More than an Average Middle-class Down to Earth Mustang Rider

Boise is blanketed by snow today, giving it that very northern European feel or maybe it is my mind humoring my pro-European sentiment. Idahoans in this part of the state went to bed last night (well some didn’t I guess since yesterday was Mardi Gras, but those that did) hoping to drive into the sun as they set about to earn their bread and butter for the day, and do the same roughly eight hours later when they got back home (assuming most people with jobs aren’t homeless). However, they woke up today to find everything white.

As much as I detest the snow, I cannot deny the fact that snow brings about certain calmness to the landscape. It’s almost as if the land has just smoked a joint and is fulfilling some long-forgotten vow of silence. As I was driving to work today, there was a very very very light snow falling. It was almost as light as rain. This uncovers a very sinister side behind the calm façade I just referred to. Till I explain my theory you’ll probably safely assume the snow has frozen my brain. So here goes …

This a conspiracy between Snow (if you are a visual person, think of Snow as a spitting image of the architect of the Matrix, dressed in white sinister, spelt E-V-I-L) and the authorities whose job profile is to not salt the non-Highway roads here. They are out to get the average middle-class down to earth Mustang rider on the streets of Boise (if you are an aural person, think of The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” playing in the background). The scenery is made all beautiful and stuff. Snow takes care of that, thus distracting the average middle-class down to earth Mustang rider, who of course, has a keen interest in aesthetic pleasures.

The very very very light snow makes the roads look just wet, not icy to the average middle-class down to earth Mustang rider, tempting him (yeah, I am not being sexually, thus politically incorrect here – they always are men) to rev the engine with the power of all the two hundred plus horses, as he would on a sunny day when the roads are as dry as Agastya Sen’s humor (no he is not a fourth cousin, but the protagonist of the book I am currently reading – “English, August”). However, being inherently observant, I noticed the ghostly white gleaming conniving ice waiting for the horses to roar and to see the underbelly of the Blue Lady (my Mustang). Also being inherently smart (read paranoid), I took my lady to Hasmukh Bhai (local Indian grocery store owner) to postpone death.

Hasmukh Bhai lived up to his name and gave me a pleasure-filled smile. Something told me that the smile was just a symbol of the happiness caused by beholding a customer this early on a weekday. For a moment, I was distracted by the pain with the realization that it wasn’t specifically my charming personality that had elicited the smile. However, focused as I was, unlike the average middle-class down to earth Mustang rider, I quickly told him about the attempt on my life. The smile vanished and I could see flashes of what I thought and hoped was determination in his eyes

Like all great leaders, Hasmukh Bhai spoke very little. You were supposed to decipher his mood from his many different smiles. Today, he just pointed to where he kept his rice to be sold. My mind, corrupted by capitalism, told me that he would only save my life if I were his first customer, but then, having inherently more vision than the average middle-class down to earth Mustang rider, I realized he was pointing me to refuge. So, I bought two ten pound bags of “Tilda pure Basmati” and placed them in my trunk, over the rear wheels. As I was pulling out of India Foods (Hasmukh Bhai’s den), I thought I noticed a twinkle in the eyes of the great man wearing that far away look when you know you have won the first battle in a long series of wars, when you try to be philosophical, not necessarily successfully, and a smile that seemed to say “Try harder Mister Snow”. What his pointed index finger had earlier reminded me in the shop was that Mustangs are rear-wheel drives. To the pedestrian, this means that riding fast in a Mustang is like running with your shoe laces tied together. Cool explanation, isn’t it? (I can’t really take credit for it. I heard this on Top Gear) Setting some kind of a heavy weight on either rear wheel unties the laces. So, I am alive, and writing this as an explanation to my boss for being late to work.

Mani Ratnam is definitely the Guru

Last weekend I was fortunate enough to be able to watch Guru. I think it is a fascinating story of a fascinating man told in a fascinating way. After all it is a Mani Ratnam film, a name that we have come to associate with excellence in Indian cinema for more than a decade now. You notice his eye for detail in the very beginning of the film when Guru’s childhood unfolds on the screen. The actor cast in the role to play the young Guru is tall with big eyes, with an uncanny resemblance to Abhishek Bachhan.

The scenes shot in Turkey are very classy, including the dresses of the characters, which are in keeping with the times portrayed. Mallika Sherawat looks sexy, yet classy as she swoons to a number from A. R. Rehman with a heavy Arabian influence. It makes the fact that a dancer in Turkey is singing a Hindi song a lot more believable. A special mention for the singers, who did a great job singing such a complex song. The characters’ joy at winning money despite their humble background is expressed very realistically by Abhishek along with Mohan Joshi and the other actor.

