tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67902262024-03-05T17:53:43.791+05:30Magix 'n' Curses.. the argument continuesComplete Nutcases. Both of them. AR Rahman, Mani Ratnam, Dogs, Chocolates and Indian Cricket. Somethings both of 'em are crazy about.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger219125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-40853639925363494732013-05-15T15:07:00.000+05:302013-05-15T15:07:53.850+05:30A little while longer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When the initial rushes of Maryan and Raanjhanaa landed on YouTube, I'd commented that good times were here again. I hadn't bargained for it to be this good though! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I haven't really stopped smiling over the last couple of days. Maryan has been playing on an endless loop and I still can't get enough of it. Like most Rahman albums, every song has been playing musical chairs vying for my-favourite-song-of-the-album spot. And with every round of listening, there's a new winner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Today, it looks like it's going to be Innum Konjam Neram all day. The song is an aural equivalent of a hug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Even as the hero leaves the shores, and his love, to work abroad,) A song about reluctant separation it may be. But it is not about the heaviness of the moment or the pain of separation. It is about a beautiful future together and making the most of whatever little time they have left before he embarks on his journey. (Of course, I may be completely wrong about the premise, but this is what the music sings out to me, and I'll cling to this till I watch the movie)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The unwillingness to leave is childishly innocent. Mariyaan and Panimalar have accepted that he needs to go. They both know the "innum konjam neram" is an indulgence. Like a child's plea for "5 more minutes" in his bed, kathi-rolled in his cozy blanket before he has to get up and go to school. And indulge, they do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This playfulness is beautifully brought out by the ghatam. There is a sincerity about it (albeit with a complete lack of seriousness), as it punctuates the melancholic accordion strains. I don't think you could've picked a better pair of instruments to express the bittersweet pain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The beauty of this song, though, lies in its simple, uncluttered melody. Vijay Prakash's versatile voice glides over a gamut of emotions, from a breathy appeal ("<i>Yaen avasaram? Enna avasaram? Nillu ponne.</i>") to a mock complaint ("<i>Innum pesa kooda thodangala...</i>") to a mini tantrum ("<i>Ippo mala pola nee vantha kadal pola naanirupen</i>").</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That's when the magic begins for me. Shwetha Mohan makes an entry so reminiscent of Swarnalatha that it left me stunned for a for a few seconds. The way the tune begins to ebb, halt and flow ("<i>... andha alaigala pola...</i>") puts in my mind an image of someone (reluctant to leave) being playfully pushed along his way by another from the back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had a discussion with @rahmantic the other day about the most versatile contemporary female singer in tamil. The second charanam firmly tilts my vote towards Shwetha Mohan ("<i>... thalai aati naan rasipen</i>"). Just listen to her nail this song. With an inherently honey dipped voice that can change texture at will, her voice becomes husky one second, sad the next, and then goes on to ring with sharp clarity, each with equal aplomb. She even throws in a Rahman special semi-chuckle for good measure! ("<i>Vanthu on kaiyila mattikuven, valaiyala pola</i>").</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the song winds up on a positive note, and as Rahman sprinkles some magic dust to bless the couple (Ok, those are chimes. Faaaine!), your mind pleads to the song - "Innum konjam neram irundhaal thaan enna?".</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-87727925225986101422012-11-05T11:01:00.000+05:302012-11-05T11:10:31.429+05:30Rahman, Unplugged.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Even as Kadal's audio release (always around the corner, but just out of reach) made me feel like Tantalus, Ranjit Barot pulled several rabbits out of the hat. He managed to rope in the very elusive Rahman for an unplugged session, to cherry-pick 6 songs from an impossible-to-choose-from discography, to deconstruct and reinvent them in a fresh new package without losing the essence of Rahman's magic, to throw in a classic ghazal composed by someone else and insisted on making him sing most of the songs himself instead of hiding behind the comfort of the Grand Piano.</div>
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And what an episode it was!</div>
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<strong>Yeh Jo Des</strong></div>
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MTV released the full song a couple of days in advance. I had listened to it on an endless loop leading up to the show. And still broke out into goosebumps when he sang "Chaahe toh kis disha mein jaaye wahi des", paused as Ann Marie C's violin gave an Anjali papa-based "come here" wail, and switched to "Indha desathin kural" with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. </div>
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With soaring strings, a rousing chorus group from KMMC (led and conducted by an over-ebullient Arun Haridas), percussion that meant business, and Rahman at the mic tugging away at our heartstrings, a heartfelt call to the nation transformed into an anthem. </div>
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<strong>Rehna Tu</strong></div>
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If I'd been told that I was to expect a Rehna Tu stripped off its trance-like synth loops, the blissfully meandering middle part, THE continuum interlude and instead be reduced to a short 4 minute piece with only the core and new lines at the top, I would've baulked and refused to listen to it. Ok, maybe I'd have still listened, but I'd have thrown a tantrum at the very least! But I'm glad I didn't know what to expect. I absolutely loved what I heard.</div>
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Rahman had rather high praise for Harmeet on the piano who was his sole accompaniment as he started singing the new lines. Have no idea what the words were though.. Not really a lyrics guy.. Must check them out later :)</div>
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Everyone jumped in for the rest of the song. There was a point when Rahman stretched out a "Rehna tuuuuuuu" for about 12-13 seconds. They were 13 incredibly restless seconds for me! I expected him to stop at at least 3 points, but he just went on and on.. 4-5 rounds of listening later, I still get it wrong!</div>
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<strong>Phir Se Udd Chala</strong></div>
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Rahman seemed incredibly happy to announce that Arun would be the lead vox in this piece and disappeared behind the piano in a hurry. The clash of cymbals after the first "phir se udd chala" set the tone for what was to follow. The already free-spirited song sprouted wilder wings and boy, did it soar! </div>
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The guitarist who joined Keba seemed determined to find ten different uses for the guitar before the song was over. The KMMC choir and Chennai Strings section almost competed with each other to push the dramatic value of the frenetic song to its limit. Rahman's fingers on the piano, meanwhile, flew much ahead, almost taunting the rest of them to catch up. He seemed happy to stay away from the mic barring the occasional transitions. But you could sense that he was going to jump in at "Hey Daata" no matter what :)</div>
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<strong>Tu Bole</strong></div>
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After paying her dues for 2 years in Rahman's crew, it's finally time for Neeti Mohan to shine. A big chunk of the song was essentially one long dialogue, between Neeti's spunk and ARR's smooth, between Harmeet's piano and Ann Marie's violin, between Bidyut on the double bass and the KMMC choir. The second stanza where Neeti went all Hail Mary while Rahman responded to each line with zen-like calmness was my favourite moment in the song. And is probably better experienced watching the video than just listening. You could see Rahman fighting dreadful shyness to bring out that "player" voice, and had an embarrassed smile plastered on his face!</div>
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<strong>Nenjukulle</strong></div>
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Every once in a while, there comes along a song that envelopes you in a sense of bliss and promises you that everything will be alright. The comforting accordion set the mood, and wrapped the entire song in a bubble of nostalgic warmth. And words fail me when I try to describe Shakthishree Gopalan's voice, so I'll settle for an emoticon instead. Shakthi, ‹o--‹</div>
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As I'd mentioned earlier, I'm not really a lyrics guy. But this song had me scouring the internet and pleading with my friends for the lyrics. Such raw, earthy words coming from a posh city-bred voice with just the right hint of a folksy twang, sheer magic. </div>
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I'd transformed into a quivering mass of jelly till the point Shakthi sang "rubber valavikkellam saththamida vaaiyillaiye". And melted into a blubbering puddle when she threw in a casual "ho" at the end. </div>
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I'm only hearing her for the second time. Yet it feels like she's been doing this for years. Could this be her "deivam thandha poove"?</div>
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<strong>Aaj Jaane Ki Zidd Na Karo</strong></div>
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When Rahman promises to sing another's composition, a ghazal is the last thing you'd expect him to sing! And when he picks up a classic that has seen countless covers, your curiosity is sufficiently piqued. </div>
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This will not be the best cover you will hear. But this will be the most sincere.</div>
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Rahman looked like a schoolboy in his first day of paatu class. He struggled a bit, sang without embellishments, concentrated only on hitting the right notes... but the vulnerability with which he did this hooks you and the undiluted sincerity reels you in. </div>
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<strong>Dil Se</strong></div>
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To me, watching Rahman play the piano is like getting special darshan at a temple. His fingers move magically across the keyboard, hitting the perfect notes and he doesn't even break a sweat. Had to check a couple of times if the label on the piano read "Steinway" and not "Ouija".</div>
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When he sings Dil Se in concerts, the passion is unbridled. But here he started out in a very restrained, composed manner. And just as I was beginning to wonder what was going on, he went completely bonkers on the piano! The song transformed from what was becoming a sombre love ballad into a playful concoction of rhythm and swing. You knew he was pleased with the way he nailed that insane interlude by the fact that he couldn't stop smiling as he sang "Do Patte". Cherish the moment, for such displays of satisfaction from Rahman are incredibly rare :)</div>
