Life, the universe and everything.

Kambakht Ishq: Kambakht everything...

2009-07-09T21:08:00.002+05:30

There are many cinematic ‘firsts’ that Kambakht Ishq manages to achieve:
1. Last many decades have seen Sylvester Stallone saving the world, US and Afghanistan. Now, finally, see him save a damsel in distress from some goons who, mysteriously, find the lead girl, despite her chronic anemia, worthy of the trouble.
2. Sylvester Stallone also gets to do a Sunny Paaji in the pre-climax. He gets to uproot a lamp-post (a la the legendary handpump-ukhado scene from maha-legendary Gadar) and beat the goons to pulp…it’s a classic east-meets-west moment.
3. Sylvester Stallone finally says something comprehensible (his utterly unforgettable and incomprehensible outburst in Rambo First Blood is still haunting my subconscious)… and it’s Hindi that comes to his rescue.
4. A typical verbal exchange between our hero and heroine borrows from a very realistic vocabulary such as stuck-up bitch, dog, sick bastard, asshole etc. When it comes to progressive and modern cinema, this is right up there.
5. Hindi mainstream cinema gets its first rectal search. Clearly, if it’s funny enough for our director, we must laugh our heads off.
6. It’s a liberating experience to see a stunt man making so much money and leading a lifestyle of a rock star. They must be paid really well in Hollywood. There is hope in this world…er…in America.
7. And finally, it’s not really a first. After Neal ‘n’ Nikki, Censor board has done it again (and hence proved that they are not biased towards YRF). U/A certificate to a movie which decidedly pursues the higher goal of sex awareness among our juveniles and adolescents. When Simrita (that, my friends, is our heroine’s name) tells her sister “Men want only one thing from women” and points towards that area below the abdomen, our little ones would have asked “Momma, what do men want? What is she talking about?”. Great stuff, this. It also surpasses the great cinematic moment in Billu (no-more-Barber) when Om Puri offers to display the eighth wonder and points to his own reproductive organ (ah, evaded that uncomfortable word).
The young boy (with twinkle in his youthful eyes) shrieked with joy when opening credits started rolling. Reason: there were shots from one of those Hollywood award functions. This guy was enjoying watching them all and excitedly naming them. So we (me and my colleague) joined him. Tom Cruise appeared. We shouted “Sylvester Stallone”. He gently, smugly corrected us “Tom Cruise”.
And we realized that this wasn’t a movie meant to work for us.
And since we have walked out long before the end credits could roll, I can assure you reasonably well, it didn’t work for me. To begin with, it’s a crass movie…which in itself is not a bad thing. But the problem is that it tries to be too many things. First half is full of bad-ass language (which gets repetitive after a point) and gross, dirty sex jokes (with not enough wit) and the second half is half-cooked mushy romance. The clash between the two protagonists does not have enough sparks. Akshay Kumar looks tired and is suffering from a perpetual bad hair day (literally). He does manage to bring some liveliness to the proceedings. But he is starting to look old, especially in front of Kareena. Kareena, to her credit, revives her irritating “Poo” act from K3G and is pain in the ass right from the word go. Amrita Arora exposes sufficiently but fails to look hot. Thankfully there is very little of Javed Jaffery’s irrelevant, unfunny character. I remember some songs too but I will not comment on them since I forced myself to think about eradicating poverty during those sublime moments.
I haven’t found the key to eradicate poverty, but I can save you some of your hard earned money in these days of recession. However, if you have made up your charitable mind to donate that money to already rich Mr. Nadiadwala, don’t take your kids along. Or be prepared to squirm in your seat when they ask you “What did that black Aunty do to Akshay while searching for the drugs that he is unable to walk properly”.

Tashan: Or how I survived the movie and lived to tell the tale

2009-07-02T17:37:00.002+05:30

The fact that I am writing this is testimony to the fact that movies can’t kill. But they can come very close to crushing your desire to live. Tashan did exactly that. The only reason I refrain from calling it the worst movie of our times is because I haven’t seen Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, which well-wishers assure me (with a haunted look), is in a class of its own.
I don’t have the courage to go through the storyline because none exists. What does exist is some convoluted reason for two guys to fight over some moolah and a starved bebo, sorry, babe. Add an excuse of a ‘Bhai’ who is behind all this, and you have it. And who do we get for this Bhaiya don? Our very own tapori Anil Kapoor who graduates to play a don who can’t speak English but speak in English he must. One: He is not Sanjay Dutt. Two: Only his dialogue writer could understand his dialogues. They should have given sub-titles for his dialogues or should have supplied babel fish with each ticket…nice mythical creatues, these fish… But then that would have meant giving a thought about the audience, which is, as the circumstantial evidence points out, unlikely!
Saif Ali Khan, after a string of successful movies, goes back to his pre-DCH days and plays the second fiddle to our cool-dude superstar Akshay. It’s a role worse than what he has already done in Tu Chor Main Sipahi movies. Akshay is the only saving grace. Aint he always :o). He comes in from UP, idolizing the BhaiyyaJi, plays the role of a recovery agent to recover the money from Bebo, only to discover his long lost lady love. Amidst all this, he also runs through millions of bullets unscathed, does spiderman-ish stunts and must have killed the villain by the time credits rolled. I wouldn’t know, for I must have fallen asleep.
There were times when I wondered why people populating the screen were doing what they were indeed doing. Truth be told, I also know that movie making is not always about logic. However, it is when your hands unconsciously grab your head, in a weak moment of exasperation; you know that you are onto something special. It happened with me twice in the movie.
To cut the non-existent story short: STAY AWAY for this Tashan. Instead try to decipher what your doctor wrote last time you visited her, read your company’s quality manuals or study the mutual fund offer document carefully. That’s far more fulfilling.

New York. Really?

2009-07-01T21:10:00.001+05:30

NEW YORK
(*ing: Neil Nitin Mukesh, John Abraham, Katrina Kaif, Irrfan Khan and a bunch of smirking, scowling firang extras)
DISCLAIMER: If you haven’t seen the movie and determined to watch it, then please don’t go any further because I don’t want to deprive the film industry of your hard earned money. Also, I may give away whatever little twist this movie has to offer.
I am desperately trying to like the movie. It’s been more than two and a half months since a half-decent movie got released (well, there was one delightful ‘99’). But my best efforts to get involved in the movie, to feel for the protagonists are in vain. In summary, I find ‘New York’ to be a superficial, shallow movie.
At the outset, the story has been set in post-9/11 New York but as I settled down in my rattling seat (in a post-apocalypse single screen in Surat), I realized that I had seen this story elsewhere. At a superficial level the movie is indeed about the way Muslims have been treated in the USA post 9/11 but at a more basic level the movie is just about a mole being planted in a criminal organization. Now, where have we seen that? Vikram Bhatt’s Footpath, Hansal Mehta’s Chhal and numerous other equally forgettable movies. Kabir Khan believes that by merely setting the story in the post-9/11 scenario, he would be able to make a profound statement on the society.
New York does not engage me emotionally. And the three lead non-actors are NOT the only reasons. For a topical movie to work, dialogues have to be top grade. Here, the dialogues are cringe-worthy. There are justifications abound for everyone’s non-American accent in the movie. I could have overlooked it but in one scene it’s almost like the director is apologizing for Irrfan Khan’s hinterland-desi accent (Irrfan, incidentally turns an indifferent, bored performance). Movie also suffers from a jarring background score. The composer seems to be giving the score for a MTV music video. Script also does not answer many obvious questions any sane mind would raise. Abbas Mastan’s Race seems to be more logical in comparison. Katrina Kaif goes around cheerfully, knowing fully well that her husband is planning a terror attack…and HOPING that he will give up his wrong ways. FBI, fully aware about the plot being hatched, waits for ‘something’. Nobody knows what they were waiting for. Well, on my part I was waiting for the end credits.
Kabir Khan disappoints big time. His last outing, Kabul Express, was at least a road movie, if nothing else. That movie also failed to make any profound statement on Afghanistan, yet it entertained. And it was original. This time around Kabir chooses to lift two sequences from two brilliant movies. John’s introduction scene is lifted frame by frame from Chariots of Fire (the race in the college building) and later he lifts the tense cop-fondling-the-black-lady scene from Crash. The latter scene has no bearing on the main story but it looked like Kabir Khan was impressed by the possibilities that one scene offered and chose to shoot it. It must have been retained because this is probably the only poignant scene even if it is a straight lift. It kills me to see that even these new-age directors are not above cheap plagiarism.
In nutshell, I guess Kabir Khan has taken his nascent reputation of ‘issue-based’ filmmaker too seriously (he seems to be going the Madhur Bhandarkar way) and trying too hard to live up to this image. It will do him good if he takes it easy next time and spare any such serious issue. For YRF, all I can say is that it is embarrassing to admit that our most prestigious production house is behind a movie which turns the whole issue into an unintentional joke.
Skip it.

