Elevator Etiquette

The righteous behavior of adult rational humans in a closed confinement, for a transitory period, is a topic of wide deliberation. I feel that the behavior is predominantly a manifestation of the traits of an individual. There are however some generic rules that, if followed, can make the commute a serene one, for all. I cannot say the same about harnessing the traits though. Here are the top ten I think must be practiced:

1. Stand facing the door

Rule: Unless you have Katrina standing next to you in a chiffon red and caressing her falls, you shall stand facing the door.  No, you shall not peep into the facebook page of the girl next to you either. Please!

Rule: Do not stand obstructing or leaning on the floor buttons even if you thought it were your terrace.

Rule: Do not stand at the gate when there is space behind or at the side. You can only get out when the door opens. So step back and wipe that grim face of yours when someone boards a floor in the middle. Be accommodative and stop believing that the elevator is your personal chauffeured limousine.

2. Do not have meetings or personal talks in the 20 sec commute 

“You know, my MIL offered me breakfast today on the table. I am like … OMG! What is the matter today? Is she eying my new necklace? Crazy na? “ “You got the deal? 7M? Brilliant man! When is the party?” Let’s keep these to within closed doors and not within elevator doors.  Others in the elevator are as interested in knowing what Uma Bharti had for breakfast today as listening to your personal blather. 

Rule: Remain silent even if you met your long lost love after 19 years in the elevator. 

Rule: If you MUST talk in those 20 sec, refrain from these please - Politics, Religion, Offence, the proverbial Sales pitch, Personal talks, Shakti Kapoor’s wardrobe and Jokes, which even if you think are insanely hilarious making fellow passengers collapse on the floor laughing.

Rule: If you are in a group and entering the elevator, please discontinue having your conversation inside and give others a chance not to be amused and not to pretend that they are not listening when they actually are. 

Rule: All the above does not mean you stand stiff and tense. Relax, but pretend to be an island.

3. Give personal space

You shall not touch the sleeve of the man or the fragrance of the woman next to you. Unless you had a heart attack and falling, you shall not fall upon anyone. Stand apart. And no, no gyrating moves before your floor arrives. Stand apart and stand still. 

Rule: Two people - Two sides of the cabin and facing door. 

Rule: Four people - Four corners of the cabin and facing door

Rule: Ten people – Don’t enter! 

Rule: If you have a backpack, do not let it fall all over the person behind you. Pull it down between your legs. If you are alone, you may play basketball with the bag, it is your choice.

Rule: You shall not tap the back of the person standing in your front if you want to get down at a floor. Politely say excuse me. Keep your personal touches reserved for your close ones. 

Rule: Bad breath is just as bad as the loud perfume you wear. So please refrain.

Rule: You shall try not to squeeze into a full elevator imagining yourself to be your slimmer version 10 years ago, even if it were the last ride to the heaven.

Rule: Smile at others, but do not stare.

4. Please push the button yourself, unless…

The other day a fellow passenger boarded and stepped at the back. I was the only animate in the elevator. He said “Fan”. I thought - Yeah! It is up there concealed in the ceiling! Unless you have to climb the back of the fellow passengers to reach the buttons, you shall reach it yourself. And if not, have the courtesy to say “Can you switch on the fan for me please”. And I shall say “Sure”. But in all circumstances, be willing to succumb your ego and press the requested button.

5. Do not style and groom looking at the mirror

You may be the next Johnny Depp in the making, but please keep your styling to your dressing room. And yes, no adjusting those pants as yet! Leave it to the restroom. Even if you have the long tresses of Denise Richards or thought you deserve the hair kit of Celena Gomez, please refrain from regulating those.

6. Telephone etiquette

Rule: You shall not scream at the top of your decibels if you MUST take a call inside. Politely ask the caller to hold till you are out.

Rule: If you have a caller tune that reads – ‘dhinka chika dhinka chika’ or the more homely ‘angana mein baba dware pe maan’, please keep it in silent mode. You do not want your fellow passengers to start dancing to the tunes.

7. Rules of Boarding

You shall stand in a queue

You shall allow people to walk out before boarding

You shall not hog the front row after boarding unless you are the last one to board

8. Hold your drinks and eats

Do not sip on your beverage in hand or bite the Sandwich. Let it rest till you exit, will you? And please understand that the crunch of the apple bite, the sip of the coffee, the bite of that burger or the smell of the incredibly appetizing Samosa is not appealing. It is appalling.

9. Caution while holding the door for someone

If the cabin is full and even if you see Bo Derek emerge from the waters and rushing to the elevator running, you shall not keep the others waiting. Your chivalry may well be practiced at a more opportune time and place.

