Such appalling has been a scribe's culture as recently as some 'hatchet' being thrown so wantonly into plebian attention. Some very conscientious person said, Publicity good or bad, is publicity. And its been a rhetorical event in our quotidian lives, like this kissing mishap that's been so earnestly covered by channels across the satellite's spectrum, that inadvertently the generic prime time viewing at homes has been debauched to hog over issues like these. Sometimes, beneath all that attention you are complementing them with, you question the wannabes of showbiz, are they anointed with controversies, are they just so felicitously present along with the media, that every hair they shed becomes manna for atleast irresponsible magazines. Incidents, they are sprawled across recent history, every recent I mean. These so called 'starlets' have apparently struck the gold of reaching out to the people, however vexed the method be.
They are a team, an endearing couple, the unscrupulous celebs and the shrewd and disgraceful media. But they are such bimbos, eggheads! Any incident like this is covered with a vigoristic commitment, and also provide a twofer to recount all such events that happened like these, but only with the sedulous participation of these celebs. Every day, worse and heinous incidents are betiding the invisible complaint registers, they are so fritteringly forgotten. talk about journalistic ethics. Facts, fabricated and promptly defenestrated are a glaring example of hypocrisy. These coverages turn out to be an efficacious showcase to laud all the devoted public figures. In all their swarthy indulgences, not only some Page3 party.
But is it so, apart from the harebraind majority of television junkies, do such pathetic stunts help. This floozy having the initials "R.S." (I wouldn't jeopardize the sanctity of this page by taking the name) is nothing more than decorative garish brummagem ware, who speaks like she is straight from the fields catching snakes and collecting berries, her rhetoric for 'justice' is so preposterous, if I was the cameraman, I would bang her head with the hot filament of the halogen, but then it wouldn't be fatal, since its probably empty. the bitch cavorts with the host for straight two hours doing the same thing that became so objectionable to her, being so profligate in her dwellings, being a 'modern' shitpot of fashion mismatch, that its fad to be get kissed in parties, and now the 'woman' is awakened. Astounding!
"Party Workers" are seemingly 8 year old kids, who don't know the capital of India, are ransacking IT offices to admonish some righteous officer's notice one of their party's bigots.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Court de Cowardice
I am rarely so fretful and spooked out. No scenario is so edgy and flustering with jitters, than a Roland Garros Final of Federer and Nadal. God, am I so scared stiff to see Federer lose. I can't stand it. My folks are doing much better, whenever the channel is switched to the match, I perform a depleted walk-out. Every serve, every volley, Nadal is etching his way past, almost being a progenor of history. I don't know what will the match lead to, but I just cant stand to see Federer fall. Nadal's winning streak on clay, already in a league of its own, is piquing Federer and this ardent fan, like millions across the world. Its posing a daunting question, when will the tables turn? When will the reality be in accordance to the facts? The immaculate shot-making which is on a flamboyant display across all surfaces, seems to be tattered and rickety. C'mon Federer! I have a dinner bet on you. Anyways I wont have to nerves to swallow something after the unbearable happens. Come on grass if you wanna feel a child of a lesser god. You are a Hewitt or a Roddick, you are sure to be perfunctorily dispatched in three sets straight. There an ATP rank loses meaning. In a pragmatist's book, Federer ranks No. 1, and there is none from 2 to 100. Yes, a 6-4 is considered exceptional, yours being the latter figure. But this impasse on clay... I am heaving, out of breath. Federer has suvived such scares of overnight successes raising their flaccid heads once in a while. Nadal is much better I know, but all this seems to carry on just a bit too uncomfortably long. There is no one I'd look up more to in this world, Roger Federer is a luminary to reckon with, my God. Not just in his field, but as a prodigy, inspiring as a mind boggling consistent success at 24. I want to be reborn atleast as a fraction of him.
I watched his archived matches. Right from 1999, when a confident 19 year old under-17 Wimbledon champion flabbergasts the world ending the 6 title array of the indomitable Sampras, commiting his ouster. And the world has never recovered since from the realtively staid, infallible god of the serve and volley, who maintains an unemotional stupor through a tournament, and falls to his knees, tears of contentment develop as he aces Roddick for the Wimbledon 2005, the scene is still alive in my mind. He talks through the latex strings, enveloping the world to its beat and rasps harder than a yelling and irant Hewitt. Federer just missed a drop shot, not even making an effort to reach out. Federer is two sets down, and its 5-5 fourth set. Things aint looking good.
And I pray Federer wins. Nadal, I'd love your energetic movement across the turf opposite any other dude, but that is tantamount to an insult to Federer. I as an astute supporter should, and ought to believe in Federer.
I may not be a court trotting hopeful, but I admire the sport through the mesh of the racquet, and on numerous occasions finding my self engrossed in the sport's intricacy. Be it Borg or Connors, every shot across the net, and my neck is oscillating up and down.
Tennis.
Game Set Match.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Mission : Accomplished
The summer is great, sunny and succulent, more to the vexation of its inhabitor's critters, and probably it takes some amount of slick direction to create a more thermodynamically radical installment to variegate the exquisite canvas into the shady world of Agent Ethan Hunt. The movie, goes without saying was M:I:III, and after a whole day of chagrin over lack of tickets, I got reciprocation of my earnestness. My cerebral creature was squirming in disgust, firstly accounting the astringent cold, yes you do get that, all you need is a bad day and lots of dust, and of course its most paradoxical confere, the torched climate. Armed with a grouchy demeanor, I was literally lambasting anyone that did not suite my peripheral gaze, atleast what I managed to focus through the throbbing headache.
My twisted and fatigued musculature was efficaciously replaced with a plasticised one of Tom Cruise, and I was one again. One again with the mien of a spy, an agent, an emissary, conjured up through my limited but deeply gratifying devouring of Robert Ludlum. I needed this, after all the spoony candy-ass romances, porcine 'Bollywood', I beg your pardon, villains and non sensical story lines, more aptly described as perfunctory copy-paste jobs. Tom Cruise delights, to the bone. Never has he been Ethan Hunt handled with such panache and aplomb, and this time, whatever the big shots of critique would say, Ethan Hunt is reborn with a more operative persona, a relief to the wits end original version where he seems like a hapless quarry. Yes, the original did give you the thrills, tangentially defining the essence of the Mission series, but you feel a bit for Ethan there. The first sequel was more of a sleep walk through deliverance. John Woo falls just short of making an advertisement. No deft agent work, no espionage. Our agent seems infallible, threatening the very conscience of a spy thriller. Debauching the relatively better standards created by Brian De Palma, Woo was flagrant. He took the celluloid to be a drawing book, making a lurid picture bulldozing the entire crayon box, making a garish visual mistreat. But this time, though all the emotional capers of Hunt, he seems plausible. But I miss the singularity of Hunt in the original, where he is not coerced into missions for relationships or worse, love. That, according to me would give his character plenty of leverage, both as a man on job and as an unencumbered logistic. But this time however, J.J. Abrams, a television 'phenomenon', riding high on Alias and Lost, treats Hunt with his canny craft, and doesn't make the 'I'll be there, honey' rhetoric distant to the plot. You'd count Julia as one of the 'mission objectives' rather than Hunt's personal indulgence.
A good pyrotechnic job, last minute alterations, witty dialogues and cinematic glisten is all on an intelligent display here. Hunt saves the day with a mandatory luck. Lady luck, eh? Well, Michelle Mohanagan is a good girl, a warm woman, who doesn't know anything about the double life of Ethan Hunt, who she believes works for the traffic department, and all her friends believe is too boring, and thinks that traffic is a creature with a memory. Their scenes together are however cold and weak, and doesn't setup a reasonable enough premise for our hero to go halfway across the world to save her. It needed more footage.
The movie opens up with a taut interrogation scene with Cruise and Hoffman (I have a paragraph dedicated to this guy!) leaving the viewer revved up, neck deep into the story. The object of everyone's contention is something known as a Rabbit's Foot, not some ultra expensive animal appendage, but some chimerial compound, a bio weapon But like these comma separated list of inferences, its a classic McGuffin! The plots unfolds through the habitual briefing of Agent Ethan Hunt, although through different modes, all intricate in their own right, this time its a camera, with the usual caveat of immediate self destruction. Hunt is in semi-retirement, until he is lured back into active service when one of his protege, Keri Russell, Abrams' apparent favorite, goes missing in Berlin. Yeah yeah, the same old dingy recesses of abandoned factory compounds shielding entire fleets of Apache's and enough weapons to support a small army, and the intrusion is one snazzy piece of agile screenplay. Check that sequence out, its amazing, but only a filler to more bizarre sequences that Abrams is so successful in creating. Reminds me of Sam Fisher meets Solid Snake.
