tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59199794745311997452024-03-13T20:06:17.845+05:30The vineyards!Here i tell, your story!Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-56143120859862362682008-12-13T12:12:00.007+05:302009-01-24T10:29:56.286+05:30Ek aisi Dasvidaniya !(A goodbye like this!)Some twenty years back, when i use to live in Tezpur, besides that big pond and those hillocks, i had many fears. The biggest amongst them, were of course for mathematics, and for strangers. Mathematics, i never got the hang of, but strangers, i made peace with. I remember as a kid, each day at around 4 pm, there would be this queer guy; old as Moses, dirty as a dog and as secretive as a magic trick, flip floping his sandals and walking past our house in a hawaiin shirt, a sack full of stuffs on his shoulder and an unknown urgency. No one knew where he came from , and where he went. But he did pass our ways for 12 long years, without a single days' pass in between. Sometimes I used to position myself on our window , cup aside the curtain around my face and look at him. He never stopped, never looked aside. Just walked on. Until one day, when i saw from my window, a neighbourhood kid threw a stone at him, that dropped on his head . He stopped. Turned. And looked at the kid. He cried out in a demonish moan of a wild boar. For his eyes, he had two burning coal pieces and for his teeth, he had none. That was the last i saw of him.<br /><br />Dad's job, my education and then my job, took me to various pincodes in India. Each time, a different bunch of strangers. And strange moments with them. They still linger in my mind and like pickled olive in mustard oil, lined somewhere in memory's backyards ,today i let them out to sun.<br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">Theres this pleasant anecdote about strangers i fondly recollect. It was the evening we received a call from our uncle that our maternal grandpa had expired and overnight we had to go to Guwahati, a distance of about 300 kilometres. We had hired a new driver for our Maruti 800 and off we started at around midnight. Now the driver , being talkative by nature and unknown to the cause of our trip, started to tell us how he was brought up in a small village called Nelli( It was also the place where my grandpa spent most of his life industrialising the business of handlooms) and the hardships his family dealt with until they started their own textile co-operative. Almost evryone in the car was already so overcome by tiredness or grief,that his story went on like the drum of a wasp in the background, until he brought the car to a halting stop and told my dad ,"<em>Saab Nelli aa gaya. Yahaan</em> <em>thoda ruk le? Madam aur bachcho ko chai paani chahiye hoga. Aur waise yehi mera gaon hain."</em></div><br />It was 2 am. Cold, foggy and unknown. We sat in a nearby dhaba whose owner turned out to be our drivers' acquaintance.<br /><br />"<em>Chaar cup chai</em>", he ordered to the sleepy waiter.<br /><br />Suddenly he pointed out to me a photo of Jesus Christ hung on the wall and asked," <em>Baba, Jaante ho ye kaun hain?".</em> I thought to myself , how stupid, who doesnt know anyways. Then he pointed to the other wall where, to our utter surprise, a photo of our grandpa working with the villagers of Nelli was hung high, and asked, "<em>Chalo baba, pata hain ye kaun hain</em>?".<br /><br />Whatever he said then, stayed with me even today.<br /><br />" <em>Ye hain Jeesu, ye bhagwaaan insaan ban ke aaya tha... aur ye( pointing to my grandpas portrait), ye insaan bhagwaan ban gaya."</em><br /><br />And for the rest of the journey, this stranger and his stupid stories actually started making sense.<br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">Its said that strangers are friends you have yet to meet. On the otherhand, sometimes you spend a lot of time to get to know someone to realise that you are really strangers. Eitherways, its a walk worth taking. Tushar, Monil, Darshak, Swati, Gulshan, Aparna, Vijay, Abhishek, Gargi...in the beginning there were days with all of you when i had the freeze and fear about getting accepted. I had to flash that extrra smile, crack the extra joke, walk that extra mile. We all do it with strangers i guess.And look how the years in between melted down everything that was extra , and the only thing extra left with us ,is the extra ordinary friendship that i share with each one of you. I dont think twice about calling Tushar Monil or Djjay at any time of the night to discuss nothing, I can pant with excitement like a dog when i hear Swatis voice on her return to India, i can say without any thought how much i miss our "fake-romancing" with Appy, i can be blindly led by Gulshan through my worst worries, or sit in different parts of the world and still feel joy with Abhishek and Vijay. Some strangers never go out of fashion. My friends clearly top the list.</div><div align="justify"><br />Though i guess these lines brought in a little joy in what i was writing, but i really started on with a not so happy note. I havent written for about four months now. Damnit. Pretty much because i had nothing readable to write. I made no new friends (except one Mr S Bapat, the new senior manager at the office who sent me an orkut request yesterday and which i could not deny:(:(....), had no great food ,read nothing kicking , went nowhere exciting. All that i have done, is flip flop my steps back from office each evening for the past half year,with the lost day and the laptop hung around my shoulders , through groups of kids playing gully cricket and the womenfolk taking an evening stroll , and somehow, it hurts when i think that these evenings i am not the one who peeps in from the window at the stranger man walking down our neighbourhood, these days, <em>I am the queer guy who passes by the neighbourhood with a sack full of stuffs on his shoulder and an unknown urgency!!</em><br /><em>I am the stranger man!</em><br /><br /><br />True when they say, every man dies,but not every man really lives. And this piece is my birthday resolution to live till i am alive..Welcome me back!!</div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com123tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-37515064673169691782008-08-25T14:54:00.011+05:302008-08-27T13:51:59.565+05:30Che not Guevera !<div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Now why am i doing this? But since promise breakers are shoemakers and thats not what my Mommy would want me to be , i better go ahead with this one. </span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Heres to Che, this piece.<br /><br /></span><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Now before you guys start writing a comment without reading the entire piece lemme ensure you something.You are as much lost on the topic as i am. I dont know the guy i am writing about in this piece as much as you dont. But then,when you are impulsive on a stupid Monday afternoon at office,you tend to do crazy things.But write about a guy who you havent met? Well.<br /></span><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">There are some faces of strangers that we would love to try.At present, for me, its Che. Well, if you are thinking of the Cuban rebel Che Guevera, I pity your strong history basics. The namesake Che i am talking about stays at Mumbai, circa 2008, does copywriting for money,less money he would say, and sniffing around lifes' <em>gullies </em>for pleasure. <em>Women,all about women, quiz, destiny,rains, rollingstones,mermaid, wine,counterstrike, old monk, popcorn and love-hate</em> are some of the prominent topics/tagwords in his blogs. <em>Undressing</em> and <em>cute guys,</em> i missed out on. <em>WTF</em>!!! Even that.</span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Now why do i spend a precious jobless office afternoon on a dude i know nothing about when i could have prepared myself for the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">table pe chai</span> at 2 pm with a quick post lunch nap? Well, opinion poll inside my mind all throughout the afternoon reveals that 15% of my grey cells feel that i have nothing better to do, a tiny 1% says the recent gay march in Mumbai is working inside me, 4% of them say because i have promised him this piece, 7.8% say that henceforth he will be sweetly conquered to write nice comments on my blog, but a wholesome 72.2% say that somehow this guy comes across as a very different entity from the usual dog-inside-the-man public ! He is the only man-inside-the-dog bloke i know. And sau takka original.<br /></span><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Well, jokes apart, he is really funny. Picture this, the phrases he uses,.."I <em>was as confident as the Indian government in the no confidence vote".</em>Or this para,"</span><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">So you all have been wondering where is the blog I had promised at the end of my last post? Well here it is! And why wasn’t it here before? Because I was too sore and tired. And why was I so sore and tired? Gah! Do your questions ever end?<br />Well first I need to answer another question from my last blog. In it I had mentioned some shopping I had done which I promised to explain later. Well here is the explanation. The shopping was done for socks, training shoes and a supporter. What is a supporter you ask? Erm it’s the male equivalent of a bra, except its much smaller and worn much further down.<br />So why the shoes, socks and the supporter? Isn’t it so obviously silly? I have joined a gym. A what you say? A gym you moron! Grrr. Now stop laughing and get off the floor!"