all umbrella of feelgood. I had shaken hands with Faisal Kapadia.

Film Review: (500) Days of Summer

2009-11-13T12:21:00.000-08:00

I should tell you upfront, this is not a critical review. I loved the film. So if you are looking for a balanced piece that tells you both the good and the bad, look elsewhere. (Come back! I was joking. You are the only one who read this blog.) The reason why this review took so long to write -- I saw it for the first time about two months ago -- is that I just didn't know where to start. So I'll abandon all attempts at structure and begin with whatever comes first to mind. And that has to be Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

JGL is easily one of best young actors today. He's effortless, he does angry very well, and he has an extremely expressive face. There is this scene where he explodes at Zooey Deschanel's character and man he's good. He's gooood... "Did you check if she said 'hey' or 'hi' 'cos 'hey' would mean she's lesbian." Hahah. Sorry for the random quote. But some of the dialogues are now etched in my brain. Can't help spouting them. The dialogues are quite fresh which is surprising because none of the incidents are particularly new. The most amazing thing about the movie is that it uses stuff that's been tried before and does something different with it. Coming back to JGL, he's great as the everyman average Joe, Tom. It's very easy to identify with Tom. The time when he plays The Smiths in the office just so he could get a response from Summer is such an ouch-I-feel-ya-dawg moment. I do things like that. I know people who do things like that. And the way he tries to get Summer's attention and approval, like when he fiddles with the sink taps, is almost heart-wrenching. Much of the credit goes to the script writer. The script is the soul of the film. It's so everyday yet not cliched. The editing is masterful. Half the magic of the film lies in the editing. The constant back-and-forth puts the the changes that the relationship goes through over time in sharp contrast. And then there is the expectation/reality scene. Story of my life. In the park bench scene at the end the way JGL looks at Zooey, it's impossible for me to describe it, I was yelping inside like a wounded puppy. Zooey Deschanel is a fine fine actor. Her characterization of Summer is so good that I almost hate her. Not easily pulled off especially since Summer is not given as detailed a subjectivity as Tom.

The soundtrack of the film is carefully put together. Not one false note. Loved absolutely loved all the songs. The Smiths are my new favorite band. Guess what I am listening to as I write this. And if a double-decker bus/ crashes into us/ to die by your side/ is such a heavenly way to die. Sigh. Mumm-Ra is a blast from the past -- heard them in Top of the Pops when I was in high school -- it's such a shame they broke up. Carla Bruni's Quelqu'un ma d'it , Sweet Disposition by The Temper Trap, Hero by Regina Spektor, Hall & Oates's You Make my Dreams, even the songs they sing at the Karaoke bar, all are totally dead on. Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh Sugar town.

Since this review's been in the pipelines for too long, I'm getting impatient to put it out. But before I finish I have to mention Matthew Gary Gubler (Paul, what a looker!) Geoffrey Arend (McKenzie) and Chloe Moretz (Rachel). And oh don't miss the LA Darshan with all the beautiful buildings seen from interesting angles. Did I mention the graphics? Among the best and most innovatively used in recent times. I must stop now and very strongly recommend this film. If you're a friend who know my taste in films then you know what to do. If you don't personally know me, trust me on this one.

Misery

2009-11-13T11:58:00.000-08:00

There is so much good happening in my life but I can only see darkness tonight. After long I've got always-there besties to cry on the shoulders of. I've made a new friend who, among other things, reinforces my belief that one is never too old to forge new bonds. I've found new people to secretly admire and pine for. For the uninitiated I absolutely have to have that, preferably several at the same time, for me to function normally. Or whatever normal means to me. Anyway, back to my good-things list. I'm learning something new and even getting progressively better at it. I'm getting to wear my beloved shawls. People I care about are happy in their lives at the moment... And with this my good-things list ends. Because all except one I care about are happy in their lives at the moment. The one person who I care most about is miserable. And I can do nothing to help. I can only see darkness around me.

