Oscar Mania

I sometimes wonder if one can separate a product from its maker. Like Vidhu Vinod Chopra. 'Parinda', his first directorial feature film, remains one of my all time favourite movies and I remember long drives with someone who I had to keep telling to rewind an audio casette in the car tape. That audio cassette was the soundtrack of the movie WITH dialogues. His second venture, '1942, A Love Story' got killed at the box office for reasons I can't understand still. I liked that movie as I did the two 'Munnabhais' and 'Parineeta' that he made. I didn't have the chance to watch Eklavya though.

But this man, I remember one of his earlier interviews on one of those Shekhar Suman shows when he talked about his achievements as a young man, short documentary, ad film maker something, did seem quite impressive. Even then, he seemed more boastful than modest at that time. The last time around, when Rang deBasanti was chosen over Munnabhai MBBS as India's official entry to the Awards, he decided to go ahead and enter the film as a direct entry for the foreign film category, supposedly after the support he got from viewers across India. That was yesterday and then 'Eklavya' gets nominated this year as an official entry and it creates quite a ruckus for being a box office dud of no repute and yet get the nomination. An elated Vidhu Vinod Chopra, now, says people in India need to grow up.

City of Djinns

I came across this from here. Some of these photographs also occur in the latest issue of M.

William Dalrymple puts forth an explanation to why Delhi is today what it is. Renowned as a shallow and fake culture, accused of being a heartless city with a soaring crime rate, where weddings are as lavish as common are drunk brawls, William says it is in part due to the fact that Delhi today is a city reborn again and again throughout history. Over the years, the metropolis has been the most powerful seat across the whole of the Indian subcontinent, and therefore, has witnessed more wars, coups, 'power' killings, betrayals than any other city. The current set of 'Dilli-wallas' are a curious mix of people, right from Punjabis who migrated during the Partition to the Jats from Haryana and the 'Bhaiyyas' of UP who came to the city in search of a better living. Therefore, William says, the culture of Delhi has, over the years, been covered by veils over veils of these various cultures, each trying to stamp their authority on what Delhi should be. Who or what does Delhi belong to? I guess that is a question that will remain unanswered till more of history is made.

edit: with fond memories of the place...

The mind conjures up a Sunday evening. Sitting by the river front, perhaps across the bay, a patio laid with wooden boards, some grass around it and smooth pebbles of cold white marble drawn from a river bed. Watch the boats return from a sojourn, light emanating from the tall glass buildings on the other side. The deep sky a brilliant hue, crimson now, violet then, a spattering of misty clouds streaked across the wide canvas. The air just nippy enough to tingle one's toes as it twirls around bare legs, lying on the crisp cotton bedsheets laid out on the couch. Some Sarah Mclaghlan, Travis, REM, Floyd, Annie Lennox gently crooning inside the amber hued room. Perhaps, a fusion of Talvin Singh, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Michael Brooks could do too...earthy songs, sufi mystic, deep vocals...The world of written words of another time, another city left behind, as one gently returns to the present and lets it seep into one's spirit, like wine that draws strength from the wood of its cask, brought out once in a while to catch the warmth of the setting sun to give it the perfect blend. Time, the fourth dimension overwhelms the other three and yet time, that does not know where else it could belong, but this moment. Here, now, is where you belong, for tomorrow is another worry and it does not matter if you had a fast depleting bank balance, or that people were slowly drifting away, perhaps, on one of those very yatches across the bay, their course set. It does not matter that you are away from where you began this journey, and all that remain are memories that you bracket into something called childhood. And that you are still away from time that calls upon you for a debt that you must pay back and pehaps sell your soul so you could...

Here, now is where you belong....

Ganpati Bappa Morya!!

We were kids. There used to be times when we did not have the luxury of playing gulli cricket, courtesy, the Patel chap, who with his bald pate and heavy voice would drive us away. Old couple with kids who'd migrated to the States could not bear a few kids making a ruckus every evening. At such times, we used to take refuge on the flat terraces of an unoccupied tenement near our houses. No. 75 and 76 were our favourite terraces for it meant we could run around and jump over the parapet that partitioned the terrace of the adjoining houses, and no parent would bother us. On one end lay an empty plot while the next house was just as empty.