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Thank you, Ranjit Barot. It was one helluva show.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-59850990170564615062012-03-10T18:55:00.001+05:302012-03-10T18:58:47.573+05:30Sigh.<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix"><div><p>Much as I'd expected this day to come, I wasn't quite prepared for it. I thought I was - it was perfectly logical and clear, and made so much sense. In fact, it seemed fitting.</p><p> </p><p>I had tried to rationalise it in my own head - The guy is 39. And it's obviously his decision.</p><p> </p><p>I tried to rationalise it with my emotional friend who felt he deserved to go out on a high - "But it doesn't matter", I'd argued. " I think he's done enough in his career to retire on his own terms". And though my friend had expressly stated that he didn't care about logic at that moment and that it just pained him to see him leave on a low, I plodded on nevertheless - " I don't think he needs to leave on a high (especially if it is going to come at the cost of bullying other teams at home). If he scores 3 centuries in 3 tests, helps India win 3-0 and leaves, would it make a difference to how you remember him? Good players deserve to leave on a high to prolong their stay in public memory. Doesn't matter as much for great players."</p><p> </p><p>And as if to ensure I wasn't an unemotional piece of rock, I'd added, "if anything, his retirement is fitting. With two years of no away tests, this is the best time to ring in the next gen. Even while retiring, he's putting India first da".</p><p> </p><p>And then, he officially announced it. That was when things started getting difficult. Rationality took a graceful dive out of the window. I went through the scores of tributes that poured in. It was probably not the best idea to read them in office. I realised how choked up I was only when I answered the phone with a croak instead of a hello.</p><p> </p><p>By late evening, I was pointedly trying to think about anything but his retirement. I read ridiculous things I'd written years ago in the name of poetry, watched old Crazy Mohan plays and Lollu Sabha episodes, tweeted dialogues, made plans for the weekend. I didn't want it to really sink in. And I most definitely didn't want to write anything to say goodbye. Not a blog post, not a facebook status, not even a tweet.</p><p> </p><p>But early this morning, I had the most vivid dream. I watched as the two openers walked in on day one; as Viru hit a streaky four in the first over; as Gambhir laced a more assured boundary in the second over and promptly edged to second slip next ball. For what seemed like eternity, no one walked out to bat. </p><p> </p><p>And I woke up in cold sweat. </p><p> </p><p>That's when I felt I'd to write something. If not as a tribute to the legend, at least as a favour to myself.</p><p> </p><p>Thanks for all the memories, Rahul. For being instrumental in changing Indian cricket to an extent where us fans actually feel pain when we lose abroad. For rescuing India time and again, and showing us the value of never giving up. For being the most selfless cricketer ever - the only thing I haven't seen you do on the cricket field is stand in for the umpire. For showing us that nice guys can succeed too.</p><p> </p><p>As I watched India play cricket all these years, amidst all my screams of "Shot!", "Two two TWO!", "Beauty!", there was one particular thing I'd yell that seemed to be reserved almost exclusively for you. And I say it for the last time.</p><p> </p><p>"Well left".</p></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-59056283774787809962012-02-09T20:14:00.002+05:302012-02-09T20:18:24.325+05:30Hard to interpret what the stars foretell<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em>The following is a note my uncle sent me after coming back home from the hospital. I was amazed by how he could see the lighter side of things even in a place as grim and scary as an ICU. Just had to share it! :) </em></p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><br /></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">I woke up confused on a strange bed with some girls standing around me. They were all whispering to one another and peering down my face. A little farther, my family was standing with anxious faces. I tried to get up but various cables tied me down. I could not remember how I got there and looked at my son. He implored me to be quiet and relax. Slowly I realised I was in the ICU of some hospital: and with my cardiac and umpteen health problems, I guessed I must have passed out at home before finally landing here. My son told me it was Monday morning now and I gave everyone anxious moments on the previous evening. It seems I suddenly collapsed on my way to the bath room and remained unconscious and stone cold. They had managed to shift me to the hospital in an ambulance in quickest possible time, which according to my doctor has given me a fresh lease of life. As my mind cleared, I suddenly remembered the previous morning and could not help smiling. People around me must have thought that the fall had done something to my head for me to smile in such a situation! Let me explain why I smiled. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">On Sunday morning, the previous day, I was up unusually early and began aimlessly surfing the channels on the TV. I paused for a few minutes on a south channel in which an astrologer was rattling away the fortunes and misfortunes for the following week. His predictions for my ‘Rasi’ ’(zodiac sign) was that I will get to travel in a new type of vehicle, would be pampered by women and have bright chances to be in front or behind the camera. Since I am almost eighty, I thought all these were coming a bit too late to be excited. The first two predictions seem to have come almost true. Though a ride in an ambulance and attention by nurses in ICU were the last things to make one happy, I was curious to know how the third prediction will turn out.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">Without notice, the cables and tubes binding me were pulled out. I was unceremoniously bundled on to a stretcher and then wheeled to a destination which I could not guess!. My smile vanished and I meekly enquired where we were heading. A bored reply”for tests” came from the accompanying trainee nurse. Then started a journey up and down the elevators, through various crowded corridors, gloomy passages and stopped in front of MRI room. A tired looking man pushed me into the machine and ordered me to remain still. It was claustrophobic with loud banging and ear- splitting noise inside the machine. Having worked on the shop floor of factories during my working days, I felt the generator and machine noise there was music when compared to this. It seemed like eternity before I was pulled out and set on my tour again. The next halt was for EGG about which I had the least idea. My head was connected with countless leads but because of my thick growth of hair kept slipping. The technician scornfully remarked that at this old age I did not deserve luscious hair on my crown. A fear suddenly seized me. Is this an electric shock treatment that we often see on the movies to torture the hero! To my relief the ordeal was over and we set off. I shyly told the nurse that I needed to visit a bathroom. She ignored my plea and pushed the trolley stretcher into Ultra sound scan room.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">“Expose your abdomen”, the lady ordered. I shrunk! What was she planning to do? I have seen the hero spinning a top around the navel of the heroine in a movie. With a threatening bladder I was in no mood for romance. She passed a sensor over my belly and admonished “how can I scan your prostate with only 50 ml urine in your bladder?” I protested saying, whether it was 50ml or 500 ml, I was in agony and wanted to relieve myself. But she ignored my protests and shifted the scanning to my neck saying she was performing a colour Doppler to assess the blood vessels leading to the brain and meanwhile expected the bladder should fill up. I wanted to sing “why this koleveridi”. When she came back to my abdomen, she resigned herself to scan a partially filled bladder and both were glad to get rid of each other. I would have strangled the TV astrologer if he had appeared before me. Was he referring to all these scans as a chance before Camera?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">Back on my stretcher, I told the accompanying nurse that enough was enough and asked her to take me back to the ICU. My niece, who meanwhile came there, teased me, “Don’t be in a hurry. We have not yet finished the Gynaecology Dept.” I could not laugh at her humour and darted an angry look. There was a traffic jam in the corridor with dozens of wheel chairs and stretchers that would make one feel that MG road was a freeway in comparison. I was almost in tears and tried to get out of the stretcher and walk. The nurse was alarmed and shouted “what are you trying? I will lose my job.” At last, back in the ICU and off-loading my burden, I dozed off. I was rudely awakened by a shriek. All were looking at the monitor behind me. When I asked them what the matter was, they recoiled with fright saying ‘The monitor is showing a straight line and you are talking. One of the nurses made bold to touch me and broke into laughter. They had not connected the leads to the Monitor after my long sojourn down the corridors.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">Soon the doctor came and declared, “There were Ischemic changes in bilateral frontoparietal white matter in brain, Fibrocalcific plaques in right carotid bulb causing 50% stenosis, severe LV dysfunction etc etc. I asked, “Doctor nothing serious is it not? Can I go home?” He appeared shocked! I did not wait for his answer and jumping out of the bed, asked my niece to get my clothes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">On our way back home, I saw a huge hoarding showing a big palm. It said “accurate palm reading and predictions. Meet astrologer so and so to know your future”. I told my son, “ Stop the car. I want to hurl a stone at that hoarding.”</p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-72182136313238148802012-01-04T21:34:00.001+05:302012-01-04T21:37:06.071+05:30The perils of being an Indian cricket fan (or something to that effect)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">It's days like these that make me appreciate the inherent brilliance of limited overs cricket. You can get mauled all day, but at least the carnage is over at the end of day's play.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">For the second day in a row, I slept past midnight and woke up at five. Makes me wonder if it's worth all the trouble and if I should just switch that alarm off before I go to bed. But I'm sure I'll find myself waking up in the middle of the night, switching that alarm back on with a look of shame on my face.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Even as the Aussies went about their business this morning, from 5 AM to 7 AM, my face fell in slow motion. I was looking so grumpy by the time the umpires called lunch that my mom didn't even ask me her usual morning question - "iniku gym pogalaya?" </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">I dragged myself to the gym with a long face. Considering how round I've become, it was probably a slightly oval face. By the time I hit the elliptical trainer, play (read: torture) resumed. That's when I had the worst brainwave ever. I decided, in a rather twisted way, to hedge my happiness. For every easy double they ran, for every boundary they hit, I was going to push myself harder. I figured if we get tonked around, I might as well lose weight in the process. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">35 excruciating minutes (of watching India bowl and going full tilt on the bloody elliptical) later, I realised I'd only doubled my self-inflicted punishment. Yes, yes, I need help, I know. In the middle of all this, Punter had reached that elusive three-figure mark. Given that I hate his guts, was that triple punishment?</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">In case you didn't know already, my hatred for Ricky Ponting is so extreme, even I find it a tad unfair. His talent, I've grudgingly acknowledged. But him, I loathe with every fibre of my being. His perpetually surly face, his overt aggression, his constant spitting, his annoying smirk as he takes position at silly point without a helmet, the fact that he decimated a nation's morale on that fateful night in March 2003, his arrogant gesture to Sharad Pawar to hand over the Champions Trophy, his general in-your-face attitude.. none of this has helped his cause either.