Dislocated Obscurity

Dinner Decisions

2011-10-30T07:04:00.007+05:30

Buses in London are an interesting experience. Once I got over their punctuality and efficiency and the subsequent yet obvious comparison with the buses in Delhi, I started to notice other things. Like the number of languages I heard at once. Of course, buses in Delhi were a sea of languages as well, but London is understandably far more international and hence a little more appealing.   

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t love buses here because they are red and their seats are an engaging pattern of blue and green, but because they allow me to mentally participate in a number of conversations even if I don’t follow a particular language. Since the buses here are never as crowded as the ones back home, I usually find more room to observe people and their interactions in person or over the phone, in different languages and various situations. It’s as if I am taking pictures for a project on languages that I don’t understand. There is something satisfyingly universal about non-verbal communication and the way it adds and conveys emotion to the receiver. I can now tell how people from various communities exchange ideas of intimacy or pleasure in a public setting, or how the pitch of their speech evolves during a conversation. It keeps me busy especially if I am not carrying a book to read or my earphones blasting The National.  

The last sentence there was an attempt to establish that I am not always such a creep in buses.

Anyway, nothing beats finding yourself around a conversation in English around you though. People acknowledge, smile and carry on, even if they notice how uncomfortable you are. It’s not their fault they are loud, after all. You just have to suck it up and pretend to be elsewhere while you can hear everything. That’s just how the world functions and anyway, who told you to not carry your iPod?

This evening was reminiscent of many chats I had with my mother, sitting in a bus by the window, as the customary instruction to be in bed by a certain time came along. I was thirteen years old, after all. The parents were to continue their evening with friends over drinks. This is perhaps the reason I knew the relevance of alcohol in social settings but never got around to holding a drink and nodding along with those people sitting in our house. I used to be frustrated and jealous. It seemed to be something that adults did and I just had to wait to be one.

I was reminded of this curious feeling this evening thanks to a little girl talking to her mother, who sat there visibly exhausted and helpless. The daughter had been insisting that she would like to have a drink at dinner. In a few minutes five people around me were giggling and nodding their heads in approval as the mother read from her copy of Appropriate Dinner Table Behaviour For Kids. It was rather straightforward and did not please the daughter. At all. All of you hold your wine glasses so why do I have to use my pink water tumbler instead? This is not fair.

Not fair indeed. I felt sorry for the girl. I felt sorry for the little me sitting in a bus in Delhi, by the window, listening to my mother quietly. But this girl turned out smarter than I was.

Ma, I don’t know anything, I want to have wine at dinner. Uncle John will bring a bottle, he always does.
No. I told you, you can’t.
But this is not fair. Stop treating me like a baby.
But you *are* a baby.
I don’t care. Ma, can I please have wine at dinner tonight?
Stop that, Melanie.
Ma, please, please, please, let me, please let me have wine at dinner tonight.
You can drink juice. You like orange juice with your fish, right?
Why can’t I drink wine instead?
Fine, you can have a whiff.

A whiff is a promising start, don’t you think?

The New Obsession

2011-10-14T03:18:00.017+05:30

My obsession with Lisa Hannigan’s voice and songwriting is fairly well known to anyone who knows me or if you have ever read this blog. I flew down to Belfast for a day to be able to see her perform earlier this year, then saw her in London and I can’t wait to see her in November again. Seeing a talented musician like her perform is an exercise that reminds you of the joys of live, personal music by someone who cares about it.

I first heard her new material in Belfast and fell in love with most of it. The charm of it all was that it was pretty short-lived, quite immediate, thrown among the much-known gems from her debut album Sea Sew. I could only smile thinking of those new songs during the months that followed. Come July, her show sold-out gig in London saw her pack the evening with new material and left me falling for it all over again.

I’d per-ordered Passenger, her second album in August the moment it was announced. It has been a terribly long wait, given her first record was a thing of magic, rustic lavishness, and powerful originality which reminded me of Joni Mitchell in an odd sort of way but mostly made me smile at how talented a songwriter Lisa Hannigan really is. Passenger is a step ahead and one that firmly establishes Hannigan’s writing ability apart from her singing.

Passenger arrived this morning and I admit that it’s not every day that I enjoy being unemployed this much. I’ve played it all day. I was hooked after the second round itself. I heard Lisa Hannigan announce it in London at Bush Hall, and videos of her talking about the album popped up immediately. She is known to have written this record while travelling, which quickly justifies its name, but also makes you wonder of its true meaning once you’ve heard the record a couple of times. It’s a record about travelling, adventures, love, and heartbreak, all wrapped in a series of brilliant compositions.

Lisa Hannigan’s voice graces the opening track, Home, which is a rather dramatic version of the live performances I’ve seen so far. It’s a track that makes you sit up, prepares you for the whole record. It has a sudden, urgent rock feel to it, and as the words suggest, it’s only just begun (hold on, there’s nothing to pack, we know we’re not coming back.) It talks of relationships that have been left behind, the spirit of moving on from a set of broken promises. You move into the occasionally quiet A Sail, which marks an internal promise to look forward to some romance. Knots is a rather upbeat, travelling song invites you to join the passenger into preparations and adventures that await. Knots sees Lisa having a blast with her ukulele, and she’s really never done a better job with it before. The folk-pop continues into What’ll I Do which reminds you of the company we all wish we had. It’s a subtle longing, it’s a set of desires. It makes you sway and gets you on your toes before you realise it.

The record then moves to O Sleep, which is a duet with Ray LaMontagne. It is your romantic little dose that talks of a new start, the willingness to be around, the comfort of company and falling to sleep smiling. Paper House follows, another gem in terms of writing. It’s a complex track, as you notice shades of both love and sadness to it. It describes growing up and changes that came along and finishes with oh you know what you are to me, and you know you will always be. It’s balanced, makes you smile and leaves you filling an empty circle in your head. Little Bird is a track that then describes loneliness and describes the journey of a person making peace with it. It’s heartbreaking and beautiful.

The next track, Passenger then takes you through the joys of travelling again, with the knowledge of someone’s presence, that touch of reminiscence. Lisa plays some remarkable mandolin on this track (and I may never get enough of it). You then laugh as Lisa sings Safe Travels (Don’t Die). This funny, charming track comes at the right time in the record, which finishes with Nowhere To Go, another quiet, heartbreaking song that describes the restlessness of the one who seeks, travels, hunts, with their heart on their sleeve with perhaps the need to rest for a while.

The arrangements on this record include a variety of instruments used cleverly with clean time lapses. The cello and harmonium really stand out in the first half of the record, adding a haunting charm to Lisa’s voice. The ukulele reminds me of the times I’ve seen her perform, and it’s nothing but a thing of beauty.

Lisa’s voice has never sounded better, that thing of velvet, with remarkable honey-like quality that caresses your ears and brain. She takes you through a journey that’s been her own, and strangely becomes yours. Passenger is a well mixed, neatly packed bundle of strong writing, thoughts, and memorable melodies. With strong imagery, it is a must have for anyone who appreciates honest music. This record is that little mix of happiness that you want after a long day of work or after an exhausting week. It's emotional, funny, insightful, and everything you need to have a quick chat with yourself through someone else.

Lisa Hannigan has grown from being that pretty girl performing with Damien Rice to writing a promising first album in a week to an unforgettable and mature second record. Her writing on Passenger will remind you of times you were in love with a person, with a place, with a version of you that you were or you wish to be. We are lucky to have her. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to play the album another forty five times before I go to bed and wait till I see her perform for the third time this year.

Art that might get you drunk

2011-10-07T06:12:00.010+05:30

My understanding of art and appreciation increased ever since I started hanging about with advertising folks. Well, by that I mean a handful, given that there is an obnoxious lot out there who claim to know art. I am talking of people who have clear interests and follow a certain genre religiously without a layer of pretence on their face.

Now, I am a modern art guy. Leave me at Tate Modern and I'll find ways to marry the place. But working on several brands in my advertising career made me explore street art on a number of occasions and this form of public expression really grew on me. I have spent longer than fifteen minutes staring at sometimes random, sometimes insightful street art in and around England. I recently joined a group here in London that organises walks and they even invite you to galleries to get a better sense of street art around the world. I have managed to learn quite a lot in such a short period of time and saw an absolutely overrated side of this form this evening.

I went to the private view of the last solo show by much talked about London based street artist, Stik. I had seen some of his work on a review online last week but still went with an open mind, to you know, find something to appreciate. I had learnt that Stik is known for his ‘hyper-minimalist’ stick figures in a set number of lines and dots.

Stik's work did not make me smile. It did not make me think. It did not make me want to learn anything about it. Nothing. Though, tonight, it certainly made me look for more drinks, god bless that woman at the bar who entertained repeated requests for Absolut Pears and ginger ale. Before you judge me, try the damn thing, it’s refreshing and unbelievably delicious.

I am at a loss of words to describe how meh Stik’s work is. I can’t even remember if I’ve seen it around London, given how unimpressive it is. The following piece was available for £2,750. Wee, erm.

