RaMbLings Of A WaNderiNg MiNd

FYI

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 17 Nov 2012 15:35:00 +0000

Some stuff that might have been here is now here.

Getting by

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 13:52:00 +0000

"You are doing what we all here are - getting by" - some television series' and my latest source of life lessons

Is it so necessary to have a purpose? Plan your career, they say - "This is how I did it!", "This is how I got where I am!". What if I don't care about getting there?

Planning seems such a vain idea. As if, we were sole determinants of our life threads. Just knowing what to plan for itself seems too much to do. Is it ever really ever possible to know for sure where we want to be? Leave alone figure out how to get there. Or maybe, I am too fickle. Possibly.

Why can't we just get by? Do enough to sustain. Experiences are free. No?

Why this race to get somewhere? God forbid we actually ever get there? Then? Another race? Just watching seems good to me. Watching and listening.

And writing. Sometimes.

.. the lover

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 06 Sep 2012 18:57:00 +0000

I wish to be him again. I am still him but a mellowed down version of him. My "greater worries" have swallowed my "little pleasures" - such skewed perspectives!

For he did things without consideration, that person. Carefree, delusional? Oh, what will the sensible know! They are too burdened under the pressure to one-up. Who, though? The former self? Idiots!

And look at him. Right there, with that stupid smile. Filled with stupid thoughts. He is such a juvenile fool. Does he not understand? Can he not see the future? Or does he not care? Can he not care? Can I not care? I wasn't asked to. Not by him. He looks happy enough. Like all the delusional fools? Are they all happy for the same reason? Why not be them then? I know I am being too harsh on him. I hate him. I am jealous of him. I want to teach him a lesson by bringing him back to life. I don't know if I can, though. I am burdened - by rationale, by logic, by the future. For I am of course, the sensible man. I think I killed the fool!

Of being a dreamer

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 25 Jun 2012 18:28:00 +0000

Dreamers are brave. Bold, fearless, focused. I mean the proper dreamer. The zen, all-conquering ones. For each such supreme brave hearts, however, there are plenty who lay by the wayside. Still dreaming, dreaming to be like that one dreamer.

Imagining is more often the easier job. Yet we never cease to overestimate its power. We get sucked in to our own vain self quickly and then rock the hammock while waiting for the rest to follow.

And what if there is no progress? When the engines don't flare up and race like we always knew it will. What do these no-goods do then? But of course they jump ship. So what if the other was the better prize, we better not risk breaking a sweat right?

I can't have my palace without steamrolling down the painted house. Such is life. No matter how much I wish it weren't.

What's the point?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 14:35:00 +0000

If anyone has been miserable enough to actually read through this blog in chronological sequence, this late night impulsive ensemble of ideas is going to follow on those same drab lines. Personal life, professional confusion, blah and more blah. This is not recommended reading for those high on life (yes, I like flattering myself) as it might threaten to wipe your smile to last millimetre.

Is there a purpose to the sacrifices? Does the craving ever stop? It seems like a fake promise at times. Like fools's gold and the ever receding horizon at the end of the waters. Can I ever be free? I feel like I have worked just to earn these shackles. Why didn't someone tell me about this? Was it there in the small font under "terms and conditions"?

Chasing happiness is a flawed plan perhaps. Hence the material substitutes, I shudder to think. Why does the previously abhorred meadow look seductively green again? I bet it's one more of them heart wrenching mirages. I prefer to stay away. Sit quietly on this desolate beach then risk it in the wild seas. It's just not the mermaids there you know, the sharks are loitering around as well. And who could forget the depths of the ocean's bed. Let's face it, I don't know all the skills of staying afloat. But then again, would I prefer the emptiness in the sands or death in the heavenly waters?

Like always, there are more questions than answers.

Kahaani - The Impulsive Review

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 04:29:00 +0000

It’s difficult to not let my love for contemporary Bengali cinema colour this review for Kahaani. No harm done either way if you ask me, for this is essentially a ‘Bengali’ film on many counts. In fact, with so many familiar Tollywood faces in the ensemble, the Hindi dialogues almost seem out of place - especially in case of conversations between Parambrata and Kharaj (the other, chubbier inspector for the uninitiated). I am not sure if a Bengali version of the movie has been shot, but I am sure I will like it just a tad better in the least.

The trailers promised a racy crime thriller and that’s exactly what Kahaani turns out to be. The search for the ever elusive ‘Arnab Bagchi’ takes on twists and turns and features the length and breadth of the ‘City of Joy’ like no other movie I can recall. To the regular movie goer, the start of the story roughly foretells what’s to come. It makes you instantly infer that clever goons, psychotic killers, heart-in-mouth chase sequences, flying bullets and a crazy twist at the climax are to follow. That’s not a bad thing as long as the other elements of movie making are done due justice to. And on most counts, Sujoy Ghosh and his crew were bang on target.

What excited me in the trailers of the movie was the romanticizing of Kolkata. I was keenly anticipating the Kolkata elements in the storytelling and I didn’t have to wait long for it. For me, Kahaani does more justice to the romance of the contemporary city than what Dhobi Ghat could do for Mumbai or Delhi 6 attempted to do for the capital. From the dingy lanes of the northern part of the city to the posh restaurants of Park Street, from the ostentatious Durga Puja celebrations to the grim realities of city’s administrative facilities, the storyline delightfully weaves into it a most nonpartisan reflection of modern day Kolkata. The Kolkata Metro gets featured prominently- a first for me. The host of quality Bengali actors only add more magic. The camera work is delightful and so is the background score.

