Go fuck yourself, Daddy, and hello again, WordPress!

Here’s a lesson you must imbibe in your life, young one: NEVER LISTEN TO ADVICE FROM YOUR MBA FRIENDS.

If you haven’t pursued an MBA yourself, there should be no reason for you to listen to your MBA friends. I made the mistake of listening to an MBA friend of mine, and bought into his Shiv Khera-ish lecture of ‘pushing things up one notch’.

‘How long will you keep writing on WordPress, bro?’ he asked me one day, amidst clouds of smoke and hope. ‘The world has moved on to other platforms. When you started the blog, even mobile phones weren’t around’.

Which is not completely true. I started in 2007 and Nokia was the Apple of the world’s eye back then.

‘But you’re missing my point. You need to scale things up. See, if you’re trying to create a brand (Am I?), people need to experience a professional UI’.

I nodded my head. I have found it’s the best way to avoid speaking to one’s MBA friends.

‘Let’s create a site for you’.

The above line can be interpreted in a number of ways. As a line mouthed 40 minutes into a movie, it could be the inciting incident transforms the protagonist’s life.

Spoken to me however, the line is impotent.

I am as technologically suave as Shakuni attending a Tech event in Cupertino. My friend asked me to choose a domain hosting site, and I duly chose GoDaddy. I mean, Mithun was doing their ads at the time – would you blame me? My friend graciously created the site for me, and (probably) shook my hand at the end of the mission.

And so there I was, over the last four years – trying to handle my own site.

If it was supposed to inspire me, it had the opposite effect. Earlier, I was just some guy who got high and typed keys onto a site. Now, I was a writer who was seeking to create his own brand. I mean, if someone gave you a choice between the two scenarios, which one would you take?

Running my own site sounds nice from the outside. It has a nice ring to it, and I used the line a few times at parties where I forgot to bring my personality.

I run one of India’s longest running humour sites.

Oh, nice. What’s it called? 

Heartranjan.com

Art-?

No. Heart. Heartranjan. 

Okay. Let me note that down. Heart Dungeon. Dot com? 

No, not Dungeon. Ranjan. Cos my name is Hriday Ranjan…so…heartranjan.

Oh, okay. Humour site, eh? Hmmm.

 

I thought running your own site was like having your own digital castle, where you can lounge and look at the world from the balcony. What I didn’t know was it was closer to running your own garden.

You have to get down everyday and weed out the rubbish. On WordPress, my spam was handled by disciplined employees. On my site, I received 200 comments a day from strange Russian companies.

I also noticed that spam messages are getting smarter. Earlier, a typical spam message would read:

Use Tadalafil for Erectile Dysfunction. 50 mg. 

Short, sweet, to the point. Easy to notice and do away with. But over the recent few years, spam messages trick you into believing somebody in the world cares about you – and then twist the knife into your heart. Modern spam messages read like this.

Hey 😀 Thanks for the post, I found it absolutely engaging and must say, you do raise some terrific points. However, I must say I wish you had expanded on few of the issues that you raise in the post if your dick is limp, use Tadalafil 50 mg for Erectile Dysfunction.

The messages trap you into hope, and then smack you with a product. And imagine getting 200 of these everyday! I can’t remember writing anything interesting in the last four years, probably due to the pressure of ‘running my own site’.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into years. Over the last four years, I have become a standup comedian, a newspaper columnist for Indian Express, a critic for Film Companion, and an A++ accredited roller of joints.

You wouldn’t blame me for ignoring a mail from GoDaddy that my billing needed tending to. I thought it was their Annual Ronadhona Subscription time, and ignored the mails. Turns out my domain ran out and somebody else bought it.

I spoke to their agent Naresh, and was informed that I need to pay thousands to recover the site, with no guarantee of recovering my content.

I did some research and found that GoDaddy wasn’t developed by a son who wanted his his ailing father to achieve his dream. It was a company founded in the US with nearly 6000 employees around the world. GoDaddy could go fuck itself.

I dropped the plan, asked Naresh to go fuck himself in Corporato – Thank you SO much for ALL the help, Naresh. I hope you rise to great heights one day. 

Which is when I found that my wordpress site was still intact. It waited for me to build a house and was there for me when I returned. Of course, the subscribers are all gone -from 3000 to 7, but those can be gained back.

It must be good to go back to typing without an agenda or pressure. And for the reader to scroll through stuff that was written just for the fun of it. Which is why I have returned to WordPress again your dick is limp buy Tadalafil 50 mg and experience magical results.

Why I stayed away from the Aamir Khan Intolerance debate

I have spent a good part of the last five years on Facebook.

Not the early days, when Facebook was a glorified Orkut, and people were still sharing pictures, stalking pretty girls, and generally being nice to each other. Not that Facebook.

I am talking about the Facebook where people log in at 9 AM, and pour out their fears, beliefs, and political ideologies when dear old Facebook asks them ‘What’s on your mind?’

However, through much of last week, I filled my wall with terrible PJs.

Eg. Every Diwali, I loathe those holier than thou messages. ‘Diwali mein Ali hai, Ramzan mein Ram hai. Toh? Mongolia mein Mongia hai, naachun, behenchod?’

It’s not much of a joke, to be honest. But I put my foot down and refused to get drawn into an argument over the Aamir Khan intolerance debate. Here’ why.

IT IS FUCKING STUPID.

It is something the media does, and something we fall for, every single time. This is their modus operandi. At a press event, ask somebody who has NO relation to politics, a political question.

It might be a Baba who just spent a good part of his afternoon twisting his hand around his back and bringing it out from the front. It might be an actress who has spent a decade in India but can barely speak an Indian language. Or an actor who has been in movies since he passed out of school.

If you ask me about Quantum Physics, I’ll probably say gravity is caused by a gigantic underground spider’s asshole.

We need to stop asking political questions to our religious heads, actors and sportspersons. For one, they haven’t spent time in colleges, reading and getting an informed opinion on issues. And they are bound to mouth something idiotic.

WHICH IS WHAT THE MEDIA LOVES.

 

The Aamir Khan incident was another example of their terrific acumen. They take a portion of a speech, print out reams of paper and pages on the web, and leave the rest of us to trip over it tirelessly on our Facebook pages.

I am growing weary of Facebook by the day. The way Facebook is going, makes you wish back fondly for Orkut. Orkut days were actual achhe din. You logged in, said nice stuff to people you knew, checked the profiles of people you liked, and went back to desibaba.com. Simpler days.

Ever since the Anna Hazare movement – the Big Bang of online activism – happened, all of Facebook has slowly turned into a Wasseypur. On one side you have the jingoistic right, and on the other the cynical left. The Centre doesn’t matter. Because Rahul Gandhi.

And the online Wasseypur is at it for half a decade now. The Left liberals throng one corner of the space. They are the kinds that the enemies like to refer to as Sickulars and Presstitudes. Because let’s face it, if there is ONE group keeping things classy on the internet, it is the BJP.

The liberals are the Ramadhir Singhs. Experienced, softer, but incisive and effective. The BJP guys are the Khans. Faizal, Daanish, and Sardar Khan. They are inexperienced, but hot-blooded. The kinds who begin shooting at the drop of a hat, going berserk, living their online lives on the edge, for they may be blocked or deactivated at any point.

 

I used to be a part of the mob, too. I used to put up my political musings on my wall, and gently collect the logs together, bring my friends, and light the wood. And then I would sit and watch the fire grow, twisting the wood a bit, blowing into it, adding a little fuel to the fire.

And I would spend days engaging in such arguments. But these days, I feel like Bheeshma. I want to lie on my bed of arrows and watch the proceedings, but pray do not draw me into the quagmire, O Shakuni!

At the end of a week, we all proved that Aamir Khan was right all along.

I mean, the guy said something, it got twisted into something else, and everybody lost their fucking minds. And so what if he said it, man? Big fucking deal.

I have felt the same way many a time. There have been lots of times I wished I could leave the country. In spite of me being born here, my country doesn’t give me the best amenities. I am an honest, law-abiding citizen who contributes to the nation’s economy.

What do I get in return? Terrible government healthcare, abysmal transportation facilities, a police force that is both sloppy and slimy. There have been moments I have wanted to leave the country because I couldn’t take a walk on a road with a woman I like. Without having people call names, or flash their dicks out.

I have felt like leaving the country a lot of times. And it doesn’t make me an evil person. And even if it does, fuck you. You’re not the Taliban. I will say what I want to say. You can go fuck yourselves, guys.

 

Uh, oh.

I just wrote an angry, rant-y blog about the issue. Damn it.

You see what I mean? I need to leave Facebook, man.

Fuck Facebook.

The Appropriation of Bihar

The recently concluded Bihar elections was the most interest in Bihar I have ever seen.

Till a few weeks back, Bihar was the joker in the pack. The easiest to ridicule, get laughs out of. When someone says they’re from Bihar, a silence follows, since nobody wants to say anything.

Behind their backs, jokes about rickshawalas, uneducated paan-chewing brutes are cracked, and consumed. Even Atal Bihari Vajpayee, who was the bloody Prime Minister of the country, was ridiculed for being, afterall, a ‘Bihari’.

But he’s Vajpayee, and he’s a poet and stuff, so you can’t fuck with him. He quickly replied that he is ‘Bihari’, yes. But he is also ‘Atal’ (firm).

The point is, till last week, Bihar didn’t figure in the serious landscape of the regular Scroll-consuming Facebooker.

 

Now suddenly, everybody wants to talk about Bihar.

People who haven’t been to the state even once, have no idea what it was bifurcated into, or even the names of the parties contesting. Today, everybody wants a piece of Bihar.

And the entire discussion is from two view-points.

1. Those who feel Bihar committed a gigantic mistake because by not voting for Modi. Which automatically means they didn’t vote for BJP, which automatically means they don’t want development. They want to live in sand dunes and drink water by plucking cactuses and sucking out the water. I met one guy who had had a few beers, and he was going about banging doors screaming ‘Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack’ for at least two hours.

Even before the election, Modi spoke about there being some problem with the Bihari ‘DNA’. After the loss, a BJP member said Biharis deserve to be ‘rickshawallahs’.

She only said it because she could. Because you can say something like that against Biharis, but not against Marathis. Cos those guys will break shops and set fire to police vans if you do. Our entire opinion of Bihar has been at best, terribly condescending.

