Dilli Delirium

Crossing past the India Gate, lit up like a bride. Late at night. Time to kill.. for the first time ever.

Stepping out of a car and actually going near the monument after sundown. When I was running through the picture in the car, drowsy and content.. with my father right next to me, lost in his own ruminations of life. And I, not a care in the world, but still as worrysome, little lines furrowed my forehead, but meant nothing more than simple everyday observance from the window. Ah, windows. What is life without them. Just where it’s nice.. not out there and not inside.

 Those precious moments of dependence. Of being taken care of. The slightly warm breeze lulled me into a broken sleep. Passing by lamp-post after lamp-post and one huge bungalow after another. The soft light from the streetlamps were a favourite kind of lighting for my screenplayed dreams.

And my mind hurried to a guy running the length of one empty road after another, rid of people, skidding on turns and crossing roads. While dogs wandering along lonely roads turned towards him and stared wonderingly with their huge puppy dog eyes.

The scene was being played in my mind without loop, unending. Vivid and lucid. The guy running down an empty road. Panting and sweating, he needed to get somewhere as soon as possible. He looked about nineteen.  Beethoven played amazingly in the background and the rustle of the trees, it sang a song of longing.

And he crosses the distance, reaches India Gate and in utter loneliness falls to his knees. And he looks up, I see his back dark, contrasted against the magnificent golden bokeh of the great monument. No reason of rhyme can I see in this expect the sheer poetry.

And I am awoken by screeches and car noises. These beasts of metal and rubber. I sigh and feel the dull pain in my neck which I’m so used to, sleeping there awkwardly. What was I thinking. Oh, yes, of course.

And we get there and park a long way away. Nizamuddin’s not far. A walk around the Gate and we’ll be on our way home. I step out and turn to look. And the place is populated like it was a month of Sundays and holidays packed into one night.

Those little people look devilish from out here. Wait, devilish? My mind is still in the Secret Dreams mode. But they are there. Devil’s horns alight on almost every head. Well, look at that. I’ve seen these before but not so many. Not at night. Not in public. Grown men wandered along the place. Did they not see it? It must be fun. Of course. What do I know about fun.

They were in a place where  the glowing redness defines them all. Alarm and absurdity. It was comical and .. Crustacean, somehow.  Or how it ends up that every sentence I type is a fragment worth revising. The scene was a reality worth revising. What was the almighty doing. Buying one of these? Why can’t I be the one with the horns AND a pointy tail to boot. Muhahahaing between all those people while they ignore me with their merrymaking. Busy and bustled into one huge mess called life.

Little parachute men being propelled into air and then caught into the hands of human helicopters who are their base on ground. Do they fly with these little men? Engrossed in some twisted mechanics of a twisted business?

I don’t stay long but the walk around it is peaceful. But the presence of the human race is always a little disturbing, specially when my Dream protagonist is kneeling there alone. Walking past the ice cream and the kulfi stands, all crowded, we get back in the car.

Passing some out-of-the-world graffiti on the way, which probably would mean something if I could stand there are see it. Street art museums.

There’s  a man with a wooden leg. Hobbling away, a fictional pirate lost in the murky waters of New Delhi? All of them can be turned into different stories of their own but somehow they get stuck in one.

The Railway station is also a year of smelly Sundays. All those lives put into one big boiling pot of breath and blood, slowly stirring on its own.  Somehow it’s always hard imagining a white ghostlike mighty hand turning it over. And causing it to boil to the brink just for the fun of it.

It’s always a prayer that the Man in the sky is a good chef, or we are all cooked. Badly.

Open your heart, I'm coming home.

Putting these rusty fingers to some well deserved exercise.. I decide to type something, anything down. What else does a bored pseudo writer do when her exams are 5 days away and the impending doom can be magnified exponentially by getting into a dreamer, couldn't-care-less mindframe about it.

People commenting on posts out of the blue, spur a person to write a little. But believe me, words pour out on this pixelated whiteness only when the thought of someone reading is not a certain reality. Coming to something to write about.. the First City is something that makes you fall in love with it and clenches you with steely sharp claws which feel warm and feather soft while wincing in wondrous pain.

Living is Delhi has its own twisted renderings. Rather than thinking of home as this pleasant place where I can get away from the bipolar weather and compromised living conditions, it's gotten me to a point when home is not far away. While home I cannot do half the things that I take for granted here at this freedom mongering city. As they say, home is where the heart is. The memories of seven year old weekends stay in the mind as clear as the fact of waking up a little past mid-day after a night full of Dexter Season 5 on the loop.

