Equal Eternity

Life begins at ....30

2010-12-13T19:05:00.000-08:00

29 and counting, Wise Women Speak, 30 Things Everyone Should do before turning30, Book of Ages 30, Shut Up, Stop Whining & Get a Life, Woman x Turns Thirty,Turning 3, they all talk endlessly of the anticipation and anxiety associated with the Big 3-0s. Says Urmi Roychowdhury, an architect, “I used to think that turning 30 was one of the best things to happen to me, since I had the right mix of experience and foresight I thought the world was at my beck and call.” Howevever, she recalls with some discomfort the questions raised by friends and relatives who constantly reiterated how well and complete she’d be with a marriage. Some even went on to make objectionable remarks like, “Are you mentally stable, do you have a medical problem.” When her answer was a resounding ‘no,’ they’d add, “Why are you not married as yet, then?”
It isn’t just the stigma of turning thirty, but it has more to do with the question of turning thirty and not being married. For Priyanka Biswas, who is housewife and has a toddler, “Ifeverybody else all around you is cutting one another's throats, I prefer to opt out and enjoy doing a job that everyone else isn’t doing. For me it is motherhood and family that is important.” Priyanka tied the knot when she was twenty and she now has a kid and a blissful family of her own.
For some women, however, it’s about evaluating one’s personal and social choices, a time when one gazes inwards just to see if one is on the right track and if one is making the right choices in life. There’s a thrill of the chase for a career-orientated woman says Manpreet Pasricha, 30, a journalist. “I believe women are best married when they are independent and when they are ready for a relationship. I have a boyfriend but do not wish to tie the knot any time soon.” For 31-year Sreoshi Chatterjee, marriage isn’t an option, “I have been through enough bad relationships and I don’t believe I can make a good wife. However, I’d try to keep a positive mindset and get along to see what life has to offer.”
Likewise, the revelation of a breaking relationship was shattering for Sunetra Pathak, a child specialist in her early thirties, “I was in a steady relationship with my boyfriend and I popped him the all important question to tie the knot.” However, Sunetra’s boyfriend chickened out in the nick of time and said he wasn’t quite ready to start a family. “It was shattering for me to know that the person I had dreamed of sharing my life with slipped out at the time he thought right.” For her, getting married after a shattering relationship isn’t the best option. “I want to concentrate on the people who are around me right now, instead of building a new one.”
It’s not all doom and gloom for other city women like Avishikta Basu. Avishikta, 34, who runs her own business says, “I enjoy my work to the hilt and I, unfortunately, don’t consider myself as a loyal and trustworthy person, packaged with enough charm to be a faithful wife. I am better off as a singleton.” It isn’t always easy to shrug one’s shoulder and say one doesn’t wish to get married, specially with the gossip mongers. Says Shibani Sengupta, “I have two daughters, one aged 28 and the other approaching 31. People often ask me why my daughters aren’t married yet. I just say I give them the free will to choose a life they want to lead. It’s there call. However, if any of them can find me a nice bridgegroom, I’d gladly oblige. But, that doesn’t happen either.”
Some women are shrugged off as an additional burden on society and they end up being gossip scrums. Runa Paul is a mother of two and once divorced, “It bodes well for our future and also for building of a family life to decide what one wants”says the 34 year-old mother of two. No matter how much one coaxes me to get married;I just can’t throw caution to the wind.”
In keeping with the trend of the burgeoning over-thirty-and-unmarried population, Gul Panag has starred in a film Turning Thirty which is slated to release in January 2011. She explains on her blog how each actor in the film was turning thirty, while the film was being shot.
“If you are on your hands and knees with a magnifying glass analysing why you turned thirty and didn’t get married, it better you give your life a hard look.” Says, Rini Roy, a dermatologist in her mid- thirties. I believe there’s always a good time but even if it doesn’t happen, I won’t be ashamed to look at the mirror and say maybe it’s my haircolour, it’s my shoe size or even my broad face, but it’s okay. I am happy I turned thirty at last.”

You are amazing. Simply amazing!

2009-11-13T09:27:00.001-08:00

Hey He-man,

I couldn't have brought myself to write this. It hurts my ego. I have met people along the way. To some I have been good, to others I have been great and to others a bit spiteful. You know here that I am very good to myself and wouldn't go to the extent of hurting myself. It's been tough for me to suspend my ego and let my emotions come to the fore. Sometimes. Only sometimes. At those times I have lost myself. The self I prize myself to be. But look at you. You went away, faraway. You tossed you turned, you stirred, you groaned. God knows what else! (sorry for laughing at you) but you still remain the same. Ready to be lost again. Ready to love, loathe, lie, lie (:)), lust, live. Yes live. You live you live in your today in your yesterday and in your future. You'll live. I am not trying to give you a push. But yeah, you can say I am trying to give you a push again :) You live not in your past but in your present. At the moment. I love you still. You know that.

