Numbness

Numbness.


A feeling of numbness permeates my sensory organs. A feeling of emotional bereftness. A void filled with work related stresses and a relentless drive to achieve meaningless (in the overall context of life, the universe and everything) numbers. The inner artist (solely self-perceived though he may be) has been mollified, suppressed and replaced with a vacuum which envelops anything chancing upon it. 


The sales experience has fragmented my existence - replacing my earlier unfocused purpose in life with a purpose that seems alien yet exhilarating at times, meaningful yet not a meaning that I am comfortable with. Life consists of a timetable - a 9-9 all-time-consuming process broken only by a siesta cum lunch hour. The expected physical toll, in varying degrees of severity to varying parts of my anatomy, largely ignored though not completely forgotten. The lack of a genuine mirror at home is responsible partly.


The two post-work pre-sleep hours are precious to my existence and are frustratingly fleeting. They provide me with a larger context to life, a chance to pull back from the daily stresses and indulge in my one true love. Movies and the world of trivia surrounding them. Sadly my first true love - reading has been consigned to 140 character tweets and the occasional Sunday page-turners.


My face - a pock-marked, cratered, post-apocalyptic dark side of the moon - is forever furrowed - a fact remarked by many before realized by myself.. The lack of companionship hurts, only in moments of reflection such as these. The future seems wholly uncertain though not unviable. 


Where do I go from here? What path do i tread? To wait for fate to run its course or seize matters into my own hands and alter and shape-shift my destiny (something I have done rarely in the past).


Sunday the only day of refuge, the last bastion of defence against insanity beckons, its welcoming magic already working its way into my brain, pressing down upon my eyelids, beckoning me to close upon this post.
I yield to its command. Writing after so long has been fun, providing me a chance to be verbose and let loose my mental demons onto the keyboard.


Blogging - one of my listed hobbies (an untruth) needs to be re-pursued with vigour.


Signing out.

Confidence! Baby! Confidence!

The boy sat on his bike and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

He liked what he saw. A day’s stubble sat well on his face. He did a spot check of his breath.

‘Hmm, could have been better’ he thought. But he didn’t worry about it much. He doubted that he would get lucky this early in their relationship.

It was only their third date after both of them had professed that they were attracted to each other.

‘Confidence! Baby! Confidence!’ That’s the key to success he told himself.

But where was she? He’d already been waiting for half an hour below her building. Well not exactly below but well out of view from her balcony and dear daddy’s eyes.

Grimacing, he took out his cellphone and dialled her number. The not reachable message annoyed him further and he silently abused all telecom operators to eternal damnation.

He got off his bike and casually strolled towards her flat.

Oh Shit! Her daddy dearest was in the balcony looking out. He sprung back into the shadows.

She came out of her apartment complex. But she wasn’t dressed to go out. And the look on her face was far from relaxed. Tension was writ all over it.

She came towards him and said those 5 words he was not yet ready to hear – “Papa wants to meet you”.

Wordlessly he followed her and all along the way all too fully aware of the intense glare he was being subjected to from two storeys above.

He entered into her apartment feeling like a lamb being led into a slaughterhouse. It was the first time he had visited her home. In any other circumstance he would have noticed the shoe rack placed at the entrance and the potted plant placed just to its right.

But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and he managed to trip over the shoerack and the vase clattered to the ground. Mud spilled out and the plants privates were exposed for the world to see.

He started apologizing profusely and bent over to straighten the pot when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘Leave it! The maid will clean it up!’

Colonel Randhir Singh Shekhawat’s booming voice had frightened the hardy Pakistani soldiers into giving up their arms at Tsang Po pass near Kargil.

The boy gave up on the vase much more easily.

They were sitting face to face. The Colonel didn’t say anything. He just kept on staring at the boy.

The boy not knowing what to say decided to concentrate on the Colonel’s fine moustache instead. And what a fine moustache it was!  The Shekhawats since ancient ancestry were known for the magnificent moustaches. It was their one and only true love. They used to lavish more attention on it than on their wives. It was said that the Shekhawat women would be so jealous of the moustaches of their men that they would fantasize in their dreams about cutting those hairy monsters off but could never gather the courage to do so when they woke up.

