And then there were tears!

I wrote this a few months back- right after the Wimbledon final, but never really got a chance to upload it here. I've talked about my absence from the blog world ad nauseum, so I'll fleetingly mention the reason for my sudden appearance- it just so happens that I think it will be real bad luck to go an entire year without a post, don't you? So, here goes nothing!

This year's gentlemen's singles Wimbledon final witnessed not just a gritty clash of nerves, sinew and blood but an avalanche of salty water too. You'd assume it to be sweat, given that the tennis match lasted more than 5 hours, but surprise surprise- crying in an arena has become fashionably sporty!

Andy Murray started off on a promising note and initially looked all poised to pocket his first Grand Slam, but then if Federer has decided not to lose- he won't. With all the pressure the British was under while playing on his home ground, it isn't surprising that his runner’s up acceptance speech was marked by a dazzling display of water-works. He wept and narrated his sob story and we cheered.

Roger Federer himself, is no stranger to crying on the court and on numerous occasions his misty dewy eyes have quadrupled his following. The Swiss maintains that this public display of emotion helps him establish connect with his fans and highlights his passion towards the game. With now 17 titles under his belt, who are we to doubt his tearful advises?

Moral of the match? Tears, widely regarded as weapons of the fairer sex, are being utilized in an equally deadly fashion by the male species in the current age. Was Pablo Neruda specifically questioning his counterparts when he asked "Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?"

The sorrow which has no vent in tears may make other organs weep. ~ Henry Maudsley

IndiYeaaa! IndiYeaaa!

Ok, so India won the world cup- that’s old news. But why is it still important? Well, if you are an Indian, it is the most significant thingy, because 1st of all- it is cricket, 2nd of all- everything is about winning and final of all- it is the most prestigious international event, hence naturally ecstasy runneth over!


Even if you are disinterested in cricket, the way I am, you simply can’t escape the euphoria and the madness. Cricket binds us, heals us, soothes us and ultimately makes us crazy. And since I couldn’t escape the insanity, I decide to join in- I saw the India-Sri Lanka final at the ebay office, where the management had organized a special screening for Indian employees.


For someone who hasn’t seen a cricket match in quite a while, let alone ever in a stadium or even on the small screen lately, the event turned out to be thrilling, hilarious, confusing, all at once.


The following for me were the highlights of the match:

The feeling of singing the National Anthem was absolutely exhilarating. It sent shivers, at the speed of a 6, down my spine and goose bumps, the size of a cricket ball, across my arms. 

It’s kind of sleepy to watch a match at 2 in the morning. I ended up catching not-too-peaceful 40 winks at an interval of 10 winks apiece.

An intimidating-looking Sri Lankan couple came on screen and the guy sitting behind me promptly informed us all that we are lucky to witness the modern day incarnation of Ravana & Mandadori!

There were quite a few members in the audience who wore blue lights on their bodies. Kinky, you’d say- it was- weird type of anklets, bracelets & necklaces that dazzled as these Men In Blue ran hither and thither every time anything remotely significant took place.

Every time Lord Rajnikanth came onto the screen, a particular southern section of the audience started clapping, shouting, hooting, and applauding, not necessarily in the same order. These expressions of admiration were way higher in decibels than the kind of clap, shout, hoot and applaud reserved for a successful Lankan wicket or a smashing India run. Just imagine, what if Lord Rajnikanth decides to join the Indian cricket team one day? He can, any day, u know- he invented the game after all.

Sachin Bhagwan G’s presence on screen was met with nothing but wonder and awe. Even if he misbatted, misballed or misfielded, he was cheered on and on and on and on. Lords, be it Sachin or Rajni G, just can never be wrong. But to say the least, Sachin does deserve to be applauded for everything that he does or doesn’t do on the cricket field. Is there a higher embodiment of craftsmanship, honesty, perseverance and humility anywhere?

All those players fielding their hearts out like Yuvraaj, Raina, Kohli et al, were given not just a round of applause but several of them and in most cases loud enough to stop a heart!

Ranbir came on the screen and waved to me! How very sweet! He was looking wonderful as usual. Saif was looking good too and surprisingly with a beard!  Moustaches too made an appearance and came in all shapes- Shahid carried it off brilliantly but Mr. Aamir, facial hair just isn’t your cup of tea.

