SATYA 2: review

Half A Star

Funniest Gangster Film

Mini Review:

Spend two hours and thirty three minutes of your life vacillating between despair (because it isn’t anything like the original Satya) and unintentional humor from the verbal and visual vomit on the screen.

Main Review:

Such a relief that this was not anything like the original Satya. This is perhaps the funniest gangster film this year. Which other film dares to claim that it was inspired by Tom And Jerry cartoons? The gangsters actually discuss this:

‘Tom and Jerry dekha hai? Choohe aur billi ki ladai mein faayda hamesha kutte ka hota hai!’

Of course immediately after, the guy who wears maximum jewellery and overacts the most dies.

Well, these are gangsters. And our hero is creating a company with a structure that promises you an India within India, a business within all businesses, a system (pronounced ‘systim’ so many times, you will forget the original enunciation) within systems… His plan is so complex, it foxes the cops, and the filmmaker too (‘what his system is we will tell you that another time...’ they promise)

The hero wears sweaters in Bombay. As if that wasn’t an indication of his poor constitution, you discover that he is not even half Mohit Ahlawat. He has no oglable anything. No gluteus maximus, no strong legs, no six-pack abs, and no acting. You wish he'd bathe once in a while, though. Ram Gopal Varma claimed that he ‘acts with his eyes and screams with his whispers’ so we waited two and a half hours for that to happen…

The heroines… Yes, there are two. Equally jaw-droppingly hilarious. ‘My name is Special’ one says, ‘Who are you?’ lying down on the floor, her breasts heaving (her boyfriend actually wrestles her to the ground in order to make her stop her fake ballet type dance). The audience wants to offer a towel to wipe her sweaty cleavage (which we see all through the movie), but we are distracted by the second heroine: Duckface.

She’s poor man’s Nargis Fahkri, this Satya’s love interest. She has the funniest dance moves this side of Bollywood dance studios. She’s supposed to be the village belle fantasy, but the only thing she might ever do is cure men of amorous thoughts. She’s singing something apparently lustful as she comes at the hero on all fours, and all we want to do is sign her up for the local kindergarten where she can play 'horsie' with toddlers. She overdoes the bite-lower-lip-wide-eyed act so much that you pray a stray bullet should kill her.

When we speak about bullets, we must speak about cops. The cops in the movie (and there are many) are very fond of drawing guns, even on unarmed, wide-eyed belles (dressed so skimpily, she could not possibly hide her gun anywhere, and if at all, she wouldn’t be able to draw that gun quickly enough). If that wasn’t funny, the main cop is shown to clutch his back in agony and groan in pain in every scene and with every step he takes. Aargh! Uff! Aaargh! Ohhh!

But there’s another who overacts. His speech about how there’s a ‘soya hua puliswala jo jaagrut ho gaya’ is so convoluted and so badly delivered, it is worth two bullets. One for your own head (for trying to decipher this: when you came to me I was a cop who was tired of being a cop, and in that frustration I agreed to not be a cop, but the cop inside me was awakened and when a cop becomes a cop inside and out, then you must understand that an awakened cop is more than just a cop and he has to behave as though he was awakened…), and one for his trouble.

For those who love tear-your-shirt, kickass, dhaansu one liners, this movie is a feast of untranslatable laughs:

‘In sab ke badle mein milega aapko badla!’

‘Daddy, woh baharwala hai, use baahar hi rakho, daddy!’

‘Satya, yeh koi double role film nahi hai.’

‘Aur media baron Gurdeep Rajdesai ki maut bhi hogi.’

‘Company kaam aur paisa aisa banati jaaye ki kisi ko bhi pata na chale.’

‘Jo anyay kare, use nyay se maaro!’

Thankfully, there are no crotch shots, peek under the skirt shots, no look into cleavage shots, make audience dizzy with sudden dive shots, no snatch and jerk shots to make you want to chew your fingers off. But there’s eagle-vision camera (a camera that floats over Bombay) offering the audience a bird’s eye-view of the underworld that is Bombay. And that eagle-vision camera earns this movie the half star.

Thankfully, this is nothing like the original Satya, which is still a blueprint for many a crime movie almost 25 years later. 

As for the rest of the movie, if you’re not laughing at the convoluted dialog, then you must start a drinking game. Each time the voiceover (has more lines than all the characters in the movie) says ‘Underworld’ you drink. You’ll be drunk within the first ten minutes.