And the evenings spent on overpriced Tibetan and Lebanese appetizers 10 minutes away can well be the evenings strolling near your home gazing at rocks with extraordinary shapes and picking through discarded treasure troves in your car garage. And I discover I have a great career as an Antiques dealer.

It is reassuring that I do not forget words during the non blogging months in my life. Rather than non-blogging days they are the thinking-about-blogging days and some days it's just blogging. Okay, some hours. Or.. some minutes. I gather I should do this more often but I'm scared of people reading it and sending me to a shrink.

Speaking about Delhi, the best thing college does, except the general awesomeness, is the extra awesome people it gets you to see perform, speak and get inspired by. Poetry and the lack of it. And what that entails. About left brains and right brains. And the blind fanaticism and closed mindedness of those who think not in poetry. It takes special kind of people to not lead the world towards
destruction.

And those are the ones who have a streak of madness in their lives. Someone who looks for order everywhere will destroy the things he does not find fitting into his own little package of the "world" for him. Neat lines cannot run through humanity. Peace is a chaotic but loveable existence where acceptance lives within everyone.

Share. Is a word which might mean different things to different people. A sense of entitlement which is neighbours with your ego  might get in a couple of arguments. But different strokes for different folks.  The world's a village and the village idiot can only blog about things.

And the idiot likes truths scattered in free verse. Rumi and the works. Who, unfortunately, was as I can presume, googled by a number of people after watching a certain movie. Along with the Lizard King. I thought about writing a full fledged post-review for it but passed. Because it doesn't really deserve it. Although I liked the "abrupt" ending, it was something that disappointed "people".

Stories like these are better expressed in a book because a movie is seen but not seen. With the sense that it should be filtered with. I could bash a number of people and things here but the movie was sufficiently awkward and weirdly edited. A strange amalgamation of mongrel music. And NOT in the good sense. It was taking an average person's life and fitting unsuccessfully into greatness. Doesn't work for me. The protagonist, a little more than expected, was believable while everything else remained superfluous and bitter tasting.

Maybe if I watch it for a second time.. I'll skip parts. It ruins the wintery university feeling with their treatment of familiar locations, kind of unforgivable.

People worshipping other people and the concept of being a "fan" or fanatic to the point of crazed devotion is admittedly weird. Never have I worshiped a proper "god" that we talk about living gods.  Thoughts close to the heart being reflected, as I've already noticed, by other people evoke this sense of achievement. And the biggest yet, is that which was put into words. That archetypes should not be made into heroes.

To certain people, traditional gods are the celebrities. Their lives followed "religiously". The next time grandma complains about modern day gods, retort back with the millions following the page 3 tabloid culture on their gods. Considering how it came to be as sacred as it is today, that's a whole different ball game with hidden motives in daylight and blah blah.

This is a messed up place to live in. And if anyone asks me what's the point of studying History, it's definitely finding about how the world became the funny joke that it is today. Till next time. As lines get added to the funniness.

PS - The title is borrowed from the Pink Floyd song 'Hey You'. Old love.

Grandness of Grey.

What happens when after you decide to settle down for the nigh.. err, rest at 5 in the morning after the all nighter infront of the TV watching weekly reruns of White Collar and Burn Notice. Wait, why did I not discover Burn Notice till now. Oh maybe because of the time. 3 am? Emily Rose made me a very reluctant non believer.

But. Good enough to be wasting time infront of the TV all night. The whole world's dead. Might as well. The rest of the hours you can pretend they are. Time moves too fast when the eyes are glued to the idiot box. Time makes idiots of us all, Jo. Wondering about the legal, criminal fetish here.. well, it sells. Thinking of why the hell do Big Bang Theory and other good stuff have to clash. Missing Castle all of a sudden. And there is it. White Castle. You know, you make a movie and you get it stuck in poor impressionable people's brains.

Voldemort, there are easier ways to be immortal. And there are these sleepy hunger pangs. Of just very forgetful. Flipping between channels. Cursing the lack of good music on TV and on the radio. And it's finally 5 and it's bed time. Sluggishly turning the TV off, the lights off, etcetera. Well, here's getting back to your for the early mornings I've been burdened with for eons. Now it's a late night. Adios.

But then just catching a glimpse of the grey sky from the window, it has to experinced on the whole. And messing stupidly with the laptop for a little while.. it's up to the roof where the dog follows. My mom's cute realisation on how the term 'puppy love' came about. He manages to be quiet this morning, though. A big relief at that. Only sniffing and snuffling.

