and atrocious grammar! I feel the spirit of Lynn Truss gouge at me as I wince at the opening titles. A moment of weakness, and now I'm 45% of the audience in a dank smelling auditorium at Cineworld, paying for the privilege of Bollywood's latest. Clearly, I lie. It was either this or the vacuum cleaner....
This, as it turns out, is the first Hindi film where I’ve actually enjoyed the second half more than the first! Predictable? Entirely! But the unknown faces were refreshing, the scrip light hearted, witty with a generous dollop of self deprecating humour, the supporting cast hilarious! The classic ‘ladkiyan buses ki tarah hote hain….’ is delivered with such panache, matched only by the ‘sexy butt’ exchange between the two heroes. Superb! My favourite moment though has to be the best mates succinct graph plotting the profit and loss relationship between a babe’s hotness vs her batameeziness, the two mothers, a charmingly successful director, a sultrily comical hot babe, not to mention a shockingly hard, tight, hot male body that’s on display every now and again. Much to be said about the new boys hitting the gym - You go Imran!
Paisa vasooli I’m thinking….
My family and other animals???
A woman of my word, I dial home to check up on the folks after their second consecutive weekend away at Lonavla. A more enervating trip sans ludicrous first time parents cloying, gushing and hovering over a not especially bright 18 month old. Pity, no pnpc to report, so I struggle to remember what my weekend was like, my hemming and hawing endeavours stalling with every full throated instruction yelled at the various domestics in and out of my mothers line of sight, and a sudden flurry of barking.
I resist the Shakespearean urge to go, 'Hark! Was that a bark?!' Barking? We Guhas of 14 Iris may have doggie bagged foodstuff for a number of years, but we've always stated upfront it was for Mim.... I wait and listen to the scary one scolding a mutt of some description, who retaliates by making off with her yellow dolphin. And to think the Beatles got flak for Lucy in the Sky - I didn't even know my mother had a yellow dolphin! Undaunted, Mommy dearest shouts at me over the cacophony attempting to elucidate upon the soundtrack. It would appear that my parents have acquired a 30% timeshare in the neighbours dog. A larger than usual spaniel, the one I've apparently seen before, usually confused about which door to head for. The scene is a familiar one and my mind races in an attempt to recollect the creature under discussion and fails miserably. "Black and white?" "Brown. You must remember him. You've seen him." I acquiesce demurely, with a soupçon of absentmindedness. "I must have."
"She's asthmatic, and they were thinking of giving the dog away, but the boys were really sad and Mr. Singhania really loves the dog, so they asked if we'd like to keep it, but I said, No! we're old, but he can spend some time at our place. Actually, I just don't think she likes dogs at all and she's a hypochondriac. The whole flat is being done and there's cement all over, so obviously she doesn't like dogs." Clearly. I ask what the dimwit is called. "Cuddles." I shudder delicately. Perhaps it's the breed that encourages daft names like this (like Sweetie is to Poms, Cuddles and Flakes is to cockers).
The sloppy spaniel is apparently still trying to come to grips with it's equation with Ba. His ultimate mission is to win over Ba. It is an uncertain relationship - Ba is happy to say "Ha ha, hellooo doggie...", even wave and chuckle at it, but doesn't like to be licked or have dog attached to his persona. Naturally, it makes the mutt even more curiously determined to know the big man better, albeit trepediaciously (I believe the story justifies a creative juste mot!). I grin, remembering the sight of a 6'3" suited man waving goodbye to two tail wagging 8" puppies, yipping around his briefcase, with strict instructions to behave.
