Eye of the beholder...

Geeta entered the park through the west gate and followed the jogger's path that deviated to the right soon after the entrance. She was in an upbeat mood today. Her ad copy had been accepted by the client last evening, and a round of pats had done her back some good. She inhaled the fresh dawn air and almost smiled to herself. She had also decided to run an extra lap today. She wondered how humans adapted themselves to their surroundings. This was a city she hated four years ago when she landed here on a new assignment. She looked at the familiar faces and smiled. And now, it was all different. She was fiercely protective about the same city now and wouldn't leave for all the wealth in the world. Funny, she shook her head. She would've almost passed by the hunched figure sitting on the bench, had it not been for the distinct actions of his hands. She continued running and turned back. When she came around, she saw his fingers nervously running over the text of the book. And then it dawned on her. Obviously! How could he've seen her? He was reading in Braille. She hadn't seen him around earlier. Must be new to town. She stopped after her quota of rounds and sat beside him. He looked up toward her - through her. She smiled. If it were the movies, he'd have fluttered his eyelashes and asked, 'kaun hai?'. But not now. He just went back to his book, his fingers slowly moving over the pages.
"Hello."

"Hmm?"

"Hi.."

"Oh, hello. I'm sorry, I was so involved in reading.. I.."

"It's ok." She smiled.

"What're you reading?"

"Oh, it's about Zen."

"Really? Interesting."

He smiled. "I'm Arun."

"Geeta."

"New around here?" It amazed her how she'd so easily started a conversation with a blind person. She'd never done it before. But there was something about him...

"Yeah."

They made small talk for a few more minutes before she rose. She had an early meeting to attend. She wanted to ask him if he needed help out of the park. But she knew how fiercely independent differently abled people were, so she let it be.

********

Arun was a nice guy with a great sense of humor. Jogging in the park was not just another morning routine for Geeta anymore. She looked forward to meeting him and talking with him. For more than a fortnight, the new routine was she finishing her jog, and then talking to Arun. Then they walked to the nearby tea-stall where he had his tea and cigarette, and then she walked him to the edge of the park, outside. She decided that it was time to call him home and bring him into her circle of friends and family.

********

"Geeta, it's fine, but..."

"Please Reena, you don't start that thing about him being blind etc." Reena was her close pal at office, who had started out with her around the same time in the city.

"I know, I know..but..hope you've thought about this, hmm?"

"Trust me."

********

He wasn't there. Her first thought was, "I hope he's ok." And she now felt bad that she didn't know where he stayed. She'd told him almost everything about herself - where she lived, where her parents were, who her friends were, where she worked. And he'd never divulged anything more than his interests, not even his background. She suddenly realized she didn't even know if he lived in this city - he'd never mentioned it. Maybe his blindness had somehow stopped her from being more inquisitive than she'd normally be.

She finished her jog and waited on the bench for more than a half hour, but he didn't show up. She felt a pang of disappointment. She shook herself. "Relax Geeta, don't be so restless now."
He wasn't there the next day either. And the next, and the next. And the next. A month later, Geeta only turned to look at the bench while jogging, but was now sure that he'd gone. But she felt cheated. He could've at least come by to say bye. But then, well, he might've had his own reasons. She accepted his absence and carried on with life.

*********

Sunday afternoons were the most boring, according to Geeta. As she flicked through the channels, her droopy eyes almost closing, the loud door-bell jolted her out of her senses. God, she must have that bell replaced, she muttered, dragging herself to the door.

"Hi."

"Arun? Wha..how?"

He was looking different. And she realized he was not looking through her. He was looking at her. Into her eyes. It took her a moment to realize.

She gently pulled his hand and got him into the house, but his eyes won't leave hers.

"You...you're.."

"Yeah, that's right Geeta. I'm not blind now."

"Uh..." She didn't know how to react.

"I've come to invite you to premiere of my movie this evening."

"Movie?"

"Yeah. I play the same character that you saw in the park all those days."

She sat down in disbelief.

"how was I?"

"Huh?"

He smiled. "My acting. How was it?"

She didn't reply. She didn't know how to reply.

"We had to wrap up the shoot and the other post production work. So I couldn't come to the park. I wanted to surprise you by inviting you to the movie."

She just kept looking at him.

"It's my directorial debut. It's a small film, but...."

She was staring ahead.

"Geeta. Geeta?"

"Huh..?"

"Look I'm sorry for all this...but...you'll come to the movie, won't you?"

He smiled that same innocent smile. She slowly smiled back.

"Of course, I'll come...you Oscar winner" She replied, hitting him gently on his shoulder.

********

Ok, now what?

"If you wanna write, write. Don't think". That's precisely how the better half put things in perspective when yours truly cribbed about the 'bloggers block' and all that jazz about not being able to post for so long now. Well, taking a serious cue from that one, I thought, yeah well, if thinking about writing a story on my blog could lock up my fingers from writing just about anything else, then I probably shouldn't blog - I should maintain a diary where I jot down my so called stories and wait for eternity until the next idea strolled up my brain. But for now I'm doing just what the doc prescribed - just write. And this is something we as writers are advised and instructed to do, right from the time we learn that we could do some serious damage with the alphabet. But still we talk about writer's block as if it were some privileged five star condition that only we were entitled to. "Oh, I have writer's block." The common cold feet.

Wondering, should I post what I just wrote?

What the... well, here it is. Now it's just a matter of 'just writing' everyday. Hmm? I feel better already.

Making history...

It was a typical museum with dark, long corridors and huge halls with high ceilings. This one almost resembled the insides of a cathedral. Rohit and Seema gazed around in awe. One of the most beautiful museums they'd seen. And to think they'd get to visit one on an unlikely trek such as this. They'd been planning on the trek for quite some time now, and this museum literally waylaid them, as if it wanted them to walk in and take in the rare artefacts, before they proceeded in the hot sun. Seema smiled and clutched Rohit's palm. She was like Alice in wonderland. Rohit smiled back and sighed. This was a great place, no doubts.

The trek organizer had left them a few kilometers back at the foot of the Jogi mountain, with detailed instructions about first aid, food and other helpful tips in case they got lost. This was their first trek before they tied the knot a month hence. They just wanted to have a blast and do what they both loved doing - exploring nature.

"Funny, I thought the building looked much smaller from the outside" Rohit commented, gently running his fingers on a tiger, so realistic, he felt it would roar and bite his finger any time.

It never struck them as odd, the appearance of a museum such as this, in the middle of virtually nowhere. Even the organizer hadn't mentioned this in the route. But it didn't matter. Rohit had checked. From the window of the museum, they could see the nearby town. Well, a lot of folks preferred to drive up to a place like this; it was good tourism. Even if Rohit had any doubts it had slowly perished, after having walked around for a while now.

"This way please," The curator who'd welcomed them in flashed a typical curator smile that said, see it but don't touch it. He'd called himself Guru.

Seema rolled her eyes and exchanged a brief knowing glance with Rohit. The curator watched the lovers from the corner of his eye and smiled to himself before leading them to the room at the far end of the museum.

"And this.." He said opening a door that led to some kind of a basement, "is something you would'nt have seen anywhere in the world."

Rohit raised his eyebrows. There was a rare confidence in Guru's voice. They simply smiled and followed him downstairs.

"Wow".

"See? I told you." Guru looked around proudly, as if he'd built this place with his own hands.
Rohit had never seen anything like this before. Statuettes, caskets, jewelry, pottery, and more...indeed he'd never seen anything like this before.

"Original. From the 10th and 12th centuries. All these belonged to the Rastrakutas."

"Rastrakutas? But...how..?" Seema had read a bit of history, and knew that the valiant dynasty had indeed existed in India between 752-985 A.C.E and that their contribution in the field of art and architecture was unmatched. But to openly claim that all of this belonged to them was being a little too confident.

But before she could continue to quiz him about the Rastrakutas, Guru led them to an adjoining room with massive blinds and the walls adorned huge life-size paintings of various temple and historic monuments. They would've missed it had they not stopped by to see the paintings closely. And funnily, this part of the museum was lit poorly. And the air suddenly felt as heavy as lead. Seema's throat felt dry.

"Hey, isn't that..?" Rohit stopped. Guru turned. Seema grasped Rohit's shoulder, her eyes round with bewilderment.

"That's as you can see.." Guru stepped closer.

"The Taj Mahal" Seema completed the sentence.

"Yes. Quite right, ma'am."

"Why's it in shambles? Who could've painted it this way?" She wondered aloud.

"Ah, that's the specialty of these paintings ma'am. All these paintings represent buildings that are going to perish in the near future."

"But how gross. How can somebody think about our national wonder in this way?"

"That's how it is, ma'am."

Rohit and Seema turned to Guru, who had an almost diabolic smile now, instead of his warm, friendly countenance.

They looked at the Eiffel Tower, Mount Rushmore, the Qutub-Minar, Vidhana Soudha...all in pieces. And then they came to the last painting.

"Isn't this...?"

"Yes. It is."

It was the museum they were in.

"Wh..when is this going to happen?"

"Anytime now," Guru said, as the floor beneath them began to rumble and they started shaking violently.


***********

On the same page...?

"Who are these people? Do I know them?"

"Who? These? Why would you know them, ma? And..how would you?"

"Then? They've written their names like they were celebrities we all recognize. See - Meena and Nikhil. Anil and Sania. Mohan and Preeti. How does it matter what their names are if I can't relate to them?" She frowned and adjusted her glasses. "Wait a minute. This girl...is she a model?"

"No, ma. She's not. And most of them shown here aren't."

"Then? Why the names...?"

