Fun Bhoot

We love horror films. Most of us anyway. And we don't get enough good ones, for it is so easy to goof it up, slipping into comedy is sometimes just a make-up muck-up away. But we still like to give it a chance, there's nothing like a good scare now and then, especially if it is happening to someone on a screen and doesn't spill over to intersect our life. So as to our varying masochistic tendencies go, this is one of the safest ventures, the cinematic equivalent of nudging the loose tooth. To feel the tingle. Sending involuntary shivers emanating from the nape and following a dizzy descent down the spine. Hmm. Feels good. The tingle.

If you're an Indian filmgoer, then you have even lesser opportunities to indulge in a slick horror story, having seen/heard umpteen chudail movies set in ruined hotels with poor lighting (budgetary constraints leading to it) and make-up with clay (also seen recently in Sunny Deol's The Hero, where the concept of a disguise was merely to look different from the rest of humankind and not to be confused with the art of camouflage). But when a director of the panache of Ram Gopal Varma tells the world that he's made a movie called Bhoot, many chose not to believe him literally. Despite the fact that Rangeela was a colourful movie, Satya had a character called exactly that and Daud had people (including the audiences) running for cover, no one believed him. Instead they chose to believe baseless rumours.

Pause to ask rhetoric question. What does one call an attempt to spoil a spoiler? Well, if you don't know and hadn't heard of the spoiler in the first place and don't want anything spoilt, thank you, should probablly close their eyes now. Or now. Now would do too. That was the last chance. Ok, once more. Now)

The rumour went that There is no ghost in Bhoot and Tanuja is the murderer. Having not known that Tanuja was even in the (already brimming) cast, that statement had a lot of what-we-call data, wanted and un-. But I'm a patient person, and have heard a lot of spoilers in my time, so it didn't affect me. (The way I look at it, think of it as a film in which the ending is revealed in the beginning. It then becomes a question of how did they get there. Think Lester Burnham telling you in the open sequence of American Beauty that he'll be dead in a year, and you get the idea.) But now that I think of it, the rumour must've been spread by the makers themselves. Because, and this is the spoiler-spoiler, Tanuja isn't the murderer, and even more plot-revealing, there is a ghost. Relief now that I've got beans lying all around and an empty can. All the interviews RGV did before Bhoot, he made sure to mention there was a ghost, all 9 meter white sari of it. As I said, RGV usually gives what he promises. So ya wanted one, ya got it.

That now settled, one can go on to the actual business of being rattled and doing the old stomach-churn. I've rarely seen movie reviews in which everyone seems to agree on the main points but this film has spawned them. The movie begins off well, the spine-tingles are woven in well, the second half fizzles in front of you like the trail of a disappearing genie and the performances are mixed. RGV uses the usual cinematic devices of eerie background music, sinister camera movements, semi-dark settings and oddball characters. These contribute to a scary first half, with the entry of the ghost itself being as good as the good ol' scenes of Amitabh crashing through a fake wall. There are quite a few chilling sequences, but you see less and less of them as we reach post 60 minutes. And therein appears the knowing filmgoer's shrug of the shoulder.

The more-than-knowing filmgoer will then shrug the other shoulder too, what with there being too much familiarity about the story, a lot of deja vu in the direction of RGV's own Raat and the classic The Exorcist. And I can quote a few instances, but will not. RGV definitely has a sense of cinematic history, so he couldn't have been blind to this. So either he chose to be "inspired", or simply made a tribute to the genre. But whatever the shortcomings, I would think Bhoot is easily the slickest horror film made in India. There's still long way to go, though.

Coming to the much-vaunted performances, RGV (and many others) think this has been Urmila Matondkar's best ever performance. I thought hard about it, but still couldn't convince myself of that. I think this would be No.3, after Satya and Kaun. Kaun is a little closer to Bhoot, but Satya was and remains a radically different role for her. The de-glamourised, naive singer's range of expressions from struggling to keep a household alive to the heart-break in the climax where a sense of hopelessness and betrayal permeate her horror at what the truth really was marked her acting abilities. Ajay Devgan is wasted, seriously, but it was a little inevitable after the scope in Company. And why-o-why do Seema Biswas and Nana Patekar look like ordinary actors? When Nana Patekar says in an attempt-at-ironic-humour that he didn't understand what he himself said, he couldn't have said it better about his own role. A similar ironic fate befalls Victor Banerjee. Roused up from Calcutta (or wherever he lives) to come to Mumbai and then be unused is encapsulated in his brief role when his psychologist-character is abruptly asked to leave by Ajay Devgan. Picture RGV saying to Banerjee, "well, it's like this, we wanted to make a really cool horror movie, and we don't think it's a good idea to have a scientific explanation to it all, you see. So we've got this really wierd counter-character that is in opposition to all that you represent, so goodbye, it was good to have your comeback in our film. Cheers." Or something to that effect.

And the replacement is of course, Rekha. Every horror film has its bizarrely made-up character. In The Exorcist, it was the Devil. In Bhoot, it is Rekha. And as for Tanuja, if she had to be the murderer, well, she sure doesn't have much footage to do it in. And for Fardeen Khan, his could be best described as a competent cameo!

But still, go watch the movie. This is commendable for the length of movie, lack of songs, good audio and video techniques and a ghost. Or two. Hmm. That was good.

And does the Indian national cricket tournament deserve to be named after Ranji? A new book vehemently disagrees: Read this review.

A neat summary by the Economist of the state of Britain's beleaguered prime minister.

This Im-Post-er's Recent Choices: is my new side-dish serving (in plain-speak, pliss to see right hand sidebar). It has 20 of my old posts, from six months ago to now.

(While all care has been taken to make sure that the links are correct, if not, pliss to let me know)

For a few weeks now, ESPN-Star has been airing a football soap called Dream Team, which appears four days a week. A rather novel concept for Asian TV audiences, the story revolves around a team of footballers and people associated with them. Nothing new for Brit audiences, with the rather "fantastically trashy" (as The Guardian puts it here) Footballer's Wives, an unabashed soap opera on similar lines. A surprise hit of last year, it seems to have pioneered clones like Dream Team.

I caught a couple of sightings of Footballer's Wives while doing time in Dublin, and it was a routine TV show albeit with a new setting. The same seems true of Dream Team. Wonder it anyone watches it.

And while on the subject of British TV series, Coronation Street, which I've always heard a lot about and was able to catch a curious glimpse of, continues to be a role model for long drawn out, weepy-waily TV soaps the world round.

The Williams tennis family, not just the sisters themselves, have been usually spearheading all the gamesmanship incidents in women's tennis, and have more than a chip on their shoulders about alleged racism. These have lead to them being unpopular in many circles. Today's French Open semi featuring a grudge clash between Justine Henin-Hardenne & Serena Williams was no different, with the crowd booing the younger W on many an occasion. When Serena Williams lost the closely contested encounter and then walked away with only a cursory handshake, the crowd vocally disapproving of her into her lack of grace. Later, the post-match press meet saw the No.1 dissolve into uncharacteristic tears: More in this news item.

Very interesting that the French Open usually seems to have these kinds of incidents, especially in the women's draw. The Martina Hingis & Steffi Graf encounter of a few years back comes to mind.

For all those people who make jokes about how there is little work, please refrain from doing so. So much work then pours in, so much so that you get bitten in the back-side so badly, one feels one has been a lunch entree for a pack of rabid dogs!

A collection of quotes that I found during a little discussion on a related subject with my friend.

I don't agree with all of these quotes. I am definitely not an atheist. At times, I am an agnostic.

I find I need to believe that there is a god, someone like a big brother, to whom I can take my problems and he will help me. Who, in all my deepest bouts of loneliness never deserts me. Who sometimes provides the moral basis for an irrational desire to go out of my way to be nice to someone else. Who reserves the right to divine retribution when I cannot bring down a force on someone bad.

And on somedays, I cannot but question my very faith, whether I have invented the need for a God, omni-all and if it is a tenable argument.

Still, the above quotes are also, in the best traditions of debate, worth thinking about.

Let me tempt fate that sometimes when I listen to an inner intuition and get it right, I must feel a little pleased with myself.

Bhoot's trailers were rather mundane: they struggled to convey the scariness, possibly because they didn't want to reveal too much. But there were a few that caught the eye. Preceding the screening of Bhoot were a couple of Ram Gopal Varma productions, Darna Mana Hai, which I have already mentioned earlier. The other one was Main Madhuri Dixit Banna Chahti Hoon with Antara Mali as the starlet with the eponymous dream. It seemed to showcase some interesting performances. Whether it will merely be the female version of Asrani's Chala Murari Hero Banne will remain to be seen.

Pune quizzing in the limelight again

...though it wasn't the dream result that we'd hoped for.
All apropos the ESPN School quiz, which is probably the top national school quiz currently, but restricts itself to sports. I will do away with my usual encomiums to Harsha Bhogle (the man with the best job in India), take it for granted.

Last year, Abhinav Vidyalaya put on one smashing performance after another and it seemed to be a cinch that they would win. They inexplicably did not.

This year, I kept an eye out for this team, thinking they would steam roll their way through the opposition. But this time they didn't.

(Read an Abhinav-alumnus' account of the same)

It did seem a little off-the-script when AV didn't get a century in their prelims. Neither did they get anywhere near it. Blame me for being unfair to this champion team, but blame them for setting up such high expectations.
AV started off shooting down the anagrams in Citius, but when they struggled to identify a golden-haired figure looking like Brett Lee in no-camoflauge as Brett Lee, the warning bells had started to ring. It got a little embarassing when they even guessed Monica Seles. Hmm. As signs go, that was one in scarlet.
They still led rather aaram-se after 2 rounds, but started to turn on the hara-kiri instinct in round 3. According to me, the quiz turned when AV identified Phil Tufnell as Dion Nash. Even Harsha Bhogle was a little disappointed with the quality of that guess. AV could now feel the hot breath of their rivals Rangubai Junnare from Nasik on their neck as RJS got this answer to move into 1 point behind AV.

