Escape.

Shantha shifted uneasily and adjusted the shoulder creases of her fitted flannel shirt, worried about judging eyes, mostly her own. She had paired the shirt with loose corduroys and tied her hair into an immaculate bun. Just as how a wine loses its tartness with age, Shantha’s face too had begun to show wrinkled lines. She stood behind a table of neatly arranged sling bags, totes, quilts, decoupaged bottles, hand painted coasters, each her own creation. She wondered if they would give her little secrets away to the buyer, each one a tiny reflection of a past she had long left behind. She had spent all of the previous night attaching tiny neon price labels with tie strings to her handiwork. It was her first sale at the Vestkanttorvet flea market located close to the city center of Oslo.

The Scandinavian food stalls were a treat to one’s olfactory and gastronomical senses. Blocks of succulent cheese of all textures and tastes - rindless bocconcini, aged gouda, brie, gruyere - were stacked alongside and on top of one another like a pile of Jenga; a sourdough boule sat in the middle drawing unsuspecting shoppers to stop and break bread, quite literally. The smell of Za’atar wafted through the air, telltale signs of a Middle Eastern spice shop somewhere close by. Other stalls sold antique crockery, old souvenirs, second hand clothes and a lot of what one would assume had its place in a pile of garbage. A set of old-fashioned speakers played a familiar song in the background. Shantha hummed along and smiled,

“Did I waste it?

Not so much I couldn’t taste it.

Life should be fragrant,

Rooftop to the basement…….”

~

She looked at his clear eyes; they were so lifeless as if he had already passed on. An intravenous tube ran through his frail hands that twitched in pain as a nurse tried to insert contents from a vial of medicine into them. The on-call doctor made his third round for the night and checked for pulse. Still alive. Here lies a man who took it upon himself to make my life miserable – in life and in death, she thought.

She remembered this man, a 41 year old then, inebriated, staggering to even stand straight, when it was barely 10 am on the clock.

She remembered the time he had come to her parents’ house with a proposal for marriage what seemed like many light years ago. She had looked at her mother with unsure eyes; something was amiss with this man, something reeking of poor self-esteem and insecurity issues sitting deep. And before she could make sense of what was going on, here she was, in an emotionally abusive marriage with two kids with a man who was always perched at the center of his universe. She wasn’t sure at what point she deciphered she was going through abuse.

She remembered the time she wiped a layer of dust off of her trophies and gold medals and gave them away at the local paper mart. That, with several other certificates, fetched her all of Rs. 40. My education wasn’t a waste, after all, she wondered.

~

The hospital looked like an eerie deserted railway station at this hour. People wandered around aimlessly, with no sense of urgency. Some sat distraught in waiting rooms, hoping desperately for dawn to bring in something good. It was as if the world had slowed down to help the dead cross over.

The next morning, the nurses came and changed the rumpled sheets where Shantha’s husband lay. Her children signed a few documents necessary to take the body home. The next few hours were a blur; people moved in and out of the house in flocks and the scene had begun to resemble a movers and packers vehicle offloading at a site.

“It’s time, Shantha.” a familiar voice held her at the shoulder.

“But..”, faded Shantha’s voice.

“No more. You said no 15 years back. I didn’t right that wrong then. That guilt will never leave me. I am not taking another one on my watch. Pack your bags – the bare essentials, I have your ticket, we leave by tomorrow’s red-eye flight. Carry a heavy duty jacket – Norway gets cold this time of the year.”, her friend from school Shyamala quipped.

She said a final goodbye, most importantly to her older self that did not know how to put itself before others.

~

"God Morgen!", a nervous Shantha welcomed a few locals to her stall, feigning nonchalance, but not succeeding. She had broken herself free from bigger shackles; she could afford to take this slow.

She remembered a line from her granddaughter's favorite book, the Harry Potter series. ‘Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.’

After all, she had learnt how to escape her own mind.

Of little people.

So it was true.

Every 99% accurate test in the world said it and to add to it, the doctor confirmed and smirked that most 99% accurate tests could be believed 99% of the times. Heh, dark humor, a voice in my head acknowledged it.

Preparations began almost immediately. Calling parental units, bookmarking babycenter.com, subscribing to newsletters, going overboard with the organic shiz(nah I didn't do that). This whole phase can get very confusing if you don't stay alert, by the way. Like people would ask you how far along you are in terms of months, your doctor in terms of weeks and trimesters(which have often come out as semesters from my mouth no kidding), so mentally you are like this is 17th week, a month has 4 weeks mostly, so 4 months over for sure and you get the drift. So at times you feel like KEEP CALM AND TRUST BABYCENTER. This whole pregnancy "wonderland" is a phase in itself. Everyone around is extremely considerate and concerned about you, which turns 360'degrees in exactly a year's time but let's take this one by one. This phase also gets very interesting in the sense that all science and sense known to mankind comes to a standstill, and people make extremely certain judgments about gender of baby based on your rotundity and complexion, and of course, THEIR experience. And there are the labor tales. Looking at you being pregnant suddenly reminds everyone of their delivery table and *that* narration comes out in the most gruesome and melodramatic way.

