Blast from the past: Musafir

It's the genre of leather jackets, gold bracelets, chains, rings, black shades, cigars, streaked hair, guns and goons.
A gunshot reverberates, shattering all silence. A madman with gold capped teeth holds his catch at point blank, while the catch recollects why a pistol barrel is staring right at him.

 

The Musafir in question is Lucky (Anil Kapoor), a gentleman with ruffled hair and a thick stubble, who makes big time money hatching deals in pitch dark alleys.
His aim: probably to buy out all the boutiques in the world for this lass (Koena Mitra) who yankee doodles around him with only a two bit clothing clinging to her person.

 

Lucky's luck runs out when the lass absconds with his money leaving only her two bit bikini behind. He also gets into the bad books of an eccentric mafia superlord, Billa (Dutt), who makes him cross a highway swarmed by fleeting traffic, blindfolded.

Billa would excuse Lucky's peccadilos if he executes an unfinished business in Goa.
Lucky sets off to accomplish the task. He is constantly stalked by a corny cop, Tiger (Aditya Panscholi), who would also tell you a thing or two about sex and chocolates!

 

Lucky gets lucky again when he is seduced by sultry Sam (Sameera Reddy), who slips him many a cryptic and easy clue, before they lock lips in a moment of passion. Presently there's a knock on the door. Lucky may think it's opportunity, but Sam knows it's her husband Luka (Mahesh Manjrekar).
Thus what began as a gun point extends into a segment, an angle, a triangle and a tangle through which Lucky tries to find a way to finish his task.

 

Plenty of style, attitude, bare and dare chauffer Musafir to Destination interval.

 

While Lucky juggles his own problems, both Luka and Sam unwind their respective versions of the past (cleverly shot in blue and ochre lenses), each asking Lucky to help bump the other off. Confusion unleashed, the plot bathes in a pool of tomato ketchup and Lucky flees to a holiday village with Sam in tow.

 

Meanwhile, Billa cannot comprehend the delay in the mission and decides to check things out himself.

 

Unable to make up his mind on whether the blue lens or the ochre told the true story, Lucky asks Sam to be kissed again. The kiss is again aborted in its infancy when corny cop and his men swoop down on the place. Billa also announces himself into the climax on a Harley, and the bird brained story runs with all its might, stumbles on its toes and falls with a thud at the finishing line.

 

The best thing about Musafir is its attitude. Musafir is not Bollywood's adolescence, trying to tiptoe past the censor board. Musafir declares all its bad habits on the table and demands to be treated like an adult.

 

Sanjay Gupta decks up Musafir with load and loads of style and oomph leaving no place for a story. He creates a rich, stylish ambience into which all the elements of his movie blend homogenously. The entire movie is shot in blue, ochre and maroon lens.

 

The songs are set at a high energy level with Sunjay Dutt crooning his own tracks. All characters have their bagfuls of cracking dialogues, ranging from brilliant to the bizzare.

 

Koena Mitra meets her objective with two high adrenaline numbers.

Sameera reddy's body language makes no grammatical errors. She exudes a rare Salma Hayekish sensuality in some scenes.

Aditya Panscholi lends sufficient idiosyncracy into his character. Shakti Kapoor flickers in a three bit role.
Mahesh Manjrekar snuggles into his role with utmost comfort. As the razor tongued Luka, he displays incredible naturality.

Anil Kapoor walks the walk with utmost sincerity. He has proven himself time and again, and does so, one more time in Musafir.

And Sunjay Dutt magnanimously graces the occasion lending his Midas touch to the movie.

 

Musafir is a very in your face movie. It has no hassles calling a spade, a spade and other things which the dictionary might be embarrased to tell you. But what is missing is the spade itself.

Waking up an older post: RDB - A generation awakens

Rang De Basanti is your juicy fruit jell-o which does you no harm, but doesn't give you proteins either. Aiming to rekindle patriotism in neo-India, RDB works just about.

 

About a British girl who comes to India with a passion to make a film about the freedom movement, based on the diary of her grandfather, and an incident which changes things dramatically, Rang De toggles shrewdly between the happenings in reel and real during the first half.

This portion of the movie is loaded with infectious fun, frolic and dare-devilry, ranging from alu da paranthas with extra makkhan to canteen capers to freefalls to motorcycling wheelies (I even saw a guy wheelie on a busy road, the next afternoon).

 

In the second half, the story sways heavily from one side to another like a destruction ball, at times crossing limits of credibility and venturing into zones of delusion before taking one giant swing that shatters into the climax.

 

Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra paints his canvas a multi hued abstract. Much like the logo of his production house, he is the archer looking at the ground with his arrow strung skywards.

Music is peppy and seeps into the mood of the film, except for one laboriously slow number that induces a premature interval in itself. The background score and cinematography are impressive and stylish.

 

Soha Ali Khan has never looked lovlier. Siddharth looks icy cool. Kunal Kapoor's pleasing looks and limpid eyes flirt endlessly with the camera. Atul Kulkarni is sincere as ever. Madhavan almost pulls off a deal out of a no deal. And RDB will do the same good to Sharman Joshi, what MBBS did to Arshad Warsi. Also garnished with Kirron Kher, Om Puri, Anupam Kher and Mohan Aghase in small significant roles.

 

Even with a slightly larger than life character, Aamir surprisingly doesn't dominate RDB. His role is a cocktail of sorts with the careworn mischief of Rangeela, the steely eyes of Sarfarosh, the ringed fists of Ghulam, the warm romance of Lagaan, the spirit of DCH and even the mooch ado of Mangal Pandey. He is the peppery DJ (he calls himself) whose Punjabi one liners are a stupendous draw for the film. His horseriding stills, splashed across the posters, do a Houdini act from the film itself, courtesy the animal rights activists.

 

Rang De Basanti is not a bad film. But it doesn't qualify as a classic either.

If I go to watch it again, it would only be because half the dialogues on screen were drowned in hoots, catcalls and whistles in the hall. Our generation was a little too awake that evening!

Unearthed: Peace de Resistance!

Author's note: Written - Jan 2008.

 

Warm greetings for a joyous New Year!

