The Man with the Golden Gun

Before we begin, I would like to warn everybody that this entry of mine will be utterly sentimental and jingoistic because an Indian winning an individual Olympic Gold is something that I hadn't hoped I would see in my lifetime. Well ladies and gentleman it did happen and I (like most of you) am bloody ecstatic about it. We as a country have consistently managed to fall short in achieving glory in the ultimate test of human will known to man... sports. For long we have lived under the shadows of cliche' statements like "In a country of a billion we cannot find ONE gold". Well we have now and this young man from Chandigarh has managed the single greatest achievement in the history of Indian sports. One thing that I would like to point out here is that apart from winning the gold Bindra has managed to do something that most Indian Sportsmen have failed to do in the past. Eight years back in Sydney when Bindra made his debut he like every moderately talented youngster in India was billed as the next best thing. Yes he had the junior world record, yes he had failed to win a medal at Athens in spite of breaking the Olympic record and yes he is the reigning world champion in this event. But this is not the first time that an Indian athelete has had a good run prior to the Olympics and has been hauled up by IOA officials and the ever hypocritical Indian media as a medal prospect. Limba Ram in Barcelona, Anju Bobby George in Athens, the Indian Hockey team (over and over again) are just a few examples. Abhinav Bindra has managed to convert all the promise and all his form into the greatest reward known to sportsmen. All of the other individual medals won by India have come as major surprises to us. Leander Paes fought so hard for his medal that he seemed like a petulant child who just wouldn't leave till he had something to take back home, K.D Jadhav's victory was a major surprise (even to himself); Karnam Malleswari wasn't even supposed to travel to Sydney and Major Rathore's victory at Athens had a quiet elegance about it. But Abhinav Bindra today possibly became the first Indian athlete to show promise, display good form, have consistent performances and finally convert everything into him winning an Olympic Medal. This is by faaaaar the most glorious moment in the history of Indian sports (yes i know i am being redundant). This achievement comes to a man who has no histrionics about him and went about his business quietly and was more relieved than surprised when he took the top spot on the podium. I am a sentimentalist when it comes to sports, world war II and India. Today an Indian Sportsman manged to give us the greatest possible gift prior to the 15th of August. Today an Indian athlete saw the tricolor make its way up to the top of the mast with the mellifluous strains of our National Anthem. Today they played Jana Gana Mana... at Beijing.

Mr. Abhinav Bindra you have done all of us very very proud. Jai Hind !

Ole you Beauty !!!

Football is a sport of finesse and insanity coupled in an irresistible brew. This entry of mine is a tribute to one of the most uncanny talents ever to have walked on the pitch. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer does not look like a striker and he exudes a very quiet and impish aura about him every time he collects a pass. But the Baby Face Assassin is a footballer par excellence. Right from shooting from absolutely impossible angles to an exquisite first touch inside the D box Ole has it all. He began as a right winger at Manchester United as a replacement for an injured David Beckham and quiclkly established himself as a tremendous crosser of the ball. But Ole finally got into into his own an instinctive striker scoring goals for United. His name will always be associated with possibly the greatest moment in the history of Manchester United. A goal scored in the 93rd minute of the match followed by the immortal words "And Solskjaer has done it ... Manchester United have reached Promised Land"; these are images that are brimming with all the romance that sport represents. But apart from the obvious football prowess the one thing that makes one fall in love with this shy Norwegian is his complete commitment towards everything that Manchester United stands for. Players like Roy Keane, Ryan Giggs. Paul Scholes and Eric Cantona represent the true essence of this great club with every breath they take. Sir Ole Gunnar Solskjaer is right up there.

Adieu 2OLEGEND. Old Trafford is poorer without you.

These are confusing times.

I just finished watching an absolutely brilliant movie ... The Graduate (Something I very strongly recommend). The movie is about this absolutely mindfucked guy who struggles with the realities of one of God's most intriguing experiments - women. At the same time I watch around six episodes of Seinfeld a day and get more and more fascinated by the character of George Costanza. In fact in a state of inebriation I also remark to a dumbfounded roommate that there is a little George Costanza inside all of us and vehemently insist upon the profoundity of the statement. Apart from all this I also see myself go about the motions of my last semester in college interspersed with speculations about the future, pitfalls of the placement process, subtle nostalgia and some pretty quirky yet life changing realizations (eg: No matter how well you know a female she will always throw you off guard with the most innocuous of comments.)

