How does Bhutan stay so happy and Pawan Kalyan Chronicles

Bhutan is a happy country. It is highest in the Happiness Index ratings. You know why?

They watch "Indra the Tiger" on TV. Daily. On repeat.

I swear. Ma Kasam. Heard from very reliable source.

Telugu to Hindi films have their own charm. Real hero. Doing hero things. Like punching one person and escape velocity making five persons go flying through the air with buzzing fly background music accompanying their flight path. Sometimes in slo-mo. Mostly in slo-mo. He'll say some small Telugu word, effective word, but it will come out as "Khabardaar Launde" well beyond the time his mouth is shut. You will marvel at the art of ventriloquism. Kamalhaasan did it in one film long long ago and made it a hit. They are doing it now in hordes of T2H films and of course, they will be liked.

But I like the challenges to science more in their films and that truly makes me happy. Like those people in Bhutan.

Pawan Kalyan is not just a hero. He is the God of parched earth and red mangoes and small things. All together. He thumps the ground and people in Bullock carts topple and acquire escape velocity. Then, if the people are flying say to the right, the Bullock cart wheels come out and roll to the left. Your scientific temper will be tempted to ask, "How"? Precisely, that's where Pawan Kalyan challenges you. Maybe, it's his shoes or the magnetic quality of his soles that attract the iron rivets in the wheels and so the wheels are tempted to roll back to where Pawan Kalyan stands with his thumped heel in the ground. Pawan Kalyan reinvents the tenets of science.

Doesn't that make you happy?

That should. That's the idea of T2H films. To make you happy. It's why people in Bhutan are happy. It's why Zee Cinema and Star Gold are happy making so much money on those sublime films.

I came to know of another one the other day. Supreme Khiladi. I was denied a full dekko by certain other pressing assignments like IndiaPak rivalry. But since I am generally happy person I know given a remote and a good day, I will again receive the bounty. Why did Akshay not think of Supreme Khiladi? What spurs a Supreme Khiladi?

The little I saw was breathtaking. Turning head. People flying. Someday I will know the science behind that too. And there's red eye and cheek shake when the mother is attacked. Or sister.

That's true service to the sons of the soil. Zee Cinema does that.

NDTV did not carry out the service. No red eye. No cheek shake. Nothing. Look what happened.

Khabardaar Launde.

The original startups and unicorns

Windows. The older versions. The ones that you looked out of. Not looked in through a computer.

Long ago, in my native village, they had these big four doored windows with iron bars, I used to sit at them. Two specifically nice ones, one overlooking a nice small mango orchard and another one overlooking a courtyard that had a "samadhi sthal" of our forefathers on one side and the Mandir on the other side and the clean middle area.

I watched a lot of things happen from these two windows. Summers they were. Lazy cows parked in the middle of the courtyard. Tied to tethers. Munching on what they had in their mouths. The mouths covered by a hay net so that they cannot eat more from the fodder stacks kept on one side of the courtyard. The floor of the courtyard made of clay. Everyday wiped with clay and dung mixture to keep it clean and cool. Trees as diverse as Jackfruit to neem to mango flanking the courtyard. The pond beyond the samadhi on the left. The ducks in the pond on the left. They quacked among themselves. On quite afternoons one could hear their entire conversations.

I discovered stories about my forefathers then. During those quiet afternoons.

It is the 1880s. Haripada Narayan Majumdar has just returned from Birsingha. Birsingha being the place where Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the great Bengal Renaissance man and the revered teacher of Bengali grammar lives. Birsingha is about 18 miles away through the kuchcha roads from Shrirampur, our village.  Haripada wants to build a school in the village but he has no funds. He has taken with him some gold of his wife. She's okay with the idea. Vidyasagar does not take the gold. Tells him to show his determination by just starting a class in his courtyard. He gives him three copies of "Varna Parichay" the modern grammar book written by Vidyasagar himself. Haripada is overwhelmed as he recounts the incident and shows the books to his illiterate family. He is going to teach himself and then the others.

He does so.

In a year there are 18 children in that very courtyard under the shade of the peepul that I don't see now doing Bengali grammar and basic maths.

Vidyasagar is on the board of the province school authority in two years. He is called to inspect. He does so. He is shown the three tattered copies of the books he lent. He asks students some questions. He also is happy with the answers. He signs then and there for a school in a neighborhood village as he wants more students to come to be taught by my forefather.

One child grows up to be a freedom fighter and true to the hot blooded Bengali fire in the belly, he takes up arms and becomes a comrade of Aurobindo Ghosh. You would know him more by the Aurobindo ashram of Pondicherry that he founded later when he again found peace within.

Haripada dies in the famine of early 1900s. His legacy lives on through more promising students in the oncoming decades.

Now, students and their families are all over the world. Some I know. Many I have no way of knowing.

Wouldn't you call that a unicorn startup? A startup that lasted beyond its life and still gives to the society?

Two men on a field, for the last time

Ten men crowd around the stumps. In white. Green caps askew on their heads. The ground quiet and silent. Just a ball and another over to go. The rain has come on. Washes the perspiration from the ten faces. But no one, absolutely no one in the field has his mind on the rain or the floodlights that have come on. Two old men. At the brink of history. Of retirement. Of moving into the annals of history. As the greatest Pakistan Cricketers of all time. Younis and Misbah. Ex-Captain and Captain. Men who had marshalled the dawn of the golden age of Pakistani Cricket.

Then, there are the two batsmen from the islands. West Indians, they call themselves. A pale shadow of the team that had muscled other national teams thirty years back. A batting that was being shepherded by a batsman who till the other day was known more for his bowling. Another, who was literally the number 11 in the team batting order. Whose idea of batting is a prod at any ball. Roston Chase and Shannon Gabriel. Cricketers who are barely known around the islands. No showmen, as the showmen were all away playing for gold and town houses in a league that has quixotic team names for cities. Chase and Gabriel. They could have been a bank, the way they have defended their citadel for the last ten minutes.

The premier Pakistan bowler, a leg spinner, crouches at his bowling mark. He has been beyond super through this test match. Bowling from wide of the stumps, lobbing the ball at the batsman from a height and angle where it causes much discomfort. In failing light, misty rain and inadequate floodlights, he is always going to be a handful. One last ball is left. One last ball to get to five wickets. One last ball to leave his superlative impact on a test that has swung like a yo yo between the two teams. Yasir Shah, a man who looks more like a footballer than the ace cricketer he is.

The hush descends as he comes in to bowl.

Gabriel is the batsman. He has been coached by Chase at the wicket. Defend, for your life depends on it. But he has ten world weary men crouching around him. Ten men from a country that has nothing going for it other than this game. Ten men who cannot play in flashy cricket leagues around the world. Or don't. Two among the ten are so old and weary that crouching for a catch is also task. But yet they are there, for the nation. For themselves, for history.

Yasir bowls. It is a wrong one. Gabriel has a brain seizure. He decides that the best way to defend would be a hoick over the in field. Get it over their heads. A milli second later he hears the sickening sound of the ball hitting his stumps. Inside edge. His face crumples. What's he done? Chase is shell shocked. One ball and he could have defended the final over. One ball and he could have carried the team into a memorable draw. But what's the young man done?

The Pakistanis are everywhere. Younis plucks the stumps. The substitutes arrive with the flag. Yasir is jumping around in footballer glee. Misbah is engulfed. He is looking towards his family. They are in the stands. He is 42 years old. The oldest captain in the last thirty years of modern Cricket. He knows what he has achieved. He runs towards his family. The inscrutable captain at last shows some emotion. Younis has a smile as wide as the Indus.

Maybe, just maybe, this is the most bittersweet hour for Cricket.

Two honorable gentlemen leaving the field for the last time, draped in their country flags, as winners.