Whatever funny little doubts I had about India winning the final were totally dispelled once I saw this:

All in all, I am quite glad I did not miss out on the opportunity of watching the final, and am real glad India won. It doesn’t matter all that much today, but that wonderful, glorious day, it truly did.

A highly recommended and fantastic article about cricket and Sachin- http://www.espncricinfo.com/magazine/content/story/509803.html

The Gastronomical Equation

Ever since I have had to cook food independently and that too on a regular basis, my scientific faculties have sharpened. It’s really got nothing to do with the nutritious value of the stuff I’m churning, and is even more far away from the quality and flavor of the victuals.

What it is nearer to, is towards the deduction of the derivative of hours spent in burning calories in front of the burner over the relative unimportance of the calories ingested.

Put simply, given a bunch of veggies and adequate masale on any given day, KC’s gastronomical equation looks like as follows:

         A                        B                    C                    D                    E

      +     +     +     =   

Where:
A = 20 minutes of slicing & dicing
B = 40 minutes of brewing, boiling, flavoring & seasoning
C = 5 minutes of chewing & digesting
D = 15 minutes of washing & drying
E = Almost dead, wondering wasn’t I better off without food; no wonder they refer to the stomach as paapi!

Whoever knew the process of cooking could result in immediate expenditure of just-consumed calories and enhanced brain metabolism hence activity leading to derivation of ridiculous equations!

The khet of the Rani!!!

Ranikhet is a quaint, picturesque hill station, a mere 60 kms from the more popular, overtly crowded Nainital. An area maintained exclusively by the Indian Army, the location serves as a perfect escape from a bustling city life and offers the tourist a quiet, serene and virtually isolated holiday.
The excursion turned out to be absolutely rejuvenating; perfect to recharge life's batteries- dulled by the ennui of everyday life, sharpen the consciousness- muffled by the pollution of senses, and revitalize the imagination- subdued by the humdrum of employment.
The trip made me realize that I am not all that bad at photography- if I actually talk less and click more. But on sensible second thoughts, it really is not me; it's a good ol' camera and mother nature showering her benign blessings. Nature is far too smart to allow us mortals to mess her up. Kahlil Gibran said "Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair." And I allowed nature to feel my bare feet and dry hair, but in return I shot and captured her varied moods.

 Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything,
That's how the light gets in.
Leonard Cohen

 A sensitive plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
and closed them beneath the kisses of night.
Percy Bysshe Shelley

 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thomas Campbell

 Earth laughs in flowers.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.
John Keats

 The sky broke like an egg into full sunset and the water caught fire.
Pamela Hansford Johnson

 For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),
It's always our self we find in the sea.
e.e. cummings

 Into my heart's night,
Along a narrow way.
I groped; and lo! the light,
An infinite land of day.
Rumi

To the next beautiful vacation and renewed camera batteries! Amen!

Harry Potter and Maut Ke Tohfe!

Did Warner Bros. one fine day in their wrong mind, read my blog? Really? Well, let's not ask the wrong question and instead celebrate the cinematic progress of the Harry Potter franchise. Almost 70% of the cast came of age during the filming of the series, but apparently so did the technique and method of shoot.

The amazing thing about the 7th HP book was that it was extremely fast-paced and full of adrenalin that made it immensely enjoyable and succeeded in firing the imagination of its readers, without the bang and boom of audio-visual aids. To match that level of intensity in the movie would always be a challenging task.

Part 1 of the 7th HP movie tries it's best to remain loyal to the book and it does manage it admirably. It succeeds at various levels from establishing the characters and their various actions to explaining the tale and its numerous twists. This is a huge leap from the disastrous showcase of the 6th movie where the meat of the 6th book was simply glossed over.

It always is difficult to convert books into movies. A lot is lost, just like in translation. The intent with which a book is written is different from the intent with which it's captured on screen. No wonder the director's vision is different from the writer's idea. But, the underlying fact remains that they both are telling the same story and "nothing is more telling than a story".


A lot of times while reading books, I tend to imagine and visualize them in their onscreen avatar. Some stories are in essence so powerful that their progression to the big screen is indeed the next logical step in the process of evolution. And therein is where lies, the curse and boon of a good story- it just might in the process of this conversion lose its soul.

The pen has always been mightier than the sword, but when did it become swankier than the camera?

men to the last movie that will end an era!

