Monday, July 5, 2010

Though the movie was disappointing enough, one thing that really struck me in Apocalypto is the fable that the tribe’s elder tells the villagers about the man who was unable to fill his want, despite having been given the capabilities of all of the animals. Something very apt for describing my present plight.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Langur on a leash


11.05 am

Laxmibai Nagar, New Delhi.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

'Un'-glorious Bastards...

I just don’t understand it. Could be a problem with me or with Tarantino. Since, I am a nobody and Tarantino, a critically acclaimed moviemaker, probably the problem is with me.

Or maybe it is just that I am unable to appreciate goriness. Be it books, movies or life. I just get bored when they get into this gory part intended to shock the viewer or reader or whoever. I feel kindoff resistant to that whole idea.

The trouble, I admit, is entirely mine. The moment they commence violent gory stuff, I detect the purpose. That dull feeling comes in mind that the guy just wants to accentuate his idea and is trying to nudge the end viewer to attention who he fears to have become inattentive or bored.

It happened with inglorious bastards too. I got thoroughly bored.

It was a cliché combination of randomness, goriness and a bit of History. Christopher Waltz was good. Nothing other than that. The first part with SS Men firing on the Jewish family hiding beneath the floor was quite predictable. All the sudden reposition to high angle with wood splinters flying, random clatter of machine gun etc. Felt just like one of his oft repeated action scenes which can be traced from Pulp Fiction to Kill Bill.

Rest followed suit.

Randomness from Pulp Fiction, Goriness from Hostel and Action from Kill Bill. Shake Well with some History. You have Inglorious Bastards.

Tarantino should have never tried his hand on WW-II. We have sufficient interesting movies on it. If at all he was desperate to try, he could have at least approached it in a different manner. Not the way he made kill bill or hostel.
Was it a war movie? Probably. Was it an action movie? Probably. Was it fantasy? Probably. And what do you get in the end? A gory action packed WW-II based fantasy fiction without anything notable in particular.

I really think someone should tell him that repetition after a point makes everything predictable. Even his unpredictability becomes predictable.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Its summer again. From an infant, it’ll grow to a grotesque monster by May. Spitting fire on this defenseless terrain. Making me wonder as always why people ever choose this place to build the capital city.

More Soliloquy

An impending blow. Lurking in some shadowy corner of time with a crooked smile over its invisibility to my eyes. Watching me proceed hesitantly with fear in my eyes and my staggering legs moving without focus. Knowing that the helpless prey is vaguely aware of a waiting predator.

Delhi is a perfect destination to be when one’s infected by gloom. It throws oil into the fire liberally. Added to it is its unusual gift to numb one’s emotions and freeze him in a state of detachment. One can lose his faith in humankind without any effort at all. There could be worse places. But Delhi is a class apart. Taking a walk through one of those slums or some of the trans Yamuna ghettos, one would wish that someone played “The End” of Doors from above.

Probably it’s my relative inexperience with these kind things. Or it’s my attitude towards it. As some of those spiritualists who teach people how to live suggests, one ought to maintain a positive attitude. See the cheerful side of everything. Hey look how funny it is, the skinny guy lying in a weird shape in a muddle by the road! Oops, somebody stepped on him!

I have often wondered over the sharp and glaring divide in the society here, despite thoroughly doubting my competence to technically analyse it. I remain merely a passive spectator to this phenomenon called Delhi. I neither am a sociologist nor aspires to be one. Like a typical mediocre lawyer, I try to find reasoning for everything and ends up confused.

The entrance to Nizamuddin East Colony is open only to private vehicles after about 8 pm. I had the idea that it is manned by Police. But seems like it is done by private security possibly hired by the association. So after about 8, they lower the barrier and raise it only for private vehicles. One day in Feb., I happened to pass by the entry point immersed in my private thoughts, pointlessly watching this lowering and raising exercise. And then an auto rickshaw attempted to pass through. From a hollow curiosity, I paused to watch the spectacle. The shabby clothed sentries probably hired on contract tried hand signing him to leave. When he proceeded without paying much heed to it, one of the sentries, went forward, pulled him out of the three wheeler and started slapping him on his face. Hard. Thrice. I could hear the slaps in spite of the earphones playing something. That did it. He hastily left. Just a minor incident.

I have no intention of portraying this as an instance of horrendous injustice because it was just a minor incident. At least, compared to some of the things that you can see as a routine matter in Delhi. In fact, I have witnessed this slapping thing numerous times in the past. It fails to evoke any emotion in me as it did the first time. What intrigues me is how I managed to escape from being slapped till this day in almost more than an year’s existence in Delhi. It’s not just an absurd thought. For I exist with these fellows. I depend on public transport. I walk through all the creepy places.

Maybe it is my pressed clothes. Or my talent to switch to that haughty expression in emergency conveying something to the effect that “look moron, I don’t belong to your society”. I have seen it working wonderfully with cops.

I too could get into a slap fight sometime in the future and make an entry in my logbook. But until then the present reasoning would hold good. Then I can start looking for a new one.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Winter rain

It was the 12th of February. Another winter on the verge of death. And it rained in Delhi. Large droplets descended to the filth, dust and the litter. Forming pools on uneven patches of roads and filling up the cavities left by metro workers. Dripping down the metal bodies of cars and soaking the seats of cycle rickshaws. Settling the dust to a greasy muck. Returning the dark green of the foliage.

Someone said it’s “the end of winter” rain. 

It was dark, damp and cold. Lightning stuck erratically and sound followed unsurprisingly with routine murky rumble. Mongrels remained in shades, cuddling to themselves. Traffic lights froze as the droplets spread into their within. Weary faces peered out from the long lines of vehicles. 

There was a worn-out unease in the air. Instilled probably by the early darkness. Perhaps by the apprehension of a looming deluge.

An ugly desolate rain.