2009

How can you have a blog and not have a best-of list? There is no answer to that question.

So without much ado, here's my list of 9 things from 2009 - in no particular order.

Call them favourite, liked-a-lot, look-forward-to-more, whatever. I liked them when they happened. I remember them till now. That's good enough for me, as I see Alzheimer's approaching me rather fast!

Indibloggies & Puffin Classics

I tried to be gracious, self-deprecating and all but couldn't. The salesman in me got all hassled and tried to achieve targets. Except that I did not know the target! In the end, I found it quite tremendous that more than 120 people took the pains to find their way and vote for me.

Two more Puffin Classics happened this year with the Notes section prepared by me. That takes the total count to 5 - Ray's Short Stories, Professor Shonku, Swami & Friends, Jungle Book and Tagore's Short Stories. My mother and mother-in-law were mighty pleased to see my name in print on a Penguin publication and when last heard, were broadcasting to all and sundry!

Bloggers becoming Authors

Two of my blogrollers became published authors in 2009 and two more are in the pipeline by the first quarter of 2010.

Bishwanath Ghosh's Chai, Chai got down at all those railway junctions where one always stops but never gets off. Mughalsarai, Itarsi, Guntakal, Jhansi. As an itinerant salesman, I passed by several of those stations a little before or after he did. Therefore, I could identify totally with the seedy lodges, stained bedsheets, alcohol-induced bonhomie and the almost incidental history of towns that everyone knows and no one cares about.

Amit Varma's My Friend, Sancho - for me - was the most predictable bestseller in recent times. I meant the predictability of the high sales and not the plot. A Mumbai crime-beat reporter's budding romance with an encounter victim's daughter was simple, but page-turning stuff.

GreatBong's May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss? promises to be the first extended look at 'sub-altern' pop culture while Sidin's Dork looks at cubicle culture with a vengeance. I am smacking my lips.

HT Blogs
I know Udayan will snigger at what he calls a 'soft plug' but the best thing to happen in the blogosphere this year was the starting of blogs by many of Hindustan Times' editorial team. Editors and journalists regularly blogged, responded to readers' comments and kept alive an intelligent conversation.

On eclectic topics. And with cool names! Sadak Chhaap. @Hindi Heartland. Expletives Deleted. Shoot at Sight. Separated at Birth. Dabs & Jabs. The Delhiwallah. 1/4th of Me. IndiGestion. Page One.

My three favourite ones are Soumya Bhattacharya's Page Turner (on books), Poonam Saxena's By The Way (on cinema and popular culture) and Samar Halarnkar's Daily Bread (on food).

No surprises when you read the topics, right?

A journalist-turned-blogger-turned-novelist, Soumya Bhattacharya published two books this year - All That You Can't Leave Behind (a spiritual sequel of his lovely cricket book, You Must Like Cricket?) and If I Could Tell You (a father's letters to his daughter). Have read the first, loved it and now looking forward to the second!

Amitabh Bachchan in Paa

I hear Hrithik Roshan is moving around in wheelchair nowadays to 'get into' the character for Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Guzaarish. Aamir Khan spent the last year building muscles for Ghajini and this year removing them for 3 Idiots. Everybody in Bollywood seems to be concentrating on one film so intently that they don't have time for anything else.

In 2009, Amitabh Bachchan shot for Aladin (as a good genie in a disastrous film), Teen Patti (as a maths wizard, along with Ben Kingsley), Rann (as a heroic media baron), Binani Cement (sadiyon ke liye...) and Paa.

When you see the film, don't watch his face (which is covered with prosthetic makeup). Watch his body language and listen to his voice. You will realise how good an actor can be with minimum fuss.

You will laugh at the con of the other actors. And if you are a parent, you will cry as well.

Rajkumar Hirani & Anurag Kashyap

Ashutosh Gowariker would do well to note that while he has been making ponderous films providing social and historical perspective and protesting against jokes of awards show hosts, much better filmmakers are at work.

Rajkumar Hirani made us laugh. Made us cry. Think. Cheer. Boo. Love. Hate. Enjoy. In 3 Idiots, he showed a command over audience emotions not seen in any Bollywood director for a very long time. In the end, he made us want another chance because we wanna grow up once again.

Anurag Kashyap made two films this year - Dev D and Gulaal. Both gave the word 'edgy' a new dimension as self-destructive romance and college politics were treated like never before. Sexually liberated, ambitious heroines. Innovative shot compositions. Completely fresh musical styles. And no heroes - only protagonists.

The Small Bengali Film

Thanks to Ray, Ghatak and the several middle-of-the-road filmmakers in Bombay, Bengal has always carried the onus of being the place which breeds 'intelligent' films. Several nice films have been made by some young directors in the last few years but 2009 saw several 'small films' that touched a chord.

