Kites Re-viewed

Well, this was easily the most hyped movie of Bollywood. This could easily have been the perfect crossover Bollywood have been looking for, to venture in the dream world of West. But, this easily turns out to be a very forgetful watch.

Where is the plot? The movie is so clear from the word go that even the jumbled narrative falls bland and straight. And this is when the movie has four writers to its credit, not to forget the succour from Rakesh Roshan who has some splendid movies to his credit.

The performance of the leading plot is the only saving grace of the movie. Hrithik Roshan has such a domineering screen presence that he commands each seen he is at. Barbara Mori has gelled so well in this Indian flick that she seems to go naturally with the flow of the movie. Both actors carry the whole weight of the movie on their mighty shoulders when everything else disappoints. And what the hell is up with side cast? Everyone seems so engrossed in a carving out a dull performance! Nicholas Brown(Tony) is a pain in the neck. He nowhere seems to threaten you, his accent almost kills and you just can’t wait him to be killed in the movie. What is hilarious is the escape-run sequence of Hrithik-Barbara. It defies logic from all angles and never makes you go to the edge of the seat. The American police have been portrayed just a little better than their Indian counterpart. At least, they came in time. But, who can ever catch the protagonist of an Indian movie!

Kangana Ranaut terribly disappoints. She acts with full commitment, but either her role has been brutally edited or she has been befooled by the Roshan-Basu stature, as we all have been, that she agreed to be part of the movie. The movie is thoroughly assisted by the stunningly good looking lead pair. Hrithik looks so striking and stunning throughout the movie that it seems that half the energy of the team has been spent in making him look good. Unfortunately, he seems so desperate to break into Hollywood that he tries to replicate the English accent; sounding weird and peculiar. The music is easily forgettable and the background score by Salim-Sulaiman is too loud at places.

What’s good? Kudos to Ayanaka Bose for the splendid cinematography! He elegantly captures the thrill and the romance in his camera. The scenes are so slick that they can compete with any Hollywood movie for its looks; the only department that the movie scores in. The movie has actually got its heart at place. Anurag Basu beautifully captures the charm of the lead pair, their playful flirtations and comical attempt to communicate tickle, their romance has got tenderness; may it be the shadow puppet scene or when they understand each other though speaking different languages. And yaa, Hrithik’s  superfluous killer dance moves in the beginning do mesmerize you. However, the chemistry between them just doesn’t sizzle as it was puffed up; it doesn’t sparkle or carves a niche.

Anurag Basu makes a brave attempt with a Bollywood formula that has been tried and tested ‘n’ number of times, but fails in execution of the idea. The end has been so much stretched that you yawn and feel like running out of the hall. The entire movie runs in a slow motion wagon that keeps getting off the track. Two hours is just perfect for a thriller-cum-romantic movie. But not for this one!

Rating: 2.5/5

Chiaroscuro of life

I looked at the rickety state-transport bus with demur. It was the sole means of transportation for my destination. A fresh coat of paint outside tried to veneer the dismal plight of this ram-shackled vehicle. I immediately rushed in, as did a bevy of people who had been waiting for long; the bus blessed with its service only after every two hours.

I had clearly misconstrued the condition of the bus, I realized soon. I tried hard to contain myself every time the bus jolted on the multiple fractured roads. The window kept rattling as the bus shuddered on the uneven track, the sound annoying but somehow in unison with the song I was hearing on my phone. My seat became my partner for the journey. It bumped with me on the roads and we both sprang out together every time the bus screeched to an abrupt halt. I later learned that this bus was an old hand on this route, a vanity clearly reflected on conductor’s face.

I was heading towards my native village; I was to bless it with my presence after almost four years. The visit was obligatory as it was my some distant cousin’s wedding, the existence of whose I came to know only when the wedding was announced. I was hardly enthusiastic with the visit but could do nothing to flee the fix. ‘It’s important to maintain relations in life, you will learn with time’, I have been told. As if this visit would rekindle the dying embers of our bonds!

The austerities of life in a small rural community have always touched me. The milieu so bland and monotonous, how do people survive there? Life there always appeared a stalemate too me. Or rather it was an attempt to cover my own self-conceit. I had drawn my own sense of comfort over the years and was hesitant to break it by meeting new people, for I didn’t know about life in their side of the world. May be, I won’t get well with them. May be I won’t understand their way of working and I may err. I was happy in my own space, may be.

