Remembering the Sentinel

I am an avid reader of science fiction stories। And one of the very first ‘science fiction’ stories I read was titled ‘Hide and Seek’ by Sir Arthur Charles Clarke. It is about an astronaut marooned on an asteroid, trying to escape from a search party in orbit. The story goes on to tell how he escaped his pursuers by circumnavigating the asteroid.

What I vividly remember about the story is the feeling it had put in my head; about the sheer size of space and the complete insignificance of the size of one human being in comparison। The mere fact that an asteroid is bigger than an intergalactic space ship was a revelation. I almost got giddy thinking about all those galaxies and their stars with their own systems and peculiar instances of spatial phenomenon. Interestingly, the immensity of the feeling attracted me towards reading science fiction instead of pushing me away, as it does to a lot of people.

Science fiction is not a much loved genre. I’ve heard a lot of people speak with disdain about science fiction, which they tag as ‘complete fantasy’, ‘chronicles about things that are not’ and even ‘geeky fiction’. I choose a different definition, ‘Science fiction is a possible history of the future’, which is in agreement with Sir Clarke’s view. He very actively promoted the thought that science fiction should provide ideas to real researchers. He had always written hard science fiction that was based on solid scientific facts and theories. This made almost all his writing seem real and not too far away in the future. Being a futurist (which comes with being a SF writer), he is credited with thinking up the use of geo-stationary satellites for communication. But it is his other prediction that caught my imagination when I first read it; the space elevator। It is something that I’d love to see in my lifetime.

Everyone has probably heard of Asimov’s three laws. Clarke too had three laws, they have nothing to with robots but are true reflections of the person Clarke was. I paste them here, read them to understand the person he was, intelligent and humorous at the same time. Here are his three laws of prediction:

1. When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right। When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong।


2. The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.
   


3. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic।

Among many versions of ‘first contact’, one of the most possible has been written by Sir Clarke in Childhood’s end, another very readable book। Some of his stories took science fiction writing to completely new levels; The Sentinel, is one of them. It is the story that is the inspiration for Stanley Kubrik’s magnum opus ‘2001: A space Odyssey’, and also perhaps Clarke’s most famous story. Among his other writings, the Rama series (with Gentry Lee) is worth mentioning, for the immensity of its sweep of the universe and the intensity of its storyline.

I intended this piece to be a sort of obituary of Sir Clarke, but I guess I ended up writing about what I felt about what he wrote, and things he thought about. Nonetheless, if you want to know about his life, you can always wiki।

I had hoped his ashes will follow Gene Roddenberry’s to space. But he lies buried in Sri Lanka, dreaming eternally. The world is sure to remember him when the first extra terrestrials land, till then; our ( all science fiction fans) remembrance will have to suffice.
I thought up an epitaph for his gravestone:

It is only a matter of a couple of billion years till his true realm of stars comes to claim him, till then, here he lies; In Transit.

Jashn

( google transliteration software के लिए maafi chahata हूँ, पर kcuhh शब्दों को ये translate ही नही कर रहा hai। Nukte और आधे अक्षरों मे भी pareshaani है, फिर भी कविता आप समझ सकते है ऐसे aasha करता हूँ)

हार के इस घने जंगल मे
खुशी-धूप बिरले ही आती है
अंधेरे की पड़ी आदत मुझे
हवा करुण गीत गाती है

क्यों उस छुपे सूरज को खोजूँ
क्यों अंधेरे से पार पाऊँ
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

चल चल कर थक गया
अब तो खीज बहुत आती है
हर सड़क नाप आया
मंजिल एक ही आती है

क्यों उस मृग-मुकाम को खोजूँ
क्यों ज़िंदगी बे-सार banaoon
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

मध्यम stariya हो गया हूँ
कभी mujhme भी aag थी
हार से haara हुआ हूँ
इस ज्वाला मे भी ताप थी

kyon ख़ुद को bhatti मे jhokoon
क्यों जीत की आस lagaoon
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

duniya को dikhaane की खातिर
जाने क्या क्या jatan किया
जब andhera ghira आख़िर
सोचा! ख़ुद के लिया कब जिया?

kyonkar कुछ बन के dikhaoon
क्यों सबसे muhar lagwaaon
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

हार के majnoo यहाँ बहुत सारे है
जशन manate ये, ख़ुद से हारे है
थोड़ा निराश हूँ बस, पर mujh निराश को खाने बैठे
यहाँ bhediye बहुत सारे है

क्यों tham कर gir jaaon
क्यों keechad मे sang इनके , mauji shokar बन jaaon

ladkhadaye ज़रूर, न thamenge ये कदम
अब तो मंजिल पाकर ही होगा जीत का जशन

Growing up

“You’re a grown up now! Behave like one” My mother chastised me over yet another small fumble up I had done.

