After another satisfying trip to Banchha Ghar my colleague and I decided it was a bit too early to call it a night. The casinos were an option, diagnosis generic but having tried out most of them, information pills I was not keen. Fleetingly, I mentioned a restaurant that had been in my eyes for long; however, I had been wary of going there alone. It had some of the most corny music playing always, and I had an inclination from the dimly lit sign-board what to expect. Catching at the slightest nod from the colleague, G, I pulled him towards the Belly Dance Bar and Restaurant, on the main Darbar Marg.
Even before we could enter the slim entrance, shady and dirty, with the walls and staircase with myriad graffiti, G remarked, “Man, this seems sleazy!”
I laughed out aloud. “Adventure, my friend” and continued my confident stride up the stairs. What hit us when we reached the first floor restaurant cannot be described by the mild term ‘sleazy’. The dark interiors beckoned with flashy strobe lights, and an ill-clad, hefty girl was dancing to some cheap and loud Hindi film number. A plethora of girls caught us at the entrance, and literally pulled us into the cavernous interiors. To say G was scandalized would be an understatement. However, I played along. The girls piled on, forcing us to drink something. In one far off corner, two guys sat with garishly dressed ladies. Behind us, a couple was snuggling cozily. As one of the girls pestered, I ordered my forbidden second drink ( I had the first at Banchcha Ghar), and poor G settled for a coke (he is a tee-totaller).
The raunchy music played on; at the stage, the same hefty girl, with a belly the size of an of over-done pitcher, danced to the shady number “Log aate hain log jaate hain, pyaas apne dilon ki bujhate hai, raat din husn ki rangraliyan hai, yeh toh badnaam logon ki galiyan hai”. They could not have found a more apt number to dance on ever! If the name of the restaurant was anything to go by, there was ‘enough of belly’ being displayed; beyond that, the dance was irregular and awkward, and meant purely ot tittilate.
My drink came – neat! I asked for a soda. The same girl who had stuck on to us and pestered us for the drink, smiled suggestively. “Iss mein kya milana” Keeping in mind the ambience and the entire scene, I smiled leerily and said, “Ab issme raat guzaardi toh kya mazza, please get me a soda”
The flashy dance of the girl on the stage continued, complete with strobe lights and spotlights. Man, was she some bulk! She could have gone for the WWE contest and passed without any overt efforts. She wore a skimpy and hot shorts with a top that started late and ended early. For one of the songs ( err, that went, Kiss me come quick, jaanu jiya or some such shit ) she was accompanied by a guy, who wore a vest and an open checked shirt.
With spirits soaring, I gave a few hoot calls, and G looked at me flabbergasted. “In the past one hour, you seem to have upgraded yourself by several notches” he remarked, sarcastically. I gave a loud drunk laughter. Jokingly, I asked G if he wanted to make his night out in Nepal colorful (well, I used the word ‘rangeen‘, and it sounds much better). Too shocked to react, he simply shook his head convulsively. I said he would never forget this visit to Nepal ever! I enjoyed his abundant discomfiture.
The girl was back. “Hamein kya pilyaenge?” she questioned.
Playing on the charade, I replied with a naughty smile. “Pilayenge? Aap saaqui ho, aap pilao humein; Waise kya lenge?”
“Aap kya denge?” she asked huskily. “Bolo na kya pilayenge?”
“Aapko peeni hai toh aankhon se piyo, na” I winked.
“Aankhon se pyaas nahin bujhti“
“Woh bhi bujhadenge, pahle humein to geela honede” I picked up the glass and pointed to towards it. “Let me finish the drink, and then we shall see” The girl understood that we were not exactly her ‘clientele’, and backed off. She never returned.
One more song, and G was upto the neck. Gulping my drink, we called for the bill. It came, we paid, and G rushed out of the place. I lingered for a moment at the entrance at the crowd of the girls. Putting my entire heavy weight in front of one, I asked, “Kya daam mein?”
Dressed in a decent saree, she clutched the menu card tighter and shot back, “Kya kya daam mein?”
“Aapko pata hai mai kis cheez ki baat kar raha hun? Daam bolo!”
A giggle came out of the girls behind me. Pointing towards one of them, the lady said, “Usse poochho, woh batayigi“
I turned towards another outlandishly decorated female. “Daam?”
“Aap kitna doge saahib?” she asked, putting on her best seductive professional smile.
“Tum batao…”
“1500”
“500 se ek rupaya zyada nahin”
She nodded. I got a cold feet, and murmured. “Aaj dost hain saath, kal aayunga” and fled down the staircase.
I came out on the Darbar Marg corner; G was nowhere in sight. I called out; he had gone off at some distance. “Hey G,” I exclaimed. “Since I have been negotiating your shopping deals here, done one more for ya”
He stared at me incredulously, and started walking with a furious pace. If only I had a camera to shoot the shocked cum scandalised cum surprised look on his face! I let out a hearty laugh.
(After this, still in mood for more adventure, we went to the hotel casino; for the INR 200, we won a profit of INR 34 at the slot machines; not bad, it was an evening well spent, I guess)
Statutory Warning : I am a decent guy; the above incident was only a reckless piece of adventure; I am not given to such vices; please do not mistake me.
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What is it about the number two that it keeps cropping up in Hindi film titles so regularly? No other number gets such preferential treatment from our Bollywood makers. Sample this:
Do Kaliyan – The first of The Parent Trap remake starred a cherubic Neetu Singh as the adorable twin sisters who re-unite their warring parents. The songs Bache man ke sachhe (Lata Mangeshkar doing an absolutely astonishing childlike lisp act!) and Tumhari nazar kyun khafa ho gayi (Lata Mangeshkar, rx Mohd. Rafi).
Do Chor – A trite and forgettable seventies film, troche starring Dharamendra and Tanuja as two petty thieves out to take revenge on some past crime committed by the villain, check which I had the mis-chance of viewing one early Sunday morning on Set Max. RD Burman s music held interesting nuggets like Mera chhota sa balamwa (Lata Mangeshkar), Yaari ho gayi yaar se (Latadi sounding suitably tipsy) and Chaahe raho door (Lata Mangeshkar, Kishore Kumar) the latter song’s antaras borrowed by master-chor Bappi Lahiri for a song in First Love Letter!