The bus made its journey along the path flanked by green pastures on both side with cattle grazing on them and had a few huts at distance on both sides. The hills formed a perfect backdrop, a panorama that could have been every cameraman’s delight. The weather had turned pleasant as it was probably to rain. And it did. The first drop of rain filled the bus with a pleasant fragrance. It had taken me by surprise. My supercilious city life couldn’t bestow me this moment. I tried to remember the last time I enjoyed such splendour of nature, but in vain.

The next few days of my stay took me by surprise, slightly incredulous. Even though the houses were simple, they never lacked any of so called ‘modern needs of survival’. The village had an aura of freshness and unfading enthusiasm. There was never a check of time when you visited someone’s home, nor were there any formal invitations and permissions. Welcomed by everyone, I ended up eating my lunch and dinner all at different places each day. The best part in the day would be when the elders would meet before retiring to bed at someone’s place. They would chat about the daily chores, about life in their side of the world which was nothing different as I presumed it to be. Their conversation, important still jocular, was always delightful.

The marriage never seemed to be an affair of a single family in the village. The entire village seemed in celebrations with everyone busy in preparations in his own way, with each day a jamboree. The marriage mayn’t have been lavish but it was definitely grand and extensive, as far as the blessings and love of people was concerned.

I am now on my way back to the “superior city life”. The same bus greeted me on the station. I can’t help recollect the pleasant memories of my stay. I am listening to a song on my phone which says:

“It's something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right.
I hope you had the time of your life. “

Well, I had.

Fashion Fiasco

This year, Kashi Yatra, was supposed to be one with extra flavour. It was to witness the grandeour of MIRAGE. Or instead, I was to witness it. I always considered a fashion show as a divine, magnum opus affair. I had heard of it, read about it, even gossiped about it, but never seen it. Infact, I didn’t even know what it was. I mean, in a dog-show, dogs walk the stage. Fighter planes soar up at the air show. But, what blessed the fashion show?

‘Models’ is what they told. I believed them to be the likes of Kangana Ranaut and Priyanka Chopra, walking in a way that could give you a serious hip dislocation. ‘No, it’s actually catwalk’. Again some more knowledge poured in from someone. Has catwalk put you in thoughts? Don’t worry, it’s just a misnomer. I got wondering too. Thank GOD!

But then, what the hell was this ‘fashion’. I always believed that it was something to do with wearing clothes. No, not those patched half pants and grimy T-shirts that you and I wear in the hostel. And definitely not those ‘baniyans’ in which some of you walk in the hostel, with a generous display of your well-toned n-pack body. These baniyans actually fail to qualify as clothes after incessant week long usage. Fashion is what models wear or rather whatever they wear.

Off we were to the location where we were greeted by a tumultuous crowd. Those who had solved this fashion dilemma were busy explaining to others. ‘I figured her, the model’, I shouted seeing a pretty lady wearing a skirt that even gave the foggy winter night a chill. “No, she isn’t. They will come at the ramp, there”. A new terminology again! I knew what ‘vamp’ was (well, I sometimes caught those saas-bahu serials mom watches). A long narrow stage glimmering in red-blue-green lights is the ramp, the point of convergence of all eyes.

Oh, it wasn’t the point of convergence of the eyes. It was the point of convergence of all the high spirited( literally) boys out there. Everyone rushed forward for that ‘extra better’ glimpse of god-knows-what. Result, the very next moment we were actually squatting down a la Swades style, a posture which I take every morning to attend nature’s call. This was supposed to be the call of natural beauty.

Then the spotlights came on and lit up the long narrow stage. Down which came a procession of the most emaciated creatures i've ever seen, enveloped in five inch deep make-up. I wondered from where the organisers had got those obvious victims of starvation. No, not those UNICEF ad type victims * ( * Thanks Chetan Bhagat for these lines. Don’t worry, I will write a credit note. I am not Hirani or Vidhu Chopra).

