traffic


There’s always this buzz about New York, London, Mumbai. Quietly, Calcutta figures amongst the noisiest and one of the most populous ones. Not revered but neither forgotten.

Intrigued but not astonished, I have not seen vehicular traffic in Calcutta getting diminished by the travesties our trans-infra change. With some overwhelming overdrives that have graced the city in the last few years, the pedestrian traffic and the subsequent jostles haven’t died down. in fact, that some places still sustain the nuptial knots of charm says a lot about the soul of the city. Let’s humdinger down!

daunting is life

Man with all his capacity and victorious zeal, is found susceptible at the gamut of endings.
Skill remains unwanted, money is relinquished in the wake of the alarm that steals the thunder,
Forget what’s there, find a way to live.

Busy in our selfish encore, a sudden thud reminds us to be human.
When all else isn’t important and what we don’t comprehend is the need of the foolish hour.
Our instincts are based on courageous tendencies, but a renaissance is something we all pray for.
Forget where we stand, let’s find a way to live.

What’s in our path is what we choose, what we don’t see is destiny’s hormone.
Achieving is zest, praying is us.
Amidst all wrongs, we pray for right moments. During fall, we call Phoenix.
Forget what’s in store, let’s live today.

Blockbuster Review: Wazir (Hindi)

Vidhu Vinod Chopra hasn’t directed for a while now, his last release was Eklavya (hush hush, lets not talk about Broken Horses here). I haven’t watched Bejoy Nambiar’s ‘David’ though word of mouth was encouraging. Abhijiat Joshi is our ‘3 idiots and PK’ pen master, hence his involvement does invoke restless expectations. To top it, you have Mr Bachhan and the talented Farhan Akhtar ready to be served as the main dish.
Well, what then would you expect? Mere chess squares with pawns, horses and elephants, with some fizz and thrills thrown in? Wait, there’s more.

Wazir is the first biggie of 2016, and with an illustrious cast and tinkering teaser, no wonder it will brings the crowds in though you can ferociously debate that today is just the 2nd day. Yes, it wont set the cash registers ringing when compared to a la Salman Khan puncher or a Rohit Shetty lull. Courageously, thats not something we deem to expect from a team who gave us some powerful films in the past like Parinda and 3 Idiots. Categorically, no social messages or sensitive collage here, but certainly, the start for a year we usually look forward to.

It isn’t without flaws, let me be honest here. The way the suspected baddie was eliminated will throw you in a fit of tantrums as its a full throttle shame to our system and the myriad politics involved in the dust of filthy money and worst, shameful people and leaders. Yes, I agree that this isn’t the first and there have been less organic portrayals of our national calamities in earlier such celebrated ventures but precariously, we are talking about ATS here. Please, don’t tell me our governance is in such shambles. Second, I truly and completely understand that it’s Bollywood film and we are equipped to ignore such fatalities but my statement is – not from Vinod Chopra films do we expect such noble blemishes. But, a fair statement is a passable one.

Seldom do we see films beginning with a wedding, song and romance amidst a newly born. That was differently placed, and I liked the beginning. Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s films are known for their soul and melancholy moments stitched between aura and plot – this one is no different. Passion of ATS, the loss of a father, the anguish of a mother and wife, the distress of an ageing man who has lost his family in google circumstances and the feeling of a stranger becoming a friend. Relationships are always the backbone of such scripts and the moves are carefully juggled here, aptly over a chess board. The first encounter depicted, by the ATS officer as an angry man who has just lost the apple of his eye was gruelling as the SUV comes toppling down. The scene wherein the Wazir imprisons Pandit ji with his evil intentions before escaping while Pandit ji lies on the floor with his broken limbs blatantly exposed was a stunner.

Mr Bachhan, overtly, once again, steals the show with a stellar performance. He ceases to amaze with each of his roles, especially in the last 10 years. Be it the Alzheimer struck veteran in Black, or the 13 year old ‘progeria’ struck child in Paa, he continues to keep our jaws stuck to the floors.
Farhan Akhtar, is ardently, subdued but does a clean act. Rest of the cast is in and out, with John Abraham and Neil Nitin Mukesh delivering cameo acts (though the former could have been easily negated). The background score and the soundtrack sticks to the script, admirably.

Wazir is almost, a chess(t)-full show. Watch it, for a smart move in the year ahead.

2015 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 960 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 16 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

25, Park Street

The walk from Ballygunge Circular road to Park Street would be a shade under 20 minutes, 15 if you are in a breezy mood and walk like fire. LaMartiniere, The Kookie Jar, Hallmark, AGC were my witnesses while I gallantly strode towards my educative influences.