</span></em></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">This is Che. And his cool <em>WTF </em>approach to life. Simple. Hassle free. A complete no no-nonsense . Bad times seem to melt away like blueberry topings inside the mouth.Effortless. I mean, seriously, no ones escaped life alive. So why worry about it anyways! And junta like Che use this simple "spending money on a boob job and coming back with the same boobs. I mean what’s the point" logic effectively to leverage on lifes funny moments and make it bearable! Shopping, popcorn, wine, weekends, friends,beer, computer games,movies, masti, crap,more crap,and even more crap...pleasant references to live life by. Somehow Che,you leave me with that feeling everytime . And I can go on about this piece, but then, why spend words when all that is needed to describe you is a plain <em>Whatevrrrrrrr</em>!:)</span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">This is to life's good times.And you,Che.<br /><br /><br /><br />P.S:<br /><br />You guys, catch his writings at http://textualoffender.blogspot.com<br /><br />And Che, that would be 100$ on you for the service!<br /><br /></span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-9977274458953821572008-08-16T12:06:00.012+05:302008-08-16T16:14:18.497+05:30And then, it rained !<div align="justify"><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SKapktNOoDI/AAAAAAAAAMg/Aq3SkOeIxfA/s1600-h/484855686_1eac1edd2e_o.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235058064940245042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SKapktNOoDI/AAAAAAAAAMg/Aq3SkOeIxfA/s400/484855686_1eac1edd2e_o.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">6 pm. Walking back from office alone, under an unusually dark sky , kicks feelings.. Huge pockets of clouds, about to burst , like a hurt girl at eighteen..both filled with nothing , yet something. A couple of ten year olds teettering back from school, discussing cricket over cut slices of unripe salted mangoes, reminds you of your age.You suddenly miss all those came, went and taken for granted joys of your life and the word b<em>ygones</em> become the only tagword for your memories.</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SKapx-z_R8I/AAAAAAAAAMo/Fl-pDg27Pkc/s1600-h/155406169_2bcb8c025f.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235058293004519362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SKapx-z_R8I/AAAAAAAAAMo/Fl-pDg27Pkc/s400/155406169_2bcb8c025f.jpg" border="0" /></span></a>.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And then it rained.<br /></div></span></em><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Thick sheets of H2O whirling down my glasses in gay abandon.A blurry aquatic world everywhere.A girl racing past her bicycle in a dirty yellow raincoat silhouetted against the grey sky instantly remind me of Raveena Tandon. Ola :) The old woman selling hot bhuttis to young lovers.Frogs croak from the nearby pond, the dog stands shelterless on the road ,the <em>chai </em>shop does brisk business and my <em>baniyan</em> hugs onto me in unconditonal assurance.<br /><br /></div></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><div align="justify"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SKaqQWM-SlI/AAAAAAAAAMw/Ok-grf2DZDE/s1600-h/2120931169_883739fbee_o.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235058814679403090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SKaqQWM-SlI/AAAAAAAAAMw/Ok-grf2DZDE/s400/2120931169_883739fbee_o.jpg" border="0" /></span></a> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Suddenly you remember all those days which had a weather like this and when all those things happened . All those rainy treks, fights, talks, trips, walks hit in the 70mm of your mind. You suddenly remember a long lost person. And then suddenly try to get over it. If you are sentimental enough you would sing "Nahii saamne ye alag baat hain..." to yourselves. Or recollect painfully how<em> she left in the lightning and the rain..</em> Rains have it. Hurts and compromises of the past float up and out of you like unkept naughty secrets.</span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><div align="justify"><br /><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Rains also bring out a riot of colorful memories. You remember the time when you feel so relieved as Dad reaches home by the first streak of lightening and all of you enjoy chai-pakora in the veranda discussing neighbours, tv serials or planning Diwali puchase. Until it stops raining and you put on your canvas and run wild outside with your friends.. Or think of the night when it rained the hardest and you thought of the poor guys in the railway station from under your blanket.Or the time when your tuitions were cancelled for the rains and you had all those three hours to kill with your friends before reaching home.Or the time at hostel with friends and how rains made everyone miss home. Or the first time in the rains ,you gave your jacket to show someone you care.</span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><div align="justify"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Walking along my thoughts, i couldnt help notice this young couple i was following all this while.Arms in arms,head to head, both entwined into each other.All wet, both of them. The boy carrying the girl on one hand, and a closed umbrella in the other..<em>God bless</em>, i wished and turned my way.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><em>. </em></div><div align="justify"><em>True when they say that the best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.</em> </div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><div align="justify"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235059288213539122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SKaqr6QTyTI/AAAAAAAAAM4/WDCHbqcfKeo/s400/2737464138_a74590fa50_b.jpg" border="0" /></span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-82186342687656686902008-08-13T14:11:00.016+05:302008-08-13T16:00:27.917+05:30The right to be left!<div><br />.<br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Did you ever wonder why men's and women's clothing are buttoned on opposite sides?Or why wedding rings are worn only on the third finger of your left hand?Or why left handedness is banned in the game of polo?by now,i presume you have hit at what i am guessing.yeah,welcome to the "sinister" world of the gauchies,or plainly,the lefthanders.......the word <em>LEFT</em>,since time immemorial has been considered to have a malignous connotation,and an evil presence in our lives.The whole of chinese philosophy depends on the concept of yin and yang,or positive and negative bundles of energies,depicted by the right and the left respectively.Virtually ,all of the worlds religions associate the left with the evil,or dirty.Even clocks go in the right direction,and so do compasses.The christians still believe that Eve was made from Adam's left rib.and strangely, in modern day japan,a wife being left-handed can be a solid ground for divorce!!!!! ......</span></div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">.</span><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Innumberable trivias follow the world of lefties.some interesting,some ridiculous,but at the bottom, very very painful.this world is made for the right handers i must say.in school ,has anyone of us seen a left handed desk?they dont exist.novelty coffee mugs are made with the picture or text for a right handed pick-up.then again scissors are for right handers.only lefties understand this.(another trivia: around the world , 2500 left handed people die each year using right handed products!!!in all,studies confirm that left handed people live an average of ten years less than their right handed counterparts!!).... and the mouse you are using as you read this is designed for right handers.the list spreads onto other products like the spiral bound notebooks,playing cards,rulers,belts,ATM machines,bowling balls,water jerrycans,cameras....et all.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.I still remember,once when i was in my second standard,the note of caution that my teacher sent to my parents when she caught me practising my cursives with my left hand. It read" <em>the boy uses his wrong hand for writing.take care of it</em>.".though my dad let it pass,henceforth,i could see my mom bending over me often to check if i ever used my left hand while writing.though i switched on to become a "rightie",i still have that note preserved safely ,a reminder of the first discrimination of my life.........this world beleives in equality.so why not give lefties a chance.not to return to right handedness,i mean ,but to be as they are..When Colonel Baden Powell ,the famous founder of the boys scouts,entered the city of ashanti people in 1896,he was met by one of the chiefswho came to him holding out his left hand for a handshake.baden powell held out his right hand in return,when the chief said out aloud,"no,in my country , the bravest of the brave,shake hands with the left hand."..So started the legend of the famous left hand handshake of the boys scouts. Even today when a scout meets another,they extend their left hands to express solidarity and oneness. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. </span><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Btw,today,August the 13th, is Worlds left handers day. You can choose to write a greeting note </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">to Angelina Jolie,Amitabh Bachchan, or well,Darshak Parmar!</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Keep the faith!</span></div><br /><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><br /><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div></div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-60166501365027247272008-07-31T18:20:00.004+05:302008-07-31T19:15:21.001+05:30Short is sweet!Haikus are special poems originally from Japan which are known for their brevity, punch and having this distinctive ability to ring a bell in your mental silence and let you waltz in that cling for long lonely afternoons thereafter.. here i go with a couple of mine..