The Road To Ithaca – 20

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I’m sure you’ve heard that expression dozens of times, that of your worst fears coming true. Well, I can’t really claim that my worst fears were coming true at that moment. That’s because I had never imagined such a moment arriving in my life. But I can tell you, that with each word she said, I became more and more certain that things were going in a direction that I definitely did not want them to go in, and with each passing moment, my chances of recovering things were getting more and more slim.

I wildly asked myself what I should do. Should I stop her and tell her that she’s wrong? Should I tell her that she’s wrong and that I wanted this as much as she did, more than she did? Should I tell her that I’d be honored? happy?

“And then what? Pray tell.” A voice in my head seemed to mock me. “Do you really think, for even a second, that you are actually capable of this?”

“I can do this. I can, I will do whatever it takes.” I protested.

“Really? How sweet.” The voice again. “Like what, exactly? Tell me one thing, just one thing that you plan to do.”

“Shut up!” I said.

“Excuse me?” It wasn’t the voice in my head, it was her. I realised I had spoken the two words aloud. Shit.

“Er..sorry, I wasn’t speaking to you.” I mumbled.

With exaggarated slowness, she looked around the room, and then fixed her eyes back on me.

“Would you mind telling me” She said in that dangerous honeyed voice, “who exactly you were asking to shut up? Because unless you were speaking to Roopsa, who’s asleep anyway, I’m the only one who’s been speaking.”

“I was talking to myself.” I offered.

“You were speaking to yourself.” She pronounced slowly, with a distinct pause between each word, looking at me that typical way people look at madmen.

“Yes, I..uh..” I tried to explain, “I..I was thinking that this wouldn’t be a good idea, and I wanted to stop…”

“I think you’ve already made that perfectly clear.” She said in a tone of finality, each word dripping with scorn and contempt. Without a glance at me, she stood up and stormed towards the door.

“Wait! Please..” I begged, “just listen to me for a second.” She didn’t even bother to pretend that she heard. In my desperation, I almost jumped down from the bed, and grabbed her arm.

She whirled around to face me, and I involuntarily took a step back. I had never seen someone so angry. She was literally trembling with anger, with a face that had a turned a beautiful shade of red, and eyes blazing.

“Listen to you?” She almost spat out the words. “Listen to what? Same of your shit? That you love me but you don’t want me? That you’ve always loved me, but you’ve never thought of the two of us being in a relation? You expect me to believe that shit?”

“It’s true, I…”

“Well, congratulations.” She interrupted. “You didn’t want a relation? Well, guess what, you ain’t getting into one. In fact, you’ll never see me again, not in this life. Now let go of my arm.” With that declaration, she turned to leave.

I didn’t let go of her arm. In fact, I can’t really explain why, or from where I got the nerve, but I roughly turned her around, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her.

Her lips were cold and soft and moist, and they tasted of butterscotch.

I don’t know for how long we stayed like that. However, after a while, with my eyes still closed and my lips still pressed against hers, I kinda visualised what I was doing. I jumped back, terrified.

She didn’t seem to be perturbed by my indecency. She still leaned against the wall, with her eyes closed and an odd half-smile playing on her lips. I, on the other hand, was scared out of my wits.

“I’m so sorry.” I begged. “Forgive me, I..I’m not like that.”

“Do it again.” She ordered softly, not moving an inch, not opening her eyes.

“What? Listen, I’m really sorry. I’ll never do it again, I swear.”

“Do it, or I’ll scream.”

So I did it again, tentatively, expecting to be slapped any second. When I finally pulled back after what seemed a long, long time, her lips didn’t want to let go of mine.

“So that’s how it feels to be kissed.” She said aloud to no one in particular, smiling, as if at some personal joke. She appeared to be savoring the moment for a while, smiling to herself.

“Sit.” She told me, and sat down herself.

“Let me get this straight,” She smiled, “You love me, you don’t want a relation with me, and you just pushed me against a wall and kissed me?”

“What do you want me to say?” I asked.

“Tell me what you’re so afraid of.” She said, taking my hand in her own.

So I told her. I told her how I had always looked up to her,  how I had put her up on a pedestal and worshipped her. I told her that she was the only girl that I had remembered in the 7 years of boarding school. I told her about the snapshot in my head, that of her running away from me in the playground of our nursery school. I told her that I had always known she was too good for me. And I told her, very honestly, that I had absolutely no clue what I’m supposed to do if I’m in a so called relationship. I had no idea what would be expected of me, what would not be acceptable. I didn’t know how I would keep her happy, and not knowing that made me feel that I’d surely end up disappointing her, and I really, really didn’t want it to come to that. Also, I told her, I didn’t think I had anything to offer her.