So we have tiny explosives implanted into heads through noses, and not to miss the playful masquerade into the Vatican to kidnap Philip Seymour Hoffman. Now this man is discerning. Everything about him, most attention seeking is his dead pan sadistic voice. He plays a black market 'provider', who is willing to furnish anything to menacing militias in the Gulf given the right price. And he does it with a disturbing composure. No he isn't a maniac, he is not an excessively sanitized power hungry freak, and certainly not a cheap gangster. He is an ingenuous mix of all these. He throws swank parties but talks like a sullen misanthrope. He threatens Hunt, "I am gonna find her and I am gonna hurt her' He says it with such a terrible mocking seriousness, that I believed him. He is an unexpected package, right from the first scene, embarks as a mean, one on one vengeance seeking behemoth, like there is no escape than to kill him, his ominous intones conveying a profound message, "Somebody stop me! And there is noting you can do..."
Mission is a clever tale, which innocuously hides the superfluidity with quick turns and twists that the viewer is too transfixed to question. The movie's most laudable and extravagant sequence of the bridge where Hunt is double crossed, he scurries across a six meter wide gap with a machine gun bringing a plane down with that, highlights the achievement of Abrams. Mission is banal, but too garnished to feel the difference. A simple
agent-recovery mission leads to a gripping trail into the highest corridor's of the IMF. Billy Crudup, Hunts immediate senior, provides the enigmatic suspense in the movie. The trick lies there. Even the most shocking moment is hackneyed, but you are too awed to be compromised. Abrams creates, and boy does he do well. All the car chases in Shanghai with a building arched drop, and Hunt shoots two guards on his head first slide
down a giant glass pyramid on the top of a building, the deadal gadgetry in the Vatican, Cruise sneaking in as a bishop, the protracted explosions in Berlin, all showcase Cruise's commitment, a contractual allegiance. Cruise gives it his all. And boy does he love to run. His sprint is a fixture in every Mission installment, the dude just loves to do it. This time through the crammed slums in China, and he never seems to collide. Whew!
The Vatican affair provides a relief from the other edgy sequences with a welcome humor. Watch Hunt tip walk over a wall and lay supine beside a camera over all by a computerized pulley, to come down on the other side stopping inches above the ground. Maggie Q comes in with something that's makes me forget her in the frame, A Lamborghini Diablo, only to be blown up. The meticulous planning here is fun, including that mind blowing latex mask 'developer', shall I say.
The plots weaves into China, where a desolate apartment finds Hunt etching formulae on a window pane with a wax pencil, to something that belies Cruise's age. The plot culminates there eventually constructing an electric climax, and we find Hunt crying. Such an anti thesis isn't it? But Abrams manages to cover that up with smart screenplay. Abrams doesn't make compromises here experimenting. He uses all his crew, to do something Alias does almost perennially, even brings in his trusted composer for the soundtrack. The match is hot, damn the fire engulfs you! Chasing the can (rabbit's foot) across the streets, ensuing in a tense car chase, Abrams familiar stomping grounds, you are treated with a cinematic richness. We also see the staid Mohanagan picking up the metal, and go berserk, she exhibits a primal comfort for the weapon. Too much for a first timer Abrams!
Hunt's cohorts, Ving Rhames' Luther and two new additions, Maggie Q, who is sheepishly underused and Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the football-shootball coach of Bend It Like Beckham. He like Q is sidelined after Match Point. Luther, now a veteran in the Mission series takes on some preaching liberties this time, commenting on Ethan's predicaments. That's character evolution, a welcome change by Abrams, from the wooden beefy geek. He does it this time too, but with a humane involvement. Not to trade off with his terse one liners, sample this, "The Rabbit's Foot is in that building. The good news, its small enough, so we can steal it. The bad news, we have to steal it." Lawrence Fishburne, the indoctrinating and brusque boss, is satisfactory, more liked for his witty one liners again. He doesn't care if your daddy plays golf with the President. Cool!
Its the perfect mediocre relief, one of the best this summer has beckoned, apart from the impending hopeful bonanza, Casino Royale.
PS: Click to enlarge the images. Some have taken an experienced eye of a pointless mobile cameramen who draws unwilling glances. So much for the contentment of my efforts. I dont take any responsibility for any misunderstandings for recognition, and Ving Rhames is really that dark! Rhys really does look like a chicken, who says bird flu's over? Maggie Q I am sorry, no photographs of yours, was busy checking out the Lamborghini and some passenger...All the third party names are expected to be kept unspoken...
My twisted and fatigued musculature was efficaciously replaced with a plasticised one of Tom Cruise, and I was one again. One again with the mien of a spy, an agent, an emissary, conjured up through my limited but deeply gratifying devouring of Robert Ludlum. I needed this, after all the spoony candy-ass romances, porcine 'Bollywood', I beg your pardon, villains and non sensical story lines, more aptly described as perfunctory copy-paste jobs. Tom Cruise delights, to the bone. Never has he been Ethan Hunt handled with such panache and aplomb, and this time, whatever the big shots of critique would say, Ethan Hunt is reborn with a more operative persona, a relief to the wits end original version where he seems like a hapless quarry. Yes, the original did give you the thrills, tangentially defining the essence of the Mission series, but you feel a bit for Ethan there. The first sequel was more of a sleep walk through deliverance. John Woo falls just short of making an advertisement. No deft agent work, no espionage. Our agent seems infallible, threatening the very conscience of a spy thriller. Debauching the relatively better standards created by Brian De Palma, Woo was flagrant. He took the celluloid to be a drawing book, making a lurid picture bulldozing the entire crayon box, making a garish visual mistreat. But this time, though all the emotional capers of Hunt, he seems plausible. But I miss the singularity of Hunt in the original, where he is not coerced into missions for relationships or worse, love. That, according to me would give his character plenty of leverage, both as a man on job and as an unencumbered logistic. But this time however, J.J. Abrams, a television 'phenomenon', riding high on Alias and Lost, treats Hunt with his canny craft, and doesn't make the 'I'll be there, honey' rhetoric distant to the plot. You'd count Julia as one of the 'mission objectives' rather than Hunt's personal indulgence.A good pyrotechnic job, last minute alterations, witty dialogues and cinematic glisten is all on an intelligent display here. Hunt saves the day with a mandatory luck. Lady luck, eh? Well, Michelle Mohanagan is a good girl, a warm woman, who doesn't know anything about the double life of Ethan Hunt, who she believes works for the traffic department, and all her friends believe is too boring, and thinks that traffic is a creature with a memory. Their scenes together are however cold and weak, and doesn't setup a reasonable enough premise for our hero to go halfway across the world to save her. It needed more footage.
The movie opens up with a taut interrogation scene with Cruise and Hoffman (I have a paragraph dedicated to this guy!) leaving the viewer revved up, neck deep into the story. The object of everyone's contention is something known as a Rabbit's Foot, not some ultra expensive animal appendage, but some chimerial compound, a bio weapon But like these comma separated list of inferences, its a classic McGuffin! The plots unfolds through the habitual briefing of Agent Ethan Hunt, although through different modes, all intricate in their own right, this time its a camera, with the usual caveat of immediate self destruction. Hunt is in semi-retirement, until he is lured back into active service when one of his protege, Keri Russell, Abrams' apparent favorite, goes missing in Berlin. Yeah yeah, the same old dingy recesses of abandoned factory compounds shielding entire fleets of Apache's and enough weapons to support a small army, and the intrusion is one snazzy piece of agile screenplay. Check that sequence out, its amazing, but only a filler to more bizarre sequences that Abrams is so successful in creating. Reminds me of Sam Fisher meets Solid Snake.
So we have tiny explosives implanted into heads through noses, and not to miss the playful masquerade into the Vatican to kidnap Philip Seymour Hoffman. Now this man is discerning. Everything about him, most attention seeking is his dead pan sadistic voice. He plays a black market 'provider', who is willing to furnish anything to menacing militias in the Gulf given the right price. And he does it with a disturbing composure. No he isn't a maniac, he is not an excessively sanitized power hungry freak, and certainly not a cheap gangster. He is an ingenuous mix of all these. He throws swank parties but talks like a sullen misanthrope. He threatens Hunt, "I am gonna find her and I am gonna hurt her' He says it with such a terrible mocking seriousness, that I believed him. He is an unexpected package, right from the first scene, embarks as a mean, one on one vengeance seeking behemoth, like there is no escape than to kill him, his ominous intones conveying a profound message, "Somebody stop me! And there is noting you can do..."