Diwali, bustling with bluster and blitzkrieg is just the time for Bollywood to rain its blockbusters that have been pumped and hyped up all through the year until the much awaited festive Friday.
One one side, there was Saawariya, which I chose to stay away from. Too much dessert, candy floss, syrupy romance, studio snow flakes..the more you saw, the more you worry. Yeah.

I opted instead for the seemingly easier on your nerves, Om Shanti Om.
OSO, abbreviations et al, is the film with which Farah Khan solemnizes SRK's megalomania on screen, molding him in a role that is a shadow of himself, and more so, one in which he need not fear being harangued for hamming his guts out.

OSO, the latest version upgrade to moviedom's celebrated genre of reincarnation sagas, is maverick, more like a child with unpredictable moods. It chortles, cavorts, bounds in and out of the laps of its granddaddy films, tugging at their whiskers, sometimes even startling those yester-year veterans out of their reclining chairs, who wave an admonishing finger at the irreverent mischief.
The film spoofs, puts its tongue out almost at everyone, has a ball freaking its neighbourhood out and occasionally, like a school kid running into exams around the corner, breaks into cold sweat and assumes fleeting seriousness.

So much said, OSO does spell entertainment, in bright and bold. For one, you have SRK flaunting his (graphically generated, of course we are jealous!) six packs with impunity. Then you have the tongue in cheek humour sprinkled all over the film. And as a bonanza, a big Bollywood constellation shines down on a cheesy Filmfare award function. The Akki cameo made waves but my favourite is Subhash Ghai's extempore!
Songs are aplenty and upbeat. Faraheography does ample justice to the music.

And now, appraisal time. SRK revels playing a partial imitation of himself to the hilt. Performance wise, he is what he calls himself in the movie - OK. Deepika Padukone can let histrionics be for a while. For the moment, she can continue to enchant us with that enigmatic smile. Shreyas is reliable. He is especially effective in the first half. Kirron Kher plays her part with gusto. Bindu adds spice to the act. New find Uvika Choudhury steals your attention.
Arjun Rampal digs out the intensity of his previous roles in Don and Ek Ajnabee and wears it with new sheen. He makes for one of the most polished antagonists on screen.

OSO was last year's Diwali fireworks gift wrapped by Red Chillies entertainment.
And like those whimsical firecrackers, while Saawariya fizzled out, OSO did the dhamaka!

From the archives: Fast Fertig

Author's note: Written: 05.07.2006,

'A hundred and ten minutes into the game and we're still not sure which side is going into the finals..' The commentator voiced his thoughts. His fellow commentator fell in agreement. Almost immediately Del Pierro threatened the German goal again, missing by a yard. As time ticked away, the action oscillated rapidly from one end to the other, leaving the mid field to itself.


With three minutes to another impending sudden death decider, a flock of Azzuris swooped into the German territory before one of the defenders hastily cleared the ball. A pat on the head from Lehmann for the save, but they'd still conceded a corner. A fatal one. Del Pierro executed the kick, Pirlo darted in but was blocked by the Berlin wall. One quick move towards the outfield followed by a deft pass saw the ball elude the German defense to kiss Grusso's feet. Fabio Grusso produced a neat deflection to send the sphere hurling at the goal. Lehmann lunged to his right stretching like a rubberband. The football teased him by inches and sank into the nets.

'Oh my goodness…what a way to score…surely Italy are going to Berlin on Sunday…' The commentator screamed inspite of himself.

Ballack watched, Klinsmann watched, several thousand German fans watched as the Jules Rimet melted before their very eyes. Silence could be heard amidst the Italian uproar. Grusso was ecstatic. Lippi bounded out of his seat like a happy child. The Germans stood paralysed.

Podolski and Ballack made one last weak attempt to redeem lost hope. But Rome came burning down the field for the final assault. Iaquento launched himself at full speed, Metzelder cutting him off only momentarily. Alessandro Del Pierro flew in like a meteor to collect the reverse pass and fired it past a helpless Lehmann. Lehmann leapt at it in an acrobatic effort for whatever it was worth, but the ball skimmed over him and bounced into the German nets for the second time in two minutes.

'Del Pierro…Del Pierro….Berliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin here we come…….' The commentator's excitement poured into the microphone as a jubiliant Alex sprinted all over punching his fists in the air.

A deafening roar swept across the stadium. Ballack couldn't contain himself and tears rimmed his eyes. Odonkor was inconsolable. So was the girl in the stands, with a Deutsche flag imprinted on her cheek. The last few seconds of the game were lost in Italian revelation.

His pair of steely blue eyes looked into the distance, betraying all emotions. Juergen Klinsmann rolled up his sleeves and walked on to the field to console his team.

Germany had found their nemesis in Italy. Like an alarm piercing through the silence of the morning, Italy had jolted them awake from their dream.

Italy seemed the more determined side, from the very start. They blazed through the field and tore into the opponent's defense. Germany had to resort to some recursive football to keep them at bay. Lehmann never had a dull moment in the first half. More than once, the German defense was found wanting. After half time, Germany displayed a more energised play and went after the Italian goal. It looked like they played very methodical football. A tad too methodical. They would almost get there, but if something didn't work to plan, they'd get on the defensive. A tiring Italy bid its way into extra time. Meanwhile Ballack failed on a free kick. Podolski headed the wrong way. Schneider's best chance soared above the cross bar. Gianluci Bouffon warded off the best German attempts to break in.

Extra time saw a renewed Italian attack. They soon spotted chinks in the German armour and on two occasions, the goal post had to come to Germany's rescue . The inflictions continued in a surge, hardly giving time for the opposition to recoup. That evening in Dortmund, Italy deserved the victory they played for, reaching the finals once again, a pattern they have been following every twelve years since 1970.

As Germany pick themselves up to their feet and gather the remnants of a shattered reverie, they still have some consolation. An honourable third place to play for on Saturday. Klose still heads the list of goal scorers and is a clear two goals ahead of anyone else, keeping alive his hopes for the golden boot. Klinsmann could still fulfil his dream of emulating Beckenbauer's success. But that will have to wait a while.

About dinner on Sunday evening. Will it be Pasta and croissants with Bourdeaux wine? Given the whimsicalities of the game, one can never tell!

