A movie called "Stray Dogs".
about two young kids in afghanistan out on the street since their father was arrested by the americans for being a taliban and denounced their mother for marrying again after he disappeared. Both parents in jail, mother facing execution and father refusing to forgive her, these kids are out on the street trying to survive, and get into jail one way or the other since home is where the heart is. they pick up a stray dog whose welfare they are extremely concerned about and who refuses to eat try what they may. The story has a jaane bhi do yaaron feel to it, though the treatment is perhaps not so explicitly ironic or humourous, maybe because a shared joke between the adult director and audience would be at the expense of the innocent child protagonist. However, there are also ominous overtones that reflect the mood of a dystopian golding or burgess using children as the most effective weapon of choice. But it becomes scarier here because it isn't merely a, perhaps exaggerated, vision of the future, it is.
Mine of course, lamentably perhaps, is over. More through lack of time than complete satisfaction with the end product. But well, no more desperate brainstorming at mocha, though something about the idea of cocoa induced smoke smothered adrenaline rushes is rather enticing. However,
Donkeys kill more people annually than plane crashes - why take a chance? fly home instead.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
out of work... and order
Unfortunately, no longer going to work due to the terribly inexpedient necessity of returning to college ( though i was briefly tempted to drop out). But this years course, at least in bits and pieces, seems exciting. Ranges from Fo (accidental death...) to Shelley and yeats with everything from eliot to graham greene to chinua achebe thrown in ... also Frankenstein... looking forward to this counterview - seeing as a monster a man you can't help fall for through his poetry... reminds me of this book I read called Mrs. Shakespeare - very brief and playful, but fun enough. Saw a movie from Taiwan called What Time is it There? it was brilliant, vague, and well executed - the idea and the treatment were in perfect harmony for once... the whole blue wash or (almost ruthlessly bold) chiarascuro brought the sense of alienation and loneliness bordering on a mass neurosis out very well. Anyway, I personally have a soft spot for things in the absurdist manner, i like the lazy meandering and yet purposeful way they have of getting the horrible point across, and if the medium and narration mate perfectly it can be undeniably brilliant. Also saw Pather Panchali ( Actually saw four movies at a stretch yesterday and looking forward to repeating the experience today and tomorrow): I always wondered where something as brilliant as Malgudi days could have a precedent in terms of Cinema or T.V. because for once filming complements instead of detracts from the pristine glory of the original - well i just found my answer.
From the close pan of a toothless Squint eyed Thakorema shuffling slowly across a background of patched and tattered linen hung out to dry, to the little line formed by a tempted Durga and Apu (not to mention the dog) behind the sweetmaker as he rings and jiggles down the path, hawking his wares. I think the simplicity or clarity of Black and White (the old kind with its skewed contrast and slightly blurred outlines - the new kind is too stark and confrontational) allowed for a rare kind of pathos and emotion sharing that just isn't possible anymore - it was like a line drawing - a few simple strokes, the simpler the better - bold and yet not fully revealed, inviting the viewer by evincing a simple faith in his ability to form his own conclusions, unhurried in their attempt to make a point, lacking the note of desperation that inevitably mars most propoganda, even of the highest order. Anyways, dying to see the rest of the Apu trilogy. Maybe more on him later.
From the close pan of a toothless Squint eyed Thakorema shuffling slowly across a background of patched and tattered linen hung out to dry, to the little line formed by a tempted Durga and Apu (not to mention the dog) behind the sweetmaker as he rings and jiggles down the path, hawking his wares. I think the simplicity or clarity of Black and White (the old kind with its skewed contrast and slightly blurred outlines - the new kind is too stark and confrontational) allowed for a rare kind of pathos and emotion sharing that just isn't possible anymore - it was like a line drawing - a few simple strokes, the simpler the better - bold and yet not fully revealed, inviting the viewer by evincing a simple faith in his ability to form his own conclusions, unhurried in their attempt to make a point, lacking the note of desperation that inevitably mars most propoganda, even of the highest order. Anyways, dying to see the rest of the Apu trilogy. Maybe more on him later.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
The rangy Cowboy of the mordant postmodern world
Ok. For once my title will actually be directly linkable to the rest of the post. Though I do dislike bowing down to conventionality. Well, needs must and so on. This post is about a fascinating phenomenon that i have been in the lucky position to observe closely in the past few months on a daily basis.
i like to call it The Quivering Knife or new age nirvana in five easy-to-attain stages.