From then, the movie flows at a very nice pace, correctly showing the pace in which Guru progresses though the business world and though life. The songs are picturized very well even though most of them are not necessary in the film, and tend to drag the film. Ravi Mennon’s use of color filter in the solo dance sequence enhances the viewing experience and its refreshing to hear Bappi Lahiri’s voice.

The main strength of the film lies in the acting by its carefully chosen cast. Mithun is very effective in short bursts as the righteous enemy. Most people say that Vidya Balan is wasted, but I disagree. I think she has a very important and difficult role, though not necessarily a meaty one. Madhavan is wasted in his role as the young firebrand journalist, though he excels in the romantic scenes with Balan. I am not sure whether the editing floor is responsible for his meager role, or whether Mr. Ratnam lost his character in the midst of the other heavyweights. Arya Babbar plays the ineffective brother-in-law very effectively.

Aishwarya Rai gives a solid performance, just proving that an effective director can really bring her acting abilities to the screen (like Rituparno Ghosh in the past). In any film where the title of the film is the name of its primary character, there is a fear of the protagonist overshadowing the other characters, but Ash more than holds her own, being a rock of support for Abhishek throughout the film. Also, she looks ravishing in the first half, and resembles Kokila Ben almost a 100% in the second.

This is by far Abhishek’s best performance to date. I would put this above his performance in Sarkar, when he was still growing as an actor. He has done his homework very well on Dhirubhai, as can be seen by his nuances with his right hand, putting on weight for the role and a subtle Gujarati accent. Also, the pouting of the lower lip brings a certain credibility to the character. A special mention must be made of the scene when Guru has a heart attack. It looks so real that you actually want to call an ambulance. The court scene is very moving and inspiring though you can see a little bit of his father in him.

Overall an inspiring film and like all Mani Ratnam films, technically very correct, fulfilling the long due call for biographical movies in the Indian film industry. In his illustrious career, I would rate this film a notch lower than Vellunayakan and give it an 8.5/10.

Hello

Hello Raindrop. Can you hear me crying inside

As you give in to gravity and fulfill your destiny

Along with your countless brothers

Lost in your pitter-patter among theirs

Which echoes through the silent corridors of my heart,

And yet makes it quieter?

Unlike Simon, I do not have my poetry to protect me.

If anything, it is like the hostile cousin

Who has joined hands with the enemy

And only makes me realize that I am lost

In my very own corridors of misery

Like a man searching for his own ghost.

It seems like the keys to this room are missing

While pairs of lamps pass by the window teasing

And the window is too tiny to let any light in,

Just big enough to let my eyes wander

In search of that sole beacon of companionship

That can clear my corridors of this eon of an eclipse.

They say light finds a way to darkness

And yet, my eyes grow in the absence of luminance

They say that doors without keys are one day broken

But these seem to have withstood the momentum of time.

They say air fills your lungs till you have to exhale

And yet, mine are as empty as the corridors I mentioned.

Sleep is my only friend, visiting me during this prolonged night

Showing me flashes of that ray which threatens my poetry.

The next time I'll hold on to my only friend

As much as my eyes will let me grope in the darkness.

And ride that ray till the very end

Giving up hope for my beacon's caress.

12/14/2006

Ramblings of an Intoxicated Mind

There's ice on the floor.
Looks like that's pizza.
Could you answer the door?
There's beer in the freezer.

As you read this poem,
You realize weed > alcohol.
I feel like doing an IREM
And Raj says “F@#$ y'all”.

Ash is too hot for words.
Salman got her b4 Vivek.
Way too good for us nerds
And for her we are all wrecks.

Raj is my man.
As B says, he knows how to party.
He expands the horizons of what I can.
Yaar woh to bandiyon ki le li.

I spoke of hope just now
But at the end of the day
I don't care about things that are pakao.
Mujhe karna hai things jinme dam hai.

Vancouver
11/3/2006

The Ride

Looking down the long, winding road
I clasp your hand stronger than ever.
The hand that guides me when mine itches
To take the shortcut to the highway.
The strong grip of those slender fingers of your petite hand
Keeps me off the ramp, down alleys leading to blind lanes.
That fixed, calm and peaceful gaze
Holds me when my mind and heart want to race each other.
Your words contain me when I am stuck in a single lane.
You take away the pain with a single touch
When my senses are reeling during a road rage.