1971: The movie

2007-09-20T20:01:00.000+05:30

Every once in a while there comes a movie that surprises you. It surprises you because you never gave the movie any chance. It surprises you because it tells a new story (not borrowed from the nearby DVD library…even the recently celebrated Bheja Fry is after all an imitation of a european comedy) and it tells you the story with a honesty that wins your heart.
Some years ago Arshad Warsi immortalised his ‘circuit’ in the Munnabhai franchise and we thought that he was a great comedian. Till I happened to see this brilliant movie ‘Seher’. Leading a motley crew of superb character artistes (including Pankaj Kapoor and Sushant Singh), Warsi turned in a lifetime performance. The movie was undoubtedly a result of meticulous research and was told straight from heart. Unfortunately, very few actually watched it. It remains one of my favourites to this day.
And so it happened with an obscure movie that got released earlier this year: 1971. Although coming from the house of Ramanand Sagar, this movie had surprisingly been a decidedly low key affair. As I personally hold responsible Mr. Ramanand Sagar for the now popular three-slow-motion-shots-from-three-different-angles-with drumbeats-with same-expressions as the vamps in today’s serials plan their next moves, I wasn’t very sure what to expect from this another ‘Sagar’. My fears were unfounded, as it turned out. Amrit Sagar, in fact, is a genius.
Let me say it: 1971 is a great movie. Undoubtedly the most engaging war related movie to come out in a decade or so. Actually, its not so much about war. Its about Indian POWs languishing in the Pakistani Jails from the 1971 war. The movie is all about the attempt of six indian POWs to escape the prison and hoping to make it to their motherland: Hindustan.
The first thing that Amrit Sagar gets right is the casting. Manoj Bajpayee and Ravi Kissen being the two most identifiable faces but more than ably supported by the other character actors who give the movie the most authentic feel. Watch them breaking into a jig as the news of their imminent release reaches them. Sure to bring tears to your eyes. Tears of joy, I mean. They escape the camp and as the chase turn more desperate, one by one the soldiers go down fighting for the larger goal. As it nears the end, you increasingly begin to hope against hope for their safe escape but you know the truth. The end is heart-breaking and as the credits roll on the screen, you can’t help but think about the fate of those unlucky, forgotten ones on the other side of the fence.
Its very close to being a perfect movie. Like Seher this one also stays with you long after its over. The movie never loses its pace, no sidetracks about the love interests of the PoWs and keeps you glued.
You start wondering why was this movie such a big failure at the box office.
Was it the absence of a 14 minute song picturised on soldiers about their longing for their homes?
Was it the absence of a interlude where each POW goes into flashback and makes love to his spouse?
Was it the absence of a screaming Punjab-da-puttar that failed to bring the masses to the theatre?

Whatever it was, it’s the loss for those who love good cinema.
Watch it.

Bye Bye Mr. President

2007-08-05T02:42:00.000+05:30

He is a rockstar and I don’t say this because of his hairstyle. Even before he took up the responsibilities bestowed upon him by the for-once-they-were-right politicians, Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam was already the hero of Indian middle class. With the Pokharan II nuclear tests, Dr. Kalam had come to symbolize the assertion of a young and hopeful Indian youth. I remember waking up to the news of nuclear tests being conducted in Pokharan and suddenly feeling very very proud.
As he moved into the highest office (and the largest piece of real estate) in our country five years back, many of us had misgivings about how would a scientist handle this office. In the limited powers that he would be given as the President of this country, would he be able to handle the nasty politics?
I am not a political columnist but as a citizen of this country I feel that he has been the best thing that happened to the post of President. He was the most popular President we have had and he opened the doors of the Rashtrapati Bhawan to the common man. He converted one room into a multimedia lab where he could be in touch with anyone across the country.
He visited people across the breadth of the country, especially children and talked to them in a language they understood. Wherever he went, he talked about his vision of making India a super power by 2020, he urged the youth to work towards the goal…his biggest grouse with the indian political leaders is that they seldom talk about the vision for India (are they listening???).
When he met the heads of other states, being a true technocrat, he made powerpoint presentations. When he talked, he wasn’t merely reading the speech prepared by his aides, he spoke with a passion seldom witnessed in his predecessors.
As we stride forward to a tentative future where our country is poised to play a much larger role in the world economy than ever before, we replace our scientist President with a superstitious yes-man-puppet who claims that she has been talking to some ‘baba’ spirit... Can it get worse than this? Well, we have seen worse days!!!
It is with a sense of deep loss that we say good-bye to a great man and hope that he continues to inspire the indian populace.

A Mumbai-ite in Delhi

2007-02-15T10:49:00.000+05:30

You know you are in Delhi when:

You are standing at the inner circle in CP and asking the shopowners and hawkers for directions to inner circle and none of them seem to know it.
You walk out of airport terminal and experience something as painfully hearbreaking as hundreds of hammers crashing onto a new car bonet (later you will realize that its not their fault, its their language!)
The dude sitting next to you in a swanky multiplex in a posh area surprises you with a shout (louder than the opening shot of earth-shattering bomb blast at Mumbai’s Dalal Street): “ke karrraaa hai? Pikture shuru ho gayee hai be! Khana chor ke aaja”. If only you could get the guy who invented mobile phones!
Newspapers only talk about how difficult it is to get the admissions for the male children.
Your colleague complain about how bad the roads are. It took him 40 minutes to cover a distance of 26 km
When your friend is desparately trying to install an AC (to face the summers) in her old Maruti 800 (which produces a princely 36 bhp). The mechanic is embarresed and chooses to keep the shop closed.
When at a party you bump into your old friends who live in three different states…and no, they aren’t there on a visit to Delhi.

You know you are in Mumbai when:

You ask for directions to Juhu Chowpati, everyone suggests “its around that corner” (baaju mein hai) but that blasted beach seems to be slipping away at each turn.
Your colleague is elated today because it took him only 1 hr. 40 min. to cover a distance of 26 km
When just before the monsoons, the municipality seems to acknowledge the plight of its citizens and digs the road, to repair them...after the monsoons
Your newspaper still covers the inane statements made by a certain Mr. Thackrey who seems to have lost his relevance and mind, among other things.
After every calamity/disaster, all the newpapers and new channels are suddenly talking about something elusive yet omnipresent: Spirit of Mumbai. And you feel nauseating at every mention of this thing.
A restaurant named as ordinarily as Mahesh Lunch Home turns out to be as expensive as a four star eatery, if not more.
All mankind is headed southward in the morning and northbound in the evening

Morning blues

2007-02-05T19:03:00.000+05:30

Scene:
Morning 6:30 am
I am sleepily ironing the shirt and trousers. The steam iron is pretty hot but on today's cotton clothes, creases don't go away so easily, so the iron is on the hottest setting.
Cellphone rings.
Tring tring tring
I answer the call.
Hello!
Aaaaaah...Shit. %$#@%^&
The cellphone is surprisingly hot and spewing steam.
Tring tring tring

Cursing, I pull the iron away from my erstwhile cheek and ears. I run to the mirror. How bad can it be?
Its not too bad. A smart red gash across the cheek. Adds to my masculine personality.

Day begins.

Guru: Good not great...

2007-01-15T10:19:00.000+05:30

“Ban-na chahte ho hindustan ki sabse badi company?” claims the protagnist. A defeaning roar assures him that he will indeed realize that dream one day. And Guru is born.
Loosely based on Dhirubhai Ambani’s life, Guru traces a villager’s journey from being a school master’s son in Gujarat to a Shell salesman to a textile company owner to being the head of the biggest congomerate in India. A journey spread over decades beginning in an era where india had gotten its independence from the british but was still ruled by rulers, albiet of different color. In his journey to make it big, Guru uses shortcuts when facing a hurdle and in front of the ambition to grow bigger and larger, everything else takes a backseat.
Mani Ratnam is one of the finest filmmakers in India today. But his track record in Hindi cinema hasn’t been very bright. But a canvass a large as this, and an interesting story to tell, I had huge expectations from the movie. I was expecting a movie that would move me, overwhelm me and I would leave the theatre thinking about the characters who would stay with me long after the movie had ended. Sadly, the movie doesn’t work the way it should.
It begins with three back to back songs in what appears to be a haste in getting over with the songs quota for the movie. Mallika Sherawat might sizzle the screen but you want the song to get over quickly so you can go back to the story. Barso Re Megha is choreographed on a very fresh looking Aish and choreography of this song deserves mention. Among other songs, Ek lo ek muft, in an already flawed second half, is a waste of time for everyone involved. It’s a below average song and its best to go out and answer the nature's call while the song is played. Tere Bina, the best of the lot, is worth a mention since it has a better placement in the story.
I felt the characterisation of Guru could have been better. He clearly comes across as a self-motivated man but the final speech (it did not stir any emotion) when he rants about India and its populace and its advancement and stuff which never seemed to concern him prior to that speech, left me confused. Also, as a viewer I was peeved at finding that he gets away after flouting so many laws by making a shallow speech. The first half reached a cresendo at the interval point (largely due to Mithun Da’s brilliant portrayal of an idealist newspaper owner) and it opened limitless possibilities for the second half. Second half could have been about the conflict between the right and wrong, the moral and immoral. It could have been about the meteoric rise of a man who wants everything at any cost. Strangely and sadly, Mani refrains from delving into those aspects. He chooses to go for the oft-beaten middle path where the protagnist is a one dimensional heroic character, with little flashes of his cunning and brilliance. And you are left with a mediocre second half which, at best, is run-of-the-mill cinema.
Abhishek Bachchan gets it right this time (after Sarkar). It might well turn out to be the movie which will make his career defined in pre-Guru and post-Guru periods. He reminds of his father in many scenes (espeically angry ones) but I am not complaining (he he). He rocks.
Of all the characters, I loved Manikdas Gupta (MithunDa) the most. Mithun excels in this role of a newspaper baron and I loved him, absolutely adored him in this beautifully etched character. For me, he is the true hero of this enterprise. His angst and the fire within is what took the movie to a fabulous cresendo in the first half.
The scenes between Abhishek & Mithun and Abhishek & Madhawan are the best moments in the movie. Vidya Balan and Madhwan’s romantic interludes are lovely if seen in isolation but they bring a jarring halt to the otherwise interesting movie. Aishwarya is pretty good, and I can again believe that she can act. Thank God for restoring my belief in her.
I think the movie works in bits and pieces. It’s definitly good cinema, the kind one doesn’t get to see often today. But coming from the master, I had thought of a defining movie that would become a timeless classic. Sadly, it fails to cross the line where a movie no longer remains a movie, it becomes a part of our consciousness, of our lives. Mani plays safe and delivers a masala potbolier. End of the day, its just another rags-to-riches story. Guru might have made Shakti Corp. the biggest company in India, Mani fails to make Guru the brightest example of exemplary cinema.

