If you have it in you to forgive the extremely corny header, please read ahead.

The temperature is rising, literally. Around the world, and since we live in India, especially in India. The summer is hotter every year. But thankfully, we can all wear thinner clothes, switch fans and air-conditioners on when we need them, have cool drinks and bathe in cold water.

Bears, on the other hand, cannot. As a matter of fact, they can't even walk into a hair dresser's and ask for a close crop. The hair on their coats keeps growing, all the time, until some kind official in the zoo decides to get them a haircut.

Why all this rambling? My very dear friend Priya (she doesn't have a blog, otherwise I'd have linked her) called me about nine minutes back. Turns out, there's a bear in the Calcutta zoo whose hair has grown beyond him and he's losing his mind in the heat. And the zoo authorities are busy chewing paan.

So, Pri and a couple of her friends are going to the zoo to click pictures of the general buggered condition and then try and get the authorities to take note of the situation outside their vomit coloured walls.

I wish them all the very best. Absolutely no sarcasm intended. I'm with them on this. I don't exactly know how to help them out since I'm about a three and a half hour plane ride away from them (which also translates into INR 10,000). But if any of you kind souls have suggestions, do tell me about them. I shall be eternally grateful. Ditto for the bear, I'm sure.

P.S. Some audacious, pardon the language, sons of bitches fed an elephant a banana. What's the surprise in that? They slipped a razor blade into the banana.

For those who don't know me (well practically, there are four readers of this blog, but anyway) I do not live in a remote village in Northeast India. No. Bhandup is still inside Bombay's city limits.

I had a bit of a discussion with a colleague at work today. About load-shedding. A concept she believes is peculiar to little villages in little remote corners of this vast country. She was, how shall I say, awed by the fact that these things happen in her own city, albeit 30 kilometers from her own house, which happens to be in Cuffe Parade in 'town'.

She asked me if I was being serious. I didn't even have to try to keep a flat face. Because after a point, you get used to these questions. "How many hours?", "What time of the day?", "How do you use the geyser?" Well, for the last one, the government here has been kind enough to execute the inevitable process of load-shedding only in the summer. So we don't have to go through the trouble of heating water for our baths, etc.

She was most upset with me when I began talking about the classic concept of The Haves and the Have-nots. "Why're you thinking so much about these things? What's the connect?" If you're waiting to read my reply, don't bother. There was none.

I may be defying a flow of thought here, but I find the very concept of load-shedding a little funny. Is our load being shed or we helping people in the affluent areas of Bombay bear theirs? Is it that a CEO (who possibly owns a sea-facing flat at Nariman Point) needs to reach work early so he can ensure a great lecture on preofessionalism to those lesser mortals who drag their arses from, let's say, a Mulund? Or maybe it is to keep his mind cooler in the air-conditioner all night long so he doesn't shout at his already disgruntled employees who had to get up sweating because the fan went off at 7:30 am?

I don't really ahve the answer. But I suppose I'll keep looking for it.

Let us also come to the irony bit of this post. (And the bit that explains the title). As I got off the train, about an hour ago, I saw a hoarding that read, "Are you mature enough to vote?" The visual, needless to say, was that of an 'irresponsible' (read long haired, unshaven man in three-fourths) man sitting on a little tricycle.

Sometimes, I wonder whether those who vote are mature enough to know what they're doing! And before you label me 'politically apathetic', I've seen both the big parties rule the country and Maharashtra and Bombay. (Give me some credit, I'm about to be 25). AC buses have come up, One phase of the Metro is going to come up. Terrorists have been locked up. Floods have been vaded through. But I still get up sweating every morning in the summer.

Who should I vote for? I think I'll go with electricity.

Wise men say,
only fools rush in...

But I can't help,
falling in love with you...

I suppose you know by now which D O U B L E S P A C E D movie I'm talking about. If you don't, it's really not your fault. I was pretty confused when I watched it too. But the film I'm about to review is called Ghajini. (The Hindi one - just making sure we're on the same page!)

So let's get the riff raff out first. This is a point in Jiah Khan's life when she most certainly needs to look for another career option. Acting, as is obvious, is not her cup of tea, at least not in Hindi cinema. (Yes Jiah, we know you detest movies that involve you dancing around trees, but you could at least try speaking in Hindi!)

Asin; new to Hindi cinema too, but slightly more promising than Jiah Khan. So, when Director A. R. Murugadoss tells her about her character, she goes home and studiously watches Amelie 12 times to try and get the character right. Keep going Asin, we're sure you'll get there someday! But like I said, she's better than Jiah, although that's not saying much.

Pradeep Rawat, who plays Ghajini, brings back memories of 80’s and early 90’s Hindi films where the villain wore copious amounts of gold jewellery and had no real reason to be the villain. While this may be a very good thing for a movie like Main Hoon Na or Om Shanit Om, which do not claim to be serious cinematic experiences, in Ghajini, this is one of the first things that let’s us down. Although, it must be said that Rawat wasn’t exactly bad at what he was asked to do.

Aamir Khan. We’ve all known him to be the ‘perfectionist’ and ‘the thinking actor’. But these oft used titles don’t quite fit with this film. And that, by no means, is a comment on his acting skills. Because yours truly has also put himself through the Tamil version of the movie that was made about two years ago, and Aamir certainly lifts this one a few notches. All in all, Aamir is, well, mind-blowing in this flick.

Let us now come to the one man that can make or break a movie, the director. Unfortunately, in this case, he’s only helped break the movie, in irreparable ways. And the reason for this seems to be a lack of vision in A. R. Murugadoss’s mind. One gets the feeling that he watched Memento and wanted, as soon as he could, to make his own rendition of it. Turns out he didn’t quite think things through before going on the floor with Ghajini. If we just took the movie piece by piece, we’d know why.

