Athul DeMarco's Blog, page 4

Pappu can write saala OR How I now call myself an author

Allo, Hi, Hello, I am proud and ecstatic to announce that the much awaited day has finally arrived upon us. I finally hit 'Send' on this mail, which has been festering, for months, in my drafts folder.The news is BIG AND Sensational. So I strongly suggest that before you read any further, that you let this song play in the background and enjoy this .gif of a dancing polar bear.           *Clears throat*Ladies and Gentlemen, today, I get to call myself a proper writer. An “author” if you may.“An.Al: The Origins” finally hits the book stands. Now I wouldn’t be so forward as ask you to pre-order it, but it would be bloody brilliant if you did. Or you could just wait for a while and watch it strike a dandy pose at all leading bookstores.Yes, I hear you. One question at a time please. *Adjusts microphone* ‘How do you feel?’ I hear you ask.Well, to be honest, more than happiness, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief.“What’s the story about?” I hear you ask.I tell you that I am bringing the genre of Splatterpunk back. I tell you to imagine the Joker (the one from Batman) as a young girl. I ask you to imagine Sherlock and Watson or Byomkesh and Ajit as conjoined twins. I tell you the story is a dark violent thriller. I tell you that if you like your action violent, your drama tense, and your humor dark, then you will enjoy this book."Oh! Well, that's sounds... Er... Um...” your mind races to find the most polite response, and all you end up with is... “That’s interesting. What's the name of the book?"“An.Al – The Origins” I reply and I see you do a double take. I see the occasional roll of eyes and the raised eyebrows. I sense the casual step back. And I see you wonder, quietly.And so, I want to thank you all for your eye rolls, for your exaggerated sighs and for your cautious silence. You made sure that I finished this book. You made sure that I was on my best behaviour and that I occasionally wore pants. You made sure that I didn’t drive my dear and a sweetheart of an editor, Gayatri to her death. And you need to take credit for that. You must. I insist. I don’t look pretty in prison clothes. And you know what they do to pretty boys like me in prison.I want you to know that, when you cast your eyes on the book, and read the book jacket and wonder, whatever that is you will wonder... I want you to know that the finished product is the result of a LOT of time spent writing and obsessing over the story. Obsessing about which bits would make you want to put the book down. Obsessing about which bits would make you wish that I die a slow, horrible death. Obsessing about which bits would make you fall in love with the characters and which bits would make you smile and laugh out loud. Inside your head.The time spent in writing and waiting, editing and waiting, getting the cover done and waiting some more hasn’t been easy. But... you made the wait worthwhile.And now, you get to enjoy the book while I go and wait some more. Alone. In a corner. With some pants on.This is as much your book as is mine. I did what I had to do, write that is. And now it is up to you to do what you have to do, read that is.This is where, YOU, yes, YOU, buy the book, read it and then praise it (or hate it). Tell me that you are proud (or pretend you never knew me). This is where you love (or abuse) the finished product. But, whatever you do... Whatever you do... Talk about it, Facebook it, Goodread it Tweet about it... REPEATEDLY.. Till everybody you know feels the same way about the book like you do . SCREAM about it or whisper to anybody and everybody who listens or doesn't.  Just don't be mum about it. I really hope that you enjoy the book, as much as I have had the pleasure writing it.Love,Arvind/Athul/Zenny/Whatever other name you know me by/Whatever other name you call me; I personally prefer the-weird-one-who-hates-his-pants. Rather long but it sounds nice.
ps: Overseas delivery via Amazon, Flipkart and Uread will happen from tomorrow onwards.

Juvi Zenny is Juvi

I actually started writing this post in Comic Sans. But then I decided to go with Courier New. I don’t have anything against Comic Sans but I do like type writers and all the clickty clack sounds they make. Think they are super and are a lot more fun than comics. I like comics too. But I read them really fast and then I am bored again. And buying comics is really expensive. Because you would have to buy train tickets and build a time machine. Mostly because the only time I really liked and enjoyed reading comics was when I was 8 – 9 and was travelling with my folks for the annual summer vacations. Kids nowadays refer to them as “vacays”, like they are vaccines or vaginas. I wonder when Hollywood is going to make a movie on Tinkle. Reckon I will go watch that movie as long as it doesn’t star Abhishek Bachchan and Priyanka-I-want-my-nose-to-look-like-Michael-Jackson-Chopra and is called Drona. Which I did watch and hated myself every passing minute. Talking about watching something and not being sure about the ‘why’. I wonder why people go to gyms and then want to talk about it? “I joined a gym” “Okay... Why?” “I gym for an hour everyday and I do blah for my blah and then I do blah for my blah”. At this point of time, everybody including me usually retort with “Stop it! I am already getting tired just hearing about it”. What we really want to say is “Stop it! You are annoying. And I don’t want to hear about what you do to your blah blahs for how long. It wouldn’t hurt so much if you used lube. You are an idiot.” I am pretty sure I was thinking of something else when the RJ and the caller were having this conversation couple of minutes before. At this point of time, I am thinking and wondering if I am funny funny OR if I am funny like how mommies think their ugly rat faced babies are the cutest little shits ever to have been pooped out of their urethra. So, I did what any reasonably sane man with some residual common sense would do. I googled and answered some of those online quizzes. There was some sound advice there, I must admit. Apparently I have what is considered to be a juvenile sense of humour and I need to learn how to tone it down a bit from time to time. Anyway, I need to go to the bank now to do grown up things and try not to think “if I farted now, who is the most likely person the others are going to think farted”.