Which, well, is exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from a Modi fanboy anyway. I admit the huge generalization I am making, but allow me to make my point.

It has been more than a year that Modi was elected the Prime Minister of India, and we are yet to get an objective opinion on the guy. BJP fans believe they own Modi, and accept no criticism whatsoever against the man. Which is rather sad. He’s the country’s Prime Minister guys, not the chief of a political party. But BJP guys run to save him like he still belongs to them.

*

The second opinion is of the kind I’d generously typecast as the ‘liberals’, which sadly, has been reduced to an anti-Modi brigand. The kind who shares articles by Scroll and says that Tipu Sultan was a noble king who fed milk and honey and almonds to pigeons on his terrace.

On this side of the fence, there were celebrations and revelry. ‘Bihar, you made us proud today!’.

Really? Who the fuck is ‘us’ anyway?

You think the Bihari voter gives a fuck about your issues? Have you lived in Bihar? Apart from stopping Modi, does anything else about the election affect you? To cheer for Laloo Prasad Yadav, the poster boy of bovine corruption puts in question your support all along for politics free of corruption and dynastical politics.

Laloo’s Rashtriya Janata Dal won the most seats in this election, and his party has the most number of MPs with criminal records.

But we shall appropriate Bihar and celebrate an imagined victory because it validates our stance against Modi on a fucking Facebook debate! Wah, bhai!

*

To me, it was always a game of numbers. When the two largest parties of a state get together to keep you out, there isn’t much you can do. It’s like AIADMK getting together with DMK in Tamil Nadu – what can you possibly hope to win?

Flying in Modi and his promises in the last moment might not really affect one’s opinion. With 40 parliamentary seats from Bihar, it is a game that is mired in identity politics, caste and hereditary loyalty.

May be it is a problem that BJP’s entire campaign was built on development, and it still didn’t work. May be the Bihari voter has nothing to do with FDI and foreign trips and personal suits with names embroidered into it.

*

As it is, Bihar has landed itself in a quagmire.

What happens after the dust settles? With the common enemy ousted, and Laloo’s RJD having won the most seats, how long is the bonhomie going to last? How safe can a ship sail when the captain doesn’t have the largest crew?

Bihar has its own issues to deal with. Appropriating Bihar to fill the colour of the lens you see the world with, doesn’t amount to jackshit.

It makes a rat’s ass of a difference.

Take-homes from the All Stars Cricket League

All Star Cricket League

 Watching the All Stars Cricket League was a strange experience.

Firstly, it wasn’t like I had made a slot in my schedule, marked the day, finished bath and food early, and sat down in front of the TV. Naah.

It was a memory at the back of my mind, something I could always get to, after two beers, and catch up on.

That was what it was about. Catching up.

Catching up with those guys I loved and adored and watched and imitated and cut pictures of and stuck to my scrap book. The guys were getting together once again, and it would be fun to see how they’ve aged.

Strangely, the Indian players didn’t seem to have changed a lot. Sachin played a slow, cautious innings, holding it together, the fear of losing early wickets perhaps too deeply embedded in his psyche.

Laxman swung and missed, and went back to the pavilion before you could say ‘Odomos’. Much like he has been doing for Kochi Tuskers, that team where everybody seemed to have elephantiasis. And Agarkar. Agarkar didn’t do much in the match.

Then there was Sehwag, doing what he has been doing all along. My only pang of regret was that McGrath wasn’t in the opposition. I’d have liked to watch Sehwag cart him across deep mid-wicket, all the way to Alaska.

The Indians were just going about the motions.

The Sri Lankans were at it too. Being efficient and productive, diving around and fielding well, and doing their bit for the team. The Australians were fit and effective. In many ways, it could have been the 90s and the players gotten together for a charity match.

Except for a few things.

Curtly Ambrose.

Curtly Ambrose in my memories was a fearsome, frightful bowler. One who took no bullshit, and gave back in good measure.

Over the years, something happened. I am guessing Ganja.

Curtly Ambrose Reggae Band

Curtly Ambrose has metamorphosed into a smiling, swinging guy who doesn’t give a fuck. There must be some greens involved there. Probably because he joined a reggae band after retirement. Probably because his favourite musicians are Bob Marley and Peter Tosh.

But here’s my biggest take-home from the league.

Indians love Pakistani cricketers.

No matter what the Shiv Sena wants you to believe, and no matter how many Pakistanis they ban from playing or performing, the roar you heard when Akhtar came on to bowl, proved that Indians like the guy. The applause that Wasim Akram got when he came on to bowl was further proof of that fact.

I assume if Sachin went to Pakistan, he’d receive the same kind of treatment. It is because we Indians love cricket.

We will play cricket outdoors and indoors. We love Tests, One Days, and T20s.

We will play cricket with cricket balls and tennis balls. When there are no balls, we’ll roll up papers and crunch them into balls.

When there are no papers to tear, we will play book cricket.

The All Stars league was just a way of letting people of my generation revisit their nostalgia once again.

It wasn’t really serious cricket. But who cares?

At least it wasn’t like the IPL, where there is a fake sense of seriousness over trumpets and painted faces.

This was like the cricket matches you play on a team outing with your office colleagues. Nobody cares. It is about playing the game. It is about revelling in it.

I can’t wait for the next two matches!

Who the fuck is Sooraj Pancholi?

The last two weeks were proof of what’s wrong with Hindi cinema.

People with too much money investing in useless star sons because of their jeans genes.

There was Imran Khan’s Katti Batti (Read review here), which made Aamir Khan shed tears again.

Picture Courtesy: Wirally.com
Picture Courtesy: Wirally.com

But perhaps more painful was the remake of Hero, starring Chhota Bhai, who was ‘introduced’ by Bhai.

Now, I think I have not been subtle about my appreciation for Jackie Shroff. Jackie Shroff is cool.

Jackie Shroff cannot watch The Big Lebowski because it reminds him of himself too much.

Shobaa De

Intellectual Jackie

Jackie Cats Meow

Honestly, you don’t expect too much acting from someone who was launched by Salman Khan, the Indian God of Not Giving a Fuck.

But this guy was just terrible. I was enraged why they couldn’t find someone better to replace Jackie Shroff. I mean, Jackie Shroff was the bomb.

He literally came off the slums.

He used to spend his days hanging out, when someone told him to get a few pictures taken. That’s how Brother got into modeling, and then he was noticed by Dev Anand who gave him a small role in Swami  Dada.

But it was when Subhash Ghai noticed him, changed his name from Jaikishan to Jackie, and directed him in Hero, things changed forever.

Jackie Shroff began to live his dream. He went on to star in over 200 films, and pick up three Filmfare awards. Somewhere down the line, dream and reality got muddled, with films like Naksha – a film that was written sometime in September, the month when you get the worst pot in the year.

Hey, it's on Wikipedia. Must be true!
Hey, it’s on Wikipedia. Must be true!

Jackie Shroff epitomized the Indian fantasy. A man from the ghetto making it into the big, bad world of success. In fact, that was what made Jackie Shroff stand out from the rest of the stars of the time. Compared to the Kumars and the Kapoors, Jackie possessed that one defining quality of the Indian middle class back then. Poverty.

Jackie Shroff was thin, scruffy, and had none of the suave politeness of other heroes.

But this Pancholi fellow looks like any other guy. Rippling muscles, tattoos with his own name, fire beer in the belly.

Sooraj Coke

But no matter how much you criticize the taste of the Indian audiences, there’s a limit to how much they are willing to take. They saw through the farce. They will go watch a fuck-all film like Ready starring Bhai. But won’t fall for the photoshopped , glitzy marketing of chhota bhai.

In a way, I am glad the film tanked. Fuck Sooraj Pancholi.

If I were a Bangladeshi, I’d have released a hate video in support of Jackie Shroff and say hateful things.

But I know Brother won’t like it, so I am letting the matter go. Brother is a non-violent sort of guy.

Life lemons maushicigand

Peace.

Kimbo and Me

If you have been reading my blogs for a while, you’d have come across Kimbo Slice.

Kimbo

Dog extraordinaire, Alpha Male of the biggest Food Court on the University of Hyderabad campus. Friend of friends, possessive as Simi Garewal in Karz, and hater of buffaloes. A dog who never wagged his tail and asked for food. Who hung out with you as a friend, content to lick his balls while you smoked a joint, transcending millions of years of evolution between Man and Friend.

When we first met, the two of us were at our peak.

Kimbo was cool Cool was Kimbo. He only ate chicken, and threw you a frosty glare if you dared feed him anything vegetarian. Tiger biscuits was his preference, sniffing and rejecting anything else. If you befriended him, he walked with you from the Food Court, to your hostel five kilometres away, ensured you were safe, and then ran all the way back. He ran his ‘hood’ of reverential street dogs – his bark caused a riot, his whimper started an orgy. Kimbo was the ruler of the land.

And me. After years of trying to find a calling in life, and having dealt with only missed calls so far, I was finally at a place I felt comfortable. A place where I could engage, debate, discuss, prove my point, win an argument, play God.

In a way, we were both unlikely heroes. Kimbo isn’t the biggest dog around. In fact, in a world determined by size, Kimbo is relatively puny. One of his eyes doesn’t work, he walks with a limp, and his cough reminds you of Rajesh Khanna in Anand.

And yet, he ruled Gops with an iron paw.

And me. On a scale of One to Ten, I am Uday Chopra with a hangover and a hairstyle from Tirupati. And yet, I pursued women way out of my league. I sat with them at Gops, Kimbo at my side, talking to them, painting blurry memories with colour and gifting it to them. Wonderful women who drank, smoked, spoke, held hands, and took walks, Kimbo guarding us against imaginary ghosts and disrespectful buffaloes.

We were both punching above our weight. Kimbo running his pack of dogs, a motley crew of scared, whimpering, lost souls who transformed into Jedi warriors when they heard his bark. Who sprang to life and ran behind the buffalo, who obviously, didn’t give a fuck. Because, buffaloes.

He ran his hood, and I dated women I would never have a chance with in everyday life. And how did I do it?

Kimbo was my Wingman.

We shared a Jackie Shroff – Moti equation. Everytime I whistled, Kimbo would drop everything and come running towards me. Something about this impressed women no end. And every woman I dated, I made sure Kimbo met them too.