Then Stik created one exclusively for those present at the gallery. Right there, boom. It took him nearly forty minutes (equals to roughly four drinks for me. Or was it five?) to create a figure with spray can. To be honest, the most challenging bit seemed to be the ladder. There it was, in all its glory, the work that people were going crazy about. The secret? Oh, never mind.

I am convinced that any kind of art does not necessarily have to make you scratch your head and think deep and question your ideas, identity, beliefs. There’s rightfully a great need to have art that makes you smile, something that you see while walking or in a cafe and feel pleased about. But this? I wonder if it’s just me, but the only reaction it got from me was the need to get more to drink. (But that can’t be a bad thing entirely, right? RIGHT?)

Don't they always tell you to not speak to strangers?

2011-10-02T05:26:00.003+05:30

I could list a million cliches about the joys of travel. It’s rewarding, mostly eventful, and one always hopes each indulgence would turn out memorable. I am especially itching to write about the wonder that National Express is, as I bought a return ticket to Brighton for less than eight pounds. What’s better for someone who has just submitted his master’s thesis and refuses to find work?

Brighton is another story, another post, with a truckload of customary photographs. I have been struggling to get over this one incident in Lewes, which is a lovely little town in East Sussex less than twenty minutes away from the university area in Brighton. I was visiting a dear friend at the university but decided to venture out alone on this particular day, primarily because she needed to do what I had already taken care of. Submitting the darn thesis, that is.

My trip two weeks ago came at the right time as London was at its characteristic best by which I refer to its endless gloomy sky with patches of mild sunshine that you can never store in a box while Brighton was brilliantly warm and sunny. That’s right, sunny. This made me send a few hundred text messages to friends in London that read HOORAY I SEE SUN! COME HERE! Though this part of England is windier than anywhere I have been to so far. It’s not just windy in the darn it, my umbrella broke sort of way, but it’s windy in the merciless way that makes you thank god you have those three extra kilos on you.

Eep, we must get back to Lewes. Lewes is a pleasure to walk around with its old, broken, charming appeal. It appeared to be a little community-led country English town with its own castle (yet another one, one thinks, but this one stands out as it is the oldest in England and is unusual because it has two mounds). Apart from the facts on display at the Lewes Castle that entertain my wannabe-geek self, it does not compare to the magnificent castles this country has. Lewes also has a bookshop which was built in the fifteenth century with obscenely priced old gems. Dare I say I would have picked up a July 1894 Wilde for £75 if I had that kind of money.

I have been thinking of this one conversation I had with a gentleman in a quaint little pub. The pub did not have an interesting name, or so I am guessing, as it escapes my memory. What it had was cheap beer with many red couches with the typical wooden interior. It had an extravagant table by which I sat with my pint of Guinness and made an attempt to look lost in my thoughts. I really didn’t have any engaging thoughts at this time, as I had been considering lunch for a while but ended up eating a cold sandwich out of a bakery that was nearly shut.

A gentleman decided to join me at this point, a fellow traveller who seemed to have had a fair amount to drink by then. I say this with much confidence because his speech gave it away. He called me ‘young man’ and greeted me with a tired smile. I smiled back, as manners dictate, but didn’t expect what this would mean to him. He perhaps thought I was That Super Friendly Dick Who Can Pass Off As A Listener Anytime Of The Day and there I was, listening to his story.

He introduced himself as Rob and bought me another drink. Good start, I thought. Rob is Irish but has lived in Edinburgh all his life. He then moved to London to find work and fell in love with a Spanish lady. Rob has been on the move for a while, he called it a ‘much needed break’. Naturally, I expressed curiosity about the break he was referring to. This led Rob to speak for about thirty five minutes. This includes the three times he went to the bar and walked slower each time he came back to sit across from me.

Rob talked about his life with much focus and even showed me a photograph of his family. He told me of his trips to visit his son who now lives in Dublin, a decision that Rob claims to have been most proud of. At least my son is in the place I wished to be all my life, he said. I smiled all along, nodded, and I can’t deny that I was enjoying his honesty in what was a rather friendly chat among two strangers.

More importantly, it must be something to do with the fact that I was a stranger to Rob that he decided to talk about a decision he made three weeks ago, sitting along Brighton Pier, seeing the sun set with a box of Marlboro Lights and his favourite brown lighter. He had decided to leave his wife and described his marriage as a ‘bloody compromise’ for the son and livelihood. I did love her once, he claimed, and drank some more. I sat there, listening, noticing how easy it had been for him to share such an intimate tale with a stranger. He said he was not going to tell his friends as they might force him to make his marriage work. Rob had made up his mind and did not want to share with his friends because he thought they enjoyed seeing him in pain. I confess that I was uncomfortable as anything in my head seemed like bad response to such sentences and calmly decided to stay quiet.

I had a memorable time walking about in Lewes all day but have to admit that this interaction really got me down. Rob’s story is perhaps one among many out there, seeking strangers for listeners, because these strangers know nothing about you or your past. They only see your projected self and let you stick to the side of the story that works the most for you. What a sad, pretty fucking mindblowing realisation.

I bought the last round of drinks and shook hands with Rob before leaving the pub as I had to catch the bus back to Brighton. He thanked me for listening and I smiled. Perhaps I should have thanked him too.

They found love at the bar

2011-10-01T03:04:00.001+05:30

While we sat with our drinks and waited for someone to show up.

London needs company.

2011-08-28T11:12:00.002+05:30

Seen at South Bank, London.

Things to make you happy

2011-08-21T19:22:00.004+05:30

Good things like these become incredibly important when your life is at a place where you don't know what's next but you look forward to it anyway with buckets of optimism.

The Perfect Woman

2011-06-24T06:24:00.012+05:30

I am not the kind of fan who follows artists around shamelessly by stealing from savings.

Except that I am.

It’s not every day that you fall in love with an artist so much that you decide that it’s going to be worth it. Being a student in London has several advantages and easy access to areas I indulge in makes it even better.

My love for Lisa Hannigan is pretty much universal truth by now. I discovered her over four years ago, in a video supporting That Whiny Guy (aka Damien Rice). I liked what I heard but didn’t know she wrote and composed herself. I did, eventually, learn about her talent and decided that this is going to need severe investment as a fan. I was happy to discover that her partnership with That Whiny Guy came to an end a while ago and that she had been working on solo material. Several months later I found her album and it is sufficient to say that I was in, whatsitcalled, love.

Lisa Hannigan is one of those rare, charming artists who can make you smile and wonder in one composition. Her writing is incredibly simple and powerful, often involving things that exist around us. She makes the regular appear insanely special and brings her Irish humour to relationships in an alarmingly subtle way. She tells stories, describes scenes, talks of people in a manner that’s increasingly rare in today’s music scene led by the likes of Shady Gaga.

I have been in London for over nine months now and understandably looking out for tour announcements by Lisa Hannigan. Without any notice to myself, I had turned into an obsessive fan who decided it would be shameful if I missed seeing her being in this part of the world. So there I was, jumping over a recent tour announcement, which didn’t feature any popular spots in England. There was Belfast and I was not going to miss this. The idea of flying down to Belfast to see her perform in a tiny venue with some hardcore followers made the process of ticket-hunting and booking even more appealing. I had turned into a five year old waiting for that monthly visit to the ice cream vendor.

I reached Belfast on May 25th (which happens to be Towel Day and yes, I carried a towel the whole day with me.) It was insanely windy and cold, quite unlike London at that time. I shivered all day, walking around Belfast, staring at repulsive street art and drinking affordable Guinness (which would come as a shock if you are used to London prices). The pub food was pretty awful as expected but I wasn’t complaining. I had this hideous smile plastered on my face, counting hours to Lisa’s performance.

Around 6:30 PM, I found myself second in queue at the venue, making conversation with a fellow Lisa Hannigan fan who had come down from Edinburgh and spoke of nearly all gigs in Dublin that he had been to. I imagined how it would be to hit him, given these glorious stories. I calmed myself down several times, muttering well, I am going to see her finally to myself. This wait was getting tougher.

By the way, all those stories about Irish musicians being unrealistically friendly are true. While waiting in the queue, I realised Lisa Hannigan was in front of us, her pretty self wrapped in a coat, looking for someone outside the Empire Music Hall. I was smiling in shock, wondering if it was going to be appropriate to scream I LOVE YOU LISA! Well, I didn’t. Some of us waved at her, said hello, told her she is awesome. Lisa smiled and announced that she was looking for one of her friends and went across the road after spotting her. Oh, that lucky girl.

I was now exhibiting my obnoxious smile like some deranged guy about to break into a violent stroke of dance.

I decided to breathe and calm myself down again. All this was real, after all, since it seemed like one of those events that are described like oh, it was like being in a dream.

It was.

Anyway, so the next thing I know is that I am right in front of the stage, waiting for Lisa to appear. About half an hour along with a couple of pints, a man walked in with a guitar. John Smith was good but I wasn’t there to see him, was I? Do check him out, though. He is superb. He finished his set and no one appeared on stage for another forty minutes. This was getting tough to deal with.

More Guinness. It didn’t help so much beyond a point though.