Yes the one and (unfortunately not) only, your friendly neighbourhood bus conductor. This species occurs in a variety of sizes, an assortment of shapes, ages and temperaments and can boast of the highest recorded levels of testosterone and general aggression in anything-that-lived-to-tell-the-tale. They can be divided into two seperate sub species; of the DTC and Private variety. The first are usually lackadaisical, not prone to movement, reluctant of speech, and adept at the art of expressing a bewildering array of emotions ranging from contempt to superciliousness with the mere twitch of an eyebrow (in less skilled members this can be accompanied by peering over the rims of their glasses to emphasize the point, but real masters disdain the use of any props beyond a clinking bag full of coins, which they will jingle at you if you prove an especially daft and unappreciative audience). Made somewhat in the Argus Filch mold (incidentally, reading the HBP right now and suffering from a serious case of sleep deprivation and general exhaustion - am in the office on sunday - which i think will right itself once college starts again and i stop working. ok so it has started already i just haven't been yet alright?!) when prodded they prove about as helpful as four shrivelled potatoes lining your window sill. (which, in case the simile is too complicated for you, is NOT AT ALL).
However, it is the other sub species that really hold our interest, with their unlimited ability to see empty spaces in the bus that could be filled by even more human bodies (yeah of course the crook of my elbow is space wasted unless the third tyre of somone else's belly can rest there. and what better place to put my nose than in that sweaty man's hairy underarm, may i really?), their profound capacity for continous meaningless yelling, and their propensity for doing their job so well that you never quite get to exactly where you need to go, because of course it was silly of you to want to go there to begin with. Overflowing with the milk of human kindness, they will stop at a bus stop for as long as it takes to make sure that they leave no one behind, not even the ones who will get there next year, regardless of the inconvenience caused themselves throught the thoughtless and inconsiderate heckling of the complaining passengers already on the bus. They are the new messiahs, the modern shepherds, the desi cowboy, the new age guru, fast replacing the politician as the least influential but most deadly species on the sub continent.
This nexus of extremely powerful men control your lives, making decisions for you that could make or break you forever. Like cattle they herd a blissfull unwary busfull of passengers around according to their own deep dark devious plans, modifying routes and rates with the mere flick of a hand to suit their purposes.
i like to call it The Quivering Knife or new age nirvana in five easy-to-attain stages.
Yes the one and (unfortunately not) only, your friendly neighbourhood bus conductor. This species occurs in a variety of sizes, an assortment of shapes, ages and temperaments and can boast of the highest recorded levels of testosterone and general aggression in anything-that-lived-to-tell-the-tale. They can be divided into two seperate sub species; of the DTC and Private variety. The first are usually lackadaisical, not prone to movement, reluctant of speech, and adept at the art of expressing a bewildering array of emotions ranging from contempt to superciliousness with the mere twitch of an eyebrow (in less skilled members this can be accompanied by peering over the rims of their glasses to emphasize the point, but real masters disdain the use of any props beyond a clinking bag full of coins, which they will jingle at you if you prove an especially daft and unappreciative audience). Made somewhat in the Argus Filch mold (incidentally, reading the HBP right now and suffering from a serious case of sleep deprivation and general exhaustion - am in the office on sunday - which i think will right itself once college starts again and i stop working. ok so it has started already i just haven't been yet alright?!) when prodded they prove about as helpful as four shrivelled potatoes lining your window sill. (which, in case the simile is too complicated for you, is NOT AT ALL).
