Best Friends Forever

Me, Mangs and Tan

As I saw her walk away, her little yellow sweater knotted firmly at her waist, her long ponytail swinging ever so slightly, and her gait of mingled nervousness and excitement, I knew life had changed...
Natasha, Tanya and I – with us, three’s never been a crowd, and when Natasha and I went to see off Tanya at the airport, two just didn’t seem like company. Tanya has taken up a course in the UK and has moved there. Many friends have, but watching her walk away, made me feel empty. ‘Empty’ because one phase of our life together had come to an end. ‘Empty’ because we’re never going to be little girls in blue uniforms again. ‘Empty’ because she’s not going to be around to give a hug and whisper those words I so need to hear when down. And, ‘empty’ because I have no idea where our lives will take us from here…
The three of us have, like all friends do, made our plans of vacationing together, of visiting, of going on continent/country/world tours…and though I don’t know if these will work out, I’m giving my all to one plan – that of being ‘Best Friends Forever’. That’s the goal. That’s the path. That’s us.

Harry potter and the Magic of Muggles

‘Alohomora!’ echoed Harry, and the door to a world of fantasy, imagination, witches and wizards sprang open. Seven years back, author J K Rowling sent ripples of magic through her first Harry Potter book. The world was hooked. The muggles awaited every edition with baited breath, to live and re-live the fantastical and magical world of the lightning-scarred wizard Harry Potter.
As far as I’m concerned though, the magic didn’t really cast a spell on me seven years back. I had far better things to do than read about an eleven-year-old kid with magical powers, or so I thought. Only recently, after the seventh and the last book was out, did my curiosity get the better of me. I borrowed the first book from a friend, and lo! and behold, I was plunged into the Dursley’s home at Number Four-Privet drive, willingly shoved into the Hogwarts Express, and charmed through the castle of Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft…I played Quidditch, I created patronuses against the deathly dementors, I fought the Boggarts and the trolls, and I set out on the long search for the Dark Lord’s horcruxes, fighting till the very end... I read the seven books in rapt succession, and by the end of the week, I was in love with all things magic!
It was roundabout this time, that my colleague flashed the idea of this story to me. The movies, the merchandise, the characters, the books – we’ve publicised and over-publicised all of that, but what about the very core of the book: What about the phenomena of magic? Potter symbolises the M word like no other. We wonder then if he, along with his creator Rowling, has managed to glamourise, among other things, Indian sorcery?
Street magic, as it is oft termed, has been a solid part of Indian culture and history. It immediately conjures in our mind the picture of our magicians, dressed in colourful garb and long flowing robes, showing us the might of the slight of hand. A deck of cards, rabbits, birds, hats, feathers, coins, and, in the case of P C Sorcar, even the Taj Mahal, dart across our mind. As I pen these lines, I wonder if Harry Potter has renewed interest in magic; and if Harry Potter has suddenly made one look at magic with the eye of greater respect.
My colleague Biswadip Mitra established a ‘Bong connection’ with super magician P C Sorcar Junior, and enjoyed his half hour telephonic chat with the man who modernised magic in India. Speaking from Nellore, in-between his prolonged magic-tour of Andhra Pradesh, Sorcar seemed invigorated while talking about magic. “Everything is magic. We are all magicians,” he said in his distinct style of speaking. “An artist becomes a magician when he draws a rose, because the flower looks so real that you could almost smell it, touch it, feel it. Similarly, poets and writers are magicians of words. Magic is a high-level art form. Through magic, we can try to reach the realm of infinity. But it is not possible. Even my father could not reach there…Magic is part of fantasy. Anything we cannot decipher, becomes magic.”
As Mitra steered the conversation to the lingering topic on our mind, Sorcar took a firm stand. “Harry Potter is a copied concept. You should first think about our ancient characters like Kach and Devjani. You should think about Shukracharya than what Miss Rowling has been brainwashing people with.” He didn’t need to be prodded on, but as Hogwarts School was mentioned, he continued, “This is a problem with us. We go by what the British have told us. The history we learn about our nation and the world was written by the British. They wrote it to serve their purpose…”
We wonder if ‘Miss Rowling’ would be offended! The conversation takes a detour to the future of Indian magic. It is a known fact that Sorcar is planning on opening a Magic University in the suburbs of Kolkata. He shares his vision, “It is my initiative to pass on the skills of Indrajaal Vidya that I have achieved to the next generation of magicians.” Through his Magic University project, he wants to document the skills of Indian who go unrecognised. “That’s my little effort to tell the world about those who sincerely carry forward the art,” he says humbly.
Sorcar’s views, though hard-hitting for the Potter maniacs, are, I have to admit, ground reality, as they were reflected in my talk with Pune’s well-known magician Vijay Raghuveer and his son Jitendra Ranghuveer. The father-son duo, though not as honestly harsh about Potter as Sorcar, admits that the book has in no apparent way helped their field. “The Harry Potter series have made no difference to our shows. The basic audience of our shows is in the age group of 8 and 15 years. I doubt whether most have even read the book,” says Vijay Raghuveer. He then softly adds, “Magic as a career is a difficult road, at least here in India. The investment is almost out of bounds for most, and returns are not guaranteed. Harry Potter is a major craze in UK and USA. There, the magicians have amazing facilities. They have special stages created with trapdoors and other necessities. Here, it’s not practical to spend so much money on these stages. Maybe a P C Sorcar can do it, but not everyone.”
Son Jitendra chips in, “We run the Magician Raghuveer Institute and American Academy of Magic here. The response has been good, and people are interested to learn magic, but I doubt if that can be credited to the book. It’s not that the book was released and we were flooded with calls! Kids know that the magic in the book and the magic of stage shows is very, very different.” A valid point there. Magic stage shows are, after all, meant for entertainment. There aren’t broomstick wars; there aren’t whispers of the evils of He-who-must-not-be-named; there aren’t magical beasts; there aren’t animagi; there aren’t wizards and witches…there are just muggles (non-magic people), and the fascinating tricks they’ve mastered. Vijay Raghuveer continues, “Our shows are meant to entertain gatherings and give people something different to look forward to. Now, people don’t have the inclination or the time to sit for three hours of magic. My son does one-hour shows, and that format has become popular now.” Jitendra sighs, “We don’t need a Harry Potter to increase the respect of our field or interest of people to learnt the art. We just need the media to support us.” Maybe this article will do the trick, we wink!

