[Meme] : Untitled – Why should all poems be titled?? This poem does not conform to usual standards…!!

Long long ago, our dear own Megz had tagged this mere mortal to an awesome awesome meme both on the external and corporate blog portals. Both the blog-o-spheres were taken by a storm and everyone fell into the pool of abstraction and title-less poetry.

I am really late in taking up the meme. But, I guess, for Megz, it was a calculated risk that she tagged ME to take it further. And indeed it was with an intention of pumping life into this utterly dead blog. Your efforts have finally paid off Megz. It took me almost a month to be in this state when even Lindor truffles and Tim Horton’s hot chocolate do not seem to be doing a good job of mood elevators and here I am with my reckless bantering in abstraction…

Why does it rain, when it is dry inside?

Why does it pain, when it blossoms outside?

Why do I search for colors in the dark?

Why do my dreams make reality so stark?

Why do I avoid looking at the mirror?

Why do I smile pleasantly in a mysterious fear?

Why do I hum a tune not composed by anyone?

Why is the ruptured divinity of my heart left undone?

Why do I barter my deeds with fate, with a meek hope to win?

Why do I seek solace so soon, despite my self-pitied chagrin?

Why do I have broken walls around, which I try to mend?

Why do I always begin something, of which there is no end?

Why?

I wrote most of these couplets at different times and they mostly made their way into my empty head when I was making a genuine attempt to think about “myself” and the series of polluting agents that revolve around this word.

Well, now that I get a chance to pass on this abstraction bug to someone, I tag Borna to take this meme ahead. The rules are simple:-

> The TITLE of the post should be the same as above

> The tags should include poem-with-no-title

> The poem should preferably be just random thoughts and abstract-ish

Life’s like that..Of rhymes and goof ups!

Just another fit of random incidents which tickled me a little on a snowy morning. Some memories never fade, some just swift pass like a gentle breeze and some are meant to bring that little joy in your life which unintentionally brighten you up.

A medley of sorts!

I do talk to a few of my friends and relatives through video chats on skype and gmail every once in a while. This is my way of ensuring that they don’t erase me off their memory disks totally. Such a pest I am!

So it was one such Sunday morning when I was video chatting with this uncle of mine whose daughter, Pillu (as I call her) is now old enough to chirp up nursery rhymes (Yeah! I have cousins who are that small!). Clad in her pink frock, frolicking away on her little kitchen set, as soon as I called her name, her distraction was evident and she came running towards the screen only to discover that it was me who had called her name. I could see the sense of surprise transform into the oh-its-just-you emotion in her eyes so clearly. It was almost enough to make my day.

My aunt wanted her to recite all the nursery rhymes she knew. She was just not interested in flaunting her intellect. She did not refute or anything, she just ignored my aunt totally. After a while, when my aunt had pestered her enough, this is what she did.

(The conversation was in Marathi. This is a decently attempted English translation)

Aunt: Wont you sing your nursery rhymes for Dada*? Sing Brother John… Jack and Jill…

Pillu (exclaimed): Brother John…

Me: Yay!

Everybody was quiet and listening attentively to Pillu

Pillu (looked at me in the screen and gave a sheepish smile):-

Are you sleeping, Are you sleeping,

Brother John Brother John,

Jill came tumbling after,

Jill came tumbling after,

Ding dong bell…

(Sing each line in the respective tune and you’d know the wonderful medley that Pillu created)

She came up with this awesome medley, partly because she was vexed enough by her mom’s bantering and mostly because she seems to be totally talented. Ahhh.. that is what is going to happen to my cousins you see.. Talent is going to overflow.. (I can almost sense you all throwing tomatoes at me.. the rotten ones..)

We were left in fits of laughter.

The curious ‘case’ of yours truly..

Those who know me well, or who have met me or who have had the privilege of taking my case, know how easy the task is. Most of the times I don’t even realize that people are having a good time.. err… at my cost. It was still fine to see the people I know take my case. What happened over the weekend has only convinced me that I ought to run away to Himalayas to seek divine help to be able to make me not to susceptible to pick-ons.