(our site www.filmorbit.com is still struggling with crazy server issues. please read review here.)

Review: Ender's Game

ENDER’S GAME

★★★☆☆

Pre-teen Video Gamer’s Delight

Mini Review:

It’s a futuristic world where the boys (and a couple of girls) are trained to do men’s jobs, and the men watch as kids fight aliens…

Main Review:

What’s with sharp kids who cry at the drop of a hat? Harry Potter cried through his eight films. Even our local superhero Krrish 3 has hazel eyes brimming with tears…Ender sure has a name that would make anyone cry, but as he says, ‘Bean’ isn’t much of a name either.

So it’s the kids who play video games who are selected to save the planet from alien ants. The grown ups are paranoid and want to pre-empt the aliens by attacking first. And the kids are pawns in their game…

It’s predictable stuff we see: combat school bullying, grown ups pushing gifted kids, gifted kids unsure of their powers… But what amazed me is the trivia associated with this movie. All the kids were trained by Cirque Du Soleil so they could perform the battle school training exercises. In fact they trained also at Space Camp and NASA so they could learn to work their zero gravity scenes.

IMDB reports:  To achieve the effect of weightlessness for the actors in the battle room, two rigs were invented for this movie, used to capture zero gravity scenes. First was a lollipop arm, which is like a counter-balance offering a full range of motion. The second innovation was a "people crane." It's a contraption, sort of like the lollipop arm, but put on air pucks so that the effects is like you are floating around in the air.

Now when you read information like this, naturally your respect for the film grows.

The end is predictable too, and you empathize with the kid who has to live with a war on his conscience, but then they slip into sequel alert rather beautifully.

No matter how sweet the boy hero looks in the film, and how cool all the visual effects are, the movie remains a kiddie movie. As I said, pre-teens will enjoy watching this film.


(due to technical troubles on our site www.filmorbit.com, i am posting this review on my personal blog)

Krrish 3 review

KRRISH 3

★☆☆☆☆

Kangna KOs Krrish!

Mini Review:

There’s not a thing that’s original in this movie and you hope there’s a million dollar lawsuit on the horizon, but a star is born, and Kangna trumps Krrish in his own movie.

Main Review:

Imagine watching this movie with Stan Lee, Patrick Stewart, Hugh Jackman, Jennifer Lawrence, Nirupa Roy, Uma Thurman, Robert Pattinson, Chris Nolan, Zack Snyder and Toby Stevens…

Stan Lee: I need to get Amitabh Bachchan to do a voiceover for Chakra.

Patrick Stewart: Modified Neelkamal chair… oooh! Niiice! Me wants one. But the hair, the hair on Vivek Oberoi! I prefer my bald head..

Me: The director is bald too…

Jennifer Lawrence: Shush! Let me watch Kangna. What have they done to her eyes?

Me: It’s an ode to Tezuka, to Manga, but unintentional on their part, I am sure…

Jennifer Lawrence: Oooh! I love her dress, but her hair…

Me: That dress is brilliant. It’s so constricting, not once has she said, ‘Besterd!’

Jennifer Lawrence: I do like Mystique’s blue body tho…

Me: Naah, we Indians have Krishna the Blue God. Krrish is politically correct. See how he gives advice to stupid kids (instead of letting his mother slap him for rescuing pigeons instead of doing math homework, and by the way, who rescues pigeons in this pigeon infested country?)! See how he submits tamely to sponsorship by flying past the brands, getting sacked from jobs at brands, consumes brands… All of which rivals branding references in Viruddh!

Patrick Stewart: Wake up Bob! Isn’t this like your vampire movies?

Robert Pattinson: Yeah. The same Zinc Oxide skin glistening effect. When the fangs materialise, wake me up.

Toby Graves: Yaar! This is very lame! Iceland bio reserves ke stock shots liye!

Me: You are speaking in Hindi!

Toby Graves: I’m speaking in tongues! Why are Krrish and Kangna skiing on the snow when he can fly? Ooh! I Like Kangna…

Stan Lee: Me too! But what is with Maanvar?

Me: Maanav plus Jaanvar equals Maanvar…

Stan Lee: *dies laughing*

We observe one minute silence for that death.

Uma Thurman: He wiggled toes! He wiggled toes! Just like the Bride does In Kill Bill!

Me: Uma! Ms Thurman! Please don’t die! Please!

We observe one minute silence

Nirupa Roy: I could have died too, but this bone marrow transplant has no emotional value like blood transfusion in Amar Akbar Anthony.