Kabul Express: Not an express

2006-12-28T12:19:00.000+05:30

Finally, a road movie that sticks to the road without getting into unnecessary romantic angles. A movie that ventures into a terrain hitherto unexplored by the hindi filmmakers. A movie that clearly wasn’t shot in studios and chose to capture the original scenery. And finally, a movie that has an ensemble cast comprising of two indians, an Afghan, a paki and a US national. All this and more, ultimately results in a movie, that can be best termed as a damp squid. Being a movie with so many things, apparently, going for it, Kabul Express sadly doesn’t make the grade.
In the name of storyline, Kabul Express doesn’t have much to offer but we are willing to keep that consideration aside for a moment. After all, the treatment/dialogues of a non-existant storyline made a Dil Chahta Hai a classic. So here we have 2 indian journos out in Afghanistan, on a mission to interview a Taliban. The movie is all about their travels and travails as they are led from one adventure to other by a lovable Afghan Khyber. They get captured, are held hostage by a Paki taliban, help a damsel in distress and tackle a donkey suicide bomber.
Kabir Khan, who happens to be the director of this venture, chooses to give it a light-hearted feel with brief moments of emotional turmoil his characters go through. A nice idea but poor execution results in a shallow movie about the situation in that country. The dialogues try hard to be witty and conversational but something is amiss. Arshad Warsi gets the best of the lot and John Abraham is left looking morose and clueless. Of all the actors of this enterprise, his seems to be the worst written role. The female reporter, however, is equally bad. The dialogues explaining the roles played by Pakistan and USA are half-cooked at best and sometimes tend to be very corny sort of stuff. Also, there are inconsitencies in script. When our journos capture the talib, they don’t interview him. They leave him tied and run away. Weren’t they there for an interview?
On the upside, the movie has breathtaking locales (reminds one of Ladakh) and cinematography is top-notch. Few sequences do give you the glimpse into what the movie could have been had it been a little more consistent. The Afghan actor (don’t remember his name) is very charming and it was a pleausre watching him share the screen with our stars. Arshad Warsi is getting repetitive but he is still lovable.
On the whole, its just a time-pass popcorn fare. Nothing great to write home about. For a movie with no story, the dialogues and the treatment of situations are the backbone. Kabul Express, sadly, has neither that would have raised it from being an ordinary movie to a good movie.

The colony

2006-12-11T14:54:00.000+05:30

One thing I absolutely hate is comparing old days with today. I always think that when we do that we are being unfair towards today because more often than not, we remember old days with a fondness generally reserved for one’s most cherished treasures but when today becomes yesterday we treasure this memory equally well. I think we all love to live in past.
But this Deepawali, I had gone to my parents’ place after a gap of many years. And as I sit here, I can’t but help remembering those old days. Honestly, I miss them.
I have never been a great enthusiast for crackers and could never appreciate the pointless noise resulting from thousands of crackers in a race for my-cracker-noisier-than-thou. But what I did like was that few of us (4-5 guys) would go around in the colony and try to blast the dustbin away (it anyway did not do much service, people hardly used the poor thing) or put the mightiest of all bombs under the shelter provided at the bus-stop. After few attempts, the harmless thing would give way and I have to admit, it was all part of that guilty pleasure. The rockets were fired horizontally in the drainage and were a good show. There were some crackers called “Lehsun” (english: Garlic) which would burst when you hit them hard on the ground. Then there were Seiko bombs (those innocuous little red things with white thread) which used to be lit-and-throw type. Anaar was another one of those grand things which we used to save for last. And Charkhi used to lure us to dance around in its sparks and sometimes when it would blast prematurely, we would come away with a sheepish grin saying we-knew-it-would-happen. At the end of it all, there would be a confused cloud of smoke hung in the air.
Maa-Papa would visit some of their friends and we children use to wait up for them to come back. My sisters would still ask me to go with my friends and I used to, unfairly, lap up such an offer after some fake reluctance. Friends, sweets, mischief, noise and elaborately decorated blocks – these were synonymous with Deepawali.
That was then. This time, the colony wore a deserted look. More than half the houses were dark and quiet. One by one, all my friends have gone their own way (like I have been gone for more than a decade). People have left this place and those who have replaced them don’t seem to live Deepawali the way we used to. People hardly visit each other and one ends up watching the Deepawali special of Sa-re-ga-ma-pa Little Champs.
Where have all the kids gone with their small pistols? Where was the gang with big crude bombs to challenge the foundations of that old useless dustbin?
The shelter at the bus-stop smiles as it doesn’t feel threatened by those young rascals. It’s possibly the only thing that’s happy, I guess. Maybe the dustbin too.

Apna Sapna Money Money

2006-11-13T16:23:00.000+05:30

Why did I choose to watch Apna Sapna Money Money this weekend? Well, for two reasons: Director Sangeeth Sivan’s last outing was unapologetically lewd and funny Kya Kool Hain Hum, and Shreyas Talpade whom I have come to like immensely with his last two movies.

The outcome, however, is hardly worth the exhorbitantly priced Rs. 180 ticket. The movie takes inspirations from numerous Priyadarshan movies and borrows many characters and situations from Hera Feri, Hungama etc. and I think that is where it falters. Mr. Sivan, we already have Priyadarshan, failing repeatedly, to match his unforgettable Hera Feri in his subsequent attempts and there is no need for you to copy his style of filmmaking. And please! those everyone-chasing-everyone-else sequences have been done to death. Spare us.

Kya Kool Hain Hum ventured where hindi filmmakers seldom go and thus received thumbs up from us: the public who felt that it spoke in the language we all speak and understand. But the biggest assets were its funny situations the protagnist found themselves in. ASMM, on the other hand, has situations lifted from umpteen crime comedies witnessed on silver screen in past few months. Is there no one who can see that we have had a overdose of crime+comedy, a trend revived by Hera Feri.

ASMM sadly has no brilliantly sketched character, a la Baburao from Hera Feri. But it barely manages to create one such character in Chote Sarkar Mata Prasad, played brilliantly by Rajpal Yadav. Anupam Kher irritates and so is Jackie Shroff. Sunil Shetty hams but that’s nothing new. Ritesh Deshmukh enjoys the limelight as he is present in almost all the frames. He does well as he has always done well in comedies. It’s the Shreyas Talpade who has been wasted completely in an very boring, unimaginative role. He was delightful in Dor but what a wasted opportunity in this movie. Heroines, well, I have already forgotten who all were present, so well...

All in all, this is a movie which is intermittently funny but marred significantly by the need to have a noble reason for a bad deed. It’s a self conscious attempt which treads a beaten path not a no-holds-barred approach which in the earlier outing from this director tickled our funny bone. Watch it only if you are stuck in a mall and waiting for your friends who have just called you to say that they would be late by two hours.

A common sense conversation on a common day

2006-10-06T13:02:00.000+05:30

“I have been requesting the ICICI bank to send my credit card bills on email. Every month I have to follow up. Can you please do something?”
“Yes Sir! Let me check”
After some brief “Hum Hain na” interlude, the man comes back on line (I have already started humming the tune)
“Sir, I believe you had given a request for change in email id on 6th Sept”
“Yes. I think I had done that because your statements weren’t reaching me on my hotmail id so I thought maybe changing to gmail would help”
“You see sir, that request was given on 6th Sept. It takes one billing cycle for the change to take effect. So you will get the statement on the gmail id in November”
“Okay, does that mean the statement would have been sent on my hotmail id”
“No sir, you see, this time you will not get statement at any id. But I have manually sent a request for a statement to be sent to you on your gmail id”
“But…don’t you think it’s a little strange?”
A long uneasy silence.
“Okay. Thanks a lot Vinay”
“Thank you sir”

