The Noise of Music

Its half past midnight. Finally, after 9(nearly 10) gruelling hours of work, I want to go home. To sleep, perchance to dream as the saying goes. I climb into the company cab, lucky enough to get a front seat, which means I might be able to doze in peace and not fall over and crush a fellow passanger. Secure the seat belt, lock the door and in as meek and polite a voice as possible, communicate to the driver that since it's ten to one and the cab was supposed to leave at 12:30, maybe we should get going. Again, polite to the point of grovelling. The last person I want to fuck with right now is the guy who will be taking me home. So I carefully interject a lot of politeness in my voice. After a final goodbye to his friends and countrymen (Romans, sadly, were not available) the man saunters in, plops in his seat and reaches for the dashboard. I lean back and close my eyes.
The first indication that things won't go as well as I had hoped are my eardrums shattering. A sound like the last trump bellows in my ear that all is not right with the world. Peace and quiet, the twin maidens I had been dreaming about turn tail and run. I jerk spasmodically and try to sit bolt upright, an unfortunate and miscalculated move as the seat belt slams me back . Considerable chest pain notwithstanding, I look on in horror as the driver turns the volume knob on his stereo like there's no tomorrow. And no decibal limits either. He looks at me, pride shining in his eyes. I hear the unsaid words "Dude, it goes up to ellleven...."
The music, if I may play as fast and loose with a word, is some sort of Bhojpuri song about the pleasures of drink. Or maybe the evils of drink. Or maybe it's something devotional. I don't know. Don't care. All I know is that in order to go home safely, I will have to listen on. Maybe even smile and nod during the good bits. What are supposed to be the good bits ? Are there good bits? It's clear from the driver's expression that he feels audience participation, or at least appreciation is essential. I start panicking.
The car has a speaker, one of seemingly fifteen million, built right on the passanger side door. I press against it with my foot, hoping to mute the volume by a fraction of a decibal. The driver frowns a little, obviously wanting to wring as much entertainment out of his job as permissable by the laws of physics. He twiddles the knob once more some more (does the thing never stop turning ? What is it's breaking point exactly ?) and what I previously thought was the loudest noise in the world gets louder.
By now I am praying for a miracle, and I get one. A sweet voice, the sweetest sound I ever heard in my life, pipes in from somewhere among the recesses of the back seat "Bhaiya, sound zara kam kar dijiye please" The master of the chariot is obviously displeased, and I see four letter words, or at least their country cousins hovering near his lips. But he holds his tounge and lowers the volume by a fraction of an inch. Ahhh, peace and quiet. Also, the fact that I have gone partially (and perhaps permanently) deaf helps matters a great deal.
By now we have started dropping people off. My knowledge of Delhi roads being limited to 'Roads MCD has dug up' and 'Roads MCD are about to dig up', I have of course no way of knowing exactly how close I am to home sweet home. But it should be close, and with the volume somewhere at about only double the legally permissable, I may even get there with some of my sanity still intact. It is at this point that the sweet girl, my saviour, light of my life decides to fet off. The bitch. There is a flash of fingers and a dirty sleeve, and one twist later, we are back to rock 'n' rolling all night.


Next time, I'm walking home.

A President of Hope

Dear U.S.A.
Congratulations. You finally made it. It took eight years, billions of Dollars, thousands of bodies and God knows how much in goodwill, but you finally have an elected representative in the big white building. You came out, hardly unscathed, but make it out you did. You finally woke up to realise that wars on nouns don't really turn out too well.
See what I just did there? A cynical sarcastic comment. But we all seem to be so cynical these days. Cynicism, negetivity are the new black. You know, cool. But then I saw something. I saw a woman cry. I saw her face go from anxious hope, through a whole gamut of emotions, and finally break into tears of unrestrained joy (and maybe even a little bit of relief?). I saw her mouthing the words "We did it" over and over again. Of course it was on television. But it was more real than anything I have seen recently.
Display of emotions like these are reserved for sporting contests. But politics ? Really ? Who cares if one incompetent fools replace another on the seat of power? That's the way most of us see politics these days. It's an excuse to badmouth some people and go back to our daily lives. But U.S.A., you finally made the world proud. You picked a man from nowhere and took him to the top. Because you realised you COULD do it. And only you could. It wasn't enough to hope for change, you'd actually have to get it yourself.
I envy you, you know. I really do. I don't say this because you have a great president, someone who will wave his little magic wand and make your problems go away. Whether he can get you out of the hole you have dug yourself into remains to be seen. Some say he is the right man. I say, let's wait and watch. Maybe he is. but that's not because why I envy you.
I envy you because finally, FINALLY you have a leader, not just a politician, as your President. Someone who you can cry for, someone who inspires you, someone who makes you feel like he could change the world and for a pinch, so can you. For too long we have had leaders who elicit emotions restricted to anger, bigotry or hate. Leaders who inflame passions of all the wrong kinds. That does not mean we don't have good leaders. Our own Prime Minister is a good man, a smart man. A humble, intelligent, compassionate man. I truly believe he is. But he does not make me FEEL. He does not make me wan't to go out there in the rain just to hear him speak. You have such a man.
President Barack Obama has a tough job ahead of him. But he has you, his countrymen by his side. He is a black man who got elected to the highest office of the Unites States of America. A country where only eighteen percent of the population share his skin colour. This goes beyond race. He could do this because he could drag you out of the culture of cynicism you had settled into. Lets hope he can do all that you hope he can. The world will be watching.
Thank you.