Just know, their impact on the game has been much more than Dravid, Tendulkar, Miandad, Inzamam and Sangakkara. The other South Asian greats.

Old men. Victors. More than ever.

What did Bappi Lahiri do with Kaifi Azmi's poetry?

This was 1978. There was a flood in Bengal. My father travelled there to give some succor to our suffering family. They had lost their house and were living on the banks of a seething riverine. Father had some money. So they started rebuilding the house. Father did not have much leave and he came back to Nilgiris where we were then.

I did not watch many movies then. In fact, even if we went to the movies, I tended to loiter outside. But then, I was fixating on a strange song called "Bambai se aaya mera dost" and the film was Aap ki Khatir. And that had come to the Kilimanjaro hall in Wellington. Charming hall beside a cricket ground. So we went to see it. Vinod Khanna. Rekha. Some domestic drama. Both of them in robust form. Suddenly Bambai se...burst onto the screen. Ecstasy. First sampling of the Bappi beat and the Bappi voice.

Bappi Lahiri became an artist to follow up on.

And what a follow up he presented.

Toote Khilone. The title would straightaway suggest bad songs. Wrong. Bappi Lahiri would make history with this.

But let me start with the cast and crew. Shekhar Kapoor was the hero. Shabana Azmi was his lady in the film. Again, a drama. Shekhar was unimpressive. His acting career went to dogs post this effort. Shabana went the other way. Ketan Anand directed the film. Very underrated director. Yes, he was another nephew of Dev Anand. I was to meet him eight years later in Hyderabad. When he was there for Filmotsav along with his next, the superb Shart. But this was pretty insipid drama. Loosely put together.

But that song. Maana ho tum behad Haseen. Alone made a difference to its lifetime business. Rescued it from the depths. The entire nation took notice of Yesudas's skills at the mic and Bappi's orchestral skills.

Listen to Bappi's work closely. This. Aitbaar. Namakhalal. Sharaabi. Sansar. Sailaab. Chalte Chalte. One thing would be common. His set up of the orchestra. His clean instrumentation. His chorus. You got to listen to his choruses. And the rhythm. He also was very good with classical compositions. Bappi is ridiculed a bit these days. Memes, spoofs and what not. But back in the days, he sometimes provided great music.

Back to the song. It starts with a guitar riff. Then a brief lull before Yesudas's voice brings in certified magic. The chorus follow and immediately there's an aura to the song. Yesudas raises pitch with Dekho kabhi toh pyaar se and you are tempted to sing along. There are the violins and there's the piano. Very Bappi. He could play all these instruments himself. And the simple rhythm. The bass guitar keeping count. Very understated orchestra giving primacy to the voice. Very unlike Bappi and his reputation.

In the following years, I must have sung the song countless times in the bathroom with a plastic mug doing the work of the bongo. I loved the enclosed space feel in the bathroom that gave the right vibration to my voice through Maana ho tum.

But who wrote the song? Gulp. The illustrious poet lyricist Kaifi Azmi. You nonplussed? You thinking how did that blingy man get to do this great song? Well, he was a talented young man then. Bappi Lahiri.

Yesudas rates him as a great composer to this day. Unfortunately, Bappi chose the easier way out by living under the shadow of the moniker "Disco king".

That said, just listening to "Koi yahaan aha nache cache!" Yeah, kill me.

Hey! The economy will not dump you

The notes have been discontinued. The matter is done. The cows have gone home. Now what?

Take the money to your nearest bank and deposit.

If it is unaccounted, you will receive a polite call or message from the Income Tax people and you will do well to pay up the fine, grin and bear it. You will still have much to salvage.

If it is accounted for, why worry your head off? You are paying your taxes. Use your plastic more. Intelligently. That's it. It is not for you anyways that the government has done what it has done. It is for the guys who run a mammoth black economy and deprive the nation of its rightful path, putting the stress back on the taxpayers that's us. 3% of the whole population. Us. It's to bring at least another 40% into the rightful way of economic development.

Just imagine what could happen now?

Banks will receive over Rs. 80 lakh Crores. Flush with funds, RBI could announce a slew of cuts in interests and repo rates. You could borrow money from banks at much easier rates than ever before.

Banks will reach out to the unbankable and create newer propositions giving birth to an altogether new economy.

This could benefit a slew of new entrepreneurs who could, with the help of banks, participate in personal growth and nation development. Education, services, infrastructure and utilities would receive a big fillip. Money will go where it is supposed to go.

Government, now cash rich, can undertake many budgetary reforms and augmentations than ever before. Again, Infrastructure, education, police, law, healthcare and agriculture will receive much needed funds to breathe easy and improve their lot.

Maybe, just maybe, the taxed will be taxed less. GST is going to help in some way already and maybe our tax slabs can get easier. We could hope for that. Then, more money in our pockets.

WhatsApp forwards and shovelling dirt at various political fatcats is all fine. I have enjoyed some jokes too. Over the last twelve hours but this is good.

This is what India should be about. Bold and sure footed. Strong, healthy and bubbling. There will be some of us who will have major concerns with cash in hand.

I still say it's time to show it. To the banks and the tax guys. No harm. No one is gonna put you behind bars. Some fines.

As for me, blissful. I am most happy using plastic and transferring money through the net.

I am lazy. And using a mobile to transfer money fits my type completely. Cheers!

Ae dil hai mushqil - musings

Love has been quite overrated. Very underwhelming. Sometimes. It does not have enough legs to stand on, yet it professes to be around.

Friendship, on the other hand, has a definite premise and yields a lot on ground, during the playing out of the relationship.

Love suffers because of the immaturity but friendship thrives. Love asks questions of us that threaten to disturb the whole balance but friendship rarely, if ever, asks these disturbing questions. Love always speaks of this immense giving in a relationship to make it work. Friendship professes no such lofty principles.

So, why do people look to fall in love? Rankle themselves enough while knowing that a comfortable and cozy friendship is just there. Always there. Trusting. Easy and unobtrusive.

Is it the classic "wanting more" syndrome? The well injected custom of being good girl or boy and so have to marry to prove love. And belonging?

Ayan is a chap who's a bit shallow. Thoroughly spoilt and aimless, he sets his aims on simple love. Alizeh is a girl who's wanting more from every moment that she is in. But a girl who's actually defeated in love. They go through a faux friendship process that's unconvincing even for their limited worlds. And then she decides to marry her old beau. She admits to her defeat in the hands of love and walks away to a future that she thinks is sustainable.

Ayan frets the fact that he could have given her more in love and searches for love more than ever. Enter the poetess. Who teaches him the ways of amour in more ways than one. But they aren't in love. It's more the kind of teacher disciple stuff. Alizeh comes back. The teacher walks away. Ayan is left to grapple with another bout of love. This, when Alizeh tells him that they were much better off with friendship.

No one walks away easily from such abject propensities. It's foretold. We know it's coming.

Johar writes a very tough story. There aren't any pretty pictures here. I mean, cinematically there is, but the story inhabits a much gloomier space.

There are unfortunate let ups. I could not wrap my head around the Paris trip. Neither could I understand why Sabah, the poetess, wanting or clamouring for such a physical relationship. It was kind of, weird.

Anoushka and Ranbir had their great moments. But the absolute killer was the one scene Shahrukh. The compelling romantic actor in him just shone so brilliantly in that one scene that it paled all of Aishwarya's work till then effortlessly. Ah, that actor still has it. Still!

In a way, this film reminded me of Devdas. See it my way and you'll know.

Ae dil hai mushkil.