Haiku #3

2009-10-28T08:06:00.000-07:00

What I thought would last,
As long as the universe,
Ended with a kiss.

Argh

2009-10-23T13:54:00.000-07:00

I lost my cellphone. I'm trying not to think about it.

Random Thoughts #3

2009-09-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

A post a day keeps dementia at bay. I think. Anyway, just thought would scribble something before I call it a day, you know leave a Kilroysque mark that I was here. You know. I don't have anything to say. I mean there are things in my head but nothing I'd like to word out, even if it were just for me to read. Well anyhow, in case I die and this is my last post, my last communication with the world, I would just like to say that I love the folkses I love and I wish death on folkses I hate and I'm sorted in my head about who I am and stuff and ex-students greeting me in the metro or the market make my day and, and I am sorry for taking the love of all those who love me for granted and, I miss my best friends everyday, the ones I don't get to meet. I'd like to go clean, without too much pain to me or to friends and family; I would like to be forgotten than to be the cause of grief. That'll be all.

People I know #1

2009-09-18T12:23:00.000-07:00

I can't believe that woman was wearing a jumpsuit. "Oh you know they are all the rage in Milan since yesterday." Phooey. (No I didn't actually hear her say that but she looked like she could, easily.) To think I was enamoured by her brilliant mind three years ago. Now I'm not so sure.

Untitled

2009-09-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

I lie often

And forget.

I don't know why I lie.

Maybe it's just another way

Of shaking my fists

At life as it is given to me,

Of making memories

Worth reminiscing

In my last twilight

When the difference between

The lived and the imagined

Would not matter,

As the night closes in.

Sometimes a lie is discovered.

A part of me dies

Each time I try to laugh it off,

Smother it with explanations

Unsought.

The best lies

I keep for myself.

You are a lie

I forged into love.

I hope I never remember that.

Film Review: Public Enemies

2009-08-30T01:08:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I've not tried this before on my blog. I always, always have an opinion on everything. And I watch films as I eat or sleep or go to work. Well maybe not the last one; that's much more intermittent and almost always accompanied with a groan. Anyway, Public Enemies.

I went to watch it with a friend of mine and anticipating a house-full bought the tickets online. Useless precaution as I realised on entering the auditorium. Besides me and my friend there were another 9 people. Matinee show on a weekday, we rationalised. At this point I should probably mention that my friend is the biggest fan of Johnny Depp this side of the Indian Ocean. I love him too. We had to watch this film. And I had almost made up my mind to like the film. Boy was I in for a nasty surprise.

I hated Public Enemies. They took noir too literally, the makers of this film. The colour contrast was so dismal that I could barely make out what was going on especially in the night scenes. Which is bad because most of the plot unfolds at night. For instance, the shoot out in the thicket was mysterious at best and confused at worst. The editing sucked. It made the narrative jumpy and incoherent. It was as if they had done so much research for the project that they could no longer judge what to put in and what to leave out. The sound department of this film should just be asked to look for jobs in some other field. They clearly don't know a thing about sound mixing. Most of the dialogues sounded like they were meant for ants or elephants to hear. Disappointing direction from the guy who gave us The Aviator. The Editor I hear is highly decorated. It's works like this one that make me wonder about the awards.

So much for the direction and stuff. As far as acting goes I wish I had something nice to say. I do love Johnny Depp. I thought he can kill Johnny and become the character he plays- Sammy, Edward Scissorhands, George Jung, Ed Wood, Agent Sands, Captain Jack Sparrow. But here, I could see too much of Johnny Depp in Dillinger's eyes. I don't know what went wrong. Maybe Johnny identified with him on some level to such an extent that it was not possible for him to seperate himself from the character he was playing. Whatever be the reason, I saw Johnny Depp where I expected to see John Dillinger. For that alone I want my money back. Or not. Johnny is good too. But..., you know what I mean?

