KANK and some reviews

I haven't yet seen Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna, but been reading reviews of it. It turned out to be a very entertaining exercise, reading the reviews. The film seems to bring the best out of reviewers. I'm listing here a few of the delightful pieces.

Before the film released, an HT article said:

Recently, Ram Gopal Varma created a farcical flutter by announcing he was looking forward to KANK because he loves horror films.

I guess that kind of set the trend. One rubbed hands in gleeful anticipation and waited for reviews.

The NYT pretty much concluded that it is the eye makeup that made all the difference.

Soon Dev is lovestruck, and who can blame him: Ms. Mukherji’s eye makeup, which we get to observe in detail, is much better than Ms. Zinta’s.
...
As for the story’s central lovers, it’s never quite clear what Maya sees in Dev, whose emotional switch has only two settings, angry and morose. Perhaps that eye makeup is clouding her vision.

The Hindu's reviewer was taking in the details:

Everything is picture perfect: there is so much perfection it stifles free expression. When the actors shed a tear, it trickles down only up to a certain point on the cheek. When the hair gets unruly in anger, all the wayward strands fall at a certain angle.

Not to mention scores of bloggers who have some hilarious takes on the film. If you come by more of these, do let me know :)

Update
Abhipraya found someone else doing the same thing here. Lotsa links there. She also points me to this, where Neha Viswanathan says: "Karan Johar - Alvida Kehdo. Please."

:)

I'm back!

It's been so long since I blogged that now I seem to have starting trouble! Four days of travel and three days of entertaining guests, both preceded by preparing for both. That's what ate into the blogging time.


The weekend before Independence Day, we set out for Mangalore -- four of us, a black car, lots of snacks and a big green umbrella. The road was so good till Hassan that we made the distance in just about three hours. And then the nightmare started. There were almost no roads through the ghats. The roads seem to have been swept away by rain and the rest eaten up by the heavy lorry traffic. At turnings, we would come to a screeching halt because ahead, there would be nothing but a gaping hole.


But the route more than compensated for the state of the roads. The vast plains had been replaced by lush green hills. Blink and you miss a waterfall. And after a while, we were joined by a frothing brown river that roared on alongside all the way. Incessant rain, sometimes light and silent, sometimes hard and harsh, sometimes accompanied by a blanket of mist.

Suratkal was green. For a change (refreshing at that), it was a case of green eating into concrete, rather than concrete eating up green. Wild parasitic creepers spilling over tree tops, once well kept hedges and bushes growing in all directions, grass atop tiled roofs. Reason for absolute glee.

And the sea. I began the very trip with salty air swirling in my mind. Eventually the excitement hit such a high that no one around had much peace with me going "Let's go sea, let's go sea". Watched the sun go down, the lighthouse light up, the sand reflecting the sky.


Heading back to Bangalore, we made a detour to Belur. A large dark 800-year-old temple, wonderfully preserved, wonderful sculptures.

In four days, I got so used to open spaces and straight stretches of empty roads (the ghats excluded, of course) that the very thought of Bangalore was claustrophobic.

Free food

Was at this press meet today, and I watched as the PR lady used strong words to send away one journalist after snatching the press kit back from him. If that was a shock, what followed was more so.

This man is someone I have seen at 90% of the press meets that I have attended in the last one year. A well dressed gentleman who asked his questions in a very soft voice. Apparently (according to the PR lady), he turns up at every press conference in a star hotel and gives an obscure name as the name of the organisation he represents. Always a different name. And gives a fake number every time. Again, always a different one. And this time, according to the PR lady, he had given the mobile number of the chap who had called the press conference. If that is indeed true, some cheek that is!

I've been wondering why he does this. Maybe he was once a journalist and now is jobless and misses being a journalist and attends press meets for old times' sake. Or maybe it's the food. He probably likes the star-hotel food but can't afford it on a daily basis, and so attends the press meets.

A free meal. Could that be the motive? Day after day after day.

Anger

This Reuters report about the "wall of fury" in Philippines came out sometime in March. I thought of it today when I listened to a friend as she narrated an incident of "why do you want to file a complaint against him, it will be troublesome, let him be, forget what happened to you, you should have been more careful". And I felt such anger towards that man, for his perversion, his insolence, and the fact that he could actually get away with what he had done, the fact that at least 10 others thought it was best to take the easier way out by letting him off without any charges so that he could carry on with his dirty business elsewhere. "At least we won't have to deal with it."

