Addytorials's Xanga

Decent Florists, Bandra West

Wed, 01 Apr 2009 18:47:42 GMT

The green gate doesn't shut completely, but they are clearly closed for the day. Not surprising - it's almost midnight. Through the gap in the padlocked door, I can see a pot-bellied man sitting on the floor, surrounded by a colourful chaos of dying leaves and flowers. He doesn't seem interested. With his back against the table, he has sprawled his lungi-clad legs in front - much like a large human compass ready for action. His focus remains on counting a large wad of money in his hands, and on scratching his hairy belly from time to time.

With profound foreboding, yet strengthened by a strong sense of purpose, I knock.

O bhai, phool milega kya?
Nahi, nahi. Bandh ho gaya.

De do na, yaar. Please. Girlfriend ko manana hai.
Arre, abhi nahi milta.

Malik, dekho na, please. Jhagada ho gaya, yaar, hamara.
Arre, yeh koi time hai kya jhagada karne ka? Abhi toh kuchh nahi milega.

Kuchh toh batao, yaar. Scene ho jaayega. Bekaar ka bawaal kar ke khud ka chutiya kaat ke aa raha hoon.
Bhai, phir toh khud hi wapas chale jaao. Shayad April Phool samajh kar maan jaaye.

Down with the Sickness : Kolkata Disease 1

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 10:03:50 GMT

I am 11. Already, I go to the library alone. It is a treacherous route, I like to think, from Kidderpore to Ekbalpore and beyond. The difference in these worlds is discernible almost immediately as I turn left from Mansatala Row, down Pipe Road. At the corner is a hair salon. We call it 'saloon', as does the text arched across its window.

It looks like it belongs to an old Westerner. I have been there only once, but its sepia bleached interiors have made it an easy memory for me. Swing doors, hat racks, faded newspapers with curly serif fonts, dusty mirrors and gossip about the race tracks. Bits of hair now fly around the unknown creased faces I associate with it.

One day, quite suddenly, the place was gone. I wouldn't know when. I hadn't been looking for it till I knew it wasn't there. I try to recollect, even now, what shop or service replaced that old saloon. But I cannot. Though the tailor next door still operated out of its blue tube-lit corridor, its neighbour had disappeared like an optical illusion at the wrong angle.

Poof.

I am 11. And Pipe Road divides Kidderpore and Ekbalpore, the Hindus and the Muslims. The distinction is apparently important. I have, at 11, educated myself to identify rowdy boys with sleek, jet black hair and chiseled features as Muslims. They are abusive and volatile. Muslims, I learn on Pipe Road, are either barbers or tailors, or own meat shops or small roadside restaurants.

After leaving a conspicuous garbage dump behind, Pipe Road opens into Diamond Harbour Road. A little to the right is my school. A poster seller displays his wares on its rough, red walls. Religious depictions of all kinds find unity here, as do sport icons and film stars. And Bruce Lee from Enter the Dragon. He is a phenomenon.

On the other side are tram tracks that continue forward even when the road is cut into a four-way intersection. I am 11. I cross the busy road and take a left from Diamond Harbour Road toward Alipore Zoo.

I am told it is the biggest zoo in India. It has many birds and animals, and it smells like disease. I used to like going there, but I could not find the giraffe enclosure on my own every time I went. That bothered me to no end. Where were they hiding the giraffes? Later, I'd go there only to smoke in relative secrecy. I used to mouth fag, but this was to happen much later. Now I am 11. And I go walking by.

Straight ahead, if you cross the road, are the palatial gates to the National Library, the largest library in India (I am told, again). But these gates are closed. They are merely a secondary entrance, and hence shut forever. Kolkata logic. I walk left, and it is a long walk till I meet the Zoo exit. Here, I cross the busy road and find myself at the entrance to the library grounds. White lions, I believe, sculpted in stone, await the weary booklover.

Inside, there are trees. And that is an understatement.

Bird poop everywhere. Like lime on forgotten paan leaves, they streak the august ground. A trek later, I am at the stairs, the library doors. Here, I walk past. Ahead, to the right, forgotten in a corner is a door that marks the free entrance to the childrens' section.