Film musing - Zulfiqar (Bengali)

Zulfiqar. Ceaser + Anthony & Cleopatra. In Bengali. Transported to the dock underworld of Calcutta. Note that I have put it as Calcutta and not Kolkata. I know this underworld a lot closely. I know the kind of people who have made money here. I know of people who have flourished and how. Who managed the dock workers. The truck parking. The boys who worked illegally in the parking lots. The illegal auctions of items off the broken down ships. The scrap. The voluminous smuggling off broken open containers. I can go on and on. It sort of got set up as an organized underworld in the middle 70s. The parties entered it in the early 80s and even now the guys who profit the most from it are around wearing the colours of a particular party. The spread is now from Kidderpore to Budge Budge. The movie skims through this history very simply in the first few minutes of the film and quickly comes to the conflict between the members of the highest echelon of the underworld, the syndicate. Since, I don't do reviews I shall refrain from going through the story. Suffice to say, much happens but actually not much meat. Srijit, the director, has created a large canvas for himself. Then, he flounders badly. This is a large story. Ceaser. Zulfiqar. It needs that time to spice the politics happening. To bring in the right marinate and make the meat juicy. Brutus or Bashir here was not just a good man who killed his friend over some misinformation fed to him by Cassius or Kashinath here. There was a lot of undercurrents. At the personal level as well as the political level. There were family intrigues. I really thought Srijit underdid those areas of the story. He had the actors who could have pulled it off. But he chose not to. In the last few scenes, it was sad to see him get the entire cast do a confusing gunfight scene in the dock like the 90s Mithun classics. Locations of the gunfight shifting in a jiffy. Prasenjit Chatterjee as Zulfiqar is trying, hard. One can see that. But he does not have the gravitas to pull this off. His screen son loving the same woman Rani Talapatra or Cleopatra is even poorer. Anthony's debauchery does not even start to peek through. Rani Talapatra is done by Sayantika who starts off proceedings on a strong note. A scale that tells me that she will play the queen in a certain manner. And then I am devastated to see that she becomes the whimpering B grade Bangla film heroine. Parambrata and Dev are a duo here. Tony Braganza and Marcus. Zulfiqar depends on them the most. They do well in the beginning. Parambrata does the talking. Anglo Indian English peppered with some Hindi and Bangla. He does it well. Dev is dumb. No talking. He does most of the fighting. Does it well. They have a little bromance going. But just when it starts to go well, there's a strong stage scene and all goes haywire and downhill from there for these two actors. The saviour is an actor called Kaushik Sen. He plays Bashir. He talks in a higher pitch. Is a kind of a good man in a bad trade. Kaushik nails most of his scenes. He has great expressive eyes. The director is intelligent enough to spot this early and gives him a lot of close ups. Kaushik also gets his Calcutta Hindi very right. There's a scene. Bashir is calling back Zulfiqar's friends and family from where they are hiding. Kaushik is seated in the corner of a large sofa with a cellphone. The only movement in that dark scene is his eyes and head. Must say, I was blown by his act. Jishu as Kashinath and Paoli Dam as Zulfiqar's wife are simply not there with their complicated roles. I could not even understand what Paoli was saying in a couple of scenes. Srijit is probably looking at quantity but then he should attempt simpler films. Simpler stories. Ceaser is very complicated. Shakespeare meant it that way. So that people could come back over and over again to see his plays. This was Srijit's Bombay Velvet.

A bearded leader and some bearded men

Virat Kohli smiles a lot. He also gasps, fumes and grimaces. Sometimes his inner Captain Haddock takes over on the field if his deep fine leg is standing on his heels. At other times he's found wringing his hands in dismay or having a rueful smile when his nice fielders get into a tangle with the ball. Read Rahane. Or Ashwin. When he's running like a grammar school kid after school. But Virat gets his job done. I won't mind saying that this cute little team has more talent on field than the times of Saurav or Dhoni. But putting the available talent to work and getting the best out of each guy is another sort of work. Your talent cannot graze grass at third man like some of the pacers did in other times. Nor they can be toggled between third slip and midwicket in fervent hope that the ball will show signs of deviant bounce or the pitch shall show frantic signs of turn just after 3.17 pm in the afternoon. Talent has to be put to work. Logical. Yeah, but try telling Amit Mishra that. Or Praveen Kumar. Praveen may even bring down his family mace onto your head. It's the near past. Just look through the score sheets and see how these guys were used. Virat has succeeded in this. I would not venture to say fully. I fear a caustic Viru tweet if he ever reads this. Ever. But sample this. You have a setting sun. You decide to change Ashwin's end and bring in the tall bowler against the setting sun. You employ a leg slip for his faster ones. You have your best in field catchers at all the close in positions. Then you put in yourself for the uppish drive at short mid on. You ask Ashwin to go about his business with trajectory and drift. You get results. The science and art of talent management onfield comes alive. It's beyond all fixes and cave ins. Virat loves his hours of the day. His declarations have had a certain certainty to themselves. It isn't about waiting for Rohit's fifty or Rahane's hundred. It's telling them that he's going to declare at this hour and they better move their arse if they have to get the team anywhere near to an objective at that appointed hour. Then, like a fielding captain with a Border level mojo, he rotates his bowlers. Shami and Umesh or Bhuvi for the first eight. Jadeja for some quickies in between. Ashwin centrestage. Grinning and fuming. Alternately. Bhuvi certainly near the twenty fifth. Shami for the thirtieth. Reverse swing, you see. Setting sun. Jadeja back for his bootlickers. Ashwin, the hulk in the dark. Shami, if someone needs to smell some leather. Virat senses. The team rallies. Watch Umesh run for the ball. He knows he's being valued in the deep. They all pester him for the piston throws from the deep. Jadeja must throw. Saha must dive for the unreachable. Rahane must walk in a few paces for the faster ones coming off the edges. Angles. Trajectories. Gambhir found himself at sea for a few minutes before he accepted the new order of things. His bones didn't. Play for the team. It's a team game. Good man and cinema feature, Dhoni, brought this concept back into Indian Cricket after Greg Chappell had majorly messed around with the lateral thinking of the nation's favourite team. But Virat is making it sharper. He does not need a saw. He has allowed the beard to flourish. Like that other great thinker of our times, Misbah ul Haq. Forward thinking. Take more singles. Adds to a total. Drive in the V. Get the partnerships going. Facilitate two all rounders suddenly. Get your quiet wicket keeper to breathe at the wicket. Allow your speedsters to do the seam and bounce thing. Junk containment. But dry up the runs through aggressive fields. Allow your premier spinner to give away runs in search of wickets. Keep working on the impish left armer's fields for a variable bounce off the pitch. Forward thinking. Think ten overs hence. Scenography. Again Misbah. But not as inscrutable. Not at all. Voluble. Jolly. Very Punjabi! Kohli!!

