Paa .... Quite a Nice Movie

Paa was one good movie that I have seen in a really long time. It is one of those movies that make you happy about having made a good choice in spending money.
It’s the story of a small boy with this serious condition of Progeria. Amitab has done a real justice to the role. His transformation to Auro is simply wonderful and the makeup really deserves a good applause. His body language, sound, everything shows the kind of effort that he has put into it. And it is a really memorable performance from Big B.
Vidya Balan shines as the brave and confident mother, who brings up her son all by herself. Actually the whole cast is good and the movies will be remembered for good acting.
The script is good and there are some really brilliant dialogues.

But the whole Politian act of Abhishek and those media stunts do look a bit weird and do not blend well with the rest of the movie. The kind of things that he does to regain his popularity and credibility do not look a bit original. That Doordarshan bit of the show fails to impress the audience as it would in the case of any real life politician in India. And the much publicised theme of progeria is not well developed. They could have cut the making-of-a-politian bit out and had given a bit more of importance to progeria.

The music is average. Ilayaraja’s reuse of his own tune (the famous Malayalam song Tumbi vaa ..) doesn’t sound as good. And the situation, according to me, is a bit too gloomy for a full-of-life tune like that.
The way the credits were shown is a welcome change. Jaya Bachan’s appearance there is quite pleasing and I liked the whole experiment.
And the whole story is showing the changing attitude of present day women towards life. Gone are the days when women used to wait eagerly for the Father-of-my-son and it is nice to see the change reflected in our movies. Vidya is one of those ‘choice mums’ and that part of the story was treated pretty well.
Only thing that I could not understand was why they decided to call this movie ‘Paa’. The whole story is about a boy who has a serious medical condition and is brought up by his wonderfully strong, affectionate, caring and loving mom. His dad does not even know about his existence for a long time. This man realizes that it is his son only towards the end of the movie. Alright, he does take the boy out on a trip. From what I could understand, the boy’s death came a bit faster because of his realization that his parents are not married. That fight in the school were ‘bastard’ was used, gives him a shock. All his attempts to see his parents together put a lot of strain on him both physically and mentally. I really couldn’t understand why they called the movie Paa after an irresponsible father, who is not up to a real challenge in life.
All said, Paa is a must watch. It has its share of fun filled moments and there is enough of emotion and tears.

More Hate Poems

Every time I hear "I love u",
the hollowness stabs me.
A sharp, peircing pain, that-
seep to the marrow of my being.
I yearn to spit on these,
turn my face and walk away.
But this body is a beggar,
or rather a parah dog that licks,
the thrown way morsels.
And then-
Bask in the glory that never was!

*---------------------------------*

My heart, as hard as a rock,
Is tossed in the jungle of love.
Yearning, not for the footstep
of a wandering prince
The fun of being trampled on,
I've had enough for a moksha and more.
All I yearn for is freedom-
from the treachery of this body.
I know my freedom will be won-
The day I start hating you.

*---------------------------------*

One Day of Baby Sitting

One day my uncle asked me to baby sit for him. Since his daughter happened to be my favourite cousin, I agreed most happily. Now this five year old lady is quite smart and is a wonderful companion. I’ll describe the day’s progress even by event.

Her first remark was my dress was quite inappropriate for a good girl and that I should always wear a churidar with a shawl. one has to look modest enough. She added that my dress looks pretty old too.

Then she wanted to dance. Not only did she want to dance, she wanted me to join her and went on to teach me some moves in classical dance. Now class X English workbook was the last time i went anywhere near an exercise and my body is really really far from flexible. Naturally i ended up a lousy pupil and she got disgusted with my dancing skills soon enough.

Then she noticed that i'm not wearing a bindi, i haven't painted my nails and my hair is not combed. So we march to the make up room where i went thru all these processes on both of us. I followed all her expert advice and ended up looking like ... looking like nothing that i can think of.