Colonel Randhir Singh Shekhawat’s moustache had never flinched once – not even in the midst of the most difficult phase of the Kargil battle. But it was flinching now. Or so the boy imagined.

Finally the Colonel spoke. ‘So I hear you like my daughter? Is that so?’

The double question sounded so ominous that the boy almost said no. But he soon came to his senses and stuttered out a yes.

Another 10 second silence followed by a loud Hmmphh.

‘And what are your intentions?’

‘My intentions sir? They are to uh, you know to er, I’m sorry sir I didn’t undertand the question’

‘Your intentions Goddamit! Are you playing around or are you serious about my daughter?’

‘Ssserious sir! Very serious!’

The Colonel got up, went to the fireplace and brought the fire poker – a fine strong steel rod.

‘Young man! I am not someone to be trifled with. If I ever find out that you have hurt my daughter in any way. This is what will happen!’

And in one easy stroke the colonel bent the poker into a horseshoe pattern.

The boy almost peed in his pants.

‘Do you understand?’

All the boy could manage was a nod.

And all of a sudden the booming voice which manhandled the Pakistani sepoys was 10 tones friendlier.

‘So what are you waiting for young man? Go show my daughter a good time. Bring her back by eight!’

And in the earlier hostile tone an addendum ‘And don’t be late!’

As he exited her house in relief his inner voice was laughing at him. ‘Confidence! Baby! Confidence!’

Oye Lucky Lucky Oye!

What an underrated gem this movie is! Sure it won some national awards, but never achieved the kind of box office fame it should have.

Oye Lucky Lucky Oye is the story of Lovinder Singh AKA Lucky (Abhay Deol), a fearless, charismatic and extremely confident thief who manages to effortlessly rob households and escape the clutches of the Delhi police at the same time. The movie is apparently based on a true thief called Bunty who terrorised Delhi households in the nineties.The movie begins by showing the genesis of his thieving ways in his teenage years and then cuts forward to an adult Lucky trying to seek employment under a crime boss, Gogi Bhai (Paresh Rawal). The movie begins and ends with the same scene - Lucky having been caught by the police along with his cache of stolen goods worth millions. The movie also chronicles his romantic entanglements and the betrayals that he inevitably suffers.


** SPOILER ALERT! I am assuming that you have watched this movie already and will be able to appreciate the points I try to make about certain key scenes in the movie. If not I advise you to go watch it immediately **



The first time I saw it, I knew I liked it - but didn't think too much of it. I had been touched by the scenes of young Lucky and that was it.


Especially the scene of the first date of the titular character Lucky at age 15 (played by a terrific Manjot Singh, who won the national award for his role) and the greeting card shop girl (I couldn't find the name of the girl. If anyone knows please reply). 
That scene had terrific staying power and the simple touches that the director, Dibakar Banerjee attaches to the scene appealed to me.


On later viewing I immediately forwarded to that part of the movie and found that I really really liked the scene. The line "Happy Birthday hai mera. Saal mein do hi baar aata hai bus" - followed by the sweet amused grin that the girl flashes at him. The scene in the restaurant where the waiter immediately recognizes Lucky for what he is - a penniless teenager out to impress his girl and insults the couple in such a way that our heart goes out to them - while we are laughing at the wicked humour in the dialogue.


The scenes of young Lucky are the best ones in the movie. How crafty of Dibakar to show this period in Lucky's life in such short vignettes. Makes them more special and treasure-worthy. 


But there are more scenes in the movie which have stuck in my mind. These include - Lucky's following Sippa - The Ministers son into the Disco, Lucky rejecting the advances of a horny Dolly,  Lucky robbing the News Anchor Babul Awasthis's house using the trick suggested by an unwary veterinarian, Lucky being insulted on the opening ceremony of his own restaurant, etc.



The movie satirizes not just the class consciousness and cheap materialism existent in some middle to upper class Delhiites but also the news media which sensationalizes everything (This is in fact mentioned by the character of a TV Anchor who laments that he uses the words 'Sansani Khez' too often on air). At the same time this is a movie which is clearly fond of the unique quirks of Dilli wale and presents these lovingly in exquisitely subtle detailing.


The detailing that Dibakar Banerjee has included in this movie is intricate and incredible. The ear- perfect accents and the nuances in the speech of the various Delhi characters populating the movie - the gentry, the police, the criminals, the Haryanavi Jats and the Punjabis.
As I mentioned before, the comedy in this movie can be subtle some times while laugh-out-loud hilarious at other times.