When I was finished, she didn’t look like she was about to cry, like they show in the movies. She looked at me like I was stark raving mad.

“Tell me,” She said incredulously, “what do you think you are, my 17th boyfriend??”

“What?” I was flabbergasted. “I don’t know. Wait. Am I?”

“Don’t you think I would’ve mentioned it to you beforehand if I had a boyfriend?” She asked, exasparated.

“Well, yes, i suppose.” I had to agree.

“Well then, did it ever to occur to you that I might not have a set of predetermined expectations in my mind? Did it never occur to you that just like you, I might also be happy just to love you, and not ask something in return?”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.” I protested. “Why the hell would someone like you love someone like me?”

“Well, guess what lover-boy, I am just crazy as you are.” She said as she drew closer. “You see, ” She went on, ” in all these years, I never thought about anyone else either. Now then,” She put her hands on my shoulders, “do you want this or not?”

“I do.” I said with all the sincerity I had.

“Good, that’s good.” She smiled sweetly. “I would have killed you otherwise.”

A quick peck on my lips, and she was gone.

I slowly looked around, trying to convince myself that I hadn’t been dreaming. Proof was a couple of feet away, in the form of my beloved German Shepherd. Believe it or not, she had slept soundly through the entire conversation.

I petted her affectionately, as I started mentally replaying every second of the previous two hours.

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The Road To Ithaca – 19

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When I came back with three bowls of butterscotch, the two of them were getting along famously. My pet had dropped all pretense of sleep, and was grinning stupidly at my girl’s face from a distance of inches as she petted her.

“Which one’s mine?” She asked as I put the tray on the bed. I proudly pointed to the bowl with the largest pile of ice-cream in it. She handed it over to Roopsa without a word.
“O-kay”, I thought.
“Which one is yours?” Came the next question.
Somewhat uncertainly, I pointed at the bowl with the second-highest amount. She promptly picked it up for herself. I stared at the last bowl left on the tray with hostility, the one with the smallest amount, which was also the one I had intended to give Roopsa, for betraying me moments ago. I looked up at her, planning to object.

“Is there a problem?” She smiled that extra-sweet smile at me, the smile that gives men the distinct feeling that the something bad is about to happen to them if they don’t immediately give up whatever they are planning on doing.

I shook my head in silence, and started eating. I wanted to finish it before she changed her mind and decided that Roopsa deserved to have my share of the damned butterscotch as well.

I was struggling with a particularly large dollop in my mouth when she suddenly said, “So, you wanted to talk?”

“Unhh..” I tried to speak with my mouth still half-open, my heart suddenly throbbing against my chest.

She wasn’t really looking for an answer. As I swallowed the freezing thing in one gulp and struggled to find words, she went on absently, “Before you say what I know you’ll say, let me tell you, I’ve been thinking as well.”

I had noticed long ago that she had this disconcerting ( or perfectly normal, depending on who you are ) habit of staring right into my eyes when she spoke to me. Now, however, she was looking down, absently poking at the ice-cream with her spoon. There was something in that tone, that tilt of her neck, those words, her face, that suddenly scared the hell out of me. Yes, I had been scared around her before, but this wasn’t that tongue-tied nervousness that comes with situations that are too good to be true. This was genuine fear, the premonition that something bad was coming my way, something that I wouldn’t like a bit. I waited for her to go on.

She looked up at me as if to speak, looked away again, clearly steeled herself, and then spoke, “Look, I’m sorry.”

“For what, for god’s sake?” I wanted to scream, but I could not. I just stared at her, my dread robbing me of words.

“I’m sorry,” She went on, half in embarrassment, half in genuine regret, “I have been stupid. I did not realise that you never thought about all this. I…I just..I don’t know, it feels good to be with you, even when we’re talking on the phone..and you have this way of understanding…you can always tell what I’m going through, and-and I thought…”

I sat there staring at her in disbelief. “Is this how it happens?” I thought incredulously, “Is this what I have seen dozens of movies and read scores of stories about? This is how it happens? You love someone and she actually loves you back? This, is what inspires poetry and literature and art? And, hold on a second, this is happening to me??”

For a second, I had the irrational urge to stand up and do a football victory-dance. Then her face came into focus again, and I realized how much damage I had already done with my stupid reaction over the phone the previous day. She wasn’t talking about loving me. She was saying good-bye.