"Ma. They're just there because someone paid the newspaper to have their pictures on print. It's publicity, that's all. They're called the 'Page 3' people."

"Ah. That movie. They acted in that movie?"

"Aaargh, no ma, they didn't. Page 3 is...it's a name for...for these socialite kinds. Celebrities too are featured in it. It's just like you know, the 'editorial' page where you find editorials? (Sheesh...what a comparison). But it's just as an example, no please don't draw parallels." But it was too late. She was already at it.

"Editorial? You mean, these people have written all that's written here, on this...this Page 3?"

"Maaaa...".

(Remind me to raise some money and pay it to a newspaper the next time we have a get-together at home. And oh, remind me to take my mom's pics and have 'em printed as well. With her name.)

Will you...?

It's funny how we tend to remember dates in our minds. Well, yeah there are some (in my case most) dates that we don't remember, aside from the regular birthdays, anniversaries, and other special occasions. I guess as we grow, these special dates become the glue that holds so many memories together. I for one, used to always forget birthdays and important dates right from school, until I stepped into college. Though I'd not reckoned, it so happened that I met Anu. It wasn't anything special to begin with. We were the cliched 'good friends'. Actually we were. ;) To me, she was just someone I was comfortable with, could talk about anything under the sun. And we were human examples of all the cliches man could ever think of. I was frivolous, she was the silent types. I didn't know when to close my mouth at times, she didn't know when to open up. And yet, there was this quiet understanding, a friendship that had nowhere else to go but together, for life. So I decided to ensure that we were going to be just that. Together for life. And so fourteen years ago, today, I proposed. (Of course we got married 8 years later, but that's another thing...)

And this is one day I cannot forget till I die.

Love you, honey.

Tag(ged) by He(u)r

Have lived (still do) my entire working life with tags (tech writers'll know what I mean) :), so here I am, facing yet another tag (Pre? Happy?), though of a different kind. This one's a little difficult because I've never believed in perfect love. But hmmm, well, these points could come closest:

1. Good sense of humor (fair would do as well)

2. Charming

3. Understanding

4. Lovable (I know...vague, but can't put it any better)

5 - 8. All of the above ;)

The skinny on this...

Some things grow on you, like your own skin. Take for example this old Tee that I've been slipping into for quite some time now at home. It's showing signs of aging in that there are stitches coming out from here and there like hostelites trying to sneak out for a late night booze party. And though this tee was once a very bright, striking apparel on my being that I used to wear to work even, lately it's retired; but I feel mighty comfortable slipping into it. It's warm, it's home. It's like my skin. Though the wife has been trying to wiggle it out of my wardrobe and into that bag of clothes we donate to charity every year, I tell her 'not this one'. And am sure each of us has our own 'rag doll' that makes us secure in the fact that they've traveled time with us; still with us. No matter what, we won't wanna give 'em up. For anything. For life. Right?

hitch hiked!

Uma started the car. She'd barely stepped on the accelerator when the door behind her opened and snapped shut. And she'd barely begun to turn when she felt the cold muzzle on her neck.

"Drive, woman. Don't you dare look back."

She pulled out onto the main road. Calm now, she auto suggested. No point asking where he wanted her to go. And moreoever, she didn't want to feel like a cabbie. She sniffed. Her cold suddenly worsened, and she'd this urge to sneeze. It passed.

"Take a left here."

A thousand re-runs of a thousand bollywood/hollywood movies zipped in her mind. Well, not that she was an avid movie watcher in any case, but a part of her mind now chided her for not watching all those DVDs her husband rented. She drove on. They were on the ring road now; oh, they were going on a long drive alright. She spotted her cell lying in between the steering wheel and the odo.

Almost as if he'd read her mind, "Pass me your cell phone."

She could hear the clicking and snapping. The sim card was out of the window. Dumb move, she thought. Then he flashed his own cell out. She managed to look into the rear view mirror. She wanted to laugh out as she noticed what he realized.

"You could've used my phone, you know. Yours might be traced..."

"Shut up and drive."

She shrugged. She'd caught a glimpse of his face. Looked decent. Glasses. A light stubble. Hmm, not bad looking, actually. They rode in silence for a few minutes, the traffic outside the only sound. Suddenly she liked the sound of traffic.

"Drive out of town."

"Listen, we've to fill up..."

"Next bunk, on the right. And make it fast." he ducked.

At the bunk, he lay low.

"I've to go...you know...." She said.

"I'm watching you. And no tricks, ok? This isn't like the movies. Don't try to call the cops from the bunk."

She handed over the keys to the bunk assistant, instructing him to fill the tank up. When she returned, her passenger was still lying low in the back seat. She shook her head and got in. A few minutes later they were speeding out of the city. She looked at her watch. Some more driving in silence.

"Working?"

"Huh?"

"You work?"

Before she could open her mouth, he spoke again.

"You don't look like you work."

Yeah right, I carry my ID around, she thought.

A white innova overtook them and blocked them, forcing the car to stop. Now what...
Four men stepped out.

"I'll handle this. You keep quiet."

She shrugged. He inched the muzzle closer to her neck.

One of the men pulled the rear door open, pointing at him what looked like an automatic.

"I'll...I'll kill her. Don't step forward. Who are you?"

He'd barely uttered the words, when without his own knowledge a howl of pain escaped his lips, and he felt his hand snap. The woman in front had used the distraction to pull his hand and break his wrist. The gun fell from his hand. Uma stepped out. The leader of the group stood in attention and saluted her.

As the perpetrator was handcuffed, she couldn't help but notice with amusement, the look in his face.

"Not your day, man." She smiled. He didn't know what to say.

"And oh, one more thing."

They stopped.

"Next time, make sure you get your basics right, hmm? Read the newspapers, it's a good habit. Guys like you should know who you're pitching against, shouldn't you? And last - never, never leave the victim out of your sight. ok?"

This too shall pass...

Another day. Another year. New beginning? Of what? It's just a calendar, with a different number. But well, let's not get too cynical about it, cause there's always something to be cynical about in life. So, yeah...let's look ahead and try and achieve things that we haven't already. As for this space, yep, there'll be more stories, more updates...it's just another day at the blog. :)

A Happy New Year to all of you! (...it's great having you all around)

'hic'ory dickory doc

What is the correct remedy for a hiccup? Drink water, inhale deep, scare the person shitless so that the hiccup is dispelled like a bubble..or some such thing. Right? Well, so I tried that method with my daughter the other day. She went 'hic, hic, hic' for more than half an hour. So I and wifey waited for the right moment and then I went 'bow!' on my unsuspecting tot. And lo and behold. She was cured. But then I heard my wife from behind me - "hic". I guess I was a wee bit loud. Talk about blowing out fire with fire. Or starting it. Or..whatever.

Moving on to TV shows, the one show that really tickles my funnybone is this one on Pogo - Takeshi's castle. And it's not the weird antics of the gamers that get me; it's Javed Jaffrey's commentary, in his inimitable style. And the game itself is a non-stop nonsense for a half hour, offering full timepass. It's one helluva stress-buster. Go watch it.

No comments

Finally did it. Made Anu read all my stories. And this is what she had to say - "hmmm, nice...but your stories are like somebody wearing the trousers first, then underwear, then shoes, then the shirt, and then finally...the socks." She also compared my shorties to a college student hurriedly making notes in class to be elaborated at home (which the student rarely does). Interesting analogies, but given the fact that she doesn't much prefer spooky stuff, and she's not a frequent browser; doesnt have a blog, doesn't want to have one; she was patient enough to go through every single one of 'em and critique 'em. You know, she's been my worst critic, and I say this at the cost of sounding cliched, but that's how it's always been. Her critiques pack more punch than my stories and every once a while, I lug them to her. Helps for some creative defragmentation.

Her parting shot? "I like the comments on your blog better than your stories".

"Gale mein khich khich..."

He thought he heard someone cough in the adjacent room. It startled him, because he was alone and his brother wasn't due till morning. But you never knew with him, sneaked in like a cat most times.

"Nikhil?"

No answer. He went and checked the room. Nobody. But he was 100% sure he wasn't hearing things. He had distinctly heard a cough. He scanned the room. It was silly. How could someone be here? It was plain as daylight. The windows were closed, so it couldn't be the neighbors. He switched the lights off and went back to his room.

There was a lot of talk about thefts in the area lately, but he knew a thief would be much smarter than to be just coughing around the house he intended to burgle. He smiled to himself, shaking his head. He got back to his novel.

And somebody coughed, again.

He didn't want to admit, but his heart skipped a beat as he sat up.

He looked around for something to hold, something he could use as a weapon. He tiptoed to the door, his hands a little shaky. He didn't want to forewarn the intruder, whoever it was. He just sneaked to the door and looked out of the room. Suddenly the silence screamed at his ears. For a minute, he again felt silly doing this. He couldn't afford to be seen dead in this position, not in the least by Nikhil. Five minutes. No sound. He stepped out of the room, moving to the adjacent room again. The glow from the street light outside spread vaguely on the bed. Did he see something move? His hand slid on the wall to the switch board. Click. Nothing.

******

He groggily opened the door to his brother who walked in, shaking his head. Should he tell him about the weird incident last night? He silently closed the door behind him and followed his brother to his room.

"Drats, I left my cell here last night. I must've got a hundred messages." He grabbed the little instrument and started checking.

"That's funny; only two messages." Nikhil said, pushing his hair back.

Just then a new message came in.

A cough.

"Cool tone, huh?" He smiled at his brother, who looked as if he'd swallowed a lot of tooth paste.

Lights, camera, action replay...

