Eats, Reads, and Tender Leaves

Tender Leaves is a new book rental service in Pune. This being the post-Netflix Age, the service not only delivers books to your homes and offices for free, but also does away with annoying late-fee penalties and lets you read a book at your own pace, rather than insisting you return it within a fixed time-period. Of course, if you (like me) polish off books at an alarming get-a-life rate, they will replenish stocks when you ask them to, based on your wishlist.

To those familiar with the business, though these kind of services in India are relatively new, they are no longer unique. There are a couple of other book rental services that also have sprung up in Pune, so then what's special about Tender Leaves? Before I try answering that, I should state an important disclaimer.

Both founders of the service (Sudarshan and Harish) are former colleagues, quizzing cohorts, and good friends of mine; so I'm quite likely to be biased about Tender Leaves. But the association also helps me understand why they are well-placed to offer this service. For instance, both are very passionate about the world of books. Sud knows a lot more about books than most in my circle (no mean feat, given the many quizzers and readers in that social radius). His tastes are wide-ranging (and sometimes off the charts): he is as comfortable talking serious Nabokov as he is discussing riveting Hadley Chase. He writes about and reviews books, and has even translated into English from the original Hindi, a couple of books by popular genre writer Surendra Mohan Pathak. Harish has relatively more plebian tastes, but 'even he' has his authoritative niches: politics and sports , in particular.

Most importantly, both of them love being around books.

Back to the main thread. So why Tender Leaves?

Good Selections
I already have a membership at a reputed city library, and also have access to my company's library. I occasionally buy books, but physical space and costs are always at odds with the temptation of owning a book, so I only spend on the ones I 'must absolutely have'. Tender Leaves' catalogue seems well-stocked, especially in the areas of my interest (which are General Fiction, Comics, Non-Fiction, Humour, Biographies, Innovation etc.). I also occasionally venture into Sports and Indian Politics. TL's collection allows me to extend my reading range. Some of the TL books that I've issued (it's been about 3 months since I joined):

"A Case of Exploding Mangoes", several Asterix books, a graphic novel based on Terry Pratchett's first two books, a book on Indian cricket in the 60s and 70s by Raju Bharatan, "Scoop!" by Kuldip Nayyar, Amit Varma's "My Friend Sancho", a collection of Jerry Seinfelds's material, and "SWITCH" (a book on making change happen).

Among my three current books is Ruskin Bond's "When Darkness Falls" (I took Sud's advice!)

Great Recommendations
Which brings me to the next and perhaps most significant point. Even if you have access to a great library, how do you choose what to read? There are some who are incredibly well-informed about books, and know all about the classics right down to the latest bestsellers. But most of us are not like them. At best, we have our areas of interest, and we stick to them. But how do you venture beyond them?

TL has something known as Must-Read Lists - recommendations on various themes by people who can claim a certain authority or years of interest in that area. Want to read something about cinema? Writer and reviewer Jai Arjun Singh has a list. Planning a journey from your armchair? Shamanth's got a fabulous list of books to take you around the world. There's Business, Humour, and even Swedish Crime! I expect that, as the service grows, TL will invite more readers to contribute these kinds of lists (I hope I will have one soon ;-) )

Or you can ignore these know-it-alls and make your own pick ;-)

(Incidentally, TL has been setting up drop-boxes around the city; thanks to these, I came to know of two new eating places that they recommend. Which explains the first part of this post's heading.)

"More than just a library"
That's what TL wants to be, and they've got it in bold letters as their tag-line. They have already begun proving this. Last year, they began working with a Pune school in the Teach for India campaign. They have promised book readings and quizzes. I look forward to these and a lot more.

I didn't talk much about the actual delivery service, the pricing plans, and the other commercial aspects. The service is just as you'd expect (and would demand), the prices are for you to consider (you could even write to TL and see if there are any special offers available), and the website is still evolving. But a new venture is like a little plant and needs a lot of "tender loving care". The service comes from two passionate creators, and you can see that in what they've done so far.

By the time I come around to considering a renewal of my subscription, I will be looking at my choices purely from the value it gives me, and for the price it does so. But for now, I have no qualms in whole-heartedly recommending Tender Leaves. Voracious reader or occasional book-flirt, give it a shot, I say!