10. Take the steps instead!

Of Naked Minds and Barren Skies

The weight of a word
the power of a phrase

the vigour of a verse

and a naked mind.

The wallop of wealth

the cohere of capital

the redolence of riches

but a desolate cry.

The sovereignty of speech

the esprit of expression

the reverence of religion

with incinerating rights.

The lushness of land

The succulence of seeds

The happiness of hope

albeit a barren sky.

~Suprabhat

An ode to Pather Panchali

Jaara pore elo aage gelo ...
Hori din toh gelo, shondhe holo, paar koro na amaare.

Those who came before are gone
Am left behind a penniless beggar
Day draws to its close, night's mantle descends
Row me to the other side

These lines hummed by Indir Thakrun (the sister-in-law) leaves in me lingering memories, every time I see the movie Pather Panchali. Satyajit Ray painted a poignant picture of rural Bengal in the 30's through the eyes of a family, epitomizing the most consummate characterization ever portrayed on celluloid. Despite poverty, death, altercations, concealed suppressed wishes and dreams, vulnerability and profound grief the movie brings out the joys in simple things of exploring the jungles, of watching a distant train, of stealing mangoes, of a getting wet in the first rains, of sibling love and affection, of self respect and dignity, of festivals, forests and rivers, and a gamut of emotions.

I got drawn to Satyajit Ray's films (being an avid reader of his literary work later on) when Doordarshan showed a series of Ray movies when he passed away in '92. I was in std 9 and kept awake late to watch all the movies telecasted. What I best liked about his movies was the simplicity of the screenplay and yet the complex and intricate connotation in the characters lying underneath leaving a vivid impression long after.

Pather Panchali (The song of the road) features Apu (the protagonist) through his birth and childhood and his later life through the sequels/trilogy of Aporajito (The unvanquished) in his adolescence and Apu'r Sonsar (The world of Apu) the family man. Pather Panchali is about Durga the daughter of Sorbojoya and Horihor, a brahmin, Indir and the evolving character of Apu and his vivid observations.

Indir personifies the ego and self respect of a geriatric widowed lady who suffered her entire life and is now nearing her end. The dignity with which she walks away in vitriol from Sarbojoya's house because of constant beleaguering and tart remarks is stirring. She packs her paraphernalia (a small pack of clothes and a mat) and leaves Horihor's house the first time, only to come back on hearing Apu's birth. The second time she leaves forever. Durga and Apu on their way back from watching the Train find her dead. Durga watches in disbelief. She portrays the agony of a widowed outcaste and yet the inherent enthusiasm, the child like joy and the glimmering eye every time Durga steals fruits from the neighbour's garden and gifts her. She requests for a blanket because it is getting cold and is ecstatic when she gets one from a distant relative, flaunting it to all. Her smile speaks a thousand words bringing hope in despair. A classic portrayal by Chunibala Devi.

Durga is the central character. She epitomizes abundance of energy, innocence, mischief and zeal, while at the same time profuse love for her brother Apu. She has a soft corner for her Aunt Indir and steals mangoes for her. She has a look of disbelief and grief in her eyes on seeing the tragic death of Indir. Her adolescence and innocence is portrayed while she watches the marriage rituals her friend, their secret picnic in the forests, her stealing of mangoes for her aunt, their secret mission of watching the train they have never seen before, their following the sweet vendor with the dog behind and the wonderful scene of her secretly getting wet in the first rains. Soon after she contracts malaria and falls severely ill. The symbolic burn out of the diya is atypical of numerous movies but the effect can be felt only through a Ray movie; the feeling of being part of the dimly lit room throughout the night, with the storm outside creating an eerie air, sitting along with Sarbojoya treating Durga through the night, but waiting for it all to end. Apu watches with incredulity when he sees her beloved didi pass away. The next day he combs his hair on his own with deep anguish in his eyes at the loss of his sister. Uma dasgupta brought alive Durga.

Sorbojoya carries her daily chores with occasional gripe. She has lots of unfulfilled wishes. Lot of things she wants to do in life...ami onek kichu korte chai. She loves her children immensely and goes on sparse meals herself to feed them. Initially she hides Durga’s demise when Horihor is back but not for long. She cries hysterically in desolation when telling Horihor about the death of their daughter.

Pather Panchali was made on a shoestring budget (later funded by the government) with actors who had little or no acting expertise, with no formal script written (made with scribblings of Satyajit Ray), an ill Chunibala Devi and several other adversities. Finally made, the film was for the world to see and admire through generations.

PS: I keep Apu’s character for Aporajito.