In my absence, Kimbo would run up to them, say a Hi, and hang out, ensuring other stray dogs didn’t bother them. He was my Wingman.

Back in those days, me and Kimbo ruled Gops.

*

In the four years that have passed, things have changed.

Not drastically, like a Farah Khan movie. But in a slow, excruciating manner. When small details add up over a large period of time to signify that things are not the same.

Kimbo is old now.

kim

He has given up his hood, and taken refuge near the Small Gate. He spends his days wagging his tail at the security guards, who throw him a biscuit every now and then. His eyes have given up on him, as have his nose and ears. Blind, deaf and weak, he has taken old age in his stride.

And me. I have grown tired. Disillusioned, drifting about pointlessly.

Kimbo is at the twilight of his life, and me at the fag end of my Twenties.

When I ride past him and scream ‘Kimbo’, the name barely registers. He turns, tries to place me, and then sneezes and goes back to swatting flies near his balls.

I ride past him everyday, call out his name, and he continues to sleep, his jagged breaths interrupted by flies. Everyday, I wonder if it’s the last time I’m going to see him. And yet, lying down like that, without shame or remorse, Kimbo knows.

We both need to leave this place. Soon.

Such a ‘Policey’ thing to do

mumbai police
Indian Police doing what they do best. Humiliate law-abiding citizens.

In a nation where women get raped, men get killed, and Bollywood stars gift puppies to their girlfriends, it is difficult for news to sustain any sort of shelf life.

Which is why the news of Mumbai Police picking up 40 couples from hotels, and parading them on the road like petty pickpockets, will hardly make the news. A few hashtags here, Arnab Goswami beheading someone there, and that’s it.

And yet, the incident angered me no end.

It has long been the job of Indian Police’s duty to fuck the happiness of the people of the country. In our country, you cannot hold your partner’s hand. Forget kissing, you cannot even hug your partner, without incurring the wrath of uncles, aunties, shopkeepers, beggars, stray dogs, bacteria, plasmodium, the five elements – and cops. Most importantly, cops.

For you see, there is no greater threat for you on the road, than khaki-wearing morons who have the license to weild sticks, pull up anybody for interrogation, and deal with them as they like.

When I am out with a girl, it is not really a sex offender I am afraid of. You can deal with a sex-offender. Raise your voice, be assertive, draw attention – a sex offender is afraid of the law. I am more scared of cops – because cops fear no one. The law is but an old underwear that they can remove and discard as they please.

Having been stopped by cops on numerous occasions, this is usually the drill that ensues. The cop will first stop me, and call out to me to come towards him, like I’m a petty criminal.

I am a Research scholar, and the cop is a Tenth pass, unfit moron who can’t speak three lines in any language, and yet I have to address him as ‘Sir’.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Nothing, sir. We are just sitting, sir’.

‘Is this the time to sit? (Turns to the girl) What’s your name?’

The girl by now is scared, or embarassed.

‘Do your parents know you are here? Should I call them? Huh? Tell me? What’s your name? Are you from a good family? Do girls from good families do such stuff? Should I call your parents – yes or no, tell me’.

What follows is half an hour of nagging, coaxing and cajoling. Which usually ends when I take out some hard earned money and grease his filthy palms. It is ironic that the Police was instituted to make citizens feel safe and secure. And yet, the first thing people want to do in India, is avoid the cops. We fear them, these lawless creatures of the night, who prowl on everybody they see. These khaki-colored creatures who can only be satiated with some money, like you’d feed a hungry stray dog.

Think I am going overboard? Well, when was the last time you met a polite, informed, fit policeman? When was the last time you dealt with the cops and came out of the room feeling good about things? If you did, well, good for you. I have never met one of such kind.

The couples, who had paid their own money, booked a hotel to spend time together, were rounded up, slapped, and had to walk around with their faces covered. The entire operation was led by visionary DCP Vikram Deshpande, who pesonally supervised the operations. This is how the meeting must have gone:

‘Sir, what do we do today? Kuchh mazaa nahi aa raha hai’.
‘Hmmm…I know what you mean…’
‘Sir, there have been chain-snatching incidents all over the city. Also, Mumbai is perenially vulnerable to terrorist attacks – ‘
‘Wait, I know what we can do. Let’s raid rooms and haul up young couples who are having sex…cos how can they have sex when we can’t have sex? You know with all our paunches and stuff…’
‘Great idea, sir. Let’s go…abey, gaadi nikaal…’

Maharashtra-Police-Logo
Such an appropriate logo – ‘Zyada baat kiya, toh Ek doonga, kheenchke’. Also, keep your right hand free. Don’t masturbate. It’s not a good habit.

Also, it is not merely the attitude of the police alone. It is an Indian middle-aged problem. Ask anybody middle aged in India, even your own parents, about the incident. The one response you’ll get is ‘Well, they shouldn’t have booked rooms in a hotel. Who does indecent stuff like that?’

We are fine with fucking our brains out and producing babies like rabbits, but someone using protection and doing it for pleasure – Nahi re, baba. Sanskriti bhrasht ho jayegi.

And that is the sad reality of the country. We endure shitty laws, shitty lawmakers, sub-Saharan standards of public utilities, unsafe streets, and terrorists on our way to work. And the force we are supposed to trust – is just this bunch of fat, unfit, uncivilised jokers who chase AK-47 weilding terrorists with sticks.

Who choose to display their masculinity by rounding up innocents, because they know a terrorist isn’t going to pay a bribe. Who have passed an exam, and run 100 meters, and joined an elite force who can stop you anytime, slap you, humiliate you, and laugh in your face as you walk out helplessly.

The Indian Police is a gigantic bunch of jokers. They invoke fear and hatred in you. They carry weapons, and use force when they deem fit. They wear uniforms, and don’t treat you like humans. How are they different from miliants, again?

*****

How We Made a Criminal into a Martyr

The ruckus behind Yakub Memon’s hanging had me baffled.

For someone who updates social media on issues, I was truly clueless about the entire hullabaloo. People had begun calling it an ‘injustice’, some others a travesty and a few others had gone to the extent of calling it a ‘shame to a democracy’.

Somewhere amidst this noise, I had to sit back and scratch my head. What did I really miss??

*

I can understand the call for abolishing death penalty.

That is a debate that has existed for long. Most nations that consider themselves ‘evolved’ or civilized have abolished it. I am not erudite enough to comment on the issue, I can’t claim to know the nuances of the debate.

What I do know, and am fully convinced about, is belief in the law of the land.

In a way, I was proud of the fact that a criminal was even given debate and discussion on a national scale. In most of our neighbouring countries, he would have been chopped to salad, and nobody would even know when it happened.

Of course, I do not endorse it, I’m merely stating the facts. The entire debate and discussion probably reflected our civility as a nation.

 

What disturbed me, however, was how nobody seemed to speak of his crimes anymore.

The only point of discussion was of him ‘helping’ Indian intelligence authorities in their investigation. This, apparently, ought to have gotten him a pardon, made him above the law of the land, which had spent 22 years to run its course. The other argument was that he was being hung for the crimes of his brother.

 
The intelligence in that statement can be gauged by the fact that it was echoed by Salman Khan, that well-read intellectual from Bandra.

 
Also, the last time we showed mercy on criminals and kept them in jails, here is what happened. The Kandahar hijackers demanded the release of Mushtaq Ahmed Zargar, Ahmed Omar Saeed Sheikh and Maulana Masood Azhar.

What did these dudes do after they were released?

The World Trade Centre attacks of 9/11, the kidnapping, and beheading of Daniel Pearl. And oh, remember the Mumbai terror attacks? Those too.

 

Strangely, whenever Yakub’s activities were spoken about, it was in an off-handed manner, like an accepted theorem – ‘Yes, he did commit those crimes, BUT – ’

As a media student, I think most of it is to do with public perception of an incident.

Let’s compare this with another incident that provoked the nation’s fury in the last few years. Ram Singh & Co.’s rape of Jyoti Singh Pandey in December 2012.

The same liberals who poured their heart out on my wall last week, had been crying hoarse – ‘Hang the rapist’.

That was because the facts were out there in the public. They had beaten the girl black and blue, broken her bones, inserted a rod into her vagina, kicked her till her intestines came out – the gory details were all out in the public. There was a face to the victim, a name (even though it wasn’t out for long). At the same time, there was a face to the criminals too – they had names, faces, homes.

But the Mumbai blasts of 93 were more or less faceless.

Except Dawood Ibrahim and Tiger Memon, no faces or names floated in the minds of the public. It was just that – Bombay Blasts. A sad incident where people lost their lives. Like they do on trains everyday. Or if there is a stampede at a holy river.

The Mumbai blasts had no face.

 

That, and the fact that decades have passed since the incident, softens our stand. We begin to look at the peripheries, the tangents, and miss the gaping black hole in the middle.

Well, Yakub Memon wasn’t an innocent victim of circumstances.

Duryodhana was the more evil among the brothers. Doesn’t mean Dushasana was a saint!

 

To all you people who cried, spoke your voice, and pasted links to articles on my wall, here’s what Yakub Memon did.

He was a sharp student. After securing his Chartered Accountant’s degree in 1991, he was fudging accounts for his brother Tiger Memon by 1992.

Yakub Memon managed the funds for his brother. He arranged the money to buy bombs and guns. He fudged accounts to ensure they weren’t traced back to him.

He bought the cars and scooters in which the bombs were planted. Flats owned by him were used to plan the whole conspiracy. He supervised and distributed the guns and weapons, saw to it that they were well-hidden.

He bought and arranged air tickets for the accused to escape away to Pakistan, joining them when he thought it was a safer option for his family.

 

Perhaps reading The Times of India everyday has made us dumb.

Yakub Memon lived in Pakistan, enjoyed the luxury of their hospitality along with his family for nearly a year. By then, the investigation in India had picked up pace. All the signs were hinting towards Pakistan’s involvement.

By any shred of common logic, Pakistan wasn’t going to be feeding and keeping him safe. He only returned to India when he was a liability. When his family was in danger.

 

The blasts killed more than 300 people.

Innocents died. Hawkers who would stand under the sun and sell and earn peanuts. Employees who were on their way to earn an honest living. Common people who were neither communal, nor conniving with Bal Thackeray.

Just regular people going about their lives, were blown to bits. And Yakub Memon was at the epicenter of it all.

