Bandra Blues

Bandra : Unplugged

2009-12-22T09:14:00.002+05:30

The following piece won a prize and has appeared in the Celebrate Bandra Souvenir for the Bandra Festival in Nov'09. Some would surely find echoes of a past post, but in these days of Pritam-da's music, everything is "inspired".

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Some find their Bandra in the rarefied, testosterone rich air of swank Gold’s Gym, where personal trainer sculpted bodies of celebrities rub shoulders with overweight wives of diamond merchants, huffing and puffing on the spinning machines. Where fitness is more of a fashion statement, liberally spiced with giggles, whispers and some overt attempt at catching the target’s eye, rather than just a boring work-out. Where every casual hello between strangers is laden with the unspoken promise for at least a coffee at Gloria Jeans, maybe a drink at Firangi Paani and a definite attempt at something more. After all, Bandra is as close to NY as we can get, right?

For some, Bandra is in the salwar kameez-ed, t-shirt-ed drove which descends on Almeida Park every Sunday afternoon. The small shy groups which turn bolder as time passes. Where the lucky maid always finds the romantic driver to run away with over a shared plate of sev puri. Where street sharp slum children always find some new rich kid to bully near the broken swings and slides. Where tired horses keep going around in circles to feed their owners. Where the street lights coming on in the evening leads to a collective sigh as participants in this strange courtship ritual resign themselves to another week of back-breaking work.

Some find their Bandra in the quaint little one-story bungalow sandwiched between glitzy glass facades of brand-new buildings on Turner Road. The one with the crumbling side wall, lingering smell of Goa sausages, the overgrown hedge and the scrupulously clean wooden cross at the corner. Where the old lady of the house wearing her faded burgundy dress walks haltingly, while the shaggy brown dog pulls at the frayed leash out of habit. Where the perpetually out-of-work son dozes on the front porch to cure last night’s hangover right next to the overflowing ashtray, his dreams rich with surreal promise of the next high.

For some, Bandra is as simple as finding the next place to park their car as they negotiate the small bye-lanes full of Honda Civics and Skoda Lauras. The monsoons bring their own flavour to this game, ensuring a slushy pitch where daily battles can be fought between paani-puri vendors, unconcerned cows, the neighbourhood druggie looking for a dry place and countless four wheel drives, breeding like cockroaches. The result is as always, a tense stalemate.

Some find their Bandra in that short stretch where the paved Carter Road promenade suddenly descends into the squalor of the koli fishing village. Where the stink of drying fish and unwashed bodies replaces the aroma of coffee and expensive anti-perspirants in an instant. Where similar groups of well-dressed teenagers hang out, mindlessly puffing their Davidoffs while wearing the same vacant expressions as the world walks past them. Where the weekend jogger juggling the IPod, IPhone and the Blackberry stops abruptly and hurriedly turns around maybe in fear of crossing that unseen line into the unknown.

For some, Bandra is the multitude crossing the Lucky signal, always running for the next Borivili or Virar local as they unconsciously try to flee the queen of the suburbs. Some glance at the kababs on display with barely concealed hunger. Others wonder at the utter futility of the spanking new Skywalk supposedly being built for their benefit. Most concentrate on simply avoiding getting run-over by irate drivers, desperate to reach home as the maximum city runs its daily instalment of the north-south marathon. Maybe some of them run after having glimpsed the rotting core underneath the flashy wrapper of Bandra. Or maybe they have other dreams to chase while nightmares chase them in turn.

Some rebel at Bandra in their own way, when their screeching bike tyres meet the burning road on a Friday night. The tattoos, the studs, the leather jackets all tell their own story. The story of the unaccountable rage, the steadfast refusal to be pigeon-holed, the failure to comprehend and to be understood. Maybe their only solace is writing “Knights Rulz” and “Kings Sux” in big bold red letters on school buildings as they create their own version of Harlem in their minds. Or maybe its just too boring to write “Bean Bags 2640 7383” over and over again.

So where is your Bandra tonight?

Is there any other place you would rather be?

I know … not really, dude.

Unaccustomed Earth

2008-06-24T12:21:00.006+05:30

Jhumpa Lahiri revisits familiar territory in her latest. The haunted land of bengali immigrants.

By now, you almost know each of the characters inside out, the pining for home first generation, the angsty rootless second and their sometimes confused, sometimes empathic partners. They meet, they talk, they think of home, they brood, they keep rediscovering each other and sometimes they take a step too far.

As always, the things to watch out for, the folk-talesque simplicity of the narrative and the curious way of presenting the case without any value judgement. So much so, that you forget all about the author and her stand. This in my opinion, is what makes Madame Lahiri so poignant as a writer. Like, come on, she's definitely no Rushdie or Amitav Ghosh. Rather, her strength is to present characters with all their typical bong educated middle-class vulnerabilities and make readers wonder what would they be doing faced with such situations.

All in all, its more of the same. In case you have liked Interpreter of Maladies or The Namesake, there's no way you are not going to like this one, even if the dish is a bit stale. But then, we all like panta-bhat, don't we?

Tag team

2008-06-17T09:38:00.003+05:30

Tagged by him.

Let me gush about my new-found circulating library, first. Its a wet dream come true.

Tucked in a corner between the Bombay's lousiest lounge bar called P.U.L.S.E. and the HDFC Bank ATM on Hill Road, N/books, Sales & Library should immediately be declared a national treasure.

Charges are 150 per month, 1 book at a time and 250 bucks refundable deposit. You can change as may times as you wish. To a somewhat energetic reader like me, that works out to about 25 bucks per book.

And here is the list of the books I've borrowed so far :

Artemis Fowl, The Eternity Code - Eoin Colfer
The Alchemy of Desire - Tarun Tejpal
Franny & Zooey - JD Salinger
Portrait of an artist as an old man - Joseph Heller
The Name of the Rose - Umberto Eco
Children of Hurin - JRR Tolkien
Love in a Blue Time - Hanif Kurieshi
Half Moon Investigations - Eoin Colfer
Needful Things - Stephen King
Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri
Maximum City - Suketu Mehta

Not your run-of-the-mill street corner kabadiwala cum circulating library, eh? In addition the books are in pristine, virtually new condition.

I was actually thinking about not letting out this secret to anybody, but you know, what-the-hell ...

The book I am reading now is obviously the last one in that list. Hasn't quite made up my mind up on this one. Definitely better than Shantaram, definitely worse than Sacred Games. But overall, not very defining to a forced resident, like me.

Post-mortem

2008-05-25T19:23:00.005+05:30

I write therefore I am. Easy to preach, hard to practise.

At least that's all I can say after looking at the meagre output of this blog over last 6 months.

What started off as a cool sort of diary, did evolve to a window into my own mind and its peculiar hang-ups amongst other things. But like all self exploration trips it soon got bored with itself. What was left was a simple act of entertainment, a self-indulgent expression of my cynical world view. The absurdities of this joke called life, if you please.

However, self-expectation is such a lousy bitch.

For instance, what if you don't like what you write, won't want to read it yourself? What if, indeed.

That brings us to the moot point of this post, What's next in the life of our intrepid adventurer, i.e. this blog?

Desperation

2007-12-26T15:07:00.000+05:30

No, this is not about the average (by his standards) Stephen King thriller.

This is about the desperation of writing something. Anything that can remotely resemble a post.

This is also about drunken nights and groggy mornings ... and numerous tuneless renditions of "Mauja hi Mauja" ... and some bizzare hand / feet / paunch movements passed off as daringly different dance moves.

Yes, the party season is here. The time to feel older than you are and act younger.

Like a lot of things, it starts with the alcohol. After about half a lifetime of consuming the amber stuff, your liver just shrugs indifferently at any fresh influx and simply gets on with its job muttering mild profanities. Sadly, your brain does not behave the same way. For some obscure reason it wants to drop all pretensions of sobriety by addling your logic, fuzzing your memory and slurring your speech.

So when you next catch yourself in the middle of an embarrassingly vulgar depiction of male bonding on the tunes of "Beedi Jalaile" while your wife is watching with increasing shock / horror, do not contemplate the Agra asylum. It happens to the best of us. And it really does not matter if the label is Black and not (mother have mercy) Green.

The other problem is of the expanding middle. The only thing worse than cavorting with a room full of fat friends is noticing the fact that you have the biggest paunch of them all. And the fact that you don't even have the heart to think of New Year resolutions.

No wonder, some people spend this time of the year avoiding people like plague, staring at their Goa photos from 99-00 and sighing a lot.

Well, life goes on as well-meaning people never stop reminding us. Now if only I can figure out, where mine went.

Three movies and a funeral

2007-11-12T15:27:00.000+05:30

Laaga Chunari Me Daag

After the competent "Parineeta" (never mind the hilarious 'tod Shekhar, tod" last scene), Pradeep Sarkar delivers an absolute turkey. Actually, some Star Plus serials are little better. Rani Mukherji doing an eerily perfect Sukhen Das imitation, is stuff nightmares are made of. In hindsight, we know what Badki should have done instead of selling herself to anonymous amorous strangers in big bad Bombay. She should have gone to Cal and joined Nottyo Company, instead. And am I the only one who does not like Jaya Bachhan's (perpetually pinched eyebrows) second innings? And don't even start me on Anupam Kher. Fresh cow-dung is what I would call his performance. The only one coming through with any semblence of reputation intact is Konkona. One ends up feeling sorry for her being in such a mess. Abhishek & Kunal were better off having an affair between themselves rather than going for the girls.

Jab We Met

Just when you think, Socha Na Tha cannot happen again, boy-meets-girl is too formulaic and done to death, Imtiaz Ali surprises you again. The first half of the flick waltzes along with a breezy freshness that has little to do with the lead pair. Its the bloody script, stupid. The dialogues are extremely funny in parts, pedestrian in bits and above average for most. You expect the film to fail miserably with the second half, and for about 25-30 minutes it does hover quite close to the precipice. I mean, a screeching Kareena and deadpan Shahid is far better than a deadpan Kareena and screeching Shahid. Thankfully, normal service is resumed soon after with an unintentionally hilarious performance from Tarun Arora, who is forced to bathe and visit sugarcane fields while Kareena is being stolen from him. Overall, worth a watch. Aap itne se convince ho gaye, ke aur kuchh bolu?

Saawariyaa

Unadulterated overrated overhyped pathetic self-indulgent crap. In case Mr. Bansali wanted to pleasure himself with his hands, he should have had the decency to do it in the privacy of his bedroom (presumably having bedspreads, curtains, blankets and carpets in various shades of blue). The kids, Ranveer & Sonam, look comprehensively lost in the middle of an utterly bewildering set. And one can't help but sympathize with them. At least they make an honest attempt, never mind their limited expressions. The person solely responsible for this dodo, is one with the initials of SLB. But then again, maybe I don't understand Russian literature. Actually after watching this ridiculous excuse of a masturbation, I don't want to.

Om Shanti Om

Tired of reading my stuff? Read this one instead. And yes, I loved this mindless montage too. Maybe more so, because I saw it right after "Saawariyaa", but frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. Yes, the in-jokes rock and so does Farah Khan. The most innovative end credits I have seen. The spot boys in a Merc and the executive producer on a cycle was cool, no? And I counted 31 + SRK = 32, did you?

Afterthought : Just because the movie is so deliberately over-the-top, nobody detected how bad SRK was in the movie. All his mannerisms /terrible hamming etc. can be passed off as "fitting into the character / movie". But then, we always knew he was somewhat histrionically challenged, didn't we? They still go to watch him, don't they?

Questions in my head

2007-10-04T13:26:00.000+05:30

Does Sharukh Khan use Botox only for his tummy? Otherwise why are other parts of his body doing rubber-doll impersonations?

Is Sreesanth for real? I mean, sledging Hayden and Symonds? What exactly was he thinking?

Who paid for the Marine Drive beautification consisting primarily of a random assortment of circumcised male member look-alikes? Us?

How did Hindustan Unilever let go of this enormous co-branding opportunity? I mean, just imagine : Surf Excel presents "Laaga Chunari Mein Daag".

Who is watching Naach Baliye? And when is Raakhi Sawant suing her silicone doc for damages related to unsatisfactory performance?

Where is Himeish uncle? Has some kind-hearted soul finally managed to bump him off?

What's wrong with Rajpal Yadav and Priyadarshan? Don't they watch their own movies?

Did Shoaib actually compare himself with Imran? And hit Asif when he guffawed? Oh, hilarity !!

What do Kareena & Saif talk about when they meet for the hush hush dinners? The merits of Asian Paints Royale over ICI Dulux Velvet Emulsion?

???

The damp patch on my wall

2007-08-08T15:14:00.000+05:30

Its been a while since I spent the entire afternoon staring at the damp patch on the wall. That would mean I haven't been falling sick that often.

Its been my favourite pastime, when I have fever, since time immemorial. Staring at the ceiling, trying not to think of the slowly building headache and wait for sleep (which never arrives on cue) while the mind churns useless memory bits.

The memories of another day ... the snatches of uneven conversations ... the bitter aftertaste of the last fag ... the strains of forgotten songs.
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The day breaks fresh and new, as if the whole world is celebrating with you. Niru rolls to the other side of the king-sized bed, trying his best to avoid the sharp rays of the sun even in his sleep. After a while, his mind gives up the fight to hold on to the last remnants of sleep and he cautiously opens one eye to survey the damage. Sumi’s eyes are still shut but that in itself is no guarantee. He peers closely for telltale signs of tears and almost lets out a loud sigh of relief. Looks like she is actually sleeping.

So far so good. With one last wishful look at the gentle curve made by Sumi’s right thigh and neatly manicured leg, Niru silently slinks off the bed and locks himself in the loo. Is it time already to dig into the happiness box tucked safely in the waterproof packet inside the flush? “Becoming too greedy, you idiot”, Niru scolds himself absently while his mind starts the dreaded flashback routine on what exactly went wrong with his life last night.

Yeah, the forced sex was a bad idea, even more than hitting her to keep her quiet. But it must have all started with that bloody bitch Sonali calling up at 1 am to ask for money for her dad's operation. That too, when Niru can't find one bloody drop of alcohol in the whole bloody house. Where the hell do all those Bacardi bottles go? "Sumi must be downing some with her evening tea," Niru would have sworn, in case he did not know his wife better. Has she found a secret bewda lover to go with her dopey husband? Niru almost burst out laughing with the sheer beauty of the idea. “That would really take the cake, won’t it?”, Niru chuckles, as he opens the loo door softly, tiptoes to the bed and starts the search for his mobile phone.