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">I was enjoying the pressure India was putting on him post lunch. His 97 to 99 took a while, and there he remained for a little while longer. As he knocked one down to mid-on in search of a quick single, our man Sachin went screaming across the turf to deny him that single. It was almost a "yaam petra inbam..." moment. I chuckled nervously. To my dismay, I realised that a small part of me actually wanted him to take that single. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">When he did get that run, complete with a desperate full-length dive, I found myself applauding. When he took an extra second or so to get up, you could almost sense the wave of numb relief wash over him. Clarke was finding the situation hilarious, Ian Gould was laughing along, Ishant had his hands on his head with a "What have I done?" expression - but all eyes were on Punter as he looked down at his soiled shirt, removed his helmet and raised his bat. There was childlike glee in his eyes as he wore an an almost embarrassed smile on his face. That expression made him look almost... human.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Hate it when that happens.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">As my friend pointed out, when they shed their arrogance, you realise they have the potential to be likeable. He'd experienced the same when he read McGrath's book. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Right. That's one book off my to-read list.</p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-6215702240293897652011-10-03T22:26:00.001+05:302011-10-03T22:30:13.127+05:30Tum Ko - Rockstar<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">The first time I listened to the album, I remember allowing a thought to flit through my mind - that Tum Ko was probably the only weak link in an otherwise near flawless album. Rahman, as he has done innumerable times before, proved just how wrong I was. If there is one thing I'm thankful for, it's my habit of looping the entire album instead of looping specific songs. The sudden "aha" moments that you encounter from the least expected places are what I live for. Such instances are what makes listening to Rahman such a joy. From "weak link", Tum Ko has risen rather swiftly in my estimation. I wouldn't be too surprised if it ends up becoming my favourite track of the album within a week.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">RGV (in a rather brilliant piece on Rahman) had once observed that Rahman's orchestration seems to rise from the depth of the singer's voice. I could see what he was talking about in Tum Ko. The soft strings in the background, as Kavita Subramaniam croons the first few lines in a breathy voice, give way to the absolutely divine sarangi. For a very brief moment her voice branches out from the sarangi as she continues to hum along. Sheer magic.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">There's something about the sarangi that allows it to bypass normal channels (of being processed by the brain) and finds its way straight to your heart. (insert predictable pun on marketing it to the West as heartstrings)</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">And those tablas. How does Rahman make them sound so unique? Remember the brilliantly placed tabla bits in Kilimanjaro? I'd developed a sort of aversion to tablas as I got increasingly frustrated with the tedious dinkchak beats in hindi music through the 90s. But under his helm, they seem to have their own quirks, their own character almost. The flourishes in Tum Ko have a mind of their own as they stop and start without warning. If that interlude hadn't knocked you breathless yet, Rahman throws in (or simulates) a panflute for good measure. Out for the count. I could play this song on an unending loop just for this interlude. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Her tremendous vocal depth carries the song along to the end. The way each line is completed without allowing it to taper away, the way the full depth of her voice kicks in as it hangs in the air for a fraction of a second longer than you expect it to... makes me wish I'd learnt music just to be able to appreciate it better. And to know what to say :)</p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-47548363329314839982011-10-02T16:23:00.002+05:302011-10-02T18:32:21.620+05:30Phir Se Udd Chala - Rockstar<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">So beautifully layered is Phir Se Udd Chala, that listening to it is a bit like watching a video of someone peeling an onion in rewind mode. (Sans the disturbing image of tears going back into your tearglands, of course)</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">The soul of the song is in the Kashmiri chant. Innocent, sweet, unhurried. Rahman takes his own time to get the song on its way. First the guitar riff wraps around it closely followed by Mohit Chauhan's breezy vocals to kick off a process of adding layer upon layer. And with each new layer, a sense of urgency creeps in and Mohit's singing starts gathering momentum - almost like a plane taxiing on a runway before takeoff. A female voice tells you where the exits are ("Teri ore") - ok, sorry, couldn't resist!</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Aaaaaannnndddd... take off!</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Once off the ground, the percussion takes over from Mohit to provide the perception of acceleration, while he eases the throttle preparing for cruise mode with his Tu tu du's. And just as you decide to push your seat back, pull the in-flight magazine and think about calling the stewardess for a bag of peanuts, the Kashmiri girls return to inform you that your flight has reached its destination.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Whaaaa... Heyy.. No fair!</p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-35478089366508005532011-10-02T16:21:00.004+05:302011-10-02T18:33:41.914+05:30The Dichotomy of Fame - Rockstar<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Indigo waves splash across canvas from the guitar strums. Purple blobs of passion pulsate from the shehnai. Light blue wisps of the guitar (reminescent of the Piano bits of Himalaya) waft ever so softly, encircling them both. The shehnai assumes a chirpier tone as bold pink strokes swish across.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">The soaring shehnai fights to render the horizon with a soft glow even as the guitar deepens the blue almost to a black. A chime sweeps across, dotting the darkening canvas with little sparkles.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">What you are left with, as you look on with a contented smile, is The Dichotomy of Fame. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Or a twilight sky.</p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-85453436743204888452011-10-02T16:21:00.003+05:302011-10-02T18:33:09.320+05:30Aur Ho - Rockstar<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">As Suresh had put so beautifully in his <a href="http://bit.ly/p4N8Uu">review of Rockstar</a>, Rahman's melodies are so shockingly radical in their structure, that your brain tries to find a hook, a groove, a pattern from the previous line, anything to cling on to. Something to provide stability to your musical orientation as you blindly bump into unexpected instruments, sudden silences or the last note you'd expect at that point.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Your brain frantically searches for something familiar to regain equilibrium. And that is probably why the first listening of a Rahman soundtrack is usually an exercise in trying to find out if you've heard that tune in any of his songs before. Once you recognise a similarity, your mind is instantly at ease. You venture into discovering the song with renewed courage. Five listenings or so later, you forget you'd even established a similarity with a previous song. And that it is actually quite different from the previous song.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">"Discovery of a Rahman song" should be scientifically studied some day :) But let me not digress any further.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">What I'd mentioned above is exactly what I went through with Aur Ho too. The 30 second promo had my ears prickling. After about 5-6 seconds of apprehension, my brain attempted to pull a rabbit out of the hat. Could it be "Mudhalum mudhalum nee mudivum mudivum nee" from Thaiyya thaiyya? No wait.. Bhanjar hai sab bhanjar hai from Mera Yaar Milade Saiyyan (Saathiya)", it said, "Yes yes, that's what it sounds like". And almost instantly my mind felt lighter. 30 second teasers are the best gifts you could give a Rahmaniac, it's almost like net practice!</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">The full version is an absolute treat. As Alma Ferovic's hum/chant twists and glides its way in, the stage is set for Mohit Chauhan to exhibit his versatality yet again. There's a quality in his voice that lends itself beautifully to express pain. In Khoon Chala (RDB) it felt like a helpless lament. In Aur Ho, it fluctuates between a numb acceptance of pain and a determined cry to break away from it.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">The trance-like quality of the Aur Ho chant sends a shiver down your spine. Well, at least it did to mine! The line "Meri bebasi... ka bayaan hai" assumes an anthemic nature as Alma's humming steps up a notch in fervour. Sufi Rock, it may be, but that doesn't stop Rahman from making a flute weave in and out to accentuate the emotion. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; ">You wouldn't want to listen to this as a single in isolation. The haunting soundscape and the brooding menace in the vocals fill you with disquiet. But the pensive silence that would follow could be even more unnerving.</p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-52326725400150230632011-10-02T16:19:00.000+05:302011-10-02T16:20:30.655+05:30Sheher Mein - RockstarI think it'd be unfair to the music if I tried to review the album in one go. It would be equally unfair to the readers (yes, all 3 of you!) to read 14 pages of superlatives. So whenever a song evokes any kind of imagery in my head, I'm going to try putting it up here. Individually. First up - Sheher Mein.<br /><br />I don't consider myself a hindi pundit. Heck, not even a Prathmik/Madhyama case. At best, a shade better than Ek Gaon Mein Ek Kissan. And even I found it easy to grasp the context of Sheher Mein from Rockstar. In the midst of epics of massive proportions, this is a shiny little gem that, I hope, won't go unnoticed.<br /><br />A typical, cliched bollywood song recording in progress. Full dinkchak only. Person 1 teaches the lead how the song goes. Cue surprise #1 : Karthik! Raised on a staple of Rahman masterpieces, he must have been tickled pink to be forced to sing in such a stereotypical manner. Rahman had once famously asked Karthik to "sing like a Saxaphone" to evoke the mood. I'm pretty sure ARR played him a video clipping of Udit Narayan's recording and gave him the following brief:<br /><br /><blockquote>"Smile wide. Oscillate your body along an arc turning 18 degrees left, then 18 degrees right. Keep your hand in a 'kya baat hai' pose. Dhinkchak start. Right, you're all set to sing the following lines!"<br /></blockquote><br />And Karthik does exactly that as Rahman pulls off a little Jatin Lalit - Udit Narayan number from the 90s. Cue surprise #2: Mohit Chauhan, in the voice of the lead, refuses to conform and goes off on a tangent. The music director in the movie (I assume) very politely tells him that the tune "is a wee bit off".<br /><br /><blockquote>Tararara *doof*<br />Tararara *taaak*<br />Tararara *doof*<br />Phir se sun lena</blockquote><br /><br />Rahman then decides to turn up the cliche meter to full tilt (bring on the tablas!). And what better way to do that than invoking the spirit of Abhijeet. Listen to "Chitti daali thi aaoonga main tere ghar" with your eyes closed, you'll understand what I'm talking about!