Do Raaste – The Rajesh Khanna-Mumtaz morality saga which is perhaps today best known for Bindiya chamkegi, a song much abused through its numerous cover versions and remixes. The title referred to the two paths that one has to choose from- easy but essentially wrongful one and tough, but the truthful one. The film was a big time hit when it released in the early seventies.
Do Badan – Another musical blockbuster of its times, a weepy starring Manoj Kumar and Asha Parekh. Asha Bhonsle’s Jab chali thandi hawa was a hot Chitrahaar favorite, though my allegiance will always lie with Latadi s Lo aa gayi unki yaad woh nahi aaye.
Do Phool – The predecessor to David Dhawan’s Aankhen, starred Mehmood and Vinod Mehra as the two good-for-nothing sons of a rich businessmen, always up to some fresh mischief till the time they fall into their own trap of cons and get stuck in serious trouble. Like Aankhen’s Govinda, Mehmood had a double role here. Watch the movie and you will realize that David Dhawan has stolen much more than just a story idea ; even the scenes where the youngsters woo the two friends/cousins heroines are similar. Or, is there some foreign source? Of the songs Muthukodi kawadi haya (Asha Bhonsle, Manna Dey) is very famous. But the most lipsmacking piece was Latadi’s Lelo sharaab laayi jhoom jhoom ke.
Do Jhoot – A not so famous seventies movie, starring Mausmi Chatterjee and once againVinod Mehra in another double digit titled movie. I recall the film due to its hit Shankar (Jaikishan) number Chhatri na khol ud jaayegi (Usha Mangeshkar, Kishore Kumar). There were few other good songs Do jhooth kahe ek sach ke liye (Lata Mangeshkar) and Beesvin sadi ki hoon (Lata and Usha Mangeshkar).
Do Anjaane – A super flop Amitabh Bachchan – Rekha film based on a Bengali short story written by Dr Nihar Ranjan Gupta. The plot had quite a few thrilling moments, keeping the viewers on the edge as to who the mysterious man is who has come to shake up Rekha’s life. Personally, I found the film pretty above average.
Do Jasoos – Admittedly, it was extremely embarrassing to see a grossly overweight Raj Kapoor go through some idiotic scenes in this comic thriller. Rajendra Kumar’s pitiable presence didn’t help either. As Karamchand Jasoos and Dharamchand Jasoos, the two came up with a sangam that viewer’s outrightly rejected!
Do Dilon Ki Dastaan – An eighties blooper starring Padmini Kolhapure and Sanjay Dutt, I vaguely recall seeing it. The song Humrahi mere humrahi hai jo tu mere sang toh darr kya(Lata Mangeshkar, Suresh Wadakar) is superb!
Do Aankhen Barah Haath – I’ll restrict to V.Shantaram’s classic on jail reforms than say anything on Govinda’s bullshit in the nineties. In the former version the cult prayer Ae maalik tere bande hum (Lata Mangeshkar) continues to haunt and hold music lover’s in its throes.
Do Gaz Zameen Ke Neeche – A Ramsay horror film that came at a time when they hadn’t still established themselves as the brand kings of B-grade spook flicks.
Do Bigha Zameen – A famous Bimal Roy film containing some superlative performances by Balraj Sahni.
Ek Phool Do Maali – Devendra Goel’s social starring Sadhna and Sanjay Khan is quite well known, especially for Ravi’s music. The film was typically sixties, with loads of melodrama and crying! [Thanks to Taarika for the tip]
Do Aur Do Paanch – An eighties entertainer starring the mega-star Amitabh Bachchan with trusted partner Shashi Kapoor and two beauties Hema Malini and Parveen Babi. The film had several light moments and its music is best known for the rapid-fire title song sung by elan by Kishore Kumar. [Thanks to Taarika for the tip]
And if you thought these were enough, take a look at this list Do Bhai (four films in various eras), Do Bahnein, Do Badmash, Do Chattane, Do Boond Paani, Do Dulhe, Do Aankhen, Do Aadmi, Do Auratein, Do Baatein, Do Bachhe Dus Haath, Do Yaar, Do Dost(same difference!) Do Dushman, Do Shatru (well, it had one Shatru, the Shotgun Sinha indeed!), Do Dil Diwane (is it some original for Ek Duuje Ke Liye, since it stars both Rati and Kamal Haasan?), Do Hawaldar, Do Dil, Do Musafir, Do Ustad, Do Shikari, Do Ladke Dono Kadke, Do Ladkiyan, Do Madari, Do Khiladi(and no, it didn’t star Akshay Kumar, it’s Vinod Mehra, yet again!), Do Premee (surprise surprise, the director is the famous Raj Khosla), Do Dishayein, Do Gulab, Do Quaidi(I think I ve seen this one), Do Sholay(gulp!shockingly the casting includes our Garam Dharam Paaji in this ‘sholay’ as well) and Do Fantoosh.
Related Readings – Recycled Titles
It is strange that in your comfort zone one tends to take for granted the sounds that emanate in the night. In Delhi, this I live very near a railway track; but till the time a staying guest points out, order I never realize the bursts of train rambling along at regular intervals. Honestly, buy more about how many of you have actually listened to the noise and sounds before slipping into the cushiony tenderness of sleep?
Despite a month of staying here, my sub-conscious has still not befriended the nocturnal acoustics of Kathmandu. Since I stay in a virtual greenhouse, surrounded with a lot of trees and shrubs, the rustle of the leaves is a consistent background score, joined in by insects shrills.
Before coming here many people (including my mother) had warned of snakes, and cautioned me against taking a ground floor residence; but as luck would have it, I could not find any suitable top floor one, so I ended up with this one, on the ground floor itself. Of course, with the population rising, and open spaces devoured up by concrete, the snakes have now retreated to some obscure corner of invisibility; but I do remember asking this question to the landlady, who replied with a loud guffaw that why Indians are so obsessed with snakes. Apparently, the tenant before me had similar fears. Perhaps it is the collective effect of all those ‘nagin’ films (despite knowing scientifically that snakes are deaf, I still went and lowered the volume while the ‘cobra dance’ came up in Bride and Prejudice), but yes, snakes do bother me; as do lizards, another of the most repulsive creatures of nature!