Literally speaking
Randhir Khare, writer
Very often, it happens that because a whole lot of other people are going ga-ga over something, it becomes the in thing to own a particular book. How many have actually read the Potter books that they’ve bought? Also, quality reading is hardly prevalent. Today is the age of fast and abridged reading, so I doubt if what people have read has actually registered.
We’ve moved on to a much more urban, studied and artificial way of life. We’ve lost touch with the early impulses of a higher self. It’s highly unlikely that a book with magical quality will bring back that connection and respect.
Also, I feel many have latched on to the merchandising, the language, the look of characters – basically the peripherals of Harry Potter. The original product (magic) has been left behind. I doubt the series will empower and renew interest in Indian magic.

Deepak Dalal, writer
Oh, not at all! The book can’t do anything for our real magic because there’s simply no relationship between the two. The magic written in Harry Potter has got no relation with our Indian street magic. Wands and brooms aren’t the essence of our magic.

Our wizards and witches
Mention the ‘H’ of Harry Potter, and a true fan will twinkle his/her eyes and sigh. Our real world immediately dissolves and we’re transported to the Hogwarts Castle. “Oh! How I wish I could find a Port Key that could transfer me to Harry’s world. What I wouldn’t give for the seven years of studies at Hogwarts,” squeals 17-year-old Namrata Singh. Her younger sister Arwa chimes, “We should have an Indian Academy of Wizardry and Witchcraft, ditto on the lines of Hogwarts. I’d love to be part of Gryffindor house and learn Herbology! I particularly like the concept of plants with magical properties.”
22-year-old Ashwin Reddy, who is doing his Masters in English, from the Pune University, speaks of his fantasy. “It would be super to have an academy like Hogwarts. India has enough mountainous locations. This one could probably be somewhere in the Himalayas where non-gifted people couldn’t reach!” And, what if he were one of the non-gifted…? Even before we could complete our sentence, he breaks in, “No way. I’m definitely wizardish material! Defence Against the Dark Arts is a cool subject. I could probably go on to be an Auror and then Minister of Magic…” We leave him to his dreams, and look around for some other Harry fans. Finding one is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, I suppose! Nishitha Kulkarni, who is a ‘just-out-of-school-and-into-college’ girl, remarks, in a very Hermioneish manner, “I’ve read Rowling’s Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them, and it’s very interesting. I’d want to teach about these magical creatures in a magic academy.”
If we were to trace the hidden desires of Harry Potter fans, we’d probably fill up pages for the whole year, but just to show you the variety in their thinking, here’s another maniac! “I’d want a magic academy with Dumbledore as the headmaster. He’s my favourite in the book. With him around, there wouldn’t be any need for us to worry about dementors, Lord Voldermorts and other dark stuff. The dark stuff should be there, of course, because there’s no fun with everything being goody-goody!” laughs Nadeem Kazi, a 25-year-old working at a city BPO.
I can’t help adding my viewpoint having been inducted into the Potter circle – I can’t dream of any other academy than Hogwarts, so I’d love to be 11 again, scramble into the Hogwarts Express at platform nine and three quarters, meet Hagrid at the end of the journey as he screams ‘First years, come ’ere’, ride the boat to the looming Hogwarts castle, beam at the Sorting Hat, dart my eyes at Harry Potter, and join him at his table…I want just that, nothing more, nothing less.

Mowgli

Handsomestestest......!