Religion was something that neither of us in the bunch understood quite well. Except that it was a series of rituals that elders followed. Ganpati was no different. Every year, this time would mean a few elder guys from the row house side of the colony would go door to door and ask for contributions. With that they would build up the Ganpati pandal with a blaring music system, daily evening aartis and prasad that drew us to the spectacle. That, and the chance of shouting Ganpati Bappa Morya at the top of our voice. One day, when we were old enough we decided that we could manage a Ganpati pandal of our own. We used to setup our own pandal on one of these terraces with the help of unused slabs of kota stone with jagged edges. The flattest piece formed the floor while the remaining formed the walls and the roof. The back of the one square foot abode was the parapet wall. We spent hours decorating it with colored paper. Someone contributed the motor that had been salvaged out of a broken remote controlled toy car. A circular cardboard piece colored in bright patterns with our sketch pens was stuck onto the shaft of the tiny motor that was connected to a single pencil cell. This formed the chakra behind Ganpati's head. Tiny electric bulbs from someone's electric play set enabled us to light up the tiny pandal. The idol itself was painstakingly carved from blobs of mud rolled and dried and held together by tiny sticks or paper pins. One big mound over which rested a smaller one, a curved rolled up bit of mud formed the trunk and two flattened flaps made up the ears of the great God. Beads stolen from elder sisters' trinket box made up the eyes.

And every evening, just after dusk, when we heard the chant of the 'aarti' over at the colony's bigger organized pandal, we would gather at our little pandal on the terrace, with a small cup of sweets that would make up the prasad for our little Ganpati. A bunch of four five kids, one of us was the wiser kid who knew the aarti by heart and would therefore guide the rituals. We would light a small diya and incense sticks, agarbattis and chant His name over and over again. After the shouts of Ganpati Bappa Morya had died down we'd greedily divide up the prasad amongst ourselves and gulp it down. Cut fruit, sweetmeats, et all.

One year there was a feud and our group was divided into two. Each decided to have their own pandal on the very same terrace and an unspoken competition was set off with the aim of building the better pandal. That event brought about use of actual cement stolen from some construction site in the colony and therefore better constructed pandals where the air could be kept out of God's abode and the flame of the diya would not be at risk from the stiff September draft.

The dipping of Ganpati into waters was a problem every year since none of our parents would let us go by ourselves and carry the Ganpati to the nearest water body for 'immersion'. It would be left up to one of us to find a family who would take our Ganpati with the family one and immerse that too. Sometimes, when that was not possible, we would gently lift Him and place him in the empty plot of land nearby, consoling ourselves that we were returning him to his natural abode. The pandal would be gently dismantled and we would have the use of the terrace again for our daily evening games. Games with large balls held by the knuckles, 'Monkey in the Middle', 'River or Mountains', 'Sattodiyoo', 'Color, color', 'I Spy', and a dozen others.

Kids. We made up our own games, our own religion, our God and our own politics...

From the drafts in my mail..unedited

The perfect way of pretending to be working while Im actually blogging. Open a word document or a powerpoint, the better if it is the current project you’re working on, start typing somewhere in the middle in the same small font. When you are done, just open blogger, copy paste the post and publish. Whoosh! Important point is of course, not forgetting to delete it from the report / presentation you pretended to be busy with. Or else, it could lead to you being fired and your company sued. Ghastly a thought to imagine our clients reading the melancholic and sometimes downright cribby posts right in the middle of a feasibility study for a multi-crore real estate project. :D But I can’t help it. The new workplace I am seated in is situated right in the way of a busy walkway towards the pantry and the loo beyond, which makes it very easy for bored employees to just have a peek into my comp while on their way to another leak. As was proved by the senior from Bschool I chanced upon and who has since commented more than once on what I am doing. Searching for more seniors on Orkut??, she purrs coyly, while I am flabbergasted as to how did she see what I was doing on Orkut. Yeah, I was checking her out, among others. It was definitely easier in the Delhi office where I simply pretended I was drafting an email to a friend. The only raised eyebrows I had to encounter were those of Tania, who kept grumbling why noone ever wrote her so long mails. I finally had to tell her that it was in fact a post for my blog. That made her curious and she wanted to read me. I politely refused.

By the way, my new maidservant speaks English. Sis did warn me of it when she called to tell me that she’d managed to fix her up to clean the place and wash clothes. Next morning, a Saturday, a groggy me hears the knocking on the door (the doorbell doesn’t work). I get up and peer through the peephole to see a thinly yet cheery woman on the other side of the door. I open it up and I am greeted by a ‘Good Morning’. That drove half my sleep away, my Saturday morning. The next day she took out the newspaper from the latch and handed it to me on the way inside. Bade bade shehero mein aisi chotti chotti baatein hoti rehti hain.

