A multitude of factors made me watch Vijay Anand’s adaptation of R.K. Narayan’s novel – The Guide. I knew nothing about the movie except that Dev Anand and Waheeda Rehman star in it with the latter getting the opportunity to experience the worldly pleasure of throwing a matka from a haystack laden truck.
The plot
The movie starts with Raju (Dev Anand) who literally stands at the crossroad of life after being released from jail. Having taken a few steps towards his town (Udaipur) to get back to his profession of being a likeable multilingual Guide, he decides against it; telling us that only embarrassment awaits him there. He reaches a small village in tattered condition and villagers start believing Raju to be a saint.
Zoom back we go in flashback via Rosy (Waheeda Rehman) and Raju’s Maataji.
Rosy’s mother was a devdaasi [hint: the oldest profession] and wants to keep Rosy out of the dirty business. However, genes, it seems, refuse to take beating from prohibition. Rosy has taken up a liking for ghungroo – but mind you, only as an art form. Rosy is married to Marco – a well to-do person who is actually bald under his hat. He is vehemently opposed to Rosy’s dance training. Marco’s character slowly unfolds as the couple goes to Udaipur and hires our good ol’ Raju guide. Marco is only interested in exploring some caves away his wife who craves for his company. Irritable fights ensue between the couple. While Marco is busy exploring caves full of non-living dance statues, Rosy tries to commit suicide but is saved by Raju. He gives Rosy a confidence-booster dose and she develops an altogether different outlook towards life. She sings, dances and carelessly roams on the streets with ghunghroo in her feet, raising whispers among onlookers. Raju tries to bring Marco and Rosy together but plans deflate when Rosy sees Marco swinging in arms of another girl. She gives Marco one tight slap, leaves him and starts living with Raju. Rosy and Raju are struck by love. People start talking terrible stuff about Raju who fights everybody in order to keep Rosy at his home. Even his dear mother leaves him. Eventually, Raju takes Rosy (now called Ms. Nalini) to heights of stardom through her dancing prowess.
Raju’s demeanour undergoes a change and he lends a hand towards defaming the entire “man”kind. Money drives him towards liquor and gambling. Rosy starts distancing herself from Raju. Obviously, she had not asked for this. Even Marco starts making advances towards Rosy. Raju sees the trivial matter of getting Rosy’s signature as Marco’s evil ploy to reach Rosy. He forges her signature. Doom. Rosy somehow finds out about Raju’s forgery and gets him jailed.
Back today, a not-so-funny famine has struck the village where Raju, the saint, resides. He takes to fasting for twelve days in order to please the rain gods. Well if you’re a plot driven person, I would leave you hanging without giving you the few moments before the end.
So much for the plot.
Why should you watch it?
Actors: Acting is superb and beyond the descriptive ability of this blog. Dev Anand’s adorable chirpiness. The immense talent he showcases as Raju goes through different phases will leave you hating all the cheap shots/mimicries you’ve witnessed. Waheeda Rehman’s intense expressive dancing – especially the snake dance. Also, how beautiful a woman looks in saree.
The characters & the plot: To see how humans change. To see how Raju, the likeable know-it-all guide fights against his entire world for the newest entrant in it – Rosy and then fails to see beyond riches and evils that swallow the general niceties in life. His commitment towards her leaves a mark. To see how he yearns for her attention – at least to slap him, the way she slapped Marco. To see how Rosy persists to being the simple girl that she is, who loves dancing, learns lessons of life from Raju but doesn’t want to learn earning through her art. Her expectations from life are not many but still nobody seems capable to fulfil them. To see how life is a ride – you might lose a host of people and get accepted by an entirely new world. It is just a matter of time, the best healer.
The dialogues: Even 183 minutes don’t leave you checking how many minutes are remaining for the end. Dialogues form the soul of the plot. One particular exchange between the leads about “matlab (purpose) and pyaar (love) is particularly interesting. Ditto for a dialogue between mind and body towards the end.
Special mention for the music: Sachin Dev Burman [assisted by R.D.Burman] has delivered a knockout punch in Guide with many memorable songs. Every song that you come across will leave you with a feeling of “I have listened to this one before” as it starts and “I will listen to it again” as it ends. Songs are definitely meaningful and story progresses with each word.
Songs:
1. Aaj Phir Jeene Ki Tamanna
2. Din Dhal Jaaye
3. Gaata Rahe Mera Dil
4. Kya Se Kya Ho Gaya
5. Piya Tose Naina Laage Re
6. Saiyaan Beimaan
7. Tere Mere Sapne
8. Wahan Kaun Hai Tera
9. He Ram Hamare Ramchandra
10. Allah Megh De Paani De
Oh by the way, Bappi Lahiri’s “De de pyaar de” from Sharaabi (1985) was inspired from “Allah megh de” from Guide.
Recommendation: Take my word. Watch Guide. At least, listen to the songs.
When should you watch it: Any time is good but specially suits if you've just gone broke or have just broken up and think that the world is a crappy place to live in and will always remain so. Not recommended for toddlers/teenagers. If nothing, you will end up boasting about having watched a movie screened at Cannes, 42 years after its release.
Rating: Beyond rating.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Astronomical realizations from Gastronomy
Haven’t there been innumerable childhood instances when you were willing to get into the kitchen and beat your mom at cooking? Your ambitions would ride high and you’d think you could actually roll circular rotis. A small step for toddler, a large headache for mom-kind. If you are blessed with a mother who actually pays heed to your stubborn stand on making rotis, she will allow you roll one with the probable outcome of a blackened (don’t tell me you washed hands then!) roti-like thing resembling some country map. If your efforts end up in making a sea of islands from a single flour-ball, God save your tears.