My blog would be rather incomplete without a mention of the two who mean the world to me…or rather, without whom life wouldn’t be life. One is my doggie Mowgli, and one is the man who will have my heart forever…
This one’s for Mowgli :)
A three-year-old black-n-white stunner. Whether he’s black with white spots, or white with black spots is a question that leaves us family folks scratching our heads. He flew to us from Bangalore when he was less than a month old. We reckon he hated the trip, because, though he jumps into the car as soon as the key clinks and enjoys a fast drive with the wind billowing at his ears and making them flap, he squeals and squeals and SQUEALS the moment the drive goes beyond the minute-long stretch between gran and our place – it’s possible, we’ve gathered, that he’s worried we’ll take off at the end of the runway!
Now, dalmations are pointers, and Mowgli proves he’s part of the ‘real’ thing. A slight noise, or sight of a scurrying squirrel, prowling cat, racy rat, podgy pig, or anything other than what’s known to him, and his right leg will fold up at the knee as if in a reflex, and point towards the movement or sound! That he’s the ‘real thing and all’ is fine, but his tail kinda gives something away. The way it refuses to stretch straight out or curve brilliantly downwards makes us laugh. It curls upwards, exposing his little red bum (sorry for the details, but we find it absolutely CUTE!). But, it doesn’t matter – For us, nothing can be more real than Mowgli.
Seeing him with his bone is a real treat. He’ll spring back and forth the house, pull back the bed covers, shove the bone in, and then replace the cover with his nose, all the while eyeing us carefully to gauge if we’ve any clue about his hiding place! If he even gets a whiff of the fact that we know, he’s off again, poking around for a new and better hideout. A master at work!
But, the real Master in him comes forth when he gives love…which is ALL the Time, actually. Come home, and he’ll bound up to you to be petted. Mention the word ‘come’ or ‘bye’ in any conversation, and he’ll race to the door, say ‘Woooo Wooo Wooo’ which we take as ‘You said it mate! Let’s go!’. Say ‘Mownooo (that’s just one of his other hundred pet names), give kissy’, and he’ll look up to your face and kiss you smack on the lips. (That – I proudly say – I’ve taught him :P). Say ‘Putushh, do sleepy’, and he’ll trot with you to the bed, wait for you to snuggle under the rajai and hold it up for him to curl against you too. He won’t sleep on his mattress, unless one of us sleeps with him! As well as he understands, he speaks too. We know exactly what he wants through his different barks – whether it’s nature’s call, a sudden fancy to chase the cats downstairs, a desire for a biscuit, time for a drive and visit to gran’s house, hunger pangs or sudden urge to pour kisses on us…we just know. Like dad says, ‘The only thing left is for him to just say the words!’
I wouldn’t say ‘bundle of joy’ to describe Mowgli. No. Mowgli is ‘Joy’ personified.
I thank my stars for looking after him when he flew through them to reach us…

Let's talk Racism

Me with the Cutie called Rush!

A puppy needed a home. It required an immediate temporary boarding until a loving, up-to-the-mark home could be singled out. Now, this puppy wasn’t a pug, a lab, a golden retriever, dalmation or any other pure breed. Nope. It was a mix. It had the best of two worlds, so to say. Black on top, with white running down its chest, and sprays of white on its paws. Adorable.
Case No 1
Now, A called B (me) for help. B called C. C agreed to give it a home until someone would take it in. A & B were thrilled, glad and thankful. When B went to C’s home to settle the pup in, the nosy neighbour peeked out, gave it a distasteful look and exclaimed, “Oh! It’s a mongrel.” B was stunned. B firmly retorted, “It’s a mixed breed.”
Case No 2
Later in the day, B gets a call from C. “The puppy is pooping all over the house. I’m sorry, I can’t handle it.” But a puppy will poop! Humans do too! B headed back to C’s home to take the puppy and find him another home. C’s kids remarked, “Our mum actually said – ‘I was hoping for a handsome pure breed. Not this stray.’” Ah, there comes forth the real reason.

My first encounter with racism. And, I daresay, it sucks.

Independence Day

Freedom.
The word brings to mind a vivid picture of me running… running with my eyes closed, droplets of rain splashing on my face, a smile lingering on my lips…there’s nothing ahead, except swivelling trees on either side, dancing grass and blooming buds…The road ahead is endless, seamless, boundless…my eyes are still shut, my smile still curvy and the taste of freedom on my person…
Today, my country celebrates 60 years of freedom. No shackles, no overriding foreign rule, no submissiveness. I did my bit - I wished friends a very Happy Independence Day. I bought a flag to show off in my car. I silently whispered a thankful prayer.
But, somehow, I didn’t experience the running, I didn’t experience the free smile on my face, I didn’t experience the bliss of ‘independence’. Why? The answer comes in a flash. The mind isn’t free. My emotions won’t let it. Be it anger, sadness, frustration, loss, grieving, or longing, the emotions hover incessantly.
Freedom is happiness. That picture conjured in my mind reflects happiness, within and without; happiness that doesn’t have to fight for space in the mind; happiness that doesn’t need to thrive on its opposite emotion; happiness that is valued, happiness that is pure, happiness that is reasonless, happiness that is free.
Someday, I tell myself, Someday it will come to me. Someday I’ll celebrate my Independence Day.

Checkin 'em out!

(Another cover story, another piece on my seemingly favourite topic ;) - Men!)