Suddenly we are interrupted by a hologram beam where Darth Vader has a message for Krrish fans. (Imagine the characteristic heavy breathing through his mask)

‘Why don’t y’all watch Empire Strikes Back? I get to tell Luke ‘I’m your father’. That’s more impactful than Vivek Oberoi’s ‘You’re my father’, no?’

Before I can gather courage to say that Krrish 3 is a celebration of 100 years of cinema, hence not a single thing is original, Darth Vader signs off. But what’s this?

Chris Nolan has just texted the whole world that he is never again going to make a Dark Knight Rises ever again after seeing the statue unveiled and statue shattered scenes. And the makers accept the resignation because Chris Nolan could never think of having a lip synched crowd song. Hans Zimmer is reported dead after hearing God, Allah Ya Bhagwan song. Chris is dead. Long live the Dark Knight.

I look at Zack Snyder with pride. See how we manages to copy Man Of Steel fight sequence? I am sorry to say that Zack was literally turned to stone (scientific term ‘petrified’) upon watching the biggest waste of CGI in his movie replicated in this movie.

Hugh Jackman has been watching quietly through the two hours and thirty two minutes of Krrish 3. I ask him, ‘Wolverine?’

Hugh Jackman: Why does Krrish hold his breath and shake each time he is on screen? Pardon me, but does he suffer from Parkinson’s?

Me: He’s shaking with anger, Wolverine!

Hugh Jackman looks at his hands. The adamantium claws emerge and he smashes his claws into his own neck.

We observe yet another minute of silence at this death. We mourn the death of originality also. Only the women in this special screening emerge: Jennifer Lawrence, Nirupa Roy, Uma Thurman and yours truly. Yes, Robert Pattinson wakes up too. He’s alive because girls across the world love him and that kept him safe. Like Harry Potter.

Kangna Ranaut deserves the only star we give to this movie. Because of her dress and her restrained acting as Kaya. Happy to report she KOs Krrish in this movie.

(due to technical difficulties on www.filmorbit.com, i'm posting the review here.)

after midnight

sometimes dirt is all you need

to mend broken feathers.

but they didn't tell you

dirt might choke you.

and no one, no one told you

about how much your chin hurts

when you fall face first

from grace.

tempestuousness is a big word

and an equally large price to pay.

this is a desert

take my skin first,

strip it away

layer by dry layer,

slowly, i want to feel the pain.

and let the sun

separate the red,

until the sands are thirsty no more.

let the dry northerly winds,

blow away strands that hold

these hollow bones,

so white these bones,

see how easily they crumble,

but will you read what's inscribed

by his quill first?

mannami goyam aanal haq,

mannami yaar ni goyak vigo,

you own me, my blue one,

but won't claim me,

send me copies of yourself,

who don't wish to claim me either.

but am still here on this path,

where a peacock feather lies

a careless clue of you.

am still here,

because the ceaseless wind

brings a refrain of your breath

from a hollow bamboo

sometimes.

in pink

you should not be so obvious

my blue one, in your gloating.

because i stand here smitten

by you smelling of juhi flowers.

all you had to do is ask.

you know i would leave everything

and show up at your doorstep,

windblown hair, heart on my sleeve,

hungry to see your smile.

i'm easy, you think,

gullible even,

malleable, like silly putty.

and still you weave an elaborate plot

have the ticket clerks in not one

but three multiplexes

tell me friday first shows are all booked!

making me believe,

i am lucky to simply walk up to your temple.

you think i don't know your tricks?

you think i don't know how much

you're missing me?

how much you need me

to be standing here,

looking slightly foolish,

and so totally lovelorn?

all you had to do is ask.

btw. you look good even in pink.

hope

jab raqueeb hee na rahe

janaaze toh uthenge,

jaakar bataa do unhe,

jo laashon ko liye phirte hain,

ab kabr mein bhi araam nahee.

in hawaaon ka zeher

is kadar zehen mein ghul gaya hai,

saans mein bhi raahat nahee.

na dawaa hai, na hua hai

ibaadat ka hee koi asar,

jiye jaa rahe hain

is chaah mein magar,

thaam loge kabhi toh

haath hamara,

padegi hum par bhi kabhi

reham ki nazar.

blueprint

under orion's gaze
when yearning turned into ache,
i died a little that night.