Sailing in my paper boat

Mysore, 12.09.2010

We had just set out this evening in the car to do some shopping when the skies opened up and how. The vipers danced at top speed and the defoggers worked away with a marked urgency but it did precious little to improve the visibility on the road. The rain beat mercilessly on the windshield. Within minutes, gushes of water had sunk the asphalt by atleast half a foot.
Traffic was sparse with people cowering under trees and awnings seeking refuge from the whimsical wrath of the monsoon. A few valiant two wheelers still egged on, soaked to the skin but unwilling to surrender as yet.
The traffic lights looked rather bewildered and stranded, yet went about their duty.

Most shops on Dhanvantri road were in deep slumber, seemingly having taken the day off. A stray one here and there was half awake, reluctantly so, with the pouring showers outside only urging them further to call it a day.
The rain still pelting violently, it made no sense to get out of the car. So abandoning shopping, we drove on carefully. A Kannada song blaring on 93.5 was eventually drowned by the heavy drumming of raindrops outside. I turned left on Sayyaji road and drove on.
Water seemed to have conquered the land, forming rivulets, raging and streaming everywhere on the streets. Little waves leapt at the wheels of the car as if to devour them and fell aside in clapping splashes, sometimes getting squelched into fountains under the ruthless burlesque of buses and bigger vehicles.

I gawked for a moment as I crossed the Medical college circle. A few vehicles ahead appeared still, incapacitated of movement. I wondered if I should turn back but couldn't readily choose the option as a bus was tailing too close. Fortunately the traffic came alive again and dispersed itself very gradually.

I treaded cautiously hoping not to be accosted by hostile potholes or dismembered twigs and branches tumbling from above without notice. The needle on the speedometer almost smooched the 0 and flirted with the 10 for quite sometime before it could considerably sweep up the clock again.

A full twenty minutes later, the skies had relented. The clouds seemed content with the heavy venting and had retracted. Trees shook themselves dry, roofs emptied the water they held onto the hapless ground below and life slowly crawled back onto the streets.

Thankfully our drive home was void of adventures but I really wonder if the city is geared up enough to deal with unannounced onslaughts of monsoon. With two major roads, the one near railway station and a portion of KRS road (just after the erstwhile Gokul theatre) dug up interminably for engineering purposes that I fail to fathom, traffic has been inevitably diverted into the inroads of residential areas.
As a consequence of this continual and strained passage, nearly all other roads have been mangled with potholes, some the size of craters. Added to that, the random digging work to relay water pipes or whatever obscure reason, it has become extremely difficult to find a good stretch of road to drive on.
Even deeper within the city once where traffic used to manage itself flowing freely and smooth as butter,  signals and manned junctions have sprouted at incredulous places causing repeated deceleration. Exasperating!
In a quest for God and parking space on DD Urs road, you can safely put your money on the former.
The once tranquil KD road and its neighbourhood, more reknowned for roadside chaat in handcarts is now burgeoning with eateries, drawing teeming crowds and constricting the adjacent avenues with parked vehicles. Times surely are a changing!

Dussera is the one season where all administrative focus shifts to Mysore, roads are redone, the city is straightened out and made to wear a festive look. But this time, I wonder if we'll make the grade or the deadline. Too many unfinished projects, too many roads in a state of despair and God knows how many other apologetic statements of infrastructure one has yet to come across.

A lot of Mysoreans like me love this city for what it has been. The quiet green city with a regal charm, not far away from Bangalore. Our hometown. Our weekend retreat. Our home.
It is time to wake up. To give the place its due. To retain and to maintain it. It has had its share of urbanness. The pubs, the coffee joints, the bowling alleys and bustling restaurants. Let's not revamp it beyond recognition.

Let the Mysoreness be.

From the Archives: Reviewing Cyrus

Author's note: Written on 27.03.2006

Ahh! Joy!


How better to spend a sultry Sunday afternoon than being in an air conditioned hall, being on a reclining cushion seat, being relaxed, Being Cyrus. Now, think again!

The camera cranes in and out of dingy, tacky, murky habitats of a Parsi township while the narrative introduces us to Cyrus. A sharp looking youth with something like an identity crisis riding piggyback on him, he steps into this neighbourhood with a keen desire to learn pottery from a master craftsman. This teacher who once scaled remarkable heights, had gradually let himself slip into oblivion, and spent most of his day gazing at the skies or bruising his feet trying to extract flowers that bloomed in an empty well in the backyard.

Whether our hairy potter taught the protegee his much sought after pottery, we do not know. But we are told of his loquacious wife who begins to show an uncanny interest in Cyrus. Soon, the young man finds himself burrowing through the family album and learns that the potter has an old father seemingly fended by a nasty younger son and his young wife.

The potter's wife deploys Cyrus to run a couple of errands for her, wherein he carries chocolates for the old patriarch with a sweet tooth. The potter's younger sibling rasps at him while the young wife politely discourages the unwarranted courtesy.

So far so sane. But just so. Because now the screenplay gets on a pogo stick and hops, skips and does triple somersaults. Cyrus starts having tumults of hallucinations, all of which he throws up at the camera.

And just in time for you to recover from this sudden shock comes the big relief…intermission! Ahh! Joy!

By now, the story has hammered repeatedly at your temples to evince that it's a thriller. Post interval the screenplay caltapults into further delirium. We learn that the potter's wife and her seedy brother in law share a surreptitious equation. An irate mutt next door sinks its teeth into the brother in law. Its owner, an equally irate lady hurls abuses and smashes his car's window. Eventually, a big burly inspector waddles onto the screen, intending to turn the story on its head.

Maybe he actually did something I missed (I was too bored by then) because soon, the plot squirts ketchup on screen, doing away with the croakagenarian and his younger son. Cyrus wipes his hands clean off the conspiracy and consequently, the shifty inspector brings the potter and his shrieking wife to book.

While you sit in your seat wondering if this is the end of the road, an epilogue unfolds in which the suspense finally wriggles out of its cuccoon, turns into a moth, and with one desperate attempt to flap its wings, drops down to the ground. The screen rolls on the credits, announcing much needed freedom. Ahh….Joy!

Homi Adajania has an incredibly tangled ball of yarn at hand, which he aims to undo in a record 85 minutes that leave you exasperated.

