The Baton gets exchanged.................

Dil Chahta Hai & Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara

It was a rainy day. The atmosphere was not ready for such a mind- boggling experience. Neither was our soul. All of us flocked to the nearby screens. Three queer faces were peeking out of posters. The I-have-seen-it-all Akash, the mom-i-am-so-confused Samir and Mr. cool-as-a-cucumber Sid. We, who had, braved the rain and gone gone to watch the big guns of Bollyworld, were taken by surprise. It wasn't them-  but the onscreen the trio who got the better of us. It was the other bunch of men who caught us by our nape-like a mother –cat holds her kittens and safely transfers them to a cozy, warm place – the debutant director, the music composers, the lyricist, the whole team took us to an old place, cozy and full of warmth. A place we had always known. A place we had always known. A place where we find our closest of friends. Friendship.

Years ago, when I was in school, I used to find an open sky in front of the radio. The walls of the idiot-box used to be claustrophobic to me. That was the time when I had heard on air that “parents introduce us to the world but friends who stay with us throughout the rest of the journey”. That rainy day made me realize the true essence of friendship. The first scene where the other two bursts into Sid’s house late night imagining an emergency to the scene where the three part ways – the roller – coaster to the ride has always been a treat to watch.

Dil Chahta Hai

My house had a pond years ago. Every day, I used to come back from school sit by the bank, just allowing every bit of the serenity seep into my blood. DCH and a nth review of the entire movie still gives the same smile, to that same angle, my lips curl in that same position, to that same angle, my eyes emote to that same pain, my breaths still paint the same paintings – every time, I click the “Play” button, I feel that same serenity. Feeling that I used to feel sitting at the pond bank. Such was the impact of the euphoric milieu that was born out of the trio.

DCH on 24^th July, 2011 completed its journey of a decade. A journey that has been a cult,  almost symbolic to the journey that the three embarked upon till the last scene. Awards, kudos, celebrations, cult status, stardom for the director. All-time high for the music directors. Another feather in the cap of the lyricist. A dizzying cinematography. A freshly –minted script.  

And, also the other side of the moon. The mythical fan-following. The Goa shooting spot revisited. The umpteen copies of that shadow-dance sequence. The fake fish-eating photo. The fun. The all-I-have-is- you-guys feeling.

The trio, over all these years, have swept away every friend who has seen this ode to friendship called DCH. And, while DCH gives to such a height and structure, I relived my DCH moments too.

DCH showed us how every frame can be precious in a man’s life. Months after Akash and gang had passed out of college, Akash could still see three of them sitting at the college stairs, giving away to their hearts’s content. We had ours too. We four.

Cycle rides to eternity, laughing away to glory, snatching less-fortunate one’s tiffin, fooling away forever- our list was long enough. Cycle was a catalyst to love, lust, pain, glory. Friendship found a new horizon, newer dimension.

Last bench catastrophes were cool. Calling one by his/ her father’s / mother’s name became a cool menace. Hanging out together was no longer a non-sense. The sudden, unplanned trip, out of the blues bike rides, cheap thrills, bunking, out-of-budget expenses, et al.

  And, the legacy continues. Till date. 10 years and still continuing. People still swear on DCH. The dialogues are still mint-fresh. And boys still dread a Priya-like girlfriend. Girls still die for those dreamy eyes of Sid. And resembles all that DCH is made of.

Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara 

But times change. Years pass. Buddies grow stronger, sharper too. (I have alittle doubt regarding the smarter  part though.) Anyways, DCH too had to grow up. And, what better way than to pass the baton to ZNMD?

What did you say? The word ‘baton’? Yes… you heard right… cause life is a relay race… every action has a consequence … every bit of our schedule gives rise to a chain reaction. Somewhere in life, school paves the way for college. Somewhere in nature, the seed grows into a tree. Somewhere in love, the words carry the seeds for the future.

And, in between all these cacophony called life, the baton gets exchanged. DCH gives ZNMD a gentle yet careful message. You can almost see the predecessor’s shadow. But, that’s it. ZNMD showcases how every ‘Bwoy’ in the team has grown up. Even that old man.

The first whiff of adolescence or feet-firmly-on-the-ground hits the nose when Imraan – Arjun – Kabir battle it out among themselves regarding Arjun’s ex-lover, Sonali. But, unlike DCH, they don’t cancel their trip midway nor break friendship, rather they move on. And, if that is the signal of intent, it gets confirmed at the end when we get to see Kabir ends up single, and at the end when Imraan and Nuria are still cool about being just a pair; unlike DCH where Sid meets this new girl on the beach and the round table dinner sequence, as if the film couldn't have ended with him single.