And the horizon with the brazen buildings, before it the monsoon green grass, like a carpet, all laid along to the railway line. Above the buildings, leaving a margin around three fingers wide, of a whiter shade of grey and then there were the black clouds of doom. Of torrential rain. Of heaven on earth.

But then the winds of change just felt like breezing by and it was done for. And the gentle gypsy movement of the wispy black clouds as they disperse and gather together, .. turning lighter by the second.. blowing away like puffs of smoke. But the sky's still grey, the day's still good. The morning still a miracle.

Been ages since I saw an actual sunrise.. the sun not exactly being there was such a plus. And the school morning come back to me in a rush. Rushing past the beautiful weather and dreading the cool air, knowing that it wouldn't last. And there was no time to just enjoy it while it lasted. Now it was such sweet revenge. The real experience. Sometimes with an unnaturally good imagination, one tends to forget that the real thing can be better.

Looks like I just needed to get up early.. or not go to sleep at all. And then just not sleep. And not worrying much, because it'd take me ten sleepless nights for it to actually be fatal. On one hand I wish I had taken a picture of the merciful beautiful clouds, and on the other I'm glad I didn't have any good batteries because NO WAY I could've done justice to the sight. And more importantly, even if the picture turned out to be amazing, it still wouldn't define a fraction of the awesomeness the morning contained.

Feel the decade old feet stepping away from home, moving away, while I stood grounded staring into the magnificence. The hugeness of it all was consuming and ethereal. Only at some places and some occasions does the sky look humongous. Like on an open field, it looked like a heavenly dome covering every one of us. Only thing needed was being barefoot on a dew drenched lawn.

Mostly, moving towards school, the weather would feel like a dream along half way. When everyone was either slumbering away in their dreams or their lives and there would be a lull of sweet love all around. Now there's so pattering roof above my head and all there is is the open sky. And wide open eyes staring, a wonderful prize. A devotion sans disguise. A desire to be swept up and taken away.

The surreal grey and speckled blurred white with all it's glory.
I wish I hadn't gone to sleep all these days lately.
Hoping for a grey-er morning tomorrow.

It all started on a clear autumn morning when I was getting ready to go to school. Another god damn day of absolute boredom and whiling away precious time. Reading textbooks was never a very wise option. There were enough distractions, and never anything too interesting to think about.

Always too much to imagine. Too little to do. Less work. More play. Somehow. It all fitted in this neat little box of everyday school time normalcy. Looking at normal people act out their made up idea of life. Carrying out self assigned duties and living on the rights they thought they had over their life. While being so oblivious to exactly how slave-like their existence was to just simply every little thing around them.

Maybe it started on multiple days getting ready for school. Maybe every day.. getting ready for more crap everyone had to dish out to the world. Every day, waiting for it to end. Every day. Waiting for everything to make sense. Something to make sense. Everyone to? Someone to? Maybe waiting .. expecting myself to stop expecting. Some day. Some time. Soon. Maybe.

Wondering all the time going through all of this.. what kind of a mental disease is this exactly. Not caring most of the time. Making personal commentary on everything that went on. The madness. Did it go on outside? Or was it inside? Life is just made up of an impossibly long string of rhetorical questions.

Was it an autumn morning? Just a personal version of an Indian autumn. When the monsoon said a weak goodbye. Not wanting to leave me be.. nor did I want to part. Not so easily. Always so heartbreaking. And when the winter sent towards us those cold, damp droughts which I personally liked. It was just a slightly colder version of the sometimes warm misty rain that blessed us on some very lucky days.

It just makes the clockwork of the brain go around so well. Like a little phase of life. A little phase of a normal stressful day.. like the night when I am not as tired as I want myself to be. Never as tired. As the Beatles put it.. a hard day’s night. When I would’ve had been working like a dog the whole damn day and should’ve been sleeping like a log at this time in the night. But I’m not because of the things that I do. It won’t let me be.

Tip tap tip tap. Who doesn’t love the sound of uninterrupted pitter patter raining of words on the blank screen. Like this. All so blank and nice with little black letters forming on the screen. It’s like some real mind magic. God. Makes me a believer. It’s like sufi music when you’re alone and the sun’s shining hard and hot on you.Standing there alone on the roof, standing mindlessly against the railing, looking at the horizon. Feeling your bare feet on the slightly scorching floor. That old nostalgic feeling of cold water being splashed on dust or earth or hard, hot granite. Love it. The smell of it. The sheer shining sights of nostalgia it invokes. Or peace. Like the strums of a lone guitar trembling on to your earbuds..