Liquid Sunshine

On the last drop he always whined
though the urn was ever imbibed,
through the gory days and the comic nights

The Liquid flowed and overwhelmed
the contents of an in-content inveterate swine,
with profanity and love alike

Each devour meant more than he fathomed
assimilating the colour as part of his soul,
and play did he with the opulence of the malt

He ritually elated with the hang
hallucinating through the initial bedlam,
condescending in the surreal delight

He looked across through the glass
preoccupied with the Sunshine in the dark,
the dew drops embellishing in the lark

The golden liquid now felt like paradise
on a burning throat and an undiscerning eye,
a serene heart and an unobtrusive mind

He is now in a tranquil state
riding the rivers and flying the gates,
to languid away the abysmal fate.

A Walk in Pune

In my first endeavor to turn the green way and of self preservation I walked down to office today. It is not that walking is novel to my lifestyle. I walk often (I run more often but I will keep that for later). I amble, stray or brisk walk, this however being the first time that I walked with a destination. 5kms.

One of the advantages of having an office so close is that, you have several options to explore to reach the office other than the regular comfort of your car. Hitchhike, pick up by your colleague, a rickshaw, by bus (though I am not a great fan of PCMC/PMT buses), bicycle (next in plan), run or walk. Though I have been thinking to walk down for a couple months now I have realized that until you have a reason (my car being in the garage) even a Robin Sharma cannot motivate you to do so.

As I walked today I was thinking as I usually do. Walking gives me a more relaxed frame of mind to think, retrospect and plan, compared to a run. Being on foot and on the road which I have driven on all these years, gave me a first hand perspective to everyone who is outside the console of a car ... there is no place for pedestrians and they are vehemently neglected while planning the transport infrastructure. Walkways are dilapidated with bare manholes. Iron rods protrude out at free will on the edges. Trees are felled to broaden the roads but no heed is paid to plant saplings to replace the felled trees. Incessant honking by fellow drivers (as if their pants are on fire and they need to enter the office premises at the earliest in order to quench their burning bottoms) is a constant deterrent unless you are on an ipod with volume so loud that it deafens the noise. The dirt on the road blowing under a speeding car is no less than a desert storm. If you do not have a pollution mask on, consume an anti allergic prior to your expedition. Open garbage dumps lie scattered throughout the stretch; the stench was enough to drive me wild.

I sweated and gasped for fresh air as I finally made it to office. It is a pity that the green city Pune which it once used to be is gasping too for air and a life. The aggression of people during drive, the annoying traffic, the reprehensible surroundings and the grime, all put me off enough to think twice before I walk again.

I rather drive in the comfort of my car emitting CFCs, honking at will, driving through the maze, amused at the pedestrians and euphoric in accomplishment on making it to office every day.

Oh! Calcutta

It is seldom that a restaurant can bring in the best in all categories of customer satisfaction viz. food quality, ambience, staff service & response, music, assortment in Menu et al. Oh! Calcutta in Pune manages this feat with great assurance, building a unique character around itself, which you long to experience time and again.

Located in central Pune in Dhole Patil road, Oh! Calcutta is a part of the restaurant chains which is a brainchild of the restaurateur Anjan Chatterjee (The Company, Speciality Restaurants, was started as a restaurant in 1991 in a tiny, studio-like space in central Mumbai along with friends. They called it Only Fish. The idea, as the company's name suggests, was to create sharply differentiated speciality brands. For the full aricle read: http://www.thehindubusinessline.com/life/2006/07/21/stories/2006072100060200.htm). Others in the chain are Mainland China (http://www.mainlandchinaindia.com), Sigri, Haka, Mostly Kebabs, Machaan, Shack and Sweet Bengal (more about these in forthcoming writes since each comes with its own character and uniqueness).

The Victoria Memorial sketched at the entrance draws you to the atypical Kolkata culture right at the onset. As you enter the hall and make yourselves comfortable you will notice yourself surrounded by various artifacts from Bengal. A wall beckoning to the B&W era of Bengali movies depicting Satyajit Ray, Uttam, Soumitro and Suchitra; a library boasting of Robindranath Thakur books; a central dome that houses an old world charmed chandelier; a striking wall clock, the wooden finish floor, seatings and windows all add to a classical ambience.

The Menu is a mix of post colonial Kolkata and a contemporary one; a healthy mix of Nawabi, Bengali and Continental. This is rightly so because of the influence of Nawabs and British alike on the Kolkata cuisine from the pre and post colonial era. Even though the USP is the Bengali dishes but I reckon the others are equally savoured considering the mix of customers you see around. You will find a range of dishes from Mutton Rezala and Lucknowi Biriyani to Bhapa Ilish (Steamed Hilsa), Mochar ghonto (Flower of Babana), kosha mangsho (Saute’ed Muton/Chicken), bati posto (Khus Khus), chingdir malai curry (prawns cooked in coconut milk), golda chingri, Gondhoraj Bhetki (Bhetki fish), paabdaa and many more. The fish portions are soft and tender cooked and are the chief delicacies. Items like the gondhoraj lebu (fresh lime) is something you will not find in any other restaurant. The drinks menu does not lag far behind and match up to the meals with a variety of cocktails, mocktails and liquor.