Kisses

Cecilia

Something's gotta give

2009-10-02T15:44:00.000-07:00

I thought somethings gotta give. Somethings got to give in. I was feeling like a conduit where all holes had been plugged and where the wall was made of clay. I am hopeful in a very extreme kind of a way. My mind begged me to just give up while my body still had the little bit of energy left after a few free style strokes. However, things stood still like water in a pit, not even a ripple. The feeling was uncontrollable. Then walked in bio energy healing.

At my new job at the bioenerygy healing clinic, I noticed that my body wasn't divided into meridians only. My healer Jude, quite well understood that I had stiff shoulders as he worked with the static electricity of my body and weaved his way through my upper back. I felt the radiation. It was a sudden release. I could see him work through my abdomen as I felt the spike at the bottom of my spine. I wondered it if it's the effect of the jagran of the manipura chakra at the bottom of my spine, or if it's a weird western take on it. I was right it was western, but it wasn't that weird. It was quite rational and didn't go by the chakra philosophy of oriental thinking (precisely Indian.) It was more ruled by the instinct. Before I comment any further I better explore bio energy healing a bit more to find out. Hope you make an effort too, if it's slightly intriguing, that is.

Life's a Carnival!

2009-09-03T12:33:00.000-07:00

I was at the Nottinghill Gate Carnival last weekend and it wasn't a semblence of the violence-ridden celebration that the British press has been making it out to be, for the last few years. What I saw was -- fanfare, lots of summer barbeques, gypsy-loads of gyrating Jamaicans and a another truckload from the Caribbean Islands.

Though I shouldn't brag about my race-identifying skills infront of my cousins, lest we get into another scuffle we got into, infront of the "House of Fraser" at Oxford Street-- "The man in the back-seat is Mexican/Bolivian/Indonesian/Philipino???!!Now, I'd say he's Polynesian (after a year of solid British education, and I mean it in a good way. :))

Talking about Nottinghill Gate, I have never heard so much Reggae on the streets and the whiff of corn and burning meat is quite something else. The security at the barricades had barely volunteered to take in the aroma of the food being prepared that the pungent smell of burning BBQ meat made them stop short. I loved it honestly, when the slightest drum roll in the distance would make some of these feathered women twirl and twist as if they were in some kind of a reverie.

The young kids were busy trying to show the oomph often exhuded by little kids wearing saree or pajama panjabi during Durga Puja in my city Calcutta and the carnival at Nottinghill Gate (without any exaggeration) is reminscent of the procession at Kumartuli or Jadavpur. Okay (spoiler alert) we Bengalis are very likely to say, "Oh the French, they are quite like us in their food habits," "Oh, the Spanish they are very close to us in terms of weather." Like all self-respecting Bengali I'd say, 'Oh, the West Indians are so like us when it comes to celebration."

Therefore, I am part West Indian. If I didn't have the camera with me I'd shake a leg with the feather-ridden crowd. Or, better still, I would have recalled my swagger with the mike and Papa Joe. Life is indeed a carnival (read "everyday" after the fullstop.) :D

Game Over

2009-08-29T10:50:00.000-07:00

The whole truth of marriage is:

"I don't believe in marriage. Marriage is when small-minded men decide to keep the women at home and out of their way. Now that is delusional. But, when two people who are in love with each other and who are almost as capable of making each other miserable, can vow open-eyed. Yes open-eyed. Now that's not delusional, that is radical." -- Frida

SHE

2009-08-22T12:51:00.000-07:00

Emboldened to do what she does

Happened to be born in August

She sings aloud to the skies

And leaves no friend who's left behind

With a heart of gold and the smell of fleurs

She isn't just an ordinary one, because she takes soul energy from the Sun

Her yogic poses woe betide can awaken anyone who died

She is lonely when she's together and perfectly happy when she says 'never'

Her feelings take the better of her, her heart just plays a game of lure

She isn't the hard-hitting feminist, with brandishing fist and eyes full of mist

She is the one who can stand the test of time, resilient, and go dutch when it's the dime

When nudged she can be a-n-g-r-y, but isn't that because she's honest and free

She scoffs at half-baked ideas and loves the subtle adventures

At home with her friends and family, moments spent in company bring her glee

Loves the serenity of a beach or the solidarity of high mountain peaks

If I could be like her, well that's another story

Maybe I could play her part with glory

Never too bored to play or sway

Tomorrow for her isn't just another day...

Adaptibility

2009-08-17T01:43:00.000-07:00

Of late my perception on situations have gone for a sixer. I have managed to unlearn all that I learnt. Yep, I have the dubious distinction of being a thinker and a profound one at that. However, it is perhaps the best channel for my communication-- the head, the intellect, the action and when all three have worked in tandem, I have managed to create a sanskara(a habit.) When they haven't, I have just given in to the situation.

