Digdowndeep

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 14:09:00 +0000

Is it a Shenoy? Tell me it is.

Disclaimer: This is a fictitious story with imaginary characters and bears no relation with any real person living or dead. Especially fashion designers from Japan. Well I wish I could write this last sentence with a clear conscience. But I sincerely mean no disrespect. If any individual or business finds this account libelous, I'm sorry. I can even offer to withdraw the post. (Of course after the initial publicity.)

He looked up at the sky. The evening was hanging loose and closing in. Pretty unseasonal for this time of the year in Tokyo, it looked like it might rain. Not a pleasant prospect. He had an early flight to catch tomorrow. He was about to skip continents. The spring-summer show at Milan was getting under way over the weekend.
Under his perch overseeing the studio floor, a battle raged. An army of talented girls and young men were sweating it out to put the last stitches in place. Time ran out under their nimble fingers. Here a nip, there a tuck... everywhere a clippity cluck. The models wore bored expressions. These fitting sessions were always a drag. A faint smile played on his lips. He remembered the last time he hollered at one of his models. Seemed so long ago. The young girl was practising her walk while he stood nearby, trying to tinker with the lines on a sketch. The teen nervously approached him. "Mashter, zish line of yoursh... got no pockitsh...where would I put my handsh at ze turn?" He had lost it for that one moment. "Tell you what, young lady, you can take your hands and shove them. Don't you understand, this creation is called A-poc, sans a pocket. When people buy one of these, they won't need a pocket. None. They'd have nothing left to keep."
Ah, memories, memories. They have a habit of runnng in herds. His early childhood at Azamganj, their hutment near the railway tracks. His father, Miyan Yaqub Ansari, the impoverished schoolteacher, scraping pennies to buy him new books and uniforms every year. Abba would always say,"Beta Rafiq, I'm saving up to send you to Aligarh. Study hard, you can make a very good eye surgeon. You have a good pair of hands." His hands. The moment Abbu turned his back, his hands would grab Ammi's scissors and start swishing away at old newspapers, cutting shapes. Strange, flowing, fluid shapes on pieces of paper. And the fateful night he cut into the new pullover Abbu bought him for school. The cane stinging on his bare back. That was the only time he talked back to Abbu. "I don't want to be an eye surgeon, Abbu. I want to make clothes." More caning. That night he left home. The anger of youth.
Well he was much older now. Older and composed. And Abbu passed away last year. Till the end, Abbu would say, "But you could do better as an eye-surgeon, beta." He dabbed at the corner of his eyes.
Presently his favorite assistant ran up the stairs and approached him, babbling breathlessly, "Miya-san, the FTV people are on the phone. They want to know what we're calling our new collection. Have you decided on a name yet?" There was nary a furrow on his forehead. "Let's see, we already did Haat, and bazaar you say would be too cheap....how about we call it Mandi this time and leave it at that? Let the wiki contributors find out the dubious Sanskrit origin of the word once again, what?"
"Brilliant, miya-san! How do these names come to you just like that? In a flash, as it were?"
"Well I guess it's a gift, young Izumi. I always had this gift. Only once, back in 1970, when I flew in here from America, and started this studio, I was in a fix over a name. The name that would define my work. My own label. What would I call a line created by one Rafiq Ansari from a humble Ajamganj where people still consoled my parents, saying, "One day your son will come back, Miyan. He will make a living anywhere. He has a very good pair of hands." I slept over it. In the morning, I did my prayers and remembered Abbu. Then I went and named it 'Issi Miyan Ke'.

P.S : After eons on the blog. No explanation. No inspiration. Wasted plenty of net time watching p...er, deviant audiovisual entertainment.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 13:31:00 +0000

Music and lyrics

If a continental youth wants to declare his love to a girl, he kneels down, tells her that she is the sweetest, the most charming and ravishing person in the world, that she has something in her, something peculiar and individual which only a few hundred thousand other women have and that he would be unable to live one more minute without her. Often, to give a little more emphasis to the statement, he shoots himself on the spot. This is a normal, week-day declaration of love in the more temperamental continental countries. In England the boy pats his adored one on the back and says softly: "I don't object to you, you know." If he is quite mad with passion, he may add: "I rather fancy you, in fact."

-George Mikes, How to be an Alien

It's that season of the year again when one tends to get a wee bit soppy. More the continental in the above context, if you will. It also helps when it's pouring outside, one's child has the half-yearly exams coming on, and mummy has taken full control of affairs. Going out is ruled out by exam and weather, and having gotten hold of a half-decent Maths tutor ensures one is rendered fairly redundant in the household. Having a dram of ol' Scotland in stock can't hurt. What does one do, under the circumstances? One can listen to one's favorite ghazals, watch the rain yonder through the window panes, and ponder. Quite a nice way to be!

Ladies and gentlemen, I then present you, what I've been listening to.

Kabhi yun bhi aa meri aankh mein ke meri nazar ko Khabar na ho
Mujhe ek raat nawaaz de magar uske baad sehar na ho

Woh badaa rahiim-o-kariim hai mujhe ye sifat bhi adaa kare
tujhe bhulne ki dua karoon to dua mein meri asar na ho

Mere bazooomein thakee thakee abhi mehr-e -khab hain chandni
Na uthe sitaron ki palki abhi aahaton ka guzar na ho

Woh firaaq ho yaa visaal ho, teri yaad mahakegi ek din
Woh gulab ban ke khilega kyaa, jo chirag ban ke jalaa na ho

Kabhi din ki dhoop mein jhoom ke kabhi shab ke phool ko choom ke
Yun hi saath saath chalein sada kabhi khatm apana safar na ho

If I have a problem with the the original poetry of Bashir badr, it is that the ghazal doesn't have a suitable climax. It fails to really build on the first two brilliant couplets. However the matla' alone is enough to make it count as an all time favorite. While I simply love the Hussain Brothers' version, the same, alas, I can't say about Jagjit Singh's. He seems to have taken a beautiful love song and turned into a wailing in pain directed towards the divine. I can understand the grave personal trauma he was going through at the time when he recorded the song in 1991, but still.

For months now, I've wanted to translate the poetry. From my lame attempts in the past, you'd know my bad propensity towards doing it in rhyme. Here, then. Promise not to make fun.

Appear in my vision once, just so

Naïve eyes do not need to know

Stay with me but a night, just so

Dawn never breaks on the morrow.

Praise be to God, may He please

Bless me with a virtue so rare

Pray I might, make me forget you

He must never answer my prayer

Wrapped in my arms, one kind dream

Lies still a pale and tired moon

The stars won’t fade out just yet

Heartaches won’t fall asleep so soon

Together, or far apart, your thought

Like incense, on my mind 'll grow

Flourish like a blossom how can he

Burning in flame who’s yet to know?

Basked in a bright summer sun

Kissed by the night in full hue

Strolling forever hand in hand

May our odyssey ever continue

p.s. I've since managed to embed the song sung by The Hussain Brothers.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 18:23:00 +0000

Paifa vafool!

