UNDERLYING UNREST

Life is such an illusion that most of the times we end up believing in the most incredible. Take for instance a time frame that seems to be so picture perfect. Every thing appears as we want them to appear to us. Leisure that remained inexperienced transforms into a reality. Botheration seems to be at the least. The ambience seems illuminated thrillingly. Desires of touching the skies start getting so real that we take a giant leap only to fall into a pit, which is being dug quietly. After biting the dust, we realise the magnitude of the underlying unrest. Just like a lump of lava in the core of Mother Earth, there is immense amount of unrest that keeps signalling an outburst. Very rarely do we take notice of the circumstances around us. Foolishly we give into the excitement that is so short lived. The smiles that greet us hint conspiracy in it. The sudden influx of inactivity tries to overshadow the active achievements of the time bygone. All this only because we are selfish, self centred and blinded by the sparkle of a hypothetical reality. Shamelessly we also give into their charming tactics who are busy inflicting unaccountable damage to your presence and to your future. With an open mouth and great enthusiasm we sit there feeling entertained. In the due course, we become so prone to the illusion that we feel this is the best time of our lives. We travel that extra mile to criticise those who warn us against such wrong doings. This underlying unrest is far more dangerous than nuclear weapons, which when put to use kill instantly. But silenced trouble keeps killing silently. It enters through the mind, hijacks the heart and kills the conscience within. From humans we become animals and start hunting for that one last moment of activeness. Very few are capable enough to feel the vibrations of the underlying unrest. So very successfully they disappear at an opportune time. Then there are those, who knowingly want to be an integral part of an unfortunate end. It just arrives unannounced. It doesn’t surprise but brutally enslaves you. No super human force can fight the trauma of being victimised by underlying unrest. Some of us prefer to stay neutral by neither bothering nor shunning the thought of being soft targets of the reality, which at the moment is being kept as a top secret. Thousands of minds are functioning at the same time to keep it alive. Gaining is what they perceive and losing is what the uninformed deserve. It is like that sleep of a long night, which is never followed by a bright & fresh morning. All that follows is malaise in abundance. It doesn’t have a smell, it doesn’t have a shape. But all it has is an impact that lasts for years and one can never recover from. So before it gets too late, it is necessary to look around and wake up to realise that unknowingly perhaps we are not being victimised by the creators of this underlying unrest. Not a weapon but only the mind can cut through the thickness of this doomed thought and maybe put to rest the underlying unrest.

-vociferous

UNKNOWN REALITIES

Suburban lives survive in unison with only one network that keeps them connected – The Train. On a regular basis, we see innumerable faces. We know nothing about them and still try to draw a character sketch about them. Gradually we do get familiar with some of them during our regular course of journey. And then one day, when we discover about their unknown realities, we end up feeling so incomplete.

Bobby

He is dark. Always drunk and confused, he takes great pleasure in giving the trains a miss. His bloodshot eyes are unwatchable and his verbal abuses cross the permissible limits of indecency. Dark skinned, well built and dressed averagely; he is a hardcore hooch addict. He always travels by a first class compartment, which signifies the fact that he has a decent job and is an employee very much in demand. His telephonic conversations are often punctuated with irrelevant references to unimaginable events. Sometimes due to over consumption of alcohol, he salivates incessantly. I never even knew that he has got a name. Until one day, he boarded the train. Then jumped out of it and waived to his friends. They yelled, “Bobby, Don’t be lazy”.

Who and what is Bobby? A character, an alcoholic, a loser or a bad man? Like other human beings, he is made of blood and flesh. His lifestyle is different from us. He never takes the jokes cracked on him, seriously. I have been his observant for almost two years now. Disobeying his friends, cracking ugly jokes and verbal abuses seem to have become a routine of his. He continues missing the trains and he continues over consuming alcohol. One day he seemed to be in control and sat quietly, said nothing. For a single day he seemed to be out of his usual character. I was stunned. His regular group of friends barged in and cracked jokes as usual. Bobby stood up, grabbed his bag, stuffed his mouth with a packet of tobacco and stepped out of the train. I couldn’t hold back my curiosity and inquired with a friend of his who also happens to be my friend. I tried to probe into the psyche of this person called Bobby. The revelation made by this friend of his was startling, tragic and painful. The things he said contradicted the sketch I had drawn of Bobby in my mind. He was never the drunkard that he is now.

So once again I was eager to discover Bobby. I still don’t know to which caste or religion he belongs to. His lingo signifies his identity of being a native. His friend started talking and by the time he concluded, I turned blank.

He started, “We have known Bobby for over 6 years. He was never like this. He had a lovely wife and possibly has a daughter or son. Bobby loved his wife very much. Then one day, she fell ill. Visits to doctors, specialists, hospitals and health care centres did no good to her health. One day she succumbed to an unknown illness. The day she breathed her last, Bobby was by her side and saw her die in pain. He shook her dead body and pleaded her to open her eyes. He even asked her to talk to him. But dead bodies never speak. He stood up, called us to inform that his wife was no more. We gathered at his residence. He was still sitting there by her side with his head bent deep in his knees. After all the preparations were done to take her to the crematorium, Bobby didn’t want to let us take her body out of the home. We couldn’t believe what next he planned to do. Painstakingly we made him believe that she was dead and she was being taken away for the last rites to be performed. After the cremation, Bobby returned home speechless. In a week he turned into a sort of a recluse. And in the next ten days, he drowned himself in alcohol (hooch in particular). From then till now, he is yet to recover from that shock. On every new day, we are seeing Bobby mutilate his own self.”

I couldn’t believe what was just told to me. The train moved and by the sudden jerk, my thoughts were shaken up. I had always looked down on Bobby. I always considered him to be a drunkard who had by now mastered the art of travelling by first class. Though he is surrounded by friends, he knows no one is his well wisher. He is happy being the alcoholic he is. As the train moved, once again I saw Bobby jump out of the train. Once again his friends yelled, “Bobby, Don’t be lazy.” Only this time, I heard him reply in a loud and clear voice, “My wife just called on my cell. She is missing me, so I dropped the idea of going to office and am going to be with her”!

I stood their surprised again and stunned by the fact that his wife was long dead. His friend smiled at me and said, “He is not going back to his wife but he is going to the local bar to drain down his daily dose of hooch”. This image of Bobby contradicted the image of his, I held in my mind. It shattered the impression of him as a drunkard. Today when I look at him, I curse myself of being so foolishly unaware of the reality. This side of Bobby’s life would have always remained unknown to me, had I not taken keen interest in discovering who he was. Sometimes realities are left unknown and it works so negatively against one individual in particular.

Kshirsagar

Average built, six feet one inch tall, dressed formally, bespectacled; Mr. Kshirsagar always had this habit of hopping on to the train before it came to a halt. Though he always contemplated taking the window seat; luck didn’t favour him. Still he satisfied himself with the third seat position on the opposite side of the train’s momentum. Even though he worked as a Space Selling Executive with an afternoon tabloid, he dipped his head deep into a copy of a famous regional daily. The only time he raised his head was when we cracked jokes, spoke about creativity and discussed ads. I particularly tried to avoid him because of his repeated requests to meet the creative honcho of my ex agency, which was next to impossible. Though he claimed to have met him in the past, only I knew his version wasn’t completely true in form or in imagination. He still kept requesting for just one meeting. His wish remained unfulfilled and so did my never made promise.

Gradually, I left travelling by the same train. And after having discontinued with my regular schedule, I did make a come back. As lucky as I was, I occupied the same seat that I used to be a permanent member of. Once again I saw him sitting at his usual position. He was slightly puzzled. My revamp of image had left him confused to decide whether it was me or a look alike of mine. I still didn’t pay much attention. He found it even more difficult when I was greeted by the same set of friends I used to travel with. His only concern was why I was trying to ignore him in particular. I simply couldn’t blatantly ignore him any more. Some one also informed me that he was still finding it difficult to keep up with the pace of modern media selling practice. Without uttering a word, I disappeared in the crowd.

Almost three months passed away without the wink of an eyelid. I once again was back in the same train with the same group of friends/fellow travellers. I found it strange to see Kshirsagar gone missing. I jokingly inquired about the space seller. One of my close friends informed, “Kshirsagar passed away three months back following a massive heart attack. The day he passed away, he was with us. On the previous day of his demise he had finalised a deal with an FMCG company who in turn had agreed to advertise in the English daily, he was associated with. On the day of his demise, he was cordially dressed to attend the final round of meeting with the FMCG client. For the first ever time, lady luck had smiled on him that day by making available to him the window seat in the travelling direction. He was happy very happy. To celebrate the day of his achievement, he availed a half day. He was pleased to be home with his wife by 4 p.m. At around 4.55 p.m., I received a call from his wife. I was at my office. She informed Kshirsagar was no more.”