As for the other actors, there isn't much that needs to be said. Marion Cottilard is good in all of the five or so frames she is in. I mean her role is tiny and she has done all one could do in such a small space. Most other people have done average work. But Christian Bale is the real hamster in the film. Man that guy's bad. As it is I had lost all respect for him as a person after the Terminator audio tape episode. But after watching him in this film, I don't care much for Bale the actor too. It's hard to imagine it's the same guy who, as a boy of 10 in The Empire of the Sun, made me break down in fits of convulsive sobs. Here he is uni-dimensional and flat, and very annoying.

It's not that the film is entirely bad. There are places where I saw lyrical beauty and even genius. I loved the scene where Johnny Depp comes up to Billie and says "I like baseball, movies, good clothes, fast cars, whiskey, and you...". Sigh. But these are not enough to make up for all that's wrong with the film. I just hope The Rum Diaries is good. Oh yeah, I would be going to watch that the day it comes here, be sure of that. I love Johnny Depp.

Random Thoughts #2

2009-08-24T14:32:00.000-07:00

Obviously the little experiment two posts below didn't work too well. Well anyway now that I'm here I can't figure out why I was gone for so long. It's not like my life has been totally uneventful. And it's not as if I wouldn't want to talk about it. I've just been lazy I guess. Or maybe twitter has taken away my capacity to think about anything for more than 160 characters. I can already feel it, a vacuum eating away at my thought-bubble, making it collapse into nothingness. Still I try. I can't let technology dictate my cognitive processes. I'm just babbling. Well, I'll have to start somewhere, somehow.

Spring

2009-02-25T20:46:00.000-08:00

I have tons of pending work. What am I, suicidal? This could cost me my job. And I hate being left out. Wish I'd pay more attention. Hell I couldn't care less. It's spring.

Emotional Upchuck

2008-11-18T07:45:00.000-08:00

All you ever do is complain about how pathetic your life is. Says my best friend. I have been hurt by her rolling eyes at my moaning and vowed never to talk about depressing things to her at least thrice. I find it impossible to sustain. So I'm going to try this small experiment. Instead of throwing up on her or anybody else, I'll off-load my carcinogenic bile here. If the experiment works the way I expect it to, it would spare a lot of people a lot of misery.

I called myself linguistically challenged in trying to convince a student that the question he was asking was actually a paraphrase of what I myself had been saying. The student is visually challenged. I wished it unsaid the moment I said it, that self-disparaging epithet. It could have been innocuous in a different context. It was shocking and insensitive n this one. I said sorry to him after the class, he seemed not to have been offended. He pulled his hand away as I held it. I thought that was the end of it. In the evening a student from the same class crossed me in the market. She was talking to a friend. I would have been in her visual field for longer than she was in mine (given the structure of the pavement). I could hear snatches of what see was saying as I stared at her trying to catch her eye (why? I don't know). "It was so shocking! I was shocked!", she said without raising her eyes from the pavement. She passed me by as if I was not there at all. I felt miserable. I have been struggling hard against the feeling that she had seen me coming and did not wish to exchange pleasantries with me, hence kept her head down. And that comment was about my slip in class. Why should it matter so much to me as to who things what about me? Why do I have to seek approval? I can't stop people from having opinions, I can't know what each person in my entire circle of acquaintances, towards whom I am favourably inclined, thinks about me. It's absurd that I attach so much significance to such things. And for all I know, she was talking about something entirely different. And yet I felt deeply miserable. Two hours on, I still can't smile.

A friend recently blessed me to continue to have the worries that I have right now. It was her was of saying that my condition is comparatively luxurious with reference to millions of people, perhaps specifically to hers. I felt stupid when she said it, angry when I later thought about it. Trivial as my concerns sound, they are real to me. Like the claustrophobia I had as a young woman. A narrow unlit staircase, what's so scary about that? But I would feel faint just by looking at it. I outgrew that fear. The hope is I would outgrow my current irrationality too. I expect this to help. Writing it in as much detail as I want. How would it work? Would it at all? I don't know. I hope to be able to find out soon.