Kahaani is an out and out Vidya (not Bidya; a joke not repeated ad nauseam thankfully!) Balan movie. She is one of the very few female actors in Hindi cinema capable of carrying an entire film on her shoulders and follows up her stellar performance in “The Dirty Picture” with a thoroughly professional effort in this movie. In some instances, I did feel her character was too high on life for a pregnant lady looking for her missing husband, but I am nit-picking. She looks strikingly gorgeous, and has a noticeable Bengali air about her throughout. Parambrata sketches the role of the unassuming side-kick to perfection once again. From “Bong Connection” to “Baishe Srabon” and the numerous Feluda movies in between, he has definitely come of age as an actor and can now be easily rated as one of Bengal’s finest. Kharaj is charming in his police inspector role. Bob Biswas (played by Saswata) is an indolent insurance agent by the day and a cold-blooded contract killer by the night. The seasoned actor delivers a stirring performance and his was by far my favourite character in the movie. Nawazuddin (who plays the role of Khan from the Intelligence Bureau) essays his pissed-off foul-mouth inspector role with élan. Even the bits and pieces characters are all executed to perfection and in fact, there is little to be complained about as far as the acting performances are concerned.

The script, in all honesty, does not have much to write home about. While it appreciably resists from meandering into romances and unnecessary side tracks, the screenplay does get a little befuddling at times. It can be forgiven I guess in such a fast paced mystery where the performances are good as they were in this case. The Kolkata charm is infectious, at least to this Kolkata born writer. I liked the scene where Vidya inadvertently gets touchy feely with Parambrata- nice and raw. The overtly friendly relationship between Vidya and the kids (at the hotel, chai stall) and the all-conquering hacker persona were a bit overdone but I guess that much creative trespassing can be slighted. It is after all, a mass market movie. Kudos to Sujoy for no dance sequences, not even a Durga Puja one. How I wish we completely grow out of this ridiculous fad soon. The “ekla cholo re” effort by Amitabh Bachchan is cute but out of tune.

All in all, Kahaani is an engaging story brilliantly told by wonderful acting performances. For a Kolkatan, it also provides the “Hey, look! Kalighat Metro Station” and “Eta New Market er kache” moments to exclaim in the movie hall. I would still love to see a completely Bengali version though because I am certain I would like it even more. Aami shotti bolchi!

What then?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 18:54:00 +0000

The money minter? The pleasure hunter? The absolute crazy romantic?

Desire knows not, only confuses. The destinations are often disparate, the journeys sometimes identical. They be lucky souls for they proverbially have the cake and eat it too. But what about them lesser humans? All puppets of the supreme fate? Seems an unfair bargain this. The choice is almost automatic, the sacrifice without condolences.
Yet circumstances are often a scapegoat. The fault lies in the individual; in the inability to recognise the true calling. Priorities change too fast one can argue. When the time comes, there is little to debate. We become silent victims of our own short sightedness. Such cruel apathy!
Adjust, cooperate, sulk? Is this then the start of eternal dissatisfaction or just a small roadblock? We can only wish for the latter.
The larger world is always clueless. It's convenient to be misled and it's not as if we help that much. The glitter is allowed to dazzle the audience, the gloom quietly hides behind. Not the best recourse yet amazingly preferred almost always. Then there are of course the genuine empathisers and god forbid they see through the act.
Such hypocrites!
Bon voyage, you idiot!

Temporal hatred

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 05:27:00 +0000

There are times when almost all of human kind seems intolerable - all intelligent and articulate beings of vile descent. I have, on several occasions, labelled myself a 'human hater' and not without reason.

It is during such moments that you wish to hide from human contact, tucked away safe under a bed sheet somewhere. On careful rumination for sometime, the thoughts change slightly. The entirety of the odious human race separates itself into 2 distinct groups- the friend and the enemy. Their composition solely determined by the overriding influence of the present scenario. The 'friends' then starting having a calming effect and invite us into their care. It's almost impossible to not submit then. There's little else that seems even close to as right. We give in.

Admissions of an Accidental Lover

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 11:11:00 +0000

I talk to this blog often; many a often. A blank screen can be a great listener- it doesn't judge, doesn't advise and doesn't let banal principles of objective rationality get in the way of a weak moment.

Life is insanely simple to understand when it is completely objective - a figure against a currency symbol, a number on performance assessment sheet. These objective parameters reek of human intelligence, blunt non-emotion and passive brilliance. Good or bad, happy or sad- all clearly defined. We get conditioned to stick to these objective indicators, make them the cornerstone of the yardstick of our well-being and future aspirations. Deviators are mocked- denounced 'romantic fools'. I have been no different- one among the intelligent know-alls.

And I have done well. A supernova of sorts among the brightest stars of the over-achieving human kind. I have towed the line my peers and predecessors have drawn unerringly. The numbers have all fallen in the right bracket.

"What then be the problem?", you ask. The problem my friend lies in asking for more than what the numbers can promise. And therein lies the audacity of the 'emotional fool'- that vile race of unintelligible no-goods. I wasn't always a part of this foul breed though; in fact, I looked down upon them. Crushed them under my feet whenever the opportunity presented itself. Yet, now I am one of them. One among the useless nobodies. Oh what a ghastly tragedy!

So here's reporting from the other side of the barbed wire. Guess what? It isn't that bad. The living brains haven't been sucked out of me. Numbers are still important though. Teething problems or innate obdurateness? Don't know. May be it wasn't so much the 'either or' we thought. I dare not point fingers at the sacristy of the rational thinkers, but I seem to be garnering proof to the contrary.

What now? The transition is difficult, strange, scary. In fact a complete switch is beyond the realm of possibility it would seem. At least that's what the rational self suggests.

But to have a foot on either side is what I seem to be striving towards. Trying desperately to reach that perfect balance, that stable equilibrium. Yet it's more difficult from this side. Not so simple as the objective world, no. More nonsensical, irrational, stupid. I have not been prepared for this. I am struggling to stay afloat. It's too foggy, too grey for my comfort. Yet the grey is the source of seduction. The road ahead has low visibility, uncorroborated promises of supreme joy, no clear directions and way too many possibilities. I don't know whether to step forward or back. I am waiting for help. The shining North star. Does it appear on this side?