We girls might not gawk and hoot; roll our tongues out and spin our eyes; bajao a shrill seeti or pass some giggly remark, but there’s no denying the fact, that we, in our own devised ways, check out the opposite sex.
That first look, that makes you look again, and again, and again, is what starts the sparks and the love formulas. But, keep the love and mush aside for now. This piece will concentrate on the pure drool factor – hot bods. Hot, as we’re looking at it here, is completely personal. I, for starters, would say “eeiuuu” if a guy were too beefy or burly. A skinny chap, especially when the skinniness is over-emphasised by tight pants and fitted shirts or t-shirts, would get a disapproving nod. A boyfriend or a date with a well-toned body is every girl’s dream. Didn’t we all go ga-ga over Hrithik’s bronzed cuts in Dhoom 2? Aah, sweet remembrances! But, this apart, my ‘hottie’ boy would have a well-cut toned back, and a little chubbiness around the waist. Love handles, I like. Abs are good on screen, coz the all-muscle ones can’t give you bear hugs when you need them!
When I buzzed my girls and asked curiously about what they check out in men, I was amused by how they belted out the finer details. We girls can be really picky! Take for example, Moksha Ruia, who’s well known in the city for the lovely bags she designs. “The physical aspect is as important as the overall personality. He can be flabby but should carry himself well enough to be ‘oh-so-cute’. I like athletic bodies, but the cute, dimpled ones with Punjabi fat top my list!” Punjabi fat? Please explain, Moksha. “Well, he should look the khaata-peeta types!” she laughs, and adds, “The thin guys are just not happening. A guy should look stronger than me!” We hung up after some more girly talk, and I moved on to Target Number 2 - Priya Parkhi, married, 26 and a free-style swimwear designer for Champ Sportswear. “I like the conventionally good looking guys,” she says honestly. “The ideal one would be fit, not necessarily muscular, with an average height of 5’10’’ or 5’11’’, and he has to be fair! Matt Damon is good. He’s all toned up, minus the repulsive, bulging muscles!”
Model Rucha Gawas says in no uncertain terms, “A guy I’ll pick should have flesh on him!” So skinny bones are a no-no for her because, as she says, “I’m not on the skinnier side so I’d look overweight next to a guy who’s thin!” She also rules out the overly muscular ones. We recently spotted her judging a fitness contest in the city, and wonder what she thought of those hunks. “In a contest, the more muscles you have, the better it works for you. But, personally, I’d prefer ‘lean’ to ‘bulky’. Toned bodied guys, who are as strong as they look, and don’t just boast of hollow muscles are more my kind.” We limited her to just boy bods, but she did mention that ‘intelligence’ was high on her list. She likes chubby too as long as it’s not flabby and unfit.
Another girlie in the list - Chanda Patil, partner, Sixth Sense Properties Pvt Ltd, has different notions of her sexy man. She gives us the points on her roll – “I don’t like extra muscles. I don’t like bones either. And, I don’t like fat.” Okay, so what do you like? “The words ‘tall, lean and toned’ work well with me. More than that though, the guy should smell good. A guy who smells good hardly lets you down,” she winks.
21-year-old Ankeeta Jain raises the hotometer standards even more. She says to our delectation, “The guy who’ll make me give a second look should be tall and lean, with very strong forearms, and fleshy thighs. Good thighs in shorts – can’t get better!” She isn’t finished. She gushes, “A good chest is a must. Also, abs aren’t as important as those side cuts that Akshay Kumar has. When the cuts show in low waist jeans, the man is irresistible. That’s a big, big turn on! Nice eyes are important for me. That one look should make me blush.”
Need I add more, I wonder! After all the body essentials garnered here, just one thing remains to be said – Men, whether lean, muscular or chubby, we like you!


Pssst - Girlies, if you wanna add to this, go all out with your comments :)

Mode-st men!

(This was a cover story - have edited out certain parts here - that I wrote for the paper)

Men. “They undress more than they dress,” we giggled. I know I just broke the rule of girly talk there by letting you in on a line we shared, but it’s that very line from where the idea of this piece sprang out. While it’s true men like undressing (I won’t tread further on that path), it’s truer that men have their own particular and peculiar style of dressing.
I remember my editor asking me once, “Why do you’ll leave us poor guys out of fashion stories?” That actually serves as food for thought. Nine out of 10 times, we limit our fashion talk to women. We dialled model Viraf Patel, former Grasim Mr India, and in the midst of our convo, we brought up our view of the ‘women-fashion’ relation being stronger than the ‘men-fashion’ bond. His instant rejoinder was, “It goes like this. Men are as fashion conscious as they can ‘afford’ to be. Women, on the other hand, are as fashion conscious as they need to be.” An explanation follows, “If a guy can afford a brand like Armani, he’ll buy it. If he can’t, too bad. He’ll settle for a lesser brand. But, but, but, a woman will fret and make sure she has her Louis Vuitton bag.” Wise words there!
But, truth is, men are and can be just as glamorous, fashionable and stylish, or then just as strange, uncoordinated and tacky as some women, when it comes to fashion sense. If you look at our model and actor brigade, they’re trendsetters. Even a Govinda, who can carry off a yellow shirt with red pants, will find several to emulate him. And, that emulation stirs the fashion-‘conscience’ in men.
There are some with designer dreams, and then there are others who’re happy with what they can buy off the shelf at boutiques, malls or other stores lining shopping streets. Most men tone their look down. While women would l-o-v-e to flaunt designer wear, men would be happy with a sobre look. They wouldn’t want to be touted as a fashion braggart.
If we begin slotting men, we can come up with a dozen! In my mind, I lined up most of the men I know, and I realised just how different and yet similar they all are, age no bar! You may try out the same exercise, and I guarantee, with nothing to lose though, that you will agree with my classifications…

Mr Suave
Age: 35 +
Description: Mr Suave rules every girl’s dream. He has a classic sense of dressing, almost impeccable. He likes his shirts without a crease on them, and he won’t step out of his doorstep if his watch, his belt and his shoes don’t match. He prefers the good ol’ colours – black, brown, tan and cream. His shoes will have to be the finest quality leather. His hair will never be out of its place. His face will hardly sport a stubble, except on a really bad day.
Who he could be? A business tycoon, a hotelier, a Hollywood star or Mr Amitabh Bachchan (never mind his french beard!)

