Monday, December 5, 2011

across the coffee table

not your makeup
not the jiggles of your jewellery or
of the 10,000 things in the purse as you move
it's your fragrance teasing the air
kissing

not your dress
or the legs left uncovered
or the drinks between us
the smoke holding us
a blanket
a silent symphony goes on
two hazy souls tango
while seated across the coffee table
you and i
it's the time spent looking,
waiting

your lips,
freshly painted
pouting
the parting wet paint
mist and mist
tease
lust
love


two hazy souls tango
while seated across the coffee table
drinks between us
smoke holding us
you and i
fog and first sunlight




Sunday, November 13, 2011

Rockstar: Nothing Rebellious About It



Contrary to what most critics have been saying, Rockstar is a bollywood Masala Moive through and through. It has too many coincidences for it to be a decent film, and too many spoon-fed scenes to hold the attention span of a mature audience. But what sucks the most about the film is the namesake-ness of it all. Everything: From its Title: ROCKSTAR, Seriously?; To the basic premise of it being a love-story and still being called Rockstar: [to add insult to the injury] it's so down-right naive that at one point the protagonist is shown he “wants to achieve” a heart-ache, on someone's advise; To the lyrics --  of musically well composed songs -- It's all a mind-less jive. The films oozes of pretension and superficiality. To say Rockstar is made mainly for the crass audience who salivate on films like Dabaang-Bodyguard-Wanted-etc would not be inaccurate. But compared to the said "mast-mast" movies, Rockstar is well put-together.
Rockstar is rich in story-telling; week in story.


However, Rockstar has it’s moments – no denying that; but, the good ones are nullified with the over-the-top, uncalled-for and unexplained circumstances whose only existence, it seems, is to add sure-fire “commercial” components to the film. The film is not a – as the kids are saying – “awesome film”.

The first half of the film is strictly OK; one gets to laugh here and there, but the second half, in spite having the good songs, sucks the life out of the film -- It is too sober for it's own good. 

There are some decent aspects of the film that need special mention. Like keeping a single play-back singer (Mohit Chauhan) as voice of the protagonist – brilliant move, more so because the film-makers did not pull a “Farhan Akthar” and let the vocally un-gifted actors sing for themselves.  
The supporting cast actually had a say in the narrative, and boy, they have made themselves heard – Big Ups.
Also, the non-liner / flash-backing narrative style actually accentuates the screen-play and is not used as a just-like-that vanity stunt (unlike Dil Chata Hai, it wasn’t fully used in DCH anyways, but nonetheless.)
The boy, Ranbir Kapoor, I have been told, is a son of an Actor, does a decent job in-spite of he being a son of an actor. May be because the boy actually stars opposite the mighty Rahman, and not the silicon lipped girl, Nargis -- that is everything filmy she has, just a filmy real name. Rahman is the real-deal here. The Oscar-winning music director breaths life into the film, and the boy gives the film its pulse with his versatility.  
Another good point about the film is absence of a cheap-ass item number – No Mauja-hi-mauja bullshit -- It might have not been needed for Rahman’s magic turns your heart into an item girl anyway, a drunk item girl at that.  
The breath-taking cinematography provides a good back drop, and would have worked wonders had Rockstar been a tourism commercial of Parag (Prague), or Kashmir, or Himachal Pradesh, but unfortunately it is not, so the camera work doesn’t really do any good to the film, but, on the positive side, doesn't do any bad either.
However, this is where the good of the film ends.

The dialogues writing is sloppy to say the least; and the timing... – especially of the wall-flower of an actress – is sloppiest to say the most. Boy, this girl can't act to save her life, literally. All she can do is perpetually gulp air with great difficulty to show any and all emotions. My best guess for her being in the film is that the film-makers wanted Sonam for the role but due to Sonam’s increasing “haters base” took a safe bet and got a Sonam look-alike. Smart move, I could have said, for people don’t hate Sonam for her looks: it’s her voice that is unbearable, and her attitude (read: fake accent. Like the 80s chewing-gum chewing and simultaneously taking Molly Ringwald wannabe), God, an assault to senses; not that this NRI girl’s accent – or voice over is this case – is any different. But these are just the superficial draw back which might have been put in place / ignored to ensure decent box-office collection. But what makes me really NOT like the film is the way the director, or whoever with the strings (and definitely had No Balls), did not put any soul in the film. This is exactly the problem with Rockstar: it doesn’t have any fucking soul. It is all Glory: no bloody Guts. In simple words, it looks like a teeny-winy love story. There is no time spent on shaping the character(s), or the film’s most important aspect (the way it is marketed): the source of protagonist's rebellion. No dark sides explored. No venturing into the sense of in-justice being done. No showcasing of repressed emotions being converted into art -- lyrics, or music. Nothing. A lot of gold-ore stayed so. If Salman could sing in real life, Rockstar would have been his life-story, for Protagonist is just like Salman: famous for being famous. Same typical bad-boy traits (abusive, bad with the press and police), up-kept appearance (very un-Salman like, but still. You get the point), broken-heart bullshit, and as in the case of the film – little ability to sing. All traits to make soft headed girls go weak in the knees. How fucking Original.

