Screaming Infidelities

The post below.
Caution.
May not be the best of the things that you will read.
And all the facts and logical conclusions, may not be what they are meant to be.
Maybe this tortuous, verbose text is futile, the tormented critter behind is not discursive enough.
Or still perhaps, The damn Queen's language is not enough.
Sayonara.

Confessions

Perhaps one of the most corny weeks in these retreat so far, this week was a killer of an introspection getaway. An aisle where canvases were conjured, canvases were defenestrated, and what was sifted through not just in this pensive thought, was formed. A strong opinion, a robust reticule of existence, a variegated tapestry of a succulent life. Finally I am alfresco of my conformational parentage. Yes, the impediments were also parental, and from this tree, on an obscure, nebulous branch I am cavorting, sometimes in simple disbelief, sometimes in a reverie, and some other times in an abject ferfuffle of thoughts, to find a way. To try and crane my emotional self, and look down, even dare to. And as I endeavor to suffice for the endarkenment of my directions, I find the tree goes down, way down, like Jacks' Beanstalk. And its trunk whose apex is beguilingly crowned with this plethora of avenues of my life, its branches. And these sinuous alleys of a chicanery of perhaps my own quiddity, have been swooping all around me, forcing me to accustom my limping limbs, and totter up and down to imbibe the remedials. The trunk of this tree disappears in the daunting mist down that hails an unfathomable distance. What Do I do? What Do I get? Where Do I find my Chainsaw? A Relentless deadlock?
Crouching and fighting, reversals, counter reversals, a double trap, a chasm, a canal, a hole. Each opening into other propositions, each more obscure than the other. All I do is chose.
Where have I come, have I lost or have I won,
Famished guilt of coming undone.
New facades of myself are dawning upon me everyday. A corrigible vehemence, so unsociable and repelling, inadvertent revelations that I cant 'maintain' a conversation, even an argument where I am more myself. A bereaving person out to find culprits of his own shortcomings.
Well, I am a remnant of frustration, breathing a life into this hardened heart of stone, frigid with something devilishly unpalatable. I see my counterparts, or once counterparts, who now have leaped into a fast track of progress and excellence, and all the while I was grappling things that I was never suppose to lay my hands on. Remorse? With an denying mien, an incessant bombination of denial in my head, at loggerheads at reality, I am held in a state of ethereal suspended animation of conscience. The rope is slipping away, my destinations, a castle of my dreams, is falling away from me. Or is this just a rusticating pleonasm. Perhaps all is not lost. I disappoint people who I owe everything I have, have achieved or will achieve. The things that go way deeper and with a more seminal finality that it overrides all echelons of relationships. I have made them incomplete, or am very well in the tryst to do so. An earnest squander. Those words shall echo in my mind until this insipid phase persists, or till I am committed to make this just a phase. I stand in front of the mirror and contemplate on this vicarious being. Talk to myself, for hours, become inundated with wrongs and ghosts of the past, and with this intense carousel of memory, I talk, end the confabulation often on a more retributive note, Lights will guide me home, and ignite my soul, and I will try to fix you.

How did I land up in a such a sludge of predicaments, where the more I save myself, the more I contain the incisive punctures in my protean mind, the more I get dirty and tainted. This quicksand of time, where the progress is a regress, only in the negative direction. And what amounts from relativity is a cumulative loss, loss of mine and the gain of others. My hopes built on the gracious and generous foundations of my prospective capabilities is tilting. The more mentally mollifying analogy, I am in a dizzy state, perhaps my inebriation has me unsteady and unsoliciting. Life's a cruel taskmaster. The abrupt variation in the currents, have got the worse of me. All the beckons of being haunted, of living a gauche component in an array of life, its this. Plain and Straight. An incompletion, a task undone. A sum total of a remainder of an unbalanced equation, and I am carrying it over and over again, till the point of excruciation. Moment of Truth I guess.

