Kaboom

And there goes another message to the political establishment, one more famous name added into the kitty of the perpetrators of terrorism. A 54 year old leader of a troubled state reduced to a mere number in their also-killed list.

I'm not a political guy, heck, I don't even understand the games played in the office, much less a country. Yet, when I see a person of the stature of Nawaz Sharif, emotional and choking on the television, saying it is the darkest day of his country, I know it is not drama. I see Benazir on the television, telling Barkha Dutt that she is not afraid of going back to her country, that she considers that no one can be killed until their time is up. I see Benazir emotional when she is back from exile into her homeland, jubiliant and confidently talking about what she wants to do next. I look at the family, where the father and his three children are tragically done to death and wonder what reason will possibly justify these murders.

Cut out all the fors and the againsts, leave aside all her political aspirations, and charges of corruption and what have you. Till today, here was your woman - living in exile, wanting to do something for her country, having lost her family to a series of unnatural deaths, and probably putting her own life on the anvil everytime four people gathered around her - and still saying it does not worry her as she enters her own country in dangerous times. Such guts!

And now, all that is left of those guts are two words making a cold headline. Benazir Assassinated.

The Spotlight Series

Having been associated with it for some time now, I take pride in bringing Blogbharti's latest offering - the Spotlight Series - where guest writers muse on issues that are relevant today.

Go have a look, will you?

Merry Christmas

Hmm... a long and an eventful break. Since the last post I have -

• enjoyed Diwali,
• been busy with work,
• seen the weather change till it almost snowed, but didn't,
• been down with a bout of cold, sore throat and general feverishness,
• been driving all over South Wales.

There's a lot to update, so keep watching. :D

Saawariya

Saawariya is a nice little love story, which looks very artificial at first sight, due to the extravagant sets created, and the picturisation of the story. But underneath the superficiality of the sets and the seeming anachronism, it is indeed a beautiful story of love and loss.

It is quite simple in its story, of a boy meeting a girl, falling in love at first sight, and attempting to woo her, not realising that she has someone else in her heart. And even after the realization, it sticks to reality in the sense that he does things which would be true of any person smitten. Have we not walked our girlfriends home? Have we not held their hand and guided them over puddles when we go enjoy the rain in Lonavala? Do we not harbour dreams of dancing for our sweetheart and proclaiming our love with the entire restaurant looking on? Do we not rejoice when she blushes a deep red when you are kneeling and the all the people in the room are rooting for her to say YES? Is it not natural that in the excitement of all this, a guy falters and falls flat on his face. What then is so artificial about this film that everyone is sinking their daggers in its chest and carving a Christmas turkey out of it? I risk fingers being pointed at me for bringing in comparisons, but at least, it is more believable than running on to the streets of New York and breaking into a dance where everyone else including the Yankees know all the steps.

This film compels you to go into the protagonist’s character to experience the full force of it. Once you are in the character, it matters little that the rocks are artificial, that the river which flows here is essentially the same water which has been channelled in from the fountain at the town square, and even that when the heroine comes sailing at night, there is no one paddling the boat. Yes, I noticed these “lapses of direction” as you would call them, but they were irrelevant in the context of love. Is it not true that when you’re in love, the most insane thing looks absolutely perfect. I am glad that SLB chose to build a set so artificial that love is the only thing that seems to be real. It is everywhere, in Raj, in Sakina, in Gulab, in Lillipop. You can give me a hundred things which were wrong in the movie, but I will give you just three scenes.

Masha Allah – Until the first occurrence of these words, the song does not picturise Sakina’s face in full, and when it emerges out into the moonlight, Raj looks at its beauty, resplendent and glowing in the milky moonlight, and exclaims, “Masha Allah”. His eyes are so wide, that he wants to soak up the ethereal beauty in front of him all at once. If this was a qawwali, this is when you would say “Wah Wah”. All through, the lyrics carry you forward through the thoughts going through his mind, and as you bask in his thoughts, you gasp, “Masha Allah”. Further down, we see them sailing underneath a bridge and she signals to him that the bridge is low, so they bend towards each other. And for the brief amount of time they pass the bridge, they have their heads down to each other, Raj metaphorically surrendering himself to her beauty. Silence, breaths held to an extent you can hear the heartbeats, the unequivocal ambiguity of what to say when one sits up again upright, and then “Masha Allah”. If this isn’t finesse, what is?

The scene where Raj and Sakina are standing on a raised platform on the town square, and he takes her in his arms and swivels her around so that her feet are off the platform and hanging mid-air away from the edge where he is standing. She clings on to him for support, knowing that the ground under her feet is far below, and he balances her wrapping his arms around her, almost saying, “I assure you I will not let go of you, not now, not once in life”. If this isn’t literally sweeping a lady off her feet, what is?

The scene where Sakina folds her hands in a namaste to ask forgiveness, and just as Raj wraps his palms around her hands, she retracts them, and says “Humne tumhe maaf kar diya”, revealing that now, Raj is in a position asking forgiveness. There are a lot of things like this, which make you feel lighter, which will take you back in time to remind you of things which you may have done or thought of doing. The guy, in awe of the girl, thinks she is leading him on, and reciprocates his feelings. The girl, obviously flattered by the interest shown, tries to humour him. If this does not bring out the coy one-upmanship igniting the sparks of a mutual attraction, what does?

What's good in it?
Sets are extravagantly created, in an obvious attempt to re-create St.Petersburg in winter. Music is superlative. One could not ask for more from a debut performance. Directing music for the first time, after having given background score of Black and Devdas, Monty Sharma gives an above-par performance with music with enough pain in it to make you cry. The lyrics complement the feelings of the actors and are like little ferries which take you from one part of the story to another, and by the time you are there, you know what the actors went through. I would, however, have liked a bit more Urdu in the parts where Sakina’s feelings are depicted. Due to their use in bringing the thoughts out, one feels that the songs are a bit over-used, and having a similar base, all the songs (except one) seem similar, as if they are stemming out of the title song Saawariya.

Ranbir and Sonam would still have to prove themselves in commercial films under big banners, because this film does not give them much space to deviate from the adaptation and bring in their full repertoire into use. However, Ranbir's dancing skills and toned body have been exhibited for those film makers who would want to bank on him. Zohra Sehgal impresses in her small role, and Salman Khan and Rani Mukherjee are wasted. Any one would do in their place, and it seems that they have been added to give the star value to the film.

My reco - If by going to a film, your expectation is to while away the monotony of five days in office, then this film is not for you. This is something that has to be watched for the effort that has been put in to bring out love as the only real thing, all else artificial. As a fantasy, it is certainly more believable than Paheli, which has a ghost romancing a girl and impersonating her husband. (I delayed watching Paheli after hearing this very line “ghost romancing a girl”, but when I watched it, I liked it).

A beautifully made film, you will appreciate it as soon as you identify yourself with the character in even one scene, and that identification will happen if only you have ever loved someone to the point where all else seems futile and meaningless.

Of Cabbies and Celebration

Calling a cab comes easily to people who don’t have a car here. Bringing down groceries every week from Sainsbury’s, going home from office at unearthly hours, or just if you are not in the mood to walk to office – the simplest thing to do is to call a cab. I think, if you go counting, in all of my eleven months here, “Can I have a cab from … ” would come third after “Sorry” and “Thanks” in the list of most-used phrases. In fact, the phone numbers of the cab companies were one of the first ones to go into my phonebook. Most of the cabbies are from the sub-continent – Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis. Srilankans are conspicuous by their absence – In all these days, I have run into only one Srilankan cabbie named Kobalakrishnan. There are also a large number of African youth, and a small cross-section of local people among the cab-driving crowd.