Yesterday we went to watch a movie. Which is news, under the circumstances. The missus was apprehensive of going into a movie hall. She's read somewhere that crowded air conditioned spaces are the ideal transfer points of H1N1. Thankfully nobody in the plex coughed, sneezed, or looked sick in any manner. Nobody was wearing a mask. Yours truly was the only person letting out an occasional cough and getting regarded with alarmed looks. I'm told young Ms. Ayushi is having a similar experience in school. These days their teachers are told to stay alert for probable cough and cold symptoms. And every morning at the assembly, under those observant eyes, our daughter feels a huge sneeze welling up inside her whenever she looks at the morning sun. She says the sun getting in her eyes makes her sneeze. I believe we are a family of nervous sneezers and coughers.

About what we chose to watch, I'm more than satisfied.

Kaminay is farp. Kaminay is ftark. (It even has a racy number called fatak, which, shock of shocks, is actually about Shahid Kapoor the goody NGO worker Guddu, extolling the virtue of safe sex with a bit of pomp and circumstance, inside a red light district. I'd never have guessed. But I get ahead of myself here....where was I? ) Yes. Kaminay has the the Vishal Bhardwaj stamp of quality. In extra bold letters too. The slight variation here is in the pace of events as they build up towards a climax. Were Mr. Bharadwaj playing cricket, this would be his debut in oneday matches. All them gangsters, the chase scenes, the arson and shootouts, this is territory often frequented by a fellow Tarrantino fan, Fanjay F. Gupta. But like they say, the proof of the effing is in the color of the baby's eyes. I'm quite sure if Guptaji were to make this film, a certain Mr. Dutt would be playing the kamina played here (with sublime panache', I must add) by Amol Gupte. And we all know how it would turn out, don't we? So there.

The triumph of scene and dialogue writing that was integral to Omkara and Maqbool takes Mr. Bharadwaj to new realms here. Unlike these earlier adaptations where the literary backbone demanded him to dispense the bard's famous monologues every once in a while, here he has more freedom over the original storyline (unless, that is to say, this is his take on The comedy of errorf. Just a thought). The result is spectacular. In Kaminay, Vishal uses the economy of words and subtle wordplay to perfection. It all starts to happen in the first 90 seconds of the film. When Charlie the lisper lays out the rules of the story and lets you know why he will call an f an f. That opening grabs one by the balls and fixes the attention squarely. From then on it's one rocking ride.

The gems of dialogue were discussed in great detail by Raja Sen on rediff. The only thing I might add is the one instance where the dialogue was left unsaid. In the early minutes of the film, Charlie says something like, "watt usse nahi lagti ki kaunsa rasta tum chunte ho. Balki watt usse lagti hai ki kaunsa rasta tum chhodte ho." Now I couldn't make much of it at the time (in any case, I have limited understanding of mumbaiyya language; in my opinion, agar CFL nahi jalaoge to bahut watt lag jayega). Not until towards the very end of the climax when Charlie decides to play proper and not pick up the two huge diamonds from a dead Tashi's hand, and gets shot at the back as a result. You are shown a tight close shot of the hand with diamonds and the dialogue is left unrepeated. Masterly!

Shahid Kapoor acts like he's the future of hindi cinema. Well, perhaps he is. He and Abhay Deol. But the refreshing surprises are in Ms Chopra's hurricane Marathi lines, the awesome ensemble cast of cameo players largely unseen in hindi screen (especially the bong brothers), and every character defined with nuances. From what one has seen in an otherwise drab year for Bollywood, surely this will be the one 2009 is going to be remembered by.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 16:15:00 +0000

Inscription

Here. Take every adoring glance
Here. Take morning bliss
Here. Take all my favorite words since childhood
Here. Take success, albatross in flight
Here. Take the most secret ecstasy of adolescence
Here. Take love, winding road in the hills
Here. Take missives from faraway lands
Here. Take memories, gemstones threaded in sun and rain
Here. Take this hanky, transience
Here. Take promises, run of the river
Here. Take the misery of pen on paper
Here. Take my palms, a-begging reprieve
Here. Take this bust oozing liquid fire
Here. Take ambition, a midsummer night's gale
Here. Take absolutely glorious failure
Here. Take every treasure this broken casket holds
Here. Take the call of wilderness
Here. Take countless doors ajar
Here. Take all the tears the heart would hide
Here. Take freedom, release
Here. Take affection, a pool gathered in droplets
Here. Take remembrance, take oblivion
Here. Take heaven's flag

What gives ?

p.s. (With apologies to Sunil Gangopadhyay, from whose original this is an almost verbatim translation. Except for the last line, which should have literally been : "Care to give anything?" But I wanted a twist.)

p.s.2 (On a summer holiday back home, I was browsing through a decrepit bookshelf from when I was in school. There I revisited this book. It's called "In love with you, blank sheet." Again, verbatim)

p.s.3 (I haven't got one. I envy people who do)

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 21:49:00 +0000

Of Police, media and other forms of recreation

Been M.I.A for a while, huh, fellers? What to do, it's well nigh impossible to attend to two blogs at a time. And my other blog had been keeping me completely busy these last few days.

I kid, of course.

In actual point of fact, the venerable broadband service providers of this holy state of Jharkhand were playing games with me. I was practically out of net at home (save a pathetic GPRS connection), and somehow I haven't really got around to writing posts at work. (Don't get me wrong here, it's not about scruples. I mean trading stocks, reading blogs or downloading Madelyn Marie at work is okay for me. Writing something takes a bit of peace and quiet.) It can all be put down to a copped out ADSL modem that took one week to detect and another to replace. But that wouldn't be an interesting story, no? Thought so.

In interesting news, then, there's this young stud. Bears a striking resemblance to Jeff Goldbaum the fly. If looks were the only criterion he would be babe magnet. Maybe he is. What matters, however, is that he and five of his friends took one girl to a pub. They all had plenty to drink. And smoke, maybe . Rest of the matter is sub-judice. This chap,Vinamra Soni, was on a train to Jamshedpur two days later. He took a call from his father, telling him to alight midway and wait for his parents, who were on their way to take him back to Mumbai, to surrender at a police station.

The parents-in-law of my good friend In dino (you can see him here, the bottle opener guy) live in Jamshedpur. They have this sprawling three-storied house in Sonari area. The ground floor they have rented out. Their tenants for the past twenty years are a well-to-do business family who own a few retail outlets in the city and are, reportedly, nice gentle folks. The landlords also report they used to raise their kids in a strict disciplinarian fashion.

You know where this is going, don't you? Only it's not getting there. The young Mr. Soni already has some support in the bloggosphere. I'm not here to strengthen it. Though he appears now to be in the deepest pile of shit. And I tend to have a bit of sympathy for anyone in deep shit.

It went like this. In the morn 21st last week, the Sonis told their landlords they'll be out of town for a few days. Business related problem, they said. Towards evening, cops were all over the premises. State cops and Mumbai police crime branch together. Short of a sniper and a coupla armoured cars, it looked exactly like a terrorist bust. They asked the landlord where were his tenants, and moreover, why he kept such shady tenants. They tried to kick open the tenants' front door. They accused the landlords of not keeping an eye on their tenant's errant son. Eventually they got tired after an hour or so (the door was solid teak) and left in a huff. Perhaps they had received news of the arrest. The landlords slept fitfully through the night.

Only to be woken up by scores of microphone wielding TV people in the morning. Ye hai aj tak, aur ham dikha rahe hain woh ghar jisme... They thrust the mic at their faces, the poor in-laws. Since when have you known Vinamra Soni? Did he have a normal childhood? How do you feel now that the boy who lived under your roof is today a wanted criminal?

