Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Diwali and Your Panties, 2008-10-28 :: Archival Entry

Diwali brings lots of special images and moments to mind. This one was even more special to me. Besides the eternal image of my cousins engineering how to start the ignition of a 10-shot after they'd accidentally set fire to it in the wrong places, I have the other of a beefy woman in white panties. After you're done making your share of perverted associations, pls continue to the next paragraph.

The image really was eternal, for it had been put onto paper - that of a box of huge rockets. I'd accompanied a friend to his firecracker shopping on the eve of Deepawali, and that's where I came across 'it' - that beefy girl in an illogical heavy white gown that extended only to her waist; I chuckled hard, and brought it to my friend's attention; we mutually pondered over it's relation to a religious festival and ended up only more amused. And then, as if the clouds parted, the visions became very clear - there were hordes of these sultry babes hugging large cylinder-shaped objects everywhere, and joining them was an international array of movie stars: there was a 7-star with Kareena Kapoor alongside John Cena, another one with Priyanka Chopra alongside the entire cast of X-Men (whatever that suggests), Ayesha Takia on a rocket carton and the characters of "The Matrix" - the twins and trinity - on a large box of something very explosive, and one with some character of Final Fantasy holding a sword, from which a mist emerged that gave rise to the smiling face of Kareena Kapoor.

While my friend was busy bargaining for a measly amount of firecrackers ("I only need some for shagun"), I obsessed myself with the evident country-wide obsession of juice - so much that I'm starting with a new paragraph. Plump south Indian actresses seem to gaining grounds when it comes to selling explosives. Yes, sex sells even in this domain. Gone are the days of happy children on the cover, today has to do with the 'mamathas' of our cheesy film industry down under. Besides the panties girl, there was another in red underthings, and another one with short skirt and lots of popping cleavage gawking at a "Cock" brand rocket. Besides these girls that suggest romp, there was a breed of those homely and prim girls as well - dressed up all traditional, looking tamely yet inviting. Much of this firecracker industry is based in the south, and going by this, there's a whole bunch of perverted designers sitting there trying to market everything with titillating imagery. They also assume that the Indian women will stay indoors and only the men would have anything to do with these boxes of crackers - which is why they stick with hot semi-nekked ladies. In a progressive nation where even the women are gaining the right to step out into the public, the right to light a fuse, and starting to like other women, and men liking other men, and children growing even more horny at even younger ages, they would need to re-strategise soon.

We are bringing softcore indian porn to our doors instead of Goddess Laxmi these days. Truly, Kalyug approacheth.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Too Good to Beat

These deals en-route Lucknow by bus, just the day before...
  • Comb Set of 10, consisting of combs of all shapes and sizes, even those lice-plucking ones. Rs. 10
  • Childrens' learning book that covers almost every subject for a toddler, laminated throughout (no accidental wear and tear!). Rs. 10
  • A set of 3 magazines, including one featuring desi erotic tales (politely titled "Manohar Kahaniyaan") Rs. 10
  • Toothbrush - a set of 3. Rs. 10
  • Handkerchiefs, of size that can literally serve a cushion when folded. Rs. 10
  • A set of 2 gold-plated chains and 2 gold-plated rings (one for each of the sex). Rs. 10
  • 10 ripe Bananas for Rs. 10
  • Watches - Quoted price of Rs. 300 going for Rs. 80 on a good bargain
Such controlled prices almost make it feel like the Soviet Era!
These people obviously have something going right. Also hints at mass margins in apparel. Might also hint at oppression and at the labour being paid peanuts.

