deviwrites

Movie Marathon

2009-09-28T16:22:00.000+05:30

There is a movie drought in my life, I realised last week. Within twenty four hours of the realisation, I was a card holding member of COOL DALE - the nearest CD Library/Internet Cafe/DryCleaning/Ice Cream Parlor. Now for some serious movie watching ( as opposed to 'serious movie' watching), I decided. Here's a peek at the movies I devoured in one week

ROCK ON : I have a HUGE crush on Farhan Akhtar. The man sings, writes, acts, directs and smoulders. I'm sure someone like that could also make breakfast, the true crux of my crush. One man in a million for sure ( sadly, that model wasn't in circulation ten years back when I was searching ). Re: the movie, I loved it. Loved all the songs. The ending was a trifle idealistic , hence unrealistic. But hey, I don't watch Hindi movies for a taste of reality ( does anyone ?). RockOn has all the necessary ingredients that make a good plot - dreams, unfulfilled dreams , love, unrequitted love, hurt, pain, death, loss and finally a competition where every one realises his/her true self and path.
Rating : VERY GOOD
ps: Even when they were at their intimate best, all that Aditya Shroff (Farhan's character) and his wife did was to look each other lovingly in the eye! Makes me wonder if she had bad breath. Or horror, does he ???

DEV D : There is this new breed of directors in Hindi out to prove that Hindi cinema has arrived. The most telling feature of such a movie is that everything about it is understated. Especially the crucial bits. Take for instance a scene where the hero realises he has grossly misjudged the heroine. In a run o'the mill flick, this scene would be executed with much clanging of cymbals and the works. But in the new age DevD, it is delivered so casually I almost MISSED it !! DevD is the name of the protagonist. A modern day Devdas who asks his Paro if she touches herself ( within the first ten minutes) and asks her to send him her nude photo. The modern day Paro sends him one such picture too. Sacrilege, but real. There is also the prostitute who falls in love with Dev. The script also has the Delhi public school MMS scandal and the BMW hit and run case woven into it. After all that meandering, the film ends on a happy note. Sacrilege again. DevDas and a happy ending ?? A happy ending after all that drinking ? Abhay Deol as DevD was refreshing. He is a good actor and the true inheritor of Dharmendra's good looks. The girls in the film -Paro and Chanda- have done nothing to deserve another shot at acting.
RATING : AVERAGE. Watch it only if you have a lot of spare time .

GHAJINI : Everyone gets excited about a solar eclipse and an Aamir Khan movie. Reasons (i) they are rare phenomena and (ii) are usually a treat to watch. But watching Ghajini was a torture especially since I own a copy of MEMENTO on which this film is supposedly based. Aamir Khan looks his age. His six packs could not distract me from his wrinkles and the weird expression he sports throughout the film ( he looked normal only when he did the whacko act !) Asin Thottunkal was over made up and overemoted to the point where I wanted to shout at her to please stop and get a life. Jia Khan played the role of a medical student interested in Aamir's case. The type that walks into a stranger's house ( knowing fully well he is whacko) all by herself when he is not at home and rummages through his stuff and goes 'EEEEEEEEEE" when he walks in on her. She must also be the only medical student in the world with french manicured nails two inches long ! Altogether a disappointment and a long drawn-out one at that !!
RATING : AVERAGE. Watch it only if you have a lot of spare time and if you are a die hard Amir/Asin/Jia Khan fan.

HELLO: Chetan Bhagat's first novel The Five Point Someone was a good story and a huge success. But while the film based on it is still in the making, his second book One Night At The Call Centre gets made into a film called Hello. The book wasn't great, the movie is just plain bad. Hello makes Ghajini seem like Rashomon. You have jaded actors like Sohail Khan, Gul Panang and Eesha Koppikkar in the roles of young call centre executives. Hello is irritating because it tries hard to be a new age movie and fails desperately. Salman Khan's cameo and Katrina Kaif's (thankfully) guest appearence only added to my general irritation. The climax of the movie was so contrived, I was surprised Bhagat.C allowed his name to be associated with this shoddy work.
RATING : BAAAD.

LUCK BY CHANCE: mmm.. is no secret why I rented this one. Farhan Khan is the lead actor in this flick based on Bollywood and his sister Zoya is the director. Apparently the lead role was turned down by most of today's leading actors. Farhan was the last to be asked and the first to agree. The highly overrated Kokana Sen Sharma plays the female lead and as always plays herself. That lady looks, speaks and acts the same in EVERY movie. Overall, it was a good film. I liked how the plot played out. But in the end Zoya proved to be garden variety when she got ShahRukh Khan to dole out some life-changing, earth shattering advice to the hero, at which he instantly realised all his mistakes and went about redeeming himself.
RATING : 3.95 OUT OF FIVE

DOSTANA: beat the crap out of all the crappy movies i saw. absolutely , decidedly, unequivocaly stupid, insensitive and crappy. waste of time and money. if i had a working revolver ( and knew how to work it) and it had one bullet, i'd line up the director, the producer, abhishek bachchan, john abraham and bobby deol ( in that order) and shoot them. why one bullet , you ask ? because they all deserve to die , but are together not worth more than one bullet.
RATING : Oh-So-So-Poor

DASVIDANIYA: save the best for last. i envy people who have not seen Dasvidaniya because they have such a beautiful opportunity ahead of them. a simple story with an unassuming cast, so beautifully written and acted it brought tears to my eyes. vinay pathak, the lead actor, deserves an Oscar for his work. the lady who acted as his batty and deaf mother was another surprise. even neha dhupia whose role lasted five minutes left an indelible mark. every character well thought of, created and written with care and executed perfectly.

