A post to make me see sense

Ever since 26 night, as the whole drama unfolded, I have become numb by slow but sure degrees. The hostages who came out, most of them amazingly clam, poised and appreciative of the hotel staff and the commandos, surprised me with their impeccable hold on themselves.

We had been joking about a 'strike' for sometime now, and a few days ago, I had imagined the place if there were an attack. I actually saw bodies lying scattered for a second, and that open-eyed nightmare / simulation sent a shrill down my spine. Now, as the hours passed into another set of bloody, helpless hours, precisely the same imagination of horror was taking place somewhere else...

Taj, Trident, Oberoi , CST... more...

In the past 2-3 days, some of my very beliefs, my way of thinking has come under a tremendous thump. For the first time in my short short life, have I questioned myself about the persistence to be liberal minded, secular, shun generalisations and be open- to all. I called up Baba in face of the turmoil I was facing and I could not possibly let grow. His words, simple and straightforward as they always are, have reined in my stream of confusions significantly.

Terror is not the face of any religion, I still cajole myself to believe. I know, I know. 'Still cajole myself to' should be eliminated to sound correct, to represent a secular, broadminded chunk of mindset through this blog. But this space is free of any adages-personal or professional. And so I feel, it is my duty to my conscience to be honest here. For the first time, first unfortunate time, I am faltering from the beliefs I held so firmly. How could someone manage to do such a ghastly thing motivated by a war of faith? If faith, any faith it may be, can produce such brainwashed young men, I may well be on my way to become either an atheist or conversely, take deep deep refuge in the teachings and consequently, a deeper understanding of religion.

The other day Void had written this post, and I had replied there, my optimistic self, that hate is a counter-productive emotion. The problem is, counter-productive though it may be, incidents like these can very easily give vent to hate. Perhaps that’s what they exactly wanted. That's what Baba said. If you doubt your stance now, they will win. They wanted to spread a lot of hate. If you unwittingly fall prey, they will win. He said I am too small, too young and so I am likely to jump and take a anti-this or for-that stand. Even at 24, for him I will still be in the cradle. But at 59, you start seeing life very differently, don't you? A few years ago, in my college days with late evenings and long phone calls, my parents had this anxiety which they so elegantly controlled so that their concern might not come in the way of my discovering life for myself. Then, they said you just won't understand what we are scared of. Six years down the line, I now know what they meant. I must listen to him now.

I was toying with the idea of removing the Dhoop Kinare videos. I was angry hearing about the very evident Pak connection and my anger suddenly took a collective, desperate form. Till I called my father. I know he is right. Everything begins and ends with the moral fabric of an individual, he said. A trivial connection when cited with respect to such a massive, such a horrific attack. But brood over it and there’s so much truth in it. Hate is such an expensive, fatal emotion to invest in. It produces nothing but regret.

So however confused, however shaken that I may be, I am going to stick to my original line of thought. Terror is not the face of any one religion. People, as a whole, are good. I am going to repeat this to myself a hundred times over till I can say it one breath, with as much conviction I said this before the 26th. If I can't, as Baba said, they will win. We can't afford one more person added to the vicious cycle of hate. Writing this post really helped me frame my random mind. What have you been thinking since the 26th? Are you still the same?

Mumbai attacks- A consolidated link list

More than 101 injured

Anti-Terrorist Squad Chief Killed

Encounter Specialist dies

Japanese citizen dead

Australian reported dead

Seven British nationals injured

Places where attacks took place*:
Taj Hotel, Trident, CST- Victoria Terminus, Near Bootleggers, Near Cafe Leopold, Nariman House * Based on TV reports, please confirm with other news sources too

Not again...

Terror attacks in Mumbai. At least 25 feared dead. The pics I saw are spooky.

This is a Reuters article, with as much info as was available right off the scene...

Is our country entering in a spate of uncontrolled, random fits of terror?

More take birth than can easily live,
More die randomly like this,
A cruel twist of fate
May take me or you away tomorrow
Today is all we have

GG

Dhoop Kinare--- Anji and Zoya

Dhoop Kinare is a legendary Pakistani drama. I don't know how I missed searching for this gem of a serial on the internet. There's something about this serial that haunts you long after you have stopped seeing it. The dialogues, Zoya, Dr. Ahmer, the soulful music and lyrics (can't beat 'Jaise veerane mein chupke se bahaar aa jaye, Jaise beemar ko bewajah karaar aa jaye' can you? ) Embedding some episodes.

Dhoop Kinare

Dhoop Kinare is a legendary Pakistani drama. We saw all the episodes back in the 1990s at my aunty's place. After a lot of search, she finally found a site that has put most good episodes online. Here, I embed the last and perhaps the most romantic episode. It's 30 minutes long, so see it when you have time. But see it.

Links to this post / further reading:

Zoya (Marina Khan): 1) Wikipedia 2) Interview
Dr. Ahmer (Dr. Rahat Kazmi) : 1) Interview 2) Wikipedia
Haseena Moin (Writer) : 1) Wikipedia 2) Interview 3) Another interview

Love rectangles

A friend likes another friend, but that friend hates him. Another friend likes another friend, that friend doesn't hate him, but doesn't love him either. A third friend loves one but seems to like many other friends too. A friend of a friend who patched with her bf also has a gf.

Life, did you have some fixation with screwing everything up?

LOL

At least I have a good laugh

Dasvidaniya

Ten reasons* I liked the film:

1) It make you think about how we assume the things that need our immediate attention are as mundane as faulty geysers, buying vegetables for dinner

2) It brings out beautifully well the breadwinner's struggle at a day in a busy metro. Sweat, shoves, queues, snub

3) The pang of unexpressed first love

4) Childhood friendship

5) Death, and the opportunity it brings so that we can live to the full

6) The line, 'Zindagi kitni khoobsoorat hai'

7) A mother's denial (i.e. the quack) and acceptance (i.e. the lift) at the same time

8) The film repeats the most spiritual cliche of all times ever-- to live your dreams--- beautifully

9) The thing about gifts.

10) The fact that Dasvidaniyan is predictable and yet it's something a good movie buff shouldn't miss.

* There are so many wonderful films I have decided to write about here, but haven't done so for want of time to put a 'proper review'. From now, I am going to blog about ten reasons I loved a film. That should be short and doable. One request-- please share your reactions to all film reviews w/o revealing the suspense as far as possible. Or give a SPOILER warning. :)

CAST and CREDIT

Banner: Lemon Tea Productions, One More Thought Entertainment Pvt. Ltd.Producer Vinay Pathak, Azam Khan

Director: Shashant Shah

Star Cast: Vinay Pathak, Ranvir Shorey, Rajat Kapoor, Neha Dhupia, Saurabh Shukla
Gaurav Gera...... Vivek, Suchitra Pillai, Sarita Joshi...... Maa
Suresh Menon, Purbi Joshi...... Garima, Joy Fernandes...... Savio Sachin Khurana...... Varun

Singers: Kailash Kher, Sonu Nigam, Paresh, Naresh

Lyricist: Kailash Kher

Screenplay, Dialogue, Story / Writer: Arshad Ali Syed

Bell Bajao

Talk about advertisements that touch. Public service/ awareness campaigns are powerful tools to reach the masses. The Bell Bajao campaign is one such.
I saw the advertisement for the first time today.
The message has been cleverly depicted. Dialogues are almost non existent. A bell, a look. That's all. An intervention that says a lot without saying anything.
Those who ring the doorbell to interrupt an episode of domestic violence ask nothing more than a cup of milk, or a cricket ball. And yet, they convey such a lot. Perhaps, even put an end to something that could have ended up in a suicide, a burn case, a grievous knife injury. These are not far-fetched ideas, no. Just read your news briefs more carefully and you will realise how sadly common it is for such misfortunes to happen in homes that are caught in domestic turmoils. (And you know what, half such news doesn't even reach you. It dies a sudden death for want for space.)
Bell Bajao. As long as there are people who are sensitive enough to give importance to such seemingly trivial, but indeed quite vital issues, there's still so much to feel good about. This is a wonderful, wonderful campaign. Hats off to the ad-men, script-writers, directors, producers et al.