However, it is the other sub species that really hold our interest, with their unlimited ability to see empty spaces in the bus that could be filled by even more human bodies (yeah of course the crook of my elbow is space wasted unless the third tyre of somone else's belly can rest there. and what better place to put my nose than in that sweaty man's hairy underarm, may i really?), their profound capacity for continous meaningless yelling, and their propensity for doing their job so well that you never quite get to exactly where you need to go, because of course it was silly of you to want to go there to begin with. Overflowing with the milk of human kindness, they will stop at a bus stop for as long as it takes to make sure that they leave no one behind, not even the ones who will get there next year, regardless of the inconvenience caused themselves throught the thoughtless and inconsiderate heckling of the complaining passengers already on the bus. They are the new messiahs, the modern shepherds, the desi cowboy, the new age guru, fast replacing the politician as the least influential but most deadly species on the sub continent.
This nexus of extremely powerful men control your lives, making decisions for you that could make or break you forever. Like cattle they herd a blissfull unwary busfull of passengers around according to their own deep dark devious plans, modifying routes and rates with the mere flick of a hand to suit their purposes.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
where are the metaphysics petalled with poppies
or the rain softly scattering...
the best story i've heard so far this year comes from the indefatigable reigning queen of goofs and slip ups - swati puri, most recently remembered for her sterling performance last year in "The Man on the Beach - His Heart or his Packet". The matinee idol now comes back in the summer blockbuster titled "Stuck on the Turnstile or Another Strange Man Who Spun Me Around". it goes something like this...
first, god's operation was a success and we are now getting regular, tho' still slightly wimpy, rain. (tho' i warn you it is a futile attempt, if you still wanna try and make sense of that sentence, see below dated june 29, titled 'and there will come soft rains'. or don't)
so.
pretty miss puri sitting on a tree, kay-aye-ess...
ok sorry, forgot.
It had rained all night, and delhi woke up to the usual more rainage less drainage morning after.
miss puri found herself stranded in the wilds of far south delhi, somewhere around AIIMS, and suffering from a drastic cash flow problem. Being a conscientious hindu, she immediately invoked the gods, and mammon appeared in the form of a huge neon arrow hanging in thin air, flashing in the direction of the nearest ATM (yes anything can happen as long as you have faith).
Now the arrow pointed in the direction of a harmless enough looking shiny red turnstile, so what with her predilection for the colour and other things, she headed straight for it. (Warning, the following description, tho' tedious, is not redundant, and is necessary to go through for the sake of the story so all cruise readers are forewarned, or in other words, SKIP IT AND COME BACK AGAIN LOSERS!!!)
The turnstile led down a step to a path which was hedged on both sides by embankments, fences and lawns, in that order. Predictably, this inadvertent pool was now a miniscule pond, and regular users had devised a rather ingenious way of getting across: they hung on to the turnstile and swung till they reached the embankment on one side of the path, where they lunged for the fence and sidled along it till they reached where they needed to be. (What can i say, every indian is a trapeze artist at heart, or has some kind of repressed circus aspirations)
Anyways, our li'l miss women's lib 'anything-they-can-do-i-can-too' wasn't to be left behind, "Why this, there's nothing to it, if i can grapple with KRC's foggy meanderings, what's this to stop me?" Undaunted, valiant, unaware of the will of gods, such was the fate our heroine was to suffer in her ignorance.
so.
she found herself atop the slightly rusty turnstile, and swung. All went fine so far and she was rather pleased with her success. Alas, at this point the fickle friend fortune deserted her, so to say, mid-stride, and our lone brave warrior realized something she'd so successfully managed to evade for years: her legs were too short. Try as she might, she could not manage to reach the little cemented island on either side, and so she did the only thing she had so far been succesful at - she swung. Now she did it with all her might but there is only so much even a punjabi can do on an empty stomach and a rusty turnstile. She swung forward creakily till she was stuck right out in the middle of the little puddle. There she was, literally hanging in midair, too far from any surface where she might gain purchase enough for another push, sort of pumping in thin air, as if riding a rather viciously bucking turnstile. After doing this to no effect for a couple of minutes, she decided to glance up. her eyes fell on her saviour, the tea stall man, who at the moment was too debilitated by laughing fits to come to her rescue. Having nothing better to do (it was a slow day on radio) he had been watching the shenanighans of our ravishing redoubtable rapunzel, and had probably given himself internal haemorrhaging from all the rolling and falling and side clutching.
well, he finally recovered enough to take pity, came and swung her around and politely, with an almost straight face, pointed to a proper gate, some five feet away, as a perhaps more manageable alternatives.