Instead, a little time could have been dedicated into shaping the protagonist's character; on showcasing his metamorphosis – from being a emotional Vrigin to his disassociation for self, self-loathing; connection and sympathies, and the way they gets established with the neglected entities that require a voice to get government's attention: groups (Free Tibet, which is blurred. Grow a pair, Mr. Director), Aspects (Corruption etc.), Search of Identity. The way he picks-up the topic for his arts, what influences him, and how he gets influenced. Nothing. But, all we have is a sudden outburst of emotions, or Justin Beiber-ish songs, without letting the audience know as to where the fuel for the fire is coming from, or how one needs to burn oneself to make that fire. Also the presence of "sweet" songs kill the spirit of the film -- Tum Ho is nice romantic song, I have nothing against it, but Holy fucknuts, it's a r.o.c.k-based. ...Motherfucker. The saddest part is only love-lost crap-romantic nuances are highlighted without any regard for the internal journey that ensue after such personal, non-unique (unlike other-wise suggested in the film), tragedy which may rarely, but in most artistic cases, eventually, finds solace in supporting other broken things like societal injustices etc as compensation, and in the process letting the creative genius of oneself surface, and form art. Showcasing only the lovey-dovey part in this rebellion centric film gives an impression that the director is either too condescending to thinks that the audience cannot fathom shit beyond a lip-lock or that he is too chicken to go outside the cookie-cutter – for director's sake I hope the former is true.

But the final nail on this so-called Rebellion-Anti-System film comes when Rabir, who even after being established as a rich “Rockstar” in the film, and is the brand ambassador of Nissan – India in real life, drives a small Nissan to see a girl a dying girl. Jesus.Fuck. This is when the film loses all it’s respect. All it’s credibility. Only other “actor” who can stoop this low to further his brands without any regard to the integrity of the narrative is SRK. So if Ranbir, or any actor who wants to carve a niche for himself, needs to get rid of this SRK trend. And, as for the director whose film, people think, is path-breaking needs to check weather or not he has balls to go all the way. But you know what, fuck all that. Fuck how Rockstar disappoints for what it's not. As I write this, a realization is kicking in: that I am more angry because it all seems to be my fault. My fault all the way. It's not that film's idiotic but, it is I – for expecting something more than a run-of-the-mill love story from this mini Yashraj-ish director, who also has the penchant of casting the worst actress: Ayesha Takia, Kareena Kapoor, Deepika Padukoe, the white Brazilian lady who played Punjabi pind-di-choori / young Neetu Singh.


The film will make it big in Bollywood for it has all the components to: beautiful locales, beautiful people, mind-less story, gripping narrative, romance, great music, and lack of heart and balls.
Rockstar is a stellar opportunity wasted. Fuck.

PS: Comparing this Popstar with Dev.D, the way lot of people are, is Blasphmey. Don't.


Director and Story: Imtiaz Ali

Cast: Ranbir Kapoor, Shammi Kapoor, Nargis Fakhri, Aditi Rao Hydari, Kumud Mishra, Piyush Mishra.

Lyrics: Irshad Khamil
Music: A. R. Rahman

Rating: 2.5/5

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Laughter: The best ab work out :) - Simple Weight Loss Methods for Lovelies

To answer the never-ending 'I am over weight' cry of all the lovely ladies, I am listing below
Six best (and extremely simple) practices to help shed weight. These practices have helped a lot of ladies around me to get rid of the gunny-bags thighs, MRF-tyre tummies, and stuff toy face that everyone likes to play -- you know, when idiots pull the cheeks and say, 'so cute so cute' while you actually hear: 'fat cow fat cow.'

These practices have helped the fattest of cows turn into whitest of Swans. But, the change doesn't happen over-night. Just because you are following these steps, doesn't mean a fairy god-mother will come, in the middle of the night, and sprinkle some of the magic dust, and taadaa, the next day you will look like a super-model. It takes time, and most importantly, an iron will to stick to the discipline; it is easier said than done.

I am no doctor or a certified dietician or some one who charges a lot of money to tell you common sense. And these practices are nothing but common sense. There is no medication involved here or any direction towards liposuction and other short-cuts.
These steps are NOT work-out pointers or what-to-eat list, for that matter. The things listed below are universal, and can be of help to everyone, and could be coupled with the routine, you are already involved with -- Gym, Jogging, Yoga etc.

Also, ever wondered why the fairy god-mother never gets old. Because she uses all her that magic dust on her. So, instead of waiting for that selfish lady to show some consideration, its best to take matters in your own hand.

Zeenat Aman: The Other Side.
  1. Sleep on Time: Even if Brat Pitt offers you a foot massage at 10:01 p.m., take a deep breath, look into his eyes and Ditch the dude for he is a minute too late. If a guy cannot respect your time, even his six packs cannot make you forgive him and change your FIRM decision of taking the beauty sleep. There is a reason it is called Beauty Sleep. So Sleep. Also, please resist the temptation to sit and chat and discuss other people's life late in the night at the cost of your unhappiness -- that will eventually appear in the form of double chin.

  2. Don't even touch processed-fired food: Anything that is fired and packed, like Chips, fried namkeen etc, should be kept away. Most times, these foods have something called as MSG (Aginotmoto). It's a taste enhancing chemical. There have been reports of hormonal imbalance due to its consumption -- even if its consumed on a semi-regular basis. The ready-to-eat soups have MSG. So unless you want to be seen in the zoo along side Jumbo - the lovely elephant. Avoid MSG. And FYI, MSG (Mono Sodium Glutamate) is a proven carcinogen. While at it, add Cola drinks to the list of untouchables. Its not just the excessive sugar in cola drinks that is harmful, but also the Carbon-di-oxide gas. Simply put: It is all gas.