I had my eyes set on the setlist while everything was being set up. I decided I had a good chance of getting one if I manage to stick to my position. Who needs to use the restroom? Screw that. Slowly, Lisa’s band members appeared and shameless bouts of excitement trickled in. Lisa was about to appear on stage.

There she was.
I have no words to describe the stroke of happiness I felt through me. She is incredibly funny, pretty, but you know all of that. It is nearly impossible to not fall in love with her. She has a lot of fun on stage, jokes about everything and then breaks into the next track. What added to the joy was her announcement about finishing the new album which is on its way later this year. I felt the need for more Guinness but couldn’t have lost my spot. I sang along with everyone and yelled embarrassing things in sheer excitement. Not that I am ashamed of it. This must be love.
Lisa played a lot of new material on a variety of instruments. It is sufficient to say that it is as interesting and fabulously written as her compositions in Sea Sew. She covered some popular tracks and like a true musician, played them with confidence and originality. What a fucking night. The fact that there appears to be an inside joke on Personal Jesus on the setlist makes it all even cooler.

If you didn’t know of her, I’d say this is the time. She brings joy to any given situation with incredible ease.

And yes, I got the setlist too. Wooo.

I (heart) Villagers

2011-05-28T01:43:00.018+05:30

Not only because they are Irish, though it may seem like it. Apart from the personal obsession of where they come from, they are a ridiculously talented band. This simple fact explains why I saw them twice, yes, two consecutive nights, last week. First in London on May 21st, where I decided to follow them to Oxford the next day. I take pride in such decisions out of sheer enthusiasm. I was in the front both nights, taking pictures, yelling my brain cells out, and singing along quietly to not miss out on Conor O’Brien’s impeccable vocals.

Now, Villagers are not your regular sissy alternative band. Conor O’Brien’s writing is haunting, quiet, and charming at the same time. It’s safe to consider that everyone out there is trying to write about the same things to get popular but Conor does it rather differently. Their only album is one of those rare gems that seem like a fantastic short story book. Only with melody and good arrangements. The album is called Becoming A Jackal, which has several connotations. If you haven’t checked it out yet, I’d urge you to.

Conor addresses relationships, personalities, human needs, philosophical ideas in a simple, lyrical manner. I feel no shame in announcing that this guy is worth watching out for. His writing, vocals, and performing talent remind me of Leonard Cohen (yeah, I said it.) He comes across as a sincere musician in his creations which could be called a rare quality in the industry these days. Before I get down to the two gigs, let me mention that there is some unreleased material on YouTube that they did play apart from the album and it is nearly impossible to not play all of that on loop.

Another reason I am a big fan of this band in such a short time is their ability to be memorable when they play. Any talented band’s biggest test is to do a good job of their own creations on stage. There are several bands out there who sound nice on record but I personally feel the urge to feed them to pigeons because they are downright terrible on stage. Villagers, on the other hand, are magic when they perform.
I first saw them on May 21st in London at O2 Shepherd’s Bush. I was right in the front and couldn’t wait for Conor and his band to get down to business. The opening act by Michele Stodart was painful, which added to the time I had to wait. Michele Stodart is whiny, predictable, and a terrible vocalist. Anyway, I had to stand through that display of nothingness for Villagers were up next.

Conor started the evening with a solo, Cecelia & Her Selfhood. I was new to the composition then as it doesn’t feature on the album. Conor tells you about two stone statues he describes as ‘sisters’ and the damage vandals left on them. He sings about how Cecelia is destroyed and the other left alone, and what he decides to do next. Conor was in control through the one voice acapella and his guitar, followed by Twenty Seven Strangers which describes a person’s journey and experiences in a bus as he goes to visit his partner. In simple words, it is an awesome composition. Conor then performed Ship of Promises, along with piano inputs. Tripped out rock band quality on stage then followed, as the entire band appeared one by one to perform The Meaning of a Ritual, Home, Becoming a Jackal, and others.
I freely say that this band has a haunting quality even on stage. I Saw The Dead was introduced after several minutes of wistful, subtle guitar notes that lead into the superb words on the song. Conor sits and performs it with absolute ease and stares at the audience confidently. Set The Tigers Free follows in the same arrangement, which is a fantastic track about letting your loved one go. I repeat, same things are being written about but Conor just writes them really well with unique references.
Given that I am in love with this band, I went to Oxford just for a day to see them for the second night. I was in the front again, hated Michele Stodart just as much, but Villagers came along in good time. The evening saw me knowing the unreleased material by heart and getting my hands on the set list. I also bought a mug and their gorgeous t-shirt, yes, like a complete fan boy.
My obsession with Irish musicians will become more clear in my next post, as I plan to describe my day-trip to Belfast to see the one lady I’ve loved for over three years now, Lisa Hannigan. With photos. I know I am cooler than most people you know.

I’ll finish this post with this video. The first track in this video is Memoir, which I listen to at least seventy five times every day these days. It would be strange if you don’t fall in love with this guy’s writing. Just don’t tell me about it if you didn’t.

A cafe, a book, and a new writer to follow

2011-05-19T22:51:00.012+05:30

I must admit that I had forgotten about the major things that involved a master’s degree. For example, the amount of reading every week that gives you all sorts of nightmares. I was focusing more on meeting new people, exploring London, going for gigs, finding comfort in complaining about lack of affordable food in the city, etc. But smart and thoughtful as our professors are, it becomes only a matter of few hours before they introduce you to a new set of reading material which takes days to get through.

Though, given the fact that I have been in London for several months now, it’s easier to find ways to deal with endless reading and academic writing. One of my favourite places, when I am not enjoying the comfort of various libraries, is Ray’s Jazz Cafe which is located at a walking distance from all the major areas of central London. The cafe gained prominence in my life for more concrete reasons though. First, it is right above Foyles, a bookstore quite unlike the ones that stock only the popular material. Second, they know their coffee and their cakes are fresh and delightful. The decor is phenomenally welcoming and cosy. Essentially all the clichés of an addictive space put together make Ray’s Jazz Cafe one of the easiest to get used to. They play mild jazz while you sit and read, browse, write, or make conversation. The place is right next to an art school which often means finding a talented illustrator sitting in a corner with his pencil and tissues. What I am trying to say is that the place is pretty darn good.

So these guys often invite writers and musicians to hang out, talk, introduce a new creation. Two weeks ago, I read that Anne Enright was going to be there to read from her new book The Forgotten Waltz. Now, shamefully enough, I’d never heard of her. So I grabbed an obscenely large mug of coffee and read about her on the internet. Booker-prize winning Irish writer? Count me in, I declared, and joined the few fortunate souls the next evening. I was convinced I wasn’t going to buy her book given its price. Also, as customary book orders on monster platforms like amazon.com go, I was never going to spend that much of my student money (now you get the picture, stop the “oh come on, forget the price, it’s a book” rant) on ONE book if you know what I mean.

The reading was going along fine, I thought. Enright has a powerful voice which had everyone paying attention. Her narrative seemed simple and engaging by the sound of it, and was full of appropriately placed humour. How had I never known of this writer? I really need to be more aware and quickly made a mental note about the same. Enright spoke of her book, the Irish boom and decline and things that create a subtle imagery for the book. She also spoke of human relationships, as she discussed her characters briefly, written on themes of attraction, longing, and desires. I normally tend to stay away from such stories but Enright made it seem suitably interesting. So I gave up on my plan of waiting for months for a cheaper paperback version and bought the book straightaway. Enright signed it for me too, made quick conversation, and boy she’s hilarious.

The Forgotten Waltz has been an engaging read. Enright tells a story set in Dublin winter with ridiculous simplicity. Her characters are deliciously normal and funny, with desires and thoughts you can draw a connection with. I am not going to describe the story at all and would urge everyone to read it. Enright describes relationships and the range of emotions people experience without losing the pace of her story as her characters grow and deal with a variety of everyday situations. It’s a story that doesn’t necessarily make you sad. It makes one wonder of the things that go unnoticed and seem rather nice once they are over. Interestingly, I noticed the lyrical quality of chapter titles in the book, as they strangely add an untold musical aspect to Enright’s writing. Is that why the book is called The Forgotten Waltz, apart from the fact that it is a love story? I shall be thinking about this for a few days.

I am certainly going to read everything published by Enright, not just because she is Irish and I tend to love them blindly, but because she is a fantastic writer and I am glad I finally learnt about her work.

Excuses

2011-04-22T19:50:00.003+05:30

Dear Blog

I have been a terrible person to you. I have thought of updating you at least fourteen times in the past few weeks but I'm currently chasing jobs and a master's degree. Give me a few more days, I promise to fill you in with what stays in the bucket for a head that I carry.

Till then, hope we're cool.

Gee, my stomach is a furnace.

2011-01-26T07:04:00.010+05:30

If you ask me for the richest London experience I’ve had in terms of cultural exchange, it has to be my conversation about the impressive gastronomic landscape that my beloved country is. It seems to be one of the quickest things that strike the other person the moment they learn about the land I grew up in (if I need to communicate it verbally that is, given how clichés in that respect go.)