Dasvidaniya is a movie that makes you love movies.

Ghajini, Hello and what not, Bring 'em on !!

The Coming of Age

2009-05-19T10:56:00.010+05:30

The spin in vision was all too sudden. Not altogether unfamiliar, but vicious in its attack. In the next second, her forehead hit the wall, in the next she fell like a heap on the floor, the second before she lost her consciousness she could felt blood trickling down her face.

When she came to, her husband was by her side. He had placed her head on his lap and was wiping her face with a wet cloth while crying quietly, uncontrollably. ' Monu is on his way', he said to her. ' We'll wait until he gets here'.

And that was how we found them. A ninety three year old man on the floor with his eighty four year old wife's head on his lap, wiping her face with a blood soaked towel. Neither able to get up, move or even shift positions without help. Waiting for a helping hand.

The sheer agony and helplessness of old age.

The Name Watcher

2009-05-07T00:30:00.007+05:30

An ordinary evening at the children's park with kids playing and mothers chatting. My group is discussing pension plans and one of my pals says 'Give Tency a call. She is an insurance agent . She is in 2B". I get home and reach for the intercom, but my fingers stop in mid-dial. Did she ask me to call Tency who stays in 2B or was it Toobie who stays in 10C ?

Welcome to Kerala . Where TOOBIE is as likely a name as TENCY . Where a bass-packed male voice on the phone introduces itself as SIS Stanley!!! Where you'll see garish arches outside wedding halls announcing to the world the coming together of LIBI and BIJLI or SONY and LIJO causing you to pause and wonder which one is the bride and which the groom ???

Kerala is a treasure trove of zany names where a name collector could lose himself in sheer abandon. When it comes to zany names, the cake goes to Central Travancorians. The days I worked in a newspaper office in Kottayam were a delight for a name-watcher like me. A sombre obit news became a piece of classic humour as the departed soul was reportedly survived by a daughter named LOUSY. A fellow name-collector reported sighting a Marriage Today news where the groom was SHITTY. In my six years in Kottayam, I have met three TITTYs. There was even a Titty whose sibling was called BOOBY( well, he was named Bobby but you now how Malayalees pronounce their 'O's). I have 'graced with my presence' the marriage of a girl named SHANTY ( not the desi Shanthi, but the English Shanty), on the invitation of her brother SHALBY. Imagine my shock /surprise when I found that their mother's name was - I swear I'm not making this up- WILBY. What do you suppose the father's name was ? MAYBE, maybe ??

Malabarbarians too are talented in strike-dead nomenclature. I have seen snot nosed little devils in Malappuram named Zia Ul Haq and Zulfikkar Ali Bhutto- yes, the Whole Hog !! My mother had students in Pattambi Govt. College named Prananathan and Madanamohanan. When she says it took considerable effort to keep a straight face during roll call in that class, I can believe her !

Back in my hometown, Trivandrum, a friend of mine claims to know three siblings named Pliny, Pliju and Plissy. One of them is male, take your pick. Apparently there is a Chemistry teacher here who has named his kids after the Rare gases - Iodine and Bromine ! A cousin of mine used to share a bench at Arts College with guys named DIGIT and JWAS ( not Jose, not Jaws, but Jwas). I recall a Genita in my PDC class , who I guess, missed it by just an L.

At a recent family gathering when the topic came to strange names, we decided to hold a competition of sorts in a quest for finding the Strangest One of All. My Shitty and Lousy were shot in Round 1 with the likes of BHAGAVAT GEETHA and QUEEN OF SHEBA ( !!!). But the Grand Prize was claimed by my uncle who knows two brothers in Trivandrum (both high ranking officers in government service) named K.S. ONE and K.S.TWO .

If you ever, ever, hear a name to beat this, let me know...

( And here I am stuck with friends named Megha, Rekha, Raakhee, Laksmi, Parvathy, Roopa, Nisha, Vidya, not to mention Bindu, Sindhu, Asha, Archana, Reshmi, Jyothy. Fat chance of me ever winning the Strange Name Grand Prize )

Just The Way You Are

2009-04-24T16:32:00.001+05:30

I've always hated my hair. Hated it for its nature, colour, texture, for it being it. By nature, obstinate and impudent. Colour, a curious hybrid of black and brown . Textured dry enough to entice the bovine. I've chided it for starting so high up my forehead. Why couldn't it have started lower and given me a graceful hairline instead of a forehead !? They say a high forehead is a sign of keen intelligence. I say, I could live with the sign if only I had the stuff (sigh).

Time and again have I tried to tame this beast. My first experiment was when I was a naive teenager at the hands of a smart talking hair dresser. She convinced me she could rid me forever of my forehead shame and cut me a FRINGE. Well, cut she did, blow dried it and hurriedly showed me the door. Barely ten metres out of the salon, ten minutes later, I could feel the damn thing curling upwards. I had to live with those horrible bangs for years. Years when they earned epithets such as 'Devi's Grapes' (and less tasteful ones) as I squirmed inside.