I am still willing to go with the head when I am dealing with myself. My education and upbringing has taught me that schooling the mind is good. It is the way forward. When you school your mind to try and be good at something, it has reaped dividends. When you let it go haywire, it got scattered. Yoga has been of considerable help to me in terms of the mind and the body working together, in other words called the 'Yog' or connection with your divine self.

Otherwise, I learnt to teach my mind through classical music. The note 're' sounds better when you meander from 'sa' to 'ga' and so on so forth. In that case, jumping to a 'ma' directly creates a jump in the harmony. However, musicians don't always work the notes. There's nothing in a piece of paper that would tell me what the creator was thinking of the notes when he created them. That's when the magic word 'improvisation' takes over.

My tryst with jazz music of late has given me a whole new perspective on music. I found out that jazz is more about adaptibility. Say if one pulls a tune over MJs 'Billy Jean' or Madonna's 'Holiday' they'll chip in with their interpretation.

Small wonder then jazz musicians experience a certain taste of freedom when they go 'by the notes.' Disparate sometimes and yet completely in tune. Classical music surprised me by using some of the elements of modern day jazz.

I didn't expect to listen to some scatting with a violin. Like Mr. Morrison said that it's all in the perceptions.

An Indian dream

2009-08-15T02:01:00.000-07:00

Punjab Sind Gujarat Maratha
Dravid Utkal Banga
Vindya Himachala Yamuna Ganga
Ujjchala Jala Dhitaranga

These words echo in my mind today as I remember my forefathers who fought 62 years back to give me a dream. A dream where I am hoisting a tricolor on top of the sunrise peak and chanting 'Vande Mataram.' The swadeshi he believed in gives me the power to say, I make my 'own goods' and I have my own gram panchayat. 60 years hence the Incredible India he dreamt of hasn't belied his expectations for most parts. Though the occasional gum-chewing youth with his KFC may have miffed my grandfather during his life time. The growth of consumerism and food chains that prepare food faster than a fly could lap up a crumb of bread didn't sit well with him either.

Let's face it, we live in a different India today, the India with sprawling paddy fields and gorur gari (a cow drawn cart) ambling down rough terrain look good in RK Narayan's short stories. The khadi that my grandfather prided his country for is now the 'in vogue' thing. But for a totally different reason. It is chic and a breathe easy fabric. Let me make no mistake but these are India in it's very core and will always be.

However, generations change and we carry on. India now is a pot pourri of cultures, both eastern, mid-western, and western. History has given us a gift. Perhaps that's what makes India exotic. I am not getting into the miniscule details of Indian hygiene sense or the railways that have a reputation for not working on time. But I am going to look at the positives now. A nation that earned it's own status of being 'independent' and dealt with increasingly hostile neighbours with little to offer by way of foreign treaties or economic advancement. I am going to say most of them (our neighbours) for us are now a liability.

I lost my great-uncle a Colonel in the Indian army during the 1971 war, whose body was mutilated and thrown into the jungles of Arunachal Pradesh while he was stocking the amunitions after the war he thought and we thought was settled. Winning was a different story altogether. We still haven't made peace with our neighbours.

However, we have travelled a while from the 1960s India, be it the overrated IT or the prevalance of the English language. Or even Bollywood. My India looks different from what my grandfather perceived it to be. A far cry from the communist manifesto or the gram panchayats that did little justice to women who went against the patriarchy.

India is still in transition, but I am not in favour of a rapid one. I would rather hope that it takes another decade to let the changes seep in.

For the most parts, I am proud to be Indian. Not just today, not just this month. But for every day of my life.

Thought for the day

2009-08-14T02:19:00.000-07:00

'Astonish me!' I just wished to beam these words into my conscience today. :)

Testing time :)

2009-08-12T16:01:00.000-07:00

Paying faint attention in class, writing a sloppy piece of work and then learning the ropes to pack a punch in the new write-up.

Toggling between windows (one of them being Facebook :x) only to find out that the glass door behind the macintosh has a loud sign saying -- "Don't forget glass doors are transparent and I can see your facebook account, ta."

Rubbing nose against the radio room mike to eliminate the ubiquitous hiss only to be told in class, " I like your creativity, but there's the editing and there' the editing."

The not-so-sober-party nights at Marylebone, hunting for a byline, capturing scratch on the hard disk to find that it hasn't 'captured a scratch of video,' seeing the last shiny train dwindling in the background.

Bringing the world down to get a single student discount.

And saying out aloud in class "I'm snappy, tired and edgy today, therefore, I make a good journalist today."

The thing called Scatting

2009-08-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

Dum dee dum duh dilly-lilly doo, scap a wap a doo a doo...