Models? Not famine victims? Weren't they paid enough to eat with? But apparently fashion models are paid - and paid well - not to eat. It's called being Size Zero. I never knew this was fashion. My sense of fashion is wearing anything with those 3 stripes Adidas or Reebok. Whatever the design or quality, the price will bring you admiration and the respect of being well dressed. No, not Nike or Puma, they are still out of my fashion list for they are a bit too expensive. But someday, maybe.

NOTE: The idea for this article has been inspired ( a better word for ‘plagiarised’ :D ) from a source. I also credit Chetan Bhagat for his fantastic novel ‘ 5 Point Someone’ that changed the reading habit of this country. See Chetan, my credit fonts are bigger than Hirani’s.

Days Of Our Life

The Class Tests finally ended defying their promise of making our life a permanent hell. The evening could never look so bright and promising. “I can’t stay back in the hostel hoping from one room to other”, I decided and banged on Piyush’s room. He laid in his bed, half asleep and now cursing me for such infuriating entry. “Get up you idiot, we need to go somewhere”, I shouted as I pulled off his blanket. He could not help but surrender to me. “Yaa, but where?” he asked as he headed to the wash-basin. “Hmm..well..we are going to ...amm....Lanka. My pending list is overflowing with stuffs to do”. s

Actually, when you have nothing to do, you go to Lanka. The place is always jam-packed with people doing just nothing. You can find them strolling from one shop to other buying nothing, peeping futilely into magazines or just overhearing others.

“OK, so what you have to do their?” he said, wilting with every word he spoke. Now, this was a very obvious question which had not crossed my mind till then. ‘Well, I need to...’ I said as I still kept thinking a convincing answer myself, but in vain. I had to come up with something, else that monster would have gone back to his bed.

“I need to fix my guitar”, I almost yelled in excitement as this promising excuse crossed my mind, ”Need to buy strings for that”.

“OK, I need a shave too”, he said as he buttoned his half yellow, half orange shirt. That shirt of his always drove off those ‘that- boy- is- so -good’ looks from girls and I hated it.

Within minutes, we were off on his black Karizma. We headed to Assi (which was just next to Lanka) as the place promised us help for our guitar strings. The bike advanced with a crawl on the busy roads of Lanka which was choked with people, rickshaws and animals of all kind. “Get off you bastard”, Piyush shouted as he made an unavailing attempt to overtake a fat cow which completely ignored him and kept moving as if on an evening walk.

Soon, we found ourselves struggling on the roads of Assi. The roads here were narrower than footpaths at cities. The concept of two way traffic was definitely alien to the construction company which made them. We were moving in whatever space we found between the horde of pedestrians, rickshaws, cattles and of course shops that sprang out of nowhere.

“Where can I find a music instrument shop here?”, I asked a passerby as we stopped beside a pan-shop at the chauraha.

“Well, I think there is one ahead. Just go straight!!”, he answered in a dull voice.

I looked at every shop we passed with my eyes wide open while Piyush struggled with the traffic. ‘I can’t see any guitar shop here’, I declared finally.

“Let us ask someone here”, he said as he stopped the bike.

“You have left the shop back. You must have taken a right from the last chauraha”, announced the old man sitting in the grocery shop while scribbling something on his notepad. I wondered what the last guy actually meant when he asked us to go straight only.

We entered a multiple fractured road as we took a right. The road had gone narrower(if only you could call it a road) and had branching at regular intervals with shops on both sides .

“There is one called Saaz Musical here . I believe you must get there whatever you are looking for. Go straight and take a left. Its somewhere around there”, declared the boy whom we had stopped for help. We were asked to take a few more lefts and rights by all those whom we sought help from ,only to get us back at the chauraha.

“No point in looking any more, let’s go back”, I said dejectedly to Piyush who was already cursing me for bringing him there. We got off the bike and started walking around, only to find a small board of Saaz Musical placed at a corner, almost hidden behind a giant Hrithik drinking Coca Cola. Excitedly, we followed the sign which led us to a narrow dingy pathway with all kinds of electrical shop lined to its sides. All these shops were dim with low hung ceiling, wires and machine parts stacked everywhere in the shop. At the end of the corridor was our destination. Finally, the diligent hunt seemed to have paid off.