A religious experience

2006-10-03T16:32:00.000+05:30

Last weekend was a long one and never to miss such an opportunity, we (Gautam and yours truly) decided explore Himachal Pradesh. Now, the two of us are anything but religious but what started as a sightseeing road trip, somewhere transformed into a religious tour. If you have traveled in India, you would know that it is almost impossible to find a tourist place without some highly revered temples or shrines. Where else on earth one would spend one full day in a place like Goa visiting temples? Well I, for one, have done precisely that (I was accompanied by my parents and strangely, temples hold more charm for them than those boring beaches, populated by skimpily clad firangs). You may go to Alaska for your honeymoon but the first thing your better half would want to do there is to visit a temple. Whether I like it or not, I can’t run away from my religious bearings.
And this trip was no exception. At the end of our three day road trip, we had visited 2 temples, 1 Church and a Gurdwara (not counting what Nehru termed as the temples of modern India). This blog is an account of the temples visited.
Jwalamukhi Temple: The first visit to the almighty's abode was on our way to Dharmasala. It was about 6:45 pm, the sun had departed to the other side of the globe and we still had about 40 km to go. We did not want to be driving in hills at night but we did not have a choice. Still contemplating what was the best thing to do, we reached this town called Jwalamukhi, named after the famed temple it has. The temple is thus called because of an eternally burning flame caused by natural gas that issues from a hollow rock in the sanctum. It was brimming with pilgrims in bright yellow and red outfits (one can tell a pilgrim by her body language). Both of us (Gautam and yours truly) are ‘practical’ Hindus which means a visit to a temple will happen only if we are told to, by someone far more powerful than us (or in my case, if I am promised some Prasad). But something inspired us to visit this old temple and off we went. Bought some offering and promptly went inside. Call it perfect timing of our bad luck, the doors of the temple had just been closed for Aarti. We enquired with some policeman (a polite one at that!) and were informed that it would open at 8:00 pm. Faced with an imminent danger of having to sleep in our car if we don’t make it to Dharmasala in time, we offered our prayers from outside and gave our intended offerings to an old woman, to be offered to the goddess. As we walked backed to our car, I was secretly hoping that the goddess would understand our plight and would forgive us for running away like we did.
Bhagsunag Temple: The next religious outing was Bhagsunag temple. It has a very interesting story behind its origin but what we liked about this temple was the swimming pool. The temple is said to be older than 2000-2500 years. But when you go inside, you are left wondering about which part is that old. Everything is pilaster and cement and painted. Maybe inside the sanctum sanctorum, the original idol was that old. After the prayers, we walked towards the pool at the base of the temple. It’s a lovely swimming pool, filled with clear blue water from a natural spring (that was an integral part of the legend of Bhagsunag temple). Gautam wanted to drop his clothes (and all our plans) and jump straight into the pool and it was very difficult for me to convince him otherwise. But I could, somehow.
Buddhist Temple: The next on our agenda was the Buddhist monastery. Dharmasala is the seat for Dalai Lama and his exiled government of Tibet. The monastery was, as is expected, very peaceful. As it has happened with me before, something in monasteries leads me to introspection and this place was no exception. The great-Indian-middle-class tourists did their best to ensure that the place felt like a Bandra McDonald’s joint but, thankfully, never succeeded. Peace prevailed.
St. John’s Church (estb. 1850s). I am always fascinated by things that are old. A church as old as St. John’s is a must visit on my itinerary. I don’t know much about the architecture but the church was quite charming. This is also the place where Lord Elgin (then Viceroy of India) was buried. Being a Sunday, mass was in progress and we did not want to intrude so we never went inside. Outside, though, the graveyard kept us company for considerable time as we acquainted ourselves with people buried 150 years ago. Gautam wanted to sit there for more time but we were not mentally prepared to meet some of those old chaps out on their wordly trips, so we had to leave.
Anandpur Sahib: On the banks of Satluj, this place is one of most revered shrines in Sikh religion. This is the place that witnessed the birth of Khalsa. Guru Gobind Singh Ji spent about 25 years of his life here and it is here that he gave birth to the fellowship of Khalsa. The shrine is snow-white and as one walks inside, the Shabad immediately puts one under a spell. A spell of peace. The shrine has an enchanting quality about it and it is difficult to leave without secretly promising to come back one day.
The temple of Modern India- Bhakra Nangal Dams: On our way back to Delhi, we passed through Nangal. The Nangal dam is quite small and we almost missed it. Soon we were on our way to the Bhakra dam. The road to Bhakra is very scenic. Lush green forest greets (infested with monkeys) you on either side as the serpentine road winds its way through the valley of the river Beas. Soon we reached the huge dam. On one side, Govind Sagar reservoir offers you a breathtaking view of massive water body. On the other side in the lovely valley, the light green Beas carries on to the lower regions. The landscaping of the whole area is beautiful and clearly a lot of effort has gone behind it. It was unfortunate that we weren’t allowed any cameras. The statistics in terms of the land irrigated through this dam are staggering. I guess, when Pt. Nehru called it the temple of modern India, he wasn’t exaggerating.

This, nutshell, gives the account of the five ‘temples’ that we visited on our journey. At the end of it, I am not any more religiously inclined than I was before the journey. But I have inhaled that cool mountain breeze, have felt tranquil in the calm atmosphere, have discussed the merit of the inclined structure of the dam, have had5 delicious Aloo/Gobhi Parantha with white butter and have touched the stones laid down about 150 years ago.

I have lived a little more.

Its 'that' time of the year...

2006-09-28T11:53:00.000+05:30

So Rang De Basanti (RDB) is India’s entry for Academy awards this year! Now all news channels will feature half an hour inane shows on the movie, people (you have seen them but will not be able to place them) will come and give their unwanted opinion on “what are our chances of winning the Oscars?”
Amir Khan will be asked whether he intends to use his past experience of Lagaan this time (of course he will, you fool!). And of course Munnabhai team will grudgingly wish the RDB team for the best of luck.
And one question that will be raised is this: Is RDB the best choice? And being the lukhkha that I am today, I will take that bait and record my response. So here goes!
Out of the 9 movies submitted to the panel, I think the real contenders were only 3: RDB, Lage Raho Munnabhai and Omkara. The fact that KANK was even sent for this consideration shows the kind of optimistic chap that Karan ‘family’ Johar is. I mean its one thing to love the movies you make, no matter how sub-standard they are but it’s quite a different thing to start believing that it’s a world-class product. But, I digress. Let me take the three movies that we are all proud of:
Omkara- a great motion picture with powerhouse performances from Saif, Konkana Sensharma and Ajay Devgan. Very few movies can really capture the mood of a region as this one has done. But what would it offer to an Academy award jury member? Not much really. They have probably seen the adaptations of Othello numerous times.
RDB- by far the most honest movie to be created in the recent times. It is not the perfect movie (watch Sehar, if you want a perfect movie). It is flawed, in the doctrine it proposes and that’s where it touches one’s heart. Find me a man who doesn’t feel something stirring within after watching RDB. This movie has its heart in the right place.
Oscars, I guess, are different ballgame. The Academy is known for its political correctness and in the days of mindless violence everywhere, a movie where protagonists have to resort to violence to get heard, doesn’t really fit the bill. And, thus I come to my would-have-been choice:
Lage Raho Munnabhai- This movie would have made the cut where RDB probably might fail. It pays tribute to the great Mahatma who made non-violence fashionable in today’s world. It’s a very smart movie with all the ingredient just right. If there ever was a politically correct movie, this is it. So I think this would have been our best bet for Oscars.
I love RDB far more than I could ever like Lage Raho, for the simple reason: RDB speaks to you personally. Even if it doesn’t win the coveted statute, it has already won something far more precious: our hearts.

Satyakam, the movie

2006-09-07T08:14:00.000+05:30

Ganapati Puja means different things to different people. For an average commuting Mumbai-ite it only means longer commuting hours on account of the Pandals (thoughtfully put right in the middle of the road) and processions (with complete and utter disregard for other life forms on the road) for the lord. All this gives a good excuse to leave a little early in the evening (to avoid the traffic). Today being the last day of the festival, we left quite early, at about 5 pm and before the longer needle on a watch could complete half the circle, I was home.
A full evening lay in front of me. Generally I would have jumped at this opportunity to go out to some movie or even go to that Gym that I had promised myself today morning but the sound of the crackers from outside reminded me of the trouble I would land in if I were to go out. And I picked up that one movie I had been planning to watch for some time now. Satyakam is a movie I have already seen but I have always felt special for that movie hence the repeat viewing.
Satyakam is an ode to what we would today call Gandhian values. It’s a heartbreaking story of a man who is willing to fight for his ideology. A man who is so real yet so unreal for his conviction and his beliefs. A man who is ready to pay any price to stand by what he believes in. And so he declares “A truthful man not only suffers from it (truth) but he is also prepared to give such sorrow (caused by truth) to his loved ones”.
Satya, played by a surprisingly vulnerable Dharmendra, has high hopes from the dawn of an independent India. Truth is his only dharma. He is so driven by his truth and compassion that he takes little time in deciding to marry Ranjana (a delicate Sharmila Tagore) who is wronged by the society. He dreams of an India which will not be plagued by the problems of unemployment, corruption and poverty. He is looking forward to a free country where free people work towards the upliftment of the country. And is he wrong? Isn’t that what everybody was fighting for? But then why is everyone talking about “a little compromise”. How is it that everybody has to make some minor “adjustments”? Bewildered yet resolute, Satya keeps fighting his battle. He does not even know who he is fighting with; the unseen evil, the society, himself. And his battle ends only when he succumbs to an incurable disease, a disease undoubtedly caused by the evil around him. But he isn’t the one who is defeated.
Satyakam overwhelms me. Some moments stay with me long after I have watched the movie. The charming exchange between Satya and Ranjana as he gives her compliment when she prompts him is one such moment. Another one is Satya’s outburst at Naren’s (in the narrator’s small but powerful role, Sanjeev Kumar) place. That scene is a complete portfolio of Dharmendra’s acting capabilities. And a very powerful climax has always been the strength of all Hrishikesh Mukharjee movies. This movie is no exception. Watch how Satya is ready give up all he stood for by signing a paper, for his family’s sake and watch how Ranjana stands by him.
Satyakam is heartbreakingly real. Though it was released about three decades back, yet it feels its happening today.
But why was I getting irritated with Satya’s obsession with truth and his values? Was I hoping for him to make that ‘little’ adjustment for the betterment of his family, his own self. Was I thinking “what’s the big deal” when Satya said he couldn’t spend his office hours on his personal visits? I guess, I was. And this indicates a lot about what kind of society we are today. About how ends have taken precedence over means. About how callous we have all become to what is going on around us. About how irritated we are if someone decides to stand by what he believes in, for he is “inflexible”.
Do I have hope?
As the movie nears its end, Satya on his deathbed signs the paper that would provide money to his family but Ranjana tears it off. He knew she would do that. His values would not die with him. They would live on.
And I cheered for them. And I felt happy…and light.
I do have hope!

Why do I love my country?