The serving staff is friendly and prompt in asking for a re-serve more often than not. If you are a non-bengali and are ignorant of the Bangla dishes and you take the suggestions of the staff to decide on the Menu, I would say you are reasonably safe.

From our experience: Try out the Mochar ghonto (cooked in an odorous sorser tel that drives up your nasal way), Aam porar sorbot(roasted mango pulp juice), Bhapa ilish (Steamed Hilsa), and Luchi (Puri, a little oily though the last time we had been) with a Mutton Rezalla. Chingri dishes (malai curry) has always been a favourite but have never tried out (will perhaps try out on the next visit since I am obsessed with the Hilsa dishes and rub my hands in excitement as soon as I see it their menu; the soft and tender Hilsa just melts in your mouth wanting you to have more). The sweet dishes hold their own rights to attention with the Bhapa Sondesh (Steamed Sondesh)and the Rosogolla to name a few. On our last visit we were also surprised by a Mishti Paan (Betel Leaf with sweet stuffing) served along with the receipt. The bill wasn’t sweet though! (For more suggestions read the Time Food Guide, Pune 2009 ed):

The Robindro Songeet in the background (most of the time with an occasional adhunik) adds to the Kolkata flavour.

Overall a great treat (haven’t tried the lunch buffet yet and is next on the cards, to experience the gamut of dishes).

Rating: 4.5/5
[The wait time is usually a little more than your comfort level]

The Desolate Frame

On the decrepit wall
living through the veil of time
and the wrath of fate
that once housed a radiant smile
of the cohesive pair
who no longer smiled.

Now, it tolerated its own weight
hanging with the frayed threads
The grime of time and the dust of fate
Together weaving an animated state.

It sang its own story
through the mass of dust and the damp walls
of the generous times
of pleasure and the rapture
of togetherness and love
and a perfect past.

It squealed and screamed
to bring back the smile
the love
and its benign shine.

Now, it was all done
Faith battered and scratched
Biting the bitterness
and the bare clan.

An empty frame is all it now was.

The Desultory Verse

The unfinished painting
The twilight song
The incomplete story
And the unanswered call.

The unsolved mystery
The partial slice
The half-baked cake
And the unsettled brawl.

The semi greyed cells
The embryonic wit
The obscure emotion
And the perplexed psyche.

The petite vitriol
The nonchalant ecstasy
The malleable moral
And the Naïve Love.

The seditious words
Of this desultory verse
From the delirious mind
And my incoherent thoughts.

2009 - Mantra Motto Mission

The New Year happens again and my resolutions too (in no particular order but I like my 13th one):

1. Say a “NO” more often and not be concerned if someone is hurt by the riposte. A “NO” spat on the face.
2. Grab success by its collars and drag down till it is owned. No beating around the bush with the “Karma” crap.
3. Believe and worship the “honesty with a twist” principle. To begin with, sign the rent receipts myself for the IT proofs.
4. Love the Akon and the Nellys. You are the greatest icons with soul quivering music and heart melting lyrics. Himesh goes in the closet. KK who?
5. Be animated and excited like the Sagarika Ghoses.
6. Act cool and à la mode with a refurbished wardrobe. Love the Tommy vests and the Benetton boxers waving a high through the pants below the a**. The stud, bandana and tattoo to match. Abhor the Rupas and Goyals.
7. Act classy and be bossy.
8. Less indulgence in pleasure. No listening to the mood and disposition. Pragmatic, PRAGMATIC, PRAGMATIC yeah.
9. Earn more and think less. No teaching the unprivileged kids any more.
10. Appreciate incessantly till the feeling is honored and established.
11. Learn to flaunt and flaunt hard. The CoA factor will come by.
12. Believe that an occasional lie never harmed anyone. Excuses will be accentuated.
13. Be Evil and think Wicked.

The Silver Lining - II

Somewhere in the past, the stilted window looked at the sun peeking bright through the dark billows. She sat on the couch with a gaze through the window, feeling the warm touch of the rays. The rays touched her dusky skin and scattered through the room. The thought of him filled the space and she could feel the warmth of him like that of the rays. His thoughts were all she craved for. Every breath, every blink, every sigh and every smile reminded of him. The words he spoke echoed in her mind and silenced the knock at the door.