Revisiting the Final Frontier

First, a flash of light. Sparks. The scrape of metal on metal. A hand with a welders gun. A face hidden by goggles. The goggles come off. The man looks up with a face drenched in a mix of sweat and soot. The screen goes black. Another sound overlaps the various hums, clangs and sizzles. A voice. Voices. "The eyes of the world...". "The eagle has landed...". "A small step for man..." Bits of machinery. It's huge. The people are working on it, hanging on like insects on a tree. The camera goes wide...wider...wider... There she is. All other voices drown, or maybe converge into one.

"Space....the final frontier"

Enterprise.

I will not deny I had goosebumps. J J Abrams has a difficult...no, make that almost impossible job to do. Satisfy older fans like me and a billion others who are much much more hardcore....and bring new fans to the franchise. The problems are many. The fans are hungry. They want their ST fix, but won't settle for less. They don't WANT cheesy, not even in a good way. They want their heroes to be treated with a bit of respect. Can you do that Mr.Abrams ? I know you have said that this movie is not for fans of Star Trek, but fans of movies. But can you satisfy fans of movies and ignore fans of the show(s)? This will be Treks last shot in a long long time. Please don't screw this up Mr.Abrams. Please don't destroy the memories. Please let Star Trek BE Star Trek. The trailer made me hungry for more. So I have faith in you. Here's hoping it's justified.

Critically speaking....

"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations, the new needs friends... Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere."

Anton Ego(giving voice to Brad Bird), Ratatouille

I have been a fan of Roger Ebert ever since I stumbled into his website a couple of years ago. People generally begin with a love for movies and then find critics who can guide them to the movies they will like, but for me it was the other way around. Ebert is not limited to being a critic, his reviews show a deep love for movies that is infectious. His reviews are opinion pieces to be sure ( according to Ebert himself, a critic's job is just to give his impression of the movie) but the opinions of a man who is both intellectually sound and emotional about the subject at hand, not to mention a wonderful communicator, is perhaps the best guide possible.

Recently Ebert's wrote an article on his blog (http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/09/critic_is_a_fourletter_word.html) talking about the role of critics. He calls the above words by Anton Ego "Some of the wisest.." Of course, when the movie came out, many thought the monologue was Brad Bird's proverbial rude gesture to critics in general. After all, who hates a critic more than a filmmaker. To make something, to spend time and money on it, to emotionally invest in it and see it ripped to shreds by some all-knowing snit can be a painful experience. But here's the kicker. Brad Bird has never experienced that, at least in his professional career. A two time oscar winner, all of his movies have been critically applauded by the best of them. A quick visit to rottentomatoes reveals the ratings 95% for Ratatouille, 97% for The Incredibles and 97% for The Iron Giant. So why would this man take five minutes of his movie to slap the wrists of those very people who have been nothing but effusively complimentry of him. My belief is that, he doesn't. Going back to sometime before the climactic cook-out, there is a little eschange between Linguini, the "hero" and Ego, a food critic who is known for his scathing reviews

Linguini: "And you're thin for someone who likes food."
Ego: "I don't like food, I love it... if I don't love it I don't swallow. I will return tomorrow night with high expectations...pray you don't disappoint me."