Well, that was around 18 years back. But, the charm is still imperious.

Christmas day this year was kind of a stunner, seriously. Since I grew up, Calcutta, 25 Dec and Park Street have always been mad for each other. New Market, yes, perhaps for Nimhans but Park Street was the gorgeous de noir for the elite and otherwise. Yes, even 18 years back, you could see those Santa bound lightings, the parks being decorated, schools and colleges having their alumni to welcome Jesus in to our lives, Mags and Mocambo making you wait with a lane long queue. All that hasn’t changed, but the noise and the glitter of people has been two fold, may be 5 fold. You must see the roar of people!

From Shakespeare Sarani to Rawdon Street, touching Freeschool Street through Park Street till Hot Kati Roll. A twist across Sudder Street and the swag in Little Russel Street – the walk was probably the longest in years, the lighting of Jesus’s arrival and media swooshing over our taste buds in the eternal Flury’s – unmatched, undisputed.

The moment you are in this vicinity of bliss and year end pleasantries, you tend to remain famished. We want to. None were spared, categorically. The ghugni in Rawdon, the rolls in Kusum, the pastries of Flury’s, the kachuris in Camac, the puchka in Freeschool. Not to mention, our travesties with the drop-down tea encounters in almost every corner was a taken.

We did return home, but hearts were left behind in the Park.

the 2015 that was..

Technically, we are still there. So hold on, but then, for how long?

Its been a while since we keep talking about what went wrong, what didn’t go well, how people deceived you, how nature’s wrath upon you was so unwarranted, why your employer doesn’t pay you well, why the world has turned so cruel.. the bandwagon is long and lengthy, painful to patronise

But then, I have a question – doesn’t life always cease to dwell upon our inefficiencies and gets the best out of the inner ego of ours that so unwillingly is sandwiched between our sub conscious state of insatiable back packs and that part of our testimonials that is so desperate to succeed in a life where society is beset with maverick congenialities?

Ah, the answer isn’t that simple, hence take your time.

So, this time, my flashbacks would be more of a dismantled poetry that we usually don’t want to venture through our naked eyes. Calligraphic bludgeons of a gorgeous bystander, a naive observation of an amateur, the inspiring words of a CEO on the growing potential of technology and its takers – depends on what appeals to you the most but one decimal of it is attributed to your affinity towards the jingles of the sound that each of them produce to change your lives. Could be a proportionate one or a mere acquaintance of rich standards. Both ways, we stand vindicated.

The days gone by are sometimes difficult to recollect for couple of reasons – too good to talk about or the opposite. Yes, you can argue that good times are always nice to talk about. True, but sometimes its good to leave the good ones behind and look forward to the greater delights of the world cuisine. After all, basking in glory is seldom an attribute of a champion goose (you can treat that as an adventive of my muse), quite so.

Coming to my usual human endeavours that occupies me during most of the year, 2015 was damn good one, at least, to begin with. I wasn’t in the country for most of the ethereal days in the Indian shores, and English waters treated me well with the sarcasm of a Brit and the flamboyance of a spirited youngster. Work kept me busy but then, I had my own moments that helped to gain the rightful brownie points one usually thrives for memorable indulgence. Exploring the north western corners of England was a breathtaking memoir and the highlands of Scotland left me famished. Well, I will go on and on till you ask me to put my foot down. Yes, am almost there to hang up.

Later this year, families, people, queer acquaintances, lots of travel, perceived jolts, the ‘coming-back’ syndrome and ceiling high aspirations leaves me with just one thing – am asking for more.

Am beginning to feel selfish, so lets move away from the indomitable me and talk about how the world changed while I was working around towards renaissance – ah well, a lot of stuff that I wouldn’t like to. Honestly, hate to open the pandoras box in front of this incubating, arousing set of people.

Sporting events are always a highlight of a year thats demanding a couture from its juggling legacy – the Cricket WC (though not the best in recent memory) unfolded with a one sided flak. ISL took centre stage, especially for the sub continent when its best advertisement doesn’t come football. Wimbledon saw some staggering Indian menace and was a candy to our dry eyes. The victory for Indian women in Kabaddi WC was flourishing news but not widely celebrated in the plated circles (not surprising though).
Amidst such fine climate, disturbances did spoil the world affairs. Paris attacks were black days for the history makers and no one feels the anguish more than India, pity we burnt our fingers on numerous occasions despite the UN intervention and extending the precarious principle of solidarity. Thats probably termed as ‘suicidal dilemma’, for us. For rest, its global disaster that we have so easily got used to.
We rounded off with the ‘Baap’ of all time rain-hit calamities, and Chennai city came to a screeching halt. Took weeks to stand on its feet, and recuperating to retain normalcy. (Also read – )

I hate to but will stop, else I get this furious feeling that the year might not end on the pretext of my vivacious account of its famous and infamous exploits. Sighs!