So there is this really awesome Chinese joint in Jersey City which I do visit once in a while. I had a friend visit me over the long weekend of Christmas and we decided to dine at this joint. With hogfull eyes, we entered the restaurant and ordered an awesome sparkling wine. We started looking into the menu card for the entrees when the waitress came to serve something to the folks sitting next to us.

She (sniffing..literally): Gosh… I smell something’s burning.

She (screaming looking at me): Sir your menu card is on the candle lamp. :X

Me (embarrassed. Didn’t know what to do! Thought for a second and then said.. aah. This is just one of those goofed up performances I keep giving every now and then): oops! I am so sorry…

I just picked up the freaky candle lamp and put it on the table adjacent to ours. My friend was laughing like a maniac and needless to say this incident was publicized to the entire circle of case takers as the ‘latest best’. What more even the folks sitting on the adjacent table were happy to get entertained. Well, I had decided to go with the usual stuff which I always order and not indulge myself reading the menu card again. As I shut the card and kept it aside, the waitress came running and picked it up and quipped.

She: Let me pick it up before you do something… err… something happens to it.

Me:

She: Just kidding..!

Me (to myself): Yeah right! You have no idea how I am going to be picked on by what you have just done!

I guess I should rethink about the ‘talent’ that my cousins have ‘like me’.

Well, as I say… Life’s like that!

P.S: Dada in Marathi refers to elder brother. Which by the way is 22 years older than Pillu! I even have a new born cousin who I am sure will come up with something more dreastic in years to come..

Movie Review: Invictus

I would like to assert right in the beginning that I am a true admirer of movies like Jo jeeta wohi sikandar and Lagaan and I am a true detester of films like Goal. Films about sports have been one of the most successful genres of film making in every film industry. Haven’t we all cherished films like The babe, Million dollar baby and Ali?

From the promos and publicity done for Invictus, it does come across as a sports film. However, I would like to look at it as a socio-political drama which has been treated in an invigorating way using Rugby as a central theme. In today’s world, where being innovative and thinking out of the box is given such massive importance in every industry, here is a story of a man who thought in a staggeringly different way to establish harmony in a society which was jaundiced by Apartheid way back in 1995.

Nelson Mandela, the first president of the democratic South Africa, was an anti-Apartheid activist and had served 27 years in prison charged with leading a movement against racial discrimination. After his appointment as the President, out of the many challenges he had at stake like a State to run, an economy to stabilize the biggest was to build a state of brotherhood amidst its citizens. The story of Invictus starts at the point in Mandela’s life when he takes charge as the President. South Africa’s Rugby team Springbok was predominantly supported by the Whites and was hated by the Blacks. Mandela saw an opportunity in this sport as the Rugby World Cup was right at the anvil. His thought was to eliminate the racial divide that was persistent in South Africa and that had put forth its ugly head in every sphere of life by projecting Springbok as a national team as opposed to the contrived notion of it being a symbol of racial oppression. He publicized Springbok as the team that represents South Africa on the whole and not just the White population of the country and infused this notion in every team member. Victory of Springbok would mean victory of South Africa and only that could establish an emotion of oneness.

                                                                              

Morgan Freeman undoubtedly is the best choice for the lead role of Mandela. He is one of those actors who can breathe every character he plays. I cannot imagine anyone else portraying Mandela’s character with such penchant on screen. Clint Eastwood yet again showcases his cinematic genius with the perfect choice of actors and a strong screenplay which only exhilarates the viewing experience. Matt Damon who plays the role of the captain of the Springbok team puts forth a highly leveled performance. The authenticity of the script is seen in the dialect in which both Freeman and Damon speak. There are some dialogues which are truly fantastic, brevity being the biggest pro. For instance, the day before the final match, Matt Damon thinks to himself – “He could forgive those who imprisoned him for thirty years”.