He was no saint. He was a sneaky, conniving bastard who ran away after engineering the blasts, and returned when he realized it was the safest option.

 

And what did the debate result in?

More than 35,000 people congregated at his funeral. Political parties like AIMIM claimed it was a conspiracy against Muslims.

Yakub Memon had set out to die for the cause of Islam. He failed, but we made sure he succeeded in the end.

We made a criminal a martyr.

Congratulations, India!!

******

 

Baahubali Movie Review

If there is one thing that I absolutely hate in a cinema hall – it is kids.

They wail, and cry, or decide to take a walk between the seats and touch your hair, and expect you to turn around and pet them. Every time I notice there are kids around me in a hall, I pray that they die before the film starts.

Which was why, when I arrived in the hall for Baahubali, and found there were two kids near my seat, I prayed that they die. When the movie began, I had to double-check if they actually died, because they were silent all through. It is a testimony to how engrossing the film’s beginning is, that even those stupid kids kept shut. (But of course, they are kids, so they decided to cry later on in the movie!).

For a little context, Rajamouli is huge in Telugu cinema. For more than a decade, he has been churning out classic Good vs Evil, Prodigal Son stories that have all been hits – not even one of his films have been average grossers.

Rajamouli’s films more or less maintain similar themes – reincarnation, retribution, and a grand climax. He has perfected the archetype of the hero, villain, and most importantly, the Mother.

When I first saw the trailers of Baahubali, I was sceptical. The graphics didn’t look all that impressive, and I was worried it might just be another Telugu film that had ambitiously bitten off more than it could chew – like his earlier outing Eega.

I am not a huge fan of the ‘Big Budget’ theory. I fail to understand why people rave about terms like ‘Biggest Budget’, ‘Most expensive film’. Having a large budget doesn’t mean anything.

This scepticism comes from having watched earlier ‘most expensive’ films – Blue, starring a pregnant Sanjay Dutt and coke-glazed Zayed Khan, or Ra.One, which was so bad, they should have released a sequel called Tut.Two.

 

Clearly, having a huge budget is not a big deal. If you get a funder, you can make a film on as large a budget as you want, but it’s what you do with the budget that really makes a difference.

Rajamouli has painstakingly invested most of the money on his vision – lavish sets, the epic war scene. He doesn’t let you take your eyes off the screen even for a single moment.

If there was a grudge I had, it was to do with the slight compromises he had to make, to fit in songs. Perhaps we are not hindered by budgets and stories, but our own cinematic sensibilities. The songs seemed force-fed, and were definite speed-breakers in a film that was cruising along smoothly.

Which then brings me to the second part of any huge action film – inspirations.

There have been talks of action scenes ‘inspired’ from LOTR, and 300.

I don’t invest too much thought in such discussions. Cinema, like any art, builds up on its ancestors. For example, for a decade after Matrix released, all action movies had the slow-mo bullet flying in air shot. Even today, most Chinese-Hong Kong action films build on the Bruce Lee style of quick, hand-to-hand combat mode.

So I wasn’t too picky about which scene was inspired from where.

For me, all that matters is if it hasn’t been shamelessly lifted (without any context, just to latch on to an idea). Yes, there are a few shots that remind you of other action films, but the war scene is much more than that. In a way, right from the beginning, you are waiting for the war. And when it does come, it stays on for a good 30 minutes.

The performances, as in most Rajamouli’s films, are consistent – probably because most characters in his movies are archetypes. Prabhas is consistent, and Rana is a shade better. But it is Ramyakrishna and Satyaraj who take larger chunks of meat than they were promised.

If there was one complaint, it was of Tamannah. To watch her walk like a warrior, or use her sword, were laughably amateurish. It’s probably a grave she dug for herself – if you keep playing dandy, simpering doormat roles, it’s going to be difficult to be taken seriously when you actually put in the effort. Tamannah (What’s with the name change? It sounds like an orgasm!) sticks out like a sore thumb in a film with otherwise consistent performances.

Unlike most other hyped movies, you don’t feel cheated with Baahubali.

The best scenes aren’t the ones already shown in the trailers. The film is over before you know it, and that is saying something for the largest budget film in the country.

Rajamouli has his work cut out for the sequel.

**********

WELL DONE, ORISSA !!

With most Oriyas, the most common complaint is the lack of representation in media.

The fact that we have such a rich culture/heritage/Chief Minister, and yet none of it is shown to the world outside, while the nation is obsessed with Bengalis/Punjabis, is a common line of complaint that most urban, educated Oriyas hold on to.

In the 70 years of independence, hardly a handful of Oriyas have made any impact outside the state. If featuring in the news is any indicator of such impact, we only have Nandita Das, Debashis Mohanty, and Sudarshan Pattnaik. The only other thing we are in the news for is natural calamities – floods, cyclone, earthquake.

And yet, in the last week, we showed our true colours. Sona Mohapatra sang an Oriya folk song and we filed an FIR against her for committing the grave crime of attempting to re-interpret a folk song. And surprisingly, the outrage is being led by musicians, social workers, artists – people you’d generally expect to have an open mind about such matters. And yet, we cling on to our quaint ideas of ‘culture’ with such insecurity.

Our idea of protecting our culture is making it wear the burkha – it is precious so let us cloak it from head to toe. Let no one touch it, look at it, have anything to do with it. It is ours.

But it isn’t science. It is art.

The very nature of art is to change shape, to adapt, to be embraced by people across generations and still be revered. Sholay, arguably the biggest cinematic product of our nation, has been remade numerous times. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s songs are adapted, Amir Khusrow and Bulle Shah’s songs are sung by rock bands across the world. Adaptations and interpretations are a part and parcel of art.

Shakespeare is the most widely read playwright in the world. Not because the Kingdom protected his writing and made them sacrosanct. But because Shakespeare has been adapted into every culture, every language, every context. And yet, his writings shine through because they touch something deep within us – they show us our dark sides, they throw light on our good.

*

Most of the outrage has been because Sona Mohapatra has ‘polluted’ the song.

Well, if you ask any boy who grew up in Bhubaneswar or Cuttack, you’ll realise there wasn’t much purity to the song when we grew up. For all its rich traditions, Rangabati was sung and performed in baarats – accompanied by sleazy, pedophilic songs about the breasts of 15 year old girls. It was sung on the streets at night, as drunken men shouted out the lyrics, made lewd signs, and generally became a pain in everybody’s asses. I never heard a single of these protectors of culture complain about it.

And to differ in opinion is one thing. To file an FIR? Seriously? Now the artists have to run from pillar to post, deal with court hearings, and get called up like petty criminals – just because they remade a song? Who are we? The Taliban? ISIS??

And who should be the culprit? Well, the youth wing of BJP, who else?

These are the same guys who run around shattering coffee shops and man-handling young girls on Valentine’s Day, these great upholders of the culture of Orissa.

And yet, it is not the first time that we are embarking on such foolishness. A few years ago, a Bill was passed in the Assembly to change the name from Orissa to Odisha. We all celebrated on social networks, and took pride in ‘bringing back our lost glory’. Wait, what the fuck?

How does a name change from Orissa to Odisha change anything? For a state grappling with malnutrition and illiteracy, NOBODY thought it inappropriate to spend crores of rupees on a useless bureacratic process. While we harp on about culture and Oriya pride, nobody speaks about the politics of Orissa. There has been just one Chief Minister for the last fifteen years. While there has been hardly any laudable progress (apart from the usual benefits of modernisation), he is hailed as a ‘clean’ man (*Makes mental note to wear white kurtas when meeting girls*).

Nobody speaks about that. About the fact that politics and the electoral process in Orissa is crumbling. That one man in power for long periods (no matter how good/clean he is) is a disaster for electoral democracy.

We don’t care about such things. What we want, is to cloak our songs with burkhas. Let nobody touch them, for they are ours.

*
Well, well done Orissa!

It was just a song on YouTube. People would have watched it, and forgotten about it. But now we have gone ahead and proved to the entire nation how petty and myopic we are!

And singers, writers and musicians from Orissa, beware!

Like Shah Rukh Khan says in one of his shitty romantic films, ‘FIR milenge, chalte chalte!’

******

Thoughts on Rangabati Coke Studio Version

A few days ago, I saw my News Feed flooded with posts with Oriya people, about something that happened in Orissa.

Now, this is rare.

If I had to draw a venn diagram of my life, social networking and youtube and internet would be three coinciding circles. If I turn the page over, my home state Orissa would be sitting idle.

It’s like a double life I’m leading.

And it is something that I have felt right from childhood. Since I didn’t study in Orissa, I realised it is never mentioned anywhere. It was almost a Hogwarts-ish place that only appeared during Summer Holidays. Or if a teacher found two of us Oriya guys pinching each other during the prayer session and resorted to a lazy comment such as ‘Aye, you Oriya rowdies. Shut up and keep quiet!’.

However, the last two days have been different. Thanks to Sona Mohapatra’s rendition of ‘Rangabati O Rangabati’ on Coke Studio.

Rangabati

*

Now, let me set a little context here.

Rangabati is not just another song. It has folk roots. But most of my generation in Orissa came across the song during drunken nights on a baaraat.

For someone who is very conscious of how he dances, Baaraats opened the floodgates into the world of wet streets and slithery naagins. Of a random stranger tapping me on the shoulder and communicating in that unique code that only another drunk can understand, the words ‘Kaho Na Pyar Hai’. And then, with gay abandon, I turn around and return the compliment with that step that the Bournvita-drinking superhero immortalised – ‘Kaha Na Pyar Hai’.

Baaraats made me realise that it is all OK.

It is OK to slip and fall. There’ll always be someone to lend you a hand to stand back up on your feet. (Else, you better do it quickly, or else those guys carrying tube lights on their heads will walk around you).

Baaraats taught me that there is no such thing as ‘I’ve had enough’. Even if your liver is overflowing, a little nudge from a friend settles everything in place.

Baaraats taught me that there was no point trying to act decent and Shareef when everybody around you was being Musharaff and Taliban. To let insanity take over.

Rangabati is one of the top Oriya baaraat songs.

Now, if you have any acquaintance with Baaraat songs, you’ll know that there is no scope for frivalities like Political Correctness in that particular genre.