He ultimately finds his Nokia E63i under the cupboard with its battery holder hanging open. Must have slipped off his pocket. Or did Sumi actually throw the phone at him? The details were kind of hazy at this point, but he vaguely remembers trying to kiss Sumi to make up, while she was shouting obscenities at him. “And what colorful language, that Sati Savitri mother of hers would be real proud of her,” Niru mutters, as another bout of hysterical laughter threatens to overpower him.

Mobile barely fixed, and it’s the time to fix that bitch Sonali. What does she think to call at 1 in the night, with some sob story about her dad's kidneys? That last time’s champagne was a big mistake. And giving her jewellery stolen from Sumi’s locker only made it worse. “Now saali thinks she owns you,” Niru shakes his head in anger. Damn her starry airs and her soft mouth and the things she does with it, damn it all. Time has come to tell her where she belongs, if only she will pick up the bloody phone.

“What is the point of having a mobile in case you don’t pick it up?”, Niru wonders while neatly side-stepping what must have been last night’s baingan bharta made with real love and tender care by his loving wife. Almost drops the phone in sudden panic at the thought of Sumi waking up and walks fast to the other room to clear his head.

“Focus bugger, focus, don’t lose it now, you’ve been through worse in bloody B-school.” he thinks furiously, just able to keep his slowly rising panic in check.

Now where are we? Eye drop for the red eyes, check. Mouthwash to clear the smell of stale booze, check. Unshaved look to hide the generally haggard appearance, check. 2 Pudin Haras for the rising bile, check.

And loads of water, loads of water. Now, if only you can find a bottle of mineral water in this damn house, when you need it. Niru contemplates shouting for Sumi, but decides its not exactly a good time.

“Must get her flowers today, those yellow whatevers from the Hill Road shop ... and some chocolate never hurts.” And in case one is lucky, she might be actually willing tonight. “Must say she wasn’t looking all that bad after the latest liposuction,” Niru thinks, while buttoning up his shirt. “And must come home sober for dinner. It might be baingan bharta again.”, this time giggling helplessly.

Entering office with a suitable jaunty air is the key and the sunglasses always help. Firing Sonali is also a great idea. She might even be willing to give it for free, to get her job back. “The world’s is coming back in control, and I’m the dude.” Niru hums to himself as he nods to the watchman holding the door open.

“Good morning, sir”. That's a new voice.

“Now that new receptionist is a serious piece of shit,” Niru wonders, trying a suitable superior management smile. “She must be given some opportunities to be close to senior management as a part of her grooming process”.

The cabin smells of stale flowers. One more point to blast Sonali.

“Sir, you have a conference call at 10:30 IST with Singapore”, the cute receptionist opens the door a fraction.

“Where the hell is Sonali?”

“Taken the day off, Sir. Father unwell.” the new receptionist sounds reasonably overawed in the presence of the big boss.

“Bloody excuses”, growls Marketing Director Niranjan Sen, while gently swivelling in his chair. “With so much damn pressure, I must take a serious look at the work-life balance.”

“Get me a coffee will you, sweetie. And what was your name again?”

Who is John Galt?

2007-06-13T19:49:00.000+05:30

Well, who the fuck cares?

Definitely a much more interesting question is, "Why do Bongs smoke?"

The question hits you hard when you see 4 smokers cramped in a cubbyhole hardly bigger than a bombay loo and puffing away like mad in this supposed green building somewhere in Northern Europe. And 2 of them from you-know-where, faithfully recording their attendance every hour.

Mostly you will hear them argue that its all about peer pressure. When you grow up watching the male half of your family blowing rings at each other at every given opportunity, what else will you do? A boy who does not smoke in Bongland, is generally a fictitious entity. They immediately lose admittance to all these vital sorority rituals which are part and parcel of growing up in Cal, e.g how to light a fag with exactly one matchstick under a fan, how to cup one when the first person you see after lighting up is your mom, how a burn happens only after 3 seconds of contact with flesh, how to blow one perfect smoke ring within another a la Barun Chanda in "Seemabaddhha", how the first fag out of a fresh pack has to be put back upside down always and saved for the last, etc. etc.

Yeah, so much pressure. No wonder the poor souls crack and bow to the inevitable ... burnt lungs.

My personal hypothesis is that bongs smoke to look intellectual. They think it gives them a personality, unique, fashionably anti-establishment, a little risque and one which will build a hopelessly attractive air of vulnerability about them. A personality type, which will bring unknown girls screaming to their doorsteps, all set to bathe themselves in this bottomless well of intellectual depth.

Don't laugh. Some people I have known have actually believed this. Some still do. An active imagination always helps. One person, when asked to explain his quite unexpected success with a member of the fairer sex, put it all down to the fag held fashionably in his left hand. Another, invoked that ultimate bong intellectual hero, Pradosh Mitter and his Charminar while trying to explain the raison d'être of his chain-smoking.

Its funny how the things which are archetypal bong (or at least are considered to be), like culture, fine arts, books, theatre, quizzing, football tend to associated in our memories with cigarette smoke.

Well, it must be just me.

The hour approacheth. Let’s find the other bong.

An ode to Rembrandtsplein

2007-06-07T14:37:00.000+05:30

There was this one time when I learnt ..

.. someone’s idea of a rocking weekend is hiring bicycles for 2 days

.. one unintended benefit of cold weather is that your fags go a long way

.. blackout is not something which happens to other people

.. lateral games are really easy after the first whiskey shot

.. cola can be had neat without diluting it with alcohol

.. a dance is never just a dance, its mostly unconsummated foreplay

.. the risky thing about blackout is not that you don’t remember anything

.. that “I’m starved, wanna grab a bite?” is a killer pick up line

.. that Burger King has made McDonalds irrelevant

.. who dares wins, is not just a TV program hosted by out of work ex-cricketers

.. beer after whiskey is risky because you tend to show off that you are not drunk

.. beds have magnetic fields

.. "Have a great weekend" means “I don’t want to see you in the morning”

.. the risky thing about blackout are the quite colorful artificial memories people would take the trouble to cook up for you

.. sleep cures all

and finally

.. your liver is what makes you live.

Cloudy

2007-05-28T16:05:00.000+05:30

Yes, that's the color of my mind for the last few days. The desperate longing for something which is just out of grasp. The sheer inability to dredge up some happy memory from the past which I can cling to.

I get into this mood so often, that I have stopped questioning it or trying to find a reason.

The warm breeze keeps blowing from the sparkling Arabian sea. The fishing boats keep bobbing up and down as if their strings are being pulled by some invisible puppeteer. The lovers are still holding hands while they bake themselves in the hot sun. The coconut trees, swaying their heads await the distant sound of approaching monsoon. The cab drivers are still playing "Kajra Re" in their battered Premier Padminis and wiping their sweaty eyebrows with dirty rags. College chicks in flashy clothes are running across passing cars on busy Pedder Road and the Mahim signal is still perpetually jammed.

Apparently, nothing has changed in the city. One day blending into the other as it has always been.
________________________________________

Rakesh crosses the road in a hurry, barely outguessing the Corolla driver who gives him a piece of his rustic Haryanvi mind. Two steps to the paan-bidi stall, three swipes of the sweaty left hand through the dry matted hair and a small Gold Flake, lit from the lighter dangling from the lamppost. Avoiding the rainbow-colored spill of indeterminate liquids with a jaunty leap, he switches the fag to his left while checking the fake Citizen hanging from the right wrist. Just about 10 minutes, what Malik Sir, the owner of his courier company would call fashionably late.

"Bilkul theek hai!" Rakesh thinks, "Let Priyanka saali not get any fancy idea into her pretty head." So what if Rakesh missed his station, day-dreaming about the bright orange streak in Priyanka's dark hair? "Jyada bhao nahin." he mutters absently, almost burning his best navy blue trousers, with the fag carelessly cupped between left thumb and forefinger.

She is waiting as always at the last table to the right. How does she manage it every time, even during peak hours, he has never ceased to wonder. "Has to be the haarami head waiter.", he thinks, the one who's hungry looks are currently licking Priyanka's cleavage while she drinks her daily quota of cold water. "Saali nautanki! ", he feels the first pulse of anger rising up in him, as Priyanka gives the waiter an innocent wink, "and these engleesh low-cut tops, doesn't she have anything else to wear?".

The anger dissolves suddenly at the sight of her dark eyes and the corner of her mouth lifting in the smile which he knows so well. The mild throb in head remains, almost indistinguishable from the hangover from last night's Bagpipers. Priyanka checks her watch pointedly, Rakesh grins sheepishly, all his bluster about being fashionably late forgotten. The youngish boy comes and starts cleaning the table energetically almost on cue, and Rakesh orders two Paav Bhajis just to get rid of him.

"Paisa hai jeb mein?", she reminds him quietly. Rakesh suddenly can't remember how much cash he is carrying and somehow couldn't care less. Lifting Priyanka's hands to his lips, he delivers a small smile of his own. The sunlight reflecting off the broken window-panes frames them for a moment. "Jeb bhi hai khali, dil bhi hai khali", he tries desperately to paraphrase Anthony Gonsalves, shuts up at the sight of her arched eyebrows. "Idiot.", She melts into a quite melodius laughter.

From the next table, I take out the gleaming black ghoda slowly and point at Rakesh's back. So this is what the famous shooters of Bombay have been reduced to. Tapkaoing courier boy lovers, so that the out-of-work bar dancer remains faithful to her seth from Ghatkopar. "Roop nagar, prem galli, kholi no. 420!!", I hum, squeezing the trigger gently.

Excuse me, please.

55

2007-03-12T13:11:00.000+05:30

Tagged. To write on the 33rd birthday.

Now, I can either write about the faint lipstick smear on the Classic Milds slowly burning itself in my ashtray. Or about how good 3 Absolut shots are, in dispensing with the painful formality of choreographed foreplay.

But then, I don't remember all that much about last year.

Wah! Bharat!!

2007-02-14T19:11:00.000+05:30

Call it an insane flight of fancy, but the announcement of the Indian team for the World Cup, reminded me quite curiously of Mahabharata. No, not the Veda Vyas authored mythological epic - the one full of incredibly graphic descriptions of wild sex, hot extra-marital affairs, suppressed carnal desires, numerous attempted rapes and general all-round fun, like all good religious books are supposed to be. But the immortal Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron version of it, which had Satish Shah’s corpse playing Draupadi (don’t ask!).

Why? Well, there hangs a tale …

Just humour me for the moment, will you and join the ride …

Just build up a picture of Yudhishtir in your head. You must have met the sample in your school days, the amazingly proper pain-in-the-ass Class Monitor who does everything by the rule-book, including the latrine breaks. And the one who agrees with whatever the teacher says, without question. His only vice is a sense of inflated self-worth, which leads him to believe that he deserves more respect from the world than he is currently getting. And he gambles everything he has on that belief, including sending his elder brother Karan to the enemy camp. Too bad he has a battle to fight, he can’t think beyond the last time he played second-fiddle and hated it. Someone please dial 123 for a shrink

Karan, on the other hand is a seriously screwed up specimen. His world came crashing down around him, with the discovery that, the guy who brought him up, is not his father at all, but a small-time middleman out to earn a fast buck. The one who did not bat an eyelid while disowning him. Now the poor soul does not know who is father is and is pissed at brother Yudi for stealing the one thing which was dear to him. It’s hard for him to learn new tricks (something as incomprehensible as running between wickets or stopping singles within the ring) at this age, but then, he can’t survive on a year’s supply of Sona Chandi Chaywanprash, can he?

Karan’s one time partner, Arjun is also suffering. It’s either his back, or his elbow or (mostly) his middle stump. They just don’t seem to hold up and breaks down at the slightest hint of pressure. Add to this, the weight of expectations which he carries being the best in his team and you have a disaster waiting to happen. He’s tired of mouthing excuses about how he cannot be a curly haired teenager all his life, but no one listens. The famous hand-eye coordination which used to be his hallmark is now barely enough to lift a can of Pepsi to his mouth. The eyes which could not see beyond the eyeball of the target is now fixated on retirement benefits. Maybe he will show us just who he is one more time and maybe, just maybe Pepsi cans would fly.

The case of the heavyweight in the family is also peculiar. Bhima can carry the entire load of his aged brethren on his ample shoulders, but his strength strangely deserts him outside the boundaries of Indraprashtha. No wonder, outside his home turf he is perceived as little more than a long-haired caricature, trying desperately to be cool with generous helpings of Brylcream. The huge hits over the boundary as well as the human turbine routine with the yorkers are little more than an occasional curiosity, spread thin as they are in between funny attempts at swinging the heavy mace without contact with anything substantial.

Arjun’s son Abhimanyu has learned all about the swinging ball (not swinging by the balls, mind you) in his mother’s womb. He also boldly goes where no one has gone before, the dreaded #3 spot where his senior and more experienced family members have screwed up spectacularly. You can blame Indian Oil Extra Premium for his delusion, but the kid never knows when he is out of gas. One would have thought a break from the grueling schedule of getting hit out of the park would have led to some self-introspection, but here he is back again, dying for another thump. This time his case may be terminal.

With all this dysfunctional family shit happening around you, you can’t fault Chief Selector Bhishma for turning celibate. He keeps wondering whether all this is worth it. Doesn’t help one bit that people are blaming the sudden and inexplicable downturn in his favourite pupil’s fortune on Mayur Suiting, which paid for his school building. At least he managed to show Nakul / Sahadev, the door. Effigies can keep burning in Northern parts of the country, but you can’t always depend on energetic fielding to tide over non-existent technique outside off-stump.

Shakuni Mama, in the meanwhile is happy rolling dice and mouthing platitudes about "youth", "long-term planning" and "constant experimentation". Anybody else wonder, whether he is actually working for the other side?

Dhritharashtra, being blind, can only hear the running commentary while his empire crumbles all around him like his sugar factories. The only consolation is this new deal with SET Max which comes packaged with Draupadi in noodle straps.

No wonder he is looking at us for charity ... lets switch on our TV sets and start praying !!!

The gulf between bat and pad

2007-01-06T12:50:00.000+05:30

This is what I posted on desicritics.

Specially relevant after yet another spectacular and inexplicable collapse of reputedly the best batting line up in the world at Capetown. As Sambit Bal says in Cricinfo, "India might still go on to the win the match. But if they don't we know where they let it slip."

With every sports writer on the net fixated on the concept of Best of 2006, time to do something different. Time to analyse what happened to the batting powerhouse that was India. How the team which was effortlessly piling up 500+ totals in 2003 and 2004 plumbed to four spectacular last day collapses against Pakistan (twice, Bangalore / Karachi), England (Mumbai) and SA (Durban). And when was the last time you saw India save a test match by batting out the last day? (Actually, you might not have to go too far, Wasim Jaffer and Dravid spared the blushes in Nagpur against the English in March 2006, but what came in Mumbai after that was sheer madness).