BOOBS! - An Obsession

Boobs!

We, men, women, children who have access to the internet, we are all interested in a pair of boobs. We find them interesting. I may go so far as saying that we are obsessed with them. I say obsessed because we don’t discuss about boobs on the dining table. We discuss movies, music, politics, and conspiracy theories behind Arnab Goswami’s angst. We are passionate about these things, but not obsessed.

What we are obsessed about, we don’t talk about them. It is our obsessions. We don’t like being judged, especially for our obsessions. There are few things, which we as a species are collectively obsessed with. And there is no greater obsession we share and participate in our privacy, than what comes out of our body.

Farts, shit, lint, ear wax, boogers, the smells... We are obsessed with them all. And because of this shared obsession, I can safely confess that my bum and my belly button smell the same. The smell is repulsive at first, much like the taste of beer. But the more you smell it, the more you stick your finger in and smell it. Much like the seventh pitcher you have just guzzled while yelling at the television.

I am always wary of people who physically flinch when I make this confession. In my mind, I ask myself, ‘what sort of a person are you if you don’t know how your orifices smell like?’. I bet you also are the kinds who gets out off with your food because somebody is vividly describing the colour, shape and size of the douche they dropped in the morning. Or the viscous alien like booger they picked off their nose. You have done it, but you don’t want to discuss it? Why? Why would you stop yourself from sharing what you found in your deepest, darkest apertures? Do you not think that Indiana Jones is awesome?

So, go on, give your sweat-laced-recently-shaved-armpit a whiff. Take in that smell, relish it. It is all you. Now make somebody else smell it, consensually of course, preferably in a public transport. Nothing makes us feel closer to somebody than smelling other people’s orifices.
Very few people are aware of this human obsession. And the ones who are aware of this, are the ones who wield power in a discussion. This knowledge is the quintessential ‘think the audience is naked’ power play.

Go ahead... stick your finger in an orifice of your choice, in your own body, preferably.

On your marks. Get. Set. BANG!

Run... Kill him and run. Just run. But kill him first .- Athul DeMarco
The room was dressed in dark, even though the sun outside was making the tar melt and dance to its unflinching tune. Black plastic around the VHS tapes and the shiny plates of CDs accessorized the darkness.
‘Please!’ the man pleaded, clutching his gut, the green shirt changing its colour to black under his tightened palm. Blood oozed from his broken nose, merrily mixing with the spit which bubbled and frothed from his lips. His plea was muted and lost under the loud banshee screams of the naked woman lying on the bed cowering and hiding her modesty under a blanket. Modesty which was until a few minutes back was being recorded under the expert direction of the man pleading for his life.
The man, looked at the young boy, all of fifteen years of age, dressed in white shirt and navy blue trousers, chappals, two sizes too small for his feet, the bloody kitchen knife firmly clutched in his left hand.
‘You are going to kill your own father madarchod!’ The man screamed in pain as he willed his body to slither away from where the boy was standing.
‘I told you not to do this’ The boy calmly replied as he flung cassettes and CDs on the wall, sending splintered and shattered pieces of plastic flying across the room. The woman continued screaming and sobbing in the background.
Having destroyed all the cassettes and CDs which caught his attention, he walked over to the screaming woman and yanked the floral printed blanket off her naked body. She held her hands up reflexively but the boy, calm as he was swiftly swished the razor sharp blade he held in his hand. The woman screamed louder as the knife tore open her skin, exposing the white muscle on her forearms. The boy caught the woman’s hair, the woman screamed, begging the boy to spare her. The father, screamed abuses at the boy in the background. Without a forewarning, the boy ran the knife along the young girl’s neck. Blood gushed like water from the tail of a water lorry. The man stopped screaming.
The boy stepped over his father, slapping his father and forcing him to look into his blood splattered face. The young boy could see the fear in his father’s eyes. The boy cleared his throat and spat on his father’s face before plunging the knife in his father’s heart. He repeated the action twelve more times before he was satisfied. The only sign of emotion the boy showed was the slight curl of his lips.
The boy, removed the gold watch his father was wearing before standing up over the dead body. He surveyed the room, as he removed his white school shirt and vest which were now dripping red. He wiped the blood off his face, chest and fingers before flinging over his dead father’s body.
The boy looked at the time, quarter to one, as he slipped the wrist watch on his hand. He walked over to the kitchen, picked up the canister of kerosene and liberally sprinkled it around his house. He pulled out a newly washed white shirt off the hanger. Looked into the mirror and combed his hair into place. He looked around for his running shoes and slipped them over his sockless feet.
He stood up from the stool and surveyed the room once again. Satisfied, he pulled out a box of matches from his trouser pocket and stuck it.
He hurried as the bus driver pushed the gear and jumped aboard the running bus.
‘Saale! You want to die or what?’ The conductor yelled at the boy, who cheekily smiled back.
‘National Games Village’ the boy extended his hand with the five rupee coin as he climbed inside the bus.
Thick black smoke rose into the sky, trying to challenge the sun.
#
‘I thought you wouldn’t make it on time’ Salman yelled as he saw his best friend get off the running bus.
‘Quick, the coach has been throwing a fit all morning’ Salman ran up to take his friend’s backpack.
‘Armaan!’ The boys heard their coach thunder, ‘Get warmed up!’ he bellowed.
‘Yes sir!’ Armaan promptly replied as he took off his shirt and trousers, revealing his bare chest and white running shorts. Salman pulled out the shiny violet jersey from Armaan’s school bag.
Armaan walked up to the beginning of the starting line. He stretched his legs, his chest still heavy from the fast sprint he had done from the bus to the stadium.
He spread his legs apart and oscillated his weight, stretching his inner thighs. He looked around to gauge his competition. Strong, lithe bodies glistened with sweat under the punishing sun. New shiny studs stitched to perfection around their feet. He looked at his own feet. White canvas shoes the inner side of the sole worn out from all the abuse the shoe endured.
‘Gentlemen...’ A man dressed in a white t-shirt, brown trousers, black whistle hanging between his bulbous breasts walked in front of them.
‘Wait for my call. Two false starts will mean instant disqualification’ The man instructed as he walked over the sideline.
‘On your marks’ the man yelled as he pulled out a gun and loaded it with a blank.
The eight boys crouched and took position behind the white line. Sweat dripping down their noses and backs.
‘Get. Set’ The man raised his hand with the gun held aloft over his head.
Armaan lifted himself off the ground and balanced himself on his toes and finger tips. His feet dug in hard, trying to find the grip he wanted on the red coloured synthetic turf. He looked up and saw the red ribbon sitting taut on the horizon. His mind flashed images from a life he had put an end to in the morning.
BANG!
The gunshot echoed as white smoke bellowed out of the gun barrel. 