Suddenly, I was afraid again.

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Good Luck Syria

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So, yet another US backed military operation is imminent. After the Afghans and the Iraqis, it is now the Syrian people‘s turn to be gloriously “liberated”, live on CNN, one smart bomb at a time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for freedom. I’m an Indian after all, that great country which earned her freedom almost 70 years ago, and yet passed a Rs. 1.3 Trillion bill only yesterday to make sure 67% of its population don’t go hungry. Neither am I a great one of those America haters who can give you a dozen examples of the so-called “Imperial ambitions” of the US before Barack Obama can say “Change.” No, I’m just an average opinionated guy, whose opinion does not matter any more than the average American’s view of America’s war on terror.

I’d agree that the situation in Syria deserves a response of some kind from the international community. I don’t know if Assad has to go, or if he should stay. I’m not sure if handing over the reins to the so called Free Syrian Army would improve things over there, or whether it would just do to Syria what the Taliban did to Afghanistan. I don’t know. I’m not a Syrian. Do you? If President Assad is actually using chemical weapons against his own people, then yes, he has to go. However, allow me a skeptical word here. By all accounts, he was already winning the war. Why would he choose to use the one option, that too at this stage, which is almost guaranteed to invite a military intervention by the West? Anyway, no matter who is using those weapons, I’d agree that the best possible option would be for the bloody war to end, and if that means another “liberation” by the US, I’d say so be it.

However, this time there seems to be a twist in the story. Any military action, it has been said, will be targeted at “punishing Assad, not removing him.” Forgive my ignorance, BO, but what exactly does that mean? For starters, you’re gonna bomb or invade a country to punish a man? Doesn’t really sound very logical to me. Besides, how exactly are the US and its allies gonna take some military action without bringing about his removal? I mean, going by the last few wars fought by the US, we can look forward to all those hi-tech precision strikes against military targets, command and communication centers, weapons depots and government installations. Does it really take too much brains to figure out that this would all but win the war for the rebels, and achieve the exact same objective that the US officials are saying they do not want to achieve? I don’t really care if Assad is exiled, hanged or just vaporised, but why the fancy footwork to pretend that the West is on a hands-off approach this time? Besides, tell me, if the US was actually planning to remove Assad, how else would it have gone about it? A no-shit invasion? Somehow I don’t think the administration would have taken that kind of a political risk.

Once again, I’m not really against foreign intervention in Syria, yes, military if necessary. The situation has reached such a stage that the best solution for the ordinary people over there will be for this war to be over as soon as possible, regardless of who wins. And yes, a US led attack seems to be quickest path to that objective.

It’s just that I’ve heard all this before. I’ve heard the same tales of torture and tyranny, the same stories of chemical and biological weapons  attacks or stockpiles, the so called weapons of mass destruction. I’ve heard oppressive regimes and tyrannical dictators, I’ve heard strong arguments for “regime changes”, the need for immediate action to “deliver a strong clear message” to those misguided rulers. Last but not the least, I’ve heard of “irrefutable evidence” before, that of terror links and gas attacks and WMD stockpiles. I’ve heard of the desperate need to “liberate” the helpless citizens of Afghanistan and Iraq, more than once. Those countries have all been liberated, more than once by the US.

And guess what, they’re still burning.

Good luck Syria.

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The Road To Ithaca – 18

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The doorbell rang precisely at 11 the next morning. For some reason, I had decided that I did not want to appear too eager, so I was sitting in my room. I had rehearsed this moment for hours the previous day, and I had made a few notes to myself:

  • When you’re walking towards the gate, walk at a measured pace. Not too fast, not too fast.
  • Say something casual, when you open the gate. e.g – Hi, Good Morning, How are you?
  • Don’t stare. Remember to smile. Remember to smile!
  • Act casual when she’s talking to parents.
  • TRY BEHAVING NORMALLY..

Sadly, Roopsa, my beloved German Shepherd, shot all my best laid plans to hell.  It was my fault. In all my excitement, I had forgotten all about her. So, about two seconds after the bell rang, before I had even stepped out of my room, I could hear Roopsa barking her “stranger-alert” bark from the garden. I forgot all about measured paces and ran to the gate practically at a full gallop. Instead of delivering my well-rehearsed greetings, I found myself trying desperately to shut Roopsa up. Predictably, she wasn’t cooperating.