We usually have a small chat in the seven-odd minutes it takes to drop me home. They usually start with the very British “You alright?”. I think it will slowly overcome the quintessential London cabbie opening gambit, “Where to, guv?”. Although there are 3-4 cab companies operating around here, we desi crowd usually call only one. Legend has it that the owner of this company is a man of the sub-continent who started out as a cabbie and set up shop when
Milton Keynes was in its toddler years. Considering that MK is a very young city (only 40 years old) and very different from other English cities, the cabbie grew with the city and became prosperous. The more practical and buyable reason is that in our experience of calling cabs in our Indian accented English, this company dispatches cars faster than other companies. Given the number of times we call the cabs, we get some really chatty guys who break the ice as soon as we sit down.

Some of them play with us at the local cricket club. Some of them say they have houses for rent. Some of them advertise their shop, offering discounts if we pick up beer by the crate and such like. Some of them pour out their woes on us. Apparently, software is eating away into their jobs as well.

Aapke yahan naya masheen laga hai kya? Maine phone kiya tha to automated response aaya.
Haan? Kya aaya?
Humse poocha yahan se pickup karna hai to 1 dabao, ya operator se baat karne ke liye 2 dabao. Humne 1 dabaya to poocha abhi chahiye to 1 dabao. Humne phir 1 dabaya to aapka cab bhej diya.
Achcha.
Achcha system hai, cab book karne mein pehle jitna time nahi lagta hai abhi.
Bhai, unhone 35000 hazaar ka woh masheen lagaya hai, aur who kam se kam chaar aadmiyon ka kaam karega.
35000?
Kam hai. Humare 10-12 operator baithe hain wahan. Har operator ko per week 250-300 dena padta hai. Agar ye chaar aadmi ka bhi kaam karta hai, to ye paisa to unko (250 x 4 operators x 4 weeks) 9 months mein aa jayega. Uske baad ka sab to munafa hai.

What is this new machine which you have installed? I called and got an automated response.
Yeah? What was the response?
It asked me to press 1 if you want to be picked up from (my address). I pressed 1 and it asked me to press 1 if I needed the cab immediately. I pressed 1 and you came along.
I see.
It is a good system, booking a cab is faster than before now.
Brother, they have installed a machine for 35000 pounds, it will do the job of atleast 4 people.
35000?
It is less. We have 10-12 operators, every operator is paid 250-300 (£). Even if the machine does the work of four people, this money is recovered in 9 months (250£ x 4 operators x 4 weeks). After that, it is profit.

And then, during the Twenty-20 World Cup, in the days before the final, cab-rides would generally be silent. That was because India was all set to face Pakistan, and a sizeable number of our drivers have Pakistani roots. It becomes very uncomfortable to remain neutral when speaking about obvious strengths and weaknesses of each team. More so, when they threw statistics – in the last three games of their dream run into the finals, India successively
batted first and defended its total, while Pakistan always bowled first and chased down the total. It was like an invisible wall.

Then on the day of the final, we encountered a motley crowd from the bank across – a big mix of first and second generation settlers and visiting workers like us. We were sitting in Wetherspoons, a popular watering hole, which offers food and drinks all day, and beams live telecast of major sporting events on four screens. Every boundary or wicket was cheered enthusiastically by respective crowds. The bartenders raised an eyebrow at the hooting and the
loud thumping of tables when Joginder was hit for a six in the last over. One ball later, they could not do anything about the dancing on the chairs, the shrill whistles screeching across the already high decibel level of the howling public and the wide-eyed locals watching the Indian crowd do a street-dance in their office wear. For one whole week, the hollow silence of the cab-rides echoed the ruckus of those thirty minutes. Again, the invisible wall, the curt replies and the general discomfort. Then everyone grew out of it for the better.

Last week, I took a cab home as it was chilly, and I was too bored to walk home in the cold, moist outdoors. My cabbie was a middle-aged guy from the subcontinent, white-haired, and spoke with an acquired but broken British accent. I was half expecting him to start a conversation on the current India-Pak series when he opened up asking “Haanji, kahan choD doon aapko?” (“Yes, where can I drop you off?”)

I told him, and he quickly changed back to English.
“Whereabouts are you from?”
“India.”
“Where in India?”
“Mysore.”
“Oh. Mysore”, he repeated, then, “Where from in Mysore?”
People who ask me where I’m from usually stop when I say Mysore. They say it’s a beautiful place or they associate it as the Poona of Bangalore, but few ask where I am from within Mysore. Had this guy been there?

“I’m from Mysore proper. Do you want to know which part of Mysore I come from?”
We stop at a traffic light. He looks at me and says, “Mysore is like a state in India, right?” Lights turn green. As he drives ahead, I explain, “No, the princely state of Mysore became Karnataka long ago, and Mysore is a city now.” He keeps looking across the road into a parking lot as we drive. He glances at me and says, “I’m just looking for my wife – she works here – see if you can spot a yellow Mini”.

We search for a yellow Mini, but there is none. Another traffic light. He looks at me and says, “So, which part of Mysore are you from? Karnataka?”. “No”, I reply, “I’m from Mysore, and Mysore is a part of Karnataka.”

“Yeah, yeah. And what do you speak there?”
“Kannada.”
“Canada”, he says, and smiles.

"How long are you here for?"
"Almost an year now. I might return soon", I reply.
"Given a chance", he says, "would you like to stay here permanently?"
I smile and look around the darkness at half past five. "No, a year or two is fine, but I don't think I'd like to stay back here. I would go home."
"But, why? You know, it's all dirty there, so much pollution, so much corruption. The ministers, the clerks, they all ask money to do small things."
"Yeah, but all said and done, India is home."
"Why? You have work here, you are getting money."
"Yeah, I guess it comes down to personal choice then."

We were near my house, and I told him to pull over. He reverse-parked into my driveway, and pulled out a pamphlet. "See this", he said. It was a Barclays Bank ad offering an account in India. Then he showed me a receipt printed out from a website. It showed a transaction for a sum of around 80000 USD.

"I bought a detached house in Sarjapur Road, Bangalore. Is the price about right?" he asked. I did a classic double-take. Here was a guy, driving taxis around, settled here in the UK, and he had bought a house worth 32 lakhs in Bangalore.

"Family, that's why we all go back, innit?", he continued, "I'm a Punjabi. My brother, he lives in Bangalore in a four storeyed house - he has the first floor, his mother is in the second, and his nephew in the third floor. And someone else on the fourth. I have this house now, and I will be going in January. I will eat masala dosa. Masala dosa, you don't get that here ... "

A voice inside me said, "muh to band karo, uncle", and as I drew my jaw up, he was finishing "... make money, come here; want bhelpuri, go there."

I paid him his three pounds, and as I was getting out, he offered his hand, "What's your name, I'll see you again."
"Vikas", I said, "what's yours?"
"My name means 'Light'", he declared.
"Deep?"
Yeah, yeah, he prodded.
"Deep...er...Deepak?"
"Yes", he grinned indulgently.
"Cheers, Deepak. Happy Diwali."
"Hey, is it Diwali already?"
"Yes, today is Dhan Teras. Two days later its Diwali and then Bhai Dooj."
"Oh", he said, and then, "I will show my ignorance here, but when is Rakhi?"
"Rakhi is already over, my friend."
"Not my fault, I don't have any sister, you see. See you around", he said, and drove away.

I watched him until he turned at the end of the road. Here was an Indian, driving a taxi, and come January, he would be in his own house in Bangalore, munching away on masala dosa. I took a long look at myself, and then scurried inside.

And on that note, have a Happy Diwali.

And one more

You know I'm maha impressed with the Swedes, their innovation and the Slow Down Culture.

Here's one more. My good friend Beryle forwards me this. And she's asked me to thank her. (Thanks, Beryle). Before you ask, this is an ad in a Swedish magazine for some job openings in ABB, the automation giant.

