The Drizzle

It seeps through the edges,
it drips along the banks.
it trickles for a cause,
repressed and gone.

it waits for its turn,
graved, bygone.
unheard, unfathomed,
stays there for long.

your rainbow tears,
your romance wears.
they say, all your believes,
are junkyard thongs.

it dribbles, it creeps.
the tumbler into the well,
sapless, as it is,
dead, forsaken, as you raise the tong.

the drizzle of life,
the nectar of animation.
is a part of the game,
be it right or wrong.

let it flow,
and wet your cheeks.
for then would you leviate, to self-cognizance, 
and every trill from the roof-top, would be a song.

The Protocol of Reason

All this crap, that you, prodded to depression, by me, are actually about to sift through, was destined to surface here, when, I, dolce far niente, exhausted of the mighty dormancy, finally decided to land my arse, submissively, on the single seated, Chetak, the thirsty mule, quench its lust for Rs.50/litre, and frisk the roads of Lucknow, aimlessly, and in the odessey, happened to drift around a lively turn, banging head on to the massive human-culture that seemed to irresistibly block the passage for some petty diordered jam, that reflected to centre around a couple of blockhead buffons with no traffic sense(no sense, for that, i concede).

the side-effects of the encounter:

and when you trace the trajectory of the turn, you know you have entered the arena of the sortie, for here comes face to face, for the first time(, every time) a mighty graciously lengthed track of the dash.

Do everything, anything, something to get par the still more genially packed live trash, that you add to, as and when the point of reference changes.

With your hands, which refrained, some time, not long ago, to budge, when someone called authoritatively for forelimbs to "I's", and slacked for want of enthusiasm, when someone, a bit more earlier, asked for volunteers for the pithy rank of class-monitor (foreseeing the fact that everyone would see you as some-being, baptized, "Mr.Bicthy-shit monitor", and then there would be a time, when you, for avalanche of mighty social recognition(read prickings) would cease looking for the cause of your nascent existence, and drift to the eclipse of self-oblivion.), in complete attorney of your destiny, you know, that what has been is history, with lessons to teach, and precautions to preach, and look optimistically to the one that would be archieved to apostels of your memory in moments to arrive.
Every sense in you(i guess, even the non-sense), is then assigned a layer in the infrastructure of thought-building and stimuli-generating algorithm that you need to adher to, cohesively, coherently, in full cognizance of the differential changes of entropy generated for continuum of collective swings and trails of the normalized air content and decibel level in the ambience.

A whoo$$$shhhh there, and a bon$$g-bon$g here, everything has a meaning, every sign is a regalia, which epitomizes/decodes some broken piece of information of the childishly drafted(childish for its haphazard outlay) gijzaw to which you are so often put to test, that the question of more relevance to you, has transmorgified from the "This one! Lemme see.." to "This one??! phoo$$$sshhh".

The aim at hand, the wish to realize the win, the pricking(which reasons out as an enticement) ambient-thrust, the mashing turbulence of the massive eddy thought-flow, and none the less, the want of an alternate redeeming exit, yell cries for an honest, avid, and spontaneous participation.
As and when you comprehend this utter need of the bypassing moment, you, for the first time, androitly relinquish some of the innate energy to flex the neck muscles, in order to abet the two synonymously placed spherical lenses above, to buoy up over the almost collinear head-lings, and look beyond to peruse the peculiarities of the labyrinth turned Armageddon. Shots of these visual singnals synchronously hit another bifurcated organ of the body, thus generating collateral pulses of high's for the jerking-tool of your organic frame, which is in full charge of the most microscopic motion of the alien machine under your bums.
Everything that follows has to abide by the impulsively conglomerated(do not read, generated) set of protocols in order to abstain from the almost inevitable sense of expurgation.

The Protocol of Reason:

(1)Time: Always time your run, right from the begining. Do not dare to loose a flick of undaunting heed, for something(the only thing, fit for the adjective to follow) absolute, with a talked of mnemonic, TIME, would not spare you for the most probable fidgety.
P.S.- Never race time, race yourself(read I, Dimension for comprehension)

(2)Foresee: Visualize, foresee results. Try, not to bump to outcomes, land onto them, and that too along the strip lenght.

(3)Act: Do not wait for your turn to come, for its not going to descend on you. Grab the opportunity, and dare to risk your score at every dash, for only then at the end of the innings would you relish every differential slam to its apogee.
P.S.- Every tang of a differential victory, brings you close to enlightment and nirvana.

(4)Synchronize: enuf said.

(5)Move on:
Its yet not reached, move on.
Two of them left, trod on.
None of yours continued, pace on.
on and on.
on and on and on.

(6)Modulate your thresholds: Be ready to compromise your thresholds (no off-line principles), when the blaze of the infermo is at stake. Do not let the fire die.

(7)Alter objectives: An effecient and indomitable feedback link, to the arbit
source of human-ness for unquestionable amendments in the definitions and
approach of the previously defined aims, would be appreciable.

(8)Comprehend your stand: Always be aware of the distance traversered, and the displacement achieved.

(9)Whack off the traces of track cues: Do not cram the fucking track. Dont be such a dumbass as to extract the sap of contentment from the cowardly morphed win over a similarly morphed challenge, framed hypocritically over the carcass of a mugged head-slot.
P.S.- Why the hell would any sane homosapien then, fathom a word as
relieved as "recollection"?