A word here. Reading that last bit might give you the wrong impression about Roopsa, so let me clarify. She wasn’t angry or hostile by nature. She was very friendly, and she loved having guests at the house. In fact, what she enjoyed most was sitting in the middle when me and a few other boys from school sat in my room and talked trash for hours. However, there was one specific type of visitors who she didn’t quite welcome with open arms, and those were female friends of mine. Yes, dogs are intensely jealous, and if you have any disgusting Freudian explanations about that, I suggest you keep those to yourself.

Anyway, I quieted Roopsa after a few minutes of effort and opened the gate. Roopsa sniffed her suspiciously for a while and then seemed to accept her presence for the time being. After the obligatory exchanges with my mom, I took her to my room. Roopsa quietly got on the bed and firmly sat down close to me, keeping an eye on her all the time. This did not seem to faze her. She looked at Roopsa with a half-smile and said, “Why do I have the feeling that I already have competition?”

Again, my rehearsals had not covered that possibility that she would be so direct. I smiled weakly and said,”Don’t worry, she likes you.”

I discreetly tried to push Roopsa off the bed even as I spoke. If only pushing full-grown Alsatians around were that easy. At first Roopsa just threw me an annoyed glance and made a strange sound in her throat that was halfway between a grunt and a growl. I pushed a little harder. Instead of budging an inch, Roopsa just snuggled closer, put her head on my leg, and apparently fell asleep. I gave up.

The girl I was doing all this for laughed delightedly at my embarrassment. “Let her stay,” She said affectionately,”I like her already. At least…”

“What?” I asked.

She smiled that naughty but bewitching smile of hers that I loved, “Unlike you, wimp, she doesn’t try to hide her feelings from everyone, especially from you. Where’s my ice-cream?”

She had once told me that butter-scotch was her favorite flavor of ice-cream, and I in turn had told her that I’ll treat her to it the first time she comes to my home. We had not spoken about it again, but she remembered, and she knew that so would I.

“Coming up.” I said, and firmly pushed Roopsa’s head off my leg. As I got off the bed to get the ice-cream, Roopsa lazily crawled to her, put her head on her lap, and apparently fell asleep again. I stood looking at my beloved pet in disbelief. Wasn’t she barking furiously at her, about 3 minutes ago? Besides…okay, I’ll admit it. I’m a bit possessive about my dogs as well.

“You ungrateful canine,” I muttered, trying to sound threatening, “You just wait till I get my hands on you.”

The ungrateful canine opened one eye, wagged her tail once, and licked my girl’s hand affectionately.

The subject of affection, in turn, laughed indulgently and petted her newest fan who had apparently fallen asleep again.

“Ice-cream.” She ordered. “And get some for her as well.”

I stood looking at the scene for moment. The beautiful girl and the huge German shepherd curled up at her feet, both of whom I loved more than almost anything else in this world. Then, despite myself, I grinned happily and went to get that damned ice-cream…

The ungrateful canine

The ungrateful canine

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A Crisis of Identity

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Recently, a piece of paper bearing the seal of the government of India arrived at my house. It tersely instructed us to be present on a given location on a given date and time. At first I thought I was being suspected of having links with Maoists/Pornographers because of all my subversive activities ( three attempted satire articles about two national lunatics on a blog that nobody reads anyway. ). Turned out there was nothing so sinister about the summons after all.   The Unique Identification Authority of India, apparently, wanted to collect our biometric information so that they can eventually give us our new unique national IDs, or Aadhar cards as they are strangely called.

For starters, I am not sure why exactly this card is being issued. The idea, I’m told, is that this will be our one-stop identity proof from now on. Now that’s undoubtedly a noble and brilliant idea. However, I have heard this before, and I already carry a voter card and a PAN (permanent account number) card and a passport, all of which were supposed to serve the same purpose. Anyway, if the Government finally decides to spend some money on useful things such as shiny plastic cards for its citizens rather than overpriced choppers for VVIPs or obsolete Russian Aircraft Carriers for the Navy, I sure don’t mind. Bring it on, I’ll squeeze it in between that ATM card of a long-closed bank account and that membership card of the office-gym in the company I resigned from a year ago.

The second beef I have with the Aadhar card is the rather stupid name. For my overseas readers, “Aadhar” means “container.” I suppose the idea is that it will “contain” all our details, hence the name. Seriously, dude, whoever came up with that abortion manual deserves to be strangled, revived and then shot, ie, up the backside. I mean, do you realise that by that logic we humans can call ourselves “shit” and Pappu can call himself “brain”?