Saif Ali Cyrus puts in a confident performance. Almost anybody who can pass off as a Parsi has a role in the movie, Simone singh being the prettiest of them all.

Naseeruddin Shah as the hairy potter fails to wave the magic wand in an unfortunately small role. Dimple is good. So is Boman Irani but you wonder if good is good enough.

Honey Chhaya has the next best role after Saif and the best line in the film - 'At the end of the game, the king and the pawn must go into the same box'.

Pappu Polyester (If I remember his name correctly from the Sword of Tipu Sultan) commands your attention in the cop's guise.

For your safe being, stick to your regular Cyrus on Mtv. He may not be Saif, but he is, at times, entertaining!

Bite your tongue

A few months ago someone told me, "You react faster than you think". That was perhaps the mildest way anyone could have put it.

I am habitually impulsive when it comes to blowing my top. The counting to ten never occurs to me even subconsciously and invariably I spew out in full acrimony the words and thoughts that would've just started to form in my head. Needless to say, I end up regretting most of the episodes in retrospection.

I remember an incident from childhood. I came home from school and was puzzled to find my bicycle missing. Flushing with anger, I asked around the house, "Where's my cycle?". "Your cousin has come. He asked if he could ride it to your aunt's house. I gave him permission", my Grandpa said.
Without another word, I flung my bag aside and strode off to my aunt's house.
"Hiiiiiiii!", my cousin beamed. "Give me my cycle", I screamed. Before he could react, I took away the bicycle and rode off in a huff. Didn't even say so much as a hello. Years later, I feel miserable and foolish when I think about it. I hope my cousin was able to forgive me.
Though I became a tad calmer after schooling years, my temper still gave room for enough such regrettable instances.

Last evening my superior from my European project gave me a call. Now I consider him a paragon of patience. No matter what happens, no matter how much anybody else in the project room hollers or yells, he keeps his cool and first decides to sort out the issue. A genuine troubleshooter, I've observed that he always looks for solutions and not for problems. I hope I can take a leaf out of his book.

It was regarding a critical topic. A regular blame game issue. As we spoke, I could feel the steam building up within me. The pitch in my voice began its ascent. "Hemanth, I want you to stop speaking and listen to me for a minute". I wasn't prepared to heed. "Will you listen to me? I want to tell you something....", "No!", I was defiant. It was about the absence of a key person. "Listen...", he tried again. But I went on and spoke my mind. The words came out rapidly, vehement and decisively curt. There, I was all done venting and beginning to feel victorious on the argument.

"Hemanth," he said slowly allowing a moment of silence. "She lost her father and had to return home".
I was numbed. I babbled a shaky apology. Suddenly everything seemed so insignificant. I felt terribly ashamed and small. If only I had listened to him and stopped myself from bellowing for a minute, I would've felt less of a sinner. I said a silent prayer for the bereaved family and asked for forgiveness.

It's very true. All those quotes and articles about the importance of good listening, about the two ears one mouth concept, about the irrevocability of the spoken word.

Last night I made a conscious resolve to watch my temper and keep my words in check. A small step towards becoming a better person.

Prayers

Parting note: Mukesh Khanna's character in Saugandh, 'Zubaan ek aisi tawaif hai jo hamesha mujra karti hai. Kabhi hamare saamne, kabhi doosron ke saamne'.

Passing by the TV!

Not anymore the ardent bollywood buff that I was a few years ago, I have a staggering backlog of movies and songs to catch up on if I wish to be up to speed again on that theme.
I however was particularly impressed by the theatrical trailer of Dabangg that I happened to see in passing. Attribute it to the unique name or to the fact that I had, a little earlier, come across a snippet of Salman Khan walking the ramp wearing a pencil line moustache and flicking his pair of shades onto his collar behind his neck! Now that's some original fashion statement!

Nevertheless I was amused then and had looked forward to the trailers of the film. And I wasn't disappointed.

Going by first impression, the movie seems to have loads of attitude. Salman's got the swagger, the glasses, the pencilled mooch all bang in place. He's got sass. Give him a kooky comedy and the awkwardness spills out. But put him in a good showcase like Wanted or even Tere Naam and he sparkles like no other.

I was equally enamoured with his anchoring on Dus ka Dum. At a time when Amitabh Bachchan was the textbook of game show hosting, Salman went ahead with his own raw style, rendering an earthy appeal to the show and endearing himself further to his fans and a vast spread of audience.

In the Dabangg trailer he lands the cheezy dialogues with just the right punch, broods with adequate menace and gleefully smothers the goons hurling them all over the place. Well I do hope the book will be as good as its cover!
Sonakshi Sinha is an eye catcher. She has just one dialogue in the promo but she hits bulls eye with it. Surefire stuff to set off a lot of whistles! Again, I do hope the film turns out to be a neat launch pad for her.

And then lets hope I follow up this post with a review of the movie!

Parting shot - Navjot Sidhu on Dus ka Dum, "Yahaan koi aawat hai, koi jaawat hai. Lekin jo khul ke saamne aaye, wohi Mallika Sherawat hai!"

What's Cooking! (Part I)

Author's note: Written on 11.02.2008, Suzhou, China. And though I had intentions of scribbling a sequel, it never materialised! Sigh!

It was something between a Ugghhh and a Yikes! that escaped my mouth as I sprang back in a moment of horror. The door of the fridge shrugged in a "What else did you expect!" sort of way. Inside, in the vegetable compartment was the ghastly scene of half a kilo of beans wilting cadaverously, enveloped by mounds of fungi that had emerged in colonies for the requiem. The poor lot of beans had camped there for a month and presently looked like eerily entwined fingers urging to claw at me for bringing them to this ruinous condition in sub zero temperatures. The only bearable aspect here was the string of thread, still holding the beans together, apparently oblivious to their state of affairs.


My attention quickly went to the onions (the actual reason that I had opened the refrigerator). The pair that had been a rich purple when I bought them last weekend (or was it the weekend before) had paled a few shades. They still looked healthy save the small sprouts that had started to germinate at the ends.

