Turbulence could be a boon..

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Beware, I am not talking about broken hearts here. Neither am I redundant enough to talk about those acquaintances that never cease to exist. Probably, trying to venture out on those moments when you feel that ‘not working out’ is a blessing in disguise.

I believe in relationships that selflessly caress through it’s rugged path to establish trust and bonding. At times, probably, it doesn’t work. Better said, we as human beings, are prone to get insecure every now and then. In a quest to make things work and get everything arranged in a package of unheard perfection, we miss out on those little thing things in life, that predominantly make things work. Alas, no wonder, our relationships get thicker with dormant energy.

Some relationships are better foregone. Cats and dogs, Osama and Bush, India and Pakistan, Mahatma and Jinnah, Australia and England. I realise the ones listed are honest protagonists as well but we cannot ignore the audacity of those characters in terms of a bilingual and monopolistic attention.

Let’s not derive solutions of out of this extract. My works tend to become courageously naive and distinguished at times. But honestly, we all need to work towards building our relationships towards a positive future.

Life’s anonymous ways..

The past few days of my life has been spent in an advent of crucial veracity; and a feeling within that says that you might be the blessed one with all the ingredients of a perfect plateau. There isn’t one, but I might be the closest to it.

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A brilliant Saturday afternoon coupled with eternal memories shared amongst my school inmates did emit more than just the syndrome of nostalgic aberration. The sea beaches in Digha meant that my ride in the mysterious and elated circumstances would come to an end soon. Humans are a bundle of the 3 Es: Ego, Expectation and Ecstasy. Those convulsions are contagious and tend to remain within you lest you try to (rather you do!) segment them in acceptable packages.

And, not to forget, relationships have always bothered me, for good. Few continue to stun me with their sumptuous affection and sometimes wonder to believe that most of our precious adversaries would never be your own unless their ass is below the nutshell and require intervention to break open.

Fine moments get etched as diamonds but significantly, allows you the courageous bandwidth to sustain such magical intercourse.

Similar to those gigantic arms of the picturesque ‘Vidhyasagar Setu’, we are occupied in designed packages of corrigible quantities: the greatest of powers besieged collide, reverberate and retreat to marry successful sojourns.

Greenomania!

Not a self confessed gardener, but for the past few days, these plants that grace the upper stilt of our residence have shown some affection towards me.

Mom and sis would be very proud :).

The All England Club: Aura of encore..

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Not that I have been immersed with this beautiful game over the last few couple of years (or perhaps even more), but Wimbledon has always blown me away with it’s charm.

It’s my pick amongst the 4 grand slams and inarguably, the most popular one amongst the people and critics alike. We need not be democratic here, and few would disagree but probably for me, synthetic surfaces never exuded the charisma of this legendary battlefield and clay courts were too slow for me to catch up with.

There was a time when I used track records and history of this game like a beehive; I have obviously lost touch but still try to keep up with it’s histrionics.

Every game has undergone transformation in the last 2-3 decades, and tennis has been no exception. Rod Laver used to epitomise class and gesture with his technical power play (Roy Emerson heralded this skill very early in the last century). Then came the era of exuberance and tenacity. Bjorn Borg was instrumental in installing his stamp all over the game in the one era; John McEnroe, Ivan Lendl and Boris Becker took the game to a new planet. I was always a self confessed Becker admirer (till Sampras joined my books) and loved few of his extravagant strokes against legends like McEnroe and Edberg; he still remains the youngest unseeded Wimbledon champion in 1985. He went on to win couple of more and was indeed a pleasure to watch. Not to forget, our very own Vijay Amritraj and Ramesh Krishnan have had some memorable moments to cherish in this lawn of eternal grass. It was the age of serve-and-volley players and the game looked elegant at it’s very best.

I am not done yet; as then arrived the era of an iconic Pete Sampras. You ask me and I would rate him as one of the greatest players to have ever graced game of tennis. His composure, awe inspiring game play and disciplined approach were stuff that legends are made of. He indeed, was one. And, he was not alone. Another all time great, the mercurial Andre Agassi would give him a run for his money. Trust me, their duels were worth negotiating for and their rivalry is counted amongst the finest. Jim Courier, Goran Ivanisevic, Patrick Rafter, Tim Henman were a part of the elite bandwagon but got overshadowed in the presence of the two powerhouses. Power and precision were hallmarks of this period of play and the game witnessed shift in gears. I still remember Becker’s statement after he lost his final Wimbledon encounter (I am unable to recollect the year but it must be during the early or mid nineties) at the summit clash to Pete: “I used to own this place, now he owns it”. Words usually describe expressions, this one told us the story of two great champions, one set to rule and the other bidding adieu in grace.

Since then, we have enjoyed the peerless Roger Federer and the ferociously talented Rafa at their best, and enthralling us with their ethereal stroke-play. We have to admit, their rivalry was never adequately challenged and their dominance in the last decade has remained undisputed, to say the least. With Djokovic’s triumph, I could sense a beginning of a new chapter in the annals of tennis history. Perhaps, more to come our way.