Sounds of a soft drum drumming drumming.. That little tinkle of a cymbal. Or a loud disoncerting, yet welcome tremble. Random random random. Just like right now. Unsequential ununderstandable. Uninteresting maybe. Unsung, probably. But mine.

The dry summer. Feeling the sun on your brow. Trying to keep it unfrowning. Unseen. The distant horizon. Alone and alive. The sun beating down on you. The music beating to your heartbeat. When everything’s as clear as the summer azure sky. Cloudless. Just blue. Blue all around.

The heart swirling around like a blissful whirling dervish.

Free.

When life is as it is. Not how it should be. On a summer afternoon, alone with the horizon. Hot. Hungry for more. Hung up on life. Happy. Hostile. Home.

Without people. Pain. Perceptual pureness, peppy personalities. Pettiness. Pink pins prickling. So pristine. So unreal.

All ponderous. Pensive. Puns are perverseness. Persuasion and pasty wallpapers to the walls on your brain. Splattered with a plethora of inks and a multitude of injections of intentions. Insiduous. Insane. Ingrained. Preserved and maintained. Whitewashed, put in chemical X and Y and Z. And everything bled.

While the world worked in grey and monochrome. White and black. Like little books on a rack. Not a hundred thousand loose frayed pages of flack. Faulty forays. Faded deadends. Cut up and curated. Ready to be arranged. Sequentially. But never done. Too hard. Too soon.

Those little books on a little book rack. Filled into a sack. And

burned black.

Flexing the phalanges.

I’m so sorry. This is pretty much directed to myself more than anyone else. But due apologies to ANYone who was looking forward to posts. This tiny show of creativity is such a shame. Going by the saying that if you don’t use your brain it stops working or something along that line, I’m just going to push the little sleepy Escribtionist in my to just pelt out any kind of rubbish that can be written. So you’ve been warned. If you cannot handle everyday common rant just click on the little x on the upper right corner of the screen.

So I’ve been into devouring the newspaper for hours. Laziness and procrastination plus the old habit to give the same amount of importance to every little piece of writing that interests me. It’s just only after a couple of hours of broken newspaper reading and facebooking and day dreaming that I realize that I have to slog through the rest of the newspaper now. Can’t just abandon it.

And being the classic procrastinating perfectionist that I am, I actually THINK and talk to myself about things mundane to the common aadmi. Like the story in our Individual and Society textbook in which the writer talks about a little article on the plight of peacocks during a nuclear test that distresses him more than the effects of the nuclear bombs itself. He had a particular name for it. Which I’ll type as soon as I gather the energy to pick up the book from the shelf. *sigh*

In particular, yesterday’s newspaper was a real piece of art. A masterpiece. With the World Cup win covering almost all of it (yes!!). For the very first time I’m happy sports took up so much of space. AND I am sure I will not reach the same level of ecstaticness ever (exception : if India wins the World Cup again). One particular piece which caught me by surprise was that our own skipper Dhoni was a Railway TC at Kharagpur before he played cricket professionally. Wow. I mean, wow. Neither did my roomie know it. I may have heard it before but I may not have been actually interested enough in knowing about the man himself.

Now that he’s deemed the hero of the nation. Going into another territory that of choices and it’s outcomes. There’s the part that makes me very, very insanely happy and hopeful. For someone who doesn’t trust her choices too much (and is ALWAYS imagining up alternative scenarios), the move from the profession of a ticket collector to that subsequently of the CAPTAIN of the INDIAN CRICKET TEAM is astounding. Terribly, terribly astounding.

I’m always stressing about where do I throw the newspapers. I did get to donate them the last time but THIS one, sir.. is gonna be forever in my treasure trove. Morever, there were some more little articles of brilliance. Like the one about

Maybe I sound like a newbie to news, but maybe I just AM. Rediscovering paper news. But can’t they award a special distinction to 30 pages of pure awesomeness. That’s probably just my heart speaking. But what the hell. TOI FTW. Just cyberly much.

Another article spoke about some housewives turning wasteland into a herbal garden all on their own. While some people went against it and tried to discourage them, in more ways than one. They put in their own money and just went ahead. That's what makes it happen.

And I am rediscovering Rehman’s music with some of his older songs which I didn’t go into much. But since they were convered by Underground Authority at a fest, it was a treat discovering them. His earlier work sounds so much different in some ways and all the same in some. Much of it depends on the lyrics too. Hindi lyrics always sound so much more soulful. One example is the song from Guru called Shauk Hai. And Jaage Hain which has this crescendo of pure emotion. Needless to say I used to listen to that during the exams, pulling all nighters. It didn't make much of difference, except it made me feel like it did.