Anjan Dutta, singer-composer-filmmaker, directed Chalo, Let's Go about a group of four youngsters (named after the quartet in Ray's Aranyer Dinratri) who start a travel company. They take a motley crowd of wanderlusting Bengalis all over North Bengal amidst chaos, politics and great music.

Rituparno Ghosh made Shob Choritro Kalponik, starring Bipasha Basu but had her voice dubbed by someone else. A slightly stylised film, I did not care for it all that much for, had an interesting story about a career-woman's marriage to an eccentric poet. This was on the back of Khela (made last year), about a director's relationship with a child-actor he kidnaps to act in his film.

Antaheen - the second film after Anuranan by Aniruddha Chowdhury - was an intelligent film about modern relationships. Starring Rahul Bose, Aparna Sen and Sharmila Tagore, the film - though a little slow in parts - managed to make a decent impression.

One film I have heard a lot about but haven't seen till now is Madly Bangali. But from the title, I would say that I will probably like it.

175 @ 35

I turned 35 this year. Over the last few years, I have received several certificates of my old age. My favourite songs from college turning up in retro shows. Barbers wanting to dye my hair. Adults calling me uncle. So on and so forth. And the price one pays for becoming 'mature' is a bit of jadedness that creeps in life. It takes a lot to get excited. Especially in the context of cricket, where there is such an overdose of everything that momentous scores and statistics pass us by without touching us.

It was different on my 35th birthday. On 5 November, Sachin Tendulkar - a man older than me by about a year - played an innings of such scintillation that I had never seen before. I laughed. I clapped. I jumped on the couch. I gnashed my teeth. I called friends and screamed abuses. As the man went on to score 175 in 141 balls - my favourite ODI innings ever.

He could not take India to victory that day but he did something even more miraculous. He made this 35 year feel like 15 once again.

I could not have hoped for a better birthday gift!

Delhi 6

In 2009, Rehman was celebrated and toasted the world over for one of his most mediocre albums - Slumdog Millionaire. A very good album by any standards, except Rehman's.

This year also saw him come up with Delhi 6, an album of mind-blowing range and creativity making it the best album of the year in my book.

Mohit Chauhan's open-throated ode to the dreamer, Masakkali. The abject helplessness of the petitioner in Marammat muqaddar ki kar de maula. And of course, the ode to the City of Djinns - Yeh Delhi hain mere yaar, bas ishq mohabbat pyaar.

Prasoon Joshi matched the maestro with his lovely lyrics and described Delhi eschewing all the cliches. After Rang De Basanti and Ghajini, this is another rocking album from the deadly Prasoon-Rehman combo. Wish they worked oftener!

Bheja Fry

Not the film. I mean the food.

My wife and I have always been big fans of brain (in a gastronomical way). In a physical way, we are fans of stomach! This year, we binged on it throughout.

It started off with an Amritsari food festival in our neighbourhood club in Gurgaon. There is something terribly exciting about a scalding-hot tawa, lots of animal organs arranged along its edge and an expert pair of hands cooking them all together with lots of spice. We got excited.

As if on cue, a takeaway joint called Wah Amritsar opened in the vicinity. Using copious quantities of pure ghee, they served large helpings of mutton chops, chicken tikka and the like. Their most rocking dish is Bheja Masala - best served hot with some chapatis. Slurp!

Towards the end of the year, my wife managed to sneak an Amritsari Tawa in her brother's wedding menu. I say sneaking because the young fellow hates bheja. But when has that stopped us?

Tonight, we have chosen a new year's party venue solely on the fact that it has bheja on its menu!

Calcutta Chromosome wishes its readers a very Happy New Year. See you in 2010.

What's In a Name?

Seeing James Cameron’s Avatar, I was reminded of the original two Avatars.

One the film of the late 80s, starring Rajesh Khanna in the title role, which had a storyline a little like Baghban because the honest, do-gooder Avtaar Kishen (along his wife, played by Shabana Azmi) was subjected to untold misery by their sons.

The other Avatar is Avatar Gill – the balding character actor without whom Mahesh Bhatt never made films. I am not kidding. From Aashiqui onwards, I am unable to remember any film by the director, which did not have Avatar Gill in it! He made his acting debut on television as Kader Bhai, the tea-shop owner of the delightful Nukkad.

While on the subject, check out this picture from Avtaar's launch! (Hat Tip: Greatbong.)

*******

Which led me on to other thoughts. Like, how many film names are the same in both Hindi and English?

For example, Kidnap. I am sure there has to be at least one Hollywood movie by that name but I haven’t heard of it.