The smell of books everywhere, old and new. Mostly old. Heavy books, hardbound covers softened with age. Light books, pages tattered and worm eaten. It feels like coming home.

I was 11. Now, at 26, all routes in Kolkata are treacherous. I dare not cross the street. And dust flies off the books in my grandfather's cupboard to give me an allergy.

wild-e

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 05:27:07 GMT

the oscars are over : the movies were seen : i still can't get over : the places i've been

*have you seen Into the Wild yet? and why not?

DSL Garden / KGAF '07

Fri, 14 Sep 2007 07:12:32 GMT

The garden reeks of piss -
an acrid, offensive stench.

I doubt the wet earth beneath my feet.
I wonder where all those mosquitoes breed.

Among the aged trees, roots bared,
are millions of white plastic chairs.

So removed they are from the reality
that the garden espouses.

How does one become intimate with them?
How does one believe

that the people floating to their rest are real?

These people trapped in the white plastic chairs.
Do they feel?

Surely, it is an other worldly affair I am privy to.

And yet, there she flits.

A spirit, a fairy,
a goddess, even, she is,

here in the humble garb of the tangible
and, therefore,
the tantalising, the available.

But she is not; she cannot be.

Her disarming flight
among us unsuspecting mortals
gives her away.

At arms distance, always,
she is part of us.

She belongs to us

as we, we all,
belong to her.

In one corner of her fingernail,
we live

and in the curve of her ample navel,
the world.

And when she walks away,
life follows
her unbound, primitive pace.

yet another exercise in futility

Thu, 30 Aug 2007 00:52:23 GMT

Stitches unravel

In dreams, it flies and you flirt

Enchanting, your skirt

----------------------------------------------

Typical Indian male, she says,

You want girls to have long hair.

Her's isn't.

But who cares?

I know what she means

You must have seen

'Typical Indian males'

Look for

'Typical Indian females'

On Shaadi.com

Haven't you?

A brown skinned man

With a moustache

And well combed hair

A pin striped shirt

And trousers

An IT job somewhere

in Bangalore, well paid.

Looks for

A fair skinned girl

With big eyes

And long hair

In a saree

(In a studio)

Can sing, clean, prepare

meals, and is religious.

Typical?

Not her hair.

An unruly bunch

Sticking out somewhere

Or the other

At all times.

You should brush it, I say.

I should cut it, she says.

And a part of me knows

It will rue

The shorn locks

I wasn't bold enough

To run my fingers through.

Don't cut your hair, I say.

Typical Indian male, she says,

You want girls to have long hair.

---------------------------------------------

one half too small

half, yet

no more, no less

no more to confess

and sash, besides

one half too big

half, yet

not less, not more

just right

for a fireball

one half too big

one half too small

she walks the clouds

in her dreams

connected, it seems,

to another

by a sash

that ends in a bow

no prizes

if you know

that she'll answer your call

for even though

she's one half too big

and one half too small

she's complete

and that's all

...that's all

abrasions and lacerations

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 16:19:32 GMT

i don't see it approaching.
the white bonnet of a maruti flashes in front, to the right.
the front of the rickshaw bends inward, toward me. then the windshield shatters.
the ground comes at me from the left. i bang into the rickshaw frame, and then am on my neck.
i'm on my side. the ground comes at me again.
we roll. me, like a ragdoll in a box, tumbling across the street. i close my eyes.
i open my eyes. i'm on my back, i can't feel my hands.
and then i can. my fingers are enveloped in molten heat.
blood. on the ground, on my clothes, on my fingers.
a hand reaches down, and another. they pull me out of the rickshaw.
the rickshaw driver has bruises on the side of his face. i touch my face. me too. we bleed.
i sit on the road and breath, breath, breath, breath....
somebody gets my spectacles from somewhere. not broken. i find it surprising. the rickshaw is still on its side. battered.
they lead me to the side. somebody hands me my dvds. i look around. one cigarette, unsmoked, lies alone in a large pool of glass shards.
my wallet is gone. i say so to the gathering crowd.
i sit down by the gutter. i hurt all over. one united wave of blinding pain.
somebody gets me water - to drink, and to pour on my fingers. the blood refuses to wash off.
i breath, breath, breath....
i roll up my trousers. i'm bruised. the skin has scraped off. no blood, just a white patch.
i breath, breath, breath....