The anger was painful. I wanted to punch that man as hard as I could, over and over again. I was restless, my palms itched. But what do you, apart from clenching your fist and cursing?

I need to smash a few plates.

A weekend in Bangalore

It's Friday evening. And one decides a movie would be a good plan. The newspaper is scanned, a quick Google done on reviews, a film zeroed in on. Again, newspapers are scanned for theatre listings, websites looked at for ticket availability, phone numbers collected. And then it turns out that though the film is playing in five different theatres, there is no ticket available. So one concludes, everyone in Bangalore must be watching Omkara.

Let's go out for dinner then. A restaurant is chosen, which in itself is a task. Getting there involves navigating Brigade Road. Choked with pedestrians, cars, cops, parking attendants. One concludes that everyone in Bangalore must be on Brigade Road or heading to Brigade Road at this point.

We reach the restaurant. It's full. A table in the next 45 minutes, that's the best they can offer. Let's try the next. Same story. So we try the next, and the next, and the next. So one concludes, everyone in Bangalore must be eating out tonight.

Finally head home, pick up a movie from the local CD lending library, pack food from the neighbourhood Chinese joint, and sprawl on the futon. Home is the place to be during weekends.

Chopped vegetables

A more common sight in our kitchen these days than it ever used to be. At least next time we need a gas refill, we won't have to explain to the gas company why we take so long to finish a cylinder...!

PVR or PMO?

Me trying to watch a movie in PVR or Inox: Show ticket to security at entrance, get frisked by security lady, get bag checked by security lady, asked to finish my cold coffee before I enter, all food stuff in bag confiscated.

Three youngsters trying to meet the Prime Minister of India: Just zoom past hordes of security persons in a Sonata, right up to the PM’s house and ask for him.

Looks like I’d rather try meeting the PM than watch a movie at a multiplex!

Surprise Day

Yesterday was Surprise Day. And surprising it was :)

Allow me to explain the concept of Surprise Day.

See, for San and me, our celebrations – birthdays, anniversaries etc – are over and done with in three consecutive months. The rest of the year is just dry, with no reason to wrap up gifts, or cut cakes, or send flowers, or light candles, which I find very unfair (of course I am not counting the big festivals, which are anyway family events). So then, if everything in the world from anti-smoking campaigns to your pet dog has a dedicated day of celebration, then why not a day for surprises?

Going by that theory, sometime last week I declared July 26 as Surprise Day. The rules are simple. I throw him a surprise, and he throws me a surprise. Anything, as long as it is not nasty. And it was a grand success : )

I reached office to find a bunch of blood red carnations waiting for me. And I spent the rest of the day explaining to people that there was no particular reason for my husband sending me flowers. “No, it is not my birthday. No, it is not our anniversary. No, this is neither the day we first met, nor the day he proposed. It is just another day. No we DID NOT have a fight. No, he is not going to be travelling for the next six months. It is simply a day made brighter with flowers.” Evening saw me rushing to get home before him, armed with a bottle of wine and lots of candles. The look on his face was precious!

Spread the word of the Surprise Day. Pick a day of your convenience. Sure, just the act of naming a day for surprises takes away a bit of the surprise, but then the build up of suspense is awesome. You start with “Will he remember?” go on to “What would it be?” and “When will it be?”

Who is a feminist?

Who is a feminist? Or rather, what makes a person a feminist?

When I was some 10 or 12, we had a guest at home, and my father commented at some point that I don't like him smoking. The guest (I have no recollection of who the chap was) immediately said, "Oh, so you are a feminist?"

Huh?

Today, during a three-minute discussion on whether I am a feminist or not, someone told me that for some reason he has always related anything to do with feminism with me. He asked me if I am "anti-men".

Huh??

I will tell people to quit smoking regardless of whether they are male or female. It has nothing to do with feminism.
If I were anti-men, I wouldn't be married.

There are many more things like that. The typical egoistic Malayali man with his 18th century attitude towards women I find obnoxious. Does that mean I am a feminist?
I believe women should be given equal opportunities in every field. Heck, we are in the 21st century, we should have stopped debating this point decades ago! Anyway, does this make me a feminist?
Am I a feminist because I lash out at men who try to paw me?
Or am I a feminist because I have a job and lead an independent life?