Banerjee also employs an unusual technique - of framing scenes comprising solely of still photographs shown in succession - filling in the gaps in the story. This works most of the times but can distract especially when used at the end of certain key scenes.


The movie benefits hugely from some excellent music (Sneha Khanwalkar). I am a huge fan of the earthy rustic ballad - Tu Raja ki raj dulaari as well as the title track (to which we unforgettably danced on Management Day)



A special mention needs to go to the actors who seem a near-perfect (and at times more than perfect) fit for their roles.

Paresh Rawal plays 3 different roles - Lucky's Dad, his criminal boss Gogi Bhai as well as the crafty veterinarian Mr. Handa - and is able to create three vividly different characters. The most underdeveloped is the character of the father - as he is present in only a few scenes. 
The best performed and most nuanced is the character of Mr. Handa. Look at how Rawal is able to drop his mask of pleasant geniality and display the venomous inner personality in a crucial scene. The anger that the audience feels towards him is immediately turned into pathos a few moments later when he is threatened with bodily harm and humiliation. Lucky laughs and we laugh with him.

Abhay Deol (whose talent I'm still sceptical of) is also perfect for the role - his the-boy-next-door looks and relaxed dialogue delivery prove to be essential for the success of the character of the lovable thief. 

The actress who performs the role of Dolly(Richa Chaddha) is good too. Watch how she lashes out at Lucky (in her horribly mixed wannabe Hinglish) when he rejects her advances. The character who impressed me the most was Lucky's sidekick Bangali (Manu Rishi). Most of the laughs in the movie come from his dialogues. This is a pretty good actor and I have yet to see him in any other movie. I liked the character of the Jat Inspector(Anurag Arora) as well.
Even the normally irritating Archana Puran Singh plays her role well and is funny in her role as Mrs. Handa.


Some of the robbery scenes may seem a little contrived and far-fetched as Lucky is able to walk out of houses with their valuables without facing any security so easily that we feel sceptical. This is the weakest aspect of the movie and I am able to forgive Banerjee for this.


This is his second movie after the delightful Khosla ka Ghosla - which had the great character actor Boman Irani in supreme form. He followed this with the dark and disturbing Love Sex aur Dhokha
(LSD).


I await his next movie eagerly.

The Rise of Twitter

Twitter has seen truly a phenomenal rise in India over the past one to one and a half years.

Even Orkut, the now out-of-fashion social networking website never dominated mainstream media attention as much as Twitter has. Orkut used to only be in the news for either fake profiles or for creating communities which ended up hurting the sentiments of one group or the other.

But ever since the Shashi Tharoor and Lalit Modi controversies first broke out in the mainstream media based on their Twitter "tweets", Twitter has courted a new found fame (as well as notoriety) among regular Indians who so far associated the word with the sounds birds make. From Bollywood Stars to Sports Personalities to two-bit celebrities - every one has joined the Twitter bandwagon.

So what is Twitter and why is it so popular? (Even I have a Twitter account - but truth be said hardly anyone follows me - mostly because I have hardly anything worth tweeting about). 

Twitter is a social networking and microblogging service that enables its users to send and read messages known as tweets. Tweets are text-based posts of up to 140 characters displayed on the author's profile page and delivered to the author's subscribers who are known as followers.

For celebrities it provides a wonderful way of communicating with their fans without having to resort to the traditional channels of communication which involve a middleman - such as television, newspapers or magazines. For people like Lalit Modi - it provides an easy way to deliver news-worthy quotes (whether his quotes actually are news-worthy is debatable) without going through all the trouble of calling a press-conference.

For everyone else it provides a wonderfully direct access to the thoughts of their favourite celebrities - It is as if Shahrukh Khan directly speaks to his followers through his Tweets. In a celebrity-obsessed age and a celebrity-obsessed society this provides the ultimate visceral high.

But in India anything new or innovative always takes time to be accepted and initially can be rejected quite venomously. This is especially true in the case of the Old Fogeys who are part of the political administration. Poor Shashi Tharoor paid the price for excessive (and perhaps a little thoughtless) use of Twitter.  140 characters can sometimes be woefully inadequate to concretely express the thoughts of a person and thus can be open to misinterpretation. Also his penchant for Retweeting the opinions of others (A common tool used in Twitter which allows news to spread on it like wildfire) was easily manipulated in the media to be his own opinions.

