Sheer Melody

Critical appreciation and its pitfalls

2009-03-16T08:07:00.003+05:30

In my last blog post, Bio commented that I should write something about stuff that impacts us and affects us - like the upcoming elections. I wish I could oblige him - but asking me to comment on politics - be it internal or world - is like asking Britney Spears to comment on emerging trends in music. I sometimes wish I wasn't so apathetic about the general condition of humanity - be it in the motherland or otherwise - but I guess that's the way I am.

I wonder why Rediff spends possibly a humongous amount of dough in maintaining its message boards. Other than holding a mirror to the Darwinian philosophy of evolution (in this case - stunted), I don't really see how they serve any real purpose on the world wide web. Most amusing are the comments on anything written by Raja Sen. Pet-flogging-boy for many, his reviews get panned by lovers and haters of the movie alike. I am not sure why; I do concede that the man does get a tad wordy every now and then; but then again - I admire his perceptiveness about cinema even if I may not agree with what he says all the time.

Another thing which comes through in these message boards is the inability of people to understand what criticism is supposed to be. Criticism, be it literary or film, is just as much an art is the art of movie-making and writing - it's not meant to be gospel truth. Fine arts is typically always a highly subjective matter and expecting one's taste to match another's consistently is treading a fine line. One of the most dim-witted retorts seen to movie criticism is - "So you didn't like it: let me see you come up with something better". It's a little disconcerting to realize that for the majority of people who pan a movie or love it - the realization that critical appreciation or the reverse of a work of art necessarily require excellence in that field.

Staying on the subject of rediff message boards, another comment which is seen ad nauseum is "It's only a movie. It should be entertaining, it shouldn't be taken too seriously.". Most frequently, such messages are seen on boards of unadulterated crap like 'Rab ne bana di jodi' or 'Billu'. Something which never makes sense to me is why we have this demarcation between art-house entertainment (which is supposed to translate to 'good cinema'), and commercial ventures (which is supposed to refer to masala fare - the paisa vasool (returns proportionate to investment) kind - the kind that makes you come out either with tears streaming down your cheeks, or your face in a happy grin). A losing debate is quickly rescued with an argument which conveniently places the movie in the second 'masala' category - automatically absolving it all of its pitfalls and failures. What's disturbing is this attitude is not an isolated phenomenon, and rarely does this show any correlation to literacy. Take the example of 'Delhi 6' - I have talked about this film before, and one of my issues with this film was the compartmentalization it performs on the viewer's intelligence. People who liked this film will invariably defend the preachiness of the movie with the argument that a film needs to cater to the least common denominator to be successful at the box-office. For me the film failed at that precise moment - the moment Junior Bachhan opened his mouth to explain to the viewers how there's a kala bandar inside all of us (which probably explains why such films get made in the first place).

Music - for me - is tougher to review. Being a musician, something which irks me to no end is belittling one composer to support the cause of another. I personally am a big fan of both A R Rahman and Salil Chowdhury - both geniuses in their own era, and it was amusing and a little painful to see meaningless arguments on the 'Salil Chowdhury' forum comparing the two doyens. Such comparisons (perhaps inevitable) have become common ever since Rahman's double victory at the Oscars. While I do believe that Slumdog Millionaire is not Rahman's best work, using it as a leveller to dismiss the rest of Rahman's fabulous output over the years is nothing less than stupidity. Sample this argument - "Rahman's songs are based on rhythm rather than melody. He seems confused and a mixture of everything. Hence his are khichadi** songs". Note the general condescending tone which runs through the entire comment of this user. He is plainly ignorant about music, since he clearly believes that rhythm and melody are separate entities, and while making a fetching display of his ignorance, reaches a triumphant conclusion that Rahman's music is khichadi**. This phenomenon can also be found on display on various Illayaraja message boards where die hard Raja fans dismiss Rahman's work as monotonous peppered with frequent mention of the fact that Raja is the only Indian to have written a symphony. Frankly, I appreciate Illayaraja's music as much as I appreciate Rahman's, and for that matter - I love Salil-da's music to bits - as I have mentioned previously in this blog - but for the life of me - I cannot understand why one should belittle one composer to raise another's stature. For every group of people that loves Rahman's music, there will be another (possibly smaller one) which will be actively denigrating it. I think a lot of this has to do with the fact that Indians (and this is not meant to be an offensive generalization) haven't been exposed to world music the way the rest of the world has. While you have musicians in the US mixing jazz with African music in a fascinating cocktail, Indian musicians haven't paid much attention to the fine art of fusion. Rock, while it's popular in college circuits - is most frequently appreciated just for the sake of fitting and jazz is discarded as being too pseudo-intellectual to appeal to the common man. Indian music (and here I am referring to the output from the most-widely listened-to film music) is most often an ill-conceived mish mash of ideas borrowed from various corners of the world, frequently with no acknowledgment of the original source (yes, plagiarism has existed in a big way right from the 50s); and the audience has been fed on this diet of pulp. Rahman's greatness lies in the effortless way in which he fuses every possible genre into an Indian form - be it grunge, hip-hop, jazz or good-old Western Classical. And he does it mind-bendingly well! Comparing his output to that of other stalwarts isn't doing the man justice!

And Bio - I must apologize that I haven't managed to make a definite comment on politics - this week has not been particularly conducive to putting my thoughts together.

Till the next time...

** khichadi: gruel of rice and lentils

Nothing in particular

2009-03-09T08:28:00.002+05:30

So DST kicked in and robbed me of an hour's sleep.

And despite predictions of heavy rain, it stayed uniformly gloomy throughout, making this a particularly dull Sunday. Makes me ponder on one of life's quandaries as described in Seinfeld: Sunday has a feel, Monday has a feel, Thursday has a feel - but Tuesday has no feel.

The loves of Dev

2009-03-06T05:10:00.004+05:30

When I updated my facebook status to "watched DevD. Impressed.", Nightwatchmen felt that I probably wasn't as excited after the movie as he was when he left the theater. To put the record straight, I decided to write this, not a review - a collection of thoughts; there are too many reviews of this film on the web already - and to be perfectly honest - I don't believe I could add much to that.

The story of Devdas is one of those forlorn epics of Indian cinema, the story of the rich spoilt foreign-returned brat who doubles up as a loser and subsequently drinks himself to death for love. Anurag Kashyap takes this story and turns it on its head, relocating the spoilt brat from the zamindar family in Bengal several eons ago, to a strappy lad returning from London to the ganne-ke-kheth of Punjab. In this case the brat likes Coke (with Vodka), and also practices abuse of several soft and hard drugs. For me, the movie was defined in one of its very first epochal moments - Dev slobbering over Paro's raunchy photos, and exclaiming 'Main aa raha hoon', instead of its innuendo laden English counterpart.

There are certain movies which don't have complex plot-lines but redeem themselves through dialogue, cinematography and screenplay. DevD as a film has all of them. The camerawork is particularly arresting; the director loves his colors and uses them liberally - the usage exemplifying the claustrophobic nature of the second half. The dialogue is minimal but intelligent, not intent in hammering the point home. I believe several people have been put off by the constant forays the camera makes into Dev's mind after his decadent downward spiral commences; I thought it was done brilliantly, mirroring the stoned state of an addict with a great deal of honesty. Influences of Danny Boyle's technique are evident in each of the scenes where Dev stones like there's no tomorrow.

Any mention of this film is incomplete without the blistering soundtrack - which drives the narrative forward - instead of hindering it. Amit Trivedi's compositions brilliantly gel with the film's structure, earthy in parts - intensely psychedelic in others. There is little pretense in his compositions and his vocal rendering and that is extremely refreshing to hear. It was such a relief to hear a decent rock number come out of Bollywood in the form of Bony Chakravarty's rendition of Emotional Atyachar, considering the pussyfooted apporach which Hindi films have taken to exploring this genre in general. Amit Trivedi has played around with several genres in the film, for me the best compositions in this film would be 'Dhol Yaara Dhol', 'Nayan Tarse' and both the Dev Chanda themes which run throughout the film. Dhol Yaara Dhol is a fascinating composition, very layered, never moving out of the frame. 'Nayan Tarse' is yet another intensely melancholic composition, and became a favorite after I observed how beautifully it was woven into the narrative. The Dev Chanda themes - well - they just prove that you don't need a hundred violins screeching in the background in a diminished chord formation to really add color to a scene. A lingering bass riff and a whistle will do just fine.

I thought Anurag captured the lanes of Paharganj very nicely. The neon lights, the shady hotels, the 'eager-beaver' who has been tested for HIV and who can't wait, the underground bars with the dancers. I loved the first dance where Dev first gets stoned with Chunni to the tune of 'Pardesi'; I thought Dev's time in the underground bars and the whorehouse were the best parts of the film where his decadence (or was it the proverbial mirror to the decadence of society in general) truly came to the forefront.

There are many more vignettes which have stand out well after the end credits roll. The absolutely hilarious moment when Abhay teaches his conservative co-passenger a lesson after having been subject to a needlessly long discourse on the evil young men with depleted morals cause by riding public transport in an inebriated state, is a one-in-a-million scene. Lenny stating matter-of-factly: 'The entire country got off on it, and they call me a slut'. The 'dilli mein billi' dialogue. Dev's interaction with Paro when she comes over to clean his pigsty of a room - Dev is shamelessly apologetic - Paro coolly distant, listening to his apologies, but never responding with the kind of response Dev is looking for. Dev telling Chanda - 'But you know I love you too, Chanda'. Dev asking his cab-driver - 'Do you drink?', and he replying - 'Like a fish'. Priceless!

These are just a few of the scenes which made watching this movie so worth the wait. A word must go out to each of the performances. Each performance had its merits and although Chanda's accent did grate a few times at the outset, it gradually did endear itself to me. Abhay Deol is turning out to be quite the actor, and Mahi Gill was fabulous as Paro; when they fought - it was easy to see that it was their egos fighting a battle that both would eventually lose. Chunni's role could have been built upon and it wasn't clear what purpose he served in the film; but well, those are but minor quibbles in a pretty polished film - with carefully etched characters.

So is DevD a good film? Yes. A great film? Possibly. A definitive film? Too many questions :-)

Some movies - and reflections...

2009-02-24T08:04:00.005+05:30

Returning to the blog-world after a somewhat longer hiatus than is normal - multitude of thoughts – and no specific order to put them in. So here are some of them…

Slumdog Millionaire sweeps the Oscars, or as Raja Sen of Rediff puts it – ‘India conquers the Oscars’. In some sense, it’s perhaps right – as we went from a cumulative count of two to five in the space of a night. That’s no mean feat. The movie has its merits: a gripping pace, impressive screenplay and no shortage of ideas. Sadly, it was poverty porn – and that’s where the film went from being a good movie to merely a mediocre attempt at purportedly realistic cinema. Danny Boyle got all the ingredients together for an Oscar favorite: the underdog, the insurmountable obstacles, the developing country with its idiosyncrasies, quaint and exotic – luxuriously conforming to the average American movie-goer's mental image of India. With each passing moment, with each story in Jamal’s life, we are treated to an overdose of grotesqueness, so unrealistic as to be perfectly laughable. Add his accented English to the list and you have a party! To quote one of my friends – it was an underwhelming experience. For me the high point of the movie was Rahman’s music (though I firmly believe he has delivered and composed way better in the past and I am sure will in the future): a sumptuous score to rival the best in the world – deceptively simple, original and instantly endearing.

DevD is being touted as the Indian psychedelic equivalent of The Wall. I can’t wait to see it – I wish Anurag Kashyap would release the DVD soon – with only 4 prints in circulation in the United States – it’s darn hard to find a theater screening it – at least in the somewhat respectable localities from where I can return home unscathed. For the people who have seen it and have enjoyed it and are just dying to reveal its plot to me – here’s your chance, and if you want to gloat – feel free!

I really enjoyed Luck By Chance. Zoya Akhtar feels like a very sensitive director. It was a pleasure to sit through a movie which portrays people in refreshing shades of gray (in contrast to the black and white which we are so used to Bollywood dishing out with amazing consistency). It was fun to observe characters depicted as unashamedly selfish, as genuinely hopeful. Rishi Kapoor as the producer confused that a script could be treated as property was extremely endearing, and I loved the scene in which Nikki seduces her co-star. Konkona was brilliant as usual and her expression as she realizes the reality of the casting couch and silently accepts the fact is out of the world. I still can’t decide whether I liked or hated the impossibly stupid song in the film within the film – but there is absolutely no doubt that this movie had the most amazing opening credits I have seen in any Hindi film in a long time.

In contrast, Delhi 6 was excruciating torture – unadulterated pain. The film starts off well with its quirky characters and impressive vignettes of life in Delhi 110006 but quickly degenerates into preachy farce. Sonam Kapoor pulls off a composed performance and methinks her smile is quite the seductress. Abhishek Bachhan alternates between two expressions in the film, has a fake American accent and decides that India ‘works’ with no logical explanation or premise. Divya Dutta is fantastic, and the one place where I smiled was where she gives the hypothetical Kala-bandar’s lock of hair to the local simpleton Gober. I also enjoyed Om Puri’s expressions as he discussed dowry with the Lala. Sadly, such moments were fleeting and very few – with the result that the movie remained a confusing albeit colorful mixture of well-caricatured clichés and pretentious imagery. In one of the most ludicrous climaxes I have seen in a long time - the movie degenerates terribly as it closes, comfortably equating its audience to bunch of zealous sixth graders with an average IQ of eighty attending a class on national integration.

The fail blog

2008-08-24T09:27:00.000+05:30

This has to be one of the funniest things on the internet:

http://failblog.org

Random

2008-08-09T02:38:00.003+05:30

After a long time, I decided it’s time to start contributing to my blog which has been left untouched for some time now. Partly, this is because staying alone in the US can be infinitely boring; and although New York City is much better than most other cities in this country, I realized it could be a trifle too expensive if I tried living life the way I used to in Bombay during the early days in the industry…

I have done something amazing – something I could never have imagined I would do: quit smoking. It was a horrible time, the three weeks after I had my last smoke; but I managed. Yay! I now can talk to fellow-smokers in a condescending tone and tell them how much better it feels not to hold that stick in my hand.

I have started doing a lot of in-house recordings. Maybe it’s because I miss the late-night sessions with Bodhi at my place in Bangalore. The trained reader would have guessed by now that I have left Bangalore and am presently located near the Big Apple. Those were good times – exploring strange, sometimes even quirky, genres of music and cinema; times when we started experimenting in a small way with jazz and learnt to amaze at its immensity. All my recordings are in my folder on esnips.

I have a strange passion now – experimenting with new varieties of beer. Samuel Adams Boston Lager is a good drink. I somehow haven’t been able to take any liking to Jack n Coke.

I also have a new keyboard, a Yamaha YPG 235, one of the portable grand series of Yamaha. The keys have a good feel, partly because they are partially weighted, and partly because the thing’s brand new. The sound’s pretty good – maybe not concert standard – but I especially like the sharp zing the higher notes have when I hit the keys really hard. It also sounds awfully good when I plug it in to my speakers.

I have mixed feelings about leaving Bangalore. Certain things happened in the last month which I guess more communication would have avoided. It certainly did not make my last days in the city any easier – I wanted to be able to say the city had given me a lot – but unlike Mumbai which always feels closer to my heart (there are multiple reasons for this), Bangalore never made the cut.

Aru is happily married and stays in the next building – so quite a few evenings pass in recollections of the Mumbai days – rollicking times spent with the old gang of Sunil, Prantik, Saunak, and of course Aru. This dude just sent me a scandalous reminder of the way we whiled away time in Mumbai at the den – I have been toying with the idea of uploading them to the blog: I am just not sure and comfortable about the reactions I may get when multiple views of the video happen.

* den = A 1101, Sun Srishti, Saki-Vihar Road, Powai

Yuck again...

2007-11-16T10:50:00.000+05:30

Heard on the Bollywood grapevine: SLB (Sanjay Leela Bhansali for the uninitiated), is planning to make his own version of the Ray classic, Charulata. Coming on the heels of a strikingly pseudo-intellectual and supposedly profound comment which goes on the lines of "Even in Pather Panchali, the realism is only an illusion...", it makes me wonder at the pretentiousness of the Bollywood crop.

At one point of time, I used to wish that this guy would go and make a movie which would make me change my mind about him. Khamoshi was a "watchable" movie, period. Ever since that, he has never failed to impress me with the way he manages to make a mess of every single movie he touches. With Saawariya, he has laid an egg, and although there will be starry-eyed lovers who will fall for the blue (again???) sets, and histrionics more suited to a middle-school adaptation of White Nights, there's nothing much going for this guy now.

Sincere advice: Leave the classics alone. That includes both Pather Panchali and Charulata. And even if you are dying to make a comment on them, at least make an educated one...

Yet another Pujo...

2007-10-19T11:39:00.001+05:30

Yet another Pujo… And yet again, I am not in Kolkata. What’s it about Durga Pujo (and not Puja), which makes all Bengalis pine for their hometown?

Some things are unfathomable, and are best left at that. CNN-IBN ran a report on Durga Pujo, explaining how it’s the season of romance in Kolkata (and most of Bengal, for that matter), but is it just that? Or is it something more than couples meeting on the sly and promising each other a lifetime of love, caring and passion?

This is one particular question I endeavor to answer every Pujo, as autumn sets in and I realize that the festival that means the most to me isn’t powerful enough to make materialism take a back-seat. As I prepare to leave office early and go home, and try to make the most of a season meant for unplanned adda, fun and frolic; there are a million things that will go through my mind, and not all of them are about Pujo…

Durga Pujo and Kolkata are inextricably linked together. As the rest of the country tows the line which Rajiv Gandhi said several years ago on the city – A City on its death-bed – I wonder what it is about the city which invokes such warm and fuzzy feelings in me. And as I will take the auto and go back to an empty house, and sit back with a drink, recollections will flood my mind – some pleasant, some traumatic and some just plain romantic. Recollections of a lost childhood – recollections of times spent with lost friends, of a time when the pleasure was not in the conclusion but in the journey. As someone said about travel – it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. Durga Pujo is such a festival… There is no destination. There is a journey, a journey through a four-day long extravaganza of joy, gaiety, song, dance and unbridled romance. Durga Pujo is all of this and much more, and like all good things, most of it is not quantifiable.

We have four more shows to get through, and while I hope the response will be amazing – I look forward to at least making the most of a Pujo far from home, with what I like doing the best – music…

My journeys in tuning the guitar

2007-04-02T16:57:00.000+05:30

Tuning a guitar is a tough job. For two reasons, it’s tough to have perfect ears, and most of the time the ears respond to aural clues not coming from the guitar too; and secondly because of equal temperament. I have wanted to write this article for several years now, because every day in my musical journey, I am fascinated by the trap of the tempered third.

The easiest way to tune the guitar is by using an electronic tuner. You turn the pegs until the tuner clicks and tells you that your string is tuned perfectly. Easy, simple and takes the least amount of time. But of course, if you are the perfectionist, this mechanism is rarely going to satisfy you.

The problem is compounded if you are going to play with a fixed pitch instrument (Which is not an electronic keyboard). There is a small chance that there is a conflict between what your tuner says and what the instrument says. In such conditions, it’s always best to tune your guitar to the fixed-pitch instrument, which will enhance your performance and the purists will have lesser areas to frown upon. Ideally, of course, all fixed-pitch instruments should be tuned to concert pitch, but they are sometimes way off, sometimes clearly lying between two notes on the electronic tuner, and that’s where the guitarist’s problems are compounded.

There was an informal jam session I participated in, in which there were five of us, and another guitarist who was new. He was not new to the guitar, he was new to us. So everything was fine, until he decided to join in. So he takes out his guitar, his electronic tuner, tunes his guitar and joins in. The jam session was wrecked. He was on concert pitch, but none of us were, and he was unaware that he was way off – possibly, because he was hard of hearing, or partially tone-deaf. I had contemplated telling him to switch to another guitar, or tune his guitar for him, but as one is painfully aware, the social dynamics of tuning another guitarist’s guitar for him is a non-trivial matter.

The best way, and something that has been supporting me lately in my exploits with the guitar is the D tuning. Tune the D (4th string) to the concert pitch, or what all of you in your informal jam session agree to as the concert pitch D. Using this D, tune the other strings using the open 4th string as a reference. The reason I ask you to do this, is because in this case, you won’t be basing your references on thirds or fifths to tune, but all your tuning would be based on the pure interval – which is the octave.

The problem is created now by the major third interval (that is the F# note on the key of D). This is important in most of all the music that you hear and most of rock, folk, country music anyways, that you would want it to sound good. Play your D chord now; and you will notice that it doesn’t sound good. Do you want to tweak the strings which play the F# so that it sounds good? You would be tempted, as I am all the time. But I guess that’s the peril of equal temperament, something that was experimented with for years, and ultimately resulted in a fret-board in which one perfect chord leads to other imperfect chords. The human ear which would always be more satisfied by the just temperament simply fails to agree with the guitar which wants to be tuned to equal temperament, with the result that most guitarists are moody people who are rarely happy.

So what is this equal temperament thingy which musicians have been so worried about over the years?

The scale is divided into equally-spaced semitones, and each semitone is around a hundred (100) cents away from each other. So a cent is 1/100 of a semitone. Simple concept.
Before we had equal temperament, all musical instruments were tuned according to the overtone series – which is the sequence of harmonics which we hear when a particular note is sung, plucked or blown upon. And that resulted in what is known as just temperament, something that nature designed every individual scale to be.

But that was not easy for the piano, which cannot be tuned in between a performance which shifts from one key to another. Thus arose equal temperament, which was first experimented with by Bach, who wrote his famous The well-tempered clavier, with a series of fugues and preludes in both major and minor keys to illustrate that with all it’s failures, equal temperament is the way to go, because it makes all your thirds slightly off, but not so far off as to actually sound discordant when played as a part of a musical performance.

So what’s the problem with equal temperament? Taking heed from the hundred cents which separate each semitone from its next (or previous), if we investigate the equally tempered scale, we find that the third (the major third) is 14 cents sharper than what the actual major third is supposed to be. So the actual major third on your equally-tempered piano is 14/100 times sharper than the actual third which occurs on that scale using the overtone series. The octave however, in equal temperament, is perfect, it’s exactly double the frequency of the lower note in the same key. Which implies that it’s always best to tune using octaves, something which I mentioned in the very beginning of this article. Tempered fourths and fifths are not very far off from their actual sounds in the equally tempered scale, in that the fourth is 2 cents sharper than the actual, and the tempered fifth is 2 cents flatter than the actual. The minor third, incidentally is a bigger problem than the major third, in that it is around 16 cents flatter than the actual minor third which is a part of the scale as per the overtone series.

This concept is academic in the case of fixed-pitch instruments, like the flute, the oboe, or the recorder, which can only change their ranges slightly but the pitches which these instruments can play are fixed in the mechanism of the instrument. The violin and stringed instruments, on the other hand, are more tunable, because of the pegs which are provided with the instrument, and that is what you notice concert fiddlers doing in the middle of performances. They change their pitches ever so slightly to adjust with the new key which the next concert piece is going to be played on. Guitars are stringed instruments but they should not be regularly tuned to the key because the frets are a limiting factor, making the instrument prominently like the piano as far as equal temperament is concerned.

So what is the trap of the major third as I mentioned in the beginning?

Let me illustrate with the simplest G – open chord. The 2nd string in the G open chord is also open, and it plays a B, which as we all know – is the major third in the G major chord. Now let us say, using the electronic tuner which we recently purchased, we tuned the guitar perfectly as per instructions and played the G chord. Well, to most ears, it will sound right – but to ears which were born fussy and inconclusive, the G will not sound good, the 2nd string sounds distinctly off. Wouldn’t it be nice, if I tuned it down a little, turned that peg just a little bit, and make the G chord sound like the most beautiful thing in the world? Well, that’s what I used to do when I first played the guitar; and that was a big trap. I always used to get a world-class G chord, but when I decided to play the next song on the scale of E, I sounded terrible. I spent days trying to understand what I was doing wrong, until I decided to ask someone who knew more than me, and that’s how I learnt all this. What was happening was that in my urge to get the perfect third in the G major chord, I was tuning the B open string (2nd string) to the perfect B, which is actually 14 cents lower than what it should actually be as per the equally tempered scale. On the E scale, however, the B is the fifth of the scale, which even in the equally tempered scale should never be more than two cents off, but because of my efforts, was actually 14 cents off, and hence my E chord always sounded horrible.

This is incidentally, one of the reasons why it will never be possible under realistic scenarios to play Carnatic classical music on the piano.

Horrible English songs

2007-01-09T00:55:00.000+05:30

Deciding upon the worst songs ever is tough as it is potentially inflammatory. There is always chance of comments appearing out of nowhere on your review, just because of one song. And more than the comments, it’s how you decide on the worst songs ever, on the music, the lyrics or both.

Final countdown (Europe) : We’re heading for Venus, but still we stand tall/’Cause maybe they’ve seen us, and welcome us all . I am sure if those who stay in Venus ever heard lyrics like this, a welcome is the last thing we should expect. A typical hair-band of the eighties, practically all of Europe’s songs explored similar clichés and sound mind-numbingly boring.
I build the garden for us (Lenny Kravitz) : You’ll just be okay with us / We’ll live each day in peace / In hope that we will one day reach / The rest of the world / When they are ready to be teached. Artistic license is something I believe in, but muttering teached in a song? Taking it too far?
Ironic (Alanis Morissette): One of the stupidest songs I have heard in my life. She talks about stuff which is supposed to be ironic, but in reality, isn’t. Like rain falling on your wedding day . That’s not ironic, that’s unfortunate. Like a traffic jam when you are already late. Irony would be you going to a seminar on how you freed the town of traffic congestion, and getting late in a traffic jam in the process.
Every rose has its thorn (Poison): Another hair-band of the eighties, the lyrics go: Every rose has its thorn / Just like every night has its dawn / Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song / Every rose has its thorn. Lead lyricist took a few sayings out of a nursery book, and strung them together to a piece of sappy love-music. Terrible!
Wannabe (Spice Girls): I hate everything by these girls, but this one takes the cake for being the lousiest ever. Yo I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want, So tell me what you want, what you really really want, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want, So tell me what you want, what you really really want, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna reallyreally really wanna zigzag ha. OK!
Tubthumping (Chumbawumba): A forgettable song by an equally forgettable band. I never figured out how a band could have Pissing the night away in a song.
Around the world (RHCP): Normally a technically proficient band, they have some really good songs. But for this one, I guess all of them just forgot to complete it. I know, I know, for sure / ding ding dang ding ding ding don ding don dang, and thus it goes.
Bills, bills, bills (Destiny’s Child): Can you pay my bills?/Can you pay my telephone bills?/Can you pay my automo’ bills?/Then maybe we can chill/I don’t think you do/so you and me are through. A song which is capable of taking you back in time, way back in time, actually.
Control (Puddle of Mud): I love the way you look at me/I love the way you smack my a**/I love the dirty things you do/I have control of you. Seriously, what was he thinking when he wrote this? A disgrace to rock music, and amazingly misogynistic.
My humps (Black-eyed Peas): My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump / My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely lady lumps. When I first heard this on radio, I wondered if on continued listening, it would reveal itself in some strange, spiritual way. Finally, it did not.
O-bla-di O bla-da (The Beatles): Although I am a big fan of the Beatles and their brand of music, I somehow felt that they had touched rock-bottom with this song. With a dash of brass sections, trumpets and screeching vocals which make no sense, this should be scrapped off all Beatles anthologies.
Ebony and Ivory (Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder): It’s like one of those songs which are supposed to be about racial harmony and all that, but somehow still makes you cringe. To be fair to both of them, the song was written in a time when both of them were starved for ideas. I wish they wouldn’t have asked the whites and the blacks to get along like the keys of the piano. It sounded plain stupid.
My heart will go on (Celine Dion): Normally I hate everything that this lady sings, and her two compatriots, Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey. But this tops the charts for its somnolent lyrics, and mushy undertone. What could be worse than listening to – Every time I see you, I feel you , or words to that effect, and immediately after that, my heart will go on, and on, and on , and so on and so forth.
Glory Days (Springsteen): Somewhere during the course of the song, he sings: He could throw that speed ball by you / make you look like a fool. One could never figure out what he was actually trying to say, make a comment on drug-abuse or a baseball player.
A** like that (Eminem): I ain’t never seen an a** like that / The way you move it, you make my peepee go doing doing doing. Worst lyrics ever, period.
Skater Boi (Avril Lavigne): I hate this singer with all my heart, and this song just reinforces that. He was a boy, she was a girl / Can I make it any more obvious? I guess she just couldn’t make it any stupider.
Achy Braky heart (Billy Ray Cyrus): Normally country music is a haven for great lyrics. This song unfortunately falls into the same category, and has horrible lyrics which go this way: And if you tell my heart / My achy breaky heart / He might blow up and kill this man.
Oops I did it again (Britney Spears): Yes, this just proves that although Britney is exceedingly aware of her meager compositional skills, she went ahead and made yet another song.
Barbie girl (Aqua): The band got sued by Mattel for degrading their dolls, but that didn’t take this song off air. The only thing that can be worse than listening to Come on Barbie, let’s go party is Aa – ah – ah – yeah.
Quit playing games with my heart (Backstreet boys): A boy band had to feature here, and who better than the quintessential bad boys of pop music. Horrible lyrics, horrible music, and five plainly stupid guys on a music video make this one of the worst songs of all time. The boys have however redeemed themselves and made songs which would put this one to shame, but since this is the most popular, I just had to put it in.