Mission is a clever tale, which innocuously hides the superfluidity with quick turns and twists that the viewer is too transfixed to question. The movie's most laudable and extravagant sequence of the bridge where Hunt is double crossed, he scurries across a six meter wide gap with a machine gun bringing a plane down with that, highlights the achievement of Abrams. Mission is banal, but too garnished to feel the difference. A simple
agent-recovery mission leads to a gripping trail into the highest corridor's of the IMF. Billy Crudup, Hunts immediate senior, provides the enigmatic suspense in the movie. The trick lies there. Even the most shocking moment is hackneyed, but you are too awed to be compromised. Abrams creates, and boy does he do well. All the car chases in Shanghai with a building arched drop, and Hunt shoots two guards on his head first slide
down a giant glass pyramid on the top of a building, the deadal gadgetry in the Vatican, Cruise sneaking in as a bishop, the protracted explosions in Berlin, all showcase Cruise's commitment, a contractual allegiance. Cruise gives it his all. And boy does he love to run. His sprint is a fixture in every Mission installment, the dude just loves to do it. This time through the crammed slums in China, and he never seems to collide. Whew!The Vatican affair provides a relief from the other edgy sequences with a welcome humor. Watch Hunt tip walk over a wall and lay supine beside a camera over all by a computerized pulley, to come down on the other side stopping inches above the ground. Maggie Q comes in with something that's makes me forget her in the frame, A Lamborghini Diablo, only to be blown up. The meticulous planning here is fun, including that mind blowing latex mask 'developer', shall I say.
The plots weaves into China, where a desolate apartment finds Hunt etching formulae on a window pane with a wax pencil, to something that belies Cruise's age. The plot culminates there eventually constructing an electric climax, and we find Hunt crying. Such an anti thesis isn't it? But Abrams manages to cover that up with smart screenplay. Abrams doesn't make compromises here experimenting. He uses all his crew, to do something Alias does almost perennially, even brings in his trusted composer for the soundtrack. The match is hot, damn the fire engulfs you! Chasing the can (rabbit's foot) across the streets, ensuing in a tense car chase, Abrams familiar stomping grounds, you are treated with a cinematic richness. We also see the staid Mohanagan picking up the metal, and go berserk, she exhibits a primal comfort for the weapon. Too much for a first timer Abrams!
Hunt's cohorts, Ving Rhames' Luther and two new additions, Maggie Q, who is sheepishly underused and Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the football-shootball coach of Bend It Like Beckham. He like Q is sidelined after Match Point. Luther, now a veteran in the Mission series takes on some preaching liberties this time, commenting on Ethan's predicaments. That's character evolution, a welcome change by Abrams, from the wooden beefy geek. He does it this time too, but with a humane involvement. Not to trade off with his terse one liners, sample this, "The Rabbit's Foot is in that building. The good news, its small enough, so we can steal it. The bad news, we have to steal it." Lawrence Fishburne, the indoctrinating and brusque boss, is satisfactory, more liked for his witty one liners again. He doesn't care if your daddy plays golf with the President. Cool!Its the perfect mediocre relief, one of the best this summer has beckoned, apart from the impending hopeful bonanza, Casino Royale.
PS: Click to enlarge the images. Some have taken an experienced eye of a pointless mobile cameramen who draws unwilling glances. So much for the contentment of my efforts. I dont take any responsibility for any misunderstandings for recognition, and Ving Rhames is really that dark! Rhys really does look like a chicken, who says bird flu's over? Maggie Q I am sorry, no photographs of yours, was busy checking out the Lamborghini and some passenger...All the third party names are expected to be kept unspoken...
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Robert Frost's Parody
This is a humiliating piece of trifle poetry, insolent enough that it may sour diplomacy between the Queen's Knightly concerns and the Indian mental fecundity
Ok check this out..
An abject parody of the miles that Frost was to go before he could sleep, and they said he died in a car crash....
Joking, anyways.
***
If it ever once would be a possiblility
That an average boorish Indian in Frost's deep dark woods be
Walking for too long, and among all greenry
He would suffice to describe his buffoonery
What would his reactions be?
I guess he would be Saying this to thee,
The Woods may be lonely dark and deep
But I cant find a dense canopy
To exhibit such an embarrasing humanity
To restrain my self from moral larceny
To hell with Frost, I cant care to be
Foolish enough to wet my baggies
For something so immaterial as society
How do the English plant their trees?
It'll be long before I can walk free
And miles to go before I pee
And miles to go before I pee
***
Ok check this out..
An abject parody of the miles that Frost was to go before he could sleep, and they said he died in a car crash....
Joking, anyways.
***
If it ever once would be a possiblility
That an average boorish Indian in Frost's deep dark woods be
Walking for too long, and among all greenry
He would suffice to describe his buffoonery
What would his reactions be?
I guess he would be Saying this to thee,
The Woods may be lonely dark and deep
But I cant find a dense canopy
To exhibit such an embarrasing humanity
To restrain my self from moral larceny
To hell with Frost, I cant care to be
Foolish enough to wet my baggies
For something so immaterial as society
How do the English plant their trees?
It'll be long before I can walk free
And miles to go before I pee
And miles to go before I pee
***
Cheers!
The R'a'mbunctious Rhymer.
The R'a'mbunctious Rhymer.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
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.
The Da Vinci Code.
Adios.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
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.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
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.
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.
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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.
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.
Friday, May 05, 2006
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.
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.
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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 ;)
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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.
.0.jpg)
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..jpg)
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..jpg)
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..jpg){kind=small}
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?".jpg)
Rest, the killer is…
Mail me for the answer!
Hint: The killer has not been mentioned by me anywhere in this article.
Monday, May 01, 2006
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:
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...
.
***
/\
~. .~
[ ^ ]
\/
.
.
.
.
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
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
Sunday, April 30, 2006
The Exodus
Date: 28th April, 2006
Location: Latitude: 22º 07'
Longitude: 84º 27'
Time: 0925 hrs
A lonesome crew of motley boys at a dusty railway station, where the weather is foreboding and humid, and the grime on their faces tells a gruesome tale. The tale of survival, of compromises, and prominently one of a indomitable spirit to come back, to fly again... The train to New Delhi arrives on a platform replete with filth, humanity and mayhem of staunch activity. One of them laments the words "Oh Shit! Time to go home!" His enthusiasm is greeted with similar cheers and bleeps of decrepit fatigued bodies, drooping shoulderslangourousus voices, yet somewhere in those notes of an oxymoronic deportment, you could absorb the aura of a positivist, which intermittently transcended that morning.
Some looked down at the track, with a mercurial smile, like some longed memory that was permeating the bearer's mind, and the bearers had one thing in common at that moment, none of the memories were associated with the place they were to depart in just a while. These four months had turned out to be the most conscious-intensive in their respective succulent lives. With no idea about what they were getting in, they had arrived with an erstwhile gusto, each one in a class of their own ardor. And then it arrived, the train to El Dorado. The place having its own references in each one's mind, and like prisoners, waiting for their orders, whatever they are, to be set free, to be deported to some other penitentiary or to be executed, their visages turned like a set of keyed-up toys, all unwinding from the drilling travails, only to get grilled again, but the anguish to return was far more diminutive to the tangibility that was emanating from their mien right now. Their pupils dilated, like an elevated mind, they could almost feel their feet leaving the floor, coupled with a synchronous movement of their arms, the fingers quivering to hold the door, to break free.
The mess food last night was pathetic, something the devil cooked up himself. Anyways, half of the guys who had it last night had got a commode reserved for themselves the following morning. These guys had to leave, this opportunity was too critical to let it be squandered by some dysentery. They had to leave, even if it meant shitting in their pants. The harrowing look on their faces, like the blood had been flushed out of their bodies was because after the half hours ride in the auto-rickshaw, their hind muscles just could not hold on any longer, to restrict the ever-percolating and fumigating sludge anymore. Trust me; you don't want me to explain this to you anymore. For the more disgusting people it's the same old infelicitous address again, ravioactive@gmail.com. And, more than anything else, at that moment that epochal train was another outlet that would let them let it out! The philistine calm was maintained so that each could concentrate on their own digestive manipulations, so that olfactory doesn't give way to the gustatory, and henceforth the excretory! Couldn't get it? Indian Railways has got dirty toilets and the mess food was more detestable than anything, so this was merely a beacon to those lousy officials, as diligent as the minister under whom they all 'serve', to get the shit cleaned.
Moral of the story: Don't let me go overboard, but then you don't really have a choice, do ya' PUNKS?
Bend In the End:
And Tanu, love your idea of the 'parting shot'. So here's mine, 'Blast at the Last' or 'Bend in the End'or still...'sedimentary thoughts'. Just another brummagem phrase from this largely inconsequential 'writer', if I may dare call myself by that title! By the way, talk about 'inspired writing'. This fore stated lingua exemplifies, although cheaply, this new 'genre' of writing. Kaavya, for one has done a better and a more plebian job than the original cradle of creativity, if the disrespected soul, seeking refuge under my condolences may like. But dude, you're done. Kaavya is there, enjoying her time under the sun. Only the sun becomes the incandescent filament of the paparazzi's flashbulb! So back off! She has done a commendable job, and above all has been hailed plaudits from the reviewer and the reader alike. So the point of bringing in an inane charge like that only helps, because, Kaavya is what they want, which ever way you are going to present her, and they damn right love it!