Had written this article on Sulekha a few years ago. Conversing with Pre, I suddenly chanced upon it and thought, 'hey, why not lug it to my blog?" So, here it is. A word of caution tho'. From the time I wrote it until now, a few of my own opinions about the article's content have...well, not changed, but let's just say I've grown up to accepting, and I realized later that I did in fact falter here and there writing it...so please if you feel strongly about something I wrote in here, hold that thought a moment. The article's 4 years old and a lot has changed since then.


Making Films in India. It's Different!

Snippets from a typical Indian movie promo on TV:
Director: “Yeh film hat ke hai. It's different. Achchi story hai” (This film is different. Good story).We see a boy and girl dancing and singing in Switzerland. Great. What a different story!

Actor: “Uh, jab maine script pada, to mujhe laga ki yeh role bada hi challenging hoga” (When I read the script, I realised the role must be very challenging).We see some shots from song no. 2. True. Those steps are indeed challenging.

Actress: “Uh, mera role bahut hi bold hai. Do achche gaane hain”(I play a bold character. There are a couple of good songs).A wet number follows. It does take courage to prance in the rain with your saree clinging to you and of course, more than two dozen folks watching.

I've been watching movies ever since I was a little boy. Having grown up in a very culturally inclined family, dining table (heck, just about any table) conversations always began and ended with the arts.

“Which raga did Bhimsen Joshi render on television last night?”

“No, Shyam Benegal has not directed any regional language film.”

“Ma, stop making fun of my favourite actor!”

“I'm not gonna miss that Steve Martin movie tonight.”

Now I know for a fact that movies told stories and entertained. Then came music. Background score. Dubbing. The rest, as the clichéd phrase goes, is history. As technology advanced, so did the other aspects of filmmaking -- from the traditional 'drama' form of just mouthing written dialogue and emoting, we graduated to the more realistic portrayal of life around us. Real life locations, gripping dialogue in 'life-like' clipped tones, advanced cinematography, etc.

When movies came to life on the American screens, musicals were the in thing. The song and drama format captured the essence of life in a more surrealistic atmosphere. That was another era. Movies back here too started out pretty much the same way. A basic story. A love angle. Studio settings. Songs, dances, emotion, drama. The works. Good time pass.

Cut to present day India. People are more exposed to the outer world, thanks to cable TV. But in terms of our movies, I don't think we have made much progress. Oh yes, technically we have improved. Production values have gone up. But then the very foundation of a good movie has got buried in the process of churning out movie after movie, ensuring that the Indian film industry is the largest in the world, thank you, but in terms of quality -- uh huh, needs work.

Two things. Why only love stories? And why so many songs? Come to think of it, can't movies be made without songs? Why are we so stuck up on them? Doesn't it sort of make stories so very artificial? And kill the continuity of a good story? This song and dance routine in some movies goes to ridiculous lengths. Things were different back then when the only medium of entertainment was the movies. But now, after TV, do we still need to see those countless songs thrown into song-like commercial breaks? We have music video channels. We could watch them there. Why show them in well-made movies at all?

Suffering mother -- sing a song to cure her. Dying brother -- sing a song to make his dying easier. Boy falls in love with girl -- sing a song to show his feelings. Any eventful scene in an Indian film -- sing a song.

Just watch a movie of the 70s and then watch a present day one. How different is the treatment? How much has the basic premise changed? I'll bet my last penny -- not much. Why? “Because the people want that.” “Because we're Indians, we love songs and emotions. Loud dialogues.” “Because we are a country of villages, of the masses. And they can't appreciate quality stuff.” Bull. And more bull. We all know that these reasons are illogical and childish. We have the capacity to digest more themes and topics in movies than any other country in the world. And why not? We are such a diverse culture. Each family, each house has a story to tell. Our country's history has so much to tell. Then why this cheap fixation for 'boy meets girl, boy fights baddies, boy gets girl' theme that has been done to death? “Hey, that's not true! We have changed themes nowadays,” you may counter. Well, yeah, ok. It might have. But ultimately that's what forms the very core of the film. How many movies have you seen in the last few years and come out confidently telling, “Hey, this one was different.”

Bottom line: A good story doesn't need songs and heaving cleavages to set the box office on fire. What it needs is a good story line and a sharp script. Remember, it's how you put it across what sells a good story. Yeah, yeah, commercial interests, popularity charts and all that. The producer has to make money. Ditto the entire crew. But tell me something, isn't it high time we invested in quality projects rather than making this another 'assembly line' profession? Let the intensity show in the dialogue itself rather than the 'loud' way in which it is delivered. Silent anger can be more effective than shouting your lungs off. And love, well do you really think romance is only possible when a dozen nymphets shake a leg behind you? Doesn't it touch your heart when eyes speak? Cannot a gesture touch your heart? And most of all, do you think a dramatic situation really needs loud background score to chill your spine? If you ask me, deafening silence makes it more realistic.

Ok, a few guys from the movie industry could rough me up and say – “Lay off, pal. You don't know a thing about entertainment. That's what people want. So we give it to them.” Oh, really? Why, have they taken a door to door consensus on what people want? Or have directors held press conferences and invited people to ask questions on how they want films made? If you bring up a tiger on grass, it doesn't know the taste of anything else. We have been brought up on songs and dances from Alam Ara, so it's obvious we don't know how to make any other kind of film. A formula is a formula is a formula.

The truth is, directors and producers have never really bothered with what people want. Aren't the recent debacles in the box office proof enough that this song and dance formula doesn't work anymore? People want to see substance. They want to see good stories being told. Considering India's cultural diversity, imagine her potential to provide stories. The topics that could be generated are immense. Not just urban, even rural stories that have substance can click. Why stick to the same old story of boy meets girl? Do humans have these feelings only for one another?

And please, stop blaming people for your inefficiency as a director or a screenplay writer (that's another article altogether, what say Abbas?). Ok, so you want to have a song in your movie, without which you will suffocate to death? Fine. Just have a background number when something important happens in a movie. Won't it work? Of course it will. We've never tried it. Never taken the risk. Remember, unless you show people what good films are, how will they know?

Stop feeding the tiger grass. Let us have some meat please. Bon appetit!

game for it..

Do kids play as much as we did in our times? I doubt it. Well, I do see kids running around in family-dos and other social gatherings, but they seem to be doing only that - run around. But do these guys play the games we used to? 'ice-pice', 'laal pathar', 'satkhopdi', 'kith-kiththa'(essentially a girls' game) and there are so many others. I know most of these games by their hindi/bihari names, but am sure they are the same for kids all over the country. Oh, what fun. And we used to enjoy playing these games in summer and especially on a moonlit night. 'Satkhopdi' was a favorite with us guys. Also marbles. And oh yes, tops.. we used to call these crazy li'l things lattu. I remember once my father had made one such top for me. He'd taken great pains to make me one and boy, were the other guys envious of me. See, as kids the novelty or pride was not in the sleekness of such toys but the crude, home-made kinda feel. They'd gun me for my top, borrowing every now and then...made me feel really special. And then there was this neighboring kid who had a real 'clint-eastwood'ish toy pistol. It had this really long barrel and was metallic black. *sigh*, I don't mind owning one like that even at this age (only the cops and anti-terrorist squad would be on my trail now). And those kite flying sessions. Sheer pleasure. Having lived in a colony, we kids were a real close-knit gang and always upto something or the other. We'd climb trees, walls and steal fruits and we'd wait eagerly for festivals when we could really test our limits as mischief-mongers. We had a great time with all these games. I for one, wouldn't have imagined a childhood without these. We had so much to look forward to.

And then came the TV.

Short story long...

Drat, I don't seem to be able to post anything aside from stories. Or maybe I'm just getting plain old and have nothing to contribute to the effervescent blogworld. I remember I started blogging at the behest of a friend/colleague two and a half years ago. It's funny 'cause I remember being very reluctant to enter this world.

"An online diary? Whatever for?"

"Well, it's a great way to vent your thoughts, feelings etc. And you may try penning down those weird stories of yours there instead of feeding on my brains" was the answer my friend had for me.

"And how do I get into this...weblog, or blog, or whatever it is that you call it?"

"Simple. I'll give you a link. Just go there, sign up and that's it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. You just open your diary each day and type away."

"And..."

"There's nothing much to it actually. Well, there are other ways to customize it the way you want it to look. But that's a long way. Start by just writing something."

So there it was. Got an account with blurty and started 'typing away'. I found it a little odd initially. A diary is something very private, something very close to one's heart. But here, it was diferent. Here it was like, you enter a stage, do your mono act and then wait for the audience to critique you on the spot. Or you don't, if you didn't want others to read it. I said to myself - awww, what's the fun if others can't read what you have to say. And hey, it'll be good fun to exchange thoughts and ideas, read other writers. So there I went, not looking back since then.
In between, I even shifted to rediffblogs once...but eventually returned to Blurty. And stayed there until recently when I shifted once again to blogspot. It's like you change drama companies on the move.

Going by most of my co-bloggers, I felt I was a tad old to be in the crowd. And then slowly I blended in. And it's been great fun. And I get to flick some of my own posts from blurty and paste 'em here whenever I want to repeat myself. Cool, huh?

Drat, I just posted something other than a story. :)

Long story short...