However, I feel that the film is a tad too swiftly paced. It lacks the dramatic luster at places where it deserves to have it almost inevitably. The whole process of convincing every team member to overcome their dogmatic opinions about the Black population has not been shown to be a great deal of struggle. Also, the last few minutes of the match are stretched sequences which mar the excitement that is built since the beginning of the final game. I think for a film like Invictus, the biggest challenge is to be able to hold viewer’s interest in spite of the fact that it is evidently known who the winner is at the end of the game. To a large extent, Eastwood has been successful in doing so. On the whole, the strong performances of Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon overshadow the lack of drama and the film comes across as a truly soul stirring presentation of a visionary’s life, not being a mere documentation of a series of events in Mandela’s life.

Invictus, which means unconquered, is a poem by Willian Henley which I remember reading as a part of my English curriculum in school. This poem plays a rather crucial part in the climax of the story which justifies the name of the film. I would surely recommend this film to all those who want a breath of fresh air. Watch it for a mind blowing performance by Morgan Freeman and the unconventional backdrop of a story which is seemingly predictable but is immensely engaging.

My rating:

I and the Me Within

I try to measure the overwhelming depth of the ocean,

And with a sly deception shudder at my fantastic obsession.

The Me Within opens his wings, flies high in the sky,

Lovingly callous about the miles treaded by.

I weave around myself, an aura of hapless piety,

Adorn my helplessness with a cocoon of sincerity.

The Me Within emancipates – out of the golden cage,

To soar the mountains steep with an astounding rage.

I look at my past with guilt, remorse and sorrow,

And search outward for an excuse that I could easily borrow.

The Me Within looks ahead never to turn back,

His burlesque gestures mock at me for the pluck that I lack.

I live in a world of purity, of rituals, of rights and of wrongs,

Content with the legacy of my notes, happy with the tyranny of my songs.

The Me Within is mischievously charming, gamboling in between,

And I hear his whistle blowing, humming a tune so serene.

I count my days, count my time, and count my blessings, to win,

And relinquish the countless moments of joy, scared of committing a sin.

The Me Within is a careless lad, who happily loses with a smile,

And brandishes his joyful hat, every once in a while.

I wish I could be like him, and he’d live my life like me,

I’d paint the sky with freedom, and dive through the depth of the sea.

Reality shrieks yet again, with her deafening draconian din –

When he leaves me, and I leave him, I’d meet the Me Within…

Movie Review: Harishchandrachi Factory

After the horrendous experience of watching a wreck, there was just no way that I could deny an invitation from a friend to attend the NA premier of Harishchandrachi Factory (Harishchandra’s Factory) – India’s entry to the Academy Award 2010. South Asian International Film Festival (SAIFF) has been doing a praiseworthy job in this part of the world by getting the best of Asian cinema to the western world and giving them good amount of publicity and befitting awards. Harishchandrachi Factory was the closing night film of the festival and the director of the film, Paresh Mokashi was present for the screening. Ever since the news broke of the film being selected to be the official entry to the Oscars, it had surely gone on my wishlist!

Harishchandrachi factory is a joyful depiction of how Dadasaheb Phalke, rightly known as the father of Indian cinema, made the first Indian motion picture – Raja Harishchandra in 1913. The screenplay has been adapted from Dadasaheb Phalke’s biography written by Bapu Watve.

Phalke’s journey can be seen to be one full of adventures and entertaining encounters. His comely personality and eccentric zeal has been portrayed in an unmatched way by Nandu Madhav in the film. The story importantly unfolds the superstitions that prevailed in the society pertaining to films in that era and the social stigma that revolved around “moving pictures”. Dadasaheb had to face both social and political hurdles in his journey to make his dream come true. But, Paresh Mokashi has not created a melancholy portrait of his struggle. Instead he has enunciated Dadasaheb’s pluck in an awesome way. Undeniably, some cynics may not really approve of portrayal of his struggle in a cheerful way. In my personal opinion, the subtlety with which two mutually opposing emotions have been painted on the celluloid by Mokashi deserves a sincere applaud.