So, in the night, I often stay awake with my ears perked up, trying to listen to some odd slither or hiss. Luckily, till date, I have not come across any- visually or aurally. But, apart from the rustle of the leaves, I do take note of each small reverberation or sound- the dragging feet of a drunkard on the lane outside the back gate; the signature tune of a late night serial flowing out of some house; the clatter of utensils in another household; the laughter of the boys (the landlady’s sons) upstairs; a few far off animated throaty discussion over drinks; a car whizzing by; the landlady’s dog (unleashed only in the evening) doing a round of the house; another dog’s bark far away; a third dog’s howl ( it seems Kathmandu dogs start off a party every night); the tap dripping ominously in the kitchen; the squeak of the gate, off the driveway.
Let’s see how soon I assimilate all this in my subconscious system, and learn to ignore it, naturally. Perhaps, only then, can I say that I have finally ‘settled in’ here!
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When the landlady’s bitch (ok, buy she-dog) started barking again today afternoon, salve I had thought she was at her vocal best again; she often goes into a hyper-module even if she sees someone climbing an electric pole on the other end of the compound wall (apart from a variety of other inexplicable reasons). Generally, public health from a back room window, I stand and shout, and she is positively scared of me from there. In a normal course, immediately she would quieten and retreat to her kennel.
Today, it was different. It did not seem a normal bark of a bored canine. There was an urgency, a snappiness, a shortness. Peering out, I noticed her body was stretched like a tense bow, and her eyes were concentrated on the main gate. At first an irritaton swept me; barely a couple of minutes ago, I had walked in from the same gate. From a side window of the same room, I looked out towards the gate; the latch was securely tightened, as I had only done so before entering.
I walked to the kitchen, to have a closer look. And then, it came to me the reason for the dog’s behavior.
A snake was slithering its way out towards the gate that I had come in from. Shiny grey, and pretty long, the snake meandered in its creepy curls. The dazzling sunlight reflected off its smooth skin. Even though I was inside my house and far off from the creature, a shiver ran my spine. It still is running there, as I type this, and recall the sight of the reptile.
Remember some months back when I had written about my shifting process to Kathmandu, I had mentioned my overt fear about snakes in the post Nocturnal Sounds. Even if I see them on screen or photograph, I get petrified.
The snake moved out of the gate, through a hole in the carved design. My house is such that there is a long corridor, grassy, sandy and sort of unkempt, which needs to be crossed before reaching the main gate (on one side of this is a high rise wall, and the other end are a line of two houses; my house is at the end, where the corridor closes). The snake would have gone there, and goodness knows where from there. In the night, this stretch is extremely dark, without any lighting. Often, I have seen toads there, especially, when it is rainy and puddled. Toads are small precocious creatures; I can bear them. But snakes are a different story altogether. I will have to avoid or be extremely careful while coming in from the front gate during late hours. But there is another fear – what if it returns and decides to snuggle inside the compound itself, or, in the garden; and what if it manages to enter the house, though the chances seem to be slim as I do take care to keep all doors and windows closed (netted, at least), but the house is old, and the windows might not be all that secure. Shudder! Shudder!!
Just yesterday, when I had returned from my dinner out, the October post and the snake-issue had crossed my mind. My mother had warned me about them before I transferred here. While changing clothes, I had laughed off the fear. More than eight months, I told myself, there has been no sign of snakes, not even an unduly disturbing rustle anywhere. Today, I am proven wrong, and very badly, and it’s not some story heard from someplace. I see one with my eyes!
I am sure there would have been many other positive thoughts running in my mind last night. Wasn’t there anything more promising that God could have fullfilled?
Related Readings –Nocturnal Sounds
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When the landlady’s bitch (ok, buy she-dog) started barking again today afternoon, salve I had thought she was at her vocal best again; she often goes into a hyper-module even if she sees someone climbing an electric pole on the other end of the compound wall (apart from a variety of other inexplicable reasons). Generally, public health from a back room window, I stand and shout, and she is positively scared of me from there. In a normal course, immediately she would quieten and retreat to her kennel.
Today, it was different. It did not seem a normal bark of a bored canine. There was an urgency, a snappiness, a shortness. Peering out, I noticed her body was stretched like a tense bow, and her eyes were concentrated on the main gate. At first an irritaton swept me; barely a couple of minutes ago, I had walked in from the same gate. From a side window of the same room, I looked out towards the gate; the latch was securely tightened, as I had only done so before entering.
I walked to the kitchen, to have a closer look. And then, it came to me the reason for the dog’s behavior.
A snake was slithering its way out towards the gate that I had come in from. Shiny grey, and pretty long, the snake meandered in its creepy curls. The dazzling sunlight reflected off its smooth skin. Even though I was inside my house and far off from the creature, a shiver ran my spine. It still is running there, as I type this, and recall the sight of the reptile.
Remember some months back when I had written about my shifting process to Kathmandu, I had mentioned my overt fear about snakes in the post Nocturnal Sounds. Even if I see them on screen or photograph, I get petrified.
The snake moved out of the gate, through a hole in the carved design. My house is such that there is a long corridor, grassy, sandy and sort of unkempt, which needs to be crossed before reaching the main gate (on one side of this is a high rise wall, and the other end are a line of two houses; my house is at the end, where the corridor closes). The snake would have gone there, and goodness knows where from there. In the night, this stretch is extremely dark, without any lighting. Often, I have seen toads there, especially, when it is rainy and puddled. Toads are small precocious creatures; I can bear them. But snakes are a different story altogether. I will have to avoid or be extremely careful while coming in from the front gate during late hours. But there is another fear – what if it returns and decides to snuggle inside the compound itself, or, in the garden; and what if it manages to enter the house, though the chances seem to be slim as I do take care to keep all doors and windows closed (netted, at least), but the house is old, and the windows might not be all that secure. Shudder! Shudder!!
Just yesterday, when I had returned from my dinner out, the October post and the snake-issue had crossed my mind. My mother had warned me about them before I transferred here. While changing clothes, I had laughed off the fear. More than eight months, I told myself, there has been no sign of snakes, not even an unduly disturbing rustle anywhere. Today, I am proven wrong, and very badly, and it’s not some story heard from someplace. I see one with my eyes!
I am sure there would have been many other positive thoughts running in my mind last night. Wasn’t there anything more promising that God could have fullfilled?