Flatmate wanted

This is, if legend suggests, that time of the year when I begin my hunt for flatmates. When I say ‘hunt’, I mean more like valiant search for that particular variant of mango which looks like a ball and has really thin skin and a really small gotti (seed). Before I digress any further, (by the way, there have been times when I have misread digress as tigress), I am looking for somebody, anybody who would be willing to occupy the spare bedroom in my flat. The following is the criteria which potential flatmates need to satisfy: [image error]      Split the rent, (12,650/-), electricity bill (usually ranges from 600 – 900/-), internet bill (16mpbs for 80GB @ 1900/pm), newspaper (150/-), cable (300/-) plus other general miscellaneous expenses. o   In return for his/her own room, bathroom with a heater, washing machine, microwave, fridge, fully functional kitchen, television and mattress as bed. o   Right to boast the most fancy address in Bangalore, “Heart of the city” or Indira Nagar 80ft road as the auto fellows like to call it.o   No need for advance/deposit. Have already paid it. [image error]      Should possess basic cooking skills. (Make scrambled eggs, toast, rice that sort of shit)o   Should NOT be averse to heating food in the microwave and eating it.o   Should NOT be finicky about food. o   Preferably a non-vegetarian. [image error]      Preferably likes to get drunk on weekend. And shouldn’t mind me smoking cigarettes.o   (Even if one is teetotaller, one shouldn’t scorn or judge me for my drinking habits)o   I don’t smoke up or inject or snort shit up. But if you do, then you have a balcony of your own where you can do so.o   If you don’t smoke and don’t like cigarettes then, my smoking shall be limited to my room and my balcony.[image error]      Should be open to play game of dumb charades in the morning till I have finished drinking my cup of morning coffee.o   Dumb charades is played with hands and loud grunts.o   Avoid direct eye contact in the morning.[image error]      Should help on alternate weekends to clean the apartment. o   Laundry is done during the weekends. Schedule needs to be discussed before doing a load.[image error]      Should be open to take turns to go out and do grocery shopping. [image error]      Should be able to talk random nonsense and humour the nonsense I spout from time to time. [image error]      Should NOT be a racist, religious book thumping bigot, homophobe, and other shit I don’t like.[image error]      Should understand that I don’t like being touched. Especially when I am sober.[image error]      The flatmate is entitled to his own room. o   This room houses the wardrobe and an attached bathroom which has the washing machine. [image error]      I am largely considered to be ‘weird’ in my habits and not really known for my personal hygiene. o   None of this affects YOU, the flatmate. o   Unless of course I feel so comfortable with you that I chase you around the flat asking you to smell my armpits. [image error]      Occasionally, my friends and my fiancé visit me. One should know how to entertain guests and should NOT be a stuck up creep.o   The flatmate is entitled to entertain his/her/it’s guests. o   Though the rule of the thumb is that whoever’s guest it is, one should vouch for them. (Vouch that they are not utter douchebags. I am one. And the flat can handle only so much douche baggery at any given time)[image error]      Should have a healthy appetite for television, movies and music. o   The more varied it is the better.[image error]      Should have an open mind about general shit. o   Should be prepared to answer random questions which maybe considered deeply personal in different cultures§   Eg: “Have you ever tasted your own earwax?”, “Does your belly button and bum smell the same?”
I think this more or less sums it up. I am pretty sure that I am missing out on few other details, but once you come and check out the flat, put a face on each other, we can then negotiate on the before mentioned points. If interested, please email me : don.osiris@gmail.com

