Palmist: A short story

His hand stretches out in mine, the taut fingers bent backward on their joints. They taper into nails as sharp as his gaze, piercing through mine. He munches on a big fat chicken burger but his attention is all on me. It’s poetic, this wordless conversation; all his senses are directed at me and I pretend to be focussing on the lines on his hand instead.

He’s the hard-to-play type.

It is rare that one comes across a skeptic like him in my profession. You see, much like godmen and swindlers, a palmist like me only attracts the impressionable and the faint at heart. These are people who hand you over their belief readily. Almost too readily at times, at the expense of their hard-earned wealth. But then, I cannot do without them; as they say in Hindi, “पापी पेट का सवाल है”.

But this guy is not one of them. He looks at me with poorly-disguised disbelief and a conceited expression. He wears doubt on his sleeve, quite literally so: A faded badge on his worn-out school jacket proclaims, “Question everything.” His sidekick girlfriends giggle and stare at my haggardly appearance, ready to be amazed and amused by my prophetic insights. The kid’s here to challenge me, a seemingly illiterate roadside palmist, to reveal accurate details about his past and future by studying the lines on his palms. Sound like such an arbitrary association, right: between lines on one’s hand and their fortune? It appears very far-fetched when put that way, I grant you that. But look at it from where I’m seated, and the truth seems less mystical.

I survey my surrounding one last time before diving straight into specimen’s hand: it’s time for serious work. My frowned brow and steady stare is as much theatrics as it is actual concentration, and these punks are going to know why, very soon.

Pallid, stretched out fingers. Square at ends, untidily grazed nails: Easily excitable, impatient and adventurous; often the archetype of an overenthusiastic schoolboy out to impress girls...like this guy right here.

“I see,” I say, in my most profound-sounding voice, “that you have had your ups and downs in life.”

“Everyone has,” he snaps. “Don’t fleece me, lady. Live up to the 10 rupees I’ve paid you.” Cue laughter from his minion fangirls. He takes a big bite of the burger, his interest wavering.

I smile to myself. I like a challenge once a while; it gets boring when everyone agrees with you.

“Give me a moment, साहब,” I speak feebly, playing my part to the T and dig into his palm once more. “Ooh, but there’s trouble!” I exclaim for effect. I bet he shudders for a second before recovering.

“Ya, right,” he laughs.

Dirt sticking to the inside of nails, white patches indicating leukonychia: deficient diet, untidiness and indifference to personal grooming. Since he’s definitely not a day more than 15 and he’s wearing a school jacket, it’s highly unlikely that he lives away from home. Yes, there’s that off-chance of him belonging to a boarding school, but given that there are very few of those in the city and that no institution with boarding facility would allow its pre-adult residents out in the evening with members of the opposite sex is highly unlikely, hence, the obvious answer is that there is no one to look after him at home. It hasn’t been a recent absence, though; he hasn’t had time to set it into his nail-cleaning routine –

“What happened, aunty? Why so silent? Is your ‘sight’ failing you?” he jeers. Thunderous laughter again.

I smile defenselessly

.

“The lines never lie, sir,” I speak, stretching the moment. “If you would be so kind to give me a moment of contemplation…” I trail off and look into the depths of his hands again. I turn them around.

Parched skin, blackened knuckles, premature wrinkling: signs of further lack of grooming. And the final nail in the coffin: high digit ratio between lengths of ring finger and index finger, which indicates feminine traits. These people are generally attracted to more masculine better halves, among other attributes like natural propensity to obesity, heart disease, depression and so on…

“Are you even trying, lady?” He asks, his patience wearing thin. I ignore him and continue to peer in single-minded dedication. For one last time, I turn around his palms face-up, give them a little twist and stretch and leave them loose.

Left knuckles cracked more than the right, fingertips dug in slightly more than the latter’s: he is left-handed. Aah, faded cut-marks on left fingertips as well! Looks like he used to learn the guitar until recently, that too with the wrong arm…

“Do you really want to know the truth, sir?” I speak finally, releasing my grip. I beamed at him with all sincerity. “Will you be able to take it?”

“Listen, lady. I’ve been waiting to hear your so-called ‘truth’ for the longest time. If it were not for my ten rupee investment, I’d have gone away long ago. So, speak up or I’ll be forced to refund.” His patience had just given way.

“Okay, so here it is.” I started in a tone of finality.

Fun begins now.

“You’ve lost your mom in the recent past and your father has distanced himself from you since then. You have a flair for the arts, yet you have abandoned them in view of your personal tragedy. You have a naturally gentle and level-headed temperament, upon which you have added on layers of fake alpha-male mannerisms to hide your personal turmoil. You were once an imaginative young boy, full of wonder and excitement for life, but years of bitter experiences have turned you into a cheap copy of yourself. You constantly strive to build walls around yourself and reclaim your dented self-esteem by having a crowd of admirers around you who are sycophants of the highest order. The sooner you lose them, the earlier you’ll truly grow as a person.”

I pause for breath as he looks at me with an unreadable expression. A few shot in the darks, but I believe I am heading in the right direction.

“This was about your past. Now, let’s look at your future.” I speak with newfound determination, adding up all my observations. “You will contract a cardiovascular disease in your mid-40s and if you keep on with this diet,” I gesture towards his half-eaten burger, “it’ll probably be life threatening. You will have to be wary of many other diseases like schizophrenia, depression and paranoia, which, as per your lines, will affect you if you’re not careful. You will be married to a woman,” I bend over and whisper in his ear, “-none of these,” staring at the two very feminine-looking fangirls, who look back in curiosity, “who will be very assertive and aggressive. She will probably dictate terms with you and the two of you will have a good equation throughout.”

I let out a heavy sigh and wait for the effect. In his eyes, there is either absolute awe and shock or utter disappointment and anger. Either my predictions have been spot-on or they’re off by a mile. Maybe dirty nails and cracking of knuckles mean nothing remotely close to what I inferred, or they could mean everything like it. This moment in time, of wait and anticipation, stretches on for an eternity.

And as the poets say, ‘my life hangs in balance.’

A visit to the bookstore or The Tragedy of Hindi and science fiction literature

Today, I came across this too-good-to-be-true(-but-only-at-the-first-glance) offer on Facebook:

Wondering what the catch is, like I was? Notice the wild 'every second book' clause just above the picture? Yes, that is it.

Nevertheless, seeing as I had the whole evening to myself (the girlfriend being out of town and the friends in the immediate vicinity probably sleeping or preoccupied), I thought I might as well go check out books at the nearest Crossword at Phoenix Market City Inorbit mall.

So I did. My greatest fears were realized when the cashier at the store clarified that I'd have to buy a minimum of two books to avail a 50% discount on the cheaper/est one. Which sucked, but since I had hiked at least 1.5 kilometers (low on petrol; that time of the month), I decided to stay on and browse through the new releases just for the kicks (arey isme KICK hai pagli!).

Lee Child, Grisham, Patterson, Higgins Clark: the usual suspects. A few Dan Browns and Chetan Bhagats thrown into the mix, with Crichton, Rushdie and Amish following suit. Familiar titles with their familiar sky-high prices greet me like every time, and I get down to the uphill task of picking and choosing one that fits my budget and my 'biblio-appetite', or 'bib-libido' (Hyphenated Nomenclature 101). It is like the Ryan family welcoming one of its sons back home after a hard-fought war: the happiness of homecoming of one brother is negated by the pain of the death of another. The high prices dampen my spirits but I still go through every shelf, every corner assiduously, letting not one interesting cover slip past my preening gaze.