(10)Contemplate your win

(11)Be ready for next.

Romantics

As the spent sun,
overpasses the harmless river.

On the swamp of the green wetlands,

it would bobble and flub for a single uncautious step over the moss.
Fence it from tumbling,

as I, meanwhile, would lay the net.

Buttress it, do not let it down,

as I would dole out a helping hand, however strong it be.
Let not, the day fall..

zephyr

That day (that sprout of a day) was no exception. With the same dreariness in his eyelids flickering retardedly in coherence with the eventual, deciding attempts of the neuronic array (above), to simultaneously identify, recall and modulate the swiftly fading trashes of the passing night's dreams, and with the synonymously laden holds and nails (gums and teeth) he physically tossed his whims-loaded psyche to piece-up the burden. His was not a voluminous space, and there were inmates (a refrigerator, an almira, and a dressing table) sharing the limited reserves. His cot was lengthed alongside a grilled alcove and the aligned door, facing the balcony surreptitiously permitted the Sun to trespass the life inside. It was time, and the incandescence of the star smoothly embrazed the bifurcated tips of his inter wound hair. Within no time, the gentle sheen reached the scalp and raced through the contours of his forehead, when for the first time that day he savvied the over-concern of the celestial intervention and non-compliantly pulled his pillow over his head. His brashness was instinctive and subconscious (or Para conscious, I guess). This was utter blasphemy, and the aroused Sun was determined to filch him off his slumber. Intensifying the blaze, the Sun scurried through the length of his frame, and scorched every bit of his mortality.

All through these millennia of civilization, man has sought measures to control the flow of nature. At that point of time, the entire humanity was siding him, for he penalizingly shut the door down. The Torch, in dilemma, was forced to wait outside.
But then, the job was done, the revenge smitten.

He had nothing to nap for, all sub/para conscious memories lost, the contact broken, the communication with the unsung source withheld. He submitted, habitually lamenting for his loss and stood up to see the nothingness of another day lumbering through his feet. Compliantly he pushed the door to the toilet, loosen his pants, and hung his thing out carelessly, disapprovingly, and after a pre-calculated time, withdrew the pair back to his waist. The androit within him dragged his frame to fetch the toothbrush and its accomplice and casually made him polish his teeth with the automaton. He obediently took after.

To this submission, his alter ego, the corpus that he was, woke-up to cognizance, dominatingly snatched the rein of the spirit, and made him trot to the terrace to relish the freshness of the virgin dawn. There he was on the terrace of his dwelling, with a toothbrush to his teeth, and a soothing, alien puff, tickling him to life. ...a petty left-over of some mighty glacial blow, a miniature intrusion looking for a way through existence, an austere nomadic wind with no prints of its passage, made him realize his flow, his oomph, his saprkle, his vigor, his zest...made him rise to himself...made him live.

Gulzar is a belief, a thought, that imaginary flurry, breath, of “the bindu” which makes us think, which prompts us to explore, understand and nourish our nascent selves with the flow of personage.

Gulzar is no human, its the pen which has evolved with the phase of time, through progress and regress, rain and draught, sun and shade, mangoes and apples, and which treads against the papyrus to sqiggle the intricacies of "the flow" being held in the hands of a fellow mortal named, Sampoorna Singh and more prominently called by the monogram, GULZAR.

CHEENI KUM (The Carcass)

Elucidating in the flash-back mode, Cheeni Kum was a potential project, with a rare, rational, thoughtful (apropos the Bollywood standards) baptization, buttressed by a balanced initial start-up (both in terms of the story line, the flow of the script, and the characterization of the exponent (mainstay) parts), melidious (more of a step-up, slide-down, void-spawing) music, and raw, virgin, methodically synchronized lyrics,
rendered impotent (which 'ld mean packing up to mediocricy, for a movie of this stature) by the following:
* the spasmodic (discontinous)switching of importance screened for the "inside the kitchen" frames. There were fillers (all so very predictable, blatant, and incongrous) through-out the first half, and none promoted their cause (of reaching out or guising as instigators for the more relevant scriptoral moves to descend)...none.
* the unfathomable brashness and arrogance innate to the protagonist (a 64 yr old man, who owns a passable food joint with not more than 20 labors) , his incessant boasts about his tavern being the Best Indian Restraunt(BIR) in UK, and the supercilious, egotistic self he exudes every time he utters, "Haai-deraa-baadi Zaafraani Pulao" (read,"hey!, Vijay Deenanaath Chauhan").
* the desperate, coquet, bold, hagrin and sadist psyche that the female exponent
of the movie manifests. How c'ld so choosy a woman, with undefiled virginity for 34 years, fall pliantly to the woos of this ponytailed, heedless, and an otherwise vanilla-personatily (plays pranks with his "sex and the city" oriented, gym-freek mother, and talks life and stuff with his "senile head over juvenile shoulders" 9-yr old leukemic neighbour...) , patriarchal, "aham bramhasmi" he?
* the foreseeable climax of the movie.. once you have a leukemic, adorable (aphoristically) character, even the most simpleton, screw-head, and jammed ass in the world 'ld suggest its repose as the turning point of the story. Every nut can reckon that.
* the unhinged, unorganized, vexing(again) definition of the father-in-law (antagonist), his unscroupless denial, and spontaneous come-back to the argument of his daughter's marriage.
* the time elapsing (no more, no less....serving no other purpose) mental scuffle, and cold war b/w the contemporary (father n son)-in law.