<br /><br /><strong>.Love..</strong><br /><br />January.<br />February.<br />March.<br />You still hurt.<br /><br /><br />.<br /><strong>..Bliss..</strong><br /><br />5 am.<br />faraway trucks roar.<br />in the pitter patter of the downpour.<br />The tea stall radio sings<br />Along the bicycle bell clings.<br />Thud. The newspaper all wet.<br />You pull over the blanket.<br />Its Sunday.<br /><br /><br /><strong>..Relationships...</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Long after the storm.<br />The tree remained<br />Bent.<br /><br /><strong>..Secrets..</strong><br /><br />Hiding my thoughts<br />At the back of the moon<br />hoping that<br />no one will find it there.<br />but it ditches me.<br />every night.<br /><br /><strong>..Grief..</strong><br /><br />The last of the whisky over.<br />And the stones all into the pond.<br />The end of happiness.<br />The beginning of peace.<br /><br /><br /><br />...Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-44917555902529915942008-07-07T21:11:00.016+05:302008-07-15T02:14:11.045+05:30Jaane tu.. ya jaane naa..<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ever realised when does someone become more than just a friend?Or days when you simply cant stop looking at her, long after her story is over?Love blooms.And like weeds after a rainy day, almost anywhere. Enemies fall in love. Competitors fall in love. And often, friends fall in love. Dont take my words?</span><br /></div><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms; TEXT-ALIGN: justify">.<br />Watch Jaane tu ,yaa jaaane na!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn4yLIrVpI/AAAAAAAAAK8/T8vLu54C6Y8/s1600-h/jaane-tu-ya-jaane-na-poster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222478783779133074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn4yLIrVpI/AAAAAAAAAK8/T8vLu54C6Y8/s400/jaane-tu-ya-jaane-na-poster.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ready.Clap.Action. And you are immediately transported to an era we all lovingly look back,to the college corridors,bubblegum gossips, basketball courts, hot chicks, and cool dudes with open buttoned shirts and a three quarter romance story. In search of the missing quarter. A quintessential college story, in which love makes life so confusing, but then , without love, would we really want to live?</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /><br />.<br />Its the story of a boy(Imran, Wow f</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">resh mate</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">rial!) and a girl (Genelia, the usual college babe but who has a good side to her!) and a pa</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ck of five insane friends at the backdrop, just graduated, and raring to take on the world by their wild wild ways. You have just settled in your seat when your heart is almost taken away by those initial strums of the guitar in the </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Kabhi Kabhi Aditi..</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">song set against St. Xaviers' famous basketball court. The story moves on in the predictable lines of Kuch kuch hota hain, where boy and girl dont realise till a long time that , </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Shit, its been love all the while??</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> thought and when they come across it, its too late. Almost.And th</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">en, a good sense dawns on both that its not too late still, like in Jab we met and then a lot of chasin</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">g, flying, horse riding and gate crashing to redeem that missing quarter you were always searching for . We already knew this story , didnt we? But still, Jaane tu.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.. kept hearts glued, g</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">uts rolling out laughing,theatres houseful and a whole generation rooting to go back in time and relive their college days once again. Magic!</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn7cajIJcI/AAAAAAAAALE/grxXmrN-pCI/s1600-h/jaane-tu-ya-jaane-na-wallpa.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222481708494366146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn7cajIJcI/AAAAAAAAALE/grxXmrN-pCI/s400/jaane-tu-ya-jaane-na-wallpa.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Strong storytelling, fresh dialogues (Remember the scene in which Aditi enters her brothers room , sees his paintings and spells an unheard, whaddaf***! Adorably cute..), and new faces apart, this story clicked because of two things. A fresh,rainwashed take on</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> relationships, and second, its on the face simplicity !</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A few thi</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ngs i cant think henceforth ,without thinking about this movie wo</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">uld be..</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span> </div><ul style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><li>College time, even with the worst assignments,irritating profs and terrible canteen food, is still the only dreamy part of our entire life. And like all good dreams , they end fast. Like when Aditi wonders where her college years went by, Jay's mom says, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Phone pe beta, phone pe...</span></li></ul><ul style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><li>Never say you dont love a person when you cant let go.Like when Aditi drives with Jay and Meghna in the night , and Meghna gets down at her home but Jay wanted to get down as well and spend a few moments together with her ,when in fact Aditi wanted to spend time with Jay, she says..<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Ab aur kitnaa drop karega</span>... I still smile to myself thinking of that scene:)</li></ul><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"></div><ul style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><li>Without distance, closeness cannot grow. When Aditi sits by the sea all alone after being dumped by her fiance, and when Jay enters the camera frame,after a long time you see them together in the movie again, you just know it, they are so meant to be together.This is it, you realise! Beleive me on this,Distance lends its own charm.</li></ul><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn7-1Z8TcI/AAAAAAAAALM/WbY30cQoHBo/s1600-h/jaane-tu-ya-jaane-na-wallpaper.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222482299819150786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn7-1Z8TcI/AAAAAAAAALM/WbY30cQoHBo/s400/jaane-tu-ya-jaane-na-wallpaper.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><ul style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><li>In matters of the heart, better never than late! Do something,anything. If you screw it, start over. Try something else. But do.Now.</li></ul><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"></div><ul style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" face="trebuchet ms"><li>Sometimes when people repeatedly say they are so happy at the moment, Just take it, they are plain lonely and all they need is an arm around their shoulder saying, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">This too, shall pass.</span></li></ul><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"></div><ul style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" face="trebuchet ms"><li>In love and in any relationship, there is just one rule, that there is none. Preparedness is many a time, a simple myth.You might wait for the moment when you and she would be all alone, atop a cliff with a band playing in he backdrop, when you would speak your heart out, but chances are nine out of ten that you might end up being late considering all the uncertainites and ultimately when you realise its her, Boy! you sure gotta gatecrash through security checks in some airport , slidding through x ray machines and baggages, and just in time with handcuffs in your hand and without giving a damn to lay, sur and taal sing out <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">tera mujse hain pehle ka naata koi... yunhi nahi dil lubhata koi...jaane tu..ya jaane naa.. </span></li></ul><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Anything for love. Just Anything.</span> </div><ul style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms; TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><li>And finally, Friendship often ends in love, but love in friendship, never!</li></ul><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Period.Name casting. As i came out of the theatre with these thousand sweet </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">little lightbulb moments telling me, Hey .. hasde hasde hasde hasde hasde tu zara..Nahi to bas thoda thoda thoda thoda thoda thoda muskura, i realised, i have j</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ust watched a masterpiece which is gonna stay in mind for some time now.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn9PKkuBYI/AAAAAAAAALU/RbIy0rUEDRw/s1600-h/jaanetu03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222483679891031426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SHn9PKkuBYI/AAAAAAAAALU/RbIy0rUEDRw/s400/jaanetu03.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />...<br /></div><div style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms; TEXT-ALIGN: justify"></div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-25645318556484997042008-07-05T17:10:00.007+05:302008-07-15T02:17:26.805+05:30The Falling leaf!<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">(#118: A chance encounter. Written for Sunday Scribblings)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SG9gDGYmB8I/AAAAAAAAAJM/04ERJgbLf8g/s1600-h/2115128653_f35f3385d4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219496099515336642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SG9gDGYmB8I/AAAAAAAAAJM/04ERJgbLf8g/s400/2115128653_f35f3385d4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span class="sb8">I have a special penchant for photographs.The way they are.Without a past .Without a future.But only a present.Trapped in its frames in all shameful nakedness.A couple of days back i came across such a couple of shots by a photographer by the name, Soham Gupta.Brave shots of faith and hope.of Life .of Death.</span><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><br /><span class="sb8">.</span><br /><span class="sb8">The one shot that really touched me was of this hungry poor man on his bed with a strange expression on his face.Perhaps awaiting death.i will never be able to take those pair of eyes off my mind. the color same as of a dirty , mossy pond.Green.Deep.Disturbing.looking straight into my eyes..with arrogance.seeking answers to disturbing questions.</span><br /><br /><br /><span class="sb8">.</span><br /><span class="sb8">i could sense Life moving away from him like the receding landscape in your car's rear glass.</span><span class="sb8">if Death could have a Face,it would have been this...with no lust for life.for living.his incisive look as if doubting Life itself.</span>flickering to close,<span class="sb8">like the last page of that huge novel.the vast ocean of his eyes inked by the cold green of hopelessness.two camera lights twinkling in the midst of his eyes like lost boats in a mighty storm.far from everything. I thought to myself , this man was once a boy,wasnt he? he had his childhood, he might have been a sturdy young man,he might have been proud,he might have gone for walks by the Victoria Memorial and thought about Communism, he might have loved rosogollas,he might have played football on muddy Kolkata parks, he might have once wished to live forever. Alas,today, he is a mere photograph in his daughter's cupboard, another article on my blogpiece, or alas, an award winning merchandise on Flickr albums with 3487 views.</span><br /><br /><span class="sb8">I began to understand, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Life down there, is just an illusion!</span></span><br /></div><span class="sb8"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><br />..<br /></span></span>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-36796785968032553282008-06-23T21:31:00.018+05:302008-07-07T20:25:31.133+05:30Who am I?<strong></strong><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215110134313200162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF_LCUxHKiI/AAAAAAAAAGE/Je8j2C4Miao/s400/GGATE.JPG" border="0" /><br /></span><em></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span></em><br /><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The bridge stands high on the water below<br />The two paths i am free to go,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">One through the mysteries of Life downstream---</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The other straight to Dreamlands flow.</span></em></div><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215110384200466786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF_LQ3q4QWI/AAAAAAAAAGM/sXRCRJ7dhS8/s400/5.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /></span></em><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">With two fireflies blazing the lonely trail, </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Like Royal Sentries in a funeral pail,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I braved the Rain and the Darkness' pain--</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Never to reach. Anywhere Again..</span></em></div><p align="center"><br /> </p><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215111025862241474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF_L2OC97MI/AAAAAAAAAGU/14ol0XzniKo/s400/40.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /></span></em><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I climbed and climbed and climbed that night,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Through unknown terrains with the two dots of light,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">All the night they did fight and love,Love and Fight,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Until they were dissolved in the morning Light.</span></em></div><br /><br /><em></em><br /><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215114259143266002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF_Oya9PDtI/AAAAAAAAAG0/HR_hnqTNahA/s400/mp018.jpg" border="0" /><br /></span></em><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Its said that the route i took that Night,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Passes through the Gates Of Eternal Strife,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Whereby an old guard as old as Time,</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Asks for The most precious possession of your Life.</span></em></div><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></em><br /><em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></em><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215113037153381330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF_NrSsJK9I/AAAAAAAAAGk/djuFpZLF3h0/s400/woodcutter_winslowhomer1024.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"></em><br /><br /><em>I dread to think what i left that night,</em><br /><em>Forever at the Gates of Eternal Strife,</em><br /><em>A gush of winds knocked me over and i saw...</em><br /><em>Without Shadows ....i stood in the morning Light.</em><br /><br /></span><em><br /></em><br /></p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215115592832742146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF_QADVlcwI/AAAAAAAAAHA/Sq_RpAT7gFQ/s400/mp010.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"><br /></em><br /><em>Still when i think in moments Alone,</em><br /><em>Which road i took on that fateful Night,</em><br /><em>I can hear from the valleys down there,</em><br /><em>Below the bridge and besides the River,</em><br /><em>Someone crying in a voice thats mine..</em><br /><em>Asking me again,"Who Am I ?"</em></span><strong><br /><em></em></strong><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em>...</em></p>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-2114121420515853092008-06-23T00:22:00.008+05:302008-07-07T20:25:31.134+05:30Get. Set.Go!<div align="justify"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF6jNOUd1LI/AAAAAAAAAF8/q-0xf4BLqWE/s1600-h/mis35s.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214784866119177394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/SF6jNOUd1LI/AAAAAAAAAF8/q-0xf4BLqWE/s400/mis35s.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><em></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>'I have missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. I have lost almost 300 games. On 26 occasions I have been entrusted to take the game winning shot... and I missed. I have failed over and over and over again in my life. And that's precisely why I succeed''</strong>.</em><br />.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Michael Jordan.</strong><br /><br />.<br />When I read quotes like this, I feel like a nobody. But a nobody who is worth being somebody. I feel elevated to a plane where I start expecting things from myself. There is a sweet thing about achievements we never realize. We often mistake it for success, which is the mere music and praise part of it .Which is nice and important, but not as satisfactory as the act itself. And in this small tricky race , we forfeit our individual acts and goals, and replace them with praiseworthy acts for the masses .We become more interested in presenting than preparing.We become shameful of commiting mistakes for the sake of feigning perfection.And its in this vacuum of hollow giving that we eventually get sucked into and call it done! On the contrary, great minds, once having ‘believed in something passionately, feel, that the secret of success is to err, err and err again..but less, less and less each time. This , I have realized , is the single differentiating point between the ordinary and the extra ordinary—<em>that little extra..</em></span></div><div align="justify"><em><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div><div align="justify"><em><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">.</span></em></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">We common folks often wait for the perfect time, the perfect moment, the perfect person that will tick off a perfect life to begin. In the preparation for life, living remains forgotten. While, on the other hand, peak performers with that little extra something,believe that the obstacles in life are called hurdles,just not for nothing, but because there is surely a way over it .So next time on, when you have to go through some bad time, some unfair weather, some unfinished work, some unrequitted feeling, don’t fret and wait for Life to begin after that. Rather smile, and start running.Sooner or later its for our good to realize that these obstacles were our lives.