And then I come across the science fiction section. Here it is, at a glance:

Do you see the problem? Let me help:

Basically, there's no sci-fi in the sci-fi shelf of the biggest bookstore chain in the largest democracy of the world, except Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Before you think this is a problem peculiar to this particular bookstore, let me assure you that it's the same in every Crossword outlet I have been to, including their biggest store in the fucking country. I believe standalone bookshops do a better job at stocking real science fiction than these people.

Genuine science fiction writing is hard to come by in Indian shelves. Not only do we not appreciate foreign writers who have set new definitions in the field - Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein and Dick to name a few - we also do not nurture such thought back home. It is rare that a well told science fiction story ever makes it big in the Indian market, be it literature or cinema. Barring a very few exceptions like The Calcutta Chromosome by Amitav Ghosh and Satyajit Ray's Professor Shonku series (both suspiciously Bengali), I don't recall an Indian author who has ever dared walk down this literary avenue. Our cinema, which has opened itself up to innovation and originality in recent years, still boasts of very few science fiction films that pass off as half decent attempts (please do not mention Love Story 2050). The tradition of speculative writing that transcends the present and the past and boldly writes our future is not just my personal, self-pleasing desire, but the need of the hour for a developing nation such as ours. A nation of dreamers must also produce fiction that is rich in speculation and imagination, grand in design and grounded in hard reality yet not bogged down by it.

Why I do not write science fiction, then, you ask? Quite simply: I do, and I will keep trying!

Disgusted, I passed on the shelf altogether (sorry, James Headley Chase) and headed in the direction of Indian fiction, with hopes of browsing through some interesting homespun stories. I am a sucker for the Salman Rushdie / Amitav Ghosh brand of lyrical literature, yet almost always too broke to buy more than a few of their volumes at once. Hence, my love affair with their writings remains interrupted and incomplete to this day. I wistfully strafe past the shelves containing their works, having stopped long ago to even read the blurbs, lest I read something so good that I am heartbroken to leave a piece of my heart with them in their shelves. It is when I lay my hands on a Sadat Hasan Manto book that it strikes me: most of our regional writers have their famous works translated into English and then fed back to us in repackaged, overpriced editions. Why do we need an English-medium to re-discover what has forever been our own, albeit in our regional tongues? Why have we moved away from our mother tongues to such an extent that our reading habits are only limited to the Roman Alphabet?

Why does a Manto, Chugtai or Premchand have to be translated into English and only then be acceptable to our 'modern' reading palate? Is this phenomenon not the textbook definition of Cultural Imperialism, wherein a people is forcibly disconnected with its roots and then served the fruits of its own toil at a price? The plight of the Indian book consumer in the 21st century is not much different from the Indian handloom industry at the onset of the East India Company, if not even worse. The people back then were at least aware of their decadence; we, on the other hand, are blissfully ignorant!

Why do we allow for such outright imperial hangover to control us even today? Why do our revered leaders and policymakers push for ridiculous and meaningless decrees while we should focus on strengthening our local, existing languages by institutionalizing them and making them more reachable to the masses?

Then again, you might be itching to ask me what I am doing to change this. I am trying. It is shameful that I can communicate better in a borrowed language than my own. The famous Nobel Prize-winning writer Orhan Pamuk (someone who always writes in his native tongue, Turkish), also spoke out in a concerned fashion about this global problem and sought the writing community to address it as one.

To sum up the story of my visit to the bookstore, I ended up buying this rare beauty for a mere 50 bucks:

Written by the guy who penned our National Song, I look forward to reading it and rekindling my own habit of Hindi-reading for once. It won't make a world of a change, but at least एक शुरुआत है!

While cashing out, the cashier asks me, "Sir, और आपकी दूसरी किताब?" I gave him my are-you-fucking-shitting-me smile and walked off...for good. 

As I Fall

I imagine the alternate universes
where I didn't take the plunge,
that step off the precipice; I think this
a split second into the lunge.

I fall and nothing flashes before me:
not my dreams, my life's highs or its lows,
except what it could be.
the tightness in my chest grows.

As I fly towards a zero,
ending the journey of the sperm racing into the womb
I see visions of my life as it would be,
if i were still alive and home.

I would be bored and sad and depressed,
probably mad or a little distressed,
I might be jealous or crazy or scorned,
but at least I'd not be dead.

The dull cold pavement invokes my flesh,
I plead, I cry to my one-minute ago self,
"Don't jump just yet, just think fucking twice,"
My spectre looks down to me, eyes cold as fucking ice.

"Have a heart, motherfucker, think of your unborn kids,
your spawn that might grow up to be better men,
than you, waste of space, pitiable scum,
Give it a shake, a shrug, just don't jump."

As I fall,
the pavement calls;
I know it's over, the deed is done,
And I've overstayed my welcome.

So much for living once...

And yet, I fall
into the abyss,
seconds to impact,
And I still wish I could -

Bedroom confessions

Her eyes open in unmitigated passion,
like floodgates to a gushing barrage.
Her spine tingles with thoughts of lust,
like a thirsting Bedouin for a mirage.

Her lips, at ends, curl in on themselves,
She smiles a smile openly lewd.
Her nostrils flare, her toes curl up,
In the anticipation of my touch, she drools.

She writes love poems for herself,
With me as her prize muse.
She fantasizes of great sex,
And offers herself as ruse.

My limbs edge forward, organ tugs
Against the stretched blue denim.
She, close to me, can feel it rise,
As my body betrays my pride.

She captivates me in her embrace,
Her earthy smell a neutral surprise!
To myself do I laugh as I,
The lies of scent-merchants, realize.

Her femininity commands, my masculinity cowers.
Her petite frame bosses my body, well-fed.
An aberration, an exception, a happy reversal
Of roles, age-old, exchanged in bed.

She smiles and moans in mirth as I,
Advance upon her flesh.
Upside down and downside up,
The carnal game is afoot.

Her spirit exudes what her body cannot.
Her womanhood is expressed in bodily knots.
As she gains up and I submit,
Her celebration of sex is  then perfect.

Blunt Edges: A short poem

I'm not right because I'm right, 
but because you think I am. 
I exist within the minds of men,
than in my temporal clam.

I am those words of mine that ring,
in your ears when I'm long gone.
I am the welling of your throat,
when my loss you bemoan.

Far more than plaques, than shirts than scarves,
far more than personal effects;
In your view of my actions, words,
In them, do I, reside.

When I am gone, all of me too,
is gone with the wind or sea.
All that remains of me is stuff,
that you ingrain in thee.

Gender unspecific: A deconstruction.

In one of his better moods,
he had said that he would be responsible
for a rift between us, if one was ever to happen.
Now that it has, I'd love him to repeat his words
and test them in the fire of cold sobreity instead of fuming passion.
For we say an awful lot in fits of intense feeling,
but it takes courage - real, unmitigated courage -
to sing lovestruck symphonies knowing full well
there's no instrument to back you up;
To dream of the greens,
in the heart of Autumn.