It says, "Is your future in Beijing(Chinese script), Västerås(Swedish) or BengaLuru (KannaDa)?"

While we can all take pride in the fact that 'phoren log' did actually make the effort of putting in the name of the city in the language of the land, I cannot help but wonder - what if the idea was put forth by a kannaDiga, working away in an outsourced office in BengaLuru. :D

Unbelievable

Amazing. Ballistic. Colossal. Dashing. Extraordinary. Fantastic. Gosh! Heavenly. Iconic. I can go on and on and on till I reach Z two times over, but Amitabh Bachchan will still have much more in his repertoire which will go unmentioned.

You might wonder why I am bursting with emotions like a teenager on seeing a rock star!! Well, ten hours after shaking hands with the Big B, I am still to shake the electric feeling off myself. Allow my restless feet to break into a jig once again, allow my fist to pump the air once again, it is but once in a lifetime that a commoner gets to see the Big B, let alone touch him.

YES! YES! YES! *leaping into the air*

Thanks to my friend P, who is a BFI member, (and keeps springing up treats like the Chak De India Premiere and the IIFA Award function in Yorkshire) I was at the Odeon West End, London, today to watch The Last Lear. Odeon West End is one of the venues of the ongoing London Film Festival (for which P has taken two weeks off work and is watching world cinema while volunteering as a BFI member) and The Last Lear and Darjeeling Limited are two of the Indian films being showcased in this extravaganza.

But, coming back to Bachchan again, Wow!! The man has an even more commanding persona in flesh and blood than on camera. I first saw him through the glass of the entrance, giving interviews to TV channels. Later as I settled in my "second-row from the screen" seat, a mike on the stage, right in front of me, gave me a subtle hint. I realised that if AB were to speak at the mike, boss, I would have the best seat in the whole auditorium. Lo and behold, AB appeared from behind and proceeded to walk on stage to the mike.

After the initial few photographs, I just held the digicam aside to record his video, while I just gaped open-mouthed at the legend - just looking at him, wondering if this was for real, if the baritone ringing through the speakers was THE real thing. At 64, AB carries himself quite remarkably. He does not droop from the weight of the films that ride on his shoulders, his voice does not falter for one moment, and his eyes, though dim in their shimmer, have not lost any of the intensity.

And as he wound up his opening speech, I shut my recording, and before he could leave the stage, leaned forward and asked to shake his hand. Call me crazy, or brand me a typical desi - all your suited-booted decorum can go take a walk. This was the closest I got to the man in all my four and score years, and NO WAY was I going to throw away a chance of getting my hands on him. AB was taken by surprise, I guess, but he did oblige me, and boy, does he have a firm grip!!!

I might have sat in the front row, but I watched the movie from Cloud Nine!!!

Update: I have uploaded AB's speech on Youtube, here, in five parts. Watch out for the third part of the video where I pan the camera around. Those who recognise me in my current avatar can attempt to find me in this IBN-Live video.

Being an also-ran

When I read about Mysore having its own half-marathon for Dasara, I gave myself a big high-five. About time, too, I thought. Having enjoyed running in the Hutch Pune Half Marathon, I proceeded to read about how the event was and the route covered. Sadly though, the event seemed to have fallen flat on its face.

The saddest thing is that there seems to have been no overseeing at all. Supervision seemed to have been removed from the agenda altogether. Take this - Mysore Marathan. First I thought some Maharashtrian runner must have given himself a name - "Mysore Maratha", but no, this really was the runner badge of the Mysore Marathon. And this in spite of sponsorship.

To top this, Star Of Mysore reports, "But unfortunately for the participants in this morning's half marathon such arrangements were not made, the traffic was not controlled in a proper manner and the marathon runners seemed disoriented. Some of the runners were almost knocked down by autos and cars that were overtaking from the wrong side. Some runners were confused as to which road they must take at certain junctions as the proper personnel
were not present to direct them."

(pic on left courtesy Star of Mysore)

I ask, what were the vehicles doing in the marathon lane :O Where was the police? You don't see the vehicles, say, when Devegowda passes through the city, do you?

While I agree it is very premature to compare it with the Pune International Marathon, the least the people-in-charge could have done is to get someone to go over the checklist. This is the time when the spotlight is on Mysore, when the world is looking at Mysore, when it is the cynosure of all eyes. When you organise events under a banner as grand as Mysooru Dasara, you just can't afford to go SO WRONG.

Events like this will not ensure Mysore the podium finish it deserves. It will at best, be an also-ran. I just hope visitors to Mysore don't base their opinion of the Dasara on this enormous faux pas.

English Summer

I love summer, and since I am in England, the English Summer. Though it has been a limp summer this year, with the sun emerging out continuously only in August, the mood is fairly upbeat. The best things about an English summer as seen by us visitors are the number of outdoor activities and people buzzing about (And of course the lack of clothing ;P). No wonder they wait for summer like anything.

Come summer, and almost all cars roll their tops down. It is amazing how almost every car manufacturer has a convertible in the mid size segment. Those who have hard-tops make sure their sun roofs are open. Come summer, and the beer flows. Most restaurants and diners bring out the outdoor tables from their hold, and put them out with an umbrella. It is jolly here, almost festive. Malls and supermarkets come up with shopping deals, and a lot of outdoor activities are planned.

It is bright outside by 5 in the morning, and it is not uncommon to see people go to work as soon as seven. Light persists all through the morning and afternoon till about half eight, when twilight begins to set in. Imagine, almost 16 hours of daylight!!! It is sunny when you come from office (5 pm), it is sunny when you change and go to the nearby park to play cricket (6 pm), and when you start walking back home (9 pm), it is just getting darker, and you feel as though it has just struck seven. Mealtimes go for a toss as you don't feel hungry at all. The body, accustomed to having dinner in front of the 9 pm soap, a good two hours after play, just cannot come to terms with the fact that all the meals are taken while the sun is up. So, dinner is postponed to 10.30 or 11, and hence bedtime to 12. Barely five hours later, the sun begins to warm your feet through the skylight on the roof.

The shopping centre here in MK has a large vacant area, to be used for promotional activities all through the year – there are PoP statuettes depicting scenes of the Bible during Christmas, there are job fairs and product exhibitions. Now, they’ve put up some inflatable slides, small trampolines, artificial rock climbing etc for the kids. All of them are manned, so you can just let your kid in there and sit on the chairs around. Most prefer the cool mosaic floor though. On some days where there are no such things, the whole quadrangle is left open. With the children running amuck, and the parents sitting on the floor, you feel as though you are sitting in a large open marriage hall hours before some pot-bellied uncle comes with the utensils in a "goods auto".

One such event was the Summer Screening of the Chak De India Premiere at Somerset House, London. Very similar to the drive-in theatres where you can watch in the comfort of your vehicles, this had a giant screen propped up against one of the walls of the House . Sitting inside the courtyard of the majestic building, I was reminded of our own Mysore Palace, especially when the entire structure was lit up like this.

Held under the auspices of Film4, this drew a sizeable Indian population from in and around London. Even though it was summer, the winds here get a little chilly at night, so there was an option of buying blankets. Nobody needed to, though - they all came prepared.

But what was the NDTV reporter doing here - surely she would not have come all the way from bureau office just to cover a premiere? The real reason was that the King was here. YES - Shahrukh Khan was here, and I saw him in flesh and blood. Less than ten metres away from me stood the Badshah, and set the ball rolling.

Hmm, and there were more of people like me with better cameras and gadgetry, so obviously, if you surf through Youtube, you should be able to catch a better video of him speaking. My poor digicam, craning its lens out could only manage a pathetic effort which I will not reproduce here.