To begin with, things have been oversimplified and spelt out in this film. And in spite of the fact that many would go as far as to call this a suspense thriller, we already know who Sanjay Singhania (Aamir) is after. So, that’s that for the suspense quotient of this film.

Also, I just logged no to the internet to do a little research on Aterograde Amnesia (that’s what Singhania suffers from) and found that there is absolutely no way in which the patient’s memory span can be clearly defined. So, instead of ‘he can only remember things for F-I-F-T-E-E-N minutes’, it could just be ‘he can’t remember things for very long’. That doesn’t take too much, does it? Moreover, ambiguity is the one premise that every good suspense thriller rests on, no?

To come to Aamir’s eight-pack-abs. Good job, sir. But why exactly? I should very much like to know why someone needs to go and build that kind of a hulky frame when all it needs to blow heads off is a gun! Even if we leave out this humble blogger’s personal opinion out, what exactly is the reason for those abs, apart from making great promotional news, of course?

Let us now relate my views to what actually happens in the movie. Singhania, after having his brains blown out, becomes this all-out psychotic man, who cannot remember things for too long. So he starts getting things tattooed on his body. He gets by with a little help from a Polaroid camera. All understandable so far. And then there’s Murugadoss’s touch. Singhania starts scribbling violent graffiti on the same wall. Just a little something to think about here. Already he can’t remember things, and to add to that, there’s random scribblings on a wall that’s supposed to let him know the people whose pictures it holds. I’m quite as much as confused as Singhania should have been.

Now, finally, the biggest problem with this film. The absolute lack of sensitivity. One can understand that Singhania’s only means to cool himself off is to kill Ghajini and keep a photograph of the event. However, there is not a frame where he thinks about Kalpana (Asin) and feels sad about what happened. Murugadoss seems to have discounted the fact that the biggest reason for anger is sadness. And although, it’s fair for Singhania to not feel guilty about killing a few dozen unrelated people, he is not once shown thinking about it, not even within fifteen minutes of realizing it.

All in all, Ghajini is not particularly a good movie, or even a highly entertaining one.

 

I switched on the TV,

I’m watching the news,

As the city’s neck

Is caught in a noose

 

There’s blood on the floor

And holes in the wall,

A teenage gunman’s

havin’ a ball

 

But I’m still havin’ a beer

I’m still havin’ a beer.

 

Crouching reporters

and passers by,

Cops and commandoes

and the RAF guys

 

Miles away

There’s just me and my screen,

Driven to tears

By this inhuman scene.

 

So, I’m havin’ a beer,

I said I’m havin’ a beer.

 

Is peace

Too much to ask for she says?

I stare at the screen

And I stare at her face

 

I don’t know the answer,

Or a way out

I don’t know what spirit

They’re talking about

 

I don’t know what too much

Means anymore

I don’t know if my city’s

Terrorism’s whore

 

What’s my reaction?

What should it be?

What does it have

To do with me?

 

I guess I’ll have another beer.

Said I’ll have another beer

 

The opposition’s out

They’re lashing their tongue

The government as usual,

Is cleaning the dung

 

VOTE FOR US,

Is all I can see

As I surf the channels

On my TV

 

So I’m still havin’ a beer

Yes I’m still havin’ a beer.

 

I can’t change the world,

So I lie here,

And I’m still havin’ my beer.

Oh that cold bottle of beer

Yes I’m still havin’ a beer

And I’ll keep on havin’ my beer,

I’ll keep on living in fear…

--

Thank you Sting, thank you Farha.

Doctor, I know you're very busy, but there's an emergency you must attend to.

Where is it?

Just a two-minute auto ride away.

What is it?

My grandmother, see, she's 85 years old. She's had a fall in the bathroom. And there's no elevator in my building. Could you please come and have a look at her.

I don't do house visits.

But it's an emergency, doctor. I wouldn't call you home for a common cold.

I said I don't do house visits.

But you're a doctor.

Exactly, I'm not a door-to-door salesman.

Precisely! I wouldn't call one of them for a medical emergency.

Mind it, boy! I've told you once that I'm not going to go to your house.

SLAP ACROSS THE MAN'S FACE.


You know what the worst part of this entire incident is? Even after receiving a slap from someone 20 years younger, the doctor didn't feel an iota of guilt.

Fucking businessmen, those!

He may be legendary, but that does not stop the dog from being foolish. He still chases street cars, knowing fully well that no car will stop.

So, Roger Federer is no more the reigning Wimbledon Champion, thanks to some great tennis played last night. Rafael Nadal was brilliant on court. Right from the beginning, Federer was tested. To quote FedEx from an earlier interview, "He (Nadal) is amazing on clay, and he is becoming increasingly dangerous on grass." And finally it turned out that Nadal did beat Federer to become the new Wimbledon champion.

But it wasn't so easy as it may turn out in news reports that try their level best to write Roger off. It was, for lack of a better phrase, a nail-biting finish. Nadal did gobble up the first two sets, but the third and especially the fourth were as close as it has been since the great Borg-McEnroe final in 1980. (Yours truly wasn't even thought of then, but many thanks to YouTube). As it turned out in the end, the board read 6-4 6-4 6-7 (5/7) 6-7 (8/10) 9-7, in favour of Rafa.

But here's a little word for enthusiastic journalists who have started on their assignments on writing Federer off. Take it easy. Because a championship lost isn't a great player lost. I truly admire Nadal's tennis, but watching FedEx in motion is another thing altogether!

What does a dot mean to you?

Not much, I suppose. Just a mark. A separation between numbers. Something above a Latin letter. The end of a sentence. A spot. A speck. A thing. 

To me, it means the world.