--

I loved how she sat cross legged,
the bulk of her fatty thigh pressed hard against her calf.
And the slightly tapering ankle dotted with recently waxed hair-pores.
Her long, broad, perfectly plain, unwrinkled soles,
and the angular toes with blunt, un-ladylike toenails painted black or blue.
The earthy smell of her loose pajamas as my face
burrowed further and further still into her cushiony thigh.
It seemed like the fragrance of her body,
would bind me forever to her like an invisible charm.
But the fatty, voluptuous cavity of her knee,
was only a transient, carnal portal to the delights of infatuation,
a realm of illusions, a mass of flesh and bone and nothing more. 

Untlitled - Chapter 3: Hidden Camera

Continued from here.

[UPDATE: I've started naming the chapters. The story remains untitled still, but you'll notice that previous chapters have also been given a name. I'm getting there, slowly but surely...]

Shahnawaz Kamil held up his pudgy hand to his eye level, his square-edged fingers splayed out and far apart. The middle finger on his left hand had the giant red ruby ring, which he presently pointed her attention to.

“You’ll need one of these to see what I want you to,” he said and sauntered back to his seat at the vertically opposite end of the table. He bent down and she heard a bag zipper open, followed by the sound of shuffling of paper and metallic clanking of indecipherable items.

“Aah, here!”

He pulled out an identical ring and held it up for her to see. His jubilant eyes had a glint of eagerness, akin to a teenager demonstrating a new gadget to someone who is not yet acquainted with its functions.

“Put it on.”

As he brought it closer, she was able to better see the markings on it. It seemed like the giant ruby was a button that could be pressed to reveal a complex clockwork of rotatable components. She took it from Kamil’s hands and surveyed it closely. The ring had three smaller circular loops that could be turned around the same axis.

“What is this?”

“What you hold in your hand right now is my own personal Controller,” he said.

“Hmm…that explains a hell lot,” she said with more than a twang of scorn. Some subdued laughter was shared across the table. She doubted the statement was meant as innuendo.

“Funny as you might be, your ignorance about The Controller might just cost you your life.”

Did he just threaten me?

She slid the ring into her index finger, ignoring his last remark, and started fiddling with the three loops that comprised the ring.

“Allow me,” he snatched her hand, his manner suddenly serious and business-like. He turned the rings around with apparent precision, its metallic clicks cutting across the silence across the table; all the men and women had their undivided attention at them. The crowded setting dimmed around Ira as she felt herself momentarily being sucked into the ring. The sensation was inexplicable and fleeting, lasting no longer than a fraction of a second: a sudden suction tugging at the skin around her index finger.

She looked up from her hand, held by Shahnawaz, and recoiled at the scene she confronted.

She was no longer in the plush basement hall of the Taj hotel in Lutyens’ Delhi. The view had shifted to a black mist of blurred shapes and objects that took form and collapsed in real time. She looked around herself and saw that she was standing in the middle of an endless wasteland of a grey expanse; not the faintest sound was to be heard and she could not make out anything recognizable as far as her eye could see. All around her were deep grey wisps of smoke and effluents that resembled black bile without a visible source or destination. The surface she stood on was molten and black and the air was thick and billowing hot against her face. No one was to be seen except Kamil, still dressed immaculately in his suit and sporting the murderously annoying smirk and still holding her hand.

Before she could utter a word, a great explosion behind her threw her off balance and she landed on the ground, her palms absorbing the full brunt of the fall. The blast was overwhelming and startling; she was shell-shocked for a few seconds. Her vision failed her as bleared-out abstractions choked her sight and ears rang shrilly as aftershock.

A visibly rattled Kamil (finally, the smugness weans!) helped himself and her to their feet and brushed off black soot from his blacker suit.

“Are you okay?” He asked with what she felt was real concern. She coughed out debris and stumbled to her feet, still unnerved and imbalanced.

“What the—where are we?” she mumbled.

“A better question would be ‘when’.”

Enough.

“FUCK YOU!” she screamed over the top of her voice. “Stop talking in riddles and tell me what this is all about.”

Her head was spinning all over again. The view didn’t help her disoriented state of mind. A muddle of thoughts ran through her mind as sounds and visions, real and imagined overpowered her senses.

“This device you’re wearing is a time machine,” he spoke simply, “and this is the End of The War.”

She gulped down a heavy lump in her throat.

“What?”

“This is the War that ends all wars. It brings the extermination of our kind, the apocalypse we all have dreaded.”

The clouds – black masses of constantly shape shifting monsters – swirled in the distance, mingling with the smoke of ancient fires yet unextinguished. Her state of mind was reflected in the climatic chaos that enveloped the world and Kamil’s words fell on numb ears and a catatonic brain.

“At the fag end of our time, we have The War. Since we have known to alter the fabric of time and traverse to and fro in it, we have known the inevitability of The War.”

He spoke with the same stillness and lack of emotion as in the dining hall, completely disregarding the drastic shift in the environment. Ira’s head was spinning and his words barely, if at all, made sense to her. It sounded like some really far-fetched sci-fi plot straight from a campy Hollywood multi-million blockbuster.

“Do you mean we know time travel?” she asked, trying her best to feign verbal normalcy at the absurd statement.

Shahnawaz chuckled.

“Of course, yes,” he spoke matter-of-factly, “it was invented by a busybody not very unlike you, a young woman called Amrita Jamwal. In real-time years, it would have been sometime around 2007 – yes, I had yet to be associated with Sambhav Corp. – that she did it. It was quite a breakthrough…”

“But- why don’t we know of her?” She couldn’t recall, in the heat of the moment, whether or not she’d heard the name. It sounded very faintly familiar, as she had heard it in another lifetime.

“Good question,” he said, walking around her, indifferent to the scorching earth around them. It might well have been his personal garden he was strolling in.

“Time, as we know it, is no longer a seamless stream. As we have used and abused this power, we have realized that we cannot let it go unregulated. We cannot risk futures like these,” he looked up at the sky, black and sooty. “Which is why we have tried our best to streamline the course of history the way the Regulatory Body of Chronology deems fit.”

“The Regulatory Body of what?!” she asked in disbelief. It was laughable, the whole proposition, and yet the night’s events hadn’t been less absurd as it is. In some remote, minuscule probability, it made logical sense.

They’re just messing with your head, don’t let them. There has to be a catch.

“Chronology,” he re-affirmed. “We have tried our best to smoothen the rough edges of history’s course, made it more manageable and under check. But so far, evidently,” he looked up again, “we have failed.”

“Our aim is a noble one, Ira. Come to think of it: we are preventing the mass destruction of the world. We are trying, in whatever way we can, to prevent this outcome.” He almost sounded earnest in his explanation, a hint of plea in his voice.

Ira’s brain was clearer now than ever. She thought of Kamil’s words more as a logical hypothesis than a reality, and tried her best under the current circumstances to be impersonal and detached. Whatever this was – this supposed doomsday-delaying plot – it made sense at least in science fiction terms.

“But why can’t we go beyond this point in time? What happens next?” Her logical mind had been aroused and it was rapidly sprouting questions.