Review: RIP – Mukul Deva

The following is the overview of the book which prompted me to read this book. “R.I.P. The Resurgent Indian Patriots. Self appointed guardians of a nation seething with anger at the endless scams and scandals rocking its very foundation. Vigilantes who vow to stop corrupt politicians and colluding civil servants. Even if it means killing them. Colonel Krishna Athawale and his team of Special Forces officers rally to protect the country from the enemy within. They call themselves the K-Team. And no one is safe from their deadly intent. Hellbent on stopping them is Raghav Bhagat, rogue para commando, gun for hire and Krishna's béte noir. Caught in the crossfire is Vinod Bedi, Special Director CBI. Reena Bhagat, a glamorous news anchor, embittered by her husband's betrayal. And two young boys, Sachin and Azaan, torn apart by the loss of a parent. It doesn't get bigger.”
Sounds like a promising plot doesn’t it? Sounds like the story is something which will rise above the breaking headlines sort of overview doesn’t it? Unfortunately it doesn’t.
Politicians, voluntarily retired army officers, CBI officers all seem to favor ‘arsehole’ NOT ‘asshole’ as their favored choice of expletive. The book opens with brief acknowledgement and an author’s note. The latter sermonizes and indicates the germination of the idea behind the story. I blame my modest id’s inflated sense of good taste in movies and books to have wanted to move from the black screen to the story. But… I am more than well aware of the effort which goes behind writing a novel. Not a novella, not a novelette. But a novel. It is hard work. And I would have marveled the book and probably cherished it. IF… If it had been the debut novel by a first time writer. I would have ignored the shoddy editing in places, I would have ignored the manifesto, propaganda styled, pro – Anna Hazare, anti – ruling party voice of the author and concentrated at the “story”. But apparently, the author has 5 best sellers against his name. The book doesn’t delve into the “story” till about 120 odd pages (the book is 286 pages long). In movie terms, this book for me is like… Take somebody who is completely unaware of Ram Gopal Verma’s body of work, and the first movie he/she is made to watch as an introduction to the director is ‘Ram Gopal Verma ki Aag’. ‘RIP’ is my ‘Ram Gopal Verma Ki Aag.’  The following is my assumption, based on my limited understanding of the author’s style of writing on the sample size of 1, (this book). I can see why the author’s previous works have been best sellers. And I can firmly say that this one will too be described as a best seller, if it already hasn’t been proclaimed so. The proclamation has got nothing to do with the morbidly grotesque PR job which the cover boasts of, like a poorly spelled tattoo in Sanskrit. The language is simple, the characters are one dimensional, the clichés and stereotypes are plenty on offer, the cussing is limited and unimaginative. The plot promises ‘A Wednesday’ and one can optimistically view the story as being just that. The problem I had with the book is that the execution was more Rohit Shetty’s ‘Golmaal’ series. And we all know why the latter’s movies are considered blockbusters. They appeal to the lowest common denominator. The LCDs I refer to here are people who like to write ‘reading’ under the heading of hobbies in their resume. I am still of the firm belief that there are very few Indian authors who can write good thrillers set in India with Indian characters. This book made me sorely miss Juggi Bhasin and his stellar writing. If you are looking for a good thriller, then give RIP a miss like you would ignore playing in the sewers during the monsoons and grab a copy of Juggi Bhasin’s ‘The Terrorist’ . 

This review is a part of the biggest Book Reviews Program. for Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