So lets try to figure out what's happening. No Ganguly, Kaif, Yuvraj in the analysis as they have been at best fringe players in this period.

Sehwag : Last 20 matches, 35 innings, 1576 runs @ 47.75 with 4 centuries and 4 fifties. Not bad on first sight. But take out the four big innings (173, 201, 254 and 180) and the average falls to 26.48 over 31 innings. Sehwag has always been a hit or miss player, but his misses seem to be overwhelming the hits at the moment. Has he been caught out by the International bowlers? His pattern in his recent dismissals, mostly caught behind / caught slips / caught third man would suggest so. Can he change his game to counter this? Maybe going down the order to #6 would give him some time to ponder on this.

Shot to think over : Airy drive outside off-stump against the moving ball. N'tini has your number, mate.

Jaffer : Last 15 matches, 27 innings, 940 runs @ 33.57 with 2 centuries and 6 fifties. Strangely enough, Jaffer has been more consistent than Sehwag in this period (in spite of Sehwag's higher average) and has surely shown he belongs at this level. Strange shot selections after getting set have always been Jaffer's bane in the domestic circuit and he seems to be falling prey to the same disease here. While he has not been bad in his second chance at this level, the sheer expectation from a #2 in the batting order is much more. And no more of THAT pull shot, please.

Shot to think over : Square cut on deliveries too close to the body resulting in catching practice for second / third slip.

Dravid : 20 matches, 34 innings, 1735 runs @ 57.83 with 5 centuries and 11 fifties. Clearly the standout performer over this period, but hasn't he been doing that for some time, now? The over-dependence of the batting line-up on Dravid is evident in the hue and cry raised over his small scores in the SA series. The sheer burden of the captaincy is not adding to his joy and is sometimes reflected in his batting. Is it just my imagination or has his stance become more open leading to uncustomary flirting outside the off-stump? I have a feeling too much one-dayers are to blame for this. Is Rahul listening?

Shot to think over : The one-day special, steer to third man. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

Tendulkar : 15 matches, 23 innings, 747 runs @ 33.95 with 1 century and 4 fifties. The form slump which has become the national obsession. Is it the tennis elbow, is it the sprained back, is it the ageing body or is it the mental cobwebs? Whatever it is, this Sachin is someone we do not know at all. The one whose feet are moving in slo-mo, whose first attacking shot unerringly picks out the fielder positioned just for this purpose, the one who gets bowled comprehensively in 1 innings out of 3. A straight drive still sparkles sometimes, but the wunderkid terrorising the bowlers all over the world seems to be history. A more mature Sachin playing within his limitations? The thought is hard to bear, but can you really think of any other Indian batsman replacing him even in this form?

Shot to think over : The ever-so-slightly cross-batted flick to mid-wicket on balls on the middle-stump. The shattered stumps are a sight Sachin fans could do without.

Laxman : 15 matches, 25 innings, 903 runs @ 43.00 with 3 centuries and 5 fifties. The perennial under-achiever managed to keep up the tradition in the period under review by alternating between sublime and pedestrian. With Laxman you are far more interested in "what could have been" rather than "what happened" and its really up to him to physically lift himself to the greatness which he has been promising for so long. After all, does he want history to remember him for only that one innings?

Shot to think over : The lazy waft outside off early in his innings. Now why do you want to play that shot, when you can send the next delivery crashing to the mid-wicket fence?

Trademark shots

2006-11-15T11:12:00.000+05:30

It’s happened countless times...

After getting relatively set, Sachin plays one of the straight drives which has the purists drooling. And the commentator (Mr. Manjrekar / Mr. Shastri being the usual suspects) observes, "Now that he has found his timing, he looks set for a big one."

No, this is not about our national obsession of whether Mr. Tendulkar is past his sell-by date. It’s not about what Mr. Manjrekar's views on the subject are. And it’s definitely not about Mr. Shastri's receding hairline and his increasingly shriller views on the fitness levels of the Indian team (coming from him, that’s a bit thick!).

This is about the shots which makes the world’s top batsmen what they are. The shots which are deeply etched in the collective consciousness of the viewing public. The shots which some have made their very own.

Tendulkar – A natural tendency is to go for the straight drive or the (rarely seen anymore) lift over mid-wicket. But my personal choice is the punch off the backfoot through backward point. The bend of the front leg while going back and across and the blade descending in a blur, ahhh … this would always be Sachin for me.

Ponting – Nothing else but the audacious front-foot pull off fast bowlers. The bat starting at right waist and ending up over left shoulder to deliberately lift the ball over the boundary. Just to show all the Ntinis and Harmisons of the world, who’s the boss. And some catching practices in the crowd for added fun.

Dravid – A toss up between the textbook cover-drive and the on-drive played with magical wrists. My vote for the on-drive, simply because of its difficulty levels against faster bowlers and the way Rahul finds the gap every time with this one early in his innings. A special mention to the lofted extra cover drive, something seen infrequently, but oh what a shot !

Sehwag – A popular choice would be sword thrust flaying the ball in the general direction of point / cover point. But for sheer amusement value it’s the inside-out cover drive which he plays off spinners while going towards the leg side and exposing all his stumps. A shot to give Geoff Boycott the shudders and Shane Warne a particularly bad migraine.

Lara – Undoubtedly the scissor like cut played off spinners. I have no choice but to quote Osman Saiuddin here who sums it up most evocatively – “That back lift, golf-like, paused and poised briefly at the top of its arch, is almost as compelling as the shots that it eventually manufactures. The real wonder is how he coordinates so many movements - the shuffling, the back lift, the bendy wrists twitching at the death to find gaps, lifting the knee - into just one picturesque image.”

Ganguly – The one which shortened the domestic careers of many a left arm spinner and which I am sure still gives Ashley Giles some sleepless nights. Its all there - the quick judgement of the length, the lightning step-out and the dramatic finale laced with delicious timing sending the ball to the mid-wicket stands. (And Tony Greig repeating those stupid words for the umpteenth time, “They are dancing in the aisles, out there.”) It’s a pity we may never see its like again in an International match.

Gilchrist – The thump over mid-wicket to perfectly good wicket taking balls on the off-stump. The ball ricocheting off the boundary boards before the bemused bowler completes his follow-through. And then a wide good-natured grin to show the bowler “Well, that’s life, mate! Nothing personal in it, ya know.” In case you could only record what the bowler wants to say at that moment, it would have put the Amar Singh tapes to shame !!

Dreamworks

2006-11-09T16:59:00.000+05:30

This is what you call a desperate post. A post to tell the world (mostly consisting of myself) that, I can still write something. I can still put together a string of words. So what if does not make any sense. Most of Phillip K Dick's books didn't make any sense when they were read for the first time. Some still doesn't. Maybe someday my blog would be discovered by aliens who could decode the ciphered messages and figure out what I really wanted to say.

I see an impossibly high over bridge in my dreams. The one near the station surrounded by hills from all sides. The station in which the little blue locomotive stops. The locomotive which carried me and her to that far away land. She looks East Asian in the early morning haze, but I can't make out her eye color. Don't have a fucking clue what I am doing with her in this weird place, but somehow my steps follow hers on the over bridge. Iron railings on one side and sheer drop on the other. A shining thread which has to be a river visible through the gaps in the rusted iron on the steps.

Is this somewhere in the Andes, I wonder while concentrating hard on my next step. I must have dreamt this locale up based on the "Prisoners of the Sun". But the drop seems real enough. So does the sound made by our boots on the steps. And the knowledge gleaned through reading countless fantasy novels does not help either; a death in your dream is the end of your life in reality.

Why are we wearing stupid business suits instead of life jackets and parachutes? Why is she going on endlessly about "the boy" instead of focusing on the simple task of staying alive? Who the hell is "the boy" anyway? "You don't know how drunk I had to get him to kiss me", she says. Huh? We are crossing an impossible over bridge which shows no sign of ending, so that she can kiss this boy? Am I somehow trapped in Bridget Jones' diary? The steps become more rusted, sometimes disappearing almost completely. I discover I have been clutching a hunting knife tightly all this while. A knife with names engraved on the hilt, so old that it can't be read anymore.

I was so engrossed in negotiating the next gap in the steps that I almost bump into her when she stops suddenly. Strange ! She seems to be wearing some body armor under the black business suit. Am I doing the same? No time for checking out now, as my eye falls on what made her stop. The steps have given away to a sort of landing here. And standing at the edge of the landing, humming the tune of "Smoke on the Water" quite nonchalantly, stands the Keeper. His dressing is heavily inspired by gangster flicks, right up to the grey fedora shadowing his eyes. The fact that he only has one metal leg, does not seem to dampen the menace dripping off him in any way. Not with that number of guns stuck on his leather belt. The smile playing on the corner of his mouth is a surprise, though. And so is the cry of delight which emanates from my guide.

The fedora tilts itself somehow. Revealing a face which might have passed off as Alec Baldwin, apart from the camera like devices where you would expect eyes to be. The devices which flash pictures of sandy beaches, grassy plains, misty meadows and a faintly remembered river in quick succession. "Hi Keeper", I hear myself say. Eh? How do I know this creature straight out of a video game? My fingers surprise me further by bunching into a strange two fingered salute. "You're home", she murmurs somewhere near my ear. Another locomotive seems to be steaming into the station far below us. The sound of the train drowns what Keeper is saying. I can barely make out the word "Goodbye". The buzzing pain inside my head, makes my steps falter a little. And suddenly I am flying.

My eyes open and stare listlessly at the cream colored wall. The pain in the loss of the life I left behind in my path for everlasting glory is still fresh in my mind. But I know its not gonna last. Already Keeper’s face is blurring in my memory. I turn around and look into my son’s face. Does he know what he has signed up for? The sleeping face does not tell me much. I start wondering how I woke up with a headache.

Silly dreams !!

Left handed complement?

2006-10-20T12:57:00.000+05:30

Extract from Peter Roebuck's article analysing Australia's defeat.

"Australia's bad start with the bat proved costly. None of the senior batsmen could blame the pitch. Ponting's footwork let him down and Damien Martyn drove indiscreetly. Watson did not last long enough for any impressions to be formed. Settling upon the right opening pair is the team's most pressing need. Considering the quality of the numerous candidates, it seems odd the job has gone to an unproven part-timer. However, it is not right to chop and change after one setback. At least Watson is a right-hander, a breed rapidly becoming extinct."

Indeed? Prompted me to check the teams playing for Champion's Trophy for batsmen and all-rounders ...

Australia - 4 LH (Gilchrist, Hussey, Hogg, Katich), 5 RH (Watson, Ponting, Martyn, Clarke, Symonds)
England - 2 LH (Strauss, Yardy), 7 RH (Flintoff, Bell, Pieterson, Collingwood, Dalrymple, Read, Clarke)
India - 4 LH (Mongia, Pathan, Raina, Yuvraj), 6 RH (Dravid, Dhoni, Kaif, Powar, Sehwag, Tendulkar)
New Zealand - 2 LH (Fleming, Oram), 7 RH (Astle, Fulton, Gillespie, McCullum, Marshall, Styris, Vincent)
Pakistan - 3 LH (Farhat, Iqbal, Abdur Rehman), 7 RH (Younis, Yousuf, Hafeez, Afridi, Akmal, Malik, Razzaq)
South Africa - 1 LH (Smith), 9 RH (Gibbs, Dippenaar, Kallis, Boucher, de Villiers, Hall, Kemp, Pollock, Bosman)
Sri Lanka - 3 LH (Tharanga, Jayasuriya, Sangakkara), 5 RH (Jayawardane, Atapattu, Dilshan, Maharoof, Kapugedera)
West Indies - 4 LH (Lara, Chanderpaul, Gayle, Hinds), 6 RH (Sarwan, Baugh, Bravo, Morton, Samuels, Smith)

Total - 23 LH / 52 RH

Huh? What is Roebuck talking about? Maybe, he was talking about left handed medium pacers. There's been a surfeit of them lately.

Chiraunji Lal Khosla

2006-10-16T11:36:00.000+05:30

The realization dawned on me with my first mouthful of popcorn. Why was I avoiding "Khosla Ka Ghosla" till now even after hearing countless positive reviews? It’s simply because the movie was being advertised as a "slice of Delhi life”!! With that kind of promise, you can't blame me much for thinking it would have the following elements:

1. The Delhi lingo consisting of "Beh^$#@" as every third word.
2. Youngsters wearing designer clothes loafing around in Gurgaon / Noida malls.
3. Real estate barons in flashy suits showing off their latest designer watches and Mercedes'.
4. Endless driving around posh South Delhi localities.
5. One-two obligatory shots of the Qutub Minar / Red Fort / India Gate.

This is a Delhi which I don't know much about. And coming to think of it, don't want to know much of either. It’s that part of the city which is continuously running from its past. And the past is what makes Delhi, Dilli!

The movie pleasantly surprised me, through its sarcastic look at the numerous quirks and idiosyncrasies which make the city. And its examination of the actual Delhi middle class. The ones who work in all those Government offices.

It was not only the popular Delhi stereotypes, which caught the eye …

1. The corrupt cops asking for their cut.
2. Rajma chawal (causing gastroentric disasters).
3. Jat musclemen on loan from the neighbouring state.
4. Larger than life land shark rushing to Vaishno Devi at the drop of a hat.

But those understated things in almost every frame, which are so quintessentially Delhi ...

1. The red Rooh-Afza bottle at the centre of the dining table. The Hamdard syrup which has been recommended as a counter to the harsh summer loo by countless Delhi mothers.
2. The fixation of owning a South Delhi house (even if it’s almost in Rajasthan) by the "service" class. The envy apparent in the dialogue, “Abhi to aap South Delhi-wale ho gaye, Khosla saab.”
3. The various levels of fixers. Typified by the statement - "Aap broker ho ya party?"
4. Tara Sharma's ethnic handicraft (all purchased at Cottage Emporium, I would presume) heavy flat.
5. The naiveté underlying Delhi aspirations, "World Famous Estate Agents" / "A-1 Agency"
6. The clichéd though real penniless Art / Theatre / Cuture-wallahs
7. The chartered buses carrying officers from Mukerji Nagar to CP. An understated comment on the Public Transport.
8. Collapsible gates / queues and shouting at Delhi booze shops. For those who do not know, Delhi booze shops are controlled by the Government and stay shut on 1st and 7th of every month, because monthly wages are dispensed on those days!
9. The Delhi spirit characterized succinctly by the statement, “Kya Kar Loge Tum?”
10. Khadi wearing NGOs looking out for their next donation cheque.
11. Horribly ostentatious Sadar Bazaar type tabletop / wall decorations.
12. The routine power cuts.