I rolled on the floor when narrated the scene. Not because it was funny or anything. But it instantly reminded me of the one scene from Notting Hill, where Spike, in briefs, opens the front door for the paparazzi.

Oh how one wishes one could be in the right place at the right time, wearing the right sort of underwear!

In other news, I was leafing through an old Roald Dahl collection yesterday, when I stumbled on, and re-read, PIG. In these days of swine flu. Funny coincidence. Oddly, I've always loved stories like these, where terrible things happen to protagonists without reason or logic. So much so the macabre borders the surreal. I think I had a troubled childhood.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 05:28:00 +0000

Jungle jungle phool khila hai...

Dear people with very large photographic equipment,

Please do kindly keep it in mind that your 1000x zoom attachments may actually look very threatening to man and animal. Especially animal. You can't blame a two and a half year old tiger for mistaking them for Howitzer cannons. He is but an adolescent yet to learn the ways of the world. It speaks volumes for the great lineage and upbringing of the Bandhavgarh tiger that he keeps his composure and sang froid in front of a 100-strong motley crowd from all over the world brandishing what look like deadly weapons of mass destruction. Do also realize, that when you are there to see the tiger and tiger will most likely come to you (they've signed an MOU or something) you don't really need the zoom. Tigers are large animals, clearly visible to the naked eye and an average camera. If you must keep them screwed on, cover them up with a cloak or something. You can even cover yourselves up with it, like the photographers in the early twentieth century. Once you are done seeing the tiger, you can bring out the zoom all you like and shoot birds and lizards aplenty.
You sir, the dignified looking elderly gent wearing animal planet logo all over your attire, (were you really from animal planet?) must remember that it is bad form to sit head and shoulders above and in front of everybody on a jeep with pimped up seats when all else are causing serious damage to their neck muscles trying to catch a glimpse from their standard issue open-hooded gypsies.
Dear lady with the 42'' waist pair of jeans,
It intrigued me no end as to what you and your boyfriend kept looking at through your ginormous zoom lens in the Kendua tree at white tiger forest lodge, all morning and afternoon. Yes, I understand there must've been some birds there, but don't you think the rough and tumble of the tiger show in early morning called for a restful day spent with a drop of ale and a 3000 calorie power lunch, fit for the tiger, spread out by the excellent culinary team at the lodge?
Speaking of which, dear reader, it's a party out there. And to quote one Mr. Mark Knopfler, you may kiss the cook, indeed. He's gold. They don't make cooks like him anymore. He just ladles in the LDL. Never shies away from throwing 700 calories into a dish that could've been done within 250. You may call it sinful. I call it grit and chutzpah.
All minor peeves aside, you must come to Bandhavgarh. That's where it's at. (Yes, Dylan.) And hit your triglycerides for a six.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 02:06:00 +0000

Safar mein dhoop to hogi

In mandiromein dhoop bahut hoti hai sir. Bachche kaise ja payenge itni dhoop me? Bachcho ko kaise ghumana hai, dhoop se hatana hai, main janta hoon. Aap samajh rahe hain na main kya keh raha hoon? Bhartiya paribar me kis tarah ka laj lihaj rakhna padta hai main janta hoon. Mandir kaise dikhana hai, mujhe aata hai. Aththara saal se isi kaam me laga hua hoon.

Thus spake Sri Dikshit. A very oily and objectionable pimp with slicked back hair and shifty eyes. But then his ilk is everywhere, on the streets of Khajuraho. Their target consumer, the Indian middle class tourist. The Americans, Italians, Israelis and Russians are outside their ambit. The rich ones stay at the high end resorts nearer to the airport and are mostly on a conducted tour. The hiker sorts in chappals have their trusty guidebooks and maps, often travel on foot and are unfailingly wary of local touts. Both largely unapproachable.

To cut a long story short, we got around Dikshit. And look where it got us. Into a lot of dhoop. Thankfully the kids were not wilting. Far from it. They were suppressing smiles and pointedly looking the other way and asking other questions. Like why the cow and the boar are gods. So much for Bhartiya paribar, parampara, laaj, lihaz.

Getting through all that dhoop, answers to some questions still remain in the dark for me. Like what's with the lion and the woman? And what is the woman knelt between hind legs of a dragon/horse trying to look at or grab? See pics.

One word. Khajuraho is fun. And totally worth it. If you are ready to live with beer @ Rs. 80. From the retail outlet, that is. Rs. 120 at the eatery. But those are figures all over MP. The saffron raj has made it tough for the tipplers.

The light and sound show is boring. Like they mostly are, anywhere. What's unique here is the guards won't allow tripods inside the gardens during the show, even as they'll let you carry a still camera, which will be completely useless minus a stand. For night photography, the best available spot in town is the famed Blue Sky rooftop restaurant, across the street.

From here we'd travel on to Bandhavgarh, in search of the majestic white tiger. More of that story on a later post. See also the updated flickr album, if you would.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 06:57:00 +0000

It was just a wedding in Feb

This is the woman once wooed by Leo. This is the woman that once famously said of her failed relationship with Ronaldo, "Men? who needs men? I have my dogs."

Last Thursday it seems, she finally wed her quarterback. And the bride as well as her dogs, were dressed by Dolce & Gabbana.

Why does that elicit a sigh?

Ah,well,well, well. Best wishes, gal.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 14:03:00 +0000

Oscar musings

For a woman who used to look so fresh and exquisitely beautiful, Kate Winslet looked deecidedly ugly tonight. What's with that hair? Or is it a hairpiece?

The guy Longinous Danny Boyle mentioned in his acceptance, the one who choreographed Jai Ho. Was it the same Longi who partnered Sweta Salve or somebody on Jhalak Dikhla Ja? Does anybody remember? That small fellow with a big smile? Come a long way, it seems.

Didn't know of Michael Crichton's death before today's ceremony. It was a shock seeing his photo among all those dead people.

The way Mickey Rourke of today looks never ceases to amaze me. What happened to the impish cool cat of 9 1/2 weeks? Poor fellow got worse for wear throughout the 80's and 90's. Apparently some botched up plastic surgery after a broken face in the ring. Bad Bad academy, you should have given the bloke something. Especially since Penn already had a statuette. I've got a thing for epic losers.

Is it for the awards season that so many big names time their releases for the letter part of the year? Isn't it surprising that Slumdog and Button and Frost/Nixon and Milk won so many nominations while for such a big movie, Dark Knight got so few?

I loved Jessica Biel on the red carpet. But then I love Jessica Biel. Period. But the way she carried a largeish bib/washcloth tucked in front pretending it was part of her gown tonight, priceless.

And oh yes, I did the customary Yayyys and high fives for AR. What did he say in Tam?

Ciao' for now. Be back for next year.

Pics source 1,2

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 10:39:00 +0000

Irshad!!

I don't know what is the deal with social drinking. You ask somebody "Do you drink?"-"Y'know, I'm only a social drinker." What does that mean? Nobody ever says "Like a fish." Though most of them do. In society.