After my friend had finished narrating the reason behind Kshirsagar’s disappearance our eyes swelled with tears. An old friend of Kshirsagar told us how he had always remained a recluse in his professional arena. He also told us that Kshirsagar was never greedy for any thing. But he was too fond of people and the window seat in the train. Only that day I kept looking at the window seat, which remained vacant at least for three consecutive stations, the train passed. For a moment I thought, Kshirsagar would appear in no time. But he never came. All of us reached our destination. I couldn’t control my emotional thoughts of his. I was heartbroken. From within, I cursed myself for being so tight-fisted towards a man who just like me always remained a struggler in his life till the time he bid adieu to his life. Today I rarely take the train but whenever I travel by it, all that comes back to me are the unknown realities that I never knew about Kshirsagar. We and in particular me will miss him till the time we continue travelling by the same train.

- vociferous

BEING ALONE, BEING SINGLE & THE FREEDOM I ENJOY

Day by day my addiction to singleton is getting intense. Not that I am impressed by celebrity singles or am under the influence of some saint but because it allows me the space and the unconfined freedom, I desire. Having crossed the quintessential mark of 30, it is but obvious to expect my well wishers to inquire about my marital status. And over the years, I have only mastered the skill of satisfying their queries innovatively. Thankfully my friends understand my psyche and have stood by me; Rock Solid.

Right from my childhood being the only child, staying alone has never been challenging. In fact it has been a blessing in disguise. I have always been privy to confessions of sibling rivalries confided by some well known, some unknown; I desire to keep unnamed. So, I respect my childhood that I spent without any immediate blood relationship that could have earned itself a status of being a brother/sister. After a long gap of seven years, cousins did start arriving making me feel like the supreme sovereign but they were too young to acquaint themselves with the revolutionary within me. Gradually from adolescents, they stepped into the teenage years and now some of them have become adults while the others are grown up enough to not consider me some one supreme but some one who is elder to them. And at times tries, pretends and succeeds in towering over them. Over a period of time, I know this little bit of adulation that I have earned from them will fade away unannounced.

Sometimes a silly question like, “How do you feel staying single?” irritates me to bits. It is like asking water, how it feels to be like being wet. I don’t blame any body in particular but as Indians however influenced by foreign culture we are; one thing that still remains a mystery to most is the issue of ‘singleton’. Aunties in neighbourhood spend sleepless nights thinking why this guy has chosen to stay single. While some have this weird doubt in their mind over the sexual preferences of a single guy! At the first place, being a personal person, I hate such kind of irrelevant invasions. And secondly, every household with their own set of problems should concentrate less in complicating the lives of others.

Marriage as an institution is most precious. But an incident in 2003 made me lose my faith in it. Subsequently a series of unexplainable events went on taking me away from marriage. The fact that marriage unites two people of different genders and two families of different mindsets simply stood being misunderstood. I witnessed marriages collapse like a house of cards. Friends were filing for divorce. Foes were fleeing with their ex-flames. Closest of relationships were getting fragile and all that was visible were the ugly corridors of court. At this interesting place, which we refer to as court; I discovered brokers in black suits. Some of them championed the cause of staying stuck in a bad marriage, some advised an out-of-the-court settlement, some mispronounced alimony as ‘all money’ and some simply winked about burying the hatchet beneath a hefty bundle of notes.

Amidst all this, I discovered the gradual evolution of a breed, class apart! This breed is that of men and women, who hardly value the importance of permanent relationships. They have no inhibitions in discovering vital statistics in a bartered fashion. They follow the code of ‘I facilitate you, you facilitate me’. Speed dating is their mantra and hyper mating is their technique to drain their frustrations out in a world full of this breed. I could have never found a better reason to ignore all the proposals that had found their way in my inbox, mailbox and letterbox. More hilarious was a situation when I was meeting a potential bride and at that very moment I recollecting her moment of intimacy with her heartthrob in a first class compartment of a late night train. I can understand love demands intimacy supported by privacy. Train is the last best option to display being passionately in love with each other. Renowned writers call this practice as PDA (Public Display of Affection). So when I am informed of a proposal, my mind sinks in thoughts of encountering a thing of the past.

My mother is one of those who want to see her son settled with a bride of her or my choice. She has never argued over love or arranged marriages. Neither does she stay in a glass house. She is a normal mother who expects to be a mother-in-law. She is definitely eager to also be crowned as the grand mother of one/two tiny tots. But as a son, I don’t have the courage to tell her that I have simply enslaved myself to my newly found freedom of being ‘single’.

Singleton means freedom! No one can question your choice of television programmes. Sop operas involving a tough tussle between a bride and her in-laws never figure in my routine of channel surfing. I decide the colour of my own shirt and I am the one to take a call on the trouser to look good with it. Till now, I have only allowed my mother to give a second opinion because she knows what makes me look good. I have accustomed myself so much to the presence of just the two of us in our household that the advent of a third person in our personal lives would seem like a forced intrusion. Sometimes people are very entertaining in extending proposals. They have this habit of tagging me with the words ‘handsome’, ‘good looking’, ‘knowledgeable’ and ‘jovial’ at regular intervals to see to it that my mother blindly accepts one of the many proposals.

On a serious note, some are gravely concerned about the biological need. In the conservative society that we live in, talking about a subject that is considered taboo is an issue of high risk. People who burn all the midnight oil in developing such queries are themselves the sole practitioners of this tabooed concept. It is their insecurity that prompts them to double check, if they have been found caught in the act. And it is better for others to maintain calm on the preferences side. Section 377 only makes it simple for ideas to flourish untiringly in idle minds. I empathise with this current issue but don’t figure in this slightly different but respectable category, which means I am normal.

To put it simply, I am happy living a life with no strings attached to it. I see a movie of my choice, I converse with people I like to be in company of and I eat the food that tastes good without making me aware of my diet unconsciousness. I love my mother and am fine with her treating me like a little one. But I can never tolerate some one talking a thing against the womb I belong to. Having come to this world 32 years ago, I still feel I haven’t yet achieved my goals, objectives and dreams. If some one is still bothered about I being single, there are millions of innovative reasons to keep thinking about. Once again I am thankful to all my friends and my well wishers and my admirers who have stood by me and continue to do so. I am sure never in any other life of mine will I get these gifts of goodness, niceness and happiness.

So, here I am the free bird of a free nation. Spreading my wings, I chart the blue skies that seem like an umbrella. When I get stuck in the white clouds and am lost in the blackest of them, I ask for help and I realise, I am alone. But I am happy being single and am free to allow life take its own course.

- vociferous

A GEM OF A BENGALI MOVIE - DUI PRITHIBI (Two Worlds)

Sometime released in the year 1980, roughly two years after I was born Dui Prithibi meaning Two Worlds is a gem of a Bengali movie; I discovered recently. My mom hadn’t watched it and neither had she heard about its popularity. The storyline of the movie is contemporary and projects an image of the world we are living in today. The theme of the movie revolves around two main characters Mrinal Dutta (Uttam Kumar) and Kunal Dutta (Victor Banerjee).

Mrinal Dutta being the elder son of the family is the sole earning member of the family. He works as a reporter and strives hard to make the twain meet. On his shoulder; rest the responsibilities of a marriageable sister and aged parents. He spends most of his time in his office. His sister is a gifted singer and is in love with her music teacher Shukanta (Ranjit Mallick). Every thing seems to be picture perfect in Mrinal’s world. But every thing changes when his younger brother Kunal Dutta walks in. Victor Banerjee’s English man like looks ignites the screen and he stands staring quietly staring at his elder brother who is all engrossed in his work. He questions, “Chinte Parcho?” (Do you recognise me?). Mrinal slowly raises his head and takes some time to gather his memories together. Excitedly he embraces this young man saying, “Tuie Kunal Naa!” (Aren’t you Kunal?) Mrinal takes Kunal to his home located in a crammed locality. Suited Kunal is frustrated and irritated to walk through the by lanes and exclaims, “What place is this that you stay at?” Mrinal replies, “Limited resources can only ensure the bare minimum.” Answering the knock on the door their younger sister Toony opens the door. She too gets excited to see Kunal come back home. Mrinal’s parents too are visually appalled to see their estranged son come back to them. In a flashback scene, the reason of Kunal abandoning the family justifies his long time absence. While every one is seated, Kunal pulls out a cigarette excusing of unable to survive without it. Mrinal doesn’t like this and he easily traces the signs of sudden change in his family. His father doesn’t object Kunal’s smoking and the mother & sister duo are seen ignoring Mrinal completely.

