Dhobi Ghat: an amateur's mini-review

A pretentious attempt at realistic cinema by a novice who made even Aamir Khan stink. Cinematic collage got a new nadir while Aamir's dialogue delivery is best left undiscussed. Monica Dogra is a breath of fresh air with her innocent yet sultry avatar. Prateik, although underutilized, impresses for a newbie.

The start is unreasonably dreary and the plot never really picks up. There is no story - we have no qualms about it - but the details are conspicuously missing from a movie that would want to go down as a collage. The dullest plot - that of Yasmeen - makes the viewer feel cheated when he gets to know that the entire melo has been for nothing. Actually, only when the 'secret' is revealed does Aamir radiate sheer brilliance: the eyes doing it the good old AK way.

Camera angles are weird but impressive - sometimes giving the feel of a documentary. There are minor patches of sheer excellence which is the least you expect from an Aamir Khan Productions' baby. Background score - or the lack of it in the most part - fits stunningly seamlessly with the theme despite the use of unfamiliar instruments.

All in all, probably an experimental blot on the production house that boasts of some real gems. But then, anything for the missus.

And cricket it is.

It's been exactly a month. Many topics floated across the mind. None actually made me sit and take notice. Till today, that is. Finally, it's the first love of my life that made me blog again: cricket. It's a wonderful feeling, this.

--

Last month has been more exciting than ever. On a personal front, I have never been happier. I took one of the most important steps one could ever take in life. And I'm proud of it. The schedule of the last term seems to have been struck by a meteor. There are more blank spaces than those on Dada's paycheck. Batchmates are getting 'placed' in hordes in the biggest corporate giants. Bollywood finally seems to be finding it's feet at original dark comedy exemplified superbly by 'Phas Gaye Re Obama' and 'Mirch'. Test cricket has regained it's superiority through two nailbiting tournaments: one leading to the most dramatic African tour of the men in blue and the other making a mockery of the Aussie supremacy leaving them in 'ashes'. And God is the peak of form at what seemed like the fag end of a magnificent career.

The ongoing LOIs have been exceptionally nostalgic as well. I seem to have opened the doors the 1999 WC semis, 1996 Titan Cup finals, or for that matter, the 1994 Hero Cup semis. Chokers are back in action. Probably the best Protean side ever is being really incapable of holding onto the nerves when it matters the most.

Today was an exception, though. They didn't choke. It was the might of the Indian batting line up. Those well judged shots disguised as miscues and inside edges took them by a storm. Harbhajan Singh, the cleanest slogger of the cricket ball this world has ever seen, selected shots as accurately as ever. Zaheer Khan seemed like swinging his mace - and missing everytime - at everything that was hurled at him while he was actually leaving the dangerous ones alone, baseball can take a leak. Ashish Nehra - with looks that petrify the opposition - flexed his well toned muscles defending every overpitched delivery with the watchmaker's precision. And the winning shot: what a beauty!

It was our game from the start. We just gave them suckers a little heads up through the worryingly frequent top order collapse. The Proteas didn't leave any stone unturned either. The fielding was A-class, dropping more catches than the number of times Carol Gracias has dropped her dignity. The master strategist Smith's ingenious plan of finishing off Steyn was a masterstroke as well. Botha was just the pace that could drive the tail-enders to their graves.

All's well that ends well. We are leading 2-1. And I've rediscovered my passion for DD National, if it ever existed. I bow to thy blatant disregard towards commercialization, Prasar Bharti. At least more cricketers are seen on the field than off it on advertisements during the telecast! And I could actually watch the first delivery of every over!

She

A romantic January night. Cool breeze from the window. Dim lights and some soft Elvis number pouring out of the speakers. I saw her for the first time. She was just perfect. Flawless. Awesome. I wasn't expecting her, like, at all. She was way out of my league.

I had fantasized about her in times of loneliness and despair. Lust knew no bounds. And I wasn't even ashamed. If only I could have her just one time! And here she was. Mine. All mine. The very sight of her gave me goosebumps. It was surreal: beyond all limits of conceivable thought.

But destiny had it's own plans. We soon had our differences and the damage was beyond repair. It wasn’t like she went out of my life. I bumped into her time and again in the arms of others, often being shared by multiple partners. It was painful. I even began questioning her character. Having no hopes of finding her back, I succumbed to anonymous mediocrity.

