I’ve been doing a pretty good job of keeping the memories on the other side of this three-inch thick stone wall surrounding me. But once in a while, someone says something, and memories of you come rushing back, a physical force concentrated in intensity for one terrible moment - like stubbing my little toe or jarring my elbow.

It happened today.

Was I happy? Yes, deliriously so. And occassionally I wonder whether that last argument really took place – did you really say the things I heard you say? Perhaps I just imagined the whole thing.

But inevitably, somewhere in the middle of the loneliness of staring at my laptop screen till 4am in the morning working on some stupid excel file, I accept that it really did happen. Because its been 3 years, and we haven’t spoken. I did see you – on one deliciously golden afternoon, standing with your friends and laughing your glorious laugh - but that was all.

Despite everything, I really do think you were the closest I came to love.

Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. So imagining this shouldn’t really be such a big deal.

my fabulous bursts of wit are gone forever because I have lost a man I believed in.

Men are Assholes

I’ve come to the undeniable conclusion that all men are assholes. They are all psychosomatically incapable of loyalty, honesty and faithfulness.

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.