Movie Review: Kyaa Super Kool Hain Hum

Well, I would say I wasn't prepared for this. It was a houseful for 'The Dark Knight Rises' and I was in a mood for a movie and only Ekta Kapoor's latest release was available. It had already been publicized as an adult comedy-my only mistake was expecting it to be a little mature too. Sadly, my raised hopes after 'The Dirty Picture' not only cost me 200bucks but also a brain fuck of 2.5 hours. A complete Macho-di, only that here it's your brain that's involved. Not even Suckru, the only funny(even if plagiarized) character in the movie could do much good.
The movie is so extremely full of the already read, forwarded and shared jokes from two years back that you'd most probably end up quite frustrated with your own attempts at forced laughter. And the worst part, if there was any space for worse, is that they've all been thrown randomly, regardless of place or context because, and pay attention for this is the big one, THERE WAS NO STORY AT ALL. So forget the fucking order, after all Ms. Kapoor has her own definition of the word 'adult movie'. She failed to realize, and strangely no one bothered to inform her, that it's not essential to be racist/homophobic/sexist in order to make an adult comedy or any comedy for that matter. So the 'adult comedy' exhibits a strange type of characters who will swear without restraint but can't come out with the term 'lesbian'. Tusshar's reiterating "Tum wo ho","Tum wo nahi ho" is so tedious that you actually wish you could slap the dialogue/script-writer across his face. In fact the movie could be a strong contender for the most senseless, crude comedy(??) of the year if they had such category at the Oscars.
But since a review demands that I tell you something about the "story", here it is. Adi(Tusshar Kapoor) is a struggling actor who falls in love with Simran(Neha Sharma), who also happens to be his lucky charm as predicted by a tarot-cards-reader(So original na!). Meanwhile Sid(Riteish Deshmukh) falls in love with Anu(Sara Dais) at a fashion show. Anu's father Marlow(Anupam Kher) is duped by a Con-priest Baba 3G(Chunky Pandey) into believing that a female dog is his mother while Suckru, Sid's pet dog, his father. And after that, there is no story, so no need to bother yourself about any potential complexities of plot. Of course ALL the songs were forced and that, to the extent that you could hardly trace any visible link between the story(God! I hate using this word over and again) and the song-in fact a part of me has started believing that Ekta has taken the word "deep" a bit too seriously. Someone can try digging links at the microscopic level.
Altogether, neither the extra A in the first word of the title, nor the Ekta Kapoor hallmark 'K' could save the movie from being a huge disappointment. If only she had concentrated so much on the script the movie could have passed as an average!

BOOK REVIEW #1

The Sense of an Ending

Julian Barnes




There are books which tell stories-simple stories that make you happy, sad, intrigued, thrilled etc. as stories are generally expected to. Then there are books which philosophise, give direction to life, and this is generally expected to be the boring section of the plethora. These two broad categories often romance, creating newer styles, genres and sub-genres and giving newer meanings to arts and literature and in fact life at large. Julian Barnes' "The Sense of an Ending" can be called the product of this liasion. It starts at the end. Anthony Webster is a divorced, retired old man living his last days peacefully by himself and whose only fear is Alzheimers. An envelope from an unknown attorney comes as a pebble in the calm waters. Lost loves are rekindled, memories re-visited and slowly and steadily Tony comes to an understanding and indeed embracing of his self.While old convictions are shed, new questionings come up. The idea of memory as a process, which is forever in flux, is not only brought up but thoroughly scrutinized. Barnes also adds to the now mainstream idea of history as the story of the winners when he makes Old Joe Hunt say: "[History] is also the self-delusions of the defeated."

Indeed, towards the end the narrator does accept the truth of this statement which he had so vehemently protested as a teenager. Tony's version of Adrian's history slowly crumbles as he confronts the truths that were hidden for too long. The book is revolutionary in its own way as each turning page shakes your faith in the accepted "common sense" living.  All in all a wonderful, if thought provoking read.