<br /><br /><blockquote>Haaye haaye haaye lyrics to dhoom machadega UP Bihar mein! </blockquote><br />This song is a case study of Rahman's genius. With Karthik, he gives you the typical bollywood number (4 lines one tune, next 4 lines same tune), and with Mohit, he opens up your mind to possibilities beyond the banal. Let loose with a license to go wild, Rahman makes Mohit sing each line with at least 4 variations. At one point, the lead loses himself in the music, and just as he realises what he's doing - Cue: The Mohit Chauhan special chuckle! (remember Masakkali?)<br /><br />The music director in the movie tries one last time to yank it back to his comfort zone. The director (again, I assume) is pleased as punch.<br /><br /><blockquote>Wah wah wah wah reeee.. kya ringtone banega!</blockquote><br /><br />Naah, forget it. We're in for a Rahman special for the remainder. It's almost as if he takes the hook lines of his songs as his life's philosophy (Break the rules/Lose control/I wanna be free)<br /><br />Whattey beauty, ARR! Thank you, Imtiaz Ali!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-27963699920531450752011-10-02T16:13:00.001+05:302011-10-02T16:14:52.638+05:30Hello.. hello.. ello.. lo...Straight out of a movie, this feels like.. like entering a dilapidated old house that was once full of life.<br />Spooky :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-64697444586369033392009-05-02T14:40:00.004+05:302009-05-02T14:44:23.462+05:30Beware of Airtel - 4<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This was when I decided enough was enough.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The story until now:</span><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-prologue.html">Beware of Airtel - Prologue</a><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-1.html">Beware of Airtel - 1</a><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-2.html">Beware of Airtel - 2</a><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/05/beware-of-airtel-3.html">Beware of Airtel - 3</a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">---------------------</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dated: 24th April, 2009</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Guess what?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My problem still isn't resolved.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And guess what? "Due to security reasons", I wasn't allowed to talk to Mr. Mehul. This time, I spoke to someone called Krishna who was the "Group Manager" (I don't understand the hierarchy at all). He said I have no other option but to go to an Airtel Gallery and submit the documents.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So much for Mr. Prashanth's commitment that I don't have to visit an ARC, and so much for Mr. Mehul's "100% assurance" that my problem will be resolved and he'll get back to me. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And to make matters worse, your customer care number 98920 98920 is NOT toll free. I called them up from my Chennai number (98405 xxxxx) last night, and my balance went from 100+ to 0. I had to call them from a friend's number now. I can pay my friend whatever that call cost him. But who's going to reimburse me for calling from my roaming number?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I was initially just frustrated, now I'm furious. I've been on roaming for the last 3 days. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As of now, that darned sim card has cost me over Rs. 400. It has also taken up a lot of my time - time which I could have spent productively on my project. Looks like Airtel is not just going to cost me money, it's just going to rob me of a PPI/PPO. Thank you so much.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I don't want to speak to "group managers" and "team leads" of the customer care anymore. I'd like to speak to someone much higher up. Technically, I shouldn't still be made to talk to anymore people. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And I'd like SOMEONE to actually take accountability for this. I'm sick of listening to customer care executives constantly passing the buck on to someone else and shirking responsibility under the worst possible excuse called "security reasons".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Harish</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-82887819547466045042009-05-02T14:30:00.002+05:302009-05-02T14:36:17.364+05:30Beware of Airtel - 3<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >This was a mail I'd sent later on the same day (April 23rd)</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >The story until now:</span><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-prologue.html">Beware of Airtel - Prologue</a><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-1.html">Beware of Airtel - 1</a><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-2.html">Beware of Airtel - 2</a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><br />-------------------------</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >More updates:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Called at 4.15 PM. I was told by the guy who picked up the phone that he cannot connect me to Ms. Kaveri "for security reasons" :)</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >I told him to connect me to whoever was his supervisor, so I got Mr. Mehul on the line.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >I finally have a tangible update. I apparently have a complaint number now! </span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >It's 0421499011. He has given me "100% assurance" that my outgoing facility will be up and running by 4.30 PM tomorrow. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Cheers,</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Harish</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-34681011968636492292009-04-28T16:15:00.001+05:302009-04-28T16:25:26.340+05:30Beware of Airtel - 2<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This was my second mail to my friend. He promptly forwarded it to the people concerned. Nope, no responses then too.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Before you read this, do scroll down and read the 1st two posts in this series. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Or click the links below:</span><br /><a href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-prologue.html"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Beware of Airtel - Prologue</span></a><br /><a href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-1.html"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Beware of Airtel - 1</span></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Take the patience you display as you read through that epic rant and multiply it by 121. That's how much patience I've had to exhibit so far. Not anymore. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So here's mail 2! </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>23rd April, 2009</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I called up customer care as they didnt get back to me by 1 PM as they'd committed.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Mr. Prashanth, the team lead, had told me last night that I'd get a message from Airtel regarding the status on both my numbers (Mumbai and Chennai) by 1. If I didn't receive a message by then, I could call up customer care and ask for him. I gave them a leeway of 45 minutes after 1 and then called. Mr. Prashanth, to no surprise in retrospect, wasn't on the floor because it wasn't his shift. Though I appreciate his gesture of trying to be personally accountable, I think the gesture would make a lot more sense if the accountability is taken when he is actually at work!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I reached Ms. Kaveri, the escalation officer. She, as usual, asked me to visit an Airtel Gallery. I explained why that's not possible and how Mr. Prashanth had given me a committment. She tried to reach him over his personal contact number and said he wasn't picking up the phone. When I asked her if there was any reply from Mahim office to the mail Mr. Prashanth sent them yesterday, she said they haven't replied yet. I thought my previous job in IT paid me most for the least work, but I guess these guys sitting in Mahim office have a better deal. They seem to get paid for doing no work at all. I can't help but be judgemental about these folks.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ms. Kaveri told me she could raise a complaint from her end, with a lead time of 9 hours. I asked her how she could claim accountability, when in 9 hours, her shift would be over and she'd be long gone. She didn't have a reply to that. I've given her until 4 PM to reach Mr. Prashanth and get back to me.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">That's all for the current status update. Further bulletin as events warrant!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">cheers,<br />Harish</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-47063244579773194122009-04-28T12:10:00.001+05:302009-04-28T12:38:16.548+05:30Beware of Airtel - 1<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This was the first mail I'd sent to them. It was more of a blog post than a complaint mail. Old habits die hard! :)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I also realise that I shouldn't have written those last lines. That just gave them a license to take me for granted. Hence this series of posts.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Scroll down, or <a href="http://magixncurses.blogspot.com/2009/04/beware-of-airtel-prologue.html">click here</a> to read the Prologue.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Re-Reminder: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Inviting write ups from anyone who has faced an issue with Airtel</span> that was handled badly or left unresolved.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">To whomsoever it may concern,</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Why do you wish to test a customer's loyalty? No seriously, why?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The following complaint wouldn't look out of place in my blog. Being someone who's been loyal to Airtel over the years, I am doing you a favour and writing this as a mail. I didn't want you to lose more customers because of me. But trust me, with the quality of service you've exhibited, you don't need my help to lose them. You're doing pretty well on your own.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Here's a blow by blow account of what I've had to put up with over the last few weeks. I will have to put a disclaimer at this point that I'm not sure about the exact dates and words uttered. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Frustrate me any further, I may just forget my own name.</span><br /><br /><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">6th April 2009</b><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> I visited this small retailer called Ronak Electronics in Dadar along with a few other friends. We're temporarily on duty in Mumbai for 2 months and we definitely needed a local sim card. One friend bought Reliance, the other bought Vodafone. I bought Airtel, and got scoffed at. I was told "the service in Mumbai sucks" and that I was making a mistake. But no, I HAD to buy only Airtel. I filled out the enrollment form after being made to wait for about 45 minutes. After I filled it out completely, I was told we needed a local address proof and that it was a new rule. So I agreed to get it the next day. </span><br /><br /><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">7th April 2009</b><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My friend who's a Mumbai local gave us a photocopy of his passport that he always carries around with him. He asked us to make more copies from that. Satisfied that we were armed with every document you may need, we went back to Ronak Electronics to submit the documents. I even topped up my unactivated Airtel number with 60 bucks in (foolish) optimism. He promised us that it'll get activated in 15 minutes. Of course it didn't. </span><br /><br /><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">8th April 2009</b><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I called up Ronak Electronics in the morning and asked him to activate my card. He said he'd do it at 11 "when the distributor comes".