I don't know what will this lament be a moments worth to me, or to that matter to anybody. So trifle and trite have I become, dwelling in scanty terrains, already seething with exhaustion through banality. Talk to me and it wouldn't be before long when the quarry is cajoled out of its haven, a scared, ignorant and basically a diffident creature, living dangerously in the swift winds of life, and precariously sailing to be a doubtful recipient of a shipwreck in this torrent of life.
Sorry, you have landed up on a loser's blog, another line without a hook, that is a shitpot of all his anguishes. But on a departing note, say a prayer for me. All I ask you for.

May I be saved.
Amen.

Da Vinci-ed

This is an exclusive post. Because, as the clock strikes 1110 hrs, that is in 20 minutes, I will be witness to the abated adaptation of the greatest best seller of all time.

The Da Vinci Code.

Adios.

Bureaucratic Entanglement

For the past few days, I was there alone, naive, verdant and affected. Against the most insidious of the machineries of this great malfunctioning country, but for some placebo effect, the outcomes have been surprisingly far less catastrophic. The Bureaucracy. It was present more daunting than ever in one of its most crapulous manifestations, BSNL. The Bored Senile Nefarious Legion, pathetic de-acronym job on my part, but hell do I care, they stood for all that for me and more. The innocent 'request' was for an internet subscription, whatever happened to the customer relationship and servility. Perhaps I am being an idealist. In their dingy workshops, they fabricate the most impervious systems in this world, inert to change, to sedition.
In the BSNL office, with innumerable clusters of moth eaten files, covered with a stubborn patina of dust and so to say abeyance. The very arrangement, or the lack of it, was a testimony to the counter productivity of the institution. If there was a vacuum cleaner so invented that would challenge even the most obstinate of the dust, our sarkari offices are there for a letdown for the claimers. The sweating officer incharge, was sitting, though a little more patient than other in the kin, was blithfully ignorant to the relentless ringing of the phone. Another vestige of the falsification of the 'at your service' flattery painted even more carelessly. Collectively, the head office of the feckless firm was looking like a warehouse, with rags adorning the floor, you get the fleeting feeling that you are in a tent house. It took me an hour to get myself to be rude enough to fight myself out of that cacaphony of other crapulous junta around. Strange ways of functioning there, rule one came as a soft admonishment, "Push enough and be vehement enough to get yourself to be heard. Those people aren't going to help you in any way. To Hell with them." In this period of tryst, the officer was half the time on the phone and the rest was a bashful display of self absorption.
This led me to filling up the necessary documents, deposition of money. The labyrinthine queue, replete with people of all shapes and sizes, with the hankeys and shirt sleeves at overdrive, the summer was almost adding insult to the injury. In all of the tumultous two and a half hours of the sordid affair all was done, which consisted of filling up the form and getting the receit. For the rigorously bruised self respect, I came back with a compensation that I will get to blog from my couch within a day or two. But, the inevitable 'but' is a staple of this decrepit organization. First three days went in hope and fading away of it. When with a sprightly heart I used to gaze at the 'This page cannot be displayed' message, that I could soon cross the protocols of the world wide web, repaid in sweat and anguish. But the smile was constantly dampened, when three days later I was standing again in that forgetful place. Till it went out, giving way to a rebellious rancor. But still you know that it wouldn't help you, only you would be the cardinal sinner in the eyes of the almighty officer, being a subject to his spurious wrath. With empty assurances, I came back everytime. It was close to a week now. And I had stopped looking at my system, even switching it on and gazing at the 'server not found' window. I peeked up, squinted my eyes with a gnawing sense of inadequacy, the seventh day, was when I put on teeka and left my home.
Getting down to the fixated venture of working up the 'connections', I found a person to go with me and be my advocate, to curry favor, bearing the facetious grin of familiarity, he asked like a personal concern, damn, he was good. That was alleviating though for the time being, thinking that would serve the now desperate purpose, I returned. But like a cursed creature, a dunce at timings, I couldn't comprehend their definition of two days. The next day was a moment of truth, the ultimate reckoning. Its me and me alone. None else. I was terse and forthcoming. This time holding my volume, I intoned the matter. And through the babu's protean gaze, I caught his scanty brain's ability to make his thick spectacled eyes focus. He said, curtly, "No orders yet". I realized the point at once. I had come in knickers, so maybe that would be enough to get his volatile arrogance to spur up. I was spurned. Compromised. With an intention to come with a phone call from his boss, I left for their other branch. But the appurtenance of the 'but ' come again. To my utter disgust, the epochal orders had been issued the same day. It struck me like a brick. The whole week I was being manipulated like a jackass, made to shuttle like a guinea pig on the tread mill, running around in circles, with such a heinous insensitivity, that it made my head to spin. With growing unrest, I stormed out of the Spartan building, to go back to square one, putting all the effort to a wistful ineffectualness. That moron officer reacting in his standard, corner-of-the-eye look, meanly dismissed me to some other person. This turned out to be the same person I had been trying to make myself heard for the past week, only were we dealing with the hindustani mannerisms of 'bhaisahab', 'suniye' etc. Back to square one, told you.