Startled, as she went to the door, a deep anxiety caught her. Her surprise and a bizarre trepidation greeted him at the door as they met for the third time. He could only feel the surprise though. She was suddenly feeling happy and at a loss of words at the same time. His smile had an aberrant numbness and perfunctory feel which brought all approaching affairs to a halt at the foundation and the art of which he had mastered over time. Deb had a veil on him that he so proudly held close. A part of it was conscious and played. But the part which was comatose eclipsed the other and it became increasingly difficult for her to hold her back. Her breath fell short, her eyes missed a blink, her sigh became heavy and her smile widened a degree.

Deb lived a block away and had met her during one of the art exhibitions in town. As he stared at one of the charcoal art for what seemed like an eternity trying to understand the nuances, she stood by appreciating the same work. Both admired the work in subtle silence. Deb studied art as an interest apart from his regular job. She was never an art enthusiast and eager to understand the cryptic form, quietly asked Deb about it. She made a sincere effort in listening to him for the next five minutes. The art was dissected and unfolded to its minutest details. Playing with and weaving intricate words into a lucid narration was his forte. She was so engrossed in the immaculate expression of his words that she failed to notice when he had left. But his fragrance lingered in the air.

With a widened degree of smile she opened the door. Deb had come over to invite her to the exhibition at the end of the town.

They met frequently over the next few months in the block, in the alleys and beside the Wall where he sat often. Deb often leaned on the wall with a drooping head to let his creative ideas flow. He was a copyright par excellence. The wall was a bright red brick structure and stood at the end of the alley less frequented. It had an open view of the distant fields and the expanding sky. Nearby was a Peepal tree the shadow of which covered the wall during the entire noon. It was here that hours of words, touch and feel sew through the red bricks when they met. The moonlight played a gleaming display of light and shade through the Peepal leaves in the background.

Debanjana was in love.

[...in continuation to a previous post]

Die Another Day

It has been two years since the conception of this blog and over the years it has grown like a potato shrub would even when watered and manured religiously. Well, the religious part is an exaggeration because this blog has been as regular as a std VII spoilt brat doing his social science homework. I agree. But beginning the third year with such an enviable record of hits (I did once have a sincere list of well wishers who took pride in their friend’s endeavour), I feel as contended and applauded as a Shakti Kapoor would have doing a write up on India’s Nuclear Policy or an Arjun Rampal speaking to a packed audience on child labour.

Looking back, I wonder what could have gone better to give this site a decent number of hits as would a lady’s of the age of 19 penning her day to day activities (today my earring got locked in my bf’s eyebrow piercing when we embraced each other for the 119th time; I woke up at 11:15 in the morning only to find my cutie little pie Bruzo peeing on my Ritu Kumar) and getting a 67 comments on the masterpiece in an hour with 27 ‘can we be friends’ messages. Alright, the reason is clear but hey, am I entitled to justice?

Okay, the topics aren’t as researched as the analysis of the balance of body weight on a cover drive by Sachin, or as popular as a review of the latest flick of SRK, or as sensitive as a Nandigram and as thought provoking and worthy of debate as the Gujarat riots. I have however tried and succeeded to keep my writings away from personal mumbles(I loooooove my vanilla ice with a kiss of hot choclate), accusations (today as always my boss dug his nose and emptied the contents beneath the conference table while I was on the projector), and daily chores (Ooiee ma, today I managed to add salt to the tea instead of sugar and my MIL turned into a gas balloon). The point is, if the the same is written by a lady (irrespective of age) the response is understandable. But even an acquaintence would be as interested in reading a languidbeckonings by a 29 year old asinine onh how he spent last weekend, as he would be in watching a Krishi Darshan on a Friday evening.

Over the years I have tried several gimmicks aka marketing strategy. As innocent as sneaking it beneath my e-mail signatures, as blatant as sending links of my latest writes through mail with addresses in the bcc so that recipients do not comment on reply all’s but on the official comments page, as brazen as picking up a topic on the lunch table only to end it with - I have put my thoughts on my blog that I think you should check out, as desperate as leaving comments on unknown blogs and as creative as changing the background and font of the page every other day to keep readers enthused.

But sometimes I contemplate, what is it that keeps one to writing, despite the meager response? Is it the desire again to see readers appreciate a good write and feel encouraged, or a 67 comments on your post in an hour, or is it the sense of accomplishment when given oneself the gift of a good and humourous write. I think it is safe to pick up the last one and contend myself.

This blog is close to dying a premature death, but I shall give it one more chance in its third (but nascent year) to live, see the light of eminence and Die Another Day.

