Friday, November 16, 2007

bOLD and Beautiful.

The other day some guys were taunting about some good old stereotypical (and predictable in this age) movie...about the plain old jokes weaved inside in it, about the commonplace quips and vulnerable characters segmented inside. They made no mistake in delineating each of the facial expressions with their filthy foul language, while jeering at each of the seemingly predictable screenplays, as if the director should better be shoven bald for his deeds.

Their popping eyes would turn suicidal at each of the emotional histrionics, with extreme jolt of sniggering whenever the sweet lady lead would weep with the background doleful sitar tuned tight...or when the little boy would go swirling around in his new dress as her father sung a cloyingly sweet prose...or when the street labourers, in a display of jingoism, would do a carol of anthem as the mushy rythm reaches inpirational heights.

That's the good old time portrayed in our films. Some say "Those who miss 1969 weren't actually there..." but that's half true...actually it should be. "Those who mock at 1969 were also weren't there..." What I mean to say is that old wine doesn't taste the same always as eveyone says. People like things fresh and plump, and it's reflected in the Art, in our Cinemas. Each generation brings with it some flavors anew, some fangles that should set them apart and make them feel superior to the previous one.

And so the bottomline is that every piece of Art (Cinemas, Literature etc) should be adjudged in the era it evolved, when it came fresh and unwilted. And so sometimes you can't appreciate the old golden hindi smashit now because the taste is different, the old fads have faded, the culture has a new layer. Better if you watch some old "good" thing, then rewind back and step out of the train and reflect upon the culture it tries to sketch rather than sneering at it by collating it with your present shallow world around you.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Little Chintoo And His Worldly Wise Web

As I sat down before a grubby beaten-down keyboard, a hesitant mouse and an archaic terminal laiden with a slow motion Windows-98...I realized it's gonna be long haul to finish up my daily rituals on the net. It was one of the confining cubicle spaces here and I can't move my legs or hands except on the keyboards, and just like me, many of the young sweating punters were busy peeping into their monitors...some doing their Rediff/Hotmail/Orkut, some playing solatire online, some occupied with their yahoo chat rooms, some oogling at the pics, some good ones Googling for their school assignments, while some serious ones drafting their one-page CV on the pirated Microsoft Office Word 2007 (Huh. I still don't have the latest version on my lappy...and they've got it in their cranny Cybercafe in this rickety half-built house here in a considerably remote part of the world).

I remember when the Open-Source evangelist Richard M. Stallman came to my college, he seemed all excited about his quest for expanding his Free Software foundation in India...because of high rate of piracy here (the reason he himself pointed out)!
As I got along with my work I found a small 7-year-old sneaking into my system, and just then he quizzed me with a candid smile "Bhaiya net pe accha interesting sa dekhyae na..." (Bro please show something worth enough on internent here...). I thought there's so much of the world out there for this chap but I swear I can't show them all to him...And I kept thinking...

Anyway this is another story. What concerns me here is the limitlessness of the internet (in terms of how much it can help you) and the general ignorance people all around have about it (especially here in small places where they can utilize their plenty of time and mind on it). Apart from regular recognized services everyone knows about (i.e. Mail/Orkut/Trading etc), there are thousands of useful Tools/How-To's/Forums to aid you for daily living. Then you have sites that pay you just for visiting or reviewing or writing, sites that let your craft and creativity reach the world, sites that can give them new identity and sites for learning with fun. These things can be of enormous interest to junta if they ever knew about it...WHO'S GOING TO TELL THEM?

Who can guide them and tell that just an e-Choupal movement is not enough, through internet we have the potential to do lot more, to change a million lives. Companies and Banks are doing their part to reach out...but when'll masses realize there are other important avenues that they need to explore and more importantly, that should be far away from commercialization. Small town sentiments and mindsets are different and they are more keen and fussy about small details in life. We need some light and directions is here...I am seeing a Business Plan here :)

[ In between, just as I finished typing my mails in the cafe...Poof! the power went off and its gone, all terminals blacked off...they have a dozen computers with no UPS! ]

Friday, November 2, 2007

Hankered HomeComing.

And there's the cow and the tiny tots peeing in middle of street
And there's their dry shit that sticks onto your shining sleepers!
And there's the bully barking doggies chasing the untamed cats
And there's the veggie hawkers howling tough for their bargains
And there's the big grubby pigs romping in municipality garbages

As the mudwater splashes around on your spruce fair legs
You grump and sneeze and mock at the vicinity all around
Alongside, the smoke frees out of the huts and chokes you
And the deep filthy fishes make your nose gravely suicidal

And the mosquitoes set their faction up above your forehead
As they taste sweet blood out of your plump metropolitan skin
A cricket ball then plops on your head from the rooftop nearby
And you hear servile shouts for ball from the urchins up above
"Hey You deep shit! Please throw back my ball I beg you..."

And you reach home carrying along a jolt of untold cold feelings,
Of all experiences and mental rewindings of the year just goneby
Some firm hands hold you by side again, but they are old by now
You drench into its smugness, but a truculent nostalgia nags you.

And as dusk settles does the dust & honking traffic
Then your house bulbs black out for hours as power load sheds
You loiter on the rooftop and feel the silent confining darkness
As winds cool the summer sweat trickling off your grown belly...

You board a rickety-rackety rickshaw that bumps along the roads
And you hustle into the old markets that still talk the same noise,
But there's a comfortable silence in every hour you spend around,
And You feel...
That still some part of you breathes and plays here,

That still you belong to this ghetto only, faraway from big citylights.


These Thoughts I captured while at home, in bittersweet peace.