As you grow up, sense and sanity make inroads in to your head. Or it is just one of those things that drop out of your bag while walking on the path of attaining adulthood. You stop walking on the path leading to the kitchen with scary intentions.
Last minute late night studies may or may not give the desired academic results but adventure gets the better of hunger and you end up learning to cook “Maggi”. Though a time-honoured chef would cook you raw in less than 2 minutes for terming Maggi as cooking, it gives a likeable intonation to it. Something like a batsman who gets out on zero after only three overs but consoles himself by saying that at least he took the shine off the ball.
However, there comes a moment when you have to step out of that two minutes fling and go for a prolonged stint in the kitchen. Staying away from home qualifies as the perfect case for the same. My first attempt at doing something substantial in the kitchen was to cut onions. The attempt resulted in a flood rolling down my eyes leading to an instant zero visibility and a grave engraving on my finger. The vinegar-dipped-onions brought at hotels remind me of my revenge – redness of my eyes leading to redness of the onions [through my chopped finger]. A dash of luck and even massive mistakes might lead one to immeasurable greatnesses but a splash of wrong measure of salt and spice and a guaranteed whip is definitely coming your way. Here, injudicious is highly injurious. It is a matter of utmost subtlety when free-flowing salt leads to a free flow of abuses.
Like most things in the world, “Easier said than done,” is applicable to cooking. Also applicable is how people would rather comment on it rather than actually help. [Smells like cricket talk at paan-shops, doesn’t it?] However, there are some things which are easier done than said and some people prefer to do them in the kitchen, as has been recently learnt, but let us leave that for later. Unfortunately, good breadwinners make excellent bread-whiners. Eating a spoonful [let’s spare the teaspoon/tablespoon debate] more or less of salt has occasionally lead only to outrageous outbursts and nothing more.
Cooking involves tremendous tactfulness. Peeling veggies while talking to others, taking a spoonful on your hand and tasting it and finally, standing in the heat long enough to sweat enough that can be added to the food. It is only out of reverence that the main cook is called Panditaain or Maharaj! If only respect had a measure, I would multiply it by a gazillion and number of salt grains and give it to the people who have ever cooked for me. We need a collective thankfulness to these people.
Only then they will stop writing recipes with - “Salt to test.”
As you grow up, sense and sanity make inroads in to your head. Or it is just one of those things that drop out of your bag while walking on the path of attaining adulthood. You stop walking on the path leading to the kitchen with scary intentions.
Last minute late night studies may or may not give the desired academic results but adventure gets the better of hunger and you end up learning to cook “Maggi”. Though a time-honoured chef would cook you raw in less than 2 minutes for terming Maggi as cooking, it gives a likeable intonation to it. Something like a batsman who gets out on zero after only three overs but consoles himself by saying that at least he took the shine off the ball.
However, there comes a moment when you have to step out of that two minutes fling and go for a prolonged stint in the kitchen. Staying away from home qualifies as the perfect case for the same. My first attempt at doing something substantial in the kitchen was to cut onions. The attempt resulted in a flood rolling down my eyes leading to an instant zero visibility and a grave engraving on my finger. The vinegar-dipped-onions brought at hotels remind me of my revenge – redness of my eyes leading to redness of the onions [through my chopped finger]. A dash of luck and even massive mistakes might lead one to immeasurable greatnesses but a splash of wrong measure of salt and spice and a guaranteed whip is definitely coming your way. Here, injudicious is highly injurious. It is a matter of utmost subtlety when free-flowing salt leads to a free flow of abuses.
Like most things in the world, “Easier said than done,” is applicable to cooking. Also applicable is how people would rather comment on it rather than actually help. [Smells like cricket talk at paan-shops, doesn’t it?] However, there are some things which are easier done than said and some people prefer to do them in the kitchen, as has been recently learnt, but let us leave that for later. Unfortunately, good breadwinners make excellent bread-whiners. Eating a spoonful [let’s spare the teaspoon/tablespoon debate] more or less of salt has occasionally lead only to outrageous outbursts and nothing more.
Cooking involves tremendous tactfulness. Peeling veggies while talking to others, taking a spoonful on your hand and tasting it and finally, standing in the heat long enough to sweat enough that can be added to the food. It is only out of reverence that the main cook is called Panditaain or Maharaj! If only respect had a measure, I would multiply it by a gazillion and number of salt grains and give it to the people who have ever cooked for me. We need a collective thankfulness to these people.
Only then they will stop writing recipes with - “Salt to test.”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
A bit about sleeping
“Bhai… Uth ja bhaai, pahaad aa gaya,” the man who helped my horse reach the base of the snow-clad mountain in the Himalayas told me.
I had just been woken up after a twenty minutes mountainous horse-ride which supposedly had not-to-be missed sights. As I alighted (and thereby, delighted) the horse, I heard the horse-men say among themselves, “Itna utaar chadhaav ka raasta tha..aur ye gadha ghode pe so gaya.”
That was just about the time when I started contemplating. All of us go through so many ups and downs in life (Agreed that was an overtly out of place philosophical touch) but an unparalleled constancy is observed in our sleep.