A bearded leader and some bearded men

Virat Kohli smiles a lot. He also gasps, fumes and grimaces. Sometimes his inner Captain Haddock takes over on the field if his deep fine leg is standing on his heels. At other times he's found wringing his hands in dismay or having a rueful smile when his nice fielders get into a tangle with the ball. Read Rahane. Or Ashwin. When he's running like a grammar school kid after school. But Virat gets his job done. I won't mind saying that this cute little team has more talent on field than the times of Saurav or Dhoni. But putting the available talent to work and getting the best out of each guy is another sort of work. Your talent cannot graze grass at third man like some of the pacers did in other times. Nor they can be toggled between third slip and midwicket in fervent hope that the ball will show signs of deviant bounce or the pitch shall show frantic signs of turn just after 3.17 pm in the afternoon. Talent has to be put to work. Logical. Yeah, but try telling Amit Mishra that. Or Praveen Kumar. Praveen may even bring down his family mace onto your head. It's the near past. Just look through the score sheets and see how these guys were used. Virat has succeeded in this. I would not venture to say fully. I fear a caustic Viru tweet if he ever reads this. Ever. But sample this. You have a setting sun. You decide to change Ashwin's end and bring in the tall bowler against the setting sun. You employ a leg slip for his faster ones. You have your best in field catchers at all the close in positions. Then you put in yourself for the uppish drive at short mid on. You ask Ashwin to go about his business with trajectory and drift. You get results. The science and art of talent management onfield comes alive. It's beyond all fixes and cave ins. Virat loves his hours of the day. His declarations have had a certain certainty to themselves. It isn't about waiting for Rohit's fifty or Rahane's hundred. It's telling them that he's going to declare at this hour and they better move their arse if they have to get the team anywhere near to an objective at that appointed hour. Then, like a fielding captain with a Border level mojo, he rotates his bowlers. Shami and Umesh or Bhuvi for the first eight. Jadeja for some quickies in between. Ashwin centrestage. Grinning and fuming. Alternately. Bhuvi certainly near the twenty fifth. Shami for the thirtieth. Reverse swing, you see. Setting sun. Jadeja back for his bootlickers. Ashwin, the hulk in the dark. Shami, if someone needs to smell some leather. Virat senses. The team rallies. Watch Umesh run for the ball. He knows he's being valued in the deep. They all pester him for the piston throws from the deep. Jadeja must throw. Saha must dive for the unreachable. Rahane must walk in a few paces for the faster ones coming off the edges. Angles. Trajectories. Gambhir found himself at sea for a few minutes before he accepted the new order of things. His bones didn't. Play for the team. It's a team game. Good man and cinema feature, Dhoni, brought this concept back into Indian Cricket after Greg Chappell had majorly messed around with the lateral thinking of the nation's favourite team. But Virat is making it sharper. He does not need a saw. He has allowed the beard to flourish. Like that other great thinker of our times, Misbah ul Haq. Forward thinking. Take more singles. Adds to a total. Drive in the V. Get the partnerships going. Facilitate two all rounders suddenly. Get your quiet wicket keeper to breathe at the wicket. Allow your speedsters to do the seam and bounce thing. Junk containment. But dry up the runs through aggressive fields. Allow your premier spinner to give away runs in search of wickets. Keep working on the impish left armer's fields for a variable bounce off the pitch. Forward thinking. Think ten overs hence. Scenography. Again Misbah. But not as inscrutable. Not at all. Voluble. Jolly. Very Punjabi! Kohli!!

Look Ma, I made them happen!

I cannot gloat about myself. I shouldn't too.

But yesterday, had taken the family to Phoenix Marketcity Bangalore for a movie at the PVR. It was also a national holiday. The mall was choc a bloc full and people were all over the place: buying, eating, climbing, falling, parking, running and in one case even crying!

The staff at various stores were struggling to keep pace with queries and orders. The managers looked harassed. The customers engaged, enraged or whatever. Even some toy trains were busy keeping up with holiday crowds.

I was a part of the initial group that made these phenomenal set of Marketcity Malls happen all over the nation, specially Bangalore and Pune. I feel a small cheap thrill when I see the success. I walk the spaces, I touch the railings, I look at the merchandise and I believe, even if it is for a fleeting moment, that this is my achievement. Oh no, the illusion goes away. There are many other better claimants probably. But....

Similarly, when I am in Inorbit Whitefield, I feel proud of what has been achieved. It will take another year or two to be really successful but I see the gleaming mall and see the general happiness of people when they shop in there. 

Now, I am onto my third one in Bangalore. Just beside Phoenix Marketcity. People ask me as to how could it be successful beside such a big success. Oh well, it will. I have no illusions about that!!

Lota, Sena, Lootmaar!

Sirji, I have to be in Mumbai today! Eh! Why? Sirji, back in my callow times of youth, I had been a Sena Pramukh of some sort. Balasaheb has left us and I thought I have to go back there to pay my last respects. You, a Sena goon, were you? So, how come you have changed? Sirji, it was all because of a "lota"! A lota? Yes Sir, it was a lota. It happened like this. It was Jan 1993. I was only 22 and we were a group of Pramukhs from Thane. The earlier night we had received summons from the Sena bosses who no doubt were advised by Balasaheb himself that the battle cry against the city Muslims had been sounded and we were to get ready with the address lists and the 'equipment' or 'asla' as some call it. We got ready. But immediately after a round of 'vada pao' my very weak stomach gave away and I had to go to the loo. So, I dashed off towards the toilet stacked against the outer wall of the premises. I was about to lock the door and then I remembered that the lota was outside and one had to get that lota, fill it with water and then do the needful. I went back outside. The lota was not at the usual spot. I was feeling the brunt of the pao by then and started a ragged and crunched rectum search for the offending lota. I did not find it anywhere inside the premises. So, I crept out quietly to the roadside to see if there was any dabba or such like in the nearby construction site. Dawn was just breaking and I, a Sena Pramukh, could not be seen slinking around trying to empty my bowels after all. So, I ran into the construction site holding my buttocks for dear life. I managed to find a plastic jar that the laborers use for the water during construction. I did what I had to do in one corner of the site. I silently asked for forgiveness from all the gods that I may have offended. Then, I jogged back to the office. There was no one. The riots took place without me. I was not showered with accolades and neither I could gather some moolah in the accumulated loot. I was totally ignored. Sad, no..! So, why are you going for the funeral? Sirji, the next level of lootmaar shall happen now and just my being there would possibly bring me some much needed gains in this middle age! "Bolo Sirji, Ho sakta hai na?"

Sobbing Superstar!

I heard a muffled cry. I bolted out of my uncomfortable chair. It was that time of the day when I usually felt hungry and fretful and then there was that cry. I needed to find where that cry originated. The house seemed to be bereft of creatures like Sreesanth, Nitin Gadkari, Splitsvilla bozos or Khana Khazana housewives who could cry at the drop of the hat. So, I opened the main door! The Bai, very dry eyed and determined, rushed past me to do her daily mayhem. That left just the solitary person who looked like a cross between the 7th floor male nurse and the postman who only arrived on Diwali day. Of course, it must be the postman as it was the Diwali day. I called out. He turned. It was SRK. Not the postman, it was the actor SRK. Of course, the Bai could not recognize him as he still was in his battle fatigues from the film, "Jaang Hai to Jahan hai" or some such. And he had that tear in his eyes. I immediately ventured to say, "Pushpa, I hate tears." But then, he couldn't be Pushpa, right. In fact, Pushpa was the Bai who had just rushed past me and had already begun her mayhem in the kitchen. I beckoned to SRK and motioned him into my humble abode. The TV was still on and a News Channel was trying to peddle something to me. Eureka, it was the same SRK film that was releasing now..Jaang hai... SRK moaned and I sensed he was horrified to see Arnab Goswami smile, even if it was on TV. I could empathize. I found that smile horrific too, blood curdling even and had written a letter to Keshu Ramsay to resume his film making with Arnab as a hero, if he wanted to still make horror films. He could team him up with Deepak Parashar and they could smile at each other. So much horror, just the thought... I shut off the TV and flung the remote where SRK would not dive for it, he's prone to diving, I felt. I poured him a glass of water. He took a sip and composed himself. I wondered whether I should change my shorts to something more demure. But he was oblivious to my legs, I relaxed. I ventured to ask him about his supposed misfortune when he turned to me sniffling, "You alone can now save me from my impending doom!" "How...I ...I mean that's impressively nice of you to come all the way to my home and ask for my help but how can I help...If I may ask?" SRK was already waving his arms about in hyperactivity. He cut in, "See, the last time you had written scathingly about Harbhajan, his career magically came back to the rails pretty soon. Now, with this dud that I am saddled with I need you to write something so bad about me that my career also comes back swinging...hard" I reflected on that "hard" a bit more than necessary before I ventured to answer. "Hey listen brother, I don't write badly when someone commissions me to write about them. Understandably, I then fawn about them. I write words like genius, stupendous, mindlowing, perfect, like they do in the TOI movie reviews or the India Today book reviews. So, what do I do?" SRK whimpered, "Mate, its tough being a leading superstar...You wouldn't know the pressure. So, please cut me some slack and do this for me...this "Jab Tak Hai Jaang" is my ultimate millstone. Diss me so bad, that the alternative film makers rush in to do films like Tharki Donor, The Really Dirty Dancer or at least a Wake Up SRK with me. I need this from you. You, the nondescript blogger!" Okay, okay...no need to get personal..This shall be done. I won't even take some Maal for this. It will come naturally. So, can I mention the "Yash" word? More whimpers....

