Salaam-e-ishq boldly goes very almost all of Bollywood has gone before: too many songs, too little logic, melodramatic dialogue and a pretense at originality.
The movie weaves 6 tales, all loosely connected to each other in the manner of Love Actually, where each story centers around the theme of love and each has a problem that needs resolution. Now let's sit back and take wild guesses at what these problems would be: married man has affair - of course yes! woman has accident and gets amnesia - Bingo! Yuppie thinks marriage is a prison - Right on! Intercaste marriage? - er no, but we are close coz there's an inter-race marriage issue now! Well, you get my drift...
Director Nikhil Advani clearly has had enough of the new generation of Hindi movies that have come out recently. So he's gone all out in using the old formula of success: take a star cast (a whopping 11 big names), add naach gaana (6 useless tunes and only 1 good cover number from Shankar Ehsaan Loy), and don't bother with the details despite ample time to go beyond superficiality - the movie is more than 3.5 hours long! And finally, give a happy ending - in this case, 5 happy endings and also a "happy ending" of the massage parlor variety if you get my drift.
The tragedy is that Advani has failed to learn from his muse Love Actually what good editing is all about. Honestly, he could have trashed all those useless songs, removed quite a few of the melodramatic scenes that serve no purpose in the story ('papa, please I beg you, show your hatred towards my wife!', etc) and left the movie a few notches higher and me much happier in the bargain.
On the bright side, the cast has acted well, and is quite good looking too.* John Abraham provides many topless and barely covered torso scenes, but for some unfathomable reason he indulges in a lot of baywatch-style running. Salman is looking better and slimmer and less bald. But I wish he'd lost the accent along with the puffiness. Priyanka is as sexy and stylish as ever as an item-girl.
More importantly, There are certainly quite a few laughable moments. Akshaye Khanna and Govinda create some good scenes. Sohail Khan has a role bordering on gross and manages it with aplomb in the few minutes he gets on screen. Only John Abraham keeps on weeping along with Vidya Balan and drinks a lot of glycerine in the bargain. Yes I said 'drinks' glycerine, coz he keeps on kissing the woman's tears in a manner that the director must have found romantic, but personally I find rather yucky.
Verdict: wait for DVD. Movie is timpeass if you keep the remote control's forward button in hand. Certainly better than chhup chhup ke, golmaal, 36 Chinatown and other monstrosities that I've subjected myself to recently.
*cast: John Abraham/Vidya Balan, Sohail Khan/Isha Koppikar, Anil Kapoor/Juhi Chawla, Govinda/ Shannon, Akshaye Khanna/Ayesha Takia, Salman Khan/Priyanka Chopra
Monday, January 29, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
I'm really pissed.
A good book can do that you.
It tricks you into believing strange lands and stranger people, and just when you start getting comfortable with, and even fond of, the characters... well, then in come the villains and ensnare the hero away. Not only do they torture him, but they also screw up all the fancy plans and strategies he'd made and I'd spent so many hours reading. Why couldn't the asses just take the money, or kill each other, or die of spontaneous combustion or bad luck or whatever. But no, coz apparently there's a law similar to gravity that operates in novels to keep the hero downtrodden right till the last page.
So it is that I'm gnashing my teeth while my dashing man has been caught in the wily snares of lots and lots of women. I hope the beating he's getting from them will make him stop trusting them FINALLY, coz frankly, I can't bear the pain they give him at every corner. Last night I could barely sleep wondering who on Earth will rescue him.
The only comfort is that he is the hero of the novel after all, so I can reasonably hope that he will be alive and well in the end (and cornered by the right women too).
The bad news is that what I'm reading is the 6th book in a series of 13 novels of which only 12 have been written. So just in case the author Robert Jordan fails to write the final installment of The Wheel Of Time series, there is a good chance that I'll be stuck waiting for a rescue mission.
Now if I were to write a book, it would be different.
The hero would be a mish-mash of South Indian actors - Rajnikanth, Vijaykanth, etc. Therefore he would be capable of doing anything, by which I mean ANYTHING. (giving electric shocks to electric shocks, biting bullets fired at him, surviving 10-storey falls, etc etc) So no way that even an army of a thousand Indian soldiers, or even two Australian cricket teams, could bind and take him away.
And to bolster my readers confidence further, my villains would be a cross between Kevin Spacey in The Superman Returns and Dr Evil in Austin Powers - you know, sufficiently senile to be their own enemies, and so obviously evil that the hero has no chance of confusing them with the good guys.
And even then, to ensure that no readers of mine get nervous palpitations regarding my hero's future, I will kill them on the first page.
Horrible goons, namely Mister Sinister and Blood-thirsty-Vampireman are dead, my story would begin. For the rest I can harp on about the delicious food he is eating and the enthralling parties he's going to. I know it sounds like a Page 3 story, but you know what, those things make money. Besides, wouldn't it be a nice change for your wife/husband to not find you clutching a book at 12 pm at night, desperately trying to read fast to the point where the hero finally manages to aim at the right head in a bullet fight?
A good book can do that you.
It tricks you into believing strange lands and stranger people, and just when you start getting comfortable with, and even fond of, the characters... well, then in come the villains and ensnare the hero away. Not only do they torture him, but they also screw up all the fancy plans and strategies he'd made and I'd spent so many hours reading. Why couldn't the asses just take the money, or kill each other, or die of spontaneous combustion or bad luck or whatever. But no, coz apparently there's a law similar to gravity that operates in novels to keep the hero downtrodden right till the last page.
So it is that I'm gnashing my teeth while my dashing man has been caught in the wily snares of lots and lots of women. I hope the beating he's getting from them will make him stop trusting them FINALLY, coz frankly, I can't bear the pain they give him at every corner. Last night I could barely sleep wondering who on Earth will rescue him.
The only comfort is that he is the hero of the novel after all, so I can reasonably hope that he will be alive and well in the end (and cornered by the right women too).