With so many flaws and weak-links, the movie ended up to the miss-list already flooded
with unattended, waif, releases, all of which are destined to leave no more
than a wallpaper on the desktops of the jagruk junta.

Remnants...

Though the last fall was belittling and opprobrious (or may be more than that), the encounter had righteously concieved residues (leftovers).
They were:-
(1) The austere dogma of "surviving on the avilable".
(2) The fire to master the epics of jurisdiction/law enforcement, in order to track out sections under which one can sue a person for trafficing the personal bandwidth (simile to time-space) used for jerking off (or metaphorically, downloading carnal fantasies, and fleetingly uplinking the punches of adrenalin to "the bindu" in the pay-off.)
(3) A mysterious piquing curosity for the moot of the argument, "Cheeni Kum".

Cheeni Kum (The Prologue)

The first time I heard of the title, I said, "wait a minute...who did u said, the movie stars".
"Amitabh Bachchan, Tabu, Paresh Rawal..." was the cold, irked reply. "u r a real dumb-head, 16-bit processor..it takes u umpteen buzzes to realize n register three names..fuck you.."
"ok, Godhead, go n mug...u 've a test tommorrow, n lemme fix my innate mother-fuckin-board...i 'll fuckin format it today....cram the crap, u gud-fr-nothing psycho." i replied slyly, pretending that i was jst trying to pique him by expressionlessly repeating the same question thrice, though i actually was not. The time that elapsed b/w the first gusto echo, n the vilifying "fuck you" was genuinly the time I took to corelate the work at hand (the usual job, sitting n concocting plans to find an idle flapless private-"time n space" to jerk off) to the first few alien strings that rapped my drums,"Cheeni Kum, this is the new movie on the block", and that which saw me floating in the sea of infinite upsurges (that followed the beat), n unfold the relation b/w cheeni(=sugar) kum, plans, amitabh bachchan, tabu, cheeni(=chinese) cum, jerk-off, paresh rawal, n all the other permutationally possible sets.

Then finally, after the nimbus of mayhem cleared, i mouned sighes of distress..."oh fuck wid this head. do u 've a hammer? i need to settle issues nw n for all...i 'll fuckin thrash it..no more of me, n none of this ache...it seeps like ice-cold titanium cutting n flowing recursively from the sheath of the mycoderma to the gravity of the cerebrum...it fuckin kills.."
"Whats this time, Mr. Delicate?" he roured.
"oh! leave it. its the same fucking head-ache, my legacy fr life..but, you dont worry pal. I 'll get the pills myself. The chemist is at a stone's throw, n I think...ahhh...i can handle it. Its nothing..believe me.."
"u sure??" said he to my foreboding.
"certainly. Thanks for ur concerns dude, but I 'll manage....ooohh, aahh..ouuch...yeahhhhhh..fuck it..fuck it....(I 'm a horrible actor, n the most blatant plagiarist feasible...these cliched porn verses never bare off me.)"
"r u fine?..jst lay down n have some rest..i 'll get u the pills asap..."
"oh, no i 'll do it"
"shut up, n lay prostrate, my bitch..I 'm goin to the chemist to get my armour, n then I 'll crib ur blurting fissure...got it"
"oh, yes my master, u be my bait.."

leaves..
fuck you, motherfucker..."whats this time?" hann...
"sick my duck, pimp!!!"
5 minutes, thats all I 've got..
think, think....
wake up!..wake up. grab a brush, n put a lil' make-up (what the hell!!..fuck you all)
no brush, no fuckin make-up... only take-up n blow-off..
....
...
..
knock-knock. "open up, slut. I 've got the insurance.."
knock-knock-knock-----knock.....
blow-blow-blow....
"get ur hands off, you bloddy insatiable pervert.
i know of you..i 'll fuck u this time."
...
...
...
Fucked big-time.

Cum nahi Kum..

n u know what, there was another movie, this time a bollywood starrer, contemporary to, or for the exatitude of the nugget, twin to the filthy, erogenous Chinese version. Directed by ad-maker, M. Balakrishnan(Balki), it was supposedly, a lesson of morality to its namesake, or rather homophonic contender.

It was later clearified by the director, who himself called for a press conference, that the much hyped news of Paresh Rawal playing the lead role, "the cum pump", in the Chinese abstract was a undeniable hoax, with no relation (not even in 2nd or 3rd blood) wat-so-ever with reality, though the convict n victim (both, Mr. Rawal) denied out-rageously to face the camera.

The news that Paresh was later (wen stoned) caught conceding that he actually went to the shooting spot of the "other movie" for a urine test, n was forcibly made to leak mililitres of his virility, was out-pored after a sting operation, sponcered by Shakti Kapoor, out of an earlier issue langering b/w the two.
The tapes were ulteriorly found phoney, n only then did the fact found surface that the person forging Paresh in the tapes, was actually Aman Verma.

sumtimes its gud to read crap..
u jst did.

Cheeni (Chinese) Cum!

The most eagerly awaited (with a record breaking public awareness, prior the release) heebie-jeebie resurrecting, gooseflesh reverberating, bum clamping, n "thing" hardening XXX aphrodisiac of the decade was Chinese Cum (jst look at the saucy brashness of these kinky, plush producers...at least the name c'ld be modest, like "Chinese (Cheeni, the desi look) Beauty", or "Cheeni Babu", etc.).