Okay, okay, I said I won’t complain. Anyway, on the given date we dutifully turned up at the given venue. To be honest, it was well organised, though stifling hot. The officials had set up quite a few desks with the necessary equipment and were efficiently directing people to their designated stations. The obligatory queues were there, but nobody complained. When you live in country of one billion, you kinda learn to live with it.

Sadly, the equipment had not quite learned to live with it in time. Every single operation took five repetitions and quite a few swear-words from everyone present to be completed. As for the overall data collection process, I had the sneaking suspicion that if I am ever jailed for some offense, the introductory procedures will be somewhat similar.

For starters, I was made to sit still in a rather rickety chair, an impossibly dirty white bed-sheet hanging behind me serving as the backdrop. The person sitting on the table then thrust a paper-wrapped white light almost up my nostrils and took a mug shot on a webcam. That being done, I was made to put all my fingers in a confusing order and pattern on a glass-topped box. This, I gathered, was the fingerprint scanner, and the obstinate mother stubbornly refused to accept my prints each time until I put almost enough pressure to crack the glass.

The obstinate mother

The obstinate mother

Finally, the guy there thrust a weird binocular like contraption at my eyes and asked me to keep them wide open. This, to the general amusement of onlookers, presented an impossibly large and bloated image of my eyeballs on the computer screen. After a few failed attempts indicated by obnoxious beeps and chimes from the machine, I was through.

Like I said

Like I said

The government now had my photo, fingerprints and retina scans. It would keep them in some huge database, encode them and put them in a chip in a plastic card that I will be required to submit to get everything from bank accounts to cooking gas. No matter if I run a traffic signal in Kerala or murder somebody in Bengal, it will put up a flag on somebody’s computer, add another bullet point to a list or automatically open a new file. I could not eat, earn, travel, marry or even die without the state knowing about it.

As I started walking home, I noticed the date on my watch and smiled at the irony. It was the 12th of August. 3 days to our 67th Independence Day.

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Happy Independence Day India

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When I was a little kid, 15th August, like for any other kids, was just another holiday which I didn’t know much about, and didn’t really care. We were made to stand in formation on the grounds of our primary school, and wave little tricolor flags above our heads while our parents and other onlookers cheered and clapped.

As I grew up a little, I was educated about the day. It is our Independence Day, I was told, it is the day on which we won our freedom from the wretched British Empire, which had colonised us for no less than 200 years. I still remember a little me being indignant and angry when I learned this. Strange white people from a faraway land had all but enslaved us? How dare they! To me, it was a comic-book or fantasy television series like scenario : where bad guys attack the timid and peace-loving good guys simply because they are the bad guys. I also learnt about our valiant freedom fighters, the masses as well as the legends: Netaji, Mahatma Gandhi and Khudiram Bose. I read and heard the stories that described how terrible a price they had paid with their own blood and sweat and often lives, so that we could have our freedom. I was taught, like every Indian kid is, that it was only the bravery and patriotism of our men that made the British bullies finally turn tail and run away. This sounded good to me. It seemed that we taught the British a lesson for their acts. They had absolutely no business invading and occupying my country, and could have just lived in peace in their own.

Before we go any further, let me clarify that as I have grown up, that animosity has mostly worn off. I will never forget or forgive the worst atrocities, Jallianwalabag and the Bengal Famine and the rest, but I do not hate the British anymore just because their forefathers had the courage and strength to build an empire. They were a race at the pinnacle of their power, and they chose to exercise that power, it’s that simple. So did the Mughals, the Greek, the Romans, the Turks, the Germans, the French, not to mention quite a few Indians and dozens of others. Besides, if we were to hate the British now because of what happened a hundred years ago, we should forever hate the Germans just because there was once an Adolf Hitler.

Anyways, after this period of fiery patriotism came another brand of enlightenment. Year after year, one luminary after another started lamenting during the course of their Independence Day speeches how my country was not actually free after all. How almost half the people in the country still live without access to clean drinking water, how millions of children are denied an education and instead put to work at a young age, how corruption is everywhere, how social security and responsibility has eroded. They all used to conclude by saying that this is not the freedom thousands of patriots had died for, that India will never become truly free until we somehow make every imperfection magically vanish from our country. “Er…excuse me, aren’t you kinda missing the point here?” I wanted to tell them. Sure, we have problems. Let Independence Day be celebrated for what it is, for God’s sake.