2006-05-22T18:20:00.000+05:30

Lately, all this talk about increased reservations in jobs, educational institutes and every other walk of life has forced me to question the very idea of love for the country. Why do I love my country? And why is it necessary to love one’s country? Is it not being narrow-minded? Why shouldn’t I claim my love for the whole of mankind, for the mother-nature, for the earth? Won’t that be more noble and worthy?
Why do I need to claim that I love my country despite all that is wrong with it? Is it because we had a great past? Is it because we were a great, rich and cultured society? Is it because we were solving complex mathematical equations when the rest of the world was grappling with the absence of zero?
Undoubtedly, this and many more is all true. But does that mean I need to pledge my love for a piece of land, whose boundaries are defined by wars? What if Pakistan wasn’t created? Then I was supposed to love Lahore as well as Delhi? We didn’t draw the boundary. We were never given a choice to be born in a certain country.
There is only so much the rhetoric of “I love my country” will provide. Someday one has to answer “Why should one love one’s country?” Isn’t that more fatal? Isn’t that because wars are fought and people are needlessly killed.
What would have become of us had British stayed? They would have eventually become part of the Indian society like muslims did. Would the life then be so different from what it is today?
Why should then I pledge my love for a piece of land called India where all I can see is deceit. Our political system is rotten and in the name of democracy, we have a system which is still governed by dynastic mindset. It’s all very well to put the blame squarely on the public, on me and on you to say that WE should change the system. But does that exonerate those who are responsible for this mess.
I don’t think we really love our country as we claim to. I think it’s the fear of unknown that forces me (and many others) to stay back. To plod through the mediocrity of life. To fear the police and silently resent the law breakers.
Why do I love India?
I think I love my country not because I love it but because I have no place else to go. I think what I claim as love is nothing but dependence.
I think I claim to love my country because then I don’t have to answer the uncomfortable questions.
I think I claim to love my country because then I can claim I see nothing wrong with the way things are, and continue to exist.
I think I love my country because that’s the easiest way out.

Romancing the movies # 1

2006-04-10T15:25:00.000+05:30

I watched Guru thrice.
When I tell this to people, they usually react in two ways:

Guru? What’s that?
Guru? Why for heaven’s sake? More people have responded this way (more than you would want to believe) because, come on admit it, most of us have seen those 1980s inane masala potboilers that were being churned out at an alarming rate.

Answer to first response: You shall never understand. Well, to answer the second response: I loved Mithun da’s dance. Although nature had decided to give me two left feet but that never deterred me from secretly practicing in closed room. My red Sanyo cassette player (a mono at that) was good enough to keep me entertained (it did not suffer from any inferiority complex since it did not know that stereo sound existed).
Those were the times when we used to wait for movie cassettes to come in combo pack (and we used to buy them for Rs.15). But few movies such as Meera Ka Mohan (music: Arun Paudwal), Dil Hai Ki Maanta Nahin were given enough credit to be bought in a single cassette. And cassettes were bought based on the sampling provided by the Chitrahaar every Wednesday and Friday night. One of the favorite games used to be guessing the songs in Chitrahaar. I still remember the delight I felt when “O Priya priya” song from the movie Dil was shown in Chitrahaar. I had placed the bet and won.
Watching movie used to be an occasion. The main attraction of any birthday party used to be what followed after dinner. The latest flick, fresh from the VHS copying lab was arranged and the whole gang would forget everything else in the world. Today how many of us have the capacities (and capability) to watch Vatan Ke Rakhwale (a Mithun Da & Sridevi thriller) and Awaam (a pot bellied Rajesh Khanna) back to back? But I have done that…with countless others.
At one such moment, our family hired the VCR (those black boxes still exist today) and told the guy to play Tarzan (supposedly a kids’ movie with animals…well, animals it had, of a different kind) and by the time interval appeared on TV screen, my grandpa and papa had discreetly moved out of the room.

And once I reqested papa to buy me the audio cassette for a movie called Jungle Love. yeah yeah, its "that" kind of a movie.

To be continued…

The nadir of filmmaking

2006-04-09T19:03:00.001+05:30

These are the movies you can watch again and again and never cease to marvel at the timelessness of the absurdity:

Clerk: Manoj ‘Bharat’ Kumar had his heart at right place but maybe the camera wasn’t. So you are treated with shots taken from impossible angles though my guess is that cameraman was trying to follow Mr. Kumar’s eyes (he has never looked into the camera). It’s about a clerk Bharat (Mr. Kumar with an ever increasing girth), a poverty stricken former student leader who finds himself in a position he has to save the country from the clutches from some corrupt defense officials. Drenched to the core in a self pitying attitude, this movie has attained eternal glory due to its stupendous ineptitude. This is filmmaking at an extraordinary nadir.
Wardaat: You are a secret service agent a la James Bond. Your code name is Gunmaster G9. How to keep this a secret? Simple. Paint your car in large, bold friendly letters “Gunmaster G9”. Obviously the dark sides would simply assume this to be a stupid act of a stupid kid. But unfortunately, the dark sides are also equally stupid. Watch how Gunmaster G9 saves the world from the grave danger of locusts’ attack. And watch it to believe me when I say a secret agent actually shoots at the locust because he needs to collect a sample. A case study in how not to make a thriller. Eminently entertaining, this movie needs to be watched for its lack of attention to details.
Mard: Aha. Who could have imagined gems like “Mard ko dard nahin hota”! And it had three heroes. Big B, the horse and Amrita Singh. Populated with really bizarre situations and coincidences, it really works more as a fantasy rather than the intended separation-reunion Desai trademark movie. Not much to say really, except that this movie is probably the most absurd Manmohan Desai creation. If I had not seen the credits myself, I would never believe it was directed by him (I still think it’s a conspiracy by the dark forces).

Cabbie Times # 1

2006-04-07T14:30:00.000+05:30

Here are some snippets from our conversations with the "lemosine"(as they call cabs here) drivers:
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“India?“
“Yes. You?”
“Kerala”
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“Janaab, from our part of the world, there are four nationalities present here. India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Kerala”
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“When I was in Bangladesh, I had never touched alcohol. But after coming to Jeddah, I started drinking” (note from the listener: Jeddah, whole Saudi Arabia, happens to be prohibition zone)
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“I have two wives in Pakistan. One doesn’t even know I am married to another.”
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“What would you consider a better state of being? 2 wives with 11 children or 11 wives with 2 children?”
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“It’s that bugger America. It’s their ploy. They have got the Danish products banned in Saudi Arabia just to strengthen their dollar against the euro” (we were as bewildered as you possibly would be now)
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We enter the cab. The cabbie looks like he belongs to our part of the world. We are greeted with a typical Arabic song. Ah! So he is Arabic. We soon settle down in our seats and switch our hearing organ off to save ourselves from any further ordeal. And suddenly:
“Indian”?
“Well, yes!”
Some noise of somebody searching the glove compartment for some old cassette. And voila! “Nach Baliye” from last year’s blockbuster “Bunty Aur Babli” greets us.
“You know hindi”?
“English maafi” (Maafi meaning No)
Needless to say we were bowled over by this sweet gesture. I guess good people exist everywhere.
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“If they like the view of sunset at sea, they will not go to the sea shore. They will bring the sea to their palace”
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The man who fell in the tub

2006-03-28T13:51:00.000+05:30

He gingerly touched the water. It was hot. So he bent, hurriedly I presume, to turn the cold water tap on. With this sudden shift in the CG (which anyway was precariously mounted at the edge of his chicken-belly) the gravity suddenly decided to make its present felt. And he fell. On his knees. In the bathtub.
Normally, under those circumstances, one would locate something to hold on to, and rise from the water. Not him though. Not to be outdone by the primitive force of water, he renewed his resolved to get up without any aid other than what nature has provided him with. So, completely ignoring the grab-handles given so thoughtfully on the side wall (or was it merely ornamental), he tried again and, predictably I must say, fell down again. On his knees. In the bathtub.
He hadn’t yet figured out the use for those white things on the wall and still tried to get up on his hands. Fell again. On his knees. In the bathtub.
Just as he started developing his views on his painful situation (he owns a Bengali intellect, so it was only a matter of time before he developed STRONG views on the bathtub community, in general), the bathtub decided enough was already done. It was quite obvious that he was not going to use the handles. So he rose. Victorious, a little bruised though.
Like its been happening since the time immemorial, a man defeated the forces of nature…yet again.

On a lot of requests and some threatening, the name of the victim has not been disclosed

The first time...

2006-03-25T17:24:00.000+05:30

The first time I tied my shoe laces
The first time I saw appreciation on unknown faces
The first journey to the outer world, all alone
My first bandage when i fractured my bone

The first betrayal and that first selfless friendship
The first journey to the wild river and that first hesitant dip
The first ragging, first striptease and those tears
The first time alone I fought those demonic fears

My first dissection, first cut on that poor frog
To attain a healthy bod, my early morning first jog
My first "awakening" to the females of this world, and acting smart
My first dream to be a film director, hidden deep in my heart

My first victory in badminton, my dad was a proud man
My first flight, praying as the metallic thing prepared to land
The first time I stood first in the class
My first academic failure: Chemistry, I failed to pass

My first mobike, bought with my own money and some loan
My first farewell speech, as i ventured into the next unknown
The first thrill of the sea, the sand and the rising wave
The end of adoloscence, with that first genuine shave

The first time I touched 100kmph, and felt one with THE ONE
The first time I completed the half marathon, full 21 km run
The first GD, I trembled and couldn't utter a single word
The first time I did paragliding, flying in air like a bird

The first touch of snow, as I slowly myself turned into ice
And the first shot of whisky, the warmth inside really felt nice
First watch that I bought my dad, and felt so proud
The first trek in Sahyadris and that walk among the clouds

Each one of these days, I remember with vivid details
Each one is a gem, in comparison every other memory fails

Saudi Diary: What's in the name?