Lucy and her three best friends and the big and ugly lizard

Once upon a time, not too long ago, there was a young girl named Lucy. Now Lucy had really long black hair, which she used to oil every Sunday and then take bath in hot water. She used to love her long black hair. She used to put clips and beads in her hair. She used to sway her head, left and right, left and right, left and right and loved the way her hair moved left and right, left and right. One day, she was walking back from school as she recited the alphabets out aloud, in a sing song manner. Dressed in sky blue skirt, her hair tied in a ponytail, black shoes with shiny silver buckles. ‘A for Apple. B for Bat. C for Cat. D for… D for… Dog… A for apple. B for Bat. C for cat. D for Dog…’As she skipped and jumped and walked, her hair swishing and swaying along with her happy little steps, she saw something sparkle on the side of the road, where the grass grew as high as her knees. She stopped skipping and jumping. It shined again, bright as the sun in the afternoon when she played hopscotch during lunch break. Excitedly she went closer to see what was shining behind the grass which grew as tall as her knees. And there it was, the shiniest, brightest, and the most colorful hairclip she had ever laid her eyes on. As she stuck her hand out and picked up the shiny, bright and colorful hairclip, she heard a small girl’s voice. ‘Heyllo! My name is Alice. You have pretty hair’‘Thank you. I oil it every Sunday and then take bath in hot water. My name is Lucy’ she replied smiling as she saw the hairclip talk to her. The hairclip looked like it was smiling back at her. ‘Will you put me in your hair? I will be your best friend. I will hold your hair up and you can style it anyway you want. Please?’ Alice, the brightest, shiniest and the most colorful hairclip Lucy had ever seen asked her. She even said please, and Lucy remembered her mother telling her that when somebody requests you something and say Please then you should try and help them. ‘Yes! That will be lovely. You and me shall be the bestest of all friends and I shall wear you in my hair every day. I ask my mommy to put you in my hair. Till then, I will hold you in my hands’ And so, Lucy smiled even a bigger smile and continued skipping and jumping and reciting the alphabets along with her new best friend Alice. ‘A for Apple. B for Bat. C for Cat… D for… D for… Dog… D for Dog.’As the two new best friends skipped, jumped, walked and sang their way home, Lucy noticed that a puppy had begun to follow her. The puppy was copying everything Lucy was doing. The puppy jumped when Lucy jumped. The puppy skipped when Lucy skipped. The puppy barked when Lucy sang her alphabets. Lucy sat down on the grass and the dog sat down too. Lucy rolled in the grass, the dog rolled in the grass too. ‘He looks so cute’ Alice spoke as she rolled in the grass along with Lucy. The shiniest, brightest and the most colorful hairclip was still firmly clutched in Lucy’s palm. ‘What is your name doggy?’ Lucy asked as she picked up the puppy and the puppy tickled her face with his soft, pink tongue. ‘Woof! My name is Zero. Woof!’‘Well! You are lovely! Will you be our friend?’ Lucy asked Zero the puppy who copied everything Lucy did. ‘Woof! Yes! Woof!’‘My name is Lucy and she is Alice’ Lucy said as she showed Zero, the puppy who copied everything Lucy did, the brightest, shiniest and the most colorful hairclip either one of them had ever seen.‘Hello!’ Alice smiled before she started grimacing and yelling ‘YUCK! EWWW!’ as Zero, the puppy who copied everything Lucy did, licked and tickled Alice with his soft and pink tongue. Watching Alice and Zero play together, Lucy giggled loudly. Hearing Lucy laugh out loud, Alice and Zero started laughing as well. They laughed and rolled and jumped and skipped and sang the alphabets.‘A for Apple. B for Bat. C for Cat. D for Dog. E for… E for… E for Elephant’Lucy, the girl with the lovely long black hair, Alice, the brightest, shiniest and the most colorful hairclip, and Zero, the puppy who copied everything Lucy did, rolled, played and laughed in the grass which was as tall as Lucy’s knees. Dark clouds covered the sky, curious to find out from where all the singing, playing and laughing sounds were coming in. ‘Who is making all that noise?’ The dark cloud thundered.‘We are not making noise. We were just playing.’ Alice spoke.‘Woof! Yes! We were just playing. Woof!’ Zero barked back at the dark clouds.‘My name is Lucy. This is Alice and this is Zero. What is your name? Do you also want to play with us?’ Lucy spoke as she looked up at the sky covered with the giant dark cloud. ‘My name is Eddie, the dark cloud. Nobody plays with me because I am dark and not white like the other clouds’ Eddie, the dark cloud thundered. ‘You can play with us. We were just singing, jumping, laughing and playing’ Lucy replied as she smiled at Eddie, the dark cloud with whom the white clouds didn’t play with. Eddie smiled in return, flashing his teeth and suddenly lightening flashed across the sky.‘Woof! What was that?’ Zero, the puppy who copied everything Lucy did, whimpered.‘Sorry! That is what happens when I smile’ Eddie apologized.‘That is so cool! Can you smile again?’ Alice screamed with excitement.‘I guess’ Eddie replied as he smiled sheepishly and flashed his teeth shyly and a tiny lightening shined through the sky. Together the four new best friends walked towards Lucy’s home, skipping, laughing, and singing the alphabets.‘A for Apple. B for Bat. C for Cat. D for Dog. E for… E for… E for elephant. F for Four. G for… G for…’Just then the four new best friends saw a big and ugly lizard. The big and ugly lizard opened his mouth and flicked his huge tongue to catch a butterfly which was as colorful as Alice and ate it. ‘Oh no!’ Alice screamed. ‘Woof! Woof!’ Zero barked at the lizard. The big and ugly lizard looked at the four new best friends and smiled menacingly. ‘Well, well, well… Look who we have here… Lucy, the girl with the big black hair, Alice, the shiniest, brightest and the most colorful hairclip, Zero, the puppy who copies everything Lucy does and Eddie, the dark cloud with whom the white clouds don’t play with. You all will make for a nice delicious dinner tonight.’ The big and ugly lizard smirked as he looked at the four new best friends. ‘Guys, I am scared!’ Lucy whispered to her three best friends.‘Don’t worry Lucy. We are there with you. He can’t eat us.’ Eddie, the dark cloud, thundered and lightening flashed across the sky as he smiled again. ‘Yeah! He is right.’ Alice spoke as she smiled along with Eddie. ‘Woof!’ Zero, the puppy who copied everything Lucy did barked in agreement.Buoyed by her three best friends confidence, Lucy spoke, ‘I think I have a plan on how to beat the big and ugly lizard’. Lucy then explained her plan to her three best friends. The four new best friends smiled at each other as lightening flashed across the sky again as Eddie flashed his white teeth again. ‘You don’t have anywhere to go’ The big and ugly lizard threatened. ‘NOW! Lucy yelled. Eddie, the dark cloud with whom the white clouds refused to play with, grinned as he showed all his white teeth causing a big lightening to streak across the sky. Zero, the puppy who copied everything Lucy did, jumped in the air with Alice, the brightest, shiniest and the most colorful hairclip, in his mouth and Alice caught Eddie’s smile in her hairclip. Lucy took the lightening and threw it at the big and ugly lizard. The big and ugly lizard saw the big lightening hurled towards him and started running for his life. ‘I will see the four of you soon. This is not over’ the big and ugly lizard yelled as he ran away scared. So scared that he left his tail behind. The four new best friends jumped in the air and high fived each other. Just then, Lucy, the girl with the big, black hair heard her mother call her name. ‘Lucy? Where have you been?’‘Mommy! I want you to meet my new best friends. This is Alice, the shiniest, brightest and the most hairclip. This is Zero, the puppy who copies everything I do. And this is Eddie, the dark cloud with whom the white clouds refuse to play with.’‘Hello!’ Lucy’s mother greeted Lucy’s friends and Lucy’s new best friends greeted Lucy’s mother in return.‘Mommy! Do you think they can stay with us? Please?’ Lucy asked her mother with a smile as big her father’s mustache. ‘Only if they help you finish your homework and sleep with you on time.’ Lucy’s mother replied. Lucy had asked her mother nicely and she had said ‘Please’. ‘Yayyy!’ The four new best friends jumped in the air and high fived each other again.