Scatting is what I am talking about, the art of spurting out words (nondescript) sometimes to lend a rhythm to music. Hip hop does it, jazz does it and surprisingly enough classical music does it too. In case you can sing and play a western instrument you have it. But it's not an empty 'daba daba daba duba dee' that's called scatting. For scatting you need a background that lends itself to the words. Perhaps a tenor saxophone, piano, techno beat or anything you have, or would like to.

While discussing music with musicians across london I came upon some interesting explanations and one of them is-- "A little pin-head in a vast universe that blows itself out of proportion when treated by a true blue musician, that's what I call music." That's what Danso (the double bassist) calls music. "It's almost like that thing that snips between your fingers but when you let it drift away it creates history. "

I have been trying to understand features like scatting. It's fun, it's fluid, and very spontaneous. The Scatman of the 'I'm a scatman' video is a good example.

I'll keep posting more on my quest, just keep scatting around. ...swap a wap a doo a doo...

End of day rants

2009-08-04T15:10:00.000-07:00

Full screen FCP, chocodips, tenor saxophone, coffee and an overdose of freeze frames

Gaping hole in the timeline....jeeez more work more work. :_( still smiling still smiling :)

"The sound in the imported file is a bit tinny, you see that?" Get lost.

"I gotta improve my closet singing." Go for it Haver(sham)

The semblance of perfection in *shooze* sequences. Been there done that.

In a new headspace now.:)

too much love will kill you

2009-07-30T02:16:00.000-07:00

A video I found touching. The lyrics are quite meaningful but it's more than words:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EceOhfqYQhw

The Blur

2009-07-29T07:01:00.000-07:00

My mind settles on dust from your table, I play with the white paper you left in my heart

It doesn't feel like a void, it just feels a bit weird that you're not around anymore

I don't see the morning sun shine on my eyelids and wake up to your emails anymore

You touched that part of me I didn't know ever existed

I mellow down my thoughts and begin to pack up, I have to make a new journey now

It doesn't feel the same anymore, the birds sing but I don't feel the tune; the leaves rustle but I don't feel the dust rubbing against it's veins

The dotted dress I used to wear doesn't smell of you anymore

Why do we have to go on, why can't we tarry. Why do we hit the next button?

My life drops into silence for a week and I wish I were reborn a new being.

But who has seen tomorrow?

I have learnt to...

2009-07-26T15:17:00.000-07:00

I have learnt to swim today through thick and thin and tinges of gray

I have learnt to sing today as clear as an echo inside a chimney in the warfront

I have learnt to sleep today as peacefully as the butterfly drops itself on a tiny flower

I have learnt to write today as much as could fill my little desk with crushed paper and blotting ink

I have learnt to lie today as much as could help me cheat myself again and again

I have learnt to let go today as much as I could wade through a sunkissed cornfield and never worry about returning home

I have learnt to fly today as a free bird that flaps it's wings through thin autumn air

Have I told You?

2009-07-08T01:52:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning and washed my face in the sublime rays of the morning sun, did I tell you that I loved you. When you drank the last dregs of tea from your porcelain cup and looked at me with your still heart, did I tell you that I loved you. When your memory that is made of smoke, of light, travelled light years, did I tell you that I love you. When the dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul, did I tell you that I loved you. When in your eyes the flames of the twilight fought, did I tell you that I loved you. When you were happy as embers, did I tell you that I loved you. When you were sad as a mendicant's monotone, did I tell you I loved you. When I watched my words from a long way off, did I tell you that I loved you. When my words were more yours than mine, did I tell you that I loved you. When you climbed the same damp wall and blamed the cruel sport, I loved you. When you filled everything, yes everything I loved you. When hurricanes of dreams knocked over at my door, did I tell you that I loved you. When my heart exuded a joie de vivre, did I tell you I loved you. When the orchestral sounded from the trees I loved you. When the newly born took nourishment from nature I loved you. When you freed the flock of arrows in a frenzy I loved you. When the numberless hearts of winds were beating over our loving silence I loved you. When the wind waved the clouds like white hankerchief on a blue sky I loved you. When your solitude lingered and lengthened like the afternoon shadow I loved you. When you walked barefoot in the wet streets I loved you. When we swam upstream in the midst of outer waves I loved you. When you undermined the horizon with your absence I loved you. When a piece of the sun burnt like coin in my hand I loved you. When my heart closed like a nocturnal flower I loved you. When birds fled and migrated south I loved you.

My Evening Cup

2009-07-02T03:40:00.000-07:00

Today when I sit sipping tea in the heat

To this dilemma beat

And give you a treat

Not cheat

Or mislead

Those are things you don't need

Or greet, at the end of day

I can make hay

even make the sun stay

And hold the light of day in my palm

You know it from the 23rd Psalm

That "the Lord is my shepherd I shall not want"

In his light I lose the 'me' and make it blunt

and when I travel into his subtle world beyond the corporal

I feel I absorb his purity, love, beauty, happiness and wisdom

I see not with my eyes or hear with my ears

But through them.