Mr Fashionable
Age: No Bar
Description: Mr Fashionable is someone who can be moulded as per the fashion times. If fashion analysts give their verdict – ‘Casual tees with torn jeans’, then Mr Fashionable will be one of the first to sport that. If fashion analysts forecast the next autumn/winter ‘it’ thing to be something unacceptable as ‘cotton sleeveless vests’, Mr Fashionable will stock his wardrobe, and mind you, he’ll carry it off beautifully. His hair, accessories, shoes/sneakers, etc, are subject to fashion trends.
Who he could be? Your guy-next-door, a young restaurateur, a golfer, a royal exponent, Mr Amitabh Bachchan, Shah Rukh Khan…just about anyone.

Mr Wannabe
Age: Below 35
Description: A dreadful copy of Mr Fashionable. The problem with Mr Wannabe is that he lacks confidence, and he believes that ‘fashion’ alone can be a substitute. It’s not for nothing that fashion experts say ‘It’s all about the attitude’.
Who he could be? A crazy fan, a college classmate, a misguided brother, a work associate.

Mr Fixed
Age: No Bar
Description: Mr Fixed can either carry off formals, or casuals. He hardly experiments with a fusion of the two, and rarely does he spend moolah on something that’s out of his scope of fixed dressing. This applies to accessories, shoes, belts, watches, everything.
Who he could be? A retired man, a young businessman, a restaurateur. An actor even.

Mr Cool
Age: 24 – 50 years
Description: Mr Cool is, well, cool. He’s not one to intimately follow fashion trends, he’d rather make his own. If he likes his Superman tee, he’ll wear it. If he likes his ‘jockey’ band peeping out, he’ll make sure it does. Mr Cool has ruffled hair, or gelled spikes; his clothes are well fitted and he has a roving fashion eye. Quite the opposite of Mr Fixed.
Who he could be? A young actor, model, pub owner, phoren-return or phoren-departing lad, a young father, or even a young granddad with an ’18-till-I-die’ spirit…

Mr Overcool
Age: 15 – 24 years
Description: Mr Overcool is naive, but doesn’t think so. He wears his pants almost below his crotch, he shows off the entire jockey, and his clothes NEVER fit well. You won’t catch him alive in anything that’s not baggy. Blame it on the west, or on a distorted fashion sense. Mr Overcool eventually transforms into any of the above.
Who he could be? A just out-of-school boy, a college kid, a just-out-of-college guy.

Mr Doesn’t-Care-A-Damn
Age: 20 – 29 years
Description: Mr Doesn’t-Care-A Damn is in the growing phase. He’s just maturing. In the process, dressing is the last thing he wants to put his mind to. There are bigger and better things in life, you know. So, Mr Doesn’t-Care-A-Damn doesn’t care a damn about what he wears. Shirt out or in, pants loose or tight, colours coordinated or strikingly contrasted – who cares, says Mr Doesn’t-Care-A-Damn. Mention designers, and this mister will ask, ‘Designer who, what?’
Who he could be? A colleague, a student, a traveller.

In Defence of the new Don

(This was a column - Candid Cuts - I wrote in The Herald for 18th July, 07)


‘Don ke dushman ki sabse badi galti yeh hai ki woh Don ka dushman hai…’
King Khan effortlessly intensified the moment with this dialogue - the words rolled out casually, yet with the attitude of a winner, a nonchalant winner who beats ‘winning’ at its own game…It was my favourite line in the movie.
Slick and chic with heady beats and enough twists and turns, Farhan Akhtar’s remake of Big B’s Don, is a true-blue entertainer that targetted urban viewers. And with the Don of Bollywood’s newest era starring in it, the film was safely bang-on-mark.
What was there not to like, I ask those slamming the film. And before you answer, here are points I have an answer to:
- Why must SRK star in an Amitabh Bachchan-film remake?
Simply because Mr Bachchan (with all due respect to the man) is too old to play the part again.
- SRK was trying to prove he’s the new Don.
Well, honey, he is. He doesn’t need a film to prove it.
- Junior Bachchan would’ve been an ideal choice to carry on the Bachchan-Don legacy.
AB’s Baby would need to act, shave and not just stare at the screen in anger. When Don was being filmed, methinks that would’ve been a wee bit tough for Junior Bachchan.
- Akhtar’s film has no substance. It’s just a stylised version of the earlier one…
So, you agree it was stylish, eh!
- SRK has emulated Big B completely - the dressing, the paan scene, the dialogues…
And, boy, did he do a fabulous job!
- Other than the end, the script lacks originality…
Look here, it’s not touted as a remake for nothing. It marketed the original in a better, bigger and slicker way. The action scenes were very Hollywoodish (and yes that’s a parameter for judging success); the dialogues were backed with racy music; the cars thrilled auto-lovers, the locales added perfect colour to the grey-black movie scheme, the outfits…well, they gave us a revised trend.
And, the end…that made you smile at Don’s devil mind. You have to admit - this Don was smarter…smart enough to know what he meant when he said, ‘Don ko pakadna mushkil hi nahin, namumkin hai…’

I know this is mere reiterating of what I’ve been saying above, but I really loved the new Don. I’ve seen the original when I was too tiny to remember it even a couple of months later. SRK’s Don helped refresh my memory to an extent, and I did rent the CD of the original version. Not so much to make comparisons (there are enough critics doing that job out there), as much as to take a look at what inspired this new slick flick. And, I’ve heard that the old Don was no ‘classic’, as it’s being made out to be, and I’m sure it’s enjoying the publicity that the remake has brought it…

And, yeah there’s one point left to counter -
- I don’t like remakes…
Sorry, but we don’t accept biased criticism.