Now these are parts of Delhi I can recognize. Shows just one single fact. The indelible marks left by a city where I have spent some of the most glorious moments of my life.

No place (where you have spent significant time) ever really goes out of your system. Those memories are just lying there somewhere.

And no, to long for something which you never missed in the first place, is not stupid at all.

Oh Bombay - III

2006-10-09T12:17:00.000+05:30

Some find their Bombay in the wide sweep of Marine Drive. In the white-capped waves breaking against the concrete wall. The stillness of the sombre grey skies before the onset of a paricularly harsh downpour. In the breeze carrying the scent of the sea from far-away lands. The weather-beaten face of the buildings facing the sea. In the glitter of the Queen's Necklace in the evening. The glitzy heights of Oberoi's standing like a sentry at land's end. In the smell of fresh dough wafting through the rooms of Pizzeria. The moss-coloured stone facade of Wilson's college, seeped in history.

For some, Bombay catches the local train from Charni Road station every weekday. Brandishing either their "Bhav Copy" or "Mid-Day" they chatter endlessly about myriad things : the "tezi" stocks which are going to give 200% returns over the next month, urban myths about how Vinod was always a better bat than the great Sachin, how the ban on dance bars have affected the bottom lines of police officers, the decline of the diamond cutting / polishing industry in Surat etc. etc. Some distribute the forgotten tiffin their wives had faithfully packed, some just hang on for dear life as the Dadar human wave comes crashing down.

Some see Bombay written in bold letters on the faces of children on street corners selling pirated copies of the latest bestsellers. They can forget anything while watching them recommend "How Opal Mehta ..." as "yeh kitaab leke bahut maarpit hua, saab". Or chasing the cars over signals over a copy of the "The Argumentative Indian". Some find a typical Bombay way of getting rid off them, by pretending that they don't exist. Some find solace in their annual contributions to CRY, some avoid their eager eyes in shame.

Some still fondly think of Bombay as a teenager, never minding their actual age. The ones in their black Metallica T-shirts who assemble at Marine Lines station before Indy Rock. The ones who have to get hopelessly drunk at Sunlight Bar and Restaurant before they can search for the meaning of life in hastily rolled joints. They never notice how Bombay rolls off as sweat from their brows in the middle of crazy lights and headbanging. Sometimes Bombay stares at their faces from the puddle of puke which they produce in one of the gallis near Bade Miyan after a particularly unadvisable dinner.

Some dig for their version of Bombay in New Link Road and Lokhandwala. Where dug-out earth gets magically transformed into shining multiplexes and glass-faced shopping arcades in Bombay's very own version of gold rush. Some seek Bombay in those pothole filled roads strewn with building material. Some take the constant buzz of construction around them as the anthem of a city running desperately to stay at the same place. Some search for Bombay's reflection in the blank stares on those wannabe models frequenting the numerous eating joints.

Bombay's heart lives in a quiet Juhu bungalow called Prateeksha, for some diehards. The same ones who magically appear at the first hint of a dark tinted glass SUV leaving the gates for the daily visit to studios. The occupant with the salt and pepper designer stubble is still mentally classified as Vijay by some of people chasing behind. So what if he is going for the shooting of a Navratna Tel ad, in their minds he is still bashing up Amjad Khan. Sometimes, they get a roll-down of the window and a wave. In Bombay, sweet dreams are made of these.

So, where’s your Bombay tonight?

Oh Bombay - II

2006-10-09T11:04:00.000+05:30

One of the great myths about Mumbai is that it’s the most cosmopolitan city in India. Well, actually it’s not a myth. It is quite true, in case your reference point is Meerut or Ahmedabad. Ok, maybe even Chennai. But then, relative cosmopolitanism does not score highly in my scales.

My friends keep telling me that I do not recognize the greatness of the cosmopolitan Mumbai, because I have not worked for a living in any other city. “In which city would you get a place like Bandra, where the population is equally divided between Hindus, Christians and Muslims?” they say. “Where else are differences in cultures not only appreciated but celebrated?”

Looking at that kind of logic, you may tend to agree. However, I beg to differ. In my opinion, most of what is construed as cosmopolitanism in Mumbai is actually barely suppressed tolerance. By long practice, the different communities have built up invisible walls around themselves. The people outside the wall are rationalized generally through stereotyping. You must have heard the popular ones, “Bongs are football crazy, cultural snobs who can’t think beyond fish and sondesh”, “Gujjus are so money-minded that they would bargain even with their dads”, “Punjabis talk continuously without sense and believe in ostentatious celebrations”, “All Maharashtrians want their sons to become doctors / engineers because they are afraid of business”, “Parsis are congenitally mad in love with old family heirlooms” etc. etc.

This is not to say people in other cities do not suffer from this pigeon-holing syndrome. But nowhere is it as acute as it is in Mumbai. People of the city accept the differences, because they believe steadfastly that people are by nature so different from each other, that they cannot be understood. Comfort is found in labeling others as Bong / Mussal / Mallu / Ma ka Pao / Tam / Gujju / Sindhi / Marathi in trying to explain their reactions to situations, rather than finding out other, more truthful explanations.

The next question of course, is why? Why people in Mumbai are so indifferent, so impersonal that they could only see each other with this blinkered vision. The answer I think lies in Mumbaikars’ obsession with running the daily marathon which passes for life. Everyone here is always running for their lives or more precisely their next bundle of cash. This relentless mind-numbing chase leads to a situation, where the mind is simply incapable of the effort required to understand another person deeply. Stereotyping and rationalizing on the basis of that paradigm is a much easier option.

Sad, but true. Cosmopolitan Mumbai is just an illusion. The ghettos here are not apparent, because they are deeply etched in our minds.

A needless exercise

2006-10-04T16:10:00.000+05:30

Its been a slow day, and I am gonna shock the world with posts on consecutive days !!!

As it happens a lot with people with little or no creative juice, I resort to the oldest trick in the world .... copy-paste.

All this started when, one of my friends asked for sci-fi recommendations, which led me to this, a ranking of top 100 science fiction books. Naturally, was curious to know how many I have actually read. The number turned out to be 24 out of the top 50. Not bad, eh?

So here are the top 10, with my value-add ...

1. Dune, Frank Herbert - A sci-fi "Lawrence of Arabia", which nevertheless remains a cult novel. Sadly, the sequels lost the plot through increasingly complex philosophies which messed up the story.

2. Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card - One of the very best. You can't go much wrong with a plot involving children battling alien invaders. A book which asks all the difficult questions and lets readers find their own answers. If only the author was not so preachy in real life !

3. Foundation, Isaac Asimov - On second reading, Hari Seldon and his brand of psychohistory seem a little childish. But then Asimov's simplicity is his greatest strength, attracting readers from across spectrums.

4. Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams - The one and only. Dry british humour turning all sci-fi fundamentals on its head. Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect are immortal. And so probably is Marvin, the paranoid andriod.

5. 1984, George Orwell - The Mother (or should I say, Big Brother) of persecuted individual novels. "It was bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen". There, I just did the first line from memory. That's how good it is.

6. Stranger in a Strange Land, Robert A Heinlein - IMHO, does not deserve a place in the top 10. May have been a pathbreaking novel when it was released, but always sounded overrated tripe to me. Coming from Heinlein, its a let-down.

7. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley - The first one which I haven't read. Considered to be written under the influence of heavy narcotics. Well, if Jim Morrison can be inspired by Huxley, so can you.

8. Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury - Guy Montag and his python. The dreaded future where books are burnt. A moral fable turned cult classic beyond compare.

9. Starship Troopers, Robert A Heinlein - Another one from Heinlein, which has more popularity than substance (not to mention those giant bugs). An example of people choosing the author over the book, perhaps.

10. I, Robot, Isaac Asimov - More popularised by Will Smith's simplistic movie version rather than the book. This is Asimov at his very best, blurring the boundaries of science fiction, detective novels and social commentary.

And the balance 40 ....

11. Neuromancer, William Gibson
12. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Philip K Dick
13. 2001: A Space Odyssey, Arthur C Clarke
14. Ringworld, Larry Niven
15. The Time Machine, H G Wells
16. Childhood's End, Arthur C Clarke
17. Hyperion, Dan Simmons
18. Rendezvous With Rama, Arthur C Clarke
19. Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut
20. The War of the Worlds, H G Wells
21. The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, Robert A Heinlein
22. Speaker for the Dead, Orson Scott Card
23. The Forever War, Joe Haldeman
24. The Martian Chronicles, Ray Bradbury
25. The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K Le Guin
26. Snow Crash, Neal Stephenson
27. The Mote in God's Eye, Niven & Pournelle
28. Ender's Shadow, Orson Scott Card
29. A Wrinkle In Time, Madeleine L'Engle
30. The Man in the High Castle, Philip K Dick
31. Lord of Light, Roger Zelazny
32. The Caves of Steel, Isaac Asimov
33. Gateway, Frederik Pohl
34. A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess
35. Solaris, Stanislaw Lem
36. Cryptonomicon, Neal Stephenson
37. The Stars My Destination, Alfred Bester
38. Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes
39. A Canticle for Leibowitz, Walter M Miller
40. Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut
41. The Day of the Triffids, John Wyndham
42. The Gods Themselves, Isaac Asimov
43. Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton
44. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Jules Verne
45. UBIK, Philip K Dick
46. Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
47. Time Enough For Love, Robert A Heinlein
48. A Fire Upon the Deep, Vernor Vinge
49. The End Of Eternity, Isaac Asimov
50. The Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut

Oh Bombay !

2006-10-04T12:56:00.000+05:30

This Navratri marks the seventh anniversary of my moving to Bombay. And strangely enough, the eleventh anniversary of my first sight of it.

My aching bones keeps reminding me of the daily marathon that passes for life in this city.

Seven Years. God !

The wide-eyed kid who mistook Thane Creek for the sea, Crawford Market for Dadar and Hotel Majestic at VT for Bombay's equivalent of New Cathay Restaurant is still there somewhere. The one which has still not grown indifferent to staggering contradictions which Bombay exposes you to everyday.

The slums faithfully bordering every posh locality ... the maid whipping out a mobile phone to pacify the next household ... the neighbourhood Udipi menu with a Continental section ... people distributing biscuits to mildly irritated passengers stuck on the roads ... Cosmopolitan Page 3 parties attracting Shiv Sena functionaries ... share markets and cricket being discussed on the trains on the very next day of the bombing.

To an outsider (and I am one, in spite of all the pretense) its almost amusing. How its proud denizens keep comparing Bombay with New York. The way they excuse crumbling infrastructure, increasing apathy of the legislature, parallel economy run in parts by the mafia/builders/politicians. How the "Spirit" of Bombay is invoked in every calamity which befalls it.

However, sometimes Bombay chills you to the bone. Sometimes, the city's friendly facade peels off to reveal the rot within. Like long suppressed streaks of madness, it bursts forth in a torrent. In those sudden xenophobic comments from your sophisticated friends, the sudden rudeness from the friendly cabbie, those angry faces staring at you and not moving an inch when you want to get down from the train.

It makes me wonder whether I would die in this city. After all, how hard can it be?

What they tell you is that Bombay is great because it gives you the freedom to be what you are. What they don't tell you is nobody gives a damn what you are.

The guy's not bad

2006-09-23T11:23:00.000+05:30

Never thought I would write that about someone from the Deol family.

Abhay Deol has talent. Not in bucketfulls, as is quite evident in the case of Abhishek B, but compared to Dino Morea and Emraan Hashmi, he is simply divine. And its refreshing to see him not waste himself in the "Kutte / Kamine" roles popularised by his uncle and cousins, but tread off the beaten path in "Socha Na Tha" as well as "Ahista Ahista". Maybe no one is offering him those "dhai kilo ki haath" roles in the first place (its heard that Bobby D is not getting any for sometime), but lets give him the benefit of doubt, shall we?

Its also helped, that the scripts of these two movies did not have anything expect their lead actors. The story was simple in the case of the first one, almost bordering on ludicrous in the second. But to see Abhay D trying so hard to fit into the roles of regular guys makes you glad. And just compare this with say, Shahrukh trying to be an average jerk in KANK, with a footballer demigod past !!!

Then maybe I am just biased with "Socha Na Tha". I remember recommending the movie to countless friends. Its definitely not pathbreaking like "Munna Bhai MBBS" or even "Dil Chahta Hai". But it shows clearly what a simple idea with honest execution can do, when the lead pair is concentrating on their character in the first place rather than trying to look too cute. The film is surprisingly good even on the second viewing and has a number of endearing moments. Abhay D fits like a glove to his role of a confused 24 year old who is out of his depth in most matters of his life including career, love, marriage, family etc. And to his credit, the guy makes it looks effortless.

Its that spark in Abhay which made me watch his second movie. "Ahista Ahista" starts of with a much more serious premise and Abhay's character is quite complex for a Hindi Movie hero. And this is a movie trying so desperately to be different that it bores the audience to death. The director (the same one as the earlier movie) loses the plot mid-way and the music director (the unwashed denim jacket guy again) loses his head with that soul searching "Love You Unconditionally", but in the middle of all this mayhem, Abhay D steals your heart with his honest attempt to essay a role, which would have been a challenge to anyone.

Too bad no one else saw the movie.

Father to Son

2006-09-14T12:22:00.000+05:30

About twice a week, my kid wakes up crying in the middle of the night from what we (knowledgeable adults that we are) think are nightmares. Coming to think of it, what could be a typical nightmare for a two and a half year old? Some evil uncle stealing his favorite pink crayon? The horrible cablewallahs taking POGO off the air? The battery running out in his new car?

Whatever they are, the "nightmares" seem to occur with pin-point accuracy, at a gap of 3-4 days, around 2:30 am and the reaction persists for about 10-15 seconds. Why do I know so much about it? Because I remember waking up before it occurs at every instance. Its almost as if I knew it was coming.

Yeah, I know, there are myriad explanations ... It happens every night, I only remember the ones which I have seen, I sleep through the others etc. But what is curiouser in this respect, that my wife hardly remembers any such event. Which means, I can proclaim that there is this strange psychological tie that exists between me and my kid which results in my mind anticipating his nightmare and waking me up to comfort him. Heh ! Sounds crappy to even myself.

However, this is the best I can do to show that, I have been a valuable part of my kid's life. The bugger does not of course give any such indication. He seems to consider his dad as a minor irritant at most times - The person who joins up with mom to bother him with such brainless tasks as eating, drinking water and sleeping, while all he wants to do is to determine just how much impact stress mom's watch is going to handle before it reveals its operating mechanism - The slightly weird guy who insists on talking to him in English, when he speaks to his mom in bengali - The one who tries to be cool by watching the Cartoon channels but gives himself away by watching the wrong toons!