Summer also gave us the opportunity to explore the cycle routes in Milton Keynes. Cancer Research UK had organised a marathon cycle rally - the Get On Your Bike - 2007. A twelve mile track (of medium intensity to suit adults and kids alike) was marked out from Furzton Lake, around the city and back. The route was well marked in fluorescent stickers, and marshals wherever the cycle route intersected the main roads. Halfway through, there was a pit stop, with volunteers offering bottles of water, and bananas for instant energy.

A hugely popular event, it was widely publicised on the radio, and had fitness instructors coming in to administer stretches before the event started. Kids in particular were more enthusiastic - most had their own small cycles, but I could see a few toddlers sitting on tandem bicycles and kicking their limbs awry.

They tell me it was better last year when summer was so intense that they had to buy table fans in the office because the AC wouldn't suffice. Sadly, summer this year was neither that good, nor that long - it started late, and has already gone by in a flash, and autumn is knocking on the doors. Leaves, golden brown, are falling off the trees and making the town look like a Mohabbatein set. These two weeks are all they last, and then the trees will be bare, until Christmas and after.

Driving in the UK

Five minutes after I rented a car to drive to Ipswich, I was left thinking "This is such a bad idea".

Driving for the first time in the UK, I deliberately chose a circuitous route home, so that I could be accustomed to the controls of the car. As soon as I eased the car out of the rental agency, I put it into gear and watched in glee as the car shot ahead like a bullet each time I depressed the gas pedal. Now, Milton Keynes is not your run-of-the-mill city which you know like the back of your hand – a lot of roundabouts, and too many roads with the same kinds of trees lining them. Lost, I had to depend on the satellite navigation in my phone to guide me home.

“Take second exit on the roundabout”, it said, and I swung my car into the roundabout. Once in the roundabout, there was another car approaching the roundabout from the left. Not recalling that he would stop (as I had priority in the roundabout), the Indian driver in me thought it was best to apply brakes, much to the displeasure of the vehicles behind me in the roundabout.

Later, by the time I returned to MK, having driven over innumerable roundabouts and having horns sounded behind me (a vehicle honking at another here means it is saying "F%#$ you") I knew by trial and error that (i) You don't enter a roundabout if there is already one in it or there are vehicles entering it from your right, (ii) You stick to the outer edge of the circle if you have to go straight ahead, and (iii) You stick to the inner edge of the circle if you have to turn right.


There are a lot of other things to be kept in mind other than these three, depending on whether it is a two lane roundabout (shown) or a single lane, but these three rules of the thumb helped me to return back safely. I then learnt that there are things called "double roundabouts" where the exit of one roundabout will lead you right into the mouth of another!!! All said, roundabouts are a lot of fun when they are empty, but when there is heavy traffic all around, it becomes a bit too much to handle. I also learnt that as compared to traffic lights, roundabouts cause less traffic accumulation and they are the fastest way of clearing intersection traffic - unless of course a maverick like me does not take any exit and just keeps moving around the circle. But I digress.

The Sat-Nav decided to have some more fun, and just at the point where I’m passing a T junction, it says “Just ahead…Take right”. Unable to turn right without indicating, I proceeded ahead, and stopped the car at the kerb, put on the hazard lights and waited for the software to determine a new route. Just then, a car pulls up behind me and a guy comes out and asks if I’m all right. That was when I thought – renting a car was such a bad idea.

I was about to tell him I stopped to answer a phone call, thankfully I didn't because (i) you can't stop at the kerb to answer a phone call and more importantly (ii) you don't put on the hazard lights unless there is a hazard ahead. Had the words come out of my mouth, I could as well have been writing this from jail. The man probably thought I was sick or there was something seriously wrong with the car.

Cut to two hours later – Renting a car was the best thing I did in a long long time. Watching myself cruise over the motorway connecting Milton Keynes to Ipswich, I could not help wonder. To drive in a foreign country was a dream come true. Two years back if you would have told me I would do it, I probably would have laughed in your face. Yet, here I am, savouring a sweet feeling of "being there, and doing it". It is almost utopian. People stop where there is a Give Way line, so you know that even if there is a car coming on the side road, he will wait for you and you don't have to reduce speed. People stop if there is a red traffic light, even if it is 1 a.m. in the morning. Lane discipline is strictly followed.

Drivers here are made to fall into place with the system - the licensing process is stringent. There is a theory test, for which you are ACTUALLY supposed to read up, to answer questions such as the distance to stop while travelling at a certain speed in good conditions, wet conditions and snowy conditions, such as the length and duration for a car to back up, such as the name of the document which is issued as a cover till the time your actual documents are sent.

Additionally, there is a visual perception test, where there are 14 video clips, recorded through a camera atop the vehicle. The point is to identify potential hazards as soon as they begin to develop - a hazard may be a cyclist, who may swerve in any direction, or a person getting into a parked car (he could open the door wide) etc. The practical test will allow a limited number of minor errors, and NOT EVEN ONE major error. So much so, that if you change two consecutive gears without lifting your hand off the gear lever (like we so often do while picking up speed), you will be asked to pull over and marked failed.

Little wonder then, that driving in UK is such a charm!!

Longing and Belonging...

Two very powerful words, which almost sum up the general feeling of two hard-hitting movies I recently saw. Both movies are based on their namesake books - while Atonement is a novel by Ian McEwan, A Mighty Heart is a memoir by Mariane Pearl.


Atonement is the story of two people in love, but having to part ways due to the exaggerated imaginations of a little girl. It is the story of how the young girl realises her folly and attempts to re-unite them and relieve them of their longing, their pain and their angst. The story is set in a rustic English background, where having studied together, Cecilia (Keira Knightley), the daughter of an uppish class family, and Robbie (James McAvoy), the son of the household servant, fall in love with each other. However, Cecilia's younger sister Briony, has a queer imagination, and misinterprets situations where Cecilia and Robbie are together to such an extent that she begins to believe that Robbie is a sex maniac. And when her cousin is molested in the house gardens, she testifies that Robbie was responsible. Robbie is hauled away by the police.

Years pass, and Briony becomes a nurse, but having realised her folly, she is constantly tormented by the guilt of accusing Robbie, and hence depriving her sister the love of her life. The story is about how she redeems herself and puts an end to the lovers' longing for each other.

James McAvoy brings to life the English worker - the mannerisms, the ruggedness and the feel. Keira surprisingly, does not stand out as much as she did in her Pirates series.


A Mighty Heart is the story of angst, anxiety, uncertainty and grit of a woman, a pregnant woman, whose husband is kidnapped by terrorists. Mariane (Angelina Jolie) and Daniel Pearl (Dan Futterman) are in Karachi investigating the shoe-bomber case while Daniel is lured by the terrorists by arranging an interview with Sheikh Gilani. The story closely follows the plans of action taken by the CIA, the American government, the Pakistani government and the involvement of an alleged double agent from the British Secret Services Agency MI6. It showcases the strong network of the terrorists at the grassroot level and how the entire intelligence was caught unawares, leading to the capture and subsequent murder of Pearl. Though taut and fast paced, somewhere there is a feeling of something not being told to the viewer - there is very less of Danny, and more of the confusing trail of people investigated in the time leading to and after his kidnapping. While it is true to some extent, considering that this is Mariane's account of things that happened, an account of things to whose memory she will attach her belongingness; still it leaves you somewhat hungry for details.

Angelina gives a good performance - but somehow there are too many characters coming in, and none has enough screen presence to make a lasting impression. Not Dan Futterman, not Jolie, not Archie Panjabi, not Irrfan Khan, not Will Preston. None. The interiors and immediate locations of the house the Pearls lived in at Karachi were actually shot in Pune, while I was there. However, the sets have been made up to look like it resembles Karachi. There are a couple of cityscape shots, but they are too fleeting to recognise.


