NOT my fault!

I tried to keep movies/music out of my blog for a while now, lest it turned into one of those blogs. However, considering they are an integral part of my life, and keeps my otherwise mundane grad school life even slightly interesting, I thought they deserved a place here. Don't worry. I'm NOT going to bore you with the millionth review of The Dark Knight (I STILL haven't watched the movie can you believe it? Sadness. No points for guessing why I find its reviews particularly annoying, especially the ones that talk about how amazing Anne Hathaway was as Catwoman. I love that girl! L.O.V.E. ). What I will talk about though are some of those movies/songs that ruled the charts at its time and left an indelible mark, on a particularly impressionable kid (I'm still kind of a kid no? All those itching to correct me, screw you!). So if you think I'm  weird, mad, say or do things that are majorly inappropriate and often uncalled for then you know who/what to blame. Its NOT my fault. And just so you know, it NEVER is. 

Jumma Chumma: One of the first songs I learnt as a kid (Can you believe it?). In my defense, I never intended to learn it. It was on radio and television ALL the time. And considering I was three, and had no idea what 'Chumma' meant, and had a ear that picked up almost anything it heard, you can't blame me for finding the tune incredibly catchy. Mom was tying my shoelaces one morning, and I happened to hum two lines of the song. Well what happened next was nothing short of legendary. Although I don't remember most of it ( Did I mention I was three? Lord! ), but I do remember that there was a lot of yelling and frantic flailing of arms in the air. I think my mom cried too, thinking she'd lost a perfectly innocent child to the 'adult' world of Bollywood, despite her strict regulations revolving around the idiot box. I just didn't get what all the hue and cry was about, except that my brother kept saying "Haww" for a week after the incident (He was rather annoying then. Hope he's not reading this. If you are, I want you to know that I love you NO MATTER WHAT. :)) Years later, when I heard the song again, I was quite disturbed by the utter lack of taste I had as a kid. Also the idea of a fifty something Amitabh Bachhan shamelessly hitting on a twenty something girl in a hideous black and red can-can was not exactly appealing. My first stint with the inappropriate. And seriously, what's with the mugs? Sheesh!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0

Don't break my hut: Why would you wanna do that? No really. Why? Why break some poor bloke's hut? Especially when he pleads the girl not to break his hut, she nonchalantly screeches, "I weel. I weel." How incredibly mean! And the most confusing part of it was how the guy seemed to enjoy it, and danced and jumped in the air in response. As a perplexed fourth standard student I asked my mom:

Me: Mom?
Mom (anticipating a nonsensical question, hardly looking up from the newspaper): What?
Me: Why does Madhuri want to break that boy's hut?
Mom (answers disinterestedly): Who's this Madhuri now? Some new girl? (Seriously, I was NEVER a playboy.)
Me: No no. Dixit. Actress.
Mom (swaying her head disapprovingly): You should stop watching TV all the time and do something constructive. 
Me: Maaa! Not the point! Tell me no. Why does she want to break his hut?
Mom: You think they live in huts? Really?! (In all seriousness, I never thought about the obviously foreign locations this song was shot in. Not to mention the gross-but-expensive looking black leather jacket, dangling silver chains and what not. Question. Do black leather and silver go together? Except that hip-hop artists seem to carry them off with considerable ease.)
Dad (chipping in from afar): Its not hut. Its 'heart'. 
Mom (turning to dad): I guess that's worse.