Ewww!. I retreated again, wondering how to extract the bean carnage out of the fridge. The onions were first rescued. Deciding to enshroud the beans before disposing them, I pulled out a plastic cover from their territory under the kitchen sink. With ginger adroitness, I held the innocuous string between fingertips and lifted the weight, intending to shove it into the cover in the other hand. The task seemed to demand surgical precision. If one stalk of bean cut loose, the whole lot would fall in an exodus onto the floor. In linguistic terms, it would mean spilling the beans! The cover on the other hand was adamantly repulsive to the entire ploy. It refused to consume the decomposed vegetables and constantly turned away.

Not wanting to aggravate the situation, I heaved the bare stack into the dustbin. They landed with a rebellious thud. The dustbin trembled with a second soft thud when a tomato still in its cover had to leave the precincts of the fridge with no particular inspection. After all, it had arrived from the market with the beans and was not expected to be in acceptable state of freshness now! The beans seemed to be twitching and hissing for revenge. I pulled the obstinate plastic cover on them, concealing them from my view forever.

The vegetable compartment was almost emptied, spare a couple of carrots that had started to develop what looked like fissures, a faction of small tomatoes appearing partially shriveled and a green chilli, proud as a green chilli could be, refusing to divulge its actual state of being.

I turned to look at the contents on the small shelves in the fridge door. They simply looked away. A container of condensed milk tilted itself into position enabling me to read the expiry date. It had miraculously survived the latest onslaught of procrastination.

With a deep sigh, I shut the door of the fridge close, recalling my kitchen capers from the past.

The Octopus may concur

Author's note: Written on 25.06.2010, Shiki, Japan.

Had an early wrap up at work on Friday. And while I did consider the suggestion of my colleagues to spend this last evening in Ikebukuro, I was not very keen on going there without company.


So once back in the hotel, I just plopped on the bed and flicked on the television, an apparatus I rarely disturb in this hotel. But on this particular evening, I did decide that I had time to kill before beginning to pack and so started surfing the limited choice of channels. On one of them was the world cup soccer match between……hang on….it was a Jap channel so I had to wait a while until the English display would show up. Ok, so it was a match between Italy and Slovakia (rerun, I learnt later).

Though I'm not one of those football aficionados who'd totter to the tv sets at 2 am to watch some European premier league match, I have been keeping a decent track of the World Cup event….so far. This year that enthusiasm too has waned.

However, I did continue to watch this particular match, my first in the ongoing world cup. Italy vs Slovakia.

The match seemed to be going strategically nowhere when I suddenly felt Slovakia might spring a surprise. Whenever footballing giants have undermined their weaker opponents, they have been rudely shocked. It happened to Germany in 1994 when little known Bulgaria suddenly exploded exploiting the German callousness and staged a major upset.

It was waiting to happen now. Italy was playing a haphazard game with no intention of getting anywhere when without notice Robert Vittek broke loose and shot the ball past a fumbling Italian goalkeeper. The Slovakian fans tore the monotonous humdrum with an uproar of celebrations. Italian coach Marcello Lippi had distress written all over him and looked like he could breakdown into bucketfuls any moment.

The visibly shaken Azzuris continued hankering around the rest of the first half. The second half seemed no different. While Slovakia was playing a markedly superior game in every aspect, Italy seemed to be wishing for a miracle. And it did happen, but for the opposition, with Vittek firing once more into the Italian nets. The goalkeeper was horrified. The defense was stunned. Their coach was hapless. The Slovakian camp was in a hysterical frenzy.

Around the seventieth minute Italy did manage a break through. After multiple failed attempts, they finally struck one past the Slovakian keeper. 2-1 still to Slovakia. And while this little shot in the arm seemed to rekindle Italian hopes, their goal-keeper committed a fatal error in judging the next wave of Slovakian onslaught. He ran towards an approaching striker leaving his gates completely unguarded. A simple manouver from his opponent and the ball found itself kissing the Italian nets once again. The goalkeeper was aghast. It seemed by the expression on his face that he wouldn't know in a thousand years what hit him. Captain Cannavaro was barely containing his agony. The fans fell into a lull of silence. This one mistake probably cost them more than they could imagine because they did manage to score again with barely five minutes to spare. Too little too very late. While some players in the box still rooted for the Azzuris to surge ahead, nearly everyone saw the writing on the wall.

When the final whistle was blown, the better, more methodical, more focussed team on the field that day had won and rightly so. Tears streamed down Italian faces, players tried to console themselves and others. Another sensational upset. Another world cup great humbled by taking too much for granted.

Reviving another old post: In Love With Falling

Author's note: Written 07.05.2007, Suzhou, China.

Good Afternoon to everybody on this side of the planet!

Ok, so am done with a week of vacation which was brought in with pomp and cheer and a labrynth of travel plans sketched hazily right from Hongkong to Shanghai (HSBC would be happy), to Hangzhou to God Knows where. Everything went crackle fizz pop and we finally settled down to seeing in and around Suzhou.

The routine most of the week was to sleep till midday, wake up to realise the time, cook and lunch, watch a movie (DDLJ too for one umpteenth time), bath and then go biking all over town in the evening. Sometimes like 3 - 4 hrs and get back by 10 or 11. Some net chatting and another movie before finally crouching under the blanket when the clock announced three and some more.

My friends were worse. They waited till dawn to hit bed!

And on Friday, I decided to realise another childhood passion....skating. So after we finished Tiger Hill that evening, we raided the supermarket and bought a pair of inline skates (you should really see these entry level Chinese makes), paddings, helmet...the paraphernalia.

Was too excited to wait and tried them on that night. And like a nonagenarian, I held on to my colleague who helped me cover a few meters inside the hall before we both decided to grow wiser.

The first lesson was scheduled on Saturday afternoon. Soon enough, My designated coach, Nagaraj breezed in on his pair of skates. At 3.30, we walked into the quadrangle. He took one look at my fancy dress and asked me to try wearing just one skate until I accomplished enough balance. 'Whatever you do, don't fall backwards..', he advised. For the next half an hour, I hobbled and clomped all over the place with one foot in the skate and the other in searing pain!

'Enough for the day..!', he declared and breezed out. I went in to get ready for my Chinese friend's wedding that evening. Amazing event! Cute couple. The customs were similar to a Christian wedding. A wedding organizer oversaw the proceedings. I clapped whenever the rest of them clapped. They relished the dinner. I had a little of whatever looked green and edible.