On the WWW, Tender Leaves is here. Here on Facebook, and here on Twitter.

ghaas-phuus ke raste

The next time you walk down Fergusson College Road, do look up at the trees that (still) dot much of the road. (Be sure to keep half-an-eye out for the monstrous traffic bearing down upon you too.) A month or so ago, two botany students (Apoorva Gaikwad and Sunita Chougule) from Modern College painstakingly attached labels to each tree (mentioning its common and botanical name). Like in this picture: This is a great idea. If we measured naturalist illiteracy, I'd be at the top of the list, so hopefully, soon I'll be able to tell my 'sonemohars' from my 'gulmohars' just by walking down FC Road (when I'm not dodging the one-way traffic).

(This TOI article has more.)

Twilight झोन

It is after-afterhours, and the ever-deepening sponge of despair that is Dev.D is out looking for more spirit to swab his lesions. He runs into a Beelzebub-like Chunni, who beckons him into a limbo hidden to the world by steel shutters. While he sits at the table, lights go off except for a spotlight. Under which a man, dressed in a three-piece suit, stands in front of a wall with LOADING PLEASE WAIT splashed on it. He peels his coat off, then pauses, almost as if he was waiting for permission, but no, he's just waiting for the music to catch up.

When it does, this dancer begins to move, as if imbued with the ghosts of Marceau and Jackson. He is rooted, but his limbs move geometrically, tracing staccato phrases in the air. Inter-cut camera circling Dev and demon. Another man joins the spotlight, they cross, and like synchronised swimmers before the sync-point, take up their places. Then they go, cutting into each other's space with mesmerising finesse.

Danny Boyle's credit swirls and eddies round Dev at a lower frame rate, as the gravelly voice makes way for a sitar. Dev goes off to drown - literally - his blood and his tears, in a place no one would see. He re-surfaces. There are now three players, lithe and fluid.

As the beats turn urgent, Dev rises and has a Snorricam bursting out of his chest. As the world around him staggers to stay on its feet, he is the fulcrum of our vision. In two ticks, he has stumbled into yet another unfamiliar world. This one's pink.

Pardesi from Dev.D - a superbly psychedelic experience.

Glimpses of a genius: Buster Keaton

It's a pity that many of us ("even I") haven't seen much of 'Buster' Keaton's work. He does appear in quizzes, usually for the origin of his nickname, or as the name you'd guess in case the answer "Chaplin" was wrong.

Kamalahassan refers to Keaton quite often in some of his interviews. My first film viewing of Keaton was, ironically, in Chaplin's brilliant "Limelight", where the two giants of the erstwhile silent comedy era came together for a memorable duet (youtube link). The magic of this partnership is that both are playing out their own styles of comedy in tandem.

I have also watched some parts of The General, perhaps the most famous Keaton film, and was able to watch all of that stupendously choreographed locomotive sequence. In fact, Keaton's films are like great magic shows or symphonies: exceptionally well-timed and intricately designed.

In an article on PFC, Shripriya writes about another Keaton stunner called "Sherlock Jr." and points to two astoundingly crafted sequences. Look very carefully at both of them: even after you know how they were put together, you will still be rubbing your eyes at the ingenuity of it all.

Tube Tales

In 1999, the London Magazine Time Out invited its readers to provide ideas for stories based on real life experiences in an around the metro's famous Tube. Eventually, this turned into Tube Tales (official link) - 9 little tales on the underground rail.

Most of the stories are brilliant, both in narration and content. Those rocking coffins have inspired a variety of minor sagas, differing in flavour and treatment. That famous names appear on-screen and behind the camera only enhances the appeal.

To choose from, there's the squirmingly funny H0rny (potentially uncomfortable if you have XY chromosomes!), the musically eloquent Bone (directed by Ewan McGrrreggorr), or the very clever Mr. Cool (Kelly Macdonald as the object of his attention) that opens the compilation. There are comic and dramatic twists, unexpected losses, the supernatural, and the poignant (like Jude Law's A Bird in the Hand). Add to them the pulsating background score.

Highly recommended (warning: NSFW at times). My viewing was courtesy the local British Library, but some of the segments may be available at online video shares.