I find equal happiness in his subtleties

And, equal eternity in my follies.

What is Happiness?

2009-06-16T12:25:00.000-07:00

...Happiness is a yoyo; one that lights up each time it bounces, one that reels out of control and comes back to itself.

...Happiness is a handful of sand; that trickles from between the fingers and is enough to cover the feet and protect it from rushing waves.

...Happiness is a willow shade that brushes the sides of a shallow stream and caresses each hard rock at the bottom of it's bed.

...Happiness is a grafitti wall (see picture) that tells a thousand stories and yet remains strong and still. A wall that spills many pallettes and laps up the energy around.

...Happiness is words (pure, distorted, unadulterated, and figurative.) Happiness is utterance.

...Happiness is an image of yourself, the perfect that can be or has been. One, where you walk the walk and talk the talk as you so desire. It's YOU at the highest level of perfection. You are your inspiration.

Sushi

2009-06-06T15:42:00.000-07:00

Have you tried making sushi at home?

Shining nori seaweeds gently laid on a plate

A warm knife dipped in hot water awaits,

To cut a two inch strip with it's steely head

And separate the seaweeds and the union abate.

Oh dear nori seaweed! How it must have hurt

To know that the tiny grains of rice

Is going to be taken care of by you alone now

Cuz your family is cut into a abyss of two inch flattened dough

Have you tried sticking rice to a nori seaweed?

How it gently sticks to it's sides as a lover leads

You to his gentle embrace and folds you lovingly into his arms,

As the grains of Japanese rice in the embrace of nori seaweeds stay calm.

Have you tried slicing avocados into a sushi roll

How the slimy piece of mass slips into the knoll,

Of rice and crushed fish chunks and a dash of rice vinegar

How their world seems happy and the smell of bliss lingers

Have you tried separating makhi zushi rolls?

Did it not jar your conscience to invade into it's rolled up world

What were you you thinking when you passed that knife into it's stomach

Like you were carving a sculpture or perhaps a lame duck

Oh sushi roll, you smell so sweet; like my love who blows a thousand kisses when I meet, his tender voice

He makes no noise. He stays still and calls me from the other side of the hill,

So still that it fills my living soul with your warm scent

A love I seldom repent.

And when I reach the bend of your sides, the corners that avoid the sticky rice,

I look at you one moment still. You are so tasty and you my stomach fill.

Like the twilight bridges both day and night,

You bridge my wait with delight.

Twelve Times Twelve

2009-06-03T14:45:00.000-07:00

My day passed off in a jiffy, but some impressions stayed with me. Here are twelve imprints from my day, today:

1. "Who are we, not to be brilliant?"-- Nelson Mandela

2. The mind loses it's creativity when thoughts don't follow the path from the mind, to the intellect, to the sanskara, and then finally to action.

3. "You cannot solve the problem in the same headspace that you created it."-- Isaac Newton

4. A camera's depth of field increases with the angle of view.

5. Mint is the best dressing for lamb dishes.

6. Youngsters today have a short attention span of less than 3 mins (I am a youngster but I don't subscribe to this view.)

7. Portamentos are the best copy of human voices.

8. God's favorite number is 6. (not the 666 for devil, please.)

9. Where the energy goes, life flows.

10. Watching your thoughts in slow motion might be a good idea.

11. Love fills.

12. I once heard somewhere when you repeat something/anything twelve times it becomes a sanskara (habit.)

My Subconscious has a Sense of Humour

2009-06-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

My subconscious has a sense of humour. Ha ha, funny am I? Why doesn't my subconscious have a sense of humour? Why can't I parse through my dreams and filter my nightmares? When the wheelbarrows of the mind hit the dregs of the skull and the eyes see a colored vision, the mind goes reeling and out of control. During these moments of frothing activity my subconscious slips into an overdrive and registers all that can be conceivably registered -- but in puzzles. They all come back to me in bits and pieces at nightime.

This is what I see-- I walk a pebbled beach, hand in hand with Ahmadejaan discussing Obama's effects on Iran's psyche, and Kate Moss tottering in her six inch heel with Gungun and then both of them cooling their nails at a nails salon, while her professor yells at her. It's really not my fault. It's my subconscious that makes me see what a Bollywood version of Pride and Prejudice could have shown me. It's strange how the mind works.

Yes, if my subconscious had a sense of humour I could even have put PG Woodhouse to shame. However, if my subconscious had a high brow sense of humour I wouldn't have seen slapstick comedy in my dreams :

Laloo wallowing in the waters of Malta
Euro vision song contest being won by Armenia
Mayawati doing a cameo at the Tomb Raider sets
Prince Charles eating badam bhaja at Golpark's golchokkor with Helen

Who says my subconscious doesn't have a sense of humour? If it hadn't, I wouldn't have humoured myself to write this piece.