(scribbled on-board a flight from Mumbai to Kolkata)

My Unsolicited Two Cents on Ra.One

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 20:19:00 +0000

At the outset, let me state that I have not read any reviews of the movie. I had decided to this as a matter of principle. I have figured that reading other reviews before penning my own introduces additional colour in my thoughts and that element of artificiality to my writing. So this review comes straight from the heart, minutes after I have finished watching SRK’s much marketed sci-fi offering.

Ra.One is ambitious. That’s the least I can say for superhero sci-fi attempted by the ever ‘lover next door’ in a country where nothing but ‘love fiction’ sells. Science or a distant caricature of it hasn’t been handled well historically by the Indian film maker. And so, let me start critiquing this movie by declaring this the best ever science fiction movie made in India. That’s not saying much really. Most previous attempts at this have been made by incompetent directors on a tight budget or either of those two. In fact, the only semi science fiction movie which I can think of as a wholesome entertainer would be Mr.India. But then Mr.India wasn’t so much about stunts as a heart-warming tale with a lot of children to go. So a comparison isn’t fair.

What I was most curious to find out about this movie is how good a balance it strikes between Bollywood and sci-fi. Let’s face it; an outright sci-fi movie can’t be sold in India. It might attract the astute critic’s standing ovation but that’s not enough to recover the couple of hundred odd crores that have been spent in making this magnum opus. The multiplex audience is good enough for a low budget ‘reality bite’, but not this. On this parameter, I think the makers have done an averagely decent job. The quirky moments in the first half of the movie involved duplication of oft used situational humour, but was tasteful and cute for most parts. It served to mask well, the mundane yet necessary explanatory scenes prefacing the main storyline. Similar attempts in the second half, though, didn’t go down well with me. Forceful introduction of childish humour with unnecessary redundancies like a peek-a-boo of Rajnikanth spoiled the momentum gathered by the action sequences on far too many occasions. The emotional quotient too was a little high in the second half. All this distracted the viewer from the main draw of the movie which was its technical brilliance. The latter half of the movie could have been packed more with high voltage action. Characters like that of Satish Shah were irritating to say the least. The overall screenplay was impressive. Songs too were nicely fitted into the narrative in most cases.

Shahrukh’s character baffled me to a considerable extent. It seemed confused to say the least. The first half of the movie saw him play an uncannily childish Tamil computer scientist who could speak fluent Hindi. Too many clichéd attempts at humour were made. The second half, which saw him in his super hero avatar left a lot to be desired. Admittedly Arjun Rampal, with his expression-less face seemed a lot more convincing as a video game character than SRK who just couldn’t seem to let go of his signature moves even when they were terribly out of place. Surprisingly though, for those who were apprehensive about Shahrukh looking the part, he did in fact pull that off quiet well.

Credit, in fact is due to all who worked on the visual aspects of the movie. All the characters were presented brilliantly well. The city backdrop, the flying cars, the collapsing buildings, etc were all done to perfection. From the technical standpoint, it’s difficult to find flaws in the movie making. It is of a level that Indian audiences have only known to exist in movies from across the Atlantic. For this reason alone, the film deserves a special mention in the pages of Bollywood history.

There is a considerably large population of sceptics who, not amused by “Chammak Challo” had written this movie off long before this release. The extended and almost nauseating marketing stunts have given some audiences reason to pre judge the film. This could be both a good and a bad thing. I expect mixed reactions from Indian viewers with a sizable number tending to either extreme in their reviews. All in all, I give the movie full points for making the attempt. This genre, a hugely lucrative one in the west, will take its time to roll with the Indian audiences but this is by far the best effort in that space. The movie has its flaws but for most parts succeeds in doing justice to both its technical investment and its fundamentally Indian character. Three cheers to that!

Killing Time since 1988 ..

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 08:13:00 +0000

.. and still going strong.

A part of me wishes this were not true. It seems incredibly futile to be like this almost all the time. I have been in what may be called a sedentary limbo for ever since I can remember. For as back as I can think, I have been, in the most simplest of terms, "whiling away time". It baffles and amazes me to think of how little productivity I have spewed on the face of the earth in the 22 years of my brazenly meaningless existence. But what surprises me more is that I have survived. In a society where people are dripping sweat and blood by the gallons to earn their daily bread, I seem to have done enough by doing nothing.

It's not that I like it being this way all the time. I mean, who doesn't like a week off rocking on a hammock on a beach all by themselves. But year after year of absolute nothingness? To say the truth, I would never have complained about this earlier. Hell, I loved my time off doing nothing. Being a couch potato suited me fine. I could even watch "saas bahu" and Grey's Anatomy for hours at end and still feel good about myself. After all, the temporary respite then threatened to be exactly that - "temporary". Who would bet on it becoming everything in itself?

I have not resisted change, never shied away from engaging in what needs to be engaged in. Yet, I haven't felt the stretch. Every minute average utilized has invariably been followed by five simply let by. And that doesn't seem right. It gets even scarier when in a conversation with colleagues and friends, they proclaim to be "busy", 'really really busy" and the like. It breaks my heart that, maligns my seemingly non-existent purpose of living. What heinous crime did I commit in my past lives to be stamped with this "available" tag for life? It's just not fair.

But I haven't given up yet. I have vowed to add meaning to me. If hours on Facebook or days of watching Big Boss on television be required to be done in the process, I am prepared. As the guy with a stick on the spirit label says, I shall "Keep Walking", err, "Keep Sleeping".

Rant

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 08:36:00 +0000

I am not the most discerning movie goer. In fact, I had always believed that I could potentially spend up to 3 hours inside a movie theater watching any movie in just about any language. That, until last Sunday happened.