This does not mean that I am royally ignored by my kid (at least not always). He knows which results are better achieved with dad rather than risking a stern stare from mom. The ones involving banging his tri-cycle against walls and running over dolls, watching silly men beating each other sillier @ WWF, bouncing and balancing books on top of each other to figure out complicated torsional characteristics etc. Sometimes I almost get the honored place of a junior accomplice in his wicked scheme of things. But that is usually short-lived, the spell broken by the mom entering the room with yet another meal. This usually involves a lot of running away / catching up and severe feigned illness, in which dad's role is somewhat ambiguous.

So you see, trying to justify the importance of your existence in your kid's life can be terribly "trying" at most times. And the ridiculous thing is that, you want it so desperately ! Sigh ! I am sure our parents never fell into this trap.

All you wanted to know about books ...

2006-09-13T13:12:00.000+05:30

...... and then wondered why?

The title is self-explanatory. I have been tagged by our resident gushy parent. I am sure the world looks just like Calvin & Hobbes' very last panel to him just now.

Later on he would notice that this singular feeling is caused simply by sleep deprivation. Ecstasy and cocaine are said to have the same effects, but then what would I know?

And no, I am not trying to be more cynical than I actually am. It’s only that reality has a habit of creeping up on you when you least expect. Maybe, tomorrow.

Anyways, here it is. I am sure millions would be just dying to know this.

One Book That Changed Your Life

Catch-22. Before reading this, I used to think only I find the world warped. After going through this, I realized its more warped than I thought.

The Book You Have Read More Than Once

The entire “A Song of Ice and Fire” series by George RR Martin. Albeit, encouraged by the fact that countless maniacs at the Westeros forum were doing the same. It was worth it. Firstly, I figured out a lot of things which I missed on the first read. And more importantly, it reinforced my belief that, Martin is simply the best pure fantasy writer, ever.

The Book You Would Want On A Desert Island

The complete Asterix collection, which I threaten to buy at every Crosswords sale. However, only end up buying such important and character building specimens as, ABC with Animals, Shapes and Colours, 32 vegetables/vehicles/fruits/birds etc. See how serious I am about parenting?

One Book That Made You Laugh

Practically all of Terry Pratchett. Mostly his Night Watch / Death books.

One Book That Made You Cry

Mammaries of the Welfare State. Why oh why, Mr. Chatterjee?

One Book That You Wish You Had Written

Mahabharat. All those pre-marital and post-marital affairs and kinky sex, mmmm. Some experiential learning would have also helped quite significantly.

One Book You Wish Had Never Been Written

The autobiography of Natwar Singh. I mean, who cares?

What? That has not been written till now? I am sure its on the cards.

One Book You Are Currently Reading

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Yeah, somehow never managed to till now.

One Book You Have Been Meaning To Read

The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay. The guy comes heavily recommended.

For those who are with me till now and have not died of boredom, here are the goodies ... two free sites for reading SFF stories on the net.

Baen's Free Library

Free Speculative Fiction Database

The Legend of BCFS

2006-09-05T11:00:00.000+05:30

This one is a private joke written at the request of Dipta, so please excuse.

A long, long time ago... I can still remember.
How the morning fag used to make my life.
And I knew if I didn’t have my fag.
I might as well be packed in a body-bag.
And delivered to the doctor with the knife.

But Jampot made me shudder,
With freaky cold that freezes your bladder.
Needed that fag more than ever;
Hoped Dadu’s gonna do me that favour.

So I can’t remember if I was surprised,
Or did it hurt my wounded pride
When the smoke to me was denied
The day FAGSTEAL arrived.

So bye-bye, GF Kings good-bye.
Should have shouted then,
But the damn throat was dry.
After whole night of drinkin’ whiskey and rye
The stolen smoke burning in my eye
And the smoke stealer always nearby.

Why didn’t I deliver a kick backside?
Why didn’t I strip his fucking hide?
Why did I bloody just let him go?
Oh, I do believe that it was fate.
Though none of us then would have taken the bet,
In hindsight, that’s how life’s meant to flow.

Now the whole world’s in love with him.
`Cause they are of course, oh so dim,
They love those borrowed reviews.
Why only we are so bemused?

Now we can only watch awestruck.
While Big Chief FAGSTEAL runs amuck.
Should have known we were out of luck.
The day FAGSTEAL arrived.

We started singin',
So bye-bye, GF Kings good-bye.
Should have shouted then,
But the damn throat was dry.
After whole night of drinkin’ whiskey and rye
The stolen smoke burning in my eye
And the smoke stealer always nearby.

We started singin' .... we started singin' ....

Inspired shamelessly from Weird Al Yankovic's "The Saga Begins". Lyrics here.

A damp squib

2006-08-21T12:22:00.000+05:30

Well, what else do you call an afternoon, where three old friends sit in a room and cannot find a topic for discussion apart from that one? Those strange long silences, those blank stares, those tired jokes and the forced laughter meant only one thing. The thing we all knew about but somehow were afraid to say out loud. We have nothing more to say to each other.

Maybe we know each other so well that we think any conversation is only superfluous. Or maybe our individual worlds have moved on. And moved somewhat away from each other. Find that last one hard to believe, because it was only three months back when we had that wonderful conversation on "The North-South divide in Bombay colleges" or "How Andheri / Malad boys survived three traumatic years in South Bombay colleges?". He he he, all that crap at 3 in the night with shitloads of beer sloshing around in our bodies. And at Wong's of all places. Yes, the place where you rub shoulders with assorted hookers, their pimps, customers, underworld thugs and maybe some alcoholic TV stars who are past their expiry date.

That's why its even more surprising .... the fact that we sat for close to five hours and searched each others faces for that spark in the discussion to arrive .... and it came in the form of an sms (All hail the new economy). An sms which simply says this, ........ "For meeting broadminded male / females in your area, Call Tanya now @ 982.....".

We have traveled on that conversation route before. Actually, one of us talks only about this all the time. How his entire life is ruined and how his mind resembles the script of "A Clockwork Orange" and how he cannot sleep at night without getting smashed. And all that because of two (mostly) harmless words, variety and frequency. Those gentle souls who were with me till this moment (don't you bums have any other work?) and have suddenly lost me over that last sentence .... for their benefit ... what it means is that, he is not getting enough of it and he is not getting it from enough people. That he is getting any at all is a constant source of wonder for some of his friends, but what can one say in front of that kind of conviction? The quantity and quality related trauma has obviously left him in a very bad state, where his every living thought is full of wanton women and soft beds.

The other person involved in the discussion is a weirder case, if that's possible. In his case pleasure is always laced with guilt and guilt laced with excitement. He has been drinking this strange cocktail for some time now. And its really not his fault that he attracts women who are looking for the complete opposite from the relationship. A dependable shoulder to cry upon, to begin with. So no wonder he gets himself caught into these intricate webs of false impressions, unsaid promises and unknown commitments.

With that crowd its only obvious that the said sms from the said Tanya monopolised conversation immediately. And with a sense of palpable relief too. Quite a change from staring at silent faces and hoping for conversation. And then the dam broke .....

It started with how the Tanyas of the world know who their target audience is. How did this sms reached unerringly to the person who is most likely to get swayed by the charm of meeting broadminded people in his locality? A likely hypothesis presented itself ... these are actually the people dragged under the poverty line by the insensitive edict from a sanctimonious Maharashtra Government ... the out of work bar dancers !!!! How do they get the mobile numbers? Well, they (used to) get a lot of numbers every night .... numbers written hurriedly on pieces of tissue papers .... numbers passed on through those ever helpful waiters ... numbers written on 100 buck notes (don't ask !). And quite a few remember the return calls also, "Hi, Main Raani, Itna Jaldi Bhul Gaye Mujhko, Kaal To Bahut Naach Rahe The" etc etc. So its quite possible that, the strong database is being used methodically to pick-up (pun not intended) area specific targets.

To put our hypothesis to test, the said Tanya was called back. She seemed to be thrilled to meet a juicy prospect like "Raju" and promised to come back with detailed itenary and plan of action by the next day. An entrepreneurial spirit which begs to be lauded, we thought.

It was quickly surmised, that the distribution channels span classified ads in Mid-Day and Mumbai Mirror. "Massage in your house" and "English speaking escort services" are also in the same game, maybe with the same cast of characters. Special mention was made of Gujarati "broadminded" communities with such Ekta Kapoor friendly names as Animesh and Neha. It was debated whether this was a Navratri related phenomena and decided that now the party goes on whole year (so no seasonal sales of condoms, for all those who are tracking that industry).

The quality-quantity junkie took the opportunity to crib about the online channels of the great game. Too much effort and too little to show for it, he claimed. And proved his point by recounting endless stories of perfectly witty and decent messages receiving nothing but stony silences. One wondered whether his persona had anything do with it. But one cannot help but sympathise with friends, can they?

The final nail in the coffin was that call from the HDFC Bank telecaller, "Sir, we are giving you a credit card absolutely free and a demand draft also, may I please have your address?". With the mechanically consumed rum and whiskey finally taking effect, we managed to reach an "Eureka" moment. The best thing to nip this telecalling nuisance in the bud is to ..... hit upon the chicks !!! You can try such lines for effect, "Kya Aap Credit Card Ke Saath Apna Dil Bhi Deti Hai?" or "Main To Aapka Demand Draft Le Lega, Badle Me Aapko Bhi Kuchh Lena Chahiye" etc. etc. But only fuck-up with this wonderful scheme is when you might find out that those nice telecallers are actually .... you guessed it .... the out of work bar dancers !!!!!

With that came the realisation that we have somehow reached the collective lows in our lives in terms of intellectual capacity. Good that the booze was still not over, it would have been really hard to take it otherwise.

Wassup, Mr. Moitra?

2006-08-11T15:16:00.000+05:30

Going by the first two numbers of "Lage Raho Munna Bhai" one cannot but feel sad as well as confused for Indian film music.

One of the numbers ("Pal Pal") is inspired quite clearly by Cliff Richard's (yeah, the same geriatric undying romantic who used to your mom's favourite) "Theme for a Dream".

And the other ("Lage Raho Munna Bhai") quite incredibly by the ICICI Bank ad jingle !!!! Is this just an unintentionally "inspired" goof-up or is it in-film advertising taken to its depths?

And all this is even more poignant, because its coming from someone who was expected to be the great white hope of the industry .... one Mr. Shantanu Moitra.

You might argue that the signs were visible as recently as Parineeta, whose music is heavily inspired from all the obvious sources including Tagore, pahadi folk tunes and blues.

But I personally was going more by the evidence of the ethereal "Naam Ada Likhna" from Yahaan. A composer coming up with such a beauty resorting to Cliff Richard in his next venture? The mind boggles.

Waiting for the rest of the album. One cannot give up hope.

Update : Figured out some trivia, which might just absolve the composer of the ICICI Bank jingle horror !! One Mr. Vidhu Vinod Chopra happened to direct the first ICICI Bank ad-campaign with that jingle. So is it the invisible hand? This one's worth a watch.

Trafalgar Chowk ....

2006-08-10T16:35:00.000+05:30

..... is a name of a joint in Bandra Reclamation. I guess, it wants to be known as a Resto-Bar.

Why am I bothered? Wanted desperately to write, but did not have a topic (Sigh ! That can sum up so many days for me).

Was there on Sat night. Not the first time, and going by experience definitely not the last.

And to think we were debating about the choice for so long. Going through the long list of usual suspects :

1. Toto's Garage or "The One CD wonder" (In case I hear "Hotel California" one more time, I swear I'll puke on that owner with dark glasses)

2. Club IX or "Stags are not allowed even in case we have only cleaning staff inside"

3. Boat Club or "The decrepit exterior is nothing when compared to the interior"

4. Purple Haze or "So few people come here that we have decided to make all our money from one customer ... namely YOU"

5. Out of the Blue or "We just went there yesterday"

6. Seijou and the Sole Dish or "Pay through your nose for lousy food"

7. Zenzi or "You call that decor, sonny?"

and

8. Olive or "Do you really want to get mistaken for a gay couple?"

So TC (a poor apology of its Delhi namesake) was it. The valet parking leading upto two broad halls ... musty smelling reddish-brown upholstery ... seriously tacky plastic coasters and exactly one other occupied table populated by three bored couples ........ their kids running around and shouting like maniacs.

The fun and games started soon after .... with the arrival of an elderly couple and what we assumed then as their daughter wearing a strange peacock blue dress.

The couple seemed to be planning for a lot of guests. An anniversary dinner, we assumed again. Our interest was piqued by the "daughter" running out every five seconds for a phone call. "Ahhhh, a very persistent boyfriend", we sighed. Then people actually started arriving. Two long haired ad-agency types, one girl in a black top, one more in an earth-green one, a guy with the "Kelly Dorji after 20 sleepless nights" look, one flashily dressed stock broker, a rat-faced guy who looks like he has passed out of Osmania University and another ad-agency type. Quite an odd family, we surmised. Imagine our confusion, when they started to introduce themselves to each other ! After wracking our collective brains for about 30 minutes, the penny finally dropped in its place .... its a Business Networking Mixer !!!!! Us and our over-active imagination.

Being quite intrigued by the sheer prospect of perfect strangers meeting each other and "network" their way up the corporate ladder, we decided to watch them closely. These are our findings:

1. There is at least one guy who gets a little high and tries to hit on the middle-aged executive sitting next to him. (The stock broker is the prime suspect).

2. While this happens, the others look embarrassed and pretend hard not to notice.

3. The lady switches her place soon after this, with our esteemed stock broker realising his mistake a little late and trying to make up desperately with loud non-sensical talk.

4. Another guy who wants nothing except for "friendship" has got his new "Kiran Rao" glasses made, but sadly no one's noticed.

5. At least one long-haired ad-agency type tries to impress a young nubile thing with "deep, meaningful" conversation while the lady dutifully looks on in "wide-eyed" innocence.

6. Another "young thing" who is feeling a bit ignored makes a quick trip to the loo to adjust the V-cut top just that wee bit. The strategy works like a charm on the person, for whom it is not intended.

7. The tongue-tied "Osmania University" smokes like a maniac and casts furtive glances at all the tops on display. Gets caught in the act once every ten minutes.

Overall, an enlightening experience. Not counting those heavily decked up and bored housewives continuously counting money in what I thought was a Kitty Party and which my friend insists was a husband-pimping game. The husbands in question gathering towards the far end of the table, speaking in whispers and leching at the other tables. The lovelorn boy who decided to sing "Annie's Song" for his girlfriend and forgot the second line. The curly-haired owner who joins the guitarist for the Eagles numbers and the smashing girl in that black number.

As I said, its definitely not the last time.

Why am I hooked to Speculative Fiction?