These are troubled times.

These are the times when you realize that no matter what you just cannot turn to a girl and very cheerfully tell her that her perfume is horrible. These are the times when ridiculing the failure of your friends in the all important job interviews is possibly the best way of sharing the common sense of guilt and shame. I have also come to understand the micro economics behind smoking when it all boils down to the last millimeter of the obnoxiously smelling lit up end of the cancer stick. There have been times when I have debated about my sanity in the face of the purest form of sloth known to the mortal world. And there have times when I have managed to surprise myself with my perseverance. I have bugged a close friend of mine incessantly about his love life without ever trying to rectify whatever is happening in my life. I have absolutely shunned the concept of the seemingly all important Friendship Day. I have become absolutely convinced that I am too old for all this. At the same time I am also apprehensive that I am not old enough to start working right away and worry about things like IT returns.

These are curious times.

Well for all of you who have managed to read through this piece of crap... too bad for you. If you liked it, well may your sins be upon you. If you did not like it ... bah!

Beyond the Girl in Purple

I begin this entry of mine by making a quiet protest that I am not infatuated with death (The person who has accused me of this and about whom this blog is being written about will understand the context). This entry of mine is all about life and all its realities that make death seem like a fiesta at times ;). The camera pans back to an extremely uncomfortable couch in one of the the many CCDs on a rainy afternoon which was fortunately Floyd infested. The complete setting was so perfect that whatever happened subsequently was almost like an inevitability. A girl who is dressed in purple (a colour that defines her nomenclature in this entry) and a chain reaction of hysteria, excitement, helplessness and to a certain degree a comedy of the highest proportions. The melange of the characters experiencing these feelings was as diverse as it could be. The protagonist (the guy in red) possesses what he calls a “female terrorized” mind. Then there is the BW who is almost a married man. And finally there is me; the unbiased cog in the whole process to whom the job to analyze the whole situation in a mature manner finally falls. The setting was perfect, the elements were diverse, the girl was cute and the music was Floyd. That is how perfect it all was.

I am not going to narrate the entire sequence of events that took place. The protagonist has done in his blog (http://www.22crossroads.blogspot.com/). I am also not going to write down the contents of the napkin (which I wrote and the guy who marooed the “YOU will never get a GIRL comment and most other comments mentioned in the blog) because I believe that I will respect the privacy of “The Shy, Sophisticated Guy in Red” and also that I don’t really remember much of what I wrote. My job here is primarily to make a postmortem of all the events that happened and what are the consequences of that fateful afternoon. Disclaimer: If you are looking for a smart witty piece of writing, I strongly advise you to stop reading because I am not going to trivialize the whole issue.

All three of us in CCD that day have been friends for a long time and are pretty well aware of each others’ tendencies to react to social situations. The girl in purple represented a social challenge for us at a time when all three of us were lamenting about the fact that we were growing up too quickly. The female donned in purple and all the events that happened because of her represented what it was like when growing up was still a distant reality. Kevin Arnold (the kid in The Wonder Years) once said “Growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you're in diapers; the next day you're gone.But the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul.” That afternoon at CCD we weren’t actually reminiscing about what our childhood days were like because our primal concerns were oriented around neo adult concepts like ‘pick up lines’ and their likes. What it all represented (I feel) was a shimmering reminder of simpler times when romance came without any of the mundaneness of reality. Th guy in red albeit a loser with girls is almost a hopeless romantic so will fail to see this point of mine. But for people like me who have seen and understood (Ahem!) the real romance at close quarters understand that it is overrated. But that rainy afternoon all such misgivings had faded away because we really thought that the girl in purple was this absolutely magical human being who could touch the life of our loser friend and maybe make a human being out of him. We even thought that she looked like Ana Ivanovic (To the guy in red: I was surprised that you did not write this in your blog). That girl had brought back for the briefest of moments the kind of lives we lead in school. Although we pretended that the complete basis of our actions were based on the fact that we were now old enough to go up and talk to arbit women in coffee houses; our excitement was still very congruent to the kind of glee we found in school under similar circumstances.