100 years of Indian Cinema

There is something to be said about black and white photographs. The monochromatic color scheme is very much like a haunting melody. A melody, is one of those magical instruments forged in unison with the cooperation of nature and man, which is both capable of transporting you to your nostalgic past or give you a new perspective on your current reality. Indian cinema has, is and always will be the surreal black and white photograph, a haunting melody.
          This is a story of how I met Indian Cinema and fell in love with it. I have been in enough relationships to realize, one doesn’t bitch/gossip about the person you are in a relationship with. You just tell and retell the story of how you met. And if you play your cards right, you don’t get to sleep. (*wink**wink**nudge**nudge*)
My very first memories of moving images and Indian cinema are ‘filmy’ in nature. I was little more than two years old. My first memory of Indian cinema is that of Shammi Kapoor screaming, ‘Yahooooo!’ while skiddling down a snowy mountain yodeling his lungs out and shaking his pompadour hairstyle out of its gel set mold.
My father was posted in Uri and I was old enough to walk on my own two feet. But not old enough to be admitted in a kindergarten or have the common sense to find the loo to relieve myself when nature called. (A lot of people who I consider friends will vouch for the fact that nothing has changed from then. I still can’t find my way to loo and I have lost many a comfortable pair of knickers to bladder emergencies.). Every evening, around 1500hrs, we kids used to go and learn horse riding and later meet our parents at the officer’s mess. The officers would play billiards or chat up the ladies while the telly ran in the background. If you stood on the steps which led up to the officer’s mess, one could see the Himalayas. At that age, I neither comprehended or appreciated the natural beauty I was surrounded with nor was I aware of the concept called distance. For me, the green mountain tops with the snowy white peaks I saw while seated on the horseback were the same as the ones which Shammi Kapoor skiddled and yodeled from every evening. The wild energy, the gay abandon, the jubilant frolicking of Shammi Kapoor while he yodeled still gets me makes me jiggle with unabashed mirth. I suppose this was a period of time which my mother recalls more fondly than I actually remember. I was a, what child psychologists call a late talker. I suppose, for a mother to see her only son (at that point of time) jump with joy and try to mimic the cherubic faced rose tinged cheeked man on the television must have been confirmation that she did conceive a child who was normal(?).
That is my first memory of Indian cinema. Evenings of dancing to the same song is still fresh and as vivid as a wet paint stained shirt sleeve. And what a sweet memory that is.
 I am not sure which of the two reasons are primary for my brother and me not having experienced the magic of movies on the big screen. Was it the fact that we were raised in the closed environment of Army Cantonments? Or was it a deep seated insecurity albeit somewhat true fears of my parents that we would be influenced by movies being played on the big screen? Things were different before my brother was born. I still remember running around the aisles like a crazed lunatic, unaware that my parents were watching and enjoying a Bond movie. (My first memory of watching something on the big screen, but the Bond legacy and me are a different story altogether). It was during this time that dad was promoted to the rank of Major and if my memory serves me right, he was like the 2IC (Second in Command) of his unit. This meant that he had to host parties at our residence, and since he was a married man with kids, this meant that other officers with families were okay to bring their families over. And this meant hiring the VCR from the officer’s mess along with the VHS tape of Mr. India. By no means will I be exaggerating the fact that I must have seen that movie at least a minimum of 50 times.
Mugambo was both fearsome with his acid ponds and comical with his catch phrase in a very Superman defeats Klu Klux Klan way. Mugambo certainly dominated my world of evil overlords along with Skeletor and the Kauravas from Mahabharat. And that is saying something considering the fact that Street Hawk vanquished all the baddies, Superboy/Superman didn’t have any worthy adversaries worth remembering.
I was never encouraged to watch movies, especially English movies. I reckon the discrimination was based on the lax censor laws in late 80s and early 90s. Coupled with the fact that Doordarshan chose to play movies on  Saturday nights, way past my bedtime, OR on Sunday evenings when I was busy playing cricket or reading Phantom Comics in my tree house.
But it was a completely different story when summer holidays were declared. At both my grandparents’ houses, I enjoyed the luxury of playing with the VCR/VCP (I forget who had what, or if both of them had the same thing). My summer vacations were spent in a manner which private jet owners will be quite aware of. Time share. While in my dad’s parents house had a single VHS tape of Tom and Jerry. But this VHS tape was special, real special. Proper special. Before Tom and Jerry began their cat and mouse games, the tape played this video.

I am still unsure how this music video found a place on an innocent VHS tape meant for kids and why it was never erased post realization. But… This was my first introduction to hot men and svelte women dancing and gyrating against each other in a Indian movie.
The vacation time spent with my mother’s family resulted in me watching classics like, Apoorva Sahodarargal (I still can’t pronounce the name properly after all these years) and Athisaya Piravi. And these two movies were again played on repeat, ad nauseam. I suppose this is also the time when I decided that my loyalties with Rajnikanth rather than Kamal Hassan. I was about 10 years old I suppose when I made the monumental decision. All on the basis of a sticker fight between my cousins who traded them like currency. And for the sticker of Rajnikanth, I had to bargain my ration of strawberry shaped and strawberry tasting chewing gum. (I suppose that is the day I stopped liking things which were strawberry flavored. Strawberry flavor can never match the awesome fun Rajni was in Athisaya Piravi)
The only reason I was shown these two movies repeatedly is because despite my limited knowledge of speakable Tamil with a healthy dosage of Punjabi, Hindi and English thrown in for good measure, I was never able to communicate to my grandparents that I wanted to watch Agni Natchathiram. And the only reason I wanted to watch this movie was because of this delightfully song by the music maestro Ilaiyaraaja.  