Watch this space for more exciting episodes from the Swatian Chronicles
the best story i've heard so far this year comes from the indefatigable reigning queen of goofs and slip ups - swati puri, most recently remembered for her sterling performance last year in "The Man on the Beach - His Heart or his Packet". The matinee idol now comes back in the summer blockbuster titled "Stuck on the Turnstile or Another Strange Man Who Spun Me Around". it goes something like this...
first, god's operation was a success and we are now getting regular, tho' still slightly wimpy, rain. (tho' i warn you it is a futile attempt, if you still wanna try and make sense of that sentence, see below dated june 29, titled 'and there will come soft rains'. or don't)
so.
pretty miss puri sitting on a tree, kay-aye-ess...
ok sorry, forgot.
It had rained all night, and delhi woke up to the usual more rainage less drainage morning after.
miss puri found herself stranded in the wilds of far south delhi, somewhere around AIIMS, and suffering from a drastic cash flow problem. Being a conscientious hindu, she immediately invoked the gods, and mammon appeared in the form of a huge neon arrow hanging in thin air, flashing in the direction of the nearest ATM (yes anything can happen as long as you have faith).
Now the arrow pointed in the direction of a harmless enough looking shiny red turnstile, so what with her predilection for the colour and other things, she headed straight for it. (Warning, the following description, tho' tedious, is not redundant, and is necessary to go through for the sake of the story so all cruise readers are forewarned, or in other words, SKIP IT AND COME BACK AGAIN LOSERS!!!)
The turnstile led down a step to a path which was hedged on both sides by embankments, fences and lawns, in that order. Predictably, this inadvertent pool was now a miniscule pond, and regular users had devised a rather ingenious way of getting across: they hung on to the turnstile and swung till they reached the embankment on one side of the path, where they lunged for the fence and sidled along it till they reached where they needed to be. (What can i say, every indian is a trapeze artist at heart, or has some kind of repressed circus aspirations)
Anyways, our li'l miss women's lib 'anything-they-can-do-i-can-too' wasn't to be left behind, "Why this, there's nothing to it, if i can grapple with KRC's foggy meanderings, what's this to stop me?" Undaunted, valiant, unaware of the will of gods, such was the fate our heroine was to suffer in her ignorance.
so.
she found herself atop the slightly rusty turnstile, and swung. All went fine so far and she was rather pleased with her success. Alas, at this point the fickle friend fortune deserted her, so to say, mid-stride, and our lone brave warrior realized something she'd so successfully managed to evade for years: her legs were too short. Try as she might, she could not manage to reach the little cemented island on either side, and so she did the only thing she had so far been succesful at - she swung. Now she did it with all her might but there is only so much even a punjabi can do on an empty stomach and a rusty turnstile. She swung forward creakily till she was stuck right out in the middle of the little puddle. There she was, literally hanging in midair, too far from any surface where she might gain purchase enough for another push, sort of pumping in thin air, as if riding a rather viciously bucking turnstile. After doing this to no effect for a couple of minutes, she decided to glance up. her eyes fell on her saviour, the tea stall man, who at the moment was too debilitated by laughing fits to come to her rescue. Having nothing better to do (it was a slow day on radio) he had been watching the shenanighans of our ravishing redoubtable rapunzel, and had probably given himself internal haemorrhaging from all the rolling and falling and side clutching.
well, he finally recovered enough to take pity, came and swung her around and politely, with an almost straight face, pointed to a proper gate, some five feet away, as a perhaps more manageable alternatives.