Location: Latitude: 22º 07'
Longitude: 84º 27'
Time: 0925 hrs
A lonesome crew of motley boys at a dusty railway station, where the weather is foreboding and humid, and the grime on their faces tells a gruesome tale. The tale of survival, of compromises, and prominently one of a indomitable spirit to come back, to fly again... The train to New Delhi arrives on a platform replete with filth, humanity and mayhem of staunch activity. One of them laments the words "Oh Shit! Time to go home!" His enthusiasm is greeted with similar cheers and bleeps of decrepit fatigued bodies, drooping shoulderslangourousus voices, yet somewhere in those notes of an oxymoronic deportment, you could absorb the aura of a positivist, which intermittently transcended that morning.
Some looked down at the track, with a mercurial smile, like some longed memory that was permeating the bearer's mind, and the bearers had one thing in common at that moment, none of the memories were associated with the place they were to depart in just a while. These four months had turned out to be the most conscious-intensive in their respective succulent lives. With no idea about what they were getting in, they had arrived with an erstwhile gusto, each one in a class of their own ardor. And then it arrived, the train to El Dorado. The place having its own references in each one's mind, and like prisoners, waiting for their orders, whatever they are, to be set free, to be deported to some other penitentiary or to be executed, their visages turned like a set of keyed-up toys, all unwinding from the drilling travails, only to get grilled again, but the anguish to return was far more diminutive to the tangibility that was emanating from their mien right now. Their pupils dilated, like an elevated mind, they could almost feel their feet leaving the floor, coupled with a synchronous movement of their arms, the fingers quivering to hold the door, to break free.
***
The mess food last night was pathetic, something the devil cooked up himself. Anyways, half of the guys who had it last night had got a commode reserved for themselves the following morning. These guys had to leave, this opportunity was too critical to let it be squandered by some dysentery. They had to leave, even if it meant shitting in their pants. The harrowing look on their faces, like the blood had been flushed out of their bodies was because after the half hours ride in the auto-rickshaw, their hind muscles just could not hold on any longer, to restrict the ever-percolating and fumigating sludge anymore. Trust me; you don't want me to explain this to you anymore. For the more disgusting people it's the same old infelicitous address again, ravioactive@gmail.com. And, more than anything else, at that moment that epochal train was another outlet that would let them let it out! The philistine calm was maintained so that each could concentrate on their own digestive manipulations, so that olfactory doesn't give way to the gustatory, and henceforth the excretory! Couldn't get it? Indian Railways has got dirty toilets and the mess food was more detestable than anything, so this was merely a beacon to those lousy officials, as diligent as the minister under whom they all 'serve', to get the shit cleaned.
Moral of the story: Don't let me go overboard, but then you don't really have a choice, do ya' PUNKS?
***
Bend In the End:
And Tanu, love your idea of the 'parting shot'. So here's mine, 'Blast at the Last' or 'Bend in the End'or still...'sedimentary thoughts'. Just another brummagem phrase from this largely inconsequential 'writer', if I may dare call myself by that title! By the way, talk about 'inspired writing'. This fore stated lingua exemplifies, although cheaply, this new 'genre' of writing. Kaavya, for one has done a better and a more plebian job than the original cradle of creativity, if the disrespected soul, seeking refuge under my condolences may like. But dude, you're done. Kaavya is there, enjoying her time under the sun. Only the sun becomes the incandescent filament of the paparazzi's flashbulb! So back off! She has done a commendable job, and above all has been hailed plaudits from the reviewer and the reader alike. So the point of bringing in an inane charge like that only helps, because, Kaavya is what they want, which ever way you are going to present her, and they damn right love it!
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Taxi!
Ah!
After a long time did I go to that forgetful audi of our holy alma mater. The populace was there for another movie resplendent with another of the myriad of Nana Patekar's indelibly enacted roles, this time of a haggard taxi driver. Yes, late but better than never, that I am, this one was Taxi No. 9211.
The hall was filled with a sonorous Sanjay Dutt, the narrator of the plot, and there was our protagonist, Raghav Shastri, who played the role of a simulacrum of our lives to perfection, so peevishly spent in this chase, where we all are scorned as rats. Raghav Shastri is another rat in this steeple chase, but like each one of us, who is unique, Raghav has his own predicaments, although in an altogether different context, but the harrowing life soused with tension is something we all relate to in some way or the other. He is stuck in this frugal world where money rules, a lower middle class dweller, he is out of a job. So he drives a taxi, this one with a twist in its tale, literally, the number - 9211. But he doesn't disclose this to his doting wife, a typical middle class housewife, more practical than romantic, who constantly bickers on the pending bills, the coming expenditures, and those pending.
Enter Jay Mittal, a flamboyant son of a rich father, too oblivious to the realities of life. For him, life is always a ball, a guy who thinks, and believes that money buys everything, cars, girls, and all the pleasures. To the point of signing off the poor as unfit for living, or to stay close to, Jay is driven by his own material desires, with his girlfriend Rupali, played with concern by Sameera Reddy. Before Jay's father dies, he left all his property to his dear friend, leaving Jay stranded and desperate, which has taken the face of a legal tussle between Jay and his uncle.
One fine morning the lives of these antonymal personalities meet, when Jay is forced to take this fateful taxi, to attend one of the life altering moments, the court case for the rights. Jay forces Raghu to speed, to drive faster, often cursing and at the same time begging him to comply. He offers the ultimate bait, money, flooding Raghu with big bills, and Raghu is tantalised, when he comes close to the only thing for which he is taking so much pains and conceit to acquire. But as the going of the fates proceed, Raghu bangs his taxi with another vehicle, and Jay being what he is, slips out, putting Raghu in a tough spot, subsequently landing in jail. But as Jay goes to take his will from some bank locker, he finds to his utter disbelief, that he left the keys to that safe in the car. Raghu on the other hand is ruined as his wife comes to know of his true engagements. Under this effect, Raghu tries to blame Jay for all his misdemeanors, only exposed through Jay, amounting to an attempt on Jay's life by him.
Trivia:
An action sequence was to be shot with some cars chasing 'John Abraham' . Unfortunately, at the time of shooting, Abraham's mother was crossing the road and she presumed he was being attacked and freaked out. Shooting was halted while Abraham calmed his mother and reassured her it was only a film shoot.
courtesy: imdb
What ensues is a vibrant scramble from both of them levelling scores against each other, squandering their own lives in the method. The movie takes a moral turn in the end when each character realizes their mistakes, and their mindsets which had a diminishing effect on their lives' happiness, made them forget their aims, to make their lives better, but all they savaged in return was their own, when the cure becomes the disease itself. Taxi No. 9211 analyses their thought processes, and portrays the extra-ordinary predilections they magnify into, only this time when the circumstances were anything but ordinary. It analyses the nitty-gritties of life, where we are so engulfed by our worries that each forgets to behave like a human, be benevolent, the seminal virtues of humility and honesty, to smile...
Nana is obviously excellent, delivering with a straight face, even the simplest of dialogues are crackling, especially towards the end when both of them reach Jay's home. Scenes after that are particularly metaphoric and give a message. The scene where Raghu breaks down, on his birthday, subsequented by John going to his uncle's house and making the drastic descision are specially symbolic and give the movie shape and character. The movie ends on a happy note, with a quirky satirical meeting of Priyanka Chopra, showing off the quintessential love at first sight, Bollywood ishtyle , garnished with a retro track which epitomises our way of fantasizing romance, however pragamtic, like a impressionable Indian cinegoer I cried (not literally) and smiled with the characters.
Taxi no. 9211 revolves around the lives, just 36 hours of the lives of these two characters, each disillusioned in its own way, towards the simple virtues of mankind. Obfuscated by the colors of life, the one which we want to achieve and the frustration of our present. Each character, on two opposite ends of the social hierarchy, but with a common desire to make their lives better, in the process making them bitter. Morally enlightening, the movie carries a quixotic message within. Milan Luthria's direction is par excellence, more so done justice by skills of Nana, and John doesn't disappoint and isn't stunted vis-a-vis Nana's calibre, but you feel like the role was made for him, he being iconically identified with the arrogant youth of the nation today. Sonali Kulkarni lives up to her reputation as a accomplished actress, plays the archetypical housewife, who is also an alter ego of her husband, showing him the right path, and never deserting him in his trying times, with elan.
All in all, a nice souffle to finish off an gourmet of a day, which picked up towards the end.
Erm....