music died, the harvest moon did nothing,

words died, the breezes did nothing,

the earth did not open up

to swallow my pride.

the willow stopped weeping

and turned its silver tipped leaves

into whips, stripped my skin,

salt from the seas singed

of what remained.

i'm back at your doorstep,

still thirsting for you.

your clones in flesh and bone,

may distract me for a while,

and i can hear you laugh

when i bleed,

and that laugh is my strength,

and i am ready to play the clown

who has fallen in love again.

seeking

the more i yearn,
the more you laugh.
the more i chase,
the further you fly.
the more i need,
the more elusive you are.

where is my pride?
where is shame?
what is this bliss i seek?
what magic is in your name?

if only you'd pause,
you'd see, my ache,
my want, my hankering,
is only for thee.

but your eyes are closed,
your thoughts elsewhere.
i ask for but one instant,
will you open your heart for me?

to the author of the anon comment on betelnut the movie

hey anonymous!

thank you for the comment about the film. it got us back to working harder at it.

your $100 are safe in the paypal account. if you wish to take it back, you should have used your real name, and your money would have been returned to you. But you chose to send an anon comment and called us crooks. that's not cricket! tell me your real name and the money will be sent back to you.

wait

outside, it is magic hour,

inside, as i sit cross-legged,

amongst others, is pure magic.

i try to quell the questions

racing through my veins,

will you be here, will you?

will you recognize me?

will you raise that eyebrow

and gracefully acknowledge

the momentary loss of speech

and the skipping of a heartbeat,

should we come face to face?

you'd be older now, but

your perfect round bald head

would be illuminated as always

by some inner tubelight.

your eyelashes lowered to ignore

my need to see you in person.

they said you were here now.

would you be here now?

would you be sitting up there

in the front, next to the blue one,

just as i remember, just as before,

hunched over a butter lamp

coaxing the flame to burn brighter.

i should not be thus distracted

i know you would not want

me to be thus distracted

yet how easy it is to be distracted

i gather my wits, force my eyes shut

maybe then the blue one

will remind me why i am sitting here.

that's when your laughter rings

in my head. is this a new game

my blue one has created?

i allow the sweet suffocation

of incense to lure me back to prayer.

three hundred voices

begin to chant, "aummm…!"

i give in. to longing,

to desires, to yearning,

and exhale, "hmmm!"

stone

when cast with intent,
it draws blood, pain, leaves scars -
otherwise harmless.

untitled

an afternoon of laughter
with you and the swing.
i squint my eyes to see yours,
and let go.
the sunlight dappled our faces,
and the wind played with our hair.
you held me then,
and the earth and sky became one.
the season has changed,
and so have your games,
my wild and wilful Blue one.
and i should've known better.
i've chased you through shadows
and through light,
longing for the same explicit afternoon experience.
and heard your laughter
rumble through the clouds.
exhausted by all that running
and all that chasing,
i collapsed on the same summer swing.
only to discover you've been with me all along.

still Blue

my love is like camphor,
no visible flame,
but i burn,
until i am nothing.

Sweet Blue

i am not one for bhajans, but this one made everything else written about the Blue one, sort of...less. here it is, as someone wrote it. hats off!

adharam madhuram, vadanam madhuram,
nayanam madhuram, hasitam madhuram,
hridayam madhuram, gamanam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.

vachanam madhuram, charitam madhuram,
vasanam madhuram, valitam madhuram,
chalitam madhuram, bhramitam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.

venu madhuro, renur madhuraha,
panir madhuraha, padau madhuro,
nrityam madhuram, sakhyam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.


there's more where that came from, but i'm sunk after learning just this much.

yep! there's nobody quite like you, Blue.

summer love

when i fell in love with you
i was younger, prettier and
many pounds lighter.

and you had freckles -
thousands of them, on your face
and arms and back.

i was easier to please, ready to listen,
you had dreams to dream,
and stories to share.

i had eyes only for you,
and you had beautiful green eyes
and sooty, spiky lashes.

i liked the clean woodsy smell of you,
and you liked disappearing into the woods
for many, many days.

i stayed by the sunlit stream,
skipping on the rocks, waiting for you
to emerge from the forest.

and just as easily and surely
as autumn follows summer, i fell,
out of love with you.