  3. Early Dinner: I am not asking you to turn into a Jain Muni and have dinner at 6 p.m., but, having dinner atleast 2 hours before bed time helps the food take its natural course, naturally.

  4. Milk: Ladies, you need more calcium. Or rather the calcium need to be replenished more often in your body, than in moustache bearing people. Calcium is a major mineral in our body - pearly whites, bones et al. Even the slightest deficiency in calcium causes the whole system to go yo-mama on your ass, literally. Unless you are the colour-blind Jumbo, you must be aware that milk is an excellent source of calcium. So please block your nose, close your eyes, and have that glass of milk: Cream, Semi-Cream, No-Cream, Skimmed, Ultra-skimmed, Ultra-Blatra-Skimmed, it doesn't matter. Help Yourself. Minimum of 1 tall glass (300 ml) a day will take you long long way. I mean Rehka-long way.

  5. Never Starve: Never-fucking-ever. NEVER. Skipping a meal does more harm than good. Or rather does only harm. Just because you have decided to skip some calories, your system has not. Even basic functions like breathing, maintenance of normal body temperature and blood circulation need energy / calories. I won't go into much details here, but please remember: digestive system is not like boys, who can be kept dangling to add to the romance. If you try to pull a stunt like starving with your body, that dangled boy will eventually have to carry you to the ER. Starving cuts nutrients to our brain. So there is a high chance of a transfer from the Emergency Room to Psychiatric Ward. Instead, munch on fruits and raw vegetables. Sweeties like water-melon, cucumber etc. are mostly water. And hence also make you skin glow. (Dear Lakme, You thought you were the only one. Ha!)

  6. Buy a gun: Keep a shot-gun handy, you know, when ever someone is trying to mock tease you 'moti-moti'. Kill the mofo. End of story. No more stress. World is good again. Okay, on a serious note: Just by the fact that you are a woman, you are beautiful. Men are still half monkeys. I'll be first one to admit it. I know it first hand. I am the biggest one. Even if we can drive with one hand, the other hand is still on the tree branch. We miss the details. We can't distinguish shit from sunshine and tend to follow what's trending. For us, the grass is never the greenest; but we are working on it, and we love you and will continue to. But you, on other hand, are fucking magic. You are the reason the world still has human life. Don't get stressed about the way you look, especially just for a guy. Be sexy for your own self. It's much more rewarding. And results do appear if you work towards something 'for-me' rather that 'for-him' or in some cases 'just-to-show-that-bitch.' You may be a little on the healthier side. So what? Deal with it. Truth be told, no one wants to be with a FTV type stick, we all love katrina. Got it? Get It? Good.

  7. Go on. Have fun. Break Rules. Don't bother too much. Don't stress over following advice and searching advice and listing advice and retiring advice and renewing advice. A Million People will give you 6 million points. Go deaf and listen to your self. And eat chocolate, but in moderation. Chocolate is not just a sweet or comfort food or a luxury item; it is something beyond that I cannot put into words. Its fuel for your lady soul. Darker the better ;)
If you are a girl, be a naughty girl. If you are a lady, be a sexy lady. And if you are a mom, be a sugar mama.
Next time you see yourself in the mirror, wiggle out that hip, kiss your a finger and make the sizzling sound. Its always about the simple joys and little worriers that keep us human. Imagine, if you were the so called definition of perfect, that would be so uninteresting. Keep it real. Make it happen.

 Yet, believe in fairy tales. I do.

PS: Don't listen to any Bollywood Actress, they are all paid parrots.


Originally Posted at Lotus Feel



Saturday, April 16, 2011

history



i stumbled upon a picture
she was an old friend
an acquaintance actually
from a time long gone
a decade
or more
i was too young
middle school
acne was yet to appear
i was a best looking guy i knew
we never really spoke that much
she and i
i was a junior
she was in high school
i went to co-ed
she was an all girl convent
we went to the same tuitions
sat on the same mat
cold mornings
she always wore uniform
white and royal blue
white ribbons
i learnt the chapters she already had
she remembered it all
i knew
our batches overlapped
her's left
mine began
in between teacher took breaks
her batch used to stay back and chat
girls
i used to be the early guy
one day we had a history test
the year was about to end
she was in the senior most batch
i asked her who discovered america
i knew it was columbus
she said americo vespuci
it made sense
still does
now i know her full name

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Only the Truth (Singha: A Jolly Good Mofo - Part 1)