My father was strict follower of the CBFC guidelines and my mother was more lenient* in that regard (didn’t give a shit). Which possibly explains why when the rest of class spoke gushingly about ‘Gumnaam’ or ‘Mahal’, I was the only one who sat grumpily with my best mate who was kind enough to not give away the spoilers (I finally managed to watch the movie last year or sometime early this year. After a long forgotten wait of 15 years).
Couple of years before this traumatic experience of being unable to partake in a peer activity, I was admitted in the hospital, for well over 4 months, after having been diagnosed with Henoch Schonlein Syndrome. One fine Sunday, after 2 months and 3 weeks, I was finally allowed to enter the TV room in MH (military hospital) and was given a cruel choice of either choosing Tipu Sultan (which ran for an hour) OR watch the evening movie. The movie which was scheduled to play that evening was ‘Johny Mera Naam’. I chose to watch Tipu Sultan. (I still haven’t watched Johny Mera Naam, maybe one of these days). My father didn’t help matters when he explained what a foolish choice I made, AFTER I made the choice and Tipu Sultan got over and he came to visit me at MH in the evening. (Probably explains why I still haven’t watched that movie yet). I suppose it was also the same year I saw Hum Aapke Hain Kaun, the first movie (in any language) which bears the fine distinction of physically moving me to tears. (God! How much did I fight back the tears from running down my cheeks. There was a girl from my class seated next to me. She also happened to be my class teacher’s daughter. And I most definitely did not want the label of a cry baby, especially when nobody had kicked me in me gonads. I have been kicked on plenty of occasions. In me balls. Wonder what I started doing which made people stop?)
The year was 1995. Dad had been transferred again. This time, contrary to the ‘J’ jinx he carried around with him during his service, to Delhi. It was also the year Dad had finally figured to steal cable from neighbors in spectacularly magical manner. It was also the monumental year when each one of the three Khans had three magnificently marvelous releases. Aamir Khan had Rangeela, Salman Khan had Veergati and Shahrukh Khan had Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge.
Side note: There is something to be told about each one of these three Khans. Aamir had wowed me with his work in Jo Jeeta Who Sikandar. The movie is also responsible for my obsession with racing handlebar cycles with gears. Salman Khan in Suryavanshi had unloaded a bucket load of rocket fuel in my young smoldering imagination of guns, knifes, and overall perceptions of brawny machismo, so much so that I was beginning to fashion a sword of broomsticks and cellotape. Shahrukh in Baazigar was/is in my limited knowledge and appreciation of Indian cinema, essayed the single greatest anti-hero role, till that point of time. I understand that this is a tall claim to state. But I nonetheless state the same, despite R. Pathiban’s role in Pudhiya Paadhai and the iconic cow dung flinging scene. And I suppose, my little brother will vouch for the same, especially given the number of times I made him enact Dalip Tahil’s role while I sneered before guffawing and pile driving my brother on the quilt on his bed. I give my brother for reference, because the garden chairs cannot vouch the number of times I spoke the dialogue Shahrukh utters before flipping Shilpa Shetty off the terrace. Baazigar and Thunderball are the two movies responsible for making me believe that reel is real. Mohra, Sunil Shetty with its gangster style shooting style with drug satchets flying in the air like flying fish and ‘Tu Cheez badi Hai Mast Mast’ were also reenacted with great deal of gusto. A lot of these movies I had the pleasure of watching as a result of the small film club we five kids had formed back Jorhat. Each one contributed Re. 2/-, renting a VHS tape back then cost a whooping Rs. 10/-. After watching Baazigar, I had wanted to watch everything Shahrukh had acted in. (My father, back in 1988 had predicted that this scrawny young man would achieve greatness. He still claims that Shahrukh’s stardom is because he had said so. It is a trait I seem to have inherited from him). So, I collected Re. 2/- from the remaining four kids and went to the video library opposite the catholic church outside Cantt., to rent Darr. But it was also the day, unknown to me, we were supposed to travel to visit my grandparents. And so, Darr remains another of those movies I have not come around to watching till today.
The year was 1995. Rangeela, Veergati and DDLJ had released. Thanks to my father’s engineering background and his ingenious solution of enjoying cable television without having to pay, what I perceived back then to be an exorbitant, cable subscription fee, enjoyed both Rangeela and Veergati. Unknown to my brother and me, my mother and father had ventured out for a date night and had enjoyed a night show of DDLJ. (Date nights were an alien concept for me, till for about a couple of years back). My brother and me, who had been left outside the bumper car cage while my mother had a go driving like a road rage victim at Appu Ghar, took the revelation of her viewing of DDLJ to be another betrayal. We were young, and anything fun by somebody we knew and we weren’t invited to be part of was seen to be a grave traitorous act. (I was young back then. I have grown up since then, I believe I am not thatchildish. But I strongly fear that my brother still holds the grudge against me ma).
So after sufficient black mail and in the absence of my father, we went for a night show. All of my class mates had already seen the movie, few of them had even managed to watch the movie more than twice. If memes existed back in 1995, scenes from DDLJ would have been ALL over it. So, before the CBFC slide came on screen, I pretty much knew all the punch dialogues to the now famous conversations which take place between the characters. But… I couldn’t help but invest my emotions in the characters of Raj and Simran. I couldn’t help but draw comparisons between my own father and Amrish Puri in the movie. When the movie ended and the credits rolled, in that span of 189 minutes (excluding interval time), I had changed. I had grown from being a boy to being a man, a man who knew what sort of morals he will exhibit in his personal relationships with the opposite sex and her family.
Side note: I have always been a bit of a wonky romantic. When I was admitted in MH for that extended period of time, I used to walk around the hallways with a shawl wrapped around myself and humming THIS song, picturing myself using Jedi mind powers to tell the girl I had a crush on that I loved her. I was in 4th grade.
A lot of movies and people related to movies have not found a mention in the narrative so far. Movies like Thalapathi, Juaari, Nayagan, Mahanadi, Sholay, Jewel Thief, Dhund, and many, many, so many more movies. People like Salim Javed, Abbas Mastan, David Dhawan, Yash Raj Chopra, Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar, Guru Dutt, Mehaboob, Helen, Sunil Dutt, Shashi Kapoor, Vinod Khanna, and many, many, so many more people. 