I don’t really care much about the girl in purple now. Possibly she is horribly devoid of any gray matter (who orders sandwiches in CCD? Bah!). But what I cherish is the times she reminded me of. I will always cherish the rainy afternoon when my friends and I relived the best days of our lives and had unadulterated fun under the dark clouds of pseudo adulthood. That’s all I really care about actually. I sincerely hope that the shy, sophisticated guy in red finds the one and lives happily ever after and may the girl in purple never have to haggle with the waiters in any coffee shop again. I also wish that by some happy turn of events all three of us land up in scenario like this again and next time maybe the protagonist could write a blog titled “The girl in the United Jersey who loved the way I talk!”. Cheers mate.

Nothing but Words

Dear Aradhana,

It’s been a long time since I have managed to write to you. I am doing fine and after a brief struggle everything finally seems to be falling in place. It is really tempting for me at this point in time to say that I love you, but frankly speaking, I don’t. I am sorry Aradhana but right now I am in a place in life where I cannot use this four letter word loosely. I hope you will understand. You really are very special to me and there is no point in writing or feeling the kind of things you wrote. Hope to hear more from you soon.

Abhay Mathur

Dear Abhay,

I owe you an apology for overreacting the way I did. I completely understand that the circumstances that surround you do restrict the room for such indulgence. I guess I will always be the callous girl who craves for way too much attention. I have no qualms about saying that I love you and that I always will. At the same time it is selfish of me to expect you to reciprocate my feelings. Things were very different before you went away and I still tend to latch on to those memories. Silly me! Don’t worry about me. I will make my peace with this one way or the other. It is good to hear that you are finally finding your feet at Harvard. You are destined for bigger things in life. Write back if you want to.

Aradhana Sharma

Dear Aradhana,

Your last mail was very disconcerting. I am not myopic enough to overlook the obviousness of what you were trying to tell me. What you do not understand is that things are different here. Back in Kolkata I was a different person altogether. I was disillusioned and was being pulled in a thousand different directions from inside. Here in Harvard I can finally see what I want to do in life. My dad has slogged away his entire life to get me where I am today. So my first priority is obviously to make something of myself first. I hope you appreciate this. We were great together and hopefully in the future we can carry forward from where we left off. Right now that future is distant. Things here are fine. How is work? Keep replying.

Abhay Mathur

Dear Abhay,

I have always taken a certain degree of pride in my inherent composure but you are really pushing me to my tipping point. First you disappear for 8 months without a trace and then after my repeated mails you write to me one fine day to tell me that you do not love me. I completely appreciate your need to make something of yourself but before you went away I was a part of that future. Now it is shrouded in the ambiguity of distance. Right now I feel immensely stupid for having tried to cajole you into giving “us” another chance. i will not use the usual cheesy lines and accuse you of being selfish or insensitive and just a plain arrogant bastard. All I can tell you Mr. Mathur at this point in time is that I always thought that we will end up together but now I am mighty glad that we never will. Please don’t write back

Aradhana Sharma

Mr. Mathur read these words and felt a little moist at the base of his eyelids. His male ego had always hindered the process of crying but this was overwhelming. “After all these years it comes to this?” he thought to himself. He took off his spectacles and wiped the tears. He knew he had to be strong. He did not know why though because all reasons of existence had somehow faded away. He leaned back on his chair and closed his eyes. A dull throbbing pain was drumming away inside his head. He did not bother though because considering the situation he was in he thought that a headache is equivalent to a Christmas gala. Aradhana was a girl who truly cared and thus he just could not let her go. He just had to write to her and let her know that even he meant well and that things really were different. But he could not tell her everything that happened. She really would be devastated.

Mr. Mathur shrugged off all the melancholy and sat up to reply to Aradhana’s mail with all the vigour that his sixty year old body allowed him. Before he started typing he glanced at the smiling face of a young man in the picture frame in front of him and broke down completely. He was sobbing like a petulant child. This was completely understandable because it really isn’t easy for a father to continue to keep the appearances of a son who had died eight months ago in an air crash; on his way to temples of higher education. Mr. Raghavendra Mathur sat up and with tears dripping on the key board wrote…