“It doesn't matter what happens next; we won’t be there to see it. The world’s resources have been depleted and its surface contaminated with toxic effluents. It’s not habitable anymore. Our scientists have tried many a time to do so, and a small contingent of researchers have set up a permanent base somewhere in the 38^th Century, but their efforts have been abortive.” 

Ridiculous!

He looked at her with an honest, compassionate gaze. He walked closer to her and rested a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“I know all of this is unbelievable and incredible, but if my word means anything, believe me.”

Quite frankly, it doesn't, so fuck off.

“Why doesn’t anybody know about it, then? Why is it that we have never come across a time traveller?” Logical fallacies had started to appear in his story, and she wasn’t one to not notice.

He removed his hand from her shoulder and shifted his glance to the horizon in the distance, his expression unreadable. It appeared as if he was making up the apt response.

Come on Kamil, give up.

“Because we observe a code of secrecy. It was taken up by the Regulatory Body as a means to curb this extinction of our race. Our kind meets its end as a result of economic turmoil sometime in the 22^nd century. It is hard to pinpoint the underlying causes, but rapid privatization led to the culturing of private armies, and eventually the de-monopolization of nuclear weapons. Things went out of hand very rapidly after that: the second wave of nuclear armament came not from nations, but influential private parties. Wars were waged at the slightest of conflicts and the world became a wasteland of human residue.”

He paused, appraising her receptivity. She looked at him, her expression caught between shock and incredulity.

“We tried everything we could. We dethroned kingpins, destabilized governments, intervened in public affairs and staged assassinations to ensure that the war is prevented. But it had been too late: everyone had access to time travel.” He looked at her knowingly, as if proving a point personally.

“When everyone is extraordinary, no one is. If everyone is god, the bar for ordinariness is automatically raised. With everyone able to hop across through time, we had street-side rifts and scuffles turn into vendetta killings and generation-long wars. Every personal score was settled on an amplified scale; people preferred preventing their enemies from taking birth than murdering them in person. In short, anarchy and pandemonium ruled and the world eventually came to be like this.”

“But then, why are you telling me all this? Why now?”

Where’s the hidden cam, you fuck?

“Because we want you to change your mind about going public with the encryption software. We are only trying to save humanity from certain extinction.”

To her own surprise, she emitted a sudden bout of exaggerated laughter.

“I see how well that’s worked out for you!” she retorted, a crazed smile distorting her features.

For the first time, Kamil did not share in the laughter. On the contrary, he appeared taken aback and bordered on feeling offended.

“We are trying everything with everything we’ve got, Ira.” His tone was down to a plea and nothing of his earlier overbearing self remained. “We need your help in this. The secrecy of your invention might just be key to the salvation of the humankind.”

She stopped laughing and looked directly into his eyes. His deep-set, dark brown eyes glowed with sincerity.

“What makes you think so, Shahnawaz?” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “Why don’t you just go slightly ahead in time and see for yourself whether I’ve agreed to give in? Better still, just go back in time and prevent me from even inventing the code in the first place! Why take the pains to convince me?”

“Because we are not authorized to meddle with time. We are governed under the Regulatory Body and are license-bound not to commit any act of time disturbance that might affect any human life detrimentally. That includes mental manipulation and changing the course of history by bypassing a momentous event, without the will of the individuals involved.” His explanation sounded fool proof, and for the first time, Ira was convinced there was truth in his story.

“We are, however,” he continued, “authorized to intervene by persuasion. We have all right to offer you something in lieu of the sacrifice we ask of you.”

“You will need an awful lot to offer me to convince me.”

More than the riches, for sure.

Kamil’s face lit up ever so slightly, still only a mere shadow of his jovial self, earlier that evening.

“You will have unlimited money,” he said as he beamed at her, “but I doubt that’s what you want.”

“You know me too well,” she spoke, reciprocating the smile for once. “I will not bow down to any amount of cash, however large. The only grounds you’ll have me abandoning my code is to exhort to my morality. I still do not know whether you’re telling me the truth. How do I even begin to trust you?”

For once, she wanted to.

“I will have to demonstrate, won’t I?” he quipped, almost under his breath. His patience seemed to be running out, but he looked away and stared into nothingness, weighing his options.

“Yes, you will. I never invest myself in any cause without understanding the full ramifications of it beforehand, and so it shall be with this. If you want my code, convince me. Give me an offer I cannot refuse and take your time about it; I don’t think that is of any worry.”

Both chuckled at the unsavory jest.

“Ok then, be ready to pinch yourself.” He said with closure, walking towards her, adjusting his ring. “It’ll be hard to remember you’re not dreaming.”

She held up her ring finger as well, letting Kamil swing it around twice in sync with his own.

As if it wasn’t nightmarish already.

As the scene around her dissolved in a rapid vibration, she edged her free hand closer to her thigh and very feebly pinched her skin. It itched momentarily and then it was gone. 

--

[To be continued]

Untitled - Chapter 2: À la carte

[Continued from here.] 

“One special whiskey mix for the lady in-charge,” Shahnawaz Kamil ordered the waiter, winking.

The underground banquet hall of The Taj Hotel in downtown New Delhi had been decked up for the grand luncheon. Chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling bathed the windowless room in pale yellow light which illuminated all its corners. The formally dressed urban gentry of New Delhi occupied the immaculate dining tables, their voices hushed and soft as etiquette commanded.

The entire Board of Directors of Sambhav Solutions was seated along a long rectangular table, of which Ira was also a part. Vertically opposite her sat Shahnawaz Kamil, the Chairman of the Board. The middle aged lobbyist had much bespoken connections with the rich and mighty, a fact that was as fiercely guarded as it was common knowledge.

The three-course meal had been wiped off every plate and the accompanying small talk had been concluded with all propriety. As glasses were refilled for one last time, the conversation had turned to business at last.

"So, Ms Parmar…we are curious to know where you stand on the issue of going public.” He said, addressing her.

“But you already do, Mr. Kamil,” she replied curtly. He smiled broadly, his grey beard not quite thick enough to hide his heavily wrinkled cheeks.

“I – like everyone here – am eager to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth!” His smug grin remained.

Slimy bastard.

She leaned forward and entwined her fingers, resting her jaw in their cross-section.

“I’m not one to repeat myself. However, seeing as everyone hear is not a very retentive lot, I will make an exception.” She looked around the table with a faux smile at the deadpan faces of the men and women seated to her sides, gauging their offence. To her immediate right sat Jo, whose diffident gaze she ignored on purpose. He seemed to be at a certain unease and his eyes kept darting restlessly between her and Kamil.

“You see, sir,” she continued, “to me, my values are paramount. Earlier, when I was new to the industry and the world of online security, I did not know the pressing need of personal privacy in our invasive age. After having read up a considerable amount and getting my own hands dirty, my views changed – for the better.”

She paused, looking from face to face, expecting rebuttal. No one spoke, yet remained inveterately stoic in their empty expressions. Kamil, the only exception to the group, never let his smirk get off his face. He was constantly fiddling with his giant red ruby ring that gleamed resplendently in the indoor light.

“Special house whiskey mix, ma’am,” the waiter announced and served a tall glass of golden liquid to her.

Apple fucking juice would’ve been just as good.

She thanked the waiter and took a swig out of the drink. It tasted warm and exquisite, yet unlike the best whiskey she’d ever drunk.