And here's where I disagree with Gaurav: he opined that had AV shown a little more courage, they might've emerged winners. Having watched the show as much as he must have, I have to beg to differ because of the following: though the questions and participants are great, I have to criticise the following aspects of the format.
First, I don't always agree with the level of questions chosen for the 5-, 10- & 20-pointers. Subjective of course. Also, the team in front at the beginning of the final round has to take first shot. Which means in a tight contest, the team in 2nd spot know exactly how much they need to win: the risks have to be taken by the leading team, thus penalizing them for doing better in the earlier rounds. AV could not gamble with a ten: if they missed it, RJS would have won even without attempting the last qn. Getting a 5 was more realistic for AV to force RJS to go for the final qn and see if they missed. They didn't and AV lost.

In this heavy spotlight on AV, I'm being unfair to the other two Pune teams Symbiosis & Bishops that made it to the West Zone final. Good luck to them and may they make a splash in the National Finals.

A review of the visit to the Bhoot Booth: coming soon...

Who's playing the lead?
(A rather existential and egoistic thought)

Film: Chasm-é-Baddoor
Director: Sai Paranjpye
Scene: in the compound of the building where Siddharth (Farooque Shaikh), Jomu(Ravi Baswani) & Omi(Rakesh Bedi) live)

Jomu is kicking away at his unresponsive motorcycle to try and start the black motorcycle (which makes a further appearance as the eponymous kaali ghodi in a song later in the movie). He has a curious style, one foot presses at the starter, the other is off the ground to provide additional thrust. In vain. Omi takes a shot at the mechanical beast, but considering his roly-poly proportions just about surviving the vigourous exercise he exhibits early in the film, the mission is doomed. Sidharth, in customary 70s-80s big, black glasses comes down. He mocks at his friends who just a moment ago refused to wait for him. One kick and the vroom-vroom of the bike indicates his position in the cast. This is amply borne out by the next piece of dialogue from Rakesh Bedi who knows why they couldn't do it.

Hero hai na!

That delightfully self-mocking sequence and the jokes at the expense of the film industry are representative of many more throughout this wonderful film, but it does pose an intellectually comic (if one is in the mood and is affected by films) question: Who is the hero of my film?

Think about it. If you had a camera trained on you and someone in charge of the story of your Life, The Film. Someone viewing your actions, expressions, voiceovers giving people insights into your thoughts, flashbacks, the works. And add to it the cliched plots of "hero always triumphs" or atleast most of the times. When fate has two choices, it turns the way of the hero. The hero is badly tested and tempted by fate, but ultimately, life pans out decently. So when things go badly or not to the script that I believe would be ideal, I wonder if I am the hero of my film, atleast in the current scene.

Some times I am not: someone else is coming-back-from-behind to win, someone is suffering and taking away all the sympathy leaving none for me, someone is getting all the adulation, someone is doing something better than me, someone has the mannerism that interests others, someone else is having all the luck. At this point, I have to come to the conclusion that I am just a supporting actor in someone else's movie, hopefully I'll atleast have a cameo that someone will notice in a sidelight.

(Rather pretentious and worthy of the Total Perspective Vortex so far?)

I can expound on this subject further, but suddenly words escape me. This is what comes of watching too many movies. It is obviously not the fantastic movies that contribute to this, I am not The One (not as far as I know), but the slice-of-life middle class movies that contribute to this. They take incidents from real life, plausible snippets that you can relate to. Then if you're unhinged enough, you wonder what's the difference between that story and mine? I wish someone thought my life was fascinating enough and tried to empathise with the little incidents that happen to me, and chug along on the roller-coaster of my emotions. But then everyone has their own movie to star in, and I am not special enough for them to pay the price of suspending their own screenings to peek at mine.

Let me continue to play unrestrained elation, muted romance, stoic sorrow, supportive friend, raging crusader and those many million shades of emotion for the audience of me and myself.

Post Script
A thought harks back to the delightful story The Secret Life of Walter Mitty that is somewhat apt to this post. While on the subject, Spielberg will be making a version soon with Jim Carrey in the lead. Jim Carrey starred in The Truman Show. If you know its storyline, you'll understand the significance to this post. And of course, a piece from Walter Mitty makes its way into Basu Chatterjee's Choti si Baat, part of the middle-class film movement.

This is the price one has to pay for being a quizzer: too many facts that can be correlated.

Watched Mani-saar's Alaipayuthey for the second time and was glad to note that it passed my personal test of the second viewing. I have a thumb rule that gives me an idea how much I like a film: if I can bear it for a second viewing then I probably like it a lot and wouldn't mind watching parts of it in the future again. The movie is good but not great, 'tis the simplicity of the story that appeals. (Refer post on first viewing here. Interestingly, in that post I mention that Ratnam's Madrasi gangster flick Dalapathi pioneered the slow-motion song choreography. I think I got it wrong. If I am not mistaken, it was Idayathai Thirudathey (I forget the original name of the Telugu movie).)

Eyes Wide Open
I started a little journey down Stanley Kubrick movies, by completing a viewing of Dr. Strangelove or How I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb and beginning to read Kubrick's biography by John Baxter. Full Metal Jacket should follow very soon. This post comes on the heels of George's mention of this movie (will cross-link when I get a chance). Being my first complete viewing of a Kubrickian film, I was quite eager to see what set him apart from the rest. With the book at hand, I hoped to get more insights into this (both) acclaimed and notorious director.

George mentions how Kubrick's film leave the burden of interpretation to the viewer. It is clear that in the Kubrick movie, dialogues are subservient to the visual frame and technique is the object of adulation. The book throws light on this and further: Kubrick's beginnings as a still photographer, his ice-cool method and treating the actors as puppets, to do his bidding. The outcome of these traits have been the legendary aim to perfectionism, countless re-takes, wrangles over crediting in the writing. It always struck me how most (if not all) Kubrick movies were based on books: 2001 A Space Odyssey by Arthur C. Clarke, The Shining by Stephen King, Lolita by Nabokov and A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess being the most famous examples. The book describes how Kubrick was considered in his early years as the "genius in waiting" and the obvious replacement for "the obstreperous Orson Welles". He did complete justice to these labels with his reclusive and temperamental behaviour.

I must confess to being a little disappointed by Dr. Strangelove, it had its brilliant moments with the famed "You can't fight in here, this is the War Room" dialogues, the nuggets of referential names (Ambassador DeSadesky, Capn Kong and of course Jack D. Ripper) spiked with more than a sprinkle of innuendo, the innovative camera-work (for that era, especially, back projections notwithstanding) and the fascinating Pentagon War Room sets being the highlights. Curiously, Dr. Strangelove is granted very little footage as compared to the other Sellers roles (Peter Sellers has a triple role: the US President, Lionel Mandrake of the RAF & Dr. S himself: he was to do a fourth, but refused). Even more because the scenes with the evil Nazi crackpot scientist with the mechanical hand that has a mind of its own are chilling and positively sinister. It is not difficult to take in even such farcical situations if such characters actually existed. Also my first encounter with George C. Scott (who is more noted for Patton) as the plausible virulently anti-Commie American. One scene involving the British officer Mandrake crawling on the floor following the crazed American Ripper seems rather topical right now: the British having no clue what the Americans have got them into, but being obligated to follow them around like lackeys. I don't think it was intended, but it seems rather relevant even today.

Another aspect that appeals is the abundant tidbits for a student of trivia.

Post Script:
At the local library, apt coincidences beckoned and I accepted in the spirit of things: picked up a biography of Peter Sellers, not too innovatively named Mr. Strangelove, plus a re-read of A Clockwork Orange by Burgess.

CCCLXV diem: annus blogus

In the past, I have hardly been able to keep a thing going solely on my own
a sa emoc seod ti oS .hgih rehtar neeb sah tuo gniretep fo etar eht ,maets
surprise that I kept this going for so long, without the pace really slackening 
.kcab eht no tap llams a oS .hcum oot

(Writing this in boustrophedon script is not very easy and the output is
eht lifluf ot deraeg t'nsi lmth esuaceb ,nodehportsuob yltcefrep ton ylbaborp
conditions of this writing style, also I'm not really adhering to the
,yaw siht gnidaer boj hguot a yletinifed tI .hpargarap wen eht ta stnemeriuqer
and is potentially difficult to write, so I took the easy way out, by writing
eht em evig ot edoc fo senil wef a fo troppus eht gnikat dna yaw lamron eht ti
boustrophedon output).

ni em fo noitcejorp latnem" a llac ot ekil I tahw neeb sah golb eht oS
cyberspace". I have been conscious in the last few years of an increase in the
,eniwtretni ,elddum ,esuf taht dnim ym ni thguoht fo sdaerht lellarap fo rebmun
cleave and spawn several newer strands of thought: sometimes becoming a chop
ekat ot tegrat lacigol a eb dluow yraid ro lanruoj A .segami latnem fo yeus
these myriad mental-organisms and fling down on paper in an attempt to separate,
suht meht nier ot tuB .meht gniyrrac fo nedrub eht fo dnim eht eerf dna ezylana
has proven to be rather difficult for me, and these jetsam-flotsam of the mind were
.snoisacco lareves ffo tel

Surprisingly, it has lasted for about a year, with my initial attempts to put up
sah ti dna ,srorre reggolB elbativeni eht etipsed epahs gnikat stsop wef a
stayed there for quite a while. Thanks to the friends who preceded and succeeded
,lanruoj traP .pu gnikat htrow ytivitca na smees ti ,natsigolb ot gnikat ni em
part column, part scrapbook, part punching bag, part notebook, part exchange
taht slap fo sweiv eht fo tsaerba em tpek osla sah ti ,rettelswen trap dna murof
were an integral part of the previous years while assuring them that I continue
.yb kcit ot