Shor In the City - Has got Soul!

Somewhere in the middle of this film, an oily fixer says, "pata nahin sab log aajkal patli gali hi kyon dhoondte hain!". He, a fixer, looking for a fast buck, mouthing this priceless gem about the state of the argumentative Indian today. It is that kind of a film.

On the surface, it is a thriller set in the cattle class Mumbai, with motley characters, who you will find in everyday Mumbai, jumping in and out of the screen. Three thugs, all different types, have to make some money. An NRI, wanting to set up business and acquire a girl friend in Mumbai up against some local thugs. A cricketer wanting to make to somehow to the Indian team and save his girlfriend from impending arranged marriage and doom.

But, the story is not about that actually. It is more about hope, redemption and the triumph over circumstances through the practice of goodness!

Enter Mr. Coelho in the form of his book "the Alchemist". He starts to teach a thug how to get through life with the choices that one has. The thug is Tilak (Tusshar) and the goodness reaches him first through the book and then through a caring wife who is more educated than him and helps him learn the book.

But while Tilak is learning, the other motley characters are also seeking their destiny in the bowels of Mumbai. The NRI (Ramamurthy)has a dark past that he has run from but needs to bury once and for all. He does this tellingly, if only to be at peace with himself. In his case, the good comes out of the bad as he deals with the thugs who harass him in his own manner, only to go faceless at the alter of God.

The cricketer and his girl come to terms with their chances in the prevailing order of the society. They choose routes to future that may not be the best but yet provide them with a lot of cheer.

The film has its moments in all the departments of film making. Some details are very nicely done.

* The newly wedded Radhika Apte cringing in her marital bed at the thought of her new husband's assault on her for sex. The camera stationed on the side of Radhika's face captures her vulnerability and Tusshar's indecision and confusion. Nice!
* The witty repartee between the three thug friends. (Of course, more proficient actors than Nikhil Dwivedi or Pitobash or even Tusshar may have done wonders with these dialogues, I was thinking Sharman, Arshad, Deepak Dobriyal, etc. Repeatedly, their antics drew laughs. But it had a smear of pathos, through illiteracy and mockery. Very thin ice directors, Raj and Krishna skated here!!
* The redemption scene for Senthil Ramamurthy, the editing and BG score rocked here. The BG score is by Roshan Machado who needs to be complimented for the climax scene. It keeps us hooked to the proceedings.
* The mother outside the cricketer's girlfriend's room shouting away in Hindi and Gujarati alternatively to make the girl get out of the room. Small scene yet so effective.
* Amit Mistry, when he inspects the arms in the hideout. (Amit Mistry has been continuously impressive through Ek Chaalis ki last Local, 99 and this film, don't know why he does not get more work?). Watch out for his Mumbaiya Marathi intonations. It's brilliant!
* The set up of the loving couples at Bandra Reclamation in broad daylight. This spoke volumes about the loneliness of this city!!

My only crib is Tusshar. He is bland. This needed a yesteryear Kamalhasan kind of performer, really! If not, a Sharman would have done adequately or even a Nawajuddin!!

But go see this film. It's got soul!

Of Budgets, Ties and Oscar mirth!

Need to find some relief. Too many messages from all around. I am a bit mixed up and my thoughts are coming out like:
 Pranabda takes a moral high ground on expenditure because of all the bat changes that Sachin, Gautam, Yusuf and some others have been doing. So, Pranabda has said that corruption needs a deeper probe. Why does Yusuf want to change his bat in 10 balls, I wonder? Because, Melissa Leoh has blurted out ‘f@##$%#g’ during her “Thank You” speech during the Oscars, someone hoots! Blur!!
 We shall Tax exemption upto Rs. 180000. Only? I have to dole out so much. I moan. Dhoni doesn’t. Why would he? He is neither happy nor sad. Or both. I dunno. All I know is that his conveyance is free, his petrol comes courtesy BCCI, mine doesn’t. And then he does not have a good midwicket for half a game. Franco does, look how he was walking on stage!
 Infra has got a lot of government attention. L&T stocks up. Kumble envisaged it and as an advertorial prepared that awesome 22 yards. Kenya can hit up 250 odd there now, but its got to be against India, with Chawla hogging one end to prove his acting skills as a leg spinner! Kumble also has come to know before about Pranab babu’s push to Education. His academy shall have Chawla as Sr. Lecturer.
So on and so forth!
Phew, need some sleep!!

Lyrical Bhardwaj and his Shakespearean Cinema

Bhardwaj once said he made films only because he got to make his kind of music. Or did he actually?

We already know most of the story linearly through Ruskin Bond, Twitter and Blog reviews. A few minutes into the film, Bhardwaj pulls the rug from underneath my feet in a neat scene where the dwarf jockey cum horse trainer openly rebels against the Housemaster Major Rodrigues (Neil Nitin in a straitjacket). Vivaan Shah’s dry voice over announces a duel. Both Major and the Jockey are with whips. The subjugated Jockey is giving it his best. What is his motivation? Why would he do that, is my thought? He loses and he also loses an eye in the process. Susanna (Priyanka Chopra) gets angry. The bells toll. Major is bumped off in an elaborate sequence.

Why would the Jockey, Maggie the cook and Ghalib the butler willingly take part in Susanna’s ghastly thought as if it were just another episode in their dysfunctional life. As Vivaan keeps explaining to us in the background!

These people are not afraid of circumstances, of their position or their future?
(In the meanwhile, a Christian Susanna has already been shown doing a Naag Devta puja in a well) I get nudged, I am winked at!

They are not. As they know their “Saheb” Susanna from before. (Here, I begin to understand the genius of Bhardwaj). They know that she is a murderer and that at some point in her relationships she’ll snap. So, it is the men who in most cases come to live with her. Not she with them. The Ghazal writer (Irrfan in all glory) being the notable exception. In her familiar environs she sets up her murders like a Sardar and his man servant in a place called Nithari, in real life! Nudged, Winked.
But, she is in a battle with herself, with her damaged psyche that has nestled evil right from her childhood. The house help know. They vicariously enjoy her conquests, live a cheerful life, have bacchanalian evenings recounting her exploits and even willingly participate in her elaborate murders. The Nudge is hard. The wink is Mischievous now.

Very lyrically, through an elaborate use of Western folk, Western Classical, Rock and Ghazals, we see the men meeting their nemesis and losing their life to her through the first hour.

Bhardwaj needs to sell the psyche of a cold blooded murderer to us. He does that with some of the most awesome music that I have heard in recent times. Not all the riffs, church choir songs, a great “I Do” version (sung by Dominique Cerejo, most probably, as I could not spot the tag anywhere), a superb waltz track done in a dark army mess ballroom, Dekh to Dil ki Jaan by Mehdi Hassan et al. Murders need to be dressed up too! Nudged Hard!!

These brilliant pieces set the tone for Susanna to move forward through her story, aid her in her macabre search for life, violins serenade when she walks the aisle with John, the rockstar, just after a church choir help her in shedding tears for her departed Major, who we know she has killed. In fact, John is from the church choir. So musical and yet so fatal for the poor church boy.

I have entered the House of Mirrors that Bhardwaj has set up completely.