Via Da(chilling)

2008-07-01T07:46:00.000-07:00

The story begins in Darjeeling with Kay Kay Menon-- husband to a rich and agonizingly shreaky Sonali Kulkarni. The honeymoon is just about to be over when Kay Kay Menon disappears in thin air. Enter Vinay Pathak as inspector Robin Dutt to hatch the case, which finally gives in to a series of narratorial variables by each actor in the drawing room of a plush flat on a rain drenched night. So much so, that the reliability of the stories they concoct is something of a question? This indeed isn’t a soppy storyline but it is no doubt borrowed from films we started watching a decade back.

What happens is Sonali Kulkarni is married to her good-marketing-executive-in-her-father’s-firm husband (Kay Kay Menon). Menon watches a grizzly looking Sourav Ganguly on TV as Kulkarni takes a long shower. She calls out dotingly to her husband when her husband takes a mystery call on the phone and disappears from the hotel. The mysterious foreboding using minute details like Marquez’s novel on the bedside table ‘News of a Kidnapping,’ Kathy Lee’s ‘How to Kill your husband,’ Satyajit Ray’s first color film ‘Kanchenjunga’ and a poster of the movie ‘Confessions’ atop Parveen Dabbas (doing a cameo as the fugitive lover of Kulkarni) strutting a cigarette outside a pub are noticeable.

Rajat Kapoor is believable as a sensationalist who is also a journalist, while Simon Singh (his comely wife) is bearable. Together they give their versions of the murder in Darjeeling and end up revealing their own characters.

Narayanan, who plays the dreamy film student, has layers in his character and it reflects the story he narrates in the drawing room, while Sandhya Mridul an insufferable drunk, hams in with her role of Malvika (the previous wife of Menon). Vinay Pathak (the inspector who would smoke without ever lighting his cigarette) is again worth a watch.

The Kay Kay Menon, I have seen in Hazarone Khwaishein Aisi looks more matured in comparison to the amateurish Ankur Sharma. In fact the scene where he leaves Sonali in a forest to click nature photographs has some oh no moments. He exaggerates his expressions.

Sonali Kulkarni looks okay, but her moans and groans are again a bit over the top. Arindam Sil as the hotel manager is an event in him. The Bengali used in the movie is real.

The storyline is cohesive and works really well as a book. Darjeeling as a location is good for city-weary eyes, but the momentum in the first half goes downhill after intermission. The last scene seems to have gone terribly awry with Kulkarni answering the door with a come hither expression in a satin salwaar kameez, a la Bollywood masala ending. The ensemble cast of matured actors seem to try too hard to act. Otherwise, the banter in the drawing room is easy to gulp down with a can of coke.

A Sense of ‘Ah’

2008-06-23T11:53:00.000-07:00

I owe something to Rahul Sharma’s music and I hope with this write-up I can make me owe him a little more. Rahul Sharma’s santoor is as profound and lively as his albums are experimental. Time Traveler a 2005 presentation is like a vagabound traveler’s journey across time with eight musically programmed tracks. I am not particularly fond of fusion, because, done hurriedly; it may sound kitsch. However, a track in this album - ‘1960- Travelling to New Orleans,’ where jazz instruments warps itself around the pahari sounds of the santoor creates a perfect jugalbandi. The rhythm instruments are tabla and drums. Livid in their presence, the tabla sometimes and quite strangely, plays first fiddle to the main instrument.

Often when I listen to Rahul Sharma’s encores I feel like I am cycling full tilt on a kacchi guli in a nondescript Indian village with the wind raking in my hair. It is fluid and extraordinarily beautiful. A feat that he achieves in this album is to transcend the boundaries of the santoor as a Kashmiri folk instrument to give it a universal flavour of a saxophone. Strange, often tangled, and unearthly beautiful. I found in his music all rights and pleasures due to me, even though the disturbance of new age instrumentals was sometimes a bit off, but finding it's own space in the entanglement. I have often heard that musicians have the power to transcend their bodies and lift their mental beings to a state of suspension; it is like spoonfuls of honey into the gullies of the mind. That is how dear readers I would define an ‘out of the body kind of an experience’ with my banality.

I went for a similar concert at Max Mueller Bhavan by Tanmoy Bose a few years back, where he created a bizarre yet poignant mix of an Indian instrument like the ‘dhak’ and a western instrument like ‘brazilian drums.’ The audience grew from a dwindling crowd of five to six people to an auditorium full of listeners, people who could hardly attend their language classes downstairs. The rhythm interfused in my mind a number of extra-musical memories. Something I would fail to describe in words. Out of my right mind!

Up in Splitsville

2008-06-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

If I was George Orwell writing a sequel to Big Brother, I would be all over the place now. MTV India recently released its brand reality show Splitsville and it's not news anymore. A clutch of girls fight it out for two sickly sweet chocolaty boys on an exotic location - perfect for a holiday. With dialogues like 'Main pyaz katne wali bharatiya nari nahi hoon' (mind you this is one of the participants) I couldn't help fathom if the archetypical bharatiyanari ends up teary-eyed with slices of onions and tomatoes in both hands. The guys get to dump one girl per episode, an example of the game element in any game show.