Adios!

Dada and the wall

2007-01-09T00:32:00.000+05:30

Here is a rather interesting post I found on the Telegraph. Most of the post is about the series loss to South Africa in South Africa, with a few comments on the players.

What's interesting is the footnote, here is how it goes:
Sourav and Dravid featured in an 84-run partnership for the third-wicket, but the captain didn’t appear very pleased with his predecessor’s over-involvement with the bowlers, particularly Sreesanth. “Jyada nahin, dadi... jyada nahin” is what a stump mike picked up. Sourav was heard responding “maine bowling ki baat nahin ki... bowling ki nahin...” Hopefully, there’s nothing more to it.

I too sincerely hope there's nothing more to it. Also, before I forget, I should mention that I have a great desire to be privy to the report which Greg Chappell is due to submit to the BCCI in a few days from now.

Too late

2007-01-05T21:54:00.001+05:30

My mind is without fetters
It doesn’t know what it thinks
My words come out in a ragged whisper
Damp with alcohol, warped in nicotine
Life seems unreasonable, unnatural
It carries on, with complacent glee
Plods on, with inexorable certainty
A mark in the sand, a walk on the beach
Footsteps fade away to nothingness
Like visions of loneliness, of a family
Of a child still not born
Of a family yet to form

I met a man tonight; he wanted to take me home
I told him he couldn’t, he asked me why
I didn’t know why, and I told him that
Wondering what was it that made me do that
The drizzle drenches me
The raindrops mark a trail down a bleeding heart
Don’t know who’ll buy me tonight
Buy me and let me live another day
A day longer than eternity
Only to end in despair and longing

The bed seems warm, it comforts me
Raindrops splatter on the window
Lights of traffic, and the neon of money
They all comfort me in spurts of erotic fantasy
The bottle falls on the ground
I want to pick it up, but the light seems stronger
I see my child in the distance
He is walking away
Into the light
I want to hug him to me, bring him closer
Make him a part of me, make myself a family
I wonder if I did the right thing
The child has gone, the light still remains
Blinding my eyes, as pain wrecks my body
I want to turn time back, turn the page over
Stain it with a bookmarker
To revisit another day

I guess I did make a mistake
But now, I guess it’s just too late

Black Friday - Indian ocean

2006-12-27T20:01:00.000+05:30

With the album Black Friday, Indian Ocean has finally come of age. I remember the first time I watched them perform at our college, astounded at their technical proficiency and at the same time, the wonderful fluidity in their music. And it’s extremely nice to see that they have matured with each and every album. While Kandisa had a simplicity and a little immaturity in it, Jhini was a considerably more consistent album, and Black Friday simply defies all expectations.

Bandheh is probably the most listened-to song in the album, is a wonderfully composed number. Rahul Ram on the bass is wonderful as usual, giving his usual soft, gentle licks, unassuming but always in control. Susmit is excellent in the guitaring department, transitioning between acoustic and light distortion with effortless ease. The vocals are spot on as always, angry and mellow in parts, changing with the mood of the song. Watch out for the faint strains of the guitar which continue all through the last bars of the song, accompanying the vocals with acute dexterity. An extremely well-composed song.
Opening is a very un-Indian Ocean song. The opening strains of the soprano sax make you sit up and wonder. Distinctly influenced by jazz and middle-eastern music, it’s tough to accurately identify the inspiration in this. The jugalbandi consists of a well orchestrated amalgamation of the recorder, sax, the drums and an instrument I couldn’t quite recognize. However, I just wish they would have let the medley of various drums in the end not drag on for as long as it does. But of course, I guess the music would have been composed in consonance with the pace of the film, so I am not complaining.
Training is also very unlike any of Indian Ocean previous songs. The first bars of the song share a distinct similarity with the opening strains of the Opening. One also notices a slight similarity to a few songs of Jhini in this one. Also the traces of studio recording and synthetic drum usage in this song are quite apparent. Somehow, not the best that the band can offer. But again, a movie soundtrack should never be judged only on music proficiency, for that would be committing a grave injustice against the composers.
Bomb planting is a masterful song, and for me, is one of the best alternative compositions this band has done. Orchestral in nature, with a lot of keyboards and artificial brass sections, the way Susmit uses the muted acoustic guitar in this song is really beautiful. The drummer and the saxophonist ( I am really not sure who were the guys who were behind the sax in this ), have done a wonderful job with their subtle touches in parts. All in all, a wonderful composition, with a jazzy texture, and a very nice overall feel to it.
Chase is reminiscent of one of the albums which Shankar Mahadevan released with Taufiq Qureshi , called Rhydhun . It starts with an experimentation of sorts on obscure rhythms, and continues with a host of other percussive instruments coming together as the song progresses, giving an impression of chaos, pots and pans falling over, structures being razed to the ground, until the guitar and bass combine with the rhythms in one rollicking ensemble.
Badshah in Jail would remind you of the previous Indian Ocean albums, the same guitar strains, and the same melancholy melody. However, the maturity of the band, which it has achieved over the years, is clearly evident in the consistently befitting arrangement throughout the song. The vocals have just the required amount of pathos and are wonderfully executed. Especially beautiful are the flute parts which stray into the song every now and then, merging effortlessly with the vocals. The guitar starts with a somewhat laid-back attitude, and gradually picks up pace, with the characteristic fluidity which defines this band so well; and merges with the flute to give way to the vocals. With its myriad instruments and awesome vocals, this song, for me, defines this album.
Bharam Bhaap ke is a very well-composed song. The guitar has a strange feel to it in this song, almost electronic, very unlike their previous sounds. The vocals share uncannily similar characteristics with one other song, Bhor from their previous album Jhini . The combination of the dholak with the tabla to give a fluid tempo to the song is commendable. The guitar playing in this is very similar to the previous albums of the band, and would definitely invoke a sense of déjà vu. In spite of the similarities, it’s a very enjoyable song, with wonderful use of the suspended chords.
RDX is probably their most adventurous song in the album, and probably the song which would stand next to Badshah in Jail and Memon House in my list of favorites. A wonderful jazz experiment, with an obscure rhythm, an exquisite saxophonist and keyboardist fusing effortlessly with the main vocals, this is a song which reveals itself with multiple visits.
Memon House is an excellent song, absolutely unlike Indian Ocean and any of their previous compositions, but magnificent in its own right. The keyboard riff which plays throughout the song is one of the best riffs I have heard in recent times. The keyboard gives way to the flute, which in turn gives way to the saxophone and the cycle repeats itself over, reminding one of Prasanna’s experiments with Carnatic classical , until they all come together in one consummate whole. And then, the vocals join in typical Indian style, breaking away to a languorous drawl, which is tough to categorize. The whole song has a very refreshing sound to it, with quite beautifully executed experiments in different instruments, things which had been absent from their previous albums.

All in all, a very refreshing album, one that endears itself to you after continued listening.

A few personal favorites

2006-12-27T19:58:00.000+05:30

Choosing a meager twenty songs as your favorites out of the vast treasure trove of Hindi Film Music (HFM) is a humongous task. But since I have nothing much to do today, I thought – why not do this?

Raaton ke saayein (Annadata): A pretty amazing composition from Salil Chowdhury , from an utterly forgettable movie. The movie being forgettable has a lot to do with the popularity of the number, which still is one of the most haunting songs I have heard in my life, with a complex chord progression and a very beautiful melodic line.
Chhoti Si Asha (Roja): Somehow I always feel that Rahman , with his enormous repertoire in Hindi and Tamil film music, can ever recreate the magic, the innocence, and the sheer beauty of the music which he created in Roja . One of the most beautifully picturised songs in HFM, this is sheer magic.
Aiye Meherbaan: I can’t seem to recollect the name of the movie where this song occurs, but it’s definitely one of the best compositions by O.P.Nayyar , capturing the mood of the cabaret and seduction at the same time.
Mera kuchh samaan lauta do: This song requires no introduction and is probably one of R. D. Burman’s most formidable compositions. It is said that Burman reacted with “Next time, you can ask me to compose music for the news in the TOI” or words to that effect, when Gulzar gave the lyrics to Pancham. A lovely song, filled with pain and anguish, almost tragic in its beauty.
Na Jaane Kyon (Chhoti si Baat): An absolute gem of a song from a quirky comedy, with rather nice lyrics and beautiful instances of experimentation in a jazz from a composer who was trying out new things in his music every other day. Especially beautiful is the choral soprano which runs through the length of the song accentuating Lata’s beautiful rendition.
Pyar hamein kis mod pe (Satte Pe Satta): Again, a song which requires no introduction at all. From an immensely popular movie, with a host of other hit songs, this is the song closest to my heart, for reasons which are manifold. I admire this number, for its transitions, for the energy, and its mind-bending complexity in spite of sounding deceptively simple.
Jaane woh kaise log the (Pyaasa): Wonderful composition by S D Burman , and rendered with finesse and a extremely personal touch by Hemant Kumar . One of the under-rated all time beautiful songs of HFM.
Is Mod pe jaate hain (Aandhi): R D Burman is one of those composers who could give you a rollicking number in a film, and follow it up with a song which simply astounds you with its meditative and contemplative nature. This is one of those meditative romantic songs sung with impeccable grace by Kishore and Lata.
Ajeeb dastaan hai yeh (Dil apna aur preet parayi): A lilting tune based on a soft gentle rocking country-style rhythm by Shankar Jaikishen , with Lata sounding exceptionally sweet and vulnerable all through. A gem of a song.
Na tum hamein jaano (Baat ek raat ki): Another Hemant-da song with the traditional Hemant Kumar characteristics – soft, gentle, laid-back and inherently sentimental.
Dil ki Girah khol do (Raat aur din): Normally, I am not the biggest fan of Shankar Jaikishen’s music over the years, but this is one song which showcased their talents in the best possible way. Manna Dey’s voice has never sounded so beautiful, and rarely has a waltz been adapted so adroitly to suit a Hindi film song.
Lag ja gale se (Woh kaun thi): A haunting melody by one of the under-rated music directors, Madan Mohan , whose association with Lata is legendary. Just one more song from the immense collection of gems which this man has given the world.
Kal nahin tha vo aaj hai (Vishwa Vidhata): Another Rahman song, which lacks the populist touch to it, and has a gentle orchestral background with a lovely vocal rendition, which enhances the beauty of the song. This song is conspicuous by the absence of the ornate beats which normally characterized Rahman’s music during this period, and is one of my personal favorites.
Zindagi Kaisi hai paheli (Anand): An awesome song from an equally awesome movie, this song captures pain, longing and desperation in more ways than one. Many a time, I have closed my eyes, watched Rajesh Khanna on the beach, walking without a care in the world, and have felt amazed at the strength of human resilience.
Ye raat bheegi bheegi si (Chori Chori): Another beautiful and lilting melody from Shankar Jaikishen , I love this song for the way Lata and Manna seem to complement and encourage each other, and of course, the lush orchestral background.
Ye Haseen Wadiyaan (Roja): The other song from Roja which had fascinated and stunned me with its complex arrangements and deceptive simplicity. Warm and sensuous at the same time, this definitely ranks as one of Rahman’s best compositions.
Pehla Nasha: One of the best things to come out of Jatin Lalit’s stables, Udit Narayan has never sounded better than this ( and I am not a big fan of his singing ). But I guess, it’s got all what the love-sick child wants, written all over it, sweetness, innocence and the warmth of first love.
Dil se Dil ki dor baandhe (Chhaya): This is one pretty unknown number from a rather nondescript film. Originally composed in Bengali by Salil-da for Hemant Kumar, this is the Hindi version, and is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard. Mukesh and Lata justify the trust placed in them, and each of the interludes are so beautiful that they could be songs if played in isolation.
Tu Hi Re (Bombay): The only film after Roja in which, I felt Rahman lived up to his own expectations was this one, with some really awesome compositions, starting from the orchestral theme to the tragic flute theme. But this song is an achievement in itself, words cannot describe the beauty of this composition.
Dil tadap tadap ke (Madhumati): Vyjanthimala never looked more beautiful than this, and Bimal Roy couldn’t have chosen a better time to picturize this song. Everything is perfect, the rustic setting, the sweet minimalist background music, and Lata’s angelic voice. Masterful and simple at the same time, I guess this was the best song to end my review with.

I am sure I have missed a lot of very popular and universally loved songs in the process of writing this review, and I guess it’s just that twenty is a restriction. Given a chance, I could write reams and reams, but well, that’s just not the objective of this website.

Satire and Humor at the rawest

2006-12-27T19:54:00.000+05:30

This is one of the funniest books I have ever read. And probably the best attempt at humorous and mind-bending satire by an Indian author. It all starts with the name, to be more precise: the comma in the name . What’s the comma supposed to mean, one may ask. Probably two facets of a personality which are at constant loggerheads with each other, in which each facet is confused about the other. English August is a thought-provoking, rollicking ride of the Great Indian bureaucracy and its many foibles through the eyes of a disillusioned but compassionate and wildly cynical individual named Agastya Sen (called English by some of his friends, Ogu by his dad and relatives, and August by other friends).

Spoiler warning (not that it matters greatly, plot details follow)

This is Upamanyu Chatterjee’s first book, published in 1988, and lacks much of the ponderous nature which is somewhat prominent in a lot of the great Indian novels. English August begins simply with Agastya in a car with his friend Dhrubo in Delhi, smoking marijuana and getting stoned. Agastya has qualified the Indian civil services examination (IAS to some) and has been posted as a trainee in a remote, made-up town by the name of Madna, somewhere in central India. He is worried and a little disillusioned, clearly expressed in Dhrubo’s words – You will get hazaar fucked in Madna. Agastya moves to Madna, a terribly hot place, and stays in a dilapidated and crumbling guest house which is a den of mosquitoes where he is fed by an irreverent cook called Vasant who he suspects is feeding him his turds. Agastya lives a sheltered but lonely life in Madna, making acquaintance with the collector of the town, Srivastav and his fat, but surprisingly sexy wife, mostly against his will. The rest of the book is a view of a typical Indian village-town through the eyes of this man, who is perpetually confused about his identity, his Indianness and a lot of the bureaucratic methodology of the civil services. Agastya realizes that the Indian heartland consisting of its myriad villages and people is a total stranger to him, just like it is to a lot of the urban folk. He makes friends with a frog and gives it a name (Dadru), and struggles with the local language in his daily work. He is modern and secular and gives a damn about religion, at the same time, terribly alienated against his own self, which is again reflected in the title of the book, English August. Even though he is named after a famous saint from Indian mythology, pronunciation issues have shortened his name to August, a perennial problem with a lot of Indian names, and a staple feature of pseudo-modern India.

Be it dissociation of a person from his culture, or the feeling of alienation in his own country, the book is a wonderful and amazingly funny critique on the daily musings and thoughts of a very confused man. In fact the confusion of Agastya is exposed beautifully in one of the sentences – There wasn’t a single thought in his head, about which he did not feel confused. The confusion is partly due to the extremely gigantic proportions of alcohol which he drinks and the marijuana which he smokes, and partly due to a lack of self-importance and confidence. All through the book, the author tries to understand and put a name to Agastya’s confusion, and in the process provides a hilarious insight into the working of some of India’s most esteemed offices. What is very refreshing about the book is that Chatterjee makes it very clear through myriad references to very Indian objects, articles and events that this book IS meant for Indian audiences.

Humor is obviously the mainstay of this novella – and mostly irreverent, and wildly satirical humor. Agastya is a blatant liar and likes making up stuff as is evident in the following passage:

Local biggie: Are you into physical exercise?
Agastya: Yes, I once climbed Mount Everest.
Local biggie: Good, you can join our badminton club.

The author writes an assured English, and frequently cluttered with frequent references and additions from Hinglish , a tongue spoken by most people from the northern part of the country. Agastya, as a person is the perfect mirror image of several Indians who are in the same dilemma, or similar kinds of disillusionment. Smoking pot, mostly against his will, is an activity which is done actively but frequently not enjoyed, as is listening to the alien sounds of Keith Jarrett or the imagined sweetness of Tagore. He is unable to find direction, and the will to try and understand any of the official tongue and this perception of the services stays till the end of the book. Frequently toying with the idea of branching into a different profession, Agastya simply goes through the motions of being the Assistant collector, meeting influential people and going to important meetings, sometimes stoned and drunk.

The humor in the book ranges from the comical to the stupid, from the farcical to satire, but rarely does any of the humor come across as forced. And in all the humor, Chatterjee manages to take potshots at an enormous variety of Indian mindsets and vices. Just for example his take on marriages - Eventually, he knew, he would marry, perhaps not out of passion, but out of convention, which was probably a safer thing. And then, in either case, in a few months or years they would tire of disagreeing with each other, or what was more or less the same thing, would be inured to each other’s odd and perhaps disgusting ways, the way she squeezed the tube of toothpaste and the way he drank from a glass and didn’t rinse it, and they would slide into a placid and comfortable unhappiness, and maybe unseeingly watch TV every day, each still a cocoon. Each and every view of Chatterjee comes across as a confused thought in Agastya’s mind, and yet is a very perceptive observation on a fallacy, an event or just a tradition.

All in all, the book is a highly recommended one for everyone, and with every reading, it’s possible to discover newer nuances in the way Agastya looks at the world, and thus change your own perspective on things known and unknown. And what’s most important is that, in spite of all the confusion in his mind, his blatant and consistent lying, and his conspicuous lack of self-importance and self-confidence, Agastya manages to endear himself to the reader. So much so, that the reader is a little disappointed at the end, when he realizes that in spite of everything, the bureaucracy is still the same and unchanged, and Agastya is still as confused as he was at the start of the book.

Narcissism at its best

2006-12-20T20:17:00.000+05:30

He He He. This is me with a guitar. To be fair, the guitar is really nice and has a beautiful filling sound, which would explain this post :)

Ray and his movies

2006-12-20T19:41:00.000+05:30

Satyajit Ray is universally regarded as one of the greatest auteurs of 20th century cinema. Born in Kolkata into a well-known Bengali family, prominent in the fields of the arts, Ray’s education was in Presidency College followed by a few years in the Vishwa Bharati University in the town of Shantiniketan. With an interest in movies which was inculcated in his childhood, this urge to make a difference on the silver screen was further reinforced after a meeting with the French filmmaker Jean Renoir who had come to India to shoot his movie, The River. Considerably inspired by the art of Italian neo-realism, and by one particular movie, Bicycle Thieves, Ray was also a prolific writer of Bengali fiction, most popular of which are the Feluda stories, and his science-fiction novellas on the travels of the inimitable Professor Shonku.

While working in an advertising company named D. J. Kreymer and Co. in Kolkata, Ray traveled to London on an assignment, and in the course of his stay in the city, happened to watch close to a hundred movies. One of these movies, Bicycle Thieves, would prove to be his inspiration, and land him on the stepping stone to becoming one of India’s best known directors. It was on the way back from London, that he decided that Pather Panchali, based on the novel of the same name by the author Bibhutibhushan Banerjee, would become the basis of his first film. With an utterly inexperience crew, the cameramen having only been accustomed to still-film shooting, Ray embarked on this humongous task of making this movie out of a well-read novel. With dwindling funds, shooting was postponed, cancelled at points, with the result that the movie took an incredibly long three years to finish, being financed by the West Bengal Government in the end. This was the movie which defined his career and a lot that followed.

Pather Panchali is easily Ray’s most well-known movie. Having won the award for the Best Human document at Cannes, it went on to rave reviews from critics and flamboyant criticism from Indian Bollywood stalwarts, with Nargis Dutt going on to criticize him for exporting poverty to the West . Pather Panchali was a raw film, but a movie filmed with a earnest desire for good cinema, with an eye for detail and with compassion for India and its villages. It’s a moving picture of the simple life in a village, and the ties which bind a brother and sister, shown with acute precision and amazing simplicity. Ray’s career started in full earnest with his second movie of the Apu Trilogy, Aparajito , a wonderful movie in its own right, which shows the increasing conflict between a mother and her child, the child with his ambitions and the mother with her fears. Aparajito was not well received by the audiences in Kolkata, but went on to rave international reviews and won quite a few awards over the world. The third film of the trilogy was Apur Sansar, but before making the movie Ray went on to make two other movies, Parash Pather, made primarily for comic relief, and Jalsaghar. Jalsaghar is one of my favorite Ray movies, based on the novel of the same name by the Bengali novelist, Tarashankar Banerjee. A detailed study in decadence and the last days of a wealthy zamindar in the old Bengal days, it’s a wonderful insight into one of the most deadly sins – pride. A story told with an eye for detail and wonderful empathy, and is considered a landmark in cinematic achievement by a lot of people. The long Indian classical music and dance sequences could be unfamiliar to many, but provide interesting insights into these art forms which have changed and transformed themselves over centuries.

Post Jalsaghar, Ray went on to make the third movie of the Apu Trilogy, Apur Sansar. Lacking some of the rawness of the first two movies of the trilogy, it is nevertheless a very touching movie, told mostly with simplicity with tinges of bitterness at times. This film follows Apu as he moves from the village to the city of Kolkata, living in a nondescript house close to the railway tracks (a perennial motif throughout the trilogy), in the wrap of acute poverty. On a trip to a marriage of his friend, and by a strange travesty of circumstances, he gets married to Aparna . Tragedy never leaves Apu, and his young wife dies in childbirth, and Apu loses interest in life. The trains bring to him an option of suicide, but he desists and finally in the beautifully filmed climax of this movie, he reunites with his long-lost son. Devi, made shortly after Apur Sansar is another wonderful film, which deals with superstition and the blind faith in it in Hindu society, and is a wonderful achievement in addition to being a social critique. Ray’s first original screenplay was Kanchenjunga, a quiet uneventful film about an afternoon in a commonplace Bengali family, laced with wonderful dialogue and indefinite undercurrents, as the family tries to get the youngest daughter engaged to a worthy suitor.

In 1964, Ray made Charulata, considered his most polished and refined work, and one which he himself considers his most accurate and precise. Based on the Tagore novella, Nastanir, it deals with the passions of a young neglected wife for her brother-in-law, and her inner conflict and despair. Told with wonderful detail and serenity, Charulata is one film which would amaze the casual and discerning viewer alike, with Ray’s insight into human behavior and follies. In this period, he also directed a few movies, which include Teen Kanya, which was shortened and released as Two Daughters abroad, which is a collection of stories; Mahanagar, which deals with a homely wife’s search for a job and her success in it after her husband loses his post in a company. Post Charulata, Ray forged into various other fields, including science fiction and detective fiction, making his children films, including Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne, Sonar Kella, Joy Baba Felunath and Hirok Rajar Deshe. All of these are wonderful movies, told with dollops of humor and are as enjoyable today as the day they were released. Of these, Sonar Kella and Joy Baba Felunath are detective stories which would fit more into the thriller genre, and Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne and Hirok Rajar Deshe are musical fantasies, both taking potshots and political controversies and the futility of war. Although categorized as children films, these movies are strong critiques of the Indian political system, and Hirok Rajar Deshe was a direct jab at the imposition of emergency, tariffs and restrictions.

Following this Ray made a few movies which are considered weak by several critics, most important among them being Nayak. Casting Bengal’s darling, Uttam Kumar, in the lead role, this was a very intense portrayal of the troubles and mental condition of a famous man, but received a muted response in international circles. Aranyer Din Ratri, is however a tremendous and very polished film. Made in 1969, this movie isolates and removes a group of young men from their natural habitat in the city, to stay in a village, where each of them gets involved in revealing encounters with one member of the local female population. It’s a great film which is lyrical and critical at the same time, with a fair bit of commentary on pettiness of urban existence in addition to doing a revealing study of the Indian middle-class.

Aranyer Din Ratri was the stepping stone for Ray’s Calcutta trilogy , consisting of three somewhat less-understood movies, Pratidwandi, Seemabaddha, and Jana Aranya. The films, although composed separately share a loose similarity in their themes and hence have been frequently classified under one heading. Pratidwandi is a scathing critique on governmental apathy and the problems of the unemployed, namely disillusionment, and what it leads to - corruption. Pratidwandi is unique amongst Ray’s films because it uses a fragmented narrative style, jumping back and forth, a consistent use of flashbacks, and dream sequences, something very uncommon to Ray’s directorial style. Jana Aranya, though not in the same class as Pratidwandi, follows the life of a young man as he is forced to give in to corruption and decadence to eke out a living for himself. Seemabadhha, is the story of a successful man and the mental torture which he goes through as he is forced to choose between morality and monetary gains, finally choosing the latter. In 1977, Ray finished Shatranj Ke Khiladi, an Urdu film, his most expensive and star-studded one. Ray’s other Hindi movie, is the hour-long hard-hitting Sadgati, which was conceived mostly as a short film and is a searing jab at the problems of untouchability and it’s existence in the country in spite of government denial. The last film of this period was the short film Pikoo’s diary, which starred Aparna Sen as Pikoo’s mother, and is probably one of his most under-rated yet beautiful films. Wonderfully filmed, it’s a warm insight into the troubled feelings of a young innocent boy who wanders through the garden painting nature as his mother engages in an extra-marital relationship.

Ghare Baire was the movie, during the filming of which, Ray suffered his first heart-attack, and was forced to give up shooting outdoors altogether. The last three Ray movies are considered by many as considerably less powerful and moving. Ganashatru loosely based on Ibsen’s The enemy of the people, is uncharacteristically verbose and long. Shakha Proshakha, is a considerably better film, which follows the life of an honest old man, who is pained to learn about the corruption of his three sons, and is forced to accept the solace which his only uncorrupted, albeit mentally retarded son offers.

Agantuk is Ray’s last movie, and considered aptly by many as Ray’s swansong. Filmed in the nature of a Chekov comedy, it’s a humorous look into the world of a entirely commonplace Bengali family from the eyes of a filmmaker who has lost faith in humanity but hasn’t given up on it altogether. The story of Agantuk, has been dealt with in Hollywood in detail and practically beaten to death, but it took Ray to give the Indian touch to the movie. Semi-autobiographical in nature, Agantuk is a beautiful movie with a few flaws, but beautiful all the same. Through witty dialogue, and a subtle undercurrent of tension, Ray gives us valuable insights into the worthlessness of civilization, the universal pettiness of money, the universality of identity and the vibrancy and color of tribal life .

By 1992, Ray’s health had deteriorated beyond recovery. An honorary Oscar was awarded to him just weeks before his death, which he received on his death-bed, in a barely recognizable body ravaged by numerous heart-attacks.

There are perhaps very few filmmakers in India and abroad, who had total control over their art, and all aspects of it. Ray was responsible for scripting, casting, directing, scoring the music, operating the camera, art direction and editing, and designing his own credit titles and publicity material. What is likeable about his movies is the fact that they represent a personal expression of a kind not seen in films as a rule. Perverted, bizarre behavior and graphical sexual scenes are rarely present in his films; being concerned with human emotions and their inter-dependence on relationships is what he has been concerned with mainly. A person who always believed in depicting human emotions as honestly as possible, the strength of his cinema lies in the equal amount of importance he provided to form and content. Spectacular locations and flashiness was never a quality of his cinema and he is known to have rejected locations for scenes just because they were too overpowering, they would upset the balance . Ray’s sense of realism is abstract and wonderful at the same time. He makes us re-realize the commonplace and appreciate it in all its simplicity. He helps us recognize the mythic in the ordinary, and his movies have the capacity to invoke a thousand feelings without a single word being uttered. Ray’s movies are meditative, dreamy and contemplative, something that is profoundly and totally Indian; and that’s probably their greatest quality.

Saw - the movie

2006-12-20T19:37:00.000+05:30

Saw is one overhyped movie. And although there is a lot of stuff to get really scared about in this film, the scariest is the acting. What’s painful about Saw is that although the movie starts promisingly, and with a wonderfully and undeniably clever premise, the director loses track midway, and the momentary twitch you start feeling towards the middle of the movie, intensifies as you realize the incompetency of the actors.

Spoiler Alert: Plot details follow

The movie starts with two guys who don’t know each other waking up in a dirty, tiled room, rather, bathroom. Chained to pipes at opposing ends of the room, the first few moments of the movie are pretty clever as horror wafts over both of them as they observe the grisly remains of an apparent suicide in the middle of the room between both of them. Which brings us to the centerpiece of the movie - the serial killer, Jigsaw, who has left a tape consisting of his terms and conditions for the benefit of the two captives. His basic idea is to teach people how important and beautiful life is, by placing the captives in the most terrifying situations possible. Jigsaw is probably the most imaginative part of the movie, and there is a terrifying feel to the whole premise of keeping the victims alive for enough time to feel the beauty and transient nature of life. After revealing Jigsaw’s plans to the two captives, the director unfortunately goes astray, guided by some of the worst acting in recent times by the lead. Elwes (who plays the quiet doctor) is shown as resourceful and patient and between the two of them, they think of ways to get themselves out of their predicament. Things are made tougher by the fact that the only way Jigsaw portends that the doctor can escape is by killing Adam, the other captive. If he fails, both of them would die, along with Gordon’s family. The rest of the film is an exercise in paranoia influenced by claustrophobic surroundings and the harrowing message of insanity coupled with a strangely potent death-looming-straight-in-the-face feeling.