It is by no means a very popular destination as is borne out of the factual
eht ot stnerehda fo ssam eht ni "golb rehtona tey" tsuj si ti sa ,scitsitats
latest cyber-fad. But it is my own child and I as parent must learn to love it
,ria dehcated a htiw detaerc syawla ton era stsop ehT .snoitatimil sti etipsed
and to some extent represent the confusions, limitiations, prejudices, strengths
,noituac detnawnu gnisicrexe ot ssefnoc lliw I tuB .rohtua sti fo snoinipo dna
spilling over into self-censorship that is borne out of a self-consciousness
thgif ot deen I .noitatnorfnoc dna tnemssarabme morf tsised ot stnaw taht
against this and be more sincere if the word is to truly reflect the state of
.dnim

As you will see, trying to make sense of the workings of the mind, particularly mine,
,sisylana-revo rof noitceliderp a evah od I kniht I .noitapucco tsomerof ym eb ot mees
to unravelling bluntly the way I work and the blog has served as petri-dish and
neeb sah raey tsal eht ni efiL .noitcepsni resolc ni dia ot edils noitavresbo
interesting, if not always happy, the Chinese curse is in force. Mastermind,
fo sdohtem otni rehtruf gnignulp ,enummoc dnekeew dehsirehc a fo yawa gnirehtiw
instruction, the further metamorphoses of friends into online handshakes,
...no os dna ,aitreni fo hsram eht tsniaga gnilggurts eht dna ,krow ta segnahc
The conversations are termed with the ClipBoard, because it is primarily with
lautriv dna syalpsid ,scinortcele fo evitcelloc a otno depyt tub ,flesym
concepts of storage that are transferred with the help of the computing concept
eht gnikam fo aedi eht deredisnoc ev'I .draobeciton cilbup a otno draobpilc a fo
title of this blog more taut by dropping the second half of the phrase, for are
noisiced A ?yalp-drow ta tpmetta detnawnu na ti si ro gnisuM)A( yna srehtO eht
soon.

lautir sekove niaga taht emit shtnom xis tuoba ni tneve launna rehto eht htiw sA
and quiet introspection, this (if it continues to be around) will provide a
ni ,yllacixodarap hcihw tibro ym no rehtruf eltruh I sa yawa kcit ot tniopkcehc
other mental dimensions is a crooked path which questions more than it receives
thguoht hcae seviecer ti ,detseretnisid erom si golb ehT .yad hcae rewsna ni
without comment, a faithful transmitter without offering a Heisenbergian twist
.noitavresbo no

If these last paragraphs haven't been a faithful gist of all that this blog is,
.seigolopa ,eb ot stnaw dna saw

The above fashion is an attempt to mimic the boustrophedon method in which writing (and reading) alternates direction after every line. Boustrophedon literally means ox-turning (from the way the oxen are used to plough fields). This principle is used in some printers too. If I had to assign symbolic meaning to this choice, it would be to signify my looking into the past and future as represented conventionally as left and right on a timeline, not alternately of course, but in a manner of speaking. The real reason was to mark the occasion in a quirky manner. If you can't read the text, well, do try.

And if you've noticed my coincidences list, another recent addition, also from the BC quiz sessions:
Hirak in his homecoming quiz asked a question that had the answer Colonel Bogey's March. Movie today (2 days after the question): The Bridge on the River Kwai.

Sure I'm noticing the one that clicked as against the other questions that didn't evoke a coincidence, but it's fun.

Idiotic people have been sending out what they claim is the party-pooper of the film Bhoot: many theories as to the outcome of the movie have been doing the rounds. The problem is that, having tried all permutations with the star cast, someone's going to eventually spoil it. Because of lots of morons, one hardly can be really shocked or stunned with the denouement of a movie these days. Thankfully, not too many people had seen The Others and I got the twist right in the middle.

On a related note, the promotionals for Darna Mana Hai have started making the rounds. Supposed to be a 6 episode film (such episodic films have been made before, notably by Hrishikesh Mukherjee and K.Balachander but not been too famous) with a horror element. I liked the trailer with the clock: one hand starts to rotate, then another hand spins, but in the opposite direction and then many hands go about the centre in frenzied fashion like sub-atomic particles.

Trailers also noticed: Boom and Calcutta Mail (Sudhir Mishra is back).

Snatch is hilarious, especially the take on the accents!

May and November are P.L times for the engineering students of the Pune Univ. They're usually preceded (atleast for COEPians) by a set of wringing practicals and vivas. For those in my batch of COEP Computers, these always provided a very memorable set of occurences that have become the stuff of legends and are invariably the most talked-about reminiscences of our mini-reunions: it sort of forged our temperament the way nothing else could have.

But then came the actual Preparatory Leaves that were oases of calm between the battles with vengeful externals & sometimes skunky internals and the writing epics that the exams tended to be. For most people, it represented the sum total of our academic semester (I still maintain that for many COEPians, academics was the extra-curricular activity). Some would do 24 hour stints, some like me couldn't last beyond 11 pm. I often found that the PLs brought about some world or domestic event of extreme interest which would be extremely well covered by television and would make it very difficult to concentrate on mundane studies. Cases in point were the Cricket World Cup of '99 (SE Sem 2), the Tehelka cricket exposé of 2000 (TE Sem 2) and the US Presidential tie-breaker of late 2000 (BE Sem 1).

Another event that would happen was that my birthday would fall in the cusp of the PLs and actual written exams. I even wrote my exam once on my birthday. Though I hoped for a romantic result such as topping the subject in my class, I netted an average result in that one. A couple of times, the timetable didn't strike bulls-eye and the exam would fall a day or two near the birthday. Since I'd stopped investing too much emotion in my birthdays by then, the fact that my classmates were more concerned about the answer to question #2 rather than giving me bumps didn't affect me much.

PLs also brought out the latent philosopher in all of us, making us question the significance of the syllabus and these subjects (thus helping us to make the decisions of leaving certain "these-don't-matter-in-the-larger-scheme-of-human-existence" chapters optional). I remember many such outpourings of grief in the vicinity of exams from my friends and on one occasion, we had hilariously resolved to tell the viva-taker that yeh jag sab maya hai and hence he should view our ignorance with greater compassion.

My class invariably attracted D-A-N-G-E-R in the matter of exams, and there was no shortage of "incidents" that haunted our waking and sleeping lives. The increasingly ludicrous and frustrating events brought in us a certain resolve not to be cowed down by such injustices and we learned to look at the bigger picture: in a few years we would be out of it all (this was rather inevitable) and then mere pinpricks these would seem then.

I learned a lot during my PLs: what the neighbours did in the daytime (having missed these interesting activities due to my being in attendance at the BC the rest of the year), how much I could walk up and down in a day (my preferred medium of studying), how interesting many TV programmes suddenly became, how to judge what to leave for options (my earlier naive approach was to try to touch each part), how to smile in adversity, how many new ideas I generated that I couldn't wait to do (invariably forgotten later on, seems the intensity of the PLs was my muse) and the alluring sweetness of sleep.

Does anyone like Simi Garewal and her Ron-deh-voo programme? Clearly some people must, or it wouldn't still wouldn't be on air. I have always given it a wide miss. Each time there seemed to be an interesting choice of guest, the very sight of Ms. Garewal launching into song (very thanklessly inserted at the very beginning of the programme and with facial expressions that would make afternoon soap bahus weep, such is the excruciatingly cloying content) makes me lunge for the remote. The questions are usually very emotional, with the host sympathising at every tribulation of the guest and making sure there always is a guaranteed level of of maudlin sentiment.

I watched the last two episodes because the guest this time was apna Rahman. I did try and offset the white lady's presence by frequent visits to the English Premier League matches in the neighbouring channel (Arsenal last week and Liverpool v Chelsea this Sunday) to take the taste out: much like we eating savouries after a dose of sweets before tasting our tea or coffee. Rahman did have a rags-to-riches story, so Ms. Garewal showed us her gamut of saccharine, sugar and jaggery filled emotions (I'm sorry if I'm being cynical or insensitive but it really did get too far when she dramatically plucked a rose (allusions to Roja ?) to hand over to her shy guest).

I think I need to get myself checked for diabetes.

Is it just me or did it just get hot in here?. Well pal, it has got very hot in here. I'm usually ok with the heat, and I don't complain too much about the humidity. It doesn't evoke the same carping as I'm more sensitive about the cold, as my colleagues fiddling with the air conditioning settings would testify. But it has been extremely hot and humid the last few days, and the power cuts and talk about the same happening to water supplies isn't the kind of news one wants to hear. I recently got a wall thermometer and I love to keep looking at it from time to time. At first, we thought it was faulty for it seemed to hang on to 29 degrees C for dear life, but now seeing it never drop below 35 deg C has convinced me of its efficacy.

I suddenly fell headlong for this song (more famous as part of the soundtrack of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) : these lyrics would not describe me as I exist currently, but the thought would be something I could work towards.

So, until I pull it down, this is added to my personal anthems:

Raindrops keep falling on my head
And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothin' seems to fit
Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling

So I just did me some talkin' to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he' got things done
Sleepin' on the job
Those raindrops are falling on my, head they keep falling

But there's one thing I know
The blues he sends to meet me won't defeat me
It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me Raindrops keep falling on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Crying's not for me
Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothing's worrying me

:: B.J.Thomas

For some reason, Sandy (that's Sandip Shahane for the rest) never told me about his blog (which seems to have been around for a while). So here's Sandy's blog.