    After writing my entrance test for WGSHA, Manipal (For Bachelors of Hotel Administration), I was waiting in the verandah for the Group Discussion to commence. Room in the which the GD was to be held was closed for lunch. While waiting, I peeped in through the glass door: It was a small dark room. A guy, dressed as a waiter, came and opened the door. I went in the room. The room stank stale from the ancient carpet laid. Cushioned chairs, with thin metal legs, were kept in a semi-circle. Some eight of us, pimply faced milk-bread kids, were directed to take the chairs.
    All of my fellow candidates in the room were in formals: Ties and Tie pins and Polished Black Shoes; one or two even had jacket and all. I was in a brown half-shirt and a light brown trousers and casual shoes. I took the corner most chair on the left. There was a chair right in-front of the semi-circle, at its focal point. A bright light shone down on that chair.
    A man in a brown suite walked in and stood behind the chair; his hands resting on the chair’s metal frame. He was wearing dark-brown leather shoes, the long pointed ones. He had a little bit of beer ponch. He wore a red tie, without any tie pin. His face square. Clean shave. Full white hair. Eyes Red. He looked like a World War 2 Veteran with his white moustache, long and straight and thick moustache. Like blades of a RAF propeller planes. We all stood up, more out of sight than out of habit. He raised his arm and ruddered his palm, signalling us to be seated. We obeyed. He just stood there breathing from his belly. I had never seen any one carry a suit with so comfortably.
    The brown suite broke the silence his presence had built, ‘MY NAME IS DALIP SINGHA. AND I DON’T LIKE BEING BORED,’ his voice husky, borderline volcanic; like his throat was bruised by either a lot of smoking or a lot of shouting, or both. ‘SO WHAT YOU WANT TO DISCUSS?’
    Now, liberty is something a GD "appearer" never expects. All candidates started staring at one another. One “enthu cutlet” suggested, “Women Reservation”. “Development in Rural V/s Urban India,” said another. I said, “Good and bad effects of Movies on youth.”
    ‘BULLSHIT! THIS IS ALL BEING DONE TO DEATH. SURPRISE ME.’
    No one spoke.
    ‘Yaar... Kya ho raha hai aaj kaal duniya meain?’ Mr. Singha asked.
    No one spoke.
    ‘YAAR, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.’
    No one spoke.
    ‘ALL RIGHT, LETS DISCUSS U.S WAR ON IRAQ, SHALL WE?’
    One fat IIT aspirant – in India you can always tell an IIT aspirant when you see one – started, ‘Sir, I think it is completely justified. What U.S is doing is completely justified. They want world peace. In the end everyone wants peace,’ The mugged up blah blah blah continued. The fat “IIT” looked at everyone else, nodding for assurance, one face at a time.
    Then I started. I was told, if one has to score high in a GD it’s important that something, anything, is blabbered out early on. I was not completely aware what the hell I was going on in Iraq-2003. I had overheard about the Iraq-war-something, but only a little bit and there. I said, ‘I agree,’ pointing at the IIT looking guy, ‘I think he is right, the invasion is justif–’
    ‘I DON’T WANT YOU TO AGREE. I WANT YOU TO SPEAK AGAINST HIM.’
    Unsurprisingly, I was dumb struck. A girl (only lady in the lot) tried chirping in. Mr. Singha ruddered his palm at her. She went silent. The red eyes looked at me. The beer-belly breathing in and out proudly. I couldn’t come up with anything. I mumbled in order to distract myself from peeing my pants. ‘Sir... sir... sir...’
    ‘I. DON’T. WANT.YOU TO AGREE!’
    I took a deep breath. My tongue continued to be tied: My schooling wasn’t exactly convent;  my chaddi-friends were sons of soil, and our mother or grand-mother only knew their mother-tongue, which is not English. I clenched my fist. ‘Sir,’ I said, hyper-ventilating, ‘America is wrong. They want oil. Rest is wrong. United Nation’s hands are tied. Because America has money, U.N say nothing. America is showing Power. IRAQ can take them themselves care.’ I crashed my back on the back rest.
    The girl chirped again, ‘Sir, I think the gentleman on my left is right.’
    I sprang back to attention. Never in my life was I called A Gentleman. And now I was a Gentleman on her left. And I was Right. I was a Right Gentlemen on her left.
I fell in love with that girl. She was my Pam Anderson though she looked completely opposite. I saw Me and Her having a life together, where I was her Gentleman and she was My Lady; A farm house, with White Picket Fence; Bunch of Kids on bikes; Our little girl playing in the sand; Two German Shepards – Jack and Jill and everything.
    ‘I DON’T WANT YOU TO AGREE WITH ANYONE. I WANT NO ONE TO AGREE WITH ANYONE.’
    That girl never looked at me again, and there went my white picket fence and kids and Jack and Jill. I was pain old boy again: not a Gentlemen.
    The GD got over GD and Written test was the first stage. Result came: I passed the first stage, next was Panel Interview. There was more waiting amongst shiny shoes and tie-pines. My turn came and I went in one of the three panels. All the interviewers were old farts; they all wore blue or grey or black suites, and were all seated. Their eyes dull, lifeless. They asked me some philosophical stuff. I answered more philosophical stuff After all, I was a small town boy, we are big on Philosophy.
    Last round was a Personal Interview. It was with General Sarda. He had a big cabin, infact, a big office. He looked like a distilled version of Mr. Singha. He was seated, but one could make out he was tall: his knees came up to his chest. He asked me to speak on Hotesy for a minute. I spoke for two.
   
    Later, after a couple of weeks, the final results were out. I got made: I was in the best hotel management country – apparently.

   The first day of college was all about paying fees and filling forms. In the corridor, I was Mr. Singha; and that was the first time I saw him walk. He moved like a Lion, a hungry loin. The Swagger: slow and study, like a beast calculating every step. Eyes red, tunnelled, occasionally looking up. Calm and Composed, he moved. Slow. Everyone stood still and made way as he passed by. He spoke to no one, always kept his head down. Some people wished him, he wished them back: looked up for a second, stopped, kept walking.