dialogue

"am writing a poem to love."
"is there any other kind?"
"well...i could write a piece..."
"piece? as in prose? really?"
"yeah. prose. essay. opinion."
"you joined a workshop?"
"no. do i need one?"
"that's strange. i write prose."
"for a living, yes. i know."
"presumptuous so-and-so."
"now, now. i say it as i see it."
"i've written a prose blog."
"have you written anything lately?"
"no...but i've written reviews."
"reviews? of movies? love stories?"
"no...they were not love stories."
"there you go then, love."
"hmm...a poem about love, then?"
"like i said, is there any other kind?"

night 1

dear love, how cold you are
perfect foil to my hot exhausted body,
i prefer this commune under the stars,
so sharp so blue, as if someone
had stabbed holes into the floor of heaven.

i like it because you are silent,
i like kissing your mouth
at once firm and vulnerable,
and a bit blue on the edges.

there are shadows beneath your eyes,
but i like kissing them just as i did before,
shivering with pleasure
when my lips touch your spiky lashes.

it’s good to have you all to myself.

the moon is hiding as well,
we are alone here on the thirteenth fairway,
unashamed of the unremarkable brownness
of my naked body lying next to yours,
so pale and magnificent,
so hard and unyielding,

i allow a sigh to disturb
this companionable silence,
it will be years before they call you topsoil.

love poem 2

little things about you i like to keep:

the way your hair curls upon your neck
when you throw your head back and laugh,

how my glasses slide off my nose and yours don’t,
'it’s a noble nose!' my aunt always says,

your large hands on the steering wheel,
i love the way they feel on the small of my back,

i am so glad for the pickling lessons,
grandma insisted i take as a teen.
i have made good use of the jam jars
she stocked in the garage
hoping the mango would yield some day.

your nose still looks as sharp in vinegar,
and your hands still look clean,
but your heart remains as black as ever.

but best part is that look in your eyes,
when i raised the ginsu,
on that dappled afternoon by the stream.

does not fit in any jar but is fresh even today
perfectly preserved in my head.

love poem 1

my fingers ache to soothe
the flyaway hair on your neck,
and when you reassure me
we’re not speeding,
i simply close my eyes,
and let the bike embrace the wind.

you never read a map,
and i always know the way,
but this time i let you guide me
to download love songs off the net.

smitten with him? you ask.
i want to say, yes moron, with you.
but i laugh and let it be.

not yet, not yet. my fingers are crossed
let me enjoy this for a bit longer
it’s my moment. don’t want to give happiness
some one else’s address.

i’m collecting pictures for later,
i explain on gtalk.
magic seeds i plant now for later,
when you’re mature and i've learnt to feel
instead of thinking so much.

i stab at the keyboard to reach you
hope you will walk to me
just as i picture you walking to meet me.
and then watch me exhale.

worth

one hundred and twenty four thousand prophets
until your heart became a slate for surah after holy surah
the faithful recite five times a day even today.
how young you must have been, how alone,
was there anyone who understood the pain
Gibreel’s quill inflicted upon your heart?
was there anyone who could wipe away the blood?
was there blood spilt upon the sands?
your heart must’ve been so big, to include it all,
a reflection of everything He is.

i have picked up a little book of the verses
abridged appropriately for weekend seekers
maybe one lifetime won’t be enough
to align my desires to His plans
how did you surrender when i find it tough even to bow
i begin to wonder , was i born for this?

not now, darling!

it’s not convenient that you die now,
do you understand?
you haven’t noticed but we’ve had wars.
friends divided over loyalties to henry and rose,
who fought bitterly over cds and books
and unused kishko cutlery sets,
but were happy to see sarah go in the spca van
dilip was finally incarcerated for hitting jane,
but only because we intervened,
and stayed night after sleepless night in vigil
at her side, trying to get the blood stains off the love seat,
playing U2 and Nirvana to drown dilip's rage
as he hurled the garden gnomes at the oak,
howling outside, high on jealousy.
sammy lost an eye battling brush fire
and then lost his job, and we’ve all taken turns
taking care of bobby and sonya,
while he’s stood the dole queues
hoping nobody would notice him.
my days are numb from carrying trays
of six-egg omelets and gravy,
the night shifts have left me not a single minute to think
about broken nails and straw hair and coffee gone cold.

tina told us about the rejection letter and your drunken binge
that has lasted three months and how the doctor was surprised
to see your tequila riddled pancreas still working.
so don’t tell me you are dying now,
dying, giving up the ghost, kicking the bucket
because your muse has been unkind to you.
i have exhausted empathy, have no words of comfort,
am tired to the bone and quite empty of tears.
and white my dear, has never been my color.