The other Kunal takes his parents out for shopping. He also goes house hunting. Mrinal keeps waiting with an empty stomach for his family members to come back. He is surprised to see how phenomenally Kunal has taken over the reins of the family. Kunal announces that they will soon be shifting to a new home. Mrinal agrees to move along but reluctantly. He is still clueless about Kunal’s flamboyant lifestyle. Kunal objects to everything and anything that is related to Mrinal. When Toony watches her music teacher struggling to board a bus, Kunal warns her to ignore him as he thinks Shukanta is a misfit for the Dutta family. To separate Toony from Shukanata, Kunal hurriedly gets her enrolled in a modern music school. Time starts changing at a faster pace. Kunal goes on making money and is on a spending spree. On the other hand, Mrinal’s status of a sprawling investigative journalist gets stronger. He is invited by the Chief Minister of Bengal himself to head an undercover team to bust corruption and misdeeds of the chosen few. Slowly Mrinal also begins to get wind of Kunal’s sources of unaccountable wealth. The problem gets severe when Kunal brings home a woman and declares her his newly wedded wife. She is coincidentally the daughter of a famous freedom fighter. Mrinal therefore sympathises with her and goes to meet his estranged lover. On reaching her home, he informs her brother about Kunal’s high handedness and the arrival of his new wife. On hearing her father’s name, Mrinal’s friend jumps out of his chair to narrate a tale of his bravery. Mrinal comes back smiling and is pleased to appreciate his brother’s choice. As time passes, Kunal starts getting richer and rude. He starts abusing his wife. At times, he even compels her to accompany him to parties and to entertain his guests. His wife resists such advances saying that she is not a sex toy to be preyed upon. Kunal outrageously tells her that she was about to be sold out by her brothers but he saved her by immediately marrying her. Kunal starts coming home drunk every night. His abuses go from bad to worse. One night he again comes home drunk and physically assaults a servant. Mrinal gets very angry and asks his parents to keep a watch on their younger son.

Things start getting out of control. Seeing his elder brother’s probing nature, Kunal hatches a plan to send Mrinal off to a foreign locale as a guest journalist. His plan goes out well enough with Mrinal’s editor boss agreeing to send him off to America. In the meanwhile, Kunal’s wife discovers a grave secret of him being a smuggler. Police authorities begin their investigations and also procure a consignment of rare gems at a local post office that Kunal frequents. The police start hunting for Kunal and his whereabouts. Mrinal too discovers how his brother is in trouble. He declines the offer of an international tour, which is secretly sponsored by Kunal. Their sister Toony who deceives Shukanta for her modern music school teacher runs into trouble when she is fooled and impregnated. This is where the movie scores. It shows how the two different worlds of these brothers collide. Mrinal doesn’t forgive Kunal when he accuses him of having an affair with his wife. Mrinal walks out of Kunal’s home and settles down in his old home. The police finally zero in on Kunal and chase him like wild dogs. Finding no immediate rescue, Kunal ends up at Mrinal’s home begging for mercy. Mrinal in a very composed way declines Kunal’s requests. He asks him to leave his home and surrender. Kunal runs out of the home and is held at gunpoint by two senior policemen. Investigations also reveal Kunal’s ownership of unaccountable gold and rare gems.

Finally it is Mrinal who emerges the winner. Disheartened by their younger son’s plight, his parents return back to him. Shukanta, his sister’s estranged lover agrees to take responsibility of her impregnated situation. In spite of Kunal’s wife’s request of bailing him out, Mrinal holds his fort and silently witnesses his brother being sentenced to four years of rigorous imprisonment. He is heartbroken but he tells Kunal’s wife that this is payback time. He also assures her not to lose hope.

Dui Prithibi explores the finer nuances of Bengali cinema. Uttam Kumar towers over the others with his astounding performance. Every time he has appeared on the silver screen he has captured it with his unparalleled performance. Victor Banerjee’s anti hero image is top notch and he does justice to his role. Supriya as Uttam Kumar’s love of the past is a silent treat and downplays herself to the core. The movie belongs to the main protagonists Mrinal and Kunal. It depicts the triumph of good over evil and chronicles the stories of lives that are preciously two dimensional. The movie has no subtitles so Non Bengalis might have to rely on a trusted translator. The movie in itself is the finest to come my way. It has the potential for a prequel and a sequel to it. Somewhere down the line I felt that this tale of two brothers has so many things common with the ongoing corporate rivalry between the Ambani brothers. The only difference being, it is reel life inspired by real life.

MOVIE SOURCE: www.seventymm.com
- vociferous

I, APOLOGISE

Writing is not an easy task. Ever since I’ve been doing it, there has been no dearth of uneasiness and inconvenience. And very recently like speed dating, I have accustomed myself to speed blogging. I make it a point to write about every thing. From movies to madness, from robustness to romance, from tantrums to thrillers and from food to future. The only thing that I’ve experienced and regret is me getting prone to committing spelling errors. I agree it’s a wonderful thing to blog but not in a way that invites criticism. I am not a perfect writer and neither am I an imperfect one. But unknowingly I am finding myself stuck between perfections and imperfections. So whoever and every one had been reading my blogs and not taking kindly to the errors committed by me, I, apologise. From now on, I would take every little care to see to it that my blogs are free of errors and worth reading. Till then happy thinking and keep blogging.

- vociferous

DUDS AND DIAMONDS FROM HOLLYWOOD

I was under a very false impression that bad movies are only being mad in India. But I was totally wronged by the Angelina Jolie and Morgan Freeman starrer Wanted. I cursed every moment of watching it. Even Hollywood makes duds! Movies are supposed to entertain us not irritate us. This is one of those which not only irritates but makes you think why it was made at the first place. First and foremost it lacks a well defined storyline. The action sequences seemed to have drawn loads of inspiration from movies made in southern India. Even they are tolerable. But Wanted not only wastes your time but compels you to bang your head. Angelina Jolie looks very bad. She doesn’t act just goes bang, bang and bang. Morgan Freeman, one of the finest actors Hollywood has ever produced does very less of talking and acts zero. I didn’t understand a bit what Wanted actually attempted at. An experience I wish not to repeat.

If Wanted broke my heart, two other movies simply strengthened it. Gran Torino and Taken transported me to a world of the mightiest.

Gran Torino is about Clint Eastwood the good old man. A retired army man he finds solace in leading a lonely life after his wife’s death. Both of his sons abandon him while he is literally stalked by the priest of the local church. The town that he is put up at is high on racial tensions cropping up at the drop of a hut. Adding on to Clint’s irritation are his Asian neighbours. He doesn’t like them. He swears and keeps spitting. As Clint continues living his lonely life one night he is wakened by sounds coming out of his garage. This is the plan where his Gran Torino is parked. He runs into darkness with a loaded gun to only find his neighbour trying to cause harm to it. After scaring the hell out of his neighbour Clint returns back to his home with lot of anger filled within. From here begins the story that Eastwood carries brilliantly on his frail looking strong shoulders. Emoting painstakingly and speaking stylishly in a voice that is harsh Clint Eastwood performs phenomenally. It’s fantastic to see how Clint connects with his neighbours and is amused by their warmth. The troublemakers have a tough time matching up to his wit and courage. He gives the assaulters a run for their life. The climax of the movie was a shocker. You wish it would have been otherwise. But Clint Eastwood is a master story teller. His movies end differently. Remember the scene from Million Dollar Baby! He keeps it up with the climax of Gran Torino. I am yet to see his Letters from Iwo Jima and Changeling. Hats off to a precious diamond created in Hollywood.

The second movie is Taken. Thrilling from the beginning till the end. It has a very simple story line. This revolves around an ex spy. Liam Neeson gives out a power packed performance. He had also acted in the highly acclaimed Schindler’s List directed by Steven Spielberg. Liam is divorced from his lovely wife who is now married to a billionaire. Liam and his wife have a daughter who is turning seventeen. As a father he reaches to meet his daughter with a surprise gift on her birthday at a plush villa. The place is flooded with gifts. Liam does meet his daughter though he is warned by his wife not to do so. He presents her with the gift but she simply ignores it when she sees her stepfather walks in with a black stallion horse. She jumps in excitement. Liam stands there watching. Ignored he leaves. In his free time he helps his friends escort celebrities as a security executive. He also saves the life of a prominent singer. She thanks him with a promise to be of help whenever needed. Life continues as usual for Liam.

One fine day his daughter who just turned seventeen expresses her desire to visit Paris. Liam doesn’t take kindly to this wish of hers. Criticised by his now divorced wife, he doesn’t break his daughter’s heart and grants her the permission. But he does warn her to call him up every night from the mobile phone he gifts her. At the airport while she is about to board the flight, Liam realises that his daughter has big plans. The markings made on a travel map leave him tad worried. He argues with his wife but is left frowning. His daughter escorted by her friend reaches Paris. After landing they are impressed by a guy who helps them with a taxi and even travels along to their place of stay. The girls are very happy. The friend of Liam’s daughter also expresses her desire to sleep with the same guy who escorts them. In the mean time, Liam keeps calling on his daughter’s cell phone. Finally when she answers Liam tells her how concerned he is for her. While she is speaking to him over the phone she sees her friend being brutally kidnapped. After 5 minutes she too is kidnapped. From this point the movie paces and Liam surprises you in every scene. He reaches Paris and the way he tracks down the fugitives is fantabulous. The movie also exposes the ugly side of Paris. Single females are shown being kidnapped, drugged and pushed to prostitution. The way he tracks his daughter and turns the tables on his enemy is something thrillers are truly made of. Taken makes you sit on edge, bite your nails and get excited. It ends strongly and you wish there had been more.