Ma believes the poor chap is bored. He wants to play, but my folks are too old to be arsed and launches into his support system; The gentleman is hardly home, the boys have squash lessons, tuitions, school, blah, blah, and aunty hates dogs, but the money they spend on the critter. The mutt has his own maid, personal trainer and weekly beauty salon appointments. Hmmmm. I suggest with the utmost seriousness that my mother edify his mind with some duet chanting. Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf, Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf.... Her gurgle of laughter somewhat ruins her admonishment of my frivolity. Her ear splitting demand as to who the dog was left with negates my curiosity as to the lack of canine vocalisation in the background. They've been leaving the mutt with the folks longer and longer each day, so Minu the Scary has taken an executive decision and sent him straight back.
Reluctantly, I confess to a concall in 90 seconds and bid my parent a fond farewell. What yellow dolphin?????
I resist the Shakespearean urge to go, 'Hark! Was that a bark?!' Barking? We Guhas of 14 Iris may have doggie bagged foodstuff for a number of years, but we've always stated upfront it was for Mim.... I wait and listen to the scary one scolding a mutt of some description, who retaliates by making off with her yellow dolphin. And to think the Beatles got flak for Lucy in the Sky - I didn't even know my mother had a yellow dolphin! Undaunted, Mommy dearest shouts at me over the cacophony attempting to elucidate upon the soundtrack. It would appear that my parents have acquired a 30% timeshare in the neighbours dog. A larger than usual spaniel, the one I've apparently seen before, usually confused about which door to head for. The scene is a familiar one and my mind races in an attempt to recollect the creature under discussion and fails miserably. "Black and white?" "Brown. You must remember him. You've seen him." I acquiesce demurely, with a soupçon of absentmindedness. "I must have."
"She's asthmatic, and they were thinking of giving the dog away, but the boys were really sad and Mr. Singhania really loves the dog, so they asked if we'd like to keep it, but I said, No! we're old, but he can spend some time at our place. Actually, I just don't think she likes dogs at all and she's a hypochondriac. The whole flat is being done and there's cement all over, so obviously she doesn't like dogs." Clearly. I ask what the dimwit is called. "Cuddles." I shudder delicately. Perhaps it's the breed that encourages daft names like this (like Sweetie is to Poms, Cuddles and Flakes is to cockers).
The sloppy spaniel is apparently still trying to come to grips with it's equation with Ba. His ultimate mission is to win over Ba. It is an uncertain relationship - Ba is happy to say "Ha ha, hellooo doggie...", even wave and chuckle at it, but doesn't like to be licked or have dog attached to his persona. Naturally, it makes the mutt even more curiously determined to know the big man better, albeit trepediaciously (I believe the story justifies a creative juste mot!). I grin, remembering the sight of a 6'3" suited man waving goodbye to two tail wagging 8" puppies, yipping around his briefcase, with strict instructions to behave.
Ma believes the poor chap is bored. He wants to play, but my folks are too old to be arsed and launches into his support system; The gentleman is hardly home, the boys have squash lessons, tuitions, school, blah, blah, and aunty hates dogs, but the money they spend on the critter. The mutt has his own maid, personal trainer and weekly beauty salon appointments. Hmmmm. I suggest with the utmost seriousness that my mother edify his mind with some duet chanting. Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf, Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf.... Her gurgle of laughter somewhat ruins her admonishment of my frivolity. Her ear splitting demand as to who the dog was left with negates my curiosity as to the lack of canine vocalisation in the background. They've been leaving the mutt with the folks longer and longer each day, so Minu the Scary has taken an executive decision and sent him straight back.
Reluctantly, I confess to a concall in 90 seconds and bid my parent a fond farewell. What yellow dolphin?????
Life imitating art?
Darkness has it’s own urgency, and the moment is lost forever. The threat of melodrama is only ever a hint away from the surface, and it takes all my skill and discipline (which I lack in woeful quantities) to not let it erupt. Is it Salome’s brutality, the sight of my own blood oozing, viscous, thick, dark, magnetic, hypnotic, a LSD inducing combination of sugar, Earl Grey and Darjeeling throughout the day, hormones or Anthony Capella? Perhaps, all of the above.