There has been a Professor in Hindi (a delightful comedy starring Shammi Kapoor) but there has been a Nutty Professor in English. There has been a Chocolate in Hindi (almost a frame-by-frame copy of The Usual Suspects) and a Chocolat in English.

There has also been Amelie in English/French and Mili in Hindi. As has been a Wall Street in English. Deewaar and Sadak in Hindi! I know, I know… they don’t count!

So – how many more can you come up with?

*******

While on the subject, how many film names tell you the story almost completely? For example, Snakes on a Plane. You don’t need to know anything else about the movie and there isn’t too much anyway! The title is the story.

I read in a blog somewhere (can’t find it – can somebody point out please?) that so is Robocop.

Three Men and a Baby. Gangs of New York. Die Hard with a Vengeance. All these films are almost completely described by their titles.

Hindi films – on the other hand – depend on rather evocative titles and names. Yaadon Ki Baaraat – how can you guess from the title (meaning Procession of Memories) that it is about three long-lost brothers trying to find their father’s killer (who goes around in two different sized shoes)? Similarly – Sholay, Deewaar, Trishul, Silsila, Kabhi Kabhie, Dil Chahta Hain, Kuch Kuch Hota Hain!

Even Hindi cinema’s longest title – Paap ko Jala Kar Raakh Kar Doonga (PKJKRKD) – is unable to explain the story too well.

On the other hand, Disco Dancer and Dance Dance are quite explanatory. Though the most comprehensively explicable title has to be Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge.

I know what you are thinking. One of those bloody lazy posts. Sigh - I know!

Ten Commandments

As a misguided tribute to Rocket Singh: Salesman of the Year, I thought of writing down the 10 Commandments of Sales - as dictated to me by various Gods of the profession with whom I have had the privilege of interacting. As a mediocre salesman (at the best of times), I idolised these dynamic men (who gave me the advice), though I will not identify them for their safety and mine.

Everything is possible. Every-fucking-thing.

Violations of the laws of the land are commonplace. With a little bit of imagination, you can even violate the laws of physics.

This includes simple things like getting post-dated DDs made on bank holidays. It also means you can actually invoice stock lying in State 1 to distributors in State 2. It means doing your entire sales target on the last day of the month. And taking it back on the first day of the next!

A salesman's job never ends.

If it ends, it means he is either dead. Or in Marketing. And both mean the same thing.

A salesman's job has only one kind of punctuation - the month-end.

If God broke the year up in 12 discrete intervals, he meant us to follow them religiously. If a sale has to happen on the 31st, it cannot (repeat - CAN NOT) happen on the 1st. The bloody soap has to go out today. How the hell are people in Gorakhpur going to have a bath tomorrow if the soap does not reach them today? Do it NOW. Remember, difficult things are to be done immediately. Only the impossible ones will take till the end of the month!

What - your girlfriend's birthday is on the 30th Sept? Leave? That's quarter end, boss. Can you change it? Arre - who's asking you to change your girlfriend? Birthday badal sakta hain kya? Our Patna distributor knows the DCP. Usse bol ke kuch karwata hoon...

A salesman doesn't have time for good taste.

International travel = Bangkok. Alcoholic drinks = Old Monk. Movies = Govinda. If they had time to appreciate the bouquet of Sauvignon Blanc (or had the access), they would have been in the fashion industry, no?

A salesman does not have companions to explain Impressionism. Nor the time to get slowly drunk. Nor the patience to appreciate Adoor Gopalakrishnan. He only has a weekend to go to Bangkok, collect the Best ASM trophy, zip through Patpong and back. He has 2 hours after the monthly meeting to get his Vijaywada Sales Officer drunk because the fellow has a train to catch. As for Govinda... achha, is Adoor Gopalakrishnan the Kerala Distributor Association President?

As you notice, the attention span is not conducive to things on slow burn.

Check. Double-check. Triple-check.

Remember, everyone is out to cheat you. Everyone. Wonder why your mom gave you a sweater? Because its winter? Naah - you sentimental sisy! She probably wants those gift hampers left over from the sales meet.

Every invoice, every market report, every display request - check.

While on the subject, did you notice that there is a 's' missing in 'sissy'? Yes? Welcome to sales.

You have to save the company from those guys at the HO. And that includes the CEO.

As the ambassador of the company in the battlefield (which the HO sissies - S not missing this time - call 'frontline'), you know what's best. Those ivory tower fools don't know their knees from a carton of soap and they will tell you how to launch a brand?

Don't listen to them. Pretend to. But don't.

You have to die before you say 'I don't know'.