Lucknow by Bus

Never travel to Lucknow by bus. The previous statement can be counted a maxim, for what is an overnight journey by train turned out an 18hr neck-straining bummer for me by the bus. 18 hours is time in which I could've set out from Lucknow to Delhi by the Mail and back by Shatabdi, still with another couple of hours which I'd have devoted to visiting the Lucknow Zoo and having kababs. Theoretically it should've been no more than 14 hours, but the tire blowing up midway and another couple of hours spent at the railway crossing delayed things. There are rare times when a journey becomes a drag and this was one of them; even the epic 3-day Leh-Delhi rickety bus ride the previous year was better. UP roads are inferior to any other state I've been to, and there's a severe scarcity of road sense.
I was traveling by the bus because I proved too slow to fetch a train reservation - even the Tatkals were filled up within 15 minutes of their availability, Diwali being the sole reason. There were others with similar tales to recall - who'd have traveled by the AC coach on a train if not for the unavailability; their collective presence upped the general standard of the bus crowd. (I hope there were other bloggers amongst them as well, we all curse our road transport in unison that way.)
Learnt that truckers' halts are the best place to have tea, and had a live example of scare mongering; not much else to tell about...oh and that Michaelganj/Maikalganj reaffirms its position as the best food halt along the route.

This is one case where 'The end justify the means' falls flat in its logical validity. The next time I'm traveling to Lucknow on a bus is either when they make a super-express highway where the most rickety of buses can manage a steady 100kmph, or when I'm required to be follow some KGB agent out on an espionage mission.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Oh, another day and tangible experiences

Some days are surprisingly hectic. I guess today was one among them. Bum-breaker, if that means anything. Cycling, walking, cycling, walking - Delhi is too big when you're a man on a mission (with conservative attitude towards transport). There were only two chunks of spare time: the morning - which was spent gearing up for the day - and the briefest of pit stops around 1630, when I returned back only to refuel for the evening that lay ahead. Things didn't change the world order, were quite mundane, almost everything to do with me own social circles.

The day started off with me almost suffering cerebral damage; a high-velocity projectile missed my head by a margin: as it was, I was in the process of making myself a cup of cappuccino, and while the milk was on the stove I had the urge to crane my neck out of the balcony and smell the rewarding morning air. The balcony is like every other in this neighbourhood - a grilled defense, for the fear of theft; mine has a window of about 5x4 ft. And my head is a bounding box of about 1.2x1 sq ft. No sooner had I approached the balcony, in the process of a deep breath, that something whizzed past my left ear, hit the balcony grill with a twang and deflect back outside. After the momentary stun, I looked down to find the newspaper boy in his second attempt to deliver the papers through the little opening in my balcony. I was lucky that his initial strike missed today.

Received a call from an anonymous number in the morning. The voice on the other side seemed to affirm our familiarity, so I went along with the conversation. It ended with us deciding to meet up in the evening; I had no idea of who it was; "some friend" was what I added him as on my cellphone. I was severely receptive to the fact that it could be anybody and yet be received with no greater or lower enthusiasm. Anonymity is a great equaliser. "some friend" called again later to confirm his arrival at the Metro Station. Last efforts to remember that voice failed. I approached with guilt hanging over my head - what if I don't recognize him? It was a pleasant surprise to find Aditya waiting...a good year and a quarter after which we were seeing each other. A very long year and a quarter, I was amused at how we could stay so ignorant over our long-due meeting. I'd like that to happen again, ANYBODY - even those with whom I'm mutually unacquainted.

Did something goofy today; it wasn't cheap; but I'd decided not to let money spoil the kick; then spent my next few hours frequently going over the thought if it was worth it. And then got a call from a guy who wanted to give me money!
The task executed was something whose very point lies in being pointless, but with the most purest geekiest of intentions - no material pursuits for own self, though. Because the thought had been conceived a few days back and almost on the fringes of execution, I crossed lines, even though I was required to be very specific with my day's spendings.
Then the call from my ex-employer/client in the afternoon - He's a pilot, so not among the ones I'd expect being affected from the recent Kingfisher-Jet deal and its aftermath. But as it turns out: he was trained on the 440 very recently and now they've decided to do away with 440s (or something close) and fly only with 420s. So he's quite irritated over that fact - He was in town, and wanted to strike off the pending payments. That was surprising; the money itself knocking back. A few more of such occasions and I'll be drawing maxims.