One of the first lessons we learn in life is to sleep. Remember how our mother used to force/beg us to sleep? It’s one of those chief weapons parents have been employing since long when you either cry too much or bore them with too many questions. Those were the days when you wouldn’t care about time (of course, you couldn’t even read the clock) and doze off till your parents’ contentment. Just in case, mom has a rough day, her momta bhara touch would give way to blasting thrashing with the same final result – sliding into sleepdom would be replaced by banging into it after crying in the pillow.
A cousin of mine once told me how his bed-wetting trait is nothing but an enhanced tweak of the idiom, “Sone pe suhaga” to “Sone mein Su-haga”.
Though it is out of vogue now, I’d still recommend sleeping out in the open (terraces, verandahs). Before Sun-God blesses you with his virgin rays, you can internalise mosquito-gods’ teaser tweezers all night long. A caveat - just in case, some fitness freak / early morning girl-hunting uncle comes around for a jog, be ready to get trampled under his shoes.
As we grow up, the world around us raises weapons like classes, work, relationships and travelling against sleep. When I was a kid (by age), we were asked to sleep with head on our desks while the teacher went into obscurity. A cute revolution then, was to raise our heads and whisper, “utho utho” to others. Never knew that that crime would command such a harsh repayment for the rest of our lives. Teachers have changed but in revenge, they wouldn’t let us sleep. However, I have heard that new-age schools have sleeping beds for children. I guess the idea is a brilliant replacement of sleep-inducing courses of our times like Environmental Studies and Moral Science. In classes, it is as much a fun to sneak into the sleep-world without the notice of teachers as it is to watch people sleeping secretly - some nod (oscillating between yes and no), some pretend to read while some dare an extra mile to sleep on the floor (guaranteed best results, again - personal experience).
There is at least one incident in our life in which someone (more exciting if it’s a first-hand experience) sleeps off at home having promptly locked the doors while others try to enter the home by banging doors, ringing bells and finally, sneaking in through a window. The talk that follows such an incident is one of the worst sleep-shattering experiences.
Sleeping in transit is funny, nay? Barring the 90s movies, I haven’t witnessed girls sleeping on guys’ shoulders and falling in love and all that. However, this might be cited as somewhat as interesting as that. On this particular bus trip, I witnessed a person sleep-sitting between two others while swinging his neck to the tunes of the bus and resting it on others’ shoulders. The two others seemed to be polished players and dealt with the situation by starting a gala game of sorts in which the middle-man’s neck was to be used as a ping pong ball while dodging it from one’s shoulder would count as a point. The person who won celebrated his victory by smashing the middle-man’s head on the handle in front. Do not be worried since the sleep went on for another three hours (or six games).
While the world around you continues to shatter your sleep, I am in the process of sending a proposal to the highest authority for carving out a nation where the only motto would be to sleep by the people, for the people and other prepositions that might suit your sleep (try “under/over”). The worst crime you could commit there would be to wake people up. No blast or thunder. Just sleep and slumber. Before I tell you how to reach the place, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the honourable chief guest….No! Horribly wrong track. I would like to take this opportunity to share the words of the biggest supporter of sleeping – Ajit.
“Loyan ko sirf teen cheeze pasand hai – Mona, Sona aur Mona ke saath sona.”
I had just been woken up after a twenty minutes mountainous horse-ride which supposedly had not-to-be missed sights. As I alighted (and thereby, delighted) the horse, I heard the horse-men say among themselves, “Itna utaar chadhaav ka raasta tha..aur ye gadha ghode pe so gaya.”
That was just about the time when I started contemplating. All of us go through so many ups and downs in life (Agreed that was an overtly out of place philosophical touch) but an unparalleled constancy is observed in our sleep.
One of the first lessons we learn in life is to sleep. Remember how our mother used to force/beg us to sleep? It’s one of those chief weapons parents have been employing since long when you either cry too much or bore them with too many questions. Those were the days when you wouldn’t care about time (of course, you couldn’t even read the clock) and doze off till your parents’ contentment. Just in case, mom has a rough day, her momta bhara touch would give way to blasting thrashing with the same final result – sliding into sleepdom would be replaced by banging into it after crying in the pillow.
A cousin of mine once told me how his bed-wetting trait is nothing but an enhanced tweak of the idiom, “Sone pe suhaga” to “Sone mein Su-haga”.
Though it is out of vogue now, I’d still recommend sleeping out in the open (terraces, verandahs). Before Sun-God blesses you with his virgin rays, you can internalise mosquito-gods’ teaser tweezers all night long. A caveat - just in case, some fitness freak / early morning girl-hunting uncle comes around for a jog, be ready to get trampled under his shoes.
As we grow up, the world around us raises weapons like classes, work, relationships and travelling against sleep. When I was a kid (by age), we were asked to sleep with head on our desks while the teacher went into obscurity. A cute revolution then, was to raise our heads and whisper, “utho utho” to others. Never knew that that crime would command such a harsh repayment for the rest of our lives. Teachers have changed but in revenge, they wouldn’t let us sleep. However, I have heard that new-age schools have sleeping beds for children. I guess the idea is a brilliant replacement of sleep-inducing courses of our times like Environmental Studies and Moral Science. In classes, it is as much a fun to sneak into the sleep-world without the notice of teachers as it is to watch people sleeping secretly - some nod (oscillating between yes and no), some pretend to read while some dare an extra mile to sleep on the floor (guaranteed best results, again - personal experience).