Come late evening, and my restless self walked back to the courtyard with the appartus. Ten minutes of hobbling and clomping and some pain in the other foot later, I decided to try on both skates. To put the other one with the first one on itself was an effort! Gingerly, I stood up. And traversed one step...another....and another...and then without notice, the wheels flew from under me and SPLAT!...I was on my backside.

Slowly...I told myself. Just go once around the square fountain. This time, the wheels cooperated a fraction longer. There....atta bo.....ooooooo....thud! They tricked me again. The trick and tease went on for another hour, punctuated by falls and pauses (I want to refrain from using break!). Once during this travesty, I saw a scooter headed directly in my path. 'Hey', I screamed and threw my hands up as if in surrender. The bewildered rider managed to veer away just in time.

I decided to go back home just before a gusty wind and heavy rain overtook the rest of the night.

Sunday evening, I was back in my wheeled boots. 'Sir, I forgot the helmet...', I complained as we came out to begin. 'It's ok..', Nagaraj reassured. He noted I was progressing well, but the guy taking the trash out had a roaring laugh when the wheels went sliding under my feet once again. A couple of falls later, I resolved to move faster. And almost crashed into a wooden enclosure even as Nagaraj watched, chuckling!

The paddings did their job well but it still seems like every bone wants to sing a song right now! I don't remember how I learnt to walk, but I sure remember the days when I grappled with my BSA Champ, trying to fix the centre of gravity where it belonged! Now, years later, it feels like I'm learning to walk on a bicycle...!

And I hope one day, I'll be able to glide on those set of wheels without making any bones about it!

Fear and the Femme Fatale

Season 3 of Khatron Ke Khiladi was flagged of yesterday under the sultry anchorship of Priyanka Chopra. Viewers of the previous seasons with perhaps miss the steely poise of the Khiladi Kumar, the stoic grimace trying to conceal itself behind his grizzly stubble, the dark aviators shielding all emotion.


Chopra unveiled the show in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil seeking holy blessings at the foot of Jesus the redeemed. An impressive line up of 13 contestants boasting big names from the world of television, sports and movies marched into the frame. There was Milind Soman, Abhishek Kapoor, Shabbir Ahluwahlia, Rahul Dev, Cyrus Broacha, Rahul Bose, Dino Morea, Manjot Singh, Ritwik Bhattacharya, Karan Singh Grover, Terrence Lewis, Angad Bedi and Armaan Ebrahim.

Each of them was assigned an arm candy as his partner for the dares to come.

Pleasantries over and introductions quickly run through, PC got straight down to business with task No. 1. Aag ka dariya blah blah…with the contestants having to dive into a pond of water at 6 deg C and unhook 5 weights. The surface of the water would be lit ablaze with flames.

An overconfident Milind barely got his cheek to the water a couple of times before throwing in the towel. It's too cold he reasoned. The rest fared much better though Rahul Dev and Cyrus Broacha too came up all thumbs. The only person to successfully accomplish the task was squash man Ritwik Bhattacharya. With piscine dexterity he dove under the dancing flames twice and unhooked all 5 weights. Manjot singh had some anxious moments for everyone around when he had to be rescued by a trained diver. Needless to say, Milind was the first to be sent home for his dismal faring.

Chopra lent considerable sauciness to the show as hostess, a tongue in cheek quip tossed here and there, mingling in to hoot and cheer with the other girls, and clasping her hands to her face when things either got genuinely tense or had to be accentuated in that manner. Yet at times, the proceedings missed the staid ruggedness of the Kumar. I'm not writing Priyanka off though. Clearly she's prowling on Kumar territory with a grit to get on an even keel. There's no denying her scorching screen presence. Could just be a matter of few more episodes before the cat kills the curiosity!

An ode to the unfinished

This monument is not exactly a symbol of unfinished construction. It is in fact, a partially devastated wonder of architecture.
But whenever I picture incompleteness, the Colosseum of Rome flashes before my eyes. Its beauty intrinsic in its fragmented existance.

I post below some articles that I started writing at various points in time. For a host of reasons I mentioned 'In the beginning...', I could never get them past their stage of incompletion.

No, I do not wish here to compare them either to the magnificence or stature of the Colosseum. The only analogy is that they will remain incomplete.

It is just my ode to unfinished business...

1. Dial M for Mobile


My ancient motorola 3-pin charger sat reluctantly against a port in the apartment wall. In fact it was refused admissions at all sockets in the hotel, in office and even in the available junction boxes. It's lone companion, the ageing Motorola C350 was resting in a small handbag inside a back pack. The handset had been ailing for sometime, having trouble getting charged and after the last charge failed to contain for more than a day, the phone had passed out at the airport. I made a couple of attempts to revive it later on but they were futile.

2. Kismat Connection

Kismat Connection could well amount to a three hour hair care ad with the protagonists sporting new hairstyles frequently tousled by the breeze from a studio fan. Shahid Kapoor wins the follicle contest by a hair's breadth. That's about what can be said for this movie which has precious little to offer in terms of story and script.


The very Aziz Mirza who conjured commercial classics in the 90's with SRK seems to have had a brainwave of a storyline. A guy who is deserted by lady luck at every stage suddenly stumbles upon his lucky charm who puts things back on the silver plate for him. The windfall in supposed to continue and his life right in the magical, comical moments that we may expect over the next couple of hours or more where the remaining reels unspool.

Sadly, the execution of this…incredible…idea rather escapes the director's cerebrum and settles on the follicle. It seems as if Mirza set out with great gusto to create something magnanimous and suddenly fell to his knees, head in hands and sobbed uncontrollably realising that his ever faithful SRK would no longer convince the audience as a youngster just out of graduation college and he would have to do with Shahid Kapoor.