Lightning strikes...

...A lightning of love that is...
Her name, as we kept it, is Foxie. She came with ears pricked, a smooth, rich golden-yellow coat , eyes that spoke straight to our heart, and a smiling face, which she placed in my lap - and that's when I was struck. I was, i think, not more than 10 years old, when Foxie's bolt of love hit me.
My granny lives in a ground floor flat, and I was spending the evening there with my aunt. It was a late summer evening, the sun had just faded beyond the yonder fence, and out of the darkness came Foxie, just as I formerly described. She walked to our doorstep, wagged her bushy tail, and sensing we were loving her attention, she sat down by me, and put her head in my little lap...I'll never forget that moment. It was that day, that instant, that my heart registered a bond with every doggie - and over the years, it's only become stronger.
Not that I'd never encountered dogs before. I've grown up with two huge Irish Setters - Gypsie and Spark. I loved them, yes, and I cried my eyes out when they died, but Foxie just made me love deeper.I wanted to become a vet after she came into our lives, but why I didn't is a different story altogether. Can't deal with needles, and anything bloody!
We kept Foxie - but she belonged to everyone who loved her. We didn't restrict her to our home - but she came and plonked herself on her mat as and when she desired. My aunt, is cuckoo about animals, and she secured Foxie with her hugs, doggie talk, food and love.
One day, Foxie left...a family adopted her...they really wanted to, which is good, but I remember crying...Now, when I look back, it doesn't hurt. Maybe I didn't own her, but I own those memories. Maybe she didn't reserve all her love for me, but she gave me enough for me to spread to others like her...

Mom, I tell you...!

My pretty Ma (below); (top) me, mom n bro

MOM
“Gawd, what does she want now?’ I groan, whenever mom calls out to me. ‘Yaaaah’, I shout back, exasperated.
So what if she called me to take my medicines.
In other situations, when I’m back from work, I yell back, ‘Don’t you understand I’m tired?’
She still forces down those juices and milkshakes down my throat.

Mom, I tell you…!

Then there are times when she’s going out with dad, and she’ll ask me, ‘Is this okay? What earrings should I wear?’
I mumble, hardly looking up from what I’m doing, ‘Hmm, it’s fine. Wear ‘those’ earrings.’
‘Okay thanks,’ she says and somehow manages to figure out what I meant by ‘those’ earrings…

ME
I called out to mom the other day – “Maa, I can’t find my jacket…’ ‘Oh-ho, wait. I’ll look for them,’ she says back calmly.
“Maa, pick out a dress for me na... I’m running late. Leave it out while I shower…’
Needless to add, when I come out of the bath, I see the perfect outfit ironed and laid out on my bed, matching earrings placed near them, and my favourite heels placed on the floor, just below the dress. ‘A perfect semblance,’ I mutter, get dressed, scream ‘Byee’ and head out…No ‘thank-you’ from my side (I’m running late, remember?), but she does manage to squeeze in a ‘Looking lovely…’
And, I don’t know why, she never says ‘Daughter, I tell you…!’

MIRACLE OF LOVE
While in bed two days ago, I looked at mom sleeping beside me, and I don’t know when I drifted off into dreamland. I’d asked her to sleep in my room that night as I’d undergone a surgery three days back, and just wouldn’t get sleep because of the pain…
But that night, when she lay by my side, sleep came in minutes, and I slept like a log...

In those few minutes before my eyes closed, I thought of all the above things, and couldn’t help but feel grateful and hateful about myself! What would I ever do without her...?
Friends, who I wanted, more than expected, to be by my side weren't there...but Mom made up for it all - she played friend when I needed one, and 'Mom' when I needed her...

She’s a miracle. A miracle of unconditional love …

Mom, I tell you…
is the best thing that’s ever happened to me…

Taking 'you' away

(This one's for a friend and others who've thought 'ending it all' is the easy way out...)