2006-03-23T16:42:00.000+05:30

“I come here every morning in the Van. I had gone to the adjacent factory for some work” I was getting desperate. Maybe you would too if the security guards suddenly wake up to their call of duty and start questioning your motive of visiting the factory, if the guards can’t speak English and if the factory happens to be in Saudi Arabia.
With an expression I would probably reserve for martians (if they haven’t yet discovered the Babel fish) he looked at me and repeated the incomprehensible Arabic.
“I am from Tata group. Four of us are coming here for past four weeks, every morning with Boy” I was determined to enter the premises at any cost.
“Oh Tata people. Meet?”
Clearly, he knew about the four suited men roaming around in the plant, calling themselves “Tata people” and promising to solve all the problems that our client ever had.
“No, no. Not to visit them”.
“No? Then who”?
“I am Tata people…. I AM TATA” I secretly hoped Mr. Tata would forgive me for borrowing his name for a legitimate purpose.
“Oh. Okay”
Sorry Mr. Shakespeare. But I think name is everything.

Saudi Diary: The SPIRIT of Jeddah

2006-03-11T18:15:00.000+05:30

“I bet he won’t serve you that” I asserted. But in keeping with tradition of those men who believe what they want to believe, Khemka insisted there was a possibility of our host offering us liquor (I still maintain he was assuring himself). The setting was Jeddah and we were invited for dinner. Our man has been deprived of the fermented liquid for sometime now. And now he has reached a stage where mere mention of ethanol (sometimes even methanol) brings an unprecedented hysteria in him. But let me take you to what happened after that dinner that night.
It was 10:30 pm and being the nice, courteous people we are, we realized that it was time for taking leave from our nice Indian guest. As I said “Let’s go” I could feel a shadow cross Khemka’s face. The party was over and he was clearly not getting any liquor. Now, let’s be fair to him. He is a social drinker but due to the society he moves in back home, rarely does a day passes without his visit to one of those hip & hep Bandra / South Bombay pubs. So it wasn’t without reason he was expecting the host to entertain him. It had been almost a month now without the divine drink.
“If you wait for some more time, I will give you something to drink”.
This statement from our host had an electrifying effect on all four of us. Something had to be, well, alcohol. I rushed to Khemka’s side to support him as I could see his knees had given way. Once he regained his senses, and we exchanged glances among ourselves (three of us did not know whether a drunk Khemka was worth taking the risk of checking the hospitality extended to the foreign prisoners), Khemka then settled down into an ear-to-ear smile.
“Won’t it be risky? We have to take a cab back to our hotel, you know” ventured Mr. Khemka.
“Risky? What do you mean? Ah…I see. Oye, I meant Falooda”
Next few moments are kind of hazy…But what I vaguely remember amidst the blasts of laughter from the three of us is that Khemka clearly could not appreciate what was funny in the situation. In the moments that followed, he tried in vain to melt into the surroundings, to turn transparent and disappear. His lean frame does allow him to appear one dimensional but disappearing altogether was asking a little too much from the Mother Nature. In the end, we had to leave with a blushing, red Khemka who kept insisting that he was deliberately led into the trap.
And we are more than happy to believe that. It’s much more fun this way.

Saudi Diary: The tormentor

2006-03-08T21:12:00.000+05:30

I was dreading the moment. As I switched on the T.V. (like I do every morning) I could hear the voice of a 20 something on a request show on the only Hindi channel available in my hotel in Jeddah.
“Shamita, can you please play the song Aashiq Banaya Aapne.”
And being the good VJ (ah…good?) she is, she did what she had to do. And next came the man with a cap (is it the same in all his songs?) and a voice that would compete with my nasal best when I perform in the bathroom.
This is the voice that has tormented me from the time I landed here in this country. The hotel has only one hindi channel and that happens to be B4U. And by some cosmic conspiracy, all the listeners of B4U seem to have taken unnatural liking to the nasal voice of certain Mr. Reshammiya.
One day I decided to count how many times I get to hear Mr. Himesh Reshammiya and returned with a mindblowing figure: 7 songs within an hour.
I survive....I hope I will last this trip.

Saudi Diary: OK TATA

2006-03-08T21:11:00.000+05:30

The light turned red and our cab came to a screeching halt. Secretly thanking those who invented the seat-belts, I kept looking ahead…our cab driver was a formula 1 hopeful. It was then I heard the noisy engine of the vehicle next to me. Although the windows were rolled up, the noise could still be felt. So I turned my head to have a look at the culprit. And what I saw looked familiar. It had TATA written in large, bold letters. A TELCOLINE greeted my sight. TATA Motors sells its 207 Pick-up as TELCOLINE in export markets. The main difference it has that this vehicle has a passenger cabin as well. Since then I have seen some five odd TELCOLINE’s and a TATA bus. And every time I somewhere deep down, feel proud. Rather odd, considering back home we hardly appreciate what TATA Motors is doing. But here in Jeddah, far away from desh, life takes a different meaning I guess.

Saudi Diary: Being rich

2006-03-08T21:09:00.000+05:30

Q: Who will you call if you have to find a man richer than a Sheikh who owns 100 oil wells in his backyard?
A: A Sheikh who owns Water well in his backyard.
Mortals, from the part of world I belong to, are quite used to seeing the “Rs.” counter moving at an astronomical speed compared to the “Litre” counter at any gas station. So when today our cab driver stopped at the station, we instinctively looked at the meter. And what we witnessed sure gave us dizziness. It was a heady feeling. The Riyal counter was moving slower, yes let me repeat, S L O W E R than the “Litre” counter. Putting all the chips, constituting what they call brain, to work, I calculated that the petrol prices would be somewhere in region of (okay, breathe slowly…) Rs. 11-12 per litre. Phew. At that price, it is actually cheaper than the water. Maybe instead of owning an Oil well, I will look out for some water wells.

Saudi Diary: Raising Avenger

2006-03-08T21:03:00.000+05:30

Raising Avenger
Fourteen days and no news from Suki. Suki: A dear friend whose love for biking dangerously borders at (and mostly wanders into) madness. He is the one who is living his dreams. The one who defies all cold logic and common senses and does his own thing ‘cause he feels like it. And so what if he is gets drunk if the vapour of some stray alcohol atoms gets its way inside his nervous system, he is always in control of his bike. Numerous rallies are witness to his skills and so, enthused by his unquestionable dominion in the world of two-wheelers, yours truly entrusted him with his second love: My brand new Bajaj Avenger. She had hardly burnt enough rubber on the tarmac to even qualify as a proper run-in bike when my spoilsport company decided to give me the taste of desert and sent me to Saudi. It meant leaving my latest possession to someone I trusted, truly. And so she was promptly packed away to Suki, with a clear instruction to him.
“These are the forming days of my bike. Please don’t let your instinct take the better of you. Groom her into a cruiser that she is meant to be….and not into a racer (she would anyway perform miserably in that).” Today I feel miserable because I can’t take part in the character building of my own bike. My own full-cash-paid cruiser. I just hope and pray to God that Suki doesn’t turn it into a street racer or an off-roader.

The Saudi Diary: Columbus columbus

2006-02-20T13:50:00.000+05:30

Columbus, Columbus
What Mahatma Gandhi is to India and Shivaji to Maharashtra, King Fahd is to Saudi Arabia. This piece of information we gathered last weekend, in a rather disgraceful manner. Here is what happened.
Like every mortal, all of us have a weakness (and unnatural attraction) towards “Sale”. And so when Carrefour ran a full page advert in the Arab News about a three-day sale, we were hooked. The smart guys had even given the map of the place. So come Thursday, the three of us set out to exploit this godsend opportunity in Jeddah.
It had three stores mentioned, all near King Fahd road. A road we travel everyday while going to office. So we were brimming with confidence that we would find it. Thursday evening (our weekend eve), the cabbie dropped us at a cool looking shopping mall but Carrefour was not to be seen. Here I have to dedicate a few words to the malls. These swanky, brightly (to the point of being garish) lit malls were mostly displaying revealing costumes for the fairer sex (The species does exist in this part of the world, I am told, though I haven’t seen yet). And like you, I was also wondering about the wisdom behind selling those skimpy evening gowns in such a conservative society. Then we hypothesized that females here would probably wear such stuff in an all-female setting (We are yet to come up with an explanation for this). And you would be hard pressed to find any menswear showroom. Wondering why? Well, keep guessing.
After that little digression, coming back to my story, this army of motivated sale-looters was not yet demoralized by a failure. Next day being the full day off, we left the hotel early and went to the other mall on King Fahd road. Now this turned out to a place where middle class Saudis (Saudis whose oil well just dried up on them) frequent. Naturally, Carrefour was not present.
Flustered, we asked the cab driver to look at the map and he said “Olaya Street? That street is in Riyadh”. Riyadh? I mean that was half world across. But hadn’t we seen a King Fahd road on the map of Jeddah. And then it struck us: Like every city in India has an MG Road, like every place worth its name in Maharashtra has a Shivaji Road (and a Shivaji Nagar, and a Shivaji Statue), every city in KSA has at least one King Fahd road. Hail the King! But who will tell us how sale in Riyadh had anything to do with the Jeddah newspaper?

The Saudi Diary: The beauties on the road

2006-02-20T13:48:00.000+05:30

If somebody saw me stuck in a traffic jam in the rush hour in Jeddah, in the back seat of the cab, smiling ear-to-ear, he is sure to reach certain unflattering conclusions about my state of mind. And if it happened everyday, well, then I am surely going crazy. But what can a man do when faced with a situation where he is sharing the road with the cars that have been a staple diet for his day-dreams. I keep looking out and brands like Hummer, Audi TT, Porsche Carrera, Beetle (among countless other lesser marquees such as Toyota, Honda, Ford) keep me glued to the window. And I actually touched a Hummer (it was parked in the curb and I acted like I was accidentally falling). J I also have a mind to ask all those back home who criticize Tata Indica because it is now associated with being a taxi: would they buy a Toyota Camry. Almost all the taxis here are Toyota Camry.