So, I state again, Bhardwaj once said he made films only because he got to make his kind of music. Or did he actually?

Do her husbands deserve those deaths? As I have mentioned in the beginning that Susanna’s damaged psyche does not allow herself to even contemplate walking away. She has to kill. So, the characters are shown indulging in some form of sin.
So, back to the music again and now the brimming BG score. I have to take a notepad and sit the next time I would have to note the elaborate notes he spins around each episode, differently yet the focus is to stun us viewers into understanding the fact that Susanna had to do that murder! She had reason, you see!! McGuffin there. But we get sold. Wink. Wink..

The confusion for the viewer is in the second half. Vronsky first. Why? He tells her he would not want to get married then, she forces her into marriage and then gets those photographs. Then the elaborate kill wherein the butler Ghalib malevolently explains how “Saheb” has bumped off the earlier husbands. Now who is winking at me?
So, an Abala Naari who is kind of dysfunctional, has landed up with awful hubbies and so has a history of murders now needs to murder again just for the heck of it?
Hard to digest. All because he has another family or he is probably a double agent?

The answer is in her darkening and wizening face. The demons inside her are out there for all of us to see. The tight close ups now and the haunting BG make us aware of the uncomfortable face and the mind behind it. Gruesome.

Then, she invites the investigating officer Keemat Lal (Annu Kapur) to her home, herself. Compellingly brilliant scene wherein she clearly states that she may be caught and Keemat keeps finding out a way of saving her while looking at the murder scene and then she coolly takes him to bed. Mind you, he is not so sure of this middle aged good looking woman and is just playing the lark. But, she is sure. Inevitably, she is on top in bed, bringing him to a climax that he has not known before. He is sold. He quickly goes through a divorce to come back and get married. Then, he is immediately killed. Why? This time, in church she is not even simpering!
Realization dawns to viewers and herself, Susanna. She ain’t gonna change. At all.
Then, the remorse sets in. She consumes pills to die. She is saved. The tables turn.

So, she plans one last time. She kills and then wants to die as she does not want to kill anymore. The fire results. The violins wail.

Then, the brilliant end. And the seventh husband. Faith! And the Church Bells…
I mean, how would this auteur go about filming this? So, let me get the scenes out of the way and then I’ll worry as to how I shall embellish it or get all the details in place, in head, in the screenplay, the music to the last riff and film it with all my actors knowing what they have to deliver?

The actors deliver, and how?!

Mallu Maniac at work!

The Mallu Maniac was at the top of his bowling run up. He looked at the ground. All around. His eyes in permanent disarray. Then he did the boom barrier opening gesture with both his forearms raising to his head and down, in a focus gesture. He stood erect and focused on the batsman who was now as antsy as the wicket keeper behind. The mid off, Zakkan, had already started waddling ahead in the hope of stopping that single that might be routed his way. The gully, Najafgarh Nero, in his crouch slumped as he was prone to routine disinterest if he saw too much of too little happening. The Very Special Man bent down to prise out an offending twig from the grass and mutter under his breath. God, at midwicket, was immobile, but smiling.

The Mallu Maniac started running. The umpire straightened. He was happy, a ball was being bowled. He heard the furiously pedaling steps coming towards him as he started to focus on the running crease. Suddenly the steps slowed down. The umpire looked back in dismay along with the more dismayed non-striker ABCD, who really wanted to bat and was stranded for hours at the non striker's end as the striker Amladas was equally exacting a batsman as the Maniac, now going towards his bowling mark.

What had caused this abrupt return to the bowling mark. A man in a black shirt sitting at the far end had moved a quarter of an inch in his seat. The Maniac did not like black moving. So, he did not play in one dayers where they moved the black screens. He had voiced this in a team meeting and Kaku, the coach had thrown him out of that team. So, now he was on his way back. Zakkan decided to take things into his hands as the skipper behind the wickets was pretty much cut up with what the maniac was upto. He came across, and simply said. Mallu, bowl man, the way you are bowling there shall be girls in your room tonight waiting for you to finish your pooja, just go on and give that Amlaman the best outside off and one that can come into him at a rapid pace. Nothing will happen, no one shall throw you out of the team.

Mallu kept nodding while Goatie in covers looked on murderously. Mallu ignored him, no one, and to repeat that, no one was going to take away his chances of bowling a wicket taking ball. He again did his gestures, prodded himself adequately, while God kept smiling. Then, the run up started. The umpire heaved a sigh of relief. The clouds parted as the Maniac came running in and bowled. The batsman in half sleep, put out his bat, and realized that he had committed the error of the morning as the skipper behind went up in a frenzy. The Maniac came rushing towards with ferocious faces rapidly changing colour and mouthing unintelligible phrases that sounded like "f%%& addi" or something.

Amlaman departed. The fielding team heaved a sigh of relief, not because Amlaman was out but because the maniac had bowled something, they rejoiced. The Nero from gully mentioned, "Chalo, ek ghantey ab chutti ho gayi, Sardar tu aglaa jhaapad isko kab dega??"

We saw Sreesanth taking a wicket, as bland as that!

Of Chicken, Oranges, Smartphones, Chefs from 1988 and acute trauma!

Oranges?! She exclaimed.

I nodded. She had a gaping look on her face. "You're sure, right?" I nodded again. She did her most meaningful sway towards the kitchen. The sway that told me "you are as crazy as a Shreesanth on the dance floor without the stabilizing slap from Harbhajan". But I was stuck. The words were out of my mouth. Now I had to do the dish – Chicken with Oranges! That too, on my daughter's birthday. It was not "Izzat ka sawaal" as frankly in all these years the "Izzat" has gone for a royale toss, without the help of Saif's colours! It was more a sense of belonging to a very illustrious batch of chefs that had streamed out of a dilapidated campus in Hyderabad back in 1988. Not many know that I, the Omelette peddler, had Sandeep Kachroo, Rakesh Upadhyay, Srinath Sambandhan, Padmanabhan, Shantanu Mukherjee and the likes as classmates, chefs who have been featured in mags, channels and posts for their expertise with knives and pans. So, it was their arses on the line, not mine.

That was that and I had to ungainly move on. A couple of days passed by. The thought planted at the edge of my pituitary, I do not think through my thyroids, but probably that is where the recipe nested and grew as I plodded through my motions at Badminton, morning papers, office and the pyrotechnics at Durban. It gained hydra kinds of abilities while I conversed with smartphone pals over Facebook and twitter. It stayed right through my entreaties to my new chauffeur to go straight on Palm Beach Road! Readers should know that it is not humanly possible to make an error in going straight on Palm Beach Road in Navi Mumbai. Only my chauffeur can do it consistently. He deserves applause right now. Oh yes, the recipe. Yeah, it stayed right through all these minor quibbles of life, as it were.

On the Saturday evening, the Christmas evening for more believers and guzzlers, I reached the hallowed halls of Big Bad Bazaar to buy stuff that would make my effort a reality. I entered through with a bus, er..a big neanderthal trolley that could may be hold a full size Shane Warne frolicking with fuller sized Liz Hurley. One second later I found a mound that had sacks of Oranges neatly packed and displayed. I grabbed at the nearest sack. Finito! I had the ingredients for the recipe that had built up in my mind. So what was I doing there with that blasted bus in front of me! I had no clue. What had the denizens at home sent me in for? No idea! This was very embarrassing. I had smart women all around me shopping as if Big Bad Bazaar was about to close down to make way for a synagogue. I had to think of some more ingredients fast enough. Nothing came to mind. So, as they say in every boardroom, when in trouble, fish out your Blackberry. I did just that. Also, they say, when in more trouble, call up the grand lady at home. So did just that. The daughter was on line. I asked her to politely ask if her mom needed anything at home as I was in Big Bad Bazaar. She conferred and conveyed that I was to buy some veggies and nothing else. There, I was stuck. I did not know if the right worthy ingredients were at home, ingredients that were presently lost in the arid Saharan landscapes of the thalamus. And I was not to buy anything other than veggies. So, I had to browse. I cannot browse anything other than books and DVDs. So, I was in very unfamiliar surroundings. I started loading the bus with biscuits, noodles, pasta, Haldiram tidbits and other assorted munchies, in the hope that the recipe shall come back to me in full blown Fujicolor! It did not. So, ultimately after a lot of soul and shop searching, I landed up at the Veggies archive where I decided to buy up all the museum pieces from that morning's mandi heist. The bus was rapidly full. I fished out my small black card that magically wrote up Rs. 1475 against my name and I was through. The boys there wanted to give me a "High Five" for my assorted foolishness at shopping but they desisted and calmly left me with five bags at their doorstep. I made my way back home. I had one ingredient for my recipe. Oranges!!