My expectations from Faltu (the name almost mocks me and my bank account every time I say it, so I will not mention it any more in this post) were minimal to say the least. Stupid slapstick comedy, air conditioning, reclining seats, popcorn and fountain coke- that's all I asked for. And it seemed a fair bet, Arshad Warsi, Ritiesh Deshmukh, Hard Core Kaur, etc. I was prepared for the worst. That the worst could go down to such never before experienced levels was a revelation, however, that I possibly could have done without.

Now believe me when I tell you that I have seen my share of bad Hindi movies even with the knowledge or suspicion of them turning out to be so. Jaani Dushman, Deshdrohi, Tees Mar Khan, Om Shanti Om- heck I have seen them all and dare I say, loved them. For in all these movies, deep down somewhere I felt the makers knew that they were making a hideous caricature and went ahead with it simply because it was fun and relieving. I respected them for their honesty, for their courage at being able to make such jokes on themselves. Yet my years of exposure to such enormous, odious bull crap had not prepared me for the monstrosity I was made to endure on Sunday.

I will reiterate that I was by no means disillusioned about what the level of brilliance that the movie could offer. Producer pumping money and in the hope of pumping some self confidence into good-for-nothing child, we have seen that many a often. Abhishek Bachchan, Hrithik Roshan, Uday Chopra, there's nothing shameful about it any more. Choreographer being made to believe dancing and movie-making are two sides of the same moonwalking coin is nothing new other. Farah Khan indeed. Hard f**king Kaur, not so pretty retarded newbie, model testing acting waters, inane 'college masti', I had taken all of it into cognizance. My expectations had been suitably molded to allow room for any more slightly insidious twists.

To be fair, the first half was actually palatable. I discovered that the chick was not pretty, that the star son had still not learnt shit and that the comic timing was just as precise as Karan Johar is straight. Expectations further lowered, popcorns munched, Coke sipped- a decent Sunday beckoned.What transpired in the second half, however, was monstrosity of the order I cannot verbalize. It was more gut wrenching than fat ass African Americans puking cow shit, as nauseating as a dozen long nails being scratched on a bare blackboard, as surreal as a cute blonde with male body parts and as mind-numbing as a room full of babies crying in chorus at the top of their voices. For the first time in a movie theater, I could not bare to see what I was seeing, could not dare to not plug my ears with my fingers and just could not suppress the idea of wanting to club the director to death with a hockey stick while doing the garba around him.

The problem with the movie is simple. When an incompetent director sets out to make a slapstick comedy with a lead cast having as much talent as Feroz Khan as hairs on his head, he should stick to basics- hot actresses to cater to the audience which doesn't give a crap, item song to just make sure people know the name of the movie, peppy college setting to get the "I'm hot. I'm dumb. College's fun" gang in, and a happy ending to not leave a sour taste and hence get good feedback. What an incompetent, astoundingly retarded director should not do is try to even hint at a Social Message. No! No! That was the cardinal sin that our man with the moves and a hollow brain committed and did it ever so snobbishly. The absolute manslaughter of an attempted dig at the "Indian Educational System" was obviously inspired by the likes of 3 Idiots, which in itself was a logic-less movie saved by a clever director and solid actors. Remo "I am going to get away with doing a sensational moonwalk jig every 5 minutes of the movie" Fernadez had no saviors to rescue his fast sinking ship. Admittedly, the blame cannot be squarely placed on him, for hogging maximum was the inept actor financier's son. Something, I don't suppose he could have done much about. Arshad Warsi and Ritiesh Deshmukh are good at being funny but expecting them cover up for all the other nonsense like poor dialogues, unfunny situations, senseless plot and then carrying the film on the shoulders is asking for too much.

I spent the hour long post interval part of the movie trying in vain to doze off and block my ears at the same time. I resolved to not get up and leave. Don't ask why. Well, personal challenge maybe. I also looked around the theater to examine the reactions. While a few auntys gazed on intently, for most of the rest, the disinterest was palpable. Relief indeed. I looked back to find the two people who I am sure enjoyed the movie most that evening. Giving two hoots for moral inspectors, social taboos, the two of them spent most the three hours with the their tongues swirled around each others. That too in the middle aisle of a multiplex theater. If there was anything in that room making a statement against established social/educational norms, it was their indiscriminate Public Display of Affection. And there was perhaps that faint silver lining.

Of Bangladesh

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 13:08:00 +0000

Many distinct threads connect me to Bangladesh. For starters, I share my mother tongue with the population of this country. Though the Bangladeshi version of Bengali (also called Bangal bhasha) is weirdly accented, veritably nauseating and outright funny, it's called Bengali all the same. But my nexus with Bangladesh extends much beyond that.

I have a number of relatives in that part of the globe-scattered mostly across Dhaka and Chittagong. It is for this reason that I visited Bangladesh-once in 1994 and again in 1998. Both these trips were interesting in their own right. I was probably too young in '94 to realize the absurdity of the entire exercise, but we actually traveled to Dhaka by air. I remember my first Bangladesh trip primarily because this was my first time on a flight as a grown-up child. The flight from Calcutta to Dhaka was a Biman Bangladesh one and it lasted all of thirty long minutes. I didn't mind it then. Amidst all the flight sickness and vomiting, I felt I as if I had encircled the globe. All of it in half an hour. I was pleasantly surprised when I landed in Dhaka. Blame it on my communist Calcutta upbringing or the dismally low expectations from the trip, but Dhaka came across as a remarkably developed city. Having been brought up on a diet of yellow Ambassadors and unexciting Marutis, the omnipresence of Toyota and Mitsubishi cars on the streets of Dhaka filled me with awe. There were also a number of skyscrapers around. For a country staking claim to the title of the poorest in the world, this was surely not appropriate advertisement. Even otherwise, Dhaka was a great experience made even more special by my first and last win at a Lotto machine. I vividly remember that moment in Wonderland (no wonder!) when I hit the elusive Jackpot (Yay!! OMG ! OMG !! I can't believe it!!) in the company of shocked cousins who exclaimed, "Wow, you are so lucky !" in chorus. I basked in the glory of victory that night. Bangladesh had won my heart.