With another temporizing assurance, I held myself with a determination more immovable than Himesh Reshammiya's cap, I insisted on leaving until he was ready. With great pains, he managed to move his perverted arse out of his cavern. And within half an hour, after the necessary technical earthing glitches did I get a constant line, and for a relieving change, my Internet Explorer didn't show 'Page Not Found' this time. I hung my head down in mollification and smiled with a sense of achievement. It was high time I faced such a demanding facet of our needs, and in god's name I wouldn't forget how this realization came, when a mundane procedure underwent metamorphosis from the pressures of inefficiency and corruption, into a veritable battle of truth.

This post is commemoration to all I underwent in the past week. With each passing day, my efforts unsubstantiated, it was a charge to allay my bruised ego that I refused to surf from some meek terminal.
Beuna Fortuna.

In High Spirits

Its been roughly eighty hours since I came out of the ICU. (Actually, its equally arcane to me as it is to you, when will I run out of those splendid metaphors to denote that place!) And, it was a hortatory epiphany that I just had, it was perfectly reasonable how was I estranged to this facet for so long, and it was an overwhelming feeling...to know that, Life Is Beautiful. I am spending more than ten hours outside my abode, each day. Homesickness, anyone? Well, I am, but this appetite of schmaltz is pacified now and then from the then wonderous and now infinitely manipulated invention of Alexander Graham Bell. But what cant possibly be recreated in drastically antonymic surroundings, is my almighty place. Yes, that's what it is. I am place-sick. Hey, suggest me a better name for this emotion.

I have been roaming around the roads, filling my lungs up with plumes and plumes of nitrous dioxide, sulphur dioxide and the gloomy gang, not to exclude the insolent SPMs, and the same old feeling of being 'the one' himself, the one on the road, where the road is nothing more mundane than your kitchen garden and you have the landmower! There is nothing more confounding than being sidelined and its even more so, when you have the horses. And if you thought that, I was already writing my epitaph, if I have such an idea about driving, another frivolous being bent on temerity, well here I am not alone! And this assembles a competitive cabal of 'riders', for whom the glory is in burning rubber, however pointless the trip is, its the ultimate zealotry to emerge out of the fading bedlam of smoke and steel!

Well, its veritably a matter of life and death that I don't often get my hands on any of our vehicles. As mostly, I am not on the driver's seat, I am promenading into the urban jungle. Worshipping hedonism, returning to gluttony, regaining my spendthrift choler. To my utter delight, you'll find this place where all the snobs and wannabes of the resplendently discussed rat race gather, called a 'mall'. One is coming up in every outskirts of any group of houses. Understandably, this is a self-centric view on my part. On the leeward side, there are parents flexing facial muscles on the prospects of profligacy their wards can have around them rightly at their doorstep. Then the evenings are more about checking out the new store or movie than a match of cricket. Take it, or leave it, Consumerism is here to stay, legally, commercially, filling up the coffers of the government.

