Illogic

I believe in illogic. So....


I believe in magic. Of simple things like rain and winter sun. Like smiles and a single tear. But also the magic of grand things. Like love and passion. Like birth and life.

I believe in fairy tales and happy ever afters. Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Alladin and Ali Baba. Beauty and the Beast. I believe they all once were.

I believe in here and now fairy tales too. Like friends and family members who found each other and are happy. Ever after? That would come too.

I believe in miracles. Of a forgotten song remembered on a Christmas eve. Of seeing a rainbow at cross roads. Of cheating death. Of living a life.

I believe in spells and love potions. I believe in elves and goblins. Dragons and knights.

I believe in Angels. And Lucifer too. Neither is white or black. Neither is grey. They are all full of swirling colours of human emotions and passions. Only the scale is grander.

I believe that there is a world beyond the clouds. There are castles in the air and that stars sing. I believe that the russet colours of a beautiful sunset bloom because somebody up there is very happy. It could be a sprite or an angel of Heaven.

And yes, I do believe there is a Heaven and a Hell.

I know they all are.

I believe in God. Trappings of religions are inconsequential. Just God. And not just the idea of Him. I know He is. And He does not need science to prove Him.

I believe that everything that I imagine is real.

I believe in the illogic of it all.

Tree Talk

Almost everyday, as I curse and swear my way to office in sweltering heat, I see chopped tree limbs, a sad stump or uprooted trees strewn at various points of my journey. If you take the time and trouble to ask why the tree has fared thus, the answer is likely to be a variation of one of the following:

1. The tree was about to fall; its roots had become very weak
2. The road is being expanded

Both the answers, you would have to admit, are as reasonable as they come.

If you counter question with, “When you chop off a tree, should you not plant another in its stead?”, you would discover that this question apparently is not very reasonable to ask. Not your business, you would be told in very firm and hopefully polite tones.

The other week, a big, beautiful coconut tree in the compound of a building next to my home was cut down. “The tree was so weak at roots that it could have fallen onto the building across the lane any day”, my mother explained to me the culprit’s reasoning.

I was appalled. If the tree’s roots were weak, whose fault was it? Who was responsible for laying house foundations in such a way that the roots loosened their hold on the soil?

And now that the deed has been done in the name of safety, has a new sapling been planted? The answer to this question, expectedly, is ‘no’

What is worse that it is not just private property owners who are responsible for such blatant massacre of the city greenery but also the government. We need the flyovers and the highways, the eight lane roads and bypasses to airport (it is another matter that they take an eternity to become functional). So, the trees lining the existing roads have to be sacrificed. But how about re-planting them? And if there are such plans in the pipeline, when do we see them being put in action?

As a kid, I used to enjoy the ride to a relative’s then new flat, which was on the way to the airport. The VIP road which leads to the airport, used to be lined on both sides with big, lush green trees that smelt fresh during rains and looked cheerful with bright red, orange, yellow flowers weighing down on their branches. Only a handful of trees that have survived the axe can now be seen and everyday a new tree is reduced to a sad, ugly stump.

While I believe that we have abused our environment shamefully, I have always taken all doomsday prophets and their prophecies with a pinch of salt. Yet, when the sight of dead trees, lying pathetically on the road side, meets my eyes, the guilt of destroying the beautiful becomes a little heavier each time.

And each time, Captain Planet becomes more of a need, than a figment of a cartoon channel’s imagination. Or else, the grand, wise trees, Ent, from Tolkien's Middle Earth, could come to life and bring us to our senses.

Dear Child

Dear Child! Fly away

To a world of Fancy.

Dear Child! Dream away

And make the Fancy real.

Dear Child! Do not just scream

And do not just wail.

Dear Child! Open heart and mind,

To Love. Do not fail.

Dear Child! Let the Innocence be

And not be a Man –

‘Tis not yet time.

Dear Child! Grow beautiful

And grow strong.

Let breaking toys and knees scraped,

Be your greatest wrong.

Dear Child! Keep the Trust

And keep the Faith.

Earn the Trust precious

‘Tis not too late.

Dear Child! There’s war

And there’s carnage.

There’s Beauty and her Love,

In unnamed Bondage.

The war is yours to fight,

My Child dear!

But keep the soft, baby soft,

Naiveté and the Hope shining.

Be a Child now,

And a better Man perhaps,

Shall you be.

Dear Child! Think not

To a Utopia build.

But to live in this world

And with your Fancy gild.

And then let the Imp

Its magic work,

Till the Fantasy beautiful

Is oh-so-real.

Dear Child! Think not

Of these lines as a sermon.

Nor as the meanderings of a mind,

Not quite sane.

Dear Child! Think of these words

As a Plea and a Hope,

Of eyes growing weary and

Growing older still.

Dear Child! Say an Amen true,

And let your Fancy soar.