</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Of course he didnt.</span><br /><br /><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">9th April 2009</b><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> I called up Ronak Electronics again in the morning. He said he'll send the SMS asap and that it'll get activated that day itself. No guesses what happened. My frustration'd pretty much touched boiling point. So I called him again in the evening. He had switched his phone off. By the time we left from office and reached his store, he'd already closed and gone. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So I called up customer care and told the guy my predicament. He suggested that going to an Airtel Relationship Centre may help. It was 9.40 PM and I asked him if they'd be open. I was told they'd be open until 10. And what do you know? After walking for 10 minutes, I found myself staring at the shutters. (I found out through your website today that they are only open until 8. Maybe you should rename 121 as "CustomerCareful")</span><br /><br /><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">10th April 2009</b><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Enough was enough. After being coolly told by the retailer that the documents will reach the office on Monday only anyway, I took the documents from him, found the nearest Airtel Relationship Centre (the one at Mahim) and submitted the documents myself. I take a service ticket and waited. And waited. And waited some more. After an hour, it was finally my turn. I was told by the lady at the desk that the document had been filled out wrong and that I needed to write the address given in the local address proof. I told her I had an appointment to keep, and asked her if I could sign in the relevant places and if she could fill it out for me. "Of course, sir", I was told, "We wouldn't want to waste your time any further". Finally some customer care, I thought, as I headed out of the office. I was promised activation in 4 hours. I'd waited 72 hours, what was another 4 hours going to be?</span><br /><br /><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">11th April 2009</b><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Another 4 hours was going to be 24 hours. My sim still showed no signs of activation. I was at a place pretty far away from Mahim, so I called up Customer (s)care to help me out. I was told in no uncertain terms that there was absolutely NO WAY that the relationship centre could be contacted. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> "Don't they have a landline?", I ask. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"No sir, they don't", I'm told. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Don't you at least have the numbers of the employees who work there?", I enquire. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Sorry sir, but I'm not authorised to disclose that", is the reply. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> "You mean to say they're stand alone offices that have no contact with any of the other Airtel Offices?", I ask exhasperated. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Yes sir", was the pretty confident sounding reply. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So I go out of my way to the Airtel RC at Mahim. I asked the same lady at the desk why my sim hadnt been activated yet. She went on to explain how it was a 2 phase process and that it was the distributor who still hadn't sent his message to Airtel to confirm the activation. She then asked me if I was sure I submitted the documents. I reminded her that it was she who had checked it the previous day. So while another assistant searched for the documents everywhere, she coolly moved on to the next customer. When the assistant said he couldnt find it anywhere, she turned to me and asked, this time with a hint or irritation in her voice if I was "really sure" I submitted it. I reminded her yet again that it was she who'd agreed to fill the form out herself after getting my signatures. The irritation on her face gave way to realisation. She opened a drawer and found my form. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Still unfilled with only my signatures. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">With as much patience as I could muster, I asked her why she hadn't filled it out. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Sorry sir", she replies, "my ARC (or something like that) got over". </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> I suppose it meant her shift. It's a pity I don't remember her name. I think it started with an A.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I was promised again that my sim will "definitely be activated in half an hour". I couldn't trust her words after the amount of sloppiness she had displayed. I asked her if there was anyway I could contact them as I couldn't wait there for half an hour. "It will surely be done sir", I was told pretty assertively, "you don't have to worry". I felt uneasy as I walked out of the office. I went back inside and confirmed if there was absolutely no way that Airtel Customer Care could contact them. I was told it was possible by mail. (So which one of your custome service folks gave me wrong info?) </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I asked her to send the sms before her shift ended and walked out of the office. In 15 minutes, I received an sms that my number had been activated. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.</span><br /><br /><br /><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">21st April 2009</b><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> No. It isn't over yet!!</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I return to Mumbai after having been out of station for a few days. Voila! My outgoing is barred. Whatever number I call, I am greeted with the same message "Your call cannot be completed. Please submit the required documents at the closest Airtel Outlet immediately. Your service will be restored within 24 hours of receiving the documents." And what was, without doubt, the heights of ridiculousness was that I received the same message even when I called 121!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I had to borrow a phone from a person I hardly knew to make a call to 98920 98920. Vinay Ujjwal, the customer service guy (I had learnt my lesson.. I made it a point to take down his name) told me that Airtel still hadn't received the documents and that I should wait for 24 hours so that "backend could check if my documents were there" and my services would be restored. Or better still (!), I could go back to the same Airtel Relationship Centre and tell them my problem!!! </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> "Can you at least enable me to call customer care from my phone?", I ask. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The assertiveness training that you give your BPO folks works well. I could make that out from his "No, sir". Here's some news for you, it pisses off people too. Saying the same cliched "sympathetic" sentence with not an iota of sympathy, over and over again doesn't help either.("I understand your inconvenience sir".. Yeah. Right.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I've so far spent 100 bucks on the sim, 60 + 60 on top ups and a further Rs.102 to enable cheap SMSes. I've invested way too much time, effort and money to throw the sim card and go buy a new one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">If this mail doesn't make you folks realise how much you frustrate your customers, if the only solutions you still have to offer are "wait for 24 hours" and "please visit the same Airtel Office".. well.. there's nothing I can do. I'm way too exhausted to take any kind of action. You've successfully managed to plant huge doubts in the mind of a loyal (why am I still using this word?) customer. Congratulations.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No thanks and very little regards,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Harish</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-29462517556997310392009-04-28T11:25:00.002+05:302009-04-28T11:57:45.548+05:30Beware of Airtel - Prologue<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I'll be posting a series of problems I faced with Airtel. These are complaint mails I had written to them which (not surprisingly) fell on deaf ears. I'll also be posting the complaints of a few other friends of mine to Airtel. I'm considering creating a separate blog for this and am <span style="font-weight: bold;">inviting write ups from anyone who has faced an issue with Airtel</span> that was handled badly or left unresolved. I'd been a loyal customer of Airtel. But not anymore. They've left me pretty disillusioned. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Not only did they take 6 days to activate my sim card, they also went ahead and deactivated my outgoing in a few days on account of "my documents being rejected". Get this, the reason for rejection was because the buggers at Airtel Office, Mahim actually LOST my documents. The careless service executives had also done a worse muck-up a few days earlier. You'll read that on my post. Today, they descended to the cheap depths of rendering even my incoming out-of-service.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">All this might have been solved if I just visited an Airtel Gallery (for the nth time) and re-submitted my documents (which they so conveniently lost in the first place). But that would just mean that the whole issue gets swept under the carpet. And no one would take ownership for the problem. There has been absolutely no accountability in Airtel Customer Service. Here is my sincere request to anyone planning to buy a new connection.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Avoid Airtel like the Plague! <span style="font-size:100%;">(Especially if you are in Mumbai.)</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I'm prepared to add a new post, or even remove this one*, provided everyone mentioned in the mail calls me up or mails me, and apologises for their pathetic service. I will definitely <span style="font-weight: bold;">update this blog as and when I receive ANY form of communication from them</span>. As of now, not a single person from the Mumbai circle has even as much as responded to my mails. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I'd also like to mention my friend at Airtel Chennai who has been trying so hard to reach the right people and get my problem resolved. I'm really grateful to him for all the troubles he's taken to solve a problem that has no connection to him whatsoever.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;" ><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">* Removal of these series of posts entails a resolution of my problem in 48 hours without troubling me in anyway. Of course, the condition of the apology calls/mails stays.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-78345009059938662802008-07-14T18:30:00.000+05:302008-07-14T18:58:25.540+05:30Sugarcube. Sweeeet!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">It's been ages since I went gaga on my blog about a Rahman album, though I was presented with several opportunities to do so in the last coupla years. Here I go again! :)<br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Sakkarakatti</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Taxi Taxi - Benny Dayal, Blaaze, Viviane Chaix, Javed Ali</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /><br />Whacky. Unfettered. Sheer unadulterated fun. It's like revisiting Bombay Dreams all over again!</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br />Ambient traffic sounds, a lady's voice humming something which is bound to get on your mom's nerves if you try it out at home, a pulsating rhythm... throw in Blaaze's funky rap and you have a winner that's gonna be played on FM stations every other hour. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br />If Naresh Iyer was the next Karthik, I guess Benny Dayal's the next Naresh. Wish Rahman would make up his mind. :) Or maybe not. His voice has the perfect hint of youthful zest to pull it off. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br />It's amazing how Rahman structures his songs. The track meanders to a halt, not very unlike a rickety yellow and black ambassador coming to a sputtering stop at a heavy traffic junction, and when you expect it to come to complete halt, Rahman surprises you with the sound of a car starting and the song regains momentum. Brilliant.</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Marudhani - Madhushree, AR Rahman, Hentry</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">It's got the same formula of one other female solo that gained immense popularity. Madhushree's rendition and Rahman humming in the middle. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Rahman plays too tiny a role though. His portion doesn't quite have the punch as Sandai Kozhi (Aayitha Ezhuthu) had. Me slightly disappointed by that. :( But overall, it's the kind of soothing romantic melody that we've (a tad unfairly) come to expect ARR to churn out in every single album. That way, I'm definitely not disappointed!<br /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Public opinion seems to suggest it's the next Munbe Va. Maybe it is. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">I Miss You Da - Chinmayi, Indai Haza</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Trust Rahman to make you scratch your head when you try to slot his song in a specific genre for your oh-so-meticulously maintained iPod. No seriously, where would you put this song?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">An interesting experimentation that takes some repeated listening to grow on you, Rahman puts Chinmayi's vocal acrobatics through some pretty complex hoops! You have Stop-Start beats. You have whispered singing. Before you know it, you have heavy-duty beats and a (soft) high pitch twist that threatens to rip the singer's vocal chords into two. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Patterns be damned. :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Chinnamma - Benny Dayal, Chinmayee</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">I was very unsure about this one when I heard Rahman was reusing his hit Meenaxi track. I'm delighted now. :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">I love the way he has adapted it to suit the tamil palate. Benny's spirited effort to match up to pretty high standards Sukhwinder had set in the original and Chinmayi's stylish counterpoints in the middle stanzas stand out. Someone give Rahman an award just for the way he makes the female singers laugh!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">After Madhuraiku Pogaadhe Di, ARR threatens to create an all new genre. Classical kuththu! :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Elay - Krish, Naresh Iyer</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">What do you get when you throw in a pinch of Roobaroo (RDB), a dash of Adhisaya Thirumanam (Paarthaale Paravasam), a drop of Smiyai (Kandukondaen Kandukondaen), a fistful of resounding orchestration from Vanessa Mae's Choreography, some brilliant guitar riffs and a whole barrel of soul? You get Elay, where the whole is greater that the sum of its parts. Oh, and the old Benny Dayal is back! :) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Currently my favourite in the album (you cannot do without the "currently" word when talking about Rahman albums!), the violin pieces blew my mind. College bands are gonna have a blast with this one at their culturals. God bless their violinist though!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Naan epodhu - Reena Bharadwaj</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">I love that woman's voice! Why doesn't she sing more often?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">I'd always felt Yeh Rishta was pretty underrated. I'm glad Rahman reused the tune. I hope it gets the appreciation it deserves at least this time around. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Verdict:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Would I recommend the album? Nope. Because I'd be busy glowering at you for not having bought it already! </span></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-85823834632105889382008-06-25T03:00:00.001+05:302008-06-25T03:19:48.900+05:30Buttermilk<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Standing opposite Rani <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Meyyammai</span> girls' school on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">RK</span> Mutt road, I was once again reflecting deeply on how utterly jobless I was. Those who are friends, have seen my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Facebook</span> profile or my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">gtalk</span> status, please forgive me as I say for possibly the 329<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">th</span> time - jobless, in every sense! Almost all my friends were employed (as e-coolies) or abroad (as Gosh-I'd-Forgotten-How-Hot-India-Gets-I-Need-My-Mineral-Water <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">NRIs</span> in the making!), and here I was, clearly not getting used to unemployment. Now that I'd resigned from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Infy</span>, and was no longer getting a salary and having squandered most of my savings on flight tickets (for a good cause! I shall come to that later.), I could no longer afford the conveyance for the well-to-do. Yup, that three-wheeled contraption, with a glass pane covered with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Rajni</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Ajith</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Vijay</span> stickers leaving about as much space as a peephole through which the world of chaos and expletives (popularly known as Chennai traffic) was to be viewed, behind which sat a usually loud mouthed-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">beedi</span> smoking gentleman whose singular, unwavering justification for hiking the fare by 300% always remained "petrol <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">velai</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">eriduchu</span>, sir", behind which sat a metal box (called an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">autorickshaw</span> meter) for strictly ornamental purposes, behind which sat a fool who'd beaten down the aforementioned gentleman's quote from 300% to 275% in a weak attempt at a fair bargain, behind which sat a rear engine which generally whined louder than the aforementioned fool. (If I go further back, it might become <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Panchathanthiram</span> revisited.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Bored me had to go somewhere. Stingy me was too afraid to shell out non-existent currency notes for a cup of bad coffee in a dimly-lit room masquerading to be a cozy-hangout-for-the-young-and-restless. Clever me decided to hit the beach. But how?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">That was when, as I have already once mentioned in my blog, magic happened. I turned. There was a horrible sensation that I was being squeezed through a rubber tube; I could not draw breath, every part of me was compressed almost past endurance and then, just when I thought I would suffocate, the invisible bands burst open, and I was standing in the open, breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air. Though the previous statement, an almost word-for-word lift from The Half Blood Prince might suggest I had performed a side-along apparition with about 20 others, the fact remained that I had, in fact, travelled in a 29C bus to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Besant</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Nagar</span>. Ah, it's good to be back in Chennai! </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/1.gif" /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Doubt <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Debunkers</span>:</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">1. What's that great escape thing?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> The great escape mentioned in the last post was my successful getaway from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Bhubaneswar</span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">2. What are you doing in Chennai?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> I had no other place to go </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/1.gif" /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> well, at least for a week.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">3. So where are you going after a week?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> To Indore.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">4. But why?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">IIM</span> beckons </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/3.gif" /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">5. What? When did you write CAT?!</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> November 2007, obviously </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/10.gif" /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">6. Why didn't you tell me? </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/14.gif" /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> Sorry! </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/17.gif" /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> But now you know!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">7. Who's supposed to be asking all these questions?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> The people in my schizophrenic mind. The ones I'm delusional enough to think still read my blog. </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/46.gif" /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">8. What the hell is the title supposed to mean?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> I'd promised more if you watch this space, hadn't I? </span><img style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/4.gif" /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">9. What were you doing outside a girls' school?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> My aunt lives close by. Promise!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-26297978886993826642008-05-29T00:00:00.001+05:302008-12-10T00:53:00.526+05:30Watch this space for more :)<a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZwalibIg2W3iLdiFfBl5HAk1yBJnGypkb22a69XLdRzdV0PuCKBEMgYN9rXRnWN18FJZ9oJi_y1vZ_05uBBpJ97i0N8xqxCWdyXTW1ObxmsTi-40eoyc-8f2AvGqlSLt6_7i/s1600-h/24032008406.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZwalibIg2W3iLdiFfBl5HAk1yBJnGypkb22a69XLdRzdV0PuCKBEMgYN9rXRnWN18FJZ9oJi_y1vZ_05uBBpJ97i0N8xqxCWdyXTW1ObxmsTi-40eoyc-8f2AvGqlSLt6_7i/s320/24032008406.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205511967455834242" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Updated 31st May, 2008:</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Or not! :(</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-81658752940079310642007-07-30T00:00:00.000+05:302007-07-29T11:23:39.190+05:30Staying alive<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Yup. This blog ain't dead yet. Neither am I. (Though I'd say the blog's more alive than I am!)</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Those of you who watched Navjot Singh Siddhu gggrrrrriiiiiinnnnndddddd out the West Indian bowling in '97 and thought there can never be a slower or a more boring 200 than that, here's a strong contender.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Me :)</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This is my 200th post. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">PS.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After more than 2 and a half years, it's been one heck of a journey. Blogging certainly has changed me as a person. It's made a shy recluse open up a bit, talk to people I haven't met before, opened my eyes to the fact that there can be more than one opinion on any issue!!