My two favourite teams were in the Ranji final and I did watch a little of the action. The match, as was the pitch, was gripping on the fifth day. Glad to see centuries scored on either side, mediumpacers like Agarkar and Suresh getting wickets, spinners getting into the act not too early, and a come-from-behind win for the best team in the country. If only more people would watch.

Sometime back, Star Plus had a weekly programme called Star Blockbusters. This was an hourly show that would feature different stories each week, providing an excellent opportunity to budding writers and directors to showcase their talent. The result was often stunning, with a wide gamut of stories, actors and thematic ideas of a high quality. It featured the efforts of established names like Rajit Kapur and newcomers like Tigmanshu Dhulia (whose names can now be seen in the credits of upcoming films). A full discussion on this some other day, but the reason for mentioning this is because the subject of this post reminds me of the best episode ever to feature on Star Blockbusters. Positively brilliant, I hope the director (some lady whose name I unfortunately forget) will make a groundbreaking film someday. This story was a murder mystery with a touch of the supernatural and a classy twist at the end. The background music was outstanding with the evidence to show: I can still feel the shivers down my spine. The name of the story was Dead End.

That brings me to the post: everyone who has lived in Pune knows that the roads are a minefield, a living deathtrap, something out of a teenager's video game where the objective is to give each other a good fright. The traffic sense of seeming educated people is appalling. In my small route to office, things are compounded by the number of blind corners. F-1 drivers have hairpin bends to face too but there, atleast no one is driving in the opposite direction without the slightest inclination to use the hooter when it is supposed to (and not, as Punekars believe, to be used at traffic signals when the lights at the opposite end go amber). The gates of my apartments open onto a 90 degrees bend, and while approaching the house, one has to get to the righthand side of the road at the bend. Getting from the house to the main Baner road takes me past two more blind corners, so close to each other that it makes a sssslithering ssssnake sssssee S'sss everywhere. Count to three. Things are fine (by Puneri standards) till the office. Till about a few months ago, I was at Bhageerath. This meant a series of traffic manouevres that involves a very sinister set of diversions into sidestreets and back alleys which contribute another three to the tally, all this courtesy the Pune Traffic department who in a backhanded slap, made worse a problem with the solution. The gates of the building are parallel to the inner road, so a deft 90 degrees turn to get in, but another left turn towards the parking area contributes to the count because the security offices obscure the view.

The best is yet to come, the access to the parking is the same narrow path in and out with the greatest care to avoid you seeing the other motorists. All, no doubt, with the best intentions of promoting healthy moto-cross.

I've already lost count, what with keeping an anxious and wary eye on the madcaps on the road who like to jump out of the other side of the blind turn, on your side of the road and say "Boo!". A move to another company building, Panini, didn't help. A U-turn followed by a right blind turn, a left blind turn, a left what-can-be-described-as-a-squint turn, another left squint turn (all up a ramp, mind you) and then there is the welcoming party to garland you for having made it alive one more day.

And of course, there is the journey back home. No wonder, I don't seem to go out too much, what with the massive strain each day!

More seriously speaking, the traffic in the city stinks to high heaven. For all our so-called Puneri intellectual superiority, each time our vehices set wheel on the macadams and cements and tars, we display an unceasing savagery coupled with a lack of basic human courtesy and common sense that is no laughing matter: we put our lives in danger each time we step out.

It's not very flattering to realise in some circumstances, you need someone more than that person needs you. (I'm talking of the intangibles that a relation between two people brings, not material benefits.) The other person may not ignore you, but definitely does not need your company, your support, your advice to the same extent as you do. So, certainly not one-way traffic, but the amount of traffic in one direction is far greater than in the reverse.

It is one of those things that can hurt the fragile ego because it points to a feeling of unwantedness and does take some amount of objective introspection to realize for the more needy person. Either one can close one's eyes to it and continue as if this wasn't true or in the extreme, say "I don't need that person too!". Or just accept the fact and say fine, though I need the other person more, I won't feel so bad that that person won't seek my thoughts at the same rate. At least this way, the bond stays and flourishes.

This may point to an inferior quality in the seeker, who needs to fill spaces with the emotional dependence, but we all lack something in us and there is no harm in sincerely seeking to fill the void. But lest we get hurt, we must lower our expectations in hoping for the same emotional satisfaction that we think we are giving the other person when we actively seek that person's time to ourselves. Also, this realisation may help identify other relationships where we may be the so-called anchor for someone else, and perhaps we can help assuage the other person's feeling, for we have now the power of empathy in such situations.

Pretty heavy, no? <insert favourite smiley here>

I am always reminded a little of Mohammad Azharuddin when I see Mohammad Kaif (Harish would probably disagree vehemently). And not just because of the shared name. It's just that their temperaments seem to be similar: the stance is (though in the wristy-shots dept. Kaif is nowhere near the class of the former India captain) somewhat related, the fielding skills are good and the approach to batting is similar: not a slam-bang approach, but a carefully thought out strategy with the ability to pepper the boundaries when required.

And now that Kaif will be playing for Derbyshire as Azhar once did, the coincidences have got stronger. Kaif is defintely one of those who will be in the reckoning for a future India captain slot, having enjoyed success with the junior India side. In this respect, he would probably differ from Azhar, for Azhar was a compromise candidate who needed a Mian, Captain Banoge? invitation. Both started off in a small-town-world(Hyderabad could be classified as such 20 years ago), but Azhar definitely moved out much to, in my opinion, to his detriment into other social circles.

What will happen to Kaif, we shall see over the next few years: still, I don't think he'll say "The boys played very well" in every post-match presentation!

One of the few attractive sights available in the city on my normal beat is the view from the COEP Boat Club. Discounting the river, if you were to adjust your vista skywards, especially during the evenings, it can be quite a scenic sight. The other bank is on a small island that is rather verdant, though unornamental. But there are no tall buildings aiming to block one's view as is the case elsewhere and one's yen to see the sky can be fulfilled to one's heart.

But I will have to get my fill and commit all the beauty to memory, for the inevitable march of savage civilization must wave a threatening spade at this little spot of peace: a new (and unwanted) bridge is taking shape abutting the BC. It is going to be a nuisance, if not outright disruption of many activities that the river hosts in that patch of water.

A fascinating pattern of of returning birds that I saw yesterday might be one of the last few pretty sights that I catch there: perhaps a small camera to record these little moments is in order.

I had occasion to don the mantle of interviewer for the first time last week. It's not the fact that I'm in any superior position or that I am a talent-spotter, but more because we're filling positions for a specific set of needs that my current project has, and the people on the ground would probably know best. I hoped my debut wouldn't be as nervous as that of the interviewee, and it wasn't too impossible: the questions I wanted to know came of their own accord, helped by an initial understanding of what I was seeking. I don't think I did too badly. Yes, it would be improper of me to comment similarly on the performance of the candidate!

NDTV's new channels are still not making the impact they hoped for, at least not at my house. This is largely due to them being on and off my cableman's guldasta of channels. And for some time, it has been off rather than on. The only decent offering in the English news space for me to catch the news seems to be Headlines Today, the English entrant of the TV Today group that provides Aaj Tak. It provides more than just headlines, but doesn't elaborate too much on news, making it a useful alternative if you're not interested in detailed analyses of hard news. A mix of appealing graphics, news items and, ahem, newsreaders (one very attractive one at any rate) halts the quick-surfing-remote. Works for me right now.

Even though the Indian cricket team may not be playing, I like to follow the other Indian in action in international cricket: the stern ("headmaster" as The Guardian once described him) Srinivas Venkataraghavan. One hopes that he doesn't make too mistakes, but yesterday he did, nipping the chicken-pox affected Lara's attempts to pull off another heroic innings for his team. Venkat missed the inside-edge that Lara didn't and gave Lara leg-before, leading to much head-shaking by the Windies captain who's usually the model cricketer when it comes to reacting when dismissed. Of the big Three, Venkat's made the least mistakes in my (biased?) opinion: I've seen Shepherd and Bucknor make some very poor howlers, Bucknor too often. But now they say Rudi Kurtzen is among the topmost in the Elite Panel.

Continuing with sport, Ten Sports has been, in addition to showing its collection of old Sharjah cricket videos, also has the Borg-McEnroe matches. It was a privilege to watch one Wimbledon final that must rank as one of the greatest clashes in sport. McEnroe fighting back 8 championship points to take the fourth set from Borg in a tie-break was rather special. I didn't know which year this was, if they've not clashed in a Wimbledon final apart from '81, then I know the result. I couldn't watch the match to its conclusion because the one nightly domestic soap that my folks indulge in took preference. This day I couldn't complain that there wasn't something good to watch on TV, only that the timing was all wrong.

I believe that any sport, when played at the highest level, can sometimes provide even the most uninterested spectator a great deal of joy and evoke a fleeting understanding of that sport's appeal. I first realised this a few years ago while watching a few matches of the Rugby World Cup, the contests involving Australia, New Zealand and South Africa provided sporting excitement of a high quality. Backed up by good television coverage and insightful commentary, it made an impact that lasted the duration of the tournament. I am still no Rugby fan but I still carry in my mind the interesting sidelights of referees' decisions being broadcast on air because of the on-field mikes they wore, the seemingly upright ad paintings on the ground, the magic of the drop-kick and the bewilderment of how the mighty men, despite possessing all the necessary instruments for a good fight, usually desist from that, at least at a rate lesser than football.

This belief of mine also applies to Formula-One: I must be one of the few in-betweeners to follow the sport. People seem to either love it or hate it, there are very few casual followers as far as I know (unless they're faking an interest to seem trendy, which also seems to happen a lot in F-1).

My interest in the fortnightly race is limited to watching the beginning of each race (whenever I can) and the last few laps: for a person like me who likes to maintain only a casual acquaintance with the sport, these two are the points in the race that may offer higher chances of excitement. This is of course not always true, but as I'm not into cars, the technical aspects don't interest me. It is the competitiveness that interests me. I do remember one Grand Prix (Australian perhaps? It was in 1999) where Rubens Barrichello won a very intriguing race which was rain-affected: it was very riveting even for a person like me.