Some of the other songs I remember from baaraats are – ‘Nabama sreni jhiata, chaati ku mo hot karuchi’. (That 9th standard girl, is making my chest hot).

Then, there’s the poetic trick that singers use – when you don’t know if he’s singing ‘hot’ or ‘hurt’ – since they both sound the same in the Oriya accent.

Then, there are philosophical musings – ‘Tu aagaru dekhila jenta, tu pachharu dekhile senta” (How you look from the front, the same you look from the back. A throwback to the ancient dual – Dwaita philosophy in Hinduism).

Then, there are those that cater to purely carnal needs. Those that invoke the importance of alcohol in a person’s life – Daaru daaru daaru daaru de daaru. Those that call out to people from other communities – Ekkada Ekkada Ra. Then, the completely surreal and abstract – Kau to bou ku nou (‘May the Crow Take Away Your Mother’).

In the beginning, I was conscious of what people might think. Worried that someone might take offence to such blatantly offensive songs being played at full blast outside people’s houses.

It was only later that I realised that people had developed internal antennae that helped them to tune out of the proceedings.

Since then, for me, there was no looking back (Unless the guy who was mixing the drinks was at the back of the baaraat!).

Among all these songs, Rangabati was one of the saner tunes. Just a folk song that people recognised and would raise their hands, and woot, and go back to dancing to.

*

When Sona Mohapatra released her Coke Studio version of the song, people lost their minds.

Some of them said she had corrupted the song. Some others said they preferred the older version of the song. Still others said they had problems with her pronunciation of the words (even though the lyrics are not mainstream Oriya, but a dialect called Sambalpuri).

I don’t get this.

I mean, Coke Studio has historically been a platform for songs to mate with other genres and styles. It’s not Folk Studio, for heaven’s sake. And yes, those two Tamil rappers seemed to have zapped in from nowhere, and were rather annoying, but hey, it’s just a song, man.

It’s somebody’s interpretation of the song. Something the person thought might sound good.

If you don’t like it, skip it. Watch something else on YouTube. Why spread venom and hate in the Comments section?

Also, in Syria, Islamic State is beheading men, women and children. In Pakistan, children are being shot while taking classes in school.

There is shit flying all over in the world.

It’s just a fucking YouTube video.

Let it be.

Or else, kau toh bou ku nou.

Seriously.

*******

Dil Dhadakne Do – First World Armageddon

Farhan and Zoya Akhtar make films about First World Problems.

Dil Chahta Hai dealt with three overgrown college-goers dealing with life. Zindagi Milegi Na Dobara dealt with three rich Mumbai kids discovering their true calling through a trip to Spain. Rock On! dealt with a bunch of guys whose problem in life is that their rock band couldn’t click.

Not that I have a problem with it. I have made peace with the fact that a filmmaker will mostly derive from his/her own upbringing in life.

Which is why the Akhtars make films about South Bombay dudes and Anurag Kashyap makes films about factories, slaughter-houses, and gangsters in Bihar. Which leads me to think – if I ever make a film, it’ll probably be about cats and masturbation.

But getting back to the topic at hand, I don’t really have a problem with first world problem films. The Akhtars have always ensured that their scripts are tightly written. The screenplay exploits the conflict through sharp lines, beautiful locations, and music accompanied to Javed Akhtar’s lofty, if slightly dopey, lyrics.

Dil-Dhadakne-Do1 (1)

Sadly, with Dil Dhadakne Do, there is a feeling of Been There, Done That. A multi-starrer depends heavily on its characters, and unfortunately, the characters in Dil Dhadakne Do seem jaded, un-fresh.

Ranveer Singh plays a soft, rich youngster. Now, Ranveer Singh essentially has two voices. One – the loud Gunday voice, the second the raspy, soft Lootera voice. He uses the Lootera voice, and yet slips every now and then.

Priyanka Chopra and Anushka Sharma play feisty independent characters, both of whom we have seen in umpteen movies. And frankly, after you see Sharma bashing goons with an iron rod, this is going to seem a bit tepid.

Farhan Akhtar, of course, plays what he always plays. The urban, non-conformist, liberal cool dude.

It’s like yesterday’s gajar halwa that was kept in the fridge overnight. It’s still gajar halwa, but there’s something amiss.

Interestingly, it’s the seniors of the film who salvage the movie.

Parmeet Sethi and Manoj Pahwa, saddled with bit-roles, put in their best.

Anil Kapoor, who seems to have let down his narcissistic guard after all these years, shines in every single frame. But the star of the show is Shefali Shah, playing Anil Kapoor’s wife. Watch her in the scene where she stuffs herself with cake, and you feel a yearning for what the film could have been.

Sadly, Dil Dhadakne Do never manages to cruise over its troubled, haphazard script. It’s just another First World Problem film that Farhan Akhtar stars in.

But that’s ok, because he’ll grow a moustache and play Veerappan, and win awards for it.

***********

A Very Late Review: Tanu Weds Manu Returns

tanu weds manu returns

Not to sound picky, but there’s something about grammatically wrong movie titles that gets my goat.

Like a Sohail Khan movie released a decade ago named ‘I Proud To Be Indian’. I understand that the story, the production, the budget – is yours. But how much does it cost to add an ‘am’ in the middle. Or may be a comma?

The makers of this film could have named it ‘Tanu Weds Manu Again’, or ‘Tanu Weds Manu After Returning’. ‘Tanu Weds Manu Returns’ makes no sense.

Right. Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, here’s what I thought about the movie.

*

There are a few things Anand L. Rai gets bang-on in his films.

Casting, for one.  If one were to forget his first two forgettable films, director Anand L. Rai has a knack for casting people who fit the role, even though it might not seem right in the beginning.

Another thing he gets right, is the sharp dialogues. His films are laced with interesting lines, mouthed by interesting characters. Tanu Weds Manu is no exception.

After reading the universally rave reviews, I got to watch the film very late in the day. And I’m sorry to say, I wasn’t blown away by it or anything.

I know the usual argument. That it is better than your average Bollywood fare. But somehow, over the years of watching, analysing, and writing about cinema, that lame description doesn’t cut it for me any more.

Tanu Weds Manu does the classic Bollywood trick of raising your expectations and slamming it down on your head with a gigantic Thud! at the end. I had problems with Manu’s choices in the film, but I’ll get to that later.

Deepak Dobriyal is a fine, fine actor. But I’m tired of seeing him as the hero’s sidekick. He has done it in OmkaraTanu Weds Manu, and this one again. But if you’ve watched him in Teen They Bhai, or Shaurya, you’ll know he’s capable of much, much more.

Kangana Ranaut is undoubtedly the hero of the film. She reminds you of the time when Sridevi would make films with less famous actors and carry the film on her shoulders.

Having perfected the crazy-girl-with-big-heart role, Kangana nails the fiesty, if slightly cranky Tanu. As someone who has found her immensely watchable from her very first film, I am scared if it will get tiring after a point.

Which brings us to the second Kangana in the film – Kusum.

Tanu was probably an exaggerated stereotype on purpose. Because when Kusum comes on screen, she steals your heart. Ranaut puts so much into the role, that you forget it’s the same person at one point. Kusum is vulnerable, attractive, strong, and steals your breath away.

And when Manu (Madhavan playing the nice guy, a role he’s been playing since he was a sperm) has to choose between the two, is when my problems with the film really begin. Why would he choose the crazy, psycho, alcoholic Tanu when he has gone through the pains of getting married to another lovely girl?

I’m not trying to be Mohan Bhagwat here, but let’s do a comparison.

Tanu is moody, clearly dim-witted, critical and caustic, and uses men in her life because they are attracted to her. She also walks about the streets at night after getting drunk, and eats chow mein, which a Sanskari Indian girl shouldn’t do. 

Kusum on the other hand, is independent, caring and mature. She doesn’t shy away from fighting for her love, and most importantly – is superfantastico, smoldering hot. She’s so hot, she makes Tanu seem like a loud, insecure starlet in comparison. Then why would Manu choose Tanu over her?

I failed to put my head around this.

Ah! Because, love.

Love is supposed to be blind, and biased, and doesn’t need to follow logic or reasoning. I’m hardly an authority on love. Like Mahishasura, most of my decisions are driven by lust.

Love might be blind, and deaf, and HIV positive, but all that love bullshit is what ruins Tanu Weds Manu Returns as a finished product. If Manu chose Komal, I’d have been impressed. But with its present ending, the film is just about Meh!

I am waiting for the director to release a third part – Tanu Weds Manu and Returns with Komal. 

#Threesome

#SorryIKnowThatsATerribleThought

#KarnaPadtaHai

**********

Review : Bombay Velvet

Long before Anurag Kashyap became the cult hero that is today, I have been supporting and defending him.

I watched Paanch around 2007, and it was the same year that my ex girlfriend mentioned that she wanted to watch Black Friday. It was a phase when I would watch Shah Rukh Khan movies, and I scoffed at her poor taste in cinema.

Black Friday changed the way I looked at cinema. It was the first film that shook me in the real sense. Ever since, I have defended Anurag Kashyap in debates and discussions. I loved No Smoking, though I’m still yet to put a finger on why. I watched Gulaal twice, and felt a strange pride when the four others in the hall applauded at the end.

Somewhere along the line, DevD released. Though it was clearly not his best work, it shot him into pop-culture hero-dom. Anurag Kashyap today is the face of the indie movement, he is the voice of freedom of expression in films, and seems like a sane voice who is finally getting his due. For millions of viewers, Anurag Kashyap is a ray of hope in a tunnel that is filled with shit every Friday.

And so when Bombay Velvet released, and got panned by everybody, I wanted to go watch the movie.

I wanted to like the movie, and write a passionate blog about how everybody else who didn’t like it were basically idiots.

I wanted to like Bombay Velvet. But like the prettiest girl in class, Bombay Velvet didn’t give a flying fuck about me. Bombay Velvet is so caught up in its own trip, in being pretty and trippy and grand and epic, that I had no other option.

*

bombay velvet

For a film that has four writers, two editors, and three accomplished directors as producers, Bombay Velvet fails on so many levels, you are reduced to tears as an earnest fan.

Sample this. Ranbir Kapoor doesn’t get a single line till 25 minutes into the movie, and Anushka Sharma 40 minutes into the film. I understand that these are creative calls that the director takes, but how am I supposed to empathise with the leads when I feel nothing for them?