The bad news is that what I'm reading is the 6th book in a series of 13 novels of which only 12 have been written. So just in case the author Robert Jordan fails to write the final installment of The Wheel Of Time series, there is a good chance that I'll be stuck waiting for a rescue mission.
Now if I were to write a book, it would be different.
The hero would be a mish-mash of South Indian actors - Rajnikanth, Vijaykanth, etc. Therefore he would be capable of doing anything, by which I mean ANYTHING. (giving electric shocks to electric shocks, biting bullets fired at him, surviving 10-storey falls, etc etc) So no way that even an army of a thousand Indian soldiers, or even two Australian cricket teams, could bind and take him away.
And to bolster my readers confidence further, my villains would be a cross between Kevin Spacey in The Superman Returns and Dr Evil in Austin Powers - you know, sufficiently senile to be their own enemies, and so obviously evil that the hero has no chance of confusing them with the good guys.
And even then, to ensure that no readers of mine get nervous palpitations regarding my hero's future, I will kill them on the first page.
Horrible goons, namely Mister Sinister and Blood-thirsty-Vampireman are dead, my story would begin. For the rest I can harp on about the delicious food he is eating and the enthralling parties he's going to. I know it sounds like a Page 3 story, but you know what, those things make money. Besides, wouldn't it be a nice change for your wife/husband to not find you clutching a book at 12 pm at night, desperately trying to read fast to the point where the hero finally manages to aim at the right head in a bullet fight?
Monday, January 22, 2007
Saving women from themselves
Anti-abortionists in US have found a new reason for their crusade, according to my morning newspaper. Women suffer psychological problems after abortions, they say, and should therefore be denied the option.
I wish they would shut up. It's probably true, or maybe it isn't. But either way, they cannot usurp authority over women whose decision it is to make. Pregnant women aren't retards. And they aren't thrill-seekers who set themselves up into pregnancy for the fun of morning sickness or the adventure of having an abortion. They're in a situation where they've realised they cannot support a child - and unless the embryo is conscious to pain (which it isn't) - they should have a right to decide.
I also wish the lobby would shut up with all the talk of the "baby" they wish to save. It is not a baby, but an embryo without consciousness most of the time. "Baby" is more apt a description of the thousands who died in pre-war Iraq because of medicine sanctions, and of thousands who are dying in post-war Iraq, thanks to a president whose policies this same lobby supported. And if you think I'm digressing and should leave out the war in my discussion, then let me just say that the anti-abortionists cannot possibly feel more pain at the loss of the "unborn child" than the woman in question herself. She would have given weightage to the factor, most of the time. Moreover, at late stages of pregnancy (when you may debate on the issue of consciousness) abortion is medically risky for the mother too so it would very rarely happen.
Anyhow, coming back to the new argument the lobby has uncovered: If cigarettes are legal despite being documented lethal, and alcohol is available despite the ills an overdose can cause, why should abortions be banned for the damage they may have? What makes the right to smoke superior to the right to terminate a pregnancy? Especially as the abortion stops an unwanted child - with a high chance of bad childhood which thereafter causes a high chance of criminal adulthood - from coming into the world?
I wish they would shut up. It's probably true, or maybe it isn't. But either way, they cannot usurp authority over women whose decision it is to make. Pregnant women aren't retards. And they aren't thrill-seekers who set themselves up into pregnancy for the fun of morning sickness or the adventure of having an abortion. They're in a situation where they've realised they cannot support a child - and unless the embryo is conscious to pain (which it isn't) - they should have a right to decide.
I also wish the lobby would shut up with all the talk of the "baby" they wish to save. It is not a baby, but an embryo without consciousness most of the time. "Baby" is more apt a description of the thousands who died in pre-war Iraq because of medicine sanctions, and of thousands who are dying in post-war Iraq, thanks to a president whose policies this same lobby supported. And if you think I'm digressing and should leave out the war in my discussion, then let me just say that the anti-abortionists cannot possibly feel more pain at the loss of the "unborn child" than the woman in question herself. She would have given weightage to the factor, most of the time. Moreover, at late stages of pregnancy (when you may debate on the issue of consciousness) abortion is medically risky for the mother too so it would very rarely happen.
Anyhow, coming back to the new argument the lobby has uncovered: If cigarettes are legal despite being documented lethal, and alcohol is available despite the ills an overdose can cause, why should abortions be banned for the damage they may have? What makes the right to smoke superior to the right to terminate a pregnancy? Especially as the abortion stops an unwanted child - with a high chance of bad childhood which thereafter causes a high chance of criminal adulthood - from coming into the world?
Monday, January 08, 2007
Promises, promises....
New year time is resolutions time, and accordingly I have drawn up a list for my husband. He should thank me for it, and probably won't. But that won't stop me from doing what's right which is to let him know what's right for him.
1. Get a six-pack.
No, not the beer but the abs.
2. Develop lesser interest in cricket.
At least, pretend to have lesser interest in cricket when I'm strutting in fancy clothes.
3. Lie, and lie well.
Try to realise that when I ask you to 'be honest', by no means am I actually asking you to be honest. Obviously. All I'm saying is that my own personal honesty is coming in the way of me considering myself Audrey Hepburn, and NOW is the time for you to unleash an Oscar-winning performance that convinces me that I'm Audrey Hepburn incarnate.
4. Stop dating the computer.
I know how much money you spend to accessorise it, how much time you spend to understand it, how you don't realise it's past midnight when you're in a program with it, how you want to turn it on the first thing in the morn, even at 7 am, and if this affair carries on any further you may find this is the only affair you are left with.
5. Give up attempts at aping Dharmendra. In fact, give up what you consider your sense of humor.
6. Start reading my blog.
Rest is censored.
1. Get a six-pack.
No, not the beer but the abs.
2. Develop lesser interest in cricket.
At least, pretend to have lesser interest in cricket when I'm strutting in fancy clothes.