They consequently got sucked into an extremely animated conversation about how breaking someone's heart is worse than demolishing someone's apartment. And how men are dogs, and women only sing about breaking hearts while in reality guys do it all the time. Mom won the argument. As usual. Duh. But seriously, wasn't horrendous English pronunciation the primary focus here? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJ07sN1b-ZY

Kaun: I was never a man with a strong heart. I think I blamed my mother for it in a previous post. Can't remember which one. But that's besides the point. The thing you have to know about me is that I have always been TERRIFIED of ghosts. Like the peeing-in-the-pants type (Although I had a cousin who was worse. He screamed like a girl while watching a movie about impossibly large and hairy mutated spiders. If you're curious, go watch 'Eight Legged Freaks'. I think its a laugh riot). At the same time I was a sucker for ghost stories. From the more popular/widely read 'Monkey's Paw' and 'Dracula' to the more obscure 'Bandage Bhoot' and 'Brahmadoitto' (which translates to Brahmin Bhoot, complete with a sacred thread and kumkum-smeared forehead ) that my granny created to entertain an often annoying grandkid, I had them all by heart. Literally. What happened as a result, was that I was perenially scared of the dark, of anything remotely unfamilar/unseen. Its like living in a world of ghosts. Also the fact that I had a particular sadistic Dad who reveled in jumping out from weird corners, with flared eyes, clawed palms, shrieking hysterically just to see his own kid shiver till his knees rattled, didn't help in the least. (Seriously. Who does that? That too to their own kid?!) 
Thrillers came a close second. Especially the ones involving psycopaths/serial killers/ gore fests in general. The movie that damaged me for life was one called 'Kaun', released in 1999, that met with a rather luke warm response at the box office. I was twelve then. The empty house, an eccentric Manoj Bajpai looking for Mr. Malhotra on a rainy night, a lonely woman hearing about a serial killer on the loose, and all that went on in those two taut hours had me hooked, cowering behind a cushion for cover, aforementioned sadistic Dad jumping from behind at the worst moments. I was traumatized. Literally. I couldn't sleep for days. I thought my dad strangely resembled Manoj Bajpai from the movie. Eeeeee. I think that was one of Ram Gopal Varma's best. But then he degenerated into someone who made 'Phoonk' and later,'Ram Gopal Varma ki Aag', both intolerable yawn-fests. Not to mention a talented Urmila Mantondkar ending up playing the lead in all movies that required the central character to be traumatized/crazy/mentally disbalanced/possessed by a spirit. In her comeback venture Karzzzzzzzzzzzzz, she did look strangely ghost-like. Scary. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqtSQ6KWRSg

No Entry: Officially the worst song that Bollywood has ever churned out. There are a few close competitors  but this is undeniably the worst. The WORST. The song has a total of 51 'NO's in the chorus. Fifty-effing-one!! Can you believe it? My head starts spinning after the first ten 'No's. And incase you're wondering, YES I counted them. (Ya ya. I have nothing better to do. Blah Blah. Keep talking.) My head starts spinning after I hear the first ten of them. Seriously. There's no entry in 'Ishq di Gali'. I get it. Its pretty straightforward. There's a red light and you need to stop your car. But you DON'T have to say it so many times! Shut the f**k up already! But considering the men involved in this song ranged from Salman Khan to Anil Kapoor to some other fifty something old hag of an actor whose name I forget/never bothered to find out, I can imagine why this had to be reiterated to the extent that the only word that was buzzing in your ears was NO. Also why would you want to walk through this Love-Gali holding Bipasha Basu's hand? Have you seen her in this song? What with the psychedelic purples and pinks, golden shimmer face paint and the rather obvious wobbly flab made worse with all the furious gyration, she looks likes a witch, or even better, Amrish Puri. (Do you see the resemblance? :P) *Shudder*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGdRVy5Poc0

And all those million people out there who had this song as there ring tone/caller tune/door bell/morning alarm at any point in your life, I think its time you consider killing yourself. Or else I'll hunt you down and make you pay. The former will be a lot more respectable. Trust me. 

'Aap ka Suroor' crap club: Ooooooooo Suroor! The constipated thing called Himesh Reshammiya. Enough said!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSVlg08l50w&feature=fvwrel

And after Britney Spears, Rebecca Black, Justin Beiber and Carly Rae Jepsen, all my mental faculties have been successfully numbed. And recently, the last nail was mercilessly drilled into my coffin. Psy, you killed me. Yes. YOU!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0

My Didu Strongest!