Well, I never though of myself as a feminist, and I don't know if I am one. Someone tell me if I am.

A public campaign of sorts

You see that second name on the top right hand corner of this page? Well, he's the other person who is supposed to be blogging here.

I have tried many things so far -- have pleaded, have offered to ghost write for him, have threatened to kick him out of this space. None of those worked. Though now he is the one pleading -- pleading not to be thrown out of this blog.

Anyway, I am now putting it in the public domain. It may work. I don't think anything else will. So here goes. San, please write.

Heheh!! There's one guy who knows exactly what he's getting!

Big Brother

This I found in an article on the BBC website:

India is still a relatively conservative society. Very few couples live together before marriage, and intimate acts, such as kissing, are never seen on TV screens.
However, soaps regularly feature storylines about infidelity and pregnancy out of wedlock.

Heheh! The western world must think we are one confused people!

Anyway, that article was about the reality show Big Brother, which is soon hitting Indian screens. But the version we see here will not have anything to do with sex, since we are scared of that word. Read about that here.

Guernica

When Picasso’s Guernica hangs in the editor’s cabin, it gets a whole new meaning. Picasso may have been capturing the agony of a war. But in a newspaper office, it could be so many things. I mean, just think of the possibilities!

It could be a reporter’s trauma when his story is slashed and pretty much reduced to tatters.
It may signify that a newspaper office is pretty much like a battle field.
It may be a warning as to how grim things may get.

As Guernica bears silent witness to the editorial meetings, I stare at it and gulp…

Blocked no more!

And we are back on the road! Yay!! :)

Blocked blogs

I use the links that help one get around the block on blogs, I read blogs, then I come to my own, think of posting, and then say to myself – But who will read??? And then I sigh and close all windows.

I am done with feeling infuriated about it. Now I hope just someone knocks some sense into the government. Allow us peace-loving bloggers to continue with our harmless rambling…

Bomb-ay

Floods, riots, bomb blasts. How long will Bombay take this battering? How many more times will the people of Bombay "bounce back", like our news channels love telling us? How much longer will the spirit of Bombay endure the slow torture?

Domestication

Abhipraya pointed me to this hilarious post. Story of our lives, isn't it? Domesticating myself was difficult enough, when I realised I would also be responsible for domesticating and home-training the husband.

Which reminds me of a theory of mine... Why do you think the elders insist on marriage? They have learned from experience that managing a husband is very very similar to managing a child. So if one is married at least for a year before having kids, one knows what to expect from the kid. Managing the husband becomes practical lessons on how to bring up the kid.

Good no? :)

Sunday

A good weekend after a long time, though France lost and Zizou got a red card and the World Cup is over. For one, I wasn't sitting alone at home through Sunday!

I finally found the right pair of jeans, but only after being told by a young salesman that the very high waist jeans are worn by "housewives and very traditional girls". So disapproving was he of one such which I liked for its colour, that I finally obliged him and chose a not-so-low waist one. Nevertheless, comfortable as hell.

I didn't cook one bit because we've run out of gas and the gas company refused to give us a refill until we wrote them a letter saying we need refills only once in six or seven months, because that is our rate of consumption. The lady who was supposed to take the booking had thought we had left the country because they hadn't heard from us for so long. But waat to do, that is all the cooking we do...

Ended the Sunday with some new friends, a lot of music, a lot of gobi manchurian, a long drive and of course, football.

And yay, Federer is King! :)

Old friends

It is such joy to meet old friends.

To discuss who looks like who, and who has got who’s expression.

To discuss where the old over-sized hooded jacket has disappeared in the last ten years.

To discuss the viability of people, of situations, and of ideas.

To sit in Koshy’s and discuss how to control the decibel level there on weekends: Waves of silence and noise could be created by flashing a light bulb on and off. But no one would notice the bulb. Then let’s control the entire lighting of Koshy’s – dim means you stay silent, bright means you talk. Or we could have decibel level monitors. If you cross a certain limit, a bell would go off. No, better still to have ejector chairs so that if you cross the decibel limit, your chair ejects you.

To discuss how the house has grown; how from a building on a bare bit of land it has grown, evolved, matured, as a home.

Fight for your pay

Pull up your socks women, get your acts together. Get paid what you deserve, don't get left behind your male counterparts. Read how.