3. Lie, and lie well.
Try to realise that when I ask you to 'be honest', by no means am I actually asking you to be honest. Obviously. All I'm saying is that my own personal honesty is coming in the way of me considering myself Audrey Hepburn, and NOW is the time for you to unleash an Oscar-winning performance that convinces me that I'm Audrey Hepburn incarnate.
4. Stop dating the computer.
I know how much money you spend to accessorise it, how much time you spend to understand it, how you don't realise it's past midnight when you're in a program with it, how you want to turn it on the first thing in the morn, even at 7 am, and if this affair carries on any further you may find this is the only affair you are left with.
5. Give up attempts at aping Dharmendra. In fact, give up what you consider your sense of humor.
6. Start reading my blog.
Rest is censored.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Song Sung Blue
After reading my last post I've realised I may have grown up.
I can remember a time when I thought Madonna was deep. She's got the look was poetry, True Blue moved me to tears, and anyone crooning I Love You in any musical note was heart-searing. I suppose I was deranged.
Yet, as I read my last post, I realise I may still be a sucker.
The lines that move me most in the Windmills of your Mind are
And my latest musical is obsession Johnny Cash singing One, where amongst other things, he wonders
I can remember a time when I thought Madonna was deep. She's got the look was poetry, True Blue moved me to tears, and anyone crooning I Love You in any musical note was heart-searing. I suppose I was deranged.
Yet, as I read my last post, I realise I may still be a sucker.
The lines that move me most in the Windmills of your Mind are
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the colour of hair?
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the colour of hair?
And my latest musical is obsession Johnny Cash singing One, where amongst other things, he wonders
Did I ask too much
More than a lot
You gave me nothing
Now it's all I got
More than a lot
You gave me nothing
Now it's all I got
Looks like all I have achieved is graduating from passion of love to love gone sour. I suppose I have a long way to grow up.
I have managed to acquire a writer's block without being a writer in the first place!
So instead of writing nonsense, let me just post one of favourite song lyrics: Windmills of your mind, penned byAlan Bergman and Marilyn Bergman for the original The Thomas Crown Affair. It's one of those numbers that leaves haunting images in my head.
If you are somehow not impressed (impossible!) by what you read ahead, be sure to listen to the song, and I'm sure you'll change your mind! With music by Michel Legrand, it has even won an Oscar. (Personally I prefer the original by Noel Harrison to Sting's version)
So instead of writing nonsense, let me just post one of favourite song lyrics: Windmills of your mind, penned byAlan Bergman and Marilyn Bergman for the original The Thomas Crown Affair. It's one of those numbers that leaves haunting images in my head.
If you are somehow not impressed (impossible!) by what you read ahead, be sure to listen to the song, and I'm sure you'll change your mind! With music by Michel Legrand, it has even won an Oscar. (Personally I prefer the original by Noel Harrison to Sting's version)
Round,
Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel,
Never ending on beginning,
On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain,
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Spinning silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind
Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Like the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Spinning silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind
Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that I said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
or the fragment of a song,
half-remembered names and faces
but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair?
Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mindTuesday, November 21, 2006
Horn OK Please
There are times when I believe that you've to be born in a place to truly understand its spirit and become an integral part, a notion that is strengthened by movies that showcase Indians not quite fitting abroad, phrases such as ABCD, and of course, idiots such as Bush who spew nonsense about places they've never been to.
And then, every once in a while, I come across portrayals of India by foreigners who've researched the subject for barely a few months and yet hit the nail right on the head.
Check out this short movie 'Horn OK Please'. Directed by Joel Simon, a Belgian, it is inspired by his journey in Mumbai.
Njoy!
HORN OK PLEASE
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And then, every once in a while, I come across portrayals of India by foreigners who've researched the subject for barely a few months and yet hit the nail right on the head.
Check out this short movie 'Horn OK Please'. Directed by Joel Simon, a Belgian, it is inspired by his journey in Mumbai.
Njoy!
HORN OK PLEASE
Add to My Profile | More Videos
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
My husband hasn't spoken in the last three days. Initially, for a hopeful fleeting moment, I thought that I and and my brand new red hair and a kaaya facial must have left him speechless with delight. But no. Viruses apparently have greater influence on him than my face ever did.
Anyhow, since his throat is too congested for conversation, I have finally run out of distractions and reasons that have kept me away from my blog these past few weeks. I'm back, and ready to reopen the space with my tag commitment to The One, even though I really don't like the task he's dumped me with. "8 things about me" takes me straight back to the MBA/job interview preparation days, to one of the most irritating answers I had to mug up and vomit.
Nevertheless, here's a more honest version of those pretentious speeches:
Ek
I am not aggressive. My teachers may have lamented so, my friends may have hinted so, my colleagues may have commented so, and perhaps at some point in time I will have to start acceding that a 100-to-1 majority has the ring of something like truth to it. But as of now, I must say that I am not aggressive.
Do
I get along with kittens better than with children. It's not that I have anything against kids, but just that I've never figured out their wavelength nor how to converse with them. Mostly I just give them an uncertain smile and that pretty much brings an end to their interest in me.
Teen
Aishwarya Rai's pseudo-smile nauseates me and I am delighted that Umraao Jaan has all the promise of a flop. The only other woman who nauseates me even more is Ekta 'Balaji' Kapoor.
Char
I love speaking in a punju accent. I used to find it frightful, but ever since I moved out of India I find that way of talking too tantalising to resist. I still don't use it on the roads however, and talk like a true dehati only to the telly.
Paanch
I love make-up, and I love dressing up. So even if you think I've put nothing on my face and am under-dressed for an occassion when you meet me, chances are I've spent at least an hour in front of the mirror.
Chhey
I hate exercising. Luckily, I also hate most sweets.
Saat
I hate getting old so much that I am not above pretending about it. On my latest birthday last month (when I turned 28 :() I bought myself a cake that announced 'Sweet 16'. Of course, I may not look 16, but then, Aamir doesn't look like a college kid either and if Rang de Basanti can carry it off, then, ahem, then so can I.