Luckily it was lunch time and for once she focused her attention on something other than food. This was followed by a session in tv room where we watched a lot of rhymes and singed and danced.

Thus ended my day of baby sitting. I love this little girl very much and I enjoyed her company very much and it was real amusing. But then why do we bring up our girls teaching them ways of decorating themselves right from infanthood? why does this little child have to be so full of notions of modesty and appropriateness and all that bull shit? why can't she be taught to wear clothes and carry herself the way that makes her feel comfortable? I think we need to give some thought to the way we bring up our girls, the way we help them form their thought process.

My Hate Poems

These poems are inspired by my friend and poet Toby Joseph's Love Poems(the ones that i post in Facebook now and then).

I will never cry for you
Because every tear reminds me of you
Shared moments of laughter, pain and tears.
Ever tear that I preserve in my heart.
Boils and burns and keeps alive’
The memories of your Love.
Waiting to erupt,
A volcano of emotions,
Every time I think of you.
Until a whirlwind of Hate absorbs me,
And leaves the volcano dormant.

*-----------*-------------*

The deep dark chasms of Hate,
Often tempt me
With the promise of healing,
The wounds made by Love.

*-----------*-------------*

My body conspires against me,
Everytime we meet.
Or I could have let you know,
The depths of my hatred.


*-----------*--------------*

My First Pennukanal

This happened last month. My first ‘Pennukanal’ – in a traditional arranged marriage scenario, this is the meeting where the guy goes to see his prospective bride. Normally the guy arrives with an older relative or two to the girl’s house. Over tea and sweets, the relatives discuss the match, the girl is called and the guests see the girl. Then the guy and the girl gets sometime to talk. Now my first pennukanal was quite different from the whole process. Now when I think of it, I really find it amusing.

One Sunday evening, the guy’s brother called up my dad and said that, they would like to go to the office and see the girl. Pennukanal in office – a very embarrassing proposition- but I didn’t have much of an option. So office it is! The most awaited event took place some time around 11. The guy’s brother came to my office and escorted a most embarrassed and nervous me to the entrance, where the guy was waiting.

He: “It’s damn embarrassing to come to an office for something like this. That’s why I decided to wait here”.

Me: smiling most stupidly.

He: “What kinds of work do you have in this office?”

Me: “Software Development, Instructional Designing and Content Migration”

He: “How many offices do you have?”

Me: “4. The other offices are in Noida, Seattle and Delhi” (What exactly is in his mind?? A job shift or a marriage)

An embarrassing silence followed and exactly at that moment my colleague Anand* comes to the office. The moment he saw me he smiled and came over and started talking to me, taking this guy for a friend who has dropped in for a casual visit. Now I’m too nervous and embarrassed and couldn’t explain the situation to him. As I stand there perplexed not knowing what to say, my friend Indu* came out of the office and rescues Anand out of the situation. No one rescued me and I stood there answering and asking a few meaningless questions in between embarrassing silences.

Few minutes later the guy’s brother and father came into the situation and joined the conversation adding to my unease. After that the guy’s brother chivalrously escorted me back to the office – the same office which I enter and leave alone on all working days. That marked the end of my first Pennukanal!!!

NB: That proposal never progressed and I often tease Anand on how he destroyed the bright and rosy future that I must have had with this guy. !!!! :-)

* Names of characters have not been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals.

reinventing people, names.......

This post was inspired by Lenny's post. Being a dreamer and a loafer, Lenny's post brought to my mind , the picture of this milkmaid who I used to know during my childhood holidays spent in mother's village of Chekannur.


She was Janu amma. She was not just any woman, not was she the milkmaid, in spite of being the only milkmaid in her small domain. she was janu amma; not even palkkari (milkmaid) janu amma. Any other janu amma might need a house name, a husband's name, her job or something like that. Say Janu amma and that was her - the janu amma who brings to our houses at 6 in the morning.