So anyway. Laddoo(and that's how we are going to address her on social media) was an easy baby, so I knew zilch about morning sickness, diabetes and everything else pregnant ladies complain of. Infact, I cooked meals for the two of us till the week before I delivered. Life looked good and I thought I could keep this baby inside forever if allowed.

And the whole thing got over just like that and out she came. It wasn't easy. And I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said it has been the most difficult thing I have had to do till now. And truth be told, no one said it would be easy, but you don't realize it till you see it yourself. I have not even a faint memory of how she looked seconds later, thanks to fatigue and being drugged. So all those mommy posts I had read saying it was the most beautiful moment and how they wept tears of joy at this miracle called birth - that TRP winning episode was not at all aired on my cable channel. I felt like an angry customer who wanted his money back.

All I wanted was sleep. And food. For God's sake YOU FED ME ICE CHIPS WHICH WERE QUITE DELICIOUS THANK YOU BUT I NOW WANT REAL FOOD. But they brought me a hungry baby instead. After every hour. And it looked somewhat like this -

[1am. Scene at hospital few hours after Laddoo is born.]
Nurse: Ooh the baby is crying. I think she needs you. She is hungry maybe?
Me: But I just fed her 15 minutes back. For 15 minutes. Which means I practically just put her back right now.
Nurse: Oh she must have pooped then. Yes, she has!
Me: But she drinks like 4 drops. Like DROPS.

1.45 am.

Nurse: Ooh the baby is crying. I think she needs you. She is hungry maybe?
Me: *looking at baby* Girl, we need to talk.

So the thing about Babycenter is that these guys send updates quite methodically every week saying this week your baby is the size of a grape, peapod, watermelon and all. But not one email about "what to expect immediately after delivery", "10 ways to make sure your husband suffers along with you", or "how to make your mom let you eat what you want to eat and not just garlic". DUDE BABYCENTER. WHEN WERE YOU PLANNING TO TELL ME. And so, for the next fortnight or so, I pretty much pulled all-nighters. And then got used to it.

Today, she is all of 15 months old and controls me like my parents couldn't have in all these years. When she sleeps, I feel like I don't know what to do with my time now. She amazes me with the way she thinks at this age despite the 3 decade gap between us. And she does make life worth every hour of labor that existed ever. For you, a thousand times over, S!

81. The Dabbler

If you haven’t known enough Tam-Brahms or Bengalis in your life, then you ought to know that both cultures almost make it an unsaid mandate to give their children some form of classical vocational training – be it dance, music, painting – where the normal kids were getting to sleep an extra hour or play video games in their spare time, we TamBrahms were making sure our kids went to Paattu(Carnatic Music) class or Dance class. When I say Dance class, I am somehow, with no scope of a doubt, assuming that you, in full cognizance, understand the fact that I am referring to some form of classical dance, lest you are painting pictures of our kids going to Shiamak Dawar school in your head. 

As if what was in place was not enough, we TamBrahms created our own Mini-rat race.

The choice of vocation decided for the child largely depends on what is available in your zip code, proficiency of the teacher, and to a miniscule portion, the aptitude of the child. Some kids are found to have shown early signs of innate talent. I remember this 70-year old neighbor of mine proudly explaining why she decided to send her grand-daughter to Bharatanatyam classes. Turns out the little baby was moving her eyeballs left and right when she was 2 days old and still, very much in the hospital. Clearly much more talented than some of us who lay there mute in our cribs, staring at the wall? Alas, my parents were not blessed with such a gifted child, and had to decide themselves as to what I was to learn. The closest we got to Carnatic music in Delhi was that we found a Kannadiga flute teacher. It was settled, then and there, that I would learn flute.

Here’s the catch about being trained in these arts – you are expected to climb the ladder. What starts with singing in front of random ladies and performing in temples, paves way to a much more ambitious path of performing in concerts. Anyway, I was never the disciplined kid who would sit and meticulously practice flute for two hours daily. Whenever it is that I played, it was nice to see some appreciation come my way, but I would never sweat blood for it. I started training when I was 7 and trained for a period of about 8-9 years, never really realizing the importance of practice. The few times that I was asked to play in front of enthusiastic relatives and friends, I would strategize my way by maintaining a fairly better hold of certain Krithis than the others in my repertoire, using a Round Robin algorithm to select between the krithis. It was only after I moved to Chennai that the magnitude of what I had missed struck me – people my age (a lot of times, the ones even younger to me) were singing/playing so well – they were giving concerts, performing on the All India Radio, winning laurels – THIS was competition. SO knowledgeable. SO hardworking. And they had all started roughly about the time I did. There was one thing that clearly set us apart – Practice. What I had lost could not be won back, but I could look further ahead down the road and repair whatever I can. I could try finding a good teacher and resume practice. For starters, being married to an accomplished Carnatic violinist helps in ways more than one. :)

Here’s a recording of a recent performance of mine – A happier interpretation of Kaadhal Rojaave/Roja Jaaneman from the movie Roja (Would love to know what you think about it. Please leave your feedback in the comments section).