'Blood Brothers' - a little film by Vishal Bhardwaj

Blood Brothers is one of four films made for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation as part of the AIDS Jaago project on the subject of AIDS awareness. Directed by that unheralded master, Vishal Bhardwaj, this short film of less than 20 minutes is a marvelous piece of drama. Featuring a top cast of Siddharth, Pavan Malhotra, Ayesha Takia, and the peerless Pankaj Kapur (with whom Vishal seems to have a special 'setting' - such is the charm of his cameo), the film has some excellent story-writing.

Without ever tresspassing on 'preach'-ery, the film works both as a piece of socially relevant material as well as pure story-telling. If all this wasn't enough, perhaps you may be interested in the facts that the film was shot by Guillermo Navarro (Pan's Labyrinth among others) and is based (partly) on a story idea by screenwriter Matthew Robbins.

The film can be viewed online. While you are at it, have a look at the others in this pack of four (Mira Nair, Farhan Akhtar and Santosh Sivan completing the quadruple).

Roger Federer, my new Tendulkar

For a period beginning from the earlier part of this century to about a couple of years ago, my viewings of Sachin Tendulkar batting went like this. As soon as the great man walked in, a stomach-full of butterflies danced their unholy steps - so keen was I for him to do well and to prove each detractor (death to them!) wrong. Sometimes, it came off, but many times, it didn't. The only positive was that the butterflies would immediately vacate said space to leave a brief emptiness.

Until a Zen-like realisation dawned that allowed me to accept and appreciate whatever Tendulkar provided each minute in the middle. Subject sometimes to the moods of the jealous sporting gods. Irrespective of large or infinitesmal.

It worked, because now, it doesn't matter all that much. And he's enjoyed an 'nth' Australian summer.

For the greater part of the last tennis season, Roger Federer became my new Tendulkar. It was painful to watch, not because he was hitting balls into the net, but because a figurative string had snapped in that divine racket. The most recent illustration came on Sunday, when Tomas Berdych walked in and snatched two sets without leave or license. The butterflies ordered some more nectar and boogied away.

Hard to say exactly what impression the next three sets had. The man who played, nay sweetly horsewhipped, Juan Martin del Potro today had absolutely no effect on my stomach, apart from causing satisfaction that I doubt even a gourmet meal at The Ritz would come close to matching. The second set - the first of two bagels of the match - was sufficiently sublime for us to congratulate del Potro on managing to take three games in the first set.

In fact, let's digress to pay a tribute to del Potro, the recipient of a sympathetic near-apology from the man on the other side. Those very same sadistic sporting gods chose you because someone had to be on the other side of the net. No one deserves that. Despite your own lux-quotient (you are #6 in the world, remember), the light at the other end was a pleasantly blinding experience. You are more than someone who had to serve every other game, more than a straight man in the wrong kind of act, more than a hula hoop for a God. You deserve to star in your own YouTube videos, rather than a hapless cameo in someone else's.

Yes, I'm getting 'kinda' cocky. Blame it on Roger Federer, who even chose to head a ball across the net than merely accept yet another point won via happy slaughter. Who knows, I might even hex him in the semis. But the mood he was in today was a return to the days that made grown tennis players want to speed-dial their moms so that they could weep into their laps.

Naturally, it's appropriate that his semi-final opponent is Andy Roddick.

Dev.D and Rule

People who know me will tell you I have probably never used the phrase "kick-ass" to describe anything. But there's a first time for everything. The music of Dev.D deserves that appellation. It's as if some rugby fly-half drop-kicked you right into the yonder sky. It's an enjoyable ride, by the way.

Amit Trivedi (music), Amitabh Bhattacharya (lyrics, along with Shellee and others), and Anurag Kashyap (director) manage to do three things: they exhibit a superlative range of genres, provide a solid texture (a mix of urban melancholy, mofussil brass, and quiet yearning), and most importantly, they demonstrate great faith in their choices. There are 18 tracks, and while some of them do falter, just taking the effort to put in 18 more-than-decent tracks (haven't seen that kind of depth and scale since Rahman's Bose) gives them many brownie points.

The list of my personal picks begins with the dulcet banaarasii Dhol yaaraa Dhol sung with great desire by Shilpa Rao and backed by Kshitij. Some of the turns gave me the kind of goosepimples that I usually get with some Rahman interludes. Raa.NjhaNaa is a small downbeat version of this song.