Justifying the nomenclature, it (the Baal Film) was surfeited with mating shrieks, and coy, banging shrills of chummy, lecherous, salacious, voluptous, flawless SE Asian tarts, bumping on top of streched, hardened, and tensed muscular frames (which with the advancement to the peak, were to abruptly slack down to gosammer strands, n discharge to placidity).

ABED?!!

unveil the green,

for I 'll be your concubine.

n scorch my spirit,

in the stinging hours of sheen.

fathom my flesh,

n decipher the odds.

for none is nascent,

in this reign of swords.

"5 $s, bitch!,

'ld that be fine?"

I 'm winsome n raw,

generosity says nine.

"dont' you dare feign with me,

inertness, I can smell.

and that, you 've cast away,

is said fine and well."

Thou is veritable, e'nuf said,

substantially, there r reasons, i lay abed.

alien parts enter me, diffuse, that I regret,

but then, y die unfilled, when orifices can earn bread.

I, Dimension.

The fact that we (humans) are mortal, unhallowed, perishible structures viable to fall in some and any, unevitable time (Look at this.... they have unleashed upon the phenomenon of "time", and have then edited the vocabulary with undeniable, infallible terms like the one adjectivating the same) with or without a coup de grace (Its none but the dead which can pass the dictum) furnishing the end of our sublunar shifts, has been so ruthlessely interpreted, as to sag upon the concept of time and space, with the latter finally easing off as a mere tool, a contrivance for the former (remember!! Three dimensions r not sufficient to define the state of a process, there has to be a fourth.........."Time??").

There are two basic fundas, speculatively, which though were contrieved as tools to human comfort and efficiency, ironically have morphed to the guiding tail fins of the craft of personage.

They are TIME and NUMEROLOGY(N), n they work in conformity with each other, with the human mind readily receding to the sceptor of the duo.

Time for them (for us) is a latent marvel, being facaded by the palpable idea of Numerology (NUMBERS.., to be more intelligible).

With time as the comparitive frame of reference, everything since the genisis, the fountainhead of a human presence, is set to target the time juxtaposed dash....right from the very begining..

NATALITY, what for??

This heat against time is the root cause pertaining to the human proclivity of finding pleasure (positive or sadistic) in sudden transitions, surge of emotions, gradients, extremities of states, and eddy effluxes of thoughts (You cannot subside with the idea of a similar experience in coitus... also read "One Gulp, One Go" to contemplate on the author's views), becoz then surfaces, subconsciously, the quiescent idea of efficiency (gaining the maximum(N) in the minimum(N) time).

And if you give it some time, you 'ld crop up with the belief that these outporing, upsurging, undulating phases are apetizers (or rather feeds) to the process of human digitization which is fundamentally evading us of the essence and realization of existence.

So, we need a complete makeshift for the relative axial frame, n for that we need to discover (understand this.. .we actually need to discover) an alternate axial parameter.

What better can be as absolute, n as furnishing (both, personally and socially) as the SELF of a human person.

Think about it...

One Gulp, One Go

The most relieving phase, the most tranquilizing niche, and the most revitalizing hiatus of a hot summer day are the ones during which the first few drops (of the massive globule gradually gaining in size and volume) of ice-cold, oomph-renovating water, with a tinge of your cherished extract bottled up in the tumbler (perspiring, for the chill within and the temperature gradient outside) poetically held in ur macho, tried fists with its glacial beak resting tilted (in order to direct a continuous swarm) on your soft lips, spasmodically shivering in synchronism with the stepwise flow of the elixir, enters ur oesophagus and trolls n drips down ur food pipe killing and sabotaging temperature all the way as it runs (as the whole mass of it, leaving a nostalgic craving on ur taste buds runs and drifts magnanimously, with you subsiding before the gush and ready to be carried away with it) and then for a comparatively longer climax, bursts inside the lukewarm, humid void of the stomach and floods you to entrancing numbness and eternal serenity..
whwwooooooooooo...

You have quenched your thrist and reached ur pay-off, ur apogee (metaphorically), n you need no more..
And that's y they say-
"As temperature grows,
and summers descend.
Your hands go rusty,
for ur lips labor, append."

SUN+EGO+"BINDU" ......... I Search I

The Sun's overhead, and da concrete underneath, flashing as ever. The potholes are dead empty, and u pine for the puddle of muddy fluid, otherwise a paradigm of the unorganized, adrift human flock, to you.

These are the times wen u, helpless, forsaken, stand to see ur sublime, pacified and serene self evaporate and blend irretrievably with the milieu.

These are the times wen you less the necessary contrast wid everything around, fail to discreetly spot and identify ur real peculiar self from the ambience, u exist to feel, decipher, and exploit..

..and then something, a chemical, I guess, frenzied, fanatically runs through the length of ur frame, strikes head-on every accessible nerve and tissue, causing mutation of the normally random (I always wonder why we seek to find stabilty and syncronization in our all our efforts and try to reach out for da so called "marked proper allignment" in every thing that we come across, wen on the other hand the concepts of randomness and entropy have been so clearly associated with the idea of equilibrium!!) entities and making them move in conformity wid each other. On the psychological outlook, manifested in the personage of the human existence, dis phase of the phenomenon reveals itself in the form of paranoia, subdued confidence, vexation and at times elementary psychosis. Is this EGO?