later, i realise that i'm alive.
and it feels so wonderful.

to the men who pulled me out of the rick, gave me water, checked my injuries.
to the man who saw the maruti driver stealing my wallet and rescued it for me.
to the bmc men who helped me up, took me to the office, gave me water, offered to take me home.
to keith and chandar who came to get me instantly, took me home, cleaned and bandaged my wounds, made me laugh, said, "mard ko dard nahi hota".

thank you.

today, i have faith. in people, in angels, in friends.
we shall prevail.

nothing escapes me. no one escapes me.

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 15:58:40 GMT

"I met Death today. We are playing chess."

r.i.p.
(1918 - 2007)

fragments

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 16:47:46 GMT

chapter 1: lucky 7s. and pay-offs.

on 777, i decided not to go gambling after all. if luck favours everybody, the pay-off just isn't worth it. the idea, also, of a limited supply of material pleasure prevails. consequently, if i win, somebody, somewhere must lose. a mutual orgasm, for example, is practically a myth fostered by rare happenstances and cinema. to truly enjoy the act of copulation, it is imperative that we give up the notion of that one magical moment of a mutual climax. there is no win-win situation. and if it seems so, someone is faking it.

thankfully, not all pleasures are material. but what if they come by material means?

laughter, for example is a truly divine pleasure. so fleeting, that moment of ecstatic joy.

chapter 2: kevin smith on youtube

so on 777, i spent all day watching kevin smith interviews on youtube. there are quite a few. i don't like his movies much. chasing amy was nice, dogma was okay. but the rest are barely tolerable, and some are not even that - personal opinion, of course, and one not shared by too many, it seems. whatever it be, i find it easy to admit that kevin smith is very watchable on stage and can have you in multiple splits in seconds. if there was a dvd chock full of his bits at comic-con and elsewhere, i would wait for it to be ripped to divx and promptly download the file. go, watch. look for the ones with superman, the one with x-men, and green hornet, and the rock paper scissors game, and the one with Geek, and the one... oh, go watch them all.

chapter 3: pay-offs. again.

i tried to figure out who must lose in this situation. what is the pay-off for my enjoyment? after a chain of connections beginning at youtube server space, i ended up at some american consumer buying something he doesn't need. but it doesn't really end there. it goes back into the economy and becomes part of a never ending cycle. the buck doesn't stop anywhere at all.

it was far easier, later, to realise that the pay-off would ultimately be apparent as having wasted the better part of a day on something as pointless as kevin smith videos on youtube. i would have linked that to a never ending cycle as well, quoting that all experience is experience gained and that there really is no cemented goal to judge the subjective issue of time against, but resorting to escapist spiritual ambiguities are for wusses.

i have a better form of escape. complete denial. kevin smith what?

chapter 4: 7/11

and then the 7/11 anniversary rolled by on rusted tracks. i ignored it. too many memories, none nice. when all the failed objectives have been laid to rest, camus' the fall comes to mind. at once i am unsure of myself. in an act of piercing introspection, i rattle my foundations instead of strengthening them. what good is introspection, then?

the images make me uneasy; i give up the newspapers for a day. i switch on the telly for comfort. comfort from what? i didn't suffer. how arrogant is the suffering of a man who recalls having seen suffering? but what troubles me lies deeper. i am content with skimming the surface and deriding myself for what i find floating thereon. it is much easier to deal with.

chapter 5: youtube again. dreamscapes and nightmares.

and then i find myself, again, at youtube. i have developed a fascination for it. this time i look for veerana. behold, movie clips from veerana. and, wonders never cease, jasmine's bath tub song. the tag might say "veerana sexy bath tub song", but i really just like the tune. it's bappi-da, don't you know? ...and, yes, jasmine is quite the vixen.