Didu = Maternal Grandmother.

My maternal grandmother.

And just in case you're wondering, NO! My granny does not look like the lady above. Maybe she owned a pair of glasses like her, sometime during her lifetime (Didn't they all?). But the similarity ends there. Then why the pic? Well, that was the only good blog-worthy picture I got when I googled the words 'Awesome Old Lady' (Well I can't really blame google here, cos the closest match I could think of was Miss Marple, and all she did was sit in a chair, knit and solve mysteries. I think they should come up with an octogenarian  caped crusader kind of thing for senior citizens. They need a role model too right?!) Yes. That's Didu. Awesome Old Lady. She might not have gone out into the wild, chasing lions with a rifle, yelling 'Bad Kitty!', but she has some serious star potential. I always knew it. She was never the regular grandmother that I heard stories about from my friends. Ofcourse she was loving, and spoilt us brothers with candies till we complained of toothache. But that was not all. I always suspected she had some hidden superpowers, or had been a spy in her past life, or something similarly cool. Well, the last bit was a bit of a stretch, I agree. But hey! This is my blog. Deal with it.

I'm too sexy for my shirt : Considering this is a post about Granny, some of you might think this to be a bit inappropriate. But the song defines her. Yes. She has an aversion towards excessive clothing. And by excessive I mean regular. Often to the point of embarrassing her grandchildren and family members in general. Her absolute favourite activity of the day, is to emerge from the bathroom after an hour-long shower in nothing but a soaking wet translucent gamchha (which is a threadbare inexpensive cotton rag-towel, for the uninitiated) and walk to the verandah in broad daylight, with the intention of putting her clothes to dry. She walks nonchalantly paying no attention to the red-faced family members, zig-zagging across the room  with various items of clothing, just to cover her up. FAIL. She spends another hour spreading her saree out on the line. Such ceremony, I tell you. I wonder why she takes the pain to wash it everyday when she hardly puts it on. She even spends a few minutes chatting up some obscure vendor passing by on the street below, about how expensive potatoes have become these days, as if they were best buddies from school, mostly yelling to make herself heard, and garnering unnecessary attention from the curious. All of this, in just a bedraggled gamcha. 

After contemplating how to avoid being seen with her in the future, lest they find out we're related, I drum up my most I-mean-business like voice and ask, " Didu, why don't you put some clothes on next time? " Her reply. " Its the age of exhibitionism. Also, it's hot no? " Point taken. I haven't come up with a good enough counter to that argument till date. Honestly, if she was born in today's age, she would have at least become a Bollywood star/starlet, if not a successful swimwear model. She has talent. Trust me.

Penny wise - Pound foolish : Didu has always had a fascination for coins. And irritatingly so. Its like, anything greater than a rupee doesn't stick to her. And imagine paying ten bucks in quarters on a regular basis. Here's a sample conversation with a regular rickshaw driver. Let's call him Dhanno ( I know Dhanno was a horse and its a bit demeaning, but in my defense, he was NOT as pretty as Basanti. )

Didu (getting off in front of our house): How much?
Dhanno: Mashima, ten rupees.
Didu (yelling): What?!! Are you mad? Take five.
Dhanno (shocked by the drastic reduction in fare): What are you saying, Mashima? What do you get for five bucks these days?
Didu (sounding profoundly wise): This is not America or Bombay (They have the same cost of living remember?). This is Calcutta. You get a LOT for five bucks. For example...
Dhanno (cutting her short, and sounding slightly defeated): Okay FINE! I'll take eight. But not a penny less.
Didu (decisively, her game face on): Seven!
Dhanno (exhausted): Deal!