Aath
I day-dream non-stop. My brain doesn't know what it is to be blank, so if I'm not working or problem-solving, then I'm definitely cooking up a movie starring myself in my head. Apparently, (I read somewhere) enacting stuff in your head can spur that stuff to happen in real life. So if I become a singer-actor-writer-diva, you know the secret behind it.
That's all.
Anyhow, since his throat is too congested for conversation, I have finally run out of distractions and reasons that have kept me away from my blog these past few weeks. I'm back, and ready to reopen the space with my tag commitment to The One, even though I really don't like the task he's dumped me with. "8 things about me" takes me straight back to the MBA/job interview preparation days, to one of the most irritating answers I had to mug up and vomit.
Nevertheless, here's a more honest version of those pretentious speeches:
Ek
I am not aggressive. My teachers may have lamented so, my friends may have hinted so, my colleagues may have commented so, and perhaps at some point in time I will have to start acceding that a 100-to-1 majority has the ring of something like truth to it. But as of now, I must say that I am not aggressive.
Do
I get along with kittens better than with children. It's not that I have anything against kids, but just that I've never figured out their wavelength nor how to converse with them. Mostly I just give them an uncertain smile and that pretty much brings an end to their interest in me.
Teen
Aishwarya Rai's pseudo-smile nauseates me and I am delighted that Umraao Jaan has all the promise of a flop. The only other woman who nauseates me even more is Ekta 'Balaji' Kapoor.
Char
I love speaking in a punju accent. I used to find it frightful, but ever since I moved out of India I find that way of talking too tantalising to resist. I still don't use it on the roads however, and talk like a true dehati only to the telly.
Paanch
I love make-up, and I love dressing up. So even if you think I've put nothing on my face and am under-dressed for an occassion when you meet me, chances are I've spent at least an hour in front of the mirror.
Chhey
I hate exercising. Luckily, I also hate most sweets.
Saat
I hate getting old so much that I am not above pretending about it. On my latest birthday last month (when I turned 28 :() I bought myself a cake that announced 'Sweet 16'. Of course, I may not look 16, but then, Aamir doesn't look like a college kid either and if Rang de Basanti can carry it off, then, ahem, then so can I.
Aath
I day-dream non-stop. My brain doesn't know what it is to be blank, so if I'm not working or problem-solving, then I'm definitely cooking up a movie starring myself in my head. Apparently, (I read somewhere) enacting stuff in your head can spur that stuff to happen in real life. So if I become a singer-actor-writer-diva, you know the secret behind it.
That's all.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I guess, after all, that I am not that artistic.
Last few movies that I've seen - all of them being the award-winning, criticially acclaimed variety - have left me quite untouched. Sure I sat through all of them, not entirely bored, and even admiring as the occassion demanded: the composition of frames here, the placement of a certain prop there, the depth of acting, the grace of certain dialogues - but that only goes on to show I was simply not engrossed enough to get lost in the movie and was instead analysing the technicalities in a detached fashion.
Of course, I defended them robustly to my lesser-pretentious half, who had declined to see some of these movies at all and gave up some more half-way. Unlike him, I persevered, intent on broadening my mind with these works of art, and impressing upon my husband and my myself just how discerning I was. So cool and oh! so refined.
But I guess it is time to give up.
Flattering though it is to have the DVD shop assistant handing me what I want with aplomb, diving right into his collection where he knows exactly where the coveted item is and handing it to me with a smile that only two people who care about the same thing can share - it is time to move on to other things less worthy.
It's not as if I love slapstick, but a doubt that I will ever understand just why The Dreamers is about innocence and not incestuous porn. And that can only mean one thing: I'm no high-brow.
Last few movies that I've seen - all of them being the award-winning, criticially acclaimed variety - have left me quite untouched. Sure I sat through all of them, not entirely bored, and even admiring as the occassion demanded: the composition of frames here, the placement of a certain prop there, the depth of acting, the grace of certain dialogues - but that only goes on to show I was simply not engrossed enough to get lost in the movie and was instead analysing the technicalities in a detached fashion.
Of course, I defended them robustly to my lesser-pretentious half, who had declined to see some of these movies at all and gave up some more half-way. Unlike him, I persevered, intent on broadening my mind with these works of art, and impressing upon my husband and my myself just how discerning I was. So cool and oh! so refined.
But I guess it is time to give up.
Flattering though it is to have the DVD shop assistant handing me what I want with aplomb, diving right into his collection where he knows exactly where the coveted item is and handing it to me with a smile that only two people who care about the same thing can share - it is time to move on to other things less worthy.
It's not as if I love slapstick, but a doubt that I will ever understand just why The Dreamers is about innocence and not incestuous porn. And that can only mean one thing: I'm no high-brow.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Insomnia
Vipul and I recently completed seven years together, so I guess it was time I started getting the itch. Still, had not expected things to turn out so literally disconfitting! Past couple of weeks, have been feeling surprisngly like the princess in the fairytale that also stars the pea.
(For the forgetful, the story revolves around the real princess, proven to be real by the fact that she feels back-wrecking discomfiture from a single pea that rests below her bedding, a bedding that consists of 20 fat mattresses.)
Unfortunately, I can't even find that pea. Every few days or so, bouts of restlessness assail me in the morn and the weight of insomnia plagues me at night. As if something incomprehensible is nudging me to distraction. Nothing feels comfortable: the sofa's are too light, the floor too hard, the chairs unsufferably constricting, the matterss a big bore.... I feel like shedding my skin like a snake and slipping into something more comfortable and new. My body right now feels like an outfit two sizes too small, and as if I was doing yoga in it.
Fellow insomniacs may know what I mean. It's so frustrating!
The cuplprit is probably too match caffiene, or too little exercise. Anyhow, won't be surprised if I jump into meditation next for a cure. Pity, that unlike the parable, I have no royal blood nor riches to make up for the problem.
(For the forgetful, the story revolves around the real princess, proven to be real by the fact that she feels back-wrecking discomfiture from a single pea that rests below her bedding, a bedding that consists of 20 fat mattresses.)