    It was during the orientation ceremony that he introduced himself, ‘I AM DALIP SINGHA.’ That's it: No designation, no qualification, nothing. We all knew who he was – The Vice fucking Principle of the of most glamorous college in the country. During the ceremony, all faculty member were to perform a five minute gig: Song or Dance or anything. Most of them told a joke, or sang hindi songs; I don’t remember much. But Mr. Singha went all Bob Dylan on the stage with “Blowin’ in the wind” with with hand gestures and all, but he had a bad voice for singing   My God Bad, My god Husky. But he sang, and sang with rhythm and melody. One hand holding the mic, the other, painting a picture in the air.
   
    When seniors joined us, two weeks later, they told us: ‘When it comes to Mr. Singha’s, stay the fuck out of his way. He is a crazy fucker. And will come and hit you if tick him of a least bit.’
    No one in my batch got hit.
   
    First two years of college were bad. First year was a one long culture shock if Manipal is a “forward” place, then WGSHA is a thrust that keeps it forward , plus, I sucked at studies. I couldn’t understand what was being taught. The medium of instruction was only English, and it was all high-falutin to me. I feared academics and kept running away from it. And, closer the exams got, more helpless became, with the final academic paralysis manifesting itself as I wrote the papers. I just couldn’t express what I knew: I couldn’t find words – and I knew very less. Maybe because I had science in my class 12 and was used to writing technical stuff in bullet points; the Objective type answering was alien to me. I broke my head to get average marks. Also, to add insult to by Academic injuries, the Hotel Management Colleges have a lot of vanity attached to it: Projects and Assignment and stuff, and that meant giving Presentation and stuff in front of the whole fucking class. There wasn’t an excuse I exhausted to avoid classroom dais. I was terrified of the monster called the ‘White Board’ and its ugly cousin, ‘The projector’.
   
    In third year, Mr. Singha had a subject: Dynamics of Human Resource – formerly, Applied Behavioural Science. Simply put: Introduction to Organisational Behaviour. But for the minds of only 19 years, it was anything but simple, and we had had been hearing as to how difficult the subject was to pass and how merciless its teacher was when it came to the evaluation of papers.  
    First Class, and Mr. Singha goes, ‘WHAT IS OF IMPORTANCE IN A WORK PLACE FOR IT RUN SMOOTHLY?’
    No one spoke.
    ‘IF YOU DON’T RESPOND, YOU GUYS ARE NO DIFFERENT THAN THE FURNITURE YOU ARE SEATING ON.’
    We gave some stupid answers.
    ‘IT’S COMMUNICATION. NOW, WHAT IS EFFECTIVE COMMUNICATION?’
    Some more stupid answers followed. One of my friend said, ‘Complexity of Words.’
    Mr. Singha started laughing. ‘LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, AND THIS WAS TOLD TO ME BY MY PROFESSOR, A BRILLIANT MAN,’
    All ears went Sharp like Jerry – of the Tom & Jerry’s.
    ‘SIMPLICITY... IS THE ULTIMATE FORM OF SOPHISTICATION. SIMPLICITY. IS. THE. ULTIMATE. FORM. OF. SOPHISTICATION.’
    He went on to explain what it meant in a few simple words. We all understood or at least we nodded like we did.
    All of his lectures were interactive, made us think about ourselves. 
    For the first time, I did not doze off to sleep in my Air-Conditioned Classroom Initially, I used to get sleepy out of habit, but during Mr. Singha’s class I did not so much as yawn: I was afraid he would shoot me if I did.
   
    I wrote the first "quarters" (sessional exam) and passed border line. I was good at his subject, I understood it; but didn't manage to get marks. Story of my life, I cursed. I wanted to improve, I knew I wanted guidance, but had always felt ashamed to go a professor and ask for pointers - smart phones and laptops, and God Google had not caught up on life full throttle to go online and check everything up - plus, I always thought, profs will dip my dignity like a biscuit during their pretty little tea time and have an educated laugh over it; but Mr. Singha didn't move in a pack. And with the year already three months old, time was running out. And, regardless of teachers' degree of willingness to genuinely help, I had calculated: I will only approach them once - that was maximum number I could pump-out from within myself to hold my faith. So I decided to seek help from the man himself, Mr. Singha. I had one shot, So What the Hell, I thought. I gathered all my boota and went to Singha sir's cabin - It was just like the Principal’s cabin, but no one went there unless called in. Till the last moment I was having second thought on approaching him - I used to think the Mr. Singha has a dungeon under his office where he stuffs and displays the heads of annoying students. I took a deep breath as I reached Mr. Singha’s secretary’s table. She gave me very warm smile; a very nice lady, she is. ‘SEND HIM.’ A scream came thought the glass partition. Had it not been for the window blinds segregating his office space and that of the secretary madam’s, I would have never found the optimal “blankness” to zone-out and ponder on the moment for a moment: Mr. Singha had once told us, “On the other side of fear is freedom.” ‘SEND HIM!’. I gulped some more air. The good lady smiled again and nodded her eyes in assurance. It was time to roll the dice: I knocked.
    Mr. Singha offered me a visitor’s chair. I looked around, there was no other door in the room, you know, for dungeon or something. I felt OK. He was reading something, he finished with it, closed the book and asked, Yes, tell me. I told him my dukha bhari Kahaani. He heard it out without interrupting, even with a nod. When I was done, he placed his hands behind his head,  pushed back on the chair’s back rest and stretched himself out while letting out a yawn. He came forward - eyes red - and said, Abe Yaar... He gave me pointers.
    I followed them.
    Mr. Singha used to conduct extra classes, in the college, after college hours for students who couldn’t pass DHR. He asked me attend those. He knew his subject was a motherfucker, and that some students needed more inputs. I had passed – with fuke, I guess – so I attended the extra classes, with all optimism and rainbows and sunshine. And I felt good, not because I was the only “pass”; and neither I was taken as a condescending pedant, but because there, in the evening classes, no one was a “convent background” or a “vernacular background”. All the confidant kids had passed, the ones who did not, were no longer had their supply of confidence in that class. Therefore, in the absence of over-confidant kids the concepts of insecurity ceases to exist; just like, the concept of light without darkness. Everyone was comfortable being their ownself. We were new born’s: open to everything, uninhibited to learn, un-bothered about the ways of the world, naked. No topper or sixer (Sixer is a student who has failed in all subjects). We were all Failures, We were all Equals, There was no judgement in anyone’s eye; only empathy for one another. We all asked doubts fearlessly, without being concerned as to how silly the question might be, or, how incorrect the syntax of the question could have been. It’s only amongst the down-and-outs, one gets to recognise, and cut the bullshit, and work towards things that matter – in this case, learing.
   