“You appear amused about something, Mr. Kamil,” she said, looking up, “Care to share?”

He beamed even more broadly.  

“Thing is, I knew exactly what you were going to say.”

“Oh, is that so?” she leaned back, smiling back and seething inwardly in anger.

“Indeed.” He continued to grin.

What the hell does he think of himself?

“Okay, whatever this is about, I don’t want nor care to know. All I know is that I’m done deciding. The Board may be obligated by whatever authority to come to whatever consensus, but I will see to it that my will is the way.”

Another sip and a warm feeling trickled down her chest. 

There was a few moments’ pause when everyone simply looked up from their glasses and into each other’s eyes. Within seconds, however, their surprised looks assumed an unexpected repose; they all laughed. Raucous laughter filled the room as curious occupants from adjacent tables looked in for the source of the outburst. Ira was harshly taken aback. Her head wheeled around towards Jo, who looked back at her with incredulity.

“Did I crack a joke?”

Another furious sip. Things were going from bad to worse: their laughter did not die out and she felt light-headed with each passing moment. She looked at the Board members, her eyes swimming across the room and her neck loosening at the pivots.

Kamil gazed at her as she had another go at the drink. With a sudden flick of his index finger and thumb, he swung his big ruby ring around the middle finger of his left hand. She blinked and saw him magically standing five seats closer to her on her right. In the moment she had blinked, Kamil appeared to have travelled from his seat to a spot at least 10 feet away.

What did they put in the drink?!

She blinked a couple of more times, just to make sure she was seeing correctly.

Dancing shapes, laughing men, smiling Kamil coming closer…her head was throbbing now.

“What…what’d you spike my drink with, you morons?” she said, furiously.

“You won’t believe me,” he spoke with his impish grin, “but we didn’t.”

She saw him gracefully walk up to Jo’s seat on her right, his grin constant but attaining a newfound genuineness. His eyes were now brimming with what she perceived as excitement, akin to an eager student’s when asked a question whose answer he knows. He tapped Jo’s shoulder gently, who shuddered at his touch. There was something definitely amiss between them, some sort of show of overbearing authority and tamed acceptance of subservience. The men exchanged a cursory glance of understanding as Jo vacated his seat for Kamil to occupy. He sat down with an authoritative sweep.

“The drink is fine, your mind is only spinning at my display of…time flexibility.”

She tried to get a hold of herself and steadied her neck, looking away. She blinked a couple of times and ran her fingertips over her eyelids, gently massaging them. She could hear the sounds around her normalize: the loud conversations spilling over from adjoining tables, the tinkling of plates against knives and glasses against glasses, the brushing and shuffling of feet against the carpet and the pleasantries offered by waiters at incoming guest.

“What do you mean?” she enquired in a more controlled tone, looking up at Kamil.

“There’s an awful lot, Ms. Parmar, that you have not been privy to.” His enigmatic smile remained, resilient and undaunted.

Ira was annoyed and out of patience, yet unnerved by Kamil’s optical illusion. He had appeared to jump half the length of the room in one go, within a fraction of a second. Was it some sort of two-bit trickery to fool her into submission of the Board?

“Do I really look like I’d care? I’ve talked enough, it’s over.” She announced with finality and got up. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Kamil. Hope you and the Board are in concurrence with my decisions.” She shot a contemptuous glance around the room and wheeled around.

She turned around to see Kamil standing right in front of her, having inexplicably appeared out of thin air, his lips twirled up in a smug smile.

“What the fuck…how did you…?” she looked at him with confusion, her balance suddenly wavering. She stepped back in amazement and supported herself on the table.

 “Allow me to explain,” Kamil stepped forward, offering her her seat. She flopped back into it and dug her head into her outstretched palms.

Pull yourself together.

“I’m afraid I’ve not been entirely clear about the nature of our abilities,” Kamil spoke, walking around the table to take his original spot.

“If you will look at me, I will give you a preface into what I’m going to talk about right now. I apologise if my…attempts at commanding your attention have been a tad theatrical.”

She looked at Kamil through bleary, unfocussed eyes and waited.

“Thank you,” he beamed at her. He took his seat and adjusted his suit, his manner suddenly sprightly and excited.

“Let me begin with – yes, The War. I will appreciate it if you let me finish without interruption.”

Quite a night.

--

Read Chapter 3

Dumb by Choice: The Problem with Mainstream Bollywood

In the November of last year, I had the good fortune of meeting one of my favourite filmmakers in India, Sriram Raghavan, during a literary festival.

It was quite by accident that I happened to be there at exactly the same time as his talk on adapting works of literary fiction into movies, which I joined in midway and gleefully listened to. Being an out-and-out fan of his short filmography (yes, Agent Vinod included), I could not resist asking him about the inner workings of the industry I saw so conflicted and varied in quality of content.

I worded my question cleverly, in perfect context with what we were talking about. “Sir,” I asked, my limbs shaking with fear, “on the one hand, you give us a jaw-dropping single shot sequence in Agent Vinod that is at par with the works of many cinematic greats, and on the other, you show a spy gyrating in a mujra parlor. Why did you go for such drastic variation in content matter within a span of minutes? Why is it that a dumbing down is always done in a mainstream Bollywood film?”

His answer was straightforward and honest. I will not attempt to reproduce it verbatim, but the essence of what he said was this: when the producer has 40 crores invested in a movie, you have to hand him the reins. It is no longer just the director’s creative call, but also the producer’s. He left it at that with a knowing smile, leaving nothing unsaid.

This problem does not appear to be one-off. Another short example I can think of off the top of my head is the curious case of Karan Johar. His career is populated by exceedingly stupid and sappy soap opera-ic films that hinge largely on star power, songs, glamour and overwrought sentimentality. Be it Kuch Kuch Hota Hai or Student of the Year, his movies are largely unappealing to the intellect and cringe-inducing at times (Alia Bhatt’s histrionics in SOTY, anyone?).

And yet, there is something that clicks with the audience. Always. A film like Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna, which is bad even by Karan Johar standards, manages to pull in crowds of admirers all over. I believe this perplexing approval of his works is largely because he is an exceptional filmmaker behind all that fluff. I think what we need to do is take apart one of his films to the bare bones and see them under the basic parameters of filmmaking, in order to understand the nature of his true prowess.

I will take the penultimate sequence from Kal Ho Na Ho as a case study, embedded here as a video (spoilers ahead). When SRK’s character is escorting the love of his life to her nuptial ceremony, the mood is heavy and tragic. The superficial happiness projected by the ongoing festivities and celebrations strike a stinging contrast with the impending tragedy of SRK’s eminent death, and, his eventual separation from Priety Zinta’s character. The third wheel in this equation is Saif Ali Khan’s character, a good friend in love with Priety and soon to be married to her. While he is not the antagonist, he sure is seen as the undesirable yet necessary end of the love triangle. The whole sequence, punctuated by rapid cuts synced to the beats of the music (3:22), excellent acting, expressionistic lighting (1:16) and fast frame rate recording makes for a visual feast. It is hard not to get flowed away in emotion when SRK breaks down as the groom walks away with the bride and he is left to wallow alone. Alone, not only in his approaching death but also mentally and physically, isolated from the celebrations.