So, I’m a grown up now. I need to understand the responsibilities that come with this post of an ‘adult’ I have been conferred with, without my express permission. I now should behave responsibly, keeping in mind that my actions reflect not only my own personality ( which ought to be good enough by numerous standards), but my family name as well. I am now ‘on display’, for people to see how well my parents have brought me up.

I was wondering ‘when did I grow up?’

Was it when I turned 18? I guess not, I never saw myself being treated as an adult then! When was it then? When did I grow up??

Was it when I had my permanent liscense made? When I had my passport made? When I had my PAN card made? When I had my voters identity card made?

I think this growing up has got something more than getting documentary proof of adulthood!

Was it when I woke up one morning and felt too lazy to shave? Something that used to be very exciting when I first started shaving at the age of 17.

Or was it when I went to a theatre running an A movie, and the ticket checker never asked for my age proof?

Or was it that day when I realized the complete gravity of what a marriage means and thus started dreading going to one?

Or was it that day when I asked my father for a couple of hundred rupees and he never asked what for?

Or was it that day when I got placed in a company? When some people interviewed me and placed a tag on my worth? 3.5 lakh rupees per annum?

Was it when I went to college and felt, soon it’ll all be over. That the dream run called education is over and that I’ll have to go and earn money of my own?

Or was it that day when the desperate urge to pursue higher studies gripped me. A last chance to have another couple of years of education before being thrown out into the big bad world, which now actually looked as scary as it sounded.

Or was it when I called my mother up and said, “I won’t be coming home tonight, we’re partying at a friends place” and she agreed!

Or was it that day when I saw an accident on the road? I ran to pick up that injured child and took him to the hospital; paying for the emergency procedures before his parents arrived?

Or was it that day when I was talking on my phone at 2 am and mummy saw me! She never asked me about it!

Or was it when I realized watching cartoons is so much fun!

Or was it that day when I escorted my brother to another city where he had taken admission, with the responsibility of ensuring all arrangements about his admission and hostel etc.?

Or was it that day when my father sat me in front of him and asked, “ So, what are your career plans?”

Or is it today, when I consciously sit down to analyze my long gone childhood and my recently acquired adulthood?

Bombay Chronicles 1: Churchgate

I got down at Churchgate station; from the fast western local I had boarded with some difficulty at Dadar, to a warm if not thunderous applause. It took me by surprise; who was clapping? And why? The second question I answered thus “probably they are applauding my heroic travel in the western line local”. Clack-clack the sound filled the station, but seeing no real people clapping, I concluded that my endeavor was not as heroic as it seemed to me; the source of the sound still remained a mystery. It was random enough to rule out mechanical origins, and loud enough to rule out a number of sources I attribute noise at railway stations to. Pondering I started walking to the central area of the station. It was there the sound was coming from, echoing in the high ceiling hall.

As I crossed the gate that separated the huge hall from the platforms, what I saw surprised me. I was greeted by an army of boot-polish soldiers, sitting in neat files, each one of them hitting their small wooden shoeboxes with shoeshine brushes. It was this war cry that I had thought to be applause.

There are numerous instances in movies where the actor stands still, alone, in a sea of people who scurry around him, like ants, rushing to unknown destinations. The place is generally the seventh ave on Times Square. I felt like that actor, as I stood there in a perpetual stream of people who alighted from locals that thundered into the station and scurried away to unknown destinations. Scenes from movies about Bombay flashed inside my head, as I stood staring at these busy-bees all of them rushing to get honey (money).

I’ve heard a lot of people comment about Bombay “ the one thing I hate about Bombay is the crowd”. Standing there, I was fast realizing “ the one thing I love about Bombay is the crowd”. I walked on, glancing jealously at people who were standing reading papers as the men at their feet busily added shine to their shoes, as if they were being given some royal treatment. I cursed my infernal sports shoes, as they had denied me the pleasure of observing an art, that movies like ‘boot polish’ had led me to associate characteristically to Bombay. I made a mental note to wear leather shoes next time, and moved on.

As I stepped out from the station gate, I was again greeted by a sight I’m not accustomed to seeing (except in movies): a road overflowing with ceaseless traffic. These overwhelming sights, the sheer volume of movement was making me feel that I belonged to a small little town, which in fact is not true; or so I thought till now.

I think it was my large backpack that gave me away; a gentleman stopped beside me and said, “There is a walk-bridge to your right”. Snapping out of my reverie, I gave the straps of my backpack a heave and started walking.

“ Which way to the Gateway?” I asked a passerby. “ Go straight, a ten minute walk”.

It took me five hours to get there. I’m not implying that the directions were wrong, or the time estimate was very very erroneous. The road that led to the gateway was littered with colonial buildings, posh and flea markets and a large number of people, justification enough for spending three hours exploring these sights( and missing my camera more than ever) than staring at a stone gate that you’ve already seen enough times in photographs and movies, and read about in books, to last you ten lifetimes.