    In next quarters, I passed with a decent margin. I understood concepts more clearly and my performance in other subject improved. For the first time in my life I knew what I was reading. I could hear it in my head.
   Third year came to an end. It was the last class. Mr. Singha came and sat amongst us, on the bench, and gave some gyan on life and everything. None of the Professor had done that. He was the first one to come down and sit amongst us. For other professors – I felt – we were a nuisance, a chore, a "good-for-nothing". But Singha sir came down and sat with us. Eye-to-Eye Shoulder-to-Shoulder.
He told us, ‘You know you are living it right when people don’t come and suck up to you. All sycophants can recognize a man with integrity. And Everyone, deep down, hates that man. Mostly because, people don’t have any in them. Go on, have a life. Have all the success. Be a big man. And if you happen to bump into me sometime, and if you forget to call me “Sir” or “Mr. Singha”. I will shoot you in the head, twice.’
    We all nodded.
   
    After our batch, the next batch came in, the 19th "Course". Mr. Singha taught them for about 4 months. Then the 19th course ran out of luck: Mr. Singha got admitted for slip disc. 
   Students were rejoicing.
   
   I went and met him. Heavy weights,attached to his legs, suspended down. Our job placements had started, he knew. He joked about here and there. He said, ‘You know the other day....’ He told me a very graphic joke about placements. I laughed, my eyes went moist. Mr. Singha kept laughing. He was soon discharged, may be after a day or two.
    In about a week's time, he had a paralysis stroke and was hospitalised. He had to immediately under go a major brain surgery. Coincidently, I was hospitalised a day before, in the same hospital – there is only one major hospital in Manipal, Kasturba Medical. There was nothing serious with me, the hot NRI post-grad-docs at Kasturba had kept me under observation. Thank God they do that – Else, one has to be back in the WGSHA hostel at O’2200 hours – the principal was a Retrd Maj. Gen, don’t ask.
    When I got the news, I was strolling around the hospital in the night. I went and saw him. He was in ICU, just out of surgery. He was silent. Unconscious. Quarter of his head was missing. There were tubes and wires coming out his nose and mouth and from his arms. His head was covered in gauge. For the first time I had seen Mr. Singha quite. I thought he was playing a prank or something and that any moment we will get up, pull out all the tubes and say ‘Got you. Ha!’
    I stood there for a minute, he didn’t wake up. I knocked on the glass door. He didn’t respond. The nurse gave me dirty looks. I went back to my room, and stood next to the window as I waited for the toilet to get vacant – the student room is on sharing basis. My college was visible under the moon light.

    I got discharged the next day. In college, not many students spoke about Mr. Singha’s health; and those did, spoke bad about him, cheerfully. “That Bastard Met his Fate.” “Nice happened.” “Let's see how he flaunts his style now.” “I bet he can’t really womanise now, can he?” Some of them were my classmates and some were juniors.
    I knew, Mr. Singha had never done any wrong to them - if any one did any good or bad the word spreads in a residential college, and I had heard nothing about him. He is a good man. I don’t know if he Womanised or not because not a single lady thought so, or complained or commented. Yes, he has style and Hell Yes, he has panache. But it isn’t hallow. There is enough and more substance to support that gait, that lion’s swagger.
   
    A while ago when I quoted him on my FB status, some people commented negatively on it. There was a time when even I was jealous of Mr. Singha, but that was before I got to know him. Once, in the course of the conversation, a beautiful lady in my class said, “Singha ki to baat hi alaag hai, Yaar.
    People who speak ill of him might have had a bad experience with Mr. Singha, so did I, and on many occasions. Initially, in “failures’” class, he constantly dismissed all answers as “BULLSHIT”. Even in my answer sheets he wrote “B.S!!” in big red capitals and “THIS IS NON NONSENSICAL!!!” “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY???” “STOP WASTING MY TIME!!!” I took a minute to reflect, got in his shoes, and checked. He was right, rather accurate.
    But whatever the reason, no matter how harsh and raw he came across as, no one should celebrate a person’s misfortune and wish for his death. Singha is a state idiots can’t even imagine to realize. May be that’s why they curse him: It’s either out of their insecurity or maybe that’s the maximum numb-nuts can do for the sake of excitement with their other-wise empty lives.
   