While at home - exhausted - for that pit stop, I turned the fan to the max. Seconds later I realised that my room was lacking that feature! There was a hole where the fan should've been, like it was sucked up by somebody on the roof. The landlady had taken it away for repairs, I'd asked her earlier. She'd been to my room in my absence and had leisurely run her eyes around every detail, and had found it unkempt, citing the spider webs for example. I politely replied "Frankly, I like them, won't like to disturb their active season of aphid-snacking." She was bewildered and gave me a short stare, followed by that understanding nod which is only a conditioned response that people use to their defense when they conversate with the least botheration; mere noise from the other person would pacify them. Reminds me of the scene in "The Darjeeling Limited" where Adrien Brody, holding a baby, is sitting alongside a villager, both of whom seem to making a conversation.

A day of excess in cycling.
A day of excess in walking.
A day of excess in eating.
A day of excess in spending (and withdrawls).
A day of excess in socialising.
Also learned a process and a fact.

At least something real and possible to write about.
Take that, previous blogpost.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Moments of searching for an expression

TASK: Give "your side on you".

[stares blankly at the laptop screen]
[pizza on the sofa; reminds of yesterday's lunch]
[a cup of coffee. was nice.]
[cigarettes butts. have to stop smoking - them, not me.]
[back to staring at the laptop screen. no emotional ejaculate in hand. no success.]

It's hard to turn inwards. I wonder what I've been doing all this time. I do remember reading and essay "The Yogi and the Commissar" (by Arthur Koestler) a few days ago and identifying myself with the Yogi who sees 'inwards'. But where did that inward vision go? I'm having a very hard time digging up my latest in thoughts; can't even detail a state of mind. I think I just failed at answering the question my friend put forward; this is particularly embarrassing.
Maybe it was because right now I'm away from my room, everything that forms my memory and evokes out that intangible something - maybe intense - is at a distance. That hints at how good an image of imperfection I'll be if I ever fall in love, haha.

It's dawn, as my clock suggests and I'm still awake. Would sleep be a cure? Or nostalgia? Or creating something fictional, then destroying it upon conception, then feeling a longing for it?

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Between Bhowali and Kathgodam, 2008-10-06 :: Archival Diary Entry

The shorter road from Bhowali to Kathgodam - one that goes via Bhimtal - is a route I have traveled little on, but it generally sees 10 times the traffic than what the other road (via Gethia and Jeolikote) gets. The nature of the road doesn't suit me. Past Bhimtal, it feels like spiraling into a tangle, with all the sections piled on top of each other, conveniently tied together by the U-bends. That also has the effect of intertwining the vehicular exhaust across the entire strech into a single mesh that settles down by the evening and eventually dissipates up into the atmosphere by the dawn that follows. The hills throughout are very steep and composed of loose rock, where civilization can only be ascribed to the audacity of the city planners who proposed to carve a road through this mountain face. I don't like journeys that make me think and curse and twitch, all at the same time. Covering this stretch is a nauseating feeling - more so listening to the accounts of those who do so daily. I might have sympathy for them.

Today I'm at it - quite unwillingly - for I've to be at Kathgodam to catch a train. My sympathies boomerang to hit me on the face and I pocket them without fuss. The journey has just started; I'm in a shared taxi, but at least it would be less of a discomfort now that I managed to occupy the front seat. The hill folk have already considered retiring and markets seem empty, though it hasn't been long since the last of the sunrays retreated. Or maybe they quit early to catch the Ramlila, Dussehra is only a few days away; I'd like to see a Kumaoni version of the Ramlila sometime again; it is amusing. The taxi groans along the gentler hills whose shapes can be traced by connecting the household lights scattered all across; only that one would have difficulty in considering them in order. The taxi driver is on his last round for the day. It is comforting that he's driving slow, but it suddenly grows that it's too slow to be normal. Turns out that he is repentant over an incident earlier in the day, when he was forced to make a mad dash in the lure of money and cover the 32km distance in about half an hour (which translates to 'suicide' had I tried to do the same). I'm still split if he was genuine or drunk.