There is at least one incident in our life in which someone (more exciting if it’s a first-hand experience) sleeps off at home having promptly locked the doors while others try to enter the home by banging doors, ringing bells and finally, sneaking in through a window. The talk that follows such an incident is one of the worst sleep-shattering experiences.
Sleeping in transit is funny, nay? Barring the 90s movies, I haven’t witnessed girls sleeping on guys’ shoulders and falling in love and all that. However, this might be cited as somewhat as interesting as that. On this particular bus trip, I witnessed a person sleep-sitting between two others while swinging his neck to the tunes of the bus and resting it on others’ shoulders. The two others seemed to be polished players and dealt with the situation by starting a gala game of sorts in which the middle-man’s neck was to be used as a ping pong ball while dodging it from one’s shoulder would count as a point. The person who won celebrated his victory by smashing the middle-man’s head on the handle in front. Do not be worried since the sleep went on for another three hours (or six games).
While the world around you continues to shatter your sleep, I am in the process of sending a proposal to the highest authority for carving out a nation where the only motto would be to sleep by the people, for the people and other prepositions that might suit your sleep (try “under/over”). The worst crime you could commit there would be to wake people up. No blast or thunder. Just sleep and slumber. Before I tell you how to reach the place, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the honourable chief guest….No! Horribly wrong track. I would like to take this opportunity to share the words of the biggest supporter of sleeping – Ajit.
“Loyan ko sirf teen cheeze pasand hai – Mona, Sona aur Mona ke saath sona.”
Thursday, August 12, 2010
A bit about lizards
Even as I type the word a sense of ewwness takes over me. True that I try my best to love all the beings in the world irrespective of their colour, size, number of feet, weight or fur but my conscience doesn’t allow me to take the sight of a lizard.
I remember that as a kid, lizards were pretty much central to my decision of whether to enter my room or to stay out of it. In case I spotted one in the toilet, I’d stop my execution half way and instead contribute to the faster growth of a plant in a pot. Those were the days – you could water a plant openly and people would think it to be cute. (For the sake of humanity do not try it now!) An expensive research shows that one of the biggest fears in the world is that of a lizard falling on you. Of course, I was the only subject of the research.
The bloody things are just the right combo of brilliance and dumbness. They’ll position themselves on the small little walls on top of the doors scaring you every time you enter or step out. A witness says that I turn into a Mask-o-Shaktiman when I approach a door - walking faster than space ships. And when you try to shoo them off (or request someone else to do it for you, like in my case), they’ll play dead! Ha! How dumb is it to play dead on the walls? I suppose they don’t understand the gravity of the situation and hence, try to ignore gravity. Like the clash of arrows in Ramayana, a simultaneous occurrence of their boom of brilliance and our jolt of irritation takes place when they try their fake act of camouflage! Turn by turn, they’ll position themselves on all the brown coloured stuff –cupboard, shorts, chocolates, teddy bears, even mehen-dyed hair! And whose idea was it to have brown coloured brooms – the ultimate weapon to shoo lizards off?
As if the witty take on gravity was not enough, there is a touchy issue with gender sensitivity. All lizards (in Hindi and Marathi) are females. If you are a male with lizards in your room, it gives you a chance to come out of your room, make a public display of stretching yourself and when a friend tries to enter your room, shout at him, “Andar mat ja yaar… Woh dono abhi bhi so rahi hai!”
If you’re looking for things that keep lizards away, let me tell you, there’s absolutely nothing. People have told me to try egg shells and peacock feathers but none of them work. I have even gone to the extent of keeping egg shells painted with shades of peacock feather. May be I am the ultimate crawl-and-creep magnet. However, now that I have grown up, I have started believing friends who say that lizards are harmless – even good, since they eat bugs. So even as I write this, I am quite comfortable while a babe-on-the-front-wall stares at the screen secretly planning to fall on the keypad. Oh damn!! It is actually happening (in slow mo)! Itagkabd##%@goabgfbaohuba die die die!
I remember that as a kid, lizards were pretty much central to my decision of whether to enter my room or to stay out of it. In case I spotted one in the toilet, I’d stop my execution half way and instead contribute to the faster growth of a plant in a pot. Those were the days – you could water a plant openly and people would think it to be cute. (For the sake of humanity do not try it now!) An expensive research shows that one of the biggest fears in the world is that of a lizard falling on you. Of course, I was the only subject of the research.
The bloody things are just the right combo of brilliance and dumbness. They’ll position themselves on the small little walls on top of the doors scaring you every time you enter or step out. A witness says that I turn into a Mask-o-Shaktiman when I approach a door - walking faster than space ships. And when you try to shoo them off (or request someone else to do it for you, like in my case), they’ll play dead! Ha! How dumb is it to play dead on the walls? I suppose they don’t understand the gravity of the situation and hence, try to ignore gravity. Like the clash of arrows in Ramayana, a simultaneous occurrence of their boom of brilliance and our jolt of irritation takes place when they try their fake act of camouflage! Turn by turn, they’ll position themselves on all the brown coloured stuff –cupboard, shorts, chocolates, teddy bears, even mehen-dyed hair! And whose idea was it to have brown coloured brooms – the ultimate weapon to shoo lizards off?
As if the witty take on gravity was not enough, there is a touchy issue with gender sensitivity. All lizards (in Hindi and Marathi) are females. If you are a male with lizards in your room, it gives you a chance to come out of your room, make a public display of stretching yourself and when a friend tries to enter your room, shout at him, “Andar mat ja yaar… Woh dono abhi bhi so rahi hai!”