The album has many such doppelgangers - pairs of tracks taking gloomy/bouyant U-turns, hard rock/street music incarnations, or turning from joy to lament. The two Dev-Chanda Themes are especially interesting - the first is a slow bluesy hum (and a fine one at that) while the second is a very moody whistle with a touch of menace.

The album continues its excursions off the rails. There are a couple of Punjabi songs and a Rajasthani song mixed to club arrangements. Then there are a couple of songs that just don't seem to belong here. They're from some Indi-rock-pop album. It gets very difficult to mentally put this lot together - your mind has to make several leaps to reconcile them. What's uncanny about the soundtrack is how it keeps riding the waves of romantic exhilaration and cavernous dejection. Shruti Pathak's paayaliyaa is a great example of this.

Then come the songs voiced by Amit Trivedi - these tend to be garrulous (the harmonium-guitar fuelled duniyaa), scruffy rock (nayan, aa.nkh micholii), or dripping with melancholia (saalii khushi). He's off the sur in places, but that seems very calculated - or is it?

And at last, for the dhokhaa-daayak "emo[tio|sa]nal atyaachaar" songs. That phrase is so cheesy and so appropriate that it will turn into a worn-out cliché. Especially for the brass band version (an immaculate concept, if any), which on repeated hearings could so easily turn into hilarity by the time the movie hits the screens. That might actually work against the intended mood. Don't hear it too often if the song needs to retain its novelty freakness! The rock version is safer, with a great opening guitar riff and sung with throat-shattering gusto by Bony Chakravarthy.

Phew. Undoubtedly, there are a hajaar music influences at play in Dev.D's soundscape. I found myself thinking of fragments from several songs. In several places, the lyrics are both wonderful and with an original flavour. A loser's tale has seldom been more plunge-worthy. Whatever happens to his movies, Anurag Kashyap's track record in getting music that you can also touch and feel remains intact. In many ways, the follow-up to the collaborations with Vishal Bhardwaj is appropriate. Amit Trivedi's music is intertwined with Amitabh Bhattacharya's words in a wholesome concoction. Where did all these people come from, you wonder - these Labh Jajuas, Shilpa Raos, Shellees, Toshis and Aditis and Shrutis, Manis and Kshitijs, and most of all, these Amits? The efforts in composition, writing, performances boggle the mind.

An album so trippy, you find yourself on your backside often, staring into that strange sky. You bitch. Indeed.

A more detailed and appropriately awe-struck review here.

Does that stapler come with jelly?

As a big fan of the TV series The Office (the American one), I had to notice that Staples now has a store in Pune close to my house. I wonder who they'll be putting out of business here.

At any rate, it should be reasonably safe to go there since this fellow is unlikely to be "literally standing here in case you need anything".

Image courtesy Wikipedia

Matchless for Life

I wanted to call last night's match gazookilaciplyditabinctionatious. I don't know what it means, but _you_ tell me if you have one legal word that can do justice to what we say yesterday, spread over eight hours. However, our vocabulary has been further graced: joining Federer-esque (adj. "carrying out something with exquisite finesse and supreme elegance") is Nadal-esque (adj. "unreasonably relentless")

Tennis needs draws. The first time I felt this sentiment strongly was in the Hamburg Masters last May, watching two men drill holes in each other, only to keep coming back for more. If yesterday's Wimbledon Gentlemen's Singles Championship Final (this is one occasion when you deserve to call it by the full name) had been a boxing match, one would have had to invoke the Geneva Convention. My head's as dizzy as it was at 2 am earlier today.

I suppose it's fair reaction to what was easily the best tennis match I have ever seen. In fact, I will go so far as to say that it was the best single sporting encounter I have ever witnessed in my life. One reason why was that there was no finite boundary, no final whistle, no ships to catch. This could have gone on for ever. It seemed we would be there until Tuesday, at 50-50 in the final set. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal would have been squatting exhaustedly on the by now completely bald turf, serving underarm and breaking each other's serve just by the other making four double faults per game. If we didn't have draws, we'd all still be there.

Coming back from my little flight of absurd fancy, one would agree that if it came to a final coin toss of a point, Nadal deserved it. He broke Federer four times in the match, while the 2003-2007 champion broke the Spaniard just once. If there had been a last set tie-breaker, he might've prevailed. We need draws. I can't be pacing and bouncing up and down at 1:30 am again.