As flattering as it may seem, I’m beginning to be a little uncomfortable about anything to do with Indian food. I run faster than the cheetah in that widely shared YouTube video the moment I find myself in a situation that involves an inclination to indulge in some Indian bread with chicken-lamb-curry, mate.

One of the most memorable conversations around this subject was with a dear friend of mine (god bless him, he studies financial mathematics and such inspiring things.) We’ll call him The Curious Guy.

It was a typical cold London evening, after a day spent at the library followed by a hunt for affordable food* which ends in a largely unhealthy pasta session in the kitchen. I was being my polite best when The Curious Guy asked me if ‘Indians always have stomach problems’. I was impressed by how enthusiastic he seemed, and it's a matter of personal pride that I didn't throw something made out of steel at him. As I struggled to mentally study the depth of this question, I waited for him to substantiate it with a little more detail.

He obliged me rather quickly.

He added, “you know, with all the spices you add to everything you eat and drink and stuff” as I progressed to put chilli powder in my coffee to demonstrate the tradition established by him. He was right about my people, of course, and given the rate at which I process such flattering information, I sat down and stared at the floor. I agreed with The Curious Guy thereafter and gave him a few key insights into how ‘Indians eat, you know.’

Since I am a sucker for authentic information and worship Detailed Response, I warned my listener about Indian roads and customs if he ever happens to go there. It seemed the right time to inform him that the land I come from sees people asking for tissues from each other instead of the usual formal greeting because, you know, the stomach can’t take so much spice after all.

The Curious Guy did seem convinced and while I sincerely hope he remembers it all, it troubles me that he may never shake hands with anyone if he finds himself somewhere in India.

*I must add that ‘affordable’ is nothing close to what I can use to describe food in this part of the world, unless I am considering eating cardboard for dinner.

Is anyone still here?

2010-12-31T07:09:00.009+05:30

Let’s see. I haven’t blogged in months. I’m clearly running out of things to bitch about. I find that this insight may just lead me to end my life.

Bravely enough, I decided to write again. At first it seemed easy, given that I’ve moved to London now. To study, essentially, but you know how a masters degree really works. I hope my beloved folks don’t hear of it though.

London is mindblowing, as many people have said, written, performed, blogged about. It’s got everything I love. Odd bookstores, stores with odd names, second hand bookstores, those art galleries I could marry, incredibly tiny pubs with strange bands, architecture to die for, great ways to travel to fascinating European countries, Brit accent, you get the picture. It’s the kind of city that makes you appear a lot cooler than you really are. Specially if you decide to get a photograph of yourself in front of London Eye and display it with an impressive level of confidence on the Facebook Monster.

Which reminds me that I haven’t done that yet. My cool factor clearly needs work.

Being in a city like London gives you this creative air, if you happen to be the type to slip into the beautifully messy world easily. It makes you mention names you didn’t with random ease, throw in a mention of an obscure walk that led to a famous writer’s house. But most of all, personally, it’s made me meet people from across the world.

I happen to go to one of the most reputed schools in London (kid you not, my wannabe-geek glasses are on.) Apart from the incredible history and architecture, the only memorable thing the place has given me so far is the opportunity to meet a smarter lot from several countries. Given how I grew up in a world of super-responsible media, I began my interactions with people from another land with neat clichés dancing in my head. Who can blame me? You know, those guys eat the strangest things, that’s a country full of significantly dumb people, oh those guys are so rude, the like. Except that I haven’t matched the co-ordinates of this classification yet. Perhaps I’m slow. Or it’s true that it’s called a cliché for a reason.

Though I must admit that one rather obvious thing shines through this mess of the expected-dullness. People from my country, at least those I am fortunate enough to meet every day, are respectfully behind schedule. Yes, punctuality is just not our thing. Don't get me wrong, I love them. I’d be happy to know if someone’s met any who has experienced otherwise. Because the kind I’m surrounded by at the moment, guys, you just make me look bad. Jerks.

Being Nice Isn't Like Winning The Lottery

2010-08-08T03:44:00.011+05:30

I was recently informed, in a typically nonchalant way, that I am an emotionally dead and a heartless person. I also learnt of how wonderfully I was described by one of the people I used to date at a recent social gathering. It was “that insensitive piece of selfish shit” if I am not wrong. I am given to understand that the description about me gave some delightful pointers to the speaker’s imagination on the subject of swear words and thereafter displayed signs of a vivid vocabulary.
I am happy to report that, as of this evening, I have proved to myself that I can, in fact, be selfless and exhibit qualities of a friendly person who behaves well in social situations even though you know you are getting into some glorious shit.

It’s not the best thing ever.

I happen to know some folks who were keen on watching the new movie Aisha. I was alarmed to find that so many people, at once, overlooked the sparkling posters around us. I stared intently but couldn’t find the promising bit and gave up once I ran out of every practical excuse that I have skillfully manufactured all my life and surrendered to the Aisha situation.

So Papa Kapoor decided to make a movie and throw the daughter into it. Clap, clap. I must congratulate the director who has placed Sonam Kapoor very strategically in every frame through the film. She clearly works with a mindful, team-spirited attitude because she makes you look at things that you'd hardly notice otherwise. Given her face, I found myself appreciating the set designer’s work (all the table lamps, wallpaper and bed sheets, and the bathroom door knob were perfectly matched and balanced.)

Daughter Kapoor has delivered a very evocative performance though. Her voice-modulation abilities remind me of the kid in preparatory school who was often advised to not utter a word beyond the first because he could lose his life. Looking at the screen every now and then while she happened to be around, I was strangely reminded of the time I threw up for the first time ever.

I am also convinced that Daughter Kapoor wrote her own lines (Pinki tum meri best friend ho aur main tumhe khona nahi chahti; Bechari ke pas kapde bhi nahi they; Tumne mujhe dosti sikhayi) as no one can match the brilliance of such effective word play. She must have been an inspiration to the scriptwriter, as that person tried remarkably but I imagine doesn’t eat gum like Daughter Kapoor does.

This experience has deeply affected my sanity and I can safely conclude that being nice to people and agreeing to join them on such days is never a healthy exercise. Counting the number of non-functional signals in the city seems more inviting an activity, if one compares the two. I was perhaps fooled by that voice in my head that made the I Can Be A Nice Guy task probable though it reaffirms that I’d hate to be one while it can be uplifting if you can call yourself that occasionally.

Image © Chris Piascik

0930 - 1600

2010-06-08T15:54:00.004+05:30

monosyllabic rain
by
your window
slips
distraction
in
your day
as
you travel
back
to 1993
when
(suspire)
being Morrison
or
anything
like him
earned you
a
blend
of
disapproval and
criticism
and
false hopes
from
the taller
stronger
father
bereft of
a memorable riff
or
harmony
followed by
cold
dinner

Black Tea Soon Followed

2010-05-23T17:56:00.003+05:30

Lansdowne, Uttarakhand, May 2010.

The Sunday Before The End

2010-04-12T15:48:00.000+05:30

He’d hoped for a perfect day
Of dirty shoes and a long walk
While she had made plans
To drink coffee and talk

He sat behind the curtain
Altered by the sugar
Took questions one by one
Without a perfect answer

He almost never had one
She whimpered on
Walking about restlessly
Without any footwear on

He had nothing to ask
But the one that made her shudder
It wasn’t her love for dogs
But why she sang in the shower

Cleaner Delhi

2010-03-11T21:34:00.005+05:30

They've been doing funny things to Delhi for about a century now. Before the Commonwealth Games this October, the city needs to be greener, have a thousand fly overs, wider roads, electronic displays, fancy buses, etc. But what are they going to do with those Binani Cement hoardings? Don't these memorable pieces of visual delight need to go with everything else?

Not forgetting, our TV needs some serious work before the Games:

Are we ready to let our visitors see all this?

Monologue

2010-02-28T01:01:00.002+05:30

It takes a lot to stay calm when you’re listening to someone’s Break-Up Story. Once The Heartbroken Soul finds you suitable to be The Listener, there is little you can do. Try sharing extensive work plans, yawn four times in a sentence to dramatise it, or form your own tragic tale. Nothing will save you, sir.

Hence, all you’ve got to do is be patient and feign interest. Because if you didn’t know the person well anyway, how do you care? Mysteriously, you’re still the chosen one, the one who will suffer, who will look for mental comfort in a pepperoni pizza and beer alongside.

He had met her long ago, he said. It must be relevant to my existence, I thought, and quietly concentrated on his fingers that held a pencil and drew a stick figure with ‘red’ marked close to its mouth. It was tough to imagine something red there initially, but I figured it must be done.

“I even remember when we met,” he added. I must be senile at twenty-three, because I don’t remember asking anything. I did enquire if he’d like to go for mushroom instead of olives. But whatdoyouknow, that reminded him of his ex-girlfriend’s favourite recipe. My luck, but if a dinosaur had walked in, it’d have reminded him of the cartoon she drew when she was five.

The evening saw me learn about the ex girlfriend’s favourite colour, numerology practice, frequency of calls she made, the number of cellphones she lost during those seven months, etc.