In any case, his Twitter controversies made him a hot-button topic for the Media which enabled them to completely destroy him when the IPL controversy broke out. The IPL Controversy, itself started by a famous (and fatuous) Twit - Lalit Modi - eventually led to his downfall as well.

The few famous people I follow on Twitter are quite unlike the celebrities that most of the Indian Twits follow. I was a follower of Tharoor on Twitter much before his first cattle-class controversy broke out. I also follow the renowned fantasy-writer Neil Gaiman (author of Coraline, Graveyard Book, Sandman - The Graphic Novel Series, among others) as well as the facially impaired uber-critic Roger Ebert. I follow these people because they are interesting, extremely intelligent and I enjoy reading what they Tweet about. 

I also follow this guy - VeryShortStory - who writes wonderful and thought-proving micro-short stories ensconced within a single Tweet. I also do Tweet occasionally and almost never get Retweeted. Also, My friend Shantesh keeps on tweeting about Tech Stuff which always make for a good read.

I end with a shameless plug for my Twitter account - www.twitter.com/Santoshsez 

Laxman Sivaramakrishnan

The current IPL has confirmed a long-running suspicion of mine.

Laxman Sivaramakrishnan is the worst commentator of all time. Ever.

I'm sure there will be some people who disagree with me and will provide the DD Hindi commentators as counter-examples. But these commentators are only guilty of being boring and unimaginative. But Siva (as he is fondly called by his fellow commentators, including Danny "ye beauty" Morrison) is Stupid, Vapid and has sold his soul to the devil (AKA The Sponsors).

Hence, instead of endeavouring to give solid Cricket gyaan or atleast an entertaining view on the gloriously uncertain game that is cricket, what we get from him are a string of sentences which are a poor excuse for including the Sponsors names.

Now again some may argue, all the commentators in this bloody IPL tamasha resort to this. But Siva my friends is not only the worst offender but takes "sponsor-name-insertion" to a new level.
For example, he once included all 3 major sponsor names in a single sentence. "Oh! He tried to go over the top for a huge DLF Maximum but ended up giving a Karbonn Kamaal catch to the fielder and this certainly is a Citi Moment of success ..."
In fact I noticed that he refers to the sponsors name 3-4 times more than the next worst commentator. Obviously he must have cut some sort of a special deal with the sponsors or SET Max.

Looking at Siva's gaunt frame one can assume a long history of malnourishment and maybe the sponsors have assured him that each time he mentions their name they will guarantee him a square meal for the day.

On the rare occasions when he does comment on the occurences on the field he is capable of making the most stunning bloopers - making one wonder if he did ever play cricket at all.
For example, in a particular match when Virat Kohli's run-out decision was being referred to the Third Umpire - the entire world could clearly see that Virat's bat was well short of the crease. And yet Siva boldly proclaimed - "It would be a brave Umpire who would give that out!" Maybe he wasn't even looking at the screen but thinking about which sponsors name would he insert in next.
And as expected when the Decision of OUT came he bellowed, "A Citi Moment of Success ..."

But he did have a career once, before he ruined it with excess alcohol usage. His debut at the age of 17 was spell-binding when he took 23 wickets in a home series against England. But within a couple of years he was nowhere to be seen ... until he resurfaced some years ago in his latest avatar.

I imagine that the after-effects will be seen in Siva's day-to-day speech long after the IPL is over. If one is willing to be a little snarky, then one can with some effort imagine Siva in bed with his spouse (I know, I know - this is pretty difficult to imagine) and the conversation between the two of them would be something as follows

Siva - "Oh dear, today I will give you the DLF Maximum amount of pleasure. I know I couldn't perform last week and you had to satisfy yourself with just a Karbonn Kamaal Catch. But that was because the IPL was still on and my energies were flowing in another direction. Let's begin ..."

And 10 seconds later Siva shouted out "Ahh! A Citi Moment of success ..."