A critic, any true critic is one whose love for his subject is overwhelming. He abhors mediocrity. Yes I know the "average piece of junk.." statement in Ego's monologue, but chalk it up to being overwhelmed by the best meal he's had, shall we ? Going back the first responsibility of a critic is not to praise, or savage, or even give out little star ratings. His job is to fall in love with art. Anton is a fine critic, as is Ebert. Now if only there was someone who could give us a review of the best critics there are. In the age of the internet, finding good critics has perhaps become harder that finding good movies.

Well it IS ugly......

I had high hopes for this movie. I really did. I liked the cast, I thought I liked the concept, I even liked the trailers. Too bad the only thing I liked about the movie was the rolling credits.

Ugly or Pagli does have some moments of humor. Plus, by the time you have waded through the confused mess that is the rest of the movie, you are begging for even a half decent guy-kicked-in-the-crotch-falls-over-with-funny-expression joke. Unfortunately, even those are few, too few.

The movie stars Ranvir Shorey as Kabir, a lovestruck loser who would endure all kinds of pain just to keep the girl of his dreams Kuhu(Mallika Sherawat) happy. Aaaaaaaaaaand that's it. I imagine after the scriptwriter wrote those lines he congratulated himself on a job well done and went home. We are supposed to feel....what? Empathy for Kuhu for some deep dark pain she's going through ? Encourage Kabir to follow his heart, anal torture(more on that later) notwithstanding ? Unfortunately Kabir just seems like a simpering doormat and Kuhu a heartless, mean bitch.

The story is told through Kabir's voice overs. Thank god for that because without them this movie would basically be The Benny Hill Show 2007. The film is largely a collection of set pieces that go like this. Kuhu tells Kabir to do something outrageous, humiliating, painful or all three. Kabir refuses. Kuhu slaps him. Kabir does what he is told. Hilarity ???? ensues. I yawn. Rinse. Repeat.

That is, until the last 20-30 minutes. That is where I guess the filmmakers realized they were running out of ways to hurt Kabir and tried to bung in a story. Of course, by then the film is such a boring, confused mess that I hardly cared. Mallika remains a sadist right till those last minutes when she suddenly becomes lovelorn and tries, desperately, fervently to act. Unfortunately, it is precisely then that the director decides to cover up her ample cleavage, so she has nothing to act with. What follows is the worst display of onscreen crying since Salman khan passed a kidney stone in Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam.

Ranvir is a passable, even good actor, but the script (or in this case the scribbled bits of toilet paper) doesn't really know what he is. One moment he's the cool dude, back chatting professors and dancing up a storm in clubs and beaches, the next he's a stuttering, stammering fool. Actually cancel that last statement, Ranvir can't dance up a storm to save his life, the director just pretends he can.

The few funny bits mostly come from the supporting cast. Tinu Anand was good, if a little creepy as Mallika's alchohlic father. It was nice to see Zeenat Aman, and even nicer to see that she still can't act for nuts. The best performance is by Sushmita Mukherjee as Mallika's painfully prim mother. Seriously, she looked like she sucked on a lemon just for this role. One of the rare moment's where I laughed out loud was when Ranvir's character makes a feeble attempt at humor, which she digests, and the quizzically asks "Joke Maara??"

Or maybe I was trying to ask the director the same question.