It is easily seen how well-constructed and conceived the scene is. It requires a certain caliber to pull it off, and while Nikhil Advani was formally the director, KJo is said to have been a big creative influence in the making of the film. I see these flashes of brilliance splattered all across his films, finally culminating in his brilliant short segment in Bombay Talkies. In my opinion, his segment was better in theme, tone and tenor than that of noted directors, Zoya Akhtar and Anurag Kashyap.

What is it, then, that compels Johar to chug out trash like SOTY and K3G ever so often? Why does Anurag Kashyap extoll his brother’s disastrous filmography as being a ‘throwback’ to the sort of old-fashioned, macho-hero films made around Bachchan in the 70’s? Is it because to stay in business, one must ensure a profit, and a profit in the Indian market is to give in to the dumbness demanded by the average viewer? Isn’t this true for every society, every country and every cinema industry? Why do we continue to sell dumb shit in the name of financially viable, ‘mainstream’, ‘masala’ cinema? More importantly, till how long will we go with films like Johnny Gaddaar, Black Friday and Shanghai not recovering their production costs? With films like The Lunchbox and Ship of Theseus capturing the public’s imagination, are we edging any closer to the dream of intelligent and meaningful cinema ruling the rooster in mainstream Bollywood?

I believe a full-scale revolution is nigh. 

Story Series: Untitled - Part 1

(Holiday season is back, and I'm coming out with another ambitious story series that will hopefully run throughout this month and the next, culminating before my third semester of college kicks off. 

I will not reveal anything about this story and let you all figure out how it'll pan out in the subsequent chapters. I want to gauge the level of anticipation and interest I can create in a story without letting the reader know the plot outline in advance. 

Since I am bad at nomenclature, I am leaving this story untitled as of now. If and when an apt title comes to me, I shall update this post for all to see.

Needless to say, any comments/suggestions/criticisms are welcome here as well as on my FB page. Read on...)

Chapter 1: Invitation to a Party

“We will be eagerly expecting your graceful presence, Ms. Parmar” the elegantly worded invitation concluded. The initials were not printed or separately inserted, at least to the naked eye, which struck her as odd for a moment.

Fuck this finery.

Another party, another socialite get-together celebrating hollow mirth and pretended fellowship. Richness and fame came with their own baggage, more so for the CEO of one of the most successful organization in the country.

Four years ago, as a disgraced engineering dropout, she couldn’t have imagined her start-up to have scaled such heights. Her patented model of software encryption had not only earned her plaudits from the academic and scientific fraternity, but also presented a huge business opportunity. She could offer instant online privacy to millions of government-wary consumers willing to shell-out a fortune for her services.

She had started at the micro-level, going door-to-door with her software installed on a writeable CD. In the pre-internet era, she had relied on word of mouth and cheap sharing among her locality friends to publicize her idea, earning a trifle for every sale.

“What the hell is she always up to, this girl!” her father would complain to her mother, who’d have little time to look into the daily engagements of her teenage daughter. “Doesn’t have a degree or anything, what the hell is she going to do when she grows up?”

“Aap bhi na, don’t worry too much. Anyway, she has to go off and get married,” she would reply hurriedly. 

Somewhere deep down, her parents had come to terms with the fact that their middle class upbringing had failed to launch her into the fiercely competitive world. Marriage appeared to them to be the last bet, but a good one at that: she wasn’t wanting in the department of looks and appearance. At 15, she had eloped with a classmate and would have succeeded in running away from home, had the plan not been foiled by her spoilsport-of-an-elder brother.

“Dad, Ira is planning to run away with that village idiot of his,” he’d blabbed.

“What?! When?”

“Tonight. I eavesdropped on her when she was on the call with him.”

That had done it for her. She had been severely punished and grounded at home for a full week. Considering this reprimand enough to suppress her ‘undue’ interest in the opposite sex, her family had not anticipated her next move.

After a day of mewling and whining, she had reserved herself to the confines of her bedroom and refused to come out despite repeated calls. Food was sneaked in through the gap in the door by her brother, who felt guilty for having told on her. When she finally did come out on the third day, it was with a homemade transistor in her blackened hands, her face shining through all the muck and her open hair messily falling on her face. She was nothing like her earlier self; all her angst had vanished. One could contend that she looked ungracefully sexy in a very schoolgirl-ish sense.

“Look what I made, Ma!” she ran to her to display her new ‘invention’.

Her parents’ anger had cooled off by now and they greeted her with surprised acceptance.

“What is it, Ira?” her brother asked, an engineer-in-the-making himself.

“A radio transistor, bhaiyya. I saw the design in one of your books, and decided to make one myself!” Her glee was palpable. As months went by and technology progressed at ever-faster rate, her gadgets changed and so did her mastery. From merely possessing a dextrous touch with mechanics, she grew to teach herself to code and write virtual languages which rarely anyone of her age even knew the name of.

It was when she topped the National Science Olympiad in the Delhi state her parents thought it best to leave her to her own devices and not interrupt her natural course of inclination. She had not looked back ever, having precociously finished school at 16 and joined Indian Institute of Technology, Kanpur the next year.

A drop of estrogen in an ocean of testosterone, her natural instincts had taken over as soon as the restrictive home atmosphere gave way to the freedom of the girls’ hostel. She would juggle time between her hobbies of software coding and chess with outings with the most ‘desirable’ men on campus. Her sex-capades were known far and wide and she had promptly became to be known as the ‘slut’ of the college. She was known to consume recreational drugs and her dorm room was looked at with disgust and, to be fair, a detestation born out of envy.

This disrepute was what eventually led to her ignominious eviction from the institute the subsequent year. She would have liked to believe that she had been expelled because she refused to conform to the ancient values of an institute in decadence, but she knew it was more to do with her lapse of judgement that had led to the extremity.

The intercom line on her desk rang, shaking her off her thoughts. She cast the invitation aside with a belittling shove, letting it land in the heap of trash already too full for the waste basket, and picked up the receiver.

“Ma’am, Mr. Almeida is on hold. Want me to route him through?”

She sighed. Joseph ‘Jo’ Almeida, one of her earliest aides cum go-to lawyer was starting to get annoying with his all-too frequent calls of late.

“Go ahead.”

The line dropped momentarily and the familiar low-pitched, inconsistent voice of her lawyer greeted her.

“Hey, Ira! Wassup?”

“Nothing much, Jo. Just being barraged by some unneeded invitations and phone calls.” She hoped he would take the hint.

“Haha, we all have been there. Anyway, what are you doing this Sunday afternoon? Is there a prior engagement?” His voice gave away his anticipation to meet her.

“Um,” she thought rapidly, “I don’t know Jo…” Her eye fell on the crumpled invitation she had strode into the dustbin moments ago.

“…oh yes, I have this lunch invitation! Some fancy get-together. I’d rather call sick and--”

“Oh, no,” he cut in, “that’s what I wanted to talk about!”

She sighed.

“What about it?”

“You must attend, Ira. All the major stakeholders in our company are going to be there. I’ve heard that the Board itself has convened the whole thing.”

‘Our company’ my arse.

“What for, but?” She was genuinely curious.

“To, er…” he hesitated, “to get you to…change your mind about going open source.” His voice had grown softer and dropped down to a whisper.