The parallels with 1981 were so striking that I half expected to wake up to Federer retiring. Whew. He's still got a lot to achieve, especially powered by that keen sense of history. Roy Emerson's 14 is easily within reach, even if not Sampras' Seven. It's easy to see this as a signal of Federer's descendancy - it may be so, but not by much. The man made two Slam Finals this year, and is playing (along with his vanquisher) at a plane that we're lucky to be able to witness, leave alone comprehend. Centre Court seemed to surreally expand in width and length each time one of the finalists wanted it to, a combination of intense will-power and a never-before display of skills providing the ductile force.

What does this mean for men's tennis and Roger's place in the scheme of things? Perhaps more interesting will be how Rafa deals with finally being at the summit (ATP rankings be damned)? I'm too scared to speculate. What we have in front of us is almost ethereal, and perhaps the spell is in danger of being broken by mundane meditation. Let's dwell on some of the geometry-defying angles, the gravity-embarassing retrievals, the traitorous net cords, the Riemannian down-the-lines, the passes of the seasons. My one line summary of the match: Federer had to keep coming back, while Nadal never left. That was the crucial difference. The good news is that surely we'll never be tormented like this next year. The bad news is pretty much the same: that nothing we ever see will be like this.

Perhaps in the year 2020, the BCCI will have, in its latest acquisition, have taken over both the ATP and AELTC. In its first order of business, it will display an uncharacteristic and rare sagacity and overturn the result of this match to a draw (a annual tradition that began in 2008). Do you have any challenges left to that?

BVHK is much more in control of his emotions in his reaction.

Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy: Live

I happened to watch Shankar Mahadevan, Ehsaan Noorani, and Loy Mendonsa perform live a couple of months ago. Since it was a private function and not all that crowded, I managed to get closer to the action than would have otherwise been possible. It was a terrific performance. I've seen small live performances of Shankar Mahadevan before, but they have been classical and fusion-oriented. In contrast, this concert consisted of only film songs, almost all composed by S-E-L.

In particular, I wanted to observe Ehsaan's work, having been fascinated by some of his strumming I've seen on TV during interviews. He was very good, in particular some of the spontaneous riffs. Shankar looks after the stage elan bit for the group. One could see the difference in how he could mould the audience mood, especially in contrast to some of the younger singers accompanying the trio. BTW, these were Raman Mahadevan ("kholo kholo darwaaze" - Taare Zameen Par), Akruti Kakkar (the title song in Johnny Gaddar), and a third lady about whom I only remember that it was her birthday that day. It was pretty good to see the younger performers being promoted, including some very young musicians, including a keyboardist and a percussionist.

S-E-L played many of their hit songs, ranging from Taare Zameen Par to Jhoom Barabar Jhoom to Kyun! Ho Gaya Naa. I was hoping for some elements from their jazz backgrounds, and wasn't disappointed when they improvised (or so it seemed!) jazz version of some of the interludes in the song "Dil Chahta Hai". That, and Shankar's hit song from Aga Bai Arrecha, were the highlights of the night for me.

In short, if you get a chance to hear them live, go for it.

George has a post with some more links to Ehsaan Noorani on the web.

A tribute to weirds

In my defence, I must say my hand has been forced. This post by Abhishek asks of me what I think of Avnish's recent crusade against words.

But before that, a correction. The e-steamed Abhishek repeatedly insinuates that self and colleague are computational linguists. Charmed as I am by the honour, I must hasten to add that this is far from the truth: we are not such men of such wordly (sic) pleasures. At best, we are word-counters, miners in hard hats, wading through the lovely mess that is text. XKCD rants are slings at some of the contributors here, while we 49ers sit by the quarry and watch such warfare, wiping stems and lemmas from our brow.

Returning to Mr. Dhondge and his disgust for "lexeme", I must hasten to the defence of that poor token. For "lexeme" was never meant for the popular vocal stage. It serves a very well-defined (as Avnish's gloss amply illustrates) purpose in an academic field. One might as well poke fun at (perhaps these words resonate with Avnish's own chosen field) "thermocouple" or "autocollimator", or think poorly of "Pneumonoultramicro...". It must be said that at least, 'lexeme' - a meta-word, to give it its due - is at least worthy of appearing in a Word of the Day newsletter that seems to cause him so much distress!