The Saudi Diary: Of the Aspect Ratio

2006-02-20T13:46:00.000+05:30

The reason mankind survives today is the fact that we were very fast in adapting to the new environment. Within a day of landing here, and after some 3 hours of cumulative car ride, my aspect ratio of life adapted itself to this country of Oil Sheikhs. And so when I suggested “that odd looking, bulbous small car” to someone, guy dutifully pointed out that “that odd looking, bulbous small car “, was in fact the Hyundai Accent, a car reasonably respected back home. And so I realized that my eyes had shifted to an aspect ratio of 16:9 from the earlier 4:3. Not that I can blame the sheikhs. They have never faced the rising fuel pricing bills. I am waiting for the day cars start running on water. That will be the day these spoilt fuel guzzlers will face the music. As of now, they are happy driving these expensive beauties on the smooth six-lanes. I am happy admiring them from the window of my cab, which generally, is Toyota Camry.

The Saudi Diary: The city

2006-02-20T13:44:00.000+05:30

The city: Coming from the place (me, Mumbai-ite) where things don’t expand horizontally (well, except maybe one’s waistline), the bird’s eye view, quite literally, of Jeddah was a refreshing change. Things here seemed to be a little, shall I say, stretched. The drive from the airport to the hotel (Hotel Casablanca, no less) assured us that in this largest industrial port city of the kingdom, land was not a scarcity. The other assurance was that all of the humankind has had a common ancestor. Be it Bombay or Jeddah, driving habits are uncannily similar. Although the drivers here have the choice of giving you a mortal scare at 130-140kmph while Mumbai drivers, the unfortunate ones, do that at meager speed of 30-40kmph.

The race of a lifetime

2006-01-16T12:36:00.001+05:30

"I am not running tomorrow" declared Gautam.Disappointed as I was, I merely grunted my acknowledgement and continued eating my bengali dinner. But I could no more enjoy my dinner, as I was thinking whether to run the next morning or not. It is not really much fun if you have to run for 21 km, alone. Well, not exactly. There would be thousands other running the Mumbai Marathon (and half marathon) but it always helps to have a companion to keep you motivated, especially in those dying moments of the race..when you have covered 17-18 kms. It is when you start thinking: what is the point? why can't I just walk? etc. etc. Finally better senses prevailed and I decided to go for it. I wanted to fulfil the promise I had made to myself..that I would better my timing from the last year and complete the run in this side of 2 hrs.

The morning arrived and I found myself looking at the crowd of thousands. The sun had not come out yet to assault us with the heat and we started the race sharp at 7:00. The problem in starting in the back in such races is that one has to spend a lot of enegry trying to avoid others and to settle down in a rythem. Slowly, struggling, I settled down in my own pace (mostly by locating a firang guy who was running at my speed). And thus started an association that would last about 15 kms.

By the time we reached marine drive, the body had warmed up nicely and I started enjoying the race. And here I observed the cheering squad from Radio Mirchi. The girls were looking more tired than the runners. They could hardly lift our spirits. Anyway, what happened for next one and half hours can be summed up in this:

Drink the energy drinks (Electral really), feel the energy as you feel your speed increasing
Keep running till you see your next km sign. Pass it and start looking for the next one
Feel thristy, drink the energy drink and.....

Finally, at about 15km mark, I had to stop as my companion also had stopped somewhere. The ugly questions about the wisdom in torturing oneself started raising their heads. In such a moment of doubt, the dark side won. And I started walking. Although walking was more very slow and more tiring compared to running but atleast it was giving my tortured muscles some rest. I don't really know how long would I have walked. But at about 17km mark, this guy came running and gave me a pat on my back and said: Come on champ. Finish it in style.

Those words were enough for me to gather whatever strength was left and i resumed the race though at a much slower pace. I realised, by then, i would have lost whatever chance was there to better my last year's timing. I was now hoping to finish the race in 2 hours and 30 minutes. I had lost against myself. Final turn approached at the Flora Fountain. I could make out the digital clock but could not see the time. By now
many senior citizen race participants were crossing the route. Dodging them, finally as i neared the finish line, I saw the time. It showed 2:11:31. That was amazing. Calling all my mental and physical faculties to work, I burst into a supersonic speed and crossed the finish line at 2:12:11. An average speed of about 9.5 kmph.
When everybody was crossing the line all exhausted, tired there was an ear-to-ear grin on my face. I had failed to fulfil the promise i had made to myself but I had finished the marathon...yet again.

Andaman Islands...heavenly place.

2005-10-14T16:50:00.000+05:30

As my project in Chennai comes to a delayed end, what better way to finish off the great south indian tour than the Andaman & Nicobar Islands. And so we decided to spend the Dussera holiday at the island that gets its name from Hanuman (legend has it that Lord Rama contemplated choosing this faraway islands as the springboard for attacking Lanka, before he chose Dhanushkodi (smart decision, must say, as Dhanushkodi is hardly 20 odd kms from Lanka).
The journey: The flight from Chennai was full of Bong crowd as the Emerald islands are the favoured destination for the great-bengali-middle-class during Puja holidays. I know, I know. Its dangerous to be with so many psuedo intellectuals (especially after Ganguly's recent embaressment) but motivated as we were, that could not dampen our enthusiasm. Two and a half hour later as i disembarked from the plane at the lovely little airport at Port Blair, I had this huge ear to ear smile, for I could hardly believe that I was finally there. Before you start wondering about the islands' present state after last year's Tsunami wrecked havoc, let me tell you that many islands (part of Mahatma Gandhi National Park) are closed for tourists because the government wants to give some time to the delicate corals to recuperate before the great-indian-middle-class is unleashed onto them. That left us without much choice and decided to go to the best available option.
Havelock: The ferry to Havelock Island (notable thing was the utter lack of infrastructure for the transport between islands) was uneventful. Aftera long 3.5 hrs journey, under the stars (sun sets at 5pm in this part) we reached Havelock and were immediately grabbed by an enterprising local called Rishi who promised to take us to the hotel. Kumar Sanu's voice greeted us in the car as the speakers dished out Bong melodies. Before we could go into trance, we arrived at the hotel. Since people here don't seem to believe in an exciting night life (Bongs and Tams anyways don't seem to have the penchant for night life), we had no option but to sleep early. Next morning, we were woken up by a bright sun at 5am and greeted by a lovely sight. The sand was white and beach was lined with trees that have decided to grow horizontally as if to kiss the lovely sand. And then I noticed that it was littered with the treasure sea throws, carelessly, in that part of the world: Corals. And for the next hour, there was a coral rush where three Mumbai-ites went crazy. After having pocketed as many corals as our shorts would allow, we left. Soon the car arrived to take us to Snorkeling site. Since I don't know swimming (despite giving my name for the swimming camp in Roorkee, four years in a row, I wasn't among the chosen ones), I was given a lifebuoy. Armed with a snorkel, we went inside the sea. Here the water was about8-10 feet deep (Rameswaram had only 3-4ft deep water). And the world inside was simply breathtaking (thanks for the snorkel, I managed to hold on :o). Soon I completely forgot the fear of deep water and was lost in the colorful world of underwater life. I even held few corals and seacucumber (don't be fooled..despite its innocuous name this belongs to animal kingdom) in my hand. We were so impressed by this exprience, that next day we again went for snorkeling at a different site (North Bay).This place was equally good but it was here that the fateful moment arrived when I lost something that has made the sea a little richer in precious rocks and metals. It was a terrible moment as I could see it falling in front of me and as it settled down at the sea floor and in a moment lost out of my sight. If only life could be rewound...but,...life goes on. Okay no more about it.
The Beaches: Andaman has (as expected) beaches that can easily rival those in Sychelles or Mauritius (from what I have seen in pics)..though the names of the beaches leave a lot to be desired. Sample this: RadhanagarBeach, Lalaji Beach, Chidiyatapu etc. The Radhanagar beach is by far the most beautiful beach I have seen in my life. Light green crystal clear water. High waves and powder soft white sand. Locals told us that this was supposedly the seventh most beautiful beach in the world. (Incidently, Kovalam beach in Kochi is supposedly the second). The other beaches inAndaman were also good but once you have seen the best, it is difficult to appreciate the second rung beaches. :o) But here one thing to mention, nowhere else in Indian beaches, have I found the facility of bathing, changing room but here almost all beaches have this. A truely remarkable thing as any beach hopper would promplty certify.
The trek: Well, more like a 13 km hike on a road through the jungle to Andaman's highest point Mt. Harriot. In all our wisdom, and enamoured by the promise of walking in the tropical forest, we took the road less travelled (on foot i.e.). As we walked, Sumos and Jeeps, full with people who had wisely decided that tropical forests look better from inside the car, overtook us. In about three hours we were about to discover the same ourselves. It is no fun if you have to walk on Tar road, with sun beating on your back and have to bear the puzzled expressions on faces behind the glass windows of vehicles.
The Jail: The Cellular Jail is a grim reminder of what freedom fighters had to suffer in our freedom movement. To emphasise this fact, the government has done a very smart thing. There is a sound-and-light show every evening. This forty-five minute show is a passionate and emotional tale, at times overly melodramatic, peppered with patriotic songs. The presentation is quite interesting and I strongly recommend the show to those who choose to visit this island sometime in future. Unfortnately, I could not take the tour of the jail as we kept postponing the visit to the last day and on that day it was closed for Dussera holidays. To say that I was mighty disappointed would be an understatement.
Infrastructure: The infrastructure in Andaman Islands is not upto the mark. The ferries to other islands are not very frequent. The restaurants, generally, are also of poor quality in terms of ambience. There is not much you can do at night. The alcohol is not cheap. Haan, food quality is quite reasonable as this place is dominated by Bongs (who, I believe, are the biggest foodies in this world). Basically, if i compare the infra with Goa, this place would hardly get 5.
Overall: a MUST VISIT place. If you love sun and sand, it is a heavenly place. No other mainland beach comes close to this place in terms of beauty (I am yet to see Kovalam). And once you have done Snorkeling, then only you will realise what I mean when I say it is out of the world. We could not go to the Nicobar islands as it would have needed much moretime for that.