Is this actually the scorch of the nearest star or the sogginess resulting from insatiable fancies, and a sulky and sullen within, which drips through the contours of the mycoderma, and makes you taper off the threshold of your air castling expections and utopian dreams...

Is the solar intervention in ur otherwise dormant, placid, harmless and shallow-vacuus reality the cause of ur adversity or an excuse that the "bindu" endoes u wid, wid the intention that you, out of the inflicted prick 'ld rise up to rationality and speculativeness for the transient nature of life and mortality of the universe...

Is this aggresiveness of the nature a boon or a bane or is the elucidation to these controversial queries conditional to the manner we accept or bypass the challenge?

Watever be the logic, but one thing is clear that ours is the most impudent and blatant species, which takes no time in chiding all reasons of human distress and ticklishness to the unknown void, the very same innocuous DOT, that we pray to in our time of devoir, and exploit non-conventionally ironically, for the ultimate end of deciphering its cause and purpose...

the shift..

One thing which is very clear is that at this phase of time, space, state, watever, the whole of human community is already wooed by the concept of time-management.
This thought, appreciated world-over has though been very effeciency-oriented, mighty
fruitful, n very alluring apropos the theme of human solace and androit agony.

But then isin't it rendering personal human effeciency waif,
leaving us all machine dependent,
with the focus of persoange shifting from an analog gradual carnal and hence aim oriented perishable society to a widget-gadget reliant, opulence oriented, purpose less, digitized, and still an ephemeral ruck.
So, the paramount wringer of the hour is:
Is this shift of focus from race against 
(you know a thing best when you fight it) nature, 
to a heat against time, leading us on the most prominent path to the incidental aim we seek to exist, and exist to seek?

our zero...

With the third (and the most rational) doctrine gaining value, the needle moves to yet another brain-tumbling question, as for what actually is that incidental aim that our presence seek and on the first hand do we have to ponder over this in order to reach the objective (if there is anything as attainable as is the dash for the desired end)??
But then there is one thing, very radicle that needs acknowledgement, the fact that we, homosapiens though a common species, do not train the same idea.
We are ditinct and diverse in all aspects [ though nature (the only absolute truth) reveals a paradigm of uniqueness in all its dependent organic identities by the evanescence inherent to its occupants ]. We are a set of divided singularities blatantly refusing to abide by the laws of truth, discreetly occupying every bit of the caboodle.
So, without any idea of the mark that we need to reach, we, with considerate mutual consent are certainly headed to something, some time, some space, some state that may or may not be the cardinal proposition.

here for...

occupying volume n mass, and hence rejuvenating n persistently adding on to
the moot nugget of defining matter, and hence presence (physical presence for instance)
.....as if we know that the very idea of our existence based on the exposition
of matter is farce, n fear that with the perennially dominating wind of change,
it will crumble for the lack of clutched paradigms.

or for populating the species with the intention to outnumber any other as if contesting for continuance.

or are we here for promoting and feeding the cause of our being,
incidently layed (the cause was more of a necessity than a 
futuristic, marked come-off...therefore incidently) at the time of the Big Bang..

THE PROLIFIC LOSER

Where there is clatter all around,
'The hulla-baloo of subsistence.'
Each for its own cause,
All for persistance.

The mayhem of life,
the call of sustainance.

A voice for ur prerogative,
A hand for your morsel.
Is a nugget so bootless,
A wish so arid.

But then there are playmates,
Your capital for life.
Who boggle back against the hassle,
For your knuckles total 'em.


Here is something which quantifies the lines above.
The composition to follow, is the work of someone who has been an abecedary to me, n forced the dexterity, latent within my frame, to surface.
Thanks buddy..
Less you I 'ld have been another portable structure occupying mass n volume of the limited spatial reserves.


Prolific Loser

prolific loser, is that me,
how to define who is me,
to be churlish and to be sublime,
want everything at a given time.

loser because that all i hold,
was stolen or got it sold.
selling them, the things that i found,
was to be mine, it was fortune bound.

prolific was the manner i loose
so many choices, always worst i choose.

i wander on the sand of time,
in my fist i hold a dime.
this dime is painted blue,
oh tell me is that you?

prolific loser! i have lost everything.
"prolific loser", the tag stings.

oh!but if this dime, that i saved,
from this gloating world, miseries and pains.
oh! if this dime is YOU,
i am a winner who had his due.

BHEJA FRY

The Movie


Abridging the scene-wise illustrations to the gist of the stimuli-responce datasheet for the movie, let me first elucidate my views (that were, n those which found surface with the course of the movie) on the leading actor of the film, Vinay Pathak, who played a mistrel, an ever-slurring nut, and an unstoppable, unyielding storm of idiocity who can irk u to baldness.
This guy, Pathak, is either a perfectionist n that too a skillful one, who appreciates n recognizes the struggler (that was) within him n greets n accepts all chalenges [ Can u play a cheracter as subtle as this? (as in Khosla ka Ghosla), or sumtimes, Can u live a role as worthless, as senseless, n as fruitless as this? (as in Bheja Fry) ], or on the other hand, dis Pathak thing can be a totally dumbstruck, and ignorant self, who believes that in order that the generations to come recall of him as a legend, his must make his senseless n weird humour, his emblazon.
With the former being true, this guy is so immersed in his talent that, petty issues like the aim of the role, the plot, the message of the movie, all "no-bar", n thats what make the genious out of the actor go barren.
For the latter conjcture to hold the sceptor the fate of the movie is girded even before the definition of the plot. But then what can anyone forecast with the Indian audiance and their arses firm on the seats.
Any damn thing can call for descriptions in historical Archives if Mrs. Sharma cooked well before the movie that day n both of them had an unwavering quicky last night.
This is how Indian Cinema grows with Sharmas n Singhs on the corner seats and Kumars n Syeds occupying the centre stage (The arrangements are conditional to the State concerned and the Chief Minister in power).