Some other things that are here to stay, are my spirits, and those of our intoxicated country. I was watching this interesting debate on television last night. On the watchdogs of everything that goes around, even a bee biting the arse of a minister is a headline, the assiduous news channels, this time what was the cynosure of their ever shifting attention was the banning of liquor in India. With their sensically-impaired reporters who are half the time performing some Japanese folk dance, pressing the earphone, checking the mic, strafing left and right and so does their ardent dance partner, the hapless cameraman. In all the performance, the interviewee cant help but maintain a silly expression on his face, staring listlessly in the lens. With their equipment (the cameraman is a part of it, mind you) , correspondents were posted at bars and on the streets of Delhi and Mumbai, trying to impress and collect a public opinion. The views were largely contradicting to the usual sensibilities I share with my teetotaller group. Although most of us handle the issue with the characteristic intellectual look on our highly deceitful faces, and utter that, "It's all a matter of personal choice, this generation is responsible enough to handle such an issue." (In Set: My Drink)

But the doubt killed the dog (hee-haw) just there. How do we trust people? Does this developing country run by seniles is ever going to be forbearing towards the bastion of this almost ostracised component of the society, the neo-teenage group, the 20s people? Will we ever be perceived more than a creed of harebrained fanatics, just high on hormones? This debatable segment of verdant parvenus is never respected by the society, largely, in their choices, the solemnity of their decisions, even when they are financially independent, but prudence is always compromised for age. True, there are the black sheeps, who are so successfully advertising the wanton youth of India, but the typcasting is infuriating.

Back To Civilisation

Installment to 'The Exodus':

The train, true to its ticket, reached Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway station on the boiling afternoon of 29th April 2006. The same motley crew of boys were all but exhausted now, but one insurmountable spirit that had let them so far, and was also going to take them further, some lived further away. With a wry smile, their eyes squinting in fatigue, and dog tired voice, reducing their voice to meek grumble, they all sat by the windows of their compartment. Looking at the skies, the houses, the civilization that was becoming a thing that could be seen only in print or videos, all of them were unfailingly glancing at their watches, smeared with sweat, seeing the devil recede into its cavern, atleast for the time being. Yes, the dysentery had subsided!

Now, the group that had began the exodus from dystopia some 36 hours ago, was going to split up, driven by the ultimate hortatory urge, whoever stays, stays, who leaves, is forgotten, overlooked and if he has reached home is observed with a discerning avarice. At this time of the day, with the twilight rising for its apogee, the time was about 1600 hrs. The train was late by 2 hours, adding insult to the injury or more punch into the destination. The clock silently struck 16:01 as the motley crew of boys split up, exchanged pleasantries, often breaking up into sporadic laughter, on the idiosyncrasies of the ones leaving, reminiscent of all the trying times they had, augmenting even more maudlin baggage to the fun they had. The ceremonial valediction started from some stoppages before New Delhi. It was a cynosure of everyone else's eyes, the way some group of hobbledehoys gather and just pushed the bar to hooliganism. But underlying all the fun was schmaltz. Weird as it was, as we all stayed together, had tiffs, still had tiffs, and for some seconds thought about home there, the schmaltz was for sweet home. And now, when each one is leaving, the schmaltz is manifesting each heart again, this time for the dingy cells we are coming from, which due to the wonderful fellows was made less painful and enduring.