Ours is a nation of wannabe dancing stars. Middle aged men and women get sloshed in polite society with the objective of inflicting on us their dancing talent. Ours is also a nation of intellectuals. I have spent many an evening listening to them after they've had something to drink. Socially. They'll pick up a slipping thread of discussion. On anything. Danny Boyle to Masood Azhar. And they'll talk in circles. All evening. I have a dear friend who'll eventually get Stephen Hawking into all these threads. Needless to say he has a background of theoretical Physics. He's also a social drinker. Thank heavens for that. He'll never drink alone. He'll call me up, "Dear fellow, I got this twelve year old malt. But y'know I'm but a social drinker. Come over one of these evenings and be my society. And do hurry lest somebody else gets social sooner."

Me, I'm not a social drinker. I don't drink like a fish. I mean, not any longer. Gone are the days for me when juice of a lime and aspirin used to be the breakfast of champions. Today I drink like the devil. I measure fluid ounces and I shake. Or stir. I like to make a ceremony out of having a drink. Because I can't have too many. Oh no no don't get me wrong. It's not the Doc's orders. Who listens to them in these matters anyway? It's just that with age I've grown allergic to hangovers. As I get better and better with every next drink, I forget how much I can drink without having a throbbing skull next morning.

The news that started me on this whole thing was this. Now I, feel a bit loosened up today. I feel the need to rejoice. Maybe this evening I'll relax my norms a little and seek society. To celebrate this historic event. And we'll stroll over to Mesrs. Darbhanga General Stores and buy a case of the good stuff. Achtung, Bangalore! Jharkhand has arrived.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 08:00:00 +0000

sólo el amor puede ser incumplida romántico

The most annoying element of Vicky Cristina Barcelona is the voiceover narration. Sometimes it makes you feel you are watching a documentary on Travel and Living. In an interesting way, it is also the most redeeming feature of the movie. It's like Mr. Woody Allen washing his hands off any glitches in scripting. It's like Mr. Allen is saying, "See, these are my people. I didn't have anything to do with them, they were like this only. Hell I don't have an effing clue what they'd be up to next. I'm only here to tell their story. Watch them if you like. If you don't, I'm sure some plexes are still showing The Dark Knight."

The unusual thing about the narrative is that it reads out in broad detail the nuances of characters rather than allow the script to reveal them slowly through their actions. In fact the action only serves to corroborate what has already been said in the voiceover. I'll give an example.

(This is the voiceover script during the third minute of screen time when Vicky and Cristina make their appearance)
The two had been close since college, and shared the same tastes and opinions on most matters, Yet when it came to the subject of love, it would be hard to find two more dissimilar viewpoints. Vicky had no tolerance for pain, and no lust for combat. She was grounded and realistic. Her requirements in a man were seriousness and stability. She had become engaged to Doug because he was decent and successful, and understood the beauty of commitment. Cristina, on the other hand, expected something very different out of love. She reluctantly accepted suffering as an inevitable component of deep passion and was resigned to putting her feelings at risk. If you asked what she was gambling her emotions on to win, she would have been unable to say. She knew what she didn't want, however. And that was exactly what Vicky valued above all else.

Makes you wonder if you are at a theater or a book reading session, yes, but you have to give him an A for audaciousness. Don't know if it's just me, but the way the movie begins with the narrator launching into character analysis of the protagonists, it reminded me of Springtime a' la Carte. (Now where's the connection? read on, before you jump and shout) It seemed the director's way of saying, like O'Henry did in his time, "look, n00bs, a film is not written like this. Never, never, do this at the beginning of a script that you write. (Of course I can pull it off, because I'm Woody Allen)".

Does it work? Well, after a fashion, to a large extent, give or take a few vagaries of the plot, it does. Me, I'm not your Woody Allen aficionado, but many people in the know are calling this one of his best. To my mind, it has the feel of an European director's film rather than one from an American raised in Brooklyn. Think Bertolucci if you will. Though that may be largely attributable to the backdrop. While watching VCB, I was intermittently reminded of Stealing Beauty, because the central idea of young American women rediscovering themselves among unknown people in a beautiful foreign land is common for both films. Interestingly, within this genre too this one is unique. Here, the life of the protagonists remain exactly the same at the end of 96 minutes of storytelling. Only thing they possibly take away from it are the life-defining experiences of a summertime.

How did the characters play? I love Javier Bardem. It's a pity I've seen very little of him.(only No Country last year, got to watch more espanol movies) He makes it look entirely feasible for an intriguing stranger to walk up to the table of two totally unknown young ladies and propose upfront a weekend tour to another city involving art watching, good wine and food and wholesome sex. His character Juan Antonio the artist does this, and Bardem makes it look completely decent and good-humored. One can only wish one could do that in real life.
Penelope Cruz has been walking away with the awards. She has the author backed role which is the centre piece of this drama, and she plays it with perfect over the top panache'. But it's Scarlett Johansson who really impressed me with understatement. A petite bundle of genius, this young lady is.

If there's anything VCB teaches us, it is this. In life it's not always possible to know what you really want. But if you have a good idea what you don't want, it'll often do.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 15:35:00 +0000

Tauba tera Jalwa

I live in a funny place. Let's see. The other night I got away quiet as a cat, to catch the late show of DevD. I was Desparate. Asking the missus along was out of the question. Firstly, this is the exam season, and she's busy with young Ayushi. Moreover I sensed she might not like it ( I'd heard the second half dragged a bit.) As luck would have it, the screen (screen, is an overstatement. It's actually the friendly neighborhood movie hall) was showing only matinee and evening shows of the flick. For some odd reason, Speed returns(hindi)U/A was showing on the night show. Not amused, I quietly crawled back, to many a jibe from wifey and dear daughter, gleeful at my misadventure. But did I give up? Hell no, I Was desperate.

Thus it happened that this afternoon I played possum and left office early, feeling terribly guilty and all, remembering the hazy old days of bunking school as a kid to watch Shakti . There were, in all, about thirty people in the theater, none of them older than 20. I was in a time warp. I was quite enjoying the film. Then, fifteen minutes from the end, with the story going around in circles, oh, another one of those childhood miracles. Blackout in the theater. Did I mention time warp?

It took inordinately long for the show to resume. After what seemed like a hour and a half(but was actually seven minutes), during which I'd completed two phone conversations and was now seriously weighing my options, action came back on screen. The film dragged to its compromise ending. Am I glad I stayed back till the end? I don't know. But boy did I enjoy my absconding schoolboy act? you bet.

Watch more Dailymotion videos on AOL Video

About the movie. Anurag Kashyap has a way with scripting. Like everybody else is saying, the first half is flawless. If Anurag's treatment has grabbed you by the collar from the very first frame, towards the end of the first half he lifts his craft to such a crescendo, it's like, where do we go from here?

Abhay Deol. One hears Amir Khan has kept a dog named Shahrukh. This lad can raise a kennel full of Khans one of these days. It's a pity his films are hardly getting mass attention. Then maybe it's better this way.

Mahi Gill. What can I say? Watch her to believe. In many ways she became the essence of Paro than in any other version we've seen. You'll say her role has been written too well. But then, you get a feeling she has that ability to redefine every character she plays.

I could go on about every bit player. But the truth is Mr. Kashyap has given his characters so much meat and so little greasepaint, you get to like his folks instantly. I simply loved the three singer/dancers who act as some kind of set prop to Dev's decadence. They reminded of the three balladeers in There's something about Marie, yet so different. It was funny in a very dark sort of way.