Requisite TDK article

You’re just a freak


like me

Black and white.
Light and dark.
Good and evil.
Knight and Jester.
Heads and tails???
The Dark Knight has been praised to the skies, both by the critics and by the people who actually pay to watch the movie. The story has appealed to long time fans of the franchise, as well as people who have perhaps never picked up a comic book in their lives, or at best, given them a cursory glance. It’s a grim, dark drama of a masked vigilante and a cackling madman, and sure enough, those are the two characters you notice the most. But at its heart, the dark knight isn’t really Batman’s story. Nor is it about Joker’s violent rampage. The Dark knight is the story of Harvey dent, the tragedy of his fall from grace. It’s about how the Gotham’s white knight gives in to his dark side.
The Joker and the Batman are two obvious polar opposites. The Joker would do anything to create chaos, which is all he cares about. He burns what is literally a mountain of cash, not to make a statement but to watch it turn to ashes. Some people just want to watch the world burn, Alfred correctly surmised when Bruce Wayne was trying to figure out the why to the Joker’s seemingly directionless rampage. He kills his own henchmen in the beginning of the movie, or rather, he plays them like pawns, makes them kill each other. Just because he can.
Batman on the other hand, for all his grim and gritty demeanor, will not kill the Joker. Even when he knows what the minstrel of hate has done, what he is capable of. Over and over Batman gets the chance to do away with the madman, and over and over he refuses to, Sometimes putting himself at risk.
The two characters are moral absolutes, but right in the middle, in the deepest shadows stands Gotham’s white knight. Harvey dent starts off as the city’s great hope, the man who will clean the streets. And he will do it with the law in his side. Even Bruce Wayne sees Dent as the man who will take the great burden that is the Batman off his chest. But Dent has a dark side, and that is obvious from the get go. For a DA, Dent has surprisingly scant regard for the law, torturing one of the Joker’s henchmen for information. Information his victim might not even have. The law exists only to punish the guilty, and he is a soldier. There is wildness to his drive for justice that’s more than a little disconcerting. He puts himself in the line of fire to get to the Joker, sure. But somewhere, his psyche seems to say “Hey, I risked myself and I am a good man. Imagine what I will do to you if you are evil”
Dent’s coin is more than a symbol of his duality. He represents the middle ground, between the clean (Batman) and the scarred (Joker). But he is also Batman’s greatest defeat, because he could have gone either way. But the Joker got to him first. He keeps flipping the coin, but it is really the coin that controls him.
Aaron Eckhart’s performance is the hidden gem in TDK. While Heath Ledger’s death ensured the spotlight would be fixed firmly on his performance, and Christian Bale is already a bankable blockbuster leading man, it is the actor from small movies like Thank you for Smoking who had the most to prove. Ever since Christopher Reeve donned the red and blue tights 30 years ago, Superhero movies have always thrown up little known faces and made them big stars. Eckhart is another amazing actor who has found his first blockbuster in a capes and tights flick. His portrayal of one of the most tragic characters in the Batman franchise alternates between an overcoming desire to do good and righteous fury. And that’s before the scars appear, to mirror his duality.
TDK is a superhero movie, but is it a tragedy? It’s about a man who see-saws between two sides, and finally chooses destruction. In the end we see the hero scurrying away, running from the authorities. His beacon is smashed. Gotham’s last great hope, his white knight is perverted. But TDK is more than a grim, gritty noir movie. It’s also art, in ways movies like The Clockwork Orange will never be. Because while those movies that examine the dark side of human nature seem to revel in the nastiness of their villains (or anti-heroes), TDK ends with heroism, and hope. For all the Joker’s cool lines and chaos, the Batman wins. Not by pushing the villain off a tall building. Not by beating him to a pulp. The Batman wins because finally, he saves the city he loves so much. He is willing to be a hunted criminal, a murderer, for the sake of his city. He runs, because he has to. And because Gotham needs to chase him. For a fall of a good man, an even better man needs to rise from the ashes. Batman has to be more than a hero, because Dent failed to be one. Yes, Harvey Dent’s story is indeed a tragedy, about a good man perverted. But Bruce Wayne’s story, the quieter, subtler story, is all about redemption.

Of stories and those who tell them.

It's been a while,hasn't it? A while since I have done......well , anything really. What was fresh and exciting becomes drudgery. What was fun becomes a Russian play's 3rd act. What was refreshing is now stale, like the hunk of cheese in my fridge that neither me nor my roommate wants to finish off (I wonder why ???).

The closest I have come to reading Kafka might be reading the blurb in a collection that the aforementioned reading the other day, but existential angst is really the best way to describe what's happening right now. The world seems a drab, a little out of focus, like one of those old colour photograph that you discover in your mother's drawer. OK perhaps angst is too strong a word, maybe existential boredom sums it up better.

Sometimes it seems like there is never enough too do, and never enough time to do it in. Strange, right. So what exactly is it I'm looking for? Peace? Love? Substance to abuse? Nah. I guess I am just looking for stories. Does anyone else feel like that? Like life is just a collection of stories, and you are living in far too many of them? And that none of them are very well written or make much sense? I guess I am just looking for the perfect story. MY story.

There is something incredibly romantic about minstrels. To move from town to town, just telling stories, the idea itself is so intoxicating. Oh sure, they would sing and dance and play an oddly shaped instrument or two, but what they were were storymen. They were never the heroes, or the villains. They didn't create legends, but they kept them alive. They were for all practical purposes inconsiquential, unimportant, and in their own way, the very basis of everything I hold dear. I feel a bit of kinship with those wandering verbal magicians of the middle ages. When I am gone I won't be missed, but perhaps the stories will be.