Random Thoughts #1

2008-11-18T07:02:00.000-08:00

I was in a bus going uphills. Round and round steep twists and turns in the mountains. I was trying hard to read Notes from Underground, but it was not easy to concentrate when the nauseating bus ride was threatening to do nasty things to my upchuck reflex. I looked at the others, tried thinking about them, drew a blank, or so I remember. I looked outside the window at the fuzzy haze that was flitting past. I remembered something that I had read on the xkcd forum, someone's sig. It said that the day you make sense of the world, it would disappear and a big banner would appear, saying, Next Level. I remember it all together now. I also think of Kafka sometimes. These are my spots in time.

Haiku #2

2008-09-07T15:05:00.000-07:00

What seemed too distant,
To reach in a single life,
Slipped past me somehow.

...just so that we can have these moments together.

2008-08-22T07:22:00.000-07:00

Life's boring. Same old thing day in and day out. But hey, I'm not complaining, as long as I continue to have those priceless moments. Ah the pleasures of real-life comedy. No canned laughter to direct your response, just raw talent. And inadvertent comedy too. Brilliant. On some day's the joke's on me. I don't quite like that. But on days like today I love my life.

Another Day

2008-08-12T04:49:00.000-07:00

Good day, bad day, downright rotten day. Well, well, there now, shh, it's over. It doesn't matter really. You'll die. In memories too. Pick up the pieces. Next show tomorrow nine to two. Rehearse. You must.

Think of all that you have. All. That. You. Have.

Should I be worried that I count my blessings all too often? I justify this existence. With a little help from pulp philosophy. Count count. The good, the bad, the ugly. It doesn't matter really.

Feminism?

2008-08-10T09:42:00.000-07:00

"So, who does the housework? Cleaning the floor and all?" I asked out of genuine curiosity. It is not every day that you see a squeaky-clean bachelor pad.

I would willingly have been blind as a mole to every comfort that that house had to offer had I known a query as innocuous as this one would have him frothing at the mouth.

"Unlike those who pretend to know all about feminism, I practice it.", he said. "I don't think it's a woman's job to wipe the floor or do the dishes. Men can do these things too." Clap, clap. Only, I never said anything about supposed gender roles. I just meant to compare housekeeper wages. The assumption was about lack of time. I am wondering whether such an acute consciousness or self-perception as a gender-bender qualifies as feminism.

Murderous

2008-08-02T03:41:00.000-07:00

What is it today? A**hole Day??

Some people irritated me so much that I'm wishing death upon them right now. If one of them dies of a burst spleen or a road accident, then I'll ask the rest to take that as a cautionary tale.

Hugs

2008-07-23T05:09:00.000-07:00

I'm a hugger. I hug my girl friends all the time, which is a problem because I think it goes against my strict policy about not intruding on other people's personal space. In theory, I should not be invading the most immediate expression of personal space. But I do. And I love it. A good, well reciprocated hug makes me instantly happy.

I am not sure why but I hug just my girl friends. Guy friends I poke in the ribs, pinch, or box. I suspect it is provincial priggishness cloaked in easy familiarity. Well, Ian Hoolihan.

Not all my friends are into hugging. That is not to say none of these non-hugging type don't hug back. Quite the contrary. They are some of the warmest huggers I know. So much better than the mechanical huggers with the faraway look in their eyes or the I-am-in-love huggers who you are sure are thinking about their boyfriend when they hug and who make you wish they would stop practicing groping on you.

Then there are the resolute non-huggers who don't hug back at all, ever. There are few things more embarrassing than hugging someone and not getting hugged back. It makes you feel as if you breached some sort of an unwritten code or hierarchy. It makes you think is it even a good idea to think of the person in question as a friend. It makes you wonder whether everything you did for each other was paid for in cash, whether all the things you did together were done just out of convenience. It makes you feel foolish. I should know, I have got that enough number of times, twice actually.