If you’re looking for things that keep lizards away, let me tell you, there’s absolutely nothing. People have told me to try egg shells and peacock feathers but none of them work. I have even gone to the extent of keeping egg shells painted with shades of peacock feather. May be I am the ultimate crawl-and-creep magnet. However, now that I have grown up, I have started believing friends who say that lizards are harmless – even good, since they eat bugs. So even as I write this, I am quite comfortable while a babe-on-the-front-wall stares at the screen secretly planning to fall on the keypad. Oh damn!! It is actually happening (in slow mo)! Itagkabd##%@goabgfbaohuba die die die!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
A bit about flying
Of all means of transport, I like airplanes the most. This comes from a trouble-giver’s point of view because quite clearly, the number of trouble-takers per passenger is the highest in case of air travel. Even before you enter an airport, people start taking trouble.
Illiterate policemen try to make sense out of tickets while playing a game of match-the-alphabets on the ticket with those on the photo ID. Once, I had a horrid time trying to explain that it is not the “wrong date” on my ticket but is actually my license’s “expiry date”. Then you stumble upon the second set of policemen, for whom every car without a red lamp has come from the enemy territory. Their hand movements are so fierce that those poor lads who come to collect trolleys, strategically place them in the way of their hands to save considerable time and energy and thereby generate acceleration (of trolleys) and mass (on bellies).
You try entering the door-frame with a light that, I bet, would continue to blink in the same nonchalant way if its holding company is installed in a nuclear factory or as a prop on a movie set depicting operation in a hospital. The policemen next to this door take the match-the-alphabets somewhat seriously or rather give an impression of and take the time for doing so. They stand in front of each other so as to create a narrow gap between their security-pets, which by the way are not their problems. The permanent problem of their life is to discern passengers from bye-bidders. By design, these guys say the sentence, “Kahaa ghuse chale aa rahe ho?” after roughly every 4th person who tries to enter. One is dying to stand outside the gate at a wedding of such a policeman’s kid wherein he would be standing at the gate to welcome the guests. Not their fault really. Bye-bidders do try to sneak in every now and then so as to continue with their show of emotions for a few extra meters. All that these people want to do is sit on those hinged chairs, get a feel of the posh airport, grab a bite in the 10x shop and show off to people standing outside that they’ve done these three things.
Somehow the baggage screening section seems to be the happiest. I think I know why (or I have told myself so). The person who looks in your bag records the funniest items and shares them with other members just before closing hours. It’s true (or I have told myself so). Your fatey-puraane-rang-birangi you-know-whats do rounds of their cell phones!
One of the business tricks of the airline industry is to paint “n-2” boards saying “Counter closed” where “n” is the number of boarding pass counters. Long queues are characterized by one family member standing in each queue, acting like Anil Kapoor in mid 90s with hands spread out and neck springing back and forth in a manner to say –“Yeh apun ka ilaaka hai”. This is also the starting point of many stages where one needs to be careful of children. These children not only try to force their way ahead under your nose (and legs) but also cry foul if your trolley touches their feet. “Uncle ne pair pe trolley chadhaai!” While you are still thinking whether to open your mouth and say, “Bhaiyya bolo beta,” the crowd is already on to you, “Itna badaa aadmi aur itne se bachhe pe trolley chadhaa di!” When this happens, do not hesitate in pushing your trolley on the feet of three people standing in front of you for they weren’t actually there before the ruckus started. On reaching the front end of the queue, one must not get too involved with the person facing you. In order to win a verbal battle with these beings, one must belong to the parliament or kitchen or streets. Do not waste time showcasing your sense of humor/money/market/chivalry to the lipstick/powder/broken English plastered girl. There is very slim chance that you would meet her ever again and she would give in to your demand of granting you a seat of your choice or allowing you to carry a 30 Kg laptop bag (with clothes which refuse to come in the other bag) under the pretext of “My laptop is totally unlike you, ji. It is old and heavy.” (Good line, eh?) Beware! These people are known to sandwich dangerous questions like “Do you want to upgrade your seat to business class at only Rs.1500?” between layers of innocuous ones like “Are you having a good time at the airport? Are you going on a business trip? Are you carrying hand luggage? Do you use Axe deodorant? Are you free this weekend? Are you single?” This information is especially for those who nod “Yes” to everything coming from across the counter.
The security check counter is nothing but a behtareen mujaaira of strategic alliance between 20x to 30x shops and the airport. People are allowed to reach the counter after substantial zigzagging giving kids a substantial amount of time to take a look at Wafers, toy cars, water bottles and other fake need-fulfilling things. Water bottles are of course not allowed to reach the counters. A theory (just made up by me) says that the water collected at the counters magically finds its way back in sealed bottles to be sold 3 hours later. The policeman near the X-ray machine bellows “Apna mobile apne bag mein rakhiye (hamaara koi bharosa nahi).” Laptop carriers face a tough time here. I have seen a person taking time off to select the “Do not show hidden files and folders” radio button in order to hide his hidden files and folders from the X-ray machine. Even if just two passengers populate this area, one will be seen (by the other one, of course) arguing with the officers about either his safed baal kaatne ki kaichi or maaji ki khaasi ki dawaai or bachhe ke gaadi ke cell.