Unfortunately, I can't even find that pea. Every few days or so, bouts of restlessness assail me in the morn and the weight of insomnia plagues me at night. As if something incomprehensible is nudging me to distraction. Nothing feels comfortable: the sofa's are too light, the floor too hard, the chairs unsufferably constricting, the matterss a big bore.... I feel like shedding my skin like a snake and slipping into something more comfortable and new. My body right now feels like an outfit two sizes too small, and as if I was doing yoga in it.
Fellow insomniacs may know what I mean. It's so frustrating!
The cuplprit is probably too match caffiene, or too little exercise. Anyhow, won't be surprised if I jump into meditation next for a cure. Pity, that unlike the parable, I have no royal blood nor riches to make up for the problem.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Munnabhai's mindblowing
I went to the hall last night praying for Arshad Warsi to get a lot of screen time. Hoping for a tight script without loose ends. Imagining the possibilities of jokes that weren't reruns. And surprise, surprise, I got it all!
Lage Raho Munnabhai is a superb potboiler that made me laugh non-stop, and I cannot remember the last time this happened to me in a Hindi movie in my adult life. Indeed, apart from Vidya Balan's ultra-long, reshammiya-voiced "Good Morniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing" the movie is simply perfect.
The story, smartly avoiding a pure duplication of Munnabhai MBBS, is the journey of Munna bhai (Sanjay Dutt) wooing his lady love Jahanvi (Vidya Balan). Helping him achieve his goal are mainly two men: one who inspires my heart :D - Circuit (Arshad Warsi), and another who inspires mine and thousands others' souls - Mahatma Gandhi. Full credit goes to the screenplay and dialogues of Rajkumar Hirani and Abhijat Joshi for marrying Gandhism flawlessly into the script; I love the way they use the serious theme without compromising on the humour, and ultimately manage to create an original, pacy script. Very impressive, especially against the backdrop of copycats that we have been getting lately.
Sanjay Dutt may look a tad old in the movie posters, nevertheless both he and his govinda-coloured-shirts shine through. He has certainly improved his performance in this sequel. Arshad Warsi and his gold chains too are better than ever. In fact, their team performance has convinced me to next have a peek at Anthony Kaun Hai so as to enjoy their chemistry yet again.
Also excellently matched are Boman Irani and his Punju accent. All in all, these three carry the movie on their shoulders to create a hilarious, vivacious, adorable, enthralling experience.
Clap Clap Clap
Lage Raho Munnabhai is a superb potboiler that made me laugh non-stop, and I cannot remember the last time this happened to me in a Hindi movie in my adult life. Indeed, apart from Vidya Balan's ultra-long, reshammiya-voiced "Good Morniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing" the movie is simply perfect.
The story, smartly avoiding a pure duplication of Munnabhai MBBS, is the journey of Munna bhai (Sanjay Dutt) wooing his lady love Jahanvi (Vidya Balan). Helping him achieve his goal are mainly two men: one who inspires my heart :D - Circuit (Arshad Warsi), and another who inspires mine and thousands others' souls - Mahatma Gandhi. Full credit goes to the screenplay and dialogues of Rajkumar Hirani and Abhijat Joshi for marrying Gandhism flawlessly into the script; I love the way they use the serious theme without compromising on the humour, and ultimately manage to create an original, pacy script. Very impressive, especially against the backdrop of copycats that we have been getting lately.
Sanjay Dutt may look a tad old in the movie posters, nevertheless both he and his govinda-coloured-shirts shine through. He has certainly improved his performance in this sequel. Arshad Warsi and his gold chains too are better than ever. In fact, their team performance has convinced me to next have a peek at Anthony Kaun Hai so as to enjoy their chemistry yet again.
Also excellently matched are Boman Irani and his Punju accent. All in all, these three carry the movie on their shoulders to create a hilarious, vivacious, adorable, enthralling experience.
Clap Clap Clap
Thursday, August 31, 2006
The inevitable has happened. I miss Minoo, the cat more than I miss Vipul, the husband.
Maybe it's simply because Vipul is home and therefore difficult to miss. Or maybe it is a sort of forbidden fruit syndrome: Vipul is ghar ki Murgi, living with me while Minoo belongs to someone else. Either way, the point is that my cat-sitting is over, she has been reclaimed and taken to her original home, and I'm musing over her idiosyncracies in my head.
It is strange to no longer be woken up by her vociferous mewing in the morning. Once Vipul's alarm had broken her sleep, Minoo ensured the we got up as well. Mostly she accomplished this by short bark-like meows, and sometimes through cajoling licks of her sandpapery tongue over my face. Either way, she started the day with the misconception that she was a dog and made my day start like a Nescafe coffee ad.
Of course, the rest of the day was as unlike a coffee ad as can be, coz it was as full of sleeping and lazing as can be. I have never done as much of nothing as I did in the past six weeks. Initially I'd thought that having a cat might inspire me to write out more stuff, but as is now clear, her yawns were far too influential to get anything at all done.
Still, I did get one thing accomplished, and that's a good load of snaps. I've pasted some on my blog before, and here's the final tranche:
Maybe it's simply because Vipul is home and therefore difficult to miss. Or maybe it is a sort of forbidden fruit syndrome: Vipul is ghar ki Murgi, living with me while Minoo belongs to someone else. Either way, the point is that my cat-sitting is over, she has been reclaimed and taken to her original home, and I'm musing over her idiosyncracies in my head.
It is strange to no longer be woken up by her vociferous mewing in the morning. Once Vipul's alarm had broken her sleep, Minoo ensured the we got up as well. Mostly she accomplished this by short bark-like meows, and sometimes through cajoling licks of her sandpapery tongue over my face. Either way, she started the day with the misconception that she was a dog and made my day start like a Nescafe coffee ad.