There was, of course, plenty to eat. I had Hilsa, Pomphret and every other fish that ever lived in the waters of the Paddya. If Dhaka wasn't impressive enough, Chittagong left me gasping for air. Now, either Cox Bazar is the most God-damn amazingly picturesque place in the world or I was just too dazed from my triumph at Wonderland. Either way, it was a delightful experience. So was the drive up Butter Hill. I couldn't have asked for more.

Now as heart-warming as my first visit to Bangladesh was, the second was just as gut-wrenching. By the time I made that ill-fated trip, I had discovered the evils of social gatherings. It was almost a cruel twist of fate that the second trip was made for the purpose of attending a wedding. So post the Biman landing before taking off and Dhaka looking strikingly duller than four years before, I found myself amidst a sea of mascara-clad Bangals. The big, fat, orange Bangladeshi wedding was, in one word, scary. The traumatic experience of that wedding left an indelible mark. Even today, when that song from Main Khiladi Tu Anari (remember "Churake dil mera" and Akshay 'Jumping Jack' Kumar?) plays, it reminds me of orange saris, red lipstick and a deluge of people speaking a funny language. Oh, the horror ! The word marriage would never sound the same.

I have never been to Bangladesh post that. The country, however, hasn't seized to be a part of proceedings in some way or the other. Bangladeshi cricketers (Tiger Murtaza and the last over heroics for KKR), Bangladeshi migrants (who come to Calcutta on just about any pretext ranging from a dentist's appointment to drug peddling) and more recently this mind-blowing Bangledeshi rapper.

Most things Bangladeshi amaze and amuse me. I do hope to visit the country again someday. Till then, I'll pay my tribute to this wonderful nation by singing along with my man GaliB, The Bangla Rapper.

"Aami dal-bhaat khai nigga,

Aami bangla rap kori nigga"

Futility

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 14:28:00 +0000

While in BITS, I attended this Aircraft Model making workshop. It was not a one-off thing. Ran for quite a few weeks on end. The guy conducting the workshop was incredibly passionate about the entire exercise. I remember him talking excitedly about how delicately the pieces in the set needed to be put together and how every single part had to be precisely cut to ensure proper flight. We were also told that once we understood the entire process well enough, we will be given our own sets to make models out of. Models made of wood (a certain special, highly expensive variety whose name I can't recollect) which were not only a visual delight, but ones which actually flew. I remember attending all the sessions; sitting on one of the benches right in front, listening to every word of his. I never really went on to make that model. In fact, I soon realized I wasn't cut out for the job. It entailed a lot of patience and dedication and I had neither on offer.

Why did I share that incident? Wait for it.

I have always enjoyed writing- pen, keyboard, whatever. Or maybe keyboard is better. Never been particularly good at it, hope to be someday. Back in school, my schadenfreude-ical proclivities often ensnared me into the inimical practice of frustrating my audience with frequent injections of long, tortuous sentences riddled with an array of veritably unnecessary series' of bombastic words as a means of verbalizing the nebulous pools of thoughts which often take shape in my predominantly dysfunctional brain. Not now. I have never suffered from hippomonstro-sesquippedaliophobia. So I have hippomonstro-sesquippedaliofilia ? Apparently that's not a word.

I have realized that in order to be a really swashbuckling, ass-kicking, bimbette-wooing writer, I need to able to string together an unforeseeable connect between disparate thoughts expressed in the same article. Like fashion magazines and M&A, Shakti Kapoor and the US elections. That's the mark of a truly great writer.

My ridiculously ungainly exercise of attending the Aircraft Modelling workshop and the widely prevalent and incredibly self-gratifying practice of compulsive pleonasm have one distinct common thread - futility. I will never become an Aircraft Model maker or even make one for a kid. Those long winding words serve no purpose, especially in the day an age of spell-check and the Internet.

So much for a failed attempt.

Happy New Year

Why South Indians should be banned from Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 19:00:00 +0000

I am not a racist. I am mortally fearful of the hijras cum thugs of Bangalore and feel sorry for the Cherry Blossom hued of Chennai. But I do not discriminate against South Indians and respect them as much as the kaisa dajiba Marathis or the e churi ba Biharis. Of late, however, I have chanced upon a legitimate reason to be cross with them.
Facebook is an integral part of our lives. As the ultimate channel of utter frivolousness, it fills the huge void left in our lives by "stare out of your windows into the clear skies and think of flowers". It offers countless time-killer apps, innumerable hot chick pics and most importantly a chance to discreetly and legally satisfy the voyeur in us day in and day out. One of the primary means to facilitate this indiscriminate voyeurism of course is the universality of language. The predominant language on Facebook for most Indian users has been English. Desi-fied and fransip English sometimes, but English all the same. I might be wrong, but seldom do Bengali or Marathi users resort to their respective regional languages for communication on Facebook. South Indians (and this refers to people living in the bottom 1/5th part of India, also known as Madrasis without any loss of generality) , however are blatant violators of this unsaid principle.
Sample this:

Random South Indian Friend's Facebook Status: "today was an interesting day ;) "
21 friends like this

Comments :

Random South Indian Friend's Classmate: "wat happnd girl ?"
Random South Indian Friend's Hot Friend: "it dfntly was ;-) "
Random South Indian Friend's Classmate: "say na"
Random South Indian Friend: "haha, kp guessin girlies :) "
Random South Indian Friend Desperate Guy Acquaintance: "wat happened dear.pls tell me also"
Random South Indian Friend Best Friend: "wat is dis abt huh ?"
Random South Indian Friend: "@Random South Indian Friend Best Friend: u knw very well abt dis ;-)"
Random South Indian Friend Best Friend: "i dont dear. tel me tel me fast :-)"
Random South Indian Friend: Ok here it is .. actually .. nama hugtly gama tulu chnata ni Raja nu kis il illa chippa nisu. So Reena senma hittu ja ra fafi lika illa lulla pilla chund. galla ulla tala pilla hara nela gela tam. chintanu ghumni justunnani dhunfa hijja tuy ra. :P .. and then unfr thunda fugga thuank kigga nu. :) :) :) "
Random South Indian Friend's Best Friend: ":)"
Random South Indian Friend:";-)"
Random South Indian Friend's Classmate: "wow .. awesome !"
Random South Indian Friend: "hehe"

............