I am enjoying the new house. It is, as written earlier, the first time I have a place to call my own. The cosy one room apartment is something I look forward to at the end of my day. Even as I right now have no means of entertainment, courtesy the broken Thinkpad, I still yearn to get back to it. I have yet to figure out the Internet and the daily newspaper, a fridge to keep milk, water, fruit juice and beer (in that order), a television sometime later this year and a music system. But it has my bed and sky blue bedsheets, the few books Ive managed to keep with myself and a few trinkets. By the next week I shall also have a few potted plants.
And as I stood by the window of my place, watch the rain beating down the tin roofs two floors down, a few words kept looping in my head.

Aazmaale aazmaale aaj khud ko aazmaale

Phirta hai kab se yeh dil sambhaale

Bol ye lab pe ruke hain

tere sajde mein jhuke hain

Pal pal bhikre hain kitne ujaale

Kya karoon kya sochta hai

chain dil ka dhoondta hai

Apni kismat ko jagaale

beech ka parda uthaale aazmaale

Aazmaale aazmaale aaj khud ko aazmaale

Phirta hai kab se yeh dil sambhaale

Bol ye lab pe ruke hain

tere sajde mein jhuke hain

Pal pal bhikre hain kitne ujaale

Apne gham se khelta hai, dard kitne jhelta hai

Sochta tu aur kuch hai, aur kuch tu bolta hai

Apne dil ko tu manaale

beech ka parda uthaale aazmaale

Aazmaale aazmaale aaj khud ko aazmaale

Phirta hai kab se yeh dil sambhaale

Bol ye lab pe ruke hain

tere sajde mein jhuke hain

Pal pal bhikre hain kitne ujaale

Kashmakash ko chhor de tu,

rukh hawa ka mod de tu

Khaali pe maana hai tera,

ho sake to tod de tu

Ek nayi mehfil sajaale

beech ka parda uthaale aazmaale

Aazmaale aazmaale aaj khud ko aazmaale

Phirta hai kab se yeh dil sambhaale

Bol ye lab pe ruke hain tere sajde mein jhuke hain

Pal pal bhikre hain kitne ujaale

Kitne ujaale, kitne ujaale, kitne ujaale

- Taxi 9211

ps

to add to the comments on the previous post....

This seems adventurous enough...

an ode to the humble auto rickshaw

Meter Down

Living in Bombay on your own without flatmates and not exactly near to the office, can be expensive. I am considering alternative careers. An auto rickshaw driver for example. The one I drove me to office today lives a much better standard of living. He doesn't have to bother getting wet in the rain on the way to work, while I had to face the ferocious rain today morning while I walked to the main road. His workplace, meanwhile, sits right outside his house. Moreover, it obliges if he decides he needs a change of view from the work desk. He put his legs up and sleeps after a heavy lunch. His work timings are flexible. His workplace has a CD music system (something I don't right now). I might even start liking Himesh. If there is a cricket match, he can take half a day off and relax in front of the idiot box. In any case, he can hear the commentary live on his radio, without worrying about office protocol. He doesn't worry about the Internet being down. When the gas pumps are on strike, its a holiday for him.

Hmm...

I need a HOLIDAY!

another weekend is here...

but
life
means
a lot more

This post is in response to Dobereinerr's comment on 'Street Tales'. It got me thinking. Long years back, one of my uncles told us a humorous incident from life. On one of his training sessions in the city, he was with a bunch of colleagues traveling from one point to another. Most of this group wanted to get to a different side of the railway line. For those who are not familiar to the city, it is divided along the North South axis by the local suburban railway lines and therefore you have an Andheri East and an Andheri West. There are overbridges at each railway station to get to either side and to the platforms. These can only be used by commuters and for the rest of the public, there are separate overbridges / underpasses at a distance from the railway station. Getting back to the incident, one of the members of the group was not really a commuter and was merely crossing over from one side to the other side. As luck would have it, he was caught by one of the ticket checking staff and fined for using the overbridge without a ticket. The only genuine explanation this person could come up was that he didn't realize when he just got caught in the tide of people along with him and didn't remember using the bridge for non-commuters.

Anyways, the point being, I wrote earlier about people being everywhere. It can be disconcerting for a lot of people and takes time to get used to. At no point in time, be it early morning or late night will you find tip toe silence in Mumbai. There is always movement and there is always some sound, the trains, the flights, the cabs, autos. People are always in a rush. To get someplace. Get back home, get to the office, to the shopping mall, not be late for the movie or a rendezvous with friends. A friend here told me recently that people don't smile here. Even if you happen to get into a longish eye contact with someone, you merely look away. Scowl, at the worst. There simply isn't time to pause, smell the flowers, as they say. It is a daily fight, from hunger, for a shelter, for power, for money...and for affection, perhaps. Sometimes, you just wish that you could get away from the maddening rush. The crash and squeal as dreams mesh and collide with each other...the city of dreams.