Note - I got to watch A Mighty Heart at The National Theater, London. A friend of mine is a member of The British Film Institute, and had arranged the tickets to the preview.

Chak De India

Is the story of determination, of dreams and of success. It is the jubilation of a young team, brought into cohesion by the efforts of one man, who seeks to redeem himself as a coach by making them achieve what he could not as a player.



What's the Story?
The movie opens into the final of the mens' World Hockey Championships, where India and Pakistan have locked horns, with Pakistan leading 1-0. Into the final moments of the game, India is awarded a penalty stroke, and to take that comes the captain, Kabir Khan. Khan strikes, fails to score and India lose. A shroud of silence drapes over the Indian camp even as Pakistan erupts in whoops of joy. For having lost the match, and congratulated a Pakistani team mate, Kabir Khan is slapped with charges of match-fixing, named a traitor and shorn of his place in the Indian national team.

Seven years, three months and fourteen days later, he walks into the Association meeting room, seeking an appointment to coach the Indian National Womens' Hockey team - a post which no one is keen to take up. Khan is given 16 of the best hockey players in the country, and his problem is that they know how to play against, but not with each other. On the one hand he has to cope with the inter-state cultural differences; on the other, the senior players' indiffererence. He starts with the basics, and begins to untie one knot after the other, and succeeds in uniting the team - against him. And when they can bear his strict, almost Hitleresque regime no more, the team decides not to practice under him, and Khan resigns as the coach of the team.

A day of reflection passes, and the team realises that there is no point in having Khan sacked, that for all his histrionics, he had indeed succeeded in making them more productive as a team than the day they had walked into the camp. The next morning at 5, Khan is back on the field training his girls. Polarised and charged up, looking at a distant dream, their game begins to rise. But they are cut down to their place when the Association drops the plan of sending them to the World Championships for lack of sponsors.

When no amount of convincing works, as a last resort, Khan challenges the Association's bronze medal winning mens' team to play against his team. He knows his girls are underprepared, but he uses the stinging remarks of the Association office bearers to good effect. The girls eventually lose, but their fighting spirit is given a standing ovation by the mens' team and the Association sends them to represent India at the World Cup.

The team arrives in Australia, with a lot to prove. Kabir, to win this World Cup, and let the world know that he indeed played and plays for India. Vidya Sharma, the Indian goalkeeper, to tell her husband and in-laws that a daughter-in-law need not be confined to the kitchen. Preeti Sabarwal, forward, to show her boyfriend (and Indian cricket team vice-captain), that hockey means as much to her as cricket to him. Bindiya Naik, center-forward (most experienced and miffed at not being made captain), seeking to bring down the coach and captain.

After a humiliating 7-0 loss to Australia in the first round, the initial euphoria of having come to the World Cup settles, and the team begins to become aware of its lacunae. The loss manages to ignite the fire in the team, and match after match, the team begins to advance towards the final like a hungry lion devouring its prey. You don't need me to tell you what happens next, do you?

What's good in it?
Lots. Maybe for the first time since Swades, Shahrukh has put in a sober performance sans any overacting. On certain occasions, like the one where he is called a traitor, or when he stands in the rain after a humiliating defeat, he conjures up a controlled performance, which is worth sitting for once more through the movie. However, Yash Raj does give him a chance, and when he says "sattar minute" nine times in a single monologue, you feel he has suddenly reverted to Captain Veer Pratap Singh of Veer Zaara saying "Main Quaidi number saat sau chiassi..."

The scenes inside of the dressing room have been brought out well. It shows how seniors can gang up together and influence the team against the coach or the association. It depicts how senior players can cut juniors down to their place - when a junior runs up to congratulate a senior and says she is glad to have met her, the senior responds, "Achcha? Toh naacho". Or when the seniors say, "Ye coach kya samajhta hai, subah uthke 20 km daudne se hockey achcha khelenge? ye koi tareeka hai national level players ko treat karne ka? Kya hum training nahi jaante?"

Comparisons cannot but be drawn to cricket. You begin to wonder if Sourav may have said the same things when Greg Chappell said he did not show up at training sessions. While on cricket, ample effort has been made to let the powers-that-be know that hockey, though the national sport, has been always under cricket's shadow. Harmless fun has also been poked at the Hockey Association, and it provides humourous interludes.

The acting team has been trained well to play and the playing team has been trained well to act - the camaraderie shows on screen. Editing is crisp and the movie moves ahead slickly, dragging only at a few places. Songs are hummable, and during the film raise goosepimples on your arms. Excellent background score by Salim-Sulaiman, especially a couplet which goes "Maula Mere Le Le Meri Jaan". This movie has the right mix of patriotism, sport and human nature, and it has been shot and cut well to ensure commercial success. In Indian cinema, this will be hockey's answer to Lagaan. After Ab Tak Chappan, this will be Shimit Amin's second bull's eye.

Reco: Must-watch.

Gandhi, My Father

... is a poignant story, bringing out the angst of an unsuccessful son of an iconic father. It throws into spotlight the extreme emotions undergone by Harilal, who is overawed by his father’s aura, and wants to emulate him in his own life, when Gandhi, with his stubbornness and his inability to draw his lines where the country was concerned, always manages to put a spoke in his wheels.



What's the story?
The film begins with Gandhi’s displeasure of his son getting married, although it was he who approved the alliance. After marriage, Harilal joins Gandhi’s self-styled ashram in Phoenix, SA, where he helps his father in odd jobs at the press while preparing himself for a scholarship to go to England to study law. However, it is Gandhi’s desire to have Harilal help him in his grandiose plans for India’s freedom. Initially, Harilal acquiesces, in the hope that his father will somehow pull some strings and get him the scholarship. But when Gandhi refuses his education as a mark of protest against Western education, the seeds of discord are sown between the father and the son.

During a protest rally in SA, Harilal gets arrested. His hopes of his father pleading his case are shattered when Gandhi uses him as a guinea pig to test his new theory of passive resistance. Harilal is jailed as his father offers him no defence, and he sees his dreams of further studies going down the drain. His only source of strength is his wife Gulab, who keeps renewing Harilal’s dreams of being successful. But when he sees her leaving for India after he is jailed, Harilal realises that his father is employing arm-bending tactics to retain him in SA.

Once released from jail, he plots his return to India without his father's consent but is unsuccessful and father and son have a chat, where Harilal stresses that he is a common man, and the air of expectancy lingering around him due to his illustrious father is too much for him to bear. This is one of the many landmark points in the film which has you taking sides - while on the one hand you think Gandhi was just in retaining his son for the freedom movement; on the other, you also feel that Harilal has his own niche to carve.

Back in India, Harilal has one more hand at his studies, fails, gets himself a job, and manages to keep his life going. Gandhi returns to India, and gets busy with the freedom movement. Harilal approaches his father to lend him some money for business. Gandhi, as was his wont, pleads his inability as he does not maintain a "personal fortune" and will not ask any others for favours. Instead, he asks Harilal to come into his folds and join the freedom movement. Hari will not have any of it, and leaves.

Never having a business mind, Harilal stocks up on western fabric to sell them at a premium after the World War, but Gandhi brings in the swadeshi movement, and Harilal incurs losses. In his shortsightedness, he teams up with a team of sycophants, and allows them to collect funds in the name of Gandhi and make away with a sizeable fortune. When betrayed people approach Gandhi for redressal, Gandhi issues a public statement claiming his son does not have his backing anymore. This catches the attention of the Muslim fraternity, and they pay up the loans of a debt-ridden Harilal in a godfatherly gesture. Being almost disowned, Harilal decides to hit back on Gandhi by giving himself unto Islam and becoming Abdullah Gandhi. Nevertheless, his being a Gandhi secures him preferential treatment, which does not go very well with the Muslims, and Harilal reconverts to Hinduism by associating himself to the Arya Samaj.