When pay cheques became a regular feature in my life and I realised that as a corporate being, I needed to update my looks (read hair), I went on the hunt again. This time there was plenty to choose from. I could straighten it, poker straighten it or smoothen it....whatnot. I displayed my naivete again by sitting myself down for a HAIR STRAIGHTENING session. It was a torturous three-hour session which left me with a considerably light wallet and a neck ache that lasted for days. I got immediate reactions ranging from " what's wrong with your face" "there's something wrong with you, yar" to ' did you get your hair licked by a cow ?". Not quite the reactions I'd hoped /paid for. Besides these comments which I came to dread each time I came across someone I knew from my pre-hair straightening days, there was the problem of clogged drains at home. Each time I washed my hair or even just brushed, it would leave my scalp in terrifying clumps clogging drains, it would form into disgusting little balls and float all over the place. The husband was evidently not happy.The maid threatened to quit.

Time passed as it is wont to do. My original curly, frizzy friends were back before I knew it. There was a horrible phase when half my hair, from crown downwards, was curly and the other half poker straight. It was a hair style fit for a Martian, only half the country's women were sporting it, all having had an experiment with hair straightening. With more passage of time, the original hair chased out the salon-bought ones and I once again found myself with unmanageable hair and bad hair days. That was when Jawed Habeeb opened shop just next to my house. The most famous hairstyle salon in India, just outside my front door and offering a 25% discount for all hair treatment. It was destiny. I walked in and told a nice looking hair dresser that I do not want to straighten my hair, but I want to do something to my hair. She suggested HAIR SMOOTHENING. Wha, I asked. " Youva hay will not be poker isstraight. It whill honly be issmooth" she told me in Bengali, err.. English. More hours at the salon, more hours persuading family, more money exchanged and presto, I had new hair. Again.

Only it again fell in clumps and I was waking up in cold sweat from nightmares where I lost all my hair in clumps. The salon people suggested I use a particular brand's shampoo ( Rs. 275 for 225ml) and conditioner ( Rs. 450 for a similarly small quantity) and come regularly for hair spa ( each session not less than Rs. 700 plus tax). High maintenance, but at least I finally got the hair I wanted, I thought as I caressed it. That was when I saw her.

Or at least I thought it was her. Aunty R. A very elegant, polished and well turned -out lady who was my mother-in-law's classmate at Stella Maries. I was always impressed by her bearing and attire and wished to be like her in my fifties. But on that day she looked nothing like her old self. In place of her usual starched cotton saree was a salwar -kameez suit a size too big for her. But what truly frightened me was her hair. Usually combed down and not a strand out of place, she had let it loose and it was a shade of orange. She walked up to me and warmly asked after my family. About my work and my one year old daughter. I managed to answer all her questions, but just could not fathom her transformation. It was revealed a minute later when she told me that a year back she was detected with breast cancer and was undergoing chemo. She had lost all her hair and was sporting a wig. A horrible one with a strange color. She didn't linger on the topic and we bade good bye soon after. But I stood still minutes after she left trying to come to terms with her new image.

I was still thinking about her when the driver asked me to roll down the windows as the AC was not working. As the car gathered speed, the wind whipped my hair over my face. As I slowly pulled it away and felt it between my fingers, I realised there were tears in my eyes. No more experiments with the dears, I love my hair just the way it is.

Pareto in times of Recession

2009-04-23T16:09:00.001+05:30

A close friend of many years was on the phone this morning, almost in tears. Her husband had been behaving strangely of late . He who was meticulous in his attire ( and shaved twice a day) was going out dressed sloppily with an unkempt stubble. He who broke into a rash at the mere suspicion of a cobweb didn't bat an eyelid when a cockroach walked past him. While none of this escaped her notice, she didn't quiz him hoping this phase would have its run and fizzle out. When it didn't show any signs of going away, she broached the subject with him. Her husband admitted to being depressed and the reason for his depression was, hold your breath, the global economic meltdown. Are you going to lose your job, she asked. Not before half the company does, he replied. Will they cut your salary, she asked . No pay hike but no cuts, he replied. Is there a transfer threat, she persisted. Of course not, he tittered. Then why is your chin forever southwards, she demanded to know.

What actually bothered this man was the thought of not creating records at work. You see, up until the global meltdown took India in its stranglehold, he was a star performer, a record creator, a record breaker. But now he was just another executive. The very thought made him a wreck. His wife tried to cheer him up - said look, as Indians go, we are blessed. We have our own house, two healthy, lovely children, good lifestyle and sufficient savings for the future. Even if the recession were to eat us out of home and hearth, we would still have each other and our kids. If nothing else, we'll start tapioca farming in Kerala, she joked. Her husband didn't crack a smile nor did he respond.

She cried over the phone that he cannot see or count his blessings. His happiness, his life's breath is his job. He is happy when his daughter brings home a merit certificate, but happier still when his team lands that huge contract. He smiles when he sees his infant son flip over on his tummy, but he beams when his supplier thumps him on the shoulder. His family does bring him joy, but his happiness comes from his job. And now that very job was letting him down. He actually felt there wasn't much to go on for.

Years back I was told a true story of this hugely successful entrepreneur who was asked to come for a meeting with a bank to finalise a Rs. 20Cr deal . Those days in India there were only two companies providing that particular service, of which his company was deemed the better. The contract was almost his. But he asked for a change of date. The Chairman of the bank demanded the reason. He answered truthfully that the day set for the meeting was his son's birthday and he had promised to be there. The Chairman and his troops went ballistic. Had he asked for a change of date owing to a sudden business trip across the globe or even across the road, they would have understood. But this they didn't. Without further ado, the contract went to the alternate service provider. A loss of Rs. 20Crores. Not a joke. Yet he chose his son's birthday over the crucial meeting. He probably felt that his promise to his son was worth far more than a few crores of rupees. His life was not all about winning contracts, it was also about finding happiness in the happiness of his dear ones.