And Anurag Kashyap has consistently given us characters that we fell in love with. Whether it is Baba Bangaali in No Smoking, or the spectacular Nagma Khatoon in Gangs of Wasseypur, or Ransa Singh in Gulaal, Anurag Kashyap has a knack of creating stellar characters.

The leads in Bombay Velvet seem too caught up in their own trips. It’s as if they realized that this is their moment. That they’ve left behind the world of Yash Raj and have broken into the indie scene. And that’s enough.

*

Bombay Velvet is utterly disappointing. Not because it fails as a film. But because it pays you no respect as a viewer. You could plug in and listen to your favourite song for all the film cared.

The film is plagued with lazy writing, sloppy editing, and doesn’t give a fuck about you as a viewer.

And that is very hard to come to terms with.

I am waiting for Anurag Kashyap’s next film. I know it will be better.

Anything will be better than Bombay Velvet.

Movie Review – Piku

Personally, I have never been a huge fan of Amitabh Bachchan.

I couldn’t connect with his 70s ‘Angry Young Man’ image. I have watched Zanjeer, Kaalia, Deewar, and Don, and thought he was terrific in them. But ever since I have started actively following films, Amitabh Bachchan was just a caricature.

He would do the same role – the powerful patriarch with the powerful voice – over and over again. Every single director who signed him would give him a different version of the same role.

Black was a shitty film with terrible acting. Sarkar was just RGV fusing his AB and Godfather fetishes into one dimly lit movie. Baghban made me want to pull my hair out in frustration, and then reach for my neighbour’s.

Piku, surprisingly, does away with the AB frills.

In a film that stars tall actors, Amitabh Bachchan towers over the others in every way possible. Given a role by director Shoojit Sircar that lets him stretch his hands out and have fun, Amitabh Bachchan slips into his character and stubbornly refuses to step out of it.

*

piku

Piku talks about parents, but chooses a path that no other film earlier has dealt with.

We have been shown films where parents are sacrificing, idealistic, loving and caring. But no film has ever touched upon one important aspect of Indian parents – that they are stubborn. That they refuse to budge from their standpoint, even if times around them have changed, even if their children are a different generation.

Our scriptures expect us to respect our parents just because they are parents. Matru Devo Bhava, Pitru Devo Bhava – we are told. I have always been baffled by this idea. Anybody can marry and have kids. It requires no special skills. How then does the simple act of reproducing elevate you to the level of a God?

There is no nice way to put this. But Indian parents are selfish.

And Piku brings this point out beautifully.

I will leave out the details so that you can go watch it (if you haven’t already), but let it suffice to say that director Shoojit Sircar finally paints a realistic picture of Indian households. And the transitional pains we face on a daily basis. The wide chasm between age old morals and the hustle-bustle of the modern world and its demands.

Deepika Padukone barely puts a foot wrong. Surprisingly, Irrfan Khan seems like the weak link in the film. His newly found English accent is a little difficult to come to terms with, especially since he speaks his Hindi lines in the same old Vodafone Chhota Recharge kar lo voice. And his English lines (A’right) seem a little forced.

Minor hiccups if you aren’t a picky viewer, because Irrfan Khan does more with his eyes than his voice. Moushumi Chatterjee is spot on as the party-popping Bengali aunt, as are Raghubir Yadav as the doctor who attends to AB’s idiosyncrasies.

But finally, Piku belongs to a 70 year old man. A 70 year old man who has finally found a reason to stretch his hands out and have fun.

***********

Something Creepy That Happened to Me Recently

At the onset, let me clarify that I am not among those who throw around the word ‘creepy’ easily.

If someone asks uncomfortable questions, I don’t call them ‘creepy’. I am also perfectly fine with people with serial-killer smiles. I am also completely at home with reptiles, gore, and horror.

With the disclaimer done, let me begin at where it all began.

*

I am freelancing at an office these days, and from the campus I live in, the journey is an excruciating 20 kms ride through the most crowded road in Hyderabad.

To avoid it, I take a detour through the Mumbai Highway, taking the steep road from Dargah to Film Nagar. Unnecessary details, I know, but allow me to go on.

The road I am talking about is a steep slope with curves like Sunny Leone’s, exciting and dangerous at the same time. Across the road lies the pristine Whisper Valley, where lights glimmer like fireflies once the sun has set. It used to be a beautiful location once, but with all the waste from corporate hospitals, the place could be rechristened Stayfree Valley.

The road is a true test of the fitness of your bike.

If you have a fully functional Bullet, you will love the ride.

I, unfortunately, ride a fucking Discover.

My bike is like me – lazy, sluggish, shabby, and reluctant to try anything risky. It croaks and groans every single day, as I hum my favourite tunes, praying that the clutch wire doesn’t slip out of my clutch.

On this particular day, I took a turn from Dargah and was beginning to take the slope, when I saw a little kid stretch his hand out for a lift. He had a school bag on his back, and a tiffin box in his left hand. His face glistened with sweat, and shone with the excitement of going home.

Having never owned a bicycle or vehicle earlier, I have firmly believed in the Brotherhood of Lift-givers. I can’t remember a single time I have denied someone a lift (except when a lady is waiting in her room, pissed off with me for being late).

I duly pulled up next to him, and asked him to hop on my bike.

*

On regular days, I like to strike up conversations with the people I offer a lift to.

Some of them are eager to talk, others hold back as much information as possible. Some are thankful for the lift, and go through the entire conversation with a plasticky smile on their faces.

That day, I was in no mood to talk, so I kept listening to songs on my phone. ‘What are you listening to?’ I heard the kid ask.

I wanted to tell him about ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’, explain the epic tribute of love and friendship by Pink Floyd. But I chose not to. I told him I was listening to some songs, and asked him what he studied.

He told me he was in Class 8, and we continued on the road through potholes, speed breakers, and cops waiting at tricky corners for a biker to goof up. As my bike coughed and shrugged, the kid held on to me tightly.

*

Every time I turned, I felt the boy’s hand tighten around my waist, and it made me uncomfortable. I kept silent for a while, and adjusted the rearview mirror to look at him. He was looking at the world below him, a mix of wonder and amazement writ large on his face.

‘What a world we live in,’ I thought, ‘that even the touch of a little boy makes us feel uncomfortable’.

The slope got steeper as we climbed up the road, as the boy loosened his grip and tightened it again.

And then, I felt it. Slowly, his hands slipped down to my thighs, ever so slowly, till he found my crotch.

I froze. My mind was blank, my face flush with embarrassment.

I thought up things to say to him – ‘Don’t do that’, ‘You shouldn’t be doing that to people’, ‘Who taught you to do that?’

But my mind, like Sehwag on a crucial final, just refused to budge.

His hands were now firmly on my crotch, as he rubbed his hands like I was a girl and he was masturbating me.

We rode on, till we reached his destination.

He looked straight at me in the rear view mirror, smiled, and gave my cock a final tug.

‘Thanks, bhaiyya’, he said, and hopped off the bike.

I turned to see him, his bag weighing him down, his tiffin box held gingerly, his dark skinny thighs in the summer sun. He looked this way and that, and darted across the road.

*****

Yo, What’s Your Beef?

In the continuing absurdity that is Indian politics, another chapter was written two weeks ago when the Maharashtra government banned the sale, consumption and possession of beef.

And this has confirmed my staunch belief that religion mixed with politics is a recipe for disaster. As with every stupid government decision, behind every decision, is a hollow, fuck-all logic.

The most common reason stated was that it is hurtful to Hindu sentiments, as the cow is a sacred animal for millions of Hindus.

Firstly, Hinduism isn’t a monolithic religion, it does not have one scripture, one set of rules, or norms. And yet, sadly, all the great upholders of religion on social networking sites seem to follow a certain, media-created idea of Hinduism. One that was woven out of mythological serials on Sunday mornings and Amar Chitra Katha comics.

For if any of these idiots actually read any scriptures, one finds a huge number of references to non-vegetarian food. That it was consumed, written about, and celebrated in a million ways. Yet, for all our pride in our ancient roots, and the wonderful diversity that Hinduism enjoys, we choose to abide by (and shove down upon others’ throats), a particular streak of carefully-chosen Brahminical Hinduism.

They told us that this is what the religion is – encapsulated thousands and thousands of years of a vibrant, unique way of life into a set of Dos and Donts – and like blind sheep, we choose to abide by it.

Then, there was the second logic thrown around.

Why can’t we ban beef, when other nations have banned pork?

Which is such an idiotic logic, that you feel like stuffing a seekh up their ass.

Just because other regressive nations dictate how their citizens should lead their personal lives, why should India do it too? Why are comparisons always made with UAE and Dubai and other regressive states? Why can’t we aspire for higher?

Which is an interesting thought. If you analyse any pro-Hindu dumbwit, you see a pattern. These guys hate Islamic states with all their heart. And yet, they will stand by and applaud as India gets reduced to exactly that – a pseudo-Islamic state that believes it has the right to decide what is right for the people.

And all the supporters of the ban are the same set of people – Hindu, upper caste/class, vegetarians, and BJP supporters. Idiots who drank from the well and now want to spit the wisdom down your throats.

But trying arguing with a BJP fanboy!

For some reason, BJP fans are the most aggressive, intolerant sort on social media networks. The Communist will meander about the discussion and then put up a link to a Rumi poem. The secularist will keep disagreeing, avoiding anything outlandish, for fear of coming across as intolerant. The Congress supporter is still hiding his face in shame. But the BJP supporter!

Arguing with a BJP supporter is like playing Tug of War with an ox. After a point, you look at yourself, wonder what the what the fuck you were thinking, and let go of the rope.

And so obsessed are BJP fanboys of their leader, that they will go on about him on social media when he does something right (I’m not a fanatic, and he IS doing some things right, won’t deny him that).

But when his government does something stupid, the BJP langots simply vanish into thin air. Question them about it, and they’ll share a picture of their dog pooping on a plate of Upma.

And vegetarian animal rights activists will add to the debate with their asinine logic of global warming and animal rights violations. Because it is fine if you slaughter buffaloes, but not cows. Go Mata, go!

What we forget is that beef is cheap, nutritious, tasty food for billions of people. Yes, it is sacred for some Hindus, but so are other animals. In some communities, even onion and garlic are considered unholy because they grow underground (yet another fuck-all logic!). Do we go around banning it?