Hindi Ki Tangi

I come across this foot-board everyday and every time I wonder what these words mean. I also wonder why exactly my Hindi is so very poor. I could easily do a Googli and figure out the meaning but I kind of wanted to ascertain my depth of Hindi illiteracy and also to know how many fellow country men and women are as bad as I am, if not worse. So, if you happen to visit the blog and know the correct meaning of any of the words depicted above and listed below, do leave your comment and contribute towards my national tongue GK. Thanks in advance!


A showcase of my limited knowledge:


Steel Plate- This I know!
Phatte- I think wooden planks and not Chak de phatte.
Pallu- The sari wala Pallu?
Chali Balli- Did they mean Chalu Billi?
Kolam- No idea.
Pani Ka Drum- This I know know!
Jeene- Ladder, if me not wrong.
Lafa- One tight slap?


As you can see, any help will be highly appreciated.

When my Country bled…

1947 TIME Magazine cover by Boris Artzybasheff depicting a self-hurting Kali as a symbol of the partition of India.
(Source: Wikipedia)

As speculations abound once again as to who orchestrated the partition of India- was it the conveniently devious Jinnah or the seemingly spotless Patel or just the lame British hobby of dividing nations- the truth of the matter remains that the painful echo of greatest migration in recorded history is still reverberating loud and clear across a continent.

The truth of the matter remains that my country still bleeds- it is a case of a very severe form of Hemophilia- and with no cure in sight.

The most important thing, I feel, is to never forget or blot out such incidents from our collective consciousness. And that is not because we should foster and nurture wounds and feelings of retribution and payback, but simply because we must remember the horrors of our errors and their eternal repercussions.

As for forgiveness, that's God's job.

Pic of the Year!

Courtesy: The Times Of India

Are these dudes kewl or are these dudes kewl? :P

Harry Potter and the Nostalgia of July

Not that I have ever denied it, but for the record, I am a huge Harry Potter fan. I simply adore the 7 books. And all this sudden outpouring of love for Harry is because I caught the 6th movie over the weekend and it brought back all the wonderful memories of the eager wait that used to precede the release of the HP books, and since most of them were made public in the month of July- that's what triggered the reminiscence.

I read the first one in 2001, a good 4 years after its release. I had obviously read reviews about it- mostly in Delhi Times that used to feature articles that talked about the controversies surrounding the book. The fact that the book dealt with witchcraft and wizardry ended up disturbing Christian sensibilities. And honestly, I never really acknowledged the fan-following the book was generating because I thought it was just a case of plain old hype.

And that's exactly what I kept on feeling till I read the book- my first impression though was that it is like an elongated and expanded Matilda- the Roald Dahl book that was about a young orphan girl who discovers that she can perform magic. But, of course, in the Harry Potter universe, magic is the magic word. It's all about how wizards and witches live all over the world, unknown and hidden from the non-magical people- the Muggles. It's all about spells and potions and charms and brooms and wands and hexes and jinxes and creatures and generally, a whole lot of enchantments.

To all those people whom I still haven't pestered enough, please go ahead and read the series. And no, it's not a book just for kids; the whole series teaches you so much- of the power of friendship, of the strength of innocence, of the inspiration of bravery, of the blindness of power, of the price of cowardice, of the gifts of perseverance and quite a few other thingies.

And since I'm getting all nostalgic, just a few tidbits (all personal, of course):

• The 5th book is the most disappointing in the series.
• The books were always ridiculously priced.
• I cried my heart out when Dumbledore died. I read the book again and then cried all over again. Now, since I have read the book a number of times, I no longer cry but it still is the saddest death in the series.
• Lord Voldermort is an exceptionally engaging and interesting villain and he has been played to a T by Ralph Fiennes.
• I discovered an anomaly between the 6th and the 7th books.
• It was an immense relief when Harry survived at the end of the series.
• I have 2 copies of the 7th book.
• I have no freaking idea what are Warner Bros. playing at with the movie franchise- the movies are turning out to be big disappointments.
• And most importantly, I am still waiting for my letter from Hogwarts and I think I'd make an extremely good witch!

The Fall and Rise of Roger Federer

Another Sunday. Another Men's Grand Slam Final. Another jam-packed stadium. The only thing out of place was the finalist. Conspicuous by his absence was Federer's nemesis- Rafa, his place taken by a snowed under Soderling. And, as if by divine intervention, Federer finally won the elusive French Open.