My stop had come. Dilli. The name permeated my each tissue, as the melancholy mechanical recorded voice of the announcer stated the name of the station. For once in my life, much of which had been restrained by fate within Delhi and the NCR, I missed and loved polluted air, longed to twist my cheeks on the foul-smelling prized drains, missed the arguments with the auto-wallahs for their ever accurate meters, each time wondering how much is he going to clock today, and above all the great human effort of travelling in the DTCs and the rulers of the roads, The Blue Lines. They mash you at will. That's in fact their banned logo! The nostalgia of having altercations with the people who always think that the person driving in front of them is always 5 kmph slower, and for some inscrutable reason always coming in their way. Moron. Sucker. What the f*ck is his problem? Ah! The redeeming sense of contempt. That is Delhi's roads for you. Redefining road rage, pushing the bar higher every time. The beetel chewing creatures who descended from hell, were the personal guard of Yamaraj, the bus-drivers, and all the drivers of public transport vehicles, who can better Montoya given the chance to work for McLaren, the visions in white, who grace the streets with the aroma from their exotic poo, holy cow, the sweet hospitable Delhi-ite who utters indecencies with such a seamless frigidity that you feel spurned, unwanted even cursed.




But behind all that what each one of these perceptibly antagonistic and ever-combative Delhite is a heart that with each beat salutes the indelible spirit of Delhi, whose roots run as deep as the ones provenance. The microcosm of culture and development, of the good, the bad and the ugly, Delhi has it all. The moment the train sauntered through the borders of Delhi, you could see such a transcending vagary of the standards of living, the various strata of socities just unfold in front of you, like you are having the cross sectional view of the reticular network of human civilization. That, is Delhi.

And as I picked up my luggage, and started to turn away, I could see the unflinching glare of the motley crew which was getting dispersed at this stage, where each of our faces said a thousand words. the words which could not be read, or explained, only understood. It was for the first time I felt, a minusucle sense of belonging to this clan of ours, and each one us had this to say, in our heads, "See you soon, I am hell eager."

But the catch is, "I'll come down to your place! Anywhere except the cell in a hell..."

So here I am, this is me, And this is the place I wanna be.

Houston, Touchdown.
Back to civilization.

Masala Chopsticks, Desi Ishtyle !

Where is the world heading to? And where am I? Well these days, mall-trotting, an extreme case of the rampant "hyper-metro-pia"... diseases these days, come in all shapes and sizes!

Since my six day duration of stay at this Utopia of sorts, my mornings are busy without any work, and keeping my blogger instincts alive, I was conscious enough to put my charades to a more yielding pretext. And whence an excursion was planned, with my cousin as accomplice, it was ingenious in its own right. Ingenious, well, it can be pardoned as one, when you manage to get a first day first show, 15 minutes before the show and especially when you thought about wadding your way to the theatre 30 minutes ago! The favorite, the most trustworthy and beguiling terms of Delhi-parlance, “jugaad” saved the atomic quirky enthusiasm we all were soused in and the chancy feeling of a thing that may go either way!

The entire nepotistic arsenal was spent for the new Abbas-Mustan Venture, 36 China Town. The movie which is perhaps the most advertised around all facetious forms of media, has a motley crew of wags, and to my surprise Kareena ‘Kaput’ was teensy bit less animated here, probably she did not have that much footage to wither! Anyways. Quilted in my relishable comportment, on a commodious seat at the PVR Spice cinemas played a fine proprietor to my overtly animadverted arse.




The celluloid houses Shahid Kapoor and Kareena 'Kaput' (:P) as two desperate part miserable in their own rights, who have left their homes in their amateur pursuit of their respective dreams, and as the directors cliché goes, they go bust. There's the regular pack of unaccounted facetiousness and badinage, Paresh Rawal, Johnny Lever and a brave Tanaz Currim. Akhshaye Khanna, the no-nonsense, relentless, the-world-is-falling-but-I-am-cool attitude cop, who maintains a unique unforeseen acquaintance with his suspects, and you find him cavorting and belching along with agog, and his facile sidekick with his intricate, daedal cigarette lighter, with an amazing timing of functioning. The eye candy is temporally fended by Isha Kopikkar, and a prodding Priyanka Chopra, who seems to be acquiring a penchant for special appearances. However, she appears towards the end, coupled with one of the fore mentioned, for conforming to the paired state of each, makes it acquire an lilt to piece up a jigsaw together.