Related Readings –Nocturnal Sounds
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Ghatasthapna
(From The Himalayan Times)
People have already started making the rounds of the markets to buy clothes, medications
food-stuff and puja materials in preparation for the upcoming festival. Houses have already been cleaned, ailment
decorated and painted for Dashain. Dashain commences with Ghatasthapna…On this day, approved
a priest or the head of the house places a kalasha – a sacred jar of holy water – in the prayer room where daily religious ceremonies are performed or in a purified area of the house pleading to Goddess Durga to bless the vessel with her presence.
The outside of the kalasha is decorated with designs made with cow dung. The dung is embedded with barley seeds. The placement of kalasha must be performed at a certain auspicious moment determined by astrologers. The kalasha, symbolic of Goddess Durga, is worshipped throughout Dashain.
In the soil specially prepared by mixing sand from a holy river ( Bagmati in Kathmandu ), barley seeds are planted on this day and shielded from light. By the tenth day, the seeds sprout. Elders put tika and give this sacred yellow jamara or barley sprouts on Vijaya Dashmi.
Ghatasthapna this year was on October 4th , 2005 and the auspicious hour was 9:51 am
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Never really largely used this space as an online diary, advice but today I just felt like penning a few things about the day; or rather, dosage felt like talking, so instead of being with a friend, or on YM, here I am blabbering some inane nonsensical mundane stuff; writing this online, hence please excuse the typos or spellings.
Before proceeding, another thought just erupted – I used to keep a diary many years back; the habit just petered out on its own with age; even recall ‘ordering’ my sister to do the needful when I joined hostel, so that I could come back and read about all that I missed. Well, let me not get into more memories, lest you run away- though, to think of this, the visitors seem to have dwindled here, if the comment box is anything to go by.
The sitemeter however has a different story to tell; and a rather pornographic one at that! Desperation is fine, but what can one say of people who scour the internet for ‘karva chauth breastfeeding’ ( hello, is that a new way of breaking fast, kya?), ‘diya mirza cleavage queen’ (splutter- what! That light thud you heard was Mallika Shehrawat fainting in disgust), ‘photos of Vijayata Pandit’ ( you need to update yourself buddy, and fast!), ‘photos of nude actresses in sarees’ (decide what you want, nude or saree), ‘sms messages on karwa chauth’ (get real my friend, and a bit creative also – living in UK is no excuse), ‘trailer of Veer Zaara‘ (huh, dude, watch the whole film na when it comes on Sony this month), ‘deep navel show’ (wanna swim there or what?) ‘Priya Rajvansh style dialogue delivery’ (is there a ‘style’ in being a piece of wood? Well, if you are planning to be an actor, forget it now itself!) ‘apartment or homes in mannat lands end’ (has SRK turned into real estate now?) ‘kimi katkar nipples’ (like another friend above, press ‘refresh’ on your life’s explorer) ‘bollywood nude nipples’ (speechless) and so on – but the best ever is reserved for some fellow searching for ‘Pooja Bhatt balls’!
Anyways, let’s leave these desperados aside. With this list now up, I can roll the red carpet for some more such pieces of intelligence coming my way in the next few days. Wonder what they feel after seeing the bulk of text on this site?
Now, if you have stayed till this point, and also wondered on the post’s title, let me explain – it has been raining heavily non-stop since yesterday. Though I doubt it would be anywhere close to Mumbai’s records ever, still it was strong enough for flights to be diverted – or rather, returned back. My boss was supposed to come today, his Indian Airlines flight was not allowed to land- Jet Airways (which comes some half-hour before IC) could land – and he was originally to come by that, but couldn’t as his Mumbai-Delhi sector flight got delayed. Sheer luck – good or bad is from whichever perspective you see it from.
Just for records, the post-heading comes from an awesome classical number by Lata Mangeshkar, composed by her talented but woefully underrated brother for a non-film album. I am not into classical music, don’t even understand it, but Lataji’s vocal gymnasts are jaw-dropping even from a layman’s point of view.
Nepal Telecom does not deliver bills – so everytime it’s a tedious trudge to Jwalakhel to get them; payments can be made at various banks as well, but then you have to know the amount first, so the various counters are pretty useless (you can get the bill amount of SMS, but I have forgotten the number).
Anyways, lest the phone get disconnected rudely during boss’s visit (it happened last time; I overshot my designated credit limit on it – yes they have that on post-paid accounts as well), and since the amount was due anyways, I hoodwinked procrastination, and went to pay. Plus, the overcast sky, the rains, the coolness, the mist wrapped mountains were incentive enough to step out.
All taxis in Kathmandu are equipped with a stereo system – it’s a different story about some of their quality, often making Udit Narayan sound like Usha Uthup with a bad throat (err, bad analogy, she always sings with a sore throat it seems!).
But this guy seemed to be more in-the-groove, and in more ways than one. The music was distinctly soothing, and when the male voice came on, I was all ears. Mohammad Rafi was crooning ‘Hum to chale pardes‘ – it is a kind of song that leaps out the speakers, punches your solar plexus and plants a rock solid lump in your throat. I looked out – we were passing the wide road in front of Singha Darbar (where the ministries are housed) and had stopped at the T-junction red light (to turn right towards Kathmandu’s twin city Lalitpur), the rain was slanting down, a fresh gust of wind rattled against the panes, an unusual silence descended heavily, the mountains looked converging – and yes, the eyes were wet, the lump was there – chhoota apna desh hum pardesi ho gaye ho…
Only a person away from his home or country can understand this song best!
Here FM regularly play old Hindi film songs; so once the last strains of Rafi’s breathtaking ‘Rama Ho‘ alaap ended, I was expecting the RJ’s voice. To my surprise, Lata Mangeshkar came on with ‘Dafli waale‘ – a slight hope just came up: could by any chance this taxi-walah be listening to Sargam‘s soundtrack? It seemed to, unless this was some sort of ‘Ek Hi Film Se’ programme on radio. It was not. The next song was Rafi’s ‘Mujhe mat roko mujhe gaane do‘ followed by Lata-Rafi’s ‘Koyal boli duniya doli’. Sargam was indeed one fine score by L-P – almost coming at the end of their golden phase, before they jumped to the ‘South’ bracket, where the difference between them and Bappi Lahiri was only that of ‘pots’ and ‘pans’ – ie, LP created noise with Indian instruments, Bappi manufactured cacophony on his electronic stuff.