Slam

stand up. stand up.
face the drunken sods,
say, ‘fuck you, Krishna’
in free verse or rhyme.
it could mean inclusion tomorrow,
among page three poets,
and one free whiskey now.

my throat is parched,
my fingers aching
to clutch that cold glass
of iced amber fire.

the girl in the silver lace dress
has been looking at me
as if she would be warmth.
if only i could move my cold feet
and break a principle or two.

Good Intentions 2.

you again?
haven’t i told you
i don’t want to be
your good deed for the day?

of course i’ve been weeping.
the irrawady dolphins
have depleted, sad, no?
see, it says so on the newspaper
i’ve stuck on the windows.
oh that’s for the sun.
he insists on intruding.
see that beam there? laserlike.
searching for proof
just like you.
so you can send me away.
i won’t let you, you know.

sure, my friends are here
they’ve retreated in the shadows.
they know you won’t try too hard.
you have to pick up Tina
from her dance lesson in twenty minutes.

don’t look at me like that!
i haven’t lost my mind you know
i’ve just let some friends in there.
i was so lonely after he left me.
yes, i did run after him
from the kitchen to the front door,
in my news stilletoes,
i was chopping cabbage for coleslaw;
“don’t leave me!” i cried,
but he was in a hurry, i suppose,
why wait when love has gone?
i think i must’ve tripped,
when i lunged for the door,
"don’t leave me!" i said, he left
three and a half fingers
of his right hand,
i’ve kept them safe
right there, in the butter dish.

Good Intentions

Oh it’s you again?
Come in if you must.
But don’t look at me this way!
There’s no need to let so much sunlight in!
What did you say?
Oh that! Yes, yes,
The pain is filling up the cracks quite well, thank you.
I would get out of these ex-pink pajamas,
And walk down with you towards a macchiato,
But the elevator has turned hostile.
It says: ‘five persons at a time only’.
You know I have been playing host,
You know I cannot abandon them here,
Just because you show up, with an hour to kill
Hoping I will gladly be your Thursday afternoon good deed.
No, no! Don’t throw the cups into the garbage.
How can you throw them simply because an ear is missing?
Because the rim is chipped?
I shall clean up later.
I don’t mind that pizza slice sitting on the table.
If I don’t understand its loneliness, who will?
But I haven’t been lonely, no!
The voices have been company, of sorts,
And I assure you there’s room for more.
I don’t want to go out for a fresh dose of traffic fumes.
You see, they don’t want me out there.
The stop lights hurry me away by freezing on ‘go’,
Even the usually bothersome eunuchs ignore me.
No soot-colored hand will sell me cheap Chinese toys.
If I should idly dial 2-6-4-0-7-3-8-3,
The girl would say, “Yes. We make bean bags
But they are meant for people full of ‘em,
Not for some woman who wonders why
There’s a gap between the letters ‘wel’ and ‘come’
On the rear windshields of taxi cabs.
"My head is occupied, trust me,
I am doing just fine.
So do me a favor dear, please draw the blinds
And shut the door quietly behind you.

jacuzzi

once upon a time,
this would have been,
a david lynch scene:
pale white on white
and blue roses mourning.
should i add calming salts
i wonder, as i slide in.
thirteen months of being alone
has made me somewhat pale,
the knife offers a flash of reflection
but no second thoughts,
this must be the way
to quiet sighless waters.

request

please blink.
you look too directly
into my head.
there are thoughts there,
that must remain thoughts,
they cannot become words
between us.

please blink.
you look too directly
at my heart.
it changes the familiar tattoo
and i stumble, dancing.
across the room you smile
those eyes fixed
in their intent.

please blink.
you look too directly
at me.
it sears my skin
dry, traps the words
inside my throat
i stand inarticulate
to your suggestion.
you raise a silent toast
you know how i feel.

please blink.
you look too directly
at me.

night

the tambourine sings
a tune unfamiliar.
everything has stilled,
including my breath.
the blue sheet over me
is getting cooler, i sink
deeper into the pillows,
deeper into the coils,
of this moonless night.
strangely comforting
are her dark tendrils.
i am lulled by the tune.
the deafening rush
of blood through the veins
has quietened, they say,
it will be hours before
that too will pause.
the yearning to be one
with the black moss,
growing on the path
you might take someday
has been granted.
the tambourine sings on.
will i ever want to wake?