Well, the other 4 (Sarika, Ranvir Shorey, Rajat Kapoor, Milind Soman) were all gud in their own primitive styles.

Sarika though adding no quality to the flow of the movie, was fine in her performance (the role offered to her was such a loose that none, no matter hw talented could add a current) and up to the director's mark.
I wonder what this man, Sagar Ballary, wanted out of the movie, woth all skillful actors gives parts proportionally worthless, the script of the movie identifying no mark, no aim, and absolutely no plot or sequence worth flaunting the camera skills. Those 30-40 songs, which would have been an added bemish to the already corrupted commercial stuff, may have added some masala here. But the director Mr. Ballary leaving no dung-cake unturned (may be he needed some for cheap fuel in his chimney) replaced those erotic booty revealing shakers with the moans of hitherto personification of headache, Mr. Pathak.
Ranvir Shorey, this time given a chance proved his worth by being perfect in his impersonation, and his was the only comprehensible character to the tunes of which on e could diffuse a chrotle or two. But then how can we get par the weak and cliched dialogues written as if on parole.
Rajat Kapoor, another affluent artist was again a victim of the spiritless, lifeless role.
Though the idea of a sadist, opulent man , addicted to his debauched taste was ingenious n new, but the way of planting such a complex psyche with the aid of timid narratives n threads was inclined to render the thought ineffective, and it did.
Milind Soman, in his I-was-the-first-Indian-male-supermodel accent, was OK in his share of the storyline. Aristrocratic, as he certainly is, did raised some eye-brows, but hw long??

So, as it has materialize, Bheja Fry with an absolutely talented casting, lagged the finishing of an equally talented director, backed by an aim-oriented core and an intense dialogue dilevery.

This was more of a play, a curtain raiser for some theatre than a 70 mm silver screen pot-boiler...

Charging to Neutrality

The final few days of my college, n I (among waif pee-pill, with no or may be a negative sense of humour, minus sportsmanship, minus brains), numb n nascent as if following the code of conduct of the flotsam, potionless, n stagnant mood of the same was dying to find, some change, some color, some flourishing talent, some growing bud, something, anything rising. That was the time, I heard (n that wsa the only source of recreation to me) of this movie called "Bheja Fry".

Now, after fatal encounters with turd-frames like "Maalamal Weekly", "Apna Sapna Money Money", n disappointment of the yr "Honeymoon Travels Pvt. Ltd.", I could not, for the sake of my existence rely on another post-movie-"Where is the nearest Chemist Store?"-type movie, and that too with a camouflaged statutary warning in the name itself, "Bheja Fry".

{ I tell u these ICB buggers r the shrewdest of all. Instead of an M certificate, which 'ld have been a boulder to the promotional stance of the movie, these con-men after having settled their issues with the affluent producers, cunningly asked them to make necessary alterations with the name of the movie, so that in case of a casuality or a community-wide Holocaust kindled post movie, no one can sue them. }

But then, its better to learn, or may be come out with, though strong yet innovative nuggets, instigated by vitnessing a 2 to 3 hrs long gang-bang of creativity, than to render urself colorless to the Black n White ambience, unfortunately of which u r a part.
A simile could be: Its better acquiring a negative charge than submitting to neutrality. A negative charge under the effect of induction can turn positive, but recharging a neutral atom is tedious.

Other than this n the fact that Bheja Fry was the talk of the town in a couple of days (pee-pill concoct stories abt things which they do not understand), I started growing a liking for the movie knowing that with no big stars (You can refer to notes on stardom in one of the previous posts n enlight urself.) and only 5 characters, all played by off-beat theatre artists, this movie was no commercial crap [ with 30-40 songs, 37-39 smooch scenes (no. depending on astrological oreintations of the producer's stars n moons, adviced by Jyotish Batuknath of "Sooonyle Shit-tea" fame), 20-25 rape scenes, 10-500 emotional scenes (Emraan Hashmi-Shahrukh Khan), etc ].
So, moved by the idea of a fool-proof movie, n incited by the lack of options, I decided to give it a try.
n there I was, with my all-time abettor A, n her sister, a cyborg as far as I know her (perfect at work, nothing stimulates her), at the ticket-counter of PVR Sahara Ganj, Lko., 11 o' clock in the morning.
I purchased the tickets, eyed da fellow gendry on the sly, n tried to visualize my skiny self in their '20-different-brands-on-a-single-outfit' T-Shirts n trunks....Eeeeeks..I hated myself then for being so sleek, n vowed surreptitiously that the next few months 'ld be an excessive work-out span...

Into the Hall...

HONEYMOON TRAVELS PVT. LTD.