Shahid, looks very much like a pocket size Tom Cruise straight out of Vanilla sky and at times unconsciously slips into the SRK skin. A stammer too many, a shudder too violent…possibly under the burden of
 
3. All The Best
 
Finally, after a long long while, here's a movie that splash dives into fun and entertainment and knows exactly how to have a whale of a time. In the extended space of several forgettable releases where moviedom fumbled miserably and drove itself to the point of confusion trying to understand the true spirit of comedy, Like a waiter of a foreign country who utterly fails to comprehend your order and gets you everything else instead, movies staked claim in comedy either riding on a sparing collection of average one liners or on stars with a past history of humorous outings or by simply resorting to disgustful slapstick and toilet humour. Hardly any of these desperate attempts evoked laughter and nearly all these expeditions bit the dust.

All The Best seriously begs to differ. It's yet another genuine work of comedy from the trusted stables of Rohit Shetty who once brought the house down with Golmaal, misfired with its sequel but is back with a hilarious bang this time.

4. Vishnu

Was saddened to wake up to the news of Vishnuvardhan's demise. Was saddened further to see the shoddy coverage on the news channels with insensitive questions being asked to the immediate family and the crowd jostling for frame space. A person of his stature deserves a lot more respect, especially so on his final journey. It was as if the soul decided to leave quietly without disturbing the world. His wife was remarkably composed as she requested for peace and calm. BSY was very crisp and sensible in his condolence speech.


One of the very few actors who besides his collosal image endeared himself to the elite crowd too with his clean choice of work, chaste speech and always maintained class.
 
5. Stuttgart Nov 08
 
Hello from (Fe)llo!


Reached safely on a surprisingly warm Sunday afternoon in the middle of an impending winter. Hemanth was there, on the trot, to receive me at the airport. We took a taxi which sped off to Hotel Domino, never allowing the needle to drop below 100 kmph. I was weary from the long flight and couldn't have been happier to plop myself on the soft bed in the hotel room. HK the humanitarian had cooked and brought along a box noodles for lunch. Awfully sweet of him. I traded it for a pack of bakery chips that I had carried along. He merrily munched on them while I freshened up and started devouring my lunch.

We chatted for a while before he hurried to get back home to meet some friends. I promptly fell asleep, to be woken up by a couple of phone calls from friends. I wished I could sleep for as long as possible.

Deja Vu!

Author's note: Here I publish something I wrote last year (24.11.09). A travelogue of sorts.

Reached safe.

Result of a hurried packing? Remembered to carry along a set of razor blades but stupidly forgot to pack the razor, crème and brush!

Thankfully I followed my intuition and accepted the complimentary razor kit at the hotel in Stuttgart yesterday. Thankfully because I made the all important discovery of the missing shaving set this morning. The throwaway razor was bad but it was anyday better than to be walking in with an unflattering stubble, first day at work.

Was very tired (and running 20 minutes behind schedule) on Friday evening. So much so that I was yawning pretty deep on the taxi itself. They gave me an aisle seat right at the front of the economy class. The one that has the tv propping up from the armrest.
Without shame, I promptly surfed for a Hindi flick, selected Luck by Chance, watched a bit and slept through most of the flight. Nothing from the movie impressed me other than Ms. Sen Sharma.
The pretty airhostess (sigh) asked if I'd like something to drink.
'Un café', I replied with the cocky confidence of SRK.
'Aduley?', the damsel inquired.
'Sorry?', I yanked the earphones off and sat upright. Damn…wish I refreshed my French better, I said to myself.
'Some milk?', she helpfully translated.
'Ah…sure', I smiled sheepishly. 'Et du lait you idiot', my brain reprimanded me. 'Yeah, try and work faster next time', I retorted.

Began to watch 8x10 Tasveer. A boring movie on the surface of it peppered with few intriguing moments. Had hardly watched some when landing was announced.

The first gush of winter in Paris caught me quite unawares. In spite of my jacket, I sat shivering quite uncontrollably in the airport shuttle until the doors were closed. Stuttgart was warmer. Despite the exhaustion, I stood there at the bathroom mirror in the hotel room for an hour and a half that afternoon and tried to correct my most recent haircut from the previous evening. It had all seemed quite well until the guy blow dried my hair and then I was never happy with the result. But he wouldn't agree with me. They never listen, the coiffeurs. Anyway, by the end of my long drawn oeuvre with the scissors, it seemed better than it had been in the last 24 hours.


My boss was in Stuttgart and he was sweet enough to come over to meet up. We munched on some spicy banana chips that I'd thoughtfully packed. Later I unwrapped the laptop to work for a short while. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep. Better so since I needed to take the flight to Paris again the next morning.


'Ladies and Gentlemen, the weather at CDG is still stormy and windy…', the captain reported as we climbed the skies.
'Hah!', I scoffed. 'Just look at the Sun blazing through my little window. We should be just fine when we arrive'. A quarter hour later, the plane was bobbing through a strech of dark clouds with raindrops pattering impatiently on the windows. 'Whaddaya know boy! Welcome to stormy and windy CDG', the weather God seemed to snigger at me. The skies wore a solemn grey.


We were quickly ushered into the shuttle. This time I wore a pullover under the jacket. It seemed to do the trick. I had to weave my way around the ever sprawling airport to locate the right carousel. Checked in to the TGV with minutes to spare. The cold wind blew my hair astray and chilled my ears as I stood waiting for the train to Angers .


Determined to fight sleep, I began to read 'The Last Lecture'. A much recommended book that I had bought at the bookstore at BIAL. There is an astounding positivity in the way it has been written. A couple of ladies sitting in my booth were chattering without so much as a pause. 'Pardon Monsieur…', they finally excused themselves at a station.

Angers was equally cold, rainy and dark when I arrived. 'Ah….Monsieur Pradeep!', the receptionist at Hotel Atrium remembered me from my previous visit. I was quite astonished. But there certainly was reason because I had given a lengthy feedback the last time, suggesting improvements and had left the note where no one would miss it.

The girl apparently could do nothing about implementing the suggested changes but she did exercise caution while checking me in. 'You are staying until…..please buy the laundry token only when you need….use the laundry during the week….etc…etc…have a good stay with us!', she smiled broadly. 'You do remember me!', I prompted. 'Of course…..you stayed with us during this summer!', she whittled.