What else can explain Rafael Nadal's absence from his Mecca- the clay court, if not fate? Because had he been there on the court last night, Federer would have had to fight a battle of the indomitable human spirit yet again and in all probability he would have lost- again.
Because had the Spaniard been there yesterday, he would have been in his element and exactly what he is- a bull. A non-tiring, inexhaustible veritable mine of energy. (I sometimes feel he is a mutant or a super-human, genetically engineered, perhaps?)
Because had Rafa won again, Fedex would have cried. And this time, my heart would not have gone out to him the way it did at the Australian Open finals.
But, all these things didn't happen, because destiny finally decided to bestow her smile on Federer and he did cry after all, but there was no mistaking the joy and pride in those misty, dewy eyes.

Jimmy Connors once said "In an era of specialists- you're either a clay court specialist, a grass court specialist or a hard court specialist...or you're Roger Federer."

It is generally agreed upon that Federer is the greatest tennis champion the world has seen for a while. Federer has reached where he is by sheer grit and tenacity. And he needed this win- not to prove to the world the champion that he is, but to vindicate himself. After all, a winner needs to set personal benchmarks, to be the best of the best. And, if it really takes a little bit of luck, a certain tweaking of the circumstances, an evident absence of a worthy opponent to get a hold of what is rightfully yours, so be it. What is meant to be- will be. (He'll take care of Rafa another day!)

So, what exactly does Federer teach us? More importantly, what is that we can learn from him? The Roland Garros cup (and the other innumerable cups and shields) will always serve to remind him and all of us that perseverance and skill are always rewarded. No one can fake effort; talent is great, but determination is necessary.

Federer reminds me of the Phoenix- the mythical bird of lore- his tendency to fall but his ability to rise again; to embrace defeat but acknowledge its learning; to accept fame but be wary of its fallouts; to welcome a winning streak but always with humility; to allow tears but recognize their healing power. And that's what makes a true champion. Way to go, Fedex!

Looking forward to a Wimbledon Fed-Rafa final. And praying for an emphatic Federer win!

AngLES & DeMOANS

The movie distributors - multiplex owners standoff is resulting in very interesting consequences, the most prominent of course being that new movies are being run at non-descript cinema halls. So, I had to go and watch A & D at such a weird theatre near me, which happens to be in R.K.Puram and in case, Aap Panchvi Pass Se Teez Hai, so you'd know which movie hall I am talking about.

Anyway, it was an amazing, life-changing experience. Just makes you realize that you should be thanking God all the time for multiplexes and their lesser revamped, renovated singleplexes. Anticipating a very high turnout for the movie, I thought I'd call up and find out about ticket availability.
Me: Hello, are you currently airing Angels & Demons?
Hall Personnel: Yes, we are airing AngLES & DeMOANS.
Me: In English, right?
Hall Personnel: Of course.
Me: Would tickets be available, let's say for the 3:30 show?
Hall Personnel: Depends- You never know. (I bet he had a twinkle in his eye when he said that but I couldn't confirm it over the telephone line)

As it turns out, I really did not know, because the tickets were so easily available that if I had walked in the next day, I still would have got tickets for the previous day. 100/- Balcony- Imagine! But, let me assure you, a 100/- ticket is not as good as it sounds.

The theatre was, well, in a dilapidated state. It seemed like the roof would cave in any moment. And guess what, there were fans and tube lights there- lends a whole old meaning to surround-sound and light; though I think am being hyper-critical, the fans seem to have been fit-in to circulate the AC air. The seats were fixed, wouldn't budge- neither hither nor thither and the one next to mine looked as if it had been puked on, which wouldn't really be surprising coz the beverages and food being served looked positively poisonous. One very interesting and beneficial feature, though, provided at the theatre was a Spit Box.

Where do you find these in multiplexes? I mean- think about it, if in the middle of a movie, you get an insane urge to spit, what would you do? Where would you go? What- Where, indeed.

A very odd smell permeated the entire area. Could it be because the ladies toilet was broken and under repair? Well, if people are allowed to spit and vomit to their hearts and stomachs content, wouldn't peculiar smells be a theatre owner's USP?