The names I talked about were immensely talented and in a league of their own in all surfaces, but most of them sizzled in grass courts and Wimbledon is the queen of all grand slams.

I am still considering myself to be a pale out-of-sync in terms of contemporary statistics, but come June and ‘The All England Club’ thwarts me to revive younger memories, of me and the game.

Delhi Belly: Audaciously Quantified!

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One hell of a f*****g freakish roller coaster!!

Seldom do we see such novels depicted in silver screen: an audacious attempt to relinquish the pretentious magnet of youngsters and gives us a feeling of what we are with all the cosmopolitan culture cosmetics thrown in.

The language, the satire, the outlook and the realism of characters deserve applause. The screenplay gets a 10 on 10 from me and Akshat Verma’s storyline deserves more than a mention. Not to forget the Aamir Khan touch smeared all over and he has been instrumental in offering such ‘away from the mundane’ stuff that infuses energy in our lives and scorches contemporary lifelines.

Not for the typical family goers nor would it tickle the commercial pedestrians. This one is for me, and is gorgeous entertainment with oodles of class.

Can classics be popcornish?

Once upon a time, there used to be this golden era in the world of Hindi film soundtracks, obviously with stern references to the perennial ones. Then came the rejuvenated 80s and the congenial 90s. The subsequent decades witnessed glory and slump in vivacious intervals. 2011 is here, and I see a clear vicinity of creative inadequacies.

Today we lack the aura of playback singing that could evoke legacy. We miss writers who could pen down words like waves in an ocean that refuse to die and the meanings that could send a shriver down your spine. Yet, we live in an environment of extreme ignorance where the entertainment industry had started borrowing our gems from the past to hide our sustained prejudices. Please do not get me wrong, classics can get revisited but not tarnished.

Mohd Rafi was a legend, Manna Dey was exquisite, Mahendra Kapoor infused life, the genius of Kishore da was eternal. Further down, Udit Narayan and Kumar Sanu erected early nineties and refurbished their brand for almost one and half decades. Sonu Nigam further reestablished the soul of Rafi Saab and Abhijeet/Babul Supriyo/Shaan showed glimpses of the great Kishore Kumar. I miss their fervour and mince no words about it.

Sahir Ludhianwi isn’t there today, Gulzar chooses meticulously and Javed Akhtar only scripts for his children. Where are the writers whose pen was mightier than sword? I see no words these days, they cheat without glitz and publish sans elegance.

I am contemporary and enjoy versatility in music, especially films made in our inevitable Bollywood. I can relish the talents from the glorious fifties to my very own 2011. But I doubt if my children will remember the munnis and sheilas 20 years down under. I have a shalu now but that makes matters worse.

I get a feeling that we have sort of subsidised our talents by cashing in on our very own chartbusters of yesteryears. Remixes have become household cacophony and tracks are nurtured for the sake of animosity.

‘Dhanno’, ‘Mit jaaye gham’, ‘Laila o laila’ are few of those sizzlers which were distinguishably part of pedestrian projects. Have we run out of stock? Are we judiciously inadequate to produce winning tunes? Do we miss our prodigious talents who were instrumental in belting those número uno numbers for more than 30 peerless years?

I am afraid, but I might be bang on.

‘yeh saali zindagi’: the damn riveting consensus..

‘Is raat ki subah nahin, Hazaron khwahishen aisi, Khoya khoya chaand, Love, dosti, etc’ panned fluctuations of a meagre genre that suffice panoramic strokes. Sudhir Mishra doesn’t disappoint and delivers a slickly made non conventional drama of our pedestrian yet fabulous lives.

‘Dilli mein aag laga doonga’ defines the gist of characters that follow suit (the lip licking sequences are aberrations to quote the emergence of modality) and each undermines one another with characteristic élan. Irrfan Khan’s scripture of a lame mind that refuses to wane away despite indifference in commitment appreciates innocence. Saurabh Shukla enthrals (once again) and Chitrangda plays to her skin as the naive inhabitant.

I strongly confess that my outliner for life would be a split congruence: life could be a bitch, at times, even bitchier! YSZ epitomises this poem in abundance. The title song remains my favorite and demolishes the orthodox familiarity of impressive and soothing lyrics. Music as a whole, has been a show stopper in this fickerish drama and surprisingly, aids the cast phenomenally.

Sudhir knows how to extract the best out of his lead actors and YSZ is no exception. They ooze skepticism bundled in feather touch brutality with consummate ease. And, that for me, is the winning element in this dark and gorgeous enactment.

Life is still beautiful but saali yeh zindagi hai badi ajeeb :)!

7 Khoon Maaf: Seventh Wonder!

Ruskin Bond couldn’t have dreamt of such a spectacular brochure of his own work on silver screen; VB’s take on this classic is nothing short of a revelation and is beyond the congruency of the Indian audience to get the reverberation within from a magnum opus like this one.