Of all the theories that make the world tick, there's one that I particularly like - Pareto's Optimality. Pareto's 80/20 Optimality originally stated that 80% of Italy's wealth was with 20% of its population. One could substitute Italy with any other country , county or family and the theory would still hold good. Look at the man in the first story who spent 80% of his time and energy at work while in truth , in reality, that only ever gave him 20% of real happiness. Differently put, his family which could actually complete him, his sense of self, which could contribute to 80% of his happiness was actually receiving only 20% of his attention. In terms of time, the man in the second story also probably spent only 20% on his family, but that 20% was non-negotiable. It was quality time with family which he was unwilling to trade for anything in the world. The 20% which multiplied and returned to him as 80% .

It is a very simple law. Straight forward and in your face. If only you could see it...

Post Script::

Story 1 : Between the time it took me to write this blog and post it, my friend's husband was offered a very generous amount of money by his company in return for his promise to not leave them for four years. The company didn't want to lose one as smart and sincere as him. He came home from the meeting, asked for a second helping of his favourite dessert and demanded to kn0w what the hell that cobweb was doing over that corner. My friend dropped all that she was doing , ran and hugged him and said "Welcome Back".

Story 2: The next year, the bank was back. They realised after a year's trial with the other service provider that our hero's work was the best after all. He bagged the next year's contract, surely without missing his son's birthday!

The Finnicky Man

2008-07-21T10:26:00.011+05:30

The stereotypical man rates low on finnickiness. That's what all the "Know Your Man" books and chiklits will tell you. A man can finish his shopping in half the time it takes a woman to do the same. A man dresses for an occasion in quarter the time it takes a woman to dress. A man can choose a gift in a second while it takes a woman hours to do the job. Each time I receive an e-mail on gender -benders along these lines, one of my eyebrows shoots up ( yes, I belong to the 1% of the total human population who can raise one eyebrow at a time) and stays put. Reason - this Quintessential Man thing does not happen in my house.

When out shopping , I am always the one to finish first. From shopping for clothes to shopping for groceries, from buying CDs to buying house -warming gifts , I find what I want far earlier than my husband does. And then,I wait for him. Ditto on dressing up. I am ready and waiting for His Immaculate Self to finish his wardrobe. Waiting, as any chiklit worth its salt will tell you, is a man's burden. While the Woman preenes and fusses over herself and takes 'forevah' to dress up , the Man patiently waits.

Talk about trading places

In close to thirteen years of togetherness, the waiting role has always been mine. Curiously enough, this role reversal had never struck me. Until last week at the book lending library where, with a protesting babe on my hips I picked a book in under five minutes and he consummated his search a half hour later!! This time WE waited. This had to be discussed. Back home, I quoted copiously from emails and chiklits and laid bare that we lived a contrary life. I am a conformist, I said. From now on, you wait while I shop/search/preen, I declared. I want the Quintessential Man, I cried.

Then he started his discourse on Choosy People. Some people ( he has no gender bias, bless his heart) are just more choosy than others. They first research the subject, consider options, compare the favourites, evaluate the opportunity cost in choosing one over the other and then swoop in for the decisive act. Due diligence must precede all decisions. To the non-choosy, to whom due diligence is just a word ( two words, rather), decisions are never problematic. Like with me, their eyes zoom into the category they wish to buy from, quickly scan the options on display, cursorily compare the salient features and just inky-pinky-ponky the favourites. Bingo, the decision is made. By the Law of probablility half such decisions are bound to turn up duds, but with such a vast experience in dealing with duds, a new dud will not cause a stir, he declared.
In conclusion, you are breezy in your decisions, while I am not. I am finnicky. He had concluded. I had no more resources to plead my case of the Quintessential Man. I had lost the case. He made his point and with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has made a point and reduced his quarry, that too his wife, to a state of tongue-tiedness, he returned to his actvities.

"Does that explain why YOU married ME and I married YOU?". It was not an innocent question. In fact , it wan't even a question. It was my conclusion.

I may have lost the battle, but you see, I won the war।

Things they don't tell you .......

2008-05-23T00:05:00.004+05:30

It is that season of the year again when you step out of the house and see a pregnant woman. A friend of mine, who is herself in her third trimester, says she has the same experience these days. She sees Preggies everywhere as well and not just in the mirror or at the hospital. So I know it’s not my eyes. In my close acquaintance, there are two more women who are all set to deliver in a month or two. Come to think of it, last year this time, yours truly was very pregnant as well. Does this point towards an annual spurt ( no pun intended) in procreative activities around September-December ?

While everybody claims to know that a baby is a lot of work, there are many things they don’t tell you in prenatal classes and pregnancy guides. For instance, how many of you to-be-mothers know that motherhood gives you the unique opportunity of seeing all hours of the day and night? One-thirteen, Two forty-seven, Five Fifty-two, Three twenty four ( all AM, mind you) , you see all of them when your bundle of joy arrives. If you have an active toddler at home along with your newborn, like my friend Rakhee does, you’ll see the same hours in day time as well (PM, this time around). Roundabout the time I was beginning to stay awake at odd hours, my mom-in-law comforted me that this erratic non-routine will only last for three months until the baby acclimatizes with its environment. The thoughts racing in my head were “ Three months ?? As in three times thirty days??? As in three times thirty times twenty four times sixty times sixty seconds ??????????”. There is a lesson here as well, ladies. You may think you won’t be able to do it. But you will.