2006-08-01T17:58:00.000+05:30

The post makes the assumption that you know what speculative fiction means. If not, then don't go to running to wikipedia. Let me make the attempt ...

As I see it, quite simply, speculative fiction deals with "speculative things" which cannot be explained by our everyday science (or at least the current version of it). Yes, I have heard of Arthur C. Clarke and his "Any sufficiently advanced technology is almost indistinguishable from magic" refrain. But that still does not make speculative fiction any less "speculative". This is indeed a broad definition, spanning science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, horror and maybe even the magic realism of Rushdie and Marquez.

By their very nature, all speculative fiction asks the question, what if? This is not to say that, all stories of this nature deals only with this fundamental question. Rather this question provides the actual backdrop for the story elements to interact with each other. "Lord of the Rings" may actually be a mere moral fable on the hazards of absolute power and the strength in humility, but can you actually imagine the story without its backdrop of magic and magical creatures?

So in essence, the “what if” element of speculation creates an atmosphere for the real story to be enacted without any bondage of the rules of reality or science. This effectively frees the author to give her imagination a free rein in creating her own version of reality. On the other hand, it also makes her responsible for creating a believable world which would allow the readers to willingly suspend their disbelief for some time.

The above rather pointless discourse does not get to the point of the post. Which is, why am I so hooked to it?

Its a phenomenon which began in my school days, when I used to devour anything with vague science fiction content. Yes, I managed to read all those horribly translated Russian SF also, the ones which always surprised me with their latent sexual tension. To the utter horror of my schoolmates, my favorite Indrajal Comics character used to be the red leotard clad Flash Jordan, as compared to the more “with it” Phantom or the “ethnic” Bahadur.

Horror came from the rather comic stories of Leela Majumder and Premendra Mitra and of course some chilling short stories of Satyajit Ray. Somehow, I never took too much to it. I mean, staying awake through the night after reading a rather scary one still happened, but those instances were few and far between.

Fantasy is something I discovered only in college life. You may argue that the Ramayan / Mahabharat / Thakumar Jhuli which I read in the ages between 5 and 10 are actually fantasy, but they never sounded right, maybe because they stretched the imagination too far. The real “Sword and Sorcery” stuff were consumed during various Vector Algebra classes. It looked rather childish at that time. It still does. But that hasn’t stopped me from becoming a junkie.

Rather than pontificating on my literary travails let me now try to summarise why I think I am hooked.

1. Escapism - The sense of the extraordinary rather than the mundane with less side-effects than grass or hash.

2. Wonder - The sheer genius of imagination. Hyperion, anyone?

3. (Ahem!) The Story - The characters helping the reader to make sense of an alien landscape, which is otherwise incomprehensible.

4. Fatalism - The whole shit of prophecies and all. Does anybody do anything without an deep underlying purpose in these stories?

5. Naivete - Only a kid can believe some of the situations presented to the reader. Then again kids are always smarter than their parents.

Hmmm .... in trying to analyse my addiction it seems I have done a character analysis of myself. Now, if only it was true and not "speculative" !!!

Can Superman really do it?

2006-07-05T15:58:00.000+05:30

Saw "Superman Returns" on Sunday and it sure sucked big-time. Can't believe its the same director who gave us "The Usual Suspects", "X-Men" and "X-2". The movie is too cheesy for words and fails to connect with fans and non-fans alike. It especially falls flat in its attempt to explore the underlying human-ness of Superman, who is supposed to be an alien in the first place. Go figure !!

Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor hardly brings any menace to his role, strangely sounding more like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers, than the tech-savvy criminal super-genius we all are aware of.

**** Spoiler Alert ****

The greatest suspense in the movie is that Lois Lane has Supe's kid. Ho-hum etc. etc.

Here's a hilarious take on the physical impossibility of such a situation by the great Larry Niven, the author of the Hugo / Nebula winner Ringworld series (which IMHO employed pretty poor physics themselves).

And these are some excerpts to whet your appetite ...

__________________________________

Assume a mating between Superman and a human woman designated LL for convenience.

Either Superman has gone completely schizo and believes himself to be Clark Kent; or he knows what he's doing, but no longer gives a damn. Thirty-one years is a long time. For Superman it has been even longer. He has X-ray vision; he knows just what he's missing. (One should not think of Superman as a Peeping Tom. A biological ability must be used. As a child Superman may never have known that things had surfaces, until he learned to suppress his X-ray vision. If millions of people tend shamelessly to wear clothing with no lead in the weave, that is hardly Superman's fault.)

The problem is this. Electroencephalograms taken of men and women during sexual intercourse show that orgasm resembles "a kind of pleasurable epileptic attack." One loses control over one's muscles.

Superman has been known to leave his fingerprints in steel and in hardened concrete, accidentally. What would he do to the woman in his arms during what amounts to an epileptic fit?
__________________________________
Consider the driving urge between a man and a woman, the monomaniacal urge to achieve greater and greater penetration. Remember also that we are dealing with kryptonian muscles.

Superman would literally crush LL's body in his arms, while simultaneously ripping her open from crotch to sternum, gutting her like a trout.

__________________________________
Lastly, he'd blow off the top of her head.

Ejaculation of semen is entirely involuntary in the human male, and in all other forms of terrestrial life. It would be unreasonable to assume otherwise for a kryptonian. But with kryptonian muscles behind it, Kal-El's semen would emerge with the muzzle velocity of a machine gun bullet. (One can imagine that the Kent home in Smallville was riddled with holes during Superboy's puberty. And why did Lana Lang never notice that?)

In view of the foregoing, normal sex is impossible between LL and Superman.

Artificial insemination may give us better results.
__________________________________

A ripened but unfertilized egg leaves LL's ovary, begins its voyage down her Fallopian tube.

Some time later, tens of millions of sperm, released from a test tube, begin their own voyage up LL's Fallopian tube.

The magic moment approaches...

Can human breed with kryptonian? Do we even use the same genetic code? On the face of it, LL could more easily breed with an ear of corn than with Kal-El. But coincidence does happen. If the genes match...

One sperm arrives before the others. It penetrates the egg, forms a lump on it's surface, the cell wall now thickens to prevent other sperm From entering. Within the now-fertilized egg, changes take place...

And ten million kryptonian sperm arrive slightly late.

Were they human sperm, they would be out of luck. But these tiny blind things are more powerful than a locomotive. A thickened cell wall won't stop them. They will *all* enter the egg, obliterating it entirely in an orgy of microscopic gang rape. So much for artificial insemination.

But LL's problems are just beginning .....

__________________________________

And so I guess, would Bryan Singer's unless he redeems himself with a great sequel, as all fansites continue to scream.

Shopping takes you to hell !!!

2006-06-30T15:28:00.000+05:30

This is a post inspired by the great J.A.P himself, or rather his reply to my comment on his post.

So here goes ....................

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is definitely a post-marriage insight.

Till about one year before my marriage, I use to treat shopping like men usually do. Just another chore to be performed akin to washing your undies and shaving on the weekdays.

And the underlying algorithm for it used to go something like this ....

1. Your jeans are falling apart and your boss does not think of it as a fashion statement ... you go to Shopper's Stop.

2. Your tummy rumbles after waking up in the morning ... you go and buy breads (in case you are feeling particularly perky, check for molds and all) and jam.

3. The sole of your right shoe came off while running after the 8:08 local .... time to go to Bata.

4. Your fellow passengers are wrinkling their noses ... time to purchase that bottle of Axe.

etc. etc. .... you get the point.

In case, you would have told me shopping is actually 15% expedition into the unknown, 30% exploration into your sub-conscious, 25% decision tree analysis involving Black-Scholes model and 30% orgasmic bliss, I would have thought you are Zaphod Beeblebrox, himself.

But then again, I had not met my wife. There's still this remote possibility that she is actually Zaphod masquerading as a sex-symbol, but lets not venture there, shall we?

After marriage, I was first curious as to why perfectly grown up women (without any traumatised childhood, as far as I know) behave like such raving lunatics when confronted with a shop.

Then interested ... then flabbergasted .... then scared ... and then trapped.

In case you have still not understood what the hell I am talking about, you must be in one of those Engineering students fantasizing over your Director's 50 year old secy. I am so glad for you, as you are safe for some more years, till your parents finally decide that those persistent yellow stains on the bed-sheet are actually quite inconvenient and find you your soulmate. For your convenience, let me outline the situations with some examples (Timoshenko & Young, capisce?).

Have you noticed the glazed look on the faces of someone when she is making a final choice from about 235 assorted items scattered in front of her? Regular junkies, man ... worse than heroin addicts.

Have you ever witnessed the amusing spectacle of someone walking out of the shop in a huff, after rummaging through half the shop's contents, because the design she liked is available in the colour which does not suit her mood at that particular moment? And the shopkeeper muttering under his breath, "I would break a coconut, in case she actually purchases something."

What about not buying a wallet for a 5/- price difference and then going to the next shop and purchasing a perfume worth 5000/-. And replying to some protests from partner with the philosphical "In case you would understand that, you would have been me, no?"

And what about that thing of asking their partner "Well, what do you think?" when the one you will point out to would definitely not be purchased. Or rather, asking even more poignantly as well as pointedly, "But you like this other one, don't you?" as if she would buy it just for that reason.

And its not easy to escape the dilemma just by saying "You do whatever you want, O Goddess. Why take advice from such low-lifes as me?" because then you will surely hear this absoute stunner, "What is the point of you coming along, in case you are not going to choose anything?". Huh? .... As if I had a choice to begin with.

And what about .... ahhhh forget it ... there she comes with that expression on her face ... the one that means we are going shop-hopping again tonight. There goes my Argentina-Germany match.

The Cup of Life

2006-06-06T15:17:00.000+05:30

The world turns ... and days pass ... and your hair turn grey .... and your life slowly withers.

But sometimes you can just about throw off that cloak of indifference and rekindle the dying embers for that final dazzle.

This normally happens every four years, about this time of the year.

In 1982, there was no TV in our house. So that famous troika of Zico-Socrates-Falcao was not seen. Only read about in the pages of Anandabazar Patrika and Aajkal. Only spoken about in hushed tones with the reverence which bangalis reserve for Brazil. Paolo Rossi was clearly the devil incarnate. Three goals against Brazil in the match they needed only to draw? Maradona's name was mentioned once or twice, but he was remembered more for the red card against Brazil than any sustained brilliance. Brazil's loss even overshadowed one of the greatest matches in WC history, the epic SF between France and W Germany. Yes, the match in which the German goalie thought he was Mohammed Ali. Some tears were shed on the exit of the Platini-Tigana-Giresse trio but a WC final without Brazil? Who cares whether Rossi scored his sixth goal in his third match or Dino Joff held the trophy that was destined for Socrates' nicotine stained fingers? My WC was over long before the one Mr. Altobeli scored the third goal for Italy in the final.

1986 came with disturbing news about ageing Team Brazil's downward trend and Zico's injury. And finally some understanding that the men in Green and Gold cannot win every match only because I wish it fervently. Mexico would always be a riot of colours (blame it on the newly acquired color TV) .... the Mexican Wave .... that man Altobeli scoring the first goal and ensconcing himself forever in those WC Footbal trivia quizzes .... the free-flowing Denmark and Morten Olsen destroying Uruguay 6-1 ... The gladiators of Spain in their dark Red costume turning the tables on Denmark .... Belgium and USSR locked in battle .... Igor Belanov scoring a hattrick only to see his team out of the cup ... Careca drawing the loudest cheer out of our throats, only for Platini to stifle it in second half ... Zico, barely 5 minutes into the game blasting his penalty kick over the bar and with it Brazil's passport to the semis .... Maradona's Hand of God and his goal of the century .... and just for emphasis two more equally brilliant ones against Belgium .... Linekar's six of the best ..... Rummenigge and Voeller almost stealing it in the dying minutes .... Burruchaga's solo run after the defense splitting pass .... Was Valdano offside while scoring the second goal? .... The Kaiser's forlorn look on the benches. But no Brazil, O Discordia.

The summer of 1990 was one of the hottest in Cal history. The Cup in Italy only addded to the woes. Yellow cards here ... red cards there ..... fouls everywhere. Francois Omam Biyik heading home the mother of all upsets .... Maradona, looking like a ghost reprising his favourite role .... getting chopped down every 3 minutes .... but still managing that fateful pass to Caniggia which sealed Brazil's fate .... Roger Milla and his crazy dribble around that first rate idiot Rene Higuita. The battle between the "Maradona of the Andes" and the "Maradona of the Carthapians" .... Rijkard's spit in Voeller's hair ... Gullit's flop show ... Linekar pumping in another 4 .... Gazza running out of fuel and patience. Toto Scillaci coming out of nowhere and fading out equally well.... Little Buddha's magic goal ..... Maldini's fatal error .... Goykocheah's purple patch. Lothar Matthaeus and his marathons. The most boring final in history. The whole world willing Brehme to score and close the chapter.

In 1994, I was in Hardwar when it all started. Still remember the effort of trying the glean all possible information from 3-day old Times of Indias. And cajoling the seniors at the GET hostel to switch on the TV at an unearthly hour of 4 am. Maradona's comeback to the world stage with 4 goals past hapless Greece ... his equally swift exit with cocaine traces. Bulgaria's Stoichkov and Netherland's Bergkamp. USA's Meola and Lalas. Oleg Salenko scoring 5 goals in one match only to see his team get booted out. Ultra-defensive Brazil disappointing in the group stages .... Dunga and Rai's "falling leaf" free kicks which go nowhere near the goal .... Romario-Bebeto cutting a swathe through opposition in the knock-outs. Letchkov's bald head burying the defending champions. Baggio rising from the grave to single-handedly carry Italy to the finals .... Brazil barely getting past spirited Sweden. A final to compete with the 1990 one. Italy lose in the shoot-out but who wins? This is not the Brazil we know.

1998 was spent in Jamshedpur amidst a sea of fellow football enthusiasts. Brazil's unimpressive stutter against Scotland was overshadowed comfortably by the soaring Super Eagles beating Hiero's Spain in a thriller .... The deadly Chilean duo of Salas and Zamorano .... Croatia's predatory Suker and silken Prosinecki .... England losing the plot against Romania ... and losing the shoot-out against Argentina ... Danes scaring Brazil badly .... Bergkamp's magical one-touch against Argentina ... France Italy slugfest resulting in Di Baggio's vital penalty kick hitting the crossbar .... Croatia showing German's their place with an unprecedented 3-0 scoreline ... Brazil and Netherlands meeting for that climactic showdown .... Kluivert's last gasp goal proving futile .... the battle between gold and blue and loads of coloured faces .... Ronaldo's mystery concussion .... Zizou's head and feet sealing Brazil's fate .... Denilson's meaningless dribbling at the edge of the box. Petit striking the final blow .... another four year wait for Cafu.

