chance meetings

10 years ago, I met a boy in Kolkata – only a few years older than me, but full of worldly cynicism and the bravura that only boys of a certain age can have. We spent 3 lovely days together and then I left Kolkata, taking with me emotions and feelings that I couldn’t define – at that time, only hoping that he felt the same way too.

I wrote him one letter – and one letter only; 4 pages long, full of childish nonsense (though I don’t recollect exactly what I wrote). I never got a reply.

Yesterday, I met him again – of all places, in Bangalore. I didn’t know it was him until we were introduced – and his name brought it all back in an exquisite rush of pain and euphoria. We exchanged numbers, and he messaged me this morning. Now I know – he did feel the same way.

But isn’t it too late?

Bengalis will do anything.

Literally, anything.

Check: Oneek (yes, it rhymes with eek) singing his heart out on some excessively overexposed and undercomposed Bengali celebration. Go figure, since he’s already sung his sense of tune, sense of rhythm, his brain and his voice out – and replaced all of that with copious layers of fat – I guess his heart was the next best organ left.

Check: Shah Rukh Khan monotoning Shubho Noboborsha – dude, it’s happy new year, not happy new RAIN.

Check: On Bengali Breaking News – three youths murder a girl who was flirting with all three of them. So just in case there are still some folks left who didn’t know – Love is Cruel, allotted 20 and a half minutes of primetime news.

Check: The slew of Bengali serials with utterly pathetic actors – pandering to an audience with an IQ level of minus 42.5. One ad goes: Ek je chhilo Raja (shut left eye) … Ek je chhilo Rani (shut right eye) … Ar oder chabi kathi… (drop dead).

blah.

Dear Director of EAN,

So how’s it feel raking in the moolah? You really struck gold with your non-saas-bahu tale of love, and the air must be getting really thin on the cloud that you’re on now. Even my usually discerning mom seems to like the Ujan-Hiya story, and even calls me at work to let me know that Ujan has bought a new car!

I am beginning to believe that your sets have really plush carpeted floors – Hiya wouldn’t get her kicks out of collapsing so frequently, otherwise. But seriously, does Hiya really need to oscillate between being Cheshire Cat and Chicken Little? And Ujan’s shock-betrayal-trauma-repressed_angst syndrome is getting on my nerves. And did June Maliah have to pay you to give her that extra spoke in the wheel role?

And seriously, are your interns interns, or recent mental asylum escapees? Especially the teapot – short and stout – with the magenta eyeglasses. What IQ did you credit your viewing public with? Did you think they would swallow that poor excuse for a mentally retarded lollypop as a medical intern?

How many twists are twists enough for a soapy bubblebath opera? Trust me, Mr. Director, we are clean enough already! There’s only so much one can take of pink frilly lace-edged fragrant bubblegum popping love stories about doctors who do 5 surgeries a day and still find time and energy to have marathon gossip sessions in the restroom – which, surprise surprise, refers to the doctors’ drawing room in a hospital called Tulip.

Take a hike, Mr. Director – preferably a long one-way hike, with your Mr. Darcy meets Batman hero and your Cheshire Cat-Chicken Little crossbreed – and give me back my mom.

Believing in better TV programming,

Yours Truly.

PS: apologies to those who cannot relate to EAN. Try hanging out in Star Jalsa (jO-L-SHaa) watching households around 7.30 PM on weekdays.

PPS: and no, I don’t have a rule to only write on the 9th of every month.

Jai Ho – to what? why? how?

Isn’t it funny that the Oscars should choose the one song that strikes a jarring note in the soundtrack, when awarding “Best Song” to Slumdog Millionaire? Danny Boyle may have included it right at the end, simply to ensure that his film about India has a typical Bollywood ishtyle song and dance routine – complete with a catchy chorus, group dancers that arrive from nowhere and are exactly in sync, bollywood meets elvis style dance routines, etc. But frankly, both Gulzar and Rahaman have done better.