I chose to be here. I chose Mumbai.

If You Were A Song

I don't get to watch so much of television. When friends talk about Southpark, Frasier, Scrubs and more, I only say 'hmmm'. When I did get to watch television, I didn't like sitcoms and soaps because I didn't have the patience to remember what happened in the last episode or remember the show times. Hell, I don't even know who is who in Friends. Yah! Hang me for it! But I love the ads. They've changed a lot since the times of 'roshni deta bajaj'. Not that they were any less memorable.

I love this one. If you were a song....



I could even float a meme on this.

ps. I'm sure each of the captions are songs. I can name a few. How about you?

Street Tales

In another curious incident today, a little kid with bunny teeth walked up to me as I stood waiting by the roadside for my transport and mumbled something pointing to the other side of the busy road. After asking him twice, I gathered that he needed assistance to cross the road. I agreed and started towards the other side. Without a word, he grabbed my hand and we scurried across, a worried look on his face. I felt his small hand tightening every time some vehicle honked in protest at us. He did mumble some gratitude at the other end as I dropped him and made my way back to the other side.

Last year in Delhi, something similar happened outside the office. That time I helped a blind man cross the street. Then, a couple of cars actually stopped when they saw me, my colleague and the man crossing the road. I could not help but compare that no one even thought of that, here in Mumbai. So much for prejudices.

They are everywhere. On the streets, in supermarkets, at tea stalls, in local trains, on top of them, in subways, on flyovers, on overbridges hawking plastic toys, on the beach, on the higway, on the sea front sidewalks, on red BEST buses, walking across roads, in black and yellow FIAT cabs, on two wheelers, in expensive Beamers, in shopping malls, at the theater, in pubs, in cafes, in video game parlors, at the hair saloon, in the atrium to the office, on the road to Baskin Robbins, around the banana vendor, standing in queues at the ticket window, and at those outside a sale store, making out at Bandstand, begging at traffic signals, jogging in public parks, working away furiously at desktops in AC offices, shouting inside the financial bourses and in non-financial ones, hounding firangs at Colaba, inviting people at ice gola stalls, jumbo vada pavs at the malad station, in blue plastic sheet covered jhuggies along the railway tracks, at Shivaji Park playing a Sunday afternoon game of cricket, at the gym, at night, noon or dawn, long, short, black, white, fresh, stinky, callous, tender...

In sight, smell, throb and crash...human...

People.
Everywhere.

Earlier, I thought I could forgive but never forget.
I think now I can forget, I can never forgive.

Like Janis said...Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose...

Balls.
:)

Classic

Life throws up turns at you often. A few of them appear to be blind turns away from the straight path that appears thorny and difficult but with a view of the distant dream. The turn you contemplate is into a blind alley that might take you to the same or an even better but distant and hazy dream. That turn also is about survival. For you and for a few more others.

Noise

The light is a brazen red. He guns his bike, but the engine is disengaged from the wheel. Like reality playing catch up with thoughts. With a flick of his heel, he unhinges the rest stand and lets the bike lean on to it. Ambient noise from a traffic signal along the Western Express Highway. A few steps to the left, he walks up to the leper, who has his stub of a leg wrapped up in a polythene bag to prevent the water from seeping in, and hands him a few coins. 40 year old man in the red car behind is impatient. He honks loudly.

The light is still red.
He will give him a glare.

No. 1 is a Delhiite. No.2 is a Goan. No.3 is a Parsi Bava. No.4 is a Kannadiga. No.5 is a guy from remote interior Vidarbha.

Thats Mumbai.

Vague

There is a faint whiff of the past in the air today. Like a gentle mist that hangs around on some days. The overbearing feeling that something of the past changed your life irrevocable. It gave you contentment that IT couldn't have been different. Or regret that IT wasn't better. A faint smell, not inhaled since long, but very very unforgettable. Of skin, of clothes, of the land and of familiarity. Sweet pain after a climax, the tinge of disappointment that it didn't last long and that it is now gone. Like a peak that was reached and the only journey forth is downwards.

Or perhaps, the past will overtake the present and crash into the future....

From the drafts in my gmail.
________________________

No one knows what its like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

No one knows what its like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies

But my dreams
They arent as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
Thats never free

No one knows what its like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you

No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through

But my dreams
They arent as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
Thats never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool

If I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what its like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

- Behind Blue Eyes
The Who

Thats Me In the Corner

One song that will always bind me to this city. No Friday night in Gurgaon was complete without Shiv playing this song, and the night rounded off by 'Romeo & Juliet', the bunch of romantic idiots that we all are. I will forget every pub, every disc, every other damn watering hole I have been to, but I won't forget any place that got this song, be it CNT in Gurgaon, or Blues in Connaught Place, Someplace Else in Kolkata, T-Oaks in Pune.