2015, please go. I will not miss you but will occasionally flash through to beat the best of it.

Chennai – Mayhem to Life

the city of indian sunshine, the glory of south indian peninsula,
quite always the doyen of heat and coffee, temples and bay of divine cuisine.
ambushed by nature, swallowed by waters, mangled with chaos.
chennai, the city of belligerent mother. today.

raven by marauding clouds, broken hearts and thousand more.
galloping horse sedated by the titanic verse, vetted by chapters unlike past.
when monsoon never arrives, oh boy! sure it did this time.
whose vengeance? ask mother gods to their bosses of imperious poise,
holy cow, cows and sheep afloat amidst human jab of path breaking menace.

survival, ah, the call of the hour and wait for thousands.
desperate measures and teething myriads of city living under shades of mercurial salt,
forged missions and buckets of help from a nation that comes together to live.
unrivalled, un-hatched, un-helmed – still pouring as I invite solace to calm madness.

not victim or witness, a son who is just elated to find his own in the lap of safety,
while weeps for the ones who have none to lend a thought about.
at a time of clad moments when time and machine have given away to human arms,
when money and technology were swept away through to shelter and survival.
yes, the days when sanity took over. for a change, we wept. we must.

lets forget the intolerance gig, time to embrace the inevitable quit and slit the git,
lets do it once, for us and only for us. not for the humdingers of political cats.
yes, yes, we are doing it. truly, we are at it. all ruins yes, hope is the victor and disparage collides.
chennai – yes, you are rising and am at the top, with you, surging away.

Condiment of life

You don’t have to be married for 10 years to say huh! and 40 to claim immortality. I think its purely a derivative business. the more you get in to the thick of your relationships, the less you think about sustaining them.

No, this isn’t about raving marriage. Its about unravelling your insides to see how we fit in to someone else’s life. It is not easy, trust me. Not for the man, not for the woman. Don’t intend to bludgeon woman addendum here but they probably end up in the wrong sides of people and end up brushing their own goose against the odds. Not sparing men here though. Just saying whats more explicitly visible to naked eyes.

When I see my parents going through a successful collaboration, I see an advent of notorious DNA amidst my veins. Not to mention the obstacles, people and misunderstandings. But watching them script their lives so beautifully says plenty about the substance in their relationship. More importantly, I wouldn’t otherwise be a part of such a glorious pathway that continues to flourish in an aura of discipline and integrity. It does say that there is more to life than sex, debonaire and subsequent melancholy. Deliciously, it also serves as a tribute to such exemplary human beings they have been and I must insist that this is random outburst of emotions, quite like it.

Coming back, the above does stem from the root I like to roost upon. Chickens might hatch quite in hordes and not seriously produce delinquency but a relationship does have its boundaries closely etched in sensitively broad borders. Easy to contemplate and talk about it but introspection will be a belligerent journey to swallow and digest. Most significantly, chewing long doesn’t help either (just in case few pick this as a conclusive trivia).

Relationships for me are prolonged delights as long as you know when to inject and eject. In scientific measures, they are made of filters and beakers. The more they are reproached and cleansed, the more sublime they become. No clueless magic mantra here, friends.

Will keep coming back to you, till it courageously impresses you to condone and keeps you gullible.

The Viru Days

Cricket before 15 years wasn’t the same. ODI was still the most popular version, opening slots weren’t as dynamic and specialist openers often decided the fate of an elusive encounter. Slam bang approach was not a part of the 21 yard strategy and full throttle test matches were still the bane of the great game. Incidentally, that was the time Virendra Sehwag was lurking around, and quite explosively, I must say. As he hung his boots, very silently, an era has ended. Truly, this time around.

Public memory has always been short, and the administrators of the game have conveniently discarded him as just-another-player treatment to once in a lifetime achiever. We don’t have to unveil a statue but a decent farewell would have accounted for a fitting tribute.

Cricketers like Viru deserve to be celebrated amongst giants of our elite fab. Not for his sluggish average of 35 in ODIs or his near inspiring almost 50-ish in tests. Well, Sehwag is not the batsman with numbers on his side. Neither is he gifted like God nor courageously hard working like Wall, not even precariously talented like Punter or someone as sustainable as Kallis. Yet, Viru has been a hardcore entertainer and a genuine match-winner. If noticed, this continues to remain a niche combination, and not many possess the ability or the flamboyance to destroy the best of bowling attacks with disdain. 15 of his 23 tons in whites are 150+ scores, which is symbolic of his daunting contribution to India’s cricketing success in the last 20 years. Not to mention, a 2 time triple centurion in tests and the lone Indian to achieve the feat amidst stalwarts like Sachin and Dravid, handful of batsman in the contemporary world have this distinction and the numbers might not go past the single figures if I take out Don from the equation. Phew!