More gems : bad movie reviews

2005-12-28T15:37:00.000+05:30

I am literally floored by the quality of the reviews.

Sadly the same thing cannot be said about the movies :))

The Clan of Cave Bear (1986)

Sphere

The Island of Dr. Moreau (1996)

And I also came across a quaint little hypothesis -

"That any given movie will most likely hurt bad when it tells us it was based on, inspired by, or ‘faithfully’ adapted from a story by : Edgar Alan Poe, Brahm Stoker, H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, or (most recently) Michael Crichton."

Considering the fact that Stephen King continues to remain my absolute favourite author, I find this hard to digest. But then again .......... maybe the reviewer does have a point.

King Kong Lives !!!

2005-12-28T13:24:00.000+05:30

Came across this amazing review of one of the worst ape movies ever made. Hilarious stuff ! Now, what was Linda Hamilton (yes, the stone-faced mother of John Connor from the Terminator series) doing in the middle of all this "wholesome" entertainment is anybody's guess.

Cannot help but share this with Samit, the great (who, let me admit, in spite of being a fan, I don't know from Adam). Specially in view of his this post.

Trying to unearth some other gems from this site.

The cricket memories have to wait, I guess.

22 yards in 21 inches - Part I

2005-11-19T10:59:00.000+05:30

Does everyone remember the first cricket match they saw on TV? I certainly do. It was a winter morning in New Delhi, when Ravi Shastri, a relatively obscure left arm spinner plucked out of the Mumbai Ranji team (some say, not without justification, only because SMG wanted him) came out as a nightwatchman against Willis and Botham and scored 93. The year was 1981 and and I was hooked.

In those pre-historic days without cable tv, there was just good ol' DD to introduce you to the collective charms of Dr. Narottam Puri, Kishor Bhimani, Ravi Chaturvedi, Akash Lal and Anupam Gulati. The language was archaic, the coverage sometimes bordering on ludicrous, with the camera focussing on the wicketkeeper rather than the fielder chasing the ball and the breaks were not commercial but the rather more conventional off-break and leg-break. But just maybe, the cricket was much closer to the heart.

So rather than defending those romantic notions about black and white televisions, white flannel and batting without helmets (and generally sounding old and utterly boring) what I will try and do is to piece together some arresting visuals I remember from those days. It is not in any order of significance, its just what I remember.

1981-82
A struggle between two ultra-defensive captains as to who will bore the crowds more. India winning the Mumbai test quite unexpectedly. SMG scoring a rather painstaking 172 in the second test at Bangalore. Arrival of the original dashing opener, KM Srikkanth. Ravi Shastri playing that gutsy innings in only his second series. GR Viswanath (222) and Yashpal Sharma (140) sharing a quite sublime partnership in Chennai in what turned out to be GRV's swansong.

In those golden (hmph !!!) days of test cricket a draw was the most likely outcome for any match. I remember people getting mildly surprised when a test actually produced a result. Let alone a result, it was difficult to complete an innings each in lots of cases. And obviously the preparation of those flat bat beauties had a lot to do with our great captain being mortally afraid of losing a series. One really felt for Kapil, bowling his heart out in those conditions. And those lovely late outswingers ... how come no other Indian bowler has come even close to reproducing those gems. And how come people like Mukul Kesavan are bemoaning the current sad state of test cricket. Has he forgotten this series?

1983
What else but the world cup ! The crowd invasion after every match ... Kirti Azad turning out to be the killer bowler against England .... Sandeep Patil and Kapil holding their nerves in that tense semi-final ... Srikkanth cutting, driving and pulling Holding, Roberts, Marshall and Garner with such mighty disdain in the final and still scoring only 38 in what will ironically be the highest score of the match.

Balwinder Sandhu bowling the delivery of his life ... the banana swinger which Greenidge shouldered arms to ... Richards cracking 7 boundaries in his 33 ...... Kapil running back 20 yards to catch him off his right shoulder .... Amarnath bowling Dujon with his dollies .... Kapil lifting that cup ... Chika smoking in the Lord's balcony.

So how did this bunch of no-hopers run away with greatest prize of them all? How come, Kapil never ever reached that pinnacle of his batting prowess again ... the cliff he so effortlessly climbed in that famous morning at Turnbridge Wells. And how did so many people get out to the collective wiles of Roger Binny, Madan Lal and Mohinder Amarnath? Well some mysteries will always remain unsolved.

1983-84
The season when the team came down to earth with a thud. The friendly series against Pakistan in which the teams played out two well-mannered draws obviously did not prepare the Indian team for what was to come. The abiding memory of the Ind-WI series will be SMG losing his bat against Marshall in the Kanpur Test. It really set the tone for the series which had so many other moments to cherish .... WI 157/5 at Kanpur recovering to 454 through their unlikely batting heroes Dujon and marshall ... SMG equalling the Don with that blitzkrieg in New Delhi ... Mahinder Amarnath putting up an international telephone number (001000) with his scores .... Kapil with his unbelievable bowling at Ahmedabad .... SMG leg glancing Wayne Daniels to go past Boycott and the highest test score ... India still managing to lose the test within four days ..... Desmond Haynes out handled the ball in Mumbai ... SMG out first ball at Calcutta ... someone shouting "Guest Artist" from the Clubhouse stands ... WI again recovering from 213/8 to 377 courtesy the man they used to call Supercat .... Holding bowling 5 unplayable balls to Vengsarkar in one over and then clean bowling him with his 6th ... Andy Roberts 200th test wicket is SMH Kirmani's middle stump flying towards Dujon .... SMG coming at No.4 in Chennai to avoid Marshall ... that idea backfiring with India sliding to 0 for 2 .... the birth of "strokeless wonder" NS Sidhu .... if only people knew how he his going to make up for those missing strokes with his motoring mouth later on .... the double century to erase Bradman and Vinoo Mankad from the record books.

What struck me the most in this series was the wide gulf between the teams. I mean the sustained hostility those four horsemen of apocalypse could generate every single day of that series and which none in the other team could match. And the way they blew apart the much vaunted Indian line up .... after all M/s Gavaskar, Gaekwad, Vengsarkar, Amarnath, Shastri, Kapil Dev wasn't so bad on paper, was it? It has to be the familiar argument of "lack of spine against genuine pace", then. And that favourite remedy being offered " let's make bowler friendly fast wickets in India to train our batsmen for the challenges". Pray how will we win the home series' then?

[To be continued]

Homecoming

2005-11-10T16:17:00.000+05:30

It took me a lot of time to just write the first sentence.

Why is it always the hardest part? Why can't the first thought flow like a river, like you can bet it flows for Terry Pratchett and Stephen King? Is it because our thoughts are way too jumbled and we can't separate the signal from background noise?

Fun to think about your mind resembling this vast black sightscreen (like the ones used for day/night cricket matches) and thoughts like millions of random light bulbs going on and off. Its hard to focus on one thought and its difficult to hold on to that one bright spark which you need to write that one brilliant line.

The Marine Drive breeze carried the scent of home. Not the physical one, which now houses my ageing parents. Not that one which still has one cupboard full of my old clothes and books. Not the one where the air is still damp with expectations of their son returning one day and reclaiming his place in the household. No, not that one at all.

It wanted to take me to the place where I seldom go. The one in which I can run to school without being out of breath. Where the grass is always greener on my side and not the other. The place which still holds all the smells of my childhood. The place where I can be the greatest left arm bowler India has ever produced for one lazy afternoon. The one in which she is still thirteen.

Well, the breeze had to try real hard for my attention. The blaring horns and the traffic snarls were not helping its case much. It must have caught me at an unguarded moment because I rarely let down the guard now-a-days. Oh no, letting down the guard was not a good idea at all. After all, who wants to show all those bruises to the world? All that hurt and desperation and rage will not make a pretty sight either.

Going home ! That's all I could think of after the initial wave of euphoria.

For me, home will always be that purple coloured cupboard which used to house my dad's drawings. More precisely, those three strips of markings with yellow crayon in front of it which only I could equate with cricket stumps. Or was it that half-broken badminton racquet which used to double up for tennis? Or that red diary in which my biggest secrets were kept. The one which had her writing in big letters "I will never marry you, even if you are dying, because you are a liar." Are those things still there in that house, lying somewhere, waiting for me?

The breeze was definitely waiting to take me home. And this time I was ready. Was the lamppost ready when my Ikon crashed into it at 60 mph? Even in case it was, it sure did a great impersonation of acting surprised.

Dream on

2005-11-08T19:07:00.000+05:30

Sometimes the urge to chuck it all and run away becomes so overpowering. Getting rid of all the trappings of the materiallistic world and chasing your dream. People talking about you in hushed tones with barely concealed admiration. Your views on any topic under the sun being taken as gospel. Your guts being being compared to Rocky Balboa’s.

Wish I had the guts. Wish people will just stop saying "What the hell are you doing with your life?". Wish I knew what else am I supposed to do. Wish I could stop my thoughts from withering away. Wish I could remember my dreams once I woke up.

While the Great Indian Middle Class around you is fullfilling its Great Indian Dream in this Great Indian Century, it’s a little dumb to admit that you don’t have a dream. Dreams which can be taken seriously, that is. Like, do you expect people to pay for reading what you are reading? Or better, giving you a job of watching nondescript cricket matches between West Indies and Zimbabwe and commenting on the tactical fallacy of using Correy Colleymore as a strike bowler?

Am I getting confused between dreams and business models? Well, blame it on the dot com bust. Those were the times when putting up scanned photos of various idols on your website and expecting NRIs to do e-darshan constituted a great business plan.

Sigh ! Fat chance people will throw money by the bucketfulls at such brilliant ideas anymore.

Where does all this leave me? Why, exactly where you found me, sitting on the desk, trying the pretend that I have a dream after all.

A dream that someone will actually understand this drivel and offer me a joint.

Close encounters of the different kind

2005-07-09T12:01:00.000+05:30

"I find Tweetie positively repulsive", she said. " Give me Wolverine any day."

For once I was stuck for words. Like here I am, brought up on the understanding that all girls like Tweetie, soft toys, Enid Blyton, Mills and Boon and chocolates. And here she was, turning all that on its head.

Blame it on my bong middle class background. Somehow, I was always under the impression that the things I absolutely adore (like, for example WWF), are what makes all nice girls (well most of them ... with whom you want to go around with, anyways) shriek in disgust.

So was I dreaming when she explained the anomalies in the batting average of Jacques Kallis against Australia? I mean, I did not even imagine that anybody else in this world apart from me (well .... maybe Stephen @ cricinfo) knew about it. Just the presence of all those people at On Toes (yeah ! some people still go there) stopped me from screaming out in sheer joy.

The dark interiors of the pub only heightened the sense of surrealism. What started as a nice retro trip in the lines of "lets have some beer and listen to good music, what?" was fast degenerating into a tequila ("I can do them without the lemon, so watch me baby !!") showdown. The kind of showdown, in which people stop bothering about who was winning pretty soon.

And then there was Mr. Red Shirt who kept giving us dirty looks from the next table. Well, can't really blame Mr. RS. Our resident sex maniac B was practically staring down RS' girlfriend's cleavage. The poor girl had been trying hard to escape attention by squeezing herself between the table and the wall column, while B continuously positioned himself for a better view. I thought of quietly telling S about it. Decided against it when I saw him trying to hit the waiter with the lemon wedge.

So I can't be blamed for wondering whether I had just dreamt up that conversation about subtle differences between Marvel and DC universes. And with a girl you have just met. A girl in whose eyes you could drown. A girl who knows who Jean Paul Valley is for god's sake.

Tearing my eyes off the dynamic duo RS and B was proving a great challenge, though. B was dancing dangerously close to the next table by now. "Summer of 69" was never meant to be dance number and all that air-guitaring close to his girl was making RS distinctly jittery. S had thankfully stopped playing cricket. However, considering the fact that his head was buried in T's perfumed coiffure, one could not realistically expect support from that quarter.

At the end, the choice between preventing B's imminent bash-up and discussing the psychological underpinnings of Triple H was a no contest. Specially after she declared that she needs some fresh air and we should step outside for continuing the conversation.

The Juhu breeze, shared Gold Flake Kings, Norse mythology, Green Lantern and Area-51 somehow landed us in her place. Not trying to say that other, more elemental thoughts involving naked entwined limbs did not cross my mind at any point. Well, what other thoughts could you get while discussing (rather objectively...with references and all) whether Magneto managed to make it with Rogue. However, all those thoughts were firmly clamped down as I refused to fall prey to the beast called instant gratification. On second thoughts ... well, first things first.

Her pad was somewhere in Santacruz. Could not really make out the area due to tequila induced haze, but managed to stumble in after her nevertheless. All the while trying hard to remember whether I was carrying any rubber in my purse. Memory, normally so efficient, can be such a bitch sometimes, under the influence of certain Mexican cactus extracts.

Crossed the living room on the way to what I hoped was the bedroom. But was soon stopped in my tracks by the vision of another girl wearing a shirt coming out of the loo. Yes, I have seen girls wearing shirts before, but normally they wear something below it also. Now, I should admit here that the person in question may have been wearing something underneath that shirt but I could not just ask her that, could I? Not when she screamed after seeing me tottering in. I managed somehow to duck back to the living room, while my companion tried calming her roommate down. She was pretty efficient by the sounds of it. Though, must admit I was moderately intrigued by statements such as "Its not what you think, really", "He likes comics, too", "You know how On Toes is, you can lose your mind there" etc.

I was a little (well .... as compared to a lot) disoriented when she finally came back to the living room and the alcohol in the system wasn't helping much, either. So imagine my shock, when she produced a Smirnoff bottle and said "vodka is really nice after tequila, wanna try?" I mean its not as if I could say no to that offer, right? So ended up getting rightfully sloshed, while trying to keep track of the Age of Apocalypse and other assorted timelines. She was also sounding quite happy and was finally showing signs of drunkenness. "Thank God", I thought, "she is human after all".

Even then, she caught me off-guard with her casual comment "You have never liked Storm, have you?". I protested mightily, declaring my undying love for Ororo Munroe, her flowing hair and outlandish outfits. To that she said something really unexpected, "I always thought my eyes were like hers."

I desperately bit back my smart comments about how Storm's eyes changed colour when she was using her powers and just continued looking at her. I mean I might have read all Justice League comics cover to cover, but I sure knew when to keep quiet.

And then she smiled. Ohh ! I could have given up my entire RD Burman collection for that one smile.

As things turned out, I didn't need to.

Chronicle of a hangover foretold !!!