There's something gladiatorial about game shows in that the participants make an irresistable public spectacle. MTV's Roadie 5.0 was a laugh riot with a single episode airing all possible combinations of inglis galis. Channel V's Get Gorgeous (a model hunt) has the Bitch Diaries an antecedent to a rather bitchy elimination episode. Our home-spun version of Big Brother - Big Boss was a lesson in raunchiness. What with Rakhi Sawant's razor-sharp tongue and frequent abuses to Bhowjpuri superishtar Ravi Kumar I can only feel sorry for the other stars who joined the show to save a flagging career. Separting the real from the 'act up' is a challenge, really. I would personally prefer a CCTV (close-circuit tv) in the neighbourhoods to capture footages of our daily misadventures or even fly-in-the-wall docusoaps with matter-of-fact names like 'Airport' or 'Shopping Mall.'

Not too long ago AXN aired a gameshow on a forelorn island 'Survivor' with a number of challenging and unpleasant tasks. However, as a caveat, one of the edgy competitors later featured in a movie called 'The Animal.' The overtly theatrical 'Big Boss' tempted our theatrical lachrymal glands and aroused the conscience of the human right activist in us (now that's another story.) Pop Idol in the west was followed by Pop Star in India--a hunt for talent among the ordinary college goer and later a degree of voyeurism into the plush hotel where they were stationed, the makeover has something of a Cinderalla fairytale syndrome. Bindaas TV's Dadagiri every bit as obvious in its lift from AXN's Fear Factor format starts airing in early July. And, paradoxically, my sequel to Orwell's is on the way.

Ballack and Euro 2008

2008-06-21T09:47:00.000-07:00

Michael Ballack rattled the crossbars with a masterful header in a clincher of a match with Portugal and I almost rattled a nerve in my forehead. Ahem, trying too hard to avoid any discussion about the boyish striker-turned macho-Deutscher oozing chutzpah, Ballack hasn't disappointed me at all.

However, any die-hard football fan would admit that watching football in a paltry television telecast isn't half as magnificent as watching it on the grandstand. I root for the German team and I take time to watch every match that the Rhinelaenders play. There's something blond and lively and tall about the German team that takes away some of the Bavarian brashness. I would infact, wager to watch them on the field and so would my, soccer affectionado father.

Oli Kahn at a recent match in Kolkata--Mohunbagan vs Bavarians(that turned out to be more of a feel-good match) convinced me that soccer matches are meant to be watched on the grandstands only. The Salt Lake stadium seething with fifty scores of moving masses shouting Kahnda as our humble home-team suffered in silence. (It's another story that Mr. Kahn's gigantic legs gave way to excessive sluggishness after he could hardly see the ball pushed within twenty yards of the goal post).

The psychedelic colors of fans, a sheer sense of atmosphere that television can hardly capture, outcry among opponents and the defeaning roar after every cut or pass, where every spectator doubles up as the supporter. And every goal is a lifesaver for the fans. Every fan has the advantage of offering physical homage to his favorite player on the field; every fan on the field experiences a sense of autonomy when expressing his disapproval on a shot. What a view from the turnstils!

As I came to know from my father, during pre-televised times, football was a gentleman's game to it's quieter cousin cricket, somuchso that the penalty kicker would stroke the ball and then throw it to the opposing player, simply to affirm that the foul occasioning the kick was not malicious and therefore, the team to whom the kick was made would not misuse the advantage. But I'm going to admit that even wrestling isn't as telegenic as fouls in football matches are- theatre par excellence, a-not-so-recent-example from Zizou's farewell match. A profligate kick can attract a disapproving fan's discontent and make him switch allegiances. But even then, it doesn't appear 'scripted' like a WWF match. The theatre here might be entertaining, but it doesn't have any choreographed fakery. Meanwhile, I'm going to make a paradigm shift from this discussion about the rivalry and instant ness of football matches to watch wonder boy Ballack head a quick riposte!

Resonant Spaces

2008-06-19T22:52:00.000-07:00

What do I sing to you today, through notes, chords, blotting pens

These unstated words and lost chords I find

The chords that did us bind and fastened the strings of our life

Through rain and shower and summer suns, we walked together under a thousand suns

Remember the day? When we first saw our reflections on the moon

How we sang the same John Denver number on that hot summer noon

Seeking peace on a northern chilly night, a busy arena with bobbing heads

Our asides on the musical kid who brought warm strings into your life

Do you remember our secret language during rehearsals?