To be fair to the film, it has its moments of gruesomeness, but the director really knows how to let the heroes play the mind games devised by the killer and try and come up with a way to release themselves. The entire process of constructing and reconstructing their lives and getting to know the other captive is an eerie and entertaining process at the same time, but the film loses track as the director resorts to a patchy flashback narrative style to drive the point home. Clarity is sacrificed for an intrusive back-and-forth approach, in which we come to know about the Jigsaw and his previous attempts at murder, and attempts to catch the perpetrator. There are several moments in the film, where you are forced to reconsider your internal logic, and you are amazed as the policemen act in ways more stupid than teenage girls in slash flicks, running into danger without backup. Combined with the usual shock-and-scare cliches, you feel disappointed. Questions pile up in your mind faster than you can answer them, and you are left begging. The usual shocks, the usual twists, though are several and can serve to entertain you, but not for long. Not with so many questions troubling your mind.

Saw is not a bad film, not by any means. It could have been an exceedingly clever film, and could have been much better, had the director involved a more direct narrative style rather than the flashbacks which set to confuse than clarify. It would have helped if he hadn’t resorted to the horror-hack cliches like every other summer-horror flick. Saw owes a great deal to Seven and other similar serial-killer flicks, but it fails because in spite of a really clever premise and some really intense opening scenes, because it insults the intelligence at several points. I guess I would have liked Saw more if the director wouldn’t have used the same old tricks to scare and shock me. I would have liked it more if the gore was shown indirectly than directly. Sometimes the imagination has more power to scare than a visual. I guess I would have liked it more if the acting would have been better sans the faked British and American accents which, by the way sounded desperately out of place. Most importantly, I would have liked it better if the amateurish rants by the newcomer Whannell could have been left to a minimum.

However Saw does succeed at some levels. Perhaps, because it is based on an extremely clever idea.

Guitar gods and mayhem

2006-12-20T01:06:00.000+05:30

Some great masters of the guitar.

Jimi Hendrix: This man will always top my list for the simple reason of bringing more innovation into the art of guitar playing than everyone else. With prodigious talent and an absolutely wonderful eye for detail, Jimi Hendrix is probably the best exponent of the blues and blues-rock. And in the course of his experimentation with the blues, he brought a great deal of color into the instrument, be it style, be it effects, or be it overall skill. Hendrix had it all.

B. B. King: One of the most respected and talented blues musicians over the world, B. B. King is known best for his trademark guitar, ‘Lucille’, a custom guitar which he started using the 1950s. His musical journey has been a long one, right from the time when he fell under the spell of the blues, in spite of the fact that it was considered ‘devil music’ by his community. His journey took him to Memphis, where he started playing the blues and gospel on street corners. From that, he has come a long way. Considered one of the biggest influences on Rolling Stones guitarist, Keith Richards and Eric Clapton, his impassioned guitar style and rock-solid voice ensures that he is perennially sold out on the blues circuit. One of his best quotes till date remains: “If five out of hundred people get something out of my music, then it’s worth it.”

Eric Clapton: One of the greatest living guitarists, a person who has dabbled in probably every kind of music possible. Each and every album of Clapton right from his early firebrand addicted days to the present sobered-down version is a masterpiece and a clear definition of the musical talent that he is. His “Unplugged” series with MTV, till date remains one of the best acoustic performances of all time. With an unflinching passion for perfection, all of Clapton’s life has been a journey in musical discovery.

Dave Gilmour: This is one person who is a legend, not because he was a virtuoso, but because he knew how to use his talent the best. Best known for engineering psychedelic rock and enhancing it, thereby making it popular, along with his companions in Pink Floyd, Gilmour accomplished with the guitar what a lot of singers accomplished with their voices. “Shine on you, crazy diamond” is one of the most haunting guitar solos ever, and I respect and admire this guitarist for his sparing usage of notes and his capability of successfully molding blues into psychedelic rock.

SRV: Jokingly regarded as the only white man who could play the blues the way it’s supposed to be, Stevie Ray Vaughan till date remains one of the most under-rated but amazing guitarists in the blues and blues-rock scene. Eric Clapton was once invited to a concert, and there was a guitarist in the band who simply blew everyone’s mind out with the way he played the blues. That guitarist was Stevie Ray Vaughan. This was a little story which Clapton in an interview during a tribute concert for Vaughan organized by his brother Jimmie. And in spite of the fact that he is under-rated, it’s tough to find a guitar-player who hasn’t been influenced by him at some point of time. With one of the most soulful and inspired playing styles of his time, SRV was a man who had the technique rock-solid.

These are just five of my favorite guitarists; mentioning five names seems a gross injustice to a lot of rather amazing players and musicians who did not get into the list, because …. Well …. The slots are already taken.

The alma mater

2006-12-20T00:59:00.000+05:30

IIT Kharagpur, as the name suggests is located in the sleepy town of Kharagpur, around 110 kilometers from Calcutta. Established in 1951, it’s the oldest IIT in the country, and with the largest of campuses amongst the IITs, and untouched by the vagaries of materialistic existence, provides a beautiful and idyllic setting for undergraduate studies. The institute has an expansive campus, dotted with unkempt green parks, old and new hostels, some crumbling, some garish by their opulence. The departments are laid out in the academic campus, not too far from the main entrance of the institute, which houses all the academic complexes, and a few large auditoriums. The old institute building is a little further down the road and is now a tech museum with a few administrative offices. Originally the site of the Hijli Detention camp for prisoners of the British era, it also has a badly maintained Hunter and an extinct Railway Engine on display. The Hostels are all laid out along the arterial road of the campus, justifiably called Scholar’s Avenue. Close to eight undergraduate hostels and a few postgraduate hostels are located in two distinct areas – the old and new campus. The institute police station is a ramshackle establishment bang opposite the main gate of the academic complex. Cycling is the predominant mode of transport for most students, with most of the cycles being donated to the juniors as the elders mature and stop attending classes. The Scholar’s Avenue is lined with a generous green cover which stays green mostly all through the year, the campus being mostly untouched by the cancerous growth of civilization and the plague of construction.

The institute, just like any other institute with a long history, has its share of traditions and events. Some notable events which have assumed some popularity after the Telegraph made forays into the campus are the Illumination and Rangoli events of Diwali, which are great examples of the dedication which entire hostels put in to create a riot of colors and lights on the auspicious day. Students here have a tendency to abbreviate everything. So, anything meaningless, vague or random becomes arbit. It’s a technique often employed by professors to ensure that the class assimilates the most crucial points of the discussion. Nonchalance, brevity, machismo, sexiness, beauty, and excellence are all classified by the one word – cool; the director becomes the diro, your rank becomes your hawa, the vice-president of the Gymkhana becomes the ubiquitous VP, and the head of the department becomes the hod. Most KGPians tend to use the word maaro extensively, which simply means action. So you don’t smoke a cigarette, but maaro a fag; you don’t drink but maaro booze, and most importantly, you maaro mugga (study). Maaro over the years, has been universally accepted by all residents as a fully flexible verb. Girls are conspicuous by their scarcity here, with a lot of girls in the campus harboring a false sense of self-importance in turn leading to a sense of look-down-upon in the boys. Beautiful girls (and boys) are all referred to by the all-inclusive word juice. PJs (poor jokes) are an essential ingredient of life in KGP, and a lot of the poor jokes are born in dimly lit classrooms with disinterested professors trying to drill sense into severely disinterested students. Funda is the all-encompassing word for knowledge and fundoo in direct consonance translates to excellent, great, intelligent, and the likes. Water fights are a big part of KGP tradition with the upper hand generally held by the residents in the top floors of the hostels. TFS (Technology Film Society; everything in KGP is prefixed by the mandatory Technology) movies are another big tradition in the campus, especially for the distressed male populace. Watching a movie at one of the TFS screenings is unique, enervating experience. The crowd is in a perennially boisterous mood, and choice comments on the scene on display are common. A lot of slogans get shouted, with people clarifying their affiliation to a particular group or hostel in no small way. Tarapodo is the mysterious man who handles the projector, and is a cult figure all over the institute. However, NO constructive evidence has ever corroborated the existence of this mysterious person.

Events in the campus are multifarious and numerous, and are classified into several kinds – Open-IIT, where all kinds of people participate; Inter-halls, where the inter-hostel-rivalry is something to be watched and cherished. The TSG (The Gymkhana) is responsible for conducting all events and also the annual fest of the institute (The Spring Fest) which is held in January. In addition to this, the institute has a lot of student-controlled societies, most popular amongst which are the dramatics (ETDS, HTDS and BTDS, referring to English, Hindi and Bengali drama respectively); the music societies (WTMS and ETMS, referring the Western and Eastern music societies); and the TDS (the dance society). The institute has its problems too. The professors are good, and they are regular, but they are inadvertently sadistic and love to trouble the students to no end. There is a total absence of a city anywhere close (other than Calcutta, which is over a hundred kilometers away), and the sudden transition can be a trying phase for several students. Over the years, through consistent measures and strong patrolling, ragging has become practically non-existent, which though in some ways is laudable has resulted in lesser interaction between the juniors and the seniors. As a result, the bond which developed between the different batches is not as strong as in previous years. The administrative officials in the institute are frequently non-accommodating and can turn a deaf ear to several complaints which can get a little frustrating. Most of all, the spartan existence can seem like a nightmare to some.

However, in spite of all the problems and the rather hermit-like existence which is the norm rather than the exception here, KGP is a wonderful place to spend four years of one’s life. It instills a faith in relationships, fosters the strongest bonds of a lifetime, and makes one capable of facing hardships with an equal eye. The absence of city life nurtures talents and creates superstars; in short, it goes a long way in developing a personality, albeit in a very different way. The numerous events, technical and non-technical keep students busy all through the year, and the rigorous academic schedule keeps one on the tiptoe at all times. Rarely will you find a KGPian who doesn’t speak gloriously of his alma-mater; years after he has left KGP, he will connect instantly with a junior and ask him, “What’s Chhedis like nowadays?” [Chhedis is the 24-hour tea-stall just outside the campus, a meeting-place for the junta (junta=people)]

Memories of Kolkata

2006-12-20T00:25:00.000+05:30

Kolkata stirs up different emotions in different sets of people. For most Bengalis, it signifies homecoming, for some it signifies a lost part of their soul. For a lot of other people, it signifies culture, and for others, it is imperfection personified. All in all, it is a city with so much variety, so much beauty and so much ugliness, all in good measure that, you may leave it, but it’s tough to take it out of the mind…

Over the last few years, Kolkata has changed a lot. Sprawling malls and multiplexes have sprung up in the remotest nooks and corners of the city, and more are in the pipelines. The average income of the common man has increased by leaps and bounds, and things have started becoming expensive. The horrendous traffic seems less disorderly and more controlled. The IT industry has surged in bursts and a very conspicuous yuppie attitude towards life has become commonplace. However, in spite of all this, it’s amazing to find the soul of the city untouched, the charm continues unabated.

Constant separation from the city makes the heart grow fonder of its many abnormalities. Kolkata is unique in many ways, it’s a special place which disgusts at first, but somehow, with years of endurance, endears itself to you in no small way. It’s a city which can boast of discussions on music and art in as dingy a place as Olypub, in a backdrop of frustrated blue-collar professionals nursing a last drink before getting home. It’s a place where you can leisurely stroll in the dark by-lanes of College street, in a maze of booksellers and booklovers, enthralled, the musty smell of old books on your face and a spring in your step. It’s a place where you can enjoy the age-old ambience of the Indian Coffee House, and have a cup of coffee and relive the days of revolution, of unrest, of intellectual and pseudo-intellectual uprising. It’s a place where you can walk by the riverside, with your lady love, hand in hand, gentle breeze rippling through your hair as you watch the boats and the fishermen go by. It’s a place where you can enjoy an evening to remember in one dark corner of Someplace Else, with Amyt Datta playing the blues like never before, and have Long Island Iced Tea, the way it should be without burning a hole through your pocket. It’s the place where you can take stroll in the bright lights of Park Street, and feel comforted in its homeliness. In the days of Lighthouse and New Empire, it was the place where you could enjoy a furtive drink after the end of the movie in the overcrowded Lighthouse bar and restaurant. It’s a place where you can have the ubiquitous double chicken, double egg roll at Kusum’s, the way it should be, greasy and meaty at the same time. It’s a place where you can immerse yourself in Brahms, Mozart and Bach at a weekend recital in the Calcutta School of Music, and at the same time, marvel at the power of music and the talent of people. It’s a place which has Howrah Station, infamous for its crowds, poverty and all the wrong things, and as the train trudges into the incredible sights and sounds of this crumbling monument, you get a glimpse of one of the busiest stations in the country, and at the back of your mind, you see the Kolkata of yore. It’s a place where you can have fantastic breakfast, cakes and coffee at one of the best coffee shops in the country, Flury’s, far removed from the snootiness of Barista and the banality of Café Coffee Day. It’s a place where you have Outram Ghat, right opposite the imposing gates of Fort William, where you can hire a boat for an evening cruise on the gentle waves of the Ganges, and watch lovers, some happy, some embarrassed, on quick trysts away from the noise, the commotion and humanity. And in Kolkata, you have the Maidan, dotted with parks, with playing grounds, a window to a glorious past, a forgotten time, where you see the love of sports for what it is, uncluttered and unadulterated by politics and money.

Kolkata is changing, the people are changing, and the close-knit inquisitive neighbor has been replaced by the keeping-to-itself nuclear family, with the least interest in the outside world. The gentle banter of the people and the untarnished emotion in the common man has been replaced by a worldliness, understanding and control. But the yellow taxis are still there, and the dilapidated steel buses have not raised their rates by any big margin; and the people at some level have remained the same. Food is still the cheapest here than in any other city of the country; and the sweet tooth of the quintessential Bengali has not changed in the least. Kolkata still remains a charming city at heart, and never fails to imbue a warm fuzzy feeling deep down in my heart every time I go back…

The pianist

2006-12-20T00:20:00.000+05:30

OK, a somewhat late review on an absolutely brilliant film.

The Pianist, released in 2002, is a magnificent movie, and by far, Polanski’s most polished and personal work. Polanski survived the Warsaw ghetto bombings and escaped from the Krakow ghetto by escaping through a fence. This is a very different take on the holocaust. It does not present any particular angle to it, and for the initiated, it may look distinctly un-Polanskisque.

Spoiler warning – Plot details follow:

Casting Adrien Brody in the role of the Polish pianist, Wladyslaw Szpilman, Polanski extracts a wonderfully restrained performance. The film starts with Szpilman playing Chopin on the Polish radio, when a German bomb lands in the studio, creating a ruckus of sorts. Szpilman keeps playing, with the nonchalance of a musician who is perhaps a little detached from reality. This becomes clearer in his altercations with his brother, his lack of understanding of his brother’s jealousy. And he doesn’t come out as a brave person either, opting out of the fledgling ghetto resistance against the German forces. When his family and all its members have been hauled off to the concentration camps, he exhibits no qualms in seeking the help of a freedom fighter and getting away from the problems of the ghetto. The remainder of the movie is a complex mixture of narrow, almost unbelievable escapes as Szpilman moves from house to house, and at the same time, is witness to the gruesome battle between the Nazi machine and the few Jews in the ghetto who would not give in without a fight. Szpilman is almost on the verge of losing his mind and his life when he receives help from the most unlikely quarter, a German officer, who comes upon him as he is trying to open a can of watermelon juice, and keeps him safe and fed for the remainder of the German rule. The movie ends with a beautiful performance of Chopin, by a dapper, recovered pianist for the same Polish radio.

There are several good reasons to see the Pianist. Firstly, it’s a movie shot with relentless eye for detail and an adherence to authenticity rarely seen in holocaust movies. Perhaps, it lacks the emotional touch, because all that Polanski shows is the ruthlessness of the Nazi killing machine with a matter-of-fact, in-your-face approach. Secondly, it’s a movie which is filled with moving pictures about the strength of human resilience. And thirdly, because it’s a fantastic story told in the best way possible.

The pianist is a movie of riveting power and unadulterated sadness at the same time. In the pianist, the concentration camps are never shown. The incarceration and the gas chambers are all off limit. The movie shows violence which was beyond the purview of the concentration camps. Even at the harshest moments in the film, there is rarely an attempt towards an overmuch of sentimentality of crudeness. Even though the tone of the movie is distant, and rarely does Polanski let the view get inside Szpilman’s head, there is never an excess of detachedness which would have marred the spirit of the movie. It’s a very Hitchcock-ish approach to film making, in which by actually tackling the violence and the dread with a sort of dramatic reticence, Polanski actually intensifies the impact rather than reducing it. At no point of time in the movie will the viewer feel an enhanced sense of uplift. Even at the end, when Szpilman is helped by a polished and refined German officer, the context and the material is handled with excellent restraint and pathos. And when Szpilman himself is unable to help the German officer after all of them have been taken in by the Soviets, the movie further exhausts all chances of an uplifting mood.

One of the most poignant scenes in the movie is one which is closely related to Polanski’s personal experience. One evening as Szpilman is still in the ghetto, walking home one evening, he notices a few boys, trying to crawl under the infamous walls, pursued by German guards. He tries desperate to help one of the children who has crawled half way in but is being pummeled by the German guard on the other side. He finally manages to pull him in, but by the time he actually does so, the child has died. It’s a touching statement made by a person who himself escaped form the confines of the Krakow ghetto through a hole in the fencing at the age of seven.

The pianist does have its flaws, like finding a perfectly tuned grand piano in a battered house in the Warsaw Township, as is the exceptionally flawless playing by Szpilman when asked by the German officer. However, those are but minor flaws in an otherwise spellbinding film with awesome performances by almost each and every member of the cast. Shot with solemnity and serenity, the Pianist ranks as one of the finest non-documentary films on the holocaust – probably the deepest stain in the history of the twentieth century.

Hights!

2006-11-24T23:29:00.000+05:30

General rambling through IMDB, and noticed, with surprise and indignation that, Black (8.3) has a higher rating than Pather Panchali (8.2).

I am firmly assured that we still have a long way to go before we actually appreciate and understand intelligent cinema.

Update: Rang de Basanti has a higher rating than the other two. IMDB, though a wealth of good resources, never fails to crack me up. Rang de Basanti, of all movies!!!! And Omkara, a much better movie than both of these trashpots, gets an 8.1!!!

Dismal!

2006-11-24T21:27:00.000+05:30

Just when I thought Indian politics has reached its lowest ebb, something inexplicable happens and makes it plunge one level under itself. This link just proves that our politicians have time for everything else other than running the country. Running it well is a far cry anyway.

Of course, this does not absolve Indian cricketers and its fans of guilt. The cricketers because it's been quite some time since they came up with a decent agreeable performance. It's been quite some time since Greg Chappell took over the reigns of the team with a view to infusing the Aussie way of life, the Aussie hardboiled spirit, a tenacity and a zeal to win. It's tough to see his serious poker-face on TV, in interviews, dishing out the same bullshit about performances not always the criterion. It's hard to see Rahul Dravid explain debacles with flimsy excuses, when the team has put up more than a dismal performance on pitches which are supposed to be the norm in the upcoming world cup. Most of all, it's tough to see pea-brained cricketing journalists write about the dormant talent in the team, the awesome averages of the batting lineup and the way the team is just a sleeping tiger, waiting to be woken.

Indian cricket is possibly at its lowest ebb at the present moment, and it's high time something good happens, otherwise the World Cup is a distant dream. Of course, the 1983 team was no better, and had a string of dismal performances going into the World Cup.

And of course, the ads. The ubiquitious ads. They are everywhere. Shah Rukh Khan makes a serious face and hoarsely utters "Hoo Haa India". Some other dumbfucks arrive from the opposing corners of the television set to reiterate what India's dumbest actor just said. And thus the Indian team is shown in set features, with clenched jaws and mind-numbing determination as they plunge from one loss to another.

My request to the cricketers: If you don't want to play, please don't play. Lose all the matches you want to. At least get those ads off TV. I am sure people who have lost all interest in watching you lose, would do better than watch your artificial grim faces in lousy and sloppy television commercials.

Give me a tiny break, please. Pretty please?

A day on orkut

2006-11-20T09:43:00.000+05:30

Orkut, though still not an addiction is a superlative source of entertainment when you are down in the dumps or when your code just doesn’t seem to work.

The frequently-seen/asked scenes/questions/answers on orkut:

Boy wants friendship: hi, my name is ***, i accidently (sic) came on to ur profile ,but reading ur profile i think u r a very good person to make friendship, so would u like to be my friend

Desperate boy who wants to hide his desperation: i ws going thru ur profile n it appealed me in a way... i found u more simillar 2 me in some ways... while in general i find scraping as a boring job, i came fwd 2 leave a scrap 4 u wd any 2nd thought... n i also expect the same 4m u...i wanna b ur frnd...

Man who wants friendship but is too busy to think of something innovative: hi l like to make new frnds,shall we be a gud frnds?if u interested......

Boy who wants sex but writes friendship instead of sex: hi *** hw r u do u like to frnd'p with me

Boy who knows he is making a fool of himself but still jumps in the well: HI.....i read ur profile (timepass karna tha).... found it quite interesting (maskaa maar raha hoon).... u lookin good in this pic(yaar ab jhooth bhi bolna pad raha hai iske liye).... will u like to b my frnd plzz (chalo aap nahi to koi aur mil jaayegi aapki frndlist mein).... i hope u wont mind me adding u (plz bhaav mat khana, add me )....just check out my profile (kuchh likha nahi waise maine)... u'l find we hav lots of things common (aapki profile padh ke hi add ki hai maine)... bye n take care ( mere bolne se jaise firk pad jaayega )hahahaaaa just kidding ,dont mind.....can v be frnds

Confused boy (mind the multiple e’s in the sweet): Hai sweeet girl ^^^^^^^^^wanna be friend.....%%%%%%%%%

Boy whose first attempt was not successful: hi ***...*** again...how rthnigs going...so how is bangalore ...i have been once there nice place with nice people...i saw u like books ...good..

After the amazingly hilarious introduction lines/pick-up lines on orkut, we shall take a look at a few funny communities.

Himesh Reshamiya’s fan club: This community would have been hilarious enough without the community description, and with a wonderful description, all in CAPS, it is funnier. Himesh Reshamiya’s fans always post in CAPS. For a detailed discussion on this, visit http://greatbong.net. Description: THIS COMMUNITY IS FOR THE FANS OF HIMESH RESHAMMIYA. WHO LOVE HIMESH AND MAD FOR HIS SONGS>>>>>> I LOVE HIM AND I THINK ALL THE MEMBERS OF THIS COMMUNITY LOVE HIM<<<<<<<>

Kannada Sex: Hilarious description again: A community of people who like having sex with kannada people.I believe (sic) tha (sic) Most of The beAuTifuL (sic) girls Are in karnataka. This Community is for whom love sex and love in karnataka. The guy is so excited that he could not run a spell-check on his community description.

Real sex story in Bengali: Description: a site for bangali "chele meye" to share their sextual (sic) experience. This community has only one member.

Bengalooru’s full, go home: Description: This community frequently gets shut down and rises up from the ashes. Post the name change from Bangalore to Bengalooru, the name has changed, alongwith the description. It still does make me laugh. This is a community which seeks to redeem bangalore's pristine culture, nature and Kannada Identity. The enormous influx of thankless immigrants has inflicted a great damage to the identity of Kannadigas and cultural-fabric of Bangalore. Most of these immigrants(Northies in particular [sic]) are notorious for not adapting to the local Kannada culture and neglecting Kannada. Adding to the woes is hospitable and courteous nature of Kannadigas, which immigrants don't deserve. This massive influx has resulted in soaring housing costs, rent etc.,. The refusal of Private Radio channels to air Kannada music, unvailibilty (sic) of theatres to screen Kannada movies are dangerous singals (sic) to the Kannada Soul of Bangalore. We Kannadigas need to assume more dominant role and shun the 'athithidevo bhava' attitude. One can hardly hear Kannada in many parts of Bangalore like ulsoor,Indiranagar,MG Road,Cox town etc It is high-time that we enforce Kannada and Kannada culture in the land of Kannada and clamp the immigrants.

PKaTaNi PoRn SeX MoViEs LoVeRs. Another hilarious community. Description: this community is for ppls those who love to watch & enjoy xxx movies ... but only from pakistan .... here we will provide information about making & geting (sic) local xxx rated movies .... ok then GUY & Girls usssss (sic) this isss (sic) ur own communty (sic)... JOIN & HAVE FUNNN (SIC)

Black, the Hindi movie: Yes, I find this hilarious. I find it hilarious that there are so many people who think the movie rocked. Here’s the description: This forum is for the people who fell in love of (sic) the latest Sanjay Leela Bhansali movie called Black. This movie is not only only about a blind,deaf,mute girl and her eccentric (read mad) teacher but of celebration of indomitable spirit of human mind,about the conquering (sic) the impossible,about love.This movie is also the landmark in Hindi movie with which it has graduated from the mindless flicks. This movie is the testimony of the acting capability of the Power houses (sic) called Amitabh Bachhan and Rani Mukhrjee and the most astounded (sic) performance by an unknown artiste called Ayesha Kapoor, whom my friends still refuse to believe as a normal child....No she is not normal...she is also a Power House... (sic)

Rang de Basanti: Here’s the description: ßë ä Rëßë£....Join and discuss the movie, music and suggest steps everyone could follow to make India more beautiful!

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake

The Tagore poem couldn’t have been more out-of-place. Anyways, with all the talk of making a difference and affecting a change, the only thing that happens in the community of over seventeen thousand members is a proliferation of stupid game-threads. Talk of making a difference!!!!

Orkut IS fun.

Chhedis

2006-11-16T01:30:00.000+05:30

Chhedis in a village like KGP is an institution. Sometimes a lot more than that.

How does one describe it? A quaint version of a tea-stall which does not server much food, but is a source of sustenance for KGPians in a perpetual state of abject penury? Maybe that’s the best description it could get…

Chhedis is a ramshackle establishment just outside the main campus of IIT KGP on the side of the Puri Gate. There are other stalls in this area, mostly serving Bengali food in squalid, depressing surroundings. Most famous among the other ones was Ashok-Da, who served delectable mutton curry on Saturday and Sunday mornings. However, Chhedis was special. The first time you come to Kharagpur, there is a pretty high chance that you would miss it. But the orientation is quick, and soon you are a regular in the establishment. And things are better if you stay in RP Hall, the hostel closest to the institute gates.

Chhedis, in essence, is just a tea-stall. Which serves food. By food, I mean – Maggi (various forms of it – Egg maggi, Plain maggi, Top Ramen Curry which is a spicier version of the normal maggi but pretty nice, Egg Curry), and the ubiquitous Tinku. For the uninitiated, the Tinku is the KGP version of an egg burger, consisting of a bun cut in half, stuffed with a poached egg and splattered with spicy red masala and a few onions. The first time with Tinku is never a great one, and you wouldn’t like it in all probability. But gradually, with decreasing finances and an all-encompassing time-crunch, Tinku becomes a way of life, and you crave for it, ache for it, and finally, there is a time when a day does not pass without the Tinku. Towards the later years of my stay in the village, things improved (some say they worsened) in Chhedis. It got a brand new look, a fan was installed in the main-area, it got tube-lights for a less shady and a little brighter ambience, and Chhedi bhai started making great samosas.

More than the food, Chhedis was important because it was a meeting place – a place for the infamous adda. It is tough to define adda. Some say it’s an inherently Bengali tradition. Put very simply, it is the act of sitting with friends, normally with a glass of tea in one of your hands, and a Wills Navy Cut cigarette in the other, and discussing about anything under the sun. Chhedis was a hotbed of adda and pseudo-intellectual discussions. The term hotbed probably gives the wrong impression about the place but I guess that’s what it was in essence. Anything could be a topic of conversation, starting from the relentless tyranny the professors wreaked on the hapless students to the seeming scarcity of all things modern and human in this village far removed from civilization and any remnants of it. Topics ranged from good food to mess food, admit cards to HMC politics, BC Roy Hall and its chicken curry to Rabindra Sangeet, Bapi-giri to the next ETMS production, and from WTMS with its deep under-currents to recent developments in the political scene. KGP wasn’t a very happening place, and it was discussion and meaningless conversation which kept us a few feet away from insanity and senility. It was this meaninglessness which meant a lot to each one of us, far from worldliness, far from pleasures, in a seemingly bottomless void.