Just across the road from the station lies an oval ground, emerald green in a sea of stone, aptly named ‘The Oval’. There were quite a few people walking through the park, on a road that was the minor axis of the ellipse. I went inside and stood at the geometric center of the park, feeling once again like the actor in the sea of people I mentioned earlier (a feeling that became almost permanent as the day progressed). This time the ants were wearing black coats as well. Black Coats!! Well, to my left was the high court building standing in it’s neo-gothic splendor. To my right were art-deco apartments, christened ‘court view’. The plaque in front of me informed me that the buildings around me were built in the period between 1890 to 1930.

As I stood there marveling at the silent splendor of these works of art, an interesting thought struck me ‘ The British consciously knew they were building history here’. I tried to imagine the state of the mind of the architects who had landed on the coast of Bombay. Coming from London, and other European cities, which were at the peak of their prosperity at that time, this place would have seemed to them like a blank canvas. The labor was free, the lords of the land rich and idle, and no critics from Paris to poke you about your expression of art. And looking at what they had done, I almost smiled as I thought ‘they must have had had the time of their lives here’.

I know nothing of architecture, so I cannot comment on that, but I sure know how to appreciate beauty. That is what I did for the next two hours. One road led to another, and each one offered newer buildings and fresh sights.

There were many places I had heard of before, like the Army and the navy building, the Prince of Wales museum, Flora Fountain and the Jehangir art gallery. But it was not the standard tourist attractions that interested me. I’d rather be inside a colonial building that was now the headquarters of LIC, marveling at the intricate stonework, partially obscured by notices, than staring at paintings in the Indian gallery of modern art.

I was surprised at how commonplace all this seemed to people who worked there. Most of them did not know, or did not want to know what these buildings were before the paan spitting babus occupied them. “Ghar ki murgi daal barabar” I guess.

Books are a weakness I have. Thus when I entered the library of Mumbai University that sported an ancient clock tower, I felt dizzy. The central hall is an oak paneled reading room, with grand heavy doors leading to stacks and stacks of books.

As I was walking around the library (a grade I heritage building), glassy eyed and almost in a trance, burning with jealousy against the people who were sitting there, studying; a loud growl from my stomach broke the heavenly silence. I realized I had been roaming around for almost three hours. I decided it was time to eat, and headed to the Causeway market; searching for a restaurant called Leopold!

Check your weight

You climb on to the 1ft by 1ft metal platform. A coin poised ready in your hand. The white-red disc rotates. You wait, because the instructions painted in calligraphic hindi read

“ लाल-सफ़ेद चक्कर का घूमना बंद होने के बाद ही सिक्का डालें”

You look at the bright LEDs, shining in crazy spirals and concentric circles. Red-blue-green. The disc has stopped rotating. You insert the coin in the slot, an audible clunk registers into your auditory senses. The machine comes alive. A shaft moves to extract a small 1in by 3in cardboard ticket from a stack in front of you, behind the glass. The LEDs explode in a flurry of colors. Switching on and off, making crazy lit up circles; as if driven into a furious frenzy to hypnotize you. The printing head comes down with a thud and the ticket falls in the cup below the light storm.

There is not one chance that the coin might have been returned as well, but you still run your fingers through the coin return cup, nursing a mad hope of getting the coin and the ticket as well. Disappointment meets you. The dejection is replaced by curiosity as you pick up the ticket. It is as if it holds the answer to ‘life the universe and everything’.

My ticket read 84, that’s twice the expected answer (42 that is).

But it is not just the weight figure that is important about the ticket. With childish curiosity you turn the ticket around, to face a smiling Priety Zinta embossed in a 50*50 pixel resolution and below the marvel of printing is your predicted future “Friends will rescue you from the financial perils you face”. A smile spreads across your face, as if this scrap of cardboard is your destiny. And you hop off the platform, giving way to the next person in line who’ll go through similar motions.

India is clearly a country of weight conscious individuals. Machines similar to the one I mentioned above can be found on all (I do not say almost all, I state with conviction all) bus stands and railway stations. I do not know how much revenue these machines contribute to the annual railway budget, but I bet it’s substantial. I can even go as far as thinking that the recent turnaround of the railways can be attributed to Mr. Prasad’s decision to service all the existing weight machines, install newer machines and provide an inverter to each machine in case of power failure.( and obviously the chai in clay cups)

We are a country that does not have an obesity grant in it’s national budget; the average number of overweight people is much less than developed countries and McDonald’s is not scattered as densely as the paan shops. But if I ask why people are so anxious about their weight, I am faced by expressions that read, “It is the most closely guarded cosmic secret (after the answer to the question of ‘life the universe and everything’, obviously)”

I cannot let you in to the secret ( I found it out by traveling to the Vogon colony that runs the super computer which has answered and harbored all the cosmic secrets), but I can make you think, the next time you stand on one of these machines and see the lights.