Avnish may feel he has struck a blow (or at least a blog) against verbigeration, thus ushering in a golden age of brachylogy. However, isn't more the merrier? And don't forget, we always seem to need more words, and are willing to go as far as Liff to get them. You don't need a dyslexic to spell out that every word is special (except for words like 'leverage' which have been corrupted by an increasingly dissolute society).

With a "St. Pedanticaya Namah", I rest my piece in (lower) case and sign off with Word's funkiest message to creation:

You see, the whole system of the country is juxtapositioned by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere because you are a sophisticated rhetorician intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity!
:: Anthony Gonsalves

or alternately:

iske ##differential## me.n lafaDaa hai! gaaDii nahii.n chale.Ngaa.
:: James D'Costa

Gilly walks back

Gilly walks back

The problem with watching a fabulous generation of cricketers for a decade is that now each year, we're having to say goodbye to some of them. The likes of Brian Lara, Shane Warne, Glenn McGrath, Damien Martyn bowed out last year. It hasn't been even a month into 2008, and it's time to start saying thanks to Adam Craig Gilchrist.

Gilchrist was among the few sportsmen I watched without reference to match, situation, conditions, or outcome. There was no difference between highlights or live matchplay - they were all the same to me, a chance to watch one of the finest perform. Stay Around and Cheer, Artist at Work. He walked in briskly, he did not hang about when out (wrongly or otherwise), he jumped up in glee after diving for catches, he could whip off bails even facing the Sheik of Tweak. Balls regularly found their way to midwicket or point, usually smacking hard into the advertising boards. His brand of entertainment needed no advertising.

The decision to retire is not completely surprising, with the Aussie keeper facing justifiable criticism for his woes behind the wicket in this series. Morever, his bat has been mainly silent. It's a fine move from him, to go out at a time and place of his choice. It'll mean not making it to the 100 Tests mark, but in this case, his contribution to the game, not just Australian cricket or just wicketkeeping, transcends numbers.

From Hobart to Mumbai to Perth, to second-fastest hundreds and doubles, to a world-record 400+ dismissals with the glove, to 100 Test sixes, to being an opener at number 7 in Tests to being an opener at number 1 in ODIs, to congratulating others on their milestones to never taking a backward step. Thanks!

Adapting like Tendulkar

Adapting like Tendulkar

Just been watching some highlights from the Perth Test match today. After watching Tendulkar safely cut over the slips, including one outrageous fine cut close to the body, it again amazes me how he manages to adapt to various conditions. Now, bouncy pitches like Perth or at Bloemfontain (where in 2001, Tendulkar merrily cut his way to a ton) aren't available for practice everywhere else. How does someone like Tendulkar summon up the resources and the confidence and even the cheek to try paddle-sweeps and fly-cuts in addition to the usual set of scalpels and power-saws in his quiver?

The answer has to be just an abundance of talent, or as some say, genius.

Confessions of a JBJ fan

Confessions of a JBJ fan

Ok, I admit it: I liked the movie "Jhoom Barabar Jhoom". Anyone who has been at the receiving end of several of my raised eyebrows when it comes to "their" choices in films is welcome to liberally use this fact against me.

I must begin by first admitting that despite a fondness for Shaad Ali and Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy and Abhishek Bachchan, I was all prepared to hate "Jhoom...". It was a Yash Raj Film, it had the likes of Bobby Deol and Lara Dutta, there was all this hype, the faux-accent of Preity Zinta in the trailers. But come opening weekend, this film got pummeled, and "Sivaji the Boss" even superseded the hype-meisters themselves. I was chuckling.

Two things then happened: I read Baradwaj Rangan's affectionate review. With roughly the same affection for it, George told me JBJ was actually worth a watch.

One way of dealing with a Yash Raj flop is to say it must really have been bad for it to dive (recall the arithmetical n'n's'nse called "Neal 'n' Nikki"). The other is that the movie might actually be good. I recalled the cheeky humour of "Bunty aur Babli", and set out to watch JBJ.

It was silly, but it was, undeniably, fun. Like with Bunty aur Babli, I could see myself switching in any point in the first half of the film and enjoying proceedings. Piyush Mishra was brilliant. Lara Dutta's French accent was a revelation. Bobby Deol's schizophrenic performance was 'cute'. AB and PZ were ok, but the chemistry hit heights in the songs. And what choreography!