There are scenes which are creatively enriching in every way and which linger on the viewer’s minds for a long time. In 1913, it was impossible to find a lady actor to play the part of Taramati, Raja Harishchandra’s wife in the film. It was traditional in Marathi plays then for men to play female leads as well. The comedy involved around the inhibitions that actors in Phalke’s film had around shaving off their moustaches is rib tickling, yet not slapstick. The way Mokashi has showcased Phalke’s intelligence and intellect is simply spellbinding.

There are unconventional and interesting metaphorical props used as well which only put forth the intellectual sensibilities of Mokashi as a film maker. For instance, the use of a patriotic marathi poem (“Ek tutari dya maja anuni”) to convey resurgence of hope whenever Phalke was hurdled by an obstacle Or the use of appropriate slogans by revolutionaries in the background to depict the year that is being shown.

Vibhavari Deshpande, who plays Phalke’s wife in the film, has done a fantastic job of portraying a character that is strong, yet submissive, audacious, yet timid and hopeful, yet worried. Every shade of the character has been decorated with beautiful anecdotes and dialogues. Music has been used very effectively throughout the film. In spite of the fact that there is no song in the film, the catchy background score only acts as a catalyst to the entertainment quotient. The facet of the film that grabs your attention with fascination is the art direction. To recreate an era of pre-independence has always been challenging for art directors in India and Nitin Desai rightly deserves all the accolades that he has won for this movie.

The film has a joyous charm that remains intact throughout. We are talking of an era when India was under the rule of the British. An ordinary film maker would have undoubtedly made an attempt to aggrandize the atrocities committed by the British. But, what makes this film extraordinary is the fact that, we don’t see a loud and gaudy expression of any sort.

We rather see the director talking of a man who was enterprising, venturesome and courageous enough to have gone all the way to London in that era to learn the technicalities involved with film making. We are talking of a man who was strongly determined to reach his goal no matter how arduous the pursuit was.

Paresh Mokashi is a highly acclaimed thespian in the marathi theatre circle. Harishchandrachi Factory is his debut film. His journey of creating his first film has also been a challenging one if not as challenging as Phalke himself. To a large extent, we see Mokashi relating well to Phalke throughout the film and his heartfelt love for cinema is seen in each and every frame. What a splendid start of the career in film making!

After the screening of the film, there was a Q&A session which clearly showed how infectious the humor and the warmth of the film were. The film is slated to release early next year all across India. Dubbing the film in Hindi, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada and Malayalam is also on the cards.

Harishchandrachi Factory is surely a must watch for all the movie lovers. We all owe it to the person who sowed the seeds of cinema in India – Someone who continued making films in India in spite of attractive offers from the western world only to ensure that the motion picture industry in India gets established. In true spirit, the doyen of the largest film industry in the world. Hats off to Phalke and Thumb’s up to Presh Mokashi for giving us a chance to celebrate Indian cinema in true sense.

My rating:

[Guest Post]: Stilletos on Glass Floors

This is the first guest post on my external blog. The following post has been written by a very close friend of mine, Puja. She stands for the modern, suave and independent woman of today and presents an extremely interesting analogy to state the penchant with which the woman of the twenty first century perceives, persists, emotes and sustains.

Read on..

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I remember watching fashion shows on television as a kid sneaking away from the omnipresent parental discretion whenever possible; however the conditions were propitious only rarely. I was always fascinated by the glitter and the shimmer; and what attracted me most was the footwear that the beautiful ladies wore – pumps, flats, wedges, sandals, stilettos and more. I found stilettos the most interesting in the entire footwear species as it tested the model’s skills to walk at such “heights” without flinching a nerve and look so relaxed all the time, an achievement in itself for the lesser mortals unexposed to these experiences.