The Birthday arrived. The Grand Lady had made a cake for a minor morning celebration and that was cut, some photographs taken of absurdly grinning individuals for immediate dispatch to Facebook. The lady had asked me the previous night as to how I wanted my chicken to be marinated. I rapidly said Lime, salt and pepper and quietly waited for the dam to burst. It would if the lime was missing in action. It didn't and I figured the lime was in place. So, I ate cake and left for office. Quietly.

Late afternoon at office. I was trying to multiply 8 * 21 by hand, by pencil and then by the calculator when the phone buzzed. The Grand Lady was on line. The heart started hammering. I knew what would be asked. I still did not have any answer to any of that. The question came over the waves.

"What would be the ingredients that you require for your whatever chicken dish?"

It was like Abhishek Bachchan being asked what kind of preparation he would require to Act. The premise itself was incorrect. The objective itself needed a change. He and Act? Never. He shall swivel, smirk and shuffle, but Act. Nope! Never!!

So I had to improvise. Like I do with many a powerpoint. "Chopped Onions, Ginger Garlic Paste, Soya Sauce, Vinegar, Sugar, Salt, Chilli Powder, Orange juice – about 1.5 glasses". Also, that I would be back home by 8 pm and if possible, could she just do the onions and keep? Polite request, it was. The airwaves became silent. I looked at my smartphone. It looked pretty unsmart and dark. The air smelt of mystery and deceit. Then the crackle, "Yes, OK". Hallelujah! Balle Balle! Sicilia! Shakira!! The second phase of recipe making was achieved. The Mis-en-place achieved over the Blackberry. I joyfully opened the browser to crank up cricinfo.com and seek to understand why Laxman did not take up Tennis when he was as good with the Forehand cross court volley as Federer! The 7 pm coffee tasted good.

Home. 8.15 pm. On the way back as I chatted with an ex-colleague over the smartphone, I realized I have two very senior citizens who also matter in terms of taste and skillets, my mom and my mom-in-law. They were vegetarians and so my work had to be further sub-divided into Chicken and Paneer. So, a pack of Amul Paneer was also pulled out from its forgotten corner in the ramparts of the freezer. And so it started, my "bull in a china mall" effort!

The pan had been helpfully kept out on the gas range for me. I decided to do the sauce first and then divide it for both the dishes. I pulled out my favorite wooden ladle to do the sauce. I felt like Saina Nehwal. I could do two cool sets of Badminton right away with that misshapen ladle. The lady was standing by. She knew I could even pull out the water tap over festering frustration sometimes and she would not have me doing that in her kitchen. But I was taken up. The olive oil was hunted down and some normal simple homely refined oil was added to burn up in the pan. I put in all the asymmetrically chopped onions into the pan. I daren't complain about the sizes of the chopped ones as my recipe had been brought thus far by Blackberry and not my hands. The Ginger Garlic paste pack was jailed between the Jeera powder and the Custard powder on the third rack below the eggs in the refrigerator. It was duly rescued. It breathed, looked up at me in obvious deference to the lord and the mighty and got deflated as I pressed out all the remnants in the pack onto the pan. The sautéing was in full swing. The onions paled and were on their way to browning when I added three pinches of sugar, two pinches of salt and some baleful stares at the slurry. I wanted to anger it. I added some chilli powder that I found at hand, I added lots of it. It was like Jai and Gabbar rivalry between me and the slurry, the more evil it looked, the more I added. Then, I opened up the soya sauce and proceeded to add about three spoons of the dark and quirky sauce to the slurry. It frothed and kicked like those creatures in District 9. I calmed the dark mass with some vinegar. I cannot remember how much I put in but it looked about another three spoonfuls. The slurry had some bite now. It needed respite. I provided. The Orange juice was poured in and the sauce went into a simmer. The flame became drowsy. I took a small teaspoon and tried the slush, it felt nice. The salt, I needed to see if the salt was going to hold up, the sauce simmered. The lady ventured to taste at the second go, and she concurred that it was fine. Never before I looked for so much approval from the lady, not even when I went to show her our apartment in Narendrapur five years go. OK, maybe that was a long shot. The sauce making was done without much ado thereafter. I needed to keep it aside while I did the chicken. I wanted a bowl. I hunted all over the kitchen for one. The cupboards were full of bowls but I wanted a very specific looking one. But I did not know what it would have to look like. Trouble. Fits. Rescued just in time by the lady with a simple bowl and a ladle that simply transfers the sauce into that bowl. Clean. Decorous. Done.

The chicken was airlifted from its terminal decline and the paneer was steamed in the microwave. The chicken was loaded into the pan while the paneer was fished out of the steaming water. The chicken sizzled with some oil in the hot pan for a few minutes from all sides as the sauce was poured onto the paneer and let be for some cooking at a later date. The chicken had started to brown. This time the decision was to have big neat cuts of legs and breasts and not butchered into nothing cuts by the street side butcher. So, the browning was even, nice and serene. It reminded me of "Daffodils" by Wordsworth and "Karma" by Subhash Ghai all at once. So nice it was!

The water was duly poured into the pan for the chicken chunks to simmer into oblivion. I relaxed. The lady had in the meanwhile, started on her flavored rice concept. So, I yielded some space to her. It was Ying and Yang. Only the Yang was not yanked into danger zone. All of a sudden, pandemonium.

The flames drowsed and blew out. I stared at it, non comprehension writ large on my face. The lady acted with more alacrity. She trotted off to where we keep a spare cylinder and brought it over. I pulled out the older cylinder and grimly kept pulling at the regulator. Miraculously, it came off. She commanded me to get the regulator onto the new cylinder while she moved the older one out of the way. I did. I did. The knobs turned. The flames came on. Peace was restored. The Al Qaeda moved back into the hills, the North Koreans put back their missiles and Ponting's frown was back in place.

The chicken simmered. The clock turned and after twenty minutes of me walking in and out of the kitchen the chicken appeared ready to go. I poured the sauce with deliberation. The dark orange hue spread out. My ego inflated. This was coming out just as I had visioned. It was just like that vision of 72 cabaret dancers that Kasab had before he set out on his journey to Mumbai with only a few AK 47s. Only the Cabaret dancers wanted me to stick around on earth for some more time before allocating space in their women's hostel up there.

The paneer dish was to be finished. So, the bowl with the paneer and the sauce went into the microwave with a 5 minute time set. It came out bawling. So, had to feed it with some crushed almonds to bring it back to sanity. The Almonds lent it some grit and fibre. It tasted, well, orangey!

Dinnertime. The items were served. The denizens poked at the dishes tentatively. The morsels went into the mouths. The check lists were ticked off just fine. The hunger took over. The chomp chomp and the mastication were the only sounds, would have fitted well with the Sound Design of "Bhoot". The dining table in the end was just left with some empty pans, bones and bay leaves from the flavored rice.