My introduction to the world of F-1 came from endless re-runs of old Monaco GPs that DD used to fill space in the Metro channel pre-1995 years. The actual micro-interest stemmed from some of my friends; Harish, Sujay, Gaurav et al used to bring F-1 discussions to the inevitable pre-BC quiz gatherings. This and some F-1 questions in quizzes sparked off a more regular viewing of Race Day. I still don't understand much of the technical stuff (people like Sumeet would drool over the technicalities), but it helps that F-1 is a continuously flowing game like football where the commentary doesn't stop for every moment of play (unlike cricket or tennis which follow a discrete format); the easy-to-follow non-stop commentary has helped me to keep staring as the riders make their seemingly unending trips around the chicanes and corners, with stewards flashing their flags at them: the amount of information overload with minute durations allowed for comprehension that these drivers have to account for is quite a remarkable aspect of this sport.

I cannot hold a conversation on F-1 racing, but I sure can listen to one without being too baffled. All that talk about monotony hasn't scared me off, at any rate.

Is it WHO says India is SARS-free or Who says India is SARS-free?

(Not trying to make a point but just a joke...)

One more blog to announce and one more from the BC lawn crowd: Hirak and his Little Voice.

SARS gets closer today: Report.

Three coincidences...

I usually don't think too much about coincidences, but there have been a few interesting ones in the last couple of days:

ekam: I was continuing to read Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K.Dick. On Sunday morning, a small and hastily arranged BC session had me incorrectly identifying this picture. More informed people will know that it is The Scream by Edvard Munch. Later in the evening, I read about the same in Do Androids... in vivid detail just a couple of pages ahead.

dwithiyaha: On Fri/Sat, a friend had started a thread on poetry, including one reference to The Bhagwad Gita in one of Tagore's last poems. This led to a discussion on The Gita itself. Monday morning, TOI's front page has this article on How the Gita influenced romantic poets.

tritiyaha: Today's A Word A Day was Xanadu (Scroll to end of linked page). I had started watching Citizen Kane yesterday, which is filled with references to Xanadu.

They may be mere coincidences, but they've been bright sparks in the last couple of days.

This is a link to lyrics to Hindi songs by A.R.Rahman and has English translations too. Clicking on it led to the new updates page, but you can find the complete index to the site by clicking the appropriate link in the left pane. A good effort by Rawat, Gopal S, Ambrish and Amit. Was led to it by Amit's post in the Egroup.

Goodbye, Adios, See ya!

Nikhil and I got invited to a farewell party, the two parties to which being the two classes we happened to teach at one point: hence a slightly paternal feeling (heck! we're only a couple of years elder to these guys). Having had the privilege to work with some rather intelligent people ,as a result of these interactions, we had gained a lot personally. That's why, at the risk of being two old peas in a young pod (Nikhil says this much better in Marathi), we landed up at the (for the Computers dept.) the most unlikely location for such an event: the terrace of the new E&TC dept. for an engaging evening.

Engaging because of the fact that unlike some other classes I knew, most of these guys got on pretty well with each other. There were the usual party games (though the games were not themselves common), the teasing-that-culminates-after-four-years, the reminiscing. Unusually for us, we were disinterested parties, and we had an objective (we thought) take on all that was happening.

Kept my winning streak at farewells (my own and others) intact with a game that as somebody remarked was pretty much graph traversal. Cautiously watched people asking questions to elicit "No" as the answer for another, but in a moment when I let slip my guard, Ankush slipped one through. Bummer! The final game did take the cake: will remember for a long time the sight of people trying their best not to bump into obstacles which weren't there in reality: an illuminating exercise in mindgames.

Thus we were allowed to partake of the goodies at the evening: the food ("is it good?"), the hospitality ("are you feeling bored"?) and the speeches ("and now for N & R"). The last succeeded a marathon personality dissection of each final year computers student by their own peers, an exercise that seemed all cathartic and laudatory and nostalgic. We even saw a couple of people for the first time, the only people to have the sanity to stay away from our classes! It was fun talking to our friends (for that's what they were, more than students) for ocassions like these seem to draw some deeper thoughts than would be normally possible.

Personally speaking, a couple of observations on moi were passed around: my seemingly sarcastic ways and apparent unapproachability. For the former, I plead guilty, for the BC-inspired training has induced a surivival instinct in the matter that doles out sarcasm at the touch of a button. To all those that may not have enjoyed those parts of my speech, I apologise, and reassure that it is not personal. As for unapproachability, well, it is a side-effect of being born shy: introvertedness lends a helping hand to what is often misconstrued as arrogance, seriousness or high-handedness. I don't know what it is, but I have observed this among others of my ilk: the stiffness of face that accompanies such behaviour is probably because we don't want to embarass ourselves and it stems from an inner thought-process that the extroverted will never comprehend.

Here's wishing the best in life to the B.E. folks: you deserve much of it. And to the T.E. folks: Time to check your termwork ;-)

"And in case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening and good night."
- Truman Burbank, The Truman Show

Some more friends have their blogs here:
Sudarshan with Inside-out Brain & Manish with Scribbles.

Only when I thought the casting couldn't get worse for Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Bajirao Mastani after the announcement that Salman Khan will play the Maratha warrior, I was proved wrong: Kareena Kapoor will flit in and out of the false Mastani gate in the Shaniwar Waada sets. As a Punekar, I feel rather awful. A letter to the Editor in the Times of India (yesterday IIRC) summed it all up (unfortunately, I can't find it online).

Pasting a very well written snippet written by Anu Garg of Wordsmith while introducing the subject of this week's A Word A Day:

After a recent week of words from law, where many of the words are of French origin, I received this email from a reader:

"I propose you no longer feature words which have a base or stem from the French language. I no longer see that as a positive e-mail."

In these times when emotions run high, it's understandable why someone would say that, why US lawmakers would rename French fries and French toast in their cafeteria menus. Or why some German professors think they need to exclude English terms from their vocabulary.

This is not the first time linguistic revisionism is being attempted. During World War I, in the US, some had tried to rename sauerkraut as "liberty cabbage", for example. But we're all so interconnected, as are our languages, that any such attempt quickly falls flat on its face.

"Freedom fries" they say? Well, there's still some French remaining, as the word fry comes from Old French frire. "Freedom toast"? What about toast which comes from Middle French toster. Thinking along these lines, we may even have to rename the US (from Old French estat). Estimates vary, but at least one-quarter of words in the English language have a French influence. In the two lines that the above-mentioned reader sent us, at least six words have French connections (propose, feature, base, language, positive, mail).

A language isn't owned by a country. French belongs as much to Senegal or Canada or anyone else who speaks it as it does to France.

To celebrate the diversity of the English language, this week we'll look at five words that have come into English from five different languages.

-Anu ( anu@wordsmith.org )

All I can say is: Way to go!

And the Word is: F***
Let me say this loud and clear: I'm no swearing person. I don't toss expletives around like frisbees. I don't have to rinse my mouth with profanity-removing wash each night. Yeah, occasionally, I'd let slip something, but that would be considered so bland that even nuns wouldn't really mind. Not to say that I don't know the strong words, but to say that I reserve them, as befits them, for special occasions without diluting their filth.

And yesterday was one such glorious moment. I had to turn in a document, pseudo-HTML saved from Microsoft Word, probably from the Office 2000 family. Because I was working from home, with the ancient 97 MS-Word, I got into such an unparalleled mess with the formatting that the cuss-words came rushing out like bats from a cave trying to frighten the tyro explorer. And at one point Word announced it wanted to show me some hidden characters (which were so hidden that I couldn't see them in the source) and hence changed to some strange gibberish. I'm usually a patient person who believes that any feature in any software can usually be turned off or on: all you need to do is to find the right option or setting. Not this time. And so I sat back and cursed like a Marine released from maun-vrat. I could've landed lead roles in Four Weddings and a Funeral or atleast Platoon, such was the prolific nature of my output. I surprised myself to no end: having always doubted the presence of bad-ass fire in my stomach, this was an unlikely revelation. I spent two hours on the blasted document, needing to send the doc in time to get ready for class. I usually try and substitute the censorious euphemism "blip" but I learnt that on some days, it is best to get the f***ing words out in true expression of what one feels.

These guys are putting up a collection of posts entitled Blog Mela, by Indian bloggers, mirrored here. Finding a few familiar names in the Mela collections.

Caught Vivek's (as in the Tamil comedy actor) ad for Mirinda that does a take-off on Aamir Khan's yaara da tashan. It is quite hilarious. The first time I've seen a spoofy plotline for a Tamil cola ad.

Unfinished business

This was the first time he had set foot in a truly international airport of mega-proportions, and though he had hoped to remain blasé about whatever wonders the Western world had to throw at him, he was suitably impressed. Taking the shuttle coach to Terminal 2C, it seemed to him that the longwinded route eked out by the shuttle was an excuse by the Charles de Gaulle airport authority to show off its massive spread, but he was happy to drink in the large, purposefully-built facilities in the company of the steam-exhaling international traveller who was GOING SOMEWHERE IMPORTANT.

Having settled down in a bucket seat after the routine frisking, he opened his copy of Le Monde, intended to help him recollect his smattering of high-school French. He had gained a few valuable hours travelling ahead of the sun and he wanted to make good use of it of his short descent on French concrete-and-ceramic. A peek-in at Duty-Free, more window than actual shopping was plan B, in case he wanted to exercise his legs. Paris, more than any other city he had seen, seemed to be the epitome of the modern internationalism: with the multi-racial and multi-lingual audio-visual proofs endorsing CDG as a hub of cross-culture. The stereotypical Indian swarm seemed curiously absent, as he panned over the mass of heads filtering for the dark-haired and tan-skinned. It was the earrings that called his attention to her: the dangling kunjalams announcing not just nationality but also offering a narrowing-down in region.