i have always thought it very cruel that jasmine should look as hot as she did. it is quite another thing that she happens to pick up lecherous creeps before seducing and killing them (in hideous ghost avatar - something of a klpd), but i imagine even the most upright of men wouldn't want to refuse her advances. no sense of fair play at all. in one of my boyhood fantasies, i would fall in love with one such temptress-by-day-and-chudail-by-night. having learnt her truth, we would simply move past the point. i would learn to love the ghostly (ghastly?) side to her and we would not have to play the roles of tormentor and victim (except during sexual role-play, maybe). love would win over all. it was a sweet fantasy, wrapped in amorous imagery with the milky jasmine. but daytime fantasies have an infuriating way of creeping up as nightmares when lost to sleep. even now, i sometimes dream of being fatally attacked in the midst of sexual throes by my partner. before orgasm, too. it horrifies me every time.

but jasmine has nothing to do with those dreams. love will win her over.

chapter 6: why veerana is a fab flick

while reminiscing thus on youtube, it strikes me that i must have seen veerana an approximate 8 times. at the very least, too. for the unaware, it is a very enjoyable film. while stacked with bollywood b-grade cliches and amateurisms throughout, the industry-suppressed wit of the film-makers (ramsay brothers) often winks at the keen viewer. in one of many overlooked scenes, for example, satish shah has been flung on to a tree by a monster and he calls out for help when he sees a bike approaching. he calls the rider by many names, imploring him to stop, and finally calls him tarzan and launches into the typical tarzan jungle call. the rider then stops and looks around. the rider, the hero of this film, is hemant birje - tarzan of previous indian cinematic avatars of the jungle man. an in-joke for true film geeks.

chapter 7: about ramsay

and if the stereotypic branding of ramsay brothers' movies has you pshaw-ing in disbelief at the mention of witticism, let me bring to your recall that the story for hrishikesh mukherjee's buddha mil gaya, a rivetting comic suspense thriller, was written by shyam ramsay.

just a few marks shy of being the indian argento, i'd say.

chapter 8: death. or something like it.

and while on the subject of hands reaching from the grave, let me state that my phone is still as dead as ever. or probably deader than usual since it rose as a stumbling zombie for a brief period last month, before being headshot, strung up and incinerated a la Romero. now it really is - dead.

chapter 9: real life

...paragraphs getting shorter can only mean one thing. i have work pending and am scrambling to collect my thoughts before i kill this post and move on.

chapter 10: announcements

two announcements remain. a) harry potter 5 was not fun. read my review here. we need the hits.
b) i'm watching david fincher's zodiac on monday. woohoo!

- porky pig out -

this is the stuff film geeks get off on

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 15:45:12 GMT

Takashi Miike and Quentin Tarantino should get together and make babies. But that's not going to happen, despite the obvious love for their respective roots.

What is going to happen is that QT will be doing a small role in Miike's Sukiyaki Western Django. The film is a Sukiyaki Western remake of Django. ...As if you didn't get that from the title already.

Consider this, though: Sukiyaki Western Django is a remake of Django, which is Corbucci's remake of Kurosawa's Yojimbo (Leone's remake was A Fistful of Dollars), which is actually based on Dashiell Hammett's American gang pulp, Red Harvest.

Small and terribly repititive world, isn't it?

mourn the dead, bury the dying

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 12:12:26 GMT

You were given to me. Like a rabid unwanted puppy at a dog pound, you were thrust upon me. I did not want you. A few months, and we were inseparable.

You have served well, my friend, through the years. But your time has finally come. You have suffered sinking in ruthless sand, drowning in unforgiving rain, and countless falls and beatings. And you have endured. It is to your undying spirit that I attribute the resilience of your last days. The sputtering light in your eyes still glows when called upon, your body still bristles to action. But your days of service are over, and the light leaves you before you can ready yourself for duty. You spend your waking hours contemplating distant lands and futures you cannot even comprehend. You are lost.

For days on end I have kept you by my side, hoping for a miraculous recovery. Now, no more. I must let you go, my friend. It is time to part. I wish you well in the afterlife, if there is one for your kind. Know that I would not hurry your fate so - but it's just too darned frustrating when you hang every time I get a call or message.

You will not be replaced easily, or anytime soon. Buying a cellphone is the last thing I want to spend time or money on.

R.I.P. old 3230.