Also, the music director trio, they have achieved a whole new curve, the old man has come up with some absolute fantastic lines, the cinematographers look delicious frame-by-frame, and the director still has her head between her shoulders.

And, how I saw my bwoys grow up to a different height altogether. Some migrated to different latitudes and longitudes altogether. But the heart beat has remained the same. The pulse still races in the same fashion. The missed calls, SMSs, pokes convey the same message – my bwoys are still very close.

The madness in the heart, the Bedouin nature in the blood, the nomadic spirit yet a strong desire to get settled, we four have made quite a long journey in life.

And while we have traveled long, while we have far and out, we have found a Sid, an Akash, a Samir among us.

And inside us, we know, its a decade that has passed in realizing so.

(This post is an entry to the Reel-Life Bloggers contest organized by www.wogma.com and www.reviewgang.com )

from the Crow's Nest ...

The Wired Generation: - I

X, Y are talking.

X – “Arey! Yesterday I met P…”

Y (thinking) – “Okkkk .. FB pe … “

X – “We had a good conversation … “

Y (thinking) – “Oh … FB Chat pe .. “

X – “ He introduced me to 2 of his friends .. “

Y (thinking) – “Oh ho … Now I get it .. FB group me subscribed hai dono .. wahi pe baatein kar rahe the sab milke …”

X – “But then 2 of his female classmates came and dragged them away…”

Y opened her mouth …

Y – “But how can they drag someone away on FB chat?”

X – “Who told you anything about FB chat? We bumped into each other at the college gate”……

The Wired Generation: - II

X – “Arey madam Namaste! … When did you come back from abroad?”

Y – “Arey long back .. 2 months its going to be now…”

X – “You never told me … “

Y – “Arey couldn’t tell you coz I never found you online in the meantime … “

The Wired Generation: - III

Husband – “Arey where were you? I was frantically  searching for you. Looked up in FB, Orkut, Gmail .. couldn’t find you …”

Wife – “Arey Twitter pe toh dia tha … Did you check there? “

Husband – “Oops … 1 sec … Missed out on that .. “

The screen read – “@Big Girl Now: Going to washroom .. be back in 5 secs. … #toilet  “

the wired generation .....  or weird maybe ... !!

In The Mirror

                                              That Beauty Never Lies                                

Even the bright shining sun is unable to cover the undue darkness that the economy is undergoing currently in England. The recent riot reveals the two disparate worlds – one that has all the luxury to enjoy a spendthrift vacation at exotic location and another that hardly can even dream of a day off in leisure. And, they are on streets massacring the vacations of the other world.

A car burning during the riots at London

 Prime Minister David Cameron was forced to return from his vacation in ten thousand pounds a week villa in Italy. London’s Mayor Boris Johnson returned from his family vacation in North America. Home Secretary Theresa May cut short her vacation in Switzerland.

As the fiery mob runs, loots, batters the ‘peace’ of London and other cities, it straight away unleashes the inconceivable gap between the rich and poor that was long preserved under the shiny gat-gates of the country. Now, they want their slice of cake – their right to survive.

Though analysts question their method of act, though statistics show that 60 percent of the rioters are immigrants – the realty strikes elsewhere. The time has arrived – the change is inevitable.

And a question comes here. How an economically stabbed country affords to buy tickets worth 60-70 pounds to enjoy the India – England test cricket. Keep aside the economic instability; the English people are also ignoring the security issues! I am terming ‘English people’ here, because the return of Ian Bell set the stadium abuzz with applauds – Only Indians wouldn’t have made this.

May be, the point of attraction is Sachin Tendulkar. The demi-God of cricket may have hypnotized the cricket- lovers to ignore all the trivial things and rise to become a part of the history by witnessing his 100^th century – a perk many future generations may not witness.

But, time and life has its own flow. It brings you back the stage meant for you to heal the wound that life has made decade back. And, when India’s batting order was trembling to the English bowlers, the stage was ready. Life has come a full circle after 15 years. Rahul Dravid was out at 95 fiften years back. He had a vengeance to take from the life. And, an intense cricket romance was destined to be sculptured on the Wall of Indian cricket.