    After he discontinued teaching, a junior asked me, ‘Who was Singha? How was he? Thank God we didn’t have that asshole.’
    I told him, ‘Singha was the Return on Investment that your parents have done so generously for your education here at WGSHA, you dumb fuck.’
    Mr. Singha is NOT a life guru or a preacher or any of that pseudo-psychological faggoty charade. He is just a man who lives his life on his own terms. A walking id. He speaks his mind and always tells the truth. He loves his family a lot. And unlike his haters, is unafraid and unapologetic about his existence. There is nothing wrong in that. I guess some people never get the point, the point he was trying to make. Not by his words but by his behaviour: Be yourself, otherwise there is no point.
   
    Even after college I go visit him every year at his home in Gurgoan. During my visit, he got me drunk in the middle of the afternoon!
    He can’t walk the way he used to and now carries a stick, but walks on his own. He can’t speak the way he could, but laughs out louder than ever before.
    I was about take his leave. He said, painting a picture in the air, ‘You know the other day...’

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Molten river surrenders


Natures Mysteries go on...

There a butterfly flaps a little too hard,
and here a storm gathers up.
Somethings Happen.

Beyond Vision
Beyond Reason
Logic Failed Miserably.
Nothing to deduce.


A Man can never understand
things that are happening around,
Stampede that goes on inside.
A Man - Hunter, Warrior, Man.


Rock solid.
Untouchable.
Dominant.
Cold.


Natures Mysteries go on and on...
There a butterfly flaps a little too hard,
and here a storm gathers up.
There a Woman Smiles...

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Grandmas Rock

These are some Top Reasons - 

  1. Gives you money – Now I don't know from where they get it from. But Grandmas seem to have an endless supply of Cash. 
    When you are going outstation. You go and touch her feet and Kaching! there is cash. And new, stiff, clean notes. Big ones. Many of them. And will never forget to tell you: “Don't eat outside.”
  2. Understands Cricket – Arguably, Grandma is the only lady in the house who understands crickets – thought not fully. For her Sachin Tendulkar is the only cricketer. And Sachin is the Captain, and he is the only one playing. Grandma are very choosy about players like that. They only watch till Sachin is playing. And ones he gets out, they go back to whatever is it that are doing that is mostly praying.
    They usually can't see what the score is. So when you tell her that Sachin scored only 49. She says, "India going to lose." And Baam! India Loses. Her predictions are better than a dozen Sidhus, combined.

  3. Is the best Cook – Grandma can walk in with her stick in any restaurant, or in any cookery competition, or any master chef and kick some serious chef ass. No kidding. She doesn't need any recepie books. I have seen Grandas work. The discipline and cleanliness with which they handle kicthen, is like watching them conduct an orchestra. Its art. I know how it is like to be in kitchen, in that hot and humid environment.

  4. Has Imperial Manners – Grandpas go farting around the town, but not Grandmas. I guess decades of being a lady instils a certain degree of royalty in a human being.

  5. Has a lot of Gold – The bling Grandmas have is bar none. I mean, if they decide to wear even one tenth of their jewellery; so high will be the infi complex for rappers like Young Jezus and Lil Kim, that those nuts will dare not step out of their cribs, literally.

  6. Sleeps like any angel – If you are sneaking out or sneaking in, Grandmas are so fast asleep that they won't wake up in the middle of the night; unlike Grandpas, who are mostly in the bathroom, busy farting.
    But mind you, Grandmas might sense your partying, with their life-long experience, but out of sheer love for you will never mention it. That's divine.

  7. Shields when People Scold – She is one person in the house who can protect you from the everybody's wrath   Dad, Grandad, Mom, Mali, Kamwali; it doesn't matter. Her word is the last word. Her bias for you is your last bastion. Her love is love.

  8. Spiritual / Religious – Now we don't really understand religions or rituals. We just sometimes follow them. And everytime we do, it bores the hell out. But looking at Grandmas' devotion, the way she unconditionally believes in things that are beyond the lines of our reason makes us wonder, that if not anything, there is someone of something up there (or down there) and that Karama is a bitch and so you better get you shit together.

  9. Funny as hell – now this is very objective and case specific point. but a very prominent one. The other day my grandma was going out of station. When she was about to leave, I touched her feet. And Kaching! And then, when she reached my relatives. They had skype with them, So my Grandma was got online. She saw me on the monitor and did Namaste. She thought I was some famous personality and that I was on National Television.

  10. They take you back to a nice place – No one takes you back to your childhood the way these funny angels do. Be it their love laced food; or their voice; or when they give you money; or when they give you jewellery to wear on occasions and put a tikka on your big fore head. The best is when they ask about your well being over the phone and give their blessing when you touch their feet everytime you say hello.

Monday, March 14, 2011

A Good Idea - Expensive Hotel Management Degree, bro.


I did a Four Year Hotel Management Course from Welcomgroup Graduate School of Hotel Management. WGSHA from now on. WGSHA comes in Manipal University, Manipal.