Lesson two. How many of you know that for a long time after the baby gets home you’ll be sleeping with a light on ? In the beginning it’s futile switching it off as the moment you do, the baby will start to cry and you’ll have to investigate. Can’t do that with lights off, can you? Aditi had a nasty habit of regurgitating through her nose after a feed. Not always , but often enough for me to get up panicking after a couple of winks to check on her. Now, even though she has gotten over that phase, there’s a zero watt bulb glowing peaceably in the dark while we sleep. Oh, by now we could sleep even if our bedroom were to be lit like a submarine.

Lesson three. How many of you have been told you’ll have no use for the undergarments you are using now and will have to shop for new ,BIGGER ones ? Ones that’ll look strange while you lie them out to dry on the clothesline in your bathroom. At a quick glance, you may mistake them to be your mom’s before realisation strikes that you’ve beaten your mom in dimensions. And, that ladies, is not such a pleasant realization. On a recent shopping expedition to buy a ‘healthy’ range of undergarments, I saw a Bridal Range of my favourite brand . Out of habit, I asked to see it. The sales girl almost snorted at me and said, “Not your size. The biggest here are one size smaller”. I walked away with my hammocks ( yeah, aditi could use them as hammocks) with all the dignity I could muster.

Lesson four. Most of you would know this. That there’s really no place for passion when there’s an infant sleeping next to you. If there is a sudden attack, you either postpone passion for a more opportune time ( like when the grandparents come visiting and want the little one with them day and night) or get on with it pronto. You may not have the time or opportunity to let passion run its entire course.

All the same, Lesson Five is that it is superfantabuloustic to have your baby around. Tiring, exhausting it may be. But like my sister-in-law says, it is an “unparalleled privilege”. To have to stay awake day in and day out, to have to wear tents and hammocks instead of normal underclothes, to sleep with a light beating in your eyes.

Ladies, I’m not being sarcastic. Lesson Five is what this blog is all about.

The Phenomenon of MPMK

2008-05-21T18:37:00.003+05:30

We are eight cousins on my mother’s side. While we don't have any striking physical resemblances , there are some character traits so deeply ingrained that a trained psychologist could pick us out in a crowd. For instance, we all fancy ourselves to be above -average singers and are always to be found humming a tune under our breath. All of us have been up on stage in school, college, workplace or residential association meetings to sing [without ever being hooted off it, if I may add]. A more recent, more resilient bond that ties us is our uncompromising hatred for Shah Rukh Khan. We are the Order of Those that Loathe SRK, our revulsion for the man so deep that we look upon those who like him as being intellectually juvenile. Cousin Rara announced to her betrothed Rahul,’ You must promise to hate Shah Rukh Khan or else not marry me”. Those two went on to marry and while Rahul may not outrightly hate Shah Rukh, he will sure think twice before saying one nice thing about him.
But what strikes me as truly awe –inspiring is our bond via Mazha Peyunnu Maddalam Kottunnu (MPMK). MPMK is a Malayalam comedy flick directed by Priyadarshan and released sometime in the late eighties. Each of us would have seen this movie at least ten times. But if it were to play today on any vague malayalam channel, you can bet we’ll be tuned in. The lines from this movie are a part and parcel of our daily lives. Ask any one of us why we did what we did and you’ll most likely hear “Just for Horror” ( a la' Mohanlal in MPMK). Ask any of us how far it is from Point A to B, and you’ll hear , you guessed right, “Kilometres and kilometers”. Could we conceive of talking about faking accounts without borrowing from that famous lecture on cement manufacture and sale by Jagathy Sreekumar where he says “ In India , lot of cement there. ACC cement, Birla cement, Shankar cement, cement here there everywhere. This one farty rupees for one chaack cement is cheating”. And anyone who cooks up fake accounts can only be a “KALLAI”. What else ?
When my husband Hari ran into Priyadarshan in Chennai, he introduced himself as an MPMK junkie. Apparently, the creator of this masterpiece was fazed. No one had ever told him that MPMK was their favourite film. Beat that ?
At the time of writing this, I'm in Trivandrum enjoying a quiet, lazy day. The jingbang is on its way home. Cousin Baby, the IT whiz, is due to arrive in a couple of days from Bangalore with his architect-turned - homemaker wife Dhanya and their four year old daughter Mythili. Cousin Chechi ( that epithet ‘coz she is the oldest) who is a doctor, arrives from Vizag a week later with daughters Sreedu ,Jaanu and hubby MR Nair who is a Commander in the Indian navy. Next to come would be Rara and Rahul, also with the navy in Vizag. Rara's brother Miju who is Ph.D-ing in Canada and my brother Gopal , a doctor in Sharjah and his family would be sorely missed at our jamboree. Completing the quorum would be our youngest cousin Unni who just passed his 12th and his sister Karthika, an engineer with Infosys, Bangalore. After the initial hugs and hellos, how are you-s and my-job-sucks-does-yours, as soon we settle down on the worn out sofas in our parents’ homes and breathe in the once stifling, now relaxing Trivandrum air and start to unwind, the first sentence out of someone’s mouth will be “ You cannot stay another minute of the today in the house of my wife and daatter. GET OUTHOUSE”. If he is in any doubt of his prowess at comedy, Priyadarshan should come to one of our kudumbayogams.
Hail MPMK.
BTW, if you were in alien custody for this long or are Greek or German and hence unaware of the phenomenon of MPMK, I suggest you beg, borrow, steal (you could also buy) a DVD today and experience the best, undiluted Malayalam comedy ever…

Of SuperMoms and Child Prodigies

2008-03-25T12:30:00.006+05:30

I am surrounded by super moms and child prodigies. Engulfed, deluged, swamped by them. Upper floor, same floor, next block, the next city, no matter where I go, I find them. I am beginning to wonder if the problem lies with me. Do I attract them ?