Though Wanted was a dud, Gran Torino and Taken are pure diamonds produced from Hollywood!

- vociferous

AS THE DAY FADES

It is 5.30 p.m. and I am an hour away from my time of departure. But as the day draws to a close, my mind revises this sms sent by a very close friend of mine:

After failing twice to climb, Emund Hillary challenged Mt. Everest.

“I will come again & conquer you. Because as a mountain you can not grow. But as a human, I can…”

But why this sms seems so special today. It is because of the confidence that I imbibed from a human voice. It is said our lives are made of dreams. And there was a dream we all wanted to transform into reality. It was a campus I wanted him to step into and create a history of sorts. Some how this was his first roughest brush with the reality of life! The reality is all dreams in our life don’t achieve fruition at one go. He sounded a bit displeased but also sounded confident that he will load his guns again to train it on the impossible. I know, he will do it! Because he is the brightest and the best. Failure is a word that has never appeared in his dictionary of life.

- vociferous

A DAY CALLED (SUN)DAY

From my childhood days till date I anxiously await the first day of this week. Aptly named Sunday, it still doesn’t fail to charm me. The only exception over the years the many Sundays of my life have made is the way they have gone from lazy to crazy. Not that I was a lazy bump to remain glued to the bed with my face tuck tightly in a softy lofty pillow. The latest record of continuing to sleep late on a Sunday must have been 11 a.m. with Mom making no effort to wake me up. She must have been thinking that I was tired. But I wasn’t tired but going through the toughest phase of my life. Now that phase having disappeared or on temporary debacle momentarily, I feel that Sundays are eventful.

May 24, 2009 was one such Sunday. It seemed to begin on a candid note but also displayed signals of getting tougher by afternoon. The unparalleled varieties of birds turn by turn kept singing hymns of the approaching Mumbai monsoons. The decibel levels kept rising higher and higher. Not willing to challenge their versatile melodic talents, I woke up. Being a holiday, morning walk or a brisk jog was out of the question. After having accomplished my morning chores, I dropped in at my local hair cutter’s very economical joint. His dancing fingers trimmed the extra bits of my now betraying hairline and also cleansed my face of the stubble that developed over the weekend. Carrying a copy of my favourite Sunday edition of Hindustan Times I headed back home. Having bathed myself and having offered prayers to God, I pierced my teeth in the double egged omelette my mom had kept ready for me. I settled down to do some brisk reading. My interior designer Mr. Demand walked in with that same innocent smile of his. Laughingly we discussed the programme for the next three days. Thereafter I sat on my CD Dawn and drove straight to my best friend’s residence, which is being redone for his arrival this weekend. Citing tension and disagreement with the painter quietly doing his job dissatisfiedly, I whisked my way to the neighbouring town famed for brands of duplicity. Over there I got the tail of my lovely bike rectified. Some junkie seems to have not taken to its beauty kindly and had pressed it hard enough to get damaged! Considering the audacity of approaching monsoons, I put a polythene protector over my existing cloth seat cover. Curious as a kid, I took great interest in listening to the eardrum threatening noises of horns blown out especially for me by the shopkeeper’s shop help guy. From there I again headed back home. A dry throat could have hardly resisted the glimpse of a friendly makeshift sugarcane juice vendor. I had downed one glass when Mr. Demand again showed up asking for a monetary helps of Rs. 4k to buy some more material for my friend’s place. I helped him with the same pleading not to ask for more. After coming back to my home, I had my lunch. Catching up with my all time favourite movie Lagaan was fun multiplied with the delicious meal mom had cooked for me. The moment the end credits of the film rolled on the screen I was back to my friend’s place. The painter was wrapping up for the day. This time he made his voice heard by complaining about the insufficient supply of materials at a place as far as New Zealand from India. My head too rolled in outrage. Abducting the painter on my bike, I arrived at Mr. Demand’s seedy joint. While parking my bike, I saw a half nude man being chased by his half nude seductress on the street in broad daylight. Not letting myself being distracted by the momentary pleasure play, I trained my guns on Mr. Demand’s brother. Quite composed and patiently, he bluffed that all the required materials will be delivered at the venue instantly. For two hours, Mr. Demand seemed to have absconded to some Middle Eastern desert region. On the other hand, I also learnt about the electrical complication at my friend’s new place. It seems the not-so-efficient governmental authorities had axed the main connection to his abode for undue delay caused in making the payment towards the bill raised by them! I found it strange but that is how the world’s largest democracy should be – disciplined and dog styled.

In hot pursuit of Mr. Demand, I was already fuming. The electrical episode further intensified the heat I was feeling within. Finally Mr. Demand made an appearance as I was over with my dinner. Apologetically and at the same time unapologetically he assured, not to be tense and expect an early completion of all the pending chores. I silently realised how a man of his stature managed to triumph over my anger, irritation, frustration and impractical threats. I also had my mini rebellious conversations with my granny who still continues to think of all us grown ups as her responsibility. Tension gripped her mind because the results of an entrance exam held few days back are expected tomorrow and it involves someone close to our hearts.

Finally I started feeling the fatigue of a day spent in chasing, yelling and fading. The only thing that could help me cool was an interview relayed on Star Jalsha. It was phenomenal to see a completely bald Rituparna Ghosh not interview but interrupt Sujoy Ghosh in a tête-à-tête conducted by him. Dressed in a ‘Salwar Kameez’, Ritu wanted to know every thing that Sujoy had one his mind. Finally he let go Sujoy Ghosh by gifting him a book duly autographed by Ritu himself. Before I could swap the channels, I realised how insanely I had slipped into a world of so called Sound Sleepiness.

So that was a day called Sunday which could have never be so thrilling had it not been a sunny holiday on the 24th day of an equally hot month which goes by the name of MAY.

- vociferous

IN GRIEF

When we love somebody, we wish that human being continues to live eternally with us. Chota Mashi was one of them. Yes she was. She is no more. After battling cancer bravely, she passed away at 1.10 a.m. today morning when we were lost in dreams while sleeping soundly. We knew how much pain she was going through. In a last attempt to help her survive a little longer, her son himself a doctor had brought her down here in Mumbai. Tata Cancer was the only option we could think of for her to seek proper medication. Hats off to my childhood friend’s wife for not having left any stone unturned to see to it that Mashi was nursed with care, concern and love. The doctor’s verdict was pretty clear. Yet as a last ray of hope to keep her alive a few longer the doctor recommended Mashi be brought back to Mumbai in the month of August. But she lasted only till today. She used to stay in a very beautiful part of West Bengal called Jhargram. Surrounded by dense forests this place is supposed to be sharing its borders with Jharkhand, Orissa and some other neighbouring states. We used to alight here as a part of our break journey from Mumbai-Tatanagar-Kolkata. Jhargram could only be reached by Steel Express that leaves Tatagnagar every morning. Mashi’s generosity was unquestionable. She was highly educated but down to earth. But the last time we saw her she had lost weight and her digestive system had failed completely. It was her will power that had kept her alive so far. As if she wanted to see all of us once. I could spend very little time with her. Every member of our family devoted their valuable time towards her curability. Now that she is gone, Jhargram shall no more be a destination of our interest. The mango trees in her courtyard would miss her care. All the rose plants would miss her watering routines. Her neighbours would never have her as a company for all the morning and evening walks. My heart cries out for her. Being a man public display of tears would mean a cowardice act. Disallowing myself from getting more emotional, I pray to God to take good care of her. Life has become so unpredictable. Survival doesn’t come with a surety. No one knows when the end would arrive uninvited. No one has seen the tomorrow. Her demise generates anger within me about the incurable diseases that exist on this earth. Why isn’t there any cure for such incurable diseases? Cancer definitely is one of the deadliest. Why isn’t there a road of return? Oh God! Take care of my Chota Mashi. One thing of hers that I will never be able to forget is her smile. Her wholeheartedness and her dedication towards the life she led were phenomenal. She is survived by her husband, elder son & daughter-in-law and younger son. Both her sons are doctors but still life’s uncertainty pushed her in the gallows of death! Have mercy God and help my mashi’s rest in peace. It is yet unbelievable she is no more!

- vociferous

WRITE CHALLENGED

Writing is not an easy profession. Creative writing isn’t at all. Writing in every form is tougher than the toughest tasks in the world. Only a few are blessed with the skills of writing something noteworthy, valuable and sensible. Writing can be categorised into two very important principles: 1) Write to make others happy and 2) Write to make own self happy. The former guarantees a square meal. The later form of writing promises starvation.