Walk This Way: Photo Diary

I and three of my friends went to college walking one fine winter morning. An odd 14 kilometers crossing two villages and the lush countryside, the walk was an exhilirating experience; more so because I had a digital camera. Obviously I clicked a lot.

Following are the snaps I really liked. I have not captioned them because i want my pictures to speak for themselves. Most of the photographs i've put up made me think, about country life in general and about our country and life in particular.

Yahoo needs a copywriter

There are times when gaffes are staring at you in the face and you do not see them at all. I stumbled across one of them. It's Yahoo this time.

Oh, I forgot the sentence should have been ' It's Yahoo ! this time'.( pay attention to the exclamation mark). I have often mulled about the wisdom of using an exclamation mark in the brand logo? I mean, you're using it right in the middle of a sentence, and as all good english readers read a pause after an exclamation mark, there is a pause where there should'nt have been any. Even mentally i'd read the sentence as " It's Yahoo ! [...pause...] this time". Uncanny. More so when we mentally append the meaning of the word yahoo to the sentence.

Getting back to the gaffe. Right in the middle of the mail login page is the link ' forget your ID or Password'. Duh!! Why would I want to forget my ID or password?




Where does the link lead to? A brainwashing software where I'll be offered options like ' Forget your ID only', 'Forget your password only'. forget both your ID and password' and ' If you cannot read the above please click here!' ?? And when i do click on one of the options, i'll come up to a screen that'll say " please enter the ID you want to forget' and 're-enter the ID to confirm'.

And after the faulty Yahoo ! functionalities would manage to work, you'll encounter a message:

" CONGRATULATIONS; you have now forgotten your ID and/or Password" ' For further help click on contact us and please please send the Yahoo ! support a mail. After gmail took over we've been desperately looking for job satisfaction.

By the way, if Yahoo ! is looking for a copywriter, i can offer my services. I know the difference between forgot and forget.

The lameness of expression

We’re at my flat. Talking about what we generally talk about when we’re not having discussions, or telling each other how bad college is. She laughs, throwing her head back;
I notice how beautiful she looks. Her kohl lined eyes laughing at me, her hair framing her sharp face in a delightful portrait. I take in the image of her sitting in front of me on the lazy boy, one leg folded under her, the other, marble smooth, thrown on the armrest. My ears are warm and I have butterflies in my stomach. Though I’m making normal conversation I have a feeling that I’m drunk, dizzy; and I think, as I have thousands of times in the brief period that I have known her ‘why does she have this effect on me?’

We had met a week ago, at a mutual friends’ place. She had been introduced to me as Naina; I was immediately stuck by her gorgeous eyes and the aptness of her name. It was evident that she was as bored with the people around as I was. All I remember of the party now is that we had a long conversation about almost everything. I asked her for her number which she gave me without hesitation; I offered her a lift home, that she politely declined.

I have known her over two cups of coffee and some ten hours of telephone conversation. And here she sits in front of me, talking, laughing as if we’ve known each other for years. I get up, possessed, and walk to her. Her laugh sputters to a stop. Looking into her dreamy eyes, I flick away a strand of hair from her face. It is the first time I have touched her. The next moment she is in my embrace and I feel her breath on my face as our lips meet. I feel as if I have been electrocuted. A spasm moves through her as she hugs me tighter. I do the same, holding her in a crushing hug. Her lips are tender; feeling like honey on my own as they move exploring the contours of my mouth.
I smell her, and it does not feel like a perfume she’s wearing; rather it is her smell. Her breasts press hard against me. I feel her chest heave as she breaths hard. My hand moves along her spine and I hold her head, my fingers caressing her hair. And then it happens, our tongues meet, like lances of champions in a joust. Fireworks explode inside my head. I’m not sure if I am sitting or standing, and I realize how it feels to lose sense of space and time. Sensations explode inside me; sensations I have never felt before; I feel fire and I feel ice. A current flows through me, sparking at my ends. My ears are hot and my heart is thumping with audible intensity. Her hands move over my neck, touching my ears; as if soothing them, and then caressing my hair they suddenly press my head towards her in a furious, almost animate movement. Our tongues are fighting a furious battle for one moment and in the next both surrender, as if a truce has been reached.
My grip on her loosens, as our tongues retreat. I let out a heave of breath and open my eyes to meet hers. There are sparks there, as they laugh, almost mockingly at me. Her lips leave mine, a heavenly taste lingers. She looks like a fairy; I drink in the angelic face. She licks her lips in a mischievous movement and smiles etching in my brain an image that I’d never forget.

A first kiss, they call it. A very lame expression, bound by language I’ll say.

The music at the temple

If you think I’m referring to the deafening parody bhajans, or the cruel shloka recitations; breathe easy, I’m not.

I’ve been to a temple many times, with varying feelings- right from excessive devotion to complete detachment. But it was only yesterday that I completely felt the intensity of music generated by the aarti. It beats any concert I’ve attended and all the music I’ve ever heard.