In all of this, the tag of being Gandhi's son weighs down on him. Every action of his is judged whether it is worthy of someone who has a father like Gandhi himself. Drunk, ill, and hopelessly confused, he wanders along not knowing where he would get his next meal, when he hears of Gandhi's assassination. It is too much for him to bear. Five months after Gandhi died, his eldest son breathes his last in the cold corridor of a government hospital like a lone street urchin, brought in by the police, and ignored by everyone else.

What's good in it?
All the actors deliver a staggering performance, which may well be their career-best. The best performance will, of course, be debatable. While Akshaye does deliver a class-act everyone will remember for a long time, Darshan Jariwalla plays Gandhi to the hilt. In fact this man oozes Gandhi, and rightly so, is being talked about after the release. However, it may be attributed to the fact that Gandhi's mannerisms were known to the public through numerous films, and we have a notion of him. You only have to say Gandhi, and we have in our minds a dhoti clad "half-naked fakir", with a bald pate and a bright smile. And because no one knows how Harilal was, the absence of a original may just be a factor in not appreciating the imitation, and we may just have underrated Akshaye. Shefali Shah and Bhumika Chawla impress in their roles as Gandhi's wife and daughter-in-law.

Cinematography is top-notch, with scenes fading in and out at every logical cut-to-event. In fact, a very meticulous approach has been taken, and the hard work has paid off. This movie will be counted as one of the classics in Indian cinema, an extraordinary improvement in the quality and detailing of movies made on true events.

Recommendation: Must-Watch!!!

Guess who's back?

Back again - after a long hiatus. Though this wasn't as long as some of the other breaks I have taken, it is long in the sense that a lot has happened in between, and I'm left like "Hello, is it less than a month since my last post?". The weather has changed for the better, atleast it's sunny for most of this week - so the mood is upbeat. And an upbeat mood makes for a makeover, and hence this change.

Don't be too judgemental about the colours though - I had a look at Sony VAIO C Series and the grey and orange gave it a cool look, and I was hooked. I'm not entirely satisfied with the appearance yet, but hey, give it some time - may be it will sink in.

How long did you say I was away, again? Come to think of it, I don't remember having shaved since my last post. So there's a three-week old stubble (or is it more?) dimming some of the radiance. And while I was away, I watched Shrek - The Third (4/5, Donkey's got some cute kids), Die Hard 4.0 (3.5/5, some overly unbelievable action, but extraordinary gadgetry), Jhoom Barabar Jhoom (1/5, it's better than Nehlle pe Dehlla), Apne (2.5/5, longish, predictable and Paaji looks weary) and ... let me think ...

And oh, I bought a bicycle (summer's here, folks!!).

Sivaji...Cool

The hype: Sivaji released yesterday in 52 countries, amidst electric expectations of the combination of superstar Rajni, and prolific director Shankar. With a top secret plot, astoundingly hummable songs by Rahman, and the crowd pulling stature of Rajni, this was bound to create the wave it has. This broke all records for an Indian film in the UK, with back-to-back shows in five Cineworlds in London alone and upto two dedicated screens, in Cineworlds all over the UK. And boy, does the crowd love Rajni? In Milton Keynes, which has less of the Indian diaspora than other bigger cities in UK, I could get only the first day - third show, and many people watched standing. And once I came out, what do I see, the entire South Indian populace of our company and elsewhere making a beeline hours before the show, to get a good seat. Never before in my six months of Cineworlding (watching movies just for the heck of it) have I seen such a thing!!!

What's the Story? Just for this one movie, I will not reveal the story here - there are a lot of you guys out there who haven't got tickets yet, so won't kill your enthusiasm. :D

What's good in it: Shankar, like in Anniyan and Mudhalvan, again relies on his favourite plot of his protagonist fighting against a dishonest system - and does justice to it. The make-up artists have done a tremendous job, and Rajni looks much younger, younger than in Baba. But his age shows in his fight sequences. However, his mannerisms touch a new high - the way he bounces chewing gum into his mouth, the way he tosses up a coin and makes it land into his pocket etc. There are no particular punch dialogues though, like "Khatam gatam" or "Naan oru thadavai sonna, nooru thadavai sonna madiri". The closest which comes to it is "Coool".
Vivek, with his humour, provides excellent support to Rajni, and Shriya looks exceedingly beautiful. Suman is believable in his role as Adiseshan, and Manivannan stands out in his limited scope. Sets are artistically done for the songs, and Rahman provides superb music, the pinnacle being "Wah ji Wah ji Wah ji, en jeevan Sivaji".

Reco: If you go to watch it as a movie, you might be a tad disappointed, but if you go to watch it as a "Rajni movie", you will come out whistling and dancing "Dhingi-chaka-dhingi-chaka"!!!!

"Respect" and craze for the superstar was such that for the thirty-odd seconds where S-U-P-E-R-S-T-A-R R-A-J-N-I flashes across the screen at the beginning, the four screens nearby could have heard the cacophony of the whistles and cat-calls. I thought people would throw change as well, but they didn't. (I would have - I had even collected a sizeable number of 1p and 2p coins - I just got late, and forgot to pick them up)

Update: Don't miss the comment by Beryle here.

Fracture...

... is a good battle of wits, with some excellent acting by Anthony Hopkins.

What’s the story? Ted Crawford (Anthony Hopkins) is an engineer, who discovers that his wife is having an affair with another man. Unable to stomach it, he shoots her in the head, and when the police come, he confesses to his crime, and is whisked off to prison while his wife is rushed to a hospital, where she slips into a coma.

Willy Beachum (Ryan Gosling) is a highly successful prosecutor for the government, and is on the verge of getting into a private law-firm, when he is asked to take up this case. With the confidence of his 97% conviction rate, and the strength of a verbal confession, Willy decides to wrap this up before his exit from the government office.

But when he is brought to court, Ted pleads not guilty, and says his confession was forced as the officer who took the confession was the one who was having an affair with his wife, and that his life was at risk had he not confessed. Willy is unaware of this, and having come grossly unprepared, he is shattered to the core. He is left with no more evidence to produce, and his job at the private firm is in danger if he loses this case. Following this, Ted moves for acquittal, as there is no evidence against him, and the murder weapon is not found. The acquittal is granted, and while Ted walks, Willy is flabbergasted by this old man shoving defeat into his illustrious career.

With the newspapers making a joke of his famous loss, and his private job offer retracted, Willy becomes obsessed with the case. He jumps headlong into a search for the murder weapon – thinking hard on where it was hidden, especially when the police had searched the house soon after the crime. Meanwhile, Ted authorises the hospital to pull the plug on his wife, as her condition was not getting any better. A final brainwave occurs to Willy as he realises, in horror, the thorough planning of the crime. A brilliant confrontation makes for the climax.

What’s good in it?
Anthony Hopkins shines through, coming across splendidly as an eccentric old man, who plans out everything. He is lovably irreverent – scrawling NO on legal documents and drawing structural sketches on a notepad when the trial is going on. Ryan Gosling’s acting however, is a tad overdone. The rest of the characters do justice to their roles, their relevance being mediocre to plot or performance. The plot is tight, and the movie moves ahead slickly except for some parts where you wait for the family conversations to end so that the courtroom drama may begin.

The Belgium Trip - 2

Sorry this is late in coming...too many tasks, too less time.

The next day, we got up to a hot shower and some sumptuous breakfast - which was included in the price - and enquired at the reception for tours.