If Devdas, as in the original, was essentially about love lost and self-destruction, in the modern day version, he is more about lovelessness and decadence. He can get so bad he'll make SRK's Dev look like a teenager stealing a smoke by the side of the school gym. At the same time he'll be infinitely more vulnerable with his skinny frame curled up in just a pair of dirty jeans on the brothel floor. Coming back to it, that is the whole point of Anurag Kashyap's interpretation. One feels mighty impressed by his work. Towards the denouement of his film he looks a little lost, true, but that's acceptable for somebody with the kind of storyline he has taken on.

I'm afraid I'd given a miss to No Smoking owing to bad reviews. But come March, I'm not going to miss Gulal. It'll be fascinating to watch where Mr. Kashyap goes from here.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 03:14:00 +0000

I'm out
(as in "I've outed myself", more commonly used for gay people exposing their sexual orientation, though not in that sense)

Nobody really wanted to see what I look like. I know. However, the editing of these videos was a painstaking process. Took me the better part of a week. I wanted to put up at least micro clips somewhere on the web. In these clips, the bespectacled fellow with an oversized round balding head is me. (many people have compared my features with Subhas Chandra Bose). Likewise the missus and the lass.
We'll be traveling to Khajuraho, Bandhavgarh and Pachmari with a brief touchdown at Jabalpur the second week of March. Anyone who can share some travel tips esp. the journey from Khaj to Bandhavgarh and availability and rates of vehicle rental in the area, please do. I'll be grateful.

p.s. As compared to utube which sucked big time, Vimeo was a breeze. Uploading speed was fantastic and features offered for a free account were great.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 01:50:00 +0000

Get a life
(Background score :
I wonder why nobody don't like me
Or is it a fact that I'm ugly?)

For many many months now, I've seen people summarily dismiss and humiliate people just with the expression "get a life." Now, this would be quite acceptable if the recipient of the insult was overly stressed over where did Kim Kardashiyan get her tattoo or who does David Beckham's nails. But what of those people who have got a life that seriously curbs their, um.., life? At least one definition of the phrase suggests it can also mean get a paying job, or something to that effect. And here I am so weighed down by a day job, my e-life languishes. I look overawed at the blogs of the Bertie Woosters and Ms Butterwicks of today who never seem to worry about paying the rent. They appear to have all the time in the world to seek out every WTFness in the news, attend movie premieres, art exhibitions and fashion shows, travel countries, and then manage to put up meaningful and entertaining blog entries almost everyday. Such beautiful people! I wonder why do I put in so much effort to even try. Where can I even start? Where are these lives, waiting to be gotten?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's a mean season. This is that time of the year again. The kid has an exam on Environmental Studies on the morrow. Announced only today. It's evening, she's cramming, and her mother is helping her cram. In these matters I, in the household is as much help as the pest control during a cardiac emergency. Nay, as the fitness instructor during bridal makeup, or, better even, like a quarterback in a home run. I could go on, but I sense you've got the picture. I'm completely out of depths, much useless, kaput. Even then I sometimes saunter in on their study session. The results are like this :

(Fill in the blanks Q&A)

Mummy: During a case of nosebleed, you should ______ on the head of the patient
Daughter : .......................
I (hoping against hope): sit?
Daughter : pour water
dark stare.

Mummy: you should also ask the patient to breathe through his____.
Daughter :...........
I (a bit more hopefully now): eyes?
expletive.

Mummy: you should furthermore ask the patient not to __________.
Daughter :...........
I (in utmost earnest): be impatient?
At this point I have to hide in the bathroom to avoid flying objects. Apparently blowing the nose was that one taboo. Who'd have thunk?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've decided to get away a little tonight and watch DevD. Alone. It's sacrilege even to propose such a joint outing to the missus at this hour of crisis. If I come back happy I'll try to write about it. The 12 Mb clip of the first part of travel video has failed to upload on utube after a good night's effort. I'll retry.

In the meantime, bitten by Naren's bug, I've written this little couplet :

O beloved Balma, I could die to see your one smile
Tho' with all your lipids, I'd rather you ran a mile

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 16:42:00 +0000

Don't take chaddis lightly!

On a fine day many moons ago, we were in the presence of RK the sage. (I believe I've introduced him earlier on this blog). Being the keen observer of human situations he is, RK was making his trademark original observations. Presently over chai, we got talking about the improved buying power of the middle class in India, their good life thanks to a rising disposable income and nonsense like that. Somewhere in the middle of it, RK wondered aloud : "All you ever talk about is a better standard of living. How is it better, I ask you, when I still haven't got more than a coupla chaddis in good shape. It never went from two to three. The old ones will retire in a week whenever I buy a new pair." This was quite some years ago, and the observation struck a chord. For until then, we used to buy chaddis in pairs and inevitably, not too early. The concept might sound a little dated now as we're well into the American way of life. Then again, maybe not. Consider this. If we buy two, we get three free. In no time, two of them mysteriously disappear from the clothing lines (or the machine eats them, I'm not too sure) and we're back to status quo.

But I'm not back after a longish break to theorize on chaddis. In fact, I'm mighty peeved over the way the venerable chaddi is being tossed about over a piffling non-issue. For one thing, I don't really fancy the celebration of Valentine's day. In fact I'd go so far as to contest the very existence of such an institution. You may well argue that this is because back when I was young, it did not exist, and I never got to waste my parents' money on the occasion, and you'd have a point there, but what the heck anyway.

What I prefer however, is something more direct and impacting. More importantly, something one can afford to give away freely (after all you don't give away something you've got only a pair of, at any point of time). Why not send to the Sri Ram Sene something which they should think is more alien to Indian Kulture than chaddis? Something that suggests immoral activity in their eyes more powerfully? With that objective, I'd send them this over the coming weekend:

p.s. We hope to resume regular programming pretty soon. It's just that of late the urge to post has ebbed a mite. We watched Slumdog and tinkered with the idea of damning it with faint praise. But valuable days passed by. We'd been preoccupied. Among other things we were caught up in post production work for the DVD release of our last year's vacation video. The missus gave an ultimatum that there'd be no vacation this March unless we finish the video beforehand. We plan to post a clip here. In the interim, we are trying to watch Vicky Cristina Barcelona and write on the experience. Coming March we'll be off to parts of Madhya Pradesh, plans for which are underway. Hopefully that will be good for more stories after that trip.

p.s.2 All of the above is bull, of course. All I need to do is keep off the Savita Bhabhi forums if there's to be any hope for this 'ere blog.

Update : I swear on my chaddis I didn't know of their existence at the time of going to press. The thought had just occurred independently to me, I guess, though in a different way.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 14:03:00 +0000

Bravo !

