Dovetails,Petals,Curtains and Colours

She once asked He to write something for her.

I am only the voice behind his thoughts.This is their story.

"Whenever James Blunt croons "You're Beautiful" in his incredibly love lost and smooth sailing voice,a series of images flash in front of his eyes.Against a chasm of hazy and electric blue,it is due to that breathtakingly pretty face of hers,that there is stillness and quiet,despite the divaricate and chaotic imagery that his thoughts are conjuring.With a curt smile gracing her rose petal lips ,she teases him and he gets lost in the realm of those watery eyes,which always seem like they are saying something.

She is constantly pushing back tufts of her silken hair,that braze her blossom cheeks like curtain braids which brush against him,as he stares out the balcony.The nose is his favorite though.He says it looks like a little piglet's nose and she twitches it dismissively like Nicole Kidman in Bewitched.She is still smiling at him ,this time playfully and is generous enough to give us glimpses of the pearls that glint inside.

He fondly remembers that for the first few years that he had known her,he used to remain tongue tied in her presence.The angel like aura that she had ,a mere mortal admirer like him could only be left speechlessly spellbound.The sun however did shine on him , and they became.I daresay,the best of friends in due course.

He would now know that behind the blinding light that she emanated from a distance,there was an innocent and childishly enthusiastic,almost naive persona.She would be distant and cold one moment and unbelievingly caring and affectionate the next.They fought on petty matters and she used to shower him with those cute and snarly death threats, twitch that pigletty nose and strut off into the distance.The moments when they used to talk about life,love and what not,she would listen, dreamily at that,and he would think that he was boring her.When she talked ,he would have to make conscious attempts to listen and not stare,for he was just so badly smitten.He was slipping into something totally unknown to him.

All this while,the beauty was absolutely oblivious.God's almost pitch perfect work of art,was an artist herself and her world was all about colors and canvasses.Splashes and dashes of blue and hue, wavy motions of the hand,sometimes caressing the canvass,sometimes almost dismissive,she would bring to life the most vivid sequoia of flowers-pink,green and indigo.Images of lonely boatmen on the horizon,feeling the orange radiant sunset,or of the tranquil sea,lashing against bedrocks and carrying away so much with it.She could talk to colors and felt at home in their company , looking at ceilings and walls,floors and parapets and wonder if peacocks or umbrellas could grace them.She would get so engrossed that the world around her ceased to be a world per se ,and a void,an emptiness,would set in as soon as she set the paintbrush down.She yearns for similar passion , a love that is blind and will not judge her devout and sometimes abstract creative streak and just love her for what she is.She is aware that a Utopian World does not exist and yet she strives for that eluding extra inch of perfection-something she has always secretly dreamt of.

She asks him sometimes,the meanings of life's mysteries and unpredictable ways and he just glances at her and smiles.He is as clueless,if not more about what life holds in store.The world confuses both of them,and yet  words and colors keep them going.They glide along seamlessly through separate ways and keep reliving their struggles with each other.Their philosophies and their paths are as different as chalk and cheese and yet they are so similar.She smiles at him,this one killer and electric.Sometimes,his heart skips a beat when she does that.Her colors are calling her out once again and she flies out to them,with unparalleled vigour and fairy grace.Meanwhile,James Blunt is done with his ballad.The F.R.I.E.N.D.S Theme Song is now playing.

How apt and how excruciatingly beautiful.

He closes his eyes and tells her,silently, that they will always be friends and will live on in each other.She has now almost finished reading this.It is eerie and late at night.I am sure she has a lot to say.

Dhobi Ghat,Mumbai etc

Disclaimer : This is not a 26th January post about how we only get patriotic on certain days and blah blah,nor is it a chastity filled lashing at those who do not even bother to fake patriotism even on those days.

It has been barely half an hour since I watched "Dhobi Ghat" and yes,it blew my mind so damn hard that I just had to write this down.The movie in essence, is not a theatrical at all.For all I care , It could have been a poem with floating,resonating lyric or a photo slideshow with those still images,silently speaking out much much more than the cacophonic movie fare (Read Akshay Kumar movies) that we are treated to,these days.A sordid tale about a city one can't help falling in love with, Kiran Rao,the debutant director has sketched her characters with surreal expertise,each one of them defining Mumbai in their own way.

Prateik,The dhobi represents the fighter that Mumbai is, doing what it can to make ends meet and yet,never giving up on their dream-of making it big.The innocent pining and longing,with the shy shrugs and the almost sweet way with which he interacts with Monica Dogra's character is a high point of the movie.The other male protagonist,the perfectionist Aamir Khan , plays a loner painter in the movie and gets into the skin of his character with typically consummate ease.He is the Mumbai ,which is not sure of itself , who has loved and lost and carries on,looking for inspiration in a couple of video tapes that he chances by.

Monica Dogra as the hotshot American banker,out on a sabbatical,is the Mumbai that is trying to come to terms with it's own essence,through her photography and of course her love soirees. "Posh and elite but not at all distant from ground reality"-this trait of her's was something really impressive.And yes of course,she is very pretty :P.Kriti Malhotra plays the Muslim wife who wants to capture Mumbai through her video camera and ends up being a muse or a subject to Aamir Khan ,displays moments of true cinematic brilliance with her innocent eyes and almost unbelievable endearance.She is the Mumbai which is puzzled by it's own pace and instead of running with it like Monica or Prateik do,she choses to sit back and take the feeling in ,losing strength but not her innate sweetness.Easily my favourite character in the movie ,just because of my obsession with "CUTENESS".

Last but not the least,there are fleeting images of the old ,silent woman, who is the Mumbai that is dying and decaying , silently observing what goes on around her ,too powerless to say anything and yet ALIVE by all means.A fantastic movie for the purely artsy people.To me it felt like a breath of fresh cinema,like someone's silk dupatta blowing across my face.Though I agree,not everyone will like it.

An Uncommon Man

As a kid,I used to love  R.K Laxman's common man.His beginnings were in an era when India was grappling between communist and republican philosophies,when it was barely beginning to realise itself.Many things did change but not the common man.He is still clad in his checked khadi coat and white cotton dhoti,adorning thick rimmed spectacles and a muzzled expression,reminiscent of a conservative and leftist India.As our nation opened its gates to the world,dhoti kurta gave way to Levi's jeans,a solitary landline in the locality gave way to multiple cellphones and pre-marital sex and onscreen intimacy no longer raises eyebrows.But,the essence of Laxman's common man is still the same.He is still the mute spectator to the Great Indian Circus.

Coming back to the eccentric genius that Laxman was,I havent ever seen a more complete cartoonist.

Wit,irony,satire,mockery,slapstick,you name it,he was proficient in all the above genres.But never did he get crass or vulgar.Being clean,tragically true and yet funny was his forte.It is said that the grand old daddy of them all,"The Times of India"rested entirely on Laxman's shoulders in those days.Khushwant Singh had famously proclaimed that if "God forbid,a day comes when there is no Laxman on TOI'S front pages,Indians who start their day with a smile would have nothing to smile about".

An interesting albeit well known factoid is that R.K Laxman's common man in all these years,has never SPOKEN EVER.Check out his strips and you'll know.

If you are as nostalgic as I am,or perhaps just curious,check this link out for a datewise archive of his cartoons in TOI.

http://photogallery.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/cms.dll/articlelist?msid=15546979

You'll need an Indiatimes ID,I guess.