The stuff you buy in the waiting room area hurts you at around 50x and I bet you don’t spit or throw it away because of the 50 before the ‘x’.
Every time I get in the bus that takes the passengers to the airplane, I swear I have heard this extremely funny line – “Abe kya bus se le jaa rahe hai kya?” The speaker can be usually spotted looking around for supporters to laugh at the extremely funny line.
Irrespective of what you have been told by the blue TVs or the wildly fluttering black plates or the pilot himself, you will be seated in the aircraft for around half an hour with nothing to do besides looking outside, counting planes, hoping for a hot co-passenger, praying for a not-stupid-co-passenger, trying to work the blower, reading the instructions manual, coming across picture of a kid and then finally settling on to praying that a kid sits nowhere near you. If you are surrounded on all sides by kids below the age of five, do understand that this is where the boarding-pass-counter-person has registered a huge victory. The only positive side to this is that you feel that the sad music is being played exclusively for you. Also, this is where you start wishing that planes had operable windows. We have come a long way in this evolution course to now imbue the fact that in planes, kids go off like alarms. It is so obvious that it should be included in the airhostesses’ act.
Even people in deep sleep, wake up at the smell of free food. Conversely, wide awake people act fast asleep if food is to be bought. She tries waking you up. You refuse. You let her pass and call her out. “Excuse me, do you have water?” She is rugged and is your-rug-rug-se-waakif. “Sir, it will be 30 rupees.” You gulp at nothing; go back to sleep and start dreaming about the bottle you left at security-check.
Don’t know why but somewhere we believe that attaining nirvana would be an impossibility if we act as we are told for more than a certain amount of time t. This time t is reached as soon as the plane grounds. Cell phones come out by themselves as if they would assist in contradicting the pilot’s useless information of temperature, pressure, humidity and wind speed. Continuing with my betting spree (given that nobody’s eventually going to win or lose anything), I bet that some people carelessly start them (to attain nirvana), carefully disable roaming and say these exact same words – “Ha pahoch gaya hoon. Lene aa jaao.”
Illiterate policemen try to make sense out of tickets while playing a game of match-the-alphabets on the ticket with those on the photo ID. Once, I had a horrid time trying to explain that it is not the “wrong date” on my ticket but is actually my license’s “expiry date”. Then you stumble upon the second set of policemen, for whom every car without a red lamp has come from the enemy territory. Their hand movements are so fierce that those poor lads who come to collect trolleys, strategically place them in the way of their hands to save considerable time and energy and thereby generate acceleration (of trolleys) and mass (on bellies).
You try entering the door-frame with a light that, I bet, would continue to blink in the same nonchalant way if its holding company is installed in a nuclear factory or as a prop on a movie set depicting operation in a hospital. The policemen next to this door take the match-the-alphabets somewhat seriously or rather give an impression of and take the time for doing so. They stand in front of each other so as to create a narrow gap between their security-pets, which by the way are not their problems. The permanent problem of their life is to discern passengers from bye-bidders. By design, these guys say the sentence, “Kahaa ghuse chale aa rahe ho?” after roughly every 4th person who tries to enter. One is dying to stand outside the gate at a wedding of such a policeman’s kid wherein he would be standing at the gate to welcome the guests. Not their fault really. Bye-bidders do try to sneak in every now and then so as to continue with their show of emotions for a few extra meters. All that these people want to do is sit on those hinged chairs, get a feel of the posh airport, grab a bite in the 10x shop and show off to people standing outside that they’ve done these three things.
Somehow the baggage screening section seems to be the happiest. I think I know why (or I have told myself so). The person who looks in your bag records the funniest items and shares them with other members just before closing hours. It’s true (or I have told myself so). Your fatey-puraane-rang-birangi you-know-whats do rounds of their cell phones!
One of the business tricks of the airline industry is to paint “n-2” boards saying “Counter closed” where “n” is the number of boarding pass counters. Long queues are characterized by one family member standing in each queue, acting like Anil Kapoor in mid 90s with hands spread out and neck springing back and forth in a manner to say –“Yeh apun ka ilaaka hai”. This is also the starting point of many stages where one needs to be careful of children. These children not only try to force their way ahead under your nose (and legs) but also cry foul if your trolley touches their feet. “Uncle ne pair pe trolley chadhaai!” While you are still thinking whether to open your mouth and say, “Bhaiyya bolo beta,” the crowd is already on to you, “Itna badaa aadmi aur itne se bachhe pe trolley chadhaa di!” When this happens, do not hesitate in pushing your trolley on the feet of three people standing in front of you for they weren’t actually there before the ruckus started. On reaching the front end of the queue, one must not get too involved with the person facing you. In order to win a verbal battle with these beings, one must belong to the parliament or kitchen or streets. Do not waste time showcasing your sense of humor/money/market/chivalry to the lipstick/powder/broken English plastered girl. There is very slim chance that you would meet her ever again and she would give in to your demand of granting you a seat of your choice or allowing you to carry a 30 Kg laptop bag (with clothes which refuse to come in the other bag) under the pretext of “My laptop is totally unlike you, ji. It is old and heavy.” (Good line, eh?) Beware! These people are known to sandwich dangerous questions like “Do you want to upgrade your seat to business class at only Rs.1500?” between layers of innocuous ones like “Are you having a good time at the airport? Are you going on a business trip? Are you carrying hand luggage? Do you use Axe deodorant? Are you free this weekend? Are you single?” This information is especially for those who nod “Yes” to everything coming from across the counter.