It all starts with a mild roll of drums, like a distant thunder of clouds- a deep growl. The crowd suddenly falls silent. It is amazing to see the complete transformation from a noisy chaotic bunch to a congregation of silent monks. The pin-drop silence is broken by the small tinkle of a brass bell. The lights are dimmed and a multi flame diya is lit. In the darkness, the tinkle continues as the head pundit starts swaying the multiple flames in front of the deity. The tinkle is then drowned in the loud tic-tacking of a damru. Tick-tack tick tack it goes till the pundit starts the chanting. The chanting is audible only as a loud murmur as the other pundits join in the singing.

It is at this precise moment, the cymbals meet with a loud clang, and the drums roll. But they do not sound distant this time, nor do they stop. As if on cue, the brass bells start ringing, stuck by eager hands. Thus starts the symphony: the drums, the bells, the cymbals and the damru, all playing within a five meter radius of where I am standing. Each of the devotees starts clapping in sync with the beat.

It’s a weird experience. The sound is intense, and each beat thumps on your chest as if hit by a battering ram. My ears are ringing, reeling under the thumps of the loud sound, my hands hurt as I clap fast and hard, but I do not feel irritated. The atmosphere is electric.

10 minutes into this aural extravaganza, someone blows into a conch; and a loud howl is heard over all the beating of the drums. A number of wind instruments follow, each with it’s own characteristic sound. This is another cue and the drums are beat faster, the tempo rises. The bell-men are relieved by a new team of devotees and the tempo rises further. The chanting becomes louder and the people start swaying. Faster and faster it gets. The roar of the drums is now deafening, and each sound blast hits you with ever increasing intensity. Just as you think that any louder would tear away your eardrums, a very large tom-tom that I had not noticed earlier, starts to sound. The conch calls out shrilly once more and then everything is silent.

In one moment the sound is gone. Though my ears are still ringing, the vibrations have all died out. The lone voice of the pujari can be heard as he chants ‘Om, shanti shanti shantihi.’

Taare Zameen Par

With Aamir Khan, the expectations are always high. Looking at the kind of off-beat, perfectionist movies he’s been making, Taare Zameen Par comes as a disappointment; not because the movie is bad, but because it’s too ordinary. A movie, cannibalized by its own exceeded expectation.

Read my full review here

The Flight that was not

Hello my angel, it’s been a long time

Your halo is gone, what happened to your wings?

Don’t say they found you in the devil’s bed

White lace all torn, his hands still red

Did you succumb to hell’s desire?

Did love pull you into the mire?

Did you not see the falsehood of these things?

Oh! My angel what happened to your wings?

Don’t say you took the Icarian flight

To the chimeral sun, in search of light

Did you not know your wings were wax?

Did you not leave blood in your tracks?

Had you not committed enough sins?

Oh! My angel what happened to your wings?

Don’t say that you placed a bet,

In a game, with rules he had set.

To his tune did you dance?

My love you never had a chance

He sat on the corpse blowing smoke rings

Oh! My angel what happened to your wings?

Wait, I think I know what happened

They could’nt bear that you could fly

High above them, into the blue sky

So they hacked them off and burned them

So you could be one of them

And my broken heart still sings

Oh! My angel they took your wings

पोहा और जलेबी

हिन्दी माय लिखने कि खुजाल कुछ इस तरह मिटी है। कुछ सह लेखकों कि ज़रूरत है।
पढिये और कमेंट करिये।

The Towel and metrosexuality!

This post is in a way, a response to two articles on similar lines here (by vinod) and here.

The question is weather the extensive show of skin is appropriate or not. This can be answered in two ways; in terms of it’s acceptability by the audience and in terms of the requirement of this nudity to depict the character of Raj.

Screen nudity, by actresses is not new to Bollywood. On the contrary, male skin show makes a lot of females uncomfortable (or atleast they claim to be). Moreover, the so called male nudity, till now has been to represent the male aggressiveness and to emphasize on the macho character; this display as a part of making the character’s image sensual is quite new. Now as far as the social acceptability is concerned; we’re a society where gender equations are hard set, thus a liberating metrosexual man, who has no issues accepting his sensual side will not go down well with most of the people. I do not think that there are many people who’d agree that something called ‘male sensuality’ even exists.
In our society the male is still the stoic, self-denying, modest straight guy who doesn’t shop enough for himself. His role is to earn money for his wife to spend. Though that image is being rapidly redefined, it’ll still take time for the ‘metrosexual’ in the true sense of its definition, to become acceptable to the majority audience.

So how is metrosexuality defined? Wikipedia says:

The typical metrosexual is a young man with money to spend, living in or within easy reach of a metropolis – because that's where all the best shops, clubs, gyms and hairdressers are. He might be officially gay, straight or bisexual, but this is utterly immaterial because he has clearly taken himself as his own love object and pleasure as his sexual preference. Particular professions, such as modeling, waiting tables, media, pop music and, nowadays, sport, seem to attract them but, truth be told, like male vanity products and herpes, they're pretty much everywhere.