Plus, for a film based on a mute girl’s life there were enough female songs (thank God for our Bollywood makers regularity to ‘dream’, even if they are out sync with the larger life ‘sequence’)
I sincerely wished for first time I be stuck in a jam, so that I could savor Laxmikant Pyarelal’s melodies.
Anyways, at NTC’s office’s ‘Billing Counter’ I came to know the bill had not been ‘generated’. Fair enough. Since I had come this far, I thought of in anycase paying ‘some advance’. At the payment counter, the lady informed me I owe them Rs 11861 – must have been my eyeballs that bulged out and dropped there in shock, for immediately she started to look down at the floor. But that couldn’t be, ‘coz I was pretty sure that my eyes were pretty much there staring – and no, she had not miraculously converted into some snake or such, though to me, the sting was no less!
I demanded a few clarifications – last month the bill amount was similar, could she be mistaking that; faster than Houdini could do any of his tricks, I pulled out the receipts. No, no, she explained patiently, your current month’s bill amount has been added.
Strange, very strange indeed! The billing counter that distributes bill says it’s not generated, but the payment counter informs it has been – I guess, they know their priorities correct – after all taking the moolah matters over just giving off a statement to a customer!
So be it- I paid and came out. There was still time for boss’s plane to arrive (which eventually didn’t – just in case you jumped from the first paragraph to this one in the hope of making some sensible comment without reading the bulk in-between), I decided to eat at Nanglo’s outlet next to NTC’s office. I like their food. But honestly, can they please change their mushroom pizza’s name to something for inviting than ‘Fungi Pizza!’
I had barely stepped out after eating, and was about to open my umbrella, when this large tempo (ok ok, tempos are always large, as large as they can be), whizzed by, skidding over the gargantuan puddle, and drowning me in a titanic wave of muddy water!
Cussing and shouting, I crossed the road, took a taxi home and waited for the non-arrival of my boss. Once it was confirmed that the plane would not come today ever (in any case, Indian pilots don’t fly Nepal’s mountainous sector during late/evening/dark hours- that is why all Indian flights are during daytime), I finished off pending work, mails and a couple of phone calls.
Generally, it’s dark by six these days; today, it was dark grey by five! I stepped out for a cup of hot tea at a nearby cafeteria. Anything that I ordered seemed to ‘have gotten over just now’; with no mood to cook, I was thinking of a heavy tea-cum-dinner.
The evening ended with some more music; it is nearly eleven now, feeling sleepy – and yes, it is still raining outside.
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After writing a piece on boredom, troche here was a week full of happenings, buy outings, and fun.
Fun, literally, as I happened to watch Masti– a whacko comedy about three married friends who decide to get naughty. Enter Lara Datta, the enchantress who lures them with her alluring beauty. However, beneath the charming face lies a blackmailing mind. So by the time the three harried men get the money (with some rib-tickling moments), the lady is found to be dead. The film is slapstick humor at its best with dollops of double entendres thrown in. I know the reviews of the film have been very harsh, but then these stupid critics should realise that they cannot judge each film with the same yardstick. Masti belongs to base humor, and at that, its a winner all the way.
Apart from this, we had our annual guests coming in to stay for a fortnight. Had a gala time with the young adults playing games like Scrabble, which had nearly vanished from my system or memory. I was surprised ( and happy ) to note that I could still think of some unusual words;but, since I was playing with these kids, I had to keep a dictionary in hand to convince them that a certain word actually exists.
Its amazing how time flies past in a whizz. It seems just yesterday when I had carried them in my arms as kids, now, they have even grown taller than me ( and I am no ‘ tingu’ in height). Both of them had just finished their gruelling board exams ( 12th and 10th respectively) and were in sheer relaxation mode. Though I missed their cherubic smiles, their company was good fun, especially the sessions of these games.
Due to their visitation, we were invited to a number of dinners. I knew I would forced to meet all sorts of relatives and cousins, who otherwise remain locked up in some invisible cupboard. Ah Delhi, I love you for just one thing- at least I can always make the excuse of time, distance, traffic rush and the extreme weathers to ward of their enquiries of not attending lots of functions and dinners and get-togethers. However, this time round I could find no valid excuse to give all of them a skip, so I visited two of them, and I must sheepishly admit, both turned out to be quite good and interesting. Of these, the first one was at an aunt’s place. The topic of the evening turned out to be a very lively and debatable one — the entire conversation of the evening centred around soothsayers, God and whether the predictions of astrologers are correct or not. As expected, no valid conclusion could emerge ( as the topic itself is very personal and each has his or her own beliefs) but the discussion was very animated. On top of it, my aunt is a great cook and the food there was simply sumptuous and delectable.
The second dinner, at my sister’s place, was more lively, with booze and an excellent variety of after-dinner liquers ( which my brother-in-law is evidently very proud of) . Since the spirits flowed there was a joyous bonhomie and lots of jokes passed the round, with the decibles high and the mood very upbeat. I was happy I attended. It is really no harm to meet your relatives once in a while, and I have vowed to do so from now onwards.
Apart from all this, I also had the joy of travelling through the Delhi Metro. It’s certainly the talk of the town these days, and for the right reasons. An automated station, ample space and clean air-conditioned environment makes for a pleasurable journey. Hope the authorities are able to keep the tidiness intact. And hope our uncouth Delhiites keep their vandalism in check. Because, Metro is definitely the mode of future transport once all the sections are constructed.
That sums up an exciting and lovely week.
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Four Bollywood films on adultery have suddenly got everyone noticing and talking about these ‘bold’ themes (three of them viz Hawas, mind Tum and Murder, doctor released back to back this year, order with the fourth one Jism hitting the marquee last January). Has our society abruptly become mature, or is it a sheer coincidence that our filmmakers have discovered the DVD of Unfaithful (the film that has ‘inspired’ the three recent films), is a question worth pondering over.
Even if the case is that of the latter, it is quite assuring to note that the filmmakers have had the guts to film a subject that has remained by and large taboo on-screen. The Bollywood makers have consistently shied away from showing this side of marriage and have safely stuck to ego-clashes (Abhiman, Raja Hindustani) or mundane arguments (Chalte Chalte, Saathiya).