With a rundown on the casting, I had this befuddling urge to click some shots from the movie, which later materialized as manna for my blog review, hope I get to have some variance in this bland though vapidly elegant template.

And it began.

The celluloid is washed with a drenched, with females mind you, introductory Upen Patel who takes his nascent steps into filmdom through the canvas, with his jingle in the background. Upen plays an effervescent, philandering and chauvinistic Adonis, who considers his conscientious duty to accompany every sexy lass in the world and blandish her for a quintessential 'long drive', through his own effusive and haughty pick-up lines. Upen Patel, another crossover from modeling, damages the cliché ‘models can’t act’ to some extent, but does not do much to invent one of his own. Considering the plaudits he has gathered on the ramp, the transition looks promising, except his snub expression, of some combusted toast, like his forehead lines look like creases on crumpled cotton, appended by that ponderous countenance of sizeable amplitude, in toto a gobhi ka pakoda...!

The story begins with Sonia Chang’s, a rich and divorced owner of the plush Chinatown Casino, little kiddo being kidnapped suddenly one fine day. A bereaving Ms. Chang is on a heavy dose of sleeping pills, deeply anguished by her fruitless efforts. On the other end of the vicious maze of fate, in Mumbai, the defenestrated Shahid and Kareena, are roaming aimlessly at their wits’ end, and as an indispensable karma in Bollywood, the same fate allots them an opportunity to realize their dreams, when they find the wandering child in front of them. Needy and desperate, both of them join hands, which progresses into an ineluctable love affair, almost a staple move since the land and the stars were created! They inform Ms. Chang about the epochal procurement, and overwhelmed she announces an in-house party at her Chinatown pub. (pub- casino, casino-pub, its all about losing your money ;)

Paresh Rawal, a convalescent gambler who has undergone therapy against gambling, but develops convulsions on being recipient to any air flux coming out of a casino, and a fawning husband of a sultry wife, is the owner of 5 hotels, 4 out of which have been mortgaged due to his extravagant tastes, which encompasses gambling, feckless gambling and more gambling. That night, Paresh also gets to lay his hands on the counters, and goes berserk, betting the fifth hotel too. Johnny Lever is another upstart lay-bet, who is going to Goa, in the same casino; this time equipped with some incanted die, courtesy some baba, with his candid and frugal wife Tanaz Currim. What’s in the offing is anybody’s guess. Both of these master wisecracks form a hilarious coalition, and you get your share of laughs in the movie, towards the interval.

This is where Abbas-Mustan piece together an eclectic ferfuffle, with the concurrence of all characters on this night, when Ms. Chang is murdered. It’s not until dark, when our to-be lovebirds reach 36, China Town. Finding the place all dark and desolate, they start searching for Ms. Chang, and happen to discover her dead body. With their faces drained they escape the mansion and inform the Police. Here is where our super cop Akshaye Khanna comes in. After this there is no looking back. Post interval sees a paced concoction of comedy and suspense, where everybody gets ridiculous defending themselves from our super cop’s ingenuous volley of questions. Shahid gets caught, and becomes the prime suspect of the murder, subsequent with Johnny’s hilarious conviction to escape. Paresh Rawal has a connubial quandary when that night, his wife ends up sharing her bedroom with Upen Patel, and the rest as they say is comedy.
The most incredulous character, 'lively' in its own right, is the corpse of Ms. Chang. So nimble in its (well its a corpse right) movement, that it goes on mission to comute through all modes of transport. The expeditious entity goes through the whole mansion, eluding all the 10-odd ill fated crew, giving them their prerogative of shreiks and freaks, and then whisks away through a suitcase and what not! Watch out for it.