Ok, the stories. How do they come? How do they form inside of my head and spill forth here? Who was it...? Yeah, it was Shub who asked me this in one of her comments..These are questions that don't have easy answers, even from me. I mean...but I sat back and mulled over it for a moment. And looking back, it all begins with an idea that just springs up and I build a story round it, with characters, some a figment of my own imagination, some inspired by people around me. And funnily, the stories are much better when I just caught on to a germ of an idea and put it down, then and there. Not much thought, not much mulling, no editing whatsoever. Straight from the heart, as they say. And whenever I've played around with an idea for a few days and then written it, it's got diluted. And I end up feeling, 'sheesh, this could've been better'. And I always wonder about this. Does the impact lie in the spontaneity of the thought? The freshness? Maybe...that's when the characters are still onstage in your mind. But isn't your story supposed to be well etched if you write it after much thought? I guess that's just a problem with my mind. :)

I guess the difference is in the thought process. The shorties are best for...well, shorties. They come in spurts. The slower ideas need more processing time. Maybe I should try writing longer versions of those. Maybe some idea will find it's way into a bigger book someday.

It's like the difference between a 100m dash runner and a marathon runner. Well...

whodunnit?

He sat smoking silently on the dark stairway when it all began. Heard like crackers at first. But it was unlikely - no cricket match,Diwali was still months away and the celebrations (of any kind) couldn't have started so suddenly; at least not in this area. He heard running footsteps, several of them. Then car doors opened and slammed shut. The shots continued. The stairway was half hidden behind a pile of boxes. He started descending, slowly, like a cat, to get a better view. Just then a figure appeared at the foot of the stairway, blocking the street light for a moment. Staggered, in fact. Their eyes met. He leaned against the wall, clutching his waist. Then a lone shot rang out, pushing him forward against the stairs and he slumped. He was not down yet. He lay there and pointed his gun at the half illuminated stranger, who now stood still.

"Aye! What are you doing here? Do you want to die?"

And in a moment, that face was clear. The dreaded gangster Madhav. He started getting up. But it was too late, the small swiss knife blade shone in the light for a fraction of a second, in front of his eyes before plunging deep in his neck.

******

The encounter was not a new thing that the city witnessed that night. But the cops were having a hard time trying to figure out the post mortem report. They were damn sure they'd shot the gangster down. But death due to a knife wound?

Guess who...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Just like that...

I love the smell of old books. Whenever I pick up one of the classics or a really old book, you know the ones where the pages are almost like papyrus, crumbling at your touch (ok, maybe I went too far with that), and I smell the pages,mmmmm, it literally transports me back to that time when the book was written, or well, whenever, donno what, but the feeling's really good. You feel one with the characters of the book or the author who's penned it. It's comforting. Especially on a lazy afternoon. And hey, has this happened to you anytime - you're listening to this familiar number that you've heard at home countless times, and when the track stops, you half expect to hear the song which came right after that in your compilation. It's like the jukebox in your head has already begun playing that number.

Well, just a rant...

Well...

They sat at the kitchen table. She munched. He sipped. They didn't speak. Just munched and sipped. She was hungry. He was thirsty. Jussst...munching and sipping. No speaking.

She wiped her mouth with the napkin and cleared her throat. He looked at her. Kept looking.

She bit into her food again. "Mmmhmm, mhhmm?"

He placed the glass down. "Sorry?"

She swallowed hurriedly. Boy, was she hungry.

"I'm sorry. What I meant was, Do you want more?"

He shook his head.

She nodded and went back to her munching. He was done sipping.

He rose.

She sat watching.

He wanted to leave, obviously. He just raised his hand, but didn't wave.

She smiled through her mouthful. Or was it just his imagination?

He left. She munched some more. A few moments later, she stood watching him from the kitchen window. He turned at her one last time and disappeared into the darkness.

She looked down at her bulging tummy and waved her palm on it. The baby moved. She looked into the darkness again.

She wondered if she should tell her sister about the Indian burglar, who didn't have the heart to rob them. After all, this was a country foreign to him as well. Poor guy. She thought about her husband, snoring so lovingly. Should she tell him?

She let it be. For now, she wanted to rob the entire kitchen off all the goodies. Boy, this guy's one helluva eater, she thought, looking down again.

Chasing cars and unfinished dreams...

The hot car chase. Adrenalin rushing. You watch with your heart pounding. You want the hero to somehow shake his trail off. You want him to disappear into thin air. You want him to lose the big guy driving like a madman behind him. And you probably didn’t even notice that there were a dozen cars that got mowed down in the rat race.

Imagine the scene after the hero and villain vanished in the cloud of exhaust smoke. Imagine you’re a bystander and you watch the carnage they left behind. You move your eyes slowly toward the pile up. Time stands still. Crowds flock to the mangled remains of the cars. Innocent, unsuspecting people. That guy you see pasted to his wheel was probably rushing to office because he had a presentation to make that would bag him his first promotion. That woman who’s trying to step out of her car, screaming when she realizes she’s left both her feet in the floor of the car; probably a mother of two, rushing to pick her children up from school, or probably going to the mall to buy her mother that lemon green saree she’d promised her. You see that brand new hatch-back resting on its back, its driver clambering out? He’s had multiple fractures, probably even a hemorrhage that the doctor later that day, would mournfully announce to his family members. The new car was bought after much discussion with wife and parents, after considering a myriad opinions and factors so it would not be hard on him and his family. He wanted only comfort for them, nothing more. And…and that cute little red car you see pasted atop another sleek looking machine? That car was probably an emotional attachment of an old retired man, whose son didn’t have the heart to sell it, despite having enough money to buy him an SUV.

I know it’s only a movie. But just imagine.

The thin read line...

Some time back, I watched this movie 'Meenaxi - A tale of three cities'. Well, the movie was nothing to write home about, but the premise was interesting. For those of you who've not seen it, first advice - you didn't miss a lot, so relax. Next - The central character (well, might not be wise to call him that, but well, for convention sake) is a writer who goes through some trying times while penning a novel. The character of his novel appears in his thoughts (to us, she appears as another character in the movie) and leads him through the story. Often luring him into areas that he normally won't go as a writer, because he as a writer believes in a certain style, a certain plot idea. But this girl, his main character, coaxes, goads, cajoles him into coming out with different plot ideas for her.

Interesting plot...like I said. I've always imagined that myself. What if my characters come to life and start telling me what to do with my work? Going by the kind of stories I dish out, it would be a living nightmare, for me at least. But we're digressing. The point I like to make here is that, this idea is intriguing and the director could've done better with the material, rather than treating it like one of his paintings. You can appreciate a piece of canvass with colors and patterns that don't make head or tail to you, but lemme tell you - it's a totally different thing when you're trying to tell a story on celluloid. You need to have your story on the screen like an architect's blue print. Clear. Sharp. Oh well, there are those other kind of movies as well, but we're not going there today...

But I've thought about this idea often - character of a novel comes to life and talks to the writer. And slowly the character takes the wheel and it's a drive to hell. Ok, here's the deal. How about you guys building on this basic premise and sharing your thoughts here? Something. Anything. Go wild. It would be great...since some of you have some great stuff on your blogs.

Just for a lark.

Raksha Bandhan revisited...

Something I posted in Blurty long ago... And when I saw a friend's niece 'n' nephew battle it out at a party the other day, I couldn't help recalling this particular incident. This was something I witnessed near my ex-office. And I kid you not, this is real, not made up. Read on..


I saw the small girl punch the boy almost double her size. He sat down, holding his bleeding nose. The mother came running out.

"Why did you hit him?"

"Because he pulled my hair."

Turning to the boy now...

"Why did you pull her hair?"

"Because called me a thief."

"What did you steal?" (Note how there's no effort on the mom's part to corroborate this piece of information)

"I didn't steal anything. I borrowed her pen."

"He stole it. He didn't ask me."

The little fist was still clenched. The mother just shakes her head and goes back in. The boy looks at his hand, now red with the bloodied nose.They're silent for a few moments. I bend down to tie my shoelace. My document can wait. This is getting too interesting a plot to walk away from. What next, I wonder. The girl brings out a small hankie from her pocket and wipes his nose. "Sorry."

The boy doesn't know what to say. He pushes her away. She gives him the hankie. "Keep it."

He throws it down. The next moment, Mohammad Ali says, 'Want to fight? Hmm?' He starts prancing, sparring, with his fists at his chin.

The plot thickens. The girl says, 'Don't be silly."

''Yeah? Let's see...' he comes near her and tries to hit her. The little girl moves at lightning speed and kicks him in the knee. He yowls and crouches. And before he can bring up his protesting face, contorted with agony, a small hard fist lands on his left cheekbone, keeling him over.Now I'm realllly impressed. Is this a Charlie's angel in the making or what? The mother comes out now, livid.

"Enough Meena. Don't practice your karate on your brother.'

Then she looks at the brother. 'See? I told you to attend classes regularly. This is what happens if you bunk."

I couldn't take it anymore. Chuckling, I continue walking, leaving behind a triumphant sis.

When this duo reaches college, I know who needs to be saved from the baddies. Heheheh...

Between worlds...