This brings me to the answer of the second part of the question. Weather the nudity was a required facet of Raj’s character. Now since this guy has been depicted as someone who lives in his dream world, his actions driven by impulse and carrying a certain childish demeanor. Thus it might be concluded that he’s not the one who’d pay much attention to his looks. Moreover he’s not that rich guy who has got a lot of money to spend on himself. Thus this depiction is unnecessary. Had he been the rag clad Tom Sawyer, who pined for a good dress for the occasion of meeting his loved one, it would have gone down with the audience better.

In an essay by Mr. Mark Simpson, I came across a very disturbing aspect of metrosexuality. He says “ The metrosexual is a new kind of man, one less certain of his identity and much more interested in his image – that's to say, one who was much more interested in being looked at (because that's the only way you can be certain you actually exist).”
Since metrosexuality is on the rise in India, and is gradually being accepted as the next step to modernization. Being a man, I am forced to question that are we losing our identities? Is the desire to be looked at the only way we can assert our own existence?

Saanvariya: Review

Staying with his stylistic sets, elaborate costumes and highly symbolic representations, Sanjay Leela Bhansali brings to the silver screen, another piece of art.

Saanwariya, to most of the viewers would be an over-the-top, completely senseless love story. But if you are ready to accept exaggerations, illogical twists (come on it’s a love story after all), only then will you be able to appreciate the finer points of the movie; the usage of colour, the style of presentation and the delicate artistry that the director has executed almost flawlessly.

Shot in shades of blue; indigo specifically, the movie seems like a drift over from Picasso’s blue period. But the colour is not just blue, the feel of the story changes the colour; the frames are green on Eid, the hero wears red when he’s in love and the heroine is clad in the black of indecision and unfulfilled love. The effective use of blown out of proportion stereotypes actually gives the movie a theatrical feel. The elegant cinematography does justice to the artistically designed sets. In short, the movie is really really good to look at.
The debutant pair, Ranbir and Sonam Kapoor exceeds expectations. Ranbir is the loveable poster boy, delivering his lines with panache and a contagious elation. Sonam too is a delight to watch and so is her acting. Rani, overflowing with her experience, seems to be falling into the habit of playing the prostitute; but every time she does it better than the last time. Special accolades to Zorya Sehgal, she adds the dash of young acting, and it’d be a crime if I added ‘at this age too’.

Don’t ask why it rains and snows at the same time, or why the whole city looks like a painting, or why sonam falls in love with a man the age of his dad. Just flow with the poetry and you’ll enjoy the movie.

The Bourne Ultimatum: review

Even the most fierce action movies can be the most insipid. I make this statement after watching the widely acclaimed, hotly awaited culmination of the Bourne series: The Bourne Ultimatum.

There’s a big conspiracy inside the greatest intelligence agency of thrillerland, the white collared heads are actually the masked evil men; the patriot runs, hunted…using the skills he was trained to use against his masters this time, he is looking for redemption, his long lost love….... he wins, the bad guys go to jail. That’s the story in it’s infinite detail including all the plot twists and turns. Execute the story in about 20 reels and you have one of the most boring thrillers released this year.

Fine, there is Matt Damon who does justice to his role, acts well, makes the right faces at the right times but sadly it fails to click. The director’s coveted thrill does not precipitate to the audience, no matter how well Jason (Matt) fights, shoots or makes love.

But it’s not all bad; there are a few sequences that are well shot, especially in Morocco; that make up for the badly executed story. The general feel of the movie has sunk some really good acting by Joan Allen and David Startharin.
In all the movie is not worth spending a hundred bucks. 20 would do just fine for the DVD rent, and that too only when you’ve seen the first two movies of the series.

No Smoking : review

I’d been putting off writing this review for over a fortnight now; primarily because I wanted to do justice it.

It’s been after a long time that I saw a movie that can be called weird in a very positive sense of the word. The most striking thing about the movie was the revelation that some directors, like Anurag Kahsyap are actively discovering and executing movie making techniques that rely on more than just dialogues, songs and sets. The subtle but profound references to known works in literature, the extensive symbolism and active use of the properties of the medium, like color and frame sequencing, are definitive indicators of a rapidly evolving bollywood. Though most of this exquisiteness completely eluded a majority of audience and critics as well, who flogged the movie bloody; I’d call it a martyr for a cause rather than a flop.

Starring John Abraham as K ( yes, the reference is to K in Kafka’s Castle), Aisha Takia in a stupendous double role as K’s wife and his secretary, Paresh Rawal as baba guru ghantaal, ranvir shourie as K’s devious friend; the movie with a story content of a 15 minute documentary, runs for an intriguing 2 hours.