To Books

 I cannot remember a time when I did not love books. They have always been with me. Give me stories – any time, any place, any kind – and I am content and happy. In fact, it’s a common joke among my friends, regardless of how long they have known me, that I just want to travel to all the exotic places, so that I can claim that I have read a book there.

Well, I admit that is partly – only partly – true. But it is correct that I am book crazy and book obsessed.

Sometimes, I wonder why’s that? Why do I love books so? Because they are a treasure trove of knowledge? Not really. Knowledge is just the by-product. I know that a lot of people read to improve their grammar  English, Hindi etc. Some read so that they can get the right words, phrases and facts to show off. Some read because there’s nothing better to do for passing the time.

My reason is just one: it is my escape mechanism, in the same way movies are for a lot of people.

When I read books, I can be anyone I fancy. I have experiences that I would probably not have in real life. I could be having a midnight party at Malory Towers or solving a mystery with Mr. Holmes. I could be living a fairy tale with my own happy ever after or be in Diagon Alley with Harry Potter.

I can also visualize the scenes very clearly when I read books. It was all very well, until I was introduced to Count Dracula by a certain Mr. Stoker at the age of eleven. It was an abridged version but the minute long walk across the courtyard at dusk with birds returning home sure turned longer. And I learnt to avoid horror novels. So, Stephen King and I still remain strangers. But I ain’t complaining.

When I was younger, I was told that with age I would outgrow certain kinds of books – Enid Blytons, Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys, Mills & Boons and Grimm Brothers – you get the drift. But surprisingly, I haven’t. I read anything that catches my fancy. And I almost never read to learn. So, the mini-library at home is stocked mostly with fiction – from Shakespeare to Austen to Marquez to Beauty and the Beast to mushy romances to Wodehouse. Even the few non-fiction books that I own and read have had human drama to keep things from becoming too dry (as an aside, do read White Mughals, if you get the chance. It’s one of those rare books that tell you about history as ‘his story’).

I am also told by my married friends (especially those who have kids) that once I get married and have kids, I will not have the luxury of spending the days and nights with my nose buried in a book. Maybe, that is how it would be. But I like to think that that would not be the case.

So, there would always be a room (preferably the largest) designated as the Library in my dream house. It would have floor to ceiling book cases and French windows to let the sun stream in. And a hearth with a golden fire crackling in the evenings. Ah, heaven!

On that note, adieu for now. My escape awaits.

Lost Letters

Do you remember the last time you wrote a letter? Put in something other than a scrawled signature in a birthday card?

I am not talking about emails and SMSes. I am talking about putting pen to paper and actually writing something other than a quick dash of your name in a birthday card from your company.

Nowadays, there is a big drive for paper conservation. A big cellular company has actually run a TV campaign promoting use of electronic devices instead of paper. Add to that the convenience of short messages, texting, facebooking et al. Writing has almost has become a last resort when there are no cell phones, computers or laptops around.

But don’t you miss the handwritten word? I know, I do. There is something personal about a letter starting with an endearment written in a familiar handwriting. About a greeting card, which has a message over and above the printed one, just for me. The ‘Open with a smile’ instruction written in a red sketch pen on the envelope of a birthday card.

Keeping journals and diaries is also electronic now. Yet, I prefer the scratch of the dot pen on prone to yellowing diaries with abstract or scenic covers. Or the glide of a gel pen. The pressing of red roses, yellow tulips and a rare leaf between the pages of an old, dear diary.

And pens. There was a time when a sleek pen set used to be the reward for an exam aced. Now all people have is a perfunctory ball pen on their desk. Still, I can’t resist the beautiful designs and coloured inks pens are now available in. I almost have all the colours on my desk – from bright orange to the basic blue. My work notebook has most serious notes written in all sorts of vibrant colours. A colleague once told me that my notepad looks like a scrapbook with its colourful scribbles. My response: “Thank you.”

I used to have a big, black bag full of all the letters and greeting cards my family used to receive. A letter addressed to me specifically (and not just containing the obligatory "Love to kids" that children in the family generally merited) used to make my day special. How I looked forward to those cards on my birthday! I did not just love receiving letters. I loved writing them. Pouring my heart out to a beloved cousin or saying "I miss you” to a just married aunt. Adding those special messages with the flourishes of a poetic soul in an anniversary or a birthday card. I miss it all.

I hate paper wastage. But somehow I am loathe to stop the use of paper altogether. Because somehow to me, it represents being in touch always without the personal feel. A text message can be sweet. An e-card be funny or smart or have its own set of pyrotechnics. It feels special to receive them. It’s just not the same though, is it?

Wonderland

A phone call in the morning woke me up and invited me to Wonderland. So, of course, I said 'Yes'.

In the Wonderland, Alice is lost and strong. She is almost a sprite, even in the real world. Or maybe, especially in the real world. When her prospective mother-in-law calls her gardeners imbeciles for planting white roses instead of red, Alice calmly suggests painting them red! (Alice’s prospective groom, Hamish and his mother strongly reminded me of the mother and son frogs from Thumbelina).