She seemed pretty without sticking out in a crowd; that's what he made of the view from his seat two rows back, of course. Sometimes it was best to leave the notion of prettiness there, too often he had spoilt the sweet sense of imagination by gazing at faces. But he soon realized he wouldn't be disappointed with this sighting as it slowly dawned on him that he was seeing her again after 5 years.

Memories rushing back at him mimicking the frenzy of the last-minute boarders at a nearby terminal: of being paired in college group dances, of hot coffee and shared samosas, of scratching around for the perfect birthday gift. Of measured hope and sceptical aspirations. Of her expressive eyebrows and her quirky collection of jotter pens. She would be feeling rather cold in this air-conditioned airport suite, he realised, their friendship had made him privy to the everyday minutiae that comes from being together for periods just a fraction greater than the average casual acquaintance.

"Here of all the places!" he couldn't help repeating to himself as she smoothed her hair back in that familiar gesture of hers. After he had bid goodbye to her on her birthday with the heavy knowledge that the bonds of their (what do you call it?) relationship would probably not be sustained with the mere glue of an email from an overseas University. He, with his usual sense of un-impeccable timing, had not been able to talk about it. It could not be easily broached in the ephemeralness of an instant message, but the thought would tug away in the recesses of him mind, only to pop in ahead of him now, between him and two rows ahead.

Spontaneity was better in such situations, but having been denied that luxury, he had to decide in cold thought whether he should walk up to her (of course, he should: so what if they had been too busy to keep in contact?) and if pressed by the clock, to introduce without much prelude, the long-pending question? He took a deep, meditative breath: how badly did he want to talk about it? Would he rue the missed chance if she were to hear a call for her destination (god knows where to now) in the next ten minutes, while he ruminated over aspects and summoned his mental faculties? It was probably the setting: given the familiarity of a Puneri restaurant, he wouldn't have seemed so tied up, but that's what he imagined. It could even be easier, they would be paradoxically alone in this mass of suitcase-pulling, sleep-yearning, uninterested voyagers.

He stood up with an abrupt jerk, the Le Monde falling to the floor. Hopping past the legs of his Latin-American looking neighbour, he made his way to the aisle. And hesitated. Thinking of what he had to say, right from the exclamation of surprise to what he would ask about her present state of living. And then perhaps... His demeanour seemed to derive strength from this structure of thoughts and he stepped forward, trying to look nonchalant, and failing at it. As he got to her row, he saw her look in his direction: now there was no turning back from unfinished business.

I just realised: what I'm waiting for is an Epiphany.

What keeps a police dog going?

(The opportunity to reflect on the motivations of a canine cop presents itself at the University Circle signal: a representative from the back of a police van ahead of me provokes the question)

Why does he do it? Does he understand the great service he is providing? Or is it pure training, a conditioning of his doggy mind achieved over months of instruction, followed by the meat-bowl? Surely, the timings of the job are not settled or pleasant, so say its human counterparts (not the kutte kameene of the human worlds, but the men suffixed in the police-* ). Nor is the potential criminal-customer-force likely to be appreciative of these working conditions. But does Zanjeer crib while being asked to perform mal-odoriferous tasks at airports at 1.00 a.m. or does he wag his tail to keep his pension benefits intact? If we knew more about what makes them tick and perform their job decently, perhaps we could get more of them to replace the disgruntled parts of the force, and learn how to civilize the savage 21st century working methods. And are they the least corruptible members of any squad, only likely to be derailed by the possible of the juicy bone? I read somewhere that the dog-handlers are encouraged not to get too close to their dogs, for no one knows in the dangerous business of law-and-order, who may fall next.

(The lights decide to switch to green: the van ahead speeds away)

Perhaps, he does it for the view from the back of the open van, with the perk of the air gushing through his collar on a hot sunny day.

All my life, I've usually been put in positions of extreme solitude: it's as if I've been in training for it. One such phase flits through right now. Means less and less human contact, like working in some lab on the moon in an Arthur C Clarke story. And, he comes back to be my biggest companion, floating around, unbanished by any melody-running-from-earphone-to-phone, providing entertainment, asking tough questions and providing the hug after inducing the down-in-the-dumps: my own jetsam-flotsam of thoughts swirling around in an often uncontrollable Molotov cocktail with unpredictable results. My mind. Like Lecter's memory palace or Andy Dufreane's musical retreat, it doubles up as refuge or as instigator.

It tugs at sanity and also reinforces sense. Sticking by me, conjoined as a twin.

Home, Joy, Jug-dish

The tagline for this one should have read:
They've lost their Home. You lose your Joy. (And Jug-dish is just me trying to be clever).

Savouring the pleasures of in-flight entertainment on the Paris-bound flight, I ran into this bland-as-befits-Continental-cuisine film debut-directed, some say, by the same man who made his acting debut in Saaransh though I refuse to believe that. This must have been Anupam Care-not.
The problems with Om Jai Jagdish is that neither is it a good film, but more sadly, nor is it a really bad, awful, despicable film. It just makes no sense at every level: It wants to be something but doesn't know how to apart from dressing like the target. It is so feeble that even passionate criticism is blunted into a sopoforic dismissal. Here are a few reasons to partake of the offerings from the Jug & dish:

- To see how Mahima Chaudhari can go from marrying a well-scrubbed Anil Kapoor (who no doubt buys licensed versions of Windows for his home PC - that nice a man) in frame 33 to playing with her 10(?) year old son in frame 35: the son probably was a wedding gift in frame 34 which I missed when I was reaching out for the orange juice.

- To indulge in Fardeen Khan's dream academic life: heavily subsidised, hence leading to the loss of the Home. Because he brings home foreign-bred bahu (Come in Urmila-jee) who prefers mineral over Municipality in water, he causes the rifts. They do have one enduring quality: They possess white-and-cream colour coordinated clothes just in time to participate in a family ballad.

- To see how one family seems to have run away with Akhand-Bharat's share of sincerety, software and automotible talents: Anil Kapoor forgot to remove the label of "righteous indignation", Baby B even makes an Ursula Andress-like appearance from the waves in his quest to "make a software better than Windows in 100 seconds", and Fardeen Khan's spanner is proof that he built the fastest car ever.

- In trying to lure the software-weaned-masses of the 21st century from Quake to the theatres, Baby-B essays a challenging (and encrypted) role, clanking at his keyboard to break into the college computer to retrieve question papers for his friends (a file named Question-Papers-for-tomorrow's-exam just to help them, of course) and setting up a webcam to show mankind what progress was all about, ultimately resulting in the greatest piece of code in the history of mankind: Om, the eponymously titled intrusion-detection program that succeeds in retrieving the Home directory from venal villains. I was sobbing into my kerchief: QA apparently couldn't find a single bug in it and was hence laid off, a poignant reminder of what Indian software talent can do, especially in 100 seconds.

I can go on singing these odes, but will refrain out of a sense of respect for Waheeda Rehman (did she need the money?). Tara Sharma reportedly used up a lot of sun-lotion and didn't know whether she misplaced her hanky or costume. Urmila Matondkar was the only one, according to me, to get it right: her whiney, stereotypical-I-forgot-how-to-sing-Om-J-J-unlike-Rani-Mukherjee atleast made you want to switch to something else. The rest just induced a strange stupor.

Post-script: Considering that the return journey featured Chor Machaye Shor, OJJ was a stirring example of all that is right with the Hindi Film industry. And last I heard, the Universities of Maharashtra had agreed to include this film in the essential subjects of the computer engineering curriculum.

"Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep" :: Scott Adams
This addition joins my Quote Hanger (on the right sidebar).

It's funny how the same words can evoke different things for different people. Currently on the third leg of the Hannibal trilogy by Thomas Harris, I noticed how he uses the word "steam" to convey a sense of the cold. I have always associated the word with "hot", "piping", even "anger". As in "she lifted the steaming idlis from the cooker". Whereas he invokes it as in "Breath steaming in the cool of the winter air".
Essentially a case of some warm air meeting something cold air, but for me it was usually "very hot meeting normal" against his "lukewarm meeting cold".
Conditioning.

NDTV's future
Since NDTV's contract to provide content for Star News ended on the 31st of March, major developments are starting to happen in the world of the Indian news channels.
NDTV finally cashes in on its extremely valued brandname, with 2 new channels in Hindi & English. More information from this message directly from the horse's mouth i.e Prannoy Roy speaks (seems we'll be seeing more of him in front of the camera again). The big news in that announcement is the return of the extremely popular The World This Week which introduced quality news programming into our lives (even on Doordarshan) on Friday nights. What's not clear to me is when the channels come on air.
Meanwhile, the post-NDTV Star News has a modified logo with the "News" in the logo written in Devanagari and new anchors (some lured away from rival Hindi news channels), in keeping with its almost 100% Hindi broadcasts.
Also, very quietly and lost in all of this, Sahara has launched a news channel of its own (which can be spotted in the inevitable channel surf spray).

Couple of more friends seen with their thoughts in the blog-space:

Pooja Shirolikar talks about You and I.
And Entelechy has a collection of passages and poetry, a theme-based bibliophilic blog.

Suhasini is one of those assertive, capable-of-significant-acting-performances (Sindhu Bhairavi being one of the most noted ones) actresses that you get from time to time: a quality that does restrict their opportunities in the commercial stories universe. And like Shobhana, Suhasini has got films in her family: the daughter of Charuhassan and niece of Kamalhassan and of course, wife to Mani Ratnam. Almost a decade ago, she made her directorial debut with her film Indira, a thoroughly well made film that keeps your faith in film-making alive.