Moody Blues

I have been getting pretty moody lately. I never know why, It's just that I feel my life is getting in a rut, and nothing no new job, no new friends, no nothing can pull me out of it. it isn't one of the heartbreaking, sob-inducing depressions I used to have, it's just like I've become more resigned to things. I find it very dangerous. Thankfully I'm reading again, not heavily, but at least Pratchett is drawing me in like he used to. I'm pretty glad I bought the Tiffany Aching series despite initial reservations. Generally Pratchett's witch books are IMHO slightly weaker of the lot (Particularly because I find Granny Weatherwax just too bloody predictable), but here keeping her as a minor character has really worked. If anything it has made the second book superior to the first one, which had no character other than Tiffany, really.

Tried to watch Shaurya today, man what a crap movie. I cannot understand this fixation people have over Rahul Bose, the supposed thinking man's hero. The man plays essentially the same character in every movie, and can't do comedy worth a damn. When Javed Jaffery outperforms you in a dramatic role, no less, it's just sad. The plot is waaay too contrived for my taste, with things happening just so other things can happen. And as a journalist, it's almost insulting to see the female lead, a "reporter" go to the house of her subject and ask about his father, not knowing he(the father) is dead. Shekhar Suman did it better on TV ten years ago, and he did it pretty bad to begin with. And then she lectures people about doing their job right. I will post a proper review later, but it just pisses me off to see a movie like this and know that it came from something like A Few Good Men. Not to sound like an absolute dick , but why is it that a supposedly visual Hollywood movie like iron Man can have a better and more meaningful script than a Bollywood thriller?

Talking about hollywood, I really think manyof the summer blockbusters are going overboard with the marketing. I feel like I have seen too much of TDK already, and the new trailer was so disjointed, it was quite disappointing. The ideal marketing strategy would be to build up the hype, so that the movie comes off almost like a crescendo, a huge splash after the big wave has hovered in the air for that split second. Here it's breaking apart. Give us a break now, hollywood.

I realise this was different from most of my columns, starting off as a "how i am" thing before going off into films, but hey, it's my blog, and nobody reads it anyway. So sue me.

The Rock Snobs

"... they were cursed by what we can call the 'bee gees' curse. which is: 'write amazing songs, sell tons of records, and consequently incur the wrath or disinterest of the rock obsessed critical establishment'."
Moby : 2003 (on Duran Duran)

They were the original rebels, the anti-heroes, the rule breakers. They were the ones who would not conform to society's norms and bring music to the masses. They were the rockers. The saviors of music. They would rescue us from the horrors of disco, manufactured bands, and indeed anything that you could listen to without rupturing an eardrum or two. But what about the ones like us ?? The ones who didn't really want to be rescued. The ones who were happy with their Cliff Richards and Bee Gees and Roger Whittakers and Chris de Burghs. You know, the not-really-charismatic guys who could do one or two things (namely write songs and sing) really really well?? How dare we ?? How dare we ignore the druggy genius of Nirvana and Pink Floyd and gravitate towards saccharine based pond scum like the aforementioned guys ? Didn't we know we were ruining, simply ruining music by listening to people who could actually... you know...sing?

Well I didn't.

I don't hate rock, or metal or rap, or anything labeled as extreme. But nor do I buy into the belief that a parental advisory sticker on an album jacket, or smashing instruments live on stage are signs of instant greatness. I have enjoyed November Rain but I was bored by anything else by Guns and Roses. I love Wherever I may roam, The Unforgiven, but find any other stuff by metallica pretty mundane. And no, I don't dismiss them without hearing them . Its just that some songs by the backstreet boys or n'sync give me the same kind of pleasure as the songs mentioned above. A different flavored pleasure, to be sure, but what sounds good, sounds good. I don't care if its soft, or loud, or rough, or smooth, or written by the artist or by a hundred songwriters slaving away in little cubicles in an effort to transform five good looking teenage boys into stars.

