The Image Puzzle

Substitute each image with a word to get the correct answer. I think this one is a give-away towards the end, but well, that's all the dimaag I could use. Please don't write the answer as a comment. Send me an email at akshay.bhu@gmail.com. Of course, you can tell me how good or awful the game is in the comment window.

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Maa Kee

20 days is a long enough time to kill the excitement / enthusiasm of being in a new city / country. Slowly, but surely, the desire to explore, experiment, venture out, etc. is replaced by a stronger desire to get into a routine. Those travel guides are relegated to the bottom of the pile, those travel websites slowly tread down to the bottom of the dropdown list in IE (don't call me a loser; we don't have Firefox in office), and you are no longer interested in fiddling with cuisines. In the last year, I've tried enough cuisines to get sick of trying more cuisines. I tried Mexican cuisine, I loved fajita with chicken; I tried Japanese cuisine, I couldn't bear it; I tried Thai cuisine, I hated it; I tried Mediterranean cuisine (in Varanasi), I detested it; I tried Indonesian cuisine, I absolutely loathed it! More recently, I tried Taiwanese, and I http://thesaurus.reference.com/search?r=20&q=hate it. So what do I do for food these days? Well, lunch is in the mall in the twin towers. The eatery is called Bengal Cuisine, and feeds me Naan, Alu Gobby, Alu Begun (Baingan), Sola (Chhola), and Dal for a miserly price of INR 60! Dinner is generally in a large covered-from-the-top-but-open-from-all-sides restaurant whose Masala Doshai can give Saravana Bhavan a run for its money. Super doshai, with a super chutney and decent sambar- all for INR 34. For me, a good city is one where both the rich and the not-so-rich have enough choices to lead a comfortable life. Kuala Lumpur, by this coin, is an excellent city.

Anyone who ever visits Kuala Lumpur, simply must go to Chinatown once. The heart of Chinatown is two parallel streets, no more than 4 feet wide, and lined with shops selling exotic brands at eccentric rates. Rolex, Tag Hauer, Omega, Breitling watches for less than INR 600, Adidas and Nike gear at unimaginable discounts, and a variety of odds and ends at a fraction of the cost you would pay elsewhere. The street is so narrow that if a customer in one shop steps back, he might butt you into the facing shop. Richie and I roamed the streets for no less than 3 hours, and returned only when we were broke.

Last weekend, I went to this hilltop tourist destination called Genting Highland. It's just an hour's drive from the city, and the weather is a pleasant change from Kuala Lumpur's. Genting Highland is famous for its amusement park, and most of the rides really were amusing. It's the kind of place where a group of families can tikaao their children on merry-go-rounds and spread their carpet and open their hot cases and distribute paper plates and play frisbee. There were a few exciting rides that scared the shit out of me, but in general, the place was kiddish. By 6 in the evening, the entire place was shrouded in clouds and it became pretty chill. After a few more hours of dilly-dallying, losing two rounds of pool, and dining at Pizza Hut, we returned at 11.

After my trip to Batu Caves, and before my trip to Genting, I spent a boring evening in one of the most happening areas in town. Bukit Bintang is famous for its malls (3 of them, one purely for electronic goods, one where you can buy stuff at affordable rates, and one where you can't afford an empty glass of water). It is even more famous for its massage parlours scattered on both sides of the road; massage parlours that (I've heard) turn into brothels at night. But I was on this road neither to shop, nor to get felt up. I was there just to kill time and hunger. Wandering from lane to bylane to bybylane, I spotted a street lined with cheap-looking, delicious-looking roadside restaurants. There were so many restaurants, I was sure I would find something for my fussy palate. My stomach rumbled, and my wallet nodded in approval. The first restaurant I spotted was Dragon View, and dragon was the only animal they did not serve. The names of the restaurants on the street should've told me that these restaurants were anything but diverse-Sun Chui Yen, Sai Woo, Cu Cha, Shui Kee, Loong Kee, Lim Kee, Hup Kee, etc. I instantly got this crazy idea of getting mom here and opening a restaurant called Maa Kee.

Talking of Maa, I made a few interesting observations about the Malay language. Thank you is Terima Kasih. Now, if you ever said that in India, you’d have your brains blown out before you could reach ‘sih’. I found a few parallels between Hindi and Malay- Maaf, Yakin, Sabun, Khidmat, and Awam mean the same in both languages. There are few awkward parallels too- you is ‘anda’, water is ‘air’, door is ‘pintu’ and city is ‘bandar’. If Symonds ever drops in here, he’ll sue the entire damn city for racial abuse.

Anyway, the series of Kee restaurants had a variety of skinned animals on display that made the lane look like a fried zoo. I loitered around for some more time before spotting Restoran Srirekha. My tongue almost lolled down like a red carpet into the restaurant. The place was crowded- some Indians who, like me, would’ve fled the Kee-street; and some foreigners (locals?) who’d have their innards incensed with Andhra chilli and run back to Animal Planet.
All this talk of food is making me hungry. Time to run to Bengal Cuisine for my daily dose of dal-roti. I might be here for just another week, so my next post will be from the comfort of my room in Bangalore. Till then, happy reading and enjoy the IPL (sob sob L)

Sightseeing in KL

At the Headquarters of the Department of Disaster Management

“All stations alert, we have an emergency. I repeat; all stations alert we have an emergency. Category 3 tummipane reported at 21:45 hours. All teams ready to evacuate.”

“I told you this was coming. The levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere and the ocean tempera-”

“Shut up, Gore. This ain’t the environment; it’s a goddamn stomach. Junior, what’s the status at the large intestine?”

“All queuing up sir. We’re just waiting to reach the Western Command.”

“It’s Commode, idiot. Gore, stuff that Nobel into his mouth, willya.”

“Ok, we’re ready for evacuation sir. Sister has been informed.”

“Cistern, jerk-head. Now open the gates.”

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH……………….

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I know most of this sounds insane. Ok, ok, I’ll give it to. Every bit of this is insane. But let me not jump straight to the event that led to this outburst. I’ll do this chronologically.

The day began like all holidays begin. I woke up