Of course, the rest of the day was as unlike a coffee ad as can be, coz it was as full of sleeping and lazing as can be. I have never done as much of nothing as I did in the past six weeks. Initially I'd thought that having a cat might inspire me to write out more stuff, but as is now clear, her yawns were far too influential to get anything at all done.
Still, I did get one thing accomplished, and that's a good load of snaps. I've pasted some on my blog before, and here's the final tranche:
Friday, August 25, 2006
Tagging along
Quicksilver has tagged me into a confessionary, so here goes:
I am thinking about...
... loopholes in my sugar-free diet. So far, it is clear that strawberry ice-cream counts as a serving of fruit
I said...
... "coochie poochie", "shweetie paee" and other nonsensical gibberish for the first time in my life last month. After years of holding baby-talk in contempt, I somehow succumbed during one-on-one quality time with my new cat.
I want to...
... stop this baby-talk before I let it slip in public and embarrass myself
I wish...
... humans had never evolved beyond apes
I hear...
... all sorts of gossip while pretending not to listen
I wonder...
... if people know I'm listening coz I've never caught anyone bitching about me red-handed
I regret...
... being a super-mean ice-queen to the first guy I had a crush on
I am...
... a wannabe atheist. What keeps me from becoming a full-fledged atheist is that I'm so angry with God, which by implication means I think he is there somewhere for me to be angry at.
I dance...
... sexily with women only
I sing...
... better after a few drinks
I cry...
... at the darndest moments. I bawled throughout My Fair Lady when I saw it the first time because I felt fo sorry for Audrey Hepburn, the flower-girl!
I am not always...
... the dictator my friends make me out to be
I make with my hand...
... really awful Sangria
I write...
... very corny poems on an anonymous blog
I confuse...
... directions like a prototype for stereotypical man-woman books
I need...
... more optimism, more creativity, more frequent partying, more toned-up abs, more happeninng life,... In short, I need to be 20 years old again :)
I tag...
... Amy, J, and N. Let's hear you spill some secrets!
I am thinking about...
... loopholes in my sugar-free diet. So far, it is clear that strawberry ice-cream counts as a serving of fruit
I said...
... "coochie poochie", "shweetie paee" and other nonsensical gibberish for the first time in my life last month. After years of holding baby-talk in contempt, I somehow succumbed during one-on-one quality time with my new cat.
I want to...
... stop this baby-talk before I let it slip in public and embarrass myself
I wish...
... humans had never evolved beyond apes
I hear...
... all sorts of gossip while pretending not to listen
I wonder...
... if people know I'm listening coz I've never caught anyone bitching about me red-handed
I regret...
... being a super-mean ice-queen to the first guy I had a crush on
I am...
... a wannabe atheist. What keeps me from becoming a full-fledged atheist is that I'm so angry with God, which by implication means I think he is there somewhere for me to be angry at.
I dance...
... sexily with women only
I sing...
... better after a few drinks
I cry...
... at the darndest moments. I bawled throughout My Fair Lady when I saw it the first time because I felt fo sorry for Audrey Hepburn, the flower-girl!
I am not always...
... the dictator my friends make me out to be
I make with my hand...
... really awful Sangria
I write...
... very corny poems on an anonymous blog
I confuse...
... directions like a prototype for stereotypical man-woman books
I need...
... more optimism, more creativity, more frequent partying, more toned-up abs, more happeninng life,... In short, I need to be 20 years old again :)
I tag...
... Amy, J, and N. Let's hear you spill some secrets!
Monday, August 21, 2006
I knew Indian organisations were thinking global like never before. But I guess I hadn't really reckoned just how much till I saw this in my newspaper today:
a medical college in Bijapur (???who's ever heard of such a place outside of a Bollywood movie!!) advertising to potential students in Hong Kong!
Nope, I wasn't reading some small-time paper targeted at the Indian minority abroad, but HK/China's mainstream english newspaper, South China Morning Post. Of course, knowing what pre-coffee mornings can be, for a few seconds after I saw the ad even I did wonder whether I'd lost my bearings and was actually sitting over damn old TOI.
Now I can well imagine what inspired this secluded place in Karnataka to want NRIs on its rolls, but what on earth makes them expect a response? Having never heard their name till date, I doubt their NRI hostel on Sholapur Road is filled chockablock. But hell, no business house affiliation (which a good number of small little medical schools across the counrty are) would waste money like this without reason. Any ideas?
a medical college in Bijapur (???who's ever heard of such a place outside of a Bollywood movie!!) advertising to potential students in Hong Kong!
Nope, I wasn't reading some small-time paper targeted at the Indian minority abroad, but HK/China's mainstream english newspaper, South China Morning Post. Of course, knowing what pre-coffee mornings can be, for a few seconds after I saw the ad even I did wonder whether I'd lost my bearings and was actually sitting over damn old TOI.
Now I can well imagine what inspired this secluded place in Karnataka to want NRIs on its rolls, but what on earth makes them expect a response? Having never heard their name till date, I doubt their NRI hostel on Sholapur Road is filled chockablock. But hell, no business house affiliation (which a good number of small little medical schools across the counrty are) would waste money like this without reason. Any ideas?
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
The good thing about having women guests at home is that I get good excuses and great company to dress up with.
The bad part is that when we ask around how we look, we get standard replies. And I'm not talking about the universal "nice" and "no you don't look fat, you're just fine" statements.
"That bag is too Shabby" says my husband of almost every bag I pick up. Everything's either too shabby, or too frayed, or too old, or too used, or some such thing.
Is this, I imagine out loud, what he's going to tell me when I develop crow's feet, and laugh lines, and frown burrows, and patchy baldness after using my body another twenty years?
To which I'm told: Of course not! Those stand for character. They represent the life you've lived, the sorrows you've been through, the moments you've grown from... they're going to be souveniers that we'll treasure. (Ok so my husband didn't exactly say that, but Oprah probably did)
To which my point is that: if a shabby face is beautiful because of the life that lies behind it, then why not a frayed bag or a braised car or holed shoes? Why can't my man look beyond my Shabby Bag, and discover its amazing elegance and worldly-wisdom? And why can't he appreciate my dad's car's unrepaired dents and be impressed by its Houdini-like escapes? Why doesn't he go gaga over the WWF-ness of our chipped glass decoration pieces, and laugh at my clumsiness that they represent?
