When I run out of questions …

I had written earlier about an interesting (or atleast what I tought would be interesting) concept for a reality show, now Prem Panicker is trying to do the same, in a slightly different way though.

Is this because he has run out of questions or is he trying to get more traffic? Either ways, if you have any questions for John Buchanan, you know where to go.

Why Indian cricket is funny

This is hilarious, especially the comments.

Why do we get insulted so easily?

And on a completely different note, why Chanderpaul is no Lara ….

Guilt II

“My apartment is just a few blocks down. You want to go?”

Her hands were sliding down his thigh and he knew what the invitation meant. None of his friends were around and no one would even notice that he was gone. He could make up a story that he left because he had a headache and nobody would give it a second thought. Her fingers were on his fly now and he felt the surge of blood. He tried to erase the one image that wouldn’t leave his head – that of his wife.

He looked down at her fingers, then her hand, her shoulders and her face. She couldn’t have been over 25. He was on the wrong side of 30. He had been flattered when she asked him for a dance. The guys had hooted and pushed him towards the girl. She had seen the ring on his finger. She knew he was married, she didn’t seem to mind. He had felt a little hesitant in the beginning, but he was having fun after a few songs. He hadn’t felt guilty then. He was, now.

He heard the sound of a zipper being lowered – his zipper. He had to make a decision now. A voice somewhere said it couldn’t even believe he was contemplating it. He had been married for ten years now; he had been in a relationship with her for almost 15 years. What the hell was he thinking?

“Are you coming?” She sounded a little irritated. He didn’t realize his face had been a blank for over a minute now. She tugged him on his pants and pulled him behind her. The decision had been made when he was trying to make a decision.

They tumbled on her bed, nuzzling each other. He slipped off her gown and reached behind her for her hooks. He dug into her breasts and heard her moan. She pulled him up and their lips met. And he froze.

“I don’t care if you sleep with someone, honey. Just so long as you love no one but me, I don’t care.”

He heard her voice ring through his head.

“Stop being stupid. I can’t even think about being with some one other than you”, he heard himself saying.

“But of course, I will have to kill her.”

He heard her laughing and him joining her. It had been fourteen years ago. Had it been that long? They were kids then. What was he now?

He found himself on the floor, wildly grabbing for his clothes. He was still dressing when he left her apartment. He hadn’t said a word to the girl. He felt sorry for her, but he couldn’t think of anyone else now.

He tumbled down the stairs and out the building. The fresh air hit him hard and he hung on to the side of the building, as his body started retching.

Existence

The feeling of loneliness hit him suddenly and left him grasping for air. The room seemed to suddenly close in on him. He could see the walls moving closer and closer. The dull throbbing at the back of his head got louder. Images of people started flashing in front of him. His first girlfriend, his high-school friend, his boss, his mother, his 4th grade teacher… and as more and more images kept flashing, the lonelier he felt. Where had all these people gone? Where have his friends gone? Did he ever have friends?

He wanted to cry out aloud. He looked at his phone lying on the bed. He wanted it to ring very badly. The need to be wanted tore through his body and he felt himself being ripped apart. When he opened his eyes he realized how pathetic his entire existence had become. He wondered if he could stoop any lower. He searched for the once proud ego, though he knew it was futile. In his effort to please everybody he had lost his self.

He was no longer alive. How can one live without his self? But wasn’t he living proof that it can be done? But then, how do you define living? Was he living? Was he alive?

As if to confirm his lack of existence, his body refused to move. He sat there numb, hands across his folded feet, the tears now flowing uncontrollably. What has he become, the faint trace of an ego asked him? What had made him what he … he couldn’t say the word “is”, as it would signify his existence, which he could no longer acknowledge.

He forced himself to lay back and he slowly closed his eyes.

Guilt

She made her way back to the window again and looked out casually. She turned away sharply, irritation clearly written all over her face and sat down in front of the clock. Kumar said he will pick her up at eight and it was ten past. But she can wait, she thought. She had waited almost two years for this one meeting. And she was hoping that he will give her enough information to bring the plant down. And then, hopefully, all this will be over. The threats, blank phone calls in the middle of the night, slashed car tires. She was not afraid. But she wanted all this to end. She had something more to look forward to now, she thought as she ran her hand fondly over her slightly bulging belly. But she had been very afraid for him.