The Newspaper Man

He was assiduously energetic in delivering his lot. Sundar had seen the dark side of life in his early years which had made him humble. He now immensely respected life and took all adversity in stride. Having to deliver newspapers at door steps was how he started his mornings. The first light saw him on his bicycle with a bundle tied up the at the back of his seat, each day every day.

Being from a lesser privileged background and losing his parents at an early age had brought him the gritty predisposition of character and will with which he now held is head high. As he pedaled his way through the streets in Mysore, Sundar saw all grades of life at sunrise as he had seen so as a child. He crossed the blatant streets with people in misery living in dilapidated brick houses who did not have the luxury of a newspaper, to the streets where he delivered his lot. He threw the paper in the plush lawns and there came running the pet carrying the newspaper inside to his master. He watched the money plants and crotons rising through the walls of the bungalows which had its bricks polished impeccably and windows with shining glasses. Seeing this he pedaled to the next house.

The uphill ride on his way back was a strenuous task. Every pedal stroke reminded him of the pains he had been through in the days gone by. The strokes however were no more a pain to him. It was like a daily endeavor that he mastered to perfection with his breath synchronized to his rhythm. After he reached the top he always halted and took a deep breath as a mark of celebration and accomplishment. The morning was over here and the day took over. Over the years he worked on several moderately paying jobs with equal aplomb but never quit his morning job. This was a work he was born to do. Little did the man reading the newspaper on his easy chair, sipping the hot morning coffee realize that the payment at the end of the month for the thirty rounds of paper went to the self righteous man who had once had to work at his kinfolk’s place to earn the next hours meal and who left them bidding a thank you. He was all of sixteen when he took the job and continued since.

It was on a Sunday morning with the breeze flowing gently on his face. Sundar stopped by the modest yellow house with a rose shrub mounted on a usually closed window. The walls had become pale over the years but the rose on the window pane were incredibly red. There was not a day that he saw the shrub without a flower or a bud on it. But today the shrub had been pale too with no flowers to boast. Instead of throwing the newspaper above the gate, he went in towards the window. Before this he collected some water in a container from the garden. As he was watering the plant, the window opened and there stood Savitri on the other side with a container too. She said that she had no idea why the plant was dying. They watered the plant together. As he was leaving he handed over the paper to her and said, don’t worry, times will change. The sudden breeze blew her hair back and he saw the glimmer in her eyes.

They watered the plant together for the next few days and when delivering the next Sunday Times, he saw the plant boasting a bud. That day he talked to her for over an hour and got late to work. He didn’t mind though.

Years passed by and Sundar now has two bright children. He was decisive that his end of studies after the eighth grade will never be repeated again. The children visit reputed schools in the city.

As he returns home today after delivering newspapers, a home which does not have polished bricks, shining glasses on windows or crotons rising up the wall, has Savitri waiting for him at the door with a hot cup of coffee and has the same twinkle in the eyes he had seen for the first time fifteen years ago. The rose shrub blossoming implausibly red roses in the entire town looks in awe.

[Inspired by a real life, but exaggerated at places for reader’s fervor]

Moments

The brevity of the moment
that lasted a beat of her heart,
was nothing short of a lifetime
that changed her apart.

The conceit of the erudite
the ostentation of the juvenile,
the beauty of a thousand smiles
was quietly falling apart.

She watched her reflect
and she saw her ethereal self
for once she fathomed
what the moment meant.

~Suprabhat

O Venus, I am thy Slave!

Sultry Saturday afternoon. Perfect day to grab a post lunch drink and settle on the bean bag and surf for mundane programs. I go surfing and reach the fag end of the entertainment channel band. The ice is slowly melting.

Zoom TV (isko dekho!). Bejan Daruwala is covering most of the TV screen and sermonizing in his atypical ishtyle. Scroll at the bottom reads [Court refuses to accept Amitabh Bacchhan as a farmer] and [Yes, I am married and expecting – Mahima Chaudhary] and [Shilpa shetty to be honoured by Radio Mirchi’s achievers forum]

Alright, looks interesting enough to hold on for a few more minutes.

If you haven’t heard of Bejan Daruwala, you ought to bang your head with the first stone that you can see around. Alright, hold on before you do so. Because the sermon today is all on stones, precious in this case, and a concealed marketing gimmick which the viewer will require the intelligence of a Mr. Holmes to crack.

Comes the turn of Taurus and this interests me further.

“Vrishab rashi ka grah shukr hai. Aap ki zindagi mein shukr ka bahut prabhav hai. Yadi aap apne karobar aur nizi zindagi me khushali chahte hain to Global sky shop ki nirmit Topaz stone bayen haath ke choti ungli mein pahene” - Bejan

[And a footage shows thereafter]

“Main ek businessman hoon aur kayi saalon se meri zindagi mein koi samridhi nahi thi. Main pareshan ho gaya tha. Meri biwi ke saath aksar anban hoti thi. Phir maine Global Sky shop ka Topaz pahana. Ab mein bahut khush hoon. Meri biwi se ab mere relations bahut acche hain. Mujhe karobar mein din dugni, raat chauguni munafa hua hai. Thank you global sky shop products”.