Chunnu was the cigarette-shop guy just adjacent to Chhedis. He was Chhedi bhai’s son and a nice man. Chunnu had the concept of a khata which was very similar to a credit roster, with no interest. Chunnu never refused a cigarette when you were broke and still wanted one, and never refused you money when you were broke and wanted to drink in Park. The khata solved myriad problems in life, and created several others at the end of the month when the bill frequently touched the thousands. This invariably led to tremendous tantrums at home, punctuated by mindless quarrels and unending lectures on the insensitivity of the younger generation towards the important and value of money as an entity.

All said and done, Chhedis and Chunnu were integral parts of our existence in the haven that KGP was. It was a place to hangout, catch up with old acquaintances who had shifted to different hostels, a place to relax and unwind after a harrowing day at school, it was the place for a steaming hot cup of tea to calm your nerves after an all-night binge on a freezing winter night, and most of all, it was a place where you could go and leave your troubles behind. It had a way about it which endeared itself to you, in spite of everything.

This documentary has some info about chhedis and is worth a watch.

Borat - a review

2006-11-15T09:05:00.000+05:30

BORAT was supposed to be the most anticipated movie out here in the US of A and in keeping with popular sentiment; I sat through 84 sickening minutes of irritating racist juvenile iconoclastic comedy.

The movie is called “Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan” and the only time you see that is during the beginning of the movie. The title of the movie should have given me sufficient idea as to how humorless and painful the jokes were going to be, but I relentlessly sat on and endured. I was never very curious or appreciative of Cohen’s directorial skills considering I actually sat through one of his episodes of the “Da Ali G Show”, which by the way, is just as uninspiring as BORAT itself.

So we have this movie with the supposedly hilarious and rib-tickling title – BORAT. And as the title suggests and the previews suggest, it is about a foreigner who comes to America and is funny because he tries to act ‘hip’. Ok, so this character – BORAT – is a homophobic, Jew-hating individual who comes to the United States from Kazakhstan, where he has a career in television journalism. As is the case with other Cohen characters, Borat is also homophobic, is a foreigner, has a strange accent and obviously makes a fool of himself adapting to the oh-so-American culture. Supposedly, the point of Borat is to make American’s understand their bigotry and twisted principles, but at the end of the day, I don’t see how Borat as a film would manage to instigate such self-introspection by potentially racist material.

The familiar retort to an unappreciative reviewer is the absence of a sense of humor. For me, it was an absence to appreciation of such tasteless humor as to actually make you disgusted. And the I-am-better-than-you-because-I-am-Western-and-you-are-from-the-third-world attitude which shines perceptibly through the entire movie makes it all the more disgusting. And of course you have the trademark scenes with Borat struggling to understand the accent, calling US of A, the US and A (oh! Isn’t that absolutely hilarious?), unsuspecting people cringing when he says stupid things, crazy-foreigner accents. In fact, after a while, you realize that the movie is probably not just offensive, it’s just plain unfunny. In fact, the whole movie is about how Borat travels across the US of A, and comes across everyday Americans, and believe it or not, does something incredibly stupid and offensive at the same time, every day. Among the most painful scenes in the movie is the one in which he is invited to sing the national anthem and finally ends up singing a motley version of the “Star spangled banner” which is in fact supposed to be funny. Believe me, the audience was in splits. I couldn’t even chuckle.

The rest of the movie deals with Borat’s quest for Pamela Anderson, caused by watching a rerun of Baywatch in his first day in the US of A. Also included in the movie are his exploits in sexual behavior with a black overweight prostitute whose face is supposed to make you laugh and not feel sorry. And of course, you have the not uncommon reliance on full male frontal nudity and gay jokes for unbelievably cheap comic effect. Not funny, not inspiring, not in the least rib-tickling. If you want least-common-denominator humor, Borat is great for you. It’s a pity that Cohen could not come up with something more groundbreaking than stupid people exposing their own stupidity on camera. Borat, in plain words is vulgar, gross and top of the list of my puke-fest movies, replacing and overthrowing BLACK by a big margin. There will be a few retorts, namely, “This is satire”, etc. etc. People who think this is satire are clueless as to what satire is. Satire is what Saki wrote. Not what Borat shows or tries to show. Well, if only Cohen could understand this simple fact of life, I wouldn’t have had to submit myself to such indiscriminate torture.

Put very simply, this movie sucked. With a capital S. It was not just offensive, it was utter bullshit. I wish I had walked out, but I guess that’s what a few glasses of beer do to you.

It’s movie sabbatical for me now.

Update: This site has an interesting report on how the opening scenes of the movie were filmed. Paragraph to note: Mr Tudorache, a deeply religious grandfather who lost his arm in an accident, was one of those who feels most humiliated. For one scene, a rubber sex toy in the shape of a fist was attached to the stump of his missing arm - but he had no idea what it was.
I don't know for sure how much truth is there in this story, but even if it's 100% true, I wouldn't be surprised that someone from Hollywood did this. Disgusting.

The year 2006 in cinema

2006-10-24T12:18:00.000+05:30

The year’s almost over, it’s almost November, and I don’t see too many good movies coming up. So it’s time to introspect on the year gone by and the movies I saw this year…

The year started well, with a rather well-made movie Walk the Line, based on the life and love of Johnny Cash. The wordless opening visuals of Fulsom Prison are sufficiently attention-grabbing to make anyone sit up and take notice. With well-framed shots, which capture the musical genre as well as the times with acute precisions, this movie succeeds on three counts – fantastic music which could well make you a fan of country music, a well-orchestrated chemistry between the lead actors and most importantly, a terrific and sensitive portrayal of a long suffering, mentally tormented character by Joaquin Phoenix.

Another award-winner at the Oscars, Munich is brutal; akin to Schindler’s List, the very anti-thesis of the E.T. and Jurassic Park Spielberg. I can’t make myself like the movie; I can’t make myself hate it either. There is an element of pessimism which starts as a spark in the beginning of the movie and becomes a raging flame by the time the movie ends. In a nutshell, the film turns out to be dark and depressing. Not easy viewing, not by a mile. The authenticity is laudable, and so are the performances. I have heard that the amount of violence in the movie is laughable when compared to the book on which it is based (Vengeance) [which is in-fact responsible for a few critics not accepting the movie with open arms], I am yet to confirm this. In spite of all my grievances, I do confess I enjoyed the movie; it was dark, depressing and deeply moving.

Ice Age 2, the sequel to Ice Age from Pixar, was eagerly awaited, as is the case with any Pixar film. To be fair to the movie, it is reasonably funny (when I say funny, I mean kid-funny) and I am sure it was and still is a great hit with the kids, but it fails to live up to the expectations raised by Ice Age. The humor is really cheesy at times, with its set of farty jokes and impossible situations. Adult viewers would be disappointed.

Scary Movie 4: I know, I know: the four sounds scary. Normally sequels are tough nuts to crack, unless they are Godfather sequels, which of course, change the whole story. Scary Movie 4 is just about OK. The main targets of the mindless parody are Spielberg’s The war of the worlds, Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain, James Want’s Saw, and Manoj Night Shyamalan’s The Village. Full of humor of the grossest kind, mindless senseless sexual innuendo, and violence, this movie was just about worth the rental.

The Sentinel. Yet another terrible movie. Based on some author’s book by the same name, this movie is mostly a wild goose chase around the White House, as seen through the concerned eyes of a White House Secret Service Agent (played by Michael Douglas). I should have realized more when Clark Johnsons’ name flashes through the opening credits (remember the disastrous S.W.A.T?). With Douglas’ protecting the first lady and having an affair with her at the same time, the plot really fails to evoke even the least bit of interest in the audience. With little background on the president other than the fact that he is a cuckold, the film leaves you with a lingering headache as the ending credits roll in.

The Da Vinci Code. Well, well, well! What does one say about one of the most awaited movies of the year? Well, the movie failed… Miserably. If you have read the book, the movie feels like a lame actors plodding around a failed storyline, and if you haven’t read the book, you might as well take a nap. The acting is woody, and Tom Hanks at best looks unconcerned and totally out of sorts. Paul Bettany who plays Silas, the albino monk with belief in self-flagellation, irregular Latin verbs, and homicide overdoes everything in his part. Audrey Tautou in the part of Sophie is lackluster and like Hanks, seems to be going through the motions. If you are drunk, you might give this movie an eight on ten.

Superman Returns, was, for many super-hero fans and admirers the most awaited movie of the year. The movie tries its best to be big, entertaining and sentimental at the same time, and that’s probably where it fails. The director fails in bringing the larger-than-life sequences to life, and even the newsroom of the Daily Planet looks drab, dull and totally devoid of the life which was so much a part of it in the earlier movies. Brandon Routh fails to live Superman the way he should have, and though there are some similarities to Christopher Reeve, and the romance between him and Lois Lane (played by Kate Bolsworth) fails to look like the fairytale romance that it’s supposed to be. Laced with arbitrary small-talk, their romance looks hackneyed and horribly clichéd in its representation. Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor, tries a little to breathe some life and some dread into his character, but fails to impress in a movie which is so drab as to make you want to leave the theater. All in all, super-hero fanatics would still love the movie, they would still buy a DVD and stock it for posterity, but in the tall stack of superhero flicks, this surely stays at the bottom.

Pirates of the Caribbean, Dead man’s chest, was yet another fiercely awaited movie this year. Depp’s performance in the prequel was reason enough for the wait. However, sequels, as previously said in the post, need to be bigger and better to succeed. Somehow, scriptwriters tend to take this a bit too far… Don’t get me wrong, Dead Man’s Chest, starts with a bang and contains everything in decent proportions, but the moment you see Davy Jones, with the hammer-shaped-head and piano-playing-tentacles, you cringe back: YES, it IS yucky. Depp is good in parts, but expecting the audience to laugh (aloud) at every single antic, is asking way too much. The action sequences are however, top-notch; and the fight-scene on a waterwheel rolling through lush green tropical scenery is rather cool. But that’s just about it.

A rather interesting horror movie, or should I say, exercise in claustrophobia, was The Descent. This story of six women, whose cave-diving expedition goes terribly wrong, is in the league of the old-style horror movies concentrating on primal fear and madness. Neil Marshall does a good job of using penetration motifs all throughout the movie in the form of stalactites and stalagmites, and the usage of darkness as a terrifyingly oppressive element of suspense and dread. Yes, I liked the movie because it was fresh, and devoid the archetypal horror flick cliché.

The end of the world

2006-10-20T10:47:00.000+05:30

A lonely traveler sat down in the park
On a bench, a rustic bench,
He felt tired, he wanted a drink,
He saw a tap, it seemed far away
“Was it far away?” he thought
Or was it just a figment
Of a worthless imagination
Torn by strife, mangled beyond repair...

Men passed him by, he looked at none,
He felt hungry, but his mind felt numb…
Is it me, he thought, closing his eyes
Or is it the world?

The world was closing in,
Times were changing, but he…
Like a wandering minstrel
Of times gone by, did not move

Night fell; it was a moonless night,
Vampires abound, he thought
With mirthless glee
Put me out of my misery, he prayed
Hoping he would be heard
Just this one time.

A little magic would do, he felt
A little prick on his finger
Or maybe a whiff of sweet perfume
The lines on his face
Shimmering with strain,
A life spent…

Degraded and deprived
He wanted to tell the others
About his vision, his dream;
His meeting with God, the almighty,
He knew they would ne’er believe
He wanted strength, to cope
To live without fear…

A little girl sat by him,
She was a pauper, a tramp
With little clothes on her battered body
The man looked at her,
Smiled and put an arm on her shoulder
“Would you like my coat honey?”
“Would it help?”
The girl leant on him,
The man felt her frail body, ready to break…
I know her, he thought,
He just couldn’t remember

His eyes were burning,
Grief overwhelmed him
He took the girl into his arms
He suddenly could remember
The eyes, the nose, the innocence…
Of her face, the frailness of her body
He caressed her to sleep

The sky was red, the stars had gone
He didn’t know where to go
I’m losing my mind, he felt
What good is a mind?
In a world at its end?
He gripped his child, his only child
“Here it comes”, he thought,
Crying for relief,
As the world collapsed
Collapsed and folded all around him
Beyond repair,
Beyond any possible repair…

Salil Chowdhury - a composer par excellence

2006-10-20T10:41:00.000+05:30

Born on the 19th of November, 1922, Salil Chowdhury was one of India's most underrated yet brilliant composers. A musician par excellence, he was also a poet - a poet pained by social segregation and unsolved political issues. An archetypal non-conformist, he did try to bring about a change in the lyrical style in typical film and non-film music, in the face of strong opposition from the conformists. A master multi-instrumentalist, he was exceptionally good at the flute, piano and the esraaj. In fact it was his musical education - a conglomeration of several genres: Bengali folk, Western Classical and Indian Classical, which resulted in him having a thorough knowledge of arrangement, which by far, is the toughest part of music-composition.

A childhood spent in Assam, where his father was a doctor, exposed the young Salil to a surfeit of folk music - the music of the hills. This exposure shaped his musical thinking as a young boy. However, it was when he graduated from college and lived through the drudgery of the Bengali famine of 40s, that he became acutely aware of his social responsibilities. He joined the IPTA and became a member of the Communist party of India. This was the time when music was required to be sensitive and responsible at the same time; and was the time when he created some of his best, musically-richest, albeit rawest compositions. These songs were typically titled (in Bengali) - Mass songs of consciousness and awakening, and dealt with the rampant weakening of social structure and mass corruption all around. What was interesting in these songs was a change in the general style of musical composition. Up till this point in time, Bengali songs, just like songs in any other Indian language were pretty much accompanied by the obligatory three violins, sometimes a piano, always a harmonium and the mandatory tabla. The percussive effect of the tabla was slowly modified by introducing a strings section, a woodwind section and a bass section in percussive mode, something untried in Indian music up till then. The new music smelt different, it had a different fragrance to it, and people lapped it up. These mass songs became a part of popular thinking in Bengal. Sometime in the 1990s, Salil-da teamed up with Yogesh, and transliterated quite a few of these songs into Hindi, and they became a popular feature in Doordarshan prime-time.

This was Salil Chowdhury's initial creative phase as a music director. Primarily non-professional, this was a time when he rarely composed for money. The second phase of his musical career was his professional phase, when he shifted to Mumbai, and laid foot in the Hindi film industry. It is imperative that one studies both the phases of his music, for then it's easy to see the transition in thoughts, the change in musical styles, and the imbibing of blues and jazz into his musical thought. His objective in Bollywood was to compose for the film Do Bigha Zameen, which was incidentally based on his own story Rickshawallah. With unforgettable numbers like "Dharti kahe pukaar ke," this movie and its music was a massive hit all over the country.

Salil-da (as he was popularly known in the musical fraternity) believed that an Indian song should have a melody which is essentially Indian in color. At the same time he also believed in colorful orchestration of the non-conformist kind. An acute understanding of Western classical music and the symphonic style gave him the freedom to create arrangements for songs in multipart voicing with three-part harmonies as early as 1945. And this is what finally came to define his unique style: A rich melody, which always sounds deceptively simple, with closely-knit orchestration. For him, the prelude and interludes of the song were as important as the song itself. The interludes are so interwoven into the composition that the transition from the musical voicing to the actual song has a fluidity which is tough to achieve in real life.

Commercial success however seemingly evaded him. The only filmfare award he received was for the film Madhumati, directed by Bimal Roy. Not that the filmfare awards were any just judge of musical talent or ability. It's a point in passing. After a few commercial successes in Hindi films, he turned his attention to regional music, and composed music for his first Malayalam film, Chemmeen in 1970. This film went on to win the National Award, and made him a revered music director in Kerala. He went on to direct music for over twenty-five Malayalam feature films.

Salil Chowdhury gave us some immortal compositions over the years. I am tempted to list a lot of them, and why I like them, but somehow I feel that could be the topic of another post. A few songs which immediately come to mind is the jovial "Woh mere peechhe haath dhoke pada hai" from Half-Ticket, the folksy "Chhota-sa ghar hoga" from Naukri, the melodious "Dil Tadap Tadap" from Madhumati, the rollicking "Woh sone ke dilwala" from Maya, the sadly optimistic "Zindagi Kaisi hai paheli" from Anand, the Chopin-esque "Raaton ke Saaye" from Annadaata, the beautifully-picturised "Jaaneman Jaaneman" from Chhoti-si Baat, and of course the incomparable "Koi hota jisko apna" from Mere Apne. (A tid-bit: "Koi Hota Jisko Apna" is the melody which the saxophone plays in the last frames of Anand.)

These are just a few examples of his musical offering, just a few gems which give a momentary glimpse of a departed genius. It's a pity the rest of India never got a taste of literary skills. Deeply revered in Bengal as the "thinking-man's" composer, Salil-da always wrote his own songs. The lyrics were his, the melody was (almost always) his, and the orchestration was always his. He wrote the background, the prelude and the interlude and was considered a master arranger in higher musical circles. Adept in both Indian and western notation, he was universally loved and respected by the musicians who used to play for him. Most importantly, his songs, unlike those of his contemporary lyricists, were not about the moon, the stars and deeply ensconced romanticism. His songs were about the end of romance, stark reality, broken dreams and social upliftment. At the same time, he also wrote songs about optimism, an array of new hopes and dreams.

Studying and understanding Salil Chowdhury's music over the years has been a deeply fulfilling and satisfying experience. It's a pity he was so underrated in his time, but today, when I analyze his music, I realize, with a little bit of pity and a lot of wonder, that he was far, far ahead of his times. Behind every song, was a colorful imagination at work, an imagination which was not bounded by a gharana or a raga, an imagination which was never conformist, and most importantly, an imagination which was innately honest and caring.

Back in Bangalore

2006-10-16T10:20:00.000+05:30

I am back from Kolkata. Kolkata was hot, humid, and sultry; everything that Bangalore isn’t. Thanks to the massive changes in climate, I have caught a bad cold… I would have loved to blame the cold on the AC coach which I traveled by, but the fact remains that my tendency to drown myself in cold water after a hot day is plainly responsible for it.

Kolkata doesn’t seem to have changed much, other than more malls coming up and people talking in Yankee-ish slang a little more. There are some swanky offices coming up in the New Town area of the city, one of them is expectedly named Technopolis. The IBM building next to our complex looks quite cool and laid-back.

I always loved train-journeys. But I doubt if I shall ever travel to Kolkata by train again; for one – the journey is tiring; and staying cooped up in one coach for more than a day can be a big drag on your patience. Something which I never had plenty of. No more train journeys for me. I have just had enough of it.

More later, have just reached office; got a little of one-hundred-and-fifty mails to check. Bah!!!

Auto-rickshaw

2006-10-06T11:33:00.000+05:30

I have been mostly commuting on my bike for the last few months. In all the preparations leading up to my shows, I realized that I had missed out on one of the simpler pleasures in life. Isn’t it absolutely wonderful to just sit back in an auto and watch the world trundle its way to work, and all the while all you can think about is going home, finally. The auto happens to be one of the simpler pleasures in life, a pleasure which I got overplenty of in Mumbai, but have been bereft of here in Bangalore.

Auto-drivers are a varied lot, and it’s interesting to observe the change in demeanor, attitude and the general business sense in different parts of the country.

Let’s start with Mumbai. The Mumbai auto-drivers are a professional lot. They have fixed rates and they rarely stop running. Every auto-driver (other than the ones which wanted long-distance passengers at the exit gates of SEEPZ) never takes more than the prescribed fare unless it’s a rather complex and unprecedented situation. Some of the Mumbai auto-drivers are garrulous, a trait which frequently translates to the taxi-drivers too. Most of them prefer cigarettes to bidis, which was something which surprised me the first time I saw one of their lot smoking. Their taste in music is universally ubiquitous, sometimes outrageous. They are universally fans of Salmaan Khan and Nana Patekar. They know the entrances and exits of practically all the dance-bars in their area like the back of their hand, and frequently are closely associated with one bar or the other. They become overtly greedy when taking passengers to their homes from the airport, invariably demanding well over double the actual fare. However, in general, they are a helpful lot and normally never try to mislead or misguide you, which in fact, is the general trait in the whole of the city. Most of the rickshaw drivers at one point of time were Marathis, but with the gradual influx of people from the states of Bihar and UP, there is a pretty good chance you will run into one of the BIMARU gang in the auto-drivers.

Move north from Mumbai and you reach the town of Delhi. Delhi doesn’t have two many auto-rickshaws; most people usually have at least one personal four-wheeler for the family. However, autos do brisk business ferrying people over short distances, distances which are too small to actually justify bringing out the car, and too great to actually walk it. Delhi has both extreme summers and extreme winters, and the mood of the rickshaw-drivers changes with the season. Summer is a time when they charge exorbitantly because it’s hot, and in winters, the charge does not go down, the reason changes. They are universally rude, and sometimes the tone in which they refuse to take you takes a sufficiently loud and ridiculously rude angle, to actually make you wonder if you asked him for a ride or his wife. People of Delhi are much ruder than people of Mumbai, and somehow the arrogance of the common man (which mostly is completely unfounded) also shows in the attitude of the auto-drivers. Street-fights are a regular feature in Delhi and adjoining suburban areas, mostly instigated by auto-drivers and their gentry, most of the time against irate and rash bus-drivers. Delhi sometimes strikes me as a totally strange and rather unbecoming place. There are places which have struck me as strange and a little dark in the beginning (like Mumbai), but as time passed, things changed and I grew to love those cities. For Delhi, my first impressions were those of disgust and disturbed nonchalance; my views on the city unfortunately haven’t changed.
Kolkata auto-drivers are communists by nature and by deed. They love to go on strike at the drop of hat, sometimes even without someone dropping his/her hat. Every auto-driver in Kolkata is a member of some trade union or the other, which is usually affiliated to one of the major political parties in the region. Kolkata auto-drivers have shrewd business sense, and they never start their rickshaws until its well past holding capacity. Six people in an auto is the norm in most of the densely populated regions of the city. Fares are normally extremely nominal, sometimes laughable, and the people are happy. They can be extremely rude in times of bandh and moments of emotional strife, and they always drive like lunatics just out of a long-drawn stint at an asylum. They talk a lot, mostly with one of the passengers to whom he has taken a fancy. Lady travelers are usually treated with respect, and the snooty smart-ass kinds usually get the piercing sideward glance.

Bangalore auto-drivers have zero sense of business. They invariably want ONLY long-distance passengers. If they don’t get any, they sit put until they find one. They frequently wait expectantly for hours; sometimes I wonder why none of them have any sense at all. Most of the auto-drivers, though not rude, are extremely greedy, and the sense of their land being usurped by outsiders is extremely high in them. Frequently you will be refused by a rickshaw-driver just because you asked him in Hindi. The saving grace is most of the auto-drivers are able to use just a splattering of English, so it’s mercifully never very tough to get your point across. They become greedier as night falls, and the practice of one-and-a-half-times the actual fare starts at eight for some, nine for others. But you can rest assured that if you take an auto anytime later than nine, you will end up coughing up several rupees more than the actual fare. And if your destination is one of those places where not too many people go, woe betide you. As the disparity between the haves and the have-nots increases in the IT city, life becomes tougher, just a little tougher for the auto-drivers and sometimes, I find it tough to blame them for their rudeness. It is generally true and noticed that people from the northern regions of the country have a sense of inordinate pride, and instances of extremely rude behavior by a customer with an auto-driver are passé. Which sometimes makes me wonder – they are like this for a reason.

Chennai is probably the saddest place with regard to auto-drivers. They are mean, they don’t know any other language than Tamil (something which they proudly call Tamizh); and will try their level best to ensure that you are ripped off of a large amount of cash. Most of the rickshaw-drivers know much more than a splattering of English, but refuse to talk to you in any language other than Tamil. This trait is not just of the auto-drivers but mostly with a large section of the populace. The autos are often spotlessly clean, and it won’t be long before you find one with a life-size caricature of Rajnikant on the back-seat. Voluptuous south-Indian actresses, with bare midriffs showing are frequently present on the walls of the back-seat, illustrating the fact that most of them are avid film buffs. In fact there have been incidents in which the entire screen of the theatre was burnt down, just because one of the scenes in the movie starring Rajnikant did not go down too well with the audience, mostly consisting of the labor class. Shops and shopkeepers in Chennai share similar views as regards non-Tamil speaking people, and will try their best to be as rude and unhelpful as possible. It’s always better not to depend on directions given by people on the street, since most of the time, it turns out to be wrong, or just plain inaccurate. And of course, it’s always better to carry a map around, because if you are new to Chennai, and have a worthless specimen of the auto-driver-clan driving you to your destination, there’s a good chance that you will reach your place one hour late, and will get to see the same building twice on the way.

This is more or less about the major cities in the country. The other major cities I have been too have too few auto-drivers to actually help me or suggest a universal comment for them; hence I have left it for later…

I am going home tonight; so here’s a self-induced sabbatical from blogging and posting…

A puzzle

2006-10-05T12:05:00.000+05:30

You are more complicated than a puzzle, and somehow a little more obvious than hunger. Don’t feel like working; pain fills my mind. You are a dream which clings onto me every other second. Maybe that’s why I tell you, it’s just always better to hate me…

Some song has a hundred words, but is still a waste of time. And you draw your pictures all day, colors matted and unfinished. Grief is infinitely better than happiness, which is why I tell you, it’s just always better to hate me…

Today I am wise, an effervescent lover; but you do know me, you know the real me. If you know the real me, why do you still care; I wish I could tell you again, it’s always better to hate me…

Courtesy: Mohiner Ghoraguli

Successes galore!!!

2006-10-03T18:43:00.000+05:30

Durga Puja got over and with it the set of four shows which we “Backbenchers” were due to perform in four different pujas in the city of Bangalore, soon to be christened Bengaluru. I shall try to make this attempted factual account as interesting is possible, but in case you are not, please do not stop reading and please read till the end, since these are the first few shows ever since I left college, and it feels good to be back on the musical path.

The first show was in the Puja at Brookefields, close to the ITPL, which incidentally is full of software professionals, some of them carrying laptops. This puja started a few years back so we never really expected a packed house in this pandal. We reached around six in the evening and at that time, the hall was packed with people who were waiting to see some kids dance and some older kids make a mess of the stage with a flurry of unsynchronized movement. Some voice at the back of my mind seemed to say – Don’t count your chickens, these people don’t look very expectant at all. Needless to say, it was tough keeping those voices to myself and not affecting the team morale. Ultimately we did get on stage, but it was getting late and people were getting restless. To top it all, we had some minor issues with sound in the beginning because of which the start to the show wasn’t as impressive as we would have expected it to be. The sound systems did get rectified but I guess the people’s patience had run out and most of the IT guys could see their managers’ faces at the back of their minds. The crowds started thinning out till only a few scattered groups were left listening to our songs. It was a dampener for sure, but we did play our selected set of songs, and were well-appreciated by the select few who had braved the late hours. After the show, there was a sense of disappointment, which to some extent was quelled after a terribly prepared Chicken roll from one of the food stalls. I had no break between songs and I finally realized that the next three days with continuous shows was going to be a tiring affair indeed.