Watch this space for more exciting episodes from the Swatian Chronicles
Saturday, July 02, 2005
The doubleOs: license to kill
Buy peace today! It’s fast, it’s cheap, and it never breaks!
Microsoft agreed to block the words “democracy” and “freedom” on its new internet portal in China – in accordance with its principle of respecting local laws.
Five inmates were killed in riots in a jail in Brazil – their severed heads were displayed on stakes on the jail’s roof.
In India, a woman’s arm was cut off for protesting child marriage. They say she’s lucky she raised it when she did.
“Then we tell them that meth causes your brain to shrink – which it really does – they don’t believe that either.”
Smokers worldwide are now the youngest they have ever been. Nine year olds beg and steal to support habits. The grown ups are too busy supporting their own.
In Nairobi, a bitch foraging for food found an abandoned baby which it carried across a highway to its own litter.
Out in the west, a cowboy woke up, saw the hollering Indians, and shot himself in the leg.
They fetched him and locked him up but Smith and Wesson got him out and gave him a medal for boosting their production. He now comes with a statutory warning stamped: Hazardous to health. His sales have shot up overnight.
The Indian wedding party broke up when the ambulance ran over the bride.
In Thailand, minutes before the tsunami struck, elephants on the beaches panicked and fled to higher ground, saving the lives of the tourists riding them.
Refugee camps overflowed in Atlantis, as a million suntanned legs, straw hats and sarongs disappeared.
A billion freed bikinis seized the chance and fled back to the homeland: a very colourful, polka dotted, striped atoll emerged as a new economic superpower.
A new word entered our disaster dictionary
The tiger disappeared in Sariska, and Japan announced plans to expand its whaling industry.
Elsewhere:
Michael Jackson was let off and gave thanks for never having been a rapper. (And that’s not a typo)
But at least, they say, the millennium bug was a hoax.
Microsoft agreed to block the words “democracy” and “freedom” on its new internet portal in China – in accordance with its principle of respecting local laws.
Five inmates were killed in riots in a jail in Brazil – their severed heads were displayed on stakes on the jail’s roof.
In India, a woman’s arm was cut off for protesting child marriage. They say she’s lucky she raised it when she did.
“Then we tell them that meth causes your brain to shrink – which it really does – they don’t believe that either.”
Smokers worldwide are now the youngest they have ever been. Nine year olds beg and steal to support habits. The grown ups are too busy supporting their own.
In Nairobi, a bitch foraging for food found an abandoned baby which it carried across a highway to its own litter.
Out in the west, a cowboy woke up, saw the hollering Indians, and shot himself in the leg.
They fetched him and locked him up but Smith and Wesson got him out and gave him a medal for boosting their production. He now comes with a statutory warning stamped: Hazardous to health. His sales have shot up overnight.
The Indian wedding party broke up when the ambulance ran over the bride.
In Thailand, minutes before the tsunami struck, elephants on the beaches panicked and fled to higher ground, saving the lives of the tourists riding them.
Refugee camps overflowed in Atlantis, as a million suntanned legs, straw hats and sarongs disappeared.
A billion freed bikinis seized the chance and fled back to the homeland: a very colourful, polka dotted, striped atoll emerged as a new economic superpower.
A new word entered our disaster dictionary
The tiger disappeared in Sariska, and Japan announced plans to expand its whaling industry.
Elsewhere:
Michael Jackson was let off and gave thanks for never having been a rapper. (And that’s not a typo)
But at least, they say, the millennium bug was a hoax.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Clockwatchers inc.
or how i briefly strayed from the fold....
After a month of working really hard we have managed to get our proposal together and send it off. The last week was a bit off, where fatigue or general ennui ness finally caught up with me, but the rush of the last few final changes, sending it off, the deadline aspect of it, all seemed to revive in me an enthusiasm almost at ease with my old innocent self. And it did lead to great things... being left with no work once we had sent the programme proposal off, we went and asked for some. result: am now making a movie with some other students for this fest competition, and coming off a twoday brainstorming high i have to say so far all is rosy on my horizon. Interesting, so far, and fun more than anything else. i'm sure in another day this will have turned into a general gripe about the limited ( to put it politely) thinking capabilities of my co workers but right now all is hunky dory all in glory such a story ... ...