Indira is placed in the rural village setting, more accurately the inter-caste, inter-family ridden-with-strife atmosphere that is unfamiliar to urban-types like me. A more famous and dramatic example of a Tamil film in such a milieu would be Bharathan's Thevar Magan of course. In short, veshtis and aruvals and people rushing through green rice fields dominate the screenplay's more intense moments. Indira features similar components to the frame, but its novelty is about how a woman is thrown into such a traditionally male dominated and usually intimidating setting. The story is optimistic and the denouement is comforting, good and bad are clearly identified, and the movie-experience is very satisfying. If I remember correctly, Santosh Sivan is the cinematographer (In the usual Mani Ratnam crew of that time, only the word "Suhasini" seems prefixed additionally to the Director's name, and rarely has any director, leave alone a lady director, had such ample resources to support her in her debut) and his sweeps over the fields are of an assured quality. The score is one of the best of Rahman's career; a folksy, offbeat set of songs with the standout Nila that gave Harini her first big hit. The cast is very impressive, the ensemble providing excellent company to the lead actress; Nasser, Arvind Swamy, Radha Ravi et al deliver. The eponymous actress was quite a talented find: Anuradha Hassan (a niece of Suhasini's though I still don't know the exact familial connection) performs in a standout performance in what seems to be her debut. Where she disappeared after that, I don't know, but she recently re-appeared in a TV serial made by surprise, surprise, Suhasini. In fact, having watched this, I wondered why many of these naturally talented people don't give us more to cheer these days: where are Arvind Swamy, Anu Hassan and the director Suhasini these days?

Unfortunately, films like Indira will not go down in cinematic history: neither fame nor notoriety will highlight its name in a cinematic encyclopaedia. One more example of the many better-than-average films that won't get seen by too many outside its small region of exhibition. Though it was dubbed into Priyanka for Hindi audiences (a trend of the mid-90s started by Mani Ratnam), there was no way it could do well in a mass release elsewhere: the localized settings would not make into the heads of the populace. But atleast the viewer that can overcome the language barrier and is willing to stretch a little to watch a good film would not be disappointed with Indira.

Repetition, repetition
This has been commented upon in the past and thrashed out at length in different fora, but I felt compelled to talk about it again. (Almost?) Every A.R.Rahman music score seems to have a song in which the lyrics have two repetitions of the first word or principal refrain. The number and consistency of such occurences is quite startling. By way of examples: Chinna Chinna Aasai, Rukmani Rukmani: Roja, Ghanana Ghanana: Lagaan, Humma Humma, Uyire Uyire: Bombay, Tanha Tanha: Rangeela...: the list is large in number.
I wouldn't know if this is a conscious decision between the lyricists working with this music director, or it is an unconscious expression of what works in the world of popular film music. Is it a spillover of the ad jingle making instincts? Does it contribute to a certain degree of lyrical dumbing down that puts forward catchy, syllable repetitions and alliterations? It does not always indicate dumbing down of course, for I wouldn't consider Thamizha Thamizha (Roja) or Kandukondain Kandukondain to have poor quality lyrics. But it is an interesting aspect to the composer's body of work over a decade that does merit thought.

After a while, got the chance to listen to Sambo Sambo from Puthiya Mugam once more. Something in it greatly appeals to me, and I cannot put my finger on it. Suits the situation perfectly, a gangster's adda with the molls prancing around. Light percussions, a quick start to the song without the customary lengthy instrumental prelude, a good addition to what we used to call light music about 10 years ago.

Quietly, like a devotee gathering flowers...
--Translated from Tamil
Another appealing simile.

Ullu kahi.n ka

Life is now 180 degrees out of phase.
"Look! There's Ursa Major!" is more of a reality than "It's 37 degrees C today too".
Venus stands transfixed in the morning sky than the Sun glaring into my eyes.
Breaking News happens somewhere in Chicago rather than on a cricket field in Nagpur.
Married to the thought of sweet, uninterrupted sleep.
Counting down to 6.00 a.m...
Coffee at 3.00, 12 hours behind schedule, with the perfect,uninterrupted view of the empty roads.
Caffeine is a delusional attempt at keeping Morpheus at arm's length.
Toothpaste on the brush, twice, at 8 and at 4 like some special news bulletins.
Thursday feeling like Wednesday.
Human contact reduced by 67%.
Staying up all morning to watch a vaunted movie!
Homer at 3.30, Frasier at 5.00, Jerry at 6.30!
Food, like a struggler in entertainment, does not know when it's on next.
No sense of martyrdom or challenge, just conscious of a quiet survival instinct that doesn't know if it is overdoing its bravado or making too much out of an inconvenience.

They beckoned, they enticed. With money in my pocket and a willingness to spend, often lavishly, without the customary caution and comparison that would have permeated purchasing back home, I was pulled into a web: invisible threads luring my attention. "Take me" they cried, and who could resist the glittering temptation? I succumbed. Later, I recovered just in time to re-fasten the grip I had rapidly lost on my money-purse: but the damage had been done.
That's what happens when I go to a new place and find bookstores all around me: garrisons of summoning books, "come-here-to-me" enticers in Dawson Street & O'Connell Street with Eason's & Reads (not as ubiquitous as Burger King outlets, but more than in your average city): The books were not very cheap, but a strange surge of shopping mania swept me and I found myself holding books and wanting to buy so many of them: I would have never dared to contemplate spending so much in normal circumstances. Since, I told myself, I wasn't going home with any Irish-chaap clothes or Japanese electronic goods, might as well splurge on books. After the first binge, I had tasted the sweetly addictive sense of piling up books. At some point, I decided to break free of this very scary mercantile obsession: never having been a "shopping type", the strange gravitation to a store to browse and purchase was novel and even exciting!
But in summary, here's all the stuff I got. I bought them for various reasons: of non-availability back home, of smelling a good bargain (one of the days was World Book Day providing a discount opportunity, also note that "bargain" may not, translated into rupees, seem the right word), of old favourites in a flea market sale and plain "I've got the money, let me buy the book" arrogance.

The books were:

The Satanic Verses: Salman Rushdie
The Hannibal Lecter trilogy: Red Dragon, The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal: Thomas Harris
Fermat's Last Theorem: Simon Singh
Six Easy Pieces: Richard Feynman
The Salmon of Doubt: Douglas Adams
The Blind Watchmaker: Richard Dawkins
Darwin's Dangerous Idea: Daniel C. Dennett
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?: Philip K.Dick
Adolf Hitler: My part in his downfall: Spike Milligan
Stanley Kubrick: A Biography: John Baxter
and two more chota-mota books.

But the find of the trip, though not a book, was undoubtedly the Radio version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Fit One to Fit Six. I didn't get Phantom's in the Brain inspite of some frantic hunting, but will probably need to order it. The only problem is: when will I read all these books...

Post it
Though people have been so unusually forgiving this time, the fact remains that we lost by a large margin, we had more than just can be explained by an off day and there wasn't much left even to pray after the first 10 overs had gone by.
It was easily the biggest match in terms of importance I watched in my life, but for most of the time, it quite didn't seem that way, nor did it turn out that day. This World Cup has been cruelly severe on any weaknesses, fully shorn of any romantic results and the mild, weak and meek had no gifts coming their way. Contrast this to earlier Cups: Pakistan's incredible escape from England thanks to the showers that also unceremoniously dumped the South Africans like an irate schoolmaster mercilessly failing the class dunce not once but twice. Or a fist pumping, "Comm-onnn" yelling, leg break turning Shane Warne getting rid of Gary Kirsten while the Turbanator couldn't believe his eyes on this dual-in-one spinning/seaming wicket at The Wanderers. Or Kapil Dev's unrecorded moment of magic at Tunbridge Wells: contrast it to a well watched Fleming against the South Africans (why are they in every wow-story in the Cups?). Or at least a modern and aging Arjuna late cutting to third man to complete the grudge that began with many allegations involving colours, ancestries and most of all, the saga of the right-elbowed bowler and the right outstreched hand of a portly man: All we got close this time was Ganguly waving goodbye to the Kiwis. Rhodes broken, Donald shaken and stirred, De Silva running out, Warne medicated, Hussain? na-ssir!, What are the memories of this World Cup? Rain teasing millions of Indians threatening to be the saviour in the final? The quickly clearing clouds stamped home the message: expect no freebies.

And for the umpteenth time, yes, we got it dead right by bowling first, for proof, please refer the New Zealand v India match in the Super Sixes. There on a pitch that seemed more placid than at the final, Ganguly called correctly with Zaheer & co. reducing the pre-tourney tormentors to 140-odd. I say this though I believe in big games it is better to bat first and let the opposition chase: it only takes 10 good balls to get 10 wickets, even if the total is 150, but chasing 350+ is going to probably happen only once in the history of the game.
For those who have only watched the final, it would be an abject display of India's past failings, but we believers would have to look at the overall tournament and say: "Not too bad". But even we must remember: "Opportunities like these don't come knocking each day!". Look at Pakistan: 4 years ago, steaming down the pitch and now en masse exiles. Except for New Zealand and India (that too over the last 18 months), every team has gone downhill. Except for Australia, who are increasingly being left out of everyone's thoughts about cricket because they've managed to raise themselves psychologically into a bracket above the rest. Zimbabwe (pardon the unkind pun) de-Flowered after losing Johnson and Goodwin earlier, South Africa mentally disintegrating, so much that for the first time probably since the Nawab of Pataudi, the cricket world sees a young captain, chosen more for his brashness (Aussie-copying?), an admission of empty barrels, England who are great cricketers only in the fertile minds of the English press, the Lankans bumbling their way about, and the Windies trying their best to undo their gains of the last year. It has got so bad for the Pakistanis that even the Indians are feeling sympathetic for them. Will we see the Wasim magic again? Me thinks not.