HTpl



The most vexing thing that happened to me this winter was HTpl. With so much appreciation n regards for Farhan A.(later dis yr did this occured to me that it was
sum Reema Kagti under Farhan's Production House.), to hav actually descended
upon a movie which starred sum of the best artists of the contemporary times other than the rest Crisp Fillers {or rather Stars, not to offend the emotions of may be a few of u, though I 've my balls on the other side of the court(hey, plz, it's jst a phrase. I m minus any secret illnesses). Stars and Stardom: The rate at which cretin pimps, (performances for whom are no more than hw well their bitches help dere customers dispose off their virility) are being approached by these ever-hot-wallet-buffoons turned producers, and rising to stardom(much hyped n peeped by the idle media), all this seems to be generating a die-hard accost to the planetary space in the heat to outnumber its occupants. Now, this, is a peculiar situation, becoz with more no. of stars on earth (in Bollywood n Tollywood itself), than outside, the Sun may get confounded n move out of the constellation, with or without replacements, in which case, pee-pill may hav to sell their refrigerators (including the dowried ones) at hair-falling rates.
The author will not, in any case be answerable for any other mishap, if condensed..}

Coming back to the topic, so with so much in mind, n an honest intention to
promote the movie with all gust n enthusiasm, I was there in PVR Spice, for the first
Nation-wide release of the movie, 1st day, 1st show, to be precise.
Gasping and breathing out all possible, feasible moments of excitement, joy, n loads
of admirations that were to follow, I sat dere besides my inamorato, mesmerized by
the aura, which I could actually touch n taste, of the next two n a half-three hrs to come.
woooooofff...there I was, perennially leaking goodies for the director, the performers, (jst look at this...) the hall, the gendry around (though the lights were already turned off, n I c'ld see none), the day that had been, n the rest that was going to be.
I didn't wanted to listen to anything (any damn imp. thing, "there is a test tommorow", "what abt the assignment?", "where will we have food after this?", nothing, no crap...) except for discussions in the affirmative abt the whole crew, the sets, the movie...
And then, the moment arrived. The tatterdemanil touts sublimed and the
authorization page of the Indian Censor Board revealed a "U" after the name of the motion picture, which too found me in relief, for I content to know that those jiffy moments (peculiar to a U/A) of uncomfortable silences would not surface. I
rearranged myself on my seat, n asked my accomplice to do the same, as if those
were instants before Derrk O' Brian would penalize us wid his rapid-fire.
I 'ld realize this later that this was the highest I could reach n dat from here everything else was on the down-tread.



The Movie-


Scene 1-
Diya Mirza, in her radiating, 80S51 microprogrammed pink(too pink for a pink) saari, is crying her gut out, n it seems dat the reason is none other than the grief of departing her maiden-house in order to settle with her baniya(sahukaar) types, "Yahaan Peshaab karna mana hai" husband, Ranvir Shorey.
Though not so hilarious, but this was OK, n not a bad start for a to be followed awesome "paisa-wasool picture" .

Scene 2-
Kay-Kay Menon faces the camera, n I start regaining my avid interest, but then, wat is he doing. Though equally mediocre to the one above, but where is the script that was supposed to bind my attention to the minutest of details. It must be there.
May be, I, spellbound by the palpable idea of the movie, am not paying the necessary heed.
Yes, thats the flaw, n its wid my fidget psyche.
Ok, sorry movie..
From now, I 'll pay you all the regards that you deserve...

Scene 3-
Enter Minissha Lamba n Abhay Deol, in a more siblings (if its so, that too adulterated) outlook, than a couple.
One sec, what is this??
Where is the performance I am dying to admire, and the concept which 'ld either make me shiver of nostalgia, or make me crack up hee-haw. Is it with the biker, whose identity has yet not been conceded (the fact which is forcing small proportions of adrenalin play arnd my viens, n making me itch to the call), or with the most talented versatile performing pair of Shabana Azmi and Boman Irani. May be their entry (entry as in overtaking other pithy stories) would incite the humour cells to tickle. May be, lets see...

Scene 4-
Shanbana Azmi (the fact that she is one of the big time performers of the Indian Film Industry, daughter of Kaifi Azmi, the wife of Javed Akhtar, n nw the mother of Farhan Akhtar, certainly has something to do with the dominating, creamy-at-will personality that has infact surmounted her ingenious, innovative, exploring self) and Boman Irani, both inherently talented actors, could, to my gravest disappoinment not add sugar or even a tea-bag to the boil of expectations n tenterhooks occupying my mind.
Where is this thing(Hats Off T!!) going?
What is this movie abt?
Is this what I am here for?
This!!
But, this is chaff, all crap..

To this blatant misuse of democratic freedom to access the 
media, without wasting anymore of my creative ideology n innovative imaginations on what
was being screened, I submitted.
And then, there was anarchy.
Ranvir Shorey out, showpiece mannequin Arjun Rampal in.
Closeted Homosexuals, gay men, lesbian women, orgies, UFOs, dianosours, Shaktiman (rolled out as the only super-hero, with a permanent sink to test his libido-Shaktiwoman)
                          What the fuck??
Is this a movie?
And should the government permit release of such movies in countries like India, Pakistan, etc (where nothins stable, n every position, every government, every status, everything stands on the tip of a belfry), without an M(moron) certificate issued to the same in public interest.
Well, I gave up, but to be honest, I could'nt bear it, n was on Disprin for the next one week.
It was then that I realized-
"All that glitters is not gold,
and all that stinks is not shit."