Made myself some veg atta noodles for dinner last evening. The contents within the packet were predictably crushed and it was difficult to tell the four cakes apart. I could only go by what they call a hand measure. By 9.30, I was in deep sleep. Woke up when Dad called at 6 this morning. He had discounted the daylight saving hour. The darkness outside was uninspiring to leave the comfort of the covers. The alarm on my phone dutifully blared 'bardaasht' every 10 minutes till I could no longer bear it! :)


The one good thing I did last evening was to line up my clothes for this morning. That saves a lot of panic especially when one wakes up horrifyingly late! Yet my eyes betrayed the sufficiently long hours of rest.

Had my hands full at work. Loaded my plate with dessert and pommes frites for lunch. Stephan raised an eyebrow and smiled 'You're happy to be back, aren't you!'. He dropped me off to the supermarche in the evening. Shopped for some breakfast, chips, Schweppes and especially razors.

Noodles again. With chips today. One thing about noodles and the hand measure, a little too much can get to be a lot too much! The network at the hotel isn't working this evening. 'But they said it will be fixed this morning', I whined to the receptionist. 'You're not the first one telling me that but I have word that it will be repaired tomorrow', he placated me. So I decided to take the time and give you an account of the past two days!

I have a very early day tomorrow. My eyes are demanding sleep and I'd rather obey, lest they plan a coup tomorrow morning :)

Jump in the air...

Before I begin, I would like to admit to a goof up I just made. I wanted to create a new post but instead, enrolled myself as my own follower!! I'm still feeling very stupid about it. Let's see how I can get myself off my own list....haven't figured it out yet :)

This is a review on Step Up 3. The second in line of sequels to the revolutionary tribute to dance - Step Up. 3 revolves around an amateur filmmaker, Luke, with an acute passion for dance who picks up street dancers, aspiring to give them the right platform for their talent and a home to live in. In the course of his quest, he meets a Moose, school kid with incredible dancing skills and a very pretty girl, Natalie, who keeps eluding him. Togetherthey aim to win the world jam championships. And if they don't, Luke loses his ancestral house to the mortgage. Bollywoodish wafer thin plot.
Part 3 is however an exemplary showcase of dancing and choreography. And with such amazing talent at display, one need hardly complain about missing stories! My favourite dance sequences are the one choreographed amidst fountains of water that spring up from a broken pipe underneath the dance floor and the dance on the pavements that Moose suddens breaks into with his best friend Camille. Words fall short.
The second half has some drama thrown in to stich those stunning works of choreography to a storyline which streams along all too conveniently.
Nevertheless, the movie pays fantastic obeisance to the form of art called dance.
A must see for dance lovers. And worth a watch for everyone else. Do see it in 3D.

------------------------------------------
A tame attempt from Bollywood on similar lines was last year's Chance Pe Dance. I happened to watch this movie on a flight. The director plays it too safe and hands the movie a painfully weak staid storyline. No twists, no turns. Predictable is an understatement. I believe there's more element of suspense in the lives of us ordinary mortals.
The hero fails an audition, lands a movie role. Gets thrown out of an accommodation, starts living in his car. Loses the movie role, wins a girl. Takes part in a contest, wins, goes home and comes back to become a movie start. Pfft. Tepid.
Shahid Kapoor cannot be blamed. He is reasonably earnest but his forte remains severely untapped with hardly any sizeable chunk of dancing involved. It is as if the director suddenly had second thoughts, threw out the dance and instead, packed in all the regular ingredients - girl, villain, melodrama, kids, and some very lame one liners that seem like apologies for jokes.
Genelia is good. Frankly she is a tad better than Shahid, perfectly underplaying her role for the most part. The surprise element though is the resurfacing of Vikas Bhalla, who I thought went into extinction with the dinosaurs.
Slim dance. Fat chance.

In the beginning...

....there was the atom....or was it light? Or was it a turtle? Why is it so difficult to recollect the right oracle or quote or aphorism when you need it the most!
Just this afternoon, a dear friend of mine was very upset about something and I tried to cheer her up by sending a nice quote that seemed pertinent. I knew there was one, I was vaguely aware of it but couldn't entirely retrieve it from memory. I searched and searched...sorry...googled and googled, you net savvy people, but with limited success. I finally settled for another quote that seemed to hover fairly in the radius of appropriation!

Anyways, getting back to the point. If there are even so much as slightly raised eyebrows over the title of this blogsite, I'll reveal the source of inspiration a little later. Well after I'm a few blogs older later maybe! Something like a prequel! Though I do suspect an esoteric group of close friends already have a hint! :)

Let me give you a little background however. This is not my first blogsite.
I do not remember very distinctly as to when I started writing. I did pat myself on the back for a few neatly carved essays during school.
The passion apparently arose much later when I started recounting events around me to a small niche of friends in email. They all seemed to like it and I was encouraged to draft down my thoughts every now and then.
The frequency kept fluctuating and either for want of inspiration or for a heavier assault of indolence, the new found hobby remained sedated for lengthy intervals of time.

And then some good soul suggested that I should revive the writing, emancipate it from the confines of email and rather celebrate it in a much larger publicly visible arena. The internet.

But when it comes to the internet, I belong to the palaeolithic age. I get introduced to media and mechanisms much after they are in vogue, sometimes when they're almost on the verge of extinction...of..of becoming passe!
So, a few hundred moons ago, when I was blessed with the enlightenment on strange sounding terms like Orkut and Blog, I took an adventurous step ahead and created my own, my very own blogsite. And I christened it with the queer name of knowsblog, probably in assertion of my new found knowledge. Something like the Archimedesical 'Eureka', albeit a modestly clothed one :D

So I started writing my first blog, like I did here now but the entire exercise of having just discovered my America was so overwhelming that I decided to put off the first blog for later. A later that never arrived.

I did manage subsequently to post one or two of my writings after exhaustive efforts of learning to operate the site. No, exaggeration this. And soon yet again, dormancy invaded, plundered and ruled supreme.
Today I don't even know if that blogsite exists. Maybe it does, what with today's awe inducing technology like cloud computing and all that! I'll try to find out someday. And if it does exist, then I'll dust it off and make an aquisition...a takeover :D of the articles into this one.

So here it is, my renaissance into the world of blog. It is a toast to the good wishes of a lot of people who've been urging me not to give up on writing. I was particularly inspired by Shades of Grey.

Watch this space and I hope to keep the ink flowing continually this time!