Why do we have to stoop as low as the extremists?

In many ways, Hinduism is among the most tolerant religions in the world. Why can’t we celebrate that, revel in its diversity, and let people choose what is right for them? Why do we have to stoop to the levels of …ahem…You Know Who?

India doesn’t need to do shit like that, man. Grow up!

And the ruling party imposing rules pertaining to personal life is a dangerous trend. In many…*cough cough*…religious countries, we have seen how disastrous it is for the social fabric of the nation.

And where does this cycle of banning what we don’t approve of, end?

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kalki avatar fridolin froelich

A Script for Chiranjeevi’s 150th Film

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There have been reports in the Telugu film circles for a while that Chiranjeevi (who’s lovingly called MegaStar by his fans) has been looking for a script for his next film – one that is stated to be his 150th.

However, if our brothers at film news channels are to be believed, the right script still seems to evade the makers.

As we all know, every big budget Telugu film is completely different from the other. They all have completely different plots and characters, and one could never predict how things are going.

Along these lines, may I humbly present a possible script for Sir’s next film. This script, needless to say, is completely new, and fresh. Like the dew drops on Soundarya’s navel in the famous song Jabilli…sorry, I am getting carried away here.

Here is the script.

*

The film begins with a flashback, shot in grim tones of sepia or greyscale. A child is watching from behind a wall, scared. He must be about 10, clad in a white shirt and brown knickers.

Across the wall, a group of men have encircled a middle aged man. Trapped within the circle, the middle aged man holds a metal rod in his hands, just as the circle gets closer around him. We see a man watching coldly from a distance, a man with a thick moustache, white shirt, and thick gold chains around his neck.

Close up of the boy’s face – he wipes off the rain from his eyes, as they grow wider – KHACHAAK – blood splatters across his face. Through the reflection in his eyes, we see the man has fallen to the ground, the metal rod lying limp next to him. The boy covers his mouth to stop himself from crying, as the goons leave the scene.

The screen fades to black, as large letters spread across the scene –

ROWDY BAABAI.

*

We now have the intro song.

Sir has grown up now. We have a nice song with Kali Mata’s procession in the background. Sir is dancing along with his friend Ramesh, and other friends from the colony.

He is Muruga – The Fearless.

The intro song introduces Sir as the youthful, bubbly star that he is. 

Then, Sir meets heroine – Suvarnalata.

She is a demure, silent girl. She doesn’t like love, doesn’t believe in it. But one day, a dark man tries to touch her on the way to college. Muruga reaches the scene and beats him up, and Suvarnalata notices him for the first time.

When she goes home, she is thinking – ‘Do I love Muruga?’

She is dressed in a pink nightgown, and in the next song, we show the innocent beauty of a girl.

First para, she is sleeping on a rose bud – not flower, only bud. ‘Why do I feel like this?’ she sings. And then, Muruga enters from the right. Suvarnalata looks at Muruga, and the rose bud under her slowly opens up into a rose flower.

In the second para, as she is sleeping on the rose flower, Muruga jokingly pinches her navel, and a pigeon comes flying and lands on it. Muruga keeps a grape on her navel, which the pigeon picks up and eats. Suvarnalata hides her face abashedly.

In the third para, Muruga pinches her navel, and then slowly climbs up on her. He balances on her navel and starts doing Yoga on it.

By the end of the song, Suvarnalata and Muruga are in love. 

*

Next, villain’s entry.

Suvarnalata is walking home one day, when SCREEEEEECH! – a jeep parks in front of her. A few goons step out, pull her into the vehicle, and zoom off.

The heroine calls out, but nobody responds – women of the neighbourhood close their doors in fear. Frantically, the heroine pulls off the golden chain from her neck and flings it on the road.

The hero returns home, and sees the chain lying on the floor. He picks it up, looks at the heavens and screams – SUVARNALATAAAAAAA !

He then looks down at the tyre tracks and begins running in the direction of the Jeep. We show time and distance passing quickly, as the hero runs and runs and runs, till he reaches the Jeep.

He leaps over a car and lands atop the Jeep, shattering the windows and windscreen. The goons step out, one of them holding Suvarnalata by the hair. Muruga pulls out the exhaust pipe from the bike and clobbers them one by one. He pulls Suvarnalata out from their grasp and holds her close to his chest.

Just then, a phone rings, it’s the villain calling one of the goons. Muruga bends down to pick up the phone. Then, full punch-dialogue takes place between the two.

We see that the villain is the very same man who killed the school teacher in the first scene. They talk to each other, full punch-dialogue.

‘You are a small fish in the aquarium. I own the sea inside which there is a submarine, inside which the aquarium is placed’.

‘I am the lion who eats buffalo meat twice a day, you are only a zebra. When I reach you, you will have stripes of black, white, and red’.

‘I am the sun, you are the eclipse. You scissors, I rock’.

‘Jaya jaya hey Mahishasura Mardini Ramya Kapardhini Shaila Suthe’.

‘Jingalala ho, jingalala ho, hurr hurr hurr’. 

By the end of the conversation, the hero and the heroine throw open challenges to each other. Then, they accept each other’s challenge. 

Now, we meet the second heroine.

She is modern, bubbly, wears shorts, and shows her navel to the world. She sees the hero when he is rescuing a small beggar kid from the footpath, and bites her lower lip in passion.

She wants the hero very badly, but Muruga only has feelings for Suvarnalata. He is only mildly interested in this girl – Mona. Mona sings a song for Muruga to get his attention – ‘Sex, sex sex. I want sex. Gimme gimme sex, ra bulloda‘.

But Muruga only smiles and pinches her navel.

Here, we also have the Comedy Track. Brahmanandam plays an astrologer who cheats people. He reads their hand and makes a prediction, which his sidekick immediately executes. For example, he tells a woman that if she doesn’t hand over her gold chain, it will start raining. His friend is sitting on top of the tree and he pours a bucket of water on her LOLOLOL.

Brahmanandam tries to con Muruga, but he smashes his skull in with a PVC pipe. 

Muruga is walking home when he smells some food cooking. The wisps of smoke enter his nose and it sends electric shocks through his body. His eyes well up with tears and he begins to look around frantically.

He runs in slow motion, the smell getting stronger and stronger, stirring memories in him from an age long forgotten. He keeps running till he reaches a small hut.

From inside the hut, an old, blind woman steps out. She is frail and poor, and when she senses the hero standing in front of her, she calmly calls out – ‘Muruga, it’s you, isn’it it?’

Muruga walks towards her, and falls down at her feet. It begins to rain as he weeps, holding her feet. Yes saar, you guessed it right – the old woman is none other than his Mother.

She calls him into the house, and we see that he also has a sister. She is a young girl, wears salwar-kameez, and ties her hair up with a ribbon. She also starts crying profusely when she sees Muruga.

Mother makes Muruga sit on her lap on the floor and feeds him with her own hands. Muruga is overwhelmed – it is the same taste, the same flavour. His tears continue to flow like Godavari river. 

*

Suvarnalata sees Muruga on the road, giving a lift to Mona. She feels jealous and decides to teach Muruga a lesson.

When Muruga returns home, she slowly takes off her clothes one by one, and puts on a jeans and T-shirt. She is looking very fresh and juicy, our mango crazy. He smiles a coy smile, and – cut to song.

Muruga is dancing with both the heroines. He is in the middle as both Suvarnalata and Mona are dancing for him. This is full rocking-folk song. Lyrics are – ‘Bring your sugarcane into my machine. I will take out your juice and drink it. Bring your cucumber into my kitchen, I will chop it and eat it’.

Then, again Comedy Track.

Brahmanandam finds the hero walking on the road and decides to cheat him again. This time, he’s dressed as an LIC Agent and promises to give people five times their investment in a week. He narrates the same story to Muruga, who picks up a cycle chain, smashes him with it, and ties him up to a tree LOLOLOL.

*

Muruga gets a call from his friend Ramesh (who was seen dancing with Muruga in the intro song). Ramesh informs Muruga that the villain – Surya – was seen trying to set fire to their basti

Muruga immediately rushes to the scene, and finds the villain there. He single-handedly beats them all to pulp, and the villain escapes in the last minute.

While escaping, he turns around and fires a bullet. Ramesh sees it and rushes to save Muruga, and is felled down by the bullet. Muruga screams and rushes out to hold Ramesh, who is spouting blood from his mouth. He smiles at Muruga, runs a blood-stained hand across his face, and says ‘I couldn’t do it, my friend. You do it for me. Kill him, cut his body, and feed it to – aaaaaaa…breathes his last.

Muruga is devastated, and looks up at the sky (aerial shot), as it begins to rain. 

Suvarnalata calls Muruga and asks him to meet her. They meet on her terrace and Rain Song starts.

In the first para, they are dressed in traditional dresses. In the second para, the heroine is dressed in Apsara costume. Muruga makes her lie down on a bed of roses and eats fruits off her navel.

In the third para, we have a folk setting. The heroine is dressed in a half-saree and Muruga in a kurta-lungi. At the end of the song, he drives a tractor across Suvarnalata’s navel. 

Brahmanandam again comes to Muruga, this time dressed as a scientist who tells people that gold and silver ornaments are bad for the skin. Many people are fooled by Brahmanandam and his assistant, till they meet Muruga.

Muruga brings out a chainsaw and cuts through both of them. He then douses the body parts with petrol and sets them on fire LOLOLOL. 

*

Back to action.

Muruga is returning home, as he sees a circle of people around his house. He walks up to the circle, to find that the villain has raped his sister. She lies on the floor, the sleeves of her dress torn open.

Mother is wailing next to a pillar, and the hero rolls his fist into a ball. We see a nerve running up from his wrist, all the way up to his neck. There is thunder and lightning, and Muruga looks up at the sky and screams – SURYAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Surya is sitting in his house, on a swing. There are 20 Tata Sumos outside the palatial building. The hero walks into the building all by himself; the wind is making his hair fly in slow motion.

Muruga kills all the goons with his bare fists. Some of them fly into walls nearby, the others lie limp on the ground. The hero keeps doing it till there are only two men standing – Muruga and Surya.

They are in the courtyard now. Surya takes out a gun and shoots Muruga. He stumbles backward and falls down. Life is slowly leaving his body, when his fingers feel something on the ground.