Braised Chicken in Orange Sauce & Nutty Orange Paneer.

Mission accomplished! Pigs can fly!!

A slice of life - Band Bajaa Baaraat

I am probably late with this longish note on a fabulous film “Band Bajaa Baaraat”. Or am I?
I have read some of the noted critiques and some other sundry articles that have been generally complimentary about this dazzler of a film. Gosh, I have already stated my increasing affection for this YRF sleeper hit that has struck a chord amongst all that I know.
Is it the honesty of the creative people, Maneesh and Habib, director and writer respectively? Or is it the astounding other Delhi milieu that does away with all flash and cranks out all the oddities of a fellow hard working Delhite we all know? Or is it the slice of life moments that make it for us in the dark Cineplex harking back to our more innocent “just out of college” days of struggle?
Let me recreate some very emphatic moments from the film:
“Plate rakh!” yells Shruti and Bittoo retorts “Nahin rakkhunga ji, kya kar lengi!”. He then goes and brings the poor Videographer whom he knows to vouch for his employment to the uncleji who is the host. The uncleji who has a tough day does not want to create a fuss over anyone that day and allows Bittoo a dinner while Shruti grimly looks on, Bittoo is explaining why he needs to have the dinner then. Superb. Respects.
The flower supplier turns around and says “phool toh yehi lagengey bibi, jo marzi kar lo, issi ke daam diye hain tumharey Chandra madam ne” and we see the innocent bravado of Shruti collapsing under the reality of Chandra Narang’s underhand deals. The collapse leads logically to the next scene where she and Bittoo stand up to the double dealing by Chandra. They take off in their business. Intelligent. Respects.
Silently, the buffoon Bittoo makes the first tea in their office of ‘Shaadi Mubarak’ and it is cool gently reversing gender roles at work. Simple but astounding statement. Respects.
The kissing scene. The BG score peters away. Two tired souls are holding onto each other and their new found success at work. Then, the emotions kick in. They are looking at each other. The silence starts to speak. We, the viewers start to live the moment with them. Then, the kiss, the exploratory kiss that leads to bed. More silence as they ruminate on the road travelled that day. More introspection. A treat. Respects.
Bittoo goes to leave Shruti after their shared night. She is happy, blissful and already dreaming of a future with Bittoo. Bittoo is perturbed as he does not want to disturb a good working equation. He wants to get away fast from her door with the bike. Her father is just leaving for work. Bittoo spots a way out, he rushes on with the bike and offers a lift to Mr. Kakkar who is grossly overweight and cannot sit on the bike with his legs around the bike. So, in a ungainly decision, as Shruti blissfully looks on, he sits “ladies style” and murmurs away through the whole silence between Shruti and Bittoo, completely unaware of their circumstances. Just the next scene, Shruti turns towards her mom and asks about Bittoo and her mom knows in a flash. This combo scene about the whole dynamic in the family is possibly the best scene in the film. Many Respects!!
The wall painter needs to write the name of Bittoo’s fledgling enterprise. Surprise, even Bittoo has not thought of it. His anger has not permitted him to even think logically about his business, an anger born out of love and longing, a feeling that he has ignored just to go by Shruti’s book, Shruti, the mentor, his guide. So, he anchors himself in her company’s name leading to some hilarity and settles happily for the translation of Shaadi Mubarak – Happy Weddings. Admirable scene. Respects.
The confession scene. Bittoo has his simplicity, she admires that. She realizes that it is necessary for her to give in. She speaks of her decision to her suitor over the phone while he is trying to prompt her through some frantic hand waving. She is calm, controlled and keeps looking at him. Then, the shock and awe for Bittoo. He is rooted to the spot. She has to lead him into the embrace. We wait expectantly as he finally does so. It brings a smile to our lips as they kiss.
All is well with this topsy turvy world!
The leads, Anoushka and Ranveer just immerse themselves in what many senior actors may fail at and come out trumps. Ranveer has the impishness of the earlier Salman. But it is the other actors that carry the film on their shoulders to make it a sleeper hit! Mr Kakkar, the Flower supplier, the caterer, the DJ, Bittoo’s friends, Shruti’s mom. All of them are truly classic. They breathe the Delhi that is notably absent in many other Delhi films.
Of course, I remember another forgotten film “Ahista Ahista”!!

The two Kinds of Cinema I see!

Two Days ago, after a long time, I used Facebook to have a strong discussion on the state of Indian films. KK, a good friend, completely rejected the latest film to have hit the theatres, Guzaarish. Fatema, another friend, and I had a different take altogether. We were of the opinion that this was a good film in spite of all its imperfections. The question is 'who's right'. There was no answer. The reader may say 'to each his own'! But really, truly, is that all that can be spoken about the state of Indian cinema and the concept of universal likes or dislikes.

Let me go little retro here. I remember when Natwarlal, Naseeb, Karz, Jyoti bane Jwaala came out in India. They all were big Silver Jubilee hits. Try and sit through those films in front of the telly. Go ahead, just try. Forget that they starred some of the biggest names in Hindi cinema for 2 hours and just try to gaze at the telly patiently. You may even hum the songs, but the films, you will not be able to sit through. But you will sit through a Silsila or an Anand or even Ghar as they would have a story, some takeaway that you would enjoy.

Now, in those days of 'Silver Jubilee' hits, we were not exposed to world cinema like we are now. TV channels, multiplexes releases, simultaneous world releases, et al. Our understanding of good cinema has been unknowingly redefined. So, a half baked 'Jhoota hi Sahi' shall not be palatable anymore, neither will a metaphoric, difficult to grasp Raavan too! There are no second chances beyond the weekend, as we would know how many Holly films this Hindi film has been adapted from and thus belittle the film totally. We would like to see how many stars the reviewer has given the film before we venture to the plex. So, the idea of a story rich, entertaining film shall take on another hue due to commercial constraints. Therefore, a Dabangg (Jyoti bane Jwala of 2010) shall be more tolerable than LSD! True then, true today too. So, why crib about this at all. There shall be those kind of films that shall be made catering to that kind of crowd those who are looking for over the top simple commercial films and they shall do well if properly made.

Then, there shall be films like Chameli ki Shaadi, Jalwa, Aakrosh, Satya, Udaan amd Ankush that shall be made with small budgets and score big because of the content only. Both of these kinds of films shall coexist happily, if they are not edged out by newer mediums that can deliver better stories to people.

Power to these different kinds of cinema!

Udaan and Inception - Human spirit that triumphs!

Rahul and Cobb. One dreading his father and not wanting to return home but has to as he is expelled from a boarding school and the private hell he goes through thereafter, and the other is already in a similar private hell as he is in a profession that essentially steals the dreams of people and yet he yearns for a family that cannot be his as he is too far out!

Udaan and Inception.

Two films, two languages, cinematic and cultural differences, and yet the message seemed the same. Break free!

I identify with the Rahul of Udaan for what aspires to and cannot become at home, with his family. Why, it is probably a secret dream of many a young man to do something different. The poems, his notebook where he writes very good stuff, the lonesome evenings beside the rail tracks, hill sides, mofussil roads all point to his inner calm and serenity whereas his outer world is an edgy battle against presiding terror.

But Cobb in Inception is also the same and a conversed manner. He has aspired and become what he wanted to, the seeker of dreams and its architecture, but gone farther in loaning out his expertise for bucks. His turmoil and terror then is within his head whereas he is calm, calculating and a leader outwardly.

But does that help in getting a life a for either of them at the end of the stories. We don't know. They have broken free. Through the tyranny and terror. But are they really free. Both the writers/Directors, Motwane and Nolan, have left it to us to understand and figure out.

Sizzling stuff. Both. Dramatic confrontations. The world coming apart for the protagonists in both but uncannily both the films show the triumph of the human spirit.

Go see both of them!