The critics who are terming his innings as the master class are mistaken. This is Dravid class. The class that is developed over time and is a super blend of classical defense, copybook grammar and magical patience –  overshadowing the relishing beauty of stroke playing.  Even the cricket romantics are also bowing to the fact that technicality can also challenge the beauty of the game.

And, it makes us confront a lie that we routinely tell ourselves.’ The beauty does not matter, the outward appearance can be deceptive, and depth is more valued than gloss- are all what we believe should be true. And, it is simply not true.

Hina Rabbani Khar

  In every walk of life, from election to beauty contest – from promotion to sports – beauty matters.  Look at the more recent media frenzy surrounding India visit of Hina Rabbani Khar, the Pakistani minister of foreign affairs. She carried away with an impression of Pakistan’s new handshake stance with India. The extent of coverage on her looks and fashion sensibility once again proves the ‘lie’ a truth. The politically battered Pakistan is looking up to her as a fresh air to breathe. God has at last given them to look up to someone with hope.

Surprisingly, the God creates some miracle every time He sees His fellow earthian disciples in trouble. He made Indian beauty queens universe best when the conservative Indians were under huge economic debacle, He calms down the politically and economically agitated Spanish people by winning much craving football World Cup, He also made Indians dance in the cricketing tunes this April by gifting a win in cricket world cup much away from the shoddy agitations against their huge corruption in the Government and now He is also trying hard to make the English people smile by crumbling this World Cup winner  again and again and the list continues. Coincident cannot be so often. His indulgence is quite clear.

Rahul Dravid after the ton at Lord's

 And with the blessings of God the English pacers are able to lock the performance of the Demi God of Indian cricket (as TOI termed Rahul Dravid in the running England series) as only his personal achievement. As if he came only to mend up his personal grievance and the remaining players repeatedly made it sure that by no means the blessings of God can change sides, at least when England is under such a trauma.   

The economic darkness in England is looming. The riots are spreading. The police force is increasing exponentially. The English people now are patiently waiting for a bright sunshine. But it is not the time to “leap into the breakthrough” but quoting Jim Collins it is the right time to halt and “try to move the heavy political flywheel in the right direction” till the momentum comes that will drive the flywheel on its own. It may take long time to yield results but it will be sustainable.

The flywheel was set long 15 years back. Rahul Dravid was out for just 5 runs to a century. And, for the most of his journey, he was overshadowed either by the aura of Sachin Tendulkar or by the mastery of Laxman or Ganguly. The flywheel was thus gaining momentum. And after 15 years, the momentum is automatic. It is so robust that it denies defeat even in the harshest of the conditions. And the romantics who has always kept him out of the poetry of cricket saw in front of them how an epic is made.Just opposite to the conditions of England which seems destabilized and the exponential increase of police is indicative of the looming panic of the entire social system. It is the time to set the flywheel – and they know in which direction it is to be set.

When the entire stadium at Oval stood up for an ovation to him, Dravid also acknowledged by raising his bat. The emotion was sparkling at that moment. This is his last time here. I wonder when I last saw any cricketer receiving such accolades out of home. He has got the 'final justice' . This is the beauty of life and it never lies.

From The Crow's Nest.......

"NO EXIT ALLOWED" 

Prologue

“Yaha se bahirgaman mana hai” -- the Signboard read that out to me, loudly and clearly. As I was nodding my head in submission, I realized that there exist many such doorways in our life too -- doors that bear such a similar sign. You cannot go out through these doors. We call such doors as ‘Memories’.

I

Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening -- Dali

As I start writing this article, I constantly remind myself of a painting by Salvador Dali  -- Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening. 


In the upper left of the painting a fish bursts out of the pomegranate, and in turn spews out a tiger who then spews out another tiger and a bayonet. A second later, the bayonet will sting Gala in the arm.
Memories also have such layers -- dark, deep and sometimes, of unfathomable depths.

First of all, memories are like gifts -- carefully wrapped, the ribbons shaking their heads in air like sunflowers in a sunlit field, making a pretty picture; and there is always a sense of mystery and expectation around them -- what will it be? That class VII poem book? The pen I had given to the next boy in the 2^nd terminal exam? The day we won the inter-school quiz contest? That evening when she managed to have a word with me? The night I was caught watching ‘Titanic’ on TV...Endless duels between the What-ifs and Why-nots inside the head.