Ira fumed, warm air flaring up her nostrils. She had announced to make the code of her program public in two days and known that many in the Board of Directors had not taken kindly to the proposal.

Her initial lust to gain financial riches had long since exhausted. After assuring a lifetime of comfort for herself from the money she had already made, she had had an actual change of heart and decided to give it up for free usage all over the online world. While governments were getting increasingly paranoid about private content on the internet, online rights activists had been campaigning against allegations of snooping through private mails and messages by the NSA. She had been in the eye of the storm since she was one of the very few service providers of authentic encryption software that could be updated to work its way around every governmental decrypting device and system in existence. Her allegiance had been a matter of speculations for months, until last week when she had announced to release her code into the open source in the coming few days. Not only would that deal a lethal blow to the National Security Agency and its global counterparts, but would also be a blessing for international militant outfits over the world, who could customize the code and tailor it to their specific needs.

“Listen, Jo,” she started, “how sure are you about this?”

“I’m quite positive, Ira. In my opinion, you must surely reconsider your stance.” He suddenly sounded on the edge of desperation.

“No, I am not going to do that,” she replied firmly. “I know what I’m doing with my creation and no one can arm-twist me out of my resolve.”

“But think of all the wrongdoing you are indirectly encouraging!” His protests were rising in pitch and amplitude with each syllable.

“’Indirectly’ is the important word here, Jo. I am not responsible for the actions of a criminal who avails my cutting edge technology. My job is to give to the world what I know and am capable of! What the world makes of it isn’t my purview.” She smiled inwardly, feeling happy about her eloquence.

“But try to understand, Ira…”

“No,” she snapped, “I won’t. And Jo, why the fuck are you so concerned? Do you have a stake in this decision, too?”

Don’t fuck up, Ira. Don’t let anger get the better of you.

The line was blank for 5 seconds; she couldn’t hear him breathing but knew he was around.

“Jo?” she asked, “listen…I’m sorry.” She added apologetically.

“You…just don’t get it, Ira.” She could hear his voice quivering. “I can’t make you see sense.”

His final words rang in her ears as he cut the call before she could respond. She sighed to herself and slammed the receiver down.

“Fuck you, Jo!” she shouted at the telephone and stretched further back in her recliner in frustration.

Why was he making such a big deal out of it? She had always known him to be a level-headed person who always took her side of the matter and only questioned her in an advisory manner. Was the Board involved in any way?

Why can’t shit be simpler?

The more she looked at the crumpled invitation nestled at the top of the wastepaper basket, the more reasons she found to attend the lunch.

Do I even have a choice?

She clicked her tongue and got up to prepare for the gathering.

(Read Chapter 2)

Hamara Neta Kaisa Ho?

Let me begin by clearing the air about my political inclinations in 2014: BJP.

Why? Because they appear to me to be the least of all evils. Because despite their murky past, their current leader appears forward looking and promising.

However, this piece is not about politics. Okay, maybe it is, but it surely isn’t ONLY about that. When I say ‘neta’, I am not referring to what it is usually taken to mean in English, that is, a politician. Here, I am harking back to the original, politically irrelevant definition of the word which is best translated to ‘leader’ in my limited understanding of the two languages.

The question I’ve raised is to do with our idols, the leaders whom we look to emulate as people. How must our leaders be? How must they dress up, behave and conduct themselves? I shall be addressing these questions, or hoping to do so to my best ability in the coming paragraphs.

I believe a leader is most definitely rich and prosperous. I firmly think that s/he is not starving or wanting in basic needs. If anything, s/he must be someone well-off with their head held high and feet firmly rooted to the ground. Their appearance should not be diminutive but impressive and imposing. They must be dressed in good clothes, commute in the swankiest of vehicles, reside in the poshest of places and have the best luxuries at their command. I am not painting a picture of excess but surely one of industry and prosperity.

 Lest I am accused of possessing traits of a ‘capitalist pig’, I will say that I am indeed pro-capitalism but not anti-poor. And yes, I sincerely believe the two can co-exist not just harmoniously, but complementary to each other. Richness is a quality we must all extoll and promote. The ‘aam aadmi’ does not want to remain ‘aam’; s/he only wants to grow in wealth and affluence. The poor does not wish to remain grovelling in the lowest pits of poverty forever, hence we must NOT idolize images of modest living and austerity. We must advocate a life which is grand and incandescent in every sense, a community of haves without have-nots. There will always be the less fortunate and the more fortunate, but our aim in life must be to attain a state of living which allows us to sustain ourselves without pinching the pocket every time.

One is not a villain simply because one is born rich or has acquired riches as a result of one’s hard work. Social sensitization is totally independent of wealth. Case in point: Bill Gates. One of the richest people in the world is also the greatest philanthropists of our times.

If we must venerate something, it is a life of wealth and hard-earned fortune. Our priorities should be diligent toil and personal hard work which will eventually uplift the society as a whole. And what better way to manifest our greatest ideals than in our leaders?

Notes on Queen or Why the fuck was the bra censored

it starts like cocktail, middles like english vinglish and ends like highway. the mood and pace is similar to many previously attempted films in Bollywood and beyond. there is little it says that has not already been oft-repeated, and yet, it is one of the most original films i've seen coming out of mainstream Indian cinema.

what, then, makes queen reign supreme in my heart, you ask? it is crafted in the highest traditions of cinematic visualization. it does not pander to or give in to or dumb down to the level of expected idiocy by the average viewer. we have the best actors delivering the best dialogues, edited impeccably into sequences that breath newness in every frame.

we have Ranaut who displays great range and spontaneity as her character graduates from a victimized, docile would-be housewife to a confident, independent go-getter who has her head and heart in the right places. we have writers and a director who seem to have given a free hand to the actors to improvise as they will, resulting in a script which is charmingly offhand at places yet to the point when needed.

the music is an instant winner, something which has come to be rather obvious when Amit Trivedi helms the symphonies. the editing, too, adds layers of cohesiveness despite (or rather, because of) its occasional non-linearity. Many pivotal scenes lead up to an effect and the narrative promptly jumps to a short flashback explaining its cause: the cinematic equivalent of a footnote reference.

"Mera sense of humour bohot achha hai!"

a lot has been said about the film already. I do not wish to add to the crowd and be as brief as possible. Queen talks of female emancipation in the 21st Century India like no movie has ever done before in mainstream Bollywood. It does not preach or harp, instead employing humour and satire as tools to drive home its message. The sexual and intellectual freedom of the fairer sex is an issue that makes a showing here with almost poetic subtlety: it creeps up on you when you're too busy beaming at the saccharine overdose on-screen. Where others would have degenerated into angry diatribes and arguments, Queen throws up questions (and answers them, too) without losing its humour. We have the eponymous heroine proverbially discovering herself through travel and gaining new experiences overseas.

Travel and exploration are like secondary characters in the film. I was reminded of the following Mark Twain quote not once or twice, but throughout the movie:

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."

I realize this to be the one of the finest indications of true wisdom. to be open-minded and free from the poison of hatred, hesitance and presumption, one must travel as far and wide as possible. to accommodate and acknowledge a contrary view to yours is the biggest proof of mental greatness. be Hindu, but sympathize with the Muslim. Be atheist, but try and understand when a Hijabi woman justifies her choice of clothing. I can keep on picking out examples that illustrate my point to no end.

