Luck by Chance, a movie about the movie making business, is very good.
Raw. Gritty edged. Quick. Honest.
Some say you need to be an insider to “get it”.
Which is pshaw, stuff and nonsense.
(Film mags weren’t allowed at home. We saw maybe two movies/year. But I still “got it”.)
The movie picks up the thread from Zubeidaa in a way. That real life, manic magic.
Excellent story. Perfect casting.
Great dialogue- particularly when an incredulous scriptwriter pencils in unbelievable scenes on demand, also the screen test ones.
Farhan Akhtar is an unbelievable actor- perfect.
Sleek. Sharp. Maybe it cuts too close.
Just the perfect movie to ponder past a sleepless one am. And you wonder how the same week can have both a great surprise and a what the *%*surprise.
Zoya Akhtar’s got it made.

Its fagun vad 2, the second day of spring. You look beyond tender, just fresh leaves but the sun is scorching. As is the mind- one forgets how many zeros there are to a billion. Watched on Fox y’day, the training sessions for BPO hopefuls, mauling/mastering American and Australian accents, but with the new bill, these jobs will go, as have many at the other end of the spectrum.
One goes on, head high, grateful for routine and rote, a cup of tea still refreshes.
One goes on.
This too, will pass.

I have six sentences up!
RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW
Yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

As we walked past zombie eyed, a tree burst into song, a million bird calls setting free the dawn. Humbling.

Another 23rd.
Visions of the girl dancing the six-step garba, her skirts atwirl.
The girl as a six year old, specs and all, sneaking into her sister’s class.
The girl, cap askew, jumping from one part of the terrace to another, as her kite soars up the blue.
I’m blinded, I shield my eyes.
Another 23rd.
Another quiet taste of Black Forest cake.

Why should I always be there?
Always reachable. Always responsive. A generous dollop of a smile.
You’re welcome, thank you kindly.
A year, six months of silence, zero response to mails and its ok, matters not.
You can always pop across when you please. Of course I’ll be there, wont I?
Why?
Why should I always be there?
You got issues? I got ‘em too. Bigger, brighter, shinier. See?
I learnt up the polite one liner. Nice. Fine, thank you.

Snapshot memories.

You, pointing out the orange band of a sunset from the plane window.

You, engrossed in a tremendous rendition of Darbari on the plane’s music system. All the to-ing and fro-ing, and why did I not notice this before?

Snapshot memories. To steal and hold.

That there are miracles.
This morning : that shocking thud, and that sight- you're lying on the floor, unconscious.
Now: you're sitting across, talking economics.

No broken bones, cognition seems fine, you wriggle toes on demand.
Thank you, Mister God.
I'm humbled.

Smoke and mirrors, and charades. But we’ve tired this once, Mr. Minister. Do you seriously believe the grenades; AK 47’s and war-quantity ammunition for close to 4 days of battle were checked in as baggage? Or they reached the hotels marked as boxes of soaps and lightbulbs? Or they were carried in those flimsy backpacks we’ve seen so often in those dirty, unforgettable pictures?

Yes, it may well be election year, and you may well want brownie points, but like it or nor, 26/11 had local support.

Ammunition is one, access to the bylanes and shortcuts only a local knows is the other.

Yesterday I discovered one more shortcut- rather unorthodox, I must admit, and walking only-to get to the main expressway from my little spot in this big city- the fifth such meandering path I’ve found. No, you will not find this on Google Earth for all your money.

Perhaps its time to get real.

Am shell shocked, zapped, delighted, zoned out, speechless.
I shall feature in Six Sentences Vol 2.
Made the cut. Got through. whoa.
YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO....

And. Thank you kindly.


Haven't figured out a way to thank Harry. But will.

(At the Trident last week). Rottweiler. A menacing dog please. And a couple of Mossad type security guards. Surly, all-business.And I wanted bags and packages to be checked thoroughly. Any nonsense to be vaporized and sent to outer space. What I didn’t bargain for was business as usual; polished flooring you can see your face on, and gentle soothing music over the chitchat.
Echoes of the shouts, screams and the acrid smell of burning wood, charred flesh from 26/11 haunt one to high alert, dammit whatever did we learn?


How expectations tint the way we look at things. Ramchand Pakistani is a nice movie. Too nice perhaps. Maybe I’m a skeptical Bollywood movie watcher, with a high tolerance for gore. But I seriously wonder if a sulking child wandered across the border, would the return be as easy or the living as nice? We’re conditioned to watching grimier, grittier, unpleasant stuff.
Net- net - it was nice.

Surprises. Good for the soul.
Some wide eyed wonder, some awe, some “Oh really!”
Like the stupendous magic of Shivamani , thundering percussion amidst the flickering strobe lights and all.
Like the majestic beauty of Chowmahala Palace. Lit up like it were day.
So perfect as a backdrop.
Past the lush quiet lawns, the quiet fountain, the stately halls.
The quarter-slice moon overhead.
Viewed past the champa-grove.
Wandering about, wide eyed through the Darbar Hall in its glorious beauty. Imagining the palace in all its splendor and tehzeeb, once upon a time.

Also- the Razas spotted this morning in a spiffy office, quite unexpected…

How dependent one gets on technology….black beyoooty was sulking.Unless I wanted to spend the next few days texting, and saying hello hello into a booming void a repair was must- found the closest Nokia Care Center, sat twiddling thumbs for an hour, luckily the repair man was quick; I'm just not sure if he did anything at all since he didn't give me a bill for 200/-, also the interiors needed a coat of paint if THIS is a part of the Nokia Service Experience. The next time I will go to the repairman down the lane. Quicker and cheaper. And no bill.

Isn't it wonderful?(insert image) The latest issue of Indian Literature. The look is leaner and the layout clean. Hep. The pages have a special fragrance, mitti ki khushboo, the scent of the earth.

This Saturday, at the park IDEAS staged a performance of one-act plays based on Premchandji's work. Perhaps it was me, perhaps it is these cynical times, for me the reality disconnect from 1920 was too much, we left after the second intermission.