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...

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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.