What always amazes me is the way they are able to maintain their balance and walk with such élan on the ramp with literally Eiffel Towers under their feet! Forget these graceful ladies; even regular college and office girls are able to manage the daunting task, (for a lot of people), effortlessly. The higher the heel of your stiletto, higher it is on the attractiveness scale and also on the risk factor, be it the ramp or the road.

In deeper sense, these high heeled ornaments, symbolize strength to me. They show the inexplicable intellect and pluck that the woman of this era flaunt. I very closely relate this to how the lady corporate honchos manage their work with immense competition from their male counterparts, having to face the biases and most of the times being judged as someone who is more relationship oriented and are tagged as too soft to take harsh decisions and thus being ineffective. Yet, they are able to walk on the tightrope of the professional and personal life beautifully (in most cases) and have carved a niche for themselves in the corporate world and in our minds.

The task of the ladies at the CXO level is as good as walking on a ramp with numerous spectators and lot of expectations from the designer, just that the ramp is replaced by the vast responsibilities, spectators by the stakeholders, and the designer by the organization as a whole. The only difference is on the ramp you have to ensure you do not lose your balance and collapse, and in the corporate world you have to break the glass ceiling to reach the highest echelons of success. Here, the high heel is you arsenal of the knowledge, skills, traits and motives that you have or have developed over a period of time. The more you are experienced, the taller is your stiletto’s heel. The names which come to my mind at this point are Ms Chanda Kochhar, Ms Shikha Sharma, Ms Naina Lal Kidwai and Ms Ekta Kapoor. All these lady leaders have been able to give their best shots to their work, managing their lives well and being extremely successful.

We all are aware of those wannabes in the ’stilettos’ class. The ones who put on an accent just to flaunt their attitude, those who may not really have enough to carry on the expensive lifestyle that they depict, but surely have a lot to flaunt – a fancy car, expensive clothes, et al. But what comes with the high status is a sense of responsibility towards their work and completely committing themselves to their cause. It just reinforces the fact that those who have achieved these great heights by their own metal know how to carry themselves on the glass floors, those who don’t, fail miserably.

An example I would want to point out would be Ms Indra Nooyi, who although has achieved great heights in her professional life but her personal life hasn’t been that well managed. The way a model if not able to balance on her heels may end up falling down and taking away the charm of the show, similarly a lady honcho may also not be able to cope up with biases inspite of being equally capable, may not be able to manage this pressure and end up burning out in the process and again show all the existence of the glass ceiling.

At the end all that is left with them is a plethora of crushed glass shards, each one showing the reflection of their own souls. To conclude, I believe that with success, comes responsibilities, you ought to have a sense of both, to be able to walk on glass floors.

Movie review: Main aur Mrs.Khanna

It was a rainy Saturday. The sun had not shone on me for even a minute since the morning and that made as morose as ever. I had slept enough, orkutted enough and gmailed enough (I have still not been smitten by the facebook bug! ) and believe you me, I had cooked enough as well. Basically, I had come to the stage where one really wants to do something fruitful on a Saturday like watching a movie, or chilling out with a gang of friends and the likes.

I have no valid justification for the fact that I chose to see this film to be able to spend my weekend time ‘fruitfully’. I knew it all even before deciding to watch it. I knew it had the ever atrocious Salman Khan with wrinkled face and drooling eyes, it had Kareena, half his age who looked like the frozen chapatti that I eat every day of the week and not to forget it had the ever obnoxious Sohail Khan who thinks that just because he has been breathing the bollywood air since childhood, he can be a part of anything that is even remotely linked to film making.

As a film viewer, it is the screenplay and the script that attract me first and then I begin to look at the way the story has been told on the celluloid. A lot of times, I tend to even overlook poor presentation if the screenplay is strong. For instance, Hyderabad Blues could have been a far better presented film if Nagesh Kukonoor had that sort of a budget. But, it is the story which attracted the viewers and they did not even mind if there were scenes shot with a simple handy cam.