And the exactitude with which it set itself on our creations

Today we breathe in separate spheres and we think different thoughts

Though words still return, to weave our thoughts in equal spaces

On threatening looking rainy days mother earth weeps

For me, in writing I find a solace, that puts my worries for you to rest

Ghum Kimono

2008-04-04T02:32:00.000-07:00

They call it Devbhumi - the land of Gods, Godliness, and Purity. Purity that emates from the top of the Kailasha and comes gushing down the rudraksha-strewn mountain slopes. Purity that drapes itself in the saffronness of the sanyasis' gamcha and sparkles from a Sphatik.

I often wonder, if it is the jitteriness of fellow rafters at the face of impending danger, the evening prayers offered by the bhakht, or the mendicant's monotone that create such a rush of devotion. Or is it, in the mind? I can wear a navaratan and feel empowered to face the wrath of clashing planets; walk down the mountain slopes of the himalayas with a clutch of followers of the hippie movement; or sail across the ganga as a deep and soulful Om resonates from the gaping hole in the boat, the pillars of the mansa mandir, or the rustle of leaves enroute to Kedarnath; would I, then be called a devotee? I guess, mine is a loaded statement. As Tru says, "I believe in God and, therefore, he is." Thus far, it has been a pot pourri of sights and sounds -- the aroma of incense, the loud sound of gongs, and the lone garland of flowers floating hurriedly past the zillions of visitors sitting along the banks of the raging ganga, giving me a picture of devotion.

I now feel at one with the procession for Guru Gobind Singh; the procession that defies the silence, settling with the crowd gathered around Harkipyaari Ghat. I feel at peace with the multitude that raises their hands to invoke the Gods. I invoke too, without inkling...

5 things you don't do on a cold delhi morning:

2008-02-09T11:49:00.000-08:00

--listen to Fuzon's 'Akho ke Sagar' it might seem bland to bite into the insane chill that permeates every nook and cranny on the walls and window panes

--take up philanthrophy; it might hurt to even think you can't run that extra mile to bring a smile on someone's face. I mean how do you run, when you can barely walk?

--eat super spicy sambar and then have a friend offer a hanky to wipe off the errr...streaming down your nose. Ok, you are free to make exotic noises to express your disgust on the 'nose debacle'

--read Media laws sitting amidst people gurgling English dictionary words and looking at you suspiciously as you furiously take notes. Those looks are chilly, seriously...

--take a cup of roadside shoup served with a half tooth grin, a ladel dripping with sticky somethings, and a dose of 'yeh dilli ki speacale soup hain madam.....pijiye phir batana....' What butterflies I feel flies in the stomach........Eweeepsesh! Skkpikt!

Chithi gulo shob rakha ache

2007-11-23T04:31:00.001-08:00

Foreword: this isn't a churn email in corporate language. Churn emails:- When your consumer responds back to an email you sent them. This is a letter from a sister to her brother...

Cut 1: Da's email. Shudur Dubai

Cut 2: One of Delhi's nondescript sidewalks for a taste of roadside
coolfi...how I wish this baul mone of mine could experience the nuances of life like the two in love (elderly) couples tucked away in some posh restaurant in Dubai--wishful thinking has always been my forte. It's wishful thinking still on the sidewalks of Delhi.

Be it with a clumsy MBA eating 'Tepanyaki (the dish was as yuck as
it sounds) or a wannabe Casanova playing lawn tennis in pristine white
sports gear. Or it could be the traditional Bengali babu from a
'bonedi bari' in south Kolkata. In the meanwhile, a geek from mars, a good for nothing
reveler, bhabagure part two. Hope fails to hold fort. Yes
it does. Sweet words of a Da calling out from shudur Dubai, moreover
he's travelling to Egypt for a holiday (did I tell you Egypt is on
my list too) that's inspiration enough. Happy Anniversary Da, a
little late nonetheless packaged with the affection.

The chithir adanprodaan is awesome-so don't you stop your surprising
chithis...remember your sister is waiting for the next update
already...

Just got up

2007-11-16T23:15:00.000-08:00

Saturday mornings.
TGIF blues.
Laundry overflowing (for all those without bai-s, you'll know what I mean)
Grocery waiting to be cooked.
Kitchen sink overflowing. The kabadiwala giving me a rather gawky look. (Ok, this post is about convincing myself that life isn't that bad). Still haven't wished death on myself. What man? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarg!!!!!

Seriously.

Here you are wondering, if this blogpost is about the rantings of a demented corporate. Make no mistake. It is. Being a singleton in sector chappan ain't easy, especially when you have to manoevour your way to Hudda market through the 'jhari' thus popularized by Abhijit.

What with the frequent 'launda' wearing caps at 7hr, like Himesh Reshamiya needed any more competition. Actually, it's time he got a throat checkup done with his trebellish 'main tere ghar mein roti dekhna chahta hoon' type dialogues in Saregama.

Get a life. My chai is ready with some 'adrak' and 'elaichi.'