Through the song, Sukhwinder sings about how he has blown away sleep from his eyes, calls to his beloved to come under the blue brocade sky and likens her eyes to two lit-up diamonds, and then suddenly he goes – “Jai Ho!” Jai Ho to what? why? how?

Worse, the song is interspersed with Spanish words – Baila, ahora conmigo tu baila para hoy – basically meaning, dance now with me for today. And then the very next line says, “Jai Ho!” Jai Ho to what? why? how?

Nondescript wailing and mangled lyrics aside, is Jai Ho really the best song of the movie? I’m assuming it was decided that Slumdog was to sweep the Oscars this year – if they had a few well known faces, then it would have swept the acting awards as well. Lucky for Kate Winslet it didn’t. However, Rahaman is no doubt brilliant and his soundtrack totally apt for the film – except Jai Ho. O Saya would have been a better choice.

In short, Jai Ho is exactly the kind of formulaic Bollywood spectacular that combines all the right ingredients to generate a hit for the masses. It would have fit into any other Bollywood potboiler just as easily. It is not an identifier for the film – as it captures none of the nuances of Slumdog’s brilliance.

Oscars disappoint me once again.

The adapted screenplay of marriages

Scene 1

Bridegroom enters venue. Bright lights. One crazed photographer scrambling for space amidst family members jostling for a look at the jamai. Boy puts on topor. Sighs all around. Baran begins.

Scene 2

Registrar of marriages seats herself and asks for bride to be brought in. General confusion. Registrar has four more marriages to legalise after this one. Bride is brought in. Crazed photographer goes bonkers again – begging the bride and groom to look his way and smile. Several signatures and one solemn verbal vow later, they are declared legally married. Registrar’s fee = standard basic fee + number of document copies multiplier + dinner.

Scene 3

Bride is carried in on a piri by her brothers and uncles, who’re probably regretting not joining the gym when the joining discount was offered. They heave and stumble through the seven circles around the groom. The bride and groom have seen each other before, but officially see each other for the first time under a white sheet held aloft by the other relatives who’re not supporting the piri. Garlands are exchanged three times, amid a lot of struggle for bride to reach the groom.

Scene 4

Purohit arranges bride and groom in various poses, all aimed for classic photographs to be put into the album. First, they sit opposite each other, and their hands are joined under a gamcha. Click. Then, the bride sits on the right of the groom. Click. Then, the groom sits on the right of the bride. Click. Then they stand, with the groom holding the bride’s arms from behind her, and pour khoi into the fire. Click. Then they walk seven steps on seven paan leaves. Click * 7. Then they circle the fire seven times. Click * 7. Then the groom puts one arm around the bride, and holds her adam’s apple with the other. Click. Then he holds her chin and both look at an imaginary star. Click. Then he puts the sindoor on her forehead for the first time, three times. Click. Click. Click. All this is done to the accompaniment of wailing shehnai and resonating chants.

Note: while the structure remains the same, additional scenes may be added or existing scenes modifed, depending on city, locality, purohit age, purohit interest, and fee paid.

Greatest invention of man?

I’ve been packing wedding gifts for my brother’s upcoming wedding, and its given me a crick in the back.

He is lucky enough to have found someone he loves and therefore, wouldn’t mind getting married to. I’ve been hearing so many horror stories about marriages nowadays - I think the making of marriages has been outsourced to hell. Heaven is probably struggling with recession.

But my views on marriage notwithstanding, packing gifts has made me realise one unsurmountable thing.

The greatest invention of man is – Sellotape!

I can’t imagine a world without it.

Alpha Male -> Omega

So alpha males are the stars of the show – the ones that everyone defers to and follows. I am extending the definition to include the men who are my friends, who I like primarily for their individuality and their independence.

But along comes a girlfriend, and everything changes. All the alpha males turn to domestic animals, carrying and fetching, avoiding confrontation, giving up smoking, drinking, looking over their shoulders — placidly chewing cud.

I like chivalrous men, as long as they remember they’re still individuals with their own minds, rather than an extension of some other being who happens to be female.