Having already won a Booker, the book hardly needs advertisement, but I still suggest multiple readings and re-readings. Have a nice time reading! :)

The Journey

The bed is ready,

All candles lit, fragrances let.

Waves of soft music await

The fall of your gentle foot

On the flowered floor.

Soft cushions, red wine and a waiting lover

Sit next to a painted window pane.




Stay, but a few moments-for

the Red now fills the crystal glass.

Silently, I shed the skin.

As small steps cover up miles,

My heart beats faster, cheeks glow red.

Eager to make love till eternity

For the bed is ready and I've come.

Frames

(1)

He was told his father was a soldier. He had grown up hearing how his father had died as a hero. Every day after school, he’d open up his toys-trunk and decorate the battlefield on his bed: two battalions fiercely facing each other and his father, the red-black soldier, triumphantly bringing down defeat to the enemy. Somehow, in his battlefield, his father never died.

 “How does it matter even if o killed him? He’d be up again when a new battle starts tomorrow.”

Sometimes the thought reassured him, sometimes it depressed him but nevertheless, his Dad remained a hero. He wanted to be like him. He’d imagine himself ceaselessly firing bullets at the enemy, saving his motherland (and secretly, in a selfish section of his heart, revenging his father’s death). He’d be a proclaimed hero, only that he won’t die. He’d never leave his mother alone. Never again would she have to pawn utensils to arrange the next meal. He’d be strong and valiant-just like the heroes of his comic books; as strong as Superman. Then he’d imagine himself saving his beautiful lady from the vile villain and go red and shy.

(2)

Then, they came to his village. He had rushed to greet them. As their hands clapped, he had felt a sense of pride. This was the first step. Soon he’d know them all and live with them, live like them, learn to be a hero.

(3)

His uncle had gone to get some stationary for him and had never returned. Three days later, they heard he was suspected of having links with the evil, sinister people they heard of all the time. They called him a terrorist. That was a strange word for a man who was so mild; in fact, a bit too mild for his liking. He could never have pictured him with a gun

Five days later they found his body in the bushes. He was now worried about his mother. He had seen how ruthless they could be- the other day five of them were doing things with the puckish woman who lived at the end of the street. He was returning from school when he heard her screams. He felt so afraid that he couldn’t even gather enough courage to tell anyone about the incident. Not even his mother. The toys-trunk lay untouched for several months now.

Every night before he slept, he wished for super-powers and every morning he’d check if God had granted his wishes.

(4)

It was a breezy spring afternoon. He was playing with his friends when he heard about the troops that were coming to their village. He was so happy that he hadn’t cared about putting on his socks. Shoes unlaced, he had sprinted down the street, to their camp. He had smiled when they waved back. One of them had walked towards him and now as he saw himself clap the soldier’s hand, he realized he had been still smiling. That smile was an old thing now. As he zoomed the picture playing in his head, he saw a line. A thin line that ran right through where their hands had clapped. The line that separated two different worlds. The line that made him give up his dream to be a hero. To be a soldier.

जूते बदलते-बदलते

सरसों के पीले खेतों में

बम्बे पर से आती नाली पर

परहोरे डालती नज़रों सी थकान लेकर

जब पहुंचा मैं, अंततः

वटवृक्ष की छाँह में

पनाह लेने को आतुर

एक पृथक की भाँति,

उसके पहलू में,

थके हुए स्वर में उसने

एक कप चाय

की माँग कर डाली.



परहोरे डालना: जब गाँवों में ट्यूबवैल नहीं हुआ करती थी, तब परहोरों (चमड़े की  लम्बी पट्टियाँ) की मदद से खेतों में पानी पहुँचाया जाता था. ये तरीका निहायती थकाऊ हुआ करता था.