She was the first A I got in XLRI way back in Marketing 2. Eleven months and three trimesters down the line, I had her again. (And again, today! :D)

--

Okay, I'm doing this for the first time. A little newbie to Indiblogger, I'm finding my way around. Promote this post on Indivine by clicking here.

Why MBA?

Type a 'why' on Google and the first suggestion that it throws up is 'Why MBA'. If you've landed here through Google search, I pity you. Please do not be under any illusions of enlightenment. Leave.

People all across the country, even Sri-sri-ek-hazaar-aath Arindam Chaudhuri, have torn their hair apart only to find themselves more confused every time. Some versions of Ramayana narrate the sleepless nights Rama spent in the endless pursuit. Even some great saints have been known to observe extreme penance to find the Ultimate Answer.

I still puke at the sight of brown newspapers. I still can't figure out the head or tail of an annual report. I still think that market research and statistics are buckets of shit. I still don't know how a stock market works.

But it's not been for nothing:

• I can define 'core competency' without falling down laughing
• I reply to 'What's Up' using a SWOT Analysis
• Requests for financial aids to parents are referred to as IPOs
• I ask my four-year old niece what the 'mission statement' in her life is
• I advise friends to lend some semblance of 'sustainability' to their relationships
• I talk to my girl about our future in terms of all the 'value' we can 'co-create'
• There are never less than six tabs on my browser
• 'Ctrl' is the most pressed button on my keyboard
• 'Reply to all' is my default action on reading a mail
• I make daily diary entries in MS Power Point

But the biggest 'value-add' to my life till now has been the mastery over GASing. For the uninitiated, GAS expands to Global Action Strategy. It refers to the art of blabbering/typing absolutely fucked up bullshit to a captive audience.

It usually starts with an epiphany - "Damn. I do not know jack about this" - usually followed by a quick reference to The Handbook Of Versatile MBA Jargon starring the likes of 'value', 'sustainability', 'strategy', 'organisational', 'leadership', 'hierarchy' and 'culture'. And then starts the quest for the Holy Grail: Frameworks!

Frameworks have been the most crucial inventions to mankind since sliced bread, wheels and condoms. For starters, these are lethally effective weapons of gas construction sired by jobless academicians and money-laundering consultants available to the rest of the world in hour of need/greed. The best of lot, my personal favourite is called a "Two-By-Two Matrix". TBTM is a motherfuckin' gem that swears to generalize even the most specific phenomena on earth. No person, animal or thing has ever been able to escape it's venom.

So, why MBA? The closest-to-acceptable answers are fat pay cheques and networking. If grades are any indicator of the cheque's flab, mine is bound to be severely malnutritioned. And networking, tch. My scorecard on this front shows all red. 553 days into the hallowed portals, I'm still as clueless as Manmohan Singh!

Here's FedEx take on the evil.

The Grand Old Sleeper of India

The good old times were so bloody different. Or probably, it was the ignorance-induced-indifference of my age. Whatever be the reason, the sleeper coaches never used to bother me. They were taken for granted on a family trip. Travelling in air conditioned compartments used to be considered extravagance of the highest vulgarity.

22 hours in the sleeper coach of Purushottam Express brought back everything. It was a kaleidoscope of all the possible colors, dialects and cultures. The toilets stank. Males ogled blatantly at the plateaus of female anatomy. Discussions ranged from instantaneously solving political quagmires to making roadmap of the Indian cricket team to the WC. Hawkers sold spurious packaged drinking water with impunity. Some destitute-turned-junkie swept the entire coach with his shirt – that he would still wear after the exercise – for quick change and some glue to sniff. Ticket examiners made moolah at the expense of the employer. And everyone seemed to flash their ‘chai-neej’ phones squirting the latest Bollywood chartbusters that superimposed with one another making me beg the Lord to enlighten them about earplugs!

Today, I’m one friggin snob. Today I cringe in disgust. Today I travel AC.

Today, I travel with the crowd that throws huge words like ‘civic sense’ and ‘etiquette’ in a split second. The crowd that changes colors like a chameleon. The crowd that does “upar neeche” with the TTE without the slightest of hesitations. The crowd that uses the choicest expletives once it gets out of the coach. The crowd that thinks the world is it’s dustbin. The crowd that contributes more than it’s fair share to the smelly heap of garbage next door. The crowd that knows just one game: that of blame.