Whenever any one has attempted to show adultery, it has always rounded off to a very tame and unexciting ending. I recall the instance of Silsila here- a very mature and subtle film in which both Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha are stuck in their respective ill-fated marriages. The entire film is a pathos-filled journey of their urge to break the chains loose, defy convention and ultimately breathe freely and happily. Alas, the director chickened out in the last reel. The entire graph that he had so painfully built is grounded abruptly in a contrived air-crash of Rekha’s husband, and the graph peters down faster than the sales figures of a defunct company. If ever there is an award of the Most Disappointing Climaxes, Silsila will take not only the cake, but the entire bakery. In another similar film Arth, the ending is more sensitively handled, but there also the woman is not shown going and living off happily with her lover. And if the woman is shown as doing something of this sort, the film makes it a point to dub her as ‘villain’ or ‘vamp’ (Remember Jism, Bipasha was also nominated under the Best Villain Category?) Why is their obsession with our filmmakers to portray the Indian lady in ‘politically and socially’ correct tones? Why could not Rekha or Shabana Azmi leave their respective love-less marriages and be shown living with their former lovers that they had to sacrifice at the altar of a suffocating societal bindings. Why should a Shilpa Shetty in Dhadkan be considered the epitome of virtue just because she accepts Akshay Kumar and shuns Suniel Shetty, just because the former has tied a mangalsutra and walked around the fire with her? So, from this fire to her pyre, she shall not think, feel or love.
Perhaps this has been a reflection of our society by and large. Even till this day, Indians are attuned to continuing a love-less marriage citing reasons from children to society to pure inertia. A divorce is still seen an aberration for ‘normal’ middle-class couples even in the metros and more upward cities like Delhi, what to say of small towns! For them, divorce, or adultery, is just the afflictions that visit the so-called high society or glamorous filmstars. ‘Healthy, normal’ couple do not divorce; they compromise and continue with life.
In this context I am reminded of a scene in Saawan Kumar’s Mother (otherwise, eminently forgettable but it had a very interesting anecdote). Randhir Kapoor is sitting with his friends and discussing his amorous meeting with an ex-girlfriend (Rekha) (after sending his legal wife to a round of beauty parlor), whom he boasts still pines for him and was still coercing him to get married. When the friends argue that he should do the same, he looks at them shockingly and proclaims with a mock-serious moral indignation “But, friends, I am a happily married man”
This, I believe, is a very standard situation in most marriages. The husband will continue to philander, the wife will carry on with the kitty parties and for them life will be ‘good and normal’.
But should the reverse happen, all hell breaks loose. So what is sauce for the goose is certainly murder for the gander. And the ‘hawas‘ication is left only for the woman, she cannot tum-tom about her sexuality – the man can do wrong and come back with any sob story or excuse (Pati Patni Aur Woh, Pati Patni aur Tawaif, Pati Parmeshwar, or more recently, Masti, where the heroes return to their ‘ghar ki daal’ after a ‘biryani‘ outing with a few sobs in the climax, etc etc)
Thankfully, times are changing, and changing fast! Cantankerous relationships are being snipped and divorce rates are up, at least so in the bigger towns. That is not to say that they are favored or looked upon with normal eyesight. But still, the numbers show that the trend is on the rise. Is this a reflection of a less tolerant society, or a more mature understanding and aware one, take your pick! The rising instances of divorce do not show that our society is less filled with love or tolerance. It merely reflects that we now have an option that was not there earlier. Sadly, statistics still show that adultery is more rampant than divorce, which just proves the strong hold the mangalsutra has on the psyche of Indian couples.
And I come back to the point where I started off- we now have had an overdose of films that speak of the woman’s needs and desires, but unfortunately, though the yoke has been lifted, it has not been completely overthrown. So, if though Meghna Naidu or Manisha Koirala will heave and pant in their lover’s beds, but as soon as the husband walks in, their guilt takes over to such an extent that they are ready to even take the blame of a murder on their heads, but their pati parmeshwar should not be harmed.
Once again, these films have not really achieved what they had started to argue upon and have left a lot of things unsaid. I still await a well directed film where the heroine is shown leaving her luck-less stupid marriage and living with her lover, without being labeled gumrah(there is an old Mala Sinha starrer by the same name too) or bewafa and without the justification of having a husband who is uncouth or callous (Daraar, Agnisakshi).
Once that happens, then only will our Bollywood have matured and given its due to the New Age Woman.
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It’s often said that there are four things that a man seldom forgets in life- his first job, view his first shave, site his first love and his first lovemaking experience. Although I shall skip the last two in this piece (because I am still too inhibited to really open up on such private matters so candidly), I would definitely love to share my experience on the first two.
My first shave was on technically the last day of the school- it was our farewell party. To state the obvious, leaving school is, for any one of that age, full of mixed emotions- there is excitement as one is crossing an important threshold of life, there is an apprehension as deep as that of Christopher Columbus because the future is suddenly a vast unexplored territory; there is sorrow, for all the friends of yore are going to part and walk different paths; and of course, ironically and paradoxically, there is the immense joy of leaving behind set norms of class timings and uniforms and stern teachers. Amidst this pot-pouri of feelings I ventured my first shave.
Excitedly, I took down my father’s shaving cup, his brush, and even his razor. A gleaming new blade winked back at me in the dull mid-spring afternoon. I placed it carefully onto the razor (more than a decade back the fancy Sensor-Excels of today were not available) and proceeded to lather my soft down of hair with a sweet smelling cream from Old Spice. The brush glided over my smooth skin with finesse as the foamy whiteness smothered the face. How many minutes, I asked dad, a little apologetically. Just do it till the stubble is fully covered in the lather, he replied, a little too casually, for my thumping heart.
Then, came the time the glistening iron to touch my skin. At first it just glided down, and I could feel the thrill akin to a motorbike racer speeding down with razor-sharp perfection. And the time came for this steel rod to give me my first prick. I had not realized or imagined that the thing that was so smoothly racing down my cheek was actually sharp, and very soon, a thin red line shone over the white foam. I was taken aback. But continued with renewed fervor.
By the time I ended the first round, I had several nicks, and since I had applied a bit too much of pressure, the skin was rash-red. I looked aghast at myself in the mirror…how will I ever go to the party with this redness and madness advertising itself fortissimo over my visage!!!