This continues with a recommendation of Turquoise for a Sagittarius, a Ruby for a Virgo …

The candor of the “real life people” shown in the footage impresses me beyond a doubt.

I too now realize the importance of Shukr in my life. Venus, in other words, influences me a lot. I realize that my daily chores, work and relationship is visibly affected by its presence. As I think about this, I recall an episode from Turning Point (Doordarshan) where queries were taken up by Prof Yashpal Sharma, the eminent Scinetist. He said that the gravitational pull that a person 1 ft away exerts on you is more than that exerted by a distant planet or even the Moon by several multiples. That way the person should influence you more than any of the planets in the solar system. I being a believer in the scientific school of thoughts agreed with this. But having watched the charisma and fame of Bejan, I now differ. I can actually feel Venus attracting me every minute and guiding me to say what I say, do what I do, feel what I feel and achieve what is destined for me.

O, mother Venus. I am thy slave.

The first thing I shall do next is call up Global Sky Shop (I made it a point to nore down the number and product code) and order for a Topaz and decorate my little finger on the left with its shine which will guide my life to prosperity and well being.

Ab meri zindagi mein bhi dher saari khushiyan hongi aur main bhi kaamyaab banunga.

Sourav on Saris

And if you thought MS Dhoni in an engine oil advertisement with propaganda of his nuances of drinking milk everyday was a well thought ad campaign (selling both the product and supplementary milk products), you have not seen it all.

Dada is being featured on the Bengali Tanter Sari in Katwa, Burdwan. "We are making about 150 pieces with Sourav Ganguly in action featured on those. We hope the Sourav saris would be in demand," said a handloom weaver at Katwa. You sure do, and I see all ladies rushing to the shops to catch the latest sensation in action depicted not in posters and banners but the all humble sari. Now, this is what is considered to be a bright selling proposition. “Aam ke aam, guthliyon ke daam”, the saris selling like hot cakes and ladies holding their head high in Pride and Honour, in support of their beloved Dada.

O Sourav, a salute to your uncompromising fan following! I am sure you will be all pleased, wrapped around beautiful ladies, which will add to your passion and belief to win matches for India. We shall support you in this WC and always by wearing the 6 yards religiously in all your forthcoming games.

The Silver Lining

She walked on the road like an impassive being and knew not what lay ahead. The clouds were turning darker by the minute. Trees swayed in the wind and the dust took over the lingering visibility. She walked withholding a lifetime in her palms which held a fistful of perpetual thoughts.

She walked across the wall much visited. The wall had a different and atypical look to its colour today. The bricks were beginning to loosen. The cementing between the bricks had turned into a lump of faded adhesive and was trying hard to hold on to the blocks. The colour had turned from a bright red to a depressing shade. The chameleon on the wall had attuned its colour too. She recalled the defining moments of her life spent inclining on the very wall. Hours of words, touch and feel that were sewn through the bricks were now splitting apart with the dilapidated wall.

The clouds meanwhile were getting darker and mysterious. There was a vitriolic rumbling in the thunder. The thunder shook the ground below her feet and she felt the earth reciprocating the sky through her. And then it poured in a sudden vehemence. The water fell and wet the dry earth in a hurry. Rivulets begun flowing and soon turned into a canal of restless water. It was ominous but there was a characteristic softness in the flow. The water made its own way traversing the most convenient path.

The specs of dust and sweat on her face were washing away in a hurry too. The tears slowly became difficult to distinguish from the water on her face. Her lips were slowly giving way to a slight upward curve and a contended smile. The droplets accumulated on her brows and then dried away.

She looked at her empty palms and she ran. And ran, like she never did before. The anklet on her left leg broke away and so did the embedded beads. The beads spread accross the sand in all quarters sparkling along with the solemn droplets. The air started smelling fresh again.

The sun was now peeking bright, through the dark billows. She was Debanjana, the silver lining in the cloud.

Profound thoughts ... You and I

Like an aaloo to a vada
And a vada to a pav
like the pav to a bhaaji
You are to Me.

Like a tree to the air
and the air to a nose
Like the nose to a Himesh
You are to Me.

Like a fuel to an engine
and an engine to a car
like the broken car to a mechanic
You are to Me.

Like a key to a lock
and a lock to a house
like the house to a robber
You are to Me.