But she did seem like an interesting girl. How she dumped him was something I’d never heard of. She cancelled the trip they’d decided to take together, and took The New Guy instead. The Heartbroken Soul learnt about this through his Facebook page, when his ex-girlfriend uploaded those pictures. He called her objectionable names as I expressed deep disgust, while laughing out loud in my head.

They say, the stories have all been told before, but there’s nothing like listening to a drunk guy at it. It’s funny, if you don’t care about the people involved. Or not, if you belong to the helpful, approachable variety.

The Weekend

2010-02-20T18:14:00.002+05:30

They had a plan
Bracing a pack of lies
Of drinking wine and
Eating nothing but rice

His bedsheet had flowers
But it smelt salty
Over the promised hours
She chose to keep it short

This weekend
Was tactless and rough
And this brave trend
Enhanced their disrupted love

Why I Love TOI

2010-02-01T13:05:00.001+05:30

Blame the wait at the never-ending signal, I had to buy myself a copy of this leading English daily this morning.

There were at least five italicised words in every paragraph, and apostrophe abuse stared at me from every page. I notice that the editors at The Times of India could do with some spell check as well. My personal favourite, though, was the following caption in a report about Orhan Pamuk:

‘Write Man: Orhan Pamuk.’

238 and counting

2010-01-11T20:27:00.007+05:30

I use Facebook for a variety of reasons. First of all, as matters of deep interest follow, it's greatly appealing to study people’s behaviour online, their enthusiasm the moment someone uploads a photograph, among other things. Also, important as it may seem, the industry I work in has exploited the social networking giant interestingly many times in the past. Then there are those fan pages that let you stay updated about your favourite writer’s latest work, upcoming albums by bands, tour dates, etc.

It also happens to have a couple of friends as registered users, that add to all this, and allows quick virtual catching up, so it’s easier to pretend we’re all very busy and all that.

Facebook though, it seems, secretly wants our world to be a big, ridiculously friendly, happy place. It appears to be a smartly disguised Hallmark greeting card that people passed on when I was seven. Those things had flowers and forgettable lines; Facebook has that nasty, distasteful, youknowit, the objectionable Add As Friend button.

No matter how social I get, even when I am drunk, I have trouble calling anyone a friend easily. The word, to me, declares a certain level of proximity and mutual knowledge. It struck me only recently though, when an alarming number of people jumped up and used that ghastly tool to add me as a friend. It certainly doesn’t seem unsettling to everyone, as my neighbour’s friend is now my friend as well.

It upsets me so much that I wish I could place them in different categories, while entertaining their pointless friend requests:

College Juniors You Never Knew Of
Colleagues You Never Knew Of
People You See In The Morning Train Regularly
Boss’s Personal Staff
Ex-Girlfriend’s Friends
People You Have Nothing In Common With
Colleagues Who Drop You Home
People You Don't Remember Meeting
People Strictly Official
Girlfriend’s Friends You’ve Never Met
People From a Facebook Club You’re A Member Of
People Looking To Get Laid
Friend’s Relatives
Friend’s Ex-Partners
Friend’s Current Partner/s
Friends

3 Idiots

2010-01-04T00:40:00.006+05:30

Like any obedient son would, I submitted to my mother’s demands and bought two tickets to watch Rajkumar Hirani's 3 Idiots. This marked the start of a memorable day for the following reasons:

Refreshing humour: Especially if you enjoy the kind where men randomly remove their trousers and exhibit their behind every once in a while; some introduce current to a man's genitals while he takes a leak

Surprise, surprise, new characters: There is a scared student, there is a careless genius, and yes, unexpectedly enough, there is a misfit in college

Identifiable Dialogue: Life ek race hai; Engineering mera passion hai

Wonderful, Practical Approach to Science: They help a woman deliver a baby using a vacuum cleaner; some introduce current to a man's genitals while he takes a leak (second mention, brilliant indeed)

If you’re watching intently, like I did, you’ll notice the spectacular soundtrack composed by Shantanu Moitra. In fact, the following lines written by Swanand Kirkire had a very meaningful, overwhelming impact on me this afternoon:

Give me some sunshine
Give me some rain
Give me another chance
I 'wanna' grow up once again

Of course it's a blockbuster. I thought the interval time was particularly impressive.

You'd do it too, if you were a Porcupine Tree fan.

2009-12-23T19:58:00.008+05:30

I’d decided against Bombay* long ago. They said it’s hot, dusty, mean, ungrateful, ruthless, and expensive. I announced that a trip to Bombay might never happen willingly, unless extreme circumstances like a beer fest call out to me.

Then Porcupine Tree announced their last leg of The Incident tour. Their first time ever in India, at IIT Bombay. Impressive. I’d never really expected these guys to come to India. I remember jumping and expressing disbelief over this and finally booked a month and a half in advance.

Day 1
Of course, as the ritual goes, there will be lots of kids whenever I enter an aircraft. This time was rather memorable, with three kids around me. They cried, tore magazines and yelled for attention. If I remember correctly, it was six fucking thirty in the morning.

Landing, thus, appealed greatly to me at this point. I usually read while I am travelling, but ended up counting the number of lines in the blue pattern on the carpet. Fair enough, I’ll never forget what comes after thirty-seven. As the customary announcements followed, I realised to my horror that Bombay was at its pleasant twenty-eight degrees best.

Mumble, mumble.

The day saw me settling in, meeting friends, eating the yummy frankie at Lokhandwala, apart from seeing a lot of things. Sitting in a cab, to be honest, as I finished three books simultaneously, stuck in a jam in the evening. I was also fascinated by the usage of the terms town and suburbs to differentiate and navigate through the city.

IIT Bombay did a satisfying job of having an unknown number of queues at the venue, so you could get the time to hurl abuses at them creatively. I learnt that Parikrama was opening for Porcupine Tree the following evening, which ensured the liberty to be a little late for the show.

Day 2
I’d planned on being early at the venue, but thanks to the joyous auto ride through a display of cars on the road, I reached an hour before the show. Good enough, I thought, before I saw the queue. It took me another two hours to enter the venue, and as planned, the talented group that Parikrama is, had luckily finished proving something to their band manager by then.

Twenty minutes later, Steven Wilson appeared on stage, followed by Gavin Harrison and Colin Edwin, as I stared with my mouth wide open. The next eighty-five minutes saw me sing along, yell, head bang, record, sing along, head bang. I’ve concluded I regress and slip into my teenage-fan self at such moments. It’s incredible to see a ridiculously talented band like Porcupine Tree perform, as they do justice to the studio arrangements very well. Wilson, being the creative genius, puts together installations and visuals that go along with his compositions and adds significantly to your trip.

The band must have been delighted to see the response from the audience, as there were several other idiots like me, who knew every track on their set for the evening. There were technical glitches while the band performed that mindfrigginblowing composition, Time Flies, and I shall never forgive guys at IIT or whoever wishes to take responsibility. The event was organised pretty well for a wedding ceremony but not a concert. The security was a joke. I wish IIT would get professionals next year to take care of the stuff they can't.

To all those who missed Porcupine Tree: simply put, my life is exponentially cooler than yours.

Day 3
I woke up with my neck hurting after head banging for that long. But I decided to become a tourist immediately and went to Juhu beach, Colaba, Bandra station (I was made to take a local train to complete my Bombay experience *cough* and thoroughly enjoyed it), Queen’s Necklace, Bandra Worli Sea Link, Goregaon. I took pictures like tourists do, I ate like tourists do, but didn’t fall for the renowned Pao Bhaji. Hush.

Given that it’s me, my flight got delayed by two hours and I sat at the airport with kids running all over, asking for chocolates and other sweet eatables. They should ban ice cream outlets at airports, really. Or greedy kids who walk around with two ice cream cones at once.

As I’d expected, another endless Porcupine Tree phase has taken over me.

*Replace with Mumbai if you please.

Joe Spence

2009-12-12T22:11:00.008+05:30

Met an incredibly talented and original musician at Music For Harmony '09, an event organised by Pravah SMILE volunteers. Joe is one of the volunteers placed by VSO in India, and is currently working with Pravah Jaipur Initiative.

He has all you need to make for interesting, memorable music. He has a brilliant sense of humour and writes his own material. Our mutual love for Lisa Hannigan made me curious about his music and now I can safely declare that I am hooked.

Check out his music here.

Spell Check

2009-11-29T19:17:00.003+05:30

It’s shocking. It’s as if I have a dictionary of my own, in my head. This powerful dictionary does downright sickening things that make me point and laugh at correct spellings. A recent example: for over twenty-two years of my life, I thought 'languor', in a come-on-have-you-lost-it sort of way, is spelt as langour.

No, I was sure it’s spelt that way.

And I am still dealing with it.

Delightful Morning

2009-11-26T12:49:00.003+05:30

My Metro ride this morning was the kind one would describe as unforgettable. It was a relief to really walk into one frankly, as the ritual involving a couple of fat balding men pushing you is rather dull. It was one of those Fake Cold sunny mornings and I was reading Diary of a Bad Year, written by that genius called J.M. Coetzee.