The picturisation of Bol Na Halke Halke alone would have been worth the price of admission. Simply mindblowing. I rewound the inspired fading of the Taj Mahal from reflection to reality a million times in my head. The Coolie reference, the Humayun ka Makbara, the streets and roads of Delhi, the Yamuna and the Taj showing that the Mani Ratnam film genes in Shaad Ali Sehgal were asserting their influence, the masjid-gurudwara sequence bringing together both sides of Shaad's parentage, the all-encircling camera - all in one unforgettable song that demands applause for Vaibhavi Merchant, Ritesh Soni, and Ayananka Bose.

Baradwaj revisited the film in a typically brilliant article about musicals doing badly. I haven't seen any of the other films, especially "Jaan-e-Mann", which is supposed to inhabit the same space as JBJ. I don't know why very few people liked "Jhoom...". The second half was not so great, but the cheekiness and interesting-ness of the script that was accused of being story-less kept me hooked. A major crib was the director completely ruining what could have been the in-joke of the season: by unnecessarily drawing attention to AB-BD on a scooter by playing "yeh dosti...". If only he had let it go by silently - it would have been that much more satisfying to those who'd have noticed. "Bunty aur Babli" also had a "yeh dosti" moment, so Shaad, next time, a little more understatement please.

The JBJ experience has somehow changed me. I have been confronted by my biases. I realise all this movie-liking business is not so easy after all. Anyway, I'll leave it to "AnaiDaa" to have the last word. As she puts it eloquently (with a little help from Monsieur Gulzar):

no, no, monsieur, no, no, itnaa simple nahii.n, chal dafaa ho kahii.n

Manorama - six thumbs up

Manorama - six thumbs up

(note: I suppose only Gary Sobers or Hrithik Roshan can even begin to approximate six thumbs up.)

Hopefully, some more coherent thoughts will follow later, but just do yourself a huge favour: put on your sunglasses, get your scooter/motorbike out even though the neighbours disapprove, leave the dusty trails behind, pick your wallet out, throw away the photo of your better-half (or -quarter as the case may be), pull that Rs. 100 ka note out, and buy yourself a ticket of Manorama - 6 feet under.

Probably the best film I've seen all year, and one for the all time list. Seriously. God Promise. (and don't read any of the reviews, good or bad. Especially the good.)

"The (American) Office is good" a.k.a. that's what he said

"The (American) Office is good" a.k.a. that's what he said

I automatically assume that across the pond versions of British TV serials are usually atrocious and not really worth a watch (refer the disastrous Coupling effort). Thankfully, that's not the case with The Office. The American remake of the cult British sitcom is quite good, and much should be attributed to the presence of Gervais and Merchant in proceedings.

In fact, I found the American version to be a tad more accessible. The British one was far more edgier and I would gape at it in sad horror - what horrible lives they (and by reflection, us) lead. Not disbelief, mind you, as I had personally seen a Brent-like character. The similarities were spooky. There was very little redemption or escape for any of those characters, and I didn't laugh out as much. It still was very funny, though. The American version lets you chuckle a lot more, and if I may confess, the actors are a lot more good-looking without sacrificing the crazy realism of the original.

By now, we know what Steve Carell (here as the manager, "Michael Scott") is capable of, and he is backed up by a very good ensemble, a couple of whom are also involved in the writing and production side. So cast aside any trepidations, and have a look, especially if you liked the original one.

Memories of "Agni Nakshatram"

No, the searing temperatures have nothing to do with this nostalgia trip. After many years, the songs of Agni Nakshatram¹ (dir: Mani Ratnam, music: Ilaiyaraja) splashed sonorously on the ears, and provoked memories of that 1989 summer when I first watched the movie.

The occasion had been a family gathering of some sort. I was just about getting introduced to the world of contemporary Tamil cinema after our move to Madras (I did not know words like "contemporary" then, mind you). I don't know if we watched the film in the middle of May, but a VCR and tape procured by enthusiastic cousins came as a sparkling relief on a Sunday afternoon.