I am unsure of my reaction to Anthony Capella. I’m repelled as much as I’m attracted to his style. Unable to put it down. Unable to complete it. I’m enthralled. The precision, beauty and easy fluidity of his words suck me into his world, the crude sexuality a jarring contrast. His visceral portrait of the gouging of the forest repels me, and I have to shut the book, unable to stomach the destruction. The eternal paradox, in a combination not unlike the various flavours of his coffee. It is extreme, incongruous yet oddly real. Discordant yet belonging. It upsets the balance, leaves me ambivalent, torn between the feral, the spiritual and the real. I retreat to the more comfortable world of Amit Chaudhuri, but it leaves me unsatisfied, mind whirring, the scent of blood and Africa in my nostrils. I want to sink my teeth into flesh, gouge it, taste the blood.
I am unsure of my reaction to Anthony Capella. I’m repelled as much as I’m attracted to his style. Unable to put it down. Unable to complete it. I’m enthralled. The precision, beauty and easy fluidity of his words suck me into his world, the crude sexuality a jarring contrast. His visceral portrait of the gouging of the forest repels me, and I have to shut the book, unable to stomach the destruction. The eternal paradox, in a combination not unlike the various flavours of his coffee. It is extreme, incongruous yet oddly real. Discordant yet belonging. It upsets the balance, leaves me ambivalent, torn between the feral, the spiritual and the real. I retreat to the more comfortable world of Amit Chaudhuri, but it leaves me unsatisfied, mind whirring, the scent of blood and Africa in my nostrils. I want to sink my teeth into flesh, gouge it, taste the blood.
Preordained randomness
My pen flows over the paper, the thoughts unclear, but the need compelling to write a letter, forming an unseen connection with the recipient. Others see a lone woman writing, but I’m not alone, I’m talking albeit more of a monologue, but even that gives me pause as I see a mouth curl, a nose wrinkle in irritation at what I’ve written. Who would I be if it wasn’t for the people in my life who have touched me? Shaped me. In anger, sorrow, love, joy, hope. The eternal question, is it all neatly laid out or a random series of events. Another paradox I struggle with. I like the randomness of it (3 shuffles sort of gives the game away) but yet, there is a strong sense of what is right, so how random is it. Perhaps movies with alternate endings, except you have choices at every step like those infernal build as you go along stories that drive me insane. Crossroads, different directions to take, each one leading you to another series of roads, right, left, up, down… An endless map, already drawn, the randomness limited to the choices you make on your journey. Is that truly random, or a mere calculated risk? Or could a meteor come crashing down and obliterate the map. Destroying life, creating life. Is this new life then utterly random, or again the choices you make pre-destined. Any gambler will tell you there will be a system to beat the odds, win against the house. Art imitating life?
Moments and memories
The frizzy blond haired giant jiggles against my chair, his presence impinging into my space despite a couple of shuffles in the opposite direction to ward it off. I do not like people around me like this. When I’m in the mood for solitude as I read my book, write my letter, inhale the fragrance of my tea, smile at the green vista, interrupted by colourful roofs in front of me. Yet, even in solitude, to be able to share the things that make you smile, is to double the pleasure it affords you. The sun valiantly struggles to pierce through the clouds, filtering through the leaves that dance in the lilting breeze. The light catching the purity and innocence of the fresh green of a new leaf, fluttering, playing with the darker, knowing shade of green. A perfect moment that makes you still, a smile teasing the corners of your mouth, and it makes me wish I could paint it, wanting to capture the magic so I can carry it with me when I leave, a memory to hoard in my Pandora’s box when I’m in Singapore. The moment continues, but I know there is only here and now. No past. No future. I breathe it in deeply, tasting it, loving it, living it. The joy unsullied, but I would have liked to have shared this perfect moment with someone. A shared smile, a shared appreciation. That’s the thing with perfect moments and life.