Particularly pleased by her victory, Didu goes on to 'gather' seven bucks from her purse, her fuzzy glasses not helping in the least. Turning to me ( Yes. I was standing next to her, with my head down, the entire time. )

Didu: I can't see very well. Darned glasses. Would you be a dear and get seven bucks from my purse?
Me ( sensing this was a trap ): No! Why can't you do it? Your glasses seem perfectly fine to me.
Dhanno (chipping in impatiently): Hurry up you two! I don't have the whole day.

I proceed to rummage through her purse obediently. All I could see were coins. No paper notes. No fivers. Just ones, twos, quarters and quite a few embarrassing 20 paisas, which had gone out of circulation twenty something years back. I swear I wanted to cry. After a good fifteen minutes of frantic searching and furious counting I manage to put together seven bucks. Phew! But there was one problem. How do you hand over a bunch of coins to someone? In a pouch? Tell him to cup his hands so we can pour them in? Well  Didu tackled that with ease. She told him to do exactly that. CUP HIS HANDS! In hindsight the entire scene was kind of funny. But at that moment, standing there, soaking in the shame and gawking at Granny's incorrigible behaviour, there was nothing remotely amusing about it, trust me.

On our way up, I asked, "Didu! What happened to the ten rupee note I stuck in your purse yesterday?" I did it secretly the night before when she was fast asleep, to save myself this inevitable trauma. That ten-rupee note was precious. It was my weekly allowance. It was hard, but I absolutely HAD TO do it. "You did? I had no idea. Where did it go?" Seriously. Where did it go? Did it just turn into quarters overnight. Or her bag had a hole in it, which only allowed paper bills to pass through. I guess there's only one explanation. Magic! I told you she had superpowers. Wait. I think I saw a cape. *goosebumps*

I am a DiscoDancer : Didu has had arthritis for what seems like ages now. But she has a fascination for dance. (Not that they are related. But when I think of weak knees, dance doesn't exactly cross my mind. ) And I'm talking Bollywood here. Not Bharatnatyam. Not kathak. Bollywood. If there's an award function on TV, she's hooked. What with all the Sheelas, Munnis and Chikni Chamelis  gyrating on screen, her seventy-year (?) old eyes light up at the slightest sound of thumping techno beats. Its not surprising that not everyone in the house share her sentiments on this issue, especially my mom. She's more into singing reality shows. Thus ensues an unending battle for the remote control. Who will win? Music or Dance? Not to mention the men have no say in this. Nada.

Didu (in a rather reproachful voice): Your mom makes me so angry.
Me (paying no attention): When does she not.
Didu (sensing the indifference): No. Listen to me. She always watches that stupid show on TV. And never allows me to watch what I want.
Me (rather curious): And which one would that be? (expecting the name of some KKKK.. serial. The four K's apparently have some sort of numerological significance. My Ass.)
Didu (solemnly): Indian Idol.
Me (quite taken aback. Actually I dont mind that show. Although Anu Malik gets on my nerves with his retarded efforts to rhyme): Why? What's wrong with that? What do you want to watch instead.
Didu (excitedly): Jhalak Dikhla Ja.

And here I thought she wanted to follow Aastha or some similar 'spirituality' channel, where they keep chanting tunelessly all day like a bunch of dead men. I guess that's not her thing. And considering I've seen her often doze off in the name of prayer/meditation, and the fact that her day-to-day questions range from whether Ranbir really loved Deepika, or whether Saif's 'Kareena' tattoo was real, I should have known better. She should have been in showbusiness. Dayam!

Madame Smartypants :

- A recent skype conversation during which I happened to be in an extremely whiny mood :

Me (sulking): Didu! I hate making lunch everyday. I'm sick of my ham sandwich.
Didu (peering into the webcam. I think she brushed her nose once too.): Why don't you buy something for lunch everyday?
Me (more sulking): It's expensive. You know how big a miser I am.
Didu: How expensive is it? Can't be more than two dollars! (She's still not used to inflation.)
Me (trying my best to enlighten her): Two dollars converts to a hundred rupees!
Didu (in a tone of correction): Nope. It converts to 111 rupees.
Me (shocked out of my wits): How the hell do you know that?
Didu: Simple. I follow currency exchange rates in the newspaper.