But of course, the song will have better meaning with something bigger.

Talking about something bigger, there was an out of the line article I saw today as well as yesterday. Today it was about the cricket hater's reaction to the World Cup frenzy. Of course I can sympathise, except when the World Cup FINALS are on with the country in it. Otherwise I can be as hypocritical as possible. Another article was on women striving for a 'male standard' at work while being the wife and mother. And the thing which clinched it were several facts, that I didn't know earlier, like women being more vulnerable to effects of smoke, having smaller airways, having less tolerance to alcohol, 42 percent women dying within the first year of having heart attaks, etc. etc. It's pretty dismal looking at these facts. The final one being that the male child of a woman who smokes may be born with a lesser number of testicular cells. Isn't that nice?

Another was about the Atheist and Freethinkers in the US Army 'coming out', so to say. Letting people know that they are there. The writers talks about being a non-believe or non-Christian in the army went against the norm. But that only just reifnorces that religion supports violence here. Just a few minutes back I came across an even on Facebook of a Balaclava march on the Royal Wedding Day, starting at Soho Sqaure in London. An excerpt from the description - "In defiance of the police abbusing the intrusive Section 60 powers to remove face coverings and search you at the recent 26th March protests. My proposal is that hundreds, if not thousands of us march with our faces covered." It's through a line of pages on Anarchy that I came across this.

And Shobaa De's article on the Mahatma being a gay icon. With it being banned in Gujarat and Tushar Gandhi calling the move very "Un-Gandhian". For starters, that's what happen when you put people on a pedestal. It was his life and we here can do nothing about what he felt and did. Even if it's only been just suggested. Looking at the reaction in these circumstances, it can only be imagined what would've happened if it'd been proved.

It's not a new concept of people being in a very close relationship based on sharing the same viewpoints, ideals and respect towards each other. But when it comes to someone as revered as him, it all comes down to national pride. A pride of a nation of homophobes. Even the suggestion scares them to no end. I don't understand what part of love do you not like. How does gender even define love. How can anyone even point fingers and say anyhthing about two girls or two guys in love. It must be unthinkable for them to imagine someone making fun of them being in a heterosexual relationship. But the same unthinkableness SHOULD have been there in the homosexual mind. But it isn't. Which is the main deterrent for them for "coming out".

The Kevil Keller character in the Archie comics will now have his own comics. He's just a guy. But for those who don't know, he's openly gay in the series. The most I saw of him was online with the cover showing him falling for Archie. But WHY does everyone fall for Archie. That's an argument saved for later, perhaps. Mane cartoonists have too dealt on that topic but it's pretty hard to understand, but being GIVEN he's the most wanted guy here, it takes a lot of time for anyone to question his credibility as Riverdale's sweetheart. I would say it's the same with Shah Rukh Khan.

I could just go on about everything.

Saw the movie Monster, on the life of Aileen Wuornos, the female serial killer who was exceuted in 2002. I didn't even need to look for this info again since I now just know everything about her. Videos of her interviews in prison are on YouTube. I suggest the movie to anyone who'd like to indulge in good cinema. But while being a very violent movie of sorts, it's the most sensitive one I have seen in days. I'm rediscovering watching a string of movies too. Since reading doesn't involve that much of a visual indulgence. Of course, imagine I can. But there's just been too much of that lately. There are a lot many movies to be reviewed in the days ahead.


Falling in love with The Verve's Bittersweet Symphony. With the soul stirring music and the lyrics as though have come out of my very own heart. Cut up and just stolen.

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Trying to make ends meet
You're a slave to money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet yeah

No change, I can't change
I can't change, I can't change
But I'm here in my mind
I am here in my mind
But I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mind
No, no, no, no, no, no..

And every word speaks truth.

Mundane Monotony.

Three months is a break long enough from my beloved estranged blog. Time to reconcile, kiss and make up and head towards another break up. So let's see.

Coming out from the cinema, all good movie drugged up. 7 Khoon Maaf. Well, definitions differ and how they do. Sometimes they are bigger than items of pure entertainment. And hidden symbolism that some people find are beyong their little bubble. Or maybe some of the big headed freaks want to get out of things ideas they don't really possess but which possess the person.