Cliched but true is only an excuse

I had asked a question about cliches on Against the tide. While a complete post is awaited, here's what I got as a quick reply:

Cliches from Associated Press Guide to News Writing, Rene J. Cappon.
The link: http://cliche.theinfo.org/

awkward dilemma | brutal murder | close proximity | end result | entirely absent

exact counterpart | future plan | general public | gory murder | grateful thanks

| gruesome tragedy | lifeless corpse | mutual cooperation | new record |

original founder | patently obvious | personal friend | personal opinion |

present incumbent | sworn affidavit | surrounded on all sides | true facts |

ultimate outcome | gave permission to | held a meeting | proved of benefit |

to put in an appearance | reached an agreement | submitted his resignation |

take into consideration | established | conclusive evidence of | take into custody

accommodations | approximately | assistance | commence | finalize |

implement | in consequence of | initiate | methodology | motivation |

objective | purchase | remuneration | substantial proportion |

underprivileged | utilise | armed to the teeth battle | royal |

beat a hasty retreat | beyond the shadow of a doubt | bite the dust |

blessing in disguise | blissful ignorance | burning issue | club-wielding police |

colourful scene | conspicuous by its absence | coveted award | dramatic new move

dread disease | dream come true | drop in the bucket | fame and fortune |

gentle hint | glaring omission | gory details | grief-stricken | hand in glove|

hammer out | happy couple | head over heels in love | heart of gold |

heavily armed troops | iron out | intensive investigation | Lady Luck |

lash(|ed|es) out | leave no stone unturned | light at the end of the tunnel |

lightning speed | long arm of the law | man in the street | marvels of science |

matrimonial bliss | meagre pension | miraculous escape |

Mother Nature | moves into high gear | never a dull moment | Old Man Winter

paints a grim picture | pay the supreme penalty (price)

picture of health | pillar of society | pinpoint the cause

| police dragnet | pool of blood | posh resort | prestigious law firm | proud

heritage | proud parents | pursuit of excellence | red faces | red-faced |

reins of government | rushed to the scene | selling like hotcakes |

spearheading the campaign | spirited debate | spotlessly clean |

sprawling estate | spreading like wildfire | stranger than fiction | storm of protest

| supreme sacrifice | surprise move | terror-stricken | tie the knot |

tip of the iceberg | tower of strength | true colours | vanish in thin air |

walking encyclopaedia | wealth of information | whirlwind campaign |

last but not least | beck and call | bits and pieces | very unique |

clear and simple | death and destruction | each and every | fair and just |

few and far between | nook and cranny | pick and choose | ready and willing |

right and proper | safe and sound | shy and withdrawn | smooth and silk |

Annapurna Tiffin Service

Food. Mortal existence essentially revolves around what we get to eat and how. The fortunate ones elevate the exercise of eating to exotic levels of culinary perfection. The less bestowed ones get something to eat only after a day full of rigid toil.

My being a foodie has a lot to do with my family, like I have said in this post. My parents are people who enjoy a simple, home cooked meal with humility and zest.

My earliest memories are playing about with my sister and cousins at my nani's house. Every festival meant going there. My nani would sit down in the kitchen, frying jalebis and malpuas, with the gas cylinder creepily close by. On festival days, she used two gas burners, instead of the usual one on the kitchen platform.

When I grew old enough to be scared of fire and the possibility of a cylinder blast dawned on me (children become aware of dangers sooner than us these days) I told my nani how risky it was to fry mal-puas thus. Everyone in the kitchen laughed me of. Food never fell short in that home. Go there at any odd hour and rest assured, you will find either a complete meal, or some filling snacks coaxed down your throat.

My mother had her mother's passion for cooking. And my father, never failed to appreciate her art. Each morning and each night, he sang passionate praises of how wonderfully she fed us all. He would only get cross if something fell short. Thankfully, it never has. Aaji has to ensure that the quantity is just right, for if rice or dal falls short, my Baba has this indignant fit of anger. He can praise rice gruel as if he's eating Biryani, but he pouts like a child even if a spoonful falls short.

While I am nowhere close the diligence of either my mother, or my aaji, I have inherited the appreciation of good food from my family, and a certain amount of whimsical fancy for cooking. Whimsical, for as my aaji says, only she is a good homemaker who boils her milk every day and makes ghee at the end of the month.

My father has immense respect for anyone who feeds him one complete meal. He says those homes are blessed where kitchens are always full of women happily churning out delicacies for their families. He calls such homemakers 'Annapurna', after the Goddess that ensures bounty of food in any household.

Some days back, when we called many to our home for dinner and I planned a menu so ambitious that even surprised me, Baba was overjoyed. "I am glad you take joy in cooking," he said. "You should take immense pride that you can feed someone. Don't turn out to be like those feminists who take pleasure of renouncing the kitchen. It's not a chore, but a privilege to be able to cook elaborate dinners," he told me.

When I didn't study, my father would chid me and weave this fantastic future scenario. He said if you don't study, the only resort would be to start Annapurnaa tiffin service, and jump up the bicycle wearing a ghaghra to go from door to door to deliver lunch boxes. But no sooner had he said this, he always added, "But I don't even mind if you do that. An honest and cheap restaurant business is a kind of social service."

The laughs we had when Baba started his Annapurna tiffin service story came to my mind when I was reading this blog sometime back. People from all over the world read and try her recipes. Their jubilant feedback after trying some item, even for a third person like me, is heartwarming. Ah, the joy food can spread...

Hail George Orwell

In an age of politically correct writing, even gearing the subconscious in a politically correct mode of thought, George Orwell's writing reeks of candour to the best possible level of journalistic perfection.

While you may freely disagree with his views, you must read his essays, just to learn with what clarity and simplicity it is possible to put your thoughts across.

I have read, re-read, and plan to re-read his essays.

Last night, I found an amazing online collection of almost all his essays. Some, which I had not even heard of before. I feel it my duty to pass on the link here, and hope that at least few good readers here would find time to read this master wordsmith.

My favourites are Shooting an Elephant, A Hanging, Books v. Cigarettes, The Prevention of Literature, In Defence of English Cooking, Why I Write, Some Thoughts on the Common Toad. Even his critique on Gandhi is an interesting read. For that matter, each piece written by Orwell is special, sensitive without being overtly emotional. For example, Looking Back on the Spanish War.

The direct link of the entire list is this: netcharles.com

Orwell is worth investing time in.