Will the buck ever stop? Will Musaddi Lal ever come out of the lazy reluctance bred by the ‘Chalta Hai’ attitude? Will we ever start using dustbins, however scarce they might be? Will we stop promoting beggary by offering them food instead of hard cash? Will the stranglehold on spurious water bottles ever tighten? Will the TTE’s wings ever be clipped? WILL PEOPLE EVER START USING EARPLUGS?

P.S. I’m totally convinced that the education system in UP sucks. This is Ishika (niece)’s take on English:

…C-A-T cat, D-O-G dog, E-O-G elephant…

Some Text, One Video and Six Images

There's this asshole of a Surd (link) whom I usually approach whenever in a dilemma and always regret thereafter. Having decided to participate in a national-level video-making competition (organised by 9XM) just one hour before the deadline,I went to the same chimp. We procrastinated for twenty minutes: better known in B-school circuit as brainstorming. Basically, all we could come up with was the fact that we could not come up with anything on such strict timelines. Meh. So, we gathered other equally-worthy-assholes-in-their-own-right and made this. Voi-fuckin-la.

They didn't shortlist us. :| [Die, motherfuckers, die!]

On the other leg, this series of six print ads that I made for Axe Deodorants in straight 60 minutes did get a shortlist. Yay.

Pissed Off

Well, I've been off blogosphere for a full month now! This very place once used to be my escape-route to a non-artificial world. Not only did it serve as a vent to all the shit inside, it also made me connect to some really awesome writers (and persons). Sorry, folks for not keeping in touch, like, absolutely.

Reason 1: Absolute inability to express anymore. Or, something like it! I've tried and tried some more. But there are no shapes, there are no figures and there are no fuckin expressions. Blogger's block, probably, if such a creature exists.

Reason 2: MBA. But that's no news. I have been suffering from this goddamned disease for 525 days now and I should have gotten used to it. But I haven't. Actually, things are in the worst probable shape ever. I want out and I want it now. I'm mighty pissed off with everything associated with this fuckin plague and that makes the mood ever-irritable.

Reason 3. MBA, again. I have lately been swamped with work. Lots.

Reason 4. Sticksports.com. I just want the motherfucker who coded this shit called Stick Cricket to get ants in his ass. Alternatively, the site can be brought down. When there's no work, I play the absolutely addictive flash game, like, all the time.

Not much has happened in life in this last month. Well yeah, Facebook happened. I finally took the plunge and am sorry I did so. For all I know, this new fad has turned everyone into a crybaby vying for attention through 'like's and comments. More on that later, sometime, probably, in the near future, if at all.

Well, that's all. Also, Indi-fuckin-blogger, all of a sudden, thinks that my blog stinks (the ratings have fallen from 80 to 65 during the month I was inactive).

Ma!

The way you start trying to wake me up: fingers in my hair.

The way you seem like you will never give up.

The way you finally give up, with the blanket in air and a slap on my back.

The way you make my favourite breakfast daily: omelettes.

They way you abhor eggs and cannot stand the smell.

The way you never complain.

The way you're addicted to your saas-bahu sagas, fultoo updated with all the plots.

The way you never understand cricket, however much I try.

The way we watch the game together when I'm home.

The way you never like my haircuts, my sideburns or my goatee.

The way you never understand the concept of low-waist jeans.

The way you always think I'm the cutest kid on the planet.

The way you always try to teach me manners and make me look like I belong to the same species. The way you always think I've lost weight when I come home, including the time when I had gained a good 7kgs.

The way you always pulled the purse's strings when Dad tried his best to spoil me. How I hated you then! The way you explained to me the perils of smoking when He told his cigarette tales from college. The way you never let us know till things got better again that the family income was zero for three years. The way you never needed anything for yourself. The way you never took sides when we fought and taught me how to face the bullies (read: sisters). The way you always let me have the best coffee mug. The way you always cut me the biggest slice of the cake.

The way you accepted the fact that getting into fights is my way of life. The way you always chided me when the teacher complained of yet another "kaarnaama" at school and then lovingly explained the way things should be.

The way you pretended that you didn't notice that empty bottle of beer in my room that day.