"Every Day You Play"

I first read this poem when I had just stepped into my teens. We had Pablo Neruda in our course, though a different poem and it was random. I was reading about him and this poem seemed to crop up almost everywhere. I just couldn't ignore it and what opened up when I clicked, was perhaps the best love poem ever written. But of course, I am no authority for I've hardly read a percent of what's been written, so let me put it this way. This poem became my favourite love-poem then and there and has continued to remain so for I've never found a better to replace it. Though I admit this, it had begun to fade in the mill of the my daily humdrum. It was yesterday, that it suddenly came to me again. We had a movie screening, that of a Bengali film called Sthaniyo Sambad. It was sudden. The conservative young boy sees these magazines full of half-nude women and criticizes them. His liberal mentor just quotes Neruda,

"I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."

Saying that the society was more liberal is not entirely true and yet, somewhere, the youth of those times was inclined towards change. There was greater freedom. And greater strength in the minds. I wish today's youth could draw inspiration from them!


For all those who haven't read the poem, here's a piece of literature that seduces through words. And I bet you won't mind this absolutely sensuous seduction!

Every Day You Play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.

Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.

You are more than this white head that I hold tightly

as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.

Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?

Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.

The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.

Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.

The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.

The wind. The wind.

I can contend only against the power of men.

The storm whirls dark leaves

and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.

You will answer me to the last cry.

Cling to me as though you were frightened.

Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,

and even your breasts smell of it.

While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies

I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,

my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.

So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,

and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.

A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

I go so far as to think that you own the universe.

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,

dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

--Pablo Neruda

A Saturday Night's Lament

It is a tough job to be a Saturday night.
Throughout the week, you keep accumulating postponed stuff because after all, Sunday is a holiday and you'd get plenty of time to finish everything. Sadly when a week-long weariness takes over and you get up at 11 on the much awaited Sunday, things drastically change. You can no longer afford time for the two-hour spa you planned for yourself, nor the movie you promised your best friend. You don't blame yourself. No, how can anything ever be YOUR fault? Nor the alarm clock, for you never set-up the reminder. The next day was Sunday after all and you need a decent sleep atleast once a week. Even your sleep can't be blamed. It's just trying to keep your body working. What is to be blamed is me. The last night. The Saturday night and whatever happened to celebrate me. One moment I feel so happy. That I bring happiness and celebration and a feeling of universal relaxation. But how long could happiness be endured in good spirit, for you're humans after all. Blame-games are an essential part of your life. So blame it on the poor Saturday night if your assignments stay incomplete, your tasks undone, urgents pending. Blame it on the never-complaining Saturday night if your Sunday evening turns hectic.
Oh how I envy Sunday nights! They say there's nothing so productive and hardworking as them.

चाँद का कुर्ता

                                छायांकन  : http://anjalinayar09.blogspot.in/2011/07/chand-ka-kurta.html


हठ कर बैठा चाँद एक दिन माँ से बोला,
सिलवा दो माँ मुझे ऊन का मोटा एक झिंगोला.
सन-सन चलती हवा रात भर जाड़े से मरता हूँ,
ठिठुर-ठिठुर कर किसी तरह यात्रा पूरी करता हूँ.
आसमान का सफ़र और ये मौसम है जाड़े का,
अगर न हो तो, ला दो कुर्ता ही कोई भाड़े का.
बच्चे की सुन बात, कहा माता ने, "अरे सलोने,
कुशल करे भगवन, लगे न तुझको जादो टोने.
जाड़े की तो बात ठीक है पर मैं तो डरती हूँ,
एक नाप में कभी नहीं, तुझको देखा करती हूँ.
कभी एक अंगुल भर चौड़ा, कभी एक फुट मोटा,
बड़ा किसी दिन हो जाता है और किसी दिन छोटा.
घटता-बढ़ता और किसी दिन ऐसा भी करता है,
नहीं किसी की आँखों को तू, दिखलायी पड़ता है.
अब तू ही तो बता नाप तेरा किस रोज़ लिवायें?
सीं दें एक झिंगोला जो हर रोज़ बदन में आये.