People who have over the years taken up this challenge to write have been verified & scrutinised through angles of suspicion, disbelief, agony, jealousy apathy. Take for instance an author who for the most of his or her life researches a theme and writes on it. The manuscript is readied for the so called intellectuals to go through. The moment a minute drop of controversy is found hanging around the text, the book or the thought the author wishes to convey dies an untimely death. This happens even before the book hits the stalls, the libraries or bookstores. Then there is the incredible breed of creative writers or copywriters, who slog day & night to write stuff that, sell products, create brands, paint a corporate image and create a revolution. They write slogans, they churn out jingles and they pen the infamous punch lines. Oh yes! They are also accused of being arrogant, cranks, attitude driven and idiots. But they are what they are. On innumerable occasions they write without a proper brief being made available to them. After they are done with the creative labour; a creative head/director, a marketing manager, a client servicing executive and an uncreative guy screw his happiness. Sometimes a creative writer is compelled to think without a cause and work without the basic internet connection to his availability. Then there are the task masters who expect them to work like machines and demand two copy matters be produced on an hourly basis. Then there are those untimely phases of insistence made by perfect nobodies – write something, do something and create something.

There are a very few who have ended up writing to make their own self happy. They are now legends. Some are living legends and some are long dead. Their creative geniuses still remain unchallenged. Take for instance the case of Sri Ram Krishna Paramhansa. Read through his Gospel and you realise how a man who had never touched a book in his life had the God’s gift to celebrate about. His verses and quotes were documented & interpreted by his followers and disciples spread worldwide. They then carefully compiled the same and printed millions of copies to be read in multilingual modes. Mahakavi Rabindranath Tagore, Veer Savarkar, Mahatma Gandhi, Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, P. L. Deshpande, Ismat Manto produced literary gems which have gained the status of being timeless.

Writing is an art which needs to be respected & worshipped rather than pushed into a dungeon or demoralised. Some also have this habit of making poker faces while reading the writings of average or above average writers. As if they were born crying, listening, talking and eating from their mother’s womb. Sarcastic comments are even made by lunatics who don’t understand the basic elements of writing or the language which is proudly called ‘English’.
As a creative writer, I too am never satisfied with all that work of mine. But there are certain moments when I think the work deserved appreciation, accolades and applause. Like an unsung hero of a forgotten war, I simply retreat into a cocoon only to push my head out when asked to take that pen again and create what is perhaps called History!

- vociferous

FIRST OF SHOWERS

Just like the Indian elections and the winning party do we have a winner in our weather prediction department for the year 2009? In so many years their prediction of monsoons hitting the westerly coastal regions has come true. They had announced the arrival on May 20, 2009. The Rain gods kept their promise. It was around 5.30 p.m. in the evening. Seated facing a skyline of high raises, I saw the sky turn golden. The shade that I saw and many others saw could never be found on a palette or a shade card. In one hour the sky turned black. I was placing an order for a very creative name plate for my friend’s new home. The girl in the shop helping me make a choice surprised me by saying, “Sir. It’s raining out there”.

Did I have a choice? I did have. Luckily the water droplets were not bigger enough to leave me drenched. Holding my breath, I started running towards the railway station to board my train. On reaching the platform, I held my hand out of the shed that protected the station atop. It had started raining. It was a very unromantic drizzle. The water was dirty and muddy enough to put a plain white shirt to shame. After having boarded the train I thought the rains must have retreated. But it kept drizzling though not heavily. Some remarked, “Finally its here”. Some commented, “A respite from melting summer”. Silently I cursed, “Why now”?

It is not that I dislike monsoons. Four months of natural water flow from the generous skies are necessary to keep man built reservoirs flooded to quench thirsts for 365 days of the year. But the unannounced arrival of monsoons in an unplanned, unmanaged city of ours is a bit of a shock. No one has paid attention to the potholes that have been abandoned mid way. The biggest event of the month is Election Results. Even LTTE’s destruction following its founder’s death has been overshadowed by our political junkies. So leave alone the monsoons. Because it is a mercy God does on us for at least four months of a year.

As the city celebrates the onset of monsoons, I kind of become a little reclusive asking God to hold it for a few more days. The shades of red, orange, yellow and green have yet not dried up. Secondly my best friend is yet to move into his new home.

The first of showers might have arrived but the first of happiness is yet to fade. Let us first gear up for a healthy monsoon. Let us keep ourselves reminded that crisis is uncared for in our county. Let us upgrade ourselves with the high lying areas. Let us seal the last gateway of seepage into our homes. Let us flood the refrigerators with the available stock of vegetables. Let us visit the neighbourhood shop for umbrellas and rain coats. Let the government wake up to our demands of an accident proof pothole. Let the kids enjoy a few more days of vacation. And then, the first of showers can be enjoyed.

- vociferous

PS: This year I am not slipping into plastic shoes because Woodland would keep my feet protected.

APOLOGIES TO INNOCENT BUDDIES

Dear Kajal / Pooja / Vikas / Sachin / Pritam & Nilesh,

I am unaware as to which corner of this mad city are you all working at. I am also unaware about how good are you performing at your respective positions. And I am completely unaware about how do I contact you. Luckily I am very much in receipt of your email ids, which still leaves that little hope of being able to reach out to you all. I know my departure from W.E. was an unwelcomed move. But it was necessary. I was going through the toughest phase of life which cannot be explained and neither should be explained to younger minds like you. After leaving W.E., I took off to Goa. Spent a long vacation of seven days. I would have never come back had it not been my mother’s unconditional love which made me feel home sick. I started missing my home and her on the very second day of my stay in Goa. I bathed in the sun, I quenched my thirst with the chilled beers of finest quality manufactured by Kingfisher and nursed my soul to the soulful food served at the innumerable restaurants I visited with my friend. In a way I wanted to revolutionise myself. But I only ended up being simpler and got prone to simplicity. This simplicity of mine took me far away from the glamour found in an ad agency. I did join an agency but was at war with my fellow copywriter, whose rivalry made me feel like a loser. For the first time, I started doubting my instincts. I lost faith in my ability to write. I found myself surrounded by negativity, passivity and loss. Some recommended a long list of psychologists to me. There was also another reason to my feeling of having lost it completely. That is one reason I never wish to reveal as it is much more painful. By God’s grace, I once again joined a creative house. For six months, my performance was put under scanner. Then arrived the seventh month when I once again took a break and travelled to Nashik for spiritual intervention in my life. I prayed to the living, I prayed to the dead and I prayed to the non existent. I offered food to my ancestors, I offered water to their souls and I offered my pain to their spirits. Then I cleansed myself in the black flowing waters of Godavari. In the eighth month, I bounced back. I looked back at all the work I had done. They had luckily not met with failure but were appreciated every where. From the eighth month and till now I have only won. All the battles though not have been won but the one’s which have were worthless to put life at stake for. Today I am very much feeling pleasant even though I am facing few complications on health, home and honour front. When I look back, I still remember the faces of you all. Though the time I spent with you could hardly be remembered, I still cherish those moments of confusion. For the first time, I was heading and handling such a young team. With Vikas and Kajal on my side, I wanted to inject confidence into the minds of everybody. But the circumstances and the clumsy atmosphere at W.E. put me at my wits end. I left, I departed with a heavy heart and a guilt to have left you in a dark hole. Today I am sending you this mail to apologise, to let you know that I still remember you all and to let you know never ever give up in life. Times may arrive and they may go but what will remain with you is your honour. Don’t give up. Wherever you are, however you are, whatever you are doing, remember that I remember you and do miss you all.

With love, care, concern and happiness,
Your ex colleague
- vociferous

I MISSED MEETING JEFFREY ARCHER

May 13, 2009 – HE WAS IN MUMBAI

I got acquainted with him when he visited Mumbai last year to promote his book ‘Prisoner of Birth’. I had at that time not paid much attention to his visit or to his book. I consider it an evolutionary phase to soon become a fan of his books. Accidentally I hit upon a link that transported me to the introductory pages of ‘Prisoner of Birth’. I started reading it and I continued doing so at the pace of a jet. I discovered how the characters were being carefully created by Jeffrey Archer to be profiled in a book which was so real at the outset. I knew I had to buy this book of his and I did so. From page one of the book to the last page that I read of ‘Prisoner of Birth’, I found Jeffrey Archer making a very strong statement. It had to do something with the lawlessness of a highly civilised society. It had to do something with the innocent lives of innocent people. The book was conversing with me. In Daniel Cartwright the main protagonist in the book, I found the wronged conscience of mine. From the beginning I knew he was innocent but was eager to find out how he was going to achieve freedom from the highly guarded Belmarsh prison. I was eager to know how he was going to make Beth realise that true love does wait eternally. After I completed reading it, I knew the fan in me had surrendered to the genius of Jeffrey Archer. I wanted to read more of him and more of his books. I googled and I found his official website and his blog. Both made for good read. It is here that I read about his life and the books he has penned. I am now eager to read all of them. Then I also saw the official launch of his new book ‘Paths of Glory’. Once again basing his story on the real life story of a mountaineer, Jeffrey Archer creates a revolution in the world of writing. I am yet to grab a copy of it. On his blog I learnt about his visit to India. He was also coming to Mumbai at Landmark Book Store at the Infiniti Mall to promote his new book ‘Paths of Glory’. He finally did arrive on May 13. I was eager to meet him. I had even carried with me the copy of ‘Prisoner of Birth’ to be autographed by him and had wished to purchase ‘Paths of Glory’ and get it autographed from him. No matter how much time it took. No matter how much effort I had to put in to do so. No matter how much delayed his arrival could have been. But destiny had something else in store for me. I was not able to leave my office. My presence here was important too. I kept looking at my watch and realised how and what I was missing. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be at the feet of my favourite writer. I wanted to catch a glimpse of him. Luckily he is again writing a book; a collection of short stories and I am sure he shall visit India again to promote it. It should be in the year 2010. I hope I survive that long because life now has become highly unpredictable in India. One moment you are alive and the other moment you are dead due to bomb blast, accident or murder. But I truly missed meeting Jeffrey Archer. Better luck next time says the struggling writer within me. Better luck next year says the survivor within me. Better luck next era says the ardent disciple of Jeffrey Archer within me.