The next show was at Mahalaxmi Layout, way north in Bangalore, close to the ISCKON temple, which is a major landmark for that part of the city. I had office in the morning, and the entire afternoon along with the evening was spent in completing some long-pending assignments, and attending to mundane calls on inane, soon-to-be-worthwhile topics. I had an easy enough time finding out the place, and this place had small surprises in store for us. Although the Puja was really small, and quite unimposing, there was a good crowd, and somehow I had the feeling the fashion sense in this crowd was a little different, a little more sophisticated, a little extra desire to be more ethnic. However, it’s quite possible that this was just a perception. This show was scheduled to start at eight-thirty, but after the few shows performed by even smaller children, we realized that some people wanted to sing. We didn’t know how well they would sing, but we had to be the good band and allow them to go on stage before us. If we had known that they would sing close to twenty tuneless, soulless, and mirthless songs, we might have given more thought to our decision. Anyway, as luck would have it, most of the people got bored, some got annoyed and some stayed back out of sheer politeness, or lazyness. Obviously, the band got quite bored as well… there were no enlightening substances either… We finally did get the stage at around nine-fifteen; and it was in a flurry of activity that we proceeded to get the entire gamut of instruments replete with keyboard, guitars and the bass set up in the minimum possible time. People had started leaving; but very thankfully I saw a few young groups enter the auditorium when they saw us setting our instruments up. Even more thankfully, a set of older people came in and took the seats right next to the stage. I had a feeling that it was not too bad after all, if only all the people who were having cigarettes and cupfuls of tea outside came inside, the audience would not be that bad after all… And quite amazingly, I felt my hopes coming true. This show was a grand success, on the lines which we had not really expected. We were forced, rather goaded on to sing “Shadher Lau” twice, and after that, we played a shockingly fast version of one of our originals “Shurjo”, which the crowd lapped up. It was truly a most satisfying experience to actually watch people listen to and appreciate something that you have composed after years of toil. It was satisfying; if only we did not have to drive close to forty kilometers on the way back, it would have been the perfect end to a lousy day…

The third show was the biggest, and at Ulsoor, the puja organized by the Bengalee Association of Bangalore. It was no doubt lavish, but the rains had played a bit of a dampener before the show; the grounds got muddy, parking became a nightmare and to top it all, I got drenched and had to go back home to change into a drier pair of trousers. This show also was delayed in the grand old Bengali tradition of stretchable time, and we finally got on stage around half-past-nine. It was quite obvious that we would not be able to sing all the songs which we had planned, so we decided to do just the best of the fourteen. The crowd seemed a mix of young, old and native (which was a little worrying, since I didn’t want them to go back disappointed); but quite clearly, a lot of them appreciated music, some of them had a hard time understanding the songs, and a healthy mix of young men and few girls came to the front and danced. The sound wasn’t that great on stage, and it was only after the show that I realized that one of the monitors wasn’t even working throughout the show. It was quite disappointing from a performer’s perspective because we did not get the sound which we had wanted, and the sound guy had a tough time understanding the fact that he was a brainless nincompoop and would not be able to do justice by arranging the sound, with the net result that our sound engineer wasn’t allowed to touch the controls and ended up with a somewhat black mood…

Then came the show at Koramangala, which incidentally we were performing free of charge. It was on the occasion of Navami, which is the ninth day of the Puja. The crowd was boisterous in Koramangala and though we managed to get on stage only around ten, we realized that this was a crowd which loved its music and we were on the road to success. The makeshift auditorium was packed to capacity; there were even people standing outside craning their heads to see a bit of the action. We had initially decided on singing just ten-eleven songs and get it over with. But once we started after a rather perfunctory sound check, we realized that this was gonna be the show of our lives. The people were mesmerized, each of the band members played like a professional, it was an exemplary, mind-blowingly amazing performance. Something which neither we nor the audience had expected. People sang along, they danced, they jived along like never before… and for the first time in my life I got a chance to do an encore… and it wasn’t just one encore, it was two, then three, and finally we ended up playing till eleven thirty; and the crowd was just wanting more… it was an amazing sight, watching hundreds of heads banging, pretty girls sitting in the front row, mesmerized and happily awestruck; it was a lovely, enjoyable and educative experience. And I realized how much I had been missing the stage, the lights and the captive audience. It was homecoming for me, and I simply enjoyed every moment of it…

So that was an account of what I did this Pujas. Boring, right?! I had thought so…

Saptami

2006-09-27T11:23:00.000+05:30

Today is MahaSaptami. Five days have passed since Mahalaya and my last post… Today is the fifth day of the Puja, and I feel a distinct absence of the festive spirit in Bangalore today… It saddens me, and by a strange quirk of temperament, makes me want to work a wee bit harder…

I try my best not to delve into nostalgia, but the feelings persist… Some of them hurt, some don’t and bring a fair amount of joy into a fettered mind… I saw a bunch of people dancing to some song by Him-ass Reshmiyaa early in the morning… They didn’t look good, the song sounded worse; especially for a day when one is so used to the sound of the dhaakis breaking the early morning silence; a day when the scent of dhuno is supposed to permeate the house and the room;

Feels sad to be away from home on this day…

Mahalaya

2006-09-22T15:28:00.000+05:30

Bengalis love to write about Durga Puja. It’s their favorite festival – rather, it’s THE festival.

Today is Mahalaya. It’s the first day of the Puja. It signifies the six-day countdown to the beginning of the Pujas which is signaled by Maha-Saptami. It’s the time of the year when there is a faint chill in the air, autumn moving slowly towards winter with a myriad of scents and sounds. It’s the time of the year when every Bengali far away from Bengal feels a twang of self-pity mixed with deep sadness. It’s the time when lazy, thoroughbred Bengalis miraculously discover their dancing shoes and suddenly are full of strength, joy and vitality. Today I am away from Bengal, and though my memories of Durga Puja are a mixed one, it saddens me that I am away from my family during this time of the year which means such a lot to each and every family-member.

Durga Puja arguably is the largest festival in the country, in terms of size, investment and sheer enjoyment. The only other festival which comes close to it with respect to these factors is the festival of Ganesh Chaturthi, in the state of Maharashtra. It’s a festival of colors, not inordinately in the way Holi is, but just about adequate; it’s a festival of new clothes; gaiety, merriment and goodwill; handsome triumphs of good over various manifestations of evil; it’s a festival of a plethora of Gods and goddesses. Durga and her four children come in resplendent splendor, Saraswati on her swan, Lakshmi on her owl, Ganesh on the mouse, and Kartik on his peacock; as Mahisasur lies bleeding, defeated and despairing at Durga’s feet. Durga Puja is about huge pandals, lustrous decoration, innovative ideas; Durga Puja is about creativity and emotion, devotion and merriment, and all of it at the same time. Most importantly, it brings all Bengalis together in a way no other festival can.

My formative years were spent in the little village-town of Bhubaneswar, where Durga Puja was a rather subdued, formal affair with all the Bengalis congregating from all over the town and meeting at a central place for mind-numbingly boring adda. My views about Durga Puja underwent a massive transformation after my first visit to Kolkata during the Pujas sometime in the year 1990. It’s a long time back, but those memories still remain. And that’s when I realized that the festival meant more about traditions than the actual act of worshipping; it was more about innocent faith than inordinately formal devotion.

As my mom woke me up at dawn to the strains of “Give me victory, give me beauty, give me fame, O you conqueror of all evil”, I realized that for me and for every other Bengali who was listening to the same thing at the same unearthly hour of the morning, it was much more than just a song. It was difficult to place my exact feelings then, it’s even tougher to place my feelings correctly now, even though I am supposedly more mature and understanding; but not listening to Mahalaya early in the morning evokes in me a deep sadness, something that penetrates to the very core of my being. Gradually, I grew up; Durga Puja became a little more significant and a little less obscure in my mind. It became a time when I could burst crackers till midnight with no one to scold me; it became a time when all the rules were relaxed; a time when you could run around and wreak havoc all day long and have no one wagging a finger over your head. As my age increased and maturity remained constant, the Pujas became an occasion to eat forbidden rolls from the very stalls which were out-of-reach during normal times; and the so-called Puja routine assumed a different charm of its own. The Pujas, I realized were a joyous time when one could sleep at night and dream about the new clothes which one would wear the next morning; it became a time when one would wake up on a chilly Ashtami morning, with the heavenly smell of freshly fried luchis and Begun bhaja in the early hours of the morning; it became a time to visit my old uncle and listen to him play some extremely beautiful songs on his dilapidated grand piano; it became a time for family get-togethers which for a change did not reek of boredom and cliché; it became a time to sit up all nights and release fluorescent colored balloons into the night-sky.

Adolescence came, and with it, it brought newer flavors to the same festival. Pujas came to represent love, unfettered, unbound, no holds barred. It meant praying to Durga on Ashtami, puspanjali in the morning, and eyeing the pretty next-door girl from the corner of your eye, hoping against hope that she fell for me. It meant first attempts at forbidden pleasures, the first cigarette, and the first disgusting taste of alcohol. Ashtami for many was the time to drink, primarily because it’s a dry day in all of Kolkata on this day. Pujas and adolescence mixed together to make me realize that all was not hunky-dory with the world, it made me realize that the world was really not an easy place to live in, I realized that a lot of things in this world are based on two very basic premises – love and money. These realizations brought about revelations, sometimes hallucinations, and though, today, I find it tough to say what exactly I thought, and what exactly I deduced, I can safely say that Durga Pujas during adolescence was a very different time; it was a time when I enjoyed a lot, but always brooded; always felt something was missing.

Years passed by, and I reached college. Durga Puja was shortened to DP, and it came about to signify homecoming, much more than anything else at all. It meant a huge group meeting up in front of Music World, spending a few hours in Olypub, boisterous singing in Maddox Square till the wee hours of the morning, and as the next morning would come, warm and chilly at the same time, the faint winds of dawn would blow the dust over the fields, and bring me around to bowing my hands in front of the goddess in a whirlwind of dust and weed, praying for forgiveness, for love, most of all, for everlasting peace. My mind would scream – “Happiness, Maa, that’s all I want!”

And it’s been a long time since I felt the same way during Puja. My last Puja which I spent in Kolkata was my last year in Kharagpur, after which I failed to make it in the month of October to the city I love. I still go to Kolkata at times, when my office gives me leave, and when I think it won’t be too hot, but as I look upon Maa Durga’s tumid October face today, and think about what it means to worship her and celebrate her victory, I realize that this Puja has always meant much more than just a festival. Durga Puja is not just about the glittering lights, about the resplendent décor and the lavish beauty of the idols, it’s not just about the bevy of Bengali beauties thronging the grounds of Maddox Square, it’s not just about meeting up with long-lost friends and getting drunk in the dark corners of Olypub, it’s not just about the dhaakis and the marijuana, and it’s not just about your love and your family. It’s always a little more than that, it’s always something very close to the heart, and it always let’s you know that for sure, Life is Beautiful.

Bombay Blues

2006-09-14T17:28:00.000+05:30

My friend, Saunak, frequently inspires me to write good blogs. You see, he has ze good ideas. I find it tough to think of topics. Inevitably, my topics turn out to be too political, which I don’t like, or about utterly banal and commonplace entities. Now, I am already writing a story of sorts in my other blog, on the whirlwind of days that I spent in Bombay, but I really liked this post of Saunak’s, called Bombay blues. It sort of perennially signifies an uplifted state of enjoyment which was limited to the confines of A-1101, Sun Srishti Complex, Saki Vihar Road, Powai.

A week in the life of three people. Sandy, Saunak and D-A-D-A. Times spent fighting, arguing and finally realizing that life just has this knack of scattering you to different parts of the world. Amazing yet true…

Monday: Dregs of Sunday stay over. The mind refuses to give way. Office beckons, the damp sullen walls seem to belong to another day, another world. Early morning blues rustle through a nightmare as I wake up in a cool sweat. The dump on the floor has some ironed clothes. The clothes are usurped. A hasty bath is taken, ze perfunctory soap applied on a moist body, a short stint at bathroom singing happens, sleepy hands drop ironed clothes on a wet floor; long-drawn curses follow. I get dressed finally; find Dada in peaceful slumber with the AC on full-blast. I call the lift to the eleventh floor, and catch a short nap as the elevator makes its way from ground zero up ten floors. When not napping, I curse silently as it stops as the tenth and fifth floor on the way down. Like every other day, I skirt past the smelly security guard before he can ask me for tips. I cross the road, which has been under construction for times immemorial, and reach the other side. Unhappy and tired legs move a battered body to the paan-shop; Wills Navy Cut, a packet is bought. One cigarette burns as a half-raised hand asks auto-rickshaws to stop, and take me to SEEPZ. Short, hasty arguments take place; the results are the same. A good soul finally does agree to take me to my office. I have the most unbelievably bumpy ride to the offices of i-flex. I wonder when the road will get repaired, look at the board and get amused, just like every other day at the expected date of completion of the link road project. I reach SEEPZ, feeling hungry, dazed and amazingly unhappy; pass the crowds waiting to enter the special zone; trudge down the steps to the offices of i-flex. I look at my watch, it’s almost ten o’clock. Trouble, I realize. I start to walk a little faster, I should at least reach by ten; the party-last-night excuse does not work every time. I am correct, people are waiting for me; there are hundred bugs and there are three people, which results in close to thirty bugs per person. I am aghast; my words fall on deaf ears. Nobody listens. I have tea, and fix bugs till lunch, when I have an oily chicken Masala in ICH, and come back and solve bugs. The afternoon drags on, drooling and having coffee at stipulated intervals. I have a few conversations on the futility of sex and longing with Prantik, when Sunil joins in with his opinions on the same topic. Evening comes, but respite doesn’t, as bug after bug goes into bugzilla, tormenting me, my team. It is eight in the evening, my mind has downed the shutters, I trudge down the stairs cursing information technology, the world and software in general. The autos are reluctant to go to Powai now, they want fares who want to go far; I fight with a lot of them, I curse them, a little scared, but audibly. I reach home, think twice about crossing the road to Gurukripa and a peg of Bacardi, abandon those thoughts, and reach the lift. I enter our flat; a cool waft of fresh air greets me, and seems to wash away my thoughts and peeves. Saunak is staring at the TV, an empty gaze on his face. Dada has not returned yet, it seems it’s a tough day at office for him. The night drags on, Dada comes home, and dinner is ordered, unpalatable crap from Gurukripa bar and restaurant, promising ourselves with dreams of pizza for Tuesday night. Nightly slumber descends and makes us sleepy. I curl into a moderately comfortable beds and watch the fan make circles, my mind slips into happy oblivion as Saunak reads passage after passage from English, August.

Tuesday: The mind feels fresher, the autos behave no differently. Office looks just as dull as on Monday, and the people just as unfriendly. I call up Saunak and ask him if he is able to work. Apparently, his ass is on fire, and he will be late in reaching home tonight. There goes my pizza, I think and sulk for a while. I sulk as I stand outside with a coffee in one hand a cigarette in the other. I wonder if I should get stoned on Tuesdays; maybe it would make them less common and less boring. I get calls from Thailand, frustration creeps into the mind and being as the day drags on, and the count in bugzilla seems to remain stagnant. Life seems like a poignant memory of the restful college days. The bug-count has come down a little and it’s already evening, the sun is setting. I want to play a game of TT, but there are too many people waiting for a turn. I stand expectantly hoping to get a chance to play, and catch snacks being served through the corner of my eye. Prantik has come out for a smoke; we talk about inane things, strip joints in the US, comparing them with dance bars. Prantik wonders if we should visit a bar tonight. I veto the idea, and call it a day. Have the predictable fight with four auto-rickshaw-drivers. Link road is in a mess as usual, the maze of traffic seems to stretch beyond the horizon. Irate truck drivers curse at each other and blow fumes into my face as I get drenched in a cold sweat. Dust from construction sites, and smoke of freshly friend diesel makes for a heady concoction as I wonder if I am high. I reach home, tired, sweaty and smelly, and want to take a bath. I think about cold Haywards as cool water washes the tiredness out of my body, but abandon the idea in favor of a grander Wednesday party. Night falls, Knopfler soothes strained nerves with ‘Are we in trouble now’.

Wednesday: It’s a rainy morning, the mind is elated. It’s mid-week, it means more bugs, but it also means a party at the end of the day. The entire day passes in expectation, longing and the promise of intoxication. The pent up desires make my boss seem kind, almost benign. Lunch is a long-drawn affair at a dark and dingy Chinese place inside the office compound with hair-raisingly high prices for an ambience similar to a road-side shack. Food is palatable and less spicy, and most people gorge on it. Lunch ends late, and the entire team feels sleepy; we consider abandoning the afternoon session, but better sense prevails. I call Saunak from the office phone, apparently his fire-fighting has come to an end, and I look forward to a happy evening. Time seems to stand still, as I count the minutes left to six o’clock. Saunak comes to SEEPZ at six and my boss wants me to wait till seven. I want to tell him to fuck off and get lost, but manage to tell him politely that I have personal engagements. My consistently prudent use of the word personal has its desired effect. Some other bakra gets the chance to do the work I was supposed to do. Saunak is standing outside SEEPZ, cigarette between lips and holding one in his hand. Don’t you love the first smoke at the end of the day’s work? I agree with him, it’s heavenly. We hail an auto to Sai Palace, the hideout of the tired Wednesday evening, just within happy hours time and order jarfuls of gimlets and Tom Collins. The waiter knows us but looks suspiciously, perhaps out of habit. The music is hopelessly innocuous, and makes me want to throttle the DJ with a dirty piece of cloth, but my baser instincts fail to prevail. Saunak goes and tells the DJ to think of better songs to play, and he plays Summer of 69. The general public leaps up with the kind of cheer I would have given to Comfortably numb. The high is getting better with the second Gimlet. Fish n chips are ordered, bekti with tartare sauce. The Sai Palace cooks surpasses himself, the fish fingers are absolutely delectable. Our drinks are over; Saunak asks me if I want to go to Laxmi Palace. I want to get stoned and then go. We make our way back to our place, Saunak rolls one, we smoke it; we want a better high, Saunak rolls another, we smoke it. The auto seems to take forever to reach Laxmi Palace, the same guy with the long beard and the moth-eaten dress stands at the door, and salaams us. The main room is chock full with drunken youth and fat middle-aged businessmen, squandering the day’s earnings. I feel a guilty pang of hurt conscience; the waiter takes us to the VIP room. The lights seem bright, brighter than I had imagined, my mind makes desperate futile attempts to enjoy and appreciate the music. The beer is cold, and the dancers are tired, and as the night moves on to a close, I feel comfortably stoned. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and we call it a day. Generous tips handed into sweaty clamoring palms, as we rush out of the bar and heave a sigh of relief. It’s a silent conversation-less ride back home, where DADA is peacefully asleep, stoned, with a smile on his face.

Thursday: Wake up with a dull throb, and instantly realize that the whole day is going to be lousy. Taking a bath before wearing Monday’s semi-ironed clothes seems to take a lifetime. Saunak barely opens his eyes to say You carry on before drifting back into helpless sleep. I toy with ideas of sick leave, mentally calculating my eligibility; leisurely light a cigarette and smoke it completely as I think. Wet hair drying itself under the lulling fan makes the head throb feel less painful. I decide against taking a sick leave, and reach office before my boss freaks out. My phone is in silent mode, and I must have failed to realize that he had given me three missed calls while I was in the auto. The client seems to have become a little more demanding and a little less understanding, overnight. I feel a premonition of a long night. I fail to lift my head and say hi to the big boss as he passes by with a cup in his hand and a smile on his face. Miracles are known to happen, and several bugs get solved by lunch time. My boss gets inordinately thrilled and tells me to take the afternoon off I want to. This is the time to go, I decide, and with remarkable speed and gusto, I am out of SEEPZ, out of Andheri and back in Powai, sleepy and happy. I knock on the door, realize that someone is home, and find with a joint in his hand, dazed look in eyes, and his head a mess of tousled hair. So, you’ve come, he says. I don’t reply and take a drag, a soft horny feeling tinged with sadness washes over me. We think of watching a movie, and watch Life is Beautiful for the n’th time and feel happy and contented. Gurukripa is called to get four special teas and a few snacks. I play a few notes on the guitar, put on BB King, and marvel at his dexterity. Try to copy him, but fail miserably. Dusk is settling in on the vast ruins of Mumbai, and we stand at the big living-room window, staring into the red sky, with the setting sun in the background, and watch an enormous Singapore Airlines jet land at the international airport. Glazed eyes follow every movement of the plane as it lands on the runway, and vanishes away from sight as the airport terminal comes in the way. It’s only a few days from my Bangkok trip, and soon I will have a stamped passport. I feel elated and a little apprehensive at the same time, what if there’s a visa problem. Thank god, the first place I am visiting is a tourist-friendly place, says Saunak. I can’t help but agree with him. Night falls, four pizzas are ordered from Smoking Joes, Napolitana, Mexicana, The smoking Joe’s special and Meat Feast. Two people with eyes hungry and desperate for sleep gorge on eight slices; Life seems right and everything is ok with the world.

Friday: Extreme elation in the morning, the weekend is just a few hours away. It seems everyone is in a hurry to reach office, get it over with and get on with the partying. Link road is in a mess which seems like it will take a few hours (at least) to untangle itself. Three cigarettes are smoked, anxious prayers are sent out, hoping for lesser bugs and client sick-leave. I finally reach office, have a perfunctory bread-omelet at the India Coffee House, and enter office an hour late. One of my prayers has been answered; the bug-count has not gone up. I get to work; have banal discussions with Sunil and Prantik on the efficacy of the Indian judicial system, and the quality of the evening snacks. We all agree that both have a long way to go before they can be considered acceptable. Lunch is a slow affair, in ICH, with the oily Chicken Masala and Chicken 65 as accompaniments. The post-lunch session is a sleepy one, struggling to stay away, counting seconds to the evening game of carom and liberty; mailing every other person that I know, calling up friends all over Mumbai, making elaborate plans for the evening binge, and calling everything off in favor of a light and slow dinner at Chakra. Dinner ends early, and we are back home by eleven. Floyd keeps us company, as three people go to sleep, happy, contented, and expectant of a weekend.

Saturday: Wake up at eleven, lazily rub my eyes; nudge Saunak awake, who gets up from the bed, irritated, and unpleasantly angry. The brainless Gurukripa waiter is asked to bring up overpriced teas and heavily overpriced bread-omelets. He also brings two packets of Wills Navy Cut. Saunak wants to spend the entire day at home, lazing around and doing nothing in particular. DADA wants a trip to Mondegar, followed by a lazy cab ride on the Marine Drive. The pros and cons of both the plans are discussed and laid bare. The trip to Mondegar sounds nice, I say; I am looking forward to an outing, it has been quite some time since we have gone anywhere. With the Thailand trip looming large in front of me, I feel the need for a last outing so that the pangs of separation don’t hurt when I really leave. The local to Churchgate is packed to breaking point, but we manage to stuff our bodies in nonetheless. Churchgate looks fresh and washed after early-morning showers, and the lush greenery is a sight for sore eyes. The Mondegar waiters are rude as ever, and three six-a-downs get drained before evening. Some people use the jukebox to play their eccentric and rather childish kind of music, which starts at boy bands and ends at boy bands. I play my choice of retro and alternative to liven up proceedings and while I do so, toy with the idea of a movie, but abandon it for bheja fry at Bade Miyan. I want to try the roll there, but my bad experience of rolls in Mumbai in general makes me desist. We decide to take a cab back, and spend a sweaty hour as the cab trundles its way across Chembur, and the narrow alleys of Ghatkopar, before finally reaching Powai. Aura seems a stone’s throw away, and the last hours of the evening are getting drunk and happy in the dark corners of Aura with a good looking but vocally deficient Filipino band murdering some popular English numbers.

Sunday: The day dawns bright, but not sunny. My mood in the morning is horrible; I realize it’s the last day of the weekend. Monday blues seems like striking with threatening vengeance. Take an early bath, and smoke an early joint, and soon, things fall back into welcome perspective. Watch Shawshank Redemption for the umpteenth time and amaze at the bad luck of the movie to be released in the same year as Forrest Gump. We decide to cook lunch at home, and soon the room is a whirlwind of activity with chicken being cut, onions being shredded, two old potatoes getting the beating of a lifetime, and finally finding ginger-garlic paste in the confines of a lower drawer. Chicken is cooked, rice is ordered, and post a heavy satisfying lunch, all of us plan on a siesta. The great Indian Laughter Challenge repeats all it’s week-episodes, and we try to laugh along, and crib about office during the ads. National Geographic shows the crash of Pan-Am of 1992 for the twenty-seventh time, and we watch it, stoned, horrified and disgusted. Evening passes quickly; Dimple Wines is called and told to deliver six beers, Haywards 5000. It takes around an hour for us to get drunk, with the harsh reality of Bob Dylan making us sad and inspired at the same time. This is followed by the lilting voice of Peter, Paul and Mary, and the night ends with a rousing performance by Elton John at Madison Square Garden. Sadness grips the three friends as the endless night draws to a gentle close, and sleep beckons.

That was one hectic week in Mumbai, and in spite of all the cribs, the peeves and the brickbats, we had come to love and associate with Mumbai, each in his own special way. Miss those days badly!

First Show in Bangalore

2006-09-12T15:30:00.000+05:30

With an abysmal sound system at IISC, Bangalore, we had a decent show. Not the greatest, but sufficiently tight enough. The sad part is that the sound system made every single note echo at least thrice and collide with subsequent notes making me feel on stage that we were making a humungous mess of things.

But audience response suggested otherwise.

Here's a picture of the show.

Boimela

2006-09-06T11:34:00.000+05:30

The Kolkata Boimela (anglicized, Calcutta Book fair), is one of those events in the Bengali calendar which every Bengali, rather Kolkatan finds tough to extricate himself from. It’s an event similar to the Durga Puja, and for some, more auspicious. There are people who have incidentally traveled miles to actually be at the exhibition, sometimes reaching Kolkata a day before it ended. The charm, beauty and sheer innocence of this attachment to an institution which celebrates literature, arts, and the sciences is something which makes me forever indebted to the city.

The boimela is organized by the Booksellers and Publisher’s guild mostly during the month of February. My memories of the boimela date back to a time when I was in the fifth grade and my appetite for books had just about taken a voracious turn. I remember a misty afternoon, serpentine queues in front of the ticket-counters, innocent wonderment at the fact that such a lot of people had actually come over to an exhibition of books. I remember subtle joy at the realization that a love for books was something to be cherished, not something which a lot of the dude-guys in school thought of as geeky. I remember my mom insisting on me wearing a monkey cap even with a full sun working wonders with the strangely chilly Kolkata afternoon. I remember my dad insisting on me buying some Bangla books, in spite of my rather limited proficiency in my mother-tongue (this I always hate to admit); and I distinctly remember caving in to his earnest requests. I remember the mad craze for Enid Blyton’s short stories and the Adventure series, spending hours in the Rupa stall, hoping and praying that the entire Adventure series had been released as one grand omnibus. I remember exulting when I did find that my prayers had been answered. I remember strolling through the food stalls, wondering at all the people who seemed to be eating more than actually shopping for books. I remember not liking the fish cutlet from Benfish, but eating it nonetheless. I remember pestering my dad for one more Tintin, making my collection half-complete. I remember coming back to our Lake Gardens’ flat, satisfied, happy, and in a mad rush to start on the Adventure series before dinner. I remember going to sleep with happy dreams of wondrous adventures, and unparalleled popularity.

Those were days of innocence; things changed as I grew older, and supposedly became a little more mature. Boimela changed from being an annual outing with parents to an event which was meant to be enjoyed in the company of friends, and a few members of the opposite sex from the sister school. I remember hoping in spite of hope that one of them would take a fancy to me. I remember a few of my friends reaching the fair drunk and stoned, me getting embarrassed and promising myself never to take to such habits. I remember desperately wanting the buy the illustrated Kamasutra, also browsing through the stalls, casually flipping the pages of the complete sex-tutorial, and finally keeping it back on the rack after disapproving stares from an old gentleman with a Charlie Chaplin mustache. I remember liking the Benfish cutlet a little more than fifth grade, and having some melted ice-cream thanks to the girls from Pratt Memorial. I remember a chance meeting with one of my dad’s friends, desperately urging my stoned friends to behave, failing miserably and finally behaving as if I had met them for the first time. I remember returning home with the collected stories of Oscar Wilde, Roald Dahl, and M.R.James, feeling sad about the same old routine of school and incompetent teachers the next day, getting depressed. Going to sleep.

College leant the book fair a charm of its own. It became a day for mass-bunking, and sometimes for mass-drinking, with the entire batch coming for one day-long binge, in which everyone got stoned, stood in front of book-stalls window shopping, had hour-long addas with the publishers of the Little Magazines, lay down on the green Maidan grass, looking up at misty grayish skies, as the scent of spring and fresh flowers mixed with that of freshly cooked food enthralled him, and the virgin dust blew in gusts over the tired bodies. It became a day for togetherness and simple pleasures, of talking and socializing, of catching up with people who you felt had become distant, a day for forgiveness and healing old wounds, and most important of all, it became a day when you realized the depth of the friendships that college had blest you with. A day long outing frequently ended with a little food and several drinks at Someplace Else, finally catching the last local back to the little village of Kharagpur, back to the hostels, back to Maity-da, all the commotion, and all the excitement of a large hostel.

Boimela means different things to different people, for me boimela and the pleasures associated with it, changed as I grew older, and never became mature. I felt changes in my personality in the way I reacted to different stalls, and different authors, and there wasn’t a better place to realize this than the Kolkata Book Fair. It was the place to be on a mildly sunny spring afternoon, with your friends, with your parents or with your love. For me the Kolkata book fair, is more than just an event. For me, it remains and will forever remain, a place to rediscover yourself, your loves, your passions and your secret dreams, and having discovered them, to take pride in those dreams and passions.

Show

2006-09-05T16:35:00.000+05:30

This is to inform my readers that I have formed a band here in Bangalore. We shall be performing on the 10th of this Month in the Gymkhana Auditorium at IISC, Bangalore. The show would be in the evening, and would last till 11:00 pm.

It would be a mix of original numbers and covers by popular bands. The songs are mostly going to be in Bengali, as the show is primarily for a Bengali audience.

Hope to see you all there. I shall be taking a blog sabbatical for a few days now.

Time

2006-09-04T11:11:00.000+05:30

We all need a little time
To introspect, to hope
To lay on rugs in futile slumber
Counting illusions...

Time to think, and ponder
Mistakes and criminal thoughts,
desultory and meandering,
Delusions of penance...

Time to rejoice, and enjoy
Love, and beautiful life,
wavy, intricate, confusing,
Looking at utopia, just out of reach...

Time to bereave,
Lost friends, forgotten passions
Housed in unforgettable memory
Drowned in intangible grief...

Time to console,
Make a child smile, just for a moment
Feel the good vibes,
Rejoicing in his happiness...

We all need a little time,
Sometimes also a little love...