</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I owe one to my blog for that. Thankoo!</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No, I'm not gonna shut my blog down or anything! Never found the heart to. It'll remain dormantly active, so that I can come and pulambify every once in a while.. and during those rare moments when I get struck by an inspiration, come and post a kadi story!</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This was just a useless post in an attempt to catch up with ya all in my comment box :) But it really is my 200th!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-63487574616690258382007-06-09T19:30:00.000+05:302008-12-10T00:53:00.885+05:30Going to Hyd<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT5-OQxM3tqEDqou1_GJVRfeGiKJpizplgkC1G-P3_dwXoYWA3m4ernmv6WmuKeimE-SB44MQj0s0BQYt1wGv8Lc9xE4c_hcMD3QClBdtYp4Dq3GPwfVnqXNwPROpcWIiuyxk/s1600-h/alvida.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT5-OQxM3tqEDqou1_GJVRfeGiKJpizplgkC1G-P3_dwXoYWA3m4ernmv6WmuKeimE-SB44MQj0s0BQYt1wGv8Lc9xE4c_hcMD3QClBdtYp4Dq3GPwfVnqXNwPROpcWIiuyxk/s400/alvida.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073868473703782962" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-E5wHpg4S-TeqIERA3rYE45ziIuEVOZcRzDI59qRmARi6jhanqV19CTc0g0m4OwEZOAq7OajTFyEj9JOM373lwMbhvT-tcg5wjZDrLSX22uWO-mFzXwCX1u4f3z6QkBD17qV7/s1600-h/al2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-E5wHpg4S-TeqIERA3rYE45ziIuEVOZcRzDI59qRmARi6jhanqV19CTc0g0m4OwEZOAq7OajTFyEj9JOM373lwMbhvT-tcg5wjZDrLSX22uWO-mFzXwCX1u4f3z6QkBD17qV7/s400/al2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073868473703782978" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-2948901641499195232007-05-23T23:00:00.000+05:302007-05-23T10:37:29.793+05:30Crash Course to Adulthood<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">First Week of May:</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Afternoonish: Pulambify to friend. "Cha, why are our parents like this? Plane la kootitu poradhu thaan poraanga.. adha oru nenaivu iruka time la kootitu polaam la? 2 yr old ku enna nyabagam irukka pogudhu!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">May 11th:</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">2 PM - Pulambify to friend. "I don't like this. I'm now officially an adult with no subclauses.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> We're now entering the world of resposibilities! I dun wanna!!!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">5 PM - Cousin calls. "I've an urgent work that needs to be done by Tuesday morning. I want you to come to Bangalore pronto!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">6 PM - Cousin calls back. "I've booked your flight ticket. Check your mail!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">6:02 PM - I grin like a maniac.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">11:30 PM - Realise I haven't packed yet. An 8 o'clock flight meant I needed to be there at 6:30. Which meant I needed to leave by 5:45 at least.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">11:34 PM - Finish packing!</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">May 12th:</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">5 AM - Wake up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">5:20 AM - Do something I hope I never have to do again. Have a bath so early!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">5:30 AM - Sit on the sofa, twiddling my thumb. Say "6 ku kelambarene ma?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">5:40 AM - Get kicked out of the house.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">5:45 AM - Catch auto. Think, "hmmm, 6:30 ku poi saendhudalaam."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">6 AM - Autokaaran says "vandhaachu saar!" I was supposed to say WTF, but I'm a good boy you see.. So I don't. :)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The next 20 minutes - Walk up and down outside the gate, looking for any place to wait. Find none. But find Coffee Day! One vaailiye nozhayadha coffee name later, walk up and down again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">6:20 AM - Go to the security guard. He says, "come at 7". I sit on the railing outside the gate.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">6:23 AM - A gal sits next to me. Another opposite me. Lucky, you say? One looks as if she'd beat me up. The other blows a smoke ring in my face!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">7 AM - After over half an hour of twiddling my thumbs, listening to Radio Mirchi, messaging a coupla friends (bless them for getting up early!), I notice the noticeboard kinda thingy. It says flight delayed to 10:15. Damn!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">7:10 AM - being the complete idiot that I am, I enter the gate, and lose all modes of entertainment. Continuously playing FM takes a toll on the battery.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The next 50 minutes - Walk up and down the airport!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">8:00 AM - Go to the place called Port Lounge. Eat a 5 Re Samosa for Rs.20. Drink a 15 Re Tropicana for Rs.30. Make a mental note to open a shop inside the airport.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">8:15 AM - Approach the lady who looks like a wedding cake. You could stick a one-inch nail into her face and still not touch skin! Be told the flight's postponed to 11:30 :( Some technical glitch in Kolkatta. The same plane's supposed to go to Bangalore half an hour after reaching Chennai.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Next one and a half hours - Listen to FM, chat with friends, drain the battery completely and go searching for a charging point.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">9:20 AM - Find charging point. Put the converter thingy.*</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">* I've got a new N72 :) err, not so new now. It uses another charger that's got a tiny pin thingy. So they'd given me a converter that acts like an adapter to use the normal Nokia charger. Made no sense? Free leave!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">9:45 AM - Look at the TV screen and rub my eyes in disbelief. Naah, it couldn't have been. Must've been a trick of light. Wait patiently for the update to come again. DAMN! It wasn't an illusion. The flight really was delayed to 18:30!!!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The next 15 minutes - Pick up a fight with the SpiceJet people. Argue that a delay of over 8 hours was three much. Insist on a full refund. No subtract 600 bucks and keep the rest in the SpiceJet account shit. Complete refund. Succeed. :)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">10 AM - Ask those guys that I need to get to Bangalore ASAP. They say there's a Jet Airways flight in half an hour.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">10:10 AM - Buy a ticket for the 11:30 flight to Bangalore. I must be the only nutcase to risk buying a ticket using a debit card!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">10:20 AM - Realise I've left my converter at the charging station itself. Go there to find a 1100 attached to it. I ask the lady there if the converter was already there when she came. She says yes, and that the point doesn't work. I remove the converter and hook her phone to the original charger. She gives me a sheepish grin. :)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">10:30 AM - Manage to lose my converter again! :( </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">10:40 AM - Get my boarding pass. The lady there asks if I'd like a window seat or aisle. I say I've got no preferences. But she must've seen my eyes light up when she said window and she books a window seat! I then slap my forehead thinking the aisle would've given me a better view of the air hostesses! I later** find out, I didn't miss much.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Next 50 minutes - Watch Dhoni and Gambhir hit scorching shots to the fielders.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">11:32 AM - Padathula perusu perusa planes paarthuttu, pretty disappointed at the size of this one. Felt like I was climbing into a toy plane.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">11:35 AM - ** that later is now!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">11:40 AM - Look at the air hostess mime the actions as a voice booms out the instructions from the speakers. She gestures moving here hand like a robot to indicate the aisle and the exits. All of a sudden a song pops into my head. Ooraaram Puliyamaram from Paruthiveeran. Her actions were freakishly synchronised to the tune. I bite my tongue to keep myself from smiling or laughing. And just as the nadhaswaram bit plays in my head, she blows air into the lifejacket. I let out a guffaw! She throws me a nasty stare! Or did I imagine that?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Next 45 minutes - Wonder why I'm not feeling airsick. Look at the food served to me. Something yellow and powdery, as if yellow idlis and bread pieces had been mashed together in a mixer. Wonder what it's called. Apparently the caterers didn't know either. It was labelled "South Indian Snack". The tray kept sliding down the desk thingy. The same air hostess I'd laughed at gave me a sadistic smile, but her sense of duty overcame here personal feelings as she placed a booklet underneath the food tray to stop it from sliding. And then gave me another smile that clearly said, "mavane, thevai da unakku!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">12:30 PM - Land in Bangalore and go straight to my cousin's office to work. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Next 2 hours : Do a bit of work, and think about what's been happening. Hardly a week back, I was wondering when I'd get a chance to fly, and now I already had. Hardly 24 hours back, I'd wondered how I was going to fit into an adult's shoes. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Though I hate to admit it, seemed like now I already had. The shoes were very uncomfortable, just for the record.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">2:30 PM - Reach home, and heave a sigh of relief that I'd made it to Bangalore in one piece. Bozo comes bounding and leaves a straight line rip on my tee-shirt. So much for one piece!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">PS.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I'd typed this long back. Draft la save panni vechu post panna marandhuten! Yeah yeah, idhukku post pannaamaye irundhurukalaam. I know. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">PPS.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">My training starts on June 11th. In Hyderabad!! Kadavul thaan enna kaapathanam.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-32475422899981155692007-04-27T21:15:00.000+05:302008-12-10T00:53:01.072+05:30Hope<div style="text-align: center; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgONG8J9ZY_G2nCNTmutNamzQYRvvroLzYF39tSZ4BOE6DJDwPv4ECxIUGjkxLBt1qQFnMKJegH8Jmz9suWc6LofPNfagwhkvmVWyIi726dNTFPjUPEZgHelTK-Jyr47KW5ZoM/s1600-h/Image324.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgONG8J9ZY_G2nCNTmutNamzQYRvvroLzYF39tSZ4BOE6DJDwPv4ECxIUGjkxLBt1qQFnMKJegH8Jmz9suWc6LofPNfagwhkvmVWyIi726dNTFPjUPEZgHelTK-Jyr47KW5ZoM/s400/Image324.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057940246362427538" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Four years of friendship doesn't fade away as these shadows.<br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">PS.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I never knew I was capable of serious, senti msgs :) adhukaaga ellarum jora oru round kai thattunga!