Violence begets violence. He knew it. But he didn't care. He fed on it. He could breathe when he was violent. It was like recharging his batteries. There was no moral battle inside of him. It was something he didn't know about. He'd heard about it, seen it on TV and the silver screen. But he didn't care. He did what came naturally to him. And violence was the food he grew up on, on the streets. Survival was not some fancy word used in history text-books, but a way of life for him. He knew that if he had to survive the day, he had to push his way through. He had to fight. He had to be violent. That was his world.
And then, to this world, she came. Like a whiff of fresh air from an open window. She stepped in accidentally to this world. To his world. He didn't know whether to welcome her or to send her away. She explored. She questioned. She was distressed with the way he existed. She wanted to hold his hand and lead him out into the other world. A world not so much violent as his. A world that had happy faces. Of people. The civilized world, she told him. He raised his eye-brows. Civilization? Where was it? They argued. They argued about it at length. But he was tempted. He knew it was going to be difficult. And he knew he might not fit. But he wanted to do it. The very change of heart in him, surprised him. He'd never felt like this before. He'd seen it happening in movies. But this was life as he'd known. And it was happening to him. Should he relent? But what would he get? For that matter, what did he have? He knew only one way of living. He had forgotten how to smile. He didn't know how to talk to people not from his world. She was his only contact.
Was it love? He didn't know. And then, with this thought came fear. Something which he'd not known for a long time. His heart never beat any faster than this before. He knew it was fear. He had feared once, but that was a different kind of fear. That fear was not accompanied by another fear. But this fear had companions. And it troubled him. The fear of loss was supreme to any other fear he'd known in a long time. But then the feeling of hope slowly rose its head higher. Hope that he might not have to be violent anymore. He might not have to play the game of death every other day. He had to change. For her. It was numbing that she could change his feelings in this way. Almost humiliate his soul in this manner, but he pushed those thoughts away.
She waited. For him. For his decision. And then he came and gave her his hand. To go to the new world. There was no looking back now. He was about to throw the gun away when she held his hand.
"If ever this forces you to go back to your world, this will remind me to accompany you."

Happy Deepawali!!

Here's wishing all my bloggerheads a very Happy Diwali! Have fun, but safely, folks...

Wonder Years

The process of growing up is intriguing if you don't see the subject grow up in front of your eyes. And this is so especially in the case of childhood friends (yeah, girls), who turn out to be totally, absolutely unlike their earlier selves as kids. Funnily enough, I don't know if many of you have observed, girls who don't so much as raise eyebrows as kids, tend to blow you off your mind when they grow up into fine young women.

As a kid, I used to be friends with a lot of neighborhood girls. And you know how it is right, the 'wonder-years' kinda atmosphere where you trade loyalties and even love interests for tops (the spinning ones) and marbles? Well, we used to live in a colony and there was this pesky, spectacled girl who was NOT a tomboy (as we see the transformation in bollywood movies), but more like plainer than plain Jane in her appearance. She was the no-nonsense types who could turn you to pulp with her candidness. There were other pretty girls in class who the guys would give up their marble games for, but this one - uh huh..she didn't garner enough interest. And she wasn't bothered either.

As someone who used to participate in a lot of these school plays and functions, I used to be the butt of major ribbing when it came to her. She was a good dancer ( but required a can of makeup to make her presentable onstage, so you get my drift)..And without her specs on she was...well, let's just leave it at that - don't wanna be impolite to her in case she happens to read this (duh!). And more often than not, we'd end up backstage arguing about something or the other, with her having the last word of course. But none of the other kids saw that. They only saw us onstage smiling and laughing and acting out our parts. (Now you know how those rumors about filmi pairs start, hmm?) It was frustrating, these teasers from classmates, cause I didn't want to be even mentioned alongside her name, forget having her as my girlfriend.

Years later, by which time I didn't even remember someone like that existed in my childhood, in the first year of college, I happened to spot her in Bangalore. In a bookstore. Imagine, of all the places. She recognized me first (don't ask me how) and walked up to me.

"Ummm...Ramana?"

"Yeah?"

Wow, this is some girl.

"Remember me?"

Make that a trillion wows, she thinks I know her.

"Umm...sorry, I don't..." Sheepish smile. Followed by some serious memory jogging. I must've lost 10 kgs if I were really jogging that hard.

"Reena*."

"Reena? Ummm..." Sheepish smile returns. It's embarrassing.

"From Jaduguda. Remember? The school plays..?"

A million light bulbs go up inside of my head. You could play cricket in this flood light.

"Aaaah! What a pleasant surprise. How come here?" What am I saying? I should say - where were you all my life???

"I..my fiance lives here. We're moving to the US in a couple of months."

Now she tells me. Well, to cut a long story short, we small-talked for a while, exchanged addresses, phone nos. etc etc etc..and she was out of the bookstore and my life faster than I could say Reena.

For a minute I thought, is this the same Reena? How do girls manage to do that? How do they manage to transform from plain janes to fairies?

And how come they always recognize you? Speaks a lot about OUR change, huh? And how come they always get engaged or married to someone else?

Well, anyway....that's that..

*Name changed to protect Reena's privacy.

;

It's not difficult to post everyday. I mean, all you gotta do is write what comes to your mind (or life, not necessarily in that order), right? But then again, it's not about blogger's block or writer's block. That's not what's holding up this page. On the highway called blog, I just pulled over to a side, to smell the rose called life. The road trip's not over yet...be back soon. Pretty soon.

Don't mind...

Man's strength lies not in physical or mental prowess. It's in the fact that his mind can't be read. The moment you read a person's mind, you can bring anybody on earth down to his or her knees. Well, how they go about kneeling is a different matter altogether, but that's besides the point. Most of us hide some of the world's deepest, darkest, most dangerous, damaging secrets that we sometimes don't reveal even to ourselves, lest some face reader read those secrets through our expressions. So imagine if somebody just walked across the road to you and disclosed your inner most thoughts to you? But it's just so and all's well and wisely made. There are some things that were specifically excluded from the human design document. After all, whatever brought about this world and all of us along with it, might've given this whole concept of the brain being the strongest vault in the entire universe as we know, a long good thought. And our brain is not for nothing, called the most lethal weapon. And the beautiful way in which this organ compartmentalizes it's functions is what's amazing. The ability to forget is perhaps another fantastic feature in this program, much more helpful and life saving than the ability to remember. And there are a host of other features, am sure. And sometimes, some bugs in the program do crop up contradicting the basic cerebral design. As a result, you have psychics and other mind-game players walking the planet. But I sometimes wonder how it would've been...just so...

Long story short...

(I was tagged into this...)

The elevator climbed. He looked at her tall frame. He’d never kissed a tall girl. Not that these ‘man’ things bothered him a lot. But he preferred someone shorter. His hands accidentally brushed her bag, dropping it. She bent.

*******

He unwound the metal string off her neck, easing her onto the floor. Lovely eyes…

Twitch in the tail

It's funny how some things have this strange effect on you. If somebody's voice suddenly goes hoarse while talking to you, you get this urge to clear your throat. And remember that favorite prank while in school? You want to irritate someone just for time pass, just run your finger nails on the black-board (Exhilirating experience, huh?). Each time I clean my ears with an ear-bud, for some godforsaken reason, my eyes start to itch. Can you believe it? My eyes. And this has different effects on different people. That's what makes it so much fun. My wife's throat acts up every time she does this. And remember that concentrated 'nimbu' squash you had in summer? Did your throat go sore or your ears? With me it's always the throat; it would happen so much that now I start clearing my throat at the very mention of squash. And then there are these weird things like deja vu' and all happening all the time. Sometimes I feel, we're not humans, but some kind of loony guinea pigs, planted on this planet by some loony guy sitting in some other planet, planet years...errr, light years away. And..pray what's it about yawning being contagious? You open your mouth, and the entire room lights up with all the other pearly whites shining and the air suddenly going all warm and danky due to the bad breaths. Sheesh! But well, I guess these are all the manufacturing bugs we come with. After all, the great God of knowledge and good beginnings Himself had to make do with a pachyderm's head. But it didn't stop him, did it?

Happy Vinayaka Chaturthi to all of you!!

House arrest

You've got to move on in life. Well, that's a cliched philosophy which all of us know, almost from our mothers' wombs. But you know, it's a funny thing how it feels when you get to see, touch or feel that particular item from your past. Recently we moved residence. We lived in that house for almost 6 years. So, we were pretty close to our neighbors and especially close to the couple right opposite. We hook up every now and then, over weekends, for a drink or two, generally just chatting up. They love Aayu and the li'l one goes all nuts at the mention of their names. We were there last night. As we tiptoed out at about midnight, I saw our old house. 6 years. A whole truck load of memories associated with it. Aayu learned to walk in that house, Aayu did this, did that. There is a memory sticking to every window pane, every brick of that house. And strangely, last night, in the pale street light, an unfamiliar car parked in front, new set of curtains hanging inside the windows, suddenly I felt detached, like I were watching a house I never lived in. I know it's funny, cause even now, when I think of all those cozy moments we three had in the house, or whenever I think of some family activity that brings a smile on my lips, I imagine that house. But when I stood in front of it in person, expecting that magical moment, it never came. It felt strange.

Made for each other

He'd first seen her at the shopping center. Well, that's what it had been, back in those days. They'd brought the entire structure down a year back and now it donned a new look. A new name even - mall. It was called the Sphere. It was sphrerical in shape, maybe that's why. And here's where he'd first seen her, falling in love with her, almost instantly. She had not noticed him,though. How could she? He was a pretty plain looking guy, somebody who'd be lost in a crowd. But she was something else. Her long flowing tresses complemented her fair skin, her almost flawless features could win her a beauty pageant anywhere in the world. But it wasn't about her beauty. It wasn't about how pure in thought and soul she looked either. It was something else. Something which told him that he had to talk to her, get to know her.

They had got talking in front of the cinema.

"Hi."

She turned and his heart skipped a beat.

"Hi."

"Arun."

She smiled. Another beat.

"Krishnaa."

"Krishnaa?" His eyebrows went up.

She giggled innocently, looking around her.

"It's spelt with an extra 'a'. And that differentiates the gender."

"Oh, that's new."

He sat down beside her and looked at the movie poster above her.

"Same movie?"

"Um hm."

"You're alone."

She gazed at his face, her eyes doing all the talking. She nodded.

"Would you mind a lot if I join you?"

"No, why should I?"

They made small talk for a few minutes before entering the dark hall.

