"How May I Help..."

A degenerative condition, the brain suffered and the thoughts faded. Words drooled off and the tongue had dried. The immortal was imprisoned in a never-ending loop of ironical pattern of words, words he liked, but not those in the prison. Impaled in a prison where he was greased up, ready for penetration. There was no hope or faith left, just the bicycle with its rusted spokes with a missing seat. “Up yours!” it beckoned, “right where the sun don’t shine”. Click! These were the sweet words which ended most of the conversations. Other synonymous and broadly consensual words followed. This was the most diplomatic it got with a thorough gentleman’s agreement in place.

It’s all over now. No sweet goodbyes.

There’s Something About…

Another day lies in ruins of the tumultuous decisions that needed a course and a direction worthy of an infant imagination. Maybe it is the motor skills or maybe it is the gratification of absolute stupidity which overpowers simple human thought.

It starts with an appalling ride constantly on the brink of a back breaking and laborious journey on a beastly yet trivial destination. The paradoxical ride to a glory withheld within the confines of absurdity. The next 540 minutes belong to comatose induced subjugation, a pitiful state of oblivion. And miraculously, there is an odd sign of life. Far away in the corner, there lies the reason of an electrifying resurrection, the kiss of life, a chance of resuscitation, but the time is grueling and we could only pray for the time to end.

And so it ends. …538…539…540…A final cardiovascular jolt and the zombie is no more. Instead there is a lost kid trying to find its way back through a crevice of disparaging pain. But it does complete it. It is the final touch to result in a carefully grafted deliberation. It then just lies there, like the calm before the storm, except that there would be no storm. And although it may be dark, that is the only sign of light.

At the end of it all, it is the orifice on the face which come together, and spread wide and far from the valley of tulips to the serene brook which blankets the vanity of the disdainful existence that is me.

Mackichan Hall Superstar

Hardly a month passes by in which there is not something new in Mackichan Hall. What was merely a bold idea of the Rev. Dugald Mackichan yesterday has launched into reality today. The achievement would not be possible without creative thinking. There is an image of Mackichan Hall that is firmly set in many Wilsonians. Having said that, Mackichan Hall is a home away from home. Academics are merely related to books but this hostel offers a kind of pragmatic perspective which is unmatched simply due to the congregation of students not only from different courses but also from various parts of the country. Secular, isn’t it?

Ubiquitous languages, sixty odd rooms, sixty odd students, one spectacular event. Mackichan Hall has put itself on show, is even showing off a bit. There are captivating examples to be found in its pavilion, on the stages and at various events: the imposing instead of the ironic, vision instead of tradition.

The Hostel is unlike any other as it grooms its residents from day one. Every resident absorbs and inculcates the soul of this archaic settlement. And this experience is enhanced by dynamic and seasoned ‘inmates’ who work together in the furtherance of the revered nomenclature.

Mackichan Hall is a management course offering unpaid internship. A close student-student interaction helping in developing case studies and research projects: about life! It is the invisible lubricant that propels the wheels of life. Social networking is one key advantage spiritually attained here. The ultimate enlightenment!

It’s a show, a window onto the world, an attractive landmark - Mackichan Hall has it all. Stroll around it and you will get the feeling that everything is interconnected. The world of Mackichan Hall, a network of thoughts, like the spreading roots of trees. The structure of this exhibition is designed to be transitory in nature and, by the end of the year, all that will remain will be the memories.

Yours truly is a student of economics, as a major, and what I have gained from this home away from home is: efficient allocation of resources, monetary management, a working example of the investment multiplier and human resource development – ignore the jargons!

I am a Mackichan Knight. What’s your excuse…?

5th February 2005

http://www.mackichanhall.com/

"We The Lab Rats..."

http://sabrang.com/news/2007/11sep07.htm

Mumbai has changed since the 1992-93 riots. I was 10 at the time and since that day I had always feeling that the city lives on the starting gun of a tense predicament of a volcanic violence about to erupt anytime. It was said of the September 11 attacks that the action was a resultant of an apathetic junk culture that prevailed in the country for almost a decade where the OJ Simpson trial and the Clinton sex story grabbed the headlines monotony. In case you have missed the previous statement, I'll reiterate, Apathy. Ten years of oblivion and then the American Dream was introduced to Freddy Kruger.

The Mohalla Committee is an acknowledgement of a convenient divergence and distraction from the mainstream ideology of the proper channelised look towards the riots. It sounds like a 15 minute session with a psychiatrist where the only concern is how the sessions are to be prolonged. Once the session stops, the only question would be - What would be the withdrawal effects?

Suketu Mehta, in his book 'Maximum City', has put the city on show the actions in front of eyes our are superficial and intentions are well concealed. Has anyone wondered why the hell Madanpura (an area of Mumbai Central) has stored anti-aircraft guns for and where and how in blazes do they come in from?

What was the motive? "You could keep the guns as long as you do not use them..."

I felt that this was an important question which will never be answered and blind estimations consider the imperativeness of the Mohalla Committee.

It has been 15 years on since the plague but I would always wonder - What about the rats that carried it?

Silence

Opinions are like heat-seeking missiles, revenue of mere reinforcement of the thoughts you would agree with. Look the other way and you would enlighten yourself with the blinding eclipse of a reflective contemplation.

Hush…

Peaceful, serene thought provoking and with the air of a distinguishable anomaly from a noisy abnormality, paints a picture of a canvas so vivid and vibrant like those of the empty spaces on a clear blue sky. The endearing wait is for the rain clouds, expected past the sunlight on this clear blue sky, to light the sky with a noisy clap and crack it open and let it run like a leaky faucet. Drip, drip is the subsequent sound of annoyance. God is the only plumber and he has thrown away his wrench. The water rises to the neck and chaotic scenes subdue parched minds.