She looked up to see a figure slouched over a table reading something as if it was the last thing he would ever read in his life. Her husband, the lawyer. He had been almost killing himself with work over the last year. And she did not blame him. She did not earn a lot of money, the paper did not pay her much. But he understood why this was so important to her. He had been paying for most of her trips. And with the baby coming, he was working for three people now. And it had started to show. They were hardly ever home at the same time and even when they were conversation always revolved around work. Somewhere in the last one year they had lost themselves in their work. But he had been so happy when she had told him about her pregnancy. He had made time for every single doctor appointment. Those trips to the doctor were the closest to how things had been when they had just married.

She wished she had been honest with him. But she had promised herself that she would tell him once all this was over. She wished she had not slept with Kumar. It was a moment of weakness, a moment of need. It was something both of them had regretted later. She had never even thought about carrying someone else’s baby, but she was. She had not told anyone, not even Kumar. She looked at her husband again. But she had to tell him. Once this was all over, she promised herself again.

As she looked up at the clock again, she heard a car pull up below the window. She walked quickly to it and saw Kumar wave out, indicating to her to come down. She nodded to him and walked towards the door.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He was looking at her intently from the table. The light seemed to fall on his eyes alone, casting a shadow over the rest of his face. His eyes looked a little moist and a little red. Had he been crying, afraid for her? She had never seen him cry before.

“You know I have to. And Kumar is going to be there. I should be safe …”

“… with him. I know. I wish I could stop … ”

“It will all be over tonight. I promise.”

“I know.”

“I will see you soon. I love you.”

He did not reply. He watched her go out the door and the door close behind her. He was lost for a minute and when he recovered, his eyes were suddenly clear. If she had seen them now she would have been equally surprised. It was almost as if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. He searched for his lighter and found it behind the ash tray. He picked up the document he was reading and held the lighter to it. He watched it burn slowly in his hands and then dropped it in the ash tray in the last minute before the flames licked his fingers.

He picked up his cellphone and slid open its back. He removed the battery and pulled his simcard out. He fished into his pocket and pulled out another simcard. He slid it into his phone, placed the battery and slid back the top. He looked down at the little piece of paper fluttering on his table and dialed the number on it.

“Forest Grove Apartments. Number 217. Half an hour.”

He put the phone down and looked at the door again. He wished he had been strong enough to stop her, strong enough to forgive her.

* * * *

“Sudha Raman had been investigating the Prudent Chemical Company. Her articles had brought them a lot of bad press and their stocks had tumbled in the last 6 months. The state government has been contemplating setting up a committee to investigate their operations and she would have been a very important witness at the hearing, if there will ever be one now. But the interesting twist is that she was found in an apartment with a man. Was she doing her job? Or was she with her lover? The DCP earlier told reporters tHer husband, Raja Raman – a lawyer, has been picked up for questioning and is one of the suspects. Is this a cold blooded murder by a ruthless company? Or is this a crime of passion? Only time will tell.”

Numbers

He was lying on his back, with his eyes tightly shut. 374, 375, 376…. He tried to close his eyes tighter, as if that would make the noise go away. As the night grew, he knew that the sound will only increase. He had tried fixing the tap himself. Someone said changing the washer will help. It did not. He even got a plumber to take a look at it. He was able to fix it, but only for three days. And then the noise started again. 421, 422, 423…

* * * *

He did not know when he had stopped reading the document and started counting the words. He could here the numbers thumping at the back of his head. It was like a hammer landing on his head, one blow after the next. 1047, 1048, 1049… The numbers never seemed to matter. They were just there, in the background, as if trying to remind him about something, but failing each time. He heard the phone ring. He forced himself to look away from the document. He went to pick up the phone. 8, 9, 0, 1, 2…

* * * *

“You need to relax.”

“I am trying to, doctor.” (“74, 75, …. Why did he have to wear a checked shirt today?”)

“You need to pick up a hobby or …”

(“97, 98, …”)

* * * *

742, 743, 744 … He had been counting the people on the street. Seven hundred and … He had never seen some one so beautiful in his life. She looked like a feather, before being blown away by the wind. Completely relaxed, unaware of what will happen the next second, as if she did not care. Thirty two, twenty six, thirty … He burst out laughing. He saw some one streak past him. Then he saw the cars whizzing past in the street, the people moving around him, the branches swaying in the wind, a bawling kid, the music from some body’s window.

He had to go to work. He smiled.