- vociferous

ON THE THRESHOLD

I don’t know if my blog is been followed. It doesn’t even host a followers list. The only devoted follower is me and a sole me. When I recommend my blog to some one, it is read instantly. But that doesn’t mean that they would leave a comment. Some are honest, some pretend while some ignore it. Blogs over the world have been considered a reflection of what the blogger does in his every day life. In fact, a blog is a virtual diary made available online to be read by the world. I have been a less generous on that front. Honestly speaking I have been selfish, self centred and self engrossed. One question therefore has been bothering me for the past few days. How far is it justified? I am not a recluse. But have been forced to be one. The experience of nothingness has never been so intense. I have heard about boycotts that are categorised as personal, political and professional. Whatever the category is, boycotts hurt! They do hurt and the pain in intolerable. You are pushed to the limit of thinking otherwise. Suddenly the levels of communication hit an all time low. A pair of dark glasses replaces the natural vision we are blessed with. We try our best to see through it. The lack of transparency makes the situation even worse. I have been no stranger to hurt or discord. My actions have been always a matter of scrutiny and critical analysis. By the time the lamp of the scanner warms up, people are ready with their sharp comments about me. Misjudged from past couple of weeks, today for the first ever time on my blog, I wish to reveal my state of my mind and why am I feeling I am being misunderstood. I am not going to divide this post of mine into paragraphs. I would want the reader to read this piece without a break. When our rights were being challenged, I stood up with the baton in my hand. I could have easily chosen to put it in a violent way but circumstances made me act in a non violent way. Not that I remained unchallenged. Forces were at work and I realised they were stronger than me. I fought back and came out unscathed. I was in a similar position as that of Abhimanyu trying to break the vicious circle in the war of Mahabharata. I found my way out pretty sooner. Being a part of a team was never so rocking. The good times come back to me in sepia toned photographic instalments. Depression was a state of mind I was unaware about. In their company I swam out of it when I was depressed. Just one altercation and time stood still. I am back to square one still trying to figure out what, where, why, how it went wrong? They must have heard something very negative about me. I never had a hand in any conspiracy. If my religious beliefs and attitude is a major hindrance, I may try to tone down on those fronts. For God sake I haven’t killed some one. What is happening now is what I term as ‘blindfolded worship’ or ‘following a blind vendetta’. During tough times I had escaped situations. In my thirty first year of life, I cannot think of doing that. Backing off is like losing the war without even holding the sword against an unseen enemy. Their tones are hushed, their looks are fatal and their minds are poisoned. Had it been invisible, I would have never felt so exhausted. The premise that I stand upon is a known territory. The war declared is against me, my own self and my faith. They won’t give out the reason and neither am I interested in probing into it. I know I have challenged them. I maybe speechless presently but that doesn’t mean I am worthless. I don’t know how to operate a sword but I am well aware of launching an attack with my pen. Maybe some day they would realise that my anger is mostly pretentious and I am a different person from within. Only exception is, this time I am disinterested in dealing with people of less intellect. Barring a handful, most of them talk mindlessly and act insane. I am a kind of person who hasn’t lost his sanity. Life has challenged me again like it had challenged me six years back. Speaking to one of my friends we laughed out how our problems are multilayered and pose the threat of being endless. Losing hope at such a juncture makes me feel less like a man and more like a loser. But who said I am a loser? I am a fighter. The days of survival left maybe less but the days of glory are infinite. With so much of nothingness, I might appear to be on the threshold of going broke but I haven’t lost yet. On their faces I would fire not one but a battery of questions. If they can answer them satisfactorily I will kneel down and salute them and if they fail, I will make sure guilt overpowers them. Being a winner is not that easy and neither being a fighter is. Try being a mortal and you will realise what picture of you people around you paint in their minds.

- vociferous

THE GREAT INDIAN CIRCUS

India is a country where a political circus unfolds every five years. Being the biggest democracy, India has got its own advantages and disadvantages. Advantages are running scarce but there is no dearth of disadvantages. The biggest hiccup is the number of political parties that leave a voter confused and amused. When the elections approach, a battery of political leaders is seen visiting their constituencies. New promises are made only to be broken, ignored or forgotten. They dig believable/unbelievable facts against their opponents and raise issues which can provoke fatal repercussions. But who cares when these parties go to the extent of bribing voters, entertaining with money and implementing every trick to keep people from their constituencies tempted to vote. Months of planning go into trading of trust, loyalty and dedication. Phenomenal money is spent on the hara-kiri. News channels leave no stone unturned to rope in analysts to foresee the invincible.

The Lok Sabha Elections are being held for the 15th time across India. On April 30, 2009 Mumbai voted in full strength but still fell short of numbers. Performers of this great Indian circus were dressed in white, orange, green and blue to fight the odds, balance the evens. The results will be declared on May 16, 2009. Till then as spectators, we would be subjected to visual and oral torture. Worth mentioning also the sound waves which would keep knocking our eardrums. As the day of results would start approaching, due to desperation the jokers of the circus would start doing funny things. They would play their trump cards. They would mount horses to be traded in the open market. Sting operations would suddenly tarnish images. So till the circus is on, lets see and discover for ourselves who wins the bet.

The hand in support of the common Indian – Will it pat or push?
The elephant leading the unknowns – Will it salute or thump on millions of hearts?
The flower in the pond – Will it spread fragrance or emit a foul smell?
The bicycle of simplified transportation – Will it peddle its way smoothly?
The alarm clock – Will it keep ticking at the right hour or go dead?
The sickle and hammer – Will they cut or thrash?
The arrow in the bow – Will it hit the bull’s eye or break midway?
The lantern – Will it spread light or set fire to millions of dreams?

The curtains are expected to go up soon. The jokers are everywhere. The trapeze artists are warming up. The ringmaster is blazing his whip to take control of the show.
And we as spectators wait with oodles of expectation in our eyes to see The Great Indian Circus unfold.

- vociferous

3 DAYS OF 3 INSPIRING MOVIES

Movie 1: American Gangster
Language: English
Watched on: HBO
Date: April 24, 2009

It started on a Friday night. I switched on my television and rushed to a channel that sported the HBO logo. On the left hand side flashed the seconds which announced that the movie ‘American Gangster’ would begin in 0.00.02 time. Having put aside every thing that could have bothered me, I got hooked to the screen. I was both excited and curious to watch the movie which starred two of my favourite Hollywood stars – Russell Crowe and Denzil Washington. Based on the real life story of once famed gangster Frank Lucas, the movie began subtly on a premise that transported the viewer to an era of realising the American Dream. Lucas is shown walking the streets of America with his boss, mentor and friend. His boss points up to a structure and asks Lucas, “You know what that is? They have planned to call it the McDonald’s”. He suffers a heart attack and the scene shifts to his funeral. Lucas is a silent witness to the people who attend the funeral and crack jokes. Frank Lucas swears that his boss’s death won’t go waste. He hatches a plan to rule the underworld and get bigger than the biggest players. He not only smuggles 100 kgs of heroin into America but feeds the poor, serves them drug and gives them money. He buys a mansion, gets married to the most beautiful woman and manages to take his mother to attend a Sunday mass in the church. The bigger he gets, the more enemies he ends up making. These foes are also from the police fraternity who threaten to expose him if they are not being paid their bribe. Frank Lucas bribes them and also threatens them with dire consequences. Lucas also gets his family into the business. His brothers, cousins, nephews every one becomes a part of his business that in particular deals with drugs. The problem begins when Detective Richie Roberts sets on a trail to nab the drug lords smuggling every thing that is threatening the American future. Performed skilfully by Russell Crowe, Richie Roberts is an every day man going through a divorce, bedding innumerable women, missing his son and yet meeting the twain meet. He carefully creates a team of assault officers who are handpicked by him from clubs, corners and cabarets. They start hunting for the real man who is behind all the drugs smuggled in all the way from Bangkok. The heroin when tested emerges to be of finest quality. The missing link only is the player. Most magnificently in this movie the characters never come face to face until the climax scene is arrives on the screen. The visual encounter happens only after a lot of cat & mouse type chases and guerrilla investigations. In the final scene when Lucas is sure of facing an arrest, there is no exchange of dialogues. And neither is their any bloodbath. Lucas being aware of the crime surrenders; pleads guilty in the court and then he meets up with Detective Richie Roberts in his cell. The picture that Frank Lucas presents to Roberts is not only interesting but is quite a revelation. He ends up exposing the misdeeds of cops, the greasing of hands, the exchange of money and the aftermaths. As a result, tarnished cops are arrested, sent to jail and Lucas too serves a sentence. The movie ends saying how Detective Roberts goes to become an attorney to represent his first client Frank Lucas.