Such is the plot weaved, that all characters happen to visit the foreboding bungalow at that inopportune time. Ashcake Khanna, with his scripturally rendered acumen and intelligence starts catching everyone who happened to relate with the murder that fateful night, and each has their own laugh-rioted contribution to make. Check out, what happens to Johnny and his wife and how they try to get rid of the predicament. Shahid Kareena just had to come close after the oh-so-selfless Shahid helps her in trying situations and gets caught in the process. The movie boils down into a trademark fare, a fast pace whodunit, with a sharp cop with a difference, and a motley crew of idiocies, there is loads of humor strewn throughout. The movie proved to be worth a family entertainer, with Ham-fisted Reshammiya’s A-a-ashiqui (: D) catching the pulse of the crowd, providing extra chutzpah to the package. The touted humor is worthwhile and both the master craftsmen (Rawal & Johnny) manage to gather an applause or two from at least the packed hall in which I was sitting, and the audience wasn’t that enthusiastic! The movie ends on a unconventional, yet remotely expected climax, referring to the killer.

36, China Town is a slick and the colloquial masala potboiler, targeted at the family segment, as well as for people eyeing heartening entertainment and engrosses you till its duration. The movie is interspersed with enthralling but identifiable situations, though to the restraint of being sodden boring, the acuity of the script and sarcastic dialogues make for worth a watch. The movie picks up its comic horses before the interval where Paresh Rawal and Johnny Lever are in full swing. The imperative comedy is satisfactory, and all the characters with their grotesque peccadilloes and idiosyncrasies make 36, China Town, a movie to commence your summer break with. The astute dexterity of the plot emboldens each character enough to be at least watermarked into the audience’s memory. The underlying moral admonition of the story, it constructed around the avarice and conceit of the degraded and conscientiously abstemious human mind, where each character brandishes his or her own personal acquisitive motive besieged to this highly object-referential world.

Akshaye Khanna carries his part of the deal with finesse, with his usual caricaturesque expression, if you have cared to observe, one eye frowned smaller than the other, like a pseudo-thinker! Otherwise, he plays the cop with vibrancy and that crafty commitment, which is a regular from his caliber of acting.

Shahid and Kareena, well I take their names together, because for the first time, the movie is not based on their spoony romances, and the director duo is liberal enough to give the audience a much needed breather. It is this disparancy which emerges a rather saving grace for the venture. Otherwise, Shahid is spunky in his performance and Kareena has overacted a little less. On the whole, they are a salutary part of the film.

Paresh Rawal, Johnny Lever, and a fervid Tanaz Currim, do a commendable job according to me and keep you interested through the reel’s duration. With their waggish fustian, their humor is practical and crunchy, replete with innuendos.

Upen ‘pakoda’ Patel, has some verbal acting skills to acquire. As it is he was dubbed, but overall, for a new comer he was content in his confines. And the dude’s got some dancing talents to show. For once, I saw some heedful lip service done, where the lips and the voice were not in China and Japan simultaneously. And in this frame, Upen is orchestrating his antics, with that flourishing move of the blade of his hand, pops the abated question, "Long Drive pe chalen?"




Rest, the killer is…
Mail me for the answer!

Hint: The killer has not been mentioned by me anywhere in this article.

Pixel For Pixel

You know what...Shit Happens.
It happens anyway.

People so insouicantly fritter away their own dirty linen, be so wasteful in making a seemingly devilish move. One of my dearest, and contrary to what many negatives would think aftre this post, this is our standard procedure...Anyways, Katti, you asked for it dude!

Now that the pixels are out of the mail bag, the ones that I would be reciprocating to the unconsciously self-destructive to the almost convictional perosnality that would be revealed to the unaware and endarkened world. Balasubramaniam Karthik, often refered in the 'circles' as B. Karthik, or still B.K. more morbidly, these refering to the abstrused doctors who have reached an impasse at the All India Seminar on Mental Therapy Procedures and Research, their challenges, he being a profound one. An ideal to fall back on, he is currently the advising head to Karzai on the scatological strategies to control the Taliban. Now we know what Bush couldn't get in Iraq!
For thou asinine soul that did not mind, what would hold for his would be pitiable arse who would be dissolved in the sardonic deeds that his shrinking brain couldn't find...