Cold spell rant

A bad cold has left me feeling miserable. This is not a worthy topic for blog space, I know, but just once in a while I allow myself to use the blog as a ranting machine. In my cold spells, the anger I otherwise keep under a tight tab slips out on its own. All my silent, rather acute Virgo criticisms effortlessly fly to target the cause of my irritation. Under normal circumstances, I am satisfied by speaking only when necessary, or when I feel like doing so, or with people who happen to be within one hand's distance provided my mood is right. Then, I don't need introductions or familiarity. For a brief five minutes, I might just catch you and share with you any thought that passes my mind at that moment, however ridiculous it may be. When this happens in office, I have seen that people frantically start scouting for some work to keep me occupied. For my quips can be quite random- I know, I know. :(

For example: The other day, my usual herbal soap was finished and I had to use the Dettol menthol body wash (the one which comes in a blue pack). People, don't ever, ever make the mistake of buying this product. It is one of the most ridiculous toilet items ever made. It's a yucky experience bathing with this psychedelic bluish gel. It's exactly like bathing with colgate gel toothpaste. If you don't take me seriously, and dare to try the Dettol bodywash, you shall remember my blog while trying to wash that horrible, artificial, cold, 'minty' sting off your body and bitterly regret not heeding to this cold-spell-rant.



A scribble which turned out to be what I see as a House-fly...

Learn while you can

It’s difficult to get good teachers, the real kinds.
Who, with their very passion, can make learning a joy. In their presence, syllabus escapes out of the boredom of books and starts dancing merrily about you. You catch all their words awestruck, sometimes not without a dumb reverence for which friends chide you. Many teachers shaped the course of my life in their own special ways. Like my aaji, or Fr., or Ishwarbhai or Joseph Pinto.

Of the two years I spent in Pune, I owe a lot to his teachings. Pinto has decided to take his experience beyond the restrictions of a classroom. He has started a blog where he intends to discuss what his students and friends wish him to. But he has a condition.

In his own words:
You will have to ask. As the good man says in the good book, "Ask and you shall Receive. Seek and you will Find. Knock and the Door shall be Opened."

Be it editing (how to write a crisp copy), features (typical blog material), reports (the nearly extinct species in newspapers today), or media ethics (a classmate declared journalism selfish- "I write about the ill and poor, get a byline and forget,” she fumed. Pinto called her to the dais, applauded her and talked about journalism activism) --- if you have a question related to journalism, drop in a comment on his blog, Against the tide.

Recalling my student days, Pinto thundered with a fanatic insistence on how words should be used and we wriggled uncomfortably initially. He was unpredictable in his insistence for accuracy. One day he would rip us apart while discussing reports- get furious on seeing any adjective or adverb thrown in a report. The next day, in a feature writing class, he would censor the staid language, lament the loss of imagination; the extinction of innovative adjectives to describe a situation. We thought the man a tad too eccentric when he insisted 'write it down' in response to any raised hand to answer a query. Here's a chance, for everyone to benefit from the expertise of a seasoned editor, a real teacher. Learn while you can.

Cuisine, Celebrations and Communalism

Of late, fundamentalism- from all possible sides of the faith divide- has marred things- all over India and perhaps more specifically in the city and state I so much love. Bomb blasts in Delhi, Gujarat, Maharashtra, Bangalore caused an unprecedented unease and cast a shadow on the Navratri, Durga puja and Eid celebrations. I wonder why mindsets cannot gel as easily as cuisine can.

I shall talk about Cuisine, Celebrations and Communalism, the things that occupy my mind more prominently at this point of time. However diverse be the faith we follow and the beliefs we believe, all of us converge at one single melting point without exception- food.

All our ambitions boil up to roti, kapda and makaan. For most readers here, the quest may not be so simplified and the march to luxury must have set quite high standards on all the three fronts. For example, I pay my house-help some INR 775/- per month and the cook another 700/-.We don’t bat our eyelids to spend the same amount- their entire month’s salary- on a single evening of eating out. It is precisely for this unfortunate divide, that each one of us needs to be truly grateful for the sumptuous food we can afford to eat.

I grew up to shouts of ‘don’t waste food’ from my Aaji. Her kitchen was, and still remains, an epitome of hygiene, economy and taste. ‘Eat what is made or go hungry’ was a common diktat. Her fanatic exactions have made us respect food even if we cannot measure up one-tenth to her standards or style. It is for her that my taste-buds are not fussy today. Saying no seems awkward and wasting means guilt.

My Aaji is an open-minded person. So while no one at home was allowed to cook non-veg, she didn’t stop us from trying out. ‘I feel it wrong to kill to eat when you have such abundant options. But the decision is yours,’ she says. Her disapproval is subtle and democratic. It is with such a background that I not only grew up to be a first rate foodie, but also tolerant and receptive to different cooking styles.

Like I learnt to appreciate the classic Malayalee cuisine at my friend’s place. I first tasted fish here under the watchful eye of my Baba. ‘What if the bone gets stuck in her throat. She eats way too fast,” he said and seriously believed. But aunty just laughed this out. She took the piece bits by bits and literally fed me my first mouthful of fish. Since then, be it Onam or Christmas, I would go there and hog away all the mallu preparations with glee.

Post Eid, I got to sample the most amazing bowl of sevaiyyas at the house of our Urdu teacher. I still remember the breath-taking taste of the spoonfuls of chicken biryani another Muslim classmate’s mother had made.

And how can I miss the kesar-dhoodh aaji boils to perfection for Kojagiri poornima? Or the diyas she makes out of chana-dal for the ‘Jeevti’ puja on the Friday of the Saavan month? Or the Pooran poli for Sankranti?

Cooking is a major part of all festivals and cooking is what has the potential to bring people from different walks of life in one happy union. When we can sample delicacies of different castes and communities with fervour, why can’t we be tolerant to the different modes of thought? Why are we bent on seeing things in black and white? Why is it that a viewpoint has the scope only to fall in two extreme categories today?

I am scared that the way things are going in India, a migrant in Mumbai would soon be forced to eat nothing but pithla bhaat and a north-Indian techie in Bangalore would have to learn and write in Kannada before he ventures out for a job. Only the masala dosa has become ubiquitous. It’s high time that familiarity leaves the boundaries of kitchen and paves way in the minds of people.

One can think right only with a full stomach. All of us here have the good fortune to eat without a worry for tomorrow’s ration. Let us all be a little more broadminded in wake of the recent spate of tension all over the country.

When the Parsi community first landed on a shore in Gujarat, they dissolved sugar in milk and said they would mix with the native population just as easily. The community has remained true to their symbolic word of promise. I suppose it can’t be that difficult for each one of us to follow suit.

-Gauri Gharpure

This article first saw light of the day on Internations, thanks to Hans' prompt kindness, and recently, on Sailaja's excellent food blog. Many thanks to both. If you like it enough, feel free to reproduce this article on your blog too...

Nano behind my house

The site chosen in Gujarat is as near as it can get to our home... When we shifted there some 15 years back, the area was fields and jungle, mango, mahua, jamun trees, hares, partridges and jackals and what not. We had a time of our lives for about a decade, but then, highways cut through, multiplexes came up, areas underwent a massive (and rather haphazard) construction spree. The face of Bopal changed. Farmers became millionaires overnight in the neighbouring areas and very slowly, a little grudgingly at first, we adjusted to the change that development brings.

I was jubilant when M messaged that Nano is now to be in Gujarat. Being in Kolkata though, this seemed the wrong emotion to express. People were still stung and sulky, and a beaming face was misfit. :D I don't know the nitty-gritties, but Baba's happy voice was enough for me start smiling.