Yakkuuuu....

Lets talk movies, bollywood masala, tollywood masala-mirchi-tadka-lehsun-pyaaz(aaloo-gobhi, n other seasonal vegies n flesh, I-> ), hollywood sizzlers, romantics, classics, legendaries...

To start with lemme put to you an experience i endured, wen, moved by the starcast, promotional posting, n trailers of an eagerly awaited bollywood deciever(as it turned out to be), I avalanched with an emotional urge, went for the premier show of the same, with my accomplice A...

Rapid-Fire

Q. What reason do you have to believe the earth is flat?

A. Their could be epics written to answer this biggy....
Comprehending the "you" of da ques, as the 'unique ego' under different relative positions of da sun..(Going by the popular belief that the mood of a human can be perfectly mapped with the motion(dawn through dusk) of the Sun.)
The Dawn:-
The earth is flat b-coz u think(or rather u want to think) its flat, bcoz fr u thinking of da earth as a two dimensional plane is much comfortable n soothing, dan imaging urself as a ferromagnetic strip hanging upside-down, from an enormous spherical magnet, you being ready n viable to b dropped to gobble da endless secrets of da limitless space, once the source of consistent magnetization of the bait turns off..
The Sun's over head:-
The earth's flat, no doubt, but conditionally..n all it depends on is da way u define "earth".
We r individual identities, relishing our own share of da relations, thoughts, customs, practices, air, all of which regenerate itself frm da cause of its own existence..The only thing common to all organic entities is da space abv, wid its projection beneath our feet as da only thing specific to each n every form of matter which is otherwise a shareholder.. dis "thing" is da earth, "The Personal Earth"..n yes it certainly is flat, or else hw could we wid almost flat bases inherent to our structure 've ever stood widout clutchers under our shoulders...
The 'sun filching' Dusk:-
Newton, da most versatile explorer of all, discovered dat every physical atomic matter, wen inside da magnetic aura of da planet, experiences the gravitational pull n falls radially towards its centre, thus traversing an orthogonal trajectory down to da surface...
For dis da earth has to b a cocked plane, ready to recieve substances descending in da normal direction....n so its flat.

Deciphering Tool-box

Its high-time I should ask you to lay your eyes upon the jargon dat is key to my yukky crap...
(NOTE: With me, my lingo too 'ld add up, n all alterations will b instantly uploaded here.)
Here are sum of my favorites:

"things" or "The prolific T"-
This word, is an epic in its own..u can use it to fill all blanks dat 1 may encounter, n no1 ever asks fr an explanation, as in, "things" r goin gud; "things" goin b/w dem; THE ORKUT CLICHE'::5 "things" u cant live widout...
Its perfectly the most compatible of all words, n you 'll understand its worth in the course of the read.

pee-pill-
When u first condense upon a word, dere r "things" u think of...

•  Whether or not, the fabric(word) rhymes wid da cotton(da wrd u want to replace wid da fabric;people#pee-pill).
  
• Then comes da utility n moot logic behind da fabric..

Q. Hw r people, pee-pills..??
A. The idea is 2 defend n promote ur invention, n in da bash u may 've to extend ur flexible boundaries, n prove ur malleability by being rigid, fr a change(n dats wat flexibility is all abt), n generalizing "things" at times..
A. (Fr real)# people r pee-pills bcoz evry1 almost all da time has sumthing or da other to throw up on every1 else, every1 luvs 2 peep into evry1 else's life n opine n comment on it..
Every1 has, by da heart, things 2 share n gossip on, most of da times being repetitive on dere points, but then...
They dont show up on dere own, sumtimes evn wen asked fr, n its seldom dat dey yield...
So, people 've fluid (y fluid?, bcoz it flows freely, to n fro frm dere gut to dere head) leaking(to dere disappointment) through orifices unknown to dem, but dey always intend to curb da flow, n hide dere real self behind fabricated dams of hospitality n global fraternity...so dey r pills to dere pee...
pee-pill..

Knowing the Author

Hey all!!
Before casting anything that 'ld supersede, lemme make my elan' vital more transparent to you.

I m a dreamer, a passenger, a quantized state of mind with an affinity to hop levels.

I think of da planet(with its orientation n state) as a clue which, in order to let u fathom da mysteries n secrets of life, help u sense ur existence, n answer ur call, dares u to fix ur step-firm(fool a geostationary satellite, fr instance) by moving arnd in opposite circles(dint dis ever occurred to u, y ws da idea of two orthogonal directions ever introduced?) n thus explore n grow to da real u, by comprehending n realizing da essence(/potential) of humanness..

I m a traveller for i believe dat da more analog ur motion is, i.e., da more gradually u step towards progress or regress(intentional bashes to find both, is vital), n da lesser u seek, digitization of ur life, the more vivid 'll b ur view to da issues of personage(an analogy c'ld b: You cannot answer a ques precisely, unless u understand its reason n logic).

I m a bird who 'ld always try to fly backstroke, troll arnd places where the surface is always shadowed wid spasmodically changing shades of stretched wings, n then sit to observe da various formations visible in da sky n relish imagining da consistent "directing bindu" dat dey c'ld 've projected..