Which brings me to a personal story when I was on a market visit (which was going well, if I may say so) with my Head of Sales, he pointed to an under-construction building on the beat and asked at what prices flats were being sold there.

I did not stay in that city. I was new to the region. I had no effing clue. But I realised that I could not say, "I don't know". I was not expected to know it. The Head of Sales asked it casually and had no intention to test my knowledge of the real estate market. It was inconsequential. But, still...

Why? You think I don't know? No, sir.

It is because a sales manager is expected to be in control of his territory. And control does not mean meeting sales targets. It means that a pigeon shouldn't be shitting anywhere in his territory without him knowing and selling some detergent to wash the shirt. He is expected to know rents of flats all over so that he can properly estimate how much stock can be sold to shops there. Okay?

There is only black and white. Nothing in between.

Targets are either achieved or not. You are either a salesman or a wimp. Saying, "I could have..." is the same as saying "I am a f***ing idiot who does not know his navel from his dick". No other profession is so ruthless that it refuses to acknowledge a month's blood, sweat and tears when the targets are not met.

Of course, in between the black and white are wonderful philosophers as bosses who can not only make you take tough targets, help you achieve them and manage to assess you fairly when you haven't.

But why have tough targets in the first place? What do you get chasing one?

Listen, Mr Art Teacher - as they say, "Girte hain shehsawar hi maidan-e-jung mein / Woh tifl kya khak girega jo ghutnon ke bal chalte hain?".

If you accept your target without protest, you are a wimp. If you don't accept your target after the customary protests, you are a bigger wimp.

You see, real men do. They make soft moaning noises, but they do. And targets are meant to be tried for, not always achieved. But that doesn't mean that tough targets won't be taken.

When given a tough target, a bad salesman says, "Won't happen." And a good salesman says, "What's the scheme?"

Yeh toh sirf nau Commandments hue? 10 ka target tha.

Arre - ladkon ne bahut fight mara hain, boss. Aap ko toh maloom hi hain, aajkal it is virtually impossible to sell Commandments. Kuch scheme mil jaye toh try marta hoon? Commandments ke primary pe 6% discount dijiye. Should be able to push one more...

And the last commandment is -

You will retain your sense of humour - preferably absurd - at all times.

From one angle, you are the Master of the Universe with a band of merry men, living and dying for you. On the other, you are a speck of dust sitting in some obscure town in Chhattisgarh without a clue when you will see an English-speaking woman next.

Because you never know when you have to say - "Risk toh Spiderman ko bhi lena padta hain. Main toh sirf ek salesman hoon."

Movie Review: Avatar

It's not often you land up in the corner seat of the second row for an 11.30 am show on a weekday at a cineplex where you've once been an employee. 'Avatar' is being touted by amateur critics as 'The Matrix of the 2000s' and by acknowleged critics as 'in the league of The Lord of the Rings, with better visual effects'.

The brilliance of JRR Tolkien and the magic of his Middle Earth are such that one cannot write fantasy without being accused of ripping something off the worlds he created. So, of course, there's a Goddess Guardian Spirit, of course there are tall trees, of course there are ugly machines/warriors/Marines fighting long-legged, noble, naked ones and of course there's a twist in the end, and Five Armies come together but are almost screwed over until flying beings intervene.

But what 'The Lord of the Rings' could do with two dimensions, 'Avatar' couldn't do with three...and that is pull people into that world. Pandora didn't have the advantage Lothlorien did, but one wonders, does a three-houe (or nine-hour) movie require a thousand-page masterpiece to draw its script from?

It's sad that the importance of dialogue in cinema has declined to the degree that Batt Daffleck or whatever the duo is called, can boast of an Oscar. Look up the top hundred movie lines and it's likely the latest one you'll find is the speech by Morpheus that no one understood (until they read Sartre, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer and thought they all sounded kinda familiar).

What happened to the craft of weaving words into a story? What happened to the impact of a moment of speech or silence? Why does music have to convey an epiphany every time? Foreign-sounding chants have been exhausted in film OSTs to the extent that an aficionado would be hard put to distinguish between any two. They can't induce poignancy any more than "it's not you, it's me" can be construed as a phrase of comfort.

And for some reason, hackneyed phrases that are a callback to the world we live in are thrown in for comic relief - in 'Hellboy 2', it was two mutants getting drunk and "oh, boy"-ing over a sad song, in 'Avatar', it was a Paraplegic-Ex-Marine-Turned-Avatar going, "I was kinda hoping you'd say that".

The 3D makes for a good watch, and the mountains and trees of New Zealand have been used well, but this one fails to capitalise on the scope the third dimension offers. When you watch a film in 3D, you want to be IN it, and you want people and creatures attacking you, while you empathise with whatever character you are at the moment. There ARE a couple of times when that happens in 'Avatar', but there are times when the camera chooses to focus on the fear-filled eyes of the hero or tear-stained cheeks of the heroine, rather than the causes of those.