Dear Aradhana,

This is my last mail to you. I really hope that you understand that……

The Top Ten

For an apathetic blogger like me writing is like a seductive mistress. It calls for a lot of attention and craves for massive indulgence but is somehow forced to take a backseat because of the mundane realities of this space time continuum. After a long and rather tedious exercise of (supposed) thinking I figured that the most pragmatic course of action for me to take in order to kick start my near dead blog again would be to write about something that allows me to be opinionated, judgmental, didactic and obviously linguistically generous. Thus I decided to do something that I have been putting off for a long time… to finally put up my list of top 10 movies. Now this list has been made considering all movies I have ever seen irrespective of their language. No Hindi movie makes it to the top 10 although there is a Bengali movie here. Now the basic thought (for me) that goes behind ‘rating’ a movie is that I have always believed that cinema in essence s literature in motion. A good movie is like a good book and just like a book one should not feel cheated/violated/insulted/mangled after watching a movie. So without further ado here is my list of top 10 movies. Please be kind enough to post your thoughts about them.

Number Ten: Dr Zhivago

The most effective way of describing this movie would be to simply state that watching Dr. Zhivago is like cuddling up inside a quilt on a cold winter morning and reading the works of a Russian master. This particular film with all its subtle drama somehow has a very soothing effect and makes one truly believe in the power of human expression. A hopeless romantic who is an unabashed poet and an aspiring medical practitioner and his struggles during the Russian revolution is what forms the backbone of this movie. Much like the book this movie has several political overtones but that does not in any way shroud the sheer magnificence of the romantic vision. The ice palace seen will forever be etched in the minds of the people who have seen this movie. But the most defining aspect of this movie is the character of Lara… a girl so torn apart from within and yet such power! This movie is a treat both for the senses and the sensibilities.

Number Nine: All the President's Men

This particular movie without doubt is one of the most politically compelling movies of all times and yet has been treated as a massive understatement in its making (I hope that makes sense). Based on a book by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, this movie is about the adventures of two young journalists during one of the most significant periods of American political history. The theatrical poster of the movie proclaimed it to be “The most devastating detective story of this century.” Smart screenplay, taut dialogues, controlled performances and supremely smart direction makes this movie one of the most gripping movies of all times. The scenes where deep throat has his clandestine meetings with Woodward are exquisitely shot. At the end of the movies one wonders why the producers ever cared about paying Hoffman and Redford for this movie. Both of them were so damned naturally adaptive to their roles that they barely needed to act.

Number Eight:

For the eight spot there is tie between two movies. One of them is a suave and sophisticated thriller starring Humphrey Bogart and the other one is heart wrenching tale of the trials and tribulations of a young woman.

The Maltese Falcon

This is a quintessential spy movie where distraught albeit enigmatic blonde walks into the office of the ever so charismatic detective and pleads for help. What follows next is an absolute roller coaster ride of murder, deception, heady romances and immense thrills. The story concerns the entanglement of a San Francisco private investigator with three greedy, unscrupulous and murderous adventurers who compete with each other to obtain a fabulous jewel-encrusted statuette of a falcon worth millions. Smart and crisp dialogues coupled by the sheer charm of a certain Humphrey Bogart this movie will keep you riveted till the very end.

Meghe Dhaka Tara

This is the tale of Neeta, a beautiful young woman who lives with her family, refugees from East Pakistan in the suburbs of Calcutta. Nita is a self-sacrificing person who is constantly exploited by everyone around her, even her own family, who take her goodness for granted. The director of the movie is a certain Ritwik Ghatak who is one of the greatest exponents of cinema this country has ever seen. Meghe Dhaka Tara is strongly melodramatic in tone, especially as concerns the sufferings heaped on the protagonist. As in many of his other films, Ghatak also uses surrealistic sound effects, such as sounds of a lashing as the heroine suffers yet another tragic twist of fate. The line “Dada aami baachte chai” (Brother, I want to live) at the end of the movie is possibly the most potent lines in Bengali cinema.

Number Seven: Godfather I and II

It is really hard to differentiate between these two movies because both the movies are as good as the other one. Godfather I is characterised by the power of Marlon Brando and the silent confidence of Al Pacino as Michael Corleone. The second movie on the other hand is driven by the power of narrative coupled what can arguably be described as Al Pacino’s finest hour on the silver screen. There is nothing much that can be said about these movies that hasn’t already been said. All I can say is that after watching these movies I felt dwarfed by the sheer genius of the writer and the vision of the director.