If not masterpiece, this movie is an institution in itself. Directed by Ridley Scott who has in the past offered the Oscar winning Gladiator, the soul stirring Black Hawk Down, the emotionally stronger A Good Year and the riveting Kingdom of Heaven narrates a story which very few are aware about. The movie invited mixed reviews. Many wrote it off following the first show while some stayed with it and even declared it to be Oscar material. As a movie buff, as a creative writer and being a die hard fan of Ridley Scott movies; I loved it to the core. I agree Ridley Scott might have not been able to do justice to the script with some loopholes some visionaries might have pointed it. I enjoyed the movie and so did my mom who rarely stays up with wide open eyes to see something so English. Definitely Detective Richie Roberts character could have been strongly developed. But that is not a deal. As far as a movie entertains you and keeps you glued to the edge of your seat, it is a good movie. I pity those who don’t appreciate a story told so well on the silver screen. The only Indian movie that has managed to come close to a movie of such genre is Ram Gopal Verma’s Company based on the life of real gangster rivalry between Dawood Ibrahim and Chhota Rajan. All said and done, American Gangster is a good movie and thoroughly enjoyable by those who love to be told a story at its own pace.
Repeated Views: Recommended Strongly.

Movie 2: The Brave One
Language: English
Watched on: HBO
Date: April 25, 2009

Jodie Foster is a radio presenter who is in love with an Asian doctor played by Naveen Andrews. Most specifically she is in love with a half Muslim half Chirstian guy. Both have spent beautiful times together. Time spent on the bed has been equally memorable. They have a lovely life. David Kirmani (Naveen Andrews) and Erica Brian (Jodie Foster) are about to get married. One evening the duo accompanied their dog go for a stroll at the Central Park. Suddenly they are attacked by some miscreants who have been busy drinking beer and cracking vulgar jokes. David is killed while Erica lands up in the hospital bed. Her entire career is shattered by one event. She loses her confidence and tries hard to bounce back to life. Her producer is apprehensive as to whether Erica would regain her status of being an unparalleled radio producer. Erica fails and then she decides to avenge every thing she had lost. She buys herself a gun and starts wandering the streets of New York in the dead of night. This is a city post the 9/11 incident. The city which was once supposed to be safe, secure and soothing is no more the same. Females can no more walk safely. They are molested, raped and killed. Erica’s insecurity provokes her to fire a shoplifter. Next she kills a bunch of goons in the lonely train she takes from her studio to her apartment. She rescues a girl who has been kidnapped from Las Vegas by a drunkard. Erica goes on a killing spree only to meet up with her fate in the form of a kind hearted Detective Mercer played by the seasoned actor Terrence Howard. Mercer reaches every scene of Erica’s deed an hour later. He sees her at the places the bludgeoning events take place and is yet confused to understand the possibilities of her presence & involvement. In Mercer, Erica finds her alter ego. Mercer too is frustrated. He has gone through a divorce, is amused by the outcome of a system that pardons a criminal and yet compelled to be a part of it. Mercer discovers Erica’s intentions and deeds only when she kills a criminal he had once really thought of killing. They both draw closer and one-by-one, Erica kills the people who had stolen David away from her.

The movie is no brilliant piece of cinema. But the depiction is no less than brilliant. Post 9/11, Americans have gone through the toughest phases of betrayal, deception and lawlessness. The Brave One represents their insecurities in a fictionalised way. Neil Jordan is no phenomenal director I had ever heard about. But the way he has made this movie is thought provoking. The moral of the story is if one commoner makes up his or her mind to bring a change in the society, it is possible. Two such movies in India had succeeded in depicting these quite well. A Wednesday starring Naseeruddin Shah represented the frustration of a common man while Ek Hasina Thi starring Urmila Matondkar revealed the insecurities of a single girl trying to make the twain meet in a distrusted society. Though I don’t recommend a repeated viewing but one time viewing won’t be of big harm.

Movie 3: Khela (The Game)
Language: Bengali
Watched on: Home DVD
Date: April 26, 2009

Rituparna Ghosh is a seasoned director of Bengali cinema. His stories are told authentically. His movies are full of characters which are close to real life people. In the past his masterpieces include Uneeshe April, Dahan, Utsab, Dosar, Chokher Bali, Titli, Antar Mahal and the much acclaimed Raincoat in Hindi. Teaming up once again with Prosenjit Chatterjee this time he ropes in Manisha Koirala to play his wife. Raima Sen plays a fashion designer. The story revolves around a director, his estranged wife, a child artist and a fashion designer. Excepting his usual way of story telling which basically take place indoors, Rituparna chooses to go outdoors. He enlivens the beauty of North Bengal without once flooding them with props. Captured beautifully on celluloid Khela follows a brilliant plot. Prosenjit plays Raja a film director in quest of an innocent looking child to play a young Buddhist monk. One day he spots one gulping delicious phoockas at a roadside vendor. He immediately approaches the child and presents him with the presentation. The child artist whose character is named Abhirup suggests that the director seek the permission of his parents as he is not supposed to speak to strangers. Raja follows suit but the child’s parents make their apprehension up, loud and clear. In no way is Raja willing to make the movie without Abhirup. Raja’s producer friend suggests making a choice from the innumerable photographs they have been receiving ever since the announcement of the movie. A major twist in the story is the brilliance of Abhirup who secretly calls up Raja and expresses his wish to act. The child hatches a plan to get self kidnapped. Leaving behind a letter to his parents, Abirup and Raja escape to North Bengal. The shooting begins. In the midst of every thing during interactions with Abhirup, Raja realises through flashbacks how indifferent he has been to his wife. The fashion designer cannot confine her romantic feelings for Raja to herself. The show stealer is of course the child artist who plays Abhirup. He is bright, brilliant and benevolent.
The bond that he develops with Raja is that of a father and child, a teacher and student, a saint and his follower. High on emotions, the movie is bright with colours. Not a single scene of the movie drags itself. In stead what Rituparna serves on his platter full of award winning movies, Khela departs from his past stories. Raima Sen is a discovery. Manish Koirala satisfies. Prosenjit Chatterjee as Raja is phenomenal. The thick stubble on his face, long hair and low paced dialogues make him seem like a director whose character is very much based on Rituparna himself. The only loophole in the movie is it ends too soon. I was really anxious to see how the parents react after meeting their son Abhirup who was supposed to have been kidnapped but is also the writer of his own story. Abhirup not only ends up shooting for Raja but also reunites him with his estranged wife. Raja confesses to his wife that while directing Abhirup, he realised how unfair he has been to his life partner. Rituparna Ghosh is the kind of director whose films are going on improving. He is the next director to be taken note of after the stalwarts like Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Gautam Ghosh, Aparna Sen, Buddhadeb Das Gupta, Tapan Sinha and Ritwik Ghatak. He is the only one to make Bengali film lovers like me survive and end up asking for more. I recommend Khela to be watched again and again for the sake of the master genius – Rituparna Ghosh.

- vociferous

The Night before… PART 10

After an unbelievable experience, Pritish and Kunal drove quietly back to their office. As Kunal stepped in Rebecca informed him that a parcel and an invitation had arrived for them. Pritish walked in and picked up the parcel that was addressed to him. With the parcel accompanied an invitation card, which read:

Renward & Co.
cordially invites you to an evening of prelude
to our brand new Indian endeavour.

Revel an evening of wine, women and wonders.

Your arrival would be eagerly awaited.

In the event of you not making it to the event,
a friendly call from you can make us feel sufficed.