And while he's at it, any chance that he also expand his vocab beyond "nice" and "fine"???
The bad part is that when we ask around how we look, we get standard replies. And I'm not talking about the universal "nice" and "no you don't look fat, you're just fine" statements.
"That bag is too Shabby" says my husband of almost every bag I pick up. Everything's either too shabby, or too frayed, or too old, or too used, or some such thing.
Is this, I imagine out loud, what he's going to tell me when I develop crow's feet, and laugh lines, and frown burrows, and patchy baldness after using my body another twenty years?
To which I'm told: Of course not! Those stand for character. They represent the life you've lived, the sorrows you've been through, the moments you've grown from... they're going to be souveniers that we'll treasure. (Ok so my husband didn't exactly say that, but Oprah probably did)
To which my point is that: if a shabby face is beautiful because of the life that lies behind it, then why not a frayed bag or a braised car or holed shoes? Why can't my man look beyond my Shabby Bag, and discover its amazing elegance and worldly-wisdom? And why can't he appreciate my dad's car's unrepaired dents and be impressed by its Houdini-like escapes? Why doesn't he go gaga over the WWF-ness of our chipped glass decoration pieces, and laugh at my clumsiness that they represent?
And while he's at it, any chance that he also expand his vocab beyond "nice" and "fine"???
Monday, August 07, 2006
update....
Last couple of weeks I was absent from the blogosphere for a very noble cause. I was busy helping the Hong Kong retail sector improve its performance. My sister, here on a visit from India, and I, did all we could to ensure that the shopping festival was a success. Visiting malls, eating out, buying stuff that looks good on mannequins today and will hopefully fit us by next summer, etc etc. It has been hectic, but now she's gone, and I'm back, and we're both broke.
Meanwhile, Minoo instead is alive and kicking, even if a tad forgetful. She talks via barks, and licks our feet, and sleeps on her back at times, and thus has clearly lost her identity along with the owner. But luckily she hasn't forgotten how to use the litter box, so I cannot complain!
Meanwhile, Minoo instead is alive and kicking, even if a tad forgetful. She talks via barks, and licks our feet, and sleeps on her back at times, and thus has clearly lost her identity along with the owner. But luckily she hasn't forgotten how to use the litter box, so I cannot complain!
Monday, July 17, 2006
She's five years old. And she's been sulking since morning, right from the time she entered my home. Not quite what I'd expected foster parenting to be - I mean, sure, I had excpected tantrums, and sobbing, and a distant stranger. But Minoo has come with a different set of stress symptoms atogether.
She's sneaked under the bed, and lodged herself between a high suitcase and the low bed panelling, and refuses to come out. She also refuses to eat or drink. It would have been a total crisis situation except for the fact that she does at least meow in conversation once in a while. And she lets herself be scratched with my outstretched hand after I slither my (nearly) three decades old body at ground level. Then she suddenly comes alive and maneouvres her head and neck so that I get the spots right. But that's about it.
I wonder how many more hours to go before she'll fell confident enough to venture out, and whether it will be possible to vaccum out her hair from our black bag when she does. I hope it happens before her five weeks at my place are up. For one thing, if she doesn't get back her spirit and enslave my husband soon, he may veto all my plans of adopting a cat by end of this year!
She's sneaked under the bed, and lodged herself between a high suitcase and the low bed panelling, and refuses to come out. She also refuses to eat or drink. It would have been a total crisis situation except for the fact that she does at least meow in conversation once in a while. And she lets herself be scratched with my outstretched hand after I slither my (nearly) three decades old body at ground level. Then she suddenly comes alive and maneouvres her head and neck so that I get the spots right. But that's about it.
I wonder how many more hours to go before she'll fell confident enough to venture out, and whether it will be possible to vaccum out her hair from our black bag when she does. I hope it happens before her five weeks at my place are up. For one thing, if she doesn't get back her spirit and enslave my husband soon, he may veto all my plans of adopting a cat by end of this year!
Thursday, July 06, 2006
The Bill in me
Today I had excellent jam from breakfast, with compliments from Shangri La. They'd actually given their compliments a month ago, to my friend who was staying at their fancy hotel. But the freecycler in me couldn't let the cute little bottles of marmalade and honey get cleared away with the room breakfast when I visited her.
My friend encouraged me to pick the goodies and was glad to see her money recovered. (She would have picked them herself had they been sugar-free)
I don't think Shangri La cared.
But my husband, as usual, is the problem. He thinks this amounts to stealing. In fact, he thinks this everytime we are out on vacation when the magpie in me collects matchboxes and stationery with glee, therefore at those points of time he frowns as menacingly as he can, which given his lineless forehead, isn't half as scary as he imagines it to be. So I continue.
Besides, his opinion on morals doesn't carry water given that he's a banker. And not just any banker - but a banker working in credit derivatives. For the uninformed, let me just say that Warren Buffet considers what he sells "time bomb"s. Me thinks his snooty highness finds two-dollar robberies beneath contemplation and would be quite delighted if I stole the whole Shangri La itself.
Anyhow, his opinion is quite dwarfed by a celebrity endorsesment I have just uncovered. The marvellously funny Bill Bryson, whose 'Notes from a small island' I am currently reading, candidly reveals his pocketing at an expensive hotel. I am a bit dubious about his being as Scroogy as he sets himself to be in the rest of the pages, [given how rich fans such as me must have made him], but in any case, it is nice to knaow that I and Bill have at least one thing in common. And I intend to keep it that way.
My friend encouraged me to pick the goodies and was glad to see her money recovered. (She would have picked them herself had they been sugar-free)
I don't think Shangri La cared.