Number Six: Twelve Angry Men

This is a movie which represents two very contradicting characteristics. On one hand this is possibly one of the greatest directorial ventures of the last century and on the other hand it is also possibly the most underrated movie of all times. (It was the movie’s misfortune to release in the same year as another classic A Bridge on the River Kwai) The plot is very simple. Twelve jury men deciding the fate of a murder suspect does not qualify as much of a story but the immense work put behind shaping the character of each of the men is awe inspiring. Within that room the director (I believe) attempts to represent a dissection the erstwhile societal thinking patterns through the characters who display their insecurities, beliefs, biases and their whims. This is a movie that thrills you, keeps you gripped and makes you think. Kudos to a true classic!

The rest of the movies will follow very soon. Stay Tuned!!

‘ARBIT’ORIUM- Part I

The coherence of a particular thought process is often impeded by the occasional whims that a petulant mind conjures time and again; something I like to call arbit crap. One of the salient features of such form of (erm) literature is that I don’t have to constrict myself to a definite style of writing, a set plot, a logical sequence of ideas…nothing. I can ramble about absolutely anything I want. This particular piece of writing is inspired partly by sheer indolence and partly by my efforts to stay away from mundane engineering realities. To put it in plain words, I want to postpone studying for as long as I can; hence I shall write a lot about absolutely nothing specific. Yes, I am sure this will be an absolutely charming exercise.

Well in order to kick off, I look around my room looking for absolutely anything that could help me in increasing the word count of this composition. My eyes fall on a sky blue coloured hard bound publication whose name is synonymous with winds. Zephyr, right now an object of detached attachment was not long back one of the most integral factors in my day to day life. It represented a culmination of everything I am god at and every creative pursuit I care about. But ya thanks to certain elements and misgivings beyond my control, all that has changed. Zephyr now is a rather painful reminder of my absolutely wonderful association with the editorial board of the college. The previous sentence might sound a little self contradictory but it sums up my sentiments about the issue. More than anything else Zephyr represents a certain dream that never really managed to take shape. The dream to possess an entity called “my magazine”. Yes, it can be safely said that this particular fancy of mine has been shelved for life. Ah well, enough of the senti cribbing. Life moves on and so will I, well someday.

After that rather bleak beginning, lets move on to something brighter, something ethereally beautiful…something that dazzles in its sheer magnificence. The people who know me well enough will know instantly that there is just one entity under this sky that I am generous enough to shower such lavish praises upon… (Phew that was a bloody long and useless sentence) Yes I am talking about the batting of Sachin Tendulkar. Well I cannot write anything about the maestro that hasn’t already been said or written. He is one of the only people who have been a source of inspiration to me. This particular gentleman is poetry in motion. His immaculate straight drive, his cheeky paddle sweep, his majestic drive through the covers, his ferocious pull shot over deep square leg and his occasional tenacious leg spinners are a source of complete awe to me. He, off late has managed to attract a lot of criticism from a lot of people who want him to hang up his boots and “retire with dignity”. While Sachin answers such criticisms with his bat (and his recently acquired unfortunate habit of getting out in the 90s) my message to all such individuals is simple and lucid… UP YOURS J.

Yes that makes me feel better. Since this is a foray into the diverse universe of the arbit, lets talk about something I saw recently that seems to have emerged out of the same dimension where logic takes a heavy beating. I saw Om Shanti Om hours after being discharged from hospital. Maybe it was the influence of the intra venous drugs but I actually enjoyed the movie. My cynicism is attributed to the fact that in essence the latest of the SRK flicks is pure crap. It makes absolutely no sense and applies to the intellect of the inmates of a mental rehabilitation centre. The movie basically is hash job of Manmohan Desai flicks, brewed in with rather opulent art direction and sets, utterly intentional melodramatic performances by the actors and an aurally pleasant sound track. In spite of all I have said I would be rather hypocritical to say that I did not enjoy the movie. I had a good laugh after a long time in a pretty dingy cinema hall. The movie was senseless because it was supposed to be so. And that is something if duly appreciated will help one to enjoy the movie.

Personal senti crap, cricket and the frivolity of Bollywood; yes we really are getting to be arbit. Hmmm so what do I babble about now? Ya I have officially run out of random stuff to write about. So I will not prolong the pain of the people who have actually cared to read so far. This is obviously the first of many such arbit compositions. So all I can say is, stay tuned!