As for the visual effects, yes, quite obviously, they were great, but we've seen great before.



Watch if: You like looking at big trees, strange creatures, modern-civilisation-destroying-nature's-gifts stories, or nearly-naked Zoe Saldana, or you are wowed by visual effects of any kind.

Do Not Watch if: You want something new.

Embers: Still Burning

On the way to work today, I heard a riddle on radio.
Q: "Agar Basanti ki mausi Thakur ko rakhee bandhti hain, toh Thakur Basanti ka kya rishta hua?"
A: "Abbe - Mausi rakhee bandhegi kahan???"

I was not so much impressed by the joke as I was taken in - yet again - by the durability of Sholay. For the last 35 years, the film has spawned ads, jokes, riddles, songs, spoofs, films and in the case of Raju Srivastav, an entire career in showbiz!

In fact, I sometimes feel that if there was a law against using Sholay themes, there would be no advertisements (and half the content) on radio.

And why only ads? The film is almost coded in the DNA of children born after its release. So, even now - when Virender Sehwag scores 284 in one day, there are headlines proclaiming "Joy, Viru".

The first take-off on Sholay started in the trade magazines - in the first week of its release. The most expensive film to be made had a very lukewarm opening, on the back of its violent and unemotional storyline. The trade pundits called it Chhole! Somebody else called it Teen Maharathi aur Ek Chooha - alluding to the squeaky voice of the villain.

Of course, all that changed when the film started becoming big. And the first positive take-off was when biscuits started getting advertised as 'Gabbar Singh ki Asli Pasand'. Attributed to then-Group Product Manager, Sunil Alagh (who went to become the CEO of Britannia), Glucose-D biscuits became the first product to be endorsed by a villain.

Very soon, Jagdeep expanded his role of a wood trader from Madhya Pradesh into a full-length film - Soorma Bhopali. The film easily beat Kunwara Baap as the film with the maximum number of guest appearances as almost the entire cast of Sholay and half the film industry landed up at Jagdeep's request.

Then came Ramgarh Ke Sholay - which can rightfully claim the original's legacy of the Greatest Starcast (of Duplicates) Ever Assembled. Amitabh Bachchan, Shatrughan Sinha, Dev Anand and Anil Kapoor starred in completely arbitrary parts while only Amjad Khan (in a hugely bloated avatar) returned to his iconic role.

Channel V came in the mid-90s and just took off on take-offs of Sholay!

One series was animated (a sample available here) and all the films ended with their icon Simpoo Singh getting all the characters together for a group photograph. They would raise their hands to form the Vs of the channel. The standard joke - of course - was the raising of Thakur's hands.

The other series was live-action, made with duplicates of the lead actors and mostly involved ringing phones in the Thakur's vicinity!

While on the subject of Sholay spoofs, comedian Raju Srivastav has created infinite parallel universes around the film and the material has contributed a lot in his becoming one of the leading comic artistes of our times.

One of his sketches is how Gabbar becomes old and is bullied by Kaalia, Sambha et al.

Another one - at one of the film awards - is about how Amitabh would do the role of Gabbar.

Yet another is about Gabbar kids being interviewed on present-day TV.

And his mascot - Gajodhar - goes to watch the film and returns to regale his friends with the story.

Somewhere in between, advertising agencies joined the bandwagon. In massive numbers.

Thakur bit Gabbar to death, thanks to his strong teeth due to Orbit Chewing Gum.

Dancing competitions on TV have Viru saying, "In kutton ke saamne mat naachna" to the background sound of dogs barking but Basanti ignoring it to say, "Nahin, main nachoongi. Gabbar, botal todo. Main nachoongi." And Thakur adds, "Is ke liye toh mere pair hi kaafi hain!"

So on and so forth...

A film which paid tribute to Sholay and RD Burman in equal measure was Jhankaar Beats.

Even the not-so-explosive dialogues of the film came into everyday lingo. Soch lo, Thakur. Holi kab hain, kab hain holi? Bahut yaarana lagta hain.

The film even had a short quiz played between the leads (Rahul Bose and Sanjay Suri). One asks, "Gabbar ka baap naam kya tha?" and the other replies, "Hari Singh."

The first one says, "Very good. Sholay mein doosra Hari kaun tha?" and the answer is "Hariram naii..."

This is indeed a touching tribute to Hariram Naii (played by Keshto Mukherjee, as the jail barber - a 5 minute role) though my humble submission is that Gabbar father's name (heard briefly when he is sentenced) is probably Bihari Singh. At least, that's what I heard!

