Aug 24, 2009

will the albatross clinging to the neck ever chicken out?

ponder over!

Aug 16, 2009

stage freight

Yes she speaks through the veil of anonymity
as the world around her revolves in their chaos
in their untimely exits and uninterrupted cues
screams of pleasure and pangs of discomfort
soaked in pathos of everyday trifles
they hear but seldom listen,
they talk but barely speak,
and silence?
How they never understood!

Raindrops tickle only the naked flesh
And not cloaks stitched out of expensive gifts
Shadows form light of their own
Emanated from the holy light of oneself
oh how they muster it
Though closed fists and careless glances
And laugh- that mocks its own dissonance
The stage is lit once again
-provided she gets to perform-.

Aug 12, 2009

Amelie poulain

A butterfly flew out of the screen, scattering crimson hues of the lambent sky. Her magic potion transcends you to a celestial orchestra, performed by a zillion enthusiastic stars. You’re serenaded in their craft; you’re soaked in her colour. But it only lasts for 122 minutes. Ask Jean Paul Jeunette why?

The fabulous destiny of Amelie Poulian offers a boulevard of sights and sounds. Its strength lies in its incredible ability to move the audience in extravagant frames of simple nuances. An ordinary tale becomes a fable as an ordinary girl plays the role of a neighborhood cherub. Incidentally that is.

Amelie is brought up in the grief-struck environs of her nonchalant father. She is forced to spend her life in the confines of loneliness, just when hope meets her in an unsolicited treasure box. She gives in to her instincts and decides to trace its bearer. The spirit of mankind beguiles her to help the needy around. Amelie then finds her smiles floating on the ebb and flow of universe’s woe. She is rewarded with love wrapped in joys of companionship.

The music of the film intensifies its sensual experience. The piano impeccably gauges the mood of the film. Mellow in few scenes, gregarious in some. The soundtrack by Yan Tiersen brews a plethora of emotions. Dull yet reflective, gentle yet powerful, it compels you to plunge into the realms of the character. It’s when her conundrum becomes yours and her strife begins to taste mildly sweet.

It’s not the first time when the director has left his audience quivering in awe. The film bears the subtle tone of his earlier works Delicatessen and City of Lost Children. He cleverly uses the comical device he introduced in his film Foutaises; a sing-song narration of he likes/she likes. The editing unfailingly transforms vital scenes to a set of individual artifacts. Cinematographic dexterity gleams through the introductory scenes of the primary characters, including an angora cat.

Life and its complexity whispers through simple yet eccentric imagery. Eccentric being the operational word here. “A sperm with an X chromosome belonging to Rapheal Poulain made a dash for an egg with his wife Amadine and Amelie is born”

Audrey Tautou(playing Amelie) carries the weight of the film in her elfin eyes, setting a sky-high benchmark for her acting prowess. In her foreign syllables she appears profoundly familiar, sketching the character through per plum cheeks and facial lines.

The film overall is a multi-sensorial indulgence. It induces us to see the world through a fair dash of fantasy, soft strokes of imagination and a lot of hope. voila! A recipe for la vie en rose.


One look at all those stern, disapproving eyes and he froze,gripped by panic. He felt a chunk of coal burning in his pocket one after another. Drops of sweat tricked down his forehead like beads of a necklace pulled out effortlessly. He was drenched in the conscience of his own crime. But it was too late. Very soon, the jaws of justice would wither him into the abyss of absence.

Anticipating death is hugely different from looking it in the eye. Kazoo realized it today. Wasn’t it so much better to have been shot by the black commandos, having left no time for guilt to back-fire? He had known the answer. The visuals of the ravaged building, which had dodged him for long, were being played repeatedly now. A terrorist has somewhat began to feel the terror…

Aug 11, 2009

my first week in ACJ

He greeted me through a pair of rusty eyes, with the panache of a seasoned steward. He was warm but hardly affectionate. Without wasting time on the conventional introductions, he frisked towards the college building. Meanwhile I poked him with a set of questions on how he found the place, are people rude to him, how nasty are the professors. He remained skillfully silent. As we passed a faintly resembling eatery, I asked him if he had adjusted to the food. He looked back and barked.

He is Cuckoo, the college-residential dog who is now a great pal or do I say the only great pal I have. We became friends whining about our daily dining. He told me he looked garishly suave four-months ago when he absconded from his place of birth. To me, he looked multiple shades darker than the dogs I had been with in Delhi. He was severely lanky for his age and breed. He told me he had lost 7 kg’s since then. i obviously believed him.

Like me, he was petrified of intellectual dogs. And here we found them in abundance, in all shapes and sizes, and fairly uniform colour. Establishing a classroom outside their own, under a lone standing tree. Thankfully, there is only one tree. They talked about the artillery of Che Guevera while we raved about the culinary of colonel Sandlers. They lamented about global pricing of crude oil, we hoped for an increase in the price of coconut oil (we bathed in).

I was more unfortunate than cuckoo when it came to suffering. Dogs were not allowed inside the hostel. Or should I say canine of the IQ equivalent to Cuckoo's. Rules were laid, highly atypical of what one associates with hostel. “kindly flush the pot after excreting” “ensure that buckets are filled with water at all times”, my roomates . People quarreled over the colour of mugs, for it had to match that of the bucket. This fixation with sanitary was to do with the lack of it. We faced water-shortage on the second day and therefore refrained from throwing spitballs at each other.

To prevent extinction of my wits, i entertained my roomies in a funny tamil accent I had unknowingly acquired. aiyaaaoh! free Kandaswamy ringtones by Vodafone to north-indians had a modest role to play. When I din’t sing I sulked. The kitty-parties had mushroomed at every corner and corner on the three floors. Competing against each other at the top of their voices. Fashion sense was critically reviewed by our in-house journalists. Language was improved through flowery-swearing. And dare you call them page three journalists!

I read out Saki to Cuckoo for he felt increasingly lonely amid a class of non-relatable people. He liked it because he could now initiate a conversation with professors out here. The ones who can never run out of time and sarcasm. For feedback, a recorded ‘big-laugh’ SFX would do the job well.
Classrooms compensated for our rickety hostel beds, but that was realized only after a week. This draws me to an end which happens to be the dawn of a fresh range of experiences. Cuckoo, hopefully, would have matured by then.

Aug 7, 2009

a tale of 5 w's and a why

in the white rectum of silence, these walls have now ceased to question my existence in it's tall standing on the other side of the puddle.disappointment or out of sheer boredom perhaps. the combined force of agent z's fail to make me talk.
why? because i simply cant relate to them.

"what a horrible meal"
"why can't they hire a north-indian cook"

silent sobs interrupted by high-pitched rambling. each day i choke during breakfast, lunch and dinner and not because of food, mind you!

but then isn't it so much better than daily discourses on

i wonder.