Futility

She couldn’t fall asleep. The eerie comfort of the hospital was more disorienting than calming. She thought about the rope, how the rope felt around her neck, the hard ridges slowly closing in on her and then her grasp for breath. Her hands went to her nose, as if the blood had started flowing again. She had to look down to see that her legs were not writhing. But she had lived. Now she had to live a life she had not wanted – a life she did not want.

Her parents were completely in shock. She felt sorry for them. She had no reason to kill herself. She was their life. They had given her everything they could. They did not understand why she would ever try it. When she tried to think of why she wanted to kill herself, she could not find an answer. She never had a proper reason. Or was that the reason? She could not remember the exact moment she had decided she would do it. Her entire life felt like one blurry motion till the act.

Was she disappointed with her life? She did not know. She could not find a reason to be disappointed. Was she a failure? Nobody else thought so and she could not bring herself to believe that she was one. She had everything that anyone would envy. But was she happy? Always, she thought. She had never been unhappy in her life. Then why did she do it. The answer, for some reason eluded her.

The doctor had said that it was some form of post traumatic stress disorder and she will be ok. She had been drugged for most of last week. But she could not think of it as a trauma. She knew she had wanted to do it more than anything else. It had not been a fascination, but more of a need that she had felt. Her head started hurting and she did not want to think about it anymore.

She sat up and looked out the window. The night air was still and the moon was lost some where behind the clouds. She found the presence of the trees calming and she began to relax. It was then it came to her. It was as if the last week had never happened. She felt as if she was in her room again. She started looking around frantically. She got up and walked out of her room. She found the nurses station empty. She saw a half eaten apple and a knife lying next to it. She walked to the knife and slowly picked it up. Her hand clasped around the handle firmly. She saw her reflection on the blade.

Patchaikili Muthucharam – A review

Every time Gautham Menon makes a movie, he makes me cringe. He has this amazing ability to come up with an interesting plot and then find an ingenious way to screw it up.

Patchaikili Muthucharam starts badly, gathers pace, reaches a high and then fizzles out. Gautham is obviously in a haste to bring in his favorite actress. So, a receptionalist has to say that Sarath Kumar is flirty, for us to know that he is. Sarath Kumar has to tell us he is crazy about his wife, for us to know that he is. Indian cinema has always relied more on dialogues than emoting and scenes to get the message across. And then Sarath Kumar looks completely lost here. So this entire first act looks contrived, but Gautham can be forgiven for the next one hour makes you sit up.

This is Gautham’s ode to Jyothika. This is as much her movie as Sarath Kumar’s and Gautham has tried his best to give her big farewell. She acts well in parts, but doesn’t really manage to get more than a couple of expressions. But the plot unfolds well, if you can forgive the acting. Sarath Kumar comes up with a really subdued performance and he delivers and this hour makes up for the most interesting part of the movie. The reasons and the set up for Sarath Kumar and Jyothika to cheat on their respective spouses is much better than movies like KANK. The places, the dialogues (most of what I could hear from the crappy print) and the situations are very believable.

And then the twist. I think Gautham realized that almost everybody would have guessed it by now and so does not make a big deal about. But I think that is also the reason why the movie dragged on for another half hour.

The funny thing is that this movie will again be touted as really sound movie and will get raving reviews. I can take it when a really crappy movie becomes a huge hit, but I find it really difficult to digest the fact that what could have been a great movie, fails to deliver and still gets touted as a great movie. For some reason that bugs the hell out of me.

Bombay Jayashree is mesmerizing …

Critics

The last decade saw the entry of Hollywood movies in India in a big way. Not all kinds of Hollywood movies, but a select few, that distributors thought the Indian audience could relate to. They were usually action flicks, a few comedies and children’s movies. You can add a few academy award winning movies to that. This created an audience which renounced the so-called Indian movies completely. To them the Indian movies were brash, corny and completely stupid. And they went around claiming that they hated these Indian movies. People who claimed they enjoyed the Indian (read Bollywood) movies were looked down upon.

But there seems to be a reversal in the trend today. With India gaining popularity in the global stage and everything Indian being cool, the Indian movies are getting their fifteen minutes of fame. Today, to sound original and different, you have to say that you enjoy Indian movies. You can say that they are loud, brash, over emotional, illogical and lengthy and still conclude that you love Indian movies for the same reasons you just complained about. You can also go on to say how they really reflect the Indian culture and our emotions and how much you appreciate them for it.

And most of this is generated by the media. Why?