Gentleman bids goodbye

Friday, October 3, 2008
Kolkata: It was in a rich baritone, with poise and dignity, that Ratan Tata announced the decision to move the Nano small cars' project out of West Bengal in a press conference post the meeting with the chief minister today evening. He was appreciative of CPI (M)'s breakneck efforts to retain the company in Singur but remained firm on his stance. He strived to assure one and all of no hard feelings, either with regards to the state infrastructure, its people or its governance.

In his farewell speech, Tata reiterated his dream to usher in industrialisation in the state. "We have taken a very regretful decision to move out. We came here two years ago attracted by the investor friendly policy of the current government. I personally had a great desire that this part of the country, that has been ignored, should be developed and we should be a part of that. I still exceedingly confirm that this is a very investor-friendly state. We are leaving not because of the governance, but because of the agitation of the Opposition led by Ms. Bannerjee. We continue to be bullish and enthusiastic about what can happen in West Bengal. I just hope that West Bengal can be the state of huge development and not a state which stands only for agitations, strikes, rallies," said Tata.

Asked why he did not accept the government's offer to provide foolproof security to ward off the agitators, his response was very unlike a baron who means nothing but business. "The meeting took a long time because he (the CM) was very persuasive in his desire that we not move. I had to explain to him that the well being of our employees and contractors happens to be my responsibility and that's something I cannot pass on to him. Unless there is a congenial environment, we cannot stay. Please understand also that you cannot run a pant with police protection," replied Tata.

When asked that wasn't the decision to move out against Tata's legacy, he crisply replied, "I am the wrong person to ask this. I am not leaving Bengal on a whim or a fancy. You better ask this to Ms. Bannerjee."

Tata's commitment to professional ethics and social responsibility is unparalleled. This post, may seem contradictory now. While the way land acquisitions are dealt with in the country are quite an issue of debate, for this one case, something has really gone amiss. Lord not propel leaders like Mamata Bannerjee to associate with issues as delicate as these.. Yes, leaving Bengal seems a sad, sad thing.

There's a man I love

There's a man I love. He is mischeivous, he calls people names, he winks. His ancient blue kinetic survived a bad accident. He also survived, btw. Came out of the neurosurgery cracking jokes to be precise. He is eighty and he has more gusto than you and me. For my sake, and for the many others who adore him, I wish him many many more birthdays.

Mumbai Meri Jaan

Yogesh Vinayak Joshi, the writer, must be someone who has genuine empathy to understand different lines of thoughts and consequent actions. He refrains from passing judgments but lets the movie send a message through its subtle dialogues and amazing body language of the characters. Of course, for this, the credit must be shared with co-screenplay writer Upendra Sidhaye and director Nishikant Kamat.

Mumbai Meri Jaan brings to you five very humane characters: Tukaram Patil (Paresh Rawal), Suresh (Kay Kay Menon), Nikhil (R. Madhavan), Roopali (Soha Ali Khan) and Thomas (Irrfan Khan). These are people in whom you may recognize the hawaldar standing near the pan shop, the youths drinking tea and biscuits at a kitli, your well-earning thoughtful friend with a clear set of rights and wrongs, an ambitious young media person and the roadside tea vendor you seldom look at for more than thirty seconds. They all come alive and confide in us with a touching simplicity in Mumbai Meri Jaan.

The film follows the lives of these five characters beginning the morning of the blasts to a week post the havoc of death and doubt. But in the end, the things discussed in Mumbai Meri Jaan are simple - how a man grapples with his way of life in an age that is enveloped in prejudice, doubt, inequality and extravagance?

These questions become all the louder after the Mumbai train blasts of July 11, 2006.

Paresh Raval is brilliant. His gentle, prodding good humour is delicately dressed with irony and sarcasm. His portrayal of a senior constable is perhaps the voice of many like him who slog in government services, become part of the red tape and have their own bitter regrets and reasons for the same. Kamat, plays his underling who is a green horn in the bureaucratic juggernaut and finds it difficult to digest the senselessness of it all. In his patient, good humoured chaffing of the young constable, Raval conveys many a poignant things in a tone that is unjudgemental and rational.

Thomas, the coffee-vendor played by Irrfan Khan conveys it all with his eyes. There is a blatant contrast between his frugal existence and his mute witnessing of the splurge of excess. His matter of fact resignation brings on screen a sense of disquiet, perhaps even a taunt to the well-fed multiplex audience. Thomas is the face of the vast divide of Indian economy. Watch out for his expressions when the mobile is thrown and crushed beneath the wheels.

Suresh (Kay Kay Menon) is a man filled to the brim with prejudice. You must have seen such people, you may be one of them. Though his reconciliation with secularism is a wee bit drastic, the story does its best to send across a message in the short time that a film offers. His character is detailed and sometimes his dialogues edge on dry humour. At least I had a good laugh at the Mohammad Rafi bit. The reason for his staunchness has been given cleverly in the scene where his father passionately discourses about Hinduism in their small flat.

Roopali’s character (Soha Ali Khan) has portrayed in precise words and scenes the irritation we all feel on the sensationalism of the Indian Television media. My rants in this post are now redundant. Mumbai Meri Jaan is dot on in conveying how mediocre television media has become today.

Nikhil (R. Madhavan) is one of those few young professionals who choose to stay back in India in the face of lucrative opportunities to rush abroad. His convictions falter after the train blasts. Perhaps the choice he makes is clear when he boards the train again.

Mumbai Meri Jaan is worth investing in a CD if the film is off your theatres by now.

-Gauri Gharpure
August 29, 2008

Mr. Crow and Ms. Dove

Read how they fell in love...

Ab ke bicchde to

Ab ke bicchde to shayad khwabon mein mile
Jaise sookhe hue phool kitabon mein mile...

Ahmed Faraz, who wrote these immortal lines died in Pakistan yesterday. He was 77.

Anonymous Smiles

The idea of Anonymous Smiles struck on one of my many day-dreaming phases.

The experiment is simple- I aim to gather addresses of people I don't know and send them one of my postcards.

If I happen to come across sketch pens when I am doing nothing, and if the mood seems right, this happens:



Sending a postcard is my version of leaving a message in a bottle in the ocean. How soon (or how leisurely late) the petite yellow card can reach its rightful owner never ceases to amaze me. I feel its potential to spread a moment of joy with colours and words has not been exploited to the maximum...

After playing with the idea for quite sometime now, I am taking the first step to further my postcard sending spree and see if I can spread smiles beyond my circle of acquaintances.

So here's what I have done so far to give my idea a concrete shape:



Now, as you can well see, I have more cards with me than I have addresses. Here's where you can come in the picture. If you know anyone to whom you would like to send one of my postcards, send me the complete postal address at anonymous.smiles@gmail.com

It could be your friend, neighbour, your parents or grandparents. It could be the address of people living in old age homes. It could be anyone whom you wish to send an anonymous smile. Even you, yourself. My interest lies only in seeing that the card is posted at a correct address and when it reaches, it ensures a moment of smile. This exercise will make me feel good about myself and hope its the same for you.

The blog http://anonymoussmiles.blogspot.com/ attempts to answer all the questions that you may now have about this idea. Please visit the blog and let me know your suggestions...

If you have addresses to share, please mail at anonymous.smiles@gmail.com

More memories of a deluge (Part 2)

When I woke up the next morning, the bus was still parked on the side of the highway. The driver decided to proceed after sometime. But the progress was slow and discouraging. The entire highway was littered with buses and people.