There are countless mountains to climb,
Deserts to cross and rivers to wade.
In my mind there is no more room for fear
As you stay beside me and navigate.
But then why can't the other travelers see you?
Through the tinted glass over their eyes.
Maybe 'cause you are really me, or at least a part of me
And I am really you, or at least a part of you.
Maybe we are like those single moms
Who raise future world leaders
Or that one-armed rock drummer
That everyone keeps talking about.

How can you tell me your exit has come?
That we have to go our separate ways
Henceforth, on this road to obscurity.
I pretend the wind in my hair is impairing my hearing,
But damn that firm grip that holds my hand
And reminds me that I was just a ride,
A passage to the highway,
The highway that leads to nowhere,
Unlike what the map and the passersby say.

So I drop you off and you act out a ritual
As if we were lovers,
One that would have made Byron blush.
I put up a front as strong as the wind
But then, when alone, my hand falters
Without the support of yours.
I skid and flip on the asphalt
Laid out like roadkill
With no sense, no purpose, no direction no more
Realizing that my destination was right next to me
During the ride of my life.
And now I have a highway to get to
But no destination to go to.

10/7/06

Inertia of Ignorance

I am a warrior, a warrior for peace

A warrior for a better life

A warrior for a little food and a little shelter

A warrior for social justice

For utter dignity

For the man on the street,

Battling with my pen

On my white coarse canvass

Against war, poverty

And the powers that be.

But there’s much more war and poverty

Than warriors dishing out poetry

To counter the oppression

To create much of an impression.

The canvass doesn’t reach its audience.

And we need more canvasses

And many more warriors brandishing pens.

So shake off this inertia of ignorance

My fellow warriors, and hand each other those pens

So that we can march against the enemy

And force its eyes on the harsh reality of our canvasses

So that our children don’t need to fight

Tomorrow for everybody’s rights,

So that the overall darkness is less than the light.

And the sounds of laughter drown the silence

That haunts us today.

4/24/06

Son of a FOB

This poem was written in jest and is not to be taken seriously.

Hey, you, Son of a FOB

This song’s for you while we steal your job.

This country’s adopted son

Outwardly your culture you may shun,

But secretly you like Tikka Masala

And movies of Rani and Aishwarya

You grew up twirling your Dad’s chest hair

And now you leave him in Old Age Care,

Shaving your own chest

With Silicon in your breast.

You might as well wear bangles

And cut off the peanut that dangles

Between your shaved silky legs

And start laying eggs.

Goras call you “Washer”

Desis call you “Wiper”

Even in the bathroom you are confused

Coz when you asked for a brain, even God refused.

You suck at cricket and baseball too

About business you don’t have a clue.

You are a shame to Genetic Code

As your parent’s tricks, you couldn’t download.

Oh what a waste of the Desi mind

Coz of all of you ABCD kind.

Confused you will always be

And never can draw your Family Tree.

How Do You Sleep?

As you rev the engine of your convertible

Have you ever thought of the blisters on the feet

Of the kids who tried to clean its windshield at a traffic light?

As you waltz under magnificent chandeliers

Do you think of the fraction of a generation

Being raised in support of lampposts all over the nation?

When you throw away half your food

Do you think of the urchins that lurk around the garbage neighborhood?

While you take measured sips of your herbal tea,

Do you think of little Raju who supports his family

Shuttling from kiosk sized shops, wearing almost nothing

Serving tea on early winter mornings?

When you show off the latest fashion

Do you think of the sweatshops and the way they are run?

When you tie the laces of your pair of black leather CK’s,

Have you ever thought of the boys who begged you to let him shine them?

As you lie down on your soft feather bed,

Have you ever thought of the youngest practitioners

Forced into the world’s oldest trade?

How do you sleep at night

When you think of all in the world that’s not right?

4/20/06

The Guest

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

Had been one for a long long time, or so it felt

His only friends being the various instances in his memory

Of a previous life in a different century.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

His hosts had entertained him well.

Lots of gifts – the bodily scars and the limp

Had been products of their kindness

So that he had never had a dull moment.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

His hair was long and had turned grey

His ribs were visible through his scarred skin

He walked with a limp –

An ironic shadow of his former uniformed self.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

He had lost count of time

And Time had lost count of him.

Did they even know he was still breathing?

His son must be grown-up by now.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

A guest who wanted to go home,

A guest who wanted to walk on the soil of his motherland.

A guest known to us simply as a POW.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

7/25/05