I died. Well almost.

- My Mom and Didu keep fighting all the time. They cannot live without each other, mind you. But their life seems almost incomplete if they don't lock horns at least once a day over something inconsequential. I guess its just women. Anyway the verbal exchange that eventually follows is a guaranteed treat. Here's a sample.

Didu (to a yelling mom. I still don't know what the issue/non-issue was.): Why do you scream so much?
Mom (still yelling): Cos you're hard of hearing.
Didu (unable to contest that): Err. So what? You can yell and still be polite no? (That's not possible right?) Anyway, when you yell you sound just like Bimala. (Bimala has been our househelp for almost ten years now. With a heart of gold, subliminal cooking skills and a shrill glass-shattering voice, she's a force to reckon with.)
Mom (flipping her lid): Are you comparing me to her now? Ofcourse. I'm illiterate.
Didu (strangely calm): You don't have to take offence. So was Kalidas.

Well she does have a point. Mom stopped yelling almost instantly. She was taken aback by her spontaneous brilliance. Who wouldn't?

So are you convinced that my Granny is awesome-bordering-on-superhuman? If not, I feel sorry for you. Cos I'm a believer.

The Adventures of BongMan and Me - Part II

There's so much to crib about and so little time! Gah! So without much ado, lets get down to some serious BongMan trashing.

More excerpts from previously mentioned travel journal:

- Some of the most annoying Bongs I had the misfortune of travelling with are the ones who come with kids. Usually two. And each more intolerable than the other. The kicking, screaming, crying, scratching, running-up-and-down-the-length-of-the-compartment kinds. Makes me want to yell and tear my hair out, to say the least. But maybe its gotten less to do with them being Bong. Maybe its just KIDS. Look I love kids. I think they have the most adorable 'behinds' among other qualities. But they're not my ideal companions, so to speak, on journeys or inside movie theaters. They unleash the Devil in me, and that's an understatement. If I hadn't been introduced to the concept of self control I would have been behind bars for assault ages ago. Trust me. The problem in most of these cases is bad/terrible parenting. According to me, kids should not be allowed to travel/enter movie theaters till they're at least ten. And if they are, their parents should be prepared to see their kids with popcorn buckets dumped on their heads. Anyway, lets not digress from the issue at hand - Bong parents with kids on trains. FOCUS.

BongDad (Bad), BongMom (Bom) and BongBaby (Butt) enter air-conditioned compartment of the Calcutta Rajdhani (I refuse to call it 'Kolkata'. So give it a rest!). Me, hiding behind my book, sigh, almost audibly, attracting unnecessary attention. Damn. They've seen me now. Pointless conversation becomes inevitable.

Bad (turning to me): It's so hot isn't it? (wiping sweat off his face with an already drenched handkerchief.)
Me (still unable to forgive myself for inviting conversation): It is.
Bom: Its quite cold in the compartment though. (It's air-conditioned! Duh! Also notice the insistence on stating the obvious.)
Bad (turning to wife): Give Bontu some food. He must be hungry. (presuming Bontu is the name of the hapless child.)
Butt (whining): Noooooooooooo. I'm not hungry.
Bom: Bontu Shona. Please eat something.
Butt: No! (Yelling unnecessarily. Kids!)
Bom (Giving up. I would have killed myself or her if this exchange continued any longer): Fine! Do what you want. Next time you pester me for food, you ain't getting any.
Butt: Mummy! Where will I sleep?
Bom (Obviously offended by afore mentioned refusal of food. I presume she made it with all the love in her heart.): You'll sleep in the lower berth.
Butt (wailing): Noooooooooooooo. I want to sleep up there (pointing to the top bunk and simultaneously scrutinizing ways of getting there.)
Bom (Making weird facial contortions, supposedly trying to scare the child into obedience): I said NO! No more arguing. You'll be sleeping in the lower bunk. That's final. Now stop your nonsense. Look, uncle is getting angry. (pointing at me. Me infuriated at being called 'uncle'. Seriously?!! May you be pelted with stones Woman!)