But my husband, as usual, is the problem. He thinks this amounts to stealing. In fact, he thinks this everytime we are out on vacation when the magpie in me collects matchboxes and stationery with glee, therefore at those points of time he frowns as menacingly as he can, which given his lineless forehead, isn't half as scary as he imagines it to be. So I continue.
Besides, his opinion on morals doesn't carry water given that he's a banker. And not just any banker - but a banker working in credit derivatives. For the uninformed, let me just say that Warren Buffet considers what he sells "time bomb"s. Me thinks his snooty highness finds two-dollar robberies beneath contemplation and would be quite delighted if I stole the whole Shangri La itself.
Anyhow, his opinion is quite dwarfed by a celebrity endorsesment I have just uncovered. The marvellously funny Bill Bryson, whose 'Notes from a small island' I am currently reading, candidly reveals his pocketing at an expensive hotel. I am a bit dubious about his being as Scroogy as he sets himself to be in the rest of the pages, [given how rich fans such as me must have made him], but in any case, it is nice to knaow that I and Bill have at least one thing in common. And I intend to keep it that way.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
I've always hated weddings. Even back in school I can recall trying to wriggle out of attending ceremonies that my parents were invited to. Partly of course coz teenagers are embarrassed to be anywere in the visible radius of thir folks. But largely because I found them depressing - always ended up feeling sorry for the brides in question. How could I not feel pity for someone whose face was doused in Red lipstick, Red bindi, Red eye-shadow, Red cheek blush, and Red in every other remaining nook and corner as well. And just in case the beautician had missed a spot on the visage, her embarassment and glaring stage lights were enough to cover the remains, also in Red. What a way to begin a new life, I would think, and almost weep.
Thankfully I was young, and could easily avoid most occassions by pretending to be in the thick of studies and narrowly avoiding failure in the next exam. It worked like a charm right through school and college, and even university. But it hardly sufficed against the big daddy of them all - my own matrimonial marathon.
As expected, I look as Red as Christmas. Resembled a witch straight out of a bloodbath. [Somehow, my husband thinks I look cute as a doll, but then he has strange tastes, Or he's a liar, Or deeply blinded by love. whatever]
I would show you the snaps, but I don't enjoy writing lengthy disclaimers for heart patients. Plus I don't have the pics with me any longer. They're housed in my parents' place, where I intend to keep them despite their protests. They wanted the wedding. They can keep the snaps. I wanted the marriage. I'll keep the husband.
Thankfully I was young, and could easily avoid most occassions by pretending to be in the thick of studies and narrowly avoiding failure in the next exam. It worked like a charm right through school and college, and even university. But it hardly sufficed against the big daddy of them all - my own matrimonial marathon.
As expected, I look as Red as Christmas. Resembled a witch straight out of a bloodbath. [Somehow, my husband thinks I look cute as a doll, but then he has strange tastes, Or he's a liar, Or deeply blinded by love. whatever]
I would show you the snaps, but I don't enjoy writing lengthy disclaimers for heart patients. Plus I don't have the pics with me any longer. They're housed in my parents' place, where I intend to keep them despite their protests. They wanted the wedding. They can keep the snaps. I wanted the marriage. I'll keep the husband.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Ghosts
Today is dedicated to the reading my old diaries. To the hundreds of good looking guys that littered Delhi's streets when I was young and hormoneful. To the thousands of times I fell in love with at first glance, and out of love two weeks later. To the mllions of times I felt that it was the best day of my life.
It's just that I am unpacking my bags for my new house. And in the middle of the mess is my box of memories - useless stuff such as old movie tickets, college rock show entrance cards, school uniform remains, pages from diaries - useless stuff, yet priceless... all souveniers of a time when I was really alive. When everything, just everything, mattered. When every smile could be dissected into a thousand meanings ('He likes Me!', 'How dare he sneer!'. 'I am super duper funny!', or as was most often, 'He is so Sweeeeeet!') Yes, every feeling had an exclamation mark, every mood was heady, and there was nothing that inspired nothing. Life was a Bollywood movie. An inconsequential Helen-Sridevi-Jeetendra movie maybe, but a movie nevertheless.
Here's a scrap of something I then wrote:
Speak those words
that your eyes say
everytime you look at me
After all,
it is just a metter a time
before you cease to look at me
and I cease to understand your silence
Coz that's what always happens -
Things end.
So say something,
coz words I can remember
and words can soothe,
but memories blur and fade away,
and tomorrow I will not believe
in what I think I saw today
Interesting in hindsight, (and enchanting when you are living them), how chemicals irridescently colour our world. And funny even how "adolescence is the most difficult period of your life" according to my mom, but it is the most beautiful. So wonderfully exaggerated, so brimming with emotion.
I would gladly live that madness again.
It's just that I am unpacking my bags for my new house. And in the middle of the mess is my box of memories - useless stuff such as old movie tickets, college rock show entrance cards, school uniform remains, pages from diaries - useless stuff, yet priceless... all souveniers of a time when I was really alive. When everything, just everything, mattered. When every smile could be dissected into a thousand meanings ('He likes Me!', 'How dare he sneer!'. 'I am super duper funny!', or as was most often, 'He is so Sweeeeeet!') Yes, every feeling had an exclamation mark, every mood was heady, and there was nothing that inspired nothing. Life was a Bollywood movie. An inconsequential Helen-Sridevi-Jeetendra movie maybe, but a movie nevertheless.
Here's a scrap of something I then wrote:
Speak those words
that your eyes say
everytime you look at me
After all,
it is just a metter a time
before you cease to look at me
and I cease to understand your silence
Coz that's what always happens -
Things end.
So say something,
coz words I can remember
and words can soothe,
but memories blur and fade away,
and tomorrow I will not believe
in what I think I saw today
Interesting in hindsight, (and enchanting when you are living them), how chemicals irridescently colour our world. And funny even how "adolescence is the most difficult period of your life" according to my mom, but it is the most beautiful. So wonderfully exaggerated, so brimming with emotion.
I would gladly live that madness again.
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