That was about a full film. There are innumerable films, which have passing references. The rickshaw in which Shahrukh chases villains in Main Hoon Na was called Dhanno. Johnny Lever in Kuch Kuch Hota Hain calls himself "Angrezon ke zamaane ka tailor".

And Luck by Chance has Macmohan giving away awards at an acting class but ending up saying the three words that made him a star - "Poore pachaas hazaar"!

Though intended as a tribute, RGV ki Aag is probably the biggest spoof of the film with Ramu managing to excise pretty much all that was magical in the original and making an unpalatable rehash of the balance.

Though, there are still people untouched by the film's magic.

My son's name is Joy and some time back, Tina and I were toying with idea of having one more baby. Obviously, we wanted a daughter this time but she was quite petrified of having another naughty son.

"What will we do if we have another son?", she asked in a slightly alarmed manner. "We will name him Veeru", I said.

I think she abandoned the idea of a second baby after that!

End-note:

And the most famous question from Sholay has returned to haunt me - Kitney aadmi the? Apparently, 5 kam they!

Calcutta Chromosome became the runners-up in the Best Entertainment category of Indibloggies by a margin of 4 votes. Boo hoo!

Thanks to all for voting vociferously and writing really sweet things in the comments. Do keep tuning in!

Relativity and the Ramayana

(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian EXpress, on 12th December, 2009)

“Chabhi to... kho gayi. Teen char mahiney ke pehle.”

The fact that the platform official couldn’t meet my eyes was due entirely to his squint. I was shivering on a bench at Ayodhya, at 10:30 p.m., and being told the key to the waiting room had been lost months ago. The monkeys that were huddling together were looking at me in pity. And I glared at their furry bodies, wishing I weren’t so conscientious about my appointments at the salon.

My teeth chattering, I asked how many hours the train was late by.

The platform official beamed and said, “siraf teen-char gante.”

“WHAT!”

“Hanh, hanh,” he nodded, smiling, “you’re lucky today. Usually, it comes in the morning.”

I vaguely recalled having read something about Rama taking the entire population of Ayodhya along to Vaikuntha. I empathised at that moment with the people, who must have thought they were trotting along to a community bath at the Sarayu, only to be given the “ooh, good news! You’re all going to drown and come to Heaven!” line. Death by water, death from cold…not much to choose from there.

“The station master’s room is open if you want,” Mr. Can’t-Meet-Your-Eyes said, usefully, when the noise my teeth were making began to rival the cymbals a group of singing devotees was clashing at regular intervals.

“Yeh to pehle bataanaa chaahiye tha, na!” I snapped, and he stared after me as I hurried along to the door marked ‘STATION MASTER’, wondering whether I had actually uttered a grammatically correct Hindi sentence. I was dimly aware that I had left my parents on the platform, but figured that since their intention had been to lose themselves in the footsteps of God, I might as well leave them to it.

Our trip to Ayodhya had been timed quite to perfection. It was the day the Liberhan Commission Report was to be tabled, and the day after all hell had broken loose in Parliament after a media leak. Thanks to which, the entourage of guides chorusing “hum yahaan ke Brahmin hain. Pandhra rupai leythe hain” and promising to show us round, hadn’t been the most painful part of the journey. No, they lost ground to the security checks.

It is my personal belief that the people who conduct security checks are carefully selected from among India’s most sexually frustrated citizens – and on an occasion like this, they do their job so thoroughly that you can’t, in good conscience, wear white at your fantasy wedding. While being groped, poked and prodded with a ferocity that would put ‘eve-teasers’ to shame, I noticed that the security staff seemed to trust their hands far more than that strange black equipment that beeps three times on an average. They simply didn’t have any bomb detectors – on the day the report was being tabled! Of course, one could argue that bomb detectors aren’t particularly useful in spotting axes and hammers.

I flung open the door of the Station Master’s room, to be greeted by a blaze of saffron. Fifteen men stared, while the Saffron Man who had been given pride of place – the station master’s chair – gave me a disapproving look and then went on, “so Dhashrath died alone, just like Shravan’s parents. What do we learn from this? Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

Having satisfactorily linked Newton to the Ramayana, Saffron Man sat back on his chair and closed his eyes – the fifteen others followed suit. A few seconds on, a synchronised snoring session began, that would only be interrupted by the arrival of the train, four hours later.

As I yanked at the door of my compartment, wondering whether my children would abandon me at a pilgrimage centre someday, I realised it was locked from inside, and the Ticket Collector was snoring too.

Cliche: Jald Aa Raha Hain!