Like cotton to a pillow
and a pillow to a bed
Like the bed to a lazy bum
You are to Me.

Like the water to the grass
and the grass to a cow
like the cow to a milkman
You are to Me.

Like the fire to a match
and a match to a bidi
like a bidi to a smoker
You are to Me.

Like the carbon to a diamond
and a diamond to a stud
like a stud to a cool dude
You are to Me.

You mean more to me ...

than a fish to a Cat
and a bone to a dog
the hay to a horse
and happiness to a remorse.

Let's be happy forever. I Love you. Sayonee.

~Suprabhat
(a letter to a Loved one)

Shallow Waters

Living in shallow waters
among the comfort of the knowns
breathing the same breath
today once more.

The falls are far
and rapids are none
ripples are rare
and the tranquil water beckons.

I see a bright silhoutte
somewhere round the horizon
only to fall again
inside the shadows of my own.

~Suprabhat

Honesty with a Twist

“Ideals are important and you should stick to them but to be in a position of choice sometimes ideals have to take a back seat. The world is a difficult place, make sure you get into the position of choice. Do not sell your soul but keep it locked for a while if need be. Once you are in a position of choice and you are successful, do not ever sell your soul or make the wrong choices. Then god, or your own conscience will never forgive you.” - SRK

Message from SRK to the youngsters of today! Integrity personified.

Well, straight from the horse’s mouth. How very true a counsel. God and your own conscience will forgive you if you do so on the path of success and climbing the ladder but once you are The Achiever and sitting atop, and you indulge yourselves in the same act of loosened disposition then God and your conscience will be belligerent. Words of immense wisdom that I will stick to my heart and soul till I die. In other words “honesty with a twist”! Right, and thou shall excuse.

I am sure this message will lead our youngsters to the path of integrity and credibility and a positive approach towards things at large.

The World is indeed a difficult place. O youngster of the day, follow the message religiously and you shall be as successful as a pack of hyenas chasing the loan deer, as satisfied as a Seamer clinching the tail ender and have a soul as clean as a Harpic cleaned WC!

Don - the chase fails

Don ko pakadna mushkil hi nahi, namumkin hai. These words echo in the ears and would do so for years to come, thanks to the immortal character sketched in the yesteryears.

The classic had three singular characters played by Amitabh. One where he plays the Don, the second being the simpleton Vijay and the third a surrogate enacting the Don’s characters. The incorrigible rogue with his suave mannerisms and sinuous acts of crime; the naïve simpleton with his country side roots and a soft corner for the children; and the precocious surrogate who dons the Don’s shoes were like three sides of the same coin! The most difficult of the trio was playing the third character where the audience visualizes the simpleton in him and realizes that he is actually enacting a character, whereas the gang in the cinema is to believe that he indeed is the Don. An amazingly complicated acting portfolio which was acted to perfection.

The revised Don had this aspect completely missing in the movie. This however may be pardoned considering that the protagonist is played not by Amitabh but SRK and because of the twist in the storyline. Even if the storyline was kept the same I have my doubts if it could ever have been played even a trifle close to the original. In an attempt to add sophistication to the character Farhan misses on “developing” the Don’s character and rather devotes in style content. For instance the scene with Don in the tub and grin to the takes of Tom and Jerry adds nothing to the character but only reflects an incomplete attempt to establish a non existent character. The style factor could not however outweigh the poor characterization. The imperative character of JJ leaves no impact whatsoever in the new version. Somebody once said that Arjun Rampal can be replaced with a chair in all his movies. An example is Don.

Impressed by the sheer prominence of the character (that one has perhaps revered in his childhood) does not entitle him to remake a masterpiece. But hold on. Farhan in his televised interview stated that this is not a remake but his “interpretation” of the movie Don. If at all this is an interpretation then why are the key monologues from the original version lifted like Roma airlifts the entire van to add vanity and style. To top it the entire soundtrack is copied with minor variations adding techno beats and a few added stanzas. And if it indeed is a remake then why the original plot is tinkered with beats me.

An earnest attempt has been made by Farhan Akhtar to impart his interpretation of Don which falls flat on its back. No doubt he was taken in by the audacity of the character, the immortal dialogues and the amazing soundtrack and got lured to interpret it on his own. But sorry Farhan, your interpretation is abysmal to say the least and any attempt to vindicate your plot through post release interviews will add no value to your misadventure.

Salute to Salim-Javed for the screenplay/dialogues, Chandra Barot for the direction and Kalyanji-Anandji for the music of this 1978 masterpiece.

Don banana mushkil hi nahi, namumkin hai.

This is not a movie review or the nuances of acting and the histrionics of the actors, but an “interpretation” of the idea behind Version 2.0