And then, when I delved a little deeper into history, a different realisation came. Sure, our freedom fighters played a large part, but one cannot deny the fact that post WWII, England simply did not have the resources left to hold on to all its colonies, and that was one of the real reasons why they gave up on India, the crown jewel of their empire. I learned the less-publicized facts, and personal agendas of the champions of our struggle for liberation, and sadly realised in the process that our freedom had not come through the straight-forward good vs evil battle like my childhood had taught me.

The point, of all the above, is not to give you lessons in history. Like everything else in this blog, the point of this is something personal. I am not one of those super patriots. Someone had once asked me what my order of priorities are, and I had responded truthfully, “Self, family, country.” However, I am not one of those either for whom India means just a cricket team, or Madhuri Dixit, or an entity that Pakistan tries its best to blow up every other day.  No, India means something more, something real to me. I don’t know exactly what. But I can tell you something that I have noticed since as far back in my life as I can remember, and this has not been limited only to 15th Augusts or 26th Januarys : Every time I have seen that tricolor fluttering in the air, I have stood a little straighter. I have stood tall and proud, with shoulders squared and my head held high. Every time I have caught the opening strains of Jana-Gana-Mana, my beautiful National Anthem, I have had goosebumps all over my skin.

In those moments I have known, that no mater how much I love KFC and Pink Floyd and Manchester United, no matter how sick I might be of all the cheap politics and endless corruption, I still am, and I will always be goddamn proud to be an Indian.

Happy 67th Independence Day to you all !!

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Coming Home

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Home Sweet Home - Deewali last year

Home Sweet Home – Deewali last year

Of the almost three decades that have been my life, I have spent just over one at home. The rest have been spent in a confused mixture of boarding school, college hostels, rented flats and PG accommodations. I know, a lot of people will shake their heads mournfully learning this, and lament that this is exactly how children drift away from their family.

They could not be more wrong. I would not go as far as to say that staying at home makes for bad relations. However, so far as my relations with members of my family are concerned, I can tell you that the distance has drawn us closer, not pushed us further. Being away most of the time has ensured that home  always remains a special place for me, a novelty, if you will. Look at it this way – if you are used to having a bland, institutional lunch everyday at the office cafeteria, you must relish the weekends, when you can have simple, clean home-cooked food with your family or take them out for a nice dinner. For me, home works the same way. It’s something that’s my own, not something I happened to have to go through.

This does not mean that I do not enjoy the life away from home, or that I have any regrets about any of the places I have had to stay in. No, quite to the contrary, I have immensely enjoyed each and every one of my dens. I spent seven years in the cheerful dorms of a boarding school, three years in a raucous hostel in the engineering college I dropped out of after three years, and about 4 years in an assorted mix of shared flats and rented rooms that I lived in while I was working in BPOs. I currently live in this B-School hostel which is home to people from more than 20 states of India. Each of these places have offered me different joys and sorrows, different people and cultures, and have taught me countless lessons in life. I love each and every one of them. And yet, they have never been home. Whenever I have joined any of these places, I have always known that they are going to temporary, even if temporary means seven years.

Home, on the other hand, has been permanent. It has been a place to go back to, and I think you will agree that that means a lot in our usual lives lived in insanity. It has been the place I have returned to get sober after extended periods of drunken pleasure, to get some needed warmth and love after periods of grief, to escape from the sleepless nights of a shattering heartbreak, or just to look at the smiling, forgiving faces of the people who have literally created me, or simply the unique sense of contentment that comes from going back to your roots.

I should mention that the pleasure has never been mine alone. The folks at home always cherish my homecomings almost more than I do. Like I said, the absence has drawn us closer. Since the days at home are always limited, all of us pitch in to make sure that those days are spent as happily as possible. My grandparents are still alive and kicking, and the way their faces light up as soon as I step on the lawn is really something that can lighten up my worst days at work.  My family, I’m sure, has its share of bad days, misunderstandings and fights like any other. However, the days when I’m home, I see absolutely no evidence of any of that. Everybody, including and especially my German Shepherds, seem to be grinning and walking with a spring in their steps round the clock whenever I’m there.

I don’t consider myself a perfect son or grand-son, neither do I have any illusions of being a miracle worker whose mere presence can cheer up people. However, every time since the summer vacation in 1994 when I came home from my first boarding-school, I have noticed a very obvious..well, mood that is in the air round the clock. It has been, very simply, this: “Now that he’s here, the family is complete. ” Please believe me when I say it is almost a literal affectionate caress on my cheeks, or a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

Isn’t that something?

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Film Review : Gone Baby Gone (2007)

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“Gone Baby Gone” is certainly not a new movie (2007), neither was last night the first time I had seen it. No, I have seen it at least five times by now, and I know I will see it again in a couple of months. There are things in the movie that keep dragging me back.