Some time back, I had listed down a series of sequences or styles that were becoming cliches. That was on the back of a few 'new age' films that were willing to explore newer themes. Of course, there were a few problems.

One, every time a filmmaker in Bollywood successfully explores a new theme, it becomes a cliche!

Two, you start missing the old cliches!

For example, one evergreen - but unsung - cliche is the hemming & hawing around a lip-to-lip kiss. It goes something like this...

The leading pair is in - what the newspapers call - a compromising position, more often than not after the hero despatching a few goons. They are murmuring sweet nothings as the hero is trying to get the heroine to do things that would allow the directors to show flowers touching!

Eventually, the hero points to a body part (say, shoulder) where he is hurt. The heroine demurely kisses him there. A bulb lights somewhere. He points to another body part (say, wrist). The heroine kisses him there as well. Now (usually with a mischievous smile), he points to his lip and indicates hurt. Bingo!

Note for directors: For best results, use at least two non-sexual body parts before the lip.

Gosh - its been such a long time since that one!

Anyway, I thought I will quickly list down some more of about-to-be-cliches that have already been seen in a few films and looking good for many more.

The Jihadi Recruitment

Post 9/11, there is a new villain in cinema and Bollywood adopts it as well - the Muslim terrorist. Sometimes he is a cardboard character of villainy and bombast, sometimes he is the chocolate boy dealt unjustly. Either way, he is about to do an awful lot of collateral damage. And he has recruited / is recruiting a group of jehadis for the suicide mission.

The cliche is the recruiting process. You give the prospective jehadi a gun and ask him to shoot an innocent target. He pauses, he sweats, he trembles and eventually takes a shot. Entrance test passed!

What happens to the body of the innocent? You see, the shot was a blank one. The intention was to test the strength of his motivation, whether it was enough to make him shoot an innocent unknown.

The Flunked Hero

What Rajesh Khanna and Shashi Kapoor were to Maa-main-pass-ho-gaya-le-beta-mooh-meetha-kar-le-yeh-kya-tum-ro-rahi-ho-yeh-to-khushi-ke-aansoo-hain-beta-kaash-tere-pitaji-aaj-zinda-hote, Ranbir Kapoor is to the Failed Metrosexual! In two successive films - Wake Up Sid! and Rocket Singh: Salesman of the Year - he either flunked or passed with grace marks, winning millions of hearts outside the campuses of IIT, AIIMS and St Stephens!

He is the guy jiska-marks-kum-hain-akal-nahin and is usually forced into academics (weren't we all?), while his true calling lies elsewhere.

And of course, like all underdogs, he manages to score very satisfying victories - including for his distributors.

By all accounts and trailers, 3 Idiots seems to have three such heroes!

Intel Inside. Bollywood Outside.

The first Hindi film to mention a computer was (in my opinion - and I am happy to be corrected) Trishul. When Shashi Kapoor returned from abroad, he calls Rakhee (his father's super-efficient secretary) a 'computer' (woh cheez jisse sub kuch maloom hota hain)!

We have come a long way from that to the point that it is probably becoming mandatory for Bollywood stars to have an active virtual life. First, it was supposed to be in their real life. But now - thanks to Himesh Reshamaiyya - even film characters must dodge in & out of Facebook and Twitter.

In Radio, RJ Vivaan Shah chats on Facebook while his less-enlightened colleagues are still figuring it out (Yaar, yeh Phesbuk hota kya hain?). His relationship status is 'complicated'. His listeners complain about boyfriends on porn sites. All he doesn't have is a Twitter handle.

I am inclined to believe this casual weaving of online stuff into filmi conversation is about to become a trend.

How long will it last? How authentic will it be? Who knows? After Big B started his blog, there was an avalanche of filmi bloggers. Now, most of the posts have trickled down to near zero (unless a film is coming up) and the stars have moved on to the new hangout in town.

On that note, I will go to sleep. Keep adding to the list of cliches.

And do watch Rocket Singh. I am in the film. So are all the salesmen of the world.

Voton Pe Aisi Baat: Indibloggies 2008

I just realised that I screwed up my chance to win the Most Humourous Indiblog by cracking the pun in the title. But sometimes, a man must stand by his principles and not compromise for material gains.

The Indibloggies have hotted up, with biggies like Amit Varma naming their personal favourites, populist measures being announced and coalitions being formed.
After laughing out loud at the antics of PUB, I sobered up and wondered how I could get a few more votes other than the three I voted myself from Rediff, Gmail and Hotmail. And even that runs the risk of being cancelled - if there is any multiple-voting limit!