Past Bhimtal, and the unfriendly stretch begins. Once beyond the hills that cradle the lake, the climate changes course. There is dense fog which is rather surprising in October; my irritation doesn't measure upto that of the taxi driver's who will have to swipe off the fog precipitate from his windshield from the outside at regular intervals. Broken roads and detritus consuming half of those roads at places reinforce the verity of my earlier description and invites more cussing from the driver. But even in the moment of communal irritation we remain divergent entities. The fog that is supposed to clip vision gives me more to see tonight. I give a hard stare to the hills on my left and fail to decipher any contours. It is as if the entire chain of hills merges together into a monolith that has no boundaries. It might be possible tonight. Then it comes to realisation that it is the fog that subdues all definition. The fog thins out higher up in the sky and I can see the crescent shape of the moon partially shielded by the fog. The moon borrows light from a star, and the fog borrows this light from the moon to veil it tonight. I think it can read into this surreal streak of mine and makes an effort to keep me away from reading more into the beauty of the goddess that dwells up there in that crescent. Anyways, the moon feels so close tonight, like I can take a detour to land there. And then the feeling that one is floating through space in a tin can; the wheels rolling on an imaginary strip that extends as far as the headlights can reach. Stars, planets, moon. Tiny village settlements arrive, discretely, to the right, like tiny isolated islands floating in space. Here the life and flora came into being by some magic - there might be another space traveler alike me responsible. My spaceship leaves them behind. And then, past these isolated islands, one can spot the bowl of a mighty civilization identified as a collective of thousands of flickering lightbulbs. These are the lights of Ranibagh, or Kathgodam, or a night vista of the entire piedmont plains, I'm not too sure which one. I will switch my spaceships - to a much more spacious and oblong one - under one of these lights down there.

Besides the repentant driver and dreamy me, there are those in a hurry to reach back to their homes and families. They tell the driver that his speed was too slow for comfort and ask him to pick it up. He obliges and gets back to being the same maniac on road - as all in his fraternity are - to everybody's relief. Any more dreamy stuff that materialises hereon gets splashed and scattered around owing to the hard bumps, sweeping bends and the abrupt breaking.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

To Kill a Mockingbird

Didn't intend to do that, but I did. I spoiled a movie experience - for me own self, that too for a movie that the American Film Institute (AFI), in 2006, voted the 2nd Most Inspirational Movie of All Times; one that sits at #47 on IMDB list of the greatest movies of all time. A big honour, na.

Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird" has remained somewhat restrained in terms of popularity, but those who know about it know the modern legend it is. That Harper Lee never wrote another book in her life, and never pushed the book beyond its initial years might have contributed to that. Firstly, debut novels often begin their journeys with little efforts from the publishers or promotion teams. The hype only starts from #2, at which Mrs Lee made no attempts at. Secondly, some bibliophiles might scoff at an author with 1 book in their oeuvre - they need a new God to worship. Hence the book remains an esoteric masterpiece.

The book came in 1960. A movie adaptation followed in 1962; the perspective and details in the book itself made it easy to turn it into one. It won 3 Oscars, and another couple of nominations. But having read the book, I can only complain at how loosely tied the movie adaptation was - I bet everybody would - after all there are people who will perceive the book better, esp. the Americans to whom the events would bear a familiarity from their perspective. Events were muddled up to keep things linear. Introductions and discoveries were pruned off. Time frames were messed around. Characters stayed generic and under-developed: Scout felt a pesky helpless runt, Jem's coming-of-age seemed trivial and Atticus was a shadow of what he was in words. The trial seemed a frivolous affair, so did Boo-Radley. Was I asking too much?