Leave alone screenplay, this film does not have a story to start with. Set in Melbourne, the story begins with a little tiff between Samir Khanna (Salman Khan) and Mrs. Raina Khanna (Kareena Kapoor) over the fact that Raina had thrown the news paper in the trash can as it had marring remarks about Samir who had been a part of a scam. Raina is a waitress in some big time restaurant in Melbourne and Samir obviously dislikes it. He believes that “Every marriage must have financial stability” and he is shown to be disturbed of the fact that just because he lost his job, their marriage has lost this indispensable ‘financial security’.

After realizing the fact that there was not much in Melbourne for him to do, he decides to move to Singapore in search of job and books Raina on a flight to Delhi to go and stay with his parents till the time he returns. Raina decides to not to take the flight back to India and stays on in Melbourne. This is where Akash (Sohail Khan) enters the story by being the smitten lover boy of Mrs. Khanna. He is shown to be working at a coffee shop at the airport. The way he is shown ogling at Mrs. Khanna is only childish.

Just like any other typical bollywood flick, Raina makes a bunch of close Indian friends in a span of 2 minutes of screen time which includes Akash. What more? She even gets a job at a jeweler (played by Bappi Lahiri) at the airport. You ought to look at the lavish which she “manages” to live in by working at the jeweler.

I don’t want to detail the mindless plot and the enervating climax. I must mention the cameo which Preity Zinta has done with a flimsy item number to woo Mr. Khanna. She is hired by Akash so that Mrs. Khanna thinks that Mr. Khanna is of an ill character and grows an aversion towards him. Mr. Director, do you think you are making a film for kids who have just entered their teenage. On second thoughts, I don’t even think that today’s teenagers would do something as silly as this!

The appearance of Salman Khan is saddening, the pale look on Kareena’s face is irksome and Sohail Khan’s obliquely comic expressions can only bring a grimace to the viewer’s face. There is only one fairly hummable song in the film Rabba sung by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan.

If you too suffer from the ‘Start-to-finish’* disease like me, don’t even venture into looking at the promos of this film. As for Prem Soni, who happens to have started his career with such a disastrous film, I can only wish him luck!

* An ailment in which if you have seen the opening titles of the film, you cannot get rid of it until you watch it till the end. The author of this post has been a victim of enumerable atrocities due to this fallacy. Eg: Mithun da’s Aag ka Gola, Ganga Jamuna Saraswati, etc.

My Rating:

Life’s like that!

It is time for the second installment of mindless ramblings of a hopeless soul. Hopeless enough to hibernate for almost two full days of the long weekend which was supposed to be the last long weekend before the winters set their foot in. Well, as I mentioned, hopelessness encompasses everything else!

Presenting before you – confessions of a demented mind:-

Yeh hai “Bombay” meri jaan!

Just like the local train network is the life line of Mumbai, Subway is the life line of New York. The characteristics of any mammoth metropolis can be seen even in New York. The never ebbing inimitable stench of the underground subway stations, the trains being weirdly scheduled to arrive at 12:32 and depart at 12:33 , the crowded compartments of the train, the silence and loneliness felt in the few square feet of area overpopulated by humans, the perspiring anxiety while running to catch the train which is going to be the last one and the inexplicable pace that life seems to have in this city that is trapped in all these people traveling in and out of the Subways.

But, what distinctly makes the Subway journeys memorable quite often are the street performers. The hoopla players, musicians, dancers, skaters and singers – such a conglomeration of creative abundance a few feet under, in a way enlivens the monotonous expressions of passengers, just about enough to get them back the next day with a bit more pluck than before.

I was at the Times Square a week back, doing my part time job of NY tourist guide (Its good to have an alternate profession in these times of recession you see ) for a friend. We were at our boisterous best when we got down at 42^nd street. For those who don’t know me, I have a terrific appetite to speak endlessly without making much sense. Rather any sense at all . Our loud voices were suddenly muted by this flute player who was playing the hit song from the Hindi film CID – ‘Yeh hai Bombay Meri jaan’. I personally found it to be quite intriguing for him to play the song in the heart of New York City. But, there was surely nothing to complain about it!