Shores

Drifting on the calm waters
From this shore to the other
Stopping at dark
for some warmth and life
I row...

And then there is the horizon
where the sky reflects the water
and merges
Where I want to be
Waiting for when

It will be time.

Wrote this more than two years back and now its time again for that unease. Time for some turbulence. Leaving shores to wander off once again. Another journey, other co-travellers, some still constant and strangely, the destination just as hazy as earlier. The pattern doesn't change much. Experiences do, immensely. How will it be this time?

Jab main chota baccha tha

She: i have to go to the dentist today evening. Got 3 cavities and getting a tooth removed.
Grahan laga hai.
Me: bachpan mein merese itni chocolate chura ke khayi uska jurmaana hai
She: chup be!

Every melody lulls into a drone...
Every conversation meanders into trivial exchanges...
Every story falls into a predictable sequence...
Every journey that follows a map finally leads nowhere...

When you give it too much time...

Writing anything after long and this is what comes up.

Bombay Meri Jaan

Of the many memories associated with the city, is a recent one of a particularly rainy day about an year and half ago. I was in the city commuting between the eastern and the western suburbs in one of those black 'n' yellow Bajaj RE auto rickshaws. It had been a typical difficult day with water clogging low lying streets and the indefatigable traffic jams near the Andheri railway station. Waiting at a particular spot for the traffic to open up, I noticed a well dressed middle aged man in the auto alongside mine. Dressed in a crisply ironed pale yellow shirt and formal trousers, he appeared well groomed and part of the media community that is omnipresent in those parts of Bombay. As is usual to his likes, and I generalize, the upper two buttons of his shirt were undone.

He took out a cigarette but didn't have a light on him. Asking his auto driver proved futile and he looked around for some help. The driver of another auto behind him happened to catch his eye and this man made a mute signal of raising the smoke held between his fingers. 'Got a match?' With an acknowledgement of the request, the other driver fumbled for a while in his pockets and finally found a matchbox in the 'first aid box' of his vehicle. This man gets out and walks up to the other auto, between the vehicles and under the slight drizzle, lights his cigarette with the match that the driver has lit, expresses his gratitude with a slight nod and walks back to his own auto. In a few seconds the traffic cleared up and we all went our way. Not a word, no please, no thank you. All in the matter of a few seconds.

Tadaa!!!

'Wheee!'

'Things You Can't Leave Behind'

Happy B'day!

Happy b'day to you, dear '___'. I don't quite know what to call you. In common terms you would be a 'blog', but you could be a lot of other things too.

Here's to all these words!!

Mine, immaculate dream, made breath and skin,
Ive been waiting for you,
Signed, with a home tattoo,
happy birthday to you
was created for you.

(cant ever keep from falling apart.. at the seams)
(cant I believe youre taking my heart.. to pieces)

Ahh, itll take a little time, might take a little crime
to come undone
Now well try to stay blind, to the hope and fear outside,
Hey child, stay wilder than the wind
And blow me in to cry

Who do you need?
Who do you love?
When you come undone

Words, playing me deja vu,
like a radio tune I swear Ive heard before,
Chill, is it something real,
or the magic Im feeding off your fingers

(cant ever keep from falling apart.. at the seams)
(can I believe youre taking my heart.. to pieces)

Lost, in a snow filled sky, well make it alright,
to come undone,
Now well try to stay blind, to the hope and fear outside,
Hey child, stay wilder than the wind -
And blow me in to cry...

- Come Undone
Duran Duran

Long years ago, I made a Tryst with Destiny

One Djinn to rule them all,
One Djinn to find them.
One Djinn to bring them all
and in the darkness bind them.

It will be one year in a few days. One year of the daily love affair with the autorickshaw. An year of wonder, angst, irritation and surprise at the winds. A place ensconsed in history as much as history ensconsed in India. Of Rajputs and of Sultans, of Nawabs and Mughals, of Britishers and of Punjabis. Of drunken brawls and khadi overcoats. Green'n'yellow buses, flashy Honda CRVs and Government Ambassadors. Of neem trees amidst paved footpaths, smooth gravel and golf courses. Kebabs and chaat, kachori subzi and HCF. Bazaars, behemoth malls and parking lots. Student protests and necrophiliacs. Dhaula Kuan, Mehrauli and Connaught Place. Medical, Safdarjang and Dilli Haat. One year of Delhi.

Haanji.