The film is one of the best entertainers I can remember having seen - a rocking 3 hours filled with whistle-worthy dramatic and action scenes, and one heck of a music score. It's been a while since I've seen movies like Rangeela and this, which not only regale unabashedly, but also get their elements spot on. A Prabhu with a reputation for pudginess became this big, tough inspector with a penchant for arresting half-brother Karthik who was reprising his Mouna Ragam cameo as a street-lad. Both were being pursued (respectively, of course) by the not-much-to-do-in-2nd-half lead actresses, delicate Amala and mysterious Nirosha. Add to it political intrigue, hospital climaxes, brothers-at-throats episodes among muddy stables, soft-focus lighting, and the persistent suffusion of disco, and you have a terrific ride. Oh, and the exceptional comedy track featuring Janakaraj and V.K.Ramaswamy - just thinking about Janakaraj doing a lap of pure joy when the bus leaves sets my giggle-centres off.

Back to the songs: The eyebrow-raising "ninnukori varNam" which took the first few words of the childhood varnam and spun it off into a Chitra special, the Karthik-statement-of-life in "raaja..." voiced by the Raja himself, the courting song "rojaa puu" set in a gym (of all places) allowing Amala and gang to show off their flourescent leotards, "oru puu.ngaavanam" featuring Nirosha doing multiple laps of freestyle in an Olympic swimming pool (must confess that there is a limit to watching anyone do that, and so we fast-forwarded the song to great hilarity), the much more conventional love-songs, full of saris and feelings, in "thuu.ngaatha vizhigaL" and "vaa vaa anbe anbe". Quite a treat overall.

The power of the scenes and dialogues, the novelty of the song situations and the lighting, the sheer fun of the film - those were less judgemental times!

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1: Agni Nakshatram refers to a period in May at which the summer heat is supposed to be at its most extreme.

The peaks of "Delhii Heights"

"Sinfully Pinstripe" writes about "dilli bas" ("Delhii Heights") with feeling. It's not a song I relate to much, but many seem to have liked a lot. Starting with Tere Bin, I've tripped over and fallen for "Kitnii der tak". It loops around and the guitars play. The texture of the album, in its lyrics (not very polished, but making their points) and its guitars from lining-to-garnish are such a welcome aural relief.

Watching 'Black Friday'

Anurag Kashyap must be a slightly happy man. One out (but not down) and some more to go. His little bright toddler, Black Friday, is out. Paanch, one fears, is growing up to become a bitter and angry adolescent. All these kids want to do first is to be able to come out. Then play with the other kids. Perhaps others will call them ugly and poor. But let them not become bitter without experiencing a moment of sunshine.

Like every self-respecting "good film" watcher, I had seen the bootleg version of the film and keenly anticipated the release. So went to make contribution to the Anurag Kashyap appreciation fund (as Samrat termed it). Hanging out at a local multiplex, waiting for Samrat and his wife, I saw a poster of "Black Friday" from a distance. Hanging upside down. A little burst of anger surged. Took it as a sign of callousness on part of the 'plex. Typical, one thought. Closer inspection. "This is not a mistake! We're crazy" said a sign on top. Smiles around.

The good news for those who've seen the circulated version on their PCs: there are several additional sequences in the film. The slightly bad news: the film seems a little long. Not unwieldy though, but just too long. The 2 hours print seen earlier seemed taut and precise. The Indian release, however, covers the entire book's scope (adding sequences about the landings, more on Dawood's - still a shadowy figure - involvement, and Tiger's immediate provocations in the pre-blast riots.)

What the film also does is further blast to smithereens the roof that conceals Hindi filmdom's underbelly, revealing a set of wonderful actors who have no place in sunny-side-up "Bollywood" (a term which I use pejoratively, of course). It's been a while since Satya that one saw a solid ensemble put together, whose business is not to strut about but merely to inhabit and exist in four dimensions.

Introspecting about the film, Kashyap wonders whether he's succeeded in his efforts at making a "necessary film" that will kindle self-debate in the minds of the watcher. Judging by reactions in the theatre, I'm pessimistic about this. For, like some of my experiences before, I heard people laugh at many of the wrong places. What excites laughter during a tense interrogation scene or when someone's being ripped apart or just merely hearing expletives? Does the director expect to hear laughter at these points? Does the audience let him down? Have they been weaned on a different cinematic diet? These questions always puzzle me.

In the end, the plug. Go watch "Black Friday". In a theatre. It's worth your time and money. God Promise. (And while you're at it, read S. Hussain Zaidi's book too.)