People were getting uneasy. Just like I couldn't stand the stuffiness of the train after a hopeless long wait, my fellow passengers in the bus were restless and discussed all the possible ways of reaching home. The problem was with a narrow patch of road a short distance ahead. Water seemed to flow very forcefully at this point and no one could quite gauge the depth. We heard that one bus driver who had attempted to pass that patch ended up with the bus dragged a good distance away. After this, everyone had taken cold feet, put the brakes on and traffic grew static. No driver would risk going beyond that point.

Incidentally, just beyond this patch, state buses were plying as usual. People had two options, to go ahead towards Kheda and cross the flooded patch somehow, or walk the way back to Nadiad and find a night's halt. Everyone was clear on one thing: Not to spend yet another night inside the bus.

Has it ever happened to you that someone asks you something extremely important but puts a cap on your thinking time. Something like, 'Do this and do this now or you are out'. It is not an exaggeration when I tell you that something happened in less than five minutes which made all the passengers throw their hands up and they started wading out of the bus, either towards Nadiad or towards Kheda.

I went to the two women and asked what they were going to do. They seemed already geared up to begin walking to Nadiad. I asked them to wait and let me figure out what to do with my luggage and how to convey the decision to Mitrajit, but they just wouldn't give me the time. So I rushed to the driver and asked if he assured my luggage would be safe. His answer seemed convincing enough. I was to collect my luggage from their office whenever the bus reached Ahmedabad. Everyone was doing the same and the bus was almost empty with the exception of a few passengers and the driver. He also let me make a call and all I could tell M was that I was leaving towards Nadiad and my luggage was in the bus. The women were getting impatient and I was afraid they would leave. So I conveyed just this and ran off to them.

One young man from Bhavnagar and another man from Junagadh also joined us in a minute. So after little time, I realised that here we were, five strangers who would be with each other for quite sometime now in this moment of accidental brotherhood. The road was full of people wading in knee deep water. The women took their shoes off and after sometime I realised that was the best thing to do. My shoes kept getting stuck in the mud and they would shriek me to hurry every time I stopped. There were hundreds of people wading along with us. This was the first time I understood the meaning of what people mean when they say that people come together in the times of calamity.

We must have walked some two-three kilometers when we got a lift in the tractors that farmers were plying to ferry the stranded passengers to and fro. We reached inside the town. Now ever since I got down from the bus I had started inquiring about the residence of a relative. Everyone seemed to know him by the virtue of his position, but my fair ladies got impatient every time I took a stop to inquire. Finally we reached this town square and I asked where the police station was. With the influence of that one name, I entered the police station along with the four others. Now, the policeman seemed quite doubtful, but he couldn't refuse us. I got to know that my relative's house was practically an island now and the area was inaccessible. I asked them to allow me to make a few calls and called home this time. Baba would know better how to explain the relation to the cops. Besides, he could contact my other relatives too.

Presently, we were given tea and biscuits and some nashta and the ladies were feeling really grand. They were like, 'So you really know someone!' After sometime, I was called in the officer's room. There was a call for me and my maasi was on line. She told me one of her relatives would come to pick me and that I stay with them as long as things are fine. (The officer seemed totally confused ever since I had entered the office, introduced my connections and conveyed telephone numbers to my family and phones had started pouring in). Next, baba called. His instructions were clear and to the point. "When the gentleman your maasi had told you about comes, introduce the people who are with you and take them home too. Say you cannot leave them". I was shocked and started contesting his order. "How can I? I don't even know him, how can I take four more people whom I don't know to his house?" He shouted at me and told me to do as told- I was not to be selfish to leave the people who had accompanied me this long.

I grudgingly admitted to myself that he was right. In less than ten minutes, Vinayakbhai came riding his scooty.

"You are Gauri? And these people are with you? Follow me". The women were chatty as ever and though all of the four strongly refused my suggestion that they come with me, I had to be firm for in spite of my doubts, baba's instructions were clear. We all went to his house. It was in the old city area and in a 'pol'. Now 'pol' is a typical Gujarati word, meaning a narrow lane on both sides of which are old houses, some often surprisingly huge and majestic. The lanes are confusing, with one mingling into another elusively so that a newcomer might just go round and round the area without a clue.

When we reached his house, which was very nearby, his wife was waiting at the door. She welcomed us in and talked about how rough the weather was and imagined how tiring the journey must have been. The couple was so generous, so natural that it put me instantly at ease. She didn't say it out of formality when she asked them all to stay with them. We had tea and hot snacks before us in no time. The men said they would rather stay at the railway station and were quite firm about their choice. They wouldn't even stay back for lunch. But Vinayakbhai's wife said they must at least freshen up and have tea before they leave. The two sisters said they had a relative who stayed very near by and would go and find them out. After tea, the men went their way and them sisters went to find their relatives in spite of our cajoling to stay back. The sisters came again in the evening to say they had found a place, chatted, had tea and left. I got a call from all of them in Diwali.

I stayed with Vinayakbhai till the next afternoon on July 2. He came to see me off at the bus station and I got home in two hours. They were more than happy to have me there. He talked a lot about his daughter who was settled somewhere in London and how he didn't like staying there in spite of having some solid visa permit. "We were there for six months, but I have to be back. We go for our daughter, but start missing this place in no time".

We talked on phone a few times. We couldn't meet as he had some wedding to attend. I sent him a postcard on Diwali. He called a few months later to thank me for it. He had again gone to London and had got the card only on his return. We sent him an invitation for our wedding, but he was out somewhere again. In another wedding this February, I got to know he had died of a heart attack.

In those four days I learnt a lot. I learnt how simple people can be if they so choose. And how open and how honest. I never met my four companions again, but I have the most fond memories of them. Hospitality is what I learnt from Vinayakbhai and his wife. They took me as their own with a warmth and simplicity that is peculiar to their community. I also felt how right Baba was and how selfish I must have regretted being if I had gone to Vinayakbhai’s house alone. Baba’s insistence was worth it for I came face to face with a couple who had the charm to welcome strangers in their house so graciously. I saw for myself how a host ought to be and how some strangers can find a permanent place in memories…

Handmade wonder...

The second (and better) lamp that I made after an entire day with scissors, glue and cloth... The first one was a result of impulse when I made the frame after battling with wires and covered it with an extensive cloth cut-work. But this one is real neat and a lot better than my first attempt...Our drawing room looks so good now. Chalo, praise me :D

A windy evening

A windy evening

Jalsa Chhe

Dalwada ane majja boss,
Amdawad, O Amdawad...
Cutting ane jalsa boss...
Amdawad, O Amdawad...

Nothing can deter the Amdawadi spirit from swinging back to life. Not even this

Dark Comedy- UPA wins the trust vote

Just seeing the parliament proceedings live.

I so feel like mollycoddling them and planting a kiss on their cheeks. Don't they seem like unruly first standard kids? The way the honourable speaker has to repeat-- "Go back to your seats, behave, sit down, stop this noise, quiet..." O, I so remember my school...

Coming to think of it, many of our respectable members of parliament are illiterate and some have come straight from prison to cast life-saving votes.

The cash for vote allegations by BJP were a fascinating thrill but this failed to ruffle the UPA. SP leader Amar Singh though used many a words to show his displeasure.