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><br /><br /><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-: EN-USfont-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12;" ><?xml:namespace prefix = v ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:vml" /><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"></v:stroke><v:formulas><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></v:f><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></v:f><v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></v:f></v:formulas><v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"></v:path><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"></o:lock></v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" style="WIDTH: 333pt; HEIGHT: 237.75pt" type="#_x0000_t75"><v:imagedata title="mist-forest" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\surya\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></v:imagedata></v:shape></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span> </div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-67371896202411909042008-06-20T23:54:00.022+05:302008-07-15T02:15:43.987+05:30Growing up!<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>(# 119 - my oldest friend .Written for the Sunday scribbles)</em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Date:20th April</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Somewhere over Indore.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Altitude:11500 metres.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This time around when i was leaving home for Pune, my parents came to the airport to see me off.The flight was for 2:30 pm and we reached there by like 1. We caught up for a last round of coffee at the terminal CCD. Such occasions are always a little uncomfortable. You know all us are sad, yet Dad checks out for another time if i am carrying the tickets or Maa is pleading me hard to carry the ghar ka paani in a wrethched two litre Fanta bottle! The rush of emotions in the hush of pretence! The clock strikes 1:45 and i think its appropriate now to say how wonderful it was for the last ten days being with them ( a little regretful for the petty fights i had with them on one occasion and hadnt quite talked to them for three full days! ). We all get up , pay the bill ,pick my handluggage and move towards the security checks.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Before the final glass door that separates the ticketers from the ticketless, i drop my luggage on the ground and look at them.Maa, moist eyed, Dad, looking somewhere else, Me , smiling ear to ear in concealment.I hug Maa, and say, she looks beautiful still. And suddenly dad pretends to understand, Oh boy, u moving? I say, take care dad.He places his hand on my shoulder and wishes happy journey.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">.</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I cross the glass barrier. Separated.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I walked a few confdent steps to the Kingfisher counter to get my boarding pass. As it was being processed, i looked back. I saw Maa and dad waving their hands in huge sailor arcs from behind the glass panes, probably saying <em>Come Again</em>.Maa smiling or crying i couldnt figure out; Dad, bored to show whatever it was,as usual.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I thought. This...was the couple. Who weathered each other for 27 long years, day and night, and then nights and days again,who never exchanged I-love-you s between them but still loved as much, who fought,fought themselves, fought for themselves, and fought for everything their children wanted these many years. They grow old now i see. My mother a little tinier, a little less beautiful, a few lesser teeth, a new bunch of grey on her head each time, and my dad, a little less robust, a few unmistakable wrinkles,and a little more worse with emotions!</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Fifteen minutes to spare , i sit in the departure lounge surrounded by a sea of people waiting to get into their flights. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">When i was <em>growing up</em>,one of my hugest fancies was to live an independant life, away from home, earn on my own and be the messiah son to my ageing parents.That day was here, but was nothing near or like the way i imagined it. It was a certain Ishaan Awaasthi kind of hollow thing, hardly explainable!</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Soon my flight was announced and i realised i had only my handbaggage wit me and forgotten my laptop in the security check As i went back to collect it, through the corridors of the hallway, i saw Mom and Dad still there . Maa, her nose still stuck on to the glass panel, for a glimpse of probably nothing.Teary. Tired. Dad standing besides, and carrying her bag of tiffins and boiled water bottles around his shoulder, looking earnestly at the Kingfisher boards to read <em>Departed</em>. I clicked them in my mind.The moment that was, priceless!</span></div><div align="justify">.</div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I suddenly felt like rushing back in time, be dependant on them again, ask for pocket money ,have flanneled night suits, live by their rules, fight with them,and never grow up!A certain feeling of unreachableness crept in, a place few inches beyond my grasp. A squarefoot of vacuum. The price of growing up. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I rushed ahead for my flight and wrote this piece in mid air.Like my feelings, hung!</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><p></p><p>.</p>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-55696033546333457992008-06-09T22:59:00.012+05:302008-07-15T02:11:53.273+05:30Kuch is tarah..<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Today was a sure forgettable day. Disastrous sounds perfect. Had an argument with her, lost a bet in office, and got wet on the way back home. Back home, i am still thinking about my friend who suddenly seemed so wrong to me today that i couldnt help losing my cool. Does an idle mind stop it at there? I checked on my mobile every two minutes for any I-am-sorry messages from her. With nothing coming along, i switched off my mobile for a no-one-cares-apart-from-me moral victory . And then switched it on after an hour to still find no new messages. Frying pan to fire, i start getting deep and Aristotalean about relationships and the whys, whos and hows of it. Flipped out an old India Today and started reading about rising food prices and its impact in our economy. Suddenly out of no where two ants started parading on the page. One, was trying to ride the other and the other was moving around in circles amidst jungles of letters and paragraphs . My first impulse was to blow them off. But then,i stopped, as the article wasnt getting any better and my idleness fast started generating options about the two.I thought, perhaps they are running away from home, or simply playing chor- police, perhaps it is the tenacity of friendship or the brutalness of a rape, May be they loved each other or damned plain hate.These two fascinated me now,what did they want?What?<br /><br />It was just then, i sneezed.<br /><br />I opened my eyes. Saw one of them displaced a few millimetres northwards in the page , lost, and looking for the other. Alone.<br /><br />I smiled.<em> The futility of relationships!</em></span><em> </em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />..<br /><br /></div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-38351119653463118532008-06-08T17:03:00.011+05:302008-07-15T02:14:52.709+05:30<div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Salaam <s>Bombay</s> Mumbai!</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Remember?As kids how we came to believe the story of a stork coming down at midnight and dropping in our little sister next to our Mom ? Well, remember the time when you have already been educated about the human angle in the process from the porn mags brought by the year down student at school, and later have this inconvenient moment of seeing a really agonized woman doing a labor scene in some DD1 movie along with your family? Years later,Remember the time when you yourself (The unsung sexologist of your college by then ) impart the same wisdom to your kid cousin in the hospital and share a smile with the refined, sensible adult community in the warmth of a shared secret? And the story goes on!<br /><br />Pretence!<br /><br />See, lemme be clear on my stand. I have no objection to kids being told the stork story rather than what-goes-where-to-make-a-baby thing , but with passing years isn’t someday the right day to clarify stuff around the dining table? Do we allow our kids to learn about the basic starting points of their lives from porn movies/Penthouse mags/gossip-Aunty columns/out of syllabus biology chapters? Excuse me , but I wouldn’t fancy my 15 year old to believe his “virgin” dad to be waiting for the stork to do the act, the second time! A sissy ,impotent tale that would sound like for a todays grown up adult of fifteen.<br /><br />What is it about pretence that we Indians are so ga-ga about? Look at the news we make.