We are talking about 100 years of cinema. All the movies have been fantastical and diabolically brilliant. And each one of them has somehow managed to find a space in consciousness and sculpt my personality and so many like me.
Indian Cinema cannot be encapsulated within a personal narrative. It cannot be summarized as being just song and dance. It is not just about the OTT dramatics and escapism.
Indian Cinema is label pasted on a black box. A box, which houses complex machinery, responsible for churning out stories about a nation whose history almost coincides with the beginning of human civilization. It manufactures hopes, dreams and personalities. It molds the consciousness of an entire nation. It is one of the two unifying threads for a nation whose hallmark lies in its diversity. At times, it has been the voice of dissent. It has been the voice of reason. But without fail, it has been the collective voice of a diverse nation.
There are few things, people or places in this nation which can claim to be of the people, for the people and by the people. Indian Cinema is one of the few things the nation can claim it to be solely theirs. 

Amul - A Short Story

Its morning again, I can hear the darned birds chirping outside, with my eyes still closed I can hear the ticking sound of the wall clock like the irritating sound of the water faucet dripping. The water faucet never drips in my house, because I don't like it dripping, like the way mom's head was dripping blood, and flooded the floor and spoiled the carpet. I like everything neat and clean.

My name is Amul. I believe my father was especially fascinated by the utterly butterly delicious girl. Though I have a liking towards her myself I don't like to acknowledge that to anybody. Though not many people have actually found out about this connection. But am aware of this because my father during one of his happy drunken moods told me about this. And those are rare cases. I know for a fact that even if am genetically part of my father, I will never become like him.

I study in the 7 th grade. And I like my school. My favorite subject is math. I don't understand why people don't like math. I see star world in the evening and people are always saying lame ass jokes about them sucking at numbers. I love my math teacher,her name is Simi Miss I dont know her last name guess its Miss.We all call her Simi Miss. She is funny and she reminds of my mother. I like Simi Miss because she likes me, she thinks am smart. And I like it when she kisses me on my cheek, esp when I solve some of the questions she gives only to me. She always gives me questions to solve and only me. And all her questions she tells me are named after old men who thought of all these questions and then they died trying to solve it, which I find really funny. She gave me today some old man's problem called the Fermat's theorem.


My mother died when I was 9 years old. My dad hit her in the not so good drunken moods and she fell. And then she died. My dad did not tell me anything and I understood that am supposed to act like Gandhi's monkey. I always wanted to ask this question to Simi Miss . I wanted to ask her, why the monkey uses 2 hands to cover one part of their body. Doesn't make a good ratio. What it should look like is 2 monkeys one covering its eyes and mouth and the other covering its ears.

The model monkey would be me. And the monkey covering my ears would be my father. What I really love about this picture is that the father monkey is not drinking. I find old people to be so damn funny. And i find them even more funny especially when they cry. Everybody cried at the hospital that day. I could draw graphs for all the different frequencies they were crying in my head for each person.

My favorite sport is cricket. I think I can kick Sachin's ass. And I also think that he is highly over-rated. But my best friend Anita doesn't think so. She thinks I will get smashed out of the stadium, but that's why I like Anita, she can be so stupid at times. She told me about this funny video, her mum hides and keeps in her computer system where women are naked and are making funny noises. She and me tried making those sounds but she sounded better than me, maybe she practices them before she goes to sleep, she denied it but I still have my doubts. She is my class-mate and my bench-mate. And whenever she forgets to get me lunch we fight and divide our bench in to a Indo-Pak war zone. But she is funny and teaches me all the bad words her parents call each other. Her favorite swear word is bitch, she told me that this is what her mum calls her grandmother.

After i come back from school, I go and play till my father comes back home I rush back home and sit in front of the TV. After dad makes dinner its his turn to watch TV and he asks me to go to my room. On some days dad watches something on tv which I think is something like the funny video Anita's mum watches. I try to sneak a peek. But I can't really see anything, except for the blue light.

So I try and solve the problem Simi Miss gave me. Its pretty simple actually. I rewrite everything because Simi Miss can't understand my handwriting, and I draw lines and all. And then I go to sleep, hoping that those darned birds don't wake me up again.

note: This is just a fictional story. More like a prologue. I just wanted to write something today. So i did. =)

ps: I may continue the story... Maybe not. :P