And don’t ever go to a party, or on a trip, or to a gathering, where the others are all couples. Either you die puking (because you drink too much), or you die of boredom, or both.

When we’re together, we’re incompatible with the world.

When in the presence of others, we’re incompatible with each other.

Its strange to see ourselves interacting with others, conscious of judgements being passed, powerless to prevent them. Resorting to crude language, laughing at crappy jokes, rushing to gloss over faux pas with some funny line, turning away when our eyes meet. I went for you, but I talked the most with your better half. I went for you, but spent all my time berating your childhood friend. Next time, just us, please.

The mountains are beautiful. I can’t decide if its the sea that moves me most, or the mountains. There’s something about the mountains that awes you and comforts you at the same time. The grandeur takes your breath away, the huge expanses dwarfing you, the sheer size of tree trunks intimidating you. But the silence, the whispering breeze, the sunlight shining in oblique rays, all of this makes you feel as if you were the only person alive in the world, and how glorious would that be!

photos: www.flickr.com/tiamukherjee

The Forgotten Art of Gifting

I find it odd that some people spend hours, days, months planning for gifts when someone’s birthday or anniversary comes along. Here’s a do-it-yourself guide on how to quickly hit upon the perfect gift.

• a gift should be something that the person wants but wouldn’t or couldn’t buy themselves – think wishlists, and things on the wishlist that have been pushed down due to unaffordibility and/or lack of immediate necessity
• a gift should be unusual and unexpected – think out of the box; forget clothes, t-shirts, pens, watches, chocolates, puppies, flowers — all of these are acceptable, only if accompanied by something totally whacky.
• a gift should not be impersonal. It should be customized to the recipient’s likes and dislikes, but also remind them of the person doing the gifting. Think of their hobbies, or common passions, of long conversations on smoke breaks about starting up your own pub
• a gift should be intuitive. Don’t ask someone else, what should I get? Will she like it? Is this better, or is that better?
• a gift can’t be “hunted” for. Don’t walk into a mall without first having an idea of what you want to gift.
• and lastly, no matter how you’re tempted, don’t let the secret out.

Tomorrow is little K’s bday, and I’m getting him the perfect gift!

Of birthdays, travel and boredom

Yes, I haven’t written in a long time. Today I was suddenly seized by an intense desire to return to blogging — and I realise I’ve a lot to update!

22nd July was my 25th birthday. I think till the day actually ended, and even for a couple of days later, I expected Mithun to resurface with roses, a sms and a surprise. But he didn’t. And if nothing else, that drove home the fact with unnerving certainty — he’s not coming back. And wonderfully, I was happy. Just a little bit regretful, that 22nd July 2008 was supposed to be the long awaited birthday celebration in Venice, but mostly happy and sated with the momentous birthday celebrations. <photos on flickr>

In August, I travelled to Europe for the first time in my life. In fact, travelled out of the Asian continent for the first time in my life. Destination: Paris and Amsterdam.

Ah Paris! The city of love, lights, music, art, culture, fashion. I loved everything about Paris. The metro, the museums, the streets, the summer days that stayed bright till 11 pm, La Tour Eiffel, streetside cafes, wine, coffee, the churches, the winding roads of Montmartre and the souvenir shops, the Seine, the sheer historical significance of every sight that nearly physically assaults you with its beauty. Paris is my city. Its the city where I could live for the rest of my life.

Amsterdam is another thing altogether. The canals are beautiful and when the bridges are lit, its like drifting through dark night skies with the stars at your feet and within arms’ length. But … it really isn’t a place I would want to live forever in. Nice to visit, pleasant to remember, but nothing much. Of course, its a lot of fun — clubs and nightlife to satisfy any hardcore party animal, and enough art museums to keep a starved intellectual like myself busy by day.

Now, I’m back to work, with nothing much to look forward to except a trip to Pondicherry at the end of August, and perhaps a weekend in Kolkata with Rahul and his conversation — which is of course a tremendous thing to look forward to

And of course, little K who falls more desperately in love with me everyday and would fly me to the moon if I so much as mentioned a mild wish to do so.