The next station arrived and a woman declared her presence very easily with her cologne, which I am convinced, was inspired by a mosquito repellant. But what truly, really, absolutely made it memorable was her sweatshirt that had these three words, strategically placed, in bold capital letters: These Are Mine.

I must find and thank her for letting us know.

An Email That Cracked Me Up

2009-11-21T02:18:00.005+05:30

I made this post after meeting the girl in question that evening, who reads this page as well. The One In Love was on a date with her boyfriend and obviously couldn’t talk much, but needed to be made severe fun of anyway.

What brings this back, though, is an email I received from a fake address last night. It was perhaps a woman, going by the tone of her message. It read, aside from things that suggested extreme discomfort with my declaration, like this:

So you think men would be okay with cool girls for partners? The poor girl is usually forced to change herself, because of you guys. Once you guys go out with them, you talk of things girls think you’ll like. You don’t even know what a girl goes through while dressing up before the next meeting. Forget it, you’re one of those guys who are full of their ideas and don’t consider the situations girls find themselves in.

Thanks for your brilliant insight dear defender, but I have this question I need to ask you: Really?

So you’re suggesting that these girls, who never knew about thirty-five types of bags, suddenly start matching them with their dresses because we tell them to? You’re saying that one of us, who is obviously indecisive enough, raises such meaningful concerns and pollutes the cool universe willingly?

Of course, what am I smoking, guys are screwed up after all. Some of us, who are sane enough to not fall for girls who fight over lip colour of the season, decide to disown our ideas and convert the few interesting girls we meet. Yes, we’re twisted enough.

The funny thing is that if it’s true of guys to indulge in such a manner, their requests clearly meet with a favourable response. *cough*

The Dumping Ground

2009-11-12T15:07:00.003+05:30

Things I’ve been told:

You never know what to say.
You don’t like Savage Garden? Whaaa?
I’m better off without someone who can’t be sweet.
I’d rather have Ma talk safe sex to me than your sarcasm in the name of conversation.
You don’t even know that purple is my favourite colour.

Same girl, mostly. Convenience happens to be a very friendly thing.

Things I’ve told them:

Colour coordination is good for furniture, walls. Maybe.
I grew up on Jim Morrison and Gilmour.
What’s Saturday night got to do with a book?
How can you not like beer?
Back To The Future?

(I’ve dumped only one girl. Several times over. Rest of them have been quick with their business.)

Circles

2009-11-11T23:13:00.005+05:30

The only band in India that can give you a trip worth three joints.

This track, Circles, will feature in the upcoming album. Till then, enjoy this extraordinarily original, progressive composition. The vocalist was sick this particular evening, so the bass guitarist took over. And it's so trippy..

It's not much of a live video, but my camera behaved well in terms of the audio.

And The Award Goes To...

2009-11-02T22:19:00.003+05:30

Seen in Kalkaji, Delhi.

That Four Letter Word

2009-10-30T01:13:00.011+05:30

Some girls are just cooler than the ones you meet every day. They don’t mind a suggestive joke once in a while, they don’t care if the colour of their footwear doesn't match with their earring, they don’t mind more beer, they like metal (occasionally), they even ridicule Valentine’s Day and similar pink stuff with you. Simply put, they are one of the guys and never complain about it.

And then, they suddenly turn into, howdoIputthis, a girl.

You know, the kind to expect a phone call regularly, buy a John Mayer disc, throw a fit if you don’t notice the new haircut, narrate a story that ends with a bouquet at her doorstep.

I had only heard of this dramatic change but I witnessed something similar and extremely shocking this evening. I am told she is in love.

People change. It's fucking true.

menwhopause

2009-10-27T19:17:00.009+05:30

Live at Turquoise Cottage, Gurgaon (October 21, 2009)

It's comforting to find musicians in this country with balls. Perhaps the most original band in India at the moment, these guys never fail to amaze me with the number of ideas in their music. The writing is memorable, the arrangements fresh. After their concept album Home, the second album Easy will introduce the complex, progressive stuff we tripped on that night.

These guys go on stage, do their business and leave. Unlike those bands that go on talking about their music, their inspiration, and their neighbours while trying to sound cool. Only a band like menwhopause can bring hope to Indian rock. And I am not counting things like Them Clones or Indigo Children in that category.

Thank you, editors

2009-10-15T14:27:00.007+05:30

I picked up the October issue of Rolling Stone and I can safely announce that I have new-found respect for the editors. I have not been a fan of the Indian edition as much because they tend to suck up to artists like Pink and Bon Jovi once in a while. I’m told it’s something to do with popular music and readers’ preferences.

But what made me invest in the magazine this time was an article on menwhopause. My love for them is widely known, but I’ll talk about the other thing that really made my day. They reviewed the recently launched album by that godwaful band, Them Clones. Their brand of songwriting has been described as “formulaic and predictable.” It also reads, “…not a band one looks to when one’s concern is originality.”

Dear editors, you guys just revived my faith in humanity. Thank you for politely agreeing with the fact, that, in simple terms, this band sucks. It disappoints me to hear people talk passionately about what can only be described as unimaginative, painfully ordinary music. Not forgetting that with a name like theirs, attempts at pulling a Pearl Jam or a Stone Temple Pilots number are never shocking. It's unbelievable they have been around for nine frikkin' years. I want to shoot them, their supporters, and their manager.

By the way, the fact that Megan Fox features on the cover had nothing to do with this purchase. There is an entire story on her, where she proudly declares that she “wasn’t born with a special vagina” and that men are scared of powerful, confident ones. I’m afraid I’ll have to let that go, not because it’s a Supermodel Statement with memorable entertainment value, but it’s Megan Fox we’re looking at, forgodssake.

And Then Some

2009-10-15T02:52:00.001+05:30

We’ve been on separate wheels
Everything’s been under cover
Chasing time to no effect
Maybe it’s time to reconsider

My Newspaper Moment Of The Day

2009-10-10T17:37:00.008+05:30

That’s not saying much, because in the name of a newspaper, I was reading Hindustan Times while waiting at the dentist’s this morning. That’s the profound moment in time I came across a column on page 2. The editors call it Anti Aunty.

I always thought there were HT Delhi / Delhi Times and such upbeat, hopeful supplements for these things but maybe it’s just me. It also invariably reminds me of something that rhymes but I don't plan on being called a 'bloody corrupt person' more than once in a day.

Well, it’s essentially a column where readers write in with some of the most perplexing issues of their lives. Instead of rambling on, let me share some of those gems here.

"My professor, I suspect, wears padded underwear to give the impression of a non-existent behind. How do I find out?"

"My girlfriend refuses to wax. She says I should love her in spite of body hair. My point is, if I shave for her, why can’t she have smooth skin for me? Is this her revenge for me cheating on her?"

"If a guy says to you that you are my soul mate, what does it mean?"

Throw Up Sid

2009-10-08T22:36:00.013+05:30

I am under immense pressure to make this post. Because this evening, I saw the latest Johar offering, the suitably titled Wake Up Sid. It’s been personally enlightening an experience and involved a great deal of learning. That the next best idea to adopt in case your original plan falls to pieces and nothing else seems visibly exciting, is going home. Now, had I known this about five hours ago, I’d have gone home instead of settling for this masterpiece from the Johar family, when we failed to find tickets for Tarantino’s latest.

But there are some remarkable things about this movie. In no particular order:

Original, Gripping Plot: The mother of everything unpredictable. Our character is an aimless college going kid, survives on a credit card his dear dad pays for, parties hard, never studies, fails his graduation exams. He fights with his parents, carelessly blames them, and moves out of their mansion. All this is happening while he is getting friendlier with new girl in the city who, by the way, happens to be older than him and wishes to be independent and talks endlessly about her goals. He moves in with her, falls in love, realises his mistakes in the meantime, as he finds what he wants to do with his life. By now, he’s also sufficiently grown up. Work of genius, really.

Wake Up The Cast: I'd think the entire cast & crew was snoring while shooting, but that's not one of the strong points of this impressive piece of work. Konkona Sen Sharma, perhaps the only element I was secretly looking forward to, looks underslept throughout. There are always a few people you have some faith in and then they shatter it, you know. (We won’t get into the recent, other significant movies she chose to feature in.) Then you sit and wonder what’s wrong with the world...

Ah, The Music: The talented composers, Shankar Ehsaan and Loy, do a wonderfully forgettable and unimaginative job again. Another soundtrack that essentially reminds you of pretty much everything you’ve heard on screen lately. Incidentally, most of it belongs to the Johar brand.

Insightful and Wonderful Dialogue:
“Hum dost hi achhe hain, Sid.”
“Tumhari umra main, my father was dead.”
“Please, hum sirf dost hain.”
“Tum bade ho gaye beta.”

I’d let it pass if you face another social condition and are made to nod in approval when this movie is in consideration. This particular situation involves any feisty female around you, unfortunately, who happens to find Rahul Khanna very hot and desirable and understandably believes it is a reason good enough to invest the next two and a half hours of your life staring at the screen, grumbling under your popcorn breath.