I have this recent infatuation, yes it IS an infatuation, with the night. Of late I am on my hostel roof, with others, not malcontents, not renegades, but the guinea pigs of this mad scientist's lab, with no way out. Enough of similies which have probably run out of exhaustion right now, but anyways, the tangibility stays. At that time, the place is incongruently cool, and we even have a breeze in this torched place. And the mind reigns supreme. The patina of time, is brushed, like an incepted seed, the saplings grow, come out of their panoplies. After all the haste has died down, all the rancor subsided, this pristine calm of the night takes over. And that location, gives this strategic vista of this place, sans the inhabitors. Among other vestiges of its sublime tranquility, is that its a great great place to booze, given its edges that are the low walls, and you look straight down from fifty meters of this structure, with all that high...Amazing!
Then the usual acronyms of different times of a day, and all activities related have a amusing mismatch. Our breakfast, is their dinner and so on. Its a refreshing release from our travails, which have been eloquently mentioned.
Among other buffooneries, this new crop of bands, Death Cab For Cutie, My Chemical Romance and others have changed the definition of modern rock. They encompass ranges unfathomed before, and the jutting guitar riffs and vocal convulsions just get the glands racing. I'll make sure that I have an efficient portable gadget that plays songs, the ipod is probably far fetched but my iRiver will be handy. Sleek piece of wizardry, designed by some Inno, well aint got a clue who's he, but Inno is Inn man for sure! Stranded quiescent without my computer, time is really getting the better of me here. An invention just slipped out of this incredulous mind: 'psychopath-etic'. Anyways,
Till, I get back to civilization...
Ciao.
Then the usual acronyms of different times of a day, and all activities related have a amusing mismatch. Our breakfast, is their dinner and so on. Its a refreshing release from our travails, which have been eloquently mentioned.
Among other buffooneries, this new crop of bands, Death Cab For Cutie, My Chemical Romance and others have changed the definition of modern rock. They encompass ranges unfathomed before, and the jutting guitar riffs and vocal convulsions just get the glands racing. I'll make sure that I have an efficient portable gadget that plays songs, the ipod is probably far fetched but my iRiver will be handy. Sleek piece of wizardry, designed by some Inno, well aint got a clue who's he, but Inno is Inn man for sure! Stranded quiescent without my computer, time is really getting the better of me here. An invention just slipped out of this incredulous mind: 'psychopath-etic'. Anyways,
Till, I get back to civilization...
Ciao.
Friday, April 07, 2006
The Saltus
Ladies and Gentlemen, now this is the same old brine in a new improved and plagiarized bottlegreen!
Now that I have had it pestering you in the grotesque green and white that previously was rampant on this screen of yours... I have changed, not literally, just the page.
And as for this skin, the less said the better. the mere reference to this as a skin explains all.
In due course of the miserably self inflicted melancholy of a time that is allotted to me as a 'student' here, as I develop as an engineer, you will see probably a more comprehensively arranged and actually worked stuff...as of now, it was all Ctrl+C and same with +P.
:P
On this green letter day, I like to say that, Change is omnipresent here, but the self is the same. Another vestige is the abstract fact that this happens to be my shortest post!
For once I cant find anything else that would fit this post. I have stuff, the always waffling Ravi, so rife with verbiage. But yes, I will stop, before the mere informing to stop makes this something which it was not meant to be...
But You still haven't got any idea...
You still haven't got any idea
You still haven't got any idea...
And please tell me whether the effort to grasp and copy all the HTML was worth it or not?
So until you get an idea...
Rock on!
Now that I have had it pestering you in the grotesque green and white that previously was rampant on this screen of yours... I have changed, not literally, just the page.
And as for this skin, the less said the better. the mere reference to this as a skin explains all.
In due course of the miserably self inflicted melancholy of a time that is allotted to me as a 'student' here, as I develop as an engineer, you will see probably a more comprehensively arranged and actually worked stuff...as of now, it was all Ctrl+C and same with +P.
:P
On this green letter day, I like to say that, Change is omnipresent here, but the self is the same. Another vestige is the abstract fact that this happens to be my shortest post!
For once I cant find anything else that would fit this post. I have stuff, the always waffling Ravi, so rife with verbiage. But yes, I will stop, before the mere informing to stop makes this something which it was not meant to be...
But You still haven't got any idea...
You still haven't got any idea
You still haven't got any idea...
And please tell me whether the effort to grasp and copy all the HTML was worth it or not?
So until you get an idea...
Rock on!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Grouch Potato
Some days short of freedom, temporary but epochal, restricted by euphoric, hell, its my piece of cake!
Anyways, after being so demanding which is my usual subconscious self among the hoi poloi of my alma mater, I am crossing out days on my calender with a big fat bold permanent marker, with almost feral brutality. The fierce pen strokes make the paper split up even with the soft felt tip of the pen. As I pack my bags, start gathering my stuff, sorting it out from my roomie's, and assiduously put them back in place, organised and arranged , adhering to the promises I made to my folks before leaving, to keep my place clean and organized. Not that I changed overnight or something, its a token of my schmaltz and sickness, of both home and place. This task of rearrangement fueled by MY yearning of MY Delhi, is done with an aggravation,. Its in a long time, an activity managed to keep me interested.
Often when I'm online, where a copious amount of my routine is immolated each day, I am often slithered by these new breed of watchdogs, who are almost driven with a shot of acid in their arms. They bug me with that ubiquitous yet abstractly obscene question, "What's Up?" Some of the more harebrained ones take liberty to truncate this phrase into one of the most irascibly blown out of proportion words which makes you salivate unnaturally, "WASSUP!" Often worsened by the iteration of that exclamation mark....
Well, I'd like to have that luxury of asking these too-busy-for-the-world beings a question, What do you guys have for breakfast? Grass? I mean the "hi" sent with a sinuous sequence of that 'I', does that really reflect your state of mind? Then just sit back and wonder what a living time bomb that guy must be, with a pulse rate of over some 10,000 bpm, not to forget the 'hi' is so 'high', the guy is so 'high', so I spoil the party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Probably get an ICU in a respectable hospital booked first hand, first aid!!!!!!!!!!!!
Another abomination is the question you get umpteen times in a day, "How's Life?" Not to mention, the same treatment is for the '?' mark also. I find myself replying, 'Great' with that same unreasonable enthusiasm. But on the 34th time I gave up, I said, I am having a brain hemorrhage, please help me. The girl went offline instantly!
In one of my more 'intellectual' moods (yes I even have those, amazing isn't it!!!!!) I had one pensive reply, an exhaustive one to slap across his face. And he went bust:
LIFE is...............A Bitch I guess!Keeps on acquainting me with new horrors regularly to let me fret. Little hard for me 2 keep up with the academics here at first, so it spoilt the party a little but as of now, I m in probably the most freakiest phase of my life as of yet... Everyday becomes a succinct memory of some crazy happening! Like a slanderous pimp, life is taking me to unsuspecting thresholds, each more muzzy than the other.
Life is like having a cup of tea. You sit by the side of the window, lift the cup and take a careless sip, Only to realize, somebody forgot to put the sugar. Too lazy to go for it you somehow struggle through the tasteless drink. Until you discover un-dissolved sugar crystal sitting at the bottom... ---That's LIFE
For me if you comprehend with this "cup o' tea' idea, mine is punctuated by this crystal of sugar sitting, sauntering at the base of the cup but always inconspicuous, obscure enough to signal its presence, a sweet tinge, is what the drinker of the tea is longing for, at the same, he's too stingy in his effort for it... hope u get what's going on in my life!
His panting was heard overseas...Orkut is good!!!!!!!!
* * * *
Right now I am sitting in my lab, where we come every thursday to learn C++, thanks to my ordeals at high school with the abstruse language, probably the only one which doesn't have official abuses, I am doing reasonably, coping with it. Right now, our lab assistant, genially coined as Lab-Ass, is reading out our mid semester marks. With unaccounted liberty, I dare say that I have scored a decent 80%, a feat when compared to the amount of effort I put in. This lab is beginning to acquire a place for my surfing joints, where I employ the resources of this institute for much more productive and insinuating purposes. As today's affairs will come to an end, I am happy, not for that over credited performance of mine, but for the time that ended, an hour, a minute passes, bringing that occasion nearer and nearer when I board that train, the train of freedom. The train to Delhi.
Now that I am being a total waste, a pathetic excuse for a student, I am sharing a thought, a sentiment of the whole group. Even as a guy behind me, is flashing around his new gadget, a 2.0 MP phone, he is doing a reasonable job as a wildlife photographer, clicking all of the dormant and sleeping fauna of the lab :) I am one of the few awake, and recording all these blunders. Our respected Lab-Asses, the beholders of the venerable position are there flummoxed by this program on some honest soul's terminal, just living upto their names, asses, proving time and again their apt skills.