The security check counter is nothing but a behtareen mujaaira of strategic alliance between 20x to 30x shops and the airport. People are allowed to reach the counter after substantial zigzagging giving kids a substantial amount of time to take a look at Wafers, toy cars, water bottles and other fake need-fulfilling things. Water bottles are of course not allowed to reach the counters. A theory (just made up by me) says that the water collected at the counters magically finds its way back in sealed bottles to be sold 3 hours later. The policeman near the X-ray machine bellows “Apna mobile apne bag mein rakhiye (hamaara koi bharosa nahi).” Laptop carriers face a tough time here. I have seen a person taking time off to select the “Do not show hidden files and folders” radio button in order to hide his hidden files and folders from the X-ray machine. Even if just two passengers populate this area, one will be seen (by the other one, of course) arguing with the officers about either his safed baal kaatne ki kaichi or maaji ki khaasi ki dawaai or bachhe ke gaadi ke cell.
The stuff you buy in the waiting room area hurts you at around 50x and I bet you don’t spit or throw it away because of the 50 before the ‘x’.
Every time I get in the bus that takes the passengers to the airplane, I swear I have heard this extremely funny line – “Abe kya bus se le jaa rahe hai kya?” The speaker can be usually spotted looking around for supporters to laugh at the extremely funny line.
Irrespective of what you have been told by the blue TVs or the wildly fluttering black plates or the pilot himself, you will be seated in the aircraft for around half an hour with nothing to do besides looking outside, counting planes, hoping for a hot co-passenger, praying for a not-stupid-co-passenger, trying to work the blower, reading the instructions manual, coming across picture of a kid and then finally settling on to praying that a kid sits nowhere near you. If you are surrounded on all sides by kids below the age of five, do understand that this is where the boarding-pass-counter-person has registered a huge victory. The only positive side to this is that you feel that the sad music is being played exclusively for you. Also, this is where you start wishing that planes had operable windows. We have come a long way in this evolution course to now imbue the fact that in planes, kids go off like alarms. It is so obvious that it should be included in the airhostesses’ act.
Even people in deep sleep, wake up at the smell of free food. Conversely, wide awake people act fast asleep if food is to be bought. She tries waking you up. You refuse. You let her pass and call her out. “Excuse me, do you have water?” She is rugged and is your-rug-rug-se-waakif. “Sir, it will be 30 rupees.” You gulp at nothing; go back to sleep and start dreaming about the bottle you left at security-check.
Don’t know why but somewhere we believe that attaining nirvana would be an impossibility if we act as we are told for more than a certain amount of time t. This time t is reached as soon as the plane grounds. Cell phones come out by themselves as if they would assist in contradicting the pilot’s useless information of temperature, pressure, humidity and wind speed. Continuing with my betting spree (given that nobody’s eventually going to win or lose anything), I bet that some people carelessly start them (to attain nirvana), carefully disable roaming and say these exact same words – “Ha pahoch gaya hoon. Lene aa jaao.”
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Hair and Scare
It’s the year 2492 AD. Cars are a thing of museums and you step out of your home throwing kisses and waving collective goodbye to your cute girlfriend, wife and doggy (it’s legal). Suddenly a made-in-2491 AD high-tech ultra-silent truck (trucks are still in) creeps into the alley and zooms past you. You blurt out a “##@@@$#@!” while the look on each of the onlookers face blurts out the same clichéd, “Baal baal bach gaye!” You thank heavens for not being crushed; at the same time cursing the creator of this modus-dictum questioning why your “baal” are so important. That’s when you search the internet for “Why are hair so important?” and reach this post.
To differentiate man from other animals, God decided to add something more to the list of attributes like “social, tailless, unsatisfied and mean”. There was not much room so He decided to play God (imagine the movie titles saying – God as God!) to make it – by acting like a painter who’d paint new strokes to give new look to his creation every single moment.
The importance of baal is also reflected in what we are called as soon we come into this world – A baalak or a baalika. One of the first things we are trained to take care of is other’s hair. Remember – you were not allowed access to shiny sleek scissors and blades, not because you’d snap your fingers, but because (hold your breath) the shrewd adults thought that you’d cut their precious hair (or unfortunate wigs).
If you don’t realize the utility of hair, I am pleased to cite an example. A cunning cousin was very fond of creatures. He’d get stray puppies at home, fed them the entire fridge till they made mosaics on marbles by vomiting all over the place. My aunt used to give him a nice thrashing to deter him from acting Kutte-waale baba. But such a compulsive pet keeper, he thought of tiny pets. What follows was shared by him one night before we went to sleep. He spent loads of time in the sewage drains and got lice in his hair. He even got names for them. That was the last time we went to sleep together.
Another example that pops itself up is from a movie that I saw just last night. Both the leads are together in the tub (They’re married, if you want more details!). He figures out that they don’t have the tub drain stopper. Just then he whispers, “Can I play with your hair?” Of course, she allows him, and after 5 minutes of ruffling up he manages to get a drain stopper from her hair (Married or not, please do not try this at home).
Like sophisticated cockroaches, classy guys need signals to live their lives. That amazing signaling power is bestowed upon girls’ hair. Just like antennae, they have to be of the perfect length to pass a strong signal. Initially, they need not be all chamke-damke, even chipku-chipku will do. The chamke-damke demands will be put up later but eventually will be withdrawn if the guys’ wallets are taking an unsustainable hit.