The UPA won the trust vote a few seconds back with 275 votes...

8.25 PM, July 22

Related: Cash in the well and UPA wins

Stop Senseless Slander

Just read the article on Aarushi written by Masooma Ranalvi in Outlook dated July 28, 2008. Masooma, mother of Aarushi's close friend has voiced with precision and passion the serious pitfalls of scandalising media coverage.

The callous depiction of the Aarushi murder case brings to light how the police and the media have become hand-in-glove accomplices in the road to slander.

Repetitions in the form of the same visuals, leading questions, questions that encourage drama and speculation, sexed-up discussions and debates about murders and crimes on prime time news- we seem to be blood-sucking vampires drooling on the gory and the obscene to a majority of production houses today, isn’t it?

And then there’s this angle about the callousness of police.

What kind of investigation is it that fails to find a dead body from the crime scene and discovers it the next day. (The first short brief I read in The Telegraph was that the girl was found murdered and police suspected the house-help, assumed he had fled after committing the crime)

I fail to see the reason why the police feel compelled to hold press conferences and shed light on what they think would have been the modus operandi, speculate about alleged killers on air? Why they can't mind their own business without light, cameras and action.

Gone are the days when the crime departments did their own work and the reporters did their own news briefs that were small, crisp reports and nothing more.

As of this date, there still isn't a set of laws framed expressly to control the audio-visual media. Could this be the reason why nonsense goes on the Indian television so effortlessly?

Talking about censure, yes I do feel very strongly that a free press that head bangs callously in each and every aspect of personal life need not be applauded and celebrated as the living symbol of 'freedom of speech'. Of late, hasn't the Indian television gotten a bit too free? A section of it needs to be leashed, and leashed firm and proper. And soon.

We need news to keep informed. For thrills and frills, we might as well read cheap detective novels, thank you.

We attended this guest lecture from a person from CNN-IBM. I still remember his sly smile when Jyoti asked him 'Sir, do you seriously think there is a need for 24 hour news channels?'

I guess that question sums it up all.

Tagged-- again :)

Dharma has tagged me this time. And if I remember well, this is the same tag that Gaurav forwarded a long time back. So now, given the power of meme with the same tag landing up twice from two people located at two distant corners of the world, I feel I really must keep the game going and do what is asked of me right away.

I did a recap of some of my favourite posts, and this tag is somewhat similar.

What you have to do is simple: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given : family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like. Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

Family--- I don't think I have talked a lot of my family here. Of course, references could have come up in other posts (for the influence of baba and aaji on me is more than I would like to acknowledge :) but there are no posts in which I have actually, consciously talked about them. Except in this one, the post that happened in an impulsive, nostalgic moment. This post will give you a glimpse about my baba. I have wanted to, thought of and many a times willed myself to sit and write about what I remember of growing up. But my mind evades the pen, the pen the paper. Some memories are so beautiful and so sad, I dare not freeze them, not just yet.

Friends-- I have less than ten friends whom I really call 'friends'. (Dharma's musings about the randomness of categories and stuff often perplexes me too, but then, I believe if you know where you and others stand in your life, so much the easier) These are the few people I have tagged along with since kinder garten, a few whom I began to love for no special reason along the way in high school and college. Though I am not regularly in touch with them, it's with a fierce Virgo trait that I keep thinking of them, remembering them and bitterly missing them without letting them know I do. I wish I were a little more open with the best of my friends and reach out more often... :) Here's what I have written about my friends.

But then there's one person who hears my rants day in and day out, who takes pains to make meaning of my random blabber and who even tolerates the songs I sing just before falling off to sleep. My best friend...

And my ever loving sis, who tolerated the late night lullabies I sang for me before the task was transferred to M, who I always pushed off a gathering of friends out of insecurity and jealousy. (My friends always had nice things to say about 'Didi' and that irritated me no end) With time, I have realised what a great fool I have been all along. Whom I strictly classified as 'family' , 'sister' and such stuff, was after all the most constant, most un-judging, most tolerant friend I ever had. My friend who reminds me of the most hilarious times of growing up together... The four year gap never made itself felt between us.

Yourself--- How dumb! All that you read on this blog takes you an inch closer to confusion of knowing who I am, who I am not. Pick what you choose of these writings and see if you think you know me.

Love--- Ah!! Hop on to the other blog that has most of the little scribbles born out of love, longing and happiness. Or let me narrow things down- you may want to read this, this and this...

Anything you like--- The most direct way of getting in a trap is giving me a choice- A question like "This or That?" leads me to a labyrinth of confusion, nerve-wracking moments and leaves me with a simplistic solution and twinkling eyes: "Both!!" This fifth point comes with a similar rider... Anything I like??? I adore this entire blog of mine, how unfair to ask me to choose... If you have read till this line, I say, cheers! You are what an ideal reader should be like... :D

The tag goes to

True fiction (Glad you took the earlier one.. I know another comes too soon, but would be great if you do this too!)
Void ( " " " " too!)
Atul
Suren

Also, Apu and Sudhanshu, do take this tag up and keep coming here more often!

The conditions once more-- Tag five or more people, two of whom should be new acquaintances you have made...

Gerald Durrell: The one author I adore

It's after a long, long time after which I am reading Gerald Durrell. I find myself curled up somewhere cosy, smiling, nodding, moving my lips silently to read some lines I like the sound of and letting out shrill laughs every few pages or so. These bursts of mirth startle Mitrajit from his single-minded dedication to television and my complete oblivion to all things else puts a faint pout on his face at times.

Gerald Durrell, after all, means you keep turning one page after the other laughing out loud at Larry's audacity, his parade of friends who turn up announced, their endearing 'Mother' and Gerry's endless collection of animals- from frogs to owls to baby terrapins.

His role as a crusader for wildlife conservation slightly sidelines Durrell’s recognition as an accomplished author with an impeccable, original writing style. His proficiency with the written word per say is not as thoroughly acknowledged. I, for one, love Durrell not only for his wonderful tales on Corfu, but for his much extensive vocabulary and his power of description.

If you can dissect the sentences from the story, you will see just to what heights can Durrel take the art of description to. Even if you don't fancy reading about a battalion of animals, read Durrell as an exercise in writing, to read about how refreshingly can one use colours, smells and the most unlikely similies to describe people, places and situations. I feel his works, especially the Corfu Trilogies, should be made a compulsory reading for students learning how to write features.

The Corfu trilogy (My Family and other animals followed by Birds, Beasts and Relatives and finally The Garden of the Gods) fills up the most fun within the pages. I still remember that chapter in 'My Family...' when Mr. Kralefsky, his tutor takes him to meet his ancient mother. The description of the room full of flowers left my head spinning in admiration and happiness. I lingered on that chapter for a long time, making notes, copying beautiful sentences and generally awestruck by such beauty on paper...

I am truly grateful to Rani maushi who gifted me with a copy of My family and other animals some five years back. Since then, our love affair with the Durrell family began. However when we got enthralled by his writing, we discovered his books were really hard to find and were very atrociously priced, as is with all good books. It’s at the British Council here that I discovered a wealth of his books after a long hiatus.

I have only about ten pages left to finish The Garden of Gods. I feel slightly sorry when any good book is about to come an end. It's a silly, eccentric quirk, but then finishing a lovely book means being no longer able to turn the pages in anticipation...

A delightful read.

Tagged

Atul has tagged me. And this is one very interesting: list at least five things that have changed in you thanks to your better half (or any one person who has influenced you).