A smart way to complete assignments, not that smart though when there are loop holes the size of Pakistan itself, is that since there is no security to access folders of students in the server from any terminal in the lab, we take the benignant prerogative to copy the program files from the folders of some of our exponentially diligent batch mates. Exponential by our standards, you see...
Its due to this lack of control, some on themselves and rest is gleefully complemented by us, that these periods where a student is supposed to sharpen some skills, are turned into such ineffectual excursions.
Yet among all the sludge that seeps through my mailboxes and chat windows, I get across some good stuff too...
Like check out this whacky yet proficient definition of Optimism:
Optimism is accidentally falling into a river, and start bathing.
I am riding the wave of optimism, the wave which terminates at my home, flooding the place with my yearnings and memories.
So until I board the train....
Adios Amigos!
Anyways, after being so demanding which is my usual subconscious self among the hoi poloi of my alma mater, I am crossing out days on my calender with a big fat bold permanent marker, with almost feral brutality. The fierce pen strokes make the paper split up even with the soft felt tip of the pen. As I pack my bags, start gathering my stuff, sorting it out from my roomie's, and assiduously put them back in place, organised and arranged , adhering to the promises I made to my folks before leaving, to keep my place clean and organized. Not that I changed overnight or something, its a token of my schmaltz and sickness, of both home and place. This task of rearrangement fueled by MY yearning of MY Delhi, is done with an aggravation,. Its in a long time, an activity managed to keep me interested.
Often when I'm online, where a copious amount of my routine is immolated each day, I am often slithered by these new breed of watchdogs, who are almost driven with a shot of acid in their arms. They bug me with that ubiquitous yet abstractly obscene question, "What's Up?" Some of the more harebrained ones take liberty to truncate this phrase into one of the most irascibly blown out of proportion words which makes you salivate unnaturally, "WASSUP!" Often worsened by the iteration of that exclamation mark....
Well, I'd like to have that luxury of asking these too-busy-for-the-world beings a question, What do you guys have for breakfast? Grass? I mean the "hi" sent with a sinuous sequence of that 'I', does that really reflect your state of mind? Then just sit back and wonder what a living time bomb that guy must be, with a pulse rate of over some 10,000 bpm, not to forget the 'hi' is so 'high', the guy is so 'high', so I spoil the party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Probably get an ICU in a respectable hospital booked first hand, first aid!!!!!!!!!!!!
Another abomination is the question you get umpteen times in a day, "How's Life?" Not to mention, the same treatment is for the '?' mark also. I find myself replying, 'Great' with that same unreasonable enthusiasm. But on the 34th time I gave up, I said, I am having a brain hemorrhage, please help me. The girl went offline instantly!
In one of my more 'intellectual' moods (yes I even have those, amazing isn't it!!!!!) I had one pensive reply, an exhaustive one to slap across his face. And he went bust:
LIFE is...............A Bitch I guess!Keeps on acquainting me with new horrors regularly to let me fret. Little hard for me 2 keep up with the academics here at first, so it spoilt the party a little but as of now, I m in probably the most freakiest phase of my life as of yet... Everyday becomes a succinct memory of some crazy happening! Like a slanderous pimp, life is taking me to unsuspecting thresholds, each more muzzy than the other.
Life is like having a cup of tea. You sit by the side of the window, lift the cup and take a careless sip, Only to realize, somebody forgot to put the sugar. Too lazy to go for it you somehow struggle through the tasteless drink. Until you discover un-dissolved sugar crystal sitting at the bottom... ---That's LIFE
For me if you comprehend with this "cup o' tea' idea, mine is punctuated by this crystal of sugar sitting, sauntering at the base of the cup but always inconspicuous, obscure enough to signal its presence, a sweet tinge, is what the drinker of the tea is longing for, at the same, he's too stingy in his effort for it... hope u get what's going on in my life!
His panting was heard overseas...Orkut is good!!!!!!!!
* * * *
Right now I am sitting in my lab, where we come every thursday to learn C++, thanks to my ordeals at high school with the abstruse language, probably the only one which doesn't have official abuses, I am doing reasonably, coping with it. Right now, our lab assistant, genially coined as Lab-Ass, is reading out our mid semester marks. With unaccounted liberty, I dare say that I have scored a decent 80%, a feat when compared to the amount of effort I put in. This lab is beginning to acquire a place for my surfing joints, where I employ the resources of this institute for much more productive and insinuating purposes. As today's affairs will come to an end, I am happy, not for that over credited performance of mine, but for the time that ended, an hour, a minute passes, bringing that occasion nearer and nearer when I board that train, the train of freedom. The train to Delhi.
Now that I am being a total waste, a pathetic excuse for a student, I am sharing a thought, a sentiment of the whole group. Even as a guy behind me, is flashing around his new gadget, a 2.0 MP phone, he is doing a reasonable job as a wildlife photographer, clicking all of the dormant and sleeping fauna of the lab :) I am one of the few awake, and recording all these blunders. Our respected Lab-Asses, the beholders of the venerable position are there flummoxed by this program on some honest soul's terminal, just living upto their names, asses, proving time and again their apt skills.
A smart way to complete assignments, not that smart though when there are loop holes the size of Pakistan itself, is that since there is no security to access folders of students in the server from any terminal in the lab, we take the benignant prerogative to copy the program files from the folders of some of our exponentially diligent batch mates. Exponential by our standards, you see...
Its due to this lack of control, some on themselves and rest is gleefully complemented by us, that these periods where a student is supposed to sharpen some skills, are turned into such ineffectual excursions.
Yet among all the sludge that seeps through my mailboxes and chat windows, I get across some good stuff too...
Like check out this whacky yet proficient definition of Optimism:
Optimism is accidentally falling into a river, and start bathing.
I am riding the wave of optimism, the wave which terminates at my home, flooding the place with my yearnings and memories.
So until I board the train....
Adios Amigos!
Monday, April 03, 2006
Stomach Butterfly Syndrome.
The world's most powerful leaders have it...
Many doubtful romeos have died unnoticed because of it...
Osama probably missed the loo and had to mollify the nature calling at some deserted oasis on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border because of it....
And our Pete has it...
The Stomach Butterfly Syndrome.
While at some juncture, I had its fangs digging for my mind. I was taken aback, yet unable to qualm my consternation. With a jolted calm, the oxymorons were vivid and stupefying. It was like a you have wetted your pants, having really weak penile muscles and you have to take the stage. Yes, that kind of a giddy tangibility that was infesting me. All the while, I was unwary of what was happening. And made a note of this rarity.
I will try my best to post a cogent analysis of the pros and cons of this phenomenon. But any differences will only help to analyze this syndrome further. So people, your difference of opinions and comprehensives are required...
The Stomach Butterfly Syndrome, or the SBS, is mainly reported to infect someone in particularly demanding or embarassing situations, where you are supposed to accomplish a certain task, or achieve or placate certain anomalies in any situations, particularly parties and gatherings. The latter however may not be that common but such scenarios are often found effective. The name is derived from a ticklish felt inside the abdomen which is compared to the wafted wind-strokes of a butterfly, due to the sprighty pressure. Yet, its no confimed acknowledgement from the subject, if he or she is rather suffering from a constipation, the Pizza at midnight, did the trick or what? This syndrome is more of a psychological phenomenon, but severe effects are known to materialize into puke or a discreet fart. Otherwise, in mild presence it causes light malaise or even giggles. Also, it is remarked by a bouyant senstivity, like your bottoms are in the air, the sensation before taking a skydive. Skydiving, by the way, is the most unforgiving of all professions, as it does'nt give you a second chance.
Anyways. In such a state the subject is either in a delusional state, which is marked by the uncorrigated reaction to his or her surroundings, or even unsolicited attention on elements in the vicinity, which is inturn a helplessly covert attempt to concentrate on something else, but it all is brought about in the most unsual way. In such a condition the subject is vulnerable, and is the perfect prey for pranks and loans, even the cellphone. The subject's response to any question may be in the affirmative of the view of the questioner, which is immensely beneficial if you are a politician or worse a drunkard. Such people can be advantageously used to ones benefits, as drastically as inheritance of your ancestral properties. A horrified husband can probably make his horrifying wife commit suicide, like taking her delirious self on a walk on the terrace and tell her, "Honey! you go on straight, and look at the beautiful and soothing moon and the stars, while I'll go and fetch some books on Industrial Economics(the Hell she cares!) and be right back!" What she would not realize is that you will join her somewhere after 10 other 'broken' relationships and a life or cuban cigars and the retreats of Candy and Barbara.
So it concludes the static and the mind numbing measures of this common but deadly syndrome almost chimeric to one's sanitites.