<br />Take for instance the Beijing Olympic Games soon to be and the torch relay preceding it that made such a flash. The torch for the worlds most participated event marched from San Francisco to London to Rome and other major cities amidst lonely police cordoned roads away from the masses, wihtout the very spirit of participation and feeling of oneness to be generated from the run . As it was about to enter India, the whole world waited with baited breath about whether India, the country that has given the Tibet issue and its leader The Dalai Lama so much currency in the world today, would let/let not allow the spirited torch to pass through the Delhi leg of the worldwide journey! I personally thought, the Government of India would at least take a stand for Tibet. But,alas! Leave right, leave wrong,,The Government of India decided to go trendy! Came quick the popular sounding official reply, ”Lets not mix sports with politics”. And since the know-it-all Aamir Khan decided to endorse this view of the GOI, we thought, Jesus Christ, they are damn correct. I said to myself, Aha?Since when?. As was pointed out by a famous commentator , Wasn’t India one of the prime movers of the boycott that kept South Africa (in the apartheid era) from participating in the Olympics. It was largely because of us that the South Africans became pariahs in the cricket world. We ran a similar campaign to exclude Rhodesia (the country that later became Zimbabwe). And till the mid-1980s, we had no sporting links with Israel. And with the upcoming Commonwealth games due in Delhi in 2010, why shouldnt India pretend to play the good piper with China now lest it brings down bloody human rights reports from Amnesty International about Indian forces’ repressions in Kashmir and call for a pullout of the 2010 games. And talk of mixing sports with politics? We are toasting on this very cocktail in world polity for years now! Just that this time around I wanna send a greeting card to the Dalai Lama saying, “I am Sorry, on their behalf". This one was a nice chap.Oh Boy! He is.<br /><br />Pretence!<br /><br />While the world watched with hysteria the amount of frenzy generated with the torch relay run in Delhi, one family was busy playing games in its own backyard. The only true family, as it claims, that stands for the common Marathi Manoos, the Thackerays! A monarchial family with a huge misled fanbase fighting against an entirely weaponless and poor army of UP-MP bhaiyyas sounds less than half as exciting as an Ekta Kapoor soap.! And we blame the poor lady for making run Kyonki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu thi for almost nearing a decade, when we happily switch on television sets and watch riots live conducted by the goondas of Thackeray family for over 40 years now? We are a damn pretentious society with impotent people in it that ways(Makes me believe the stork story sometimes, even as an adult).We just let things happen, as long as its happening to someone else, and as far as it makes good TV.<br /><br />Or what else explains such ridiculous claims of the Thackeray family, and our silent acknowledgement of them down the years. One such Thackeray classic has been laid down here for your inconvenience.<br />They claim:<br /><em>1.Any entity using “Bombay “ as its name should change to “Mumbai” with immediate effect.<br />2.Mumbai is for the Marathis , and anyone else laying any small claim even to it will be shown the door outright.<br /></em><br />Now, the argument used by the Thackerays is that, “Mumbai” (derived as a tribute to the local deity here, Moomba Devi!) is the original name of the fishing village that used to exist near the present day city. And that the word “Bombay” is the corrupted version brought to usage by the British whose usage hurts the larger Marathi spirit of the Thackeray family along with the millions native. Fine. Point noted and taken. If “Calcutta” can be “Kolkata”, if “Madras” be “Chennai”, “Bangalore” be “Bengalooru”, why not Bombay? But my problem was with the clause “<em>with immediate effect</em>”. First of all, the present Bombay is no longer a fishing community village anymore, its bloody the most showcased city in India today . It has developed its own psyche, magic, character and personality under the name “Bombay” for centuries now. To unlearn that and start living with a different name, it is but obvious, a slow process in time. But no, the Thackerays’ instead with their do-it-today or else, we will come to you threats, tried to change all those decade/centuries long establishments /institutes/shops from “Bombay” to “Mumbai” overnight. The ones that failed to comply with their deadlines immediately , had to face wreckage, goondagardi,loss of property and lives and a lot of nonsense.<br /><br />Cmon Mr. Thackeray.Ceylon became Sri Lanka,Persia became Iran but we still listen to “Ceylon Radio”, or pay a fortune to buy an exquisite Persian rug. No one refers to Sri Lanka as Ceylon or Iran as Persia anymore, but it did take its own time in history .So just give it a thought, if “Bombay Dyeing” be made “Mumbai Dyeing” overnight would it feel the same with those linens ? Change is a little more complex than a 2 minute noodle!<br /><br />And to the second claim that Mumbai is for the Marathis, I have one question and one response to you on your stand. The question being, Okay fine as you say, Mumbai is for the Marathis, but , is Mumbai essentially, "by" the Marathis? And my response to your entire stand is a simple, WTF! ( A silent disclaimer here, i live with a beautiful Marathi family atPune and here i have come to know how peaceloving and graceful a society Marathis actually are!!)</span></span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">And if nothing works out sane , I have this question for you which a reader of HT fabulously wrote in one of her articles sometime back,<br />“If he’s so keen on Marathi usage, then he should use his real name. It’s Thakre not Thackeray, in the manner of William Makepeace Thackeray, the author of Vanity Fair. Not only does Thackeray use the anglicised spelling, he even pronounces it like the English author, who, as far as I know, was not a Marathi manoos.”<br /><br />You are all 86 years young now and I don’t wonder if you have an erring son and a rebellious nephew at home who just simply don’t listen to you. I am saying it now, and Madonna did it long back,<em>" Papa dont preach"!</em></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></div><div align="justify"><br />So guys you see, pretence is growing up to be one unifying cult in our national psyche.We dont mind paying our hard owned blings to MPs to discuss cheergirls and their impact on our moral fabric in our parliament but let an important nuclear deal die a cold death due to lack of consensus to even bring it to table. We call ourselves a democracy, dont we? Even US calls itself one. Look at the rigorous US presidential candidature process going on there and think of ours( Do we even have one?). Primary after primary, region after region,Obama and Clinton had to munch words, spin dreams, win millions of hearts, prove their worth to be capable of serving their own people.That is what sounds like a democracy. And here in India, remember the last time a party started on their campaign with someone as their prime ministerial candidature??? That was Rajiv Gandhi in 1984. And none later.After that we even had human beings like Deve Gowda, I P Gujral,V P Singh etc. in our "operational" highest post. And now we are currently toasting over putting a woman up there in Rashtrapati Bhavan and bridging our sexist gaps. But not to be unfair to Honourable Pratibha Patil, i would anyday put all my money and borrow some more on Hillary Clinton for being the first woman in the American history to push all frontiers and win a whopping 1900 + primaries in an all male domain of cowboy-mafiaso politics. Woman equality? Picture that. Our version ?A Karan Johar movie. </div><div align="justify"><br /><br />Pretence again!!<br /><br />Barry Humphries once said “New Zealand is a country of thirty thousand million sheep, three million of whom think they are human.”<br /><br />India, fits in there, just as fine. Jai Hind!<br /><br />Pretence!<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></span><strong></strong>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-21425444889267948132007-12-22T12:52:00.002+05:302008-07-15T02:16:14.157+05:30Random confessions!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/R2zDPIuHbTI/AAAAAAAAAFI/W8q0h6uBpOo/s1600-h/ATgAAADWc4N6eZKXcD3aGDvRbJdZ7g2vzgGfv-Di1nHni1V9r83kJe-8hU7wwaP9TWjeyVP800O1i74IBOIkrVqJPcTdAJtU9VCNUvWmETAcN_uLgIkjJDt4iQZC_A.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146703138983996722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/R2zDPIuHbTI/AAAAAAAAAFI/W8q0h6uBpOo/s400/ATgAAADWc4N6eZKXcD3aGDvRbJdZ7g2vzgGfv-Di1nHni1V9r83kJe-8hU7wwaP9TWjeyVP800O1i74IBOIkrVqJPcTdAJtU9VCNUvWmETAcN_uLgIkjJDt4iQZC_A.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/R2y734uHbSI/AAAAAAAAAFA/MQ5ts1dWlI8/s1600-h/1417634433_740a446ba7.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div align="justify">I was watching Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehnaa on my local cable channel (Jobless and hangovered from yday's drink didnt leave me with any better option guys!still if it hurts your deepest spiritual sentiments, I am sorry!:)) when it occured to me I should write a post on confessions .Here are a few of mine....</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">1.writing blogs till Blogspot closes my account. </div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">2. calling up Shark once in a week and talk till our collective balances are over.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">3.become a story teller in some Goa beach.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">4.getting senti on monday mornings as to what i am doing in life????</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">5.win the Booker prize 2014.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">6. play missed calls-missed calls with Her from office.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">7. Make frightening faces to kids when no ones around.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">8.Discussing Ramanand Sagar's Ramayana with DJ.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">9.Being honest with everything. Thats my latest personal trend</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">10.Go back to school for one day and not hit chalks at Bothra Madam.