A gaunt, greying man with thick spectacles welcomed us. The shop was well furnished and had tablas and sitar arrayed in the corner. “I am looking for 3 no. guitar string. Do you have it?” I asked. He said ‘yes’ and moved to one of the rack. He too made a diligent hunt, just like we did, to find the string. Finally, he came to us and declared,” We are out of that string. Why don’t you come tomorrow? I promise I will arrange it”. Piyush and me looked at each other, with nothing to say. A perfect end to a perfect CT period.

Long live the freedom!!!

Today is when you recollect the national anthem piled in parts in corner of your memory. Today is when you remember again the likes of Gandhi and Nehru. Today is 15th August, Independence Day. This day fills you up to the brim with pride and self-respect for being a true Indian. The flag hoisting pulls the patriotism out of you which was stashed in the corner of your heart. It reminds you how great your India is. The chauvinism, for a moment, overshadows poor governance, poor health, poor education, poor facilities and working environment, poor this, poor that. It was something that irked you throughout the year, but not today. In fact, all the visas and passports should be issued on this day only. This one day would remind how great your country is than the one you are going to. This would do away with the brain drain trouble. Long live the freedom!

How do you best remember Independence Day as? Well, this day fondly reminds me of a ‘peela packet of 2 motichoor ladoos’. Orange coloured ladoos seem to be flavour of the day. This must have been the initiative of the astute hardliner Hindu organisation, to clad the ladoos in the colour of Hindutva. The Christians and Muslims couldn’t see it coming. They blithely accepted this tradition of giving ladoos, oblivious of the veneer of Hindutva on them. The convent schools, however, have now woken up and the new tradition of ‘white’ coloured barfis and cake is on roll. Unfortunately, the Islamist couldn’t find a Quran verse urging for green sweets on I-Day (for they managed to find one for terrorism and killing people).So, they still go with the orange ladoos. Long live the freedom!

Surprisingly, Indian flag is the only thread of unity running along the country. No ideology, no religion, no party or sport or culture could unite it; even the national language fell flat in its attempt. When it comes to dignity of our flag, we stand together, we fight together. Neither Sachin nor Sania or Mandira could escape the brunt of this one-time-united Indians when they played with the sentiments of our dear flag. Long live the flag and long live the freedom!

Actually, these three days (I-Day, R-Day & 2 Oct) are assigned public holidays so that you can sit back and certify your patriotism to country. The entire country is closed; every Indian is made to do this compulsory exercise. They make you watch the flag hoisting, the parade and half a dozen patriotism soaked Bollywood films so that you can reaffirm your Indian-ness and loyalty to the country. The whole time in life is given to you on this day to proclaim or avow your allegiance to the country. Long live the freedom!

But now it is done with a flavour for youth in it. Our grandfathers freed us from the clutches of Englishmen, but we in turn freed ourselves from their clutches and started running hard, fast from them. Today, we have run quite a distance from their morals, culture and blah-blah. Failing in their endeavour of bringing us back, now they have starting changing themselves to our tunes. Markets have paved way for malls, dhotis for Capri, Hindi for Hinglish. TV channels now show ‘Lago Rahe Munnabhai’ instead of Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi, ‘Rang De Basanti’ for ‘Tiranga’ and many more. Just waiting for the day when Britney Spears or Shakira would be performing on Republic Day at India Gate. Long live the freedom and long live India!

Let there be light

Munni always loved it here. She loved the dangling chandelier, the staircase that swirled into the top floor, the marbled floors where she glimpsed herself every time she cleaned it, the fireplace made of silvery stone that sparkled like sand in the sunshine, the curtains that swayed in the wind gushing from the side-window, the vast picture of a chariot driver guiding a rider with a bow and arrow, in middle of a war-field while the army seemed spelled or frozen.

As long as she could remember, she could always picture herself there. Earlier, she used to play around her mother while she washed clothes or swept the floor. Sometimes, the mistress gave her toys to play with. She would play with rapture but she could never apprehend why the doll was without a hand or the car had no wheels. But now, her mother said she was a big girl and she succoured her in doing the dishes, washing the clothes and cleaning the furniture of their master’s house.