Butt casts a quick look at me to make sure whether 'Uncle' was really mad at him or his beloved mother was lying through her teeth. It doesn't take long for him to figure out that the latter was true. Goes back to his usual shenanigans.

Butt (impatiently): Mummy! I'm going upstairs (meaning top bunk).
Bom (Looking out of the window, least bothered about safety of her child): Do what you want. (Me thinking why I never heard these words from my mother. But probably this is why I turned out so awesome. Did I hear whispering? Don't worry. I'll find you whoever you are.)

Butt, unable to control his excitement at being offered unlimited access to the delectable top bunk, starts swinging from whatever he could find, across the seats, showing unbelievable skill and letting out occasional ape-like noises (or maybe Tarzan. But what's the difference? Po'tay'to-Po'taa'to.)

Bom (suddenly realizing the damages associated with above mentioned wild behaviour, starts yelling): Get down from there! (turning to snoring husband) Get up! Look what Bontu's doing. He'll fall and hurt himself. Please put him up on the top bunk (Turning to Bontu, hanging upside down at this point) Bontu! Its very cold up there. You'll catch the flu. Wear your monkey-cap! (Now I know why they're called 'Monkey' caps!)

Bom forces a woolen, black and pink polka dotted monkey cap over dangling Bontu's head.  (The colour scheme/design is very important to completely visualize this bizarre spectacle. Stop scoffing you!) Bontu wriggles but he couldn't do much given the position he was stuck in. I'm sure he wished he was Spider-Man. I wanted to let him know that he was not far behind.

After what seemed like hours of yelling, kicking and dangling, Bontu finally made it to the top bunk. I thought now is the time for peace. But did I tell you he was a kid?!! Within minutes of reaching the summit, he wanted to come down again. But unfortunately, after considerable deliberation, the only option he could think of was free-fall. And although he wished he could fly, he realized he was not a bird or born of particularly superhuman parents. So he decides to cry. (At this point, I gave up all hopes of reading my book and tucked it away in one of the bunk-pouches. Yes. I gave up. I lost. Happy?) Not content with just wailing at the top of his lungs, Bontu decides to sneeze. He first irritates the hell out of perfectly innocent fellow travellers like me, and then goes on to kill them with mucus-laden bacteria. Yes. Kill me Bontu. I'd rather die.

Alarmed by the sneeze, Bom gets worried and severely pokes her sleeping husband (How can anybody sleep through all of this? Beats me. But in hindsight, I guess this goes on at home everyday. Poor old Mr. Bad.)

Bad (startled): What? Where?!!!
Bom: Bontu's caught a cold! I told you to not let him go up there. Keep sleeping. All your life!

Bad, being reprimanded by darling wife thus, promptly rescues Bontu from the dark, cold upper berth. (Not so delectable now eh Bontu?! *snigger*) Bom gives Bontu a bone-crushing hug, as if he just came back from the battlefield. Bontu, all sweaty from the excessive physical exercise, sneezes again.

Bom (alarmed) : Why're you sweating so much? (Why?!! Really?) (Takes off the hideous monkey cap, and finds Bontu's hair to be soaking wet) I told you not to run around in the train. But do you ever listen to me Bontu?! (nailing the I-am-hurt tone. Sorry to burst your bubble lady, but that won't work on the Devil you happen to call your son. Not in a million years.) The upper bunk is really cold. And the AC has been turned up so much. Its freezing in here!

No it's not. Get that darned Monkey cap off his head and all will be fine in Bontu-Land.

P.S. As much as I hate you BongMan, my journeys wouldn't have been half as eventful, if it wasn't for your annoying self . Not to mention your darling offsprings. There. I said it. You're not mad at me anymore are you? *nudge*