80. Sirf ek main. Aur sirf ek tu.

Some movies make your skin crawl. Some movies make you cry like no one was watching. Some movies put you to sleep faster than reading 'The Secret' would. Only some movies make you feel special. Very special.

From the makers of the saddest movies in Indian cinema comes another excruciatingly plebeian melodrama.

Ek Main aur Ekk Tu is one movie that made me feel special, simply owing to the fact that it gave me that one experience, the probability of occurrence of which, in the future, were as close to zero as that of Kim Jong II really dying.

It gave me an empty theater.

6.42 pm. The movie was to start at 6.45. By now, my hopes had metamorphosed into desperation. I was hopeful that some random drunk guy would think it better to collapse in the theater than pass out on the road ; some random old-age couple might have nothing better to do in life and might turn up ; and of course, my greatest bet - all desis who packed themselves like sardines to watch Ra.One, could clearly bring their posterior for this one. As it turns out, I was inhumanely let down by all these aforesaid people. At one point of time, I had my doubts if they would even screen the movie.

Ek Main.. and What Happened In Vegas have as much as the word Vegas in common. It would be illegal to even talk about the two in the same sentence. Faint memories of the movie still occupy some space inside my head, and in a feeble attempt at evacuation of the same, I write this review. There is no such thing as a new or fresh concept in the movie. Of course, the movie has an open ending, which has been spoken about at great lengths and has been pounded upon like an old rag on a washerman's stone(probably because we are trained to not expect such unusual things in KJo movies, which are a hiss and a byword in present times).

I haven't heard too many people referencing Taare Zameen Par for a mild similarity with this flick, but I was forced to compare given the high standards set by parents, so on and so forth. Kareena Kapoor refuses to come out of her 'Geet' character from Jab We Met. It's almost as if that's the only thing she has to write on her resume. "I was the happy-happy girl and I did it so well, and I am going to do it all over again. I will accept only those scripts where I am the happy-happy girl and I can do it so well, and I will do it all over again". My sympathies are with Imran Khan, who is as catatonic to acting as a Raj Koothrapalli to women, and makes Rahul Roy in Aashiqui look like the god of acting. Ram Kapoor adds nice rotundity, but that's that.

borrrriiiing.

79. Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara

DISCLAIMER :

1. Every movie review on this blog carries a disclaimer.

2. Text ahead might contain spoilers, but hey, I am sure 3/4th of the world has already see the movie by now.

3. A movie seen late, gets a review, late.

As fate would have it, this is the second Hrithik Roshan movie this blog is reviewing. 

ZNMD is an interesting flick to watch(but just once!). Three friends get together on a supposed Bachelor Party, setting them on to experiment adventure sports they dread most, making them unveil their hidden fears. A comparison with Dil Chahta Hai inevitably crosses your mind looking at the tension and friction between Arjun and Imraan. Such a comparison does unimaginable damage to the movie, which Zoya Akhtar seems to have quickly grasped. 

• Hrithik Roshan sports a Dhoom 2 look. Yes?
• The chemistry between Arjun and Imraan is unmistakable and thoroughly enjoyable.  Abhay Deol plays Ms. Goody Two Shoes and is the glue between these two. 
• I can't even get to writing it, but Nazeeruddin Shah and Deepti Naval are wasted :( For whatever it's worth, the two have enacted their parts beautifully, though I did want to put some life into Naval's character.
• When all of the world is singing Senorita, I can't see why Roshan sings Senori"thaa". :D Abhay Deol's unrestrained singing and his clumsy dancing bring a whiff of fresh air to the song. *drool*
• Katrina is aptly cast in the movie, movies-set-in-foreign-locations being her forte, thereby bringing out her talent to nonchalantly carry off her American Hindi.
• Why in the name of God was "Saare jahan se acchha" played before they were about to skydive?
• Farhan Akhtar is adorable. Kalki Koechlin has enacted her bit well, and adds that posh-ness to the setting.
• The ending scene while the credits are rolling, is completely utopian in my view. The compulsive need to show that all was cool between Kabir(Abhay) and Natasha(Kalki) as the movie ends. Disappointing. Life doesn't work that way. 
• iLOLed at Bagwati :D

The movie is certainly nothing out of the ordinary, but is definitely worth a watch. If nothing, you'll atleast feel the desperate need to skydive before you die :)