JC (i)

the meeting

wind was in my hair,
and a pebble in my birkenstock
so i stopped to tie the unruly locks,
and shake the pebble out.
that’s when i saw him
resting against a rock.

exchanged notes about the climb,
he was on his way to the village,
i was running away from people.
watch out for the burning bush
he joked, and i told him to stay
clear of the dancing girls.

my Blue one had danced with many,
i was the eternally jealous one,
but JC had had a tough life
i could see, he was still young.
when realization dawned,
i asked him, “what are you doing here
a few centuries late?”
he gave a lopsided smile,
“duh!” he said, “you don’t know the tale?
no one believes me,
but i’ll be back i had said!”


JC (ii)

the miracle
i am on the rock,
by the banks of the river
that you will not find on any map.
the rope of my sandals,
has cut deep into my ankles,
proof that it takes many a mile
to gather but twelve believers.
others have come too,
some to fulfil a curiosity,
some to justify doubts,
some because there’s no cable.
the expectant murmur
has settled down to a simmer.

my words have been too simple --
an ocean in their feeble hands,
hence i must prove by act
what words have failed to convey.

i wish i could wiggle my toes
in the cold waters, happy,
in the manner of children,
but this is not the time
for frolick. it’s time to fulfil
a larger design, a purpose.

your Blue one got away by
opening his mouth wide,
to show he was it all, that
the universe was a part of him,
but the folk here are too rough hewn
i need to start small,
so i stand tall, yet humble
and step on to the waters
for their first glimpse --
of eternity.

drenched!

water drips from your hair,
my eyes measure
six, maybe seven inches,
to your pink tee shirt.

the kohl underneath
your brown eyes
is smudging your cheeks,
i stop myself from saying,
"no, don't dab it away..."

you run a quick hand
through your hair,
what would you say
if you would find me
entangled there?

fascinated by an errant drop
sliding down your throat
into the vee of the tee,
i've missed the reasons
why you like malabar monsoon.

"drink your coffee, baba!"
you say, laughter gurgling
out of your lips and on
to the table between us.
i am persuaded.

but i see you shiver
ever so slightly as the coffee
spreads its warmth.
i pretend the sugar sachet is
more than mildly interesting.

i sigh inside,
might as well drink
the damned coffee,
than let my imagination
be drenched with you.

besides, the cafe is crowded,
my throat is dry,
my feet are cold,
and although you're so close,
you only wish to talk.


inspired wholly by jugal mody and his tale (again!) of an uncaring lass!

set piece

i hadn’t thought of him for a while,
not a poem in his name,
something else had captivated me,
he thought it was just a game.

so he sat down beside me,
with a beguiling smile so casual,
“care for new tune this time
or perhaps your usual?”

no tune of pure seduction,
no promise of eternal bliss,
not even your peacock crown,
shall keep me away from this.

he held my hand now,
and whispered in my ear,
be my love, my only love,
come be with me, i’m here.

my heart did skip a beat i admit,
"go seduce a cowgirl or two,"
i did manage to say, "but now,
wait for me as i did for you."

he laughed, "and those poems
you pen, of love and agony?
come now, or never again,
it'll be just you and only me."

i stole a kiss, before i sighed,
so such was to be my fate!
i’ll write more love poems i promise,
but not now love, can’t you wait?

his glance at me was quizzical,
i had unwrapped his arms from mine,
"no song, no words, no touch
affects you, what could make you mine?"

you’re my love, i assure you,
but i love the offer you’re making,
teamgeist is my fever now,
a german-argentine final i’m seeking.

Taking a Stand

Hemant Suthar and Vikraant Nath have taken a stand. Vikraant is a business person who has offered free tee shirts to the striking docs, braving the heat and the dust. he did not have to do it, but he is a believer. Hemant has designed the very powerful logo which is on the tee shirts. i truly believe that we need to find a better solution towards equal opportunities rather than mere reservation.

this is the brilliant logo:

Nainital

i mourn an almost man,
a boy with silk for hair,
who closed his laughing eyes
in the deep blue
this afternoon.

i, icarus.

motionless on the grass,
i can smell the green,
and dream of Blue again.

it is thursday, i think,
could be any day, really,
the sun-roughened tongue
of greedy summer,
has not yet begun
to taste the skin,
or lap up tears from eyes.

it was spring, and i,
was just answering
that desperate need
to leap into the blue.