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">11.yielding magic with the mic once again at NIT Trichy.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">12.organise an all india Dynomite Deluxe contest and win it over monil and swarup.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">13.gtalk calls with DJ and co viewing random orkut profiles / ranjit biswas' terribly captioned orkut album.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">14. being online on invisible mode.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">15.photographing myself.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">16.Watch Hrithik being slapped in Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham for about 50 times each day with Anoop, Monil, Swarup and DJ at Topaz 28.And feel glee on our ragging fate.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">17.Changing wallpapers on my laptop everyday.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">18.Watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S Alone.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">19.Build a big beautiful house with a small garden for Ma and Pa.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">20.Forgive and forget.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">21.watching repeat telecasts of indian idol-3.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">22. seeing Her off at the bus stop and later talk about it.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">23.checking out my scrapbook once in every two hours.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">24.eat oranges at one o clock winter afternoons and think of Ma.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"></div></div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-89537635975142560162007-12-18T00:24:00.000+05:302008-07-07T20:28:52.562+05:30I watched Saawariya!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/R2bKmIuHbPI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/HrBzgGzkaJw/s1600-h/w-curtain_800.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145022380842118386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/R2bKmIuHbPI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/HrBzgGzkaJw/s400/w-curtain_800.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><div align="justify"><br />The biggest problem with Saawariya-the movie is the cardinal sin any film maker can make-- the timing of its release.If you are not a film critic who gets his paisa for the Sunday review or one who thinks,since its a Bhansali movie, i would love it anyways,there is no reason as to why one should go to the movie with a <em>Diwali hain ,movie chalo mood</em>! With Shahrukh Khan romancing the six feet sexy siren with daughterly genuineness janam after janam on the next screen who would want to spend three hours and a hundred fifty bucks on a world awash with blue- green light, shot in a city which consists of only two lovers and a few prostitutes,with sequences of uncoreographed pelvic thrusts of the naked hero brushing soft cotton towels against tender bottoms , with people jumping idhar udhar crossing symmetric potholes in gay abandon, and shot in a set which is so timeless, seasonless, dayless and of course lifeless!!<br /></div><br /><div align="justify">The movie, which is loosely based on the Russian writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky's 1848 story,"White Nights" and is the first Sony venture into Bollywood,opens up with a scene with a where-on-earth-is-this-city strung with a Rani Mukherjee narration about a rockstar farishta, her Saawariya. No brownie points for guessing him to be the new kid on the block played by the Raj Kapoor synthetic look alike,his very own grandson,Ranbir Kapoor!Uncannily named Raj in the movie as well, Ranbir Kapoor plays the <em>ichak daana bichak daana</em> innocent guy who goes into a bar asking for milk (Kareena Kapoor is not the only dumbass amongst the Kapoors i swear!) wherein he stumbles upon Gulab, the overpowering,melodramatic prostitute played by Rani Mukherjee,(perfecting her mega pimp act after the recently released Laga Chunari Mein Daag) who drinks angrezi sharaab, intersperses her words with fake plural goofups, and who recycles the tawaifo ka bhi dil hota hain feeling of Chandramukhi quite frequently quite irrelevantly, in short, the usual Bhansali prostitute!<br /></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">You have hardly popped your tenth popcorn and up comes the title track of the movie "Saawariya". Its Nice, but not necessary. Hardly is it over when it plays another forgetfull song with a pack of prostitutes and the hero who sleeps on a ball coz he doesnt have a pillow, believe it?A melange of activities follow next.He plays Peter Pan to the whole neighbourhood of Gulab and her pimp friends, an old martinet played by Zohra Sehgal, Raj himself and, well, the chaataawaali heroine, Sakina played by the demure Sonam Kapoor .Prince meets princess over a four feet five inches bridge built over a five feet long canal meant only for the transportation of unspoken feelings by dumb lovers.Russian crap has it that Raj discovers soon ki Sakeena loves some stranger by the name Imaan, a really forgettable role in the movie played by a kohl eyed Salman Khan.Fish!!(I wouldnt have been amazed if he had declined this role for even a Rupa Baniyaan ad!) And night after night( were there any days in the movie btw?)repeated scenes of Sakeena waiting for Imaan to return while Raj, playing the asexual good friend cum second man in her life wanting Imaan not to return makes the audience more desperate than the both of them for this wait to end!! In the end, Imaan comes,reaps his no investment dividends and Raj loses both the women in his life.The end. Name casting. And finissss..<br /></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">So this was it. Or , was this it??? I think if you ask me now, Did i like the movie. I would say with a silent purr, Probably Yess! And here it is why..<br /></div><br /><div align="justify">First, when you go to watch a Sanjay Leela Bhansali movie, you go to watch the flamboyant director in action.Just look at it man what he has made the new kids act like. Ranbir has such flashes of brilliance that shook the ground beneath my feet at times. His uncoreographed madness movements, his expressions that have been crafted especially in the last scenes to show the dilemma in this character reminds one of the famous Raj Kapoor and his frames! Sonam Kapoor again is such a fresh breath of air in the movie. She is meant to look demure, virginal and that she does it to neat perfection.A little work could have been done on her speech but think of it, she is just a debutante and remember what debutantes once used to be, the moustached eyebrowed Karishma Kapoor or the deep freezed modellish Aishwarya of yesteryears? So chill.Rani Mukherjee and Zohra Sehgal to me are the acting pinnacles of this movie while Salman Khan better be unspoken about.(All that i can say is the topless expose king might be all jealous about the bottomless Ranbir Kapoor naa?:)<br /></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">Coming to the ideological centre of the movie , though it looked like a clone treatment of Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam with an opposite ending , I liked the concept of love as portrayed through the character of Raj, the innocent maverick lover who cares not for yesterdays and tomorrows, but just the full fructification of each moment spent with his love because somewhere in his mind he knows,his story wont last a lifetime , it just spans across moments to moments. Just single ones. . Each moment carries with it an urgency to bare his soul for the last possible time perhaps. Sakina's character is so very selfish if you look at it that way..She loved Imaan, yet she started loving Raj.She waited for Imaan, yet she almost gave up near the end. What are feelings if you give them up in the rough weather?What if Imaan hadnt come? Wouldnt she had gone ahead with Raj and lived happily ever after? Either ways she knew to complete her own story.A chaalu sweet woman she is.Makes me wonder whether her life actually had a story or was it always a mere compromise with the nearest best thing available at hand?The character of Sakina is one of the most coyly treated treacherous characters of recent Hindi cinema.Its she, and not Gulab who emerges out as the actual pimp in the story.<br /></div><br /><div align="justify">And it is with such a pint of chagrin and a soulful instrumental symphony at the backdrop that the movie was coming to an end. As the cherubic Raj traces his way back in memories' corridors, through the same symmetric potholes,alone this time ,in the same flowery frescos of the city, Gulab ends the story as mesmerisingly in her voice as Dostoyevsky does in his actual tale of love and longing when his protagonist looks up to the raining sky and asks the clouds above,</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"<em>Isnt such a moment sufficient for the whole of a man's life?"<br /></div></em></span></div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-90801184132239714722007-11-29T00:38:00.001+05:302008-07-15T02:18:21.229+05:30Undiplomatically me!<div align="justify">I suck! I am such a damn sweet talker! A boring one at that too. Phokat ka philosophy, phokat ka senti jhaarna jaise aadat hi ho gayi hain.. Buss ab aur nahi! Right here right now i kiss goodbye forever (forever? haha!) all my jhaaras, all those bouncer sentis, all those lifey lifey talks of eighty year olds, and from today be the freest entity in the world, a <em>sonnavabitch!</em></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">A strong disclaimer at the outset to all those to refrain from reading my blogs who think an occasional bitching isnt a good thing, or F-talks are for the elderly, or jealousy isnt a virtue, or that crap has its limits!Back off.For the rest, Here i go..