Sample these: These are SuperMoms on their offspring.
( for easier comprehension, this group will hereafter be referred to as SMOCP - Super Mom of Child Prodigy. PM stands for Poor Me)

SMOCP :: “My Ananya started talking when she was just eight months old. Does Aditi talk?”
(aditi is in her tenth month and all she does is make noises)
PM:: “ er…. well, she makes noises that sound like acha and amma”
SMOCP:: “ Only now? My Ananya could point out her father in a crowd and say Daddy when she was 9 months old”
( At this point, I stop contributing to the conversation)

SMOCP:: “ My Tarun could tell rhinos from hippos when he was nine months old
PM (in bug eyed wonder) :: “ Wow, he could vocalize that well at nine months ?”
SMOCP:: “No, silly. I meant he could point out rhinos and hippos in his animal book when he was that young. Can Aditi differentiate between animals ?”
( How can she when she tears any paper that comes within tearing distance. No animal book will last more than ten minutes in my babe’s hands)
PM:: “Emm… actually, no. Not yet. Isn't she too young to be learning from books? ”
SMOCP:: “ No way. My Tarun knew the alphabet by the time he was one.”
( A geek as been made)

SMOCP:: “Tanya is the class topper, you know. She has always topped her class wherever we’ve been posted”.
PM:: “That’s nice. Which class is she in now?”
SMOCP :: “LKG”
(!!!!????????? How many years did this girl spend in her LKG?)

SMOCP:: “Bala is a very balanced child. He takes everything in his stride. His teacher says it comes from good upbringing”
(Lady, I’ll have you know self praise stinks and so do you. Oh, if only I had the guts)

SMOCP:: “ As it is, Darshana used to be the first in class to finish maths tests. After she joined Abacus, she takes no time at all. She just whizzes in and out. “
( Ramanujan could have learned a few tricks from this one)

SMOCP:: “ You MUST watch Craig imitate Suresh Gopi. Come here Craigi. Do your Suresh Gopi act for this aunty”
At which Craigi obediently launches into “just remember that SHIT”, the hand gesture and all. At which his mother bursts into peals and peals of laughter and applause. At which point she realizes you are not ( as you are only recovering from your shock) and looks at you menacingly. At which you obligingly break into applause.

Now sample these : Super Moms on themselves.
( note: There’s an ongoing competition on whose delivery was the swiftest and the most painless)
( SM for SuperMom)

SM:: “ I just had a slight pain and went to the hospital only because it was nearby. The doc examined me and referred me to the labour room. Almost as soon as I went in, I had the baby. Took next to no time and wasn’t all that painful really”
( are you KIDDING me????)

SM:: “ My labour was so easy, I was in through one door and out through the other. And my baby was 4 kilos”.
( HELLO? No woman can deliver a 4 kilo baby JUST like that!)

Then there’s the baby birth weight , length and a whole gamut of other parameters to be compared. Who delivered the baby with THE ideal weight, THE ideal length and THE ideal head circumference.

Breastfeeding is a topic that whips as much fervour as labour.

SM ::“ Tommy was exclusively breast fed until he was one year old”
(O…k… But exclusively ? Until one year?)

SM:: “ I nursed Arya until she was four. That’s why she is so fair”
(FOUR????? And what is this mystery connection between breast milk and fairness?? )

The lot is energized when I let slip sadly that Aditi weaned herself off, without any effort from my side, in her ninth month.

SM:: ” Only for nine months. That’s nowhere near enough. Don’t you know breast milk enhances the child’s brain, eyesight and blahdiblahdiblahdiblah ?
( yeah right. complexion too)

Push presents are another hot favourite.
(Here the Super Girl talks about her Super Man. So the acronym is SGOSM for Super Girl on Super Man. PM remains)

SGOSM :: “ Giri took me to Switzerland three months after Yadu was born. He wanted to compensate me for the trauma I went through.? Did you guys getaway someplace?”.
PM:: “em…….”

SGOSM :: “ Amal brought a solitaire ring to the hospital. But I told him a diamond ring just does not compare with the pain I had to endure. What did Hari get you ?”
PM:: “ mmm… you know… I delivered a week before due date. He wasn’t really prepared”. ( I’m good at making pathetic excuses)

Strangely enough, a lot of these women are reasonable, humorous and thoughtful human beings. But on the topic of their offspring, they are maniacal in their attempts to prove their prodigiousness. This dichotomy puzzles me.

Thankfully, there are sane voices in this melee`. Women who admit they suffered post partum depression. Women who tell you to take it easy if your child wants to be weaned ahead of the prodigies. These are the women who listen while the other lot prattles away.

The real Super Moms.

Thank You for the music

2008-03-10T15:29:00.016+05:30

It was a class trip organised by the students. Since most of us were kept on a tight leash by our Dads, there wasn't much spare change to go into organising a gala event. Horrendous, our HoD turned the other way as he 'simply did not put up with such frivolity'. The batch had already had a class tour sponsored by the department which, according to Horrendous, was more than enough. So there we were, emptying out pockets and counting the change. Deciding to forego trips to the city and the occasional movie for one final class trip before the final exams. When you want something very badly, the entire cosmos conspires to bring it to you. Thus, despite the heavy cash crunch, we found hotels to stay and a cosy little mini van for transport, which not only contained the eighteen of us and our luggage, but also left space for Sanju's guitar and Chris' carry-along gym. We were off.