Today, she found everything intriguing. There was an implicit energy ubiquitous in the atmosphere. Servants decorated the home with lights and flowers, the house was ensured immaculate. The mistress supervised the cleaning and yelled repeatedly at her mother; every time she found a speck of dirt on the floor or on the furniture her mother just finished cleaning. “I want Goddess Lakshmi to bestow her blessings on us today”, the mistress yelled whenever she was exasperated with the servants. “Today is the festival of light, Deepavali. Goddess Lakshmi visits the best lit and clean home and blesses it with money and happiness”, her mother later explained to Munni, still busy with the cleaning of house even though the day progressed swiftly.

Soon, the sky gleamed red, gathering the last of the light, as the sun headed back to its origin. The decorations in the house were still on and it was some time before Munni’s mother could leave for home. She realised that it would be late before she left for cooking dinner at home.“Munni, you better leave for home and start preparing for the dinner. But, the mustard oil is also finished”, said she, pondering over the dinner paraphernalia. “OK, buy half a litre from Lala’s shop in the way home. I’ll cook saag for my little princess today.” She said handing over the money to Munni. She left without delay for the grocery shop.

She could easily make out her home from distance. It was bland and conspicuous by absence of dwellings around it. She always travelled along the same rutted path flanked on both sides by knee-tall grass, making her linger on every step she took. The walls looked crumpled as the mud parted way for cracks into them. A thin asbestos sheet on top to occlude the rain water had narrow openings through which sunlight crept in the morning. Inside, the wall was sodden on the edges while thickets of soot and layers of cobweb, encrusted on it, looked akin.

She knew what she had to do. She at once started scraping the soot layers and cleaned the floor. She arrayed the kitchen items and cleaned the chulha. She swept off the leaves and twigs fallen on the verandah. She, then, took cotton lumps and carefully rolled it between her palms to prepare cotton wicks. Then, she poured the mustard oil she just bought into baked clay diyas and placed a wick in each. Finally, the diyas were lit and the house glimmered in the light. She knew Goddess Lakshmi would bestow her blessings today.

She was outraged beyond confines, her wrath knew no bound. She slapped and pummelled Munni. She incessantly ranted and beat her, wilting with every strike. “How could you, you haraami. How could you squander the oil in that diya. Now, how will I cook the saag, in your blood? ,” her mother kept ranting.

A strong gush of wind flickered the flame. The flame of the diyas endured but finally gave up. Darkness and penury reigned the house again.

Hey There....

Finally, I could not resist myself from entering the world of blogging. I am fully aware that the place has ubiquitous adroit writers. I most humbly bow before them seeking their permission for letting a naive writer in.

Well, my love for blogging is a bit new found. Before this, I found it as a complete waste of time or rather less appropriate use of waste time (read, all the time in life). But, when vacations are on and ennui eats you up, such crazy ideas creep in. However, until now, I have kept them away with an unwavering stance. This time, however, I succumbed to it. Just trying to give it a shot, who knows a Booker prize winner type writer is nurturing within me. :)

So, what I will do here is the next big question. I have never been good with those stuffs people do with brush and paint in their hand by letting haphazard brush strokes on the canvass. So, no uploading of any paintings here or any such forms of art which people admire. Nor I am well-acquainted with the art of rhyming ‘flower’ with ‘shower’. Poetry is just not my cup of tea.

But, then isn’t this space a medium to share your honest or rather incorruptible views, where ideas can flow freely . I mean, if people can squander time in reading Amitabh calling himself better than SRK or Aamir naming his dog ‘Shahrukh’(No, I didn’t read this on their blog. I rather squandered my time reading this in the special ‘Glitterati’ column of newspaper), then, this is the perfect place where I can fit for I promise to write more reasonable stuffs. Alright, I may not be Shahrukh or akin to anyone in 100 meter radius of his bungalow, but still what? I can always share ‘my’ ideas about the world around, things happening outside , things people do but shouldn’t be done, things people don’t do but should be done and all that.

So, I will use this space to discuss in-news stuffs, cinema and politics(sorry, can’t help doing that), articles and stories I have written and of course me, my college, my take on everything around and so, all the me-things happening to me. AND, when I say ‘discuss’, it means I need you to participate equally, to react, to suggest, to mock (if really necessary, else please don’t do that), to speak. It means that it’s time for you to post your comment now, if you haven’t already. :)