It takes nine months for us to breathe in life at its fullest; a year to stand on our own two feet and mumble the first words; 12 years to complete basic education; another five years to reach graduation; another two years of a masters degree; 18 years to get a driver’s license; 18 years to be of legal marriage age; our Entire Life to learn what makes us truly happy…
There is so much to do in so little time. So much to understand, so much to love, so much to achieve, so much to accomplish, so much to live…
Yet, everything – love of parents, fun times with friends, hours wasted in front of the idiot box, vivid pictures of happy times, that first love, those countless dates … (I’d run out of space if I were to mention what ‘everything’ constitutes) – but everything disappears in one flash when anger, hatred, hurt, ego and expectations take over…
All those years spent in learning to live, vanish, and what’s left is regret…
A friend threatened to commit suicide. This is one odd case among thousand other reported and unreported suicide cases. But, this was a friend of mine. The tensed moments, the sweaty palms, the stomach worry cramps, the distraught parents, the onlookers…I simply can't get it out of my mind.
‘Why suicide?’ you ask.
The answer is hidden among these - a heartbreak, great expectations in love which were never met, a feeling of dejection, a clueless state of happiness, and an ambiguous vision of love…
‘Why’ I ask. ‘Why attempt to take away life because one person…one person out of the hundreds in our lives…made us unhappy?’
Life is an opportunity bestowed on us…a gift…are we that foolish to discard it in one fleeting moment?
If you want to escape a situation, run away…go off…never come back, or return when you’re stronger, because you still have the option of starting over, but once you end it, and reach the dark corridor, you’ll be stuck in an endless walk…If suicide is your vision of peace, it’s a warped vision. Get rid of it.
While slitting your wrists, poisoning yourself or jumping off a building, might drain the blood out of your veins and your soul out of your body, but what else will it give you? Tears from loved ones? Agreed. But, for how long? Those tears would never reach anywhere near the smiles that you could’ve got had you not been so foolish, so weak…
God hasn’t given us humans an analyzing brain for us to waste in such a manner. We have the power of reasoning, and that alone is our biggest strength.
To waste life over someone or something that doesn’t value it enough in the first place will get you no sympathy, no peace…it’ll only have you wishing that you should’ve held on…
If suicide has ever crossed your mind, just treat it as a passing thought. There are people out there who love you more than anyone could ever hurt you…and that’s something each one of us should always remember. Always.
Nothing is the end of the world. There's always a tomorrow. There's always sunrise. Don't take your tomorrow away from you...

Good v/s bad

Death is a denouement of life…
All the pain, all the joy,
All the troubles and strife,
Trickle away into a seemingly insignificant and faraway land,
The tears dry up,
The laughs don’t echo back anymore…
What remains is a flashing motion picture of deeds done, and undone,
Of the people hurt by harsh words and acts,
Of the cherished ones loved unconditionally and conditionally,
Of the proud pat-on-the-back moments,
Of the flushed-with-embarrassment times,
Of what He expected of us, and what we did instead…

Life is an opportunity that He gives us, to prove how worthy we are of that thing called heavenly bliss. How worthy we are of life itself…
This isn’t a disquisition on ‘A Good Life’, nor is it some preachy piece on the same subject. It’s just certain constantly-nibbling-at-the-back-of-my-mind thoughts that I’m penning down.
A week back, I think, I was in a rather bitchy mood, and was crankily cribbing to my aunt and gran about how hopelessly conscienceless some people could be. My aunt frowned at my thoughts, and said, “By talking about them, and their ways, you’re taking some of their karma onto yourself. Leave them to do as they please, for some are unchangeable.” ‘Unchangeable’, why? I asked myself…
I’ve discovered in these few years that I’ve lived, that there are only two choices in every situation – right and wrong. It never is the case that we are too blinded to see the difference…The truth of the matter is we’re too afraid of admitting our wrongs, and accepting another’s rights…and I speak out of experience.
I’ve not lived a 100 per cent righteous life – I’ve blundered, I’ve caused pain, I’ve bitched, I’ve lied – but everytime I did so, I’ve slept a distured sleep…I would try to coax myself that it’s that bitch who did this, and that b@$t@rd who did that, but Conscience is one stubborn ass…Yes, he won’t ever let me win an argument…
I’m not saying we should live a saint’s life – that’s humanly difficult (I won’t say ‘impossible’). What I’m saying is that I try my level best (well, sometimes, the level falls) to choose the right over wrong…And, everytime I do so – everytime I say sorry, everytime I make someone smile, everytime I make up with some strained relation - I sleep like a log. It’s been on the rise ever since these thoughts have been softly echoing in my mind! Yup, the dark circles are slowly fading into the oblivion, the twisting and turning has almost reached a Zero, and the battles with my conscience, they’re a thing of the past (almost). That all-knowing righteous bugger (Conscience) can no longer boast of wins and triumphs…:-)
It feels good, and feels better to know, that while the knell of the parting day drums slowly forth, I would be able to face Him when He will hopefully say, “I gave you chances aplenty, and I must admit, you did me proud…”
For, death is the denouement of life…
Ego, that ‘I’ within us, which brings selfishness, anger, hate, enmity and negativity to the forefront, will be a losing force. What will emerge winner, is the good you’ve made of your gift called Life…

Morning mourning

It’s 4 in the afternoon. I’m rubbing my sleepy lids and my lenses are drooping with a jarring heaviness about them. I’m cursing myself for leaving the balcony door ajar before I plunged into bed last night. The morning rays trickled in, at an unearthly hour, woke me up and made me squint at my surroundings. I muttered something under my breath, pushed aside the cozy quilt and did a zombie walk to the troublemaker door to bang it shut.
Why did God make mornings, I wonder. Why couldn’t there be a long, sleepy night, which unfolds into a bright and lazy afternoon? I’ve asked HIM this question on countless occasions – when my school rickshawalla would sound that nagging, hissing-cum-buzzing, horn, and I would rush down, breakfast in one hand, and a couple of books in the other; or then, the time when I was handed the college timetable – First Lecture – 7 am. Have they lost it, I cursed. And, I thought college was supposed to be fun. HMPH. ‘Fun at 7 am’ – that falls into the ‘impossible’ slot in my list. Then, came work, and I remember my boss laughingly handing me an assignment for 8 am, knowing just how much I abhor waking up early. How do I work if my mind’s still tucked in snugly under the quilt?
I’m just not a morning person. If you ask me what’s more beautiful – sunrise or sunset, I’d jump onto the second. Of course, it’s a different issue that I don’t remember seeing sunrise :P…!
But, seriously, evenings and nights are so much prettier. The pluses - I get off work in the evening, enjoy a sumptuous dinner at home or at a favourite restaurant, head to a nightspot or drive around, and then cuddle up with my doggie and sleep. Perfect, no?
Mornings, on the other hand, always bring a picture of being dragged out of bed, picking a set of boring clothes to wear to work, and then driving through the mad traffic to reach office. It’s not that I don’t like work – I wouldn’t be doin it if I didn’t love it – it’s just that lazing around in bed scores a one-up on that!
It’s 4.45 pm now. I’ve dozed off in bits and pieces while writing this. Had it not been for the blasted mornings, I would have keyboarded a more positive piece…
Gawd, I hate them early mornings.