As far as the possibilities of its origin lie, its evocation is triggered by any of the yet discovered predicaments:
1) Overt curiosity. A harrowing sense of doing something, yet be too cautious about the way to go about doing it. There is a block of conscience and the motor-neuron mesh of the nervous system, where too much cholesterol or chocolates make them heavy and too sweet to function. So, a carnivore is more prone to have a homicidal suicide, if you are a female. Probably, the cats have more broken homes and squandered dealings than giraffes and chimps.
2) Decisive moments, a tense and panicking situation, like a virgin about to consummate. Something of great epochality and effect, something even remotely capable of causing alterations, a haggard "now ex"-boyfriend finding a way out of the 'clutches' of that b****, inturn submitting to this syndrome. Hitherto, about 14,259 cases have been reported where an instance has given rise to another case either in the same individual or someone close, often partners, irrespective of sex, or some celebrity on Prabhu Chawla's show, or yet one minister watching another on T.V. doing his 'usual' business, this time on a spy-cam!
3) Envy. This tactility is often undetected and compromised for something more moral like nervousness etc. In fact, about 80% of the cases have been reported to have a strong logical relation with some invidious factors, present at that point of time around the subject. When the subject's desires, for which he/she is unable to do justice to, is comprehended and carried out in a more splendid manner, or so it seems to the subject, who is particularly pessimistic within this period, there is an acute stress developed and is usually reflected by cold sweat, and a wavering speech pattern. At this time, the subject is furtively glancing at the object of his envy or is trying to liaise with him, or to deviate or even dissuade him away from his deeds. Extreme cases may find the subject talking with a vehemence, which is often ineffectual or chastising to the subject himself/herself. Our female species is specifically targeted by this form of the aspect. It can be triggered particularly at jewellery shops and on kitty parties, which serve all the purpose or the lack of it - 'to meet'.
On an ending note, I still don't know what was inhabiting me out of these three causes. But am still intrigued by the deftness with which it takes down its victim. Its withdrawal symptoms are still strong as I am forced to make up all these statistics at this time of the day, my goddamned professional life may go for a toss. To disrupt any doubtful streaming of thoughts on the screen, I shall propose that 67.8...no erm...67.97% of the statistics were corroborated before their mention to put forth my findings on this virtually abeyant topic.
And yes, even this time, it was a confounded member of the opposite sex, and the factor was probably the third one... Yes I know, I am hopeless. Go put up a hoarding on that tomorrow, I wont even resent to myself on myself.
Many doubtful romeos have died unnoticed because of it...
Osama probably missed the loo and had to mollify the nature calling at some deserted oasis on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border because of it....
And our Pete has it...
The Stomach Butterfly Syndrome.
While at some juncture, I had its fangs digging for my mind. I was taken aback, yet unable to qualm my consternation. With a jolted calm, the oxymorons were vivid and stupefying. It was like a you have wetted your pants, having really weak penile muscles and you have to take the stage. Yes, that kind of a giddy tangibility that was infesting me. All the while, I was unwary of what was happening. And made a note of this rarity.
I will try my best to post a cogent analysis of the pros and cons of this phenomenon. But any differences will only help to analyze this syndrome further. So people, your difference of opinions and comprehensives are required...
The Stomach Butterfly Syndrome, or the SBS, is mainly reported to infect someone in particularly demanding or embarassing situations, where you are supposed to accomplish a certain task, or achieve or placate certain anomalies in any situations, particularly parties and gatherings. The latter however may not be that common but such scenarios are often found effective. The name is derived from a ticklish felt inside the abdomen which is compared to the wafted wind-strokes of a butterfly, due to the sprighty pressure. Yet, its no confimed acknowledgement from the subject, if he or she is rather suffering from a constipation, the Pizza at midnight, did the trick or what? This syndrome is more of a psychological phenomenon, but severe effects are known to materialize into puke or a discreet fart. Otherwise, in mild presence it causes light malaise or even giggles. Also, it is remarked by a bouyant senstivity, like your bottoms are in the air, the sensation before taking a skydive. Skydiving, by the way, is the most unforgiving of all professions, as it does'nt give you a second chance.
Anyways. In such a state the subject is either in a delusional state, which is marked by the uncorrigated reaction to his or her surroundings, or even unsolicited attention on elements in the vicinity, which is inturn a helplessly covert attempt to concentrate on something else, but it all is brought about in the most unsual way. In such a condition the subject is vulnerable, and is the perfect prey for pranks and loans, even the cellphone. The subject's response to any question may be in the affirmative of the view of the questioner, which is immensely beneficial if you are a politician or worse a drunkard. Such people can be advantageously used to ones benefits, as drastically as inheritance of your ancestral properties. A horrified husband can probably make his horrifying wife commit suicide, like taking her delirious self on a walk on the terrace and tell her, "Honey! you go on straight, and look at the beautiful and soothing moon and the stars, while I'll go and fetch some books on Industrial Economics(the Hell she cares!) and be right back!" What she would not realize is that you will join her somewhere after 10 other 'broken' relationships and a life or cuban cigars and the retreats of Candy and Barbara.
So it concludes the static and the mind numbing measures of this common but deadly syndrome almost chimeric to one's sanitites.
As far as the possibilities of its origin lie, its evocation is triggered by any of the yet discovered predicaments:
1) Overt curiosity. A harrowing sense of doing something, yet be too cautious about the way to go about doing it. There is a block of conscience and the motor-neuron mesh of the nervous system, where too much cholesterol or chocolates make them heavy and too sweet to function. So, a carnivore is more prone to have a homicidal suicide, if you are a female. Probably, the cats have more broken homes and squandered dealings than giraffes and chimps.
2) Decisive moments, a tense and panicking situation, like a virgin about to consummate. Something of great epochality and effect, something even remotely capable of causing alterations, a haggard "now ex"-boyfriend finding a way out of the 'clutches' of that b****, inturn submitting to this syndrome. Hitherto, about 14,259 cases have been reported where an instance has given rise to another case either in the same individual or someone close, often partners, irrespective of sex, or some celebrity on Prabhu Chawla's show, or yet one minister watching another on T.V. doing his 'usual' business, this time on a spy-cam!
3) Envy. This tactility is often undetected and compromised for something more moral like nervousness etc. In fact, about 80% of the cases have been reported to have a strong logical relation with some invidious factors, present at that point of time around the subject. When the subject's desires, for which he/she is unable to do justice to, is comprehended and carried out in a more splendid manner, or so it seems to the subject, who is particularly pessimistic within this period, there is an acute stress developed and is usually reflected by cold sweat, and a wavering speech pattern. At this time, the subject is furtively glancing at the object of his envy or is trying to liaise with him, or to deviate or even dissuade him away from his deeds. Extreme cases may find the subject talking with a vehemence, which is often ineffectual or chastising to the subject himself/herself. Our female species is specifically targeted by this form of the aspect. It can be triggered particularly at jewellery shops and on kitty parties, which serve all the purpose or the lack of it - 'to meet'.
On an ending note, I still don't know what was inhabiting me out of these three causes. But am still intrigued by the deftness with which it takes down its victim. Its withdrawal symptoms are still strong as I am forced to make up all these statistics at this time of the day, my goddamned professional life may go for a toss. To disrupt any doubtful streaming of thoughts on the screen, I shall propose that 67.8...no erm...67.97% of the statistics were corroborated before their mention to put forth my findings on this virtually abeyant topic.
And yes, even this time, it was a confounded member of the opposite sex, and the factor was probably the third one... Yes I know, I am hopeless. Go put up a hoarding on that tomorrow, I wont even resent to myself on myself.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Its On!
Pete is on the run, hiding, like a wounded animal. Its amazing, Pete thought. He got so far, virtually unscathed. He was mistrusting his own instincts all this while, the survival instinct. Even as he doesn't trust his left hand from the right one, Pete doesn't have a moment to pause, a moment to recapitulate. What he left, what he wanted to take with him. He was meticulously led into a dastardly trap, outmanouvered, out thought, until he started thinking himself. When fate rid him of all his mentors, on whom Pete relied and fell back, seeking a haven for his harrowing thoughts. It was cruel, Pete thought. How bad could things be? How out of luck can I be? How can this end up this way? How can I let this happen? It was then when Pete was left to himself, when he was alone, wounded and dangerous. It was then when a transformation overtook his mien. The metamorphosis triggered by an avalanche of foreboding situations, when there was not enough room of thought for any mindgames. Where it did not matter how it is going to happen. The tryst for the destination far outweighed the perils of the journey. Pete had his path clear. He did not think how he will make it. His emotional self permeated realms of such oblivion. His mien was now that of a firefly. To make it break it. The former he cant afford, and the latter is the only thing he was made for, until he was living a fool's paradise. Pete has the goods, all that separates him and his destiny is an insight, an ilking of himself. A self awareness, a concurrence of himself with himself. Where body meets the mind, and the most contagious of all fervors are concocted.