Our breakfast of bread-butter-jam and cornflakes. There was coffee, too :D

The idea was that in the day and a half allotted to Belgium, we would go outside of Brussels on the full day, and the city itself could be covered in the half of the next day. So we took a tour of Ghent and Bruges, to leave at half-eight in the morning, and to return by five. (When travelling with a group for tourism, I make it a point to hit the road by 8 - this helps me in two ways - one, I make good use of the daylight; two, I pull the others out of the bed. It is a different matter though, if you are travelling alone, or are vacationing in Maui, Hawaii, where all you do is ogle and sleep ;) But then, I digress!!!)

The council building at the town center

The first thing that strikes you as you enter Ghent is the size of the buildings - they are mammoth and overwhelm you like no other. The flipside is that, like all of Belgium, it is aesthetically ugly - you have a fantastic piece of architecture, remnant of its glorious Gothic heritage, and just next to it is a glass building with your in-the-face neon lights. Well, that's Belgium for you!!! I'm sure if you ask, they would tell you "hum aisech hain" in Dutch.

There is this beautiful church in Ghent, which houses extraordinary glass paintings. On the outside of the cathedral is a vast quadrangle, having a fountain, statues and benches to sit on. On a perfect morning, you could come there and sit on the benches, eating a waffle and soaking up some sunshine. Or you could come there and sit on the benches, eating a waffle and soaking up some sunshine, and it would be a perfect morning. :-)

A statue in the church quadrangle

Inside the church

The inside of the church has striking paintings, both showing passages of the Bible, and abstract art. Some of the paintings are really breath-taking. They render you so speechless that you forget to let the abstractness sink in. Or maybe that is what being abstract is all about.

Abstract Art :O

But Ghent is more famous for this walk along the canal. I forgot what this place is called, but the buildings you see across are special. Each one of them is built in a style of a different century. From the fifteenth to the nineteenth century styles - you have it all. (This prompted my friend to ask whether they waited a hundred years to build another...).

Ghent has about three tall cathedral towers around the town center, so it is very easy to get lost. So the next time someone yells at you, you know where to come. In fact, this getting lost and not hovering around the guide is a big problem in conducted tours. You get very little time to enjoy the surroundings and NO time at all to capture your "orkut photos" - the ones where you have your face in the foreground and the most recognisable edifice of the city in the background which you upload with a caption "Been there, Done that!!".

Architecture of centuries, standing together in harmony

I saw a lot of middle-aged people walking around with closed umbrellas raised high like an Olympic torch. I looked up. The sky was clear, and the sunshine was pleasant. But before I could wonder any further, our guide held out her umbrella high, and I realised that all those middle-aged people were in fact guides asking their group to assemble. Whew!!! I followed my torch-bearer as she led us through a narrow alley back to where we came from. This walk is famous, they say, for the graffiti on it. I was reminded of the song "Mera rang de basanti chola" from "The Legend Of Bhagat Singh" while walking through this dark winding alley.

In the alley
Another one

The best tip for a tourist here would be to look around - not just at the buildings, but at the cyclists too. They don't ring the bells, nor do they show any indication of avoiding you. If you show some sudden movement, like jumping away in fright, they look at you as though you have come from outer space. The roads are cobbled and give you blisters if you don't have good shoes on. Walking becomes slow and painful on the cobblestones, and as if that was not enough, they have rails on that, for the trams to pass.Cobbled roads...tramways...left-hand drive

A quick circumambulation of the center is done, and we now proceed towards Bruges, and the guide says we will be stopping for lunch. Mmmm :)

Planes make a cross against the steeple of one of the cathedrals in Ghent

The Belgium Trip - 1

Two countries. Three major cities. Four days of semi-backpacking. And memories to last a lifetime. A tour of Belgium and the Netherlands.

Most travelogues begin at Day One, but since we wanted to start fresh, and took a flight on the previous night, this will start from Day Zero. On Day Zero, a Thursday evening, we drove from Milton Keynes to London Heathrow, to catch a Brussels Airlines late evening flight into Brussels. We left London at around half past eight, but as we were flying East (and Belgium is an hour ahead), it was already half-ten in Brussels when we landed.

Zaventem, as Brussels' international airport is called, is well connected to the city. In fact, there is a train station directly below the airport. Trains run at regular intervals from Zaventem to Brussels North, Central and South stations. We picked up a free city map, and took the escalators to the underground station. (BTW, an escalator takes you up. What do you call an automated step machine which takes you down?). There was an automated kiosk selling tickets, and also a normal counter. However, the counter was closed. Surprisingly enough, the kiosk selling tickets would not accept credit cards. And we had been stupid enough not to carry cash of lesser denominations than 10 Euros. Not that it would have mattered anyway, because only the coin-slots were working and not the note-slots.

This is a map we clicked, because it was more detailed than the free leaflets.

Back in the airport, we learnt that the counter in the underground station closes at 21.50 (it was nearing 11 now) and that we could purchase the ticket on the train as well. So we sat on a cold bench in the dark underground station and ate parathas rolled in aluminium foils. The underground station seemed very primitive when compared to the London tube stations, but I noticed one thing special - the escalators had a step sensor at the boarding point, which would bring the elevator to rest if it did not detect a step for a reasonable amount of time. I'm sure given the number of commuters, the escalators in London would not rest even if they had the sensor, but still.

Presently, the train comes, and out comes a guard in a grey uniform and a funny cap. He issues the ticket, and goes back into his cabin. Somehow, he strikes me as a cartoon, and the train itself is like a toy train. We sit back, take photos and try tracing the route on the map, using the passing stations as a yardstick. And one station before Brussels North, we figure out from the map that our accommodation is closer to Brussels North than Brussels Central - even though the directions on the booking confirmation seemed otherwise. I go and ask the guard, and he says we are right. Fine, I say to the boys, we get off at Brussels North then. The conductor unfortunately did not understand a lot of English - so, unable to direct us to our hostel, he went to the driver, and asked him to translate the directions for us.

Those directions, though correct, did not stand us in good stead, because the area outside Brussels North Station is very shady - and I'm not talking about the trees. A few steps, and we found a pub offering "peep shows". There was no one around. And so ... we had no one to direct us to our hostel. (Ah, you dirty minds, I know what you thought ;) hah!!). The directions on the booking confirmation were descriptive enough, and we found ourselves slowly trudging along the streets of north Brussels at midnight. Presently, we came across the Sheraton, and the multi-lingual receptionist confirmed that we were on the right track, and to top it, he also gave me a more informative and localised map of the city.

The Sheraton. Sorry for the sad quality. We were dead tired.

The Vincent van Gogh hostel is one of the best in Belgium - what with a rating of 92% on hostelworld. It is quite near to the main tourist district - Belgium Central - and scores well on all other counts. The rooms had no keys - only access cards, and we got new bedsheets for the duration of our stay. They could not accommodate all six of us together, but we got a double room having two bunk beds, and one other room with two normal beds.

I know, it looks like the hospital in Dear Heart, but then, what do you expect when, after a day of travel, all you want is something warm and soft to tuck into?

The facilities were excellent too - there was a bar just beside the reception, which stocked the best of all Belgian beer, there was a pool table nearby, and the toilets were clean. Showers had hot water flowing, with automated stoppers to regulate the flow of water if you just forgot and walked away. The staff was quite helpful, and provided us with information and leaflets on what to see, and how to get around. And after a game of pool, and a discussion of how to spend the two days in Belgium, we hit the sack. Tomorrow, we take a guided tour to Ghent and Bruges. Till then, these pics ...

The view of the entrance from my room window.

The main road leading out of the hostel

Another road - it is left-hand drive in Belgium, so you drive on the right side.

Bliss

Last Sunday was a treat in itself.