</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">My only problem in life till now was my extreme urge to please everybody i met each day!To start with, lets break this rule number one of not-to-be done things in my earlier goody goody world. I was discussing this topic with an old friend of mine yesterday and here is the combined intellectual worth of me and her of the most irritating character traits in perople we have run into in our lives so far. Your categorization is your business.<br /></div><strong></strong><div align="justify"><strong></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong>Bad language skills:</strong> They are the biggest no-nos. I dont have any problems with people who are genuinely bad at languages.After all even my sporting skills suck. But those who carry on big tags in Orkut like "Languages known: English(US) " big shots littering around public conversations or Orkut scrapbooks with "make"-friendship -with-me" requests or "I am best person for friendship"(wheres the "the " dude!!!) <em>cut copy pasting</em> cheesy one liners to hundreds of unknown girls/boys everyday, boy! you are already judged and trashed in my mind! You need not write Shakespeare or speak Lincoln, if you care not include your mother tongue/Hindi in the list of your languages known on Orkut, better mind your articles and prepositions the next time on!<br /><br /><strong>SMS retarded:</strong> With lotsa pyaar and remembrances you send someone an SMS reminding that its the same day last year that some amusing incident happened or blah blah and how much fun it was, right? And after about an hour of waiting for a reply,all that you get back is a dry moronic single alphabet, "K....." !!!!<br /><br /><strong>Cell maniacs: </strong>There are on the other extreme.You are about to cut your birthday cake, he gets a call.You are on a single dinner with her, there comes a call. And off you spend the complete time playing hide n seek with your spoon in the soup bowl, and then the starters, the main course and the dessert, but without regret, the call goes on! Just had a thought why are the most important people for them are always on the other side of the phone and never besides them? Its time u gave it a serious thought.<br /><br /><strong>I f****** hate Himesh.You too kya?-types</strong>: I absolutely hate Himesh, Rakhi Sawant is so raw and gross na? --type folks who bring out fake morchas for everything under the sun and never miss any occasion when they joined the ‘cool’ people and laughed at all these things just to sound like them, grown up, and all this., joined a couple of Anti-Ekta Kapoor/Rakhi Sawant orkut communities, and profess to be the opinionated intellectual of this age!Good, you have a mind of your own and u dare show it off,but at least not after having Aashique Banaya aapne as your hello tune for months or after watching Rakhi Sawant day in and night out in her bare essentials in the "Pardesia" video! Fakeism stinks Boss! But then i absoloodle agree, Apna Himessss sucks!<br /><br />There are many many more of such losers in all shapes and sizes. But its midnight and i better call it a day before i get back to my earlier touchy self and start making up with all these people by writing diabetic articles on them that really hit nowhere:) Well, just remembered another category of irrritating traits...The spoilsports in parties,events and occasions who always have an eternal list of greater boring duties to perform in life, like say completing an important assignment at home or even gettin up early in the morning to get to office, so i need to move right now blah blah ! They are always somewhere else, and in the end, pratically nowhere.I suggest the world wouldnt miss you much even if u stayed back at home and carried on with your boring things to do! Believe me, boredom is your birthright, and you shall have it!Chalo then i hit the sack now coz i have to get to office early in the morning tomorrow. Oh wait,did i just say thaaaat? To end it where it all started, I suck!</div>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5919979474531199745.post-86114793699824767562007-11-27T13:54:00.002+05:302008-07-15T02:16:58.361+05:30Good mornings !<p><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;"></span></p><p></p><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;"></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137595841659887810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/R0xoMqWpYMI/AAAAAAAAAEA/0Ygx-vCbFgs/s320/P1010047-1.jpg" border="0" /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">Its winter again.Time h</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">as flown by quite unknowingly for the past couple of months. Just didnt even realise when i flapped over the September and October pages of my table top. Like the frozen mornings outside, i am finding it difficult to resume writing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">Winter.A strange beautiful season.You can't trust the sun this time of the year;it's bright light outside but holds a bitter cold within. Perhaps when i still think of this season the first image that comes to my mind is of a furry white sweater which my aunt gifted to me in the winter of 1989. No clothing i ever had later could ever match the magic that that piece of woollen had on me.I used it year after year, in the most special of occasions. Catch any photograph of any wintry birthday or marriage in the early nineties and you would catch the tiny nawaab in his same white sweater, a little less fury with every passing winter.One year finally, when my Mom opened up the suitcases on the onset of winter and took out the sweater, i found that it would no longer fit me. I had grown up.<br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">Those days we lived in a very beautiful setting in Tezpur where there were huge ponds in front of our house and migratory birds would fly in every morning from the Himalayan foothills.My Mom , sister and me used to go morning walk besides the ponds everyday. My mom would mark the calendar day every year when she saw the first migratory bird in the pond. I would generally not bother myself with such observations. I would rather play by smoking my breath into the window panes and write my name on it. Or chase aimlessly some already lost puppy and give him a good morning run for nothing.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">Morning walks were soon replaced by bicycle learning sessions. That would be around winter vacation 1992. It was a chic read Hero Hansa , a few inches taller than i could stand. A ladies model. My sister was my cycle coach. She would hold me from behind and poor thing would run the whole field teaching me how to balance. I fell on wild flowers and conrete roads. Bruises piled up.Many days elasped till one morning, after a few minutes of ride i heard my sister cry out from far away ..."Hey look back once"..and i saw that i was on my own.It was such a nice feeling of independance i cant describe. Its a different thing that while looking back and jubilantly waving to my sister i fell down once again on a roadside gutter. It hurt a lot but who cares by then? I learnt cycling.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">I got my first bicycle on my seventh standard birthday .It was a BSA Photon which my dad gifted me. It was another possesion which had kept my company for a long long distance in life. I remember going to six o clock tuitions in the morning through the empty streets of tezpur, not missing a single day of it for the sheer joy or riding.Morning tuitions in winters used to be fun again.We use to reach ten minutes earlier or the teacher started ten minutes late i dont remember, but we always managed some time for gossiping. We had an all girls batch before ours and Tezpur's whos who were in that batch.Oh now i remember who created that ten minutes of cushion time:) We were a batch of funny things, half of the batch was latoo on the teacher's wife and other half on the daughter.No wonder my excellent marks in CAT quants has some significant historic background too:)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">When i returned home during my first semester engineering holidays for my sister's marriage, my dad told me he had given my bicycle to a neighbours son beacuse it was eating up unnecessary space in our house. A couple of days later i saw my neighbours son breezing past our house in MY bicycle. My mom told me, Look thats your bicycle. A not very happy feeling passed though heart.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">And today its the middle of winter 2007 that i realise its winter and i havent smoked my breath into a mirror and written my name on it, or taken a bicycle ride, or sipped morning tea at road side stalls, or even chased behind a cow.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">The simplest joys in life sometimes hang so high. Really, lifes funny.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137597035660796114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HyBJCWDBHkI/R0xpSKWpYNI/AAAAAAAAAEI/rDwrFaT9j1Q/s400/Picture+162.jpg" border="0" /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;color:#663300;">_________________________________________________________________<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#663300;"><em>The Photographs: I ve clicked the first pic near Mulshi Lake,Pune.The second one is in the lobby of a building during Diwali time.<br /></em><br />_________________________________________________________________<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span>Surya, the Ayrus!http://www.blogger.com/profile/06992560866644544000noreply@blogger.com25