I trust that I have driven home the point I am trying to make by the above illustration. Now you can very well argue that any Facebook user can use Google Translator or for that matter just simply ask the concerned user for an English translation. However, both those options violate the basic principles on which rest the Facebook culture which promises to all users, voyeurism through minimal effort and absolute anonymity. A substantial proportion of South Indian Facebook users have been found guilty of such practices which have considerably harmed the usability of Facebook. It is for this reason that there has been no love lost between me and South Indian Facebook users. As a non-racist, I have a come up with a most fair suggestion of banning all South Indian Facebook users for life. Such a step will be for the general good of all Facebook users and ipso facto all of humanity.

P.S: Don't try Google Translator on the South Indian comment above. You will realize that if I knew shit about the language I wouldn't be complaining about it.

Absurdities

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 11:29:00 +0000

This post is not about Surds. I grant that many surds may be absurd in their own right, but this is not about them.
This ejaculation of unwanted wisdom is about things beyond explanation. Absurdities are those diversions from the norm, those happenings defying logic, those acts going beyond conventional wisdom. Absurdity is an Australian player called "Miao Miao", absurdity is Sherlyn Chopra, absurdity is ghost-driving-broomsticks. Absurdity is good. Mostly. As the the guy in goggles and red shirt on Orkut says: "Normal is boring". And right he is. Normal indeed is inane, bland, tasteless and remarkably unfunny. And that is what makes absurdity so refreshing.
I remember devoting a precious hour of my life once on what seemed a very weighty intellectual issue. "What is normal?". Think about it. What is normal ? "A line drawn at a right angle to the figure", says the smart guy. Screw his ass. I actually remember the exact backdrop of this conundrum. Like all great breakthroughs, my inspiration came from Facebook. It was during a conversation with a friend that I remember using the word abnormal. "You are abnormal you know" was what I had said. And in my defense, I believed I had reason enough. The guy had posed in the most ridiculous of manners in pictures of him on the site. And to top it off, wrote captions in Bollywoodish English for each of them. This act, a rather tasteless and insanely dumb transgression of the unsaid boundaries of narcissism, seemed to me, absurd. Abnormal. And I told him so. I remember then proceeding to tell other people about this. And they all seemed to agree. Though at different levels of affirmation. The "apple from the tree on falling on head" moment happened, however, an hour later. Those ludicrous snaps of our "absurd" subject had been commented upon by a girl. A girl with a nose, mouth, two pairs of limbs and two breasts. "Wow! You look hot!" it said. Simple, undiluted words of praise. It was it this very moment that the million dollar question surfaced. My assumption of what was abnormal had been questioned. Albeit by a girl with a blunt nose, disfigured mouth, pair of fat-laden limbs and sagging breasts. It implied in essence that my assumptions about normalcy may not be correct either. An hour of intense rumination ensued. It led to one life-changing revelation: Normalcy is not an universal phenomenon. And neither is abnormality.
It is probably this subjective element of absurdity that makes it so appealing. What's absurd to me may not seem so to you. And it should not. Beyond the rights of free speech and free blogging, is that one unsaid privilege that we all enjoy, the right to free thought. And so all of us are free to use our own discretion, we decide what is normal and what is absurd. If "Miao Miao" or "Woof Woof" is what you want to call your child. Go ahead, do it. It's your brain. You are the sole decider of its terms of use. Fuck the rest.
All said and done, absurdity remains an essential part and parcel of our lives. It's what makes each moment different. It's what makes us laugh and cry. The Tushar Kapoors of the world are the ones who make our lives that much more livable. So go ahead and embrace absurdity with open arms. I promise you a better life.

DP

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 20:30:00 +0000

That's what this is precisely. A Desperate Post. A desperate attempt to add to this space. I am in exactly that kind of mood in which I couldn't care less for the grammar. I am in exactly that kind of mood in which I couldn't care less for the formatting of this post. I am in that kind of a mood in which I shall throw random off-the-top-of-the-head at you and care precious little about how you might not like reading about it.
There are these four letters you know . L U C K . The word peculiarly enough rhymes with FUCK which like the original word can mean imply both good and bad. I realize the fact that here I am in supposedly the "best f**kin B-school in the country" because Luck would have it. I also realize that this is not an end. I realize that this is just a start. And even during this journey , the L , the U , the C and the K will all have their share of F-U-C-K ing to do .I do not complain. For once, I seriously don't. I do not particularly enjoy randomness. I do not like not knowing what's going to happen next. Yet somehow for once I want to be able to flow with it. And enjoy it in the process.
I am not going to talk about what I am doing or how hectic life is , how I am getting royally screwed in certain "Balancing of Shit" exercise or why too many girls is a bad thing. I am sure you would like to know. The reason being that I do not want to resort to cribbing and sulking .And neither do I want to gain "respeck" by proclaiming how I, Superman himself, am coping up with the "bhery bhery hectic" life at B-School .
So anyways, there are lots of Bengali professors here. In fact , almost all professors are Bong. Anticipated no doubt. I have a bean bag in my room now . Its amazingly comfortable . I suggest you buy one. Comes pretty cheap .The chicken served at lunch today was freaking tasty . So was the mishti doi yesterday. Nice stuff. Closeness to home is a distraction at times. Whenever I go home, I don't feel like coming back to the campus. No surprises there. Tollygunge has been frequented too , quite a bit. The Deshapriyo Park CCD is awesome somehow. Difficult to pinpoint why. Nice place that , Deshapriyo Park. It could become my second favourite place in this city after a certain other Park with a Street. For all who love the place at night, I find it absolutely delightful on a Sunday morning. Tired, calm .
In other life-changing revelations, I do not think my life is Facebook-worthy. I don't know if I even want it to be. But since I mention it, I guess somewhere deep down I do .