I cleaned up my act with the towel, but the red lines persisted, and popped up on my face map much like the talk another line that crops up at any Indo-Pak talk. Washing my face turned out to be another ordeal, as the cruel water just gorged on the cuts, a terrorizing monster straight out of some Stephen King novel devouring on the red juice that was still oozing out. Big mistake, my father reprimanded…apply the after-shave or Dettol. And I did both, with results that had me prancing up and down the room hissing like a madcap snake.
The face was hot and red, as if I had got some tight slaps. Thankfully, I had decided to wear a reddish-colored shirt, my face make-up complemented it perfectly.
That was my first shave experience- painful, and pungent. And after that I did not pick up the razor till the time college started.
The first day at the job, and the entailing week, was a little less exciting, but nevertheless memorable!
A tin manufacturing company had lapped us up from our campus itself …us, meant three other classmates of mine. It was the third of April, exactly 9 years back. I was not allowed my own conveyance till then, so had to trudge to the office after changing two buses, with the last one leaving me helplessly a kilometer back. The factory was in the Sahibabad Industrial Area of Gaziabad. We were met by the manager, our boss, and taken for induction, which included a tour of the entire works, the various departments and what nots detailing each aspect about tin box manufacturing- the kind that you see Amul Cheese and Farex stored in.
However, after that one-week, we were suddenly thrown into a irrepressible vortex of duties and sales charts and targets and graphs and clients and orders. The biggest thrill of that time however was the first day I signed an official letter to a client. I was so pleased and proud of myself that I practiced my signatures ten times before signing the final draft. Further, I checked and rechecked the same, and kept looking at the file Photostat copy of the same the entire day- the signature looked even more beautiful in the copy. And the letter? Oh, it was a routine one telling a client that we had received his samples!!
At that time, I was so petrified about making mistakes, that I always ended up making more than a normal routine. I still recall the dread at which I used to go to my boss’ cabin. Once, he offered a lift ( since my residence was on his way only, I realized with my utmost horror)- that was the worst journey of my life.
At another time, I was sent to Calcutta for a tour to meet potential and existing clientele. I was so taken up by this fact, that I reached the station a day earlier- the train was traveling from Jammu to Calcutta, and I had read the date of its actual start journey, not realizing that it will reach Delhi only the next day- a date that the irresponsible Railways ticket had mentioned in some other obscure column. Since I had already informed all the clients and my boss here of my departure, I did the next best thing that I could. I got on the train that very day, traveled in third class, without seat or berth, sharing a small space with a young child, whose mother was magnanimous enough to allow me that constrained area.
On reaching Calcutta, I got my original ticket cancelled, pocketed the money and on my return claimed the entire amount back again from the company!!
But that is not to say the Calcutta tour was bad. Not as much as this part, because, I also had to travel to Siliguri and to the adjoining hill-lands of Bhutan also. That was surely fun. Siliguri is beautiful, green and just on the foot of the Himalayas. Bhutan was hilly, and since I love mountains, I adored the view and the lush vales and dales.
Although I did not stay for more than four months here, I still to fondly cherish a few other memories of this job-
– the daily lunch of watery daal with my friends at the factory canteen
– the after lunch stroll on the quiet, dusty roads of the industrial area
– the giggles and jokes that we had at the expense of our seniors; it was almost like being in college
– a delightful Gujarat tour
– the bus journeys every morning at seven- Delhi is so quiet and clean and peaceful at that time ( at least it was nine years back!)
– the ‘bunking’ of office hours on pretext of sales call
– the fun in learning and handling computers for the first time
– the thrill of sending official communication
– the happiness of finally achieving my sales target
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It is amazing and surprising how a smell, approved a sound, an incident, or a person can bring back so many memories, like an over-burgeoning river breaking all dams in its innate fury and force. Recently, KJ (a fellow-blogger) had written a wonderful piece on this, perhaps slightly in a different context, but the sub-text remains the same.
In school we had these innumerable ‘boon or bane’ essays to be written (remember, “Is television a boon or bane” etc). Today, I am almost tempted to make a similar attempt at defining whether memories are good or bad for human beings… with arguments for the both sides already sharpening their wits and swords to slaughter each other’s logic down. But I shall refrain from doing any such analysis because, memories, whether rotten or rosy, are part of man’s inherent nature; and my arguing, or wasting precious ink (or let’s say, cyber space) will not solve any matter.
What I however want to emphasize on is that some reminisces often whip up a completely different emotion as to what the actual incident was. It all depends on what frame of mind we currently are in to remember those days.
Yesterday, while going to a marriage function, I had ironed my shirt myself. Inadvertently, I left the iron on, and only came to know of this once we returned after some three hours or so. This simple incident brought back huge memories of another era, another time. Years back, my father was posted in Aden (then, the capital of the erstwhile South Yemen). With no iron-man (or dhobi) available, we had to iron our clothes ourselves, and the chore invariably got divided between my sister (then unmarried) and myself, with each of us trying to shirk off this obnoxious duty, and coming up with the most fecund excuses.
Also, at that time, being a part of a small Indian community, we were invited to a lot of parties, especially when I used to go there on annual vacations. More often than not, we used to re-iron our clothes before going to the party, or dinner (a habit that continues with me still). And, it was a very irritating habit of both of us to remember of not having taken off the iron’s switch much after we had left the house…and even if we had, there was always the iota of doubt remaining, and more often than not, we would turn back some couple of kilometers to have it checked. Of course, our parents used to give us long lectures…about how unsafe it can be so, only to drill some sense of responsibility in both us siblings. Today, after so many years (almost two decades), I realize nothing burns except the pocket by leaving the iron on (and that too, because, the iron gobbles up electricity units with an appetite akin to Godzilla, and in an electricity-starved city like Delhi, numbers do matter!)
Yesterday’s mistake brought back all those arguments between my sister and myself in the back seat of the car, blaming each other for not checking the switch properly, or as to who was the last one to have used the machine. It brought to my lips a small half-wistful smile. Alas, those fun-filled days can never return ever!
Aden also brought back some more memories. In 1985, there was a civil war. I do not remember now which factions were fighting and for what gain…but I do recall that one fine January morning, we saw tanks walking past our house, with full artillery on display. By that evening, we had bullets showering into our house, much like the monsoons of India dripping into the weakening ceilings. Our father was away some eight kilometers away in his house. For the next thirteen days, we did not see him, and we had to be holed up in the basement with a large battery of Yemeni families, as the situation worsened. Those days were tough, exacerbated by the fact that we did not know how and when the fight will end up, and also that our father was away in office with some petrol tanks leaked up on the way.