After a month of working really hard we have managed to get our proposal together and send it off. The last week was a bit off, where fatigue or general ennui ness finally caught up with me, but the rush of the last few final changes, sending it off, the deadline aspect of it, all seemed to revive in me an enthusiasm almost at ease with my old innocent self. And it did lead to great things... being left with no work once we had sent the programme proposal off, we went and asked for some. result: am now making a movie with some other students for this fest competition, and coming off a twoday brainstorming high i have to say so far all is rosy on my horizon. Interesting, so far, and fun more than anything else. i'm sure in another day this will have turned into a general gripe about the limited ( to put it politely) thinking capabilities of my co workers but right now all is hunky dory all in glory such a story ... ...
confessions of a professional idiot
"I have a dream," said Coleridge, with a grand light shining in his eye,
"... and i have managed to lose it" he sheepishly went on.
One of the tragedies of my life at the moment, only one mind you, is the absence of a laptop with connectivity. For example, this morning alone the world might have lost the profoundest words of wisdom to spring from this fertil(ised) mind just because they happened to spring forth when i was performing my daily ablutions (to put it discreetly) or, for the more literal minded among my many non-readers, was otherwise engaged on the pot.
All that remains of what i clearly remember as brilliant stuff now forever lost in the deepest darkest recesses of godaloneknows where, is ( unlike the little fragment that eventually became Qubla Khan) merely the title. And like they say, even 'he saw that it was good'. But that was before sunday happened to him. And he's been enjoying the brilliance of that last invention of his, the day of rest, ever since. (Incidentally, i have it on good authority that his penultimate invention was the hammock, which of course is linkable through direct causality to the Last Brilliant Idea.) I mean, c'mon, The Day Of Rest!!! no wonder he's still the cat's miaow, you could rest on your laurels for eternity for something like that, not to mention the neverending party you could throw just on the royalties. Everybody but everybody wanted a piece of the action when it first came out, and people will still kill for a good share of sunday.
Quote for the day:
"The number of taxonomists and ecologists is dwindling the world over at an alarming rate."
I kid you not, this aint no disguised attempt at humour or irony. It aint even from the pages of MAD.
( MAD - the one sane voice still around, apart from the Simpsons. Though it seems almost incestous, one wonders what you'd get if you crossed the two.)
"... and i have managed to lose it" he sheepishly went on.
One of the tragedies of my life at the moment, only one mind you, is the absence of a laptop with connectivity. For example, this morning alone the world might have lost the profoundest words of wisdom to spring from this fertil(ised) mind just because they happened to spring forth when i was performing my daily ablutions (to put it discreetly) or, for the more literal minded among my many non-readers, was otherwise engaged on the pot.
All that remains of what i clearly remember as brilliant stuff now forever lost in the deepest darkest recesses of godaloneknows where, is ( unlike the little fragment that eventually became Qubla Khan) merely the title. And like they say, even 'he saw that it was good'. But that was before sunday happened to him. And he's been enjoying the brilliance of that last invention of his, the day of rest, ever since. (Incidentally, i have it on good authority that his penultimate invention was the hammock, which of course is linkable through direct causality to the Last Brilliant Idea.) I mean, c'mon, The Day Of Rest!!! no wonder he's still the cat's miaow, you could rest on your laurels for eternity for something like that, not to mention the neverending party you could throw just on the royalties. Everybody but everybody wanted a piece of the action when it first came out, and people will still kill for a good share of sunday.
Quote for the day:
"The number of taxonomists and ecologists is dwindling the world over at an alarming rate."
I kid you not, this aint no disguised attempt at humour or irony. It aint even from the pages of MAD.
( MAD - the one sane voice still around, apart from the Simpsons. Though it seems almost incestous, one wonders what you'd get if you crossed the two.)
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