What more, after playing the first stanza, a singer popped up from no where and started singing the song as well. From their accent, they seemed to be Turkish (He pronounced the ‘j’ in jaan as one would pronounce ‘z’ in zebra, and he had a very prominent ‘h’ sound after almost every word that ended with a vowel – Quite a peculiar trait of Arabic/Persian/Turkish folks.). They were soon surrounded by a noticeably big crowd and what followed the performance, was an encore.

We enjoyed the song thoroughly, we cheered, we clapped and we tipped. After spending the rest of the evening at Times Square relishing how electricity can be burnt/wasted in the most beautiful way, when I returned back home, I logged in to check my e-mails. As I don’t get to read the Indian news paper daily, I have subscribed to some news letters and feeds. The very first news headline I read was of the great Thackery cub doing his thing again – this time to the Johar khandaan’s not so shining sitara, Karan. I wondered at the irony of the situation still humming the song that I had enjoyed a few hours back. The song is immortal. There is no way that ‘Yeh hai Mumbai Meri Jaan’ can make one tap his/her feet the same way as he/she would upon listening to ‘Yeh hai Bombay Meri Jaan’. With everything being ‘Mumbai’ed from Bombay, there still are some things which sound right just the way they are. Wake up, Raj!

The Dunkin’ Encounter

I had never really eaten a donut before coming to Uncle Sam’s home. Dunkin’ donuts is apparently world’s largest chain of baked products and they are not exaggerating when they punch their tag line – ‘America runs on Dunkin’.  It is the staple breakfast/snack of the urban and the suave, the rich and the poor, the young and the old, the famous and the infamous – everyone!

There’s a DD store right across the street from my office building and being smitten by the fragrance, the taste and the feel good freshness of the store, I do land up visiting the store quite often. Just a few days back, when I went on one of my usual jaunts to DD, the old lady at the counter suddenly chirped –

DD: Good evening sir, how can I help you?

Me: Can I have a small coffee with milk and sugar and. (before I could finish)

DD (Volume increased, garnished with a smile): A Boston crème donut? 

Me (Starry eyed, not knowing how to react): Yes indeed. You guessed it right!

I just did not know how elated I was to see someone predict my mind just so perfectly right half a world away. I just didn’t know how to thank her enough. I just didn’t know how I could express the ‘tadaaaaa’ moment. Well, I thanked her once again and asked her if I could treat her with a donut to which she agreed. On my recent two visits, I haven’t really found the need to place my order, the moment I step in with a smile, I know there’s someone ready with it!

I happened to narrate this encounter to one of my close friends who quipped back – ‘Yeah right. Everyone below poverty line knows you and everyone above knows me!’

I was yet again speechless. A different kind of a ‘tadaaaaa’ moment!  :-P

That’s the way it is! So long.. 

Delhi 10

My memories of the city of Delhi were truly quite unpleasant until I visited the capital a couple of years back. The Delhi I want to cherish in my memories now is what I saw most recently. Broad roads, well marked lanes, traffic rules being followed most of the times by most of the people, public transport running on CNG and the amazing advent of the Metro rail. When my friend told me that the change that I was raving about was for the Commonwealth games that Delhi is going to host in 2010, how I wished that every other city in India should host the games every year, if that is the only incentive that can make all the difference.

We all want to have fond memories of the places that we visit and this is a fact that the government seems to realize pretty well. As I was skimming through the latest news, I got to read something about how the authorities in the capital have “removed” the “filth” in Delhi to deck the city up for the Commonwealth Games.  The “filth” being referred to here are the over 50,000 beggars and the “removal” mechanism is to shun them out of the city under the pretext of rehabilitation. I was greatly disillusioned of my previous assertion, or at least I questioned my self as to whether I really wanted such events to be hosted by every other Indian city.