2005-10-02T16:41:00.000+05:30

The great indian pilgrimage story:
Continuing our great south indian tour, last weekend we decided to visit Rameshwaram. This place had looked very inviting in Mani Rathnam'sKannathil Mutthamittal and so we accepted the invitation and boarded thebus to Madurai. Without spending time on Meenakshi Temple, we took a DVDcoach bus to Rameshwaram. This was to be one of the most entertaining journeys i took in tamil Nadu. As the three of us struggled to fit ourbums in the cramped seat, tam superstar Vijaykanth roared from one of the(loud)speakers in the bus. And the next two hours were gone in a jiffy aswe were mesmerised by the tricks and antics of this man who seems(justifibly) to have the tam crowd under his command. Ah..how I loved the movie (later googling revealed the movie's name was Vallarasu). It has true potential of a remake in hindi with the great Chaako da.
Snorkeling: Rameshwaram figures on every devout Hindu's to-do list. But not for snorkeling, I am sure. As soon as we landed in the hotel, a guide was arranged at our request who would take us to snorkeling. Within half an hour, we shed all (well..almost all) our clothes and jumped onto the boat. The sea is quite shallow there..Till about 2 km inside the sea it is at-max waist deep water. And Sri Lanka is only about 40 km away. So armed with a mask, i jumped into the water and a star fish greeted me. I even held one star fish while small multi-colored fish swam around me. I could see three colors of star fish (black, yellow and white) and many corals (the most notable being blue coral). After fooling around and making life hell for these innocent creatures for about an hour and a half, we made our way to a sandy patch..this is an awesome place. In the middle of thesea, suddenly you have a stretch of clean, smooth sand and water is only about a foot deep and here we took a good sun bath.
The Temple: The most unusual temple I have ever been to in my life. Built in 12th century, this place has 22 wells and in order to wash away all your sins, you have to take bath with the water drawn out of all these wells. And after you are all drenched and wet to the bone, you are told that you can't go to the main temple in wet clothes. But then, where there is a will, there is a way. :o) But truely a unique experience.
The Ghost Town: Next morning, we started for the town of Dhanuskodi. This place is an island and is extended in the sea for about 20 km. It is this place where sattelites have shown a sort of a coral formation all the wayto Sri Lanka (18 km)...this is where Lord Rama crossed the sea. On oneside it has Indian Ocean and on the other side Bay of Bengal..this island is not more than a km wide. In 1964, a great cyclone hit the town at 12 in the night and 25000 sleeping people never saw daylight. Till date, it is uninhabitated. There are unending stretches of sand on both side of the road as if both the ocean and the bay have clearly demarcated their territories. It is a sight to behold. As we walked 6km on the Indian ocean beach, the town, the ruins of a church and a temple, the old railwaystation, the arches of the houses..they all tell you a story of a devastating night when nature showed no mercy. While we walked towards the meeting point, the indian ocean was all energetic and violent but the bayof bengal was quite as if mourning what happened with Ganguly the other day. Bay of Bengal was like a calm swimming pool of lukewarm water with unending boundaries. Well..after a lovely time in both the sides we started our journey back with the great indian pilgrimage class...few words for this species: they come all the way from Rameshwaram, loaded like chicken on a truck and all they did at the beach was to wet their feet and go back dutifully to the truck for the journey back.....well...we also started our journey back....on the rooftop of a mini truck. The truck had about 15 people on the top, about 12-15 standing on the footboard andabout 20-22 odd people in the back. Rarely does one give a thought to thepoor engineers who design such a thing. It was one such moment when all i could think was "Hope you had your design fandaes clear while designingthis crawling beast, mister". And now that i am safe and sound, I guess he had his fandaes clear. :o)
Back in chennai for another week. This project is turning out to be apicnic with work in between. But who is complaining!

My life at Roorkee

2005-04-05T10:01:00.000+05:30

FIRST YEAR

Goodbye was the word I muttered as the train disappeared
And alone was I left, a child so carefully and lovingly reared
Left alone to face the world, to venture into the vast unknown
Armed with few tears and dreams, without even a cell-phone

And so started my stint at Roorkee, I was to become an engineer
Why, you might ask, well, it was the only path that looked clear
Mechanical I chose, and thus with automobiles started my affair
Couldn’t help, Mech. being the branch avoided by the sex fairer

The first ragging that took place shook me completely to the core
Though nothing physical happened, I was emotionally quite sore
My first strip-tease, my first real gaali; long in the night I wept alone
But 15 days later, it all sounded amusing, days of turmoil all gone

First adventure to the movie hall in ragging period when we got caught
First visit to the holy canal, though nothing “holy” the seniors sought
Soon it was all over and we settled down in the daily routine and grind
And slowly I discovered those people, wonderful friends, I was lucky to find

Our experiment with Gunno’s rice cooker, with much ado and fanfare
The crackers in front of the warden’s room, executed with precision and care
Our trips to Mussorrie, for that very first snowfall and sights to behold
First swig of Whisky on Ghora’s persuasion, to chase away the cold

The craze of “Kya Ada kya jalwe tere Paro” and movie visits to Hardwar
It was here I started watching movies, which exceeded normality by far
My first ownership of English songs, and in rock, thus started my education
And this raw, middle class person started learning the tricks of sophistication

India’s agonizing loss to Sri Lanka in ‘95 world cup, and we mourned the loss
Unable to comprehend why Azhar did not choose to bat winning the toss
The NCC punishment, Guard of honor, and princely allowance for uniform
Daily homage to Civil Lines and Bhatia’s joint, come Tsunami or hailstorm

First year ended with an NCC camp at Kotdwar, 10 days of extreme living
Survived days on boiled eggs, cold nights: embracing: seeking heat and giving
Then came the real trek, to Tapoban, won heights with Maggi and determination
Slept in a lock-up, walked on glacier and admired nature’s amazing creation

SECOND YEAR

Second year: reality struck. Second largest fall (in marks) from I to II term
Ignoring the screaming truth, I refused to become the needed book worm
Applied to swimming camp again, only to be rejected (again) in the draw of lots
Fought vehemently to book in Alaknanda club, to get evening Billiards slots

Jaiswal’s obsession with the thousand versions of the “Macarena” song
The dirty Holi of more mud, less colors, Matki Fod, hungama and Bhaang
The meteor that struck in Civil department and the commotion it caused
Everyone knew it was a rumor nonetheless hoping it to be true, in heart

Merciless Ghora forcibly removed my nascent moustache and beard
This marked the beginning of the era of razor, which I had always feared

THIRD YEAR

The important question of the future plan came along with the third year
I still envy those who could plan, act accordingly with their minds clear
GRE books, flash cards and IMS material were the most common sight
And there were others who were ready to prove their mighty IT might

And there I was, still very unsure about what I was supposed to be doing
Afraid to take charge of the boat that so far, the fate had been rowing
I was certain of flunking the GRE and IT was all Latin and Greek
And how could I crack CAT, a glory so many brilliant thousands seek

To be continued...

Joy of Work...

2005-03-15T14:45:00.000+05:30

There are few things that give you more joy than a satisfied client. And if that satisfaction comes at a personal level, well, you are in for a greater glory. At the moment, I am a contented man, for I have a contented client.
My project team member from the client's site, came walking, looking dejected. Fearing worst, I immediately inquired about his love life (or the lack of it). Before he could answer it, another one of my team came with an expression having an uncanny similarity to the crestfallen expressions of the earlier chap. Was it the same girl they have fallen in love with? My project's future was at risk, you would not want to work with two heart-broken guys in your team of four, would you?

Well, the matters soon cleared as the guys started a heart-wrenching tale of how the IT department had blocked the access to all site containing "mail" in the site address. It had clearly stepped onto their lifelines. How were they going to spend the rest of their lives without emails?

That's where I stepped in. Having been exposed to the extra-zealous IT departments in my previous organisations (and the current one) I had found ways to beat the system. And so I recommended the simplest, but powerful method of using the IP address...but where do we find the IP address, they asked. Smiling, I gave them the website that gives you the IP address.

And they were gone. Smiling, with a secret which they were not going to share with anyone else, they proceeded to their workstations and I received two mails from them, thanking me of my brilliance.

As I sit here, I feel delighted...not as much for helping them, but for beating the system. Such is the joy of work and I love it.

Marriage

2005-02-17T04:07:00.000+05:30

Marriage is a gamble. Is it not?

After years of primary and secondary research, I have concluded that no matter whether your marriage is a love marriage or an arranged one, you would be in for a surprise (pleasent or unpleasent, is something your luck defines!).
It is a myth that you would know a person better if you interacted for a comparatively longer duration of time. Half an hour date or half an year asscoiation, it doesn't matter.
We are all puppets in the hands of the greater force and it chooses to play around with us the way it pleases.

The only thing that you can do is: hope...Hope is a magical word. It doesn't need logic to prove a point. It betrays sound reason. It takes you where your mind would never wander for the fear of failure. Hope, against all hope, deep inside your heart, that you shall succeed in your married life.