My introduction to Ben Affleck was in Daredevil, and as a result I had him clubbed in that category of actors who are good-looking, but don’t have to be taken too seriously; say Ryan Reynolds or Josh Lucas for example. That perception changed after I came across Gone Baby Gone, his directorial debut.

The movie is a crime-thriller, and is based on the novel by Dennis Lehane. Set in a depressing blue-collar neighborhood of Boston, the story is one that is sure to break hearts. Amanda McCready, a beautiful 4-year-old blond girl is kidnapped from her home. Her mother Helene is a cocaine-sniffing, alcoholic mess who you wouldn’t trust for taking your dog on a walk. After the Boston Police turn up with nothing in three days after the kidnapping, Amanda’s aunt Bea hires a local private-detective couple to probe people in the neighborhood who might not have been forthcoming with the cops. The rest of the story is a terrifying mix of sub-plots, twists, betrayals, corruption and moral dilemma. It’s an edgy, dark story, which never lets you off the hook till the closing credits. It also goes on to stay in your mind for quite a long time, and asks you disturbing questions that you will struggle to answer.

The director has kept the movie in a gritty, realistic setting, relying solely on the story and the performances of the actors to carry it through instead of any fancy effects or sequences. It is genuinely gratifying to see that he has made brilliant choices for both. The detective couple of Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro is played by Ben’s brother Casey Affleck and a totally de-glam but still beautiful Michelle Monaghan. Neither the two of them nor the director make the slightest effort to assign any glamour to their characters or to keep the camera on them a second more than is strictly necessary. The result is two real people with real life problems and fears, uncertainties and complications, who make the narrative infinitely more convincing. Gone-Baby-Gone

The supporting characters are just about as brilliant. While it is true that someone of Morgan Freeman’s caliber has been seriously under-utilized in the role of Jack Doyle, Boston PD‘s head of missing-children division, I cannot honestly think of anyone else who could have done more justice to that pivotal character in the story. Equally compelling is Ed Harris as the tough, cynical detective Remy Bressant and Titus Welliver as Helene’s brother Lionel. The best performer in the movie, in my opinion, is easily Amy Ryan as Helene, Amanda’s mother. She reluctantly admits to numerous involvements with petty crime and nonchalantly makes up pathetic excuses for acts of negligence of her daughter, and makes you make you hate her more and more with every passing minute of the movie, as well as making you silently sympathise with Amanda for being born to such an undeserving mother. 2007_gone_baby_gone_003

It’s primarily her performance as the social disaster of a mother, along with the choices made and questions faced by the other characters, that takes this thriller to a whole new level. Throughout the narrative you will find the lines between good and bad, right and wrong blurred to an extent that they become unrecognizable. Even at the end, wisely, the director doesn’t preach or try to convince you of a certain version of justice. He leaves you with more doubts than he started the movie with, he makes you question every act from a moral and ethical perspective and at the very end, brilliantly asks that eternal question: whether two wrongs can make a right. vlcsnap-498091

If you have a feeling that I have told you too little of the story, you would be right. And I have done so both in the knowledge that you deserve to see the director’s version of it rather than read my lame-duck version of it, and also in the hope that I might just tempt you into seeing the movie, in case you haven’t seen it already. I cannot assure you that you will not regret it, for it might disturb you more than you want a movie to. However, I can certainly assure you that you would not consider it a waste of your time.

A good day to you all.

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The Sad Death of Latex

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I’ll be honest with you. I’m a normal guy with conventional tastes. I love b**bs, I adore cleavages, and I consider latex bodysuits with an adulation that most textbooks of spirituality ( Including and especially the Fifty Shades Trilogy) would instantly brand sinful. Having said that, for God’s sake man, that is ridiculous! I mean what is that?

For the enlightenment of the average clueless reader ( that means You! ), that is supposed to be Kangana Ranaut in her upcoming flick “Krrish 3”. Now, at this point a lot of you might be scratching your heads and wondering the same thing that I did: Was there a Krrish 2? No, there wasn’t. I’m not sure why. It is well-known the Director-Producer RRRakesh RRRoshan has a thing for numbers and repetitions of the letter R and starting everything with the letter K, maybe he knows something we don’t.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. That thing in that suit. The news article I stumbled on describes it as Kangana’s “uber-chic look” which is a “cross between anime and sci-fi.” I’m sorry. The only objective I’m willing to put after “uber” to describe that look is “dumb”. And no, it doesn’t look anything like a cross between anime and sci-fi. If anything, it looks suspiciously like a cross between a cat having a bad hair day and a struggling porn actress auditioning for a bondage themed movie.  Seriously, that thing looks ridiculous.