Those petrifying thirteen days of war were terrible, and very strenuous for all of us. Yet, after two decades, when the iron-incident, brought this memory back also, I was not scared or unhappy or angry or shaken up. I continued to smile, and tried to recall each of those 13 days in detail…and a lot of time passed in that, and I felt happy after reliving that time.
Yes, it was an experience, even though tough, but still something that I could think of, something that I could look back upon.
I guess it’s these memories (and the thoughts I think) that make me a unique man that I am.
In Mann (another forgettable flick with a couple of interesting scenes), a young Manisha Koirala remarks to an old Sharmila Tagore that the place where the latter lives is beautiful, and even wants to stay back. Sharmila Tagore admonishes Manisha for doing so. Her argument: This place is beautiful, because there are Sharmila’s (and her late husband’s) recollections attached to it. It’s a good place to sit back and enjoy those memories. But Manisha, has yet to make her memories. So, once she does so, she can create her own Eden.
Like the young girl in the film, we all have to make our memories, our own beautiful memoirs, and that will make us a complete individual.
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Apart from the much talked about theme of adultery; another subject that is surreptitiously overtaking our cinema is that of the cops. Manufactured from different strata of filmmaking we have already viewed three films on this subject- Khakee, ed Ab Tak Chhappan and Gangaajal. And, medicine a quick glance at the forthcoming roster of films reveals that there are some more in the offing that will color the silver screen khakee very soon (Dev, Aan, Police Force and Garv to name a few).
If we analyze the number of films where there have been cops (not even as a leading actor), the films have only rubbed in the fact the cops are bad, and they should be avoided. So much so, there is a general dread of the cops in the general public.
Many top cops have argued that the films have always shown the profession in bad light. Whether art imitates life or life imitates art, is something that has not been proven ever. I do not think that films can be such an influence as to have such a deep impact nationally on the collective awareness of the common man. If the man in khakhi is shown as a rogue more often than not, then I am sorry, the police have themselves to blame for it. After all, if we pick up the newspapers, we do read more about their devilry than their dare-devilry; we witness more of their vanity than valor; we are subject to more of their salaciousness than sagacity. Invariably, in any crisis situation, it is the army that is called for, leaving the effectiveness of the police force again a question mark in the minds of the hoi polloi. Hence to this effect, the art is showing life in its full replesendent reflection. (In the recently released Zameen, Abhishek Bachhcan, the cop, is merely an accessory to Ajay Devgan, the army man, who plots and masterminds the entire operation to deal with plane hijackers).
Also, very strangely, this is one field that has thrown up very few eminent personalities. We all can glibly recite the names of great writers, well-known economists, distinguished army officers and renowned lawyers. But cops…well, apart from K P S Gill and Kiran Bedi the tongue gets invariably stuck. With a police force running into several thousands, it’s astonishing that we have such small number of prominent policemen. If this is an indication of the ills that surround this ilk, then, the numbers of films are definitely justified.
However and whatever the grammar of narration, our films, despite the overwhelming presence of these men in uniform, have often viewed the profession with a parochial paradigm of standard stereotypes: if it’s the hero playing the cop, then he would be moral and upright and will definitely get bogged down by the ‘system’ (bureaucracy, politicians et al) (Ardh Satya, Khakee, Police Officer, to name just a few hit ones); If it’s the villain playing the cop, then, well, he will be the blackest of rogue to ever live (do I even have to give an example here?); if it’s the comedian, then he would be the buffoon of the first order, without any sense of duty or direction ( again, do I have to list out examples of these films?)! And if nothing else, then they are a bunch of extras that turn up in the denouement, sirens shrieking, lights blazing just when the hero has finished up his job of cleaning the villainous filth.
In general, our films have never actually delineated any profession in detail; most often, we would not even get the basic idea of what the hero does for a living- at the most, we will get a view of him sitting in front of a computer and pumping furiously into the keyboard without any semblance of coherence anywhere or witness him entering the office with a deluge of employees throwing stiff salutations. What line of business? Er, sorry, the director does not care!
In this context, surprisingly, the police force has found a lot of interest by our filmmakers. Yet, only a handful of films have actually done justice to this very noble yet thankless profession. Most of the time, the hero would be a police officer for the sake of revenge for his mother/father/sister; in others, he would be the means to show the political grunge of the country/state.
Barring an odd Ardh Satya (to an extent) or Ab Tak Chhappan (very recently), no film has actually delved into the psyche of a film maker, to analyze what he might be going through- a job where you daily have to meet the utter junk of society (sometimes the deepest grime of crime), with a pay scale that is paltry, there would be immense frustrations, and insecurities and fears. But on this, there is a deafening silence from our filmmakers- more so, in the commercial film strapping. At this juncture, the only film that I recall is Satyamev Jayate, which did try to crack open a policeman’s hardened brain. Otherwise, all that we have had are the innumerable Zanjeers or Deewars or Shahenshahs or Pathar Ke Phools or Auzaars or Vardis- where the main motive was always personal vendetta or corruption, and nothing beyond that, except for a few stray songs with the heroine.
Leave alone, the psyche and all, its perhaps asking for a bit too much from Bollywood, what has always crossed my mind, that cannot the hero be shown as a police officer, and show him do his job, just like any other, without his father being killed or his sister being raped, just because he is a policeman!
A policeman also solves crimes. Again, this facet has been totally ignored by the collective fraternity of film producers. Perhaps, because murder mysteries do not convert to repeat value (hence, resulting in low revenues), our filmmakers have constantly shied away from making honest and true-to-life mysteries where the cop solves the problem without getting bogged by the system or the hero raping his sister! A recent exception was the well-made Samay, and, earlier, to a small extent Police Public (but there too, there was talk of corrupt system, duty and all that crap) But such films is more exception, than rule. The rest just stick to the standard pattern with alarming regularity.
But unfortunately, all that the films do is depict the problems, and alleviate the symptoms, but do nothing to address this complex theme. Perhaps, our films and their structure are not equipped enough to deal with this complex issue. If that is the case, maybe Bollywood should curb the prolificacy of such films.
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