Prologue:
This will have its derogatory effects far more visceral than all you viewers can adjudge. The comment column is the space to watch out for. So Karthik, "You, sundown, My comment page..."

Alright I am exaggerating...

See for yourself...


The Opener:

Yeaheah, a little modertion front on, this is....

The indelible,

The indomintable,

The...

Ok Ok, we know you have got a 'french' beard...

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Rest, I think it will be a long time before the ground of the feilds of comments in this blog are not audience to more savages and swears. So,

No Comments.

Over to Karthik.

The Existential Hiatus

That was one long occlusion that was omnipresent, whose existence was in the absence of myself. Since the commencement of the formalities before the valediction ceremony that lasts five days, back to back events, which seek to delve into our stealth to conceal the sprightly joys in our bottoms, the non-audible ones, mind you. The whole vibe that many of my conscientious well-wishers, may conjure up is that the events our subjects and the valediction better known as the 'majors' in some fellow abbatoirs, here we regard them with a venerable abridged phrase, 'end-sems'. The whole camaraderie started from 12 April itself, with the whole thousand strong commonality running in circles on the dazing fancy footwork of their senile but surreal in their chicaneries, who in the end, make you stand at the same square from where you started.

As the mass hysteria began, I could not help but abstain from all the hullabaloo, very well aware that this mayhem would be the only largesse that our authorities will show, a gratuity resembling a certificate that this lexicographic bipedal may be professed as an engineer. My Degree. Those days portrayed the whimsical authorities to their best pococurantism. With mates running around the place painting it yellow, the deadlines just wont stop. Notices to follow deadlines, garnished by more deadlines to meet the previous deadlines. Some of the more pragmatic pedagogues had their charter of demands up and in time. When you are called to a prof's house and if you are from a seminal and a prime spot on the map of India, take Delhi for an instance, you are in for a game called waiter-waiter, and of course you play the waiter. Give them what they want, and you will get what you watch the populace go ga-ga over. Thought, I respect that thoroughly. Even they are aware of the ineffectual and futile bibelots that they follow, or are rather happy to do so. The more respectful ones, who atleast gauge the stature of their coeval ululations in the eyes of a haggard and largely nonchalant student, realize it first hand the bootless concern we all maintain. And so the mafia way of things is incorporated. Yeah, the mafia. (The author's visage is currently a painfully contorted DeNiro)

After storm which wasn't preceded with the quintessential lull, like it passed with the victims or more veritable preys, were more than happy to face the hard rock, atleast the simulacras of abhorrent Bappi Lahiri would stop. Our ears were already bleeding. On the penultimate day to the departure, there was a subconscious shrug on everybody's expressions. We had already started bidding adieu to each other when we returned to our hostels that day. Like saying under our breath, "See you again, but I am not that eager alright!" With a haste unseen to their ownselves yet, they started piling stuff, literally sitting on them to flatten them down, and disposing the crapulous mass into their cupboards and trunks. I was one proud member of the mayhem, but rendering my characteristic choler to the blithe affairs, I was packing till the last second before boarding the cradle to freedom, the heavenly auto-rickshaw! With six of us along with their baggages stuffed into the vehicle, we smirked at each other's composure to accomodate. Perhaps, we were too involved in the near future than what buffonery ensued in the present.

Now that I am back, back again, back strong, not all the same although, there is a Nicholas Cage animation a la City of Angels, to stand on the tallest building in my locality and jump to be imbued into the urbane noise that soothes your soul, the white noise that would be nothing short of a chopper hovering back their in the abysmal locales of the graveyard I am on a sabbatical from.
Looking forward to your cynosures...
Ravi