Erroneous introspection

2006-08-25T11:20:00.000+05:30

It seems that ever since Rang de Basanti (in the words of the 'alternate moebyus' "Wrong Day Basanti"); a lot of pseudo-patriotic Indians have started introspecting. Me - I am an honest person, or at least I think myself to be one; and I hate hypocrisy. So here is what I found on one blog, who interestingly is wondering if Indians are the worst imitators on earth. Talk of self-condescension, and there is nothing better than the eleven questions that this person has posted.

1. Do we think in our mother tongue (or even Hindi for that matter ) ?

Yes, I think I do. Most of the time, I think in Bangla; and when I am not doing that, I tend to think in English. Because I am used to it. And why would a person (let's say - someone from South India) even think in Hindi? Half of them don't even know it! (The 'or even Hindi for that matter?' part makes no, let me repeat, NO sense at all!

2. What is the medium of instruction in our school , college or Institute ?

It's English. And it should be English or the mother tongue. It should preferably be English, because if it is not, then at professional courses you will have loads of bumpkins cursing the days they spent in vernacular schools and colleges, and wondering why they are unable to understand anything which the teacher says. All's good with wanting vernacular education, but you need to send your kids to regional-language schools and not the 'convent' ones!

3. What language am i more comfortable reading ?

English and Bangla. Which is expected. And I don't pretend: I like reading English, because I am more comfortable with it; but I am definitely passably comfortable with Bangla, and enjoy reading it. If you don't like reading your own mother-tongue, you are the imitator; not Indians in general!

4. Do i quench my thirst with Coke, Pepsi or with Chaach , lassi , nimbupani ?

I quench my thirst with water, because that's what normal people do. Think about it, and not more than 3 out of ten of your friends would use Coke/Fanta/Slice as a thirst-quencher!

5. Are my favorite hangouts Barista , Subway and McDonald ?

No, they aren't, because a meal there doesn't fill me. I prefer a good old Indian joint with a generous helping of rice/chapati... Seriously! Most Indians feel the same way!

6. Do i wear anything other than Nike, Adidas , or Reebok ?

Yes, I wear clothes which I find in most designer stores. You don't expect me to come to office dressed in a dhoti? Do you?

7. Do I listen to English Songs more than Hindi Songs ?

Yes, and that's a matter of personal choice. And just for the record, there are other languages spoken in India. When I am not listening to English songs, I prefer listening to Bangla songs, since that's my mother-tongue. A distant third in the list would be Hindi.

8. Do i prefer Hollywood movies to Hindi Movies ?

Yes, because Hindi movies are bullshit! At least, most of them! Did anyone watch Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna??? And please don't come up with "Rang de Basanti" or "Black" as a retort, because then I would definitely shoot you. I wouldn't even repent it. You deserve it!

9. Do i use expressions such as "Chill Dude" , "Lets hangout " , "rock the party, man" ?

No, I don't. It's because I think I am normal...

10. Do I think that Philip Kotler is Marketing God ?

No, I don't. Why should I?

11. Are my preferences shaped by American media ?

No, I don't think they are. My preferences are shaped by my personal choices, peeves and concerns. Thank goodness no media of any kind has anything to do with it.

Dunno why I had to make this post, but somehow this guy's rants about hypocritic Indians was so over the top. To top it all, he does realize at the end of it all that he has lost his identity. No wonder!

The village in Bengal

2006-08-25T11:01:00.000+05:30

An absolutely amazing description of the Bengal village, courtesy Satyajit Ray. I couldn't help but post it here for posterity.

One day’s work with camera and actors taught me more than all the dozen books I read on film making. I found out for myself how to catch the hushed stillness of dusk in a Bengali village, when the wind drops and turns the ponds into sheets of glass, and the smoke from the ovens settles in wispy trails over the landscape, and plaintive blows on conch shells from homes far and near are joined by the chorus of crickets which rise as the light falls, until all one sees are stars in the sky, and the fireflies that blink and swirl in the thickets.

Respects

2006-08-22T12:48:00.000+05:30

May his soul rest in peace

Who's Anthony? Who the hell cares?

2006-08-21T16:58:00.000+05:30

Interesting fruitless experience watching Anthony Kaun Hai last night.

And in this movie, we have Arshad Warsi and Sanjay Dutt back in action in a comic-thriller. As a genre, the comic thriller in circular flashback was immortalized in Pulp Fiction, and I was secretly glad that this movie was not trying too hard to match the Tarantinosque dialogue in Pulp Fiction.

Spoiler warning: Plot details follow

This brings one to the central plot of the film… Arshad Warsi plays the role of Champak Chaudhury, who's a petty criminal with a primary job of faking passports; and incidentally has only pretty Thai women coming to him for services. Why, I assumed time would tell, but apparently that was not one of the questions which the film answered in the end. Of course, in addition to Champak, we have Sanjay Dutt, the hit-man who hates people committing mistakes, and also loves using his gun – a gun fitted with a nice big silencer. He also owns a red Ferrari. Champak, called Champ by friends and the several pretty Thai women, is in supposed love with Rosa, who is undoubtedly hot and unfortunately not ready to marry Champ. Considering Champ’s perennial attire of dirty clothes coupled with an unkempt four-year old beard, one does not fault her decision. Champ, however desperately wants to marry Rosa, and finally, on a day of miracles, she agrees to marry him. The wedding is planned, but minutes before the wedding kiss, Champ is arrested. Woe of all woes, he is sentenced to six months in prison. Rosa, who definitely doesn’t have patience as a key virtue, stops wearing bikinis and promptly gets married to another friend and gets pregnant with due haste, notwithstanding the fact that she knew about Champ’s dealership in fake passports, and notwithstanding the fact that she had been refusing to marry Champ for the last few months.

But that is not the end of the movie. Champ goes to jail and becomes friends with Jiya’s (who happens to be the chief female protagonist) dad, a diamond thief, who used to dress up as statues and steal diamonds from the necklace of the Queen of Thailand. It’s a different matter, of course, that touching the queen in Thailand without permission is considered an act of sacrilege and frequently invites extreme displeasure and some amount of punishment. Jiya’s dad had a similar fate because he was caught as he was trying to smuggle the diamonds off at a pawn shop, and subsequently decided to stay quiet for the remainder of his time in the prison; in the hope that a life devoid of fun and laughter would bring him closer to his daughter. Soon after he meets Champ, tragedy strikes his family and he decides to leave jail with Champ’s help. Initially reluctant to help the old geezer, Champ finally agrees, lured by the story of the diamonds which the old man had supposedly hidden somewhere in Bangkok. This leads to a series of activities, culminating in Champ coming out of jail, the old geezer getting shot in a miserably shot gun-attack, Champ getting back in jail just to be closer to the place where the diamonds were buried (since the place where the diamonds had been buried was now another jail of Bangkok). Everything becomes complex and obscure now, and the plot stops making sense.

Add to this confused cast and confused direction, a super-intelligent policeman, the smartest on the Bangkok police force, a Hindi-speaking Indian (who incidentally speaks in Hindi with the members of the Thai police force), member of Interpol, who loves singing while investigating (frequently the songs are incongruous old Hindi songs), and you have the whole gamut, flitting in and out of the movie, with the end result that you know very little about each individual. In the course of the movie, you do come to know that Jiya has a homing pigeon (clearly Jiya’s love for pigeons and feeding them was hereditary) which Champ and she use to communicate during Champ’s voluntary stay in the prison. You also come to know about a freelance journalist named Anthony Gonsalves (the similarity with a character in a 70s movie of the same name is purely coincidental) who roamed around night clubs looking for scandal, and by the beginning of the second half of the movie, we finally realize that it’s this journalist who is the original Anthony and it’s just a sad case of mistaken identity. Of course, you would tend to expect a startling revelation in the end, but in the interests of having a happy and satisfying ending, such possible startling revelations are quietly shelved to the back of the table as you realize that you have just finished watching yet another movie which showed promise but failed to live up to it.

The basic plot of the film is based on a 2001 Hollywood movie, “Who is Cletis Tout?” The plot and narrative motif matches the original greatly; and although the film fails to impress as a whole, there are a few good performances. Arshad Warsi impresses in managing to carry a movie on his shoulders. Maybe the cameraman did a lousy job with the camera; because even though Arshad puts in a great performance to boot, his screen presence leaves a lot to be desired. The girl who plays the role of Jiya (I don’t know her name); is good in flashes, but at most places it seems as though she is just on commitment-fulfilling mode. Gulshan Grover plays his part well, and the mad doctor with a penchant for cutting open dead bodies and cracking dirty, commonplace jokes is good in his role. As an aside, I would also like to mention that the jokes the doctor cracks are horrid, turd-like and severely retard the movement of the film. The scene where Lucky, the spoilt millionaire brat, snorts coke and asks the girl to do the same bears striking similarity to a scene of a similar nature in Pulp Fiction. Of course, the subsequent murder scene looks hopefully insipid and not at all awe-inspiring. I never knew cell-phone cameras can actually enable shooting a movie with so many angles and zoom-settings. There are a few notable moments, primarily the Yash Chopra scene which had most of the audience in splits. The stories seem well-linked at times and sometimes strike a discordant note, but the direction is in general better than other Kaushal movies. The music is bad, with a capital ‘B’, and the songs retard the movie than take it forward. All in all, just like any other movie, it will turn out to be a waste of money – and you will feel just worse after you write a review like I did.

Postscript: The saving grace is some good cinematography which manages to outline and accentuate the natural beauty of Thailand’s beaches, primarily Krabi. There are quite a few grave errors in the use of the Thai language, which thankfully, the Thai people won’t get to see and would therefore not have to forgive; Arshad Warsi is seen in several scenes to reply to greetings as “Sawadee Khaa”, when it should actually be “Sawadee Khap” when spoken by a man. This is of course, not noticeable to the general audience, but makes a bad impression on anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of Thai greetings. In addition to that, the corny photography inside the massage parlor; the consistent absence of subtitles when there is a long-drawn Thai conversation, is irritating to say the least. Subtitles sometimes can be done away with when:
1) The screenplay is fascinating enough to omit the need for them;
2) The acting is top-notch.
In this case neither was the screenplay fascinating, nor was the acting of the highest caliber. The absence of subtitles is not justifiable.

All in all, the actual effect of a substantially poorly-made film was probably magnified by the sheer ineptitude of the previous screen-movie, KANK (Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna for the uninitiated). Anthony Kaun Hai fails to impress.

Mother Teresa Sarani

2006-08-14T14:52:00.000+05:30

Park Street was recently christened Mother Teresa Sarani (Sarani is Bangla for road).

Park Street geographically runs from Mullick Bazar to Chowringhee Road, two parts of the city diametrically apart, geographically and economically too. My early memories of Park Street are strangely rather impersonal, dropping Dad at office with Ma and traveling through the thoroughfare, the innocence of youth making me stick my nose to the window of the taxi. A childhood spent mostly in the relative quiet and absence of hustle of bustle made my two-year stay in Kolkata memorable, and my tryst with The Street an influence that would stay undying for the rest of my life.

Bangalore has its Brigade Road, Delhi has its shopping-malls, Bombay has its pubs and the ubiquitous Juhu beach, and Kolkata has Park Street. It’s like the place to be. Kolkata’s prime dining and enjoyment district in the city for the last century, this street has seen changes, a lot of revolution, some bloodshed, and in spite of all that, has managed, quite amazingly to retain the charm and uniqueness which enthralled generations before us. As my friend, Saunak has stated very beautifully in his blog:

Deja-vu. That’s what the Street stands for … to the teeming millions in the city. Whenever there is a talk about the Street getting renamed, there is an inevitable twang in the hearts of those millions, spread all over the globe, like the sudden news of a childhood sweetheart getting married.

Park Street is a lovely place to be, and ensconced in the warm interiors of Peter Cat as the rains pound on the pavement as booksellers rush to stow their stores away into safer shelters has been, for a long time, my idea of a lazy Sunday afternoon. It’s a different matter that this has not happened for a long time now, but well, who doesn’t like to indulge in a little nostalgia.

Park Street abounds in pubs and coffee-shops, and the most famous of these coffee shops is indubitably Flurys’. In a city where people love to wallow in the grey shades of ancientness, Flurys’ is not just a restaurant – it is an institution. Pretty much in the centre of Park Street, next to Music World, this place has the most delectable collection of pastries I have seen, and some absolutely wonderful coffee. The place was recently renovated, and there is an endless dispute between the oldies and the newbies as to whether the change is for the better. The argument, last I heard, continues. Flurys’ was established as a primarily English food joint, and over the years, Indian influences and spices have lent a distinctly unique flavor to the dishes. Especially sumptuous are the All-day-breakfast menus, waffles, and the mouth-watering chocolate brownie. Talking of food, Park Street reminds me of the India Hobby Centre, which used to and still sells the local Rollick Ice-cream. Probably one of the few places where you can get a decently-shareable ice-cream sundae for less than a hundred bucks, this was THE craze when we were in school, as Baskin and Robbins’ with the questionable thirty-one flavors were just about making inroads into the market.

As you walk along the road, it’s easy to miss arguably the best and probably also the smallest pub in Kolkata, Someplace Else. Cramped it is, but it has never played crappy music in the several times I have gone there, and a trip to Kolkata would be well and truly incomplete without a pilgrimage to this pub. It is simply amazing to sip on Long Island Iced Tea (the way it should be), sit back and relax, as Amyt Datta plays the blues like never before. Classy yet under-stated, restrained yet phenomenal, the man has an amazing way with the guitar, and has come to be, at least for me, eternally associated with Someplace Else. A small mention about the food: It is advisable to try the Chili Chicken Triangles, samosa-like things with chili chicken stuffing, awfully delectable.

A mention of Someplace Else would warrant a short note about Tantra, a discotheque, also within the premises of the Park Hotel, a five-star hotel which looks like a three-star; Tantra was one of the first dance-clubs, or discos to open in Kolkata, as it was still shrugging off the last dregs of Bengali Renaissance. Fashionably popular with the yuppie and wannabe crowd, it attracts particularly large crowds on weekends; my rather primitive dancing techniques have forced me to avoid this place at all costs.

Over the last few years or so, the Oxford Bookstore has become a place of enduring interest for me and a lot of my friends. Arguably, this store was established prior to the one in Churchgate, Mumbai; and this one is more spacious and homey. And of course, they have the quintessential cha-bar, overlooking the pavement of The Park, where you can sip a lightly flavored tea, flip the pages of Lonely Planet India, as you watch humanity trundle by. Come out of the bookstore, and the lingering aroma of the roll is bound to hit you like a bolt of lightning. A quick snack, no other place in India makes the roll like the roadside stalls in Kolkata. Period. The hygiene may leave a lot to be desired for the whiny-kind; but Hot Kati Rolls next to The Park, and Kusum’s further ahead are two places which are amongst the better joints in Kolkata. Advice: Try the double-mutton egg roll, it may look greasy; but it is a nicely fulfilling lunch.

Move up the street to the junction and you will find Music World across the street. This is one of the few places in the country which, at one point of time, used to boast of a collection for connoisseurs. Over the years, standards and tastes have undergone slow deterioration, and though the collection is not exactly what you would want; it still retains the charm and the nonchalance; and what better than walking around looking at the glossy CD covers, memories of adolescence as you take the CD off the rack, take a quick look at the back cover, and place it back on the rack with an innocent half-smile. This place seems to stand for a whole lot of memories, meetings with blind-dates, catching up with old flames, leisurely strolls up and down the street, always to end at the same street-corner. Right next to Music World along the lane is Peter Cat, famous for the Sizzlers and the absolutely wonderful Chelo Kebabs. Advice: On advice from a long-suffering individual similar to me, I tried the kebab platter the last time I was in Peter Cat, and it was yummy. Will add it to my not-to-miss list.

An eye-sore on the street is the newly-opened Barista. Call me an oldie, but I find the creamy tones of the coffee pub and the innocuous one-liners on its walls distinctly against the spirit of the place and what it symbolizes. But well, everyone has his secret peeves, and my pet-peeve is Barista. Even CCD (Café Coffee Day) right next to Peter Cat is a better place to sip a hot latte because of the laid back attitude. And of course, as if it wasn't enough, this place charges an exorbitant fifty bucks for a lousy cup of cappuccino.

Look across the street from Barista, and you would see a few other restaurants each vying for your attention. Moulin Rouge, with a tinge of the original French flavor, desperately trying to hold on to tradition, and failing miserably in the process; Oasis, with lousy service, but surprisingly good food; and of course, Bar-B-Q with a delectable Chinese spread, are all inviting places. But nothing beats the charm of passing off the afternoon, relaxing in the uncomfortable sofas of Olypub, sipping on cold beer, nibbling on your last bits of the wholesome beef steak; as you hear distant murmurs of excited loud-voiced conversation from the floor below. Olypub is a place steeped in history for all youngsters, they, like me always have a silly, interesting or a pleasing experience associated with the place.

Small footnote: A mention of Park Street is incomplete without due credit to the fat pimp who roams around Karnani Mansion; looking for ignorant horny strangers to proposition. Roam around aimlessly around Olypub for a few seconds, and you are bound to see this man – any time of the day, and the well-rehearsed conversation would ensue:

Fat man: Do you want something Saheb?
You (in this case, me): No.
Fat man (still persistent): I have college girls. Authentic.
You (adamant): No. I said I am not interested.
Fat man (persistent like hell): You want young, saheb? School-girls?
You (disgusted by now): No, I said no…

You finally realize its better to walk away, and do so...

That’s Park Street, my friends, in a nutshell, a place which, for a lot of Bengalis and people from Kolkata, symbolizes the essence of Kolkata. Unfortunately, for a lot of other people, Kolkata is painted with a decidedly ignorant brush; mostly equating poverty, homelessness and utter chaos with the city. The last time I was in the city, I was pleased to note that those are things of the past; and it pleased me to see the city changing with leaps and bounds. Most importantly, it shows that people are making conscious efforts to change mindsets, and needless to say, it does seem like its truly working…

28th of July

2006-07-31T10:45:00.000+05:30

My friend TK has scribbled here about Garfield Sobers, and Sachin Dev Burman; two great people who had their birthday on the 28th of July. Since I am not much of a cricket aficionado to actually write something worthwhile about Sir Garfield Sobers, I shall stick to what I am arguably good at, that is music.

Be it Devdas, or the folksy tunes of Bandini, or the rollicking new-wave in Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi, Sachin Dev Burman has done it all, and with each movie that he composed for, he let us know in a small way that though in years, he was older than us, at heart, he still had the same vitality, vigor and simplicity which has always defined his music. This soft-faced, bespectacled maestro always remained under-rated in Bollywood, like several other music composers who had oodles of talent but failed to cater to the loud pretentiousness of the film-industry. SD Burman was however, a late-bloomer, a person who made it big only after he reached his forties.

Burman was born in Tripura in 1906, and his childhood was interspersed with woodland treks and music lessons from his father. The influences of childhood show in his music, in the simple folk which he manages to infuse into his melodies. It was Ashok Kumar, who was instrumental in SD Burman getting his bigger breaks in Hindi movies, and by the fifties he was amply famous as a composer of lilting melodies and harmonies. It was however, SD Burman’s association with Dev Anand, which marked the most important, and arguably, the most musically-rich phase of his career. Though inherently Indian in his thoughts and music, the long association with the stylized and westernized Dev Anand, brought about the transformation in Burman’s music into a heady concoction of Indian tunes and western orchestration.

In spite of the fever of opulent and mostly garish orchestration which was raging through Indian music, propelled by the lavish songs of Shankar and Jaikishen, SD Burman continued to rely on minimalism. His songs remained vocal-oriented, and the music supported the song, rather than override it. Most importantly, he realized the importance of correct placement of a song in the movie. In a very interesting article about song-less Indian films, SD wrote that rather than place a song in an uncomfortable position in the movie and disgust the audience in the process, it is infinitely better to remove the song in its entirety.

For me, on a totally personal level, SD Burman ranks alongside Salil Chowdhury in my list of favorite music composers in Bollywood. I rave about Salil Chowdhury for his amazing knowledge and erudition, and I love SD Burman because of the inherent simplicity in his music. Both are greats in their own right, and both always had a distinctive style in their approach to melody and orchestration, which never ceases to amaze me in its variety.

Goopy and Bagha

2006-07-24T15:34:00.000+05:30

Image courtesy Wikipedia.org

Rather relaxed evening yesterday. Came back from band-practice at around seven thirty in the evening after watching a totally plot-less and story-less Pirates of the Caribbean. The evening was made by a revisit to one of my favorite Ray films – Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne. I never ceased to be amazed every time I watch this movie and wonder how a man could make a movie for children so acceptable and so natural for adults to watch with none of the subtle embarrassment which normally accompanies a man as he watches a children’s movie.

Spoiler warning: Plot details follow

The story revolves around Goopy, the son of a poor grocer in an impoverished village in Bengal. In spite of a rather unimpressive and coarse voice, Goopy harbors great ambitions of name and fame as a singer. Eventually he is cleverly persuaded by some village elders to sing a song for the sing in the early hours of dawn, perched on a rock outside the king’s window. The king, not accustomed to being an early riser, is enraged by this disturbance to his morning stupor, and orders him to be thrown out of the village on the back of a donkey.

Exiled into the forest, Goopy meets Bagha, who has met with a similar predicament, and together, they form arguably the greatest comic duo in Bangla cinema ever. It’s there in the forest that they encounter a roaming tiger who comes close but not too much, and then overjoyed by the narrow escape, they start singing and playing, very badly. Night falls, and that is when the King of Ghosts (Bhuter Raja) is absolutely overjoyed with their singing, and grants them three boons.

They can get food anytime, anywhere.
A pair of magic slippers which taken them anywhere, anytime.
Incomparable singing and drumming skills. (Needless to say, that’s something I wouldn’t mind either)

Overjoyed, and slightly fuzzed by the sudden change in their fortunes, the duo travel to the kingdom of Shundi, where they meet a benevolent king with a great interesting in music, played by the inimitable Santosh Dutta (who also plays Jatayu in the Feluda series) who is again dumbfounded by the musical skills of the duo and appoints them as court musicians. The king of Shundi however, has no interest in kingdoms and acquisitions whatsoever, and is a peace-loving man.

In the meantime, the king of Halla (who is actually the long-lost brother of the king of Shundi), goaded by a lethal evil minister, who hypnotizes him with the powers of the court magician, plans a scathing and final attack on his own brother. On the bequest of the king of Shundi, Goopy and Bagha travel to Halla in an attempt to prevent the king from attacking, but due to a mixture of foolishness and inattentiveness are inadvertently captured. In the process, they also lose the magic slippers, which could have taken them out of captivity and realize that the only way of escape is through strategy. This they do brilliantly, as they trick the jailer into releasing them, and then come upon the army just as they are about to get ready to start their march towards the kingdom of Shundi. The entire army is captivated and frozen by the sheer beauty of their music, which leads to their king ultimately getting capture, and reunited with his long-lost brother.

The movie has a simple plot, akin to the fairy-tales which came from Russia in beautifully illustrated but extremely cheap books.

The beauty of the movie lies in the simplicity of the gestures, the music and ultimately the rather beautiful message is delivers of non-violence and the futility of war. The subtle humor in the movie when contrasted with some of the slapstick comedy which is dished out of Bollywood, Tollywood and Hollywood, would hopefully, someday prove to be a lesson for directors, producers and actors et al.

Just as an example, I find the sequence where Goopy and Bagha gaze upwards at one of the towers in the palace, where Bagha has accidentally spotted a princess (Monimala), the daughter of the king of Shundi. They watch entranced, as Bagha, played by the great Rabi Ghosh, paints a beautiful picture of marriage to Monimala. While Ray’s camera was like a poet, what amazed in this movie was the sheer power of the dialogue. The way Bagha utters Monimala; in a subdued yet subtly excited voice is a miracle in restrained acting. The music-competition is one other example of extremely vivid characterization and the best and most composite tribute to Indian Classical Music, if any. Characterization, as in any other Ray movie, is top-notch, with Santosh Dutta playing the part of both the benevolent and the lost king with equal aplomb. And of course, you can’t think of two other people playing the roles of Goopy and Bagha with equal conviction. Ultimately, you are amazed when the movie ends; because that's when you realize that it is perfectly possible and remarkably easy to despise the violence, crime and bloodshed of present times without showing any of it. Ray did that with perfection, as Goopy and Bagha approach the army of Halla singing:

Tora judhho kore korbi ki ta bol (What’s the use in fighting this war?)

O re Halla rajar' Sena (O the army of Halla)

The song of the little road

2006-07-18T15:00:00.000+05:30

Ok, I had a terrific experience watching Pather Panchali yesterday. There have been very few movies which have held me totally enthralled, and to tell the truth, this was one of those rare movies which had that capability. Put very simply, this was a movie which made poetry on film a reality.

Spoiler warning: Plot details follow

Based on Bibhutibhushan Banerjee’s novel of the same name, this movie is centered on a poor family in rural Bengal struggling to make both ends meet. The husband is frequently away from work. The struggles of the mother trying to train the mischievous Durga, and trying to control the elderly Aunt Indir Thakuran are the talking point of the first part of the film. That’s when Apu is born, and happiness, play and exploration become a part of the family’s daily feelings. Durga and Apu’s bond is an intimate one, and one to be cherished. Death comes early in the film, when they stumble on the dead body of their pisi (aunt) Indir. The monsoons come to the village and Durga gets drenched in a joyous dance in the rains, while Apu cowers under a tree. Durga falls ill after the dance, and on a stormy night, as Sarbojaya (Durga and Apu’s mother) tries her best to close the doors on the rain and wind, Durga dies. This represents the climax of the film, and a heart-broken family leaves the village for Benares after Harihar, the husband returns, in the hope of a new and better future.

The last time I had seen Pather Panchali was when I was twelve years old, and to be quite frank, I remembered bits and pieces of the film. Watching it yesterday, on a well-restored DVD was an enriching and rather fulfilling experience after all these years. This was Ray’s first film, made immortal by the stories of the enormous amount of struggle which the budding director had to go through to complete the film. This was followed by the two other movies of the trilogy: Aparajito and Apur Sansar. The most interesting part of the movie is the way it deals with drama without indulging in melodrama. It’s a lesson in subtlety and one of those movies which accepts the fact that the viewer is an intelligent person and has the brains and the inclination to figure out things for himself. Right from the characterization of the old woman, Indir Thakuran with a penchant for kleptomania, to Durga and Apu’s wanderings through the village, as they come across a candy-seller, a wedding ceremony and the first sight of a running train, everything is beautifully picturised and filmed. Interestingly, when this film had been released, some critics had found it too slow, to which Ray had replied: The cinematic material dictated a style to me, a very slow rhythm determined by nature, the landscape, the country. The script had to retain some of the rambling quality of the novel because that in itself, contained a clue to the authenticity: life in a poor Bengali village does ramble.

There are a number of rather inspiring and delicate scenes in the movies, but some of which will forever stay in my memory are the candy-seller sequence, with the stray dog in trail, reflected in the simmering waters of a lake; Durga dancing with sheer joy in the rain; the coming of the monsoons picturised with water flies dancing on the surface of the water; Apu and Durga running with unbridled joy towards the first running train of their life through a field of kaash flowers. Beautiful! Simply Beautiful!

Some interesting trivia on the film:

The film was funded by the West Bengal Roads and Buildings Department in the hope that The Song of the Road would be a promotional documentary for the roads of the state!
Time magazine described the film as the finest piece of filmed folklore since the “father of documentary” Robert Flaherty’s Nanook of the North.
When Ray ran into financial trouble during the making, and was even contemplating giving up the project, it was singer-actor-director Kishore Kumar who helped him out with Rs 5,000, getting Pather Panchali back on the road.
After watching the film, celebrated exponent of French New Wave Cinema, Francois Truffaut said: “I don’t want to see a movie of peasants eating with their hands.”
The one film which moved Ray the most before he started scripting Pather Panchali was Italian Neorealist film-maker Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thief, which he reportedly saw 55 times.
In its 1992 poll of the 10 Greatest Films of All Time, the British Film Institute’s Sight And Sound magazine rated Pather Panchali at number six in the list alongside the likes of Citizen Kane and The Godfather.

A thorny trail

2006-07-18T13:08:00.000+05:30

In a rather significant jolt to concepts of freedom and democracy, the Indian government supposedly has blocked access to all of blogspot and typepad. For the uninitiated, these are blog sites enabling millions of web-users to jot down their comments, facts-of-life and general musings, yours truly being one of them.

Shivam Vij has his comment and his reaction on the whole fiasco:
Then I called up a senior MTNL engineer who’s in-charge of these things, Mr. R.H.Sharma. Mr Sharma was polite and helpful and said that he had a long 22-page of list of sites, sent to him by the National Informatics Centre, and he would needs two hours to go through it and find out if it contains any Blogspot or Typepad site! But he said that as far as he knew MTNL had not blocked blogspot per se. I called up a senior Spectranet official who confirmed that the Department of Telecommunications (not the Ministry of IT) had on Friday sent a list of sites to be blocked. This is the same list, it seems, that MTNL’s Sharma was telling me about. This list is not public. It deserves to be.