We heart Sanjay Dutta of TOI for doing the other side of the story on the failed strike of oil PSUs. This was a strike that had our full moral support as officers of Navaratna brotherhood, since our fates are tied together. Full support, notwithstanding the mad rush for the last drop of fuel at the petrol pumps, and the worry over how to cook dinner without gas, the kind experienced by the whole country. (Of course, we could not go on strike on our own. There are reasons for this. For one, nobody seems to bother if our seel plants stop rolling out bars, sheets and coils for a few days. Or weeks, if we so fancy. In fact, we can almost hear a faint "good riddance". The second thing is that we are cowards. Under extreme aggrievement (not a word. I know), we might consider wearing a "black badge", but please don't ask for more. But I digress...) Our Government, with uncharacteristic toughness, had quashed the oil strike. The groundwork behind the heavy handedness involved a clever manipulation of media, which helped build massive public antagonism against their cause. Take this for example, on that same newspaper two weeks ago. To say nothing of the self styled soapbox newscasters of Aaj Tak and Zee News (Desh bhar me mach gayi hahakar, tel adhikari kar rahe hain betan barhane ka byapaar..)
It seems the oil executives, flailed by the government propaganda machinery more than anything else, have at last anonymously approached the media to let out their story. A good story it is, too. I quote :

Among the things let out by the government is that the starting salary of these officers is Rs 1 lakh and it goes up to Rs 3 lakh — an amount that does not justify their demand for even higher salaries, especially at a time when the economy is struggling to stay afloat.
The government contention is false. Not just that, it is aimed at creating a national "consensus" for a severe crackdown that would break the officers' back. This is why it has sacked over 70 officers, and with its motivated propaganda, created an atmosphere where the officers have no forum to present their case.
.................................................
This is the salary slip of a Grade B officer in an oil PSU, who is an engineer and an MBA to boot, with five years of service. Here's what the officer got this November — his gross salary came to Rs 38,772 and after deductions, he got a net salary (or take-home salary) of Rs 22,890. And in this case, the deductions were less as the officer has not taken any loan from the company.
.................................................
So, he took home a little less than Rs 23,000. Now, compare this with what professionals of his qualification would be getting in the private sector. This is despite the fact that oil companies are among the most cash rich companies in the country. And this is also despite the fact that bureaucrats, teachers and others have all got hefty pay hikes.

"Attaboy"! We cheered Mr. Dutta. Having suffered the iniquity for so many years oneself, one couldn't have put it better. We mean, this is the voice of support we really needed after all the damage the same publication has done. Sob stories help sell newspapers, but don't amount for anything in this context. Not that this also could help much, since the bureaucracy has maneuvered the situation into an irreparable no-win zone.

So what's the real story? What were the oil PSUs offered and what did they want?

PSU Pay panel recommendation

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Other literature recommendations

The committee headed by Justice MJ Rao submitted their recommendation in last June. They had categorized the CPSEs into five grades. For the topmost A+ category, mainly Navaratnas, they had proposed higher risk pay and performance related incentives across the board. This report was in public domain, viewable by all who could withstand 27 pages of tables and legalspeak. The A+ category was poised to gain substantially. This got the babus green with envy that many executives of top PSUs were going to earn more than them. When in November the proposals came up for approval, they cleverly scrapped away the A+ category, bringing all profit making PSUs in the same grade, irrespective of size, profitability, performance record and importance to the nation. At the same time they whipped up such frenzy that every newspaper, business spread or news channel would refer to the revision thus approved, nothing but a bonanza, a windfall, a jackpot. There were publications bringing forward lone voices of discontent, but these were washed away under the deluge of misinformation.

The oil PSU officers only wanted the proposals in the original report to be implemented in toto. With full clarity towards the variable part of their pay. But it was not to be. The gormint servants wouldn't have any of it.

I will stop ranting right here. If anybody at all has wondered why I didn't write anything in the interim, let it be known that minimum wage earners do not blog much. Adios, amigo. Will post if and when I've got enough to keep the home fires burning.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 11:59:00 +0000

Rab and aur sab

Do you see Rab, i.e, God, in Shah Rukh Khan's countenance? Do you, Punk? Because this young lady here, she does. And, of course I don't. But then I've had myopia since about the same time they discovered Ethiopia, which was way before this young lady was even up to the task of wetting her nappies. The lady has a condition, you say? Pity, no? Such a fetching young girl. Like a breeze of fresh air, a friend remarked. Like the girls in breeze soap commercials, I added. Anoushka, her name was. Proficient in every-thing. Dancing, emoting, raising hell on a hyabusa, you name it. Only thing she has a glitch with is her face recognition software. It seems she has difficulty in identifying people every time they change their clothes, don a pair of contacts, or put mousse in their hair. No problemo, I said. You only gotta buy yourself a lenovo, lady, and you're all set. (Wait ! Are those lenovo laptops designed to recognize chhote nawab's mug only? food for ponderance.)

Decades ago, one thirty-something filmmaker had told a story of a couple who got married by circumstances. How they lived the bliss of love blooming haule haule in the surroundings of mundane domesticity until tragedy struck, was the mainstay of his masterpiece, celebrated for decades around the world. Ever afterwards, dozens of films have been made in India with a similar starting point. The premise is a tad frayed at the edges. Umpteen directors good, bad and ugly have grabbed that ball and run with it. Until one day, the ball dropped. With apologies to John Donne, one needn't send to ask on whom the ball dropped, it dropped on Adi.

Several reviewers have trashed the movie and vent disappointment over Aditya Chopra's fall from grace. I wouldn't dwell on it. Let me list the positives. The sets are good. SRK as the bespectacled John Doe a.k.a Surindar Sahni gets a B- plus for effort. But only as Suri, mind you. In his other avatar he is insufferable. If you can skip the movie but sneak inside the hall at about 70 minutes into the proceedings, you could stay for 5 minutes and watch the Shyamak Davar choreographed Bollywood tribute dance, which I found kind of nice despite ghastly music. Especially Kajol briefly impersonating Nargis which was really something. And surely among positives, young Anoushka too, she's a darling. I can never forgive Adi Chopra for giving her a wrong launch. In spite of being YRF product with an Amritsari backdrop, the film has very little sarson-da-saag and makki-di-roti, like some apprehensive souls had feared.

What else is there? Oh, SRK will walk out of this debacle unscathed. Same for Yash Raj Films, who look like they can take 10 flops for every moderate hit they make. Not so much Aditya Chopra, whose credentials as the midas man should take a serious beating after this.

The year end is drawing nigh. It's been a pathetic year for the big budget vehicles for top league Mumbai stars and directors. The biggest success among which was perhaps Singh is Kingg, a fact that pretty much tells the whole story. I'm, however, going to put my money on the Christmas release. Maybe Amir has a finger on market pulse. Maybe Ghazini will deliver. One lives in hope.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 13:26:00 +0000

My country

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 13:36:00 +0000

My pics

This evening I was rummaging through backup discs of my old PC. Here is one gem I found, and I can't help sharing it.

A resounding left hook for the pacifists' cause.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 14:01:00 +0000

Good luck, Mr. Gorsky
warning : Long post.

People always say, "You should have your money working for you."
I've decided I'll do the work......I'm gonna let the money relax.
Know what I mean? Because you send your money out there...working for you, a lot of times it gets fired.
You go back, "What happened? I had my money working for me."
"Yeah, I remember your money. Showing up late, taking time off. We had to let him go."

-Seinfeld, The stock tip.

Unlike Jerry, it won’t be easy for me to put all blame squarely on my money. Why, it was doing quite well last year. Not like it had suddenly developed a drinking problem or started doing drugs this January, which finally, would completely bring him down in October. Had I gone to his workplace to enquire, the response I’d most likely get should be, “Oh, we knew your money. Among the finest we had. A sharp kid, he was. None of his fault, actually. These are difficult times, sir. We had to close down the whole division he was working in.”

I know. This is all my doing. I should have called him back in time. “Son, that’s no place for nice people to be working in. I think you should stay home and keep warm under the mattress for a while. Heck, read something, get a degree if you will. I’m sure there’ll be openings for you at a later point.”