Then, there are some memories, which have closed doors -- you know who all are waiting for you once you open the doors -- that stick dad used to beat you with, that mathematics copy still bearing the 8 out of 100 in red ink, that report card where you had tampered the 62 to make 82, your walkman which went missing from your bag…enough to give you nightmares till the deathbed. The red walls reminiscent of a horrific past, black and white floors make you smell the acrid flavor of indecisions, broken promises , peels of laughter and unkempt hairs of freedom. You cannot open the doors even if they are ajar…irony unlimited!

And then there are memories which have a closed door with a pretty ribbon as a lock. The ribbon is an illusion of a pleasant gift. A single tug can open the knot -- yet you would dare not -- because, while the door hints at you the skeletons it contains within its brick-and-mortar rib-cage, the pretty ribbon does not have the air of surprise along with it.

II

The boy faces a similar dilemma as he stands in front of such a door. Every day, he tells a lie to himself and finds an alibi to go and stand in front of the closed doors. Every day he gathers courage to push open the door, kick open the door. 

Every day becomes a celebration of failure to him. He pins his hope for the next day as he neatly keeps his wings of Dreams inside his trunk. A strange dichotomy appears in front of him -- he wants to take a dip in all those memories, yet failure sits on his shoulder,vulture-like. He knows a single dip will bring back all those old times -- but it will also open up the old wounds -- blood will ooze out as a constant reminder that he will never be able to realize those dreams. He gets divided every day, only to be united at the end of the day. The doors are better closed because he knows he will never be able to touch these dreams, turn these memories into reality.

Epilogue

While we call our memories each an individual door, they also have a door of their own. That almost creates a Salvador Dali-esque effect within the mind. But who cares? A closed door still has a silver-lining; but an unlocked door, yet which cannot be open, as if due to an invisible magic spell, is pure doomsday. Totally made of stuffs Robert Ludlum used to dream of and Sidney Sheldon used to write of; upheavals of a stressed-out, stretched-out mind.

The boy suddenly finds himself inside the room. The places have been swapped. He tries to run away. The door stops him. He is not allowed to go through the Doors. ”Yaha se nishkraman mana hai”, the Doors said!

The boy does well. He gets two options -- either he has to create a pseudo-reality to convince himself that he is happy and stay in that self-created exile, life long.

Or, he creates a virtual world to that he can come to terms with such memories.

The boy does the right thing. He opens the window and sees there’s apathy far more bloody and gory than his memory. He gets the bigger picture. He accepts the spade as a spade, walks out of the window and dissipates in the crowd.

From the desk of a Guest Wtiter

                                                           its crazy ...

The best thing about rains is how the nature flourishes in it. The same route that my bus takes every day looks like a brand new place. And my jobless mind starts making conversations to another, probably equally jobless mind of mine. All my childhood fantasies come back to life so vividly n my head that I feel almost confident enough to make a movie that will beat avatar.

Creation of M.F.Hussain

If you ask me to describe the feeling that these deep greens and electric greens instill in me…..i would tell you to imagine how that mysterious mesmerizing maiden made the saint on his way to chastitised salvation feel.  Yes that’s exactly how I feel; it takes my breath away n if it were possible to overcome my human limitations I would leap out of my bus window n fly over that green carpet. Trees tat look like a forked hand of a witch now look like someone poured green slime on it and all the forked fingers are now held together underneath.

It’s crazy, the pain it causes in my heart, the distance is unbearable and all I want to do is touch it, feel it like a foolish child running behind a soap bubble thinking he can hold it for eternity and hold it intact.  And then I invariably come to you I ask you’ why?’ of all the things you could have made me, you made me a human, why?  Why not the air, why not the water, why not the bird who can see it all?

For once, I pray to you, for once make me a soul, for once let me feel it all, for once take me beyond the limitations of these four limbs……. Or take this green away from me forever…..cause its crazy, the pain it instills in me.

                                    (penned by Priti Bhosale) 

From the desk of a Guest Writer

                                          look at yourself....!!! 

I was born with a tail, hair covering the entire body, long teeth to make myself comfortable with all kinds of food. With changing times, I have shed my tail. The fur cover is all gone. But all this while beyond the cognizance of my inner intuition, certain change was accumulating within me. A thing called "my need" has been slowly building its base inside me. once upon a time , I used to earn my livelihood by hunting. I used to eat fruits, vegetables, meat. I did not have a home and not even a dress to protect myself from the elements of weather. I have everything at my disposal today.

It all started with the invention of the wheel. It showed the way for further invention & terms like 'progress' and 'development' were coined. 'Necessity is the mother of invention' was framed and the world got a new looking glass. 