It is a relief that given the frequency with which I hug people I have had to hug a pole only twice. I understand that the two people concerned may find hugging intrusive. But it's not such a thing that cannot be indulged. Bigger favours are granted in the name of friendship. And for crying out loud, loosen up! Or perhaps I should give up hugging altogether.

Discomfort

2008-05-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

Discomfort is of several kinds, I'm sure you'd agree. The one nagging me today has to do with the feeling that she made me reveal more than I should have. She reminds me of Uriah Heep. Minus the 'umble bit though. She does not even pretend to be humble. Just the opposite in fact. Never have I seen a person carry pride on her shoulders with more aplomb, and when there is hardly any reason too. Hmm.

Ah, well. What to do. I can't undo my blabbering. I can only stick pins in her woodoo doll and wish misfortunes on her. With my witchcraft skills I am not sure I'd cause even the slightest bit of discomfort. There is no justice in the world. None I have a hand in in serving anyway. Cause for more discomfort. God, I should have been God.

Does this count as Fanart?

2008-05-06T07:57:00.000-07:00

is it to be
used

in a bank
heist

to wheel away
cash

or is it a
guarilla

soldier in disguise
waiting

for orders from
above

I have read it
over

and over
again

yet I can't guess
exactly

how much depends
upon

the red wheel
barrow.

Friends

2008-04-20T21:48:00.000-07:00

A week has passed since Arti's wedding yet I can't stop being startled in my thoughts. Getting bored with my work I mutter to myself about our annual get-together and suddenly realise that Arti wouldn't be there. It's not as though she has died, she's just (happily, I might add) married. Still I can't help thinking that somehow there is an insurmountable barrier between us and her. Friends from college are hardly top priority for married people. More so for women. So even though she's in a city nearby, it's as far as Bombay or New York.

I've lost proximity with friends to higher education and jobs too but marriage pinches more. I wonder why.

Haiku # 1

2008-04-19T08:42:00.000-07:00

Cherry tree blossoms
I have seen in harsher climes --
Mountainebony.

xkcd - weird with a vengeance

2008-04-17T23:09:00.000-07:00

"We did not invent the algorithm. The algorithm consistently finds Jesus. The algorithm killed Jeeves. The algorithm is banned in China. The algorithm is from Jersey. The algorithm constantly finds Jesus.This is not the algorithm. This is close."

This is what it says at the end of the page, just above the Creative Commons license. It is written in a really minute font size and one would imagine it would be some mandatory but cumbersome stuff in legalese. There is a reason why I loved xkcd for such a long time.

Pigeon

2007-12-11T01:33:00.000-08:00

Above the six feet high steel cupboard, there was kept a clumsy looking thing. Who would ever want to keep a replica of a pigeon nest complete with a pigeon for a show-piece? It was not even well made. The nest wasn't neat; it had too many out-of-place twigs. Someone obviously overdid the natural look. And the pigeon wasn't great either. There were white glue stains where the beak was attached to the head. But then it blinked.

Why we are friends

2007-12-10T09:30:00.000-08:00

It was 5:00 in the morning. The four of us were scrunched up in the backseat of Sue's car, exhausted after three days of sleepless fun, returning to our respective homes. The highway was deserted, the city was still a long way off. Nothing but an empty road ahead of us and a few and far between sleeping hamlets around us. "Hey look! Bird!" I said peering out of the window. Tui was too tired and sick to be able to respond but Sue and Dee looked up. We were going at a speed too fast for them to actually see the bird which was not anything extraordinary in any case. But that started it. "Tree!", exclaimed Sue minutes later. "Chimney!" "Wall!" "Bicycle!" "Man!", such esoteric words of wisdom kept on being poured forth by a lecturer and two research scholars. Me and Dee got off at our common destination at 6. This was going to be the last time we met for a long time to follow. We kissed goodbye beaming at our highway census.