It was fun from the word go. There were no chaperones , just us classmates and our spirit. Soon after we left city limits, out came the beer bottles and the cigarettes. The girls in the batch - we were only six of us- did not complain. What the heck ? Minal was the first to finish the bottle, she outboozed the guys!!! Then of course, there was dancing and singing and hooting and heckling. Ever tried group dancing in a mini bus ? Each time the bus braked the lot in the aisle would fall back like a deck of cards onto the rear window - Paul first, on him Minal, on her Joe, on her Shiv, on him me, on me Tara, on Tara Sanju and on Sanju , the mighty Chris. We had to peel Paul off the window after that. We voted unanimously on Chris occupying the rear guard, as the man could easily bear our combined weight and more .

There wasn't one dull moment. When the dancing and singing stopped, we ate. When we stopped eating, we snoozed on each other's shoulders. There in that mini van, a couple of relationships blossomed. Romancing couples found ample time and privacy to engage in activities that romancing couples usually engage in. Sanju would play for them, ostensibly for all of us, but his songs were for them. Dedications came thick and fast, for Sanju was an awesome singer. He could weave magic on his guitar. Even Chris broke into a sonorous "Malaika, naku pende, Malaika" .Sanju had touched the hidden romantic in the hulking Kenyan. As quick as a wink of the eye, a day passed, then another, and it was time to head back. We partied twice as hard on the way back making the most of each moment before we reached Horrendous and our text books.

About 50 kms from the Univ, at five o'clock in the evening, our mini van's overworked, tired engine folded up. It clean quit on us. Considering the van was the only one we could afford on our babybootystring budget, it didn't really surprise us. What worried us, though, was the curfew at the Women's Hostel. Quarter to seven was the final cut off and if we made it later than that, there'd be hell to pay. We'd stretched the Warden's patience to the limit as well, you see, and it didn't help that she was Horrendous' wife . It was an unfamiliar route and we were quickly making and remaking plans to head home and fast. The locals told us about jeeps that ferried people . Off we went in search of them and whatwith the Cosmos and wanting something badly and all that, we found them. But it was nearing nightfall and the drivers were on their last trips. Sixteen of us found place in three jeeps, while Sanju and I were dumped into a cargo jeep along with baskets full of live chicken. We were the smallest and thinnest of the lot, so the logic was that we'd take the least space and cause the least damage to the poor birds on their way to slaughter.

The journey began. This time it was our jeep driver who sang along with Sanju and his guitar. Between the two of them they sang about love, friendship, Jesus Christ, nature and sex. "He may be drunk, but he sings great", says Sanju and then BANG. That was all I heard. I remember falling on the hard ground and rolling . I was rolling, hitting against things and rolling again. When the rolling stopped, there was only blackness. Blackness and pain. My arms were on fire, there was something poking painfully in my chest and my mouth was full of what tasted like blood. Terrible, torturous pain. Then as abruptly as it began, the pain ended . I could see nothing, feel nothing. But I could hear Sanju's guitar in my head, the tunes he strummed.

When I came to, the setting had changed. There was no road, no pain, I was on a comfortable bed in what looked like a hospital. There was no one near me. Just some machines and the whirring noise they made. The doctors came soon. They looked into my eyes, poked me here and there and took copious notes . I saw a familiar face at the door- Sanju. Probably waiting for the doctors to leave. He came in after they left and perched himself on a chair next to me. I wanted to ask him what happened, but I couldn't speak. He told me I had tubes running through most parts of my body, including my mouth. That there were some ten tubes he could see from where he sat. Apparently, I had been very badly injured. He showed off his immaculate self " Hey , lucky Me. Not one stitch ". The cheeky bastard. But I was touched he came. Sanju left after singing some of my favourite tunes. I must have recovered some after Sanju's visit because all my friends came trooping in after that. The docs had told them that I was never to be left alone. But it was Sanju and his music that relaxed me most. I'd wait eagerly to listen to his guitar.

One day some tubes came off. They said I could eat. They asked me to speak and to try and move my arms. They told me I was found unconscious with a fractured arm, a fractured jaw and two broken ribs that tore into my heart. Bad accident. I agreed. Apparently, there had been a two-day long surgery after which I was in and out of consciousness for a week. Many a time they thought they'd lost me. But then my heart would let out a feeble beat and they'd start working on me again. 'A miracle', my doctor said. "Its a miracle you held on ".

My friends kept coming to see me and kept my spirits high. But Sanju's absence worried me. When I mentioned it, my friends changed the topic or looked at the ceiling or just hemmed and hawed. I wanted to see Sanju and thank him for his music. I was sure it was his guitar that kept me pinned down on earth while I was unconscious. But I never saw Sanju ever again. For he had died in the accident - on the spot. He hit his head and bled internally to death. I remembered there was not a scratch on him when he came to see me. I should have been aghast when I heard about his death, strangely I wasn't. I was incredulous, of course. After all, I'd seen him, he'd talked to me, he'd sung for me. Vaguely as I could, I tried to pin down the days that Sanju had come to the hospital. They said I was unconscious all those days. In and out of consciousness. My injured heart would weaken and want to give up. Then he'd come and sing and strum his guitar and get it to beat again. So many times.