And that's how it all began. A year back, almost.

**********
They were seated at the park, watching the ducks. He turned to her.

"Remember that movie where I first met you?"

Krishnaa pushed back a lock of hair from her face and nodded.

"I felt you'd snub me and leave."

"I'd felt the same. After all, I've not had guys just coming up to me and offering to watch a movie with me."

They laughed.

"But then I realized that you were different."

"Just like you."

"Yes."

"I'm glad I found you."

She smiled and gazed at his face like she usually did.

He looked at the ducks and spoke, almost to himself. "I'm glad I didn't survive that accident."

"And me, that fire."

They rose, held hands and walked on the pond, smiling, looking at the ducks around them. The ducks suddenly scattered. Perhaps they also knew their secret.

*********

guts & glory

We never think about certain things in life, do we? How's it that the newspaper never (well, almost) fails to fall in front of our doorsteps.The milk packets that make their way into our homes. Several things, fresh produce from the farms, petrol, medicines and other essentials. They are just there for our consumption, right, come rain, come shine? It rained heavily last night, sorry no milk. Rarely hear such things, huh? (Maybe Mumbai was an exception this time) Forget milk, the newspaper? Those guys brave all kinds of weather to be up and about much before the Sun is up. Just so you get to read your favorite comic strip on time. Says a lot about guts, grime and will power huh? Yeah, for them it's just another day at work. And you might say, someone has to do it. Yeah, why them? Why not us? Oh we're 'well read' 'well bred' and all that...When I sometimes grumble at my work place, I think - what if I were a paper delivery boy? Perhaps I should've. Then, no matter how much I read or which business school I attended, I'd be a more gutsier guy than any kick ass manager in the world. And then, perhaps that'd be my real education.I feel it's not the degree. It's the degree of hardship you face that teaches you some of the most valuable lessons of work, leadership and management.

Street smartness. Will get you through anything. Well, almost...and that's enough, ain't it?

ouch!

If dog bites man, it's not news, but if man bites dog it is news. And if man bites man? Stop press!Some guys are prone to things naturally. Like my friend who's naturally prone to dog bites. I mean, dogs like to bite him naturally, I mean...dogs bite him frequently. I mean...forget it. This is the 2nd time in three months. "Saale, kutta tere ko kaata ke tu kutte ko kaatne gaya?"Might be, he says. You know, as kids we'd be scared shitless of dog bites not because of the bite itself, but because of the aftermath - BIG SYRINGES pierced in your stomach. Gosh!But now I heard it's less scary. The syringes have shrunk in size as well as numbers. Well, looks like the dogs know that too.

Let's not even talk about snake bites today.

'Aao twist karein'

Someone asked me the other day, 'hey, why are there only murders and deaths in your stories?' That got me thinking. Though my answer to that question was 'err...uhh...um..dunno', I asked that question to myself. Indeed, why do I write morbid stories? Certainly not for the attention. Stories, especially on my blog, which has a select audience, will be read anyway, good or bad. And honestly, I'm nothing like any of my characters in real life. Am the usual everyman kinda guy leading a normal life. So why? Well, maybe the 'twist' is what sets my mind thinking. When I look at people around me, hear them talk, watch them go about doing their bit, I always think, 'what if that happens now? What if..?" And it's this 'what if' of life is what gets my pulse racing and the next moment it's there on paper, errr...on my screen, in the form of a story. I guess now it's become my style to twist the stories in the end. And I prefer a morbid twist. Of course, a romantic story can have a twist as well; a sad story, a funny story...any story can have a twist. But maybe I've just not thought about it. Maybe I should. Maybe I will. I will write the lighter side of twists.

This time round, kill someone with a lighter... perhaps. Hehehehe (diabolical chuckle).

Sisters, mangled dolls and raksha bandhan...

When my sister was born, my dad was quite happy. Contented. A few years later, my mom wanted to have another baby. “But we’re doing just fine. Why do we need another one?” My father asked. Now, he wasn’t being rude or anything. Only puzzled. Not that he had anything against a second baby, but…that was his opinion. He was happy with a single child. Not my mom. She wanted another. “I want a boy. And something tells me this time round we’ll have him.”My dad’s a scientist. So you can well imagine his reaction to that ‘intuitive’ sentence. But well, they went ahead and had another one. Me.

My sister was one of the most over-protective big sisters in the locality. “Give him back, your one minute is over.” Yeah, THAT over protective. And as a small kid I’d tag along like a pooh doll wherever she went. And she didn’t mind one bit. She’d bully me, boss over me, give me a dressing down, but in the end, I was her li’l brother, her ‘puppy’ as she’d call me lovingly.
Some boys are destructive by nature. Well....most are. No prizes for guessing what I was. My sister had a doll with lovely hair. One day she returned from school to find Persis Khambatta of Star Trek instead of her beautiful doll. Awash in tears, she ran to mom. When they stood over me, my answer? ‘But it’ll grow right back, won’t it?’

When in her 6th standard, she went away to boarding school. She’s been an independent person all her life and the fact that she’d have to live hundreds of miles away from her parents and little brother did sadden her, but didn’t break her. She wanted to be a dancer. And she’d do anything for it. Kalakshetra, Chennai. She trained in Bharathanatyam (A classical dance) and completed her post graduation after ten long years at boarding school. Of course she visited us twice every year. I think only once dad went all the way to Chennai to bring her home. The next time on, she was on her own. ‘I’ll be fine, appa,” was all she said. My father agreed. He was confident about her. She was his ‘big’ girl.

I myself was in boarding school for 5 years. I’ve never thought about my 'akka' (big sister in our mother tongue) and me consciously. We were a pair of ordinary siblings. We’ve never been very expressive about each other’s love. But during our teens and adolescence she was always there to guide me when I needed a ‘girl’s’ point of view. There’s not been a single raksha bandhan when I’ve not worn her rakhi. Not one. The distance never mattered. Though she’s never lived with us throughout she’s always been there. We’ve had our fair share of childhood escapades. Thrashing from parents. But we’ve never really lived together for an extended period of time.
I guess distance makes the heart grow fonder. And in my case, this distance has always made me respect my sister that much extra. Love her that much extra. To me she’ll always be my loving ‘akka’. And I’ll remain her ‘puppy’. I'm always there for her, and she for me.

Happy Raksha Bandhan, big sis.. And yeah, I received your rakhi, as always. A day in advance.

Stop thief...

He heard footsteps in the hallway and froze. The next moment, they faded away. The kitchen light came on. At least that's what he assumed. There was the bathroom right next to it, but who'd want to take something from the bathroom? He watched the shadow in the light that crept in through the bedroom door. He looked around. A sharp object. Quick. Anything, blunt, long, thick. He unplugged the fancy bedside lamp and pulled it, clutching it hard. He just hoped the loud click when he did that didn't reach the other pair of ears. He moved to the door and stood right beside it, waiting. He didn't want any surprises. He waited a good one minute. No sound. No footsteps. What was this guy upto? He tiptoed through the hallway and peeped into the dark living room. There was a loud crack. Funny, when did that bright star appear on the ceiling? Then he slumped to the floor.

*******

"Hello police station?"

"Yes. I just caught a burglar in my house."

"What? No...I've tied him up. Yes, yes..please. Thank you."

dishoom, dishoom!

Watched 'Amar Akbar Anthony' for the nth time yesterday. Know what, they don't make those kinda movies anymore. You know, the picture perfect family ending at the climax, but before that a mad 'pow wow' all out wrest fest between the goodies and the baddies. Ah, pure fun! The best part is the 'table turning' that happens so smoothly. Gun pointed at the baddy, the next minute, someone slips on a banana peel that the director's assistant carelessly threw on the floor and presto! The gun jumps to the baddy's hand. And then finally our 'hero' manages to tickle the badmaash and snatch the gun yet again. And then the rest of the heroes (don't even bother counting) take the cue and immediately start the fist-blist. Pow! Biff! Bang! Ouch! Even the oldies leaning on the villain's hands get an adrenalin rush and badger the goons who suddenly transform into circus bufoons. And then u have the court jersterish comedian who turns the entire exercise into a mime show, the buffoons all to eager to cooperate. The heroine, fresh after a bout of calisthenics and music dances happily on the villains' heads. Slap! Slap!The heavy duty 'gymmer' goon falls like hollow timber at the mere wave of her hand. Ah, what fun!

But wait, there's more. The cops who're waiting outside patiently finally barge in with the works - whistles and bullets. Good wins over evil at last. And finally - Say cheese!

Manu desai, where art thou?

Only you...and me, and everyone else.

If you've done some introspection lately, you'll realize that not much has changed about you. In terms of your inner self. Externally yes, a lot would've changed! Let's not even go there - appearance, responsibilities, financial status, marital status, parenthood and all that blah, blah...that is the circle of life and most of us (most...) have to go round it. But...have you ever felt this? I mean, your thoughts, your basic thoughts remain the same. Of course, as you grow older in this life, most of those thoughts become memories. "Ah, I used to think that way too" or, or smile at a youngster and think "teenage." But that aside, what you are, you're the same. And in that sense, you don't feel a day older than school. Yeah, every now and then, along comes an event or person to remind you to 'play' your real age, your exhibited self. But that's it. When you're alone driving, smoking, lying in bed or even sitting on the...you know what, every morning, you are back being the kid, the thoughts playing hide and seek with themselves. Your 'real' opinions about things, which are not much different from when you were a ...say, 10 year old peep from your mind. And it's remarkable how our body is actually shielding our real self, like an astronaut's gear. Insulating it and keeping it warm. And you carefully treasure that self day in day out. Looking at it every now and then, taking a peek at it when nobody's looking.