The slinky sleuth strikes again
‘Where are you? I have a dinner at Mary’s and am headed in that direction’. Unsuspecting words, little does he know that I’m subtly scoping Mary’s front door even as his voice tails off, nonchalantly sipping on my fourth cup of tea. An innocuous tourist, enjoying a semi sunny day at Little Venice, pausing to smile at the long boats slipping underneath into the tunnel, intermittently scrawling a letter to an old friend. I assure the voice that no one has entered or exited the building in the past couple of hours. A weighty copy of Amit Chaudhuri’s Immortals transmogrifies what could have otherwise been a suspicious newspaper wielding Russian spy episode, and my lazy glances over the top of the book at the blond Mohawk threatening a passage towards Mary’s door goes unnoticed. It is a skill. One I have in abundance, to slink into my surroundings, to become one with it. The distinctive aroma of French fries curls towards me from the adjoining table, momentarily distracting me from my vigil. Twenty five minutes to the rendez vous. I ask for the check but their swipe machine isn’t working. A lightning assessment of the situation has me reaching for the phone, casually suggesting an earlier bus stop and cash. Flawless. Mission accomplished.
Salome
Possibly my last trip to the Royal Opera House, so I pull out all the stops. This time, I am surrounded by other formal wear, but it feels unnatural not to be hit from altitude sickness as we head for the Grand Tier. Uncharted territory. I have no clue where the bars are, if they have glasses of water on the ready, where the loos are, the ice cream, the sandwich platters on offer…. It is disconcerting to be able to view the actors faces so closely, yet be unable to marvel at the splendour of the venue. This is one of my favourite buildings in London, and despite the flawless line of sight to the stage, I feel cheated at not being able to enjoy the majesty of its interiors or wallow at the glorious glass façade during the interval.
Salome. The image of the forbidden dance of the seven veils, debauchery at its ultimate. Something I’ve always been intensely, even voyeuristically curious about. I’ve never associated unbridled eroticism with Opera. Full frontal nudity as the curtain goes up feels more gratuitous than erotic. As we move on, conflicting emotions overtake me. Boredom, disenchantment with the music (German operas were never my favourite), revulsion at Salome’s truculent waywardness, the shocking depravity of her demands. Yet, the characters feel more like caricatures, and I don’t feel any passionate link with them or the moment. The stark violence and blatant sexuality that ought to gratify all your baser instincts, left me unfulfilled. The dance of the is a waste of space. Even the scene of the execution, the magnificent naked body of the executioner (no frontal nudity for the men), taut, powerful muscles covered in blood failed to move me.
Yet, Salome’s obstinacy of demand, Jochanaan’s head is both appalling and compelling. It is the sight of the lustrous blood saturating the pristine white of Salome’s undergarment, the stark contrast growing from stains transferred from the executioner to a river of red staining her front, alive, gleaming wetly, beckoning to the feral within that stays with me.
Salome. The image of the forbidden dance of the seven veils, debauchery at its ultimate. Something I’ve always been intensely, even voyeuristically curious about. I’ve never associated unbridled eroticism with Opera. Full frontal nudity as the curtain goes up feels more gratuitous than erotic. As we move on, conflicting emotions overtake me. Boredom, disenchantment with the music (German operas were never my favourite), revulsion at Salome’s truculent waywardness, the shocking depravity of her demands. Yet, the characters feel more like caricatures, and I don’t feel any passionate link with them or the moment. The stark violence and blatant sexuality that ought to gratify all your baser instincts, left me unfulfilled. The dance of the is a waste of space. Even the scene of the execution, the magnificent naked body of the executioner (no frontal nudity for the men), taut, powerful muscles covered in blood failed to move me.
Yet, Salome’s obstinacy of demand, Jochanaan’s head is both appalling and compelling. It is the sight of the lustrous blood saturating the pristine white of Salome’s undergarment, the stark contrast growing from stains transferred from the executioner to a river of red staining her front, alive, gleaming wetly, beckoning to the feral within that stays with me.
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