(I realise I need to apologise for the strange title - that being respectful of the words I chose myself. In my defence, I offer two reasons. The first being rather simple: crap movie, crap post title. I shall blame it on the inspiration, etc. Secondly, I am a jobless, frustrated copywriter who needs to remember how to come up with crap phrases in case the clients start interfering.)

Even A Survey Can Make You Happy

2009-10-07T23:01:00.006+05:30

This survey doesn’t really come as a surprise, but it's definitely relieving. It is unfortunate that a reason that reads, “love the feel of a book -- taking Kindle to bed just seems wrong” features later. Hell, whatever the reasons, I am going to hope sincerely that e-books stay a distant dream (no matter how a few facts come to mind.)

Amazon and Sony, among others, can only try for a while. We can all stay calm for now.

The Ideal Woman

2009-10-01T00:14:00.018+05:30

In an endless and ambiguous conversation with a friend this evening, it occurred to me how abused the idea of the perfect woman really is.

It was also reminiscent of the few girls I have dated over the years. It was always essentially a couple of phone calls that eventually made me look for excuses, going out a few times but facing her unpleasant taste in books, or declaring the girl a self-obsessed, anniversary keeping freak in a couple of months.

I am sure all of us feel/have felt that the idea of that one person is rather ridiculous and demanding, and can only exist in stories (or a friend’s seemingly untrue relationship saga) but damn it, I personally know of many people who believe they will bump into someone who will be the face of all things on their list of the desired one. Do I have the insensitivity to break into their bubble of hope and yell that it’s never going to happen, shithead, so concentrate on what’s around? I do, but I don’t.

I mean, what are the chances of me running into Celine, from Linklater's Before Sunset? I have seen that movie nearly 345647 times and after falling in love convincingly every single time and then snapping out of it, because you know, it is a movie after all - I have concluded that a) I am a sucker for such complex characters and b) it’s impossible. It’s almost as if that character doesn’t exist in reality. How did Linklater nail it? How did he write this really smart, funny, unthinkably interesting woman, who is aware of her sexuality but doesn’t rub it on you? No, she can’t be real.

Therefore, until the next person gives you a reason to make up another swear word, it’d be wise to compromise a little, my heartbroken friend, or however long you can, and I’ll sob over how Celine is only a work of fiction...

The Same Old Story

2009-09-26T00:28:00.009+05:30

The good stuff first: Delhi Metro has new trains running on trials perhaps, because last I read they were expected in October. The existing pipe-like trains seem like a bad Lego arrangement in front of the compact, seemingly fit German coaches. They have digital route maps (they blink when the station’s being announced so this works if you’re on your headphones and you don’t have to look all over for the display band), they have an energetic seating plan, with poster-size advertising messaging space available along with sleeker display bands. Basically, everything done in good taste. And yes, I notice these things.

Blame what advertising has done to me, but the text is cleaner, well laid out, emphasised at the right places. The approach is way smarter than the regular, yawn-inducing, complex route charts. The thing that stands out is the non-fluorescent light arrangement. It’s as if they knew what I was looking for.

Since it was the first day, as you’d imagine, it was sparkling clean (if you forget those two chocolate wrappers lying close to the last exit.) I stepped out happy, to find a crushed Pepsi bottle and polythene bags lying close to the waiting area. But that’s what these stations are for, really. My pan-chewing brethren should spit without looking. It’d be unfair to expect them to target a bin, that's a remarkably silly idea.

I felt pretty sorry for the guys at DMRC this evening – for once the authorities are doing their best to educate commuters everyfuckingday. There are the announcements, there are posters, there are volunteers picking up the stuff lying around (they do it for their own good, after all). Which is why people in my city really make me proud, with their absolute disregard of public property and the tremendous ease with which they shun responsibility. They overlook when the volunteers direct them to the bin. They are thoughtful enough to leave entertaining drawings on signboards. You know, the stuff that makes them cool and rebellious, in The World of Twisted Sensibilities.

No, it’s plain disgusting.

I wish they would throw challans at all those idiots in return. That's perhaps the only way these poopheads can be told to respect what's not exclusively theirs.

Symmetry and more

2009-09-21T17:10:00.005+05:30

Location: the forgotten corridors of a building that had nothing else to offer. Taken during the inspirational and wonderfully eventful time known as notice period, after I had taken care of the Resignation Business in the interest of my sanity.

Wake Up Call

2009-09-21T02:00:00.006+05:30

For those of you who are aware of the Copenhagen December meeting about global climate change, go here, figure how you are placed today, and make the Wake Up Call. Tell your leaders what you need from the deal that could define everyone's destiny. Ask for what you think is important, apart from the reduction of developed country emissions by at least 40% by 2020.

For those of you in Delhi, join us today by reaching India Gate at 12 PM, to make the Wake Up Call to PM Manmohan Singh. He needs that and your inputs. He needs to know you care.

Why I Need Pepper Spray

2009-09-15T11:11:00.007+05:30

I am the guy who loves guzzling beer while people run, shoot, with litres of blood in a frame. That’s that. In school, you could never see me fight anyone. Even if I was angry, I would usually fake confidence while the Bigger Guy was reaching out for me, but more often than not, I was nearly shitting in my pants. I’d criticise everyone with such a record, sitting in the Geography Room staring at the world map, talking endlessly about my Norway dreams.

I have now concluded there must be something unbelievably wonderful about my widely known to be missing ass. The Horny Class of our twisted race has left me unnaturally disgusted, angry, and well, in the need of a Thigh Guard, Chest Guard and Jockstrap. Perhaps some sort of a Muscle Suit would work better, since I won't run to hit the creep going by my history.

These wonderful ideas arrived as in the last two weeks, in the typically crowded Delhi Metro, someone chose to appreciate my behind, let’s say in a very unfriendly manner. I turn around to find no women (hopeful that I am) and only a couple of men. Over a month ago, I was at a club buying a few drinks while having to wonder who tried to reach out for, you know, my stuff. All I saw was people dancing like the jiggling disco lights and some guys waiting at the bar. I am sure most of them are not getting any action, are gay, hence find my ass exceptionally delightful. May I suggest complimenting me verbally? Or take my number and leave me a message. But DON’T FUCKING GRAB IT.

Now I know how women feel out there. I really do.

Shit Aaj Kal

2009-09-14T17:33:00.004+05:30

In a very random drunken situation, I realised I was witnessing one of the lousiest, the most pretentious pieces of crap ever. I am talking about the wonderfully titled Love Aaj Kal.

I’d think they had a paragraph in the name of a script when they started shooting and the director subsequently smoked it. Saif StraightFace Khan looks his gay best and A Pretty Face With Nice Legs couldn’t do much to save frames that could do with some composition. Fortunately, I figured two things this afternoon:

a) My friend, who is unemployed, like me, is an idiot to have suggested we watch this because nothing else is senseless enough and hence suited for a lazy Monday afternoon. Partly correct, though.
b) Woody Allen would have done justice to the idea of presenting love in different times. He would have written memorable characters, thrown in the standard confused and irrational traits to present people you can identify. But then, Woody Allen is a talented man who thinks of more interesting stuff anyway.

It’s a shame I wasted an entire afternoon watching utter nonsense from a couple of incompetent nincompoops. I will now go watch a Woody Allen movie and be amazed by his wit and powerful writing again.

The Selfish One Starts With The Face

2009-08-30T02:24:00.002+05:30

I killed you last night.

Paint in my fingers
I saw red into green
When I killed the ghost of tomorrow

I find my eyes sparkle
As I remove your mole
I give you a big dimple
It really goes with my mental picture

If you had a chance
Wouldn't you do the same?
Wouldn’t you?

Your hair is now all black
That’s how I want it
Now it won’t unite
With the brown of my rack

All I ever asked for was black

I really did.

So tell me
If you had a chance
Wouldn't you do the same?
Come on
Wouldn't you do the same?

Oh alright, let’s get done with the cuts
Make you all darker
Since your white drives me nuts

Wouldn't you do the same?

Inebriated Insight

2009-08-28T15:18:00.003+05:30

I’ve been sleeping by the rainbow, hoping the colour would wash every B&W patch away and become the lightbulb of my dream.

Going green?

2009-08-21T19:57:00.009+05:30

Like some of those horrifying facts that revisit you, I came across the latest, mind-boggling figures today. Apparently, a book is published every 30 seconds somewhere in the world. Over 4 gallons of water are used to create a single book(!). (Well, that should at least be a good answer to those who cry over the demise of books.)

Many suggest and argue that e-books are the way to go. Now, I am not personally a fan and I doubt the idea will ever fully appeal to me, but I really understand the concern being the wannabe green living enthusiast that I am. But isn’t the energy issue staring at us there?

I recently read that Random House announced being committed to printing 30% of its books on recycled paper by early next year. (In fact, only 5% of the 4.15 billion books produced in 2006 used recycled paper. Ouch.) I guess we’ll have to wait for other publishers to get their act together, that’s all. And share books till then, so they suggest. (Yeah, just that I won’t since I am the stuck up, obsessed, I-don’t-share-my-book-asshole. Kill me.)