But as we moved from wheel to motor, naphtha-paraffin to petrol-diesel, bullock carts to trains, we still wanted more. We have moved on to airplanes yet our pursuit continues. The maids have given ways to washing machines, the sun has given ways to heater, A.Cs have replaced the khus-khus  - cyclically the forests have given way to mines, innocent childhood have covered in front of child labor. Playing grounds have given way to computer-games, drawing room adda-sessions have given way to Facebooks, and human beings have given way to technological zombies. Comfort and profit, balanced sheets and unbalanced viewpoints have taken us today to a point of no-return.

In spite of having almost everything I needed, I am still unsatisfied, hungry, uncontented and greedy. The greed keeps evolving.......

                                                      (the writer is Sanjay roy)
                                                      

from the Crow's Nest ...

-- "You’re next...!!"

-- "Oh Really ??"   

A common question has always plagued the young generation. The question of when someone will say an “I Do” or “Kabul Hai” or walk 7 rounds around the fire.

And while an opposition to the institution has always been there, anti-marriage stances have always been considered blasphemous.

The recent uproar is due to a comment by Eva Mendes who went on air saying,” It’s (marriage) a very old-fashioned, archaic kind of thing! I don’t think it fits in my world today.”

This is exactly what we need to look at, in today’s time. Marriage was never supposed to be a binding; it was always about bonding. But this is one area where we are stuck as a society, if not perpetually, for quite some time now certainly.

We still expect the trajectory in a boy’s life will be a career and a marriage then; the girl’s will be a marriage and if possible, a career then. Any deviation or detour will draw a thousand jeers, questions, frowns, pointed fingers. Introspection. Compromise. Self-imposed exile maybe.

The flow of relations, however, has always been the same. People have fallen in love -- fallen in love without prejudice, without expectations; most importantly, people have fallen in love without the promise of a haloed marriage.

Yet, the fixation with the institution continues. The beautifully framed picture, about the inevitability of marriage, keeps adorning our drawing-rooms. The hangover still strong, the belief in this empty rhetoric is maddening.

If we follow the ideologies strongly, we get to see that right from the communists to the post-modernists, people have always denounced the institution of marriage. But it is the strong feudal and patriarchal air that hangs around, which is still calling the shots in today’s world. Imagine this, in a Hindu marriage, the tradition requires the groom to hand over a pair of sarees to his newly-wed bride and say – “From today onwards, I will take care of your food and clothes.” Down South, the tradition is more pathetic. The groom will have to leave the ceremony-house; the bride’s father is required to coax him back and persuade him to marry his daughter.

Then what if the wife runs the house? Maybe a divorce makes her raise their 2 kids single-handedly? Where’s the respect then?

And then we talk of women-empowerment and celebrate Women’s Day?

With such a thick air of rigidity and obstinacy around such a concept, breaking free or thinking of a world minus the M-word falls just short of a utopia.

But when I look at the Bachelors’ Club, I go moonstruck. When people think and staunchly believe that without marriage, a person’s life will be miserable, it’s time we take a look at “The Club”.

From the yesteryear to the realms of present, from the reel-world to the world of comics, the Bachelors’ Club is colourful to the last alphabet, the list comprising of a complete Who’s Who of all the worlds.

While we have right from Sir Isaac Newton, Helen Keller, Florence Nightingale, Ludwig Van Beethoven, Franz Kafka, Vincent Van Gogh to our very own Lata Mangeshkar, Dr. A P J Abdul Kalam, Dr. B C Roy and Acharya Prafulla Chandra Roy – we also have George Clooney to Al Pacino, Sherlock Holmes to Tintin – all the accomplished achievers are right there in that club.

And while we are re-reading the names, let me add a small disclaimer – the fact that all of them were/are unmarried does not signify that they were/are against the institution of marriage. This is only to prove that marriage never is the only/sole purpose or objectivity of life. Life can be much more worthwhile during our lifetime.

But again, as I look at this strange institution called marriage, I gape in awe at the stupendous stupidity-trap we have created as human-beings. Human race has always felt the urge to bind him to rigid rules, sometimes bordering on insane logics even. The intransigent crowd is too much bent on giving name to relations.

Al Pacino once said the right words – “Why have I never proposed in the past? I hate to say this, but marriage is a state of mind, not a contract. When I think about the law and the marriage, I ask myself ‘When did the cops get involved?’ “

This has to be the order of the day. Society needs to understand, we have to get used to the notion that it’s basically love which holds us together. Not 4 walls and 1 ceiling.