The White Queen is ethereal and - a tad mad – reminiscent of Professor Sybill from Hogwarts, sans glasses.

The Red Queen with her grotesque and bulbous head is like a spoilt, tantrum prone child,

yelling 'Off with their heads'. And yet, there is this single scene when all her subjects rebel, she murmurs to her wicked knight: "You were right. It is better to be feared than loved." It is then that you realize that this monster and tyrant perhaps harbored a small, subconscious wish to be loved, just a little.

And the Mad Hatter. Well, he is mad. But like Alice tells him, all the best people in the world are (I will remember that next time I worry about going round the bend). He is brave and ridiculous. He rues the fact that Alice is never the right size - either she is too small or too big. And then when Jabberwocky lies slain, he has his heart in his eyes, as he tells Alice, "You could stay." It made me wonder if a Mad Hatter with orange hair and orange eyelids couldn't possibly be the Prince. After all, this was Wonderland!

Yet the Wonderland is dark and a mite depressing - even after the White Queen banishes her sister. The colours are bright and vivid but not cheerful, bordering on garish.

This is no young girl's innocent imagination running rampant. It is a place where all the dark fears in some way came alive.

All is not lost, though. As long as you remember six impossible things:

1. There is a potion that can make you shrink
2. There is a cake that can make you grow
3. There are animals who can speak
4. There is a cat which can vanish
5. There is a place called Wonderland
6. You can slay Jabberwocky

Maybe, I would make up my own list of six impossible things to recite every Monday morning to defy the depression of another five days of mundane monotony. :-)

Despite and inspite of all the above, what I am carrying with me out of the hall and will hug to myself when I sleep tonight - is the visual of the beautiful blue butterfly, that the Wonderland's caterpillar turns into, flying out of the screen and almost landing on my hand. That, to me, is the magic of Wonderland!

Until next time, keep dreaming!

P.S: I would love to hear your list of six impossible things to beat the weekday blues. Do post them in the comments section. :-)

Of 3 Idiots & Idiocy

Foreword: Here's the article I promised. It was written when '3 idiots' was just released.

I have to confess – I have not watched 3 Idiots. Neither do I intend to spend a mini fortune and watch it in a hall.

It is not that I do not spend mini fortune every second weekend on movies in multiplexes. But I refuse to do it for 3 Idiots.

In past three days I have read at least 10 reviews of the movie – some by seasoned critics, some by my friends on networking sites. All of them, barring one, have gushed about the movie. Raju Hirani has been hailed as a visionary, arguably the best director of the last decade. Perhaps, he is. I have no arguments against that. His Munnabhai series was heartwarming and beautiful. But my grouch with 3 Idiots is same as Munnabhai – the casting.

When exceptional filmmakers cast actors for their films, I like to think, they take into account the entire package the actor is. So, it would an actor’s histrionic skills, persona and suitability for the character. And the last includes the compatibility between the age of the character and the actor. Raju Hirani, it seems, is so impressed by the first two criteria that he completely disregards the last.

Sanjay Dutt acted superbly as Munnabhai but the role would have been his in entirety fifteen years ago. He preached Gandhigiri while giving out ‘jadu ki jhappis’ like a champ but romancing heroines who looked more his nieces than sweetheart was a bit too much.

Same with Aamir Khan. He sang ‘Papa kehte hain’ two decades ago at his college farewell party. And he is still at college!!! He seems to sincerely believe in the ‘boyish’ image that Mansoor Khan created for him and scores of other filmmakers abetted. For years, Aamir was the chocolate hero and aptly so. And he could act. Then he decided to broaden his horizons and did so beautifully. He broke out of the mould. He was the actor with guts and the intellect to do something different. But alas! It was not to last. He turned out to be as vain as others, giving in to the temptation of playing a character, he could be playing a father to. Most reviews brought up this point only to gloss it over. To me, however, it is the biggest discomfort. Aamir does not look like a 20 year old engineering student, despite all his loud proclamations that he will be 18 till he dies. Be that as it may, but he sure does not look it.

This miscasting is quite rampant in films. And it would not be fair to say that it happens only in India. Happens abroad also. It is understandable when average movies like the forgettable Blue have a paunchy, middle aged Sanjay Dutt as the hero or a Lal Badshah has Big B dancing with Shilpa Shetty and Manisha Koirala. But I expect better of Mr. Hirani. He amazes me with his ability to create such rare gems without preaching and being pedantic. Yet his casting continues to disappoint. Why couldn’t he cast young actors with obvious potential as Ranbir Kapoor and Shahid?

A large majority of cinegoers out there would disagree and say that Aamir’s acting helps to overlook the age factor. They would go out, buy expensive tickets, gush about the movie and prove me wrong. Yet somewhere, I think, a small minority, would wonder that just may be, the movie could have done with a younger Aamir. Don’t you think so, Mr. Hirani?