I have a friend whom for good reason I call the mad professor. He is somewhere in-between what you’d call piquantly eccentric and stark raging mad, leaning as far towards the latter as a demanding career in academics would allow. For apparently no fault of mine he insists on calling me the Corporate Honcho. Can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve this. So, the other day, mad Prof calls and asks, so, how’s the Honcho doing? Had to tell him the Honcho is sitting on his haunches to closely observe the depths the stock market can plunge.

Have to mention another friend here. Now let’s call him Mr.Gorsky for reasons I’ll not get into until later. Like many a respectable bloke, he was patently skeptical of stocks till late last year. Then one day in cold January, the bug bit him. Everybody around him was making too much money too easily. He couldn’t take it any more. He was into a bit of liquidity at the time. As it happened, the market crashed down under the weight of his investment. It was like, he put some cash in, the stocks went down a little; he averaged, the market went mean. He sunk a little more, it dipped lower. In no time he was out of cash and the market, outside the standard range of deviation. Still our Mr. G was all tall talk.

“By January 2009 you’ll all see, the sensex will cross 25000.”

“I’m in it for the long haul, man, and I’ll clean up double my money in two years time.”

We used to snigger. This made G choose a quiet modus operandi. Every month, with his paycheck, off he goes, to throw some more good money after the bad. It would not be such a bad idea if he stuck to big blue chips, like every analyst on TV seems to suggest, though I don’t see them actually doing it. No, he is all into his Lando Infratechs and Warren Finances and God knows what other exotic stuff. In the matter of picking stocks, he blindly trusts his broker, who periodically feeds him all these tips. I know the broker; he is actually quite a nice guy, not a common trait among his tribe. Irony is, you can trust a nice guy only with things he has some control over. I tried to reason with Gorsky, “See, feller G, you can trust feller B not to defraud you or stab you in the back, but how can you trust him when he promises no rain on Thursday evening? Be reasonable, will you?"

By now I'm convinced bailing out Gorsky is the only bailout we need to put the economy back on track. We've discussed it among friends. We made an offer to G to raise among ourselves the amount he is in the red for, and let him quit at evens, if he promises to stay out of stocks. Doubtless it would hurt us all a lot in these tough times, but what's to be done has to be done. The economic situation can ease out only if G is persuaded to disinvest. But he would have none of it. He'd say, "Guys, don't you know, this money, quadrupled, would see my daughters through college?" And we'd say, "Good luck, Mr. Gorsky."

I think we should appeal to Mr. Chidambaram for mandatory implementation of the Gorsky bailout package. In case you don't catch the Gorsky reference, the original joke is at the bottom of this post.*

Since I started with Seinfeld, I thought it fitting to end it with another big influence from pop entertainment. But Peanuts was never big on economics. After much research, the best I could come up with was this:

*When Apollo Mission Astronaut Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon, he not only gave his famous "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind" statement but followed it by several remarks, usual com traffic between him, the other astronauts and Mission Control.

Just before he re-entered the lander, however, he made the enigmatic remark "Good luck Mr. Gorsky."

Many people at NASA thought it was a casual remark concerning some rival Soviet Cosmonaut. However, upon checking, there was no Gorsky in either the Russian or American space programs. Over the years many people questioned Armstrong as to what the "Good luck Mr Gorsky" statement meant, but Armstrong always just smiled.

Just a few years ago, (on July 5, 1995 in Tampa Bay FL) while answering questions following a speech, a reporter brought up the 26-year old question to Armstrong. This time he finally responded. Mr. Gorsky had finally died and so Neil Armstrong felt he could answer the question.

When he was a kid, he was playing baseball with a friend in the backyard. His friend hit a fly ball, which landed in the front of his neighbor's bedroom windows. His neighbors were Mr. & Mrs. Gorsky. As he leaned down to pick up the ball, young Armstrong heard Mr. Gorsky pleading with his wife about something and Mrs. Gorsky shouting at Mr. Gorsky. "Oral sex! You want oral sex?! You'll get oral sex when the kid next door walks on the moon!"

*Source : here

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 01:57:00 +0000

Listen easy

A friend sent the link to a long lost Panchamda number in Bengali. Lost to time, the fallibility of ferromagnetics or spring cleaning. Who would know?

Without preamble I share with you, then, the man and his song.

Surprisingly (it being such a wonderful composition) the hindi version is way lesser known. I don't think it was even a big hit. Maybe RD wasted it on the wrong film. Which film, which song? Quiz, anyone?

This weekend, I've also been listening to a bit of popular music. On that note, let me ask you, as is done in the blogging parlance, how fab is the music of Yuvraj? I would admit to having taken quite a liking to it. Especially the one least heard in promos. The opening of Zindagi Zindagi blew me because it sounds more like Gulzar saab and Panchamda than Rahman. The choice of woodwind, in this case a harmonica, harks back to nostalgia. From the next loop onwards Rahman takes over and it's into familiar territory. But the first four lines, wow, it's gold. The movie I couldn't bother watching. Not a fan of the Subhash the Ghai. The early reviews bear out the wisdom of my decision.

An fabulously enjoyable update on the movie and it's music you'll find here, and I quote....

Yuvraj is a film of Katrina Kaif and Salman Khan 2nd movie and in Yuvraj Movie Salman Khan and Katrina Kaif is going to be married. Everybody everyone in bollywood and salman khan and katrina kaif’s fan want to see they both married and work in films together as much as they can. Yuvraj Movie is one more movie where peoples can watch Salman khan and Katrina kaif Together in Yuvraj Movie.

Speaking of popular music, for some reason I'm unable to stop singing Tha tha karke from Golmaal returns ever since I was forced to watch it. I think it should get an award or something in the most addictive song of the year category.

In early listenings of Rab ne Banadi Jodi, it sounds easily the most lukewarm score ever for a Yashraj film, more so considering the movie presumably involves a lot of dancing.

A follow-up on me and the market meltdown will be out shortly so watch this space.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 16:02:00 +0000

Other fish to fry

Did you miss me? I guess not.(then proceeds to drink a jug of water and leak from hundreds of bullet holes in his body to demonstrate the point) - The mask

Hello friends. In case you were wondering, which I'm certain you weren't, yours truly had been alive and well and in the meantime attending to generally uninteresting stuff. Been going through a dull phase, with nothing worthwhile to report, and the old creative ying dying a slow death.

On the duller side of things, fish in my daughter's fishbowl had been dropping off at a steady clip. Now, at the very beginning, had I googled a bit on the subject, like I do with most things including finding a proper euphemism for dying, I'd have known instantly that the most suitable fish for keeping in fishbowls are the Siamese betta. They are the piesces equivalent of career convicts who are most at ease inside their 8'x8' cell. The wide open world bothers them so much they keep doing bad things. I've seen a betta live in a wine glass for weeks in perfect contentment. The local pet shops curiously call them the fighter fish. I haven't seen them fight with anybody. In fact, in a multiracial environment, they are most likely to seek a nook and hide in it. We had one in our bowl. That fellow would hide inside a faux bush all day. Coming up for food once in a while seemed for him like too much trouble. One day the pearl gourami killed him. But we'll perhaps come back to that.