A drink, girls?

When love fails,
Emotions work.
When emotions fail,
Memories work.
When memories fail,
Words work.
When words fail,
Tears work.
When EVERYTHING fails,
90 ml Vodka works

There’s a big grin pasted across my face even as I write this! The love-shove, tears-vears don’t rouse my interest. It’s that sparkling drink, swishing and swirling, almost making its way up to the rounded edge of the shot glass that’s caught the attention of my senses. And, to think I write this while at work ;).
Now, I ain’t an alcoholic…haven’t gotten there yet, and doubt I will (my mum would freak, my dad would give a disapproving nod, my brother…well, actually doesn’t really matter what he says), but I have no qualms admitting that ‘hey, I dig drinking’. Dad does too. It’s in my genes, and there’s nothing to do about it (Now).
My point is not that ‘drinking’ is still in the bracket of ‘Oh-you-drink-?-it’s-not-good’, nor is my point that at office, some raise an eyebrow, or pass a behind-the-back comment if I partake in a ‘drinking’ convo with a fellow colleague, nor is my point that there are still some daft chauvinistic men out there, who, with a drink in one hand, point at your glass of wine or vodka shot, and murmur – ‘I want a girl who doesn’t drink, blah, blah, blah’. Well, boy, the girl should want you! But, even that is not my point.
My point is that I love that tingling taste of vodka. It’s even better with red bull. There’s nothing to beat a sweet-sour white wine too. Tequila makes me sick :(, and the fad of flaming shots seems to shoot to the head, rather than gurgle down the throat. A breezer, ah, well, you’ll laugh, but that was my first ever drink. The first love. Can go on the backburner, but can never die out. There’s good ol’ dark rum and coke too. It’s cheap, and makes me smack my lips, so, it stays in the ‘like’ list. Beer and whisky are in the ‘No like’ list. Haven’t yet acquired the taste, and am in no hurry to do so. I’ve never tasted tharra, so I wouldn’t give myself the authority to comment on that one :P!
A friend asked me a while back, during a very random conversation – ‘Do you drink everyday?’ ‘No, maybe twice a month on a night-out,’ I answered honestly. ‘Ok…Do you drink for the high or for the taste?’ My pat reply was – ‘The taste…I love, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada…’ He smiled – ‘Then, you’re never quitting drinking, woman.’ We moved on to other topics.
That apart, there’s no denying the fact that when the boyfriend and I argue, my ‘lurve’ for the taste of vodka shoots up! And, this revelation brings me back to that SMS that made me grin – ‘…When EVERYHING fails, 90 ml VODKA works.’ I can surely stand by as guarantor of that experienced fact! :)

Men

Men.
I’ve cursed them. I’ve been through the ‘anti-men’ stage a zillion times. I’ve promised to never look at another guy in my life. I’ve sworn that I don’t need those scum-bags. I’ve criticized the balding ones, I’ve chuckled at Mr Smarty Pants, I’ve jeered at the shy Mamma’s boy, I’ve hauled the typical MCP, and I’ve grown out of love with the leashed puppy ones. Heck. I’ve even wished them all away.
But mind you, that’s just the immediately-after-a-heartbreak phase. Of course, even now, that I am blissfully in love with a man, I do tsk-tsk at my married sisters, wondering how they can put up with that same face for each passing day. The one sister who I’m more vocal with even tsk-tsks at herself. I don’t want to venture into all that I hold against married life (I’ve begun developing cold feet just thinking of the institution), but I must re-ask – One man for your entire life, or till the contract ends, due to natural or well, natural causes?
I like the phrase ‘It’s raining men’, though, I swear (and I hardly lie), that I can’t handle more than one man at a time. But, just the thought of men (cute, sturdy, sexy ones – one can be choosy in dreams!) rolling off the roof, plonking on to the car bonnet, landing on the terrace, makes my eyes twinkle. The other day, my msg on gmail read ‘It’s raining men. Hallelujiah’. My sister sighed from Bangalore – ‘Why can’t I see any droppings?’
It made for a good laugh.
I’d like to make it clear here, like I have before, that I’m in no mood or need to juggle men. I have my man, we’re happy (most of the time) and sometimes I find myself dreamily wishing away that we spend a ‘happily-ever-after’ life together…just him, for life…
... Gosh, we women, I tell you, can get as confusing and contradictory as no man ever can…! It’s that ruling factor called ‘men’ I think, that does it to us ;)