Using blood-soaked fingers, he digs into the mud, and lo and behold! – finds the metal rod that his father had held in his hands. As Surya is smiling a smug smile, Muruga stands up, runs towards him, and spears him with it.

Surya is dead. Muruga falls and down and cries. This was the same spot where his father had died. Life has come a full circle.

Muruga draws a full circle with the metal rod and plants it in the middle.

*

Back in the house, Muruga is standing next to his mother.

Suvarnalata walks in dressed in a saree, and Mother blesses her. Suddenly, Mona walks in too, also wearing a saree. Mother looks in the direction of Muruga, smiles, and blesses her too.

Camera pans up to the wall, and there is a photo of Tirupati Balaji with two wives standing next to him. All three of them are smiling happily.

The whole family smiles in a snapshot, as the words appear on the screen – ITS JUST THE BEGINNING.


***********************

The Beauty of a Morning Joint

Isn’t it amazing?

We choose to pursue one activity all our lives, to put food in our belly, a shelter over our heads, and clothes on our body.

And that one activity determines how we spend all of our days. When we wake up, how we have our food, when we rush off to ‘work’. When we choose that one activity, we pretty much choose how we lead our lives.

And that is how our mornings go – rushing, pushing, jostling, bustling. We spend the nights in the way we choose to – spending time and money to blur consciousness, making love to a book, or wandering about the dark underbelly of the World Wide Web.

And yet, no matter how much of a rebel you are – you cannot evade the military discipline of your mornings. We have made mornings the most frustrating time of the day – people are either in a hurry, or irritable, or both.

 

*

 

I have always been a morning person.

No matter when I sleep, when the sun is out, my dreams go into Sleep mode, my eyes open, and I am up in a matter of minutes. It used to seem unfair to me – that I should wake up and go about my tasks, while my friend who had the same number of drinks, was still lying blissfully in a Natraja pose.

I considered using my mornings for constructive work – going for a run, hitting the gym, or doing some yoga. But some of us aren’t equipped like that. If all the lazy men of the world were made to stand in a line, I would be the drunk hippo meandering in the meadows nearby.

Listening to music always seemed like an interesting option – but having to pick one song after the other on Youtube squeezes the joy out of the experience. And so I would wander about like a zombie in the mornings, full of energy, and nothing to do about it.

Till I chanced upon the most beautiful creation by man – the Morning Joint.

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*

 

A Morning Joint helps you pull back time; to stretch it out at your ease.

A Morning Joint helps you gently jump over clocks and alarms, schedules and tasks – even if for a brief, magical while.

A Morning Joint sets your day up for you in a way that the most accomplished secretary couldn’t. You can zoom in, edit the details, or zoom out, and look at the larger picture.

A Morning Joint takes you back to the very reason we created music. As I type this, my neighbour is playing Bombay Se Gayi Patna, and I can notice the intricate chord changes in the song.

It is an unshackling of your chains – a trip to revisit that song from childhood. Or to watch that video you tripped on, when you didn’t know what it meant.

A Morning Joint is a date with Bob Dylan, a coffee with Robert Plant, it is a conversation with Carl Sagan, a smile with Carlin.

Your brain – that crazed kid on steroids that is running about all day, decides to slip off its slippers and lie down on the grass. A Morning Joint gives you a head-start in the day. A gentle nudge, like a friend tipping you into a swimming pool after a couple of beers.

It’s not the same as lighting up a cigarette. A cigarette is a commodity, a factory-made product that’s sold in packs, and taxed by the government. When you smoke a cigarette, you are merely contributing to the economy.

A joint is hand-crafted. Mixed, measured, blended, rolled to perfection. When you roll a joint, you are using your hands and your mind – you are creating a piece of art.

Have your Morning Joint alone. There is no pressure to talk, to explain, to describe. To agree, or conform. It is Your Time.

The Morning Joint is that little indulgence your life allows you. A chance to take a piece of the 24-hour pie we are all served, and bite into it, and feel the taste flowing into you.

A Morning Joint is a thing of beauty.

As I light it up, and the sun streams in through my window, I have nothing else to say.

Have a wonderful day!

Why Is Aamir Khan Such a Pretentious Prick

Once upon a time in India, Lagaan released.

The film was a smash hit, was sent as our choice for the Oscars (but couldn’t win, as the jury grew old and died during the interval) and Aamir Khan suddenly became the thinking man’s conscience. The guy who would never attend film awards because he didn’t believe in them, suddenly seemed to be jumping up and down the red carpet, promoting his film. But of course, he was doing it for the nation.

When Lagaan lost out to No Man’s Land, Aamir Khan told the press that the other film deserved to win. When I saw it, said Khan, I knew that it was better than ours. From that moment on, Aamir Khan has somehow projected and marketed himself as the voice of the nation/youth/continent/solar system.

And it’s fucking annoying.

*

Alright, so he chooses to do one movie at a time, reads his scripts, and does extensive preparation for it. But all that is fucking expected from an actor in the first place. Just because ours is a hare-brained industry, doesn’t make someone a goddamn Socrates.

A few months before the release of Rang De Basanti, Aamir Khan sat with the Narmada Bachao Andolan protesters to speak up for their rights. Since then, there has been no word of his involvement with the issue whatsoever.

He then made a film on Mangal Pandey, and has been on a Bhagat Singh trip since, telling the nation what’s right, and what’s offensive. In Taare Zameen Par, he showed us how we are all a cruel, insensitive nation that doesn’t know how to deal with special children. In 3 Idiots, he showed us what is wrong with our education system. In PK, he showed us the problems with religion and godmen.

And tactful and insightful that our media is, we made him the voice of the nation. Aamir Khan tells the nation not to litter. Aamir Khan tells the nation to be nice to foreigners. Aamir Khan tells the nation to be nice to foreigners.

Aamir Khan is a thinking man. How? Because all his films have long shots of him staring into the distance, thinking about the welfare of the cosmos. Aamir Khan is a perfectionist. Why? Because he undergoes a physical transformation for every role (which, as any theatre actor will tell you, is the fucking basic thing to do. Also, he gets paid crores for every film). Aamir Khan is a socially aware star. How? Because he blogs about issues.

However, as we all know, even Vishwamitra’s penance was disturbed. So Aamir Khan, the ever-aware thinking man’s Gautam Buddha slipped out of character and blogged about Shah Rukh Khan licking his toes while he sat on his table.

And of course, there is Satyameva Jayate. Now, I personally have no problems with the show. A star like Aamir Khan talking about issues that we Indians never bother to speak about, is commendable. Kudos.

I also have no problem with him projecting himself as this new-age Carl Shehnanigan who tells the nation how to live – much of an actor’s image comes from this. It is no different from Salman Khan being the large-hearted bhai, Ranveer Singh being a horny guy, and Honey Singh the nation’s Mahalingam. I have no problems with that.

satyameva jayate
Look at my tears…so pure, so pristine. Just like my soul. Which is pure white. Just like the clouds there. I am the sun. Sun and clouds. Deep.

My only problem is with Aamir Khan’s opinions on other artists. You see, Mr. Perfectionist doesn’t give a fuck about other artists. His work is sublime and pure and unadulterated and heavenly. The rest can go fuck themselves.

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Can you see the concern in my eyes? No? Well, that’s none of my concern. I am sensitive. I hope you can sense my sensitivity.

Take for example the controversy regarding 3 Idiots.

Now, even though Chetan Bhagat is the Rakhi Sawant of Indian literature, he wrote the book and sold millions, and no one can take that away from him. If you’ve read 5 Point Someone, and watched 3 Idiots, and you possess the IQ of a garden lizard, you’ll know that the film is more or less an adaptation of the book. However, since it is Bollywood (and fuck writers!), Bhagat wasn’t given opening credits. He raked up the issue and Vidhu Vinod Chopra asked a journalist to ‘Shut Up’. Which is at least an honest response.

Mr. Khan, however, using his special 8th Sense, somehow had it all figured out. He told Bhagat off in public, calling him a cheapskate who will do anything for publicity. Which is fine, till someone asked him if he’s read the book. To which his response was – ‘Ahem, no.’

How the fuck do you know that it isn’t an adaptation, if you haven’t even read the goddamn book? But Aamir Khan, yo. Intellectual actor.

When he released Delhi Belly, he appeared on Aap Ki Adalat (that classy, artful show with a completely non-creepy looking host), and justified the language in the film. His logic was, the youth of the nation today talk in that manner. If you can not stand such language, please don’t watch the film. All good.

Now, the AIB controversy. Since our media has no fucking work, they went and asked Aamir Khan, the brahmaguru of wisdom, what he thought. Aamir Khan first looked at the sky, blinked seven times, sipped some water, and then gave out his thoughts. That the show was offensive, hurt people’s sentiments, blah blah blah.

But then, here’s the key – HE HASN’T WATCHED THE FUCKING SHOW.

If you haven’t watched the show, and someone randomly told you there were jokes on body shape, sexuality, and religion without providing any context, it’s the partial truth. You’re like the blind man of Hindustan who held the elephant’s ass and thought that’s what an elephant looks like.

But no. Aamir Khan ko kaun samjhaye? He is the voice of the cosmos.

The universe works in perfect motion because he approves of it. Every time Aamir Khan sheds a tear, a kid in Africa gets cured of AIDS.

It’s bloody annoying.

*

Dear Aamir Khan, This isn’t the 60s. Where you could do a few patriotic movies and become a national hero. The audience you deal with is thirty years younger to you, a completely different generation.

They understand subtleties, read between the lines, and can tell an actor from a chutiya. Just because you did regressive shit for 20 years, and suddenly conscience struck you like lightning, doesn’t mean the rest of the nation is a bunch of chimpanzees.

Also, like Russel Peters said, you are an actor. You appear on the set, mouth lines written by others, get numerous takes to perfect your craft, and get paid a bomb for it. Which is all fine.

But just like you’re an artist, there are others too. Who are attempting to make an honest living by pursuing what they think is art. If you really are an artist, at least have the fucking decency to look up their work before commenting.

Like I said, you’re not fooling anybody. This is a generation that sees through bullshit. And right now, for all your decades of carefully constructed PR, you come across as an aging douchebag.

I hope you aren’t offended by this blog. But if you are, I hope you at least read it before getting offended.