The movie didn't begin a full 25 minutes after the scheduled timing. Everyone was waiting with bated breath (what a surprise) for some special event, Sitaram Yechury included. And as soon as a few enthusiastically bored audience members of the front stall started hooting, catcalling and jeering in general the movie began promptly.

Okay, now for the "film" review- it's a good movie- way better than The Da Vinci Code. It's good to see Tom Hanks return to 1/8th of his usual self. And Ewan McGregor is absolutely yummy. Are we allowed to speak like that about actors who are playing wannabe-popes? Please forgive my sin, Father.

P.S. - The book was better. Aren't books anyway and any day?

And it was at that age...

I have always wondered what makes poetry tick. It's such a drab art form- nothing concrete, nothing tangible. Every verse, couplet, sonnet is open to interpretation. Poetry stretches the phrase “to each his own” to the max. You can take whatever you want to from a poem. Can you ever guess, come even close to taking a pot-shot at, what a poet was thinking when he penned a line? For someone who’s been brought up on a staple diet of literary fiction, poetry baffles me. I find it a tad difficult to appreciate its various forms, the myriad genres, the numerous meanings.

What, though, one cannot deny is that poetry is beautiful. You just cannot escape it. It’s everywhere and so really, there is no point in running away from it, and that’s exactly wherein the splendor of poetry lies- that it will find you, and as Pablo Neruda so wonderfully puts it- And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me.

He, of course, was talking about how poetry arrived for his writing; I’ll just change the meaning, to my convenience, and apply it to my reading.

Pablo Neruda was the pen name the Chilean writer and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. If all it takes to write soulful poetry is a long real name, am changing my name to Niyati Revarto Reshmaiyyes Budhvaro!

Neruda was the winner of the 1971 Nobel Prize for literature; he was an accomplished poet who skillfully handled many poetic styles. I came across Neruda quite late, to my dislike, but then when one has never really made an effort to be acquainted with the field of poetry, one can’t really complain enough or much!

It was, in essence, like a rush- the rush of discovering Neruda. Below are few of my favorite lines from the little that I have unearthed of Neruda:

From the Book of Questions:

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?
Is the sun the same as yesterdays or is this fire different from that fire?
How does rumor of the sky smell when the blue of water sings?
What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
Where did the full moon leave its sack of flour tonight?
And at whom does rice smile with infinitely many white teeth?
Why don't inanimate things do something?
What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world?

Personification is something Neruda is a natural at. And with just questions, he conveys half-hidden answers, long-lost conversations, and implied, unsaid feelings. My question to you Mr. Neruda is: What can I give to have an imagination as yours?

From Statues:

May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.

From Too Many Names:

No one can claim the name of Pedro,
nobody is Rosa or Maria,
all of us are dust or sand,
all of us are rain under rain.
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and of Paraguays;
I have no idea what they are saying.
I know only the skin of the earth
and I know it is without a name.

When I sleep every night,
what am I called or not called?
And when I wake, who am I
if I was not while I slept?

I have a mind to confuse things,
unite them, bring them to birth,
mix them up, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the oneness of the ocean,
a generous, vast wholeness,
a crepitant fragrance.

I particularly like these lines above- a mind to confuse things. Maybe that’s exactly what the mind is good at, at getting confused and muddled. Mine certainly is, and I’m happy that my mind has been brilliantly described by Pablo!

From I Like For You to be Still:

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Neruda is wickedly famous for his erotically charged poems. In fact, Twenty Love Poems and a Desperate Song, is his most critically acclaimed and best-known work. His passionate love sagas are set to love’s yearning, its loss, its damage, its death.

From For Everybody:

It's nobody's problem
Not for them, nor for you,
And if you listen well, in the rain,
You will be able to hear
That I come back and go away and stay.
And you'll know when I must leave.

If my words aren't heard
Don't doubt that I'm the one I was.
There is no silence that doesn't end.
When the moment arrives, wait for me,
And let everyone know that I'm coming
To the street, with my violin.

There is no silence that doesn’t end. Can this be true? It’s so difficult to believe, easier said than done. But then that’s what the maestro is so good at- at filling you with an all-consuming hope that maybe, just maybe, all silences will break.

From here and there, still all his:

They may mow down all the flowers, but they can't stop spring.
Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
I don't have a never, I don't have an always.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

All I can wish for is that this rush lasts a lifetime!

P.S.- My favorite poem has not been listed here, Neruda, after all, does deserve some privacy!