As Indian bloggers pen down their frustrations, and Mumbai recovers after the serial blasts of July the 7th, it seems ironical that in the aftermath of a disaster, India had to join the elite company of the less free nations of the world.

CERT-IN's (Computer Emergency Response Team of India) director, Gulshan Rai had a hilarious response to the whole issue: Somebody must have blocked some sites. What is your problem?

Banning of blogspot reminds Pakistan's tactics to thwart the spread of the Danish cartoons ridiculing Prophet Mohammed, and though it may look utterly strange and an extremely strange move, there is a slight possibility that Indian ISPs in overt zeal and enthusiasm, blocking entire domains when the requirement was the blocking of certain sensitive blogs hosted on blogspot and typepad. There is news floating in as I write that geocities weblogs have also been blocked in Mumbai via Airtel. With the above blanket-ban, India joins China, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan in the list of countries which regulate access to the world-wide-web.

For the press coverage of the ban, please look here.

Interestingly, the following sites have also been blocked (courtesy: Ultrabrown)

As the blogging community cries itself hoarse on the issue, I sit back, and wonder, for the n'th time - Isn't it about time, we had more sensible and intelligent people in the team of people making important decisions in the government? Does the government think that terrorists would keep blogspot, a public forum as their one and only means of communication with each other? And, even if they actually do so, would they be so computer and internet-illiterate as to not know about web-proxies and anonymous browsing to circumvent such bans? And isn't it rather naive to believe that proponents of SIMI and terrorism would be ignorant of other webhosting sites like Yahoo! 360, Msn spaces, et al. Interesting questions, with no answers forthcoming!

From the village again!

2006-07-14T12:51:00.000+05:30

Some obscure exam in one of the auditoriums (Bhatnagar/Raman). The exam is being conducted by the instrumentation department with a higher degree of seriousness. The last exam of this subject in the previous year had been an objective one of twenty questions. Cheating (or copying, as it is known in more civilized societies) is common and practised universally. Prashant had no idea of the subject a day before the exam and had been in no mood to really put in a decent enough effort to pass this particular test. To aid the process of copying in order to pass, Prashant has prepared a clean sheet of paper with 20 numbers on it, clearly denoting placeholders for filling up the answers by intelligent souls, who had attended classes and were in a better position to fill them up.

The exam starts, and Prashant, after one look through the set of twenty questions (as expected) realizes that he knows nothing (again as expected). Invigilation is strict and it is becoming tough to copy from the person near him. Prashant looks behind his desk and observes to a certain level of satisfaction, Bornik furiously scribbling on his examination sheet. It is apparent the Bornik knows a lot. PD puts one hand in his pocket, takes out the piece of paper, closes his grip on it and places it on Bornik’s table, maintaining a straight face and looking straight on. A rather interesting conversation ensues –

Bornik: Yeh Kyon de raha hai (Why are you giving this?)
Prashant: Abbe, answers likh de, 2 minute lagenge (Hey! Write down the answers, it’ll take just a moment)
Bornik: Iski kya zaroorat hai? aise hi bol deta hoon. (What’s the need for this? I shall tell you anyways)
Prashant: Abbe, tu samajh nahin raha hai. Bolna tough hai. (You don’t understand, it’s not easy)
Bornik: Abbe, main bol raha hoon na (I am telling you, no!?)
Prashant (tone of resignation): OK

Furious exchange of answers, helping Prashant to scribble enough on the scrap so as to secure a pass-grade. The end of the exam is signaled by one of the shriller bells on campus, and half-smiles on the faces of the professors, and Prashant gives his answer-sheet up. Prashant packs his things up, and straps his bag on to his shoulder.

Bornik comes over to Prashant’s desk, his face clouded over, quite obviously with anger, frustration and bewilderment. He bangs his fist down on Prashant’s desk with a mixture of fury and calmness, and walks away. Prashant stares at what he has placed on the desk…

It’s a ten-rupee note. Prashant looks flabbergasted. He places his hand gingerly into his shirt pocket, and pulls out the clean sheet of paper on which he had put in the place-holders for the twenty questions, virgin and untouched.

RIP

2006-07-13T14:24:00.000+05:30

As Mumbai was dogged by serial blasts, news floated in of the death of Syd Barrett. He had been suffering from diabetes for several years.

Barrett was one of the co-founders of Pink Floyd in 1965 with Roger Waters, Nick Mason and Richard Wright, and was the leading light behind most of the band's earlier songs. Famous for most of the earlier hits, especially the largely lyrical and critically-acclaimed Pipers at the Gates of Dawn. Unfortunately, Barrett couldn't draw a mental line on his use of LSD, and became a victim of the madness of which he had written so many songs. He had to quit the group five years before the release of Pink Floyd's most successful, and arguably, best album The Dark Side of the Moon. He released two solo albums The Madcap Laughs and Barrett, before withdrawing from the music business altogether. The rest of his life was spent living quietly in his hometown of Cambridge, England. He is famous for taking short trips to nearby grocery-stores on his cycle and not talking to curious fans and journalists who tried to talk to him.

Considered a rather mentally fragile musicians, this man was the inspiration behind several of Pink Floyd's later songs and albums, more specifically Shine on you crazy diamond and Wish you were here. He was a big inspiration for David Bowie and his song See Emily Play.

Remember when you were young

You shone like the sun

Shine on you crazy diamond.

And yet again...

2006-07-12T13:00:00.000+05:30

Mumbai was rocked by seven serial blasts yesterday. The media quickly termed it 7/11, borrowing from 9/11? Since when did we start using MM/DD in place of DD/MM? In the midst of all this, Rajdeep Sardesai made a fool of himself umpteen times on CNN-IBN. Some amazing quotes from the man:

CNN-IBN was the first to report the blasts.
More people all over the world are listening to CNN now thanks to CNN-IBN.

Congratulations, Rajdeep! You couldn't have chosen a more opportune moment to pat yourself on your back.

The entire blogging community has been furiously scribbling notes, articles, comments, and posts. Hats off to this site for a continual update.

A rather poignant comment on one of the blogs:
It is 12:30 am here in Bangalore, but I cannot go to bed because there is a man outside the window yelling on the phone. He has been trying to reach his wife and children in Mumbai since 7 pm, and is increasingly getting desperate. I have been listening to him for the past 20 minutes, and his tone switches between angry, anxious and hopeless as he talks to his other relatives and friends. His voice breaks often. I don't know what to do - he is obviously alone, but the last thing he needs right now is for a stranger to approach him with "everything will be alright". It breaks my heart.
Update: It seems this guy has finally been able to track his wife and children who were stranded somewhere in South Mumbai.

Apt description: After the expulsion of Saddam’s forces from Kuwait City in 1991, the British journalist Robert Fisk described as best he could the imperial dungeons, makeshift prisons, and seeping stench of rotting flesh and oil. “Something evil,” he wrote, “has happened here.” Yesterday, something evil happened in Bombay.

Here is the supposed involvement of SIMI in the blasts. LeT of course is the multi-faceted scapegoat of all troubles. I am waiting for Dawood's name to come up as a prime suspect, and a few movie-stars/starlets.

Interestingly, right-wing bloggers in the US, like Hugh Hewitt are linking the blasts with a selfish pro-Bush propaganda. Hugh Hewitt, please shut up. And of course, we have Captain Ed of the Captain's Quarters blog. This commentary has already been dissected by Curious Gawkers, and several others, so maybe this is just another dissection. Interesting glimpses of Captain Ed's erudition:

It looks like al-Qaeda or an Islamofascist offshoot has decided to add another nation to its blood enemies. Add India? Really?
What motivated AQ to go after India? It's hardly the first country one associates with the West, and many Muslims live within the majority-Hindu nation. So the conclusion is that terrorists only attack the 'West'
India's troubles with religious sectarianism (especially with Muslims) go back centuries, of course, and the historical irritants would have been enough for them in any event. Huh!

India has been a target for Islamofascist terrorism, and Bombay has been a target since the 1993 serial bomb-blasts. Quite clearly, Captain Ed has just woken up from a decade-long slumber, discovered India as a developing nation in a curious corner of the globe, and still assumes that most of us go to office on elephants. Sometimes the knowledge levels of some of these Americans is galling, and I can't help but giggle.

Interesting information (though not credible, coming from DNA): “Parcel train mey chhodke sab Malad mey milengey.” [After leaving the parcel on the train, let’s all meet in Malad, a northern Bombay suburb.] Sandeep Singh, a Ghatkopar resident in his mid-20s, overheard this seemingly innocuous piece of conversation between three men outside the Churchgate station at 5.30 pm on Tuesday… According to Singh’s statement, two of the three men had been bearded and were wearing Pathan suits. All three were carrying similar-looking parcels which looked like gift boxes.

Terrible reality by Dilip D'Souza: Suketu Mehta wrote once, and famously, of hands unfurling from a packed Bombay train compartment like petals, reaching out to grab that one more commuter and whisk him on board. Here the metal of the compartment is unfurled like some grotesque petals, side and top.

First-person account: At around 6.20 pm, Shah was on a Western Railway foot over-bridge, crossing from Mahim West to the East, when he heard a loud bang. He looked down to see a train moving quickly beneath the bridge, coming to a halt a few seconds later.
At first, he assumed it was a short circuit that led to the halt. When he took a second look, he saw dead bodies flying out of the Borivali-bound fast train. Blood was flowing like a river all around… he ran down to the tracks to help people trapped in the train. The first class compartment, where the bomb was placed, had been reduced to a tangled mass of metal in seconds… Locals were seen consoling unknown passengers who couldn’t believe their near and dear ones were no more. Some women couldn’t bear the sight and started vomiting on account of the bloodstains on their bodies… “We stopped many cars and Tempos to take the bodies…”.

Compensation news: Although there is no price for a life, The Indian railway minister, Laloo Prasad Yadav, has announced financial help for the victims and their relatives. He said relatives of those killed will get 500,000 rupees ($11,000) each.

It's however quite remarkable and pleasing that there has been no communal aftermath to this: The most recent terrorist attacks in India took place in Delhi, suffered no retaliation incidents, even though all the Islamic jehadis want is a holy war (jehad). What's galling is New Delhi's inability to punish the guilty since time immemorial. On the one hand we have Israel going overboard over one soldier, and we have Manmohan Singh, gawking at Sonia Gandhi in his air-conditioned office, wondering when the next blast is...

And of course, Pervez fucking Musharaff had to condemn the attacks. Huh!

Interesting article by Prof. Sumit Ganguly in Foreign Affairs magazine: Accordingly, the Pakistani government continues to support the insurgents, although more subtly than before. But what the Musharraf regime and its more intransigent Islamist allies fail to recognize is that Indian patience with Pakistani-sponsored violence in Kashmir and elsewhere in India is nearly at an end. Although largely ignored by the U.S. media, bombings during the festival for the Hindu holiday of Diwali in New Delhi last November, in which Pakistani-based groups were implicated, almost precipitated another major crisis, which was averted only by the Indian leadership's restraint. But it is far from clear whether such forbearance could survive another attack. Furthermore, in contrast to the 2001-2 crisis, when the Indian military lacked viable plans for responding to a Pakistani-based terrorist attack, the Indian army is now well prepared to undertake swift and decisive action by retaliating against targets in Pakistan at times and places of its own choosing. Unfortunately, the Pakistani leadership appears to be oblivious to India's growing frustration. Consequently, although another Indo-Pakistani war is not likely, it remains possible."

Quote of the day

2006-07-12T12:54:00.000+05:30

Everyone is self-centred, what matters is the radius. Quote by my colleague and college-senior Prashant Dhanke.

Storm Clouds

2006-07-10T18:59:00.000+05:30

Lovely picture of storm clouds gathering over the old Hooghly bridge (courtesy Wikipedia)

Why oh Why!?

2006-07-10T12:38:00.000+05:30

Ok, I don't know why he had to do it... It made no sense. We all knew it - poor sportsmanship never wins. Did Zidane really need to do this to make us understand that?

Questions have crept up: Was the action justified? Maybe never. Professional outbursts are known in every game, and more so in football, where it tends to take a rather offensive turn more often than not. But as most people would agree, it would never do well to condone such an act. But I do wonder, what was it that Materazzi said that provoked this player (albeit with a history of violent behaviour) to react in such a manner?

All said and done, maybe it was this ridiculous action which gave Italy the cup, gave the French people the final heartbreak. And most of all, it was saddening to watch this footballing great leave the pitch in such an unsatisfactory and despondent manner. I had hoped, after that rather unsavoury incident with the Saudi Arabian footballer, that he would have a chance of leaving the game - as the French say - with beauty, but that was not to happen. This final act has ensured that most people will remember this final with a slight wince - except, of course in Italy.

But well, nothing and no-one can take his achievements away from him. The dust will ultimately settle and he will be re-instated in the list of all-time greats. On a footnote: France lost the World Cup, but Italy never really won it for themselves!

Great movies

2006-07-05T17:04:00.000+05:30

I am back to writing and commenting on favorites. It’s always easy to write about favorites – so I have decided to make this post really interesting. Which would mean that, as a footnote to this post – I will have a link or rather a PostScript with the ten worst movies which I have been unfortunate enough to watch. Before you read this, do be warned that I am a disgruntled movie fanatic. Some comments may seem unpalatable to several people.

I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it…

My favorites:-

Pulp Fiction: Quentin Tarantino makes one of his greatest movies. This movie was as great as it was important for the manner in which movie-making confined to genres were combined together to form a rollicking adventure. Some say it was so ahead of its times that it failed to win anything other than Best Screenplay at the Oscars. The Oscars don’t really matter that much to me – for me, Pulp Fiction would stand as one of the top-ten movies of all time, not just for the action, the direction and the screenplay – but for the way it made directors and movie-makers rethink their movie-making strategies.
The Shawshank Redemption: It is always tough to adapt a full-length novella into a movie, something which Satyajit Ray would definitely agree with; and this movie was one of the rather powerful and eminently-watchable book-adaptations of all time. Ironically, it was after this movie that cooped-littérateurs were forced to admit that Stephen King, indeed, was a good writer and not just a genre hack as he was portrayed. This movie gives two actors, Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins, giving performances of a lifetime. Powerful acting, Powerful direction and extremely sad, yet inspiring, this movie uplifts me every single time I watch it.
The Apu Trilogy: I tend to favor Aparajito as the best of the three movies in this trilogy; however I do tend to agree with most seasoned movie-goers that each of the movies in this trilogy tugs unceremoniously at your heart-strings, almost to breaking point. As the TIME issue of September 26, 1960 says: Director Ray reveals an order of poetic insight and a gift of visual anecdote that combine to produce some astonishing effects. All in all, this was the style of movie-making that is simplistic almost to an extreme, yet so profoundly strong in its impact, that it’s tough to ignore. As Kurosawa said: The kind of cinema that flows with the serenity and nobility of a big river — the river of life as it is ordinarily lived. A fascinating review by Roger Ebert: http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20010304/REVIEWS08/103040301/1023
A Hard day’s night: Considering the fact that this movie was shot in the way it was, it’s a miracle that it is not a mess. In fact, it’s one of the most honest movies about rock ever made; for the simple reason that it is funny, expressive and joyful. It was about a time where rock stars lived a life without principle, where enjoying the money you earned was not considered a crime and wasn’t frowned upon by prudish critics. It’s got some really good songs too. As TIME said: More than a movie, it was an answer to a maiden’s prayer.
The Godfather: They don’t make gangster movies like this anymore. Other than the rather badly made Sarkar in India, starring Amitabh Bachhan at his hamming best. This movie is a lesson in movie-making, in how a movie can be made so dark and depressing, and at the same time, have a profound impact on the audience. The flawless acting by De Niro, Marlon Brando, and of course, Al Pacino, and the grandeur of it all, gives this movie nobility in all its gloominess. It has the power to make you feel terror, pity; best of all – it even makes you smile. Critics have said it is a pop masterpiece. Well, definitely – but it IS a masterpiece, after all! Tidbit: Brandon’s only flaw was that he would not, or could not learn his lines, and would read them from carefully hidden cue-cards.
Schindler’s List: Another epic movie, a documentary on the holocaust with an absolutely amazing usage of the black and white oeuvre. Before the war, Schindler was a scheming playboy of the Third Reich. After the war, admittedly he was a failure. But during the holocaust, he was afflicted with a grace, saving and abetting Jews in their flight from misery. Laced with grim foreboding, this movie is a bland, unprovocative account of the holocaust, with an unforgiving eye, powerful unstoppable drama, high morality; leading to a movie which simply escapes the bounds of conventional criticism.
A Streetcar named Desire: Famously regarded as the best adaptation of a play, and TIME in its selection of 100 best movies of all time, does not disagree. Marlon Brando, in a repeat of his stage performance as Stanley Kowalski, is menacing in his portrayal of this child-animal-beast rolled into one; and Vivien Leigh is masterful in her portrayal of the sensuous flirtatious half-mad-sister-in-law, who teases him back and forth, ultimately resulting in the brutal rape which destroys her in completeness. It is one of the movies in Hollywood, with a substantially honest analysis of human flaws and foibles. Magical!
Psycho: The dark and stormy night, raindrops splattering onto the windshield, the not-so-innocent movie, the nut-case at the hotel played brilliantly by Anthony Perkins, nobody did it better than Hitchcock. The gruesome explanation of the murder when the movie was released made TIME magazine call the movie stomach-churning. However, all through the original, the director’s style, his grandeur, his formal elegance, and the way he impresses his favorite themes on us – guilt, obsession, and ultimately greed; enthralls me every time I see it.
Charulata: One movie which made me believe that Ray was not ethnographer of exotic poverty. This is one movie which I have reviewed in detail, in one of my previous posts – so I will not go into a lot of detail. Let it suffice to say that the tussle of a house-wife, buffeted between two unworthy men, her husband and brother-in-law (original story by Rabindranath Tagore) was made into a brilliant movie. It is a modern movie and definitely one of the all-time classics.
Forrest Gump: For me, any movie-review would remain incomplete without this movie. Dubbed by several critics as another populist entertainer; I have persuasively begged to differ at all points of time on this. The story of a rather stupid, small-town boy in his travails across America has made for easy viewing. I find the movie fascinating because of the social picture it portrays of 60s-America; I love it for its carefully-chosen and handpicked soundtrack, some absolutely beautiful imagery, and a swash-buckling performance by Tom Hanks. Finally, I love the scene where Forrest dances with his childhood-sweetheart to the tune of “Sweet Home Alabama”.

Since I am now done with my top-ten movies of all time – I will now bestow a thought on the worst movies I have personally had the pleasure of watching (and in some cases – have watched them in theatres).

Here goes:

Speed 2 – Cruise Control: This was one of those movies which I watched in-spite of repeated suggestions. The movie was a flop – even at the box-office. Interestingly, Leonard Martin in his Movie Guide wondered rhetorically if any of the cast had actually read the script before signing on the movie. It was nominated for eight Golden Raspberries, and won the award for the Worst Remake/Sequel.
Batman and Robin/Superman Returns: I have placed both of these at the same level – for the simple reason that I could not find a better way to link both of these together. Both extremely badly-made movies, with actor George Clooney going as far to say that he would refund people’s money if they stopped him on the street and said that they had paid to see it. Interestingly, Batman and Robin also had a poorly-played version of Batgirl, by Alicia Silverstone (remember Crush). Superman returns; well the least said – the better…
Freddy got fingered: I didn’t get through the second-half of this movie; so the only comment which I have is Roger Ebert’s comment: This movie doesn't scrape the bottom of the barrel. This movie isn't the bottom of the barrel. This movie isn't below the bottom of the barrel. This movie doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence with barrels...The day may come when Freddy Got Fingered is seen as a milestone of neo-surrealism. The day may never come when it is seen as funny.
Glitter: Few films are worse than this. It's completely forgettable, derivative, and bland in every way. Mariah seems worse than Whitney in her acting. Really bad music, a rehashed story, bad acting and horrendous dialogue make it tops in the worst-movie category.
Black: I have to admit, I hate this movie because the critics lauded it as a landmark Bollywood movie, and I did not even find it close to being a good movie. Amitabh Bachhan was at his best with his hamming, tottering and dialogue without conviction. Overbearing music, blatant use of scenery to influence emotion, and an absolutely over-dramatic, makes it one of the worst movies I ever watched (and that too-in a movie-hall)
I still know what you did last summer: For those who haven’t noticed the still in the title, it is a sequel and an extremely pointless one – to I know what you did last summer. Appropriately titled bubble-gum horror flicks. I could go into the rather contrived storyline for this movie, but since the directory didn’t care much about it, it seems rather pointless. Danny Cannon falls back upon blood, gore and over-dramatized anxiety and goes several inches over the top as he does so. Performances were lifeless, boring and as one rather disgruntled movie-goer said: “I still know what I did last summer. I wasted two hours and a hundred bucks watching this movie”
Anacondas – the hunt for the red orchid: This movie is a sequel to Anaconda. The prequel had a few stars in its cast; this one has Morris Chestnut as the star. It shows – the prequel wasn’t great, but this is worse. It’s a total waste of celluloid canvas. Even fans of killer anacondas wheezed as they walked out of the theatre.
Neal and Nikki: Yes, I watched this movie. I repent it. It was the worst movie to come out of the Yash-Raj stables, and throws everything, Veer Zaara, and all the other crap which Shah-Rukh Khan has dished out over the years far behind. The movie makes little sense; the songs make far less sense. All in all, stay at home and watch POGO.
Mangal Pandey – The rising: Seriously, what’s this movie about? Homo-erotic men, dancing around? Sati? Courtesans? The freedom struggle? If anyone manages to figure out – do let me know…
Garam Masala: This is one other movie which tends to make you feel that Bollywood is indeed bankrupt of ideas and imagination. Frankly, the biggest dud to be delivered by Priyadarshan so far. The music is forgettable, the rhetoric is inconsequential, and the acting is just about passable. The problem is that the sequences which were meant to be comedy sequences don’t really impress and quite frankly, fail to make you laugh. Definitely, one of the worst to come out of Bollywood.

My better half n me

2006-07-04T12:44:00.000+05:30

Ok, we are not officially married yet, but this is my better half. No comments please :)

The mess that is Howrah Station

2006-07-03T17:55:00.000+05:30

One of the busiest railway stations in the country - it enervates and enthralls me at the same time!

St Joseph's BBSR

2006-07-03T14:56:00.000+05:30

Place where I spent the best years of my life. Right from Prep to the rather tough times in class 10, this was the school which made me what I am today. Lovely place, great teachers, it was the place to be!

More photos

2006-07-03T13:06:00.000+05:30

Ok! I accept it - I am now officially addicted to Wikimapia and trying to find out every place I have ever visited in my life. So today was a fruitful day spent in map-searching. Here are the results...

That's my house in Bombay, Sun Srishti Complex, Saki Vihar Road, Powai

That's Bureau Takanawadai, near Takanawadai station in Tokyo, where I put up and burnt the hotel mattress, leading them to charge me 10000 Yen!

That's All Season's Place in Bangkok, housing the GE Money Bank headquarters where I was posted for around a month in a FLEXCUBE implementation for i-flex. Had one of my best times there...

That's Benaulim beach, which was our haunt for most of the time during the goa trip. For more information on the Goa Trip, do visit http://thesaintbycompulsion.blog.com

And last, but not the least, Vagator beach, which presented to me the best and most serene examples of beauty ever seen, on a moonlit night. This was also the place where I realized how much I loved my girl, and how stupid I had been up till now!

Peace!!!

Wikimapia hurrah

2006-06-30T13:25:00.000+05:30

Wikipedia now has a zoomed-in version of Kolkata. And I found a lot of things - including my school and my home... Yippee for that! Here are the photos:

This is the air-view of St. James' school with Pratt Memorial School just beside. Pratt Memorial incidentally had some really pretty girls.

This is Animikha housing complex. The road by the complex is the new Rajarhat Bypass which has reduced commuting time to the airport by almost half. Nice road. Aquatica is just round the corner...

Two movies...

2006-06-20T12:06:00.000+05:30

A few days back, I had an argument – rather, a very animated discussion with one of my friends regarding the state of Bollywood cinema. Frankly, I don’t hold Bollywood in extremely high esteem with its high-brow performances and lack of subtlety; and relish any argument on the same. In the course of the discussion, and several other related discussions I have had with people – I have found this retort a common one – “What about Black and Rang de Basanti?

I have watched both these movies; in cinema theatres and liked neither. The only saving grace for Rang de Basanti was that it was bearable and the first half was quite engaging. Regarding, Black – it was one of the sloppiest pieces of film-making that one has ever seen.

Rang de Basanti starts well. In fact, everything seems fine up till the point of the plane crash, when suddenly the movie changes tone and stops making any kind of sense whatsoever. There is no doubt that the movie is a cinematic venture of great courage and motivation – but the amount of sentimental and preposterous drivel that the second half dishes out ruins it totally. The first half is not perfect or extremely engaging either. The sepia-tinted drama in which the protagonists play parts of the fighters in the freedom struggle is clumsy and high-brow, to say the least. What surprises, astonishes and makes me cringe in disbelief is the manner in which the second half of the movie manages to stretch all boundaries of identifiable logic. Seriously, equating a lathi-charge to the Jalianwala Bagh massacre? It made no sense to me as I watched the movie – and makes even lesser sense right now – as I have had time to think and ponder on the director’s idea behind the simile. The stupidest part of the entire movie by far was storming the AIR building by Black Cat Commandoes. Again made no sense, and I was wondering if the government would resort to an army of over hundred commandoes to subdue (and later kill) a group of five to six young hot-headed people.

People have justified the movie, its action and the portrayal of its skewed image of justice and retribution by arguing that it’s a piece of fiction and should not be taken seriously. What I find tough to swallow in this piece of argument is how could a movie which is meant to awaken a generation resort to such meaningless tripe to get its message across. Frankly, if the movie was so honest about the fictitiousness of its characters and the total innocence of its plot, I found no need in the director and producers to advertise it as a message to the youth of today. The bottom-line remains, that if you kill, murder or hurt a person or a group of persons, expect retaliation in equivalent forms of violence. The glorification of taking the law into one’s own hands, and the subtle backing which it provides to a violent uprising in the youth against the politics of today doesn’t necessarily signify a great piece of movie-making. The fake show of patriotism all through the length of the movie doesn’t impress and make the experience any better.

Making a politically motivated movie is not an easy task and Rakesh Mehra, quite simply has made a mess of the whole thing. Rang de Basanti has been lauded everywhere as a supreme achievement in Indian film-making, however its contrived storyline on top of a lackluster plot prodding you all through the movie to rise and make a difference fails to impress. I meant, impress me… What stand out however are the rather distinctly original performances from all the lead actors and extremely well-done music… If I were asked to name one saving grace of the movie – it would have to be Rehman’s impeccable tune-making skills…

Regarding Black, I found the movie depressing, full of unduly over-rated theatrical gimmicks. To be quite frank, I don’t like a movie which is so dialogue dependant, and music dependant that one loses track of the screenplay. Black has little or none of it. The movie has its good points, nice color, and beautiful scenery; but again – I would have watched National Geographic for the same thing with a more fulfilling and satisfying result… The point I am trying to make is simple; when I watch a movie; I don’t want it to portray dialogues as the saving grace when the point it is trying to make is something totally different – in this case – the emergence of a child as an understanding woman in-spite of her blindness. I don’t want the movie to try and impress me with its soundtrack when it falls flat in trying to show emotion or evoke emotion in the audience. And a movie is meant to be short and thought-provoking; of which Black was none… Dragging on for the best part of three hours, the movie evokes nothing – neither emotion, nor sentiment, not even a bit of thought. And people have hailed it as a masterpiece – a landmark Indian movie. Sorry to say – but I find it at the bottom of the ladder as far as masterful, insightful and great movies are concerned!!!

Charulata

2006-06-06T13:08:00.000+05:30

Yesterday went well. I finally got to watch Charulata. The last I remember of this movie was watching it in a packed hall in Bhubaneswar, and understanding nothing. Age makes the man wiser, and I realized and appreciated the movie in all its vitality and subtle imagery. Most importantly, I realized what good filmmaking is all about…

This was one movie, when pressed; Ray would have chosen to be his best and most perfect film. Ray is believed to have said, that given a chance to remake all his movies, he would not be making a single cut/change in this movie. Like all Ray movies, much of the imagery is in the screenplay and the cinematography; dialogues are at a minimum – and the acting and interplay of emotions fantastic.