Jhankaaaar!!

Remember jhankar beats? Not the movie, the REAL jhankar beats, the tunes that were remixed with the same. Yeah, Kumar Shanu, Nadeem Shravan and of course, how can we forget Gulshan Kumar? (He's still presenting albums, so say the promos!) Where from, up there I guess? Well, anyway, the point of the matter is, yesterday I happened to listen to this old number in a tea-shop (jhankar beats and all) and my memory revved up on all cylinders! The first thing back in those days, whenever I heard these songs, that came to my mind was that of a music composer collectively holding all the accompanying instruments and beating them on a washing stone, much like the neighborhood 'dhobi'. It made that kind of a sound - 'Thup-jhunk, thup-jhunk, thup-jhunk', interspersed with those legimes that you hear in popular bhajans. Oh boy!

Remixes? Not for me. Ummm, well some of them are kind of catchy..but gimme an original any day.

Floating ovation

Mumbai Nightmare. Couldn't be worse. Could've been worse. Hundreds of lives lost. A city subjected to nature's wrath. A city subjected to an excuse for infrastructure. Unthinkable. Crazy...whatever, words escape the mind. But one thing is certain. Mumbaikars are made of a different earth. Blow 'em up, drown 'em, cut 'em up...but they'll bounce right back, like the punch doll. Hats off to you guys.

God bless.

Barking up the wrong trunk

Hey, remember before STD? Not that STD... I meant STD calls (Forget Cell phone, that was not even a distant dream then). That elaborate, almost ritualistic process of booking a trunk call, getting a waiting number, etc etc etc? Well, I was just reading Kahini's post and something there reminded me of this. Trunk call. And I'd always ask my dad, 'why trunk? Why not...umm, say, long distance.?' And he'd given me a pretty logical answer that made sense then. But I've forgotten what it was. But anyway, this trunk call thing was like in those days, a priced possession of a privileged few. We lived in a colony and my dad was officer grade. So that meant a decent accomodation and great phone privileges. But be that as it may, making a phone call and a trunk call at that, was an 'absolutely-during-emergencies' thing in our house, what with my dad being a stickler for principles, honesty, economy and all that jazz (Am gonna add a few more to the list when it comes to my li'l daughter, that aside). And then it was a given that if we passed by somebody's house and heard someone yelling at the top of the lungs, a trunk call had come a-visiting. One time we booked a trunk call to some place south...Mangalore methinks. We had to discuss some important travel plans with an uncle. Here's how the conversation went (and i'm not making this up). Now, keep in mind the face of a man who wants to talk about just the plans and disconnect. It costs money you see.

The call's come through:

My dad (half frowning): Hello?

My dad (louder now): Hello?

Person on the other side: Hello?

My dad: Gopala?

Person on the other side: Eh?

Dad: Gopala? Raghava from Jaduguda (Our colony)

Person: Ghoda?

Dad: Is this...? (The no.)

Person: eh?

Dad (having that 'hell-lemme-disconnect-but-hey-what-if-I-don't-get-the-connection-again' look): Is this Mangalore?

Person: Maang loon? Kya maang loon?

Dad: Look, this is a trunk call to Mangalore. Mangalore (louder).

Person: Bangalore?

Dad: No Mangalore. Karnataka.

Person: Karnatak? Trunk kiye hain kaa? Yeh Jharsogoda hai.

Dad disconnects. Later after he narrated the whole thing to my mom, my mom - "you should've disconnected the moment he spoke hindi. It's a wrong number obviously."

My dad scratched his head. My mom winked at us and concluded, adding insult to injury, 'it's not rocket science."

Incidentally, my dad's a nuclear scientist.

rerun

Watched 'The lion king' with Aayu yesterday. And whenever I watch it (yeah, a zillion times by now, thanks to Aayu), I get reminded of the first time a friend and I went to watch it the first time about 13 years ago, on a rainy night. There was no other movie worth watching in town and we thought, let's go see 'lion king'. Having made our decision, we checked the cinema hall again and learned that the night show would be ideal. Beer and food done with, it'd be a cool ride to the hall - just buy the tickets and enjoy the movie. Half way through to the pub though, it started pouring tom cats and huge great dane dogs. By the time we reached double road (yeah, that's the popular name, Bangaloreans will recognize), the bike was 'wheel deep' in water. We rode on. Rain? Hah, that wasn't gonna spoil our night, no way. But we decided to pull to a side just before our heads went underwater and we went 'blub blub blub'. The bike, quite contented after this much needed bath, decided to relax. I kicked the starter a 100 times and likewise my friend. No sir, I'm not moving, the bike seemed to say. So, off we went pushing it, hoping somewhere down the line it would dry up and maybe we could try starting it again. Well, you guessed it. We had to push it all the way to the hall and we had just about time to grab a quick burger and dash to the cinema hall. The movie was awesome and when we walked out after the show, it was like it'd not rained at all. All calm on the waterfront (back, left, right and up as well).

I'm sure a lot of other movies come with complimentary memories as this. Care to share 'em here, with me? Go on..

play(back) it again...

Just something that struck me listening to an old number on the radio last evening. Not all singers have it in them, I guess. If you look at our movies, some singers have voices made for the actor. You know it don't you? Won't list them out here. But what amazes me is earlier playback singers used to modulate their voices to suit the actor's voice. Kishore Kumar had a different voice for all his heroes - Rajesh Khanna, Amitabh Bachchan and even Sanjeev Kumar! Sanjeev Kumar is one actor who had a unique voice. Of course mimic artists could mimic him easily but singing in a voice like his? I remember especially, in 'Aandhi', the way kishore has sung for him, you'd believe Sanjeev Kumar himself was singing! Here, down south, SP has that knack. And like Sanjeev Kumar up north, Shankar Nag's was a difficult voice to bring out while singing. But SP would do it, effortlessly. These guys are amazing.

State of mind

When I was a kid my dad, a scientist, taught me a simple trick to overcome my fear of darkness. He said, "everything's as it is. Only there's no light". It made sense to me. You see, the moment there is darkness, our eyes tend to imagine shapes instead of simply seeing them. To me back then, it helped a great deal when my father implied that "you don't have to imagine anything because everything is as it is. Nothing changes."

I'm not afraid of darkness. For me, darkness is just another state of being. And I taught that to my daughter the other day when she cringed, entering a dark kitchen. I switched on the light and then off again. On and then off again. To her tiny li'l mind, what it meant was - Light or no light. It's no big deal. It's just a matter of playing with a button. She smiled and walked in when I switched off the light once again. She swung back sharply and I thought, 'here goes my lesson', expecting her to wail the next instant. But there, standing in the darkness, her eyes shining from the street light outside, she said confidently, gesturing "appa? ba. It's ok." (Appa, come in).

Lingua Franca

Have you ever noticed how we all construct sentences in more or less the same way? Yeah, I know this sounds funny. "I mean, give me a break here – constructing sentences the same way?" This has got to be the silliest thought ever, huh?

But just think. We humans speak countless languages across the globe, each originated and evolved over thousands of years in a thousand different places... at different times even. But how come most languages have the same way of expressing themselves? Not commonplace sentences like 'how are you, thank you, what is your name' etc, but even proverbs, colloquial phrases. I guess it has something to do with Adam and Eve, huh? Yeah. According to linguists, the origination of the human species has got a lot to do with this simple yet intriguing thought. Whether it be a simple greeting, or a complex abusive sentence containing a lot of ‘f’s and ‘b’s, our sentences are constructed the same, with the same adjectives and verbs. Hmmmm...Well, just a fleeting rant. Have a great weekend, y'all.

Dream come true?

Ok, let’s talk about dreams. Nah, not the ‘I wanna be a celebrity some day’ kinda dream, but the regular ones that we get while sleeping at night. It would be stupid to explain what a dream is. So let’s just get on with my thoughts about dreams, my thoughts IN my dreams and well, my dreams.

First. Just what the hell do dreams translate into? You know, right from my kidhood up until now, I’ve never, I repeat never had a satisfactory answer to this one. I’ve read books, spoken to friends, spoken to oldies, browsed the net some, but tish, nada, zilch. Uh huh. Nothing really makes sense. I guess all the guys who wrote about dreams were sleeping when they wrote them.

And then those weird interpretations by grannies.

‘I died in my dream last night.’“Oh really? You shouldn’t dream such things.” Yeah, come and tell that to me when I’m dreaming about it. But then the safe (read convenient) explanation that follows is, ‘anyway, you don’t have to worry. Dreaming about dying actually means you’ll have a long life.” Oh really?!

“Got bitten by a snake, or seen a snake? That’s auspicious. The snake God’s gonna smile down upon you.” Jeepers! I don't want no snake smiling, frowning or even looking at me.

And then the debate of color and black & white. Yeah, dreams are videos that you choose from the local video store. Take a pick. And you know what’s really funny? And I’m not making this up. I read some place, some book written by Freud’s failed student, that guys dream in black and white and girls dream in color. How the hell do you prove these things? And then that baloney about a different set of interpretations for same dreams by a girl or a guy. And these guys have spent sleepless nights researching this stuff, when they should've been sleeping instead! ha!

And my wife - She dreams episodes. We’re talking sitcoms here. She dreams a story, an entire movie if you may. And the amazing thing is, she recounts the whole thing to me the next morning. Like she’d seen an episode of the X-files or something in her sleep. And I scratch my head trying to figure out if MY dream made any sense (If I remember it, that is). My dreams are so disjointed, if you clipped them all together, they’d resemble the title sequence of ‘Ripley’s believe it or not’.