If you discount the sole exception of Khushi, Mungaru maLe was the first KannaDa movie I watched in a theatre, after say 15 years. NanjunDi KalyaNa, starring Malasri and Raghavendra Rajkumar, was the last. I am quite critical when it comes to KannaDa cinema - chiefly because there is a lack of originality - most of the so-called hits in KannaDa cine world are usually remakes of other hits in Tamil and Telugu film industries. Agreed that there is no dearth of classic films like Nammoora Mandara Hoove, Amruthavarshini and America America, but a great majority of Kannada films are just chaff, with below par stories, loose direction and poor acting. Anyway, debates will never cease if I choose to dwell on that.

All I have to say is that I enjoyed Mungaru MaLe immensely. And the 45 minutes travel from Milton Keynes to Southall, London, having spent almost three times the ticket money on the travel, was redeemed in full. It was the first time in 4-5 months that I encountered so many people speaking KannaDa. So much so, that we had to consciously make an effort not to spring up any expletives, because otherwise, the kannaDa we speak at our bachelor pad is the one mothers tell their young children to avoid.

Apart from the movie, the other high point of Sunday was the food. I enjoyed an unlimited breakfast at Chennai Dosa. For three pounds and a half, you get unlimited helpings of idlis, uppittu, and pongal, followed by a dosa item of your choice AND a poori item. All of this packed in and followed up by a cup of rich filter coffee. Burp!!! And of course, pani-puri, and rasmalai at a Punjabi do at Southall. It is because of this reason, and this alone, that I am content, and not swearing abuses at her for time and again rambling about delectable Indian food. :-)

And unless something more interesting happens, the next few posts will be of the holiday in Belgium and Netherlands. The 2300 odd photos from all the four cameras are sorted and ready. Anyone offering free prints, please???

Update: The screening was courtesy the Europe Kannada Sangha. Its still a fledgling, but shows a lot of promise, judging by the Ugadi celebrations and the movie screening. Last heard, there was still a waiting list of 100-150 kannaDigas, eager to see the movie, but lacking a screen. The sangha has an orkut community here and a new blog here.

Update 2: The movie screening was carried by a kannaDa newspaper. :)

And here is a video of the most famous dialogue of the movie.

100...

... could not have come at a better time.

This Friday brings an end to an eventful week of living out of backpacks. The long weekend was well-spent in a semi-backpacking holiday in Belgium and the Netherlands, while the rest of the week was (well, let’s say it just was) at Ipswich.

Sitting in the lounge at the Ipswich office, for the first time, I felt that joblessness is frustrating too. Soon after coming back from holiday, I went to Ipswich on a “company assignment”. By hearsay, I knew that Ipswich was a sleepy little town with a lot of local cafés, and it certainly looked so at first sight. But somehow, all the stars and planets connived to deny me the pleasure of enjoying its laid-back laziness. My stay at Ipswich was a comedy of logistical errors.

First up, the guys there did not know I was coming so I did not have a desk to sit at or a computer to work on. Added to it, there was no information of what I would do, and who would oversee it. Hovering around friends’ desks was not a viable option as they were all busy in their own work. So all day long, I just sat in the lounge, fiddled with the stylus and browsed the net on my PDA-phone over a GPRS connection (appearing to be someone doing something important), and finished the issues of Wired and OK! in the lounge.

Upon that, the budget bed-and-breakfast I checked into was very moderate. Well, I can’t blame it for the low rate and the short notice I got it at, but then, it could have been a little cleaner. It was managed by a brown-turning-silver haired old man, probably in his sixties, who obviously was struggling to maintain it by himself. Half the house was painted, while the other half was smudged with strokes, and had paint buckets and brushes on the floor. The room had a creaky floor, and floorboards stacked nearby, so he was evidently doing some repair work.

The room I got was dank and mildly emanated a wild unidentifiable aroma. In the room below, his daughter maintained a solitary existence. She had a cat which roamed all over the place. My room floor had visible hair which the cat had moulted. The room had windows which couldn’t be opened and there was a note asking to keep the curtain closed at all times. The kitchen was lacking utensils and food items, and had a note to keep the door closed when cooking to prevent the tadka from choking them.

However, the man himself was good to talk to – he took me for a “round” in his car and showed me the nearest bus-stop and over a cup of heavenly Portuguese coffee at the local coffee shop, he told me that his son had been to university in America, and was now in the Metropolitan Police in London, and that his house had been let to Indian tenants too. He asked me if I had been to Brazil, an obvious reference to the “Universidad Sao Paulo” on my T-shirt, and said his son had been there as part of a Met Police exercise.

Once I was back in the BnB, I looked at my task-list –
1. Clear mailbox (company has a limit on the mailbox size :( )
2. Transfer money
3. Pay credit card bills
4. Market going up – make some money
5. Leave feedback for ebay sellers
And I was stuck there, stuck without internet!!!! Though I managed most with the GPRS connection, a few things spilled over to today (which was better, because the market scaled a considerable height today). Yesterday afternoon I told them they could request my services when they had the logistics ready, and took the next train back to MK – and had a good night’s sleep.

Weekend drama shall unfold in a few days. :)

The happy family

He swung his car into the parking lot, and killed the engine. Getting out, he extracted his jacket from its hanger in the rear, and put it on. He pulled out his briefcase, and beeped the car shut. Tall and handsome, he cut a smart figure as he walked across the parking lot. He carried his age with élan, in fact, the greying temples, and the light horizontal wrinkles on his forehead gave him an air of maturity and commanded respect. A high-profile lawyer, he was the Midas of the court-room. A home in the suburbs, a swanky car, socialite evenings and a neat sum stashed away for retirement. The perfect life. He smiled at the waitress as he walked into the restaurant for lunch with the family.

The estate agent slowed as she entered the driveway, and smiled at the valet as he came over to collect the keys. He recognised the car and its owner very well. She was svelte, attractive and vivacious and received regular double-takes from young men passing her way. Must have rendered many a men breathless in her prime, he mused to himself. They came in on the third Thursday of every month – the lady, her husband and the kids – and joked and laughed over an extended lunch. It was almost a ritual, and he wondered whether a family could be ever so happy. He watched her shaking her head as she saw her husband smile at the waitress.

From his corner office at the investment bank, the son saw his father walk into the restaurant below. A glint of red at the corner of his eyes told him it was the valet parking his mother’s car in the guest lot. He straightened his tie, and pulled his jacket over as he walked down the stairs into the restaurant. He joined the older couple just as they were about to sit down. The maitre d’ picked up three menu cards, and then he took one more – for he knew there would be four. Sure enough, the young girl came huffing and puffing, and kissed her mother before she took the seat opposite.

She was an art-student, and presently, in faded jeans, dull ochre top with swastika and Sanskrit motifs and a cross-bag, she stood in stark contrast to the spick, formal attire of the rest of her family. But then that was how she was – bubbly, vibrant and a beloved – she brought colour and fun into the family folds. Her stories of the impressionists, the way she explained the styles of Renoir and Rembrandt always fascinated the other three. It was as though she was living their dream.

They lunched for a long time, devouring the steaks and wine with great relish, laughing together, and enjoying their meal and time. As if they didn’t care for anyone else on the outside of the general vicinity of their table. The maitre d’ noticed that for the entire lunch, they never spoke business. It was always about the fun they had, or general small-talk. This cosy table, set away from the rest of the restaurant, should be the hotel’s happiest table, every third Thursday, he thought to himself. By dessert, the family was almost at home – ties loosened, collars open, cuffs folded back, vanity bags set away and everyone sitting back and letting the meal settle.

The waiters cleared up the table and the maitre d’ came up with a box of unordered Cuban cheroots. Setting them, he produced a Zippo lighter and addressed the lawyer, “On the house, sir, for the happiest family I’ve seen”. Father, mother and son inhaled indulgently as the daughter nibbled on the remainder of her dessert.

“The happiest family”, they all thought, as they walked back to their cars, “the happiest family, if only they had stayed together and not fought over divorce and custody”.