My first option - admittedly un-original but potentially effective - is to form JUB (Jadavpur University Bloggers). With the venerable GreatBong and the tangy Sauce! from the same august institution as myself, we could hope to mobilise the Bengali votebank quite effectively.
Except that GB can possibly win this year by using his margins from last year and Sauce, coming from the artistic side of the University, is a little put-off by this shameless vote-grabbing that I am indulging in!

The other option is slightly more original though its efficacy is under a bit of cloud.,
Every day, I get about 145 mails from people who want (a) to enlarge various body parts of mine, (b) to give me millions of dollars (or South African Rands) residing in dormant bank accounts or (c) to help me claim the billions of pounds I have won when my email was selected among the trillions from around the world.
I could write back to these guys (and some very interesting gals as well - especially for Point A) and direct them to the voting URL. Presumably, these good Samaritans wouldn't mind clicking on the link and quickly voting for Calcutta Chromosome.
The downside is that they might also want to know my bank account number and e-PIN but considering the money I usually have in bank accounts, this is still an economically viable deal (as long as those people actually vote)!

The third - and actionable - option has already been activated. By which kind souls have already voted and are continuing to do. A classmate, who is changing jobs, has voted from the emails of his past and current jobs. Can't pretend there are too many like him. Or should be!
Another classmate (from school) is mighty excited that I am still repeating the same jokes from Class XI. Yet another classmate - with a massive and fanatical following on the blogosphere - has given a nudge to his constituency, which is about as big as a mid-sized company. And of course, my sisters are all for me anyway!

Therefore, I stand bemused as a nominee of Indibloggies with embarrassment and greed in equal measure. I thought it would be one of those novelties I would not have to do too much about. But I now realise that the past winners (or even nominees) are too illustrious for me not to try to emulate.

Voting closes today.

Do vote - (for me - shamelessly) in Best Entertainment and Most Humourous categories.

I promise not to crack bad jokes on this blog again. (Pssst... that was to get Mad Momma's votes. Of course, I am lying!)

What's Dew To You Will Always Find You

(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, on 28th November, 2009)

This is a universal axiom, almost as sacred as Homer Simpson’s “Always make fun of those different from you” – there is nothing more depressing than waking up before the sun. Throughout my life, it has been a policy to wake up ten minutes before I’m required to be at work. I have mastered the technique of multi-tasking well enough to look perfectly presentable in that much time.

But a series of indescribable events led to my having to wake up at four in the morning on a regular basis for nearly a year. And there is nothing singularly more annoying at these times than that despicable category of homosapien known as ‘The Early Riser’.

My first encounter with this category was a former friend from college. The one time she stayed over at my place, she flung open the windows of my heavily-curtained room at seven in the morning, to let in the natural smoke-filled air and the early morning sounds of the mechanics at the shed next door banging away at components of cars.

“What…,” I said groggily, vaguely aware of a beam of hellish light penetrating my subconscious. That was the last word I was to ever utter to her.

The second specimen I met lived in my dorm at university. Another roommate and I made a habit of sitting in the heated kitchen with cups of tea until four in the morning to get through the cold London winters. Just as we were sinking into the conviction that Robert Browning was right when he said “God's in His Heaven, All's Right With the World”, and getting ready for bed, a scourge would seep into the kitchen.

It was the aura of another roommate, who found it prudent to wake up in the middle of the night and cycle about twenty miles to the Thames to go rowing every other day. He would whistle his way to the kitchen, beam at us and say, “good morning, everybody!” I would shudder, and my soul roommate would grunt. Wordlessly, we would direct an ugly look at the Scourge and stagger to our rooms, as he opened the windows to breathe in the smoggy mist and revel in the acidic dew.

And then there’s my landlady. On the few days I don’t have to wake up at four in the morning, she does. Just as I put away my book, pat my pillow, fluff up my duvet and switch on the heater, she waddles to the bathroom and starts filling up water. As the sound of running water hitting plastic assaults my ears, the idea of a cold water bath in winter sends a convulsive shiver up my spine. And then she begins to call out to her husband that their daughter-in-law must be the laziest creature God ever took the pains to create – she wakes up at the Devil’s Hour of 6:00 a.m.

I spend hours in bed thinking up suitable punishments for these people. I have stopped praying for a reprieve – I believe, and I’m sure every sane human being would agree with me, that God has done His best to make mornings cruel. I sometimes wish one of those cars populated by whoo-girls and whoo-boys that blast past playing hip-hop music would stop near the Early Riser, spill out their occupants and have them spill out the contents of their night’s gastronomic excesses over the Early Riser. I wish the birds whose chirps the Early Riser wakes up so eagerly to hear would be so moved as to bless the latter.

But for my part, I’ve convinced my landlady that waking up before sunrise speeds up osteoporosis. My last few weeks have been water-on-plastic-bucket-free.