Charulata is the story of a wealthy Bengali landowner, Bhupati Majumdar, his wife Charulata, much younger than him, lonely but sensitive and literary, and of Bhupati’s carefree college-going cousin Amal, who comes to stay in their household. Bhupati, a worshipper of English rationality and political ideas, is perpetually wrapped up in his political magazine and his wish and hopes to see the Liberals win in England to bestow sufficient attention and care on the lonely Charulata. Lost in this faraway world of political intrigue and machinations, Charulata’s loneliness takes abrupt turns, makes her whimsical and at some point in their interlinked but widely divergent lifestyles, she misses the comfort and care of a satisfying marital life. On the other hand, we have Amal, carefree, college-going, not a care in the world, who has literary ambitions of his own, but which are far-removed from his brothers political inclinations. Traditionally, the relationship of a dewar (thakurpo) is one of casual intimacy with a certain degree of license, and their relationship builds on this particular note with a common love for literature and poetry as the foundation. Extremely powerful are the moments in the garden, where Charu and Amal through the use of rhetoric and alliteration, coerce each other into literary efforts. Charu’s affection for Amal takes a different turn when she gives him a notebook and elicits a promise that whatever he wrote in that – would be only for her eyes and not for any publisher. Through a subtle play of words and images, eye-movements and sideward glances, Ray manages to convince us that there is a mild tension of a gradually building affection between these two individuals. Sex has always been underplayed in all Ray movies, and sexual tension has never been as underplayed as this!!! Despite his promise to Charu, Amal goes and gets his article published in a magazine of that time; leading to extreme heartbreak and jealousy on the part of Charu, who quite justly feels deprived by the unwanted intrusion of a foreign party into their closed literary circle.

At this point of time, the tone of the story changes from one of casual flirting and heightening sexual tension to one of household worries. Umapada, Charu’s brother departs with all their money, leaving them laden with debt and worries. Amal, not wanting to cause further harm and trouble in the already traumatized household, leaves suddenly, leaving Charulata grieving. Bhupati unexpectedly enters their bedroom and finds Charu weeping on the bed, leaving him shocked and speechless. It is at this point that Ray diverges quite a bit from the Tagore original. Whereas Tagore’s novella ended in a duple rejection on the part of both husband and wife where both of their paths could never meet again and were irreconcilable, Ray’s movie ends with a tinge of hope. As a debilitated Bhupati starts leaving the house, Charu asks him to stay; a servant holds a light up keeping it aloft, and Bhupati approaches Charu. Their hands stretch towards each other, their fingers approaching closer and closer. Just as they are about to touch, Ray freezes the shot. The movie ends in a brilliant series of five close shots – close-up of Charu’s face, somber but untroubled, one of Bhupati’s, anxious and grievous, a shot of the servant holding up the lamp, a mid-level shot of Charu and Bhupati with their arms outstretched, and finally a zoom-out as the words “Nashtanir” flicker on-to the screen…

Though the pace might be a bit slow for these troubled times, the movie is an artistic masterpiece. The musical score is an understated one but tremulous, with two extremely beautiful vocal interludes – with Kishore doing ample justice to the impeccable Tagore number Ami chini go chini. Madhabi Mukherjee gives one of her best performances as the tender, affectionate and slightly whimsical Charu. The shots of the day-dreaming wife as she rocks back and forth on a swing in the garden, stealing glances at her brother-in-law lying sprawled on the ground, is quite unforgettable. This, for me definitely stands out as one of his greatest creations… Nobody but he could have made it like he did – arranging every camera frame to convey poetry, nuance and expression like no other filmmaker could. It is as if a photographic film of images has been embroidered together on an exquisitely beautiful mosaic of moving images.

This was just another movie which made me realize that it would take years before a filmmaker of his stature is produced again…

The phenomenon called Himesh

2006-06-02T16:13:00.000+05:30

Hmm… So more of or orkutting over the last few days. I have realized much to my chagrin that there for all the numerous hate-clubs of Himesh Reshmiyaa, there are an equal number of fan clubs. Which again brings me to wonder, that tastes do differ, but what kind of a taste makes you appreciate the stuff Himesh-ji dishes out.

Sigh!!!!!!!!

Amen!!!

Ballad for a friend

2006-06-01T12:48:00.000+05:30

One more of those songs with lyrics to blow your mind...

Sad I'm sittin' on the railroad track,
Watchin' that old smokestack.
Train is a-leavin' bit it won't be back.

Years ago we hung around,
Watchin' trains roll through the town.
Now that train is a-graveyard bound.

Where we go up in that North Country,
Lakes and streams and mines so free,
I had no better friend than he.

Something happened to him that day,
I thought I heard a stranger say,
I hung my head and stole away.

A diesel truck was rollin' slow,
Pullin' down a heavy load.
It left him on a Utah road.

They carried him back to his home town,
His mother cried, his sister moaned,
Listin' to them church bells tone.

Some amazing songs

2006-05-24T15:58:00.000+05:30

As I said in one of my previous posts, I have been doing a lot of rediscovering of musical roots. This is a tribute to the person responsible for making me do so... Here's a list of some unforgettable numbers with links to listen to the songs (if available)

O Sajnaa: One of those songs which exemplifies the fact that melody always stands the test of time... And emphasises my eternal belief that when the melody is good, any ornate orchestration never lends any additional beauty to the song. A gem of a song from Salil-da, blending sitar with a soothing background violin score. Marvellous!

O Alor Pathajatri: A song that has been mentioned in one my previous posts. This is one song which first made me feel the urge to learn the piano; because this was one song which had amazing harmony, and I, for the first time, found it tough to replicate the same thing on the rather puny little synth that I had at home. Amazing lyrics, amazing harmony, and an absolutely spellbinding antara make this a melody that's one of its kind.

Ki je kori: Another spellbinding number, it startles with its utter simplicity. The melody flows like a gentle stream. I could listen to this song all day and all night and never get tired. Lata's voice has never been better. Must-concentrate-parts of this song: The prelude, the soft string background, and the ravishing string interludes. Brilliant blending of the cello, the flute and the violins.

O mor moyna go: Another Salil-Lata masterpiece. This was one of his later numbers, about the time when he started getting increasingly influeced by jazz and blues. This song however shows no particular leanings towards either jazz or blues; just gives the feel of a beautiful country number. What's amazing is the way the entire song is supported by an acoustic guitar and a soft bass in the background. The flute interludes are magical, absolutely magical!!!

Wo ek nigaah kya mili: A very different number and a fiendishly complex song at the end of it all. The arpeggio by Lata is absolutely amazing. Kishore and Lata never did a better job than this. Love the situation in which the song appears in the movie. The antara melody has numerous sharp turns, curves, ups and downs all accentuating the beauty of the song.

Rim jhim jhim jhim badarva barse: Stunning melody again. The original of this song was sung by Dhananjoy Bhattacharya in the Bengali film "Paasher Bari". This was a landmark achievement in Bengali music. Bengalis had never heard such music before. Nothing is extremely special about this song, other than the melody which is simply the best I have heard in my life.

Guzar Jaye din: An unforgettable song from an utterly forgettable movie annadata. This had a Bengali version too which was hopelessly inadequate; made more so by the efortless manner in which Kishore has rendered the Hindi version. The scale progression of this song from minor to major and then to a higer scale is absolutely amazing. Also the chord progressions in the interlude are magnificient. Same is the case with antara. Beautiful progesssions everywhere :)

Ei ghoom ghoom ghumanta: An unforgettable Salil-Sabita collaboration, with amazing lyrics. The erudition of the man simply amazes me at times. Listen to the accordion interludes - interlaced with the velvety sweetness of the flute. Simply beautiful...

Ai dil kahaan teri manzil: A stunning Lata-Dwijen number. Each part of the song has a lilting feel to it, be it the soulful violin prelude, be it Dwijen's laid-back voice, or Lata's beautiful rendition of the interlude, or the intricate harmony in the second-part of the antara, this song has it all!!!

Dhitang Dhitang bole: A short and sweet masterpiece by Hemanta-da and Salil-da, nothing recreates the magic of the Bengal countryside like this song does. Love it!!!

Jodi kichhu amaare sudhao: This is one of those beautiful songs like Ki je kori, which I could listen to for ever and ever. Shyamal Mitra, in my opinion had one of the sweetest and most vulnerable voices in Bengali music, a genius who succumbed to alcohol. He sang just a few songs for Salil-da, each of them masterpieces. This song stands out amongst them for the sheer beauty of the melody and the extreme pathos in the voice.

Oi je sobuj bonobithika: This is another startling number, sung by Madhuri Chattopadhyay. She was one of those singers with a unique voice and an unbelievable range. This song easily spans over two octaves and has amazing note changes. Madhuri manages to hit the rather tricky notes efortlessly. Brilliant composition and brilliant singing...

Na jaane kyon: Very nice film, and there wasn't a better song which would fit the situation perfectly. Subtle chord variations, and one of those songs in which Lata's voice sounds strained - testifying to the complexity of the number. The melody is sacrosanct and amazes as is expected...

These are a few of the Salil favorites I have been listening to over the past few days... More later...

Noboborsho'r anusthan

2006-05-17T12:54:00.000+05:30

Here are a few pictures of the function we had on the occasion of Bengali New Year. Am feeling quite thrilled at having been able to make a collage successfully. Picasa does work good!!!

Life is beautiful

2006-05-17T12:12:00.000+05:30

I re-visited “Life is Beautiful” yesterday. One of my favorite movies of all time, this is one movie which has received its fair share of criticism and applause. Ferociously criticized for trivializing the gory details of the holocaust, it has angered the left wing in Italy and a lot of other countries which had been pained by those six years from 1939 to 1945. In spite of this, I choose to take a rather liberal stand with the movie. Maybe, I am exempted from feeling any rage for the basic fact that I was in no way related to the holocaust. However, there are two movies which have really influenced me in forming my views on the holocaust; “Life is Beautiful” is one of them. The other, of course, is Schindler’s List, another landmark achievement. But well, that’s the topic of another post.

Life is beautiful delves into the power of humor to alleviate all of life’s sufferings. Most importantly, it delivers the message that life is always beautiful, provided you choose to make it so. Benigni is widely regarded as the Jim Carey of Europe, but none of his previous movies managed to evoke the charm and freshness which this movie does. Put very simply, this movie is a poetic romantic comedy of survival in the face of overwhelming odds.

The movie has two defining acts which form its structure – one before the war, and the latter, a few years later - during the war. Guido, played by Benigni, is a small town man, who has come to the city to take a job as a waiter in a lavishly elegant restaurant. It is here that he meets and falls in love with his wife (also his real-life wife) – Nicolleta Braschi. What follows is forty-five minutes of humorous courtship – quirky at times, and overbearing at times. And in between all this courtship the couple stumbles upon several instances of hatred, rage and dissent – seeds of bigotry showing the fascists’ rise to power. Soon, we realize that Guido is Jewish. It is at this juncture that comedy is quickly replaced with a sense of despair, evident on everyone but Guido. Signs of anti-Semitism appear all around, and Guido is forced to fall back on comedy as the only refuge – the only way to shield their innocent son from the horrors of the Third Reich. Guido and his son are soon captured and transferred to one of the numerous concentration camps; and Guido’s instinct for self-preservation develops a much-needed urgency and energy. The non-working children and elderly are condemned to sure death; forcing Guido to hide the young kind in the camp. Elaborate rules of a non-existent game are formed, promising wondrous rewards for the winner, to shield the young lad from the horrors of the camp. Guido uses all his wits to save the one soul that he loves, in a world of unimaginable horror.

The movie is not (repeat, not) technically brilliant. It lacks a basic form, structure and the comedy in the first half is surprisingly flat at times. In spite of all these basic flaws, technical and non-technical, the movie scores because of the sheer weight of human emotion which overpowers you at the end. The ability to laugh is what distinguishes humans from animals, and it feels strange to wonder and actually imagine that after all, it was humans who created and nurtured the horrors of the concentration camp. What this film does essentially is champion the cause of humor over hatred, love of anger. The first half may seem like a romantic farce, but it triumphs because it manages to show terror, hatred, racism and the constant threat of death in the air without any explicit imagery. It lets people use their imaginations, making the horror even more powerful, more palpable. At the end of the day, the lyricism of the movie outweighs the lack of subtlety. It is Benigni’s wonderful message about the ability of the human spirit to triumph, that makes this movie worth watching, time and again…

Postscript: The film's title came from Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky, who wrote that he believed ''life is beautiful,'' even as he sat trapped in a bunker, waiting for Stalin's agents to assassinate him. Benigni found the statement profound, saying ''I fell in love with this simple phrase, 'Life is beautiful.' Even with darkness all around us, we can still find beauty. That is true strength.''

Don't think twice, it's all right

2006-05-16T12:30:00.000+05:30

This post is dedicated to one of music's most amazing poets - Bob Dylan.

Dylan has spellbound me for ages. For ages I have listened to his music - waiting for something to spring right out of the blue - a thought, a feeling, a premise which I am acquainted with, yet unknowingly, did not know how to put... I feel a desire to listen to his words, immortalize them, a self-perpetuating situation.

What I like best about this man, is his ability to drive the point home. As he sings, he lets the listener reflect on the world around him, lets him get a new perspective of things. There were scores of other artists who had the same sentiments, which brings us to the point - what made Dylan so special? Well, there is only one thing - it was him, and himself alone on a totally personal level. He came to New York to make it big, told everyone that he was an orphan from New Mexico, and snubbed his upbringing for many many years. For the common man, for the youth, it made him larger than life - it made him the spokesman for the younger generation. He sings the song "Don't think twice, it's all right", inspiring and desiring to be a rambling, easy-to-forget lover, and quite amazingly exposes all his intrinsic vulnerabilities to the entire world. The honesty of his lyrics endeared him to the masses with amazing constancy.

What I like best about his music, is that he is always on the point, relentless, never stopping to take a breather. He doesn't aim or promise to take us to heaven, he just tries to define the confusion we live in, give us a certain level of understanding, howsoever minute; most of all, his music gives us strength...

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don't matter, anyhow
An' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don't know by now
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm trav'lin' on
Don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
I'm on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin' you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin' anyway
So don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
I can't hear you any more
I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don't think twice, it's all right

I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

TIME

2006-05-16T12:22:00.000+05:30

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but its sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but youre older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the english way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought Id something more to say

Bombay meri jaan

2006-05-15T18:52:00.000+05:30

Last day in Bombay

A month back, I wrote a post - finding myself on a watershed. Today, I am in a different place; I have left Bombay and I find myself wandering. Not a minstrel yet, but close... Today, as I sit in my office on Cunningham Road and look out on the road, I feel strange... I feel an emptiness, a strange kind of a void... I feel strange at having left Bombay - I wanna sit back, relax and ponder on those amazing times. And I realize how wrong I was in actually believing that Bombay did not have a soul. Well, compared to some other cities in the country - it has oodles and oodles of it...

I spent close to three years in Bombay, and to be quite frank I was never in love with the city as are most of it's long-term residents. It's only today, as I sit in Bangalore, that I realize how much the city had become a part of me; and how tough it was to let go. That's when I realized that it's not a soul which endears a city to you, it's the people, and at some rather philosophically intrinsic level, the people of Bombay did endear themselves to me...

I find it logical and opportune at this point of time to edit my previous post on the few things which I feel defined Bombay, and made it all the more special...

Marine Drive: Over-rated, yet beautiful. The crowning charm of the city. Nothing comes close to a leisurely stroll along the promenade on a windy, rainy, stormy afternoon, the wind buffetting through your clothes, the spray on your face. Pausing to stop by Chowpatty to nibble on a bhutta, staring out at the ocean, and cursing the vagaries of life...

Cafe Mondegar: This is and will remain my favorite pub. The only place which comes close to it is Someplace Else in Calcutta, and probably Pecos in Bangalore. Leisurely summer and winter weekends spent with pitchers of beer, and surly waiters conspicous by their rudeness. Follow it up with a cab-ride up Marine Drive to Malabar Hill and back... Hog on the fish fingers and chips - and amaze at the way they melt in your mouth. Yuppie culture at its best. Intellectual conversation conflicting and co-existing with utterly banal crap. Minors drinking beers... on the house. The omnipresent queue at the entrace. The compulsory five minutes waiting time - stretching to fifteen or more... The inconspicuous juke-box at the corner. I still haven't managed to figure out why they have it there... A deeper philosophical question... one that requires an ample dose of Vitamin G.

NCPA: This was one of my favorite haunts in Bombay, and combined with the rather laid-back ambience of Prithvi theatre, these were the two places in Bombay which uphold and bolster quality theatre. As an art form, theatre has taken the back seat in a city, where Bollywood inspite of all its idiosyncracies holds ultimate sway. The experimental theatre never fails to transfer you to a different world, a utopian existence, an existence where acting is admired for its sheer merit, a world in which the force of a story is enough to captivate and enthrall you for two full hours, and a world in which the gaudy costumes, inane dances and glorious technicolor have no role at all.

Hotel New Bengal: This place is special for three people - me, Arunava, and Sunil. Our first shelter in the tumultous city, the size of the rooms in this hotel never ceases to amaze me. Also, the big table fan on the ceiling. It never made sense then, it makes even lesser sense now. I remember the place for its balcony, overlooking the busy street adjoining Crawford Market, where the three of us sat on that lonely summer evening, smoked a pack of cigarettes, watching the buses pass, with child-like enthusiasm tinged with apprehension. I remember this place for the time I spent with my love, her first time in the city; when I finally realized how much I loved her.

Dance bars: A stay in Bombay is incomplete without a visit to one of these ubiquitious places. It was indeed a sad day for all of us when all of them shut down to appease the cheif ministers moral police. All said and done, Bombay's night life has and will always be defined by these places. I still remember those crazy times, starting with Guddi, continuing with Laxmi Palace, and ending with a rather anti-climactic trip to White House. The gaudy dresses, a few beautiful dancers, and gallons of beer combined to make some of those nights the most expensive and enjoyable times of our lives. Sometimes, we do chide ourselves for all the stupidity, but what the hell - it was an experience and definitely one worth having.

Local Trains: I still remember my first time in a Bombay local. Vile Parle station. The fast train comes in. It is chock-full, there does not seem to be an inch of space within. The people shout – “Khali train hai, array, khali train hai” (The train is empty, get on, the train is empty). We are dumbfounded and watch it pass, while the rest of the platform clamors into it, somehow and moves on. We wait for the next train; the platform crowds up all over again, and miss it too. Bombay locals give a true out-of-the-world experience. Nothing comes close to it.

Juhu at night: This is the place where everything happens. Whoring, drugging and gang-fighting. We did not see any of the third but we saw plenty of the first two. Girls in auto-rickshaws moving up and down the road, looking for prospective suitors (if such a word does justice); smoking marijuana in the middle of the street; this was the place where all rules just stopped making any sense. It still does, but seems toned down now. Possibly the dance bar ban has gone some way in enforcing morality on the people?

Goa Trip: Not related to Bombay in any way, but this remains and will forever remain the high point of my stay in this city. Plans made in a dead-drunk state in the middle of the night, these plans of going to Goa finally did materialize just after the tsunami struck. People did their level best to dissuade us but we persisted with what we had thought, and made the trip to heaven and back. It was one experience which will stay forever imprinted in the deeper recesses of my mind. This was a trip which gave me new friends, a new way of looking at life and a zest for living each moment for the sake of the moment.

Bombay has made me a different individual, it made me lose faith in love, and then it made me regain the same in a totally different manner. It made me understand the value of money, and the transparency of dreams. It made me feel for hundreds of people who make this city their home. It always amazes me how it finds a way out for every one of the teeming millions who stay here. Bombay never inspired me emotionally, and it only satiated me physically, to the limits of exhaustion. But it did make me a different person, less affected by emotional strife and a tougher response to situations. At some level, it did make me a better person.

Beauty

2006-05-15T18:47:00.000+05:30

A moonless night. The beach was deserted. The only thing which made itself heard was the sound of angry waves crashing against battered cliffs. Deafening, yes, but music to my ears. I walked down the beach. It was truly, utterly deserted. One shack was open. Two ineffectual lanterns tried their level best to throw light all around. They failed miserably. The wind felt ferocious. It also felt like a calming influence. I lay down on the couch – Kingfisher in my hands. I felt the chill of the beer as it cooled my throat. Every sensation was heightened, every feeling was romanticized.

I tried to count the stars, but failed. I felt a strange high, but could not place it. I looked at my friends; they all were at peace with themselves. Love lost its meaning; Romance suddenly forged newer dimensions in our tormented minds. The light from the lantern formed strange figurines on the dark walls of the towering cliffs on both sides. And at that moment, the beauty of the place impressed itself upon us, in all its grandeur, simplicity and serenity.

This, my friends, was Goa in its most pristine form. A place I can go back again and again and never get bored.

The circle

2006-05-15T18:25:00.000+05:30

I've said all my farewells, now there's nowhere to go
Out on my window, I can see the falling snow
You were always out of your place in this unknown world
No! You're leaving; and there is no use believing in defeat
Baby it is a little strange now, when the circle completes.

I hope you're never lonely, you'd be so deserted when it is quiet
There's a road leading away from here, baby why don't you try it?
Is there something that you are waiting for, does your strength lie in your weakness?
The clouds are rumbling, I know you are stumbling down the street
Baby you can't look back again when the circle completes.

This town is all a-sleeping, the people and their faces are all faint
I keep trying to tell him, you know they are all making a mistake
The doors are all locked out, some people just can't do without change
The clouds, they are frowning the people are drowning in conceit
Baby it's a little strange now when the circle completes

Lying comes so natural, I've done it so many times before
But I do believe every day that there's someone who keeps the score
But victory always comes with a bitterness that never seems to fade
We're travelling to innocence, but don't you know some things never repeat?
Babe don't complain now the circle does complete...

Nandi Hills

2006-05-15T18:06:00.000+05:30

Here is a collage of the pics I took during our trip to Nandi Hills. Heavenly weather, and a light drizzle combined to make it a really romantic afternoon. Just wished Sumana was here to share the moment...

Nerve Gas

2006-05-15T18:03:00.000+05:30

So I gaze at the watch tower buildings
And unpleasant shadows are all that I see
People around trying to gaze at the future
Trying to predict where we all are gonna be
The walls of fate I can see up ahead
And my feelings are all making me small
And I think for want of answer
It happened for no reason at all.

The man down the highway he just asked me
If the end of the world was near at hand
He found words in the sunset to write for his eyes
But he felt sure that I would understand
So I cast my eyes at the dead and the living
And men gathered like crowds in a hall
And replied that it was all in the stars
That shine for no good reason at all.

The walls closed dim and the shadows were twisting
And words and deeds were daring the night
The fire raged and the wind, it was whistling
And the world just stared at the sight
And I wondered if justice was beautiful
Then what makes kings to sometime have to crawl
Nothing could tell me the reason
There was no good reason at all.

My life it stretches out like a story
Written in pieces and stretching so far
With puppets on strings in all painted glory
Dancing to tunes older than the stars
And I look at the flying wishes of preachers
Screamed out from mountains so very tall
And strained out to hear what they are saying
But they were saying nothing at all.

And now the years are passing like blind hurried strangers
Who recognize nothing but their own coming end
And the world is spinning and the times they are twisting
To all be someone or to simply pretend
And huddled on sidewalks are those worn out paupers
Who are still waiting for someone to pause
Waiting to go where they haven't been
Waiting for no good reason at all.

I'm tied down by these chains of sorrow
My head lies on a cast iron bed
And if I only knew where I would be tomorrow
You'd know just exactly how I felt
In the hero's door the world put their flowers
For every great man must sometime have to fall
In the hero's door the world put their flowers
Who died for no reason at all.

And city strangers they meet at my window
And my life lies beneath the soles of my shoes
I've found an answer to every hidden question
No longer satisfied with another excuse
And my words have found meaning in all their silence
And now they are shining, shining through the dawn
I wonder now how I'd feel if somebody told me
It was for no reason at all.

Salil-da

2006-05-15T17:58:00.000+05:30

The last few days have been spent re-discovering my roots. By roots, I would clarify – my innate Bengali roots. And in the process of doing so, I realized that, all said and done, I owe my musical upbringing to my father, more than anyone else in this whole wide world.

The story goes thus:
When I was little (I don’t remember how little, of course); my dad used to play these few cassettes, out of which, I felt, a few stood out. And in them, were these recordings of patriotic songs by Calcutta Youth Choir, musically directed and arranged by Salil Chowdhury. Of course, there were other albums which I listened to over and over again; most prominently, Richard Clayderman In concert, Music of an Arabian Night by Ron Goodwin, and of course, The ultimate classical collection. The last three are musical genres which most people would be familiar with, if not in love with. However, I have spent the last couple of weeks, exploring, re-discovering and realizing the amazing genius of Salil Chowdhury.

It all started in Tokyo, as I was surfing the net till the wee hours of the morning, when I stumbled upon this site: http://salilda.com, and I realized the treasures which it contained. The song I started with is called O Alor PathaJatri, a choral song about new beginnings and a time of hope. I don’t remember exactly when it was written or what the basis of the lyrics are (they are a bit too profound for my limited Bengali knowledge); but the moment I listened to it, I fell in love with it all over again. Harmony, melody and orchestration is molded together in a tapestry which is tough to comprehend at times, but which endears itself to you, whatever your language is, whatever your musical tastes are.

Salil Chowdhury was a musician, deft in both Indian and Western Classical (as were his contemporaries); but what irks me is the fact that politics in the Indian Music Fraternity at the time when he was at his best never let him reach the heights of popularity that he should have. Then again, his music was never really popular music. At some level, you probably really need to appreciate the subtle intermingling of harmony and melody to appreciate music of that kind. Melody is something that seems of little importance nowadays, as is evident from the kind of popularity a monkey like Himesh Reshmiyaa enjoys; and I guess this post does not make sense in these troubled times.

The only thing that does make sense is that, at some level we all want our music to be affectionate, understanding, and most of all, we want it to make us smile. Salil Chowdhury’s music has done that and much more for me over the past few days. I hope to keep rediscovering new joys in his compositions. The site is vast, and I have just about managed to go through half of it. Later posts will deal with individual musical compositions, and their innate beauty…

My favorite Western Classical numbers

2006-05-15T17:56:00.000+05:30

This post was long overdue – but I had to write something about my 10 best songs in every genre, and a short description of each; well – basically my way of paying tribute to some really amazing composers, singers and musicians...

The “trout” quintet, Franz Schubert: This piece will forever haunt me for two reasons, the passion of Vikram Seth’s novel – “The equal music” which talks about this piece; and the absolutely raw beauty of the song. Admittedly, it takes some time for the appeal of this musical piece to actually sink in, but once it does; it never ceases to enthrall…

Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 in C# minor, Franz Liszt: I first heard this absolutely wonderful piece when I was in college, and I failed to realize why it sounded so familiar. Then, one day as I was going through my Tom and Jerry collection, I came upon this cartoon, in which Tom tries to play this rather tough and intricate composition to a packed and rapt audience, as Jerry wreaks havoc all around, including the piano on which he was playing. Incidentally, this cartoon was an Oscar-winner for best Cartoon film in the year that it was released. How simple those times were…

Rhapsody in Blue, George Gershwin: One of the best combinations of classical music and light jazz by another really under-rated yet frequently listened to composer. One of the most recognizable pieces from the classical-jazz era. Interesting tidbit: When Gershwin was commissioned to write the piece, he was so pressed for time that he did not have a chance to compose the piano piece. At the first performance, he actually played it impromptu. Later, based on memory and commentary, the piece was finally composed.

Piano Sonata No. 8 (Pathetique), Ludwig Van Beethoven: One of the best sonatas for piano written by this genius, it has got all of it. Daring modulations, amazing melody, and extremely subtle textures. The start of this sonata gives me the goose bumps whenever I listen to it. Absolutely stunning…

Symphony No. 5, Ludwig Van Beethoven: This symphony has managed to survive all levels of over-popularity. It’s definitely known more than any other work he has written, and on top of that, it’s been murdered by several rather psuedo-scholarly metal guitarists… The best part is that most people recognize the first movement, and leave it at that, never realizing that the second and probably the fourth movements are the crowning points of this work…

Fantasie Impromptu, Chopin: Another overwhelming piece, the second lilting movement sometimes overshadowing the rather arousing first movement. This was one of the first songs I heard on the piano, and I have been hooked to it ever since. For me, it has and will remain one of Chopin’s best compositions.

The Goldberg Variations, Johann Sebastian Bach: I still find it hard to believe that this work was actually commissioned as music for a lullaby. The only way it can put you to sleep is if you are dense enough not to recognize a marvelous exciting work of a true genius.

Clair De Lune, Claude Debussy: I found it hard to choose between Arabesque and this song, but I put it on top because it’s probably emotionally more satisfying. One of the best short works of the impressionistic era; it has got the maximum number of versions with rather varying tempos in different classical music sites.

Variation 18, from Rhapsody on a theme by Paganini: This piece, another short one is one of the most beautiful melodies I have encountered in Western Classical music. A masterpiece, no less…

Italian Concerto, Bach: One of his most brilliant compositions, it superbly exemplifies the musical concept called counterpoint. Counterpoint basically implies two or more strains of melody running parallely and complimenting and sometimes supplementing each other. An absolutely amazing piece.

I am done with my top 10 classical music pieces... I will attempt to move into other less explored genres soon... Sometimes, I feel scared of being rather open with my feelings regarding other genres, but I guess this is my blog; and I should do that... Expect a sequel to this soon...

Love to all!!!