what better ladder
than the gnarled redwood?
if i climbed high enough
i’d be closer to Him…

i won’t shout for help,
there’s no one out here.
the earth is slow but sure,
it will claim these bones.

so i let the shadows
examine them slowly.

the long fingers uncurl,
one checks the weakening
pulse, another, my eyes.
"let me see inside, open, open!"
a cold spidery voice insists.

do i have a choice?
the bony fingers pry open
my eyelids, "where?
where are the tears?
why are there no tears?
why do you deprive me
the pleasure of tears?"

i try to move, but cannot.
can't even explain,
i was reaching out
to the Blue one
why would i cry?

the fingers lash across
my face, in anger.
have you felt anger
of the shadows?

it is not unlike the unexpected
low branch that hits you
when you ride horseback
through woods.
you know it is there,
but do not know
you would be in its path.
that’s why most people
are afraid of shadows.

there’s a wetness
spreading on the grass.
"feel it? feel it?"
chorus the shadows,
i do. i feel the wetness,
and see the sun
dapple the shadows away.

i know now. i close my eyes.
something in the neck is broken.

summer is here...

 

for the girls

the room reeks of vanilla
candles, or is it stale
ice cream?
i pull the curtains
apart, let sunlight in.

it’s the debris
of a pity party.
women! i sigh!
when will we learn!
quietly as i can
pick up acres of tissue
carpeting the floor.

at least the girls had
style! the wine was fine,
and real French takeaway
from pristine white boxes
embossed in gold.
but the story they told
was same old, same old.

heartache for a lover,
lost to a woman
who had never known
chafing.
she had a gap
between her thighs.
and an IQ that matched
her shoe size…

the coffee machine
signals. it’s time
to save the girls.

mix pink pajamas
and dark Arabica
get bleary-eyed questions:
“where were you?”
“what’s with the smile?”
“please don’t say
Krishna saves.
what do i care for savings
when my current account feels so fucked?”

true. true. all true.
but as the raspy voiced
high priest of rock says,
‘the times they are a…’

“wake up dahlings,
binging on pain is passé.
we girls have to work smart.
we need to learn to call in.
report that pain.”

“don’t waste time
mourning the bastards.
or thinking of revenge.
you really want them back? not!”

“so flash your Visa
Mastercard even.
receive flowers,
Darcy on DVD.
pink Champers to start afresh.
better than calling agony aunties
or crying for mom.
call woesBgone dot com
and outsource the damned pain.”

Betelnut Killers

it's taken a long long time, and finally my story is being made into a film.

and you can be a part by becoming a co-producer with as little as $100

check out the movie that is going to be blogged all the way!

the link is http://blog.betelnutkillers.com


and by the way,
the paypal thing works...

chanting

the lust

in those voices,

as they call out your name,

seeps through

the billion pores

on my skin,

and presses against my spine

to arch it in a jealous moan.

i have closed my eyes,

and allowed the salt

to saturate my cheeks.

hating,

years of etiquette,

that do not allow me

the same abandon.

how i hide the insanity,

of this love,

deep inside,

it has become a habit now.

but the lust

in those voices,

travels down my ears,

to the secret corner

of my heart,

and a wave erupts

inside, disrupting

Brahma mudra.

i raise my hands,

take a deep deep breath,

and allow desire,

to raise my neck

skywards,

to be kissed by you,

my Blue.

happy hour

so you wrote a love poem to me
and sent it by email.
all your desires,
denuded by pixels,
a digital divide
between your passion
and mine.

how i wish,
you were sitting here
in front of me,
our knees touching,
just so i could lean forward
to catch your low voice,
your elbows resting on your thigh.
as you read the same poem
you scribbled in that unreadable text.
(your handwriting’s a murder,
but you’re forgiven
because your hair flops over
your dreamy eyes,
and makes you look like
a wiser John Abraham.)

the words would mean so much more,
if i could hear you mouth them aloud.
they would linger on your lips,
and when we kiss
i would get to taste them.
(hmm...a bit of Bourneville and Glenlivet
and blueberry muffins
with cinnamon?)

i could stuff the poem away,
in the back pocket of my jeans,
put my arms around you,
and pretend to read
your eyes instead.
(darn those sooty lashes
you inherited from your mama!)

or better still,
you’d hand me the letter
and let me read,
distracting me
from the words,
by tracing lazy circles
on my thigh.

until then, i shall smile
at the moiré,
and savor each word,
of the love poem
you send me by email.