May I Have Your Attention Please !!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 07 May 2010 10:39:00 +0000

This is to inform you that the author of this blog , introduced and described previously as a normal human being with the most outrageously normal life ,is all set to take a perfectly normal detour on his career path. As is the norm(al) ,post his engineering degree from BITS Pilani , he will now join IIM Calcutta for a degree in management.

As already apparent , the author , now consumed by hubris , will refer to himself in third person in this post. And why not? Getting into an IIM is no mean feat.

The author has had to endure severe trials and tribulations during the IIM admission process. He appeared for CAT on the 1st of December 2009 in the 3 pm slot at the Institute of Engineering and Management (IEM) Kolkata . Neither the date nor the venue where selected randomly. As a dedicated professional would ,he consulted his resident numerologist who explained that the author's birthday, the date 01.12.2009 ,position of stars of the Taurus constellation and the number 99 (important in the CAT context) were linked by a divine ratio which he had previously witnessed only in the case of a deaf and blind CAT 100 percentiler of yore.The venue was easier to select. IEM was as close as it gets to IIM. Not one to give in to complacency , our beloved author prepared relentlessly for the CAT. He could recite up to the 200th decimal place of pi in less than a minute and quote the exact page number of any given word in the Oxford dictionary .

On the fateful day, our author turned up at the test venue much before time and entered into his ritual meditation until he was asked to move inside the test centre for pre-test procedures. The test was a breeze. In fact , on seeing certain questions , the author was seen smirking at how embarrassingly simple they were. He however wasn't one to take chances and hence attempted 59 out of the 60 questions with about 20 minutes to spare.

Word circulated soon about how many other CAT takers had attempted even more questions than the author had and that too admittedly with an accuracy of 90% or more. This made him tense. On quite a few occasions in the days post CAT , a teary-eyed author was seen looking up to the heavens and praying for divine intervention .He was also spotted playing the "IIM , no IIM" game with the petals of the roses he had picked up from his garden.

The results came out without warning. Our author had scored a solid 99.77 percentile but a 95 odd in VA meant he had no IIM A call. He went into a frenzy, cursing his misfortune and CAT organisers alike. With IIM A out of the window, our author had his fingers crossed regarding the IIM B and IIM C prospects. He ended up getting both. In a moment of exultation , the author punched his fist against the wall infront of him and in the process, almost fractured his pillars in the process.

The next step in the process was filling personal data forms of the respective IIMs. The author ,normal and boring as he is, had to go out of his way in conjuring up "hobbies" and "career plans". And then came the GDs , essays and PIs. The author was subject to abject humiliation in the way of being forced to wear white shirts, formal t-shirts and ,would you believe it !, a tie !! He was then put in a room full of nerds (people like him with normal lives) and asked for opinions on issues he had only learnt to care about only after the CAT results were declared. GDs were noisy. Our author, a sucker for tranquility , wasn't impressed. Essays were more sober affairs. The author, not one to take things lightly, devised mechanisms to fully utilise every minute of the time allotted to him. He also used his yogic methods to focus all his energy into his pen which almost seemed to glide on the paper as if it had a life of its own. Personal interviews followed. The author, prepared for any question thrown at him, waxed eloquent about his academic achievements, strengths , weaknesses (?) and other sundry topics. The panel was impressed.

What remained was a formal declaration of the results. And that happened on the 10th of April. Our author ,understandably ecstatic, drowned himself with gallons of Russian liquor. Rumour has it that he also danced naked. But we have no eye witnesses to vouch for the same.

That was that. History was made. Our author shall now grace IIM Calcutta with his auspicious presence. He will also try to grace this space sometimes to help out your sorry asses (God! The arrogant snob !). You may now start with the standing ovation. Cheers !

Dish And That

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 14:30:00 +0000

I found the idea of a blog incredibly romantic when I started out with it. I finally had a website of my own which will have only stuff I write . No “Please be my neighbour, I am a hot chick and roam about in my undies all day” requests , no “You may not know me , but this is my boyfriend and we hug and kiss and take pics to make you jealous . Haha !! “ images , no nothing. Just my thoughts.,unadulterated .Seemed nice.

The whole exercise of sitting down in front of a desktop and putting random thoughts together to make a coherent post is possibly the most soul-searching I could manage . And so I blogged. There were the minor issues involved . Should I write “his” or “her” name or just use “he” and “she” or

maybe mysterious acronyms ? Mr.A , Miss. B ? Who was S again ? Anyways , I sorted those issues out soon. nOOb blogger stuff , you may call them. Things we later realise didn't matter at all. The fact is , when we start off with a blog , we grossly overestimate their impact and expected readership . “Oh my god , its on the INTERNET and there are MILLIONS, wait BILLIONS , wait TRILLIONS !!! of people out there. OMG !! OMG!! What if they come to know ? What if my dad opens it ? What will happen if my girlfriend reads my fictitious sexcapades ? OMG !! ” .You get the drift. Disillusion reigns . A couple of enthusiastic weeks later , we realise that although there might be trillions out there , no one quite managed to stumble onto that url of yours. What are the chances !!!