I got well, left the hospital, wrote the exams and miraculously passed. I couldn't throw my convocation cap in the air as I was still only on the mend. But everyday I doff my cap to the energy that kept my dead friend alive so I could go on to live. And everyday I say a silent prayer for the soul of my friend who must surely be singing wherever he is...........

[ this is not an autobiographical blog. neither is it fiction. the road accident, the trauma and the paranormal experience are real life experiences of a friend]

What happens to the stars in your eyes ?

2008-03-06T11:12:00.005+05:30

You start your life with so many stars in your eyes. Regardless of what you see around you, there is an unbound optimism that life will treat you specially. That , you deserve to be treated specially, differently, simply because you are you. On the rare occasions that you do contemplate on the future, in those heady days of adolescence and teenage, it always looks bright, promising and fulfilling. That's the beauty of being young. The absolute, true innocence that is the quintessence of youth.

And then your future meets you head on. You can't stop the onslaught of time. Well, at that point, you don't want to stop time. In your mind, the life ahead is so full of promises you are positively impatient to grow up and get there ! And one day, you do. Like that good-looking lawyer in Allie McBeal said "we've grown up from people with bright futures to people who should be living their bright futures'! He says it when he is diagnosed with brain tumor and shortly afterwards, he dies. Well, sigh !

For the rest of us who don't die and are left to dwell (read , duel) on Earth, real life springs many surprises. Not all of them pleasant. What you always took for granted may play truant and what you never imagined may just happen. Life is actually best to people who never think ahead, never dream. They may never experience the ecstasy of ambition fulfilled, but they also never suffer the agony of ambition thwarted. (shameless plagiarisation from P G Wodehouse, a far far evolved mind than mine). There are times when you feel that would be the best way to deal with what Life deals you. Take each moment as it comes. But alas, have you a few gray cells, and that becomes impossible. That is just how we are wired. Dreams fulfilled, part-filled, never filled...... And then the stars begin to fade.

As the starts fade, you start seeing Life from a different angle and you meet a very important character in your life. One whom you never met in the 'heady' days. You don't extend him an invitation, but in he walks through your front door and takes firm position on the best couch in your living room. He doesn't butt in your life, just remains there. He shares a mutually exclusive relationship with your stars. As the stars fade and fall, you start seeing him clearly.

In the early days, you may resent him. For his presence, for his refusal to leave. The constant presence. The constant reminder. And then you can ignore him no longer. When you are forced to take cognisance of his existence, you take the first step and offer a handshake . You introduce yourselves. He says, "call me REALITY. that's what others do".

As the days go by and you grow older, mature, you will find yourself seeking out this friend. He becomes your touchstone. And you pray you never lose sight of him, that you are never without his advice. For, by then, all the starts would have left you.............

NAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEVI !

2007-12-01T16:25:00.002+05:30

All babies are precious. But ours was more so, coming as she did after years of meticulous planning ( and prayers!). She was never a problem, from when she was a ticking white speck on the ultrasound monitor. She gave me no morning sickness, no aversions or cravings, no dizzy spells or unexplained tears. All in all, a very uneventful, enjoyable pregnancy. Her entry into the world though spectacular by my standards, was uneventful as per the doctor's . Exactly forty-two minutes of intense labour pain and there she was. My gynae called her a Super Fast Baby. And I laid back on my post delivery bed and relaxed. That was easy, I thought. People made such a big deal about this. HA! As I mused so, there was a constant wailing in the background which was not out of place in a labour room, Or so I thought , until a nurse asked irritatedly, "ho, itheythu kunja karayunnatha?" ( literal translation : which child is crying ? literal translation + insinuation : which kid is making this godawful ruckus ?) and her collegue whispered into her ears and the two of them looked at me apologetically. Then I had a slight, very slight premonition for what was in store.

A while later, the wailing stopped and a nurse brought me this distinctly indignant child and announced tersely, "There, take a look. This is yours". And I looked and looked and looked. She looked like no one I knew, though she did bear a slight resemblence to my History teacher in school ( now long dead, God bless her soul) who suffered severely from peptic ulcer and eczema. From the start, my daughtrer had a singularly disapproving look on her face which deepened when she got agitated. Which was often . And there in the post delivery room, the uneventfulness of my life ceased, and a whirlwind took over. Everything turned on its head. Mealtimes, baths, conversations and most importantly, sleep, came to be determined by the whims and fancies of one 50cm long person. Her full throated cry- which was always accompanied by a colorful display as she would turn red from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes - which her paediatrician aunt appreciated, had me palpitating and hunting for the nearest neonatologist. For the life of me I couldn't figure out why she was crying. When I mentioned this, experienced aunts and cousins nodded sagely and said " many a night you'll spend soothing a crying child and have no idea what the problem is" . The unsaid " Baby, you ain't seen nothin' yet" was always left behind after every baby-related conversation.

When we got home, she took over the entire house with amazing speed. My room, the wardrobes, the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen were all taken over by her baby mattresses, pillows, her own bathing sponges, towels and washclothes. Soon came the avalanche of diapers, baby creams, powder, wet wipes and feeding bottles. My telephone conversations which used to last for hours suddenly halted abruptly with me saying " Got to rush. Baby crying. Will call back soon". I never did call anyone back soon or ever. The whirlwind thus took over my life, every aspect of it .

But when my little girl sleeps, I look at her and think to myself that if God were to come down on Earth, He would probably look like this. The rosebud mouth parted in sound sleep, the dimpled fists tightly closed and the supreme serenity on her face. As I wish myself a Nappy Birthday this year, I silently thank the Almighty for He could not have given me a better, more fulfilling gift.