Tell Me Why

Before wikipedia became so popular and put them out of business, encyclopaedias were in every home - huge volumes of information available to us at our fingertips. They may seem primitive to us now, especially as they lack a search function - but I still remember the pleasure of going through the huge volume - the scent of the pages transporting me to another world.

We had the Tell Me Why series of books in our house - allegedly written by a Mr. Arkady Leokum - atleast the guy's name used to be on the cover page of the books. The books were named Tell Me Why, Still More Tell Me Why, Here's More Tell me Why and so on. Each book claimed to answer hundreds of questions - seems anachronistic in the age of Wikipedia with its multimillion pages of information.

For a young child like me who enjoyed the company of books more than people, Tell Me Why was a wondrous companion and I spent hours upon hours poring through the various sections in the books. Each book answered questions on various scientific and sociological disciplines including botany, paleontology, astronomy, physics, zoology, culture, literature, philiosophy among others.

Ever wondered "Why humans have hair?", "Who invented plastic?" or "Can fish hear?". Were you ever curious about "Who was the first astronaut?", "Why do cannibals eat people?" or "Why did the dinosaurs become extinct". All I had to do was open the books and search for it. Of course the lack of an equivalent of the search function meant I had to go through tons of other questions before I found my relevant query - but these other questions themselves intrigued me and thus hours were spent in their company.

Then i grew up, started to lose interest in books and gain more interest in the people around me. These books were lost in the back of my cupboard - a couple were probably sold off - unknown to me and passed out of my memory.
Recently as I was cleaning my bookshelf (probably after a decade :D) I found a couple of these books - yellowed and musty but still intact. And as i turned the pages, the years melted away magically.

I was a 8 year old kid again with my encyclopaedia, reading about - "Why does an opossum hang by its tail?" and "Why do dogs bury bones?"

Life is good.

Daybreak

A sequel to Nightfall

I am twenty seven.


Life ends up as a string of random memories tenuously bound together. Wisps of smoke framed against the starlit sky. Often, a chance phrase causes a rush of previously withheld memories to come to the fore. Such was the case today.


She died yesterday night. The one who terrorized my childhood dreams. She has finally left the confines of the physical world and escaped into the spiritual one.


I feel a vague unease. A childhood fear penetrating my adult consciousness. I look out through the window and see a few mourners dressed in white. Too few, sadly. Disliked throughout her life, her demise had been keenly awaited by many. And now that it had happened, few had bothered to turn up.


Her husband cut a forlorn figure. She had been all that he had. Their daughter, having escaped her household three years before through marriage, was weeping silently holding her father by his arm. Filial love triumphing over two and a half decades of tortured memories.


A month passes by. Their house is abandoned now. Her husband had moved in with his daughter's family. I have forgotten about her, busy with my daily schedule. I will remember her again. And how!



Tonight the moon is in shadow. The perennial city smog hides countless unseen stars from me. I toss and turn in my bed, unable to sleep. I am alone, the folks having left for our native place yesterday. A mournful dog bays in the forlorn streets below. It cries out to the lost souls of the night. Yamadharmaraja is on the prowl, whisking away his somnolent victims. 


My heart filled with misgivings, my ears filled with the horrific wail of the dog, I almost miss hearing a most singular yet sinister sound. Almost! The window in my balcony is being opened. The incongruity of this occurrence floors me! I am on the third floor and my balcony is protected by inch-thick iron grills. No earthly being could be on my window-sill.

Pure animal instinct makes me turn around. But there is no one there. Yet the window lies open. A gaping hole letting in the wintry night, where a moment ago there had been none. Getting up to close the window is probably the bravest thing I have done in my life. Or probably the most stupid.
As soon as my hand clasps the window latch, darkness envelops my eyes. The last thing I remember is falling to my knees as the world goes blank.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I wake up with a throbbing pain in my neck. My senses take a while to adjust to the surrounding darkness, when I realize where I am. The bathroom. I also realize something  else. I am my eight year old self again. I am reliving the night that occurred 19 years ago, a night which scarred my childhood memories for ever. 


She waits for me beyond the door, wreathed in the shadows. I cry out - a full-blooded guttural cry - to my parents, to God or whoever else who could extricate me from this hellish nightmare. Ten minutes pass before I am able to control myself, my voice spent, my shirt drenched with my tears and my pants drenched with something else. I hear a faint tapping on the door.