She brings milk and gossips to all our houses early in the morning. She is the visitor to all these houses and not sorprisingly, when the first murder happened in Chekannur, Janu amma was the first witness. She was the first one to find out any thing that happened in any of our houses.

Stories about her milk business were many. People used to wonder aloud how she managed to give milk to atleast twenty houses with two cows. Many people say there was more water than milk in the combination that she used to sell. somebody with a creative vein even said that someone got a fish from janu amma's milk in one of those monsoon months when the water canal was too full of tiny fish. She must have added some water, howelse could she feed a large family with those two cows. In spite of the fish in milk, she was the milkwoman for our village.

She was janu amma. I don't remember talking to her. But I knew she had a name, I remeber her aluminium milk pail, I remember her mundu and majanta(she had a partiality to this particular colour) blouse, I remember her giving milk and talking to Vallyamma in the morning......

She was a part of my childhood. She is a part of my memories of the village called Chekannur where I spent many of my school vacations. (well, some of these are shared memories.. I may not have actually known some of these things myself....for instance I couldnot have known how many cows she she had, most of the stories about Janu amma must also have been told to me by my mother.... but they are there in my memory as I have seen them, heard them, lived them ..... stories my mother told of her days in this place... stories of people who surrounded her life, and of Janu amma among them...) Still, she is Janu amma. she is neither 6 in the morning, nor the money i paid her(she belongs to a period when i had not yet started thinking of things in terms of the money they cost me), she is not even the white creamy milk she sold (she defenitely belongs to a period by which i had developed a distaste for milk)... She is just Janu amma.

an experiment

a wery smol post
Jast a smol attempt tu see if ai kan rite sumthing that dosnot maik sens intentionali. Most of the taim ai rite stuf that doesn’t maik mach sens bat that jast happens. Ai don’t put mach efert intu that. this has taken up sum taim and efert. Hop u enjoy reeding this.
This thing is interesting. I jast want tu no hau sum fan kan b brot intu boring office laife. Jast tri reeding this and tel me wat u felt. Ai think it wud b gr8 if v al start riting in such kul ways and end up as incomprehensible as ever. Reed this and post gud coments that do not maik mach sens.

Confessions of a born loafer

I don't belive in any ideology.

I'm neither religious nor political.

I'm not a feminist or a communist.

I'm neither for nor against socialism,

or any other -ism.

I don't subscribe to any particular

eh(whatz it)..... yeah point of view.

I know this world sucks,

but I'm not the one to do

anything about it.

Well, i'm not eagerly and earnestly,

waiting for the Second Coming.

I don't mind if nobody ever comes.

I'm not working for the revolution.

Nor for the Ramarajya.

I don't believe in doing anything,

either for u or for me.

somebody thinks therefore they are;

I don't think therefore I am.

(What difference does it make anyway)

If the great revolution or reform movement

or even an apocalypse

Is gonna come for sure,

What better thing can you do

than lie around and wait for it.

And I'm enjoying everybit of it!!!!!