At one point in the film, a close up shot of a bra has been censored. I very honestly want to put this up to the Censor Board of India: why? Are female undergarments a matter of obscenity and vulgarity, so as to invite censorship and suppression? Are we not nullifying whatever the movie itself stands against, that is the demonizing and taboofication of female sexuality? Fuck that, a bra is not even a sexual statement, it's just a bloody piece of garment!

That, or maybe I'm overreacting. In that case, keep calm and forget the film for what it stand and remember it only for Lisa Hayden's cleavage-show. And those legs man, so hawt!

self-unaware: a poem

ignorant of the fruit she bears,
she walks the garden, a doe.
unmindful of her sprouting seed,
she traverses the farm, alone.

her eyes display, a naive glow,
her words impress, now ebb now flow,
no reason, rhyme, an empty shell,
but oh my lord, what a bombshell!

her feet are tender, unflowered buds,
her hairy brow, a study in youth.
her bouncy hair, a lovely fixture,
her unsteady pace, so immature.

she walks, ignorant of her steps,
unaware of the self, averse to thought.
she walks, blissful, enraptured lass,
"she lives the poem she cannot write".

Kindle > a physical library

[In response to this.]

The article linked above lists some pointers that supposedly prove how, reading books the 'traditional' way is better than doing so on a Kindle. I, being a staunch e-book loyalist take immediate objection to such an absurd notion. I do not hate reading 'real' books, clasping them in my hand, smelling the yellowing pages and the like, but owning a Kindle has made me look beyond the tactile trappings of the book-reading process. It has lent me a greater sense of meaning and purpose to reading a work of literature. I now value words, ideas and stories more than the medium they are packaged in, because at the end of the day, little else matters.

Read on as I provide sound counter-arguments to the points put forth in the article:

‘You can’t write your name in it, as if to mark it with pride as its original owner.’
Besides the point. You can, more importantly, name your e-book device anything you want. Isn't that cooler in a way: having a personalized book-portal named to suit your liking, much like a pet?

‘You can’t leave it places for the next person who finds it to enjoy.’
*can.

‘You can’t add it to a bookshelf to expose its intriguing binding.’
Again, merely a touch-feel barrier. Grow up and stop whining, you sound like a pre-teen throwing a tantrum for having their pacifier snatched away.

‘You can’t pile it on top of others, showcasing your accomplishments as a reader.’
But you CAN boast a finished book by the emboldened dots under its title. Go buy a Kindle for further reference.

‘You can’t keep your coffee cups on it after you’ve long finished reading its pages over and over.’
You can, technically. But do bear in mind that the universe cannot keep pace with your stupid, cantankerous pet-peeves.

‘You can’t find first editions to continue adding to your collection.’
For once, I aver. That’s all; no comeback! You’re in the right on this one. Touché.

‘You can’t leave notes in it for the next reader who picks it up.’
You so can! There’s a specialized tool for that in the cheapest of Kindles (the one I happen to possess).

‘You can’t personalize it with your own thoughts on its words.’
What is that even supposed to mean? If it is what I think it is, refer to the last answer.

‘You can’t look for your favorites in dusty, old used bookstores.’
The same way you cannot travel in those good ol’ steam engines and horse-carriages and hansoms of the Dickensian era.  Or experience the orgasmic joy of having invented fire by the cavemen. We always move on from things of the past to things of the present, it’s natural progression. To obsess and dwell over relics of the bygone is a worthless engagement.

‘You can’t establish a collection to admire as it grows.’
Again, *can.

‘You can’t underline its passages, which you find connection to in every word.’
*can.

‘You can’t highlight your favorite lines to stumble upon effortlessly when you want to be reminded of their eloquence.’
BLOODY FUCKING HELL, *CAN!!!!!

‘You can’t smell its age between the pages.’
Irrelevant to me, but I guess it holds an incalculable charm to some. Agreed, then.

‘You can’t fall asleep with it on your face, drifting off into a dream from the imagery it instills.’
Fanciful imaginations. The same would entail if you were to sleep with a kindle cupped in your hands.

‘You can’t pass it down to your kids, gifting them with the most moving words of your own young adulthood.’
Enough already. *can.

‘You can’t start a conversation when someone recognizes the cover.’
But you can totally start a conversation by spotting a fellow e-book reader in a crowd of a hundred. Besides, seeing someone interesting enough to read from an e-book reader is every bit as exhilarating as finding a person reading a book of your liking.

‘You can’t wrap it in paper and give it as a gift, to pass on the same lessons it impressed upon you.’
You can gift wrap it if you want. You can deliver books directly to your kin’s Kindle for them to be pleasantly surprised!

In a nutshell, e-book readers give us an advantage of a much larger range, affordability and portability of books. They prove that technology is not destroying, but reinventing the way we read. This revolution in our understanding of the written word is only momentarily being opposed by a fringe group of inertia-stricken readers who rate the physicality of books over their content matter.  

Why Krrish 3 isn't as shitty as it seems

1. It's not a blatant copy of any Hollywood or South Indian film (at least that i know of). Agreed, the character of Kaal borrows his paraplegia-addled mentalism and magnetic abilities from both the chief protagonist and antagonist in Xmen, but there is little further similarity. The fact that it is better than the Rowdy Rathores and the Dhoom 3s in terms of originality makes me like it better on a relative scale.

2. Hrithik Roshan, despite his incessantly jerking head in Krrish's mask, delivers a fine, likeable performance. The contrast he brings between his portrayal of the father Rohit and the son Krishna is believable. His Greek God physique only helps.

The numbering makes no sense, admitted.

3. The concept of singularity of life is, though rather unsubtly, expressed probably for the first time in mainstream Bollywood of our day. The science is preposterous but the philosophical undertones are strikingly original for a film this shoddy in other departments. I do not personally side with this argument of metaphysical implications, there are many I know who do. The religious theory of Advaita is preached in an aesthetically (not logically) pleasing way.

4. Vivek Oberoi is serviceably good.True, his self-acclaiming comparisons with the late Heath ledger's career-defining performance in The Dark Knight are completely ridiculous, he is worth his salt as the sneering, jeering, Hinglish spewing super-villain.

5. It ties in well with its predecessors. There are vital, plot-driven references and connections to the events in Koi Mil Gaya and Krrish that decide the fate of characters in Krrish 3. Such narrative continuity is scarcely, if ever found in mainstream Bollywood's half-hearted attempts at franchise-creation (picture Golmaal, Dhoom and countless Mahesh Bhatt films and you'll know what I'm driving at).

7. Krrish is projected more as an idea, an emblem than an individual. This is strangely similar to a running theme in Nolan's Batman trilogy, but it did not feel copied or ripped-off to me. Krrish is a more visible, approachable, and Everyman's hero than the Masked Crusader. He sort-of walks the tightrope between Spiderman and Batman, to middling success.  The duality of Krrish and Krishna is not fully explored, except for a single cringe-inducing verbal exchange between Kaaya and Krrish. But I'm sure this theme can be exploited in subsequent follow-ups.

8. Most importantly, kids love Krrish. Checkmate, serious cinema-loving parents!