John, in one of his best roles yet, scintillates with an unexpectedly natural performance. The ‘it’s my life’ character actually grows on him and for the first time you see him sporting an expressive face, which is bossy, frustrated, bewildered and scared... whatever the script says. The reason why Aisha Takia was chosen for a role…correction.. a double role is a closely guarded secret, which Kashyap claims, will go with him to his grave. She’s the single oddity in the whole cast who can be tagged weird in the actual sense of the word. Paresh Rawal has reinstated his position in my great actors list with an exceptional performance. He and his entrouge, or should I say menagerie, evoke the laughter and at the same time plants fears into your deepest vaults.
Kashyap has been witty, and smart; but after a few reels, his tongue-in-cheek way becomes irritating rather than humorous. Nevertheless, what he does is more than you can expect from Indian cinema for another decade. Vishal Bhardwaj’s music fits well with the mood of the film and Rajiv Ravi’s cinematography stumps you.

The dialogues could have been better and a few choice cuts in the reel could have made it go down better with the crowds, but I guess they were left there for a purpose.

All those who are on the lookout for intrigue and novelty, it’s a must watch. The Jab we met crowd better say at home; you’ve been warned.

Dil Dosti etc. - review

One thing is for sure, the answer to love, sex and everything is not 42!

The one word I can come up with, that completely explains how I feel about the movie, is ‘Intriguing’. The movie is not about telling something in 3 hours and concluding it. It is more like, telling a lot of stuff in just 3 hours and leaving you to think and think and think.

There is a clash of ideals, a bouquet of personalities, some emotions and a lot of intrigue. For once, it seems that the story is getting nowhere, and the movie should have been called ‘a week in the life of a Delhi university boy’, but as one reel feeds into another, the story starts clearing up, and your head begins to muddle.

There is Shreyas Talpade as Sanjay Mishra, the Bihari guy who has a set of fixed ideals and thinks of love to be pure and divine; but this does not essentially make him a puritan. Imaad Shah, as the rich and confused Apurv, who does not think of love, he does not think of sex; he does it; apparently he has no ideals, but by the end of the movie, you’re not too sure. Then there is Kintu (Ishitaa Sharma), the very natural school-girl who knows the rights and wrongs of life, or atleast she thinks so; Prerna(Nikita Anand), the very normal girlfriend, and Vaishali(Smriti Mishra) the prostitute; All of them adding numerous dimensions to the one single question of love, sex and everything. Or dil dosti etc. as the director would like to put it.

Sanjay Tiwari turns a very strange script ( if I may call it that) into what one might call, an excellent movie. Produced by Prakash Jha, who is famed with making ‘real’ films, this one is real indeed. Excellent camera work and an almost perfect execution of scenes make the movie a pleasure to watch, the story just flows. But I won’t extend the accolades to the music, which is pretty ordinary. A couple of more scenes could have built the story stronger foundations, but I guess the shaky base was intended.

Imaad Shah merits special appreciation, because he’s not the novice actor he’s supposed to be. He fits into character as it is himself he’s playing and not a scripted role. Shreyas Talpade continues to impress with his flawless acting, and the same goes for Smriti Mishra. They’re naturals.

Puritans will reject the movie with sneers of the tone ‘Dekha, the young generation is going to the dogs, we told you!’, the ‘youth’ will hail the movie as their real story; but the audience the director is looking for will be few.
Neverthless, go for the movie, to see great acting, a very novel storyline, and to find out if you are one of those audiences the director is trying to address.



PS: respect the A tag of the movie :)

Ratatouille [ rat-aa-too-ee] - review

First toys, then monsters, fishes, cars, bugs and now it is a rat. Pixar’s love for uncanny things talking on the screen continues with its latest animation flick - Ratatouille.
Produced under the Disney banner and directed by Brad Bird, Ratatouille is pure delight to watch.
A rat who cooks! Whoa, what could be more unlikely than that? But the brilliantly written screenplay and excellent animation makes you doubt your own surprise. By the end of the movie, you, like all others in the theatre, are convinced that some rats can cook and that they all live in organized colonies, and speak English. This is the beauty of animation: it does stretch your imagination, but not to the extent of disbelief.

Enter Remy, the gourmet rat. He hates eating out from the garbage can, loves watching cookery shows, is a big fan of Gusteau- the famous cook and can tell the difference between saffron and coriander. A bit of a rebel who wants to make his mark, Remy lands in Paris, the world’s food capital and from there starts the story of the rat, the loser and food.
The movie does not just make the audience laugh and cry with it, but drives some important lessons home as well, like the importance of the freedom of choice and loving what you do.
The animation is flawless and the characterization amazing. The loser boy is lanky and disoriented, the villain, squat and cunning dripping from his eyes; and then there is the rat, performing unbelievable antics, but not once does his body defy any physical laws nor does any of his actions look out of place.
The dialogue is implicitly humorous, the screenplay more so. And if the viewer makes a conscious effort, he will be able to understand the nuances of expressions and appreciate how well they have been executed in the movie.
Pixar hence adds another feather to its cap and shows that perfection can actually be improved upon. Though the movie has a completely different storyline and setting from any of the previous pixar movie, it strikes a similar chord as it’s predecessors did. It’s an uncanny emotion, and you feel it just as you did after the father finds nemo, or the car finally wins the race of life. And if I may not be wrong, this subconscious similarity might be intended. Just another example of how movie making is evolving. It’s not just about what is apparent, but also what is not.
A must watch for all. It’s a 110 minutes well spent.