Pete, was like a bellwether, stranded on the cutting edge of an unknown territory without a compass. Pete was brought back to the present, as he just took a turn into a dingy alley and peeps around the corner, and sees them pass. Nefarious crusaders overwhelmed by their invidious beliefs, they are hunting. Pete was the hunted, only until now. When he knows how to turn the tables, when everything around simmers down to a cartesian logic, a simple question, routing only two choices, a yes or a no. Pete finds it all simple and worked out now. Its better to burn out than fade away...
With a discerning clarity of thought, this time Pete makes his move. A move so deadly in its entirety that it leaves no room for survival for the prey. A one shot prophecy. Pete looks on the other end of the alley and finds a trailer approaching. At this time of the night, when the city is grasped in chains of slumber and yet some arise to start their businesses, businesses of savages, the trailer was at a considerable speed, a speed where a target wont survive, once hit, even obliquely, there was finality of languishing, a definitive end was sure. With a confidence that estranged Pete for so long, he stood in the middle of the road, and saw the crusaders flying away, still in their fierce pursuit of their prey, but only this time the equations had differed, where the roles were mockingly interchanged, where they were the hunted. Pete whistled at them, as he was overtaken by a surreal sanity, so sure about himself, his actions. And they swiveled their vehicles, their hearse. When their eyes met, this was the first time Pete had a face-off with them. He was unfettered, at the disgust that fumigated the air around them. Pete did not bother to see their faces, to study his could-be captors. They had to end. Probably, he thought, its no point to ruminate over what is lost. For Pete they were already dead. Already slaughtered, their pertused remains spread on the street, immolated by his patience, eradicated by his tolerance. Their eyes met. And as if leaving a spoor to play around with kids in a park, Pete turned and started running. Just as he had thought, he heard them roaring behind him, shrieking their venomous intents towards him. Pete kept on running, without breathing, he did not need to. Because he was out of his self, an individual stretched beyond sanity's premises. They were catching up fast. As they nimbly made their way towards him. Pete wanted them to be close enough, close enough to their deaths. And then Pete could see what blood bath would ensue in the next few moments. He reached the crossing, on his left was the abiding trailer approaching, which would not even know what it just obliterated. Pete momentarily stopped to turn around, to get a last look of those pitiful creatures, the last time he would see them alive, not chasing him, but in the pursuit of death. Death became Pete.
Pete crossed the cross road, and watched it all fall into place. Those lunatics hurdling their ways towards him, and the trailer from the left, unflappable. And they met.
The moment froze and passed. No more a sound than a burst of a water balloon. No more liquid than the balloon could have. And the chasers were liquidated. Annhilated beyond recognition. Perhaps truth has its own ways of expressing itself, in a voice so forceful that it absorbs all other squeaks in its domain. An event so dramatic, that mere words, however felicitous are an understatement. Perhaps, truth is stranger than fiction.
Pete looked on and the progeny of that noise lay mashed on the cross road. A place which was of a strategic importance to him. A cross road where he left his ghosts behind, his skeletons, where he discards his closet. And moves on, towards a new sunrise. Where he waits, for special people, where the conventional meet. Where he can blend with the same pride with the environment as the people that matter to him. But only this time, Pete would be able enough to oversee ordeals on his own. The more stronger and succinctly intellectual who can be the paterfamilias, who has found his metier.
Pete turns around, shedding the detestable vista that just inhabited his mind. And walked away into the urbane calm of the night. With only his footsteps filling up the atmosphere, a sound of a firm, determined perambulation, possessing a direction. And he walks and walks, till he finds the people on either side of the road he came searching for, waiting for his arrival. And they see the apotheosis of Pete.
*****
Pete opens his eyes, dreary eyed, with the moisture diffusing the view. Slowly, the world around him came into focus. And he saw that everything around him has changed. Or is it his own mind set, his self analysis?
He realized the change that was evident, his spirit was unencumbered, and he was keen, less hung up and jumbled up in his thoughts. For once did an epochal phase came where Pete is what he want to be. Where he is the alpha and the omega. He rubs his eyes, beholden for the battle with his inner demons which just ended.
Sometimes, life gives you what you want, and gives it in a big way. It is our duty to treasure that and emerge as a stronger individual out of all the tumults. Perhaps, there is a hero in all of us. Its just a matter of individuality to perceive its incumbent reign and react conforming to the moment.
Live Strong.
Pete, was like a bellwether, stranded on the cutting edge of an unknown territory without a compass. Pete was brought back to the present, as he just took a turn into a dingy alley and peeps around the corner, and sees them pass. Nefarious crusaders overwhelmed by their invidious beliefs, they are hunting. Pete was the hunted, only until now. When he knows how to turn the tables, when everything around simmers down to a cartesian logic, a simple question, routing only two choices, a yes or a no. Pete finds it all simple and worked out now. Its better to burn out than fade away...
With a discerning clarity of thought, this time Pete makes his move. A move so deadly in its entirety that it leaves no room for survival for the prey. A one shot prophecy. Pete looks on the other end of the alley and finds a trailer approaching. At this time of the night, when the city is grasped in chains of slumber and yet some arise to start their businesses, businesses of savages, the trailer was at a considerable speed, a speed where a target wont survive, once hit, even obliquely, there was finality of languishing, a definitive end was sure. With a confidence that estranged Pete for so long, he stood in the middle of the road, and saw the crusaders flying away, still in their fierce pursuit of their prey, but only this time the equations had differed, where the roles were mockingly interchanged, where they were the hunted. Pete whistled at them, as he was overtaken by a surreal sanity, so sure about himself, his actions. And they swiveled their vehicles, their hearse. When their eyes met, this was the first time Pete had a face-off with them. He was unfettered, at the disgust that fumigated the air around them. Pete did not bother to see their faces, to study his could-be captors. They had to end. Probably, he thought, its no point to ruminate over what is lost. For Pete they were already dead. Already slaughtered, their pertused remains spread on the street, immolated by his patience, eradicated by his tolerance. Their eyes met. And as if leaving a spoor to play around with kids in a park, Pete turned and started running. Just as he had thought, he heard them roaring behind him, shrieking their venomous intents towards him. Pete kept on running, without breathing, he did not need to. Because he was out of his self, an individual stretched beyond sanity's premises. They were catching up fast. As they nimbly made their way towards him. Pete wanted them to be close enough, close enough to their deaths. And then Pete could see what blood bath would ensue in the next few moments. He reached the crossing, on his left was the abiding trailer approaching, which would not even know what it just obliterated. Pete momentarily stopped to turn around, to get a last look of those pitiful creatures, the last time he would see them alive, not chasing him, but in the pursuit of death. Death became Pete.
Pete crossed the cross road, and watched it all fall into place. Those lunatics hurdling their ways towards him, and the trailer from the left, unflappable. And they met.
The moment froze and passed. No more a sound than a burst of a water balloon. No more liquid than the balloon could have. And the chasers were liquidated. Annhilated beyond recognition. Perhaps truth has its own ways of expressing itself, in a voice so forceful that it absorbs all other squeaks in its domain. An event so dramatic, that mere words, however felicitous are an understatement. Perhaps, truth is stranger than fiction.
Pete looked on and the progeny of that noise lay mashed on the cross road. A place which was of a strategic importance to him. A cross road where he left his ghosts behind, his skeletons, where he discards his closet. And moves on, towards a new sunrise. Where he waits, for special people, where the conventional meet. Where he can blend with the same pride with the environment as the people that matter to him. But only this time, Pete would be able enough to oversee ordeals on his own. The more stronger and succinctly intellectual who can be the paterfamilias, who has found his metier.
Pete turns around, shedding the detestable vista that just inhabited his mind. And walked away into the urbane calm of the night. With only his footsteps filling up the atmosphere, a sound of a firm, determined perambulation, possessing a direction. And he walks and walks, till he finds the people on either side of the road he came searching for, waiting for his arrival. And they see the apotheosis of Pete.
*****
Pete opens his eyes, dreary eyed, with the moisture diffusing the view. Slowly, the world around him came into focus. And he saw that everything around him has changed. Or is it his own mind set, his self analysis?
He realized the change that was evident, his spirit was unencumbered, and he was keen, less hung up and jumbled up in his thoughts. For once did an epochal phase came where Pete is what he want to be. Where he is the alpha and the omega. He rubs his eyes, beholden for the battle with his inner demons which just ended.
Sometimes, life gives you what you want, and gives it in a big way. It is our duty to treasure that and emerge as a stronger individual out of all the tumults. Perhaps, there is a hero in all of us. Its just a matter of individuality to perceive its incumbent reign and react conforming to the moment.
Live Strong.
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