So how does removing beggars from Delhi clean the city? The government believes that due to the magnum opus of the Commonwealth games, as foreigners would be arriving at Delhi, there is an inevitable need to ensure that they are not troubled by the beggars while they roam about in the city. The concern that is being displayed is typically for the Westerners. The argument sounds even more obnoxious when you hear someone saying that we Indians are used to seeing beggars around, but the Westerners are not. It is not only disheartening, but agitating to come across such insecurity that the government puts on public display. I fail to understand this fear of discovery of facts. The very fact that those who act all prim and proper underground while traveling in the Metro, spit out their paans when they are at the ground level supplements the irony of the situation.

In my opinion, whenever someone visits India for the first time, the immediate things that get noticed are the slums, the open drains, the crowd and the pollution. However fascinated a foreign vistor gets by the marvel of Taj Mahal or the spellbinding sculptures of Khajuraho or the expanse of the Himalayas or the devout milieu of Varanasi and Ajmer or the inescapable aroma of authentic Indian cuisines, the memories always remain etched in their minds are of the poverty and illiteracy that they witness first hand. And what holds true when an Indian visit’s a Western country for the first time is that he/she invariably notices the cleanliness around, the civic sense of responsibility and the law-abiding majority.

What reason do we have then to oppose Danny Boyle showing the life of a slum dweller in Mumbai through Slumdog Millionaire (which indeed has been misinterpreted as a rags-to-riches story. In my opinion, it is a fantastic love story!) in a very realistic way? Why should we be surprised when the only Indian films that have been recognized at the Oscars, Salaam Bombay and Pather Panchali, speak about the poverty in our country?

The bottom line is that we ought to accept these fallacies. We ought to agree to the fact that in sixty five years we have not been able to create an India of our dreams. So, do I mean to say that we should do nothing to eradicate poverty or illiteracy? Certainly not! We ought to make this country a better place to live in. But, the motivation should not be the arrival of foreigners. We should feel the need to make the change for ourselves, for every single citizen of India, for the reason that every Indian does have a right to live freely and happily in this country.

There is a need to make improvements at the grass root level to present India to the world in a pleasant way. As Shera sets in to welcome the firang athletes, the government proclaims to present Delhi as a truly international city. And that is by not eradicating poverty, but by hiding it. We need a catharsis of our hearts and minds to eradicate the filth of our thoughts and our skewed perceptions!

Nuts in NY – 1

The Bustling streets, An open sky,

The Glorious Hudson, cruising by,

The breath taking pace, that never seems to die,

Is what makes me go, Nuts in NY

The whirling lanes, that look like a bow tie,

The Statue of Liberty, holding the torch up high,

While atop the Empire State, I wish I could fly,

Is what makes me go, Nuts in NY

The Bustling streets, An open sky,

The Glorious Hudson, cruising by,

The breath taking pace, that never seems to die,

Is what makes me go, Nuts in NY

The whirling lanes, that look like a bow tie,

The Statue of Liberty, holding the torch up high,

While atop the Empire State, I wish I could fly,

Is what makes me go, Nuts in NY

It is evident enough that this series of posts is going to be a showcase of how I murder both poetry and photography at the same time  Apart from the hackneyed perception of the city which is rightly called the city that never sleeps, the city of dreams and the financial capital of this planet, there is a lot that one learns about living in a plethora of disparate demography. It is mind blowing to see various cultures mingle and yet have a distinct shade of their own. Without rambling any further, here are some snapshots of “in and around” the city which have made their way to this page.

**Click on the pictures to see the actual size of the image.

Downtown Manhattan skyline as seen from Jersey City, NJ:-

Statue of Liberty – postcard style and close-up:-

Downtown Manhattan collage – New York Stock Exchange, Wall Street and the Raging Bull (pun intended ):-

Just another snap of the skyscrapers:-

Downtown Manhattan as seen from the Empire State Building:-

Stay tuned