Few cricket players belong to a generation, some last longer and very few last forever. Sehwag, quite enormously, belongs to either of them. He always had a mind of his own, and admittedly, his adamant approach led to so many of his downfalls which otherwise could have been converted in to much bigger knocks. But, Viru was never your containment player. He relied on his instincts rather than footwork and the former was backed by impeccable hand-eye coordination. As long as I remember, another player in this extinct clan was Sanath Jayasuriya. Adam Gilchrist was another such destroyer but he was far more tactical than Viru. But for me, no one epitomised the opener’s slot in world cricket better than Viru. And, evidently, he glamourised the position. For India, if Sourav Ganguly bought the charm of a southpaw to the opener’s pantheon, Viru gambled it with his swashbuckling stroke play. And his stamp was so damn fulfilling, enjoyable.

I am not sure how many from Najafgarh will make it big. But, certainly, there will never be another Virender Sehwag. He is too large for someone else to make it big. Faithfully.

Calcutta:Pujo:Dhak:Mishti:Happiness

Calcutta (sorry but I prefer Calcutta..always!) and Pujo (the bengali way) are inseparable and contagious. This is that part of the year when India as a nation is immersed in festivities – names are different, customs are differentiated but commonalities are plenty – sweets, families, people, gatherings, crowded streets, traffic (its human traffic that supersedes the former), time of discounts and plenty of shopping. This is the time of the year when gods, goddesses and people are celebrated, with pomp and glory. For me, Calcutta’s flavour remains a stand out.

Let me be very blatant and poignant here. Calcutta’s Pujo aura is seldom understood unless you belong to the city of joy. For locals, its a celebration of life. From an outsider’s angle, its a gorgeous mess. Well, let me tell you why, sighs!.

Curatively, Calcutta is a featherbed for worshipping ladies (pun intended as the scenario today is quite frivolous) and ‘Maa’ is a given honorific for the elite and alas in what is synonymously known as the cultural capital of India. It does have dimensions but in the context of Durga Pujo, the statement holds large, and with oodles of glory.

The devout begins with Sashti, Sapthami gets you roaring, the madness reaches its zenith on Ashtami and Nabami, and Calcutta waits for yet another year as we bid the goddess a tearful adieu on Dashami. Like life, Calcutta doesn’t believe in goodbyes and the next Pujo is just around the corner.

For me, it’s a unique gulp from the normal Dusshera festival that engulfs rest of India. Honestly, I don’t expect mortals to understand the fervor of Calcutta Pujo. Yes, you need to be a Bangali (yes, it’s not Bengali) and a staunch Calcuttan to digest this crazy euphoria. And remember, this is the time of the year when Calcutta is a chaos of blessing.

 
One of these insane years, I urge you to plan and be in Calcutta during the festive season. Be it Mumbai’s Ganpati or Tirupati’s Perumal, Calcutta’s Durga Pujo remains India’s most adoring extravaganza.

vintage bits

Coming out of darkness to regain calm is mortal, I braced out of sunshine to visit better borders.

Vision and contemplation were undoubtedly kindled,
Hopes, vicious hopes and much more played tantrums.
Curiously joyous and provocatively desirable, hungry to achieve. More.
Continuos regeneration and demanding minds let go of myself in a quest.

First, then second. First again. No, second. This time, it’s first.
Fiddling priorities, dwindling fortunes, precarious patents.
Unknown landscape, beautiful sights, urban and honed structures.
Likewise features, uniformity in cultures, compassion is contrived but evident.

Challenges galore with delights of a lifetime,
Persistent modes, dentures of a different kind, palatial motives.
Fellows of gorgeous proportions, meandering thoughts, loveable melancholy.
Strength is yourself, rest is an inspiration of undisputed valour.

Travelling met elation, staggering jewels amongst widespread.
Food, grassroots, rainbow, people, snow-laden, long stretches, heaps of roads and tunnels.
Revisit bundles of fantasy, live through filmy stones, stun self with spectacle.
When me became the epitome of precocious audience.

House of dreams live by, continue is the game of thrones.
Dreams dont end, and am a Pheonix of the stone age.
Times turn, we remember, tenaciously survive. Astound but not magnum.
I am in, am back, am enliven, I live.
I am not back, I never left.