A feeble yet annoying drip leads to a chaotic drowning.

So please feel free to Shut Up!

Good Morning Everyone!

Waking up early in the morning, when the sun beckons the start of a day which promises to be as miserable as the darkness of the night before, the first thing that pops in the head is who the blazing hell made getting up a egregious exercise.Of course, the typical day begins sanitizing the madness which is entrusted upon by a vision so poor that an eagle in the high sky may drop down and starve. This is followed by reasoning the very reason of why there should be a social conformity which involves the erroneous perception of might is right. If the law of the wild would be applicable, then maybe I would I have been dead and the idea of a Mowgli would not be so funny.

Basanti Was A Figment Of Somebody's Idealism

Seemingly aimed at a key demographic, the film negotiates a fine tuning between direction, a first-class amateur work and the clichés and banalities of Hindi movies. Amateur is not the best compliment but I can be politically correct with a simple word ‘first-class’. The film rolls out within the confines of specific events in the country’s history merging time on precision points. But this individualistic inspiration tapers down to quite a disappointingly hurried second half and an even much hastier end. It’s like a well written book which is just too thin. It could have done with something more…something more incoherent maybe!

There were a few aspects of the movie that bothered me but not to the extent that would make me lose my sleep.

- Like, the movie was a walking trumpet for NDTV, a news channel that covers stories like the frostbite cold Delhi and the complimentary benefits of a warm cup of tea. This is when the winter toll rises to 36 odd.

- Like, the firang was there in the movie to tone down the anti-British trend.

- Like, when the RAF during the protest and the Commandos in the end behave like no-mercy-Russian-cum-Chinese-ruthless-anti-terrorist-squads.

- Like, there were times when you wondered, the MIGs are not the only source of redundant deaths in the military?

I kept pondering...

As you may have noticed, all these questions are inconsequential. You HAVE to look at this movie as a different product. When the trend of the Bhagat Singh movie series make you speculate that whether he died for the country or was it for pure commercial appeal, a twist of lime in Rang De Basanti called Retro Patriotism stirs the senses. It is a movie in the end, something that has to be digested with a bucket of popcorn and cola. Watch the movie, go home, forget it, and go to work the next day. Movies don’t work in India.

An Angel

The loss of an artist and the performance. The theatre is in ashes, barren. The only thing that rises is the smoke that smothers the lungs.The picture is remorseless but thoughtful subdued by the thick air around it. It is quick and sharp.An angel fallen from the sky, wings clipped, unable to blossom. The blissful ignorant is damned to hell for eternity.It’s an art form, aesthetic. A picture indescribable with a thousand words, so hard to comprehend yet so pleasant to watch. The comprehension lies in its subtleties which overwhelms its defining moments.The answer to everything. The question need not be asked. It’s a crime not to appreciate, murder. To ignore it is to be blind. The skin might as well rot; the birds might as well stop singing, no fragrant flowers. Your senses are rendered impaired and numb.It is a climatic change. You feel it. It is when the sun shines or the heavens open through the light showers. It’s a mixed contrast in a complete package.

Me, Myself And "I"...

…Mumbai, I still prefer Bombay. Yes, it is I who prefers it as a Bombay. However, ‘I’ is just an alphabet: a vowel to be precise which like any other alphabet is lost in a torrent of twenty five other inscriptions. ‘I’ is a special epistle, a fact most of us are aware of, but ‘I’ like any other alphabet is not the most important glue that binds the written sensibilities of the written language.

‘I’ as a sovereign word speaks for itself; it speaks for you not to mention the ME and MYSELF. It doesn’t really help, other than giving others the inkling that YOU are an arrogant brat.

Politically speaking and socially rationalizing; Democracy nurses the infant individuality and that individual sucks at the sovereignties teat. When my idealism pushes me away and leads to me the temptations of a socialistic or communistic identity then that would be the result of a sovereign limitation. Hence, “I” am greater than the very knowledge of your peripheral existence.

300

It lives, a comic book lives. Frank Miller’s laudable essence capturing novel on paper with colours splashed on the screen by Zack Snyder directions, the 117 minutes is a carefully grafted piece of art.

The mythological story revolves around 300 warriors against an army of zillions but with a lot more exaggerations that you would be tempted to believe. With a dab of a paint brush, scenes are articulated with the right level of hues. A bit of amber and a bit of Navajo white, spread across an askew easel on a peach canvas. The colours may be a bit dull, but I find the rainbow unimaginative. You do not as much anticipate as to what would happen next inasmuch you would turn a page. Every scene is worth a thousand words, every speech is grand, every fight is bloody worthwhile, the love is true, the honour is compassionate, the evil is dark, even the six-pack abs keep you glued and wondering, the history is compelling, the myth may be a myth, the story may be surreal and you would end it with the glory itself.

The movie maybe marmite. You either like it or you don’t. I should not describe the movie as my thoughts are not as nouveau niche as to what I had witnessed. If you are planning to skip the theatre and wait for the DVD, I suggest you start smoking and wait for cancer instead. For all those who would appreciate the hard work involved in the movie, value it for all the right reasons. If you walk out stating that the decapitations were “cool” and “awesome”, or dawdle on the political message of the movie (It’s based on a comic book for God sake), I would be waiting out with Spartan spears ready to pierce your heart and soul.