This tag calls for more than just a list. So let me expand.

Given that he says I am the most stubborn person on earth who is immune to change, this is some challenge. We often have arguments that go something like this:
M: "I have changed this, this, this..... that... for you. Tell me the one thing you have changed for me"...
Me: "Ummmm... ummm" (I attribute the ummm to my poor memory and the long list to his sharp ability to remember almost anything)

On serious notes, earlier, before getting married, or even before meeting him, I was averse to the idea of changing to adjust in a relationship. I reasoned that if things are worth it between the two, the need for 'change' won't arise. And then I met him. I changed without my realising it and for the good. Same with him. I know now how silly my assumptions against change were.

The far-fetched idea that things should fit in like a jigsaw has now gone. Small things here and there make all the difference. I repeat, small things- for we don't find ourselves bitterly fighting on leftist or rightist theories than we find ourselves shouting about insisting on changing attitudes and habits that call for putting the bin out in the morning, the wet towel on the bed, replacing missing caps on water-bottles, the cell that is allowed to intrude at all times...

I am essentially the same person. So is he. But with time, I feel the following has changed in me thanks to him:

1) I am not as slow as I was before. My sis said I did everything in slow motion for the first hour after waking up. My husband said he had never seen someone so frustratingly laid-back. I think have changed a bit on this front.
2) See more movies than ever before.
3) I try to see people as he does, he doesn't judge. I have started keeping a tab on my Virgo traits.
4) Try to watch what I speak when I am angry.
5) I cool off much faster, have chucked pulling arguments out of spite than reason.
6) I have started cooking more often
7) Lose things a little less now.
8) His idea 'Why pay to eat veg?' means I eat more n-veg than I have done in my entire lifetime. These bong food traits scare baba no end though...
9) I try not to stuff my bags, pull the straps rashly and damage an item before its time has come.

You can also do this tag by mentioning how the influence of any one person has changed you. Remember, list five or more points and don't forget to pass the tag on.

I request
Feddabon
True fiction
The alphabet makes stories
Dharma
Void
to do this tag...

100th post

I realised last night that the last post was the hundredth on this blog. Felt good!
In the process of writing these hundred posts, I have met many new people whom I am glad to know through their words.
Each post happens to be a little expectation, waiting to hear what others think of the writing and the thought. I have not been disappointed so far. Thanking all those who come and read... And hoping I have your company in the posts to come.

Less is More!

I spend most of my time longingly lingering at some delicious food blogs I have listed in the Yumm Corner.

Nupur is hosting a Monthly Blog Patrol (MBP) on her blog One hot stove on behalf of Coffee (who initially came with MBP). The idea behind MBP is that participants must cook some of recipes they have come across some interesting food blogs and present the preparation with due credits at MBP. Each month follows a different theme and the theme this month is 'Less is more'. Participants will have to cook and then post those recipes that include five, or less ingredients.

Now it so happened that today, on a very hungry impulse, I made something that fits the 'Less is more' bill completely.

I realised this after I finished off more than half of the piping hot pasta. So I again peeled and cut one cucumber, peeled garlic, got a tea spoon of black pepper, scooped spoonfuls of butter and arranged all the ingredients neatly to take a photo to accompany the post. (Signs I am getting blogaholic.. :()

The problem is, in my drooling phase, I focus more on the wonderful food pics.(And on Nupur's hot stove- her neat collection of crochet purses, gloves) So to my disappointment, it occurred that my recipe doesn't follow the basic MBP rules (i.e. you should cook someone else's recipe and not your own). Here's the recipe anyway, for the pasta turned out pretty well and you can count the ingredients on the tip of your fingers...



Pepper-Garlic Pasta

Ingredients:

Garlic- One small pod (Or about 15-20 cloves)

Whole black pepper- One teaspoonful

Kheera i.e. cucumber- Two, medium sized

Amul Lite- Two tablespoonfuls
(Or normal butter-- More, but not less, in this case though!)

Granora Penne Rigate Pasta no.26- About 200 gm

Salt to taste

Method:

Pressure cook the pasta for ten minutes, this boils the pasta just right, al dente. Don't forget to add a little oil before putting the pasta to boil, and do not over-do the ten minutes time. If you choose to boil in a vessel, may take slightly more than ten minutes.
While the pasta is getting cooked, peel the cucumbers and slice in rings, like you would do for a salad. Also peel garlic cloves. (This apparently tedious job is done in a jiffy if you wet the garlic cloves first, slice in half with a knife and then peel) Grind pepper and garlic in the chutney jar (or using a mortar) to a fine paste.
Exactly in ten minutes, take the cooker off the gas. Drain the pasta completely.

Heat butter well in a heavy-bottomed pan and then add the garlic pepper paste. Once the butter starts leaving sides, and the pepper-garlic paste gets a light reddish tinge, add the cucumber slices. Saute for 2-3 minutes, till the cucumber slices change colour and are cooked. Now add pasta. Sprinkle salt to taste and mix well.
Just don't be stingy with the pepper, garlic and butter and the outcome will surprise you. Tastes as delicious as it is easy to make!

Go to Nupur's blog to see the simple, wholesome recipes she has posted as a part of Coffee's Monthly Blog Patrol...

Via Darjeeling

The movie verges on the boundary of good and a tad boring. The reason for this tricky combination is that the film has brought together some very convincing actors but the story fails to engage the audience enough.

Without delving much, here's the basic framework of the film: Sonali and Kay Kay are on their honeymoon when one of them disappears. A policeman (Rabin) is called for investigation. Period. He recalls the incident to a group of friends and a session of speculation begins.

The film literally takes off with a rough start (courtesy a rash driver) and remains engaging for a while. It's at the adda session in Ranu's (Rajat Kapoor) house in Calcutta when the pace begins to falter slightly. As each narration differs only in some intricate points and most scenes and shots remain the same, a sense of redundancy piles up somewhere in the middle of the film. Though the story gears up again towards the end, to finish off on a teasing note.

Vinay Pathak (Rabin) with his cigarette-sniffing act repeats the magic characteristic of him. Rajat Kapoor (Ranu) looks wow in the new look. Sandhya Mridul (Mallika) looks rather too bored and sullen. Sonali Kulkarni (Rimli) plays the part of a pampered, rich daughter well, but newly married Rimli's character is not very likeable on the whole due to her soft, overtly sweet drawls most of the time and the occasional hysteria. Proshant Narayanan (Kaushik) (guess a few 'r' and 's' are missing, but nevermind) is good, so is Simone Singh (Preeti). Parveen Dabbas (Bonny) disappoints with a rather drab and dull performance, which was also incidentally expected of his character at most points of time.

Given that there are certain people who like ambiguity and insist on it with a creative compulsion, we can assume that it was intentional to leave the viewer with a set of unanswered questions. But a little more detailing would not have hampered this intentional ambiguity. The end is such that it will probably compel viewers to review the characters as per their own perceptions, discuss, debate and ponder on. Via Darjeeling is an ideal prelude to a round of discussions.

The film is more about the perception of mystery than mystery itself. And had this rather interesting idea been worked on more comprehensively, the movie would have been more appealing.

But why doesn't Via Darjeeling cross rightaway into the 'good' territory? The redundancy when the friends speculate their own versions, for one. The story versions could have done better with more punch (I loved Kaushik's version btw, and the conversation thereafter) or more variations in the shots. Secondly, all the characters could have been etched better.