VB makes it very clear in the credits pertinent to the script and doesn’t mince words; but the treatment of the same stands out. It would be unfair to have this compared with his earlier products (even though Maqbool and Omkara still ranks above all else for me) but this one would hover around very close to be the número uno. Editing and the pace has been persistent without compromising the intensity factor; the vintage solitude and the precarious monument of vivacious crime spells brilliance.

The casting of the dispensable husbands has been near perfect; the pick of the lot being the inclusion of the talented and underrated Annu Kapur; the camaraderie of the characters were stunning. The music was surprisingly ordinary and except ‘Darling’, others failed to grab my attention. Screenplay mesmerised.

‘7 Khoon Maaf’ will go down as Priyanka Chopra’s most exquisite till date. She was passive, restrained and versatile; she looked ominous in every frame of her diverse portrayal. I must say that she is one actor who has immensely matured in the last five years and the performance here has been the icing on the cake.

VB’s efforts have always caught my attention; this one enthrals to the core.

When nostalgia kissed me..

As I happened to have ventured towards the northern territory of Chennai or the old Madras, as it is popularly syndicated, the flashback in me triggered unsurmountable waves.

This is was probably one of those first instances when the need arose to be wandering in the vicinity of the legendary city and I must admit, that I fell in love with ‘ Madras’ more than the inclination of this modern city that has captured my life for the past 7 years. As a person, I have always valued my roots and am a strong believer in legacy; this part of the mercurial city took me back home, to Calcutta.

The adjoining areas that progress from Anna Salai towards Central, the elongated stretch beyond Parrys and the track that paves the way towards Royapuram is reminiscent of ‘North Calcutta’. MG Road, the legendary BBD Bag Dalhousie Square, The ever resplendent ‘College Street’, the panoramic ‘Writers and High Court’ structures, the ‘GPO’, the ‘RBI’ landmark and the towering ‘Howrah Bridge’ played havoc within me as I surged past these landmarks gleefully on a serene Sunday.

Perhaps, the oldest cities in our country (obviously the four metros) replicate themselves via strong resemblances towards their vintage history and the fight to renewed existence. Moreover, their charm lies in their maverick past of staggering occurrences. History was one of my revered subjects as a student, but it is certainly one of my inspirations which is voraciously visible when I pen down acquaintances clubbed with live experiences.

Mumbai (Bombay, rather)and Delhi, I am coming for you!

Mumbai: Common man’s penchant for paradise

The more elusive is the portrayal of Mumbai, the greater becomes the inquisitiveness to garner more about this talked about city in India, and contagiously, the world is equally famished for this provocatively charming hub of social and political interference.

‘Dhobi Ghaat’ resurfaces as yet another depiction of intermingling human relationships and conflicting diversified in this city of vigorous debonair and sultry ambience. ‘People’ have always triggered themselves in to unceremonious situations astonishingly, figure out their own classic ways to come out of it with struggle and ease as their closest aids. This 1 hour 50 minute drama is a bundle of sequences stitched together with few non compromising characters from the versatile strata of our evolving society. I liked it for the way all the characters divulged in to one another in an array of concurrent yet non segmented closets; the simplicity was striking and casting evoked substantial rhythm.

Yet another piece of vibrant cinema in packets of the streets in ‘Amchi Mumbai’ has been a collateral effort. And I am delighted to have such subjects being explored and rendered from the pervasive house of ‘Aamir Khan’.

Goodness has never confined itself to any caste, creed or religion; DG oozes this aspect of our dispensable lives in a poignant fashion.

De-biographically, evolution has been enchanting!

A submissive kid used to be once quite and submerged in self confessed union. He was, reluctantly part of a regular ‘pada’ football match and was oblivious of the concurrent events that was going to change his life. He caught hold of the pervasive ball like ‘Eknath Solkar’ but to his dismay, he was ridiculed to eternity and was unceremoniously rejected out if this entire proposition of playing with pros. He left, sobbing and humiliated.

Few weeks down the line and out of sheer sympathy and pity of discarding a child from being exposed to hopeless opportunities, he was called back and emphatically offered the role of a goal keeper. The amateur failed but showed promise. A year and two frisks past and shockingly in the same fraternity, a soccer game never commenced without the champion player who once sulked in to ominous ignominy of not understanding the crucial chapters of the great game. Gloriously, locals touted him as the little ‘Maradona’. Exaggerated but defines relentlessness and capacity to emerge for contention.

Time moved on, but childhood and adolescence did not prevail adulthood in a day and testimony exuded. The little boy was caught guilty of lying about his gorgeous scorecards that seldom reached dad’s stable and fathers usually hate liars! A corrigible and raunchy hit ruined his self esteem and shattered his nullified aspirations. Yet, that was to become his most important lesson as a relegated student and a bewildered teenager. The fruits, however, are now being reaped with acceptable pride and humility.

Sounds like obvious and known trivia? Subsequent and tranquil episodes to follow suit.

As a decade comes to an end and another journey commences..

I wish all my quantified readers, a delightful, accomplishing and sedate 2011!