Back on the subject of choosing a fish, instead of doing a little research, at first we went by whatever inputs visual media gave us. And beautiful fat goldfish in bowls were all the rage over tv and print. What is it they have against the poor goldfish, these hateful media men, is something I might never understand. They have caused more deaths in the goldfish populace by inducing people to keep them in bowls, than perhaps Henry Ford did among the human race by introducing them to automobiles. Goldfish in a bowl is easily the most unreliable creature on the face of the earth. Now you see them having one helluva party, eating and shitting in wild merriment. You saunter off to the kitchen to fix a little snack, having gotten a little peckish yourself, y'know, just looking at them. What with having a snack, taking a call, catching a TV show, you might get delayed by minutes and next time you look, one of them will be belly up. Happened to me coupla dozen times. I never count on goldfish not to die on me without prior notice. Inconsiderate bunch of quitters, I call them.

Nowadays, we've gotten wise. We now keep only those fish which the pet shop boys call hard fish. I think they mean hard to kill. The Steven Seagulls and Bruce Willes of the fishworld, y'know? We keep Gouramis, tetra, assorted colored carp etc. Even these manage to die under mysterious circumstances. I suspect there are evil spirits of dead fish haunting that bowl. My daughter is keeping a headcount. The day we kill our 50th fish, we'll throw a party and feed them all some pork chops and tuna salad.

All these talk about fish reminds me of a scene from You don't mess with the Zohan, the new kickass comedy caper from Adam Sandler, ideally watched on the home theater on some evening when the kids have gone to some birthday party or something. It's not actually sexually explicit, but many scenes may not be fit for family viewing. Watch this where Zohan the crack agent of Mossad is about to capture a Palestinian terrorist, and they are challenging each other's pain endurance. Enjoy!

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 16:52:00 +0000

Holy water

Water Dress - Mattoni Spring Water Commercial

Loving this commercial. Somewhere somebody 'd said sex sells. Used in refinement, and higher quotients of soft titillation, it still delivers. Some viewer has asked why is the word "bitch" briefly superimposed at 39 seconds. Beats me. Watch and comment.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 04:02:00 +0000

The inheritance of Payne

Meltdown is passe'. Finished. Beyond resurrection. It sounds so old it might have been Roosevelt talking about the economy.

The bottom has fallen off can go a long way, but in all the wrong directions. It's graphic, it's cute, yes, but it doesn't really cut the shit anymore.

That expression is clearly inadequate for what's happening in today's marketplace. Besides, the imagery always evokes in the mind something like above. Can't be taken seriously, if you see what I mean.

So the pundits now have a better description of things. Today they only have to say "the market is seeing a lot of pain" and be done with it. Likewise : "Europe's two biggest banks, felt the pain more than most" or, "the pain would only intensify in November with the gloom only getting darker." All these talk about pain has given a new lease of life to a mundane workaday word which was dying a slow death in the hands of oxycodone and acetamenophen.

Across the threshold of all this pain, somewhere I can see the silhouette of Max. His pain indicator inching up to the chin and his bottle of painkillers empty. He's started to stumble and fumble. One more spray from the Ingram of some goon lurking beyond the next alleyway, and he will be done for. He continues to mutter profundities in my ears like only Max Payne can :

You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels.

After a pause :
It could destroy you, drive you mad. It could set you free.*

BTW, the film is getting all manners of flak from reviewers. Anybody watch?

* Not my fertile imagine running amok with Max on the stock markets. These are real quotes from the game cut scenes.

noreply@blogger.com (Partho) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 18:18:00 +0000

The Goddess in Autumn

A one-and-a-half-week spent in a daze of mellow wellness, not counting a minor throat infection afflicted by cold beer in Bong weather. Been to the Durgapujo in Kolkata after a gap of two years. Among many other things, a morning of pandalizing, an experimental cocktail, a dear friend paying for the whole crowd at Tangra at saptami lunch (his novel is out on a Pujabarshiki - his first step into big league, and a call for celebration) and rediscovering New Market.

Some photos. The first two at Badamtala Ashar Sangho, off Hazra road.

We gathered from the hoardings Prabhuji mithun-da is the brand ambassador for this Pujo. (Oh, yes, they all have brand ambassadors now.) Mithun-da would be proud. All in all, we liked the mood and ambiance of the setup. Very old-worldly and nostalgia.

See the old rajbari ( King's haveli) milieu on the sidelines? Update : An utube link for the pandal.

Ekdalia. Garish. I felt like calling it the moor's last sigh (at the moo-rals).

What with the recession, stock crash and all, the organizers at Selimpur Palli were of the grim view that it was the indeed the end of days, apocalypse, Armageddon, whatever. Why else would they think of putting the goddess on Noah's ark?

Rajib, the blackberry guy, was the host for ashtami evening. The inventory included a bottle of Stoli Vanil vanilla flavored vodka, one tequila (Pepe Lopez, not quite top of the line stuff, I hear), and also some VAT (but nobody was in the vatty mood). Rajib insisted that we do the Stoli first, and chase it down with Pepe shots. I suggested, on a whim, that we should try out some sort of a float with the vodka and some vanilla ice cream. Here goes.

1 1/2 oz vanilla flavored vodka

50 ml Ice cream soda/ Sprite

Two scoops vanilla ice cream

Mix the vodka, soda/sprite and ice cream into a smooth consistency. Pour in a highball glass and float a scoop of ice cream on top. Can be served with some strawberry or chocolate syrup topping. Suggested name: Stoli Scream.

The brand Tangra is now a pale shadow of what it used to be. At Kim Fa, the soup was passable, the noodle dishes (as famously put by J.A.P in recent times,) more Shyambazar than Sanghai, the less said about the Szechwan chicken the better. Maybe old man Kim was taking a nap. After all, it was afternoon during durgapujo time and the Bangali Bhadralok who wouldn't know their dim sums from their momos were all out in hordes.

Lately Rajib has developed this annoying habit of having a meal solely consisting of starters while eating out. After a coupla rounds of batter-fried chicken dumplings and babycorns, he sought to secure the kiddies' vote in his favor by announcing : All who want to eat starters only, say "aye", or something to that effect, which, sure enough, was getting some raised hands at the kids camp. Put down firmly by Subroto the mirthless girth with a gem of a statement : "Na. Ami food khabo." Which roughly translated to: "no i want to eat a proper meal", but easily became the best in hungry indignation since Major de Coverley's : "Gimme eat" in catch 22.

The Tangra Chinese are these days cheap neither. We paid 6000 bucks for a crowd of 20 not counting small kids. Sorry, Indranil the novelist payed. Not expensive really, but not dirt cheap by any standards. And the portions don't justify the rates.

The day before I was coming back, I needed to buy some red and green curry paste, lemongrass, nam pla, oyster sauce, bamboo shoots and other veggies I can't buy fresh at my small town marketplace. You can guess I'm trying to dabble in Thai cuisine. I was thinking maybe Spencer's but a friend suggested Hogg market. Hesitantly I went, probably after two-and-a half decades' hiatus. The place was a treasure trove, as ever. I got every item on my list, the way I'd wanted. Not only could I get lemongrass for Rs. 3 a stalk, (Spencer's charge 10, and sell stale stuff) every little shop at the back end alley was a revelation. I even ended up buying some Angostura bitters.

When we were little kids, people in Kolkata used to say that you could buy bat's wings and cheeta's milk at the New Market if you were paying the right price. Indeed. I perfectly see their point now.