Its when this life changing revelation dawns on you , that your blogaholism fizzes out . 80% of bloggers who had previously set on a selfless journey to entertain the rest of humanity with the joys of blogging bury alive their blogs once and for all. The industrious lot survive , using other channels to diligently guide bored surfers to their blog. But most die. I did too. ADD kicked in and kicked me out of blogosphere. And I took to Twitter . Oh , FYI (www.twitter.com/shoaib88) .Quickly tapping few random words off the top of the head suits the unimaginative. Suits me. Of course trillions don't read my tweets either . So this might die a slow death too one day.

One thing I cannot tolerate is people dishing out gyaan on public platforms. If at all we ever need inspiring insights into love, life and everything in between, I doubt we would ever revert to gtalk status messages and orkut profile names. Why should people care for what you think ? If you are a Sri Sri , they might listen , otherwise they won't. They shouldn't . Which brings me one actual reason why blogging has started became such a tough ass job. Its this ideological conundrum .Here I say that you shouldn't care about what lame ass pseudo-intellectuals think or say . (Read previous sentence again) . I mean , why should I expect you to listen to me telling you not to listen to others ? Right ? Yes ? No ? Exactly . A man should have principles in life .No double-faced business. What right do I have of harking my principles out loud and then violating them in the very same post ? And why should I force myself to write a blog post if I don't want to ? You never forced me to right ? Then ? Am I not a double-faced rascal ? Damn me !

Me Comeback, Me Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 20:04:00 +0000

I feel this sudden overwhelming sense of responsibility towards my rather massive readership . Which, besides you, includes all the naked and brazenly blue residents of Pandora .To all of them and the rest of mankind I dedicate this "Vinod Kambli"ish comeback to blogosphere. I fully respect the rather minimal expectations that you have from my blog . You might have just landed here because I mentioned BITS Pilani ,BITS Pilani ,BITS Pilani thrice .In which case ,a loud sinister laughter will now blare out of your speakers .Maybe not.For most parts of this post, I will cough and choke words out of my system .And I don’t demand an audience .That you will read this in full and then complain that you wasted 5 precious minutes of your life is your fault, not mine .Thoughts don’t flower in my mind like they do in yours . But I will try to cultivate and pollinate them . Then hope for sweet fruit . That they may turn out to be unpalatable is a risk you can decide to not take.

Another year draws to a close.

Another year of hair loss, another year of being a sad nerd .

Another year of reasonless cursing , another year of being jealous of the more fortunate .

Another year of US sitcoms , another year of being a couch potato .

Another year of watching movies ,another year of listening to music.

Another year of not smoking , another year of being a non-alcoholic .

Another year of salivating over biryani , another year of hating college mess.

Another year of loving Calcutta , another year of complaining about West Bengal.

Another year of conning to rote, another year of appearing for tests.

For all the year-end celebrations , most things don’t actually much .Thankfully though , some things do . Pilani ends , joblessness ends .Special people become more special . Not so special people are forgotten .Some disappoints live on and some opportunities promise good things .I don’t have much to complain about .That makes me happy .Yet I am not satisfied .And that excites me. Here’s to hoping for “new” in the new year. Peace.

This Is Not A New Post

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 17:09:00 +0000

Caution : Lethargic Author

This blog will be back , hopefully ,some day , maybe .

And if you're dying to read : http://www.google.co.in/reader/shared/shoaib104

Shit Happens ..

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 15:24:00 +0000

... for no reason at all.

P.S: Click to enlarge

Jibber Jabber

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 16:04:00 +0000

You can just read and move on . I don't expect you to respond . I am experiencing a bout of depression . Apparently arising out of nothing particular . I don't feel happy . I am not high . I don't drink . But I just feel like blabbering .Feel like talking without making any sense . Gives me a sense of relief . I don't expect you to understand the point of this . I don't know the point of this .My eyes are burning . I have not been sleeping much of late . Not that I have been working a great lot .But I just haven't slept .Don't feel like sleeping . Don't feel like doing a lot of things lately . Lazying around feels good . And that's all . There is a lack of drive . I need to be egged on .But how and by what ? Is it supposed to be born inside . That's not happening .Then ? Where do I look for it ? I count days .Days to the end of this semester .Days to the beginning of the next .Rounding off appropriately. Doesn't help much. 32 .Damn!

04.04.2009

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 13:06:00 +0000

Is there a way more sensible than that which is purely based on rational presumptions ? Or should the romantic soul be glorified for his blissful escapism ?

What does one do when reality is not in sync with premeditation ? What if there is no Plan B ?

Or should I not think at all ?

Can I not think at all ?

Crouching Tigers and Scary Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 15 Mar 2009 11:13:00 +0000

I don't know much about the science behind dreams . What chemistry lies behind the fabrication of the images we see when we dream , I have no clue . But dreams with their bizarre and distant semblance to more real images scare me . My fears are , I believe similar to those of most other rational beings . I fear reptiles , dogs , diseases ,failure , death and communal riots . And while dreams about reptiles and dogs eating me up make me sweat while I am sleeping , its those of the other category of fears which provoke disturbing thoughts even when I am awake .And that I don't like . What's eerie and scary at the same time , is how the images I see and the the words I hear have no real connection with any existing situation and yet somehow represent deep-seeded fears inside me in their most frightening form . And hence dismissing them becomes difficult. Hope I find a cure to this soon . Wonder if I can do anything to shift the motif of my dreams to more favourable ones. Putting up giant wallpapers of pretty women might possibly help .

Shifting to a totally unrelated story , I went to Ranthambore over the past weekend . Saw tigers and Mukesh Ambani . I know that deserves a bigger post . So that's all I'll say about it right now .

I am also possibly going home , yes GOING HOME towards the end of this month . Its a plan and a schedule made in a hurry .

Nothing more to share right now . Will post a post with snapshots of Ranthambore and a 'Spot the Tiger and win a date' contest later . But then that's way too much inertia to overcome .Will take a while.