With all the nosediving of cricketing standards being brutally exposed in the World Cup by upstarts and champions alike, the only happy time was had by the Indian fans. Gone were the days when we would hope to sneak into the next round through the cat-door, hoping to metamorphose into a lion (for one day only) in order to win the finals: we, more than anyone else (barring our immediate Western neighbours) have taken full advantage of the "uncertainties of cricket". This time, we kicked the door open, marched in boldly, much in the vein of Yuvraj Singh leaping over the gates at Lord's under the noses of the snooty gatekeepers that magic day in the Natwest Trophy. And ironically, the one thing that we had harnessed, we chose to leave at the hotel rooms: our strength of mind. Indian teams of the past hardly expected to win: when it happened, there was always something left unexplained, unrepeatable, defying analysis. This time, it was un-miraculous, expected, players saying "kya yaar, Kenya se kyu.n haarenge, mai.n dikhaataa huu.n 40 for 3 se kaise jeetna hai.n". And that's the way it was, hiccups dissolving in measured sips of water. That's why the final baffled. Much in the mould of the mysterious Ronaldo seizures of 1998 afflicting more than a player but a team. But by assigning mystery, one places the defeat outside the scope of analysis. Which is wrong. Say it, we made a big howler. We didn't think. We lost it big time. We didn't say to ourselves "Do we want to let a mere attack of nerves spoil it for us?". We went blank, line-and-length lessons of a lifetime going poof! on the pitch. Srinath's late 90s brand of infuriating bowling re-incarnated. All this on a pitch that was assisting even spin! That's why we had to bowl first. And why did we even think about sledging! Tulsi Bhabi trying to play Bhiku Mhatre. I'm surprised Hayden didn't say "Tum jis school ke vidhyaarthii ho, hum us school ke headmaster reh chuke hai.n". But, giving credit to the Aussies, it was a near perfect batting display. An occasion when the phrase near chanceless innings applies not just to an individual but to the entire team. It was like being in a very, very bad dream, as an Indian spectator. It was too perfect to be real, but it was, it was. I cannot remember anyone getting to 300 plus scores losing only 2 wickets. Heck, they didn't lose wickets even in the slog overs. That batting display was a miracle, too superhuman even for the Aussies. But I saw it happen too.
Interestingly, the Indians fought, so much that probably the only person to take things rashly was Sachin Tendulkar. Even when Pakistan put up 314 in Dhaka (another innings that comes close to the final in terms of its depressingly (for an Indian) merciless innings), arguably, no one except Sachin, Saurav and Robin thought we would make it. The regularity of chasing 300-pluses meant that this team wouldn't mind taking a shot at it, but we've seem to have hit the magic thresholds in the 300 region that will be chipped away at in the manner of the 4-minute mile or the 10 second sprints, there will not be a mega-improvement in the psychological steeliness required for one attempting these Herculean, sporting tasks.

Messrs. John Wright & Co. came close but failed by a distance. In the process, they taught us interesting lessons: never take your eyes of the ball, go for your opportunities when they come because the rivers don't part to make way for you every time. They were right in talking about the final as just another game, thus hoping to rein in the monster, but failed to pull it off in reality. Little did Sandy Berger know that the threads would come loose after withstanding one buffet after another. We are the real story of the 2003 World Cup: we made the conversations interesting and in our loss, we have provoked more thought. But where will we go from here? I don't believe (unless we have an Australia-like 4 years, going from strength to strength) we'll have a super team again in the next Cup, but seeing that the Sehwags & Nehras emerged from the hinterland in the last 2 years, why not? Srinath won't be there and no Kumble too, maybe no Ganguly, Dravid won't be peaking again. And what does fate really have in store for Sachin Tendulkar? Only 5 digit aggregates and "arguably the best since..." arguments on the trophy cabinet? Will he have a peak or will it be a more spaced out mountain range? Will he get increasingly insecure about his place in the pantheons of gods (for the un-believers will start chirping soon)? The mental battles rage fascinatingly.

Post-script: Can't the people who vigorously slammed Dravid and waited for him to make a major mistake stand up and admit that he did pull off an almost unbelievable effort: no major messups (and what about Boucher & Sangakkara!) while maintaining a high average. This, for me, will be the most cherished memory of this underrated cricketer's, one of India's finest ever, contributions to his country's cricket. Hopefully, they will go back to dropping the seventh batsman and let Parthiv Patel, well, flower Flower-like.

Whatever be the result tomorrow, in my opinion the Indian cricket team has gone farther than any other team before it: drawing whoops of pleasure from the lay cricket watcher, but a quiet I-told-you-so from the serious Indian fan.
I've considered my loyal following of the team and I have to permit a sense of euphoria that I can share with some of my friends, Gaurav & Harish in particular, our belief has been vindicated to a large degree, I'm sure a feeling we share with not too many prior to the Cup. The reasons for our optimism were simple: the talent was too impressive to ignore. This has been the team that has achieved the most: Test matches won abroad (no great feat, but compared to the non-achievements of the past, a big change in fortunes), some great turnaround wins that will go down in collective cricket memory. They have just seemed to break with the past, and I'm happy Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, Saurav Ganguly and John Wright have found themselves a team that can punctuate instead of puncturing their aspirations to cricketing greatness in their own chosen way. And for doing it without needing to be too ruffian-like like some other *aggressive* teams: not flinching in the face of the sledger but with no need to resort to the same behaviour.
That's why I still find it extremely shameful how people trashed the same team after the Australian loss: so what if they lose, badly at that? Who gives us the right to throw tar at a young cricketer's house? Don't people make mistakes in their own lives? These idiots surrendered their sense of worth to a game of cricket and derive their so-called national pride from a six over third man. No one asked them to, but they did. How difficult is it to take a skier staring into a pack of high-watted lights while a mob is ready to judge your sincerety on whether you can hold it in your sweaty palms, do we know? And when you consider this team has hardly gone about shouting down journalists' mikes claiming to be the "best" (and then getting a pasting from the very next day). So what if they appear in endorsements? Isn't it their right to make a living for themselves, to exploit their own skills for their own economic reasons: don't we try and use our own academic training to attempt pretty much the same. And no cricketer asks his ad to be aired the ironic & annoying moment after he has been dismissed. Still we gun for them. How consistent is our performance in our own lives?
Of late, I've been able to invest less emotionally in the game of cricket and India's performances in it. It has made it more easier to watch the game. Remember, our generation grew up with the cricket boom, and endured the many disappointments of Sharjah & World Cup fiascos & idols-turned-ordinary-men & the crassness of crowds and cricketers and administrators alike. Finally, we have a chance to legitimately claim we're among the top three nations in this beloved sport of ours, let's not spoil it by yo-yoing with the unpredictable results.
And hopefully, by about 9.30 pm on the 23rd of March, 2003, the xxx3 year trend ('83: World cup, '93: Hero Cup) will have found more takers and Sachin Tendulkar will not have one notable fact attached to his valiant name: of being the greatest player never to win a World Cup.
While it hasn't been the most thrilling Cup, it has given us a great deal already. And if we simply seem destined to win, even the Indian team can't help but fulfil that?

Possibility:
Kenya beats India.
The final between Kenya & Australia (including the reserve day) is rained off.
Kenya are joint World Champions.

At 23, sitting at a desk 2 continents away from home, this is not the best thing to read right now: brings me back to all those questions that continue to whirr away just out of focus in the back of my mind-frame.
Was led into it by this Slashdot story.

And while on the subject:
COUNTER GIRL
(zombie like)
Smile, you're at Smiley's would
you like to try our new bacon and
egg fajita, just a dollar twenty-
nine for a limited time only?

LESTER
Actually, I'd like to fill out an
application.

She stares at him, confused by his age and attire.

COUNTER GIRL
There's not jobs for manager, it's
just for counter.

LESTER
Good. I'm looking for the least
possible amount of responsibility.

:: American Beauty

In response to Anu Garg's appeal on his successful mailing list, A Word A Day, to spread the word on his book.

.........................................................................
Here are details about the book:

A Word A Day: A Romp Through Some of the Most Unusual and Intriguing Words
ISBN: 0471230324
http://amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0471230324/ws00-20/

"A delightful, quirky collection."
-The New York Times, Nov 28, 2002

"Indefatigably jaunty hilarity."
-The Observer, Jan 19, 2003

"Part reference work, part entertainment, English teachers, addicts of
Scrabble, solvers of crossword puzzles, and other bibliophages will enjoy
this book."
-Times Literary Supplement, Jan 21, 2003

"Triggers the kind of passionate reaction that actors, authors and
memoirists would die for."
-USA Today, Jan 1, 2003

See all reviews at http://wordsmith.org/awad/book.html

Get the book at your local bookshop or online at:
http://amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0471230324/ws00-20/

.........................................................................

Hopefully coming soon:

Lo mei.n aa gayaa!
Home, Joy, Jug-dish
The Booktaker
8 hours
Catch me if you can
Tipsy Irishmen
The Glaze
Crib-Brit
Documentaries

The biggest days in the COEPian social calendar are here. The college's annual gathering begins today (I think).
And Sunday is the biggest day with Chakravyuh, COEP's own quiz, now in its Third Edition (little khushi ke aa.nsuu here). The Sabyasachi trophy will go out to the winner of this Open Quiz. The Abhimanyu trophy will be claimed by the best COEPian quizzer in a Mastermind style intra-COEPian event. I won't be there (boo-hoo), and I'm sure to miss a great show. The organizers have promised a super show and a little peek under the tent has revealed a special format, but my lips are sealed...

And to round it all off: The 75th Annual Regatta of the COEP Boat Club will literally light up the Mula river the same evening. Will miss the Kayaks, Arrow Formation & the glorious Punt Formation (here's hoping this year's show will be better than before).
Awaaz COEPcha!