There are always such things that allow you to share books across the world and contribute in some way. But what about the new titles? Perhaps we’ll never know. Or wait for Google to throw some figures at me. Facts suck.

This Love

2009-08-19T21:43:00.013+05:30

Meet Jude*.

These guys really know how to make sumptuous, smart things. I bled and saved for the longest time to be able to pick this baby. It's incredibly intuitive, powerful and well, pretty stunning. It's been over three months but I clearly can't get enough of it.

Don't blame me if this page sees a lot of it.

*Used earlier for my iPod which now goes by Jude Jr.

Your Logo Makes Me Barf

2009-08-17T22:02:00.006+05:30

It's funny how many logos here remind me of the stunning art I saw at the agency I'd rather not tell anyone about. Many things cracked me up but they are sickening nonetheless.

What would I do to work with talented art directors again? Kill such m*f*s to begin with.

Bollywood Cool

2009-08-15T23:09:00.009+05:30

I am not sure if it’s time to call Bhardwaj our Guy Ritchie. Not yet. Plus it'd only be unfair. But here’s a ballsy and brave attempt at a story about drugs and deception. Only a man like him can manage to have fun and produce something worth your time.

Kaminey starts and flies off. It’s fast. What I particularly love about the film is Tassaduq Hussain’s work. There’s spectacular camera work, incredible colouring, smart editing – these guys really know their stuff. It’s comforting to see such detailed effort. It really adds to the atmosphere.

What truly comes across is that Bhardwaj respects your intelligence. He leaves a few things afloat cleverly, rolls them out recklessly later. He’s figured a smart plot for an entertaining jigsaw. There are moments when things happen in Marathi and Bengali. Completely unexplained, completely awesome.

Also, Bhardwaj has written some truly delicious characters. They are immensely amusing, immersed in realism and contribute to the story. The narrative is so witty, there are the recurring jokes, it drives you well through the dual plot. There is one who stutters, one lisps, one giggles under his moustache and shoots, there are the typical bhais and the real ones. Dark humour has been managed so impressively that you figure out the barks into a goddamn cellphone later. And mutter what the all you want, it's fucking enjoyable.

Great job on having Gulzar on board. Only a man as talented as him handles stuff with such elegance. Bhardwaj has thrown in a Burman track efficiently – usually it’d have pissed me off.

You’re good, dude, Vishal. The film is dark, funny and mean, driven by some memorable characters (Bhope is way too cool) - let's face it, we've had some adorable ones but this is just what you expect from a few gangsters running after a musical instrument. I must mention Priyanka Chopra tries hard. But that’s about it. My neighbour likes her anyhow.

Mr Toledano

2009-08-14T17:08:00.004+05:30

Every once in a while you come across someone’s work that makes you stare at your screen for hours. I felt abnormal today when I found myself checking out everything this guy has done. He’s a genius.

One of his projects, Phone Sex The Book focuses on “theatre” that phone sex is. He has clicked several phone sex operators in the rooms they work from. It’s interesting how genuinely he studies their personality, adds some of their words and builds a wonderful description.

Another immensely impressive piece of work is his project Days With My Father, where he tells you some very personal, some characteristic things about him.

There’s some unusually simple work in his project Arctic as well. I wonder what he’d do if he gets to work with war heroes or comedians. I think such exceptional talent would make for some great pictures.

They called him talented. Poo.

2009-08-13T17:25:00.005+05:30

I’m officially sick of hearing/reading/MTV VJ giggling over Farhan Akhtar. The ‘talented’ man who ‘has it all.’

Let’s take it one by one. Direction, alright, I’ll give that to him. Random nothingness about three guys well told. I was a teenager, you know, and I’d say I honestly enjoyed almost the entire movie.

Acting? Along with those bandannas and nut-hugging faded jeans, there was just a straight face. When I finally got the DVD, quite a wonder that the fast-forward mode is, I saw these men driving wistfully, head banging (fake riffs - it even hurts to put that down here) Farhan Actor Akhtar wearing suits in a fancy office with a dumb woman for a wife, and then there was the revolting moustache – all this mostly in obscene jump cuts, in that one godawful movie our man is known for. The album has been called Indian rock ‘n’ roll. What the fuck? What are you smoking? Drinking water through the nose? Indian rock is full of talented musicians my friend, not three musician shitholes playing with a guitar. So shut up with the praise, actor man.

Oh yeah, he sings too. Yes he can. That character needed it, isn’t it? Honest, raw vocals? Yes, like one of those aspiring ones on painfully arbit reality shows every evening on our TV sets.

Farhan Akhtar, please stick to direction. You can’t act, really. You can’t sing, oh no. If there’s another Rock On!! or Luck By Chance, it’ll only add to your Facebook fan score and probably get you another talk show so women can call you 'cute' endlessly. Now I have a wonderful brief to take care of, thank you. You can focus on holding a guitar for a car hoarding. But please don’t make me go ahead with insane blog entries.

Uhm.

2009-08-10T10:30:00.005+05:30

I have a lot of respect for musicians who constantly experiment with their work. I like the fact that some artists go out of their way, produce albums with other artists and prove themselves and make some memorable music. That’s perhaps the reason I pick up anything and everything Trent Reznor and Steven Wilson are even remotely associated with. They know their music; they know their words and create a different atmosphere in every track. Quite unlike Metallica (although I am a poster-boy fan) where you can invariably figure out the entire album if you hear one track.

Having said that, I’m up for a confession. Last week, I happened to chat up with a friend who is currently tripping to Temple of the Dog. It’s one of Chris Cornell’s greatest efforts. But it quickly turned around on me when his latest, Scream, came to my mind. I remember waiting for it eagerly as it was announced late last year. Gradually, names like Timbaland came up. It broke my heart.

First single, second single. What’s wrong with the man? I recently read that he compared his glorious piece of R&B-rock trash to The Dark Side of the Moon, apparently for the "psychedelic" elements. Again, what’s wrong with the man? I don’t even find him comfortable with his vocals at places. How is he convinced it’s a creative success?

So alright, Chris, take some time off and come back. I don’t even mind you with something like Audioslave. Frankly, that band had nothing to offer but your voice. And that’s saying a lot. You were amazing on BBC Sessions with the guys. You seemed to have fun there.

We’re all waiting.

The Great Indian News Network

2009-08-02T23:37:00.002+05:30

I’m mad. It’s 11.30 pm and all I cared about after a long Sunday was some news. I get myself some coffee and all I see on our wonderful TV channels are “live” images from Rakhi’s swayamvar.

I hope the dumbfucks at NDTV Imagine are reading, because I have an idea for another TRP winner. Rakhi’s First Night With The Canada Man. Coming soon, have the drinks ready. Keep wondering how and when commercial breaks will be announced on that show. Any ideas?

The Others

2009-07-29T10:48:00.004+05:30

So what do you do when the IIM brand, laptop carrying, suit wearing people walk into their office with big windows and turn the lights on, when the room is well lit naturally? Worse, waste paper?

All this for educated people being aware and socially responsible. Bravo.

Green Sweater

2009-07-26T20:25:00.005+05:30

She's the one who disliked winter
Upon her skin is a fine cluster
Is there a story
In the green sweater resting on her shoulder

She lies there waiting
For the day to end
Took lemon with her vodka
Missing the warmth of the one
Whose love she had spent

Is there a story
In the green sweater resting on her shoulder
She never liked the winter
She never liked the winter

Ate boxes of raisins
Shivering, holding her drink
Is there a story
In the green sweater resting on her shoulder

She'd only eat a peanut butter sandwich
Thinking it'd soak
The vodka in her foodpipe
Could she gulp it all away
Could she gulp it all away

Is there a story
In the way she held her drink
Steady
Away from the green sweater resting on her shoulder

The Beginning

2009-07-26T19:04:00.002+05:30

It took me a while to have a new page in place. Perhaps it was the unconvincing idea to move to white. It’s not really appealing as of now but I am trying to find some comfort around here.

I really don’t have much to write about for now, as all I can think of is my future, thanks to the weekend ritual where I revisit such profound thoughts. Not forgetting how I felt cheated by my doctor this morning.

I really did. You know how they call them family doctors? He is one of those. For years my folks have trusted him with every colourful defect I have had. We will call him The Backstabber.

One of his favourite activities apart from wondering about the number of years Sachin Tendulkar will stick around was staring at a random table and expressing with immense grief that I am still underweight. Over the years, The Backstabber tried everything – tablets, syrups, suggested diet including milk shakes, bananas, etc. I am still thin. You could call me a hanger with a face.

This morning I met him and asked, with a general air of randomness, if beer could prove to be useful. Presenting my case with an innocent face and curiosity, I got him to believe I’d only heard people notice satisfying changes once they start drinking regularly.

It all started there. He feigned support. I was convinced I’d sold the idea to him, and that would effectively convince Dear Dad.

It seemed that almost unnaturally, he’d forgotten about a conversation I was hopeful about.

The problem is, this wasn’t a stupid dream.