It is time to go out. Time to succumb to the fate I should have 19 years ago. I open the door, my hand shivering violently. Events proceed exactly as they did that other night. The room is illuminated by the faint vestige of an almost extinguished 1991 streetlight. The headlights of a passing vehicle cuts an illuminating arc across the corridor, just as they did then. I feel dizzy, illogical - as if none of the intervening disasters and wrong turns in my life have occurred yet.


And there is she is - leering at me - her pudgy pock-marked face contorted with malicious hate. She is dressed in the same nightgown that she wore on that night - frilly material tainted with the grime of age. Her arms adorned with hideous varicose veins, her nails long and sharp, filled with pus and filth. 


She advances towards me and places her grizzled paw on the nape of my neck, the nails piercing into my skin. I close my eyes, expecting the nails to slash across my throat at any instant. Instead I feel my mind being altered - new memories being inserted into them. 

I am at a school playground. I see a plump young girl not much older then me. Sitting on the sideline eating some oily bhajiyas. Her classmates are laughing at her as they play langdi in the ground nearby. They call her names. She continues eating, sobbing silently. A teacher approaches her with a cane! He calls her a fat dumb cow - pulls her by the hand into an empty shed beside the school. Fifteen minutes later she emerges, tears in her eyes, her frock torn and stained with drops of blood.


I feel a new memory overtaking my mind. She must be atleast 12 now. It is night. She lies huddled under her blankets clutching a doll to her chest. She can hear her father in the adjacent room beating her mother up. Abusing her with the vilest of phrases. Her mother remains silent. She draws the blanket closer to her. She starts pulling the fake hair off her doll and stuffs it in her ears. Replacing the screams of her father with screams of her own.


A new memory, a new nightmare. It is her wedding night. She lays on the bed, decked in bridal attire. She is nervous, shyly anticipating the future ahead. Her husband is in the other room, glued in front of the TV watching the cricket match. She waits for him to appear. In the morning she goes to sleep all alone, the future already appearing as dim as the past.


My mind is benumbed. I cannot take this anymore. But I am not in control of my mind. She is. And she is not yet ready to stop. She sits in the kitchen trying to feed her young daughter some rice. Her husband is in the living room, stuck to his usual routine in front of the TV. Her daughter refuses to eat. Instead she starts bawling a plaintive piteous cry. She hears familiar words coming out of her mouth - Shut up you dumb cow! The child starts crying more louder. Her features contort with hate. By the time she realizes that she is hitting her own daughter - it is too late. 

The script that is to be played out each night has been set in motion.


With a sudden jerk, my mind snaps back to the present. She catches me by the arm and leads me away with her. We go out of the apartment and start climbing up the stairs. In the gloom of the night I follow her, the stench emanating from her decrepit corpse overpowering my senses. We pass through an open door into the terrace. The chill of the night makes me shiver. She releases her grip on my arm and steps onto the ledge. She turns and looks at me, the horrible rage and hatred replaced by infinite sadness. And then she steps off the ledge, into the darkness below.


I am convinced that I have no choice but to follow her. I climb onto the ledge, my body shivering and weary. I glance down and the street below seems miles away. Without the slightest hesitation I step off.



EPILOGUE
My corpse was found by early morning joggers. My parents sold off our flat 2 months after my death, the place being an evil memory of their loss. Years have passed. No new tenants have occupied the flat. 

I am still 27, staring out of the window into the flat exactly opposite to ours.

An Ode to Global Warming

In the merry month of May
Basking in the summer glow!
A wish to float far away!
A wish to feel the winter snow!


A winter lost, A summer regained
The grass underneath turned to hay!
Traces of which none remained!
A wintry night is now a summer day!


Explain not why the soot fills the sky
Explain not where the glaciers went!
Explain not how the seals suffer and die!
Explain not when the lakes were spent!


A parched throat is none the worse
Than a bleeding one cut by the knife!
Countless tho' are the coins in my purse!
They can't save my childs fledgling life!


Kyoto was lost, Copenhagen did sink
The danger though none would deny!
The lobbyists schemed and rose a stink!
Half a century later the world started to die!


A cautionary tale is better not told
'Cos we believe only whats ere our eyes!
Alchemists thought lead turned into gold!
Woe is us! We believe in gilded lies!