Date: January 25, 2008
Venue: Hotel Courtyard - Grand Hyatt, Mumbai
Time: 8 p.m. to heaven knows when

R.S.V.P.: Florina Mendonsa 99796 *****

The parcel contained a tailored suit. Pritish was dumbstruck. He looked at his wristwatch to check the date which read January 23, 2008. Before he could say something a loud alarm interrupted Pritish’s sleep. He instantly opened his eyes and looked at his wristwatch which read January 24, 2008 and showed him the time as 11 a.m. Stella had sent him more than 10 sms inquiring about his absence since morning. This was the first time, Pritish had slept so late. Reaching office at around noon, Pritish walked into the Thought Room. The team was anxiously awaiting his arrival. He looked out at the reception area where Rebecca was seated. Her desk was empty with no parcel on it. There was no invitation either. As he settled down on his chair, Pritish looked confusingly at everybody present there. Stella pushed a document towards Pritish which read: SHORT FILM SCRIPT FOR CARIBBEAN CLIENT.

At the end of the script, it was written: Climax yet to be decided.

“Why is this yet to be completed?” asked Pritish.
“You were about to narrate it to us Pritu,” replied Kunal.
“But then what happened?” asked Pritish.
“Nothing…You took a break yesterday and headed home. When I called up, you didn’t reply my calls,” replied Kunal.

Pritish realised what he saw or had experienced was a dream that was an extension of the brainstorming session that he left halfway to take a break. On his drive back home, one thing that kept ringing in his head was the possibility of call centre employees doubling up as escorts. The woman was his interpretation because he still couldn’t get Nilanjana out of his thoughts. But Pritish was sure that he had a script for a killing. In stead of an ad film they can now do a short film that would satisfy the target audience that they don’t have to double up for extra earnings. In stead if they are working in the Caribbean call centre what they can look ahead for is a pay package that can take care of their expenses. Secondly they will not have to speak in an ugly accent for catering to Asia based clients. Rising from his chair, Pritish announced his plan and wished the team to work hard on a communication which in its inception sounded so strong could definitely end up bringing good business to the agency. On the other hand, the Caribbean call centre can end up hiring the right kind of people who can serve them better. Pritish looked at Kunal and smiled. Stella sat impressed. The entire team was gung-ho over the entire discussion. As Pritish went through the script the phone rang. Stella picked up the call to answer Rebecca on the other hand.

“What is it Rebecca?” asked Stella.
“There is a parcel for Mr. Pritish,” replied Rebecca.
“And where has it come from?” asked Stella.
“Renward & Co. and is accompanied with a personalised invitation to be strictly delivered to our boss,” replied Rebecca.

Turning her attention towards Pritish, Stella spoke, “Renward & Co. has sent across to you a parcel.”

Pritish thought over it and simply smiled knowing this time it wasn’t a dream until his thoughts were interrupted by the sms tone on Kunal’s mobile.

Advertising is a tough business. It looks glamorous from the outer. Innumerable people toil behind the walls of an advertising agency. The bigger the agency, the tougher are the tasks. Advertising does pay well but not before challenging the intellect level of a person passionate about this profession. There are numerous unsung heroes who work hard to beat deadlines. Sometimes their thoughts go so berserk they end up mixing professional and personal commitments. This short story is a tribute to the unsung and the renowned heroes of advertising who make ideas look great on print, television and online media.

The Night before… PART 9

Pritish was feeling quite tired. Stella tried calling him twice but he preferred to leave it unanswered. Saturday was over. The Republic Day celebrations were flashed over a million times on television. But Pritish was more interested in the Monday meeting. Sunday fizzled out like the bubble thrown out of a beer bottle. Pritish answered Kunal’s call and confirmed the time of the meeting but requested that they meet a little early in the office before they leave.

On Monday January 28, 2008; Kunal reported to office at dot 8.30 a.m. Pritish was eagerly awaiting his arrival. As Kunal settled in the chair he usually occupied in the Thought Room, Pritish started unfolding the episodes that took place during the night of the party. Kunal was dumbstruck not knowing what to say next.

Pritish and Kunal both reached Gary’s office at Powai by 10.45 a.m. Kunal was not that pleased to meet Gary now. But Pritish wanted to see the person who behaved like an evil the other night. They were both led to a Conference Room that was beautifully decorated with gerbera flowers. Having patiently awaited Gary’s arrival both started looking at their watch. As they were about to place their elbows on the table, the door flung open and entered a tall man suited smartly. He had blue eyes, black hair and with a thin file in his hand. Pritish couldn’t believe what he was seeing and Kunal too was amused about whether this was the man he had stories about. As Pritish shook hands with Gary, he started feeling guilty about a fact he thought he shouldn’t have acquainted with. The person seated in front of them was not the Gary Renward he had met on that night. This Gary was very much different from the Gary he ended up hating. This Gary spoke gently, smiled occasionally and meant only business. Gary kept talking but realised Pritish was lost in his thoughts.

“Mr. Pritish! I hope you aren’t bored of my conversation?” asked Gary.
“Hmmm. No, I mean yes and no. But what happened?” minced Pritish.

He was amused to find Gary addressing him as Pritish and not P2. There was something not at all right with his version of the story and with the person he had met. Everything contradicted the other thing. As the meeting ended Kunal had made his notes. But one person who was still left thinking was none other than Pritish. He couldn’t arrive to a conclusion that who was that Gary Renward he had met. Once again they shook hands, exchanged cards and parted. As Pritish neared the door, Gary patted his back.

“Pritish. I hope you will be attending the party tonight,” asked Gary.
“I have already,” replied Pritish.
“Which party are you talking about Pritish?” inquired Gary.

Kunal too was confused by now. Not letting any one else to further corrupt their thoughts, Kunal and Pritish chose to leave Gary’s office. The lift touched the ground floor of the building. Pritish and Kunal stepped out of the lift to approach the parking lot. Kunal excused himself to attend a call on his mobile phone. As Pritish started walking towards his car a woman came rushing towards his direction. Before he could think the woman had already pushed him side to make it to the lift the door of which was about to close. But before she could make it the door closed and she stood helplessly. Pritish couldn’t believe what had happened. As he bent down to collect the car keys that had fallen out his pocket, he saw the woman approaching him. Once he stood up, he saw this woman standing in front of her draped in a lovely sari making her appear more beautiful than she was.

“I am very sorry sir. I was in a rush,” said the woman.
“Actually I have to attend an interview and I have already run late. I am so sorry, in my rush, I ended up pushing you so hard,” continued the woman gasping for breath.
“It’s alright. Please don’t feel so bothered about that,” said Pritish.
“But I owe you an apology sir. By the way I am Mallika,” said the woman.

The second biggest instalment of shock had struck Pritish. Here was a female who introduced herself as Mallika and was not the same woman he had had a one night stand with. Then who was she. To confirm his doubts, Pritish tried looking at her left arm which was partly got covered by the drape of her sari. To his surprise there was a tattoo which read – LOVE BITES HARD. By the time he could gather his thoughts together to speak to the woman, she turned back and walked straight towards the lift. Kunal joined him later.

“Is something wrong with you Pritu?” asked Kunal.
“That woman!” exclaimed Pritish stretching his hand towards the lift.
“What with that woman?” asked Kunal.
“She was Mal…, forget it!” ended Pritish.

The Night before… PART 8

Mallika’s beauty was indescribable. For the first time, Pritish realised that he was not thinking of Nilanjana. He had already started falling for Mallika. But on the other hand he thought would it be wise enough for him to get intimate with an escort who might also be an escort. For that moment however he didn’t want to think but to act. Having thanked the bar tender for the drinks he had served, Pritish turned his attention to Mallika who was already producing rings of smoke from the cigarette she smoked. The light that ignited the cancer stick pressed between her cherry red lips was a gesture of the bar tender who expected something to happen, between the two customers who for that moment had occupied his mind. Pritish drew himself close to Mallika wanting to take her in his arms. Together they reached the third floor of the Grandy Hyatt and to the room to which Mallika had the key for the night as it was abandoned by her gay guest. Before they could turn that one night into a memorable experience, Mallika looked deep into Pritish’s eyes. All Pritish could see was a tattoo on her left arm which said, “Love Bites Hard”. As the night got wilder, locked in the room Pritish and Mallika had bid adieu to their millions of thoughts.

As the rays of the morning sun pierced through the windows of the hotel room, Pritish was awakened by the door bell that rang. Mallika was nowhere to be seen. Pritish knew such acquaintances had a life span of just one night. There was no point in even inquire about Mallika’s disappearance because hotel staff never involve themselves with the on goings of a client after their hefty bill is taken care about accompanied with fat perks and much more. After having freshened, Pritish headed to the parking lot of Grand Hyatt from where he pulled out his car to head back towards the town. As the clock stuck 11 a.m. Pritish received a call on his cell phone. It was Gary on the other end. Unwillingly he still had to answer the man whom he had ended up hating the last night.

“Yes! Gary. How can I help you?” asked Pritish.
“I hope you enjoyed the party last night and if you don’t mind can we meet up on Monday?” inquired Gary Renward.
“For sure Gary. Kunal too should be back by tomorrow afternoon and he will be joining us to discuss our future course of business,” replied Pritish.

Gary hung up but followed up with an sms saying: “Monday 11 a.m. at my office”