All said and done, I am waiting for friends to go watch this movie so that we can discuss things out. Am really keen to know what they made of the story. In fact, in spite of the tad boredom, Via Darjeeling gets all the more interesting after it ends. There's much fodder to let the brain start ticking away after the credits roll.

CoralDraw experiments

I have been listlessly fumbling with Adobe photoshop and getting more and more saddened by how people love to complicate something as relaxing as drawing. Anyways, with my limitations that allow me to crop and adjust image size, I doodled some drawings using the lovably easy Paintbrush. Have put these up to accompany the scribbles on the other blog which gets very rarely visited :(...
So be there, have a look while I find something to post on this blog.

The last article on 'Writer's block'

"There is no story which has not been told before, or that has not been imagined by Vyasa in his epic Mahabharata. So whatever you write cannot be entirely your own. So said the old woman. So says Pamuk. So in essence, all our efforts at novelty can ultimately bear the brunt of being labeled as plagiarism only if some eccentric book devourer puts his mind to proving the point.

There is nothing novel worth talking about, given that the thousands of years of history of human existence has witnessed, has been almost pickled to a pungent perfection of knowledge mixed with scorn about all the possible combinations of human relationships and their fall-outs. And so, it is a tad discouraging to know what me and you are doing (i.e thinking to write and sometimes writing to think) is only redundant work. All that need be said has been said before.

We writers are merely here for we humans are a peculiar race, a majority of which needs to be told what to do, what not to do, and most often this majority derives a masochistic pleasure on being told things are not done the way they should be. We merely need to be told things a thousand times over in order to convert a truth to a lie and vice versa. Since ancient times, people in power got stories crafted to suit their own motive. Writers helped them meet their end by writing according to the briefs given to them. With a little skill, legends essentially remained the same to the prospective buyer who flips pages leisurely to taste what is in for platter, but once the copy was bought, once it was invested in, and then when it was read (at times grudgingly so for a book bought and not read seems unusually heavy on the pocket), the skillfully altered nuances of fact and fiction were successfully thrust in the mind of the engrossed, ignorant reader. Altering bits and pieces here and there, history changed. And when it had changed enough, when the new powers thought it right to invest in a re-run of facts, members of our clan were employed again to tell 'new stories'.

Writers often end up being dumb mediators of thought and idea they fool themselves in believing is their own. Thinking thoughts and raking up extinct ideologies versus the so-called new schools of thought is nothing but the mechanical pursuit of masking the present life with a sense of achievement. Most ideas that gain momentum do so not because they are worthy ideas, but because a few smart people decide it is profitable that the idea propagate. And so, old stories and revamped to be presented as a new and novel idea. So, my dear friends, this is reason enough for you and me to put an end to our writer's block".

Thus said the old man in the last article of his much-read column called Writer's block.

His fame was in part due to the attention attracted due to the many charges of defamation, libel and plagiarism that thronged his career and which he faced with dignity, wit. Till he died of a comfortable old age in a sprawling villa placed at a location conveniently cut-off from civilization, he wore a mischievous gleam that seemed to own up an acceptance of the accusations. But a gaze of aloof shrewdness (that often signifies wisdom acquired of an age of reading and age itself) immediately followed the momentary mischievous gleam and dismissed the enquirer instantly of any further questions, or doubts.

Back

The bus ride from Manali to Delhi killed me. I have never been so tense and so 'in the moment' in my life as I was for those 16-17 hours. My tickets to Ahmedabad were booked for the 12 PM flight and I reached the airport around 11.40. God knows how I managed to board, and God bless the sweet staff who let me in after saying the routine, 'Sorry ma'm, Check-in closed'. The time in the flight and the ride back home was like a delirium. It was only when the Amdawadi heat pierced me in that fond, old way that I realised I was home, in the same dreaded, wonderful heat of my hometown. I actually miss the Ahmedabadi summers and it felt especially blissful to be back home this time of the year.

The trek was wonderful. The base camp was at a village called Chakki in Naggar, about 25 km before Manali. From there, we walked up to Rumsu, Pulag, Chans Falls, Gom Karari and finally the Chandarkhani range. On the first day, when they took us to this real short orientation trek and rappling, I found myself breathing so heavily and in such a bad shape, that the seven remaining days scared me no end. But as we progressed, things became better and before I realised, I was on Camp 3 at 13,000 ft.

I discovered I am unusually quiet and at a loss of words more often than not. I also verified that I am a very boring person compared to the constantly chattering girls and guys who can find ways to turn into tales even routine business like eating bread and butter. These rather sorry discoveries were balanced by the assurance that I could spend time on my own in complete bliss. It irked me sometimes when people spent all their free time in the pristine environs singing film songs at the top of their voice, playing cards or talking about prospective or broken love affairs. There was little scope for silence in the company that I was in- effervescent collegians with a passion for getting themselves clicked. But then, being able to talk in Gujarati after a long time, being in the company of that lovable tribe after ages was a treat in itself. Being in Gujju company means having an unlimited supply of snacks- and it was no wonder that their stock of khakra, mamra, ladu, wafers and what not did not exhaust even till our way back. (I am sure they have enough food left to see them through the train journey from Delhi to Bhuj too)

Himachal is breathtaking. The comparitively remote place that we were at and the trek through some remote up-hill villages allowed us to see the lifestyle pretty closely. Describing the place is an effort in itself and this impromptu post won't do justice to the beauty and simplicity of the people and the place. I would post the photos once I am back in Kolkata. Talking about photos, there was yet another blunder very characteristic of me. I have nagged friends to pose in cameras without rolls, I have spoilt many a rolls as I never learnt how to insert or wind those properly in one piece and I have lost many a newly printed albums. This time, I managed to wipe out the memory card while i was fidgeting with the camera menu on Camp 3 (for I had taken extra batteries but forgotten to take extra memory cards). In effect, all the photos that I clicked on our way up were wiped out. But I didn't cry to my surprise and decided I would click some wonderful photos on the way down. Some consolation!

On the last day in Naggar, we went out to see the town in an open milk-van types tempo- the dozen of us standing in the cold wind. To my utter embarrasement, they sang songs at the top of their voice, with all the villagers staring at us disapprovingly. It's a pity when (and how effortlessly) the thin line between pure fun and vulgur pleasure can be crossed by tourists. Anyway, we went to a very quiet area uphill where we came across a beautiful bungalow of the famous Russian painter Nicholas Roerich. (I hadn't heard of him though baba and aaji immediately recognised and beamed with appreciation on hearing the name) We were there after five and the house is then closed for visitors, so I could only click the place from outside. There was this Music centre and someone was singing really well. Then we went to a 1460 years old castle, which has now been turned into a hotel (The Castle, Naggar, HP Tourism). Waiters were taking up drinks and food and the interiors were beautifully lit, the wood carvings were breathtaking. I must go there again with Mitrajit asap. Just outside the castle, I marched on the shopping spree I had promised myself. Bought a wonderful shawl for didun, the himachali jute chappals just like the ones that mummy had, long woollen socks and ofcourse, a handful of cherries to eat on the way. I also got a pair of some really neat wooden combs with intricate carving, and a very heavy, beautiful, but apparantly useless small dabbi whose lid is so small, it would be even uncomfortable to use it as a sindoordani. Nevertheless, I was jubiliant after the shopping, as always.

Photos here