But I digress

Something that really pushes me away from the harder stuff, is the obvious snobbery among rock fans. For a section of people who claim to be anti establishment, their behavior is strangely similar to the monocled lords of Wodehousian England. Somehow heavy metal and hard rock had to be worshipped or you did not appreciate good music. And in a delicious twist of irony, those two brands of music became the favorite for every corporate radio station, music magazine and music channel that realised angst sold better than anything else in the world. Every teen and preteen feels that the world is unfairly stacked against them anyway, so give them the music that just reaffirms their theory and tells them to go nuts. Well, you can have your music and eat it. And when you want something different just try being a rebel for once and looking around. I'll be in that small crowd in the corner, listening to "Summer Holiday"

Yo Jo!!!!

I had planned to write a well thought out blog about fantasy and my love for that genre of literature. I really did. Then I thought i'd go to joblo.com for a while. And I saw this.

YES!! YES YES YES YES YESSSSIIRREEEEEEEE YES!!!
For those of you who have no idea why a grown(well semi-grown at least) straight man is behaving like ........well you know, let me tell you two things.

1)You don't deserve to live
2)That gentleman there, is known to hordes of fanboys as none other than Snake Eyes. At least that is how he will appear in the upcoming J.I.Joe movie (for those who don't know what J.I.Joe is, go back to point 1....and please stay there). And as you can guess, I'm not displeased. Snake Eyes was my favorite Joe, and I always felt the animated series never did justice to a character with such potential. Of course, it's easy to see how the designers just opened "Cool for dummies" and copied out everything they saw. I mean the guy's a futuristic ninja who wears all black, doesn't speak, has his origins shrouded in mystery and carries a katana. Couldn't get more textbook than that.

Holi ??!! Really ???

Excerpt from an article in a newspaper today morning:-
"Holi is the day when people drop their inhibitions and take to the streets with lots of gulal and coloured water as their arsenal. They smear the colours on unsuspecting passers-by, who may have ventured out with a prayer that they may be spared. It might be then that 'the prankster' and 'the victim' bond with colours and lot of goodwill."

So the canonization of hooliganism begins. The article hit me in an empty stomach, so it's effect was especially potent. It is things like this that make me despair about the future of our great nation. Seriously. When a bunch of multicoloured monkeys descend on a hapless individual and smear him with chemicals that cannot possibly be good for any part of the body, how exactly is that social bonding? Dear Mr. fancy newspaper article writer (you know who you are), let me give you an amazing bit of insight into human psychology. When a person leaves his house "praying" that he wont be assaulted and molested on the streets, he probably, just probably, really does NOT want to be assaulted and molested. Unless the 'prankster' is Katrina Kaif in a bikini and the 'victim' is someone who looks like me, there is no way he is going to bond with the delinquents who spray him with foul smelling , toxic paint laden water and run away, laughing like jackasses while they do it. There is no colourful bollywood style musical montage where the 'prankster' and 'victim' see each other through a mist of colour and social understanding and goodwill and embrace while 50 extras dance in the background. It most likely ends with the 'victim' cursing the parents, grandparents and all ancestors of the 'pranksters' while vainly trying to clean himself and hoping and praying he won't have to leave his house next year.

And it all begins........again (alternatively, OH SHIT!!!!)

For the longest time I just didn't have the inspiration or creativity. Not that I am bursting with either at this moment, but I'm bored. Sometimes that can be just as good a spur as a burst of imagination. The end product.......well that's where all bets are off my friend. But then again, no one is holding a gun to your head. Unless of course, currently your postal address is Guantanamo Bay. In which case I suggest you start talking quickly you poor man. Ever since water boarding earned all sorts of bad press, they have had to fall back on my little virtual space as the best way of getting 'confessions' I believe Sarabjit was forced to read some of my stuff. The unfortunate fellow may recover in time, but chances are slim.
Talking of Sarabjit, I love the way the BJP are dealing with the situation. After his sister's face was plastered all over the news channels, the collective saffron hearts melted and they have come up with the only solution that will bring back a smile to everyone's face - Hang Afzal. I personally would love it if Mush came out and gave a go ahead to that, saying terrorists on both sides of the border should be dealt with strongly. Of course he wouldn't, given the wobbly situation he is in now, but that would have made a lot of people squirm. However, Utopian dreams aside, its holi on Saturday, and I'm feeling like the mouse during the first half of mouse hunt, unfairly victimized. Just because a sizable portion of the population decides to act like repainted buffoons, I have to sit at home on my only weekly off day. And of course, there will be celebrations at the glorious altar of getting piss drunk. Well, I guess as always, it will have to be internet to the rescue.