2005-04-07T16:49:00.000+05:30

Open my eyes and wish I had not. The drumming in the brain (on the beats of "Saaiyan Dil Me Aana Re" if you please) reaches a crescendo. The back of your mouth feels like an arid desert. Just keeping your eyelids open seems to be an olympian effort.

I drag my limp body to the sink and stare at the wreck in the mirror. Takes a while to clear the haze with cold water and soap suds. Try desperately not to think about the previous night. The taste of lead in the mouth refuses to yield to toothpaste. Just how many times can a guy promise to himself not to drink like an ass again?

Hangover. The dreaded word. The single most important reason for my absent days in office. The secret tormentor of my mental and physical well-being. The classic tale of the dreadful "morning after" being able to erase all memories of the beautiful "night".

For some people, the "hangovers" overwhelm the "highs" by about 50:1. Hell, I don't know about others, mine certainly does. How do I get these Godzilla size hangovers? Previous explanations from my "concerned" friends have covered the whole gamut of "You and your bloody bong genes", "Who asked you to drink so fast, you asshole?", "Did you even THINK of having some water?", "For fuck's sake, DON'T mix your drinks", "What else will you get after drinking so much, a bloody sandwich massage by horny Chinese chicks?" etc. etc.

For the life of me, I have still not understood what exactly happens to me after the high wears off. How does my head feels like its going to explode any moment. How my tummy behaves as if Russian acrobats are performing some deadly summersaults there.

Actually, believe it or not, my hangover actually starts while I am drinking. And no, it has got nothing to do with general drunkenness. By virtue of long practice I have managed distinguish exactly between "high" effects and "hangover" effects!. "Hangover" effects normally start with a mildly throbbing headache, progresses through steady dehydration by regular visits to the loo and end up as a "who parked that motorcycle with the engine on inside my head" apocalypse.

And all I will say to those purveyors of sure-fire hangover cures, CUT THE CRAP.

Having tried all possible homely remedies starting from the regular ........
a) Strong black coffee (a sure shot way to acidity and general increased consumption of Gelusil)
b) Bath with ice cold water (a cold in case you are lucky, and a fever in case you are not)
c) Wrap your head in a wet towel (Cold + sinus / tonsils)

to the mildly incredible ............
a) Big breakfast (will definitely make you puke, in case you have not already)
b) Bread (to soak the alcohol in the stomache , he he he ..... will make you skip breakfast and lunch)
c) Cold Milk (supposed to be a cure for acidity ... actually makes it worse)

and to the totally crazy ones ....
a) Drink some more (will surely get you to the hospital)
b) Sleep it off with some pills (a candidate for stomache pumping)
c) Go watch a horror flick to keep your mind off it (you might be arrested for puking on the lady next to you)

.... I can say only this, none of them even comes close to working !!! The only way to cure a hangover is to survive it somehow and hope your liver lives to tell the tale. And then there's always the next weekend.

Use your illusion, too

2005-01-20T17:31:00.000+05:30

Life goes on around you in an unfocussed blur. The sands of time passing through the hourglass. Maybe you’re the sand, maybe you’re the hand which turns the hourglass upside down when the sand runs off.

Today is gonna be the day
That they're gonna throw it back to you
By now you should've somehow
Realized what you gotta do

All these pop-philosophy still does not explain why I woke up today with grandfather’s song in my head along with the light hangover…. I can visualize the scene even now … After at least 20 years … The chirruping birds in the Calcutta fog … The steaming cup of milk in front me which I was supposed to consume because its good for my vision (!!!) … And my grandpa reading the Geeta in its original in his sing-a-long voice…. "Yada Yada hi dharmasya … " etc ..... Funny, when you try to remember Geeta, that’s the only line, which you seem to remember ..... Blame it on Amar Chitra Katha … They started glamorizing Indian mythology much before Ramanand Sagar and BR Chopra ever put their minds to it.

And all the roads we have to walk along are winding
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding
There are many things that I would
Like to say to you … I don't know how

Are we as Indians going back to our roots … Vishwa Hindu Parishad would certainly make you believe so … So would the promoters of Aastha and Samskar channels…. While the other channels can continue to talk ad nauseam about the brothers Ambani and webcams fitted in tubelights, M/s Asaram and Morari Bapu is hell bent on providing some spinach soup for the soul (we are vegetarians, remember!) … Certainly looks inexplicable … Why are perfect yuppie-types so glued onto Satsangs and Vaastu … Why does your next cubicle neighbour go to tarot card readers every Saturday…. Why are people so genuinely moved when they read the words "you have a golden heart but people do not understand you" in their astrological predictions for the day ….. Is all this a part of the overall root-searching story? … Do we Indians have roots which are seeped into our primordial fears … Is the great Indian sub-conscious really so atavistic in nature?

Because maybe
You're gonna be the one who saves me?
And after all
You're my wonderwall

What are we Indians? A genetic soup of Aryans, Mongloid and Australasians? … Explains a bit of our continuous confusion as to where to go … Do we embrace materialism in all its glory … Go crazy buying I-pods, nokia 6660s and plasma television .... Or go the other way ……. Chuck the cushy jobs to open NGOs taking care of Mumbai’s street-children, Goa’s pedophilia victims and the like ….. Are we comfortable doing anything at all …… Or do we need to be continually comforted that we are doing the right thing and that we are happy about doing the right thing and that we are making others happy by being happy about doing the right thing …. So much angst and so little time, oh what are we gonna do ….

Today was gonna be the day
But they'll never throw it back to you
By now you should've somehow
Realized what you're not to do
I don't believe that anybody
Feels the way I do
About you now

And all the roads that lead to you were winding
And all the lights that light the way are blinding
There are many things that I would like to say to you
I don't know how

Vaguely remember Geeta saying something about you not being responsible for your own actions … That somehow, the cosmic cycle of Karma is going to determine what becomes of your deeds and you have nothing to do with it … That you are this mindless automation who does things for the joy of doing … Does that explain why I got that song in my head in the morning … Like I was somehow trying to convince myself that I have got nothing to do with the hangover I am suffering from…. Its all a result of some big cosmic joke ….. Well, maybe …

I said maybe
You're gonna be the one who saves me?
And after all
You're my wonderwall

Are you the sand …. Are you the dancer dancing on the sand during a sand storm … or are you the hand … the hand which turns the great cosmic wheel of Karma … is it our destiny to be confused about our destiny …. Or is it our mind playing tricks with itself ….

Said maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
You're gonna be the one that saves me
You're gonna be the one that saves me

Losing your illusion

2005-01-20T16:02:00.000+05:30

Don't remember when it struck me for the first time. Maybe it was late October, maybe early November. Who gives a damn, anyway? That is when I first realised that my life is almost over. Yeah, I know the way it sounds. What I meant was that, each day I am preparing to die, I am just one more day closer to death. Shit, this is also not what I actually wanted to say. But it reinforces my point, I have lost the ability to describe my feelings, too.

There is nothing to look forward to any more. Maybe, its just me. I have spent my life so far, in a fond and utterly irrational hope ..... that the great thing which is going to elevate my life above the level of mundane, is waiting at the next corner. Its really quite an experience when you find out that your life is a straight line, without any corners ... you are just an ordinary guy leading an ordinary life. And tomorrow sucks.

So what ... did I hear? There are around 6 billion ordinary people in the world leading perfectly ordinary lives. I know, but the difference is, my friends, none of them are ME. Self-pitying bullshit? I might agree. But can't help feeling sorry for those pointless days, weeks, months, years leading up to this. Where time seems to move around you in fast forward ...where one day is just like the other .... where you think about yourself in third person .... where there is no Oz somewhere over the rainbow. Some day at XL I wrote these lines, "Life is passing you by ... you can smell the rot in your bones" ... and felt great. What self-importance! What moving poignancy!! When it actually comes down to rotting of your bones, you become immune to the smell. Maybe again that's just me.

Is that all there is left to life ... watching newer and more mindless movies, watching pointless cricket matches and booze ... there is always booze and the ability to act the fool. And fool people by false impressions of hidden depths in your conversation. Sound knowledgeable .... that’s what I have always been good at. The only thing you guys don't know is that how hollow it sounds even to myself. I mean who is this person leading my apology of a life, who is this guy sounding so learned about "how alcohol is absorbed in your bloodstream", who is this guy who just drank that bottle of beer with such obvious relish, just who the hell is he? Can't you guys make out that he's just a fake trying to act like one guy who he used to know. A guy who used to actually take interest in things and without any reason. How can the guy get away with such blatant superficiality. But then again you don't know that other person, right?

Am I going to spend the rest of my life (heck it does not even sound like much of a life anymore) just pretending to be someone else, acting myemotions, doing my duty for my family, friends and society.Going to office by 8:29 local, coming back by 8:08 leaving everything else to auto-pilot? Someone just tell me where the hell is ME in that, what has happened to what is supposed to be MY life? Like I told someone so wisely someday "I think you are expecting too much out of your life" .... Hell can't I just expect a LIFE and not this dull drudgery, this inexorable rolling towards inevitable death. Can't I just be somebody? Can't I be just me??

Well, enough nonsense. Maybe you will understand, maybe you won't. What is absolutely certain is that nothing is going to change. Like I told someone, "the bad news is my life so far has been a spectacular failure, the good news is there are only 40 or so years left". That's the only dream left... maybe the end will be a relief.

The decline of the sub-continent ....

2005-01-12T14:13:00.000+05:30

Around this time last year, Indian cricket was at their (arguably) all time high after managing to perfectly ruin Steve Waugh's farewell party at Sydney. What was supposed to be red-hankie waving crescendo of a Australian white wash over India turned out to be a run-fest by an unusually reticent Tendulkar and a usually brilliant Laxman. And with Kumble (of the steely glare and gritted jaw) making sure Australia lived on tenterhooks all through the fifth day, it was by far the biggest wet dream come true for all Indian supporters.

To generalise a bit, India's refusal to bow down to the great Australians led by greater Waugh was to be the beginning of the rise of the Indian sub-continent teams. The Indian, Pakistani and Sri Lankan teams which were regularly had for breakfast by the Pommies, Kiwis and Aussies at Headingley, Dunedin and Brisbane were supposed to stamp their dominance on the world stage. The sheer batting class of M/s Sangakkara, Jayawardene, Sehwag, Laxman, Youhana, Inzamam which was so much in evidence to their respective supporters suddenly became apparent to the cricket fraternity (including those jingoistic English writers who still think Grame Thorpe has better technique than Brian Lara). Kumble, Pathan, Vaas, Shoaib, Sami, Murali seemed to be almost an embarassment of riches in terms of bowling talent.

Sadly nothing seems to have changed one year later. Aussies beat Sri Lanka 3-0 (in Sri Lanka), India 2-1 (In India) and Pakistan 3-0 (in Australia). India and Pakistan seem to have spent so much of their collective energies in battling each other that they could barely get up for the Aussies.

Actually, the apparent paradox of sub-continent teams having such abundant individual talent and so little collective results can be analysed from any of these angles:
1. The Hayden angle - sub-continent players play for themselves and their records and not for the team.
2. The Boycott angle - sub-continent players lack discipline. They need to be whipped by their moms regularly.
3. The Sunny angle - There is no such problem which revamping of domestic cricket and more Mumbai batsmen in the team cannot solve.
4. The Dalmiya angle - Its all a conspiracy by racist ICC.
5. The Ganguly angle - At least we are the second best team in the world in terms of whining about pitches (England still remain the undisputed numero uno).

Jokes apart, is it something mental? The sub-continent teams just seem to fizzle out at the most critical part of a cricket match after having the upper hand. Blame my opinion on watching the recent Aus-Pak series, where Pakis reigned supreme for about a day and got soundly thrashed for the rest 2.5 days in each of the tests. (My arithmetic is not so bad, no test actually lasted beyond the fourth day).

Whatever it is ... right now the things are not hunky-dory at all for sub continent cricket. India looks capable of beating only Bangladesh and Zimbabwe (well maybe the West Indies) on current form ... Pakistan must be still shell-shocked .... Sri Lankans really don't have the firepower to consistently win test matches outside the sub-continent.

So what ... does that mean Tendulkar will open a vada-pao joint after the failure of "Sachin's"? Will Sehwag make an educational film about his happily married life? Will Zaheer Khan start acting in Jassi Jaisi Koi Nahi? Will Harbhajan live off Priya Reddy's income? Will Kumble open a tutorial class for engineering entrance? .... the mind boggles at the possibilities .... My bet is as long as there is Bangladesh (and if Dalmiya is lucky, Kenya, UAE, USA, Holland and Hongkong), there is always hope. And maybe the new "Harsha Bhogle" does not have to resort to a career at All India Radio, after all.

The weather, swades, media and everything ....

2005-01-11T14:40:00.000+05:30

Anybody wonder whats happening to the good ol' bombay climate? I mean ... when I came here some 5 monsoons back, the climate / weather thing was so much more predictable. 2.5 months of rain and 9.5 months of summer. And take a look now ... there's actually a winter, maybe soon we will have spring and autumn also. Think of it .... we can't even laugh any longer at all those people buying the fall collections at Globus and Shopper's Stop in 38 degrees centigrade.

Weather apart ... saw a pirated VCD of Swades (too lazy to go to a theatre) ... the flick does well in patches ... but seriously can't comprehend what the raving ("this is even better than Lagaan") is about. I can count the genuinely moving moments on my fingers and none of them are exceptional (actually its kinda expected in this sort of a movie). Maybe I heard too much about the movie before seeing it. Anyways, what the movie makes you realise is, how cut-off you are from 70% of India's population.

The sheer incredulity with which most of us greet the fact that India in reality is not restricted to Inorbit Mall or Fun Republic is genuinely fun to watch. The last time I saw this feeling at a mass scale is when NDA lost the elections. There were these countless hordes of people who had the look of absolute incomprehension on their faces. They thought some landless labour from Bihar stole their "India Shining" dream from them. And look at them now ... how many of them actually remember Vajpayee?

There is this small germ of a debate in my head. Do we (as consumers) shape the media or does the media shape us? All those (that would include all my friends, I suppose) who are going to jump and say "Stupid, its obviously the media shaping us, what did you have for breakfast etc. etc.?" .... I tell them only this ... what are those poor sods at market research doing in that case? In case we are blindly shaped by whatever we watch, listen to or read then what is the point of trying to find out "What consumers really want?" as Business World wants us to do every month.

BTW, I hear that the Business India owner has turned out to be a major defaulter to OBC (erstwhile GTB). Now we all know why all those articles in that mag were sounding like company pamphlets (they must have been bought, estupido !!!). Ohhhh ... to have the luxury of saying "I told you so" is the most pleasurable sensation of all.

And this is a good site for sci-fi/fantasy stories.