I have been told by little birdies in huge corporations that even the most decisive CEO’s consult their friends/dads/in-laws if it’s the precise time to go for a cut. That brings us to the most important players in the hair care industry – the barbers.
One of the many irrelevant things that I figured out early in my life was that even if a four-feet-long haired sage goes for a haircut, the barber would spend most of his time snapping scissors at nothing! After I grew up to figure out that barbers aren’t necessarily barbaric, here’s what Prem bhaiyya, a highly rated hairdresser had to say about this air-snapping-trait, ”It’s our way of clicking Refresh on desktop. Nothing happens but well…it gives everybody the illusion that we’re working.”
You’ll be lucky to go through your entire life in the company of your hair. I know I have touched upon a sensitive topic. Hair fall is as (or may be even more) painful as a heartbreak - More because the affected parties are much more in number. Hair-fallen is simply crestfallen. Imagine you are at a restaurant and beneath those breads in your soup is an innocuous hair ball. (Sincerely hoping you are not having food as you read this). I am sure you’d yell out loud and clear, “Hair-aami ki aulaad!” On the other hand, if you are a housewife and want to seek a serious revenge on undercutting of hair care expense, you can launch a Baal-istic missile in his daal. Just make sure you feed him with your own hands, so that he doesn’t figure out that “Daal mein kuch kaala hai”.
We arrive at the sad stuff now- baldness. A shy literary genius filled me up on this. The word bald has been derived from balled attributed to fallen hair making formations in a ball-like fashion. “He has been hair-balled” has simply been changed to “He is bald”.
Now you see why hair, if not given due care, give rise to a scare? You may lose out on tiny pets, drain-stopper, signaling, revenge seeking! On the other hand, enough of the hair care industry. Anybody up for a partnership in the hair industry? Send your fallen hair to……
To differentiate man from other animals, God decided to add something more to the list of attributes like “social, tailless, unsatisfied and mean”. There was not much room so He decided to play God (imagine the movie titles saying – God as God!) to make it – by acting like a painter who’d paint new strokes to give new look to his creation every single moment.
The importance of baal is also reflected in what we are called as soon we come into this world – A baalak or a baalika. One of the first things we are trained to take care of is other’s hair. Remember – you were not allowed access to shiny sleek scissors and blades, not because you’d snap your fingers, but because (hold your breath) the shrewd adults thought that you’d cut their precious hair (or unfortunate wigs).
If you don’t realize the utility of hair, I am pleased to cite an example. A cunning cousin was very fond of creatures. He’d get stray puppies at home, fed them the entire fridge till they made mosaics on marbles by vomiting all over the place. My aunt used to give him a nice thrashing to deter him from acting Kutte-waale baba. But such a compulsive pet keeper, he thought of tiny pets. What follows was shared by him one night before we went to sleep. He spent loads of time in the sewage drains and got lice in his hair. He even got names for them. That was the last time we went to sleep together.
Another example that pops itself up is from a movie that I saw just last night. Both the leads are together in the tub (They’re married, if you want more details!). He figures out that they don’t have the tub drain stopper. Just then he whispers, “Can I play with your hair?” Of course, she allows him, and after 5 minutes of ruffling up he manages to get a drain stopper from her hair (Married or not, please do not try this at home).
Like sophisticated cockroaches, classy guys need signals to live their lives. That amazing signaling power is bestowed upon girls’ hair. Just like antennae, they have to be of the perfect length to pass a strong signal. Initially, they need not be all chamke-damke, even chipku-chipku will do. The chamke-damke demands will be put up later but eventually will be withdrawn if the guys’ wallets are taking an unsustainable hit.
I have been told by little birdies in huge corporations that even the most decisive CEO’s consult their friends/dads/in-laws if it’s the precise time to go for a cut. That brings us to the most important players in the hair care industry – the barbers.
One of the many irrelevant things that I figured out early in my life was that even if a four-feet-long haired sage goes for a haircut, the barber would spend most of his time snapping scissors at nothing! After I grew up to figure out that barbers aren’t necessarily barbaric, here’s what Prem bhaiyya, a highly rated hairdresser had to say about this air-snapping-trait, ”It’s our way of clicking Refresh on desktop. Nothing happens but well…it gives everybody the illusion that we’re working.”
You’ll be lucky to go through your entire life in the company of your hair. I know I have touched upon a sensitive topic. Hair fall is as (or may be even more) painful as a heartbreak - More because the affected parties are much more in number. Hair-fallen is simply crestfallen. Imagine you are at a restaurant and beneath those breads in your soup is an innocuous hair ball. (Sincerely hoping you are not having food as you read this). I am sure you’d yell out loud and clear, “Hair-aami ki aulaad!” On the other hand, if you are a housewife and want to seek a serious revenge on undercutting of hair care expense, you can launch a Baal-istic missile in his daal. Just make sure you feed him with your own hands, so that he doesn’t figure out that “Daal mein kuch kaala hai”.
We arrive at the sad stuff now- baldness. A shy literary genius filled me up on this. The word bald has been derived from balled attributed to fallen hair making formations in a ball-like fashion. “He has been hair-balled” has simply been changed to “He is bald”.
Now you see why hair, if not given due care, give rise to a scare? You may lose out on tiny pets, drain-stopper, signaling, revenge seeking! On the other hand, enough of the hair care industry. Anybody up for a partnership in the hair industry? Send your fallen hair to……
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