The only thing I like about my dreams is, when I’m chased by some lunatic, most times I just take off. Soar into the air like Superman. And oh man, is that cool or what. Just don’t remind me that the lunatic also might follow me a la Lex Luthor. But hey, he doesn’t know I’m dreaming, does he? *winks*.

Spaceman Stiff

Was reading Stephen King’s ‘The dead zone’ some time back. Stephen King made his millions scaring the living daylights out of weak hearts, but he made us believe (well almost) that there exist certain unknown zones, certain areas outside of normal human comprehension that operate in exactly the same fashion as the world we live in. So, ask this question. Is there a parallel world? A parallel dimension in which everything’s the same as here? Even you. Only you can’t see. But from time to time, you do feel your presence in it. In other words, déjà vu. I don’t know how many of you have felt it, but I have. When I’m sitting in a particular position and talking to someone, someone else walks by and as my mind cuts away from my conversation for a fleeting second to look at the third person, a thought, a tingle of a thought, cuts through my brain like a bullet. ‘This has happened before’, a faraway voice inside me insists. And I clearly remember the entire scene in a split micro second. I shake my head and return to the conversation. And the whole thing’s gone. Snap. Just like that. Maybe it’s happened before. In the *other* dimension.If you remember, I don’t know how many of you guys do, they used to show a series called ‘The sliders’ on the hallmark channel. This serial explored this idea. Was pretty good. As a kid (to be honest, even now sometimes) I would wonder at the entire expanse of the sky above us (or around us, whatever you please) and think,’ what the hell is this? How the hell is this spherical planet floating in air?’ I even enrolled in an astronomy class to find out answers, but this subject is as vast as the universe itself. I found myself sinking in it, but could never reach the bottom. Ah, well. Someday…

“Humanity has the stars in its future, and that future is too important to be lost under the burden of juvenile folly and ignorant superstition." – Isaac Asimov.

Sweet nothings...

"If you decide to avoid sweets on that day, you will certainly end up eating them"

- Burfi's law

friend, philosopher, guide...

The mentor-disciple relationship has always held me in awe. It's a sensitive bond, according to me. And it has to be handled really well in order to make it fulfilling to both. In countless movies this has been portrayed as a sub-plot and it indeed makes for a great sub-plot. The various angles to this relationship makes it even more intriguing. There's a difference between the conventional 'teacher-student' relationship and this one. A mentor could be anybody, from any walk of life. It's from the very nature of such a relationship that great careers are built, or a great person emerges. And it all depends on how the mentor guides his protege. Down the line, an emotional bonding also happens, but a true mentor knows when to detach, when to let go. It's like teaching a kid how to peddle his bicycle for the first time. You're behind him, holding the bike and somewhere along the way, you've to let go in order for the kid to really appreciate and feel the sense of control over himself. My dad would do it, when I first started riding the bicycle, at 9 or 10. Even today, when I watch movies with this sub-plot, it gives me a weird high. You watch the rookie grow under the mentor's tutelage and then one day, it's time for the baton to be passed on. And that whole journey of learning and coming of age is what inspires. And the good thing about mentorship is, it needn't be specific to any profession, it could be about the ropes of life. Some great movies in my opinion:

*Scent of a woman
*Training Day
*Donnie Brasco
*Finding Forrestor
*Choti si baat
*Karate Kid
*Million Dollar Baby
*The Professional
*The Untouchables
*Colors
*The Man without a face

There are many more, I'm sure, but I remember only these...

Notes from the past

Was listening to 'Nights in White Satin' from one of my fav albums 'pure movies', driving back home from work. It calmed my stressed nerves and by the time I reached home, I was ready to face the world all over again. There are countless songs that have that soothing effect. And they also help connect to certain incidents, events in the past.

And then I remembered this post from blurty a long time back. Some of you might've read it back then.

*******

They say songs are therapeutic. You know, cows giving more milk, plants growing better and beautiful and blah blah blah. But with me, some songs are like time transporters. They are associated with a certain place, a certain time, a certain moment in your life. Could be anytime – a month ago, six, a year. Maybe 15 years back. But these songs are like connectors. The moment you hear them, a spark lights up a million cells in your brain and you are immediately reminded of a particular place back in time. A particular moment. Ah, but for these songs life would’ve been such a boring journey.

My association with the fine arts is on an almost ancestral level. My great great grandfather was a vocalist. So was my great grandfather. My grand father as well (mother’s father), my mother, me, my sister. Though after my grand father no one pursued it professionally. My sister is a classical dancer and my mother sings folk songs. I *used* to sing. Now it’s confined to, no, not the bathroom. Singing lullabies to my daughter. Even that will stop one day.

So, what’s the big point that I’m trying to make here? Nothing. Something I was listening to last evening, made me remember a certain time in my childhood so vividly, it was scary. I remembered every single minute of that moment, like I were actually living it again. And all ‘cuz this song was playing in the background back then too.

I think I’m gonna need a lot of tapes / CDs / LP discs if I plan to write my autobiography some day. Speaking of which, that is another thing that reminds me of the past. LP discs, or long playing discs. Those black plastic ‘CD’ like things big as pizzas, that need a special micro-needle to stick on ‘em to play. And boy, would I enjoy it when the needle got stuck. Was fun to listen to the same line playing over and over again like an autistic singing. (An example from an old Doris Day LP: When I was just a li’l girl, a li’l girl, a li’l girl, a li’l girl….)

My father used to travel a lot around the globe back then. And he’d make sure he got back with him heaps of LPs. He has a huge collection – from the 50s slow moving love songs, Doris Day, the classic western themes by James Goldsmith, classic bands like the ‘Puppets’, Indian classical music to just about every thing. I used to love listening to them. But more than that, the entire process of pulling out an LP lovingly from it’s paper case, wiping it carefully, looking at it longingly, placing it on the turntable and then slowly placing the needle on it, sitting back on the couch and closing the eyes as the music began; the soft ‘ruffle’ of sound bites due to small scratches. Ah! Lilting.

Was planning to digitize the entire collection some day. But on second thoughts…nah! They’re too precious to be tampered with. Que sera, sera.

rats!

When li'l Jerry outdoes Tom, breaking every possible bone in his body, we laugh. We smile at all the impossible things the duo does on screen. Jerry is perhaps the most loved mouse, next to Mickey. These days I even feel he's beaten the latter to it. Mice have always been cute in the movies, be it Mouse hunt, Stuart Little or...donno, there are several movies on this little 'cute' creatures. Once you switch off the TV or come out of the cinema however, these four legged rodents are something quite different. My tryst with mice started in Mysore, many years ago. There was this mouse (my mom always calls them rat). So, this 'rat' came in on a rainy day to take shelter I guess. When and how it came, nobody knows. But it walked right in, like it were walking into a Hilton or a Sheraton and booked the kitchen suite for good. It all started when one night I walked in to drink a glass of water. And there she was. Standing on the kitchen plank, staring right into me. I rubbed my eyes. I'd been watching Tom & Jerry the same evening and wondered if she'd appeared right out of my dream. But no, the bold li'l thing stared at me while I drank as if to say, 'well, finish it and go. I've to eat." I raised a hand, to shoo her and she disappeared into thin air. Over the year or so she stayed with us, she fed on only potatoes and other raw veggies kept under the stove. We let it stay cause most of the other things in the kitchen were intact. Little did we know that an entire family was being raised in other places in our house. I still remember the count when we bid goodbye to the 'jerry' family. A total of eight mice!

When I moved to Bangalore, a cousin of our friend's came visiting once again. Only this time, she had an elephant's appetite. Mixie cable, the washing machine electrics, TV cable. She had an 'electric' presence.

You know, mice are damn intelligent for all of their tiny girth. They'll tease you, dare you, defy you and counter every little move of yours. Just when you thought you'd seen the last of them, they'll peep their pesky little heads from some hole and stick their tongues out at you. I thought they'd been awfully glorified in the movies. Boy, was I wrong!

We shifted home recently. And there seems to be a colony below our house and they picnic in our frontyard. One enthusiastic mouse even knocks on the kitchen drain every single night. I've sealed the drain cover and called pest control. I don't mind a stray guest or two, but a whole bunch of refugees? No, thank you. And I don't wanna try rat poison because that's more a vaccine. I'm not even going there.

I hope I'll be seeing the last of them soon, but I know they'll have the last laugh. Until then...

Pallo...?

Ok, who remembers Deepak Malhotra, the hot hunk? Raise your hands. All those pretty/not so pretty...well, mostly all girls who were teenagers a decade and a half ago, please jog your memory. Remember walking out of the theater, disgusted and aghast with disbelief when you heard that one word - 'Pallo'? Pallo in this case was our very own 'hawa hawaii' girl, Sridevi and the guy who whimpered the word was - YES! Deepak Malhotra. In Lamhe. Remember?Which brings me to voices. One of the first things after a person's appearance that makes an impression. More so if you've not seen the person before and have only heard the voice on phone, radio or any audio medium. Yeah, yeah, later on we realize that the person is not all that bad or vice versa. But the voice sketches a basic frame of impression. Amitabh Bachchan, who didn't make it in an AIR interview because of his baritone, later came to rule the roost with the very weapon, redesigned to suit his angry young man image. A voice that turns girls' knees to jelly even today.I remember speaking to a guy, a client, at my previous job over the phone for six straight months, addressing him as 'Ma'am!' But you should've seen the person's face. Veerappan would've ran away in fear. The opposite has happened as well. 'Ma'am' has had a 'Sir' voice too in another case. But I guess it's not in our hands to have a voice that we wish to have and what matters at the end of the day is what kinda person we are.