Men Drivers and their Ego

These Men Drivers…...They can be Really Irritating……
One busy Monday morning and I’m going to the office with a friend who is kind enough to give me a lift. Well this kindness is forced out of him most of the days . We are listening to some FM station partly because he is addicted to this noise and partly because we have run out of conversation. There are two people enthusiastically conducting a ‘discussion’ on “Are women bad drivers?”. My friend is immensely pleased with the topic and is ecstasic that such an important issue is being discussed. And every time a male chauvanist calls up to share his experiences with bad women drivers, my friend gets excited. Then he says, “Women are really bad drivers. I’ve seen women doing make up, combing hair and all that while driving”. I just smile at the occasions where I have seen our hero changing the FM station, searching for his sun glasses, talking over the mobile phone - all while driving. Well he is a man driver and there is nothing gender specific about any of these things that he do. The discussion continues on how women park at the wrong side, jump lights, and make all kinds of mistakes. I’ve seen my very own friend overtaking from the wrong side and giving the explanation “Everybody does that”. Well he is a man driver and it is not a mistake but a calculated risk!
Then some celbrity who was called to offer her views on the matter explains that women are preoccupied with matters of family, children etc so they may not be able to concentrate on driving. Does that mean married men do not think about their families? Or may be men drivers have a way of inducing some kind of Short Term Memory Loss when they get behind the wheels!!
Flash back…..
I’ve just come back from college. And my dad asks, “How did you get to the bus stop?” “A friend gave me a lift”. My dad is not smiling, “Why did you come with her? You know these girls don’t drive well.”
Now to be frank, I do not drive a vehicle. For some reason, it did not occur to me that I should master the art. But I know many women who drive, and who drive pretty well. I always felt more comfortable taking a lift from Biji, an old friend, than anyone else. I remember many people - Biji, Nitya, Miss Savitri and many others - whom I thought where pretty good drivers. I’ve also seen men drivers behaving strangely when they find a lady over taking their vehicle. There are people who take it up as a personal insult and try to regain their position. This display of ego often result in accidents.
Then I decide to do some research. I run a google search on the biggest accidents that ever happened on earth. And found that all of them happened at the hands of men drivers. Then I looked up at accident rates and related data and found an ‘msnbc’ research report which even says that women drivers are much safer than men!!!!
Why then do these men drivers have so many jokes at the expense of women drivers? Why don’t they ever hold an FM discussion on “Are men drviers good enough?” ? May be it is only a fear of loosing their exclusive status. It could very well be their insecurity speaking up.
Whatever it may be, my dear men drivers, the sooner you learn to face the fact, the better for you. And all girls who drive,my dear friends, you are capable of doing a great job. Never let a man driver’s ego to make you doubt your ability. You are really good in this job, may be much better than many of those men drivers. Cheers to all women drivers!!!!!

My Love

My love is no red red rose
Nor am I the fixed end of a compass
Never did he woo me with a flute song or
A ballad sweet by moonlight

And my love from across the seas
Did not cross the oceans
Nor rode a seven horsed chariots
No pigeons ever brought me letters of love

Well I know this will last,
As long as the going is good.
For he is no lochinvar,
And I don’t dream of an elopement.

My love is an early morn dream
Which could be taken for real
And I always fear
The day of awakening

That will come one day
As a rude and shocking jolt
But I try to be as happy as I can
With that smug smile on my face
For a dream is as sweet as ever
Till the moment you wake up.

Walking in the Rain on a Lonely Night

It's quite late in the night
a steady rain is falling
and i'm walking, walking ,walking
walking in the rain on a lonely night
lost in thought or is it lost to thought
i do not know but i'm walking
i can feel the rain as i walk
the raindrops fail to hurt me
we've been like that.. since old times..
we know eachother so welll,
this night rain and me.

What am I doing here
on this lonely night
when the rain falling hard
i'm just walking and walking
walking in the rain.
i'm not dreaming, not anymore
i can feel the raindrops
so it must be true.
and all that brought me out
in the night, late in the night
to these familiar hands of an old friend
must also be true.
But i don't want to think
of any of that now.. later,
later, i'll have time for all that.
Now i'm walking in the rain
i can feel the raindrops
washing away all the sorrow
atleast for the time being.

Then the rain stops, suddenly
without a word, without a farewell.
and i'm all alone
out in the open
on a lonely night after rain.
no comforting raindrops around me
and i feel lost
i feel lost without the rain.

Then i know the sweet feeling of
walking in the rain on a lonely night
cannot stay forever
but the sweetness, the comfort
and the cool warmth of rain
lingers for long,
a chill, a sweet pain, a warmth
that comes back to me often
and reminds me of
walking in the rain on a lonely night.


This is one pleasure i live for,
one memory i always cherish,
the boundless joy of
walking in the rain on a lonely night.