Ram Gopal Verma ki Aag : review

Raam Gopal Verma ki Hag.. ohh. Sorry…Aag

It is commonly held that villages are cleaner and more pure than cities which are polluted. And if the village is exposed to the urban culture, the purity is lost. Some might debate this but in the context of this movie, the notion holds true.
While sholay, in the pristine village of Rampur was clean, the new sholay, set in the city is equally dirty.
The biggest problem with the movie is that it tries to compete with a masterpiece of Indian cinema. What the director forgets is that the audience will be comparing the movies frame-to-frame. He pulls scenes from the old movie, uses what he calls creativity and others call destruction and cuts and pastes delivering a really ugly movie. It does not score in acting, or direction or cinematography or editing, even the songs are disgusting: a complete fracas of a movie. I figured the dialogue writer was paid less or he really wanted to take it out on the director, because the script he has come up with, causes the audience to make disgusted noises, or chant ‘hey Bhagwaan’ loudly. After Sarkar, RGV thought that weird camera angles make the movie good, too bad he did not understand that such a formula does not work everytime. Oh yes, and I forget to mention the overdoing of sound effects, is a jarring overtone to an already failed orchestra. And then there is the casting. Nisha as the scantily clad, overly talkative Ghungroo, needs acting lessons, and a revision of the age old dictum about being successful in movies ‘skin does not go far…’. Sushmita is ‘thakur saab’s’ widowed daughter-in-law, stuttering in dialogue delivery and more made up than a widow should be. Ajay and the other insignificant actor who plays his bosom buddy are confused and irritating, even more so when compared to the original jai-veeru duo. And then there is Amitabh Bachhan in one of the worst roles of his career. With his makeup, and doglike laughter, he’s not only disgusting to look as but he does his lines equally bad. Every moment the audience pines for the good old actors, the angrezoon ke zamane ka jailer and mausiji, but all they get is a disgusting spoof of the original.
The esteemed director was heard commenting that the movie will look better if we did not compare it with the original. “after all it is a complete movie in it’s own right.” Well I’m sorry Mr. Director, it hardly qualifies for a movie, and standalone it would even look worse, because the faint shadow of the original that is keeping it going will be gone.
As a critic I demand the rights to give negative stars. And having got them, I give this movie -5 stars.

Why-Fi?

I have a T-Shirt which carries the message “ I am analog”. I’ve had a number of weird comments and questions thrown at me whenever I don the T-shirt. But the most thought provoking question came from the gatekeeper of the place I work. He asked “ Sirjee! Yeh Analog kya hota hai?” Apparently he knew how to read English, which surprised me.
I was at a loss of words.
How does one explain technology to the ‘common man’? India is a booming IT and ITes powerhouse and still the people who know and interact with technology are a very select group. I won’t be talking about the great economic divide and the rich poor debate, but put very simply, the point I’m trying to make is that a huge chunk of India’s population has been unable to keep up with the technology; and the kind of education system that exists makes sure that they won’t be catching up in the near future.

Then why is the government intent on pushing technology into these hands who do not know what to do with it? Wi-Fi krishi mandis, laptops for village schools, wireless farm management systems? What sense does this make? I’m not saying that technology should be kept away from the developing areas; it is a big help; but the difference between useful technology and technology should be properly understood. A mobile might make a lot of sense to a farmer living in a remote village, but a laptop does not.

To me, the reason behind this blind thrust to bring technology to the people is that the government can then make claims like ‘we enabled the ‘underprivileged’ children by giving them free laptops’ or ‘the country is on the fast track of development: everyone will have a hi-speed broadband connection by 2010’. What the children do with the laptops and their hi-speed connections is none of their concern. A flood of hi-tech solutions, to problems that do not need them, is not development.

It’s been around in the news for long: plans of making Delhi Wi-Fi. Why? I’ll ask again. Has the government paused to look at the number of internet users in Delhi and of those who actually have the equipment to use Wi-Fi?

Cosmetics for making Delhi look good for the Commonwealth games is an acceptable expenditure, but a cosmetic surgery is something our poor country can ill afford. Like it or not, we still are a poor country. Go ahead, spend the money on technology, but let that be sensible technology and not that looks good and is of no use whatsoever.

The technological revolution is here, and it no doubt will make the lives of everyone easier and more comfortable. But let things take their own pace, evolution takes time. The evolution can be hastened, educate people, make technology understandable not just accessible; but trying to overtake evolution ( as is apparent) can only lead to disaster.