Wednesday, October 29

It's precisely a year now. This calm, still, beautiful Diwali night. Kissed by autumn air nor crisp nor cold. Just perfect. And so, today i say it to everyone who reads this blog, like i said it to you last year this same hour.
I love you.

Happy Diwali and cheers all. Keep posting.

Thursday, October 16

The only regret i have in life
is having read too little and written too much.

Saturday, October 11

Stretch. Yourself. Your ideas. Your ideas about ideas. The invisible boundaries in your head. Your limbs. Stretch each one of them. The distance they carry you. Stretch till you can stretch no further. Stretch the extent of everything you so fondly clench. And then, when stretching becomes a limit in itself. Stretch, to break free.

Thursday, October 9

Desert Pain

Feels like resurrection. I was on the verge of committing suicide. Never before, ever, was i so hopelessly distressed in life. There is no one to blame, apart from one of the modern world's most evolved torture technique. A two and a half hour procedure that doesn't kill you, but compels you to shoot yourself in the wrong place so that you die the most painful death. Sadly, mundane citizens in India are denied that luxury. You cannot buy guns to kill yourself and the euthanasia debate is sub judice. Even if it is a dry day after you have seen Drona - a psychological thriller/ romantic tragedy about the super pansy prince of some kingdom where tombs resemble solar panels.

I wanted to kill myself because the movie didn't. And i have not been able to forget the painful experience. I wanted to kill myself because i actually saw the movie even though i wasn't chained to the seats. A movie so exclusive, that only 1300 tickets were sold across India (figures unvalidated by KPMG) apart from the cast and the crew (half of which surely walked out at the interval, like three of the 9 people who filled up our theatre)

How and why we ended up watching the movie is content edited from this post to sustain a readable length. Let's just say, under duress and with no other option, we didn't quite foresee what was coming. Our idea of bad is now unsuitably redefined.

Here's a review for the daredevils. Drona is a jack-ass. Such is the tragedy of this great script that he is also to be the designated protector of mankind by virtue of lineage. There are rotten puzzles to everything laced with the most stupid interjection of romantic moments that only the most evolved human minds could devise.
The soundtrack and the background score would put even the most menial youtube videos to shame. The only purpose it serves to the movie is preventing the viewers from falling asleep. Be it trance during medieval horse chases or Kenny G type restaurant music in sunset scenes rife with emotions, emoted better by the super hero's horse than the man himself. Whether it's insignificant characters with complicated names or sequences that are of no consequence to the movie, Drona lives up to its promise of being one of the worst movies ever made. It is frustrating to the extent that after a certain point of time, you can't even laugh at it anymore.

Drona is a futuristic film that goes without an editor. The costumes are funny to say the least, lest that be the intention and the art direction, juvenile. There are vague traces of a script in the movie. Knowledge of its existence is proof of its mediocrity. The dialogues are clumsy and the screenplay is deplorable. Unlike The Last Lear where Drona senior single handedly pulled the movie out of doom with a talismanic performance (inspite of the director's self indulgent and lousy handling of a brilliant script), Drona junior was denied an such challenge to his acting mettle. Thankfully.

The promos of Himesh's Karz and Bhandarkar's Fashion during the interval formed the highlights of my misadventure. Especially the unpretentious former. Like all great movies, Drona too has had far fetched implications.

1. The patriarch of Bollywood's first family on seeing the rushes of the film, took it upon himself to feed the clan and set off on an Unforgettable Tour to offset the economic fallout of this Forgettable Film.

2. Mrs. Bachchan's questionable quip on her linguistic affiliations could have been a clever last gasp effort to stop this disaster from screening. Raj Thackeray has clearly done them no favours by letting the movie play.

3. Aaj Tak's breaking news was that the Bachchans were not invited to Gauri Khan's birthday bash inspite of the Bachchans breaking the ice and inviting SRK for the screening of Drona. Well, i'm not surprised.

4. Foremost film schools across the globe and the Academy of Motion Pictures and Arts will archive this epic treatise on How Not to Make a Film.

I am no director. No film-maker. No actor. But i'm the audience who resents spending time and hard earned money for scum that would've fetched me five beers instead. As a kind example of my magnanimous highness, i hereby declare that i shall not sue Drona for the irrevocable emotional distress caused to me and restrict myself to the post.

Thursday, October 2


Selling flowers on the street
bright, white bunch of lillies
yet moist with water sprayed.
Sold to his smile
i bought the flowers
But the moisture in his eyes


My delinquent endeavours to find words has certainly eroded the equity of this blog. Here it lies in derelict anticipation of a post that will be written and read. It has been a while even after it has been a while. Something has gnawed into this beautiful space and I miss it as much as some of you. Probe isn’t being probe anymore. Lazy efforts have failed to revive this comatose conversation. It that hangs suspended day after day. Countless hours are unspent to reclaim a solitude that consistently fails to find space in this mental clutter. See, the sentences are getting long. I feel like a scalpel blade unused in ages, with rust gathering moisture in edges too blunt to be incisive anymore. Not cutting under the surface, nor getting under the skin. Just a mere tapestry of words, an ornamental veil covering the epidermis of the unwritten underneath. The blade will make rough cuts. Septic and ugly. It’ll take time for the rust to dry. We’ll dip it in tincture and sandpaper it back to its sheen. Scrape the edges and make it sharp. Write. Get used to it. Give it back the time it has lost, denied by age and agency.