Sadly, normal popcorn movies cannot be relied on. And there has to be some degree of dependence on the movies that keep your hands away from the popcorn tub and hovering about different little things in the movie. The quirks and the questions and answers and little adorable admonitions to the mind.

So what finally pushed me to finally type something out here on the blank white I've been keeping away from for these "busy" months.. a couple walking behind me. The guy explaining to the girl who Ruskin Bond is and that the movie is based on one of his short stories. Well, she finds it hard to understand who the guy is. How hard can it be to infer the meaning of "a very famous writer". And the fact that movie is based on a story. I hope she knows what a story is. Unless she's been living under a rock. The rock would've cried tears of anguish.

I narrate this incident to my father and he laughs and tell me some people just don't believe in reading and writing so much. Well? There must be a certain amount of "reading and writing" an average person does. Maybe that has gone way, way down or maybe I have been living under a rock. And I am pretty happy living there until someone somewhere knocks it over.

And on my way, all throughout.. I'm standing there on the Metro, between two girls who are discussing some pseudo important issue regarding some people. And I wonder what would've happened if the situation with the couple be reversed and the guy's asking the girl the questions. Or would that even happen. Guys I've known have always known things like who's who. Not in the page 3 sense, of course. But even that.

I spent around five minutes wondering how many girls around me in the Metro knew who Ruskin Bond is. Or are they too stuck up in their own pretty world to look at the rest of the ugly world. Or will stuff continue happening and what flashes infront of my eyes is a makeup brand stall that graced our canteen lawn with their presence today. Is that all it means to them? Cash in on the all girls college? Gullibe little girls who think caking on makeup will solve all their problems. Turn them into a princess maybe.

There's a lot to say about that. But things rush through all the time. And there's not enough time to write it. Maybe the problem is not enough reading, it's the sheer thought that they don't need to read. I know girls who'd go through their life without touching a sheet of paper that does not give them marks or is not related to a celebrity.

Or well, even if they read.. it's stuffed with subliminal ideas that permeate into their brain with a lot of love and no reality.

Maybe guys have an upper hand at being the better equipped in the grey matter group when they know they gotta deal with it in the real world. Not to say women don't work, but I do not spend my days with totally awesome working age women now. And I don't encounter eighteen year old males enough, face to face than I can dish out deserving insults at them. And those I do I won't say are much lacking in the mind matters.

But without making this a long monologue about anti feminist feminism, let's move on to the movie of the moment. And the moment's a long one. Going by the reviews I found on the net, the makeup is not cakey, the art direction was not overdone and the acting was awesome. I don't know what's deviating them from the story. I think it's a wonderful depiction with fresh, witty dialogues and a different mean streak to it. But I think it's a continuation of the crush I had on Delhi 6 with the pang of love for 7 Khoon Maaf. I mean what's not to like about a mainstream awareness created on sadomasochism. An obsession with poisonous mushrooms, a plagiarising rockstar gone wrong, an insecure soldier of war, a desperate police officer, a cheating Hindi-speaking Russian, and a very, very disturbed woman who's yet gone on to maintain her sanity enough. Reminds me of Dahl's dark fiction.

Not to mention the treat it is for the lovers of language. Dyachenko's seemingly funny shuddh Hindi that's so rare to the native ears. And Shah's amazingly accurate Bengali accent. Khan's Urdu. Also worth loving were the tiny lines here and there which give a difinite shape to the timeline. From the Berlin Wall to the recent Taj firings.

But more than that it's the whole idea of psychological extravaganza that the movies portrays that tends to snatch up my fancy. I only wish I was studying psychology right now to delve more into it. But so naturally, it's better handing in my own interpretations, because Freud and other "scholars" were just only thinking individuals too.

I think movies certainly reach out to a much larger group than books. And it's time someone did something about everything. Been thinking so helplessly that this world stands no chance until the demand for good genes is inclined towards the demand for good brains.

And when girls get enough time to stop looking at themselves in the mirror enough to look at the world and think instead. Specially when those books does them no good. Preaching ideas of a male perfection and the helpless damsel in distress syndrome who can't spoon up even her breakfast without the "comfort" of having someone in their lives. No taking names.

What's scary is that these girls will be tomorrow's women. And the men are gonna be running behind them. I'm going to get nightmares tonight.

This all was probably much of mindless judgments. But when things and mindless, it happens. I was gonna write something about people's opinion on war but more important things come up :P ;)

Also, the stong slashes of religious symbolism that decorate the movie, for those who have seen it. The idea of forgiveness reminds me of a Spiderman 3 quote:

"You want forgiveness? Get Religion."