The way you realize my handicap at expressing my gratitude/love/respect to anyone orally. The way you never expect me to greet you on the phone and still bless me everytime.

I've never told this to you and I probably never will: I love you, Ma!

--

It was her birthday yesterday. As always (literally, always), I forgot about it till 1pm.

Plan: Sleep till 2. Go to eat at 2. Go to class at 2.30. Get a gift for her at 4. Leave for home at 4.30.

Action: I overslept and woke up at 6. Couldn't even go home.

Biggest loser ever!

Bunking Chandra Chatterjee

Let's name this prof X and this course Y.

I had volunteered for providing my services for counselling twelfth grade students as a part of the ongoing "Joy Of Giving Week". The schedule happened to clash with Lecture 1 of Y. Now I couldn't let the organising team down by not turning up at the last moment. So, I decided to give the lecture a miss. I pushed the electric-start button at 8.55 am and accelerated. There he was, Sir X, on his way to the lecture hall. Evidently, I had 'bunked' the introductory session and was caught bike-handed by none other than the professor. Dumbfounded, I greeted him and he returned a wicked smile.

Lecture 2. Sir X enters the lecture hall and scans the student area.

Sir X: "I hope attendance is not required today. Everyone seems present."

(Giving me a mean look:) "Oh, you're present! Everyone is here then."

I died in embarassment.

Two days later. We were forced to bunk the Lecture 3 to submit a business plan on time whose deadline, awesomely, co-incided with the lecture. Not having slept for 36 hours, we decided to treat ourselves with the legendary Bauaji-tea. As fate would have it, Baua-ji wasn't open and we came back. While I parked the bike, there he was, Sir X, returning from the lecture. I was caught again, bike-handed. Dumbfounded, I greeted him to a no-response.

Lecture 4. Having a lot of assignments the previous night, I had not been able to read the case study scheduled for discussion.

Sir X: "So, what is the dilemma in this case? Varun, why don't you try?"

Clue-fuckin-less, I turned the pages of the thirty-page case study, hoping for a miracle.

"What is the dilemma? Is it a bird, an animal, what is it?" I stared blankly, biting my lower lip.

"Have your read the case?" I shook my head.

"So you want a break? To read the case and come back? You want what: 10, 30 minutes? You want me to stop the class so that you can read it and enlighten us?"

I died in embarassment.

Lecture 5. I was feeling really proud of myself. Not only had I read the case study, I had also read the scheduled 16-page reading. There was no way in this world could I be raped this time. Bring it on.

"So, who all have read the reading?"

Sniffing an air of arrogance, I raised my hand: only to find that mine was the only one above the sea-level.

"Oh, for a change, Varun has read it."

Chuckles back to himself and repeats, "Today, for a change, Varun has done the reading!!!"

I died in embarassment, yet again!!!

P.S. A few minutes later while discussing the purchase behaviour for a bike, Sir X asked if anyone had recently got a bike for himself. Yours truly raised the fabled hand. Sir X dealt a crushing blow again.

"Oh yes, I have seen your bike."

Damn, this tiny XL campus!

My God in Ayodhya

Sep30 2010. Today's the verdict. Well, not the final one. But, it's got to be a milestone. The saffrons are there. The greensas well. Will they embrace white and thus complete the Tricolour regardless of the verdict or will they paint the land red? Time will tell, like it has always done in BR Chopra's Mahabharat.

In the meanwhile, what does that man have to say who, in all this hullabaloo around him, has ironically been pushed to the sidelines? He's called by various names. He's Rama, whose place of birth is as contentious as Lindsay Lohan's life. He's Rahim, whose dream of a blemish-free religion has been mercilessly stoned to death.

Probably this is what my God wants to scream out.

dafna do mujhe

chaurahe pe

kabr khod do meri

ya jalaa do

kuch sookhi lakdiyon ke saath

maar to tumne

kal hi diya tha

cheekha tha bahot

pehle

koshishein ki thi

samjhane ki

manaane ki

bataane ki

tum nahi samjhe

koi nahi samjha

ungliyan uthi

uthti rahi

bas

ab numaish mat karo

meri

mere nange jism ki

rooh toh rahi nahi

bahot pehle hi

chhod gayi

sikudi

simti

le jaao mujhe

daal aao kahin

apni is duniya se door

bahot door

waise bhi tumhari is duniya mein rakha kya hai??