-रामधारी सिंह दिनकर

On the request of some of my most special friends because (alas!) they hadn't ever heard of this masterpiece.

बोरडम

गीली माटी का पुराना सोंधापन
नया होकर फिर पुराना हो गया है.
माँ का पीला जार्जेट का दुपट्टा भी,
वापस फैशन में आकर चला गया.
लाल गुलाबों से भी मन ऊब गया
और उनकी रिप्लेसमेंट ट्यूनीशिया से भी.
सफ़ेद साड़ी मनहूस से सेक्सी और फिर
फीकी बनकर कब गयी, पता भी नहीं चला.
गोरा रंग टैन होकर फिर गोरा हो गया
सेन्टीमेंटीलिज्म अटरैक्ट करने के बाद
अब चेपक सा हो गया है.
मानो ज़िन्दगी में कुछ नया बचा ही न हो,
जैसे सब कुछ एक दोहराव सा है.
बोरिंग है.

On Colours

My favourite colour is fire

With all its red-yellow-blues.

Sometimes eagle-winged, dominating

Dancing across, unwarranted.

Flushed sometimes, caught

Like a cheek implanted with a hot, burning kiss.

With an occasional extra spark,

To mark that it's not yet dead.

As beautiful and welcome as sunrise,

As sad and cold as sunset.

Abstract, yet softly woven around

The red-yellow-blues of life.

Intricate, Untangible, Unpalpable.

My favourite colour is fire.

चंद अल्फ़ाज़

1.

ज्यादा कुछ नहीं , बस थोड़ी सी हरारत है .

थोड़ी बीमार थी कल माँ , उसके पैर दबाये थे 

माँ तो रातों जग कर भी , तरोताजा उठती थी .

2.

ज़िंदगी है तो ग़म भी सहते जा रहे हैं .

कल सुना दुनिया ख़त्म हो रही है ,

शायद वो आ रहे हैं , इतनी तबाही लेकर .

3.

सहमी सी है , अभी नयी आई है .

फिर ये तो छोटी सी बिल्ली है ,

हमारी बहू तो हफ्ते में सब में घुल गयी थी .

छब्बीस जनवरी

आज वो नया सूट पहन कर आई.


पूछा, क्यों री! आज जन्मदिन है तेरा?


वो बोली, नहीं, आज छब्बीस जनवरी है ना


बाबा कहता था आज हम आज़ाद हुए थे.


झाड़ू पोंछा कर के जाने लगी तो पूछा,


अब कहाँ चली?


"सरकारी स्कूल! लड्डू लेने


आज छब्बीस जनवरी है ना


आज हम आज़ाद हुए थे ना!"

पन्नों के बीच से...

छायांकन : www.weandwords.com


भगवान हो न तुम ?

सर्वव्यापी, सर्वशक्तिमान ?

तो चलो, बना दो मुझे फिर वही

नन्ही सी चंचल गिलहरी

जो फुदक कर मूढ़े पर चढ़ जाती थी

और उछल कर किवाड़ की सांकल खोल

भर लेती थी छोटी सी मुट्ठी में अन्न

एक पुडिया खट्टे-मीठे चूरन की खातिर !

--------------------------------------------

तुम कहो तो एक खेल खेलते हैं हम दोनों

तुम कर दो मेरे मन की सी,

और बदले में मैं सिखा दूँगी तुम्हे,

आम के पेड़ पर चढ़ना,

खट्टी अमियों पर नमक डाल कर चटखारे लेना.

ट्यूबवेल वाली कोठरी की छत पर चढ़ कर

पपीते तोडना.

बराह का पानी रोकना

और उसमे छ्प-छ्प कर के कूदना.

और फिर किसी के आने की आहट सुनते ही

भाग कर छिप जाना, ईख के खेतों में.

तुम कहो तो खेलें ये खेल ?