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-5821380275860953802007-04-14T01:30:00.000+05:302007-04-13T13:09:59.461+05:30Recurring Michael Jackson Syndrome - II<div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 153);">[Sorry! I forgot to put a "To Be Continued" message in my last post. Aparam orae bijee aaitena, wasn't able to conclude the story at all. But ippo panneeten. Read on.. ]</span></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><br />Chapter 5</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Allwyn woke up the next morning in bed wondering why his head was filled with lead. (Rhyme ellam thaana varum.. no no, no applause.. it's ok). It all came rushing back to him, like a St. Bernard to the master of the house. It knocked him down all over again, as he groaned. Dr. Jill had said she loved him. Not 'crush'. Not 'feelings for him'. LOVE! Damn her. He didn't know what to say and had muttered he needed to sleep over it and that she'd have his reply the next morning. And he went ahead and got himself sloshed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now it was time for him to give her a reply, and he wasn't even sure what he was going to say. "Hell, All.. Do something.", he told himself, "Do what a rational adult in a serious adult situation in a mature adult world would do."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">One round of Eeny Meeny Myney Mo later, Jill's answering machine had one new message saying "Jill? This is All. I'm in!".</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Chapter 6</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jill started taking extra special care of Allwyn. She had to repeatedly remind him that he meant the world to her, and confirm that she indeed was in love with him. It wasn't too difficult convincing him though, as she found out one day, when Allwyn, all of a sudden, asked "Do you really love me?". Panic gripped her, as she stammered, "Of.. of.. of course, All! In fact, every morning, I fall in love with you all over again!". Allwyn's eyebrows almost became one, as he looked at her suspiciously and asked, "How do I believe you fell for me?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jill had a resigned look on her face as she sighed and slowly began lifting her skirt. Allwyn's eyes widened, and he hurriedly said "Ok! I believe you!".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">He had noticed the bandage on her knee. (Gotcha, you pervert!)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Chapter 7</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As the weeks rolled by, Jill started to find the lovey-dovey act quite tiring. Allwyn, in contrast, was slipping into his new role very comfortably. He'd only wanted to test how far the relationship would go. And now, he realised he was falling in love with her too. "So this is what love feels like!", he'd often tell her, raising her guilt meter a few more notches.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Things took a sharp turn once again. The skin condition was back! Allwyn started to grow paler, till he reached a complexion so fair, that had he been in my school, he'd have earned the nickname "Vellai Panni". Jill was extremely excited about it. It was strange enough that his skin had turned white once. It was stranger still, when the condition disappeared as suddenly as it came. What were the odds that it could repeat itself all over again!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The frequency of "Not tonight, All.", gradually increased, much to Allwyn's consternation, along with "I need to do a little more work on this. Now that you're white again, my chances of finding the cause have gone up. I can't let this go!". Allwyn's suspicions reared their heads again as he began to wonder whether Jill loved him or his skin condition.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Oh, and they had a name for it now. Recurring Michael Jackson Syndrome. "Unimaginative, yes. But that's the best we could come up with!", Jill had shrugged.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Chapter 8</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jill's gut feeling had proved true. Allwyn's melanin levels </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >did</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> seem to vary with his mood and emotions. She was on the verge of cracking the case. She called up Allwyn and excitedly shrieked, "I think I've almost done it! I'd been preparing a thesis on your condition, and I've almost reached a conclusion. All that needs to be done is for Dr. Derma Karen to verify my findings!! She said she'd do that as soon as she's back from Germany next week. I'm feeling so happy! Can you come over? I want you here. NOW!".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Allwyn didn't care a damn about anything else other than the fact that there was an urgency in her voice when she'd called him over to her place, and the fact that she was extremely happy. "Jackpot!", his mind screamed, as he zipped to her place in double quick time. "I'm on my way, sweetie.", he said, "I'll be there in half an hour." He was only five minutes away from her place. He'd given her a false sense of extra time hoping to surprise her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There was surprise, alright. He walked into her apartment, only to catch her speaking to someone on the phone. "No Dolly, of course not! I don't love him! I had no other choice. How else do you think I could've got close to him and keep him monitored all the time? If he knew I'd been performing tests on him even as he slept..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"All!", she gasped, as she noticed him in the room and dropped the receiver.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Chapter 9</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A few days passed. Allwyn was beyond heart-broken. He'd turned cynical. Earlier he'd wondered if he'd ever experience true love. Now he </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >knew</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> it was impossible. Oh, and he'd turned black again!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A few more days passed. It had taken that long for Jill to destroy each and every piece of paper of painstaking research she'd done on this case. She could forget about her thesis submission. She had a moral obligation to send Dr. Derma Karen a mail about her findings. It didn't take her long to type it. After she hit send, she packed her bags and left.<br /><br />No one knew where.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Chapter 10</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dr. Derma Karen opened her inbox in curious anticipation of Jill's mail. It was time for the world to find out about the only ever known case of Recurring Michael Jackson Syndrome. As she clicked on Jill's mail whose subject read "Allwyn Kelvinator - RJMS - Conclusive Report", she thought it was vulgar to feel so childishly excited, especially considering that she was one of the most renowned and respected specialists in her field.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Dear Dr. Karen," the mail read, "All is fair in love and war."<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 153);">[Yeah. NOW it's over. :) ]</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790226.post-67590030213858460272007-03-31T11:30:00.000+05:302007-03-30T23:37:03.485+05:30Recurring Michael Jackson Syndrome<div style="text-align: right;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 0</span><br /></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />Allwyn was diagnosed with Recurring Michael Jackson Syndrome. No, his world did not come crashing down around him. Frankly, he didn't give a rodent's posterior*. He got along just fine, thank you very much**.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Allwyn Kelvinator was an African-American*** from California. He was a pretty cool guy, and it had nothing to do with the fact that both his first and last names were those of refrigerators. He was the first and only black to be diagnosed with RMJS. It was a condition that the doctors didn't even know existed, hence the kooky name.</span><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;">* I'm politically correct, you see. If Allwyn was narrating this in first person, he'd have used "rat's ass"!<br />** Don't sue me for plagiarism yet. I, err, hehe, seem to have "internalised" JK Rowling's works.<br />*** Same as (*). Replace "rat's ass" with "nigger" or "black".</span><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 1</span><br /></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />Allwyn had a relatively normal childhood. He grew up in a predominantly black neighbourhood. He had his share of playground bullying, girlfriends, bike races, girlfriends, graffiti art, girlfriends. Did I mention girlfriends? His "romances" were dubiously popular and likened to houseflies. Noisy, dirty and rumoured to last only a day! But he'd never experienced true love. And to be honest with himself, he didn't think he'd ever experience it. He had a notorious image to maintain.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">One day, he got news that changed him as an individual forever. He'd been enlisted in the US army. Cruelly enough, it coincided with the Gulf War. He was flown to the Persian Gulf to join the troops. That was when something strange started to happen to him. While his white comrades were getting tanned in the hot sun, Allwyn began to appear pale. With every passing day, his dark skin was getting lighter and lighter. It was a dream come true for advertisers of Fair and Handsome. Unfortunately, it wasn't around in those days. And so, Allwyn slowly began to turn into a white man. His vocabulary and mannerisms were the same though.<br /><br />The army doctors were getting a bit worried. They suspected he'd contracted some rare disease, and they did not have the resources to test him. They had no choice but to let him go back home.<br />His family found it horrifying. His mom was on the verge of disowning him.<br />His friends found it hilarious. They teased him endlessly about it.<br />The doctors found it perplexing. They had absolutely no clue why his melanin levels plummeted like that.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 2</span><br /></div> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dr. Jill Nualove*, a medical student, a la Nayanthara in Gajini, started taking special interest in his case. She began researching skin conditions extensively. It certainly wasn't <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vitiligo">Vitiligo</a>, as his pale skin wasn't patchy. She drew parallels to Michael Jackson's condition. MJ's case, though, was fraught with complications, what with his single-minded devotion to perform plastic surgery on every inch of his face according to tabloids. The only way to get a breakthrough in Allwyn's case was to work with him directly.<br /><br />Allwyn consented to her request, and Jill began to conduct tests on him. She constantly monitored his melanin levels and studied their variation with his mood. By March, they were in for another surprise. His skin began to turn dark again.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*This name is dedicated to <a href="http://hearitfromshiv.blogspot.com/">Shiv</a>. She wouldn't need <a href="http://www.sillunuorukaadhal.com/">this link</a> to understand why! :)</span></span><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 3<br /></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jill couldn't believe what she saw. More tests followed, and he was found to be perfectly alright. Allwyn, by then, was tired of being a lab rat. "Thanks, Dr. Jill. Yer tests say I'm ok, n' I ain't stayin' here any longer. I'm goin' home.", said Allwyn to a visibly disappointed Jill.<br /><br />The reversal of his skin colour had opened up more avenues of research for Jill. She was planning to submit a thesis on this unheard of condition, and Allwyn was backing out at the wrong time. She had to stall him somehow. Her brain was buzzing with all these thoughts, when Allwyn noticed her dejected look. "Ya alright, doc?", he enquired. A CFL bulb* lit up in Jill's brain.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">* And this one's dedicated to <a href="http://shallowthgts.blogspot.com/2007/02/light-bulb-moment.html">her</a> :)</span><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 4<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />Jill lowered her head, and said, "I think I'm beginning to fall in love with you."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0