I know, some of you might be inclined to think that the look is sexy. With all due respect, I think you are focusing on, ahem, a specific part of the lady, not the entire picture. So far as the specific part is concerned, I’m a little confused. Isn’t this supposed to be a children’s movie?

The dress, if you can call it that, has been created by designer Gavin Miguel, who took no less than 45 days to come up with it. Our beloved Kangana then had to shed 4 kgs. and endure several “oiling sessions” ( stop dreaming boys! ) so that she could get into that thing. For starters, that has to be the worst reason for losing weight that I have ever heard. Kangana adds that they wanted a look that nobody in Bollywood has done before. Well, congratulations! You succeeded. By the way, Manmohan Desai must have had the same thought when he made Dharam-Veer back in 1977, for he came up with this.

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Look Ma! Nobody’s done this before!

To wrap things up, I’m sure the movie will be a hit. If Chennai Express can make record collections in the box-office, if Pappu can be seriously considered as our next prime minister, that seems like a foregone conclusion. I’m  not bothered by the film’s quality, or potential success. Having grown up in India, shitty movies are weekly occurrences for me.

My  complaint with the movie in general and that dress in particular is on a personal level: latex bodysuits will never be the same for me again.

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The Drained Tank

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There’s this great blog that I follow religiously (Full disclosure: I’m an atheist. Anyway..), it’s called The Accidental Cootchie Mama. On a post dated July 22nd (which you can read here), The Cootchie Mama asked,”How do you fill your creative tank?” She made a point that being creative can be draining. The constant need for making something, creating something out of nothing can leave you drained and depleted, and can make it harder and harder to keep coming up with new creative offerings.

When I read that for the first time, I didn’t quite agree. “Oh I totally love being creative,” I thought like all amateurs, “I don’t feel drained being creative, I feel rejuvenated.” I did not bother to consider that when I was reading that I was having more than 5-6 hours a day to myself. I was writing roughly two posts a day, I was getting favorable reviews from fellow bloggers, and I was totally loving it.

The last few weeks or so, have busted my bubble for once and all. I’ve been busy, like really busy with a lot of stuff. And so far as this blog is concerned, the last few weeks have been disastrous. It’s not just that page views have fallen and the last few articles I’ve written have been of such mediocre quality that nobody has even bothered leaving their thoughts on them. Those things have affected me, yes, but the biggest crisis I have faced in the last 20 days or so is that I have struggled to write, and that has rarely, if ever, happened to me.

Andra Watkins had mentioned in a comment on her post that stress can get in the way of creativity. I could not agree more, Cootchie Mama. I’d hate to admit that I’m stressed, I’d rather just say I’ve been busy. But the fact remains, there has been more than one occasion in the last month when I have sat looking at this empty “Add New Post” page, and have given up half an hour and three cigarettes later.

The stress, I have realised, affects us in more ways than one, so far as creativity is concerned. I’m not one of those geniuses who can just sit in front of a keyboard and have words and phrases flow from their fingers without having to make a conscious effort. If I take a half-hour to write a post, at least an hour’s thought go into it, right from the first inkling of the idea to rolling it over in my head and making corrections and revisions as I go. Those one or two hours has been hard to come by, and that has been it. Even when I have had some time to myself, have had a good idea in my head, I have been unable to carry it through. Because instead of the writing, I have found myself thinking about the emails I have to send in the next three hours, the corporate honchos that I have to call and suck up to and other such cheerful bits and pieces that come with responsibilities.

If you are a regular reader of my blog, please consider this an apology. I know I have failed to deliver almost everything that you come to my blog for . The pieces I have written have either been bland, or unnecessarily negative and hostile. And yes, Pappu has made one more unforgivable remark and I’ve left it alone. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.

The solution to all the above should be simple. As numerous people have been saying all along,  and as I have also advised quite a few people myself, we have to keep our work and personal lives separate. Unfortunately, like most good things in this world, that is also easier said than done. What am I going to do then? Well, not give up, for starters. I’m going home tomorrow for the weekend, and a meeting with Ladli should cheer me up considerably. And yes Cootchie Mama, the comments section in the post of yours had quite a few good suggestions as well. Maybe I’m gonna try a few.

Have a good weekend you all, and Eid Mubarak to you.

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