Before I get to the points, a little bit about Manipal University and WGSHA - My alma mater. I owe it man.
This WGSHA is supposedly the best HM college in this Sub-Contimental Country of ours.


And Manipal University is also well known and all. Its actually kinda big-deal. MU is so well to do and so busy with teaching that they feel compelled to spread their MotherTerasaness through TV commercials. And their commercials air on all good channels during prime time. Also, they have very well made commercials which exceed past the 20 second mark. The commercials are not like the ones you see on News Channels - Those have low production value and very less air time. See what makes it all the more interesting is that MU is a Deemed University. That means it doesn't rely much on our generous government for funds. And in return the Government rewards this gesture by giving the university all the autonomy in the world. Which basically means it can do whatever it likes. The University Management has full control over syllabus. Full Control over fee structure. Full control, period. MU has the toughest entrance exams, the best campuses, best infra and obviously heaviest fees and hence the most spoiled crowd. See, but to get through to MU college is not like rolling the famous Manipal weed. You have to have good scores. Especially in tech subjects like Physics, Maths, Bio or Computer Science depending whether one is applying for Engineering or Medical Science. There is also a MBA course, which comes in India's Top 10 or 15 or 100. So I am sure even those applicants are doomed to study.


But if you are applying for a HM course. You are the luckiest of luckiest, boss. Because not only you were born in a well to do family that gave you the balls to fill the application. But you have applied for a degree program who's eligibility criteria is that an applicant must have 50% and above percentage is class 12. And to make matters more better, 50% and above in any stream will do - Science, Commerce, Arts, Home Science, Partying, Dads Black Money Blowing. You name it; They take it. Because lets face it. Once recruited, the HM student will absorbed in the service industry. Service Industry is an industry of smiles and sorries and Thank Yous and Up Yours. Oh Sorry Thats Government Industry. Anyway, Service industry is as old as the time itself. It has been into existence long before HM graduates graced it with their learned  presence. Its is not like NASA where they launch rockets and shit. NASA is new and we its just a phase. It will pass. Anyone can launch a dog on moon. You don't need rocket science for that. You don't need precision. You need some weed. Right? Right! And where else can you get the best stuff but in Manipal. So when this part is also well taken care of,  everything else falls in to place. (Sorry, must have added this weed stuff to the Best of List furnished earlier. Was too busy sending that dog up in space.)




So if someone asks, here are the Top 10 reasons why Hotel Management is the best course in the world, evar.


  1. No Serious Syllabus - Now you can't really TEACH common sense, can you? That would look really Stupid.
  2. Lessons on Proper Grooming - Where else, just tell me, which other course, I mean which. other. course. goes in so much detail to teach you grooming. Stuff like Shaving and polishing shoes and shit. Thats huge bro. And tying your hair neatly. Fuck. Two words - Priceless. Just Priceless.
  3. Lessons on Proper Etiquettes - Three Words - Fucking Priceless. I mean hve u bloody knon ne1 care u bout so mach 2 teach u wht fucking class is. Hell yeah. XOXOX.
  4. Aclholcol and Smoquing is faart of da Syllabus - Rest of the humanity learns to get wasted on their own. HM Grads have a very methodical approach to it. We learn that precision fundas to get humanity smashed. Precision man. Precision. Who's laughing now huh you NASA bitches.
  5. Introduction to a wide array of secondary Subjects - Accounts, Finance, HR, Marketing, Statistics, French, Computers English. It was just an introduction so can't really say much. But Computers and English Man. Thats some serious shit man. Some seriously deep shit man.
  6. Four Type of Uniforms - Kitchen, Service, House Keeping, Front Office. If not varsity but vanity is your thing. Then your thing is gonna be up all right.
  7. Access to various kinds of knives - Have you ever like got like three knives between yo fingers and pretended to be Wolverine. Well guess what, HM grads pretend the shit out of it for Four Fucking Years. Got it Punk.
  8. On the Job Training and Outdoors - Which other degree lets you get some hands-on experience on setting up the tables and chairs. And on Lifting beer crates into the chiller. Thats some real golden opporch mofo. One time we pilfered so much beer that I forgot we pilfered so much beer. We were like professionals at it. Professionals man. Pros. \yKwiM/
  9. Industrial Training - It was like Six Months of Vacation bro. Just you need to go and Sign in. Just a normal shift bro. No serious work and stuff. Complete Chillax. Just Store Pick-up for Banquet Kitchen. Cleaning the walk-in freezer. Oh BTW this walk in thing is like the coolest thing you'll ever see. Its like this big ass room, thats been made into a freezer. A Room. A freezer. Combined. How cool is that. A room... Made into a freezer. Thats the fact. Thats the shit. I am telling you. And just need to clean it here and there. That too like just 5 days a week. And it will be like at 3 in night, dude. Hotel will be all dead bro by then. All dead. No on in the restaurant. Its like you own the place. You own it man. You fucking own it. And like signing out is what? like just 15 hours. And on Sundays you can see all these celebrities. So you will like not even miss having weekly off. One time I saw Enrique. High five man. Up here.
  10. And at last, and You know how they say Not The Least. Thats called cliché bro. FYI. You'll learn what it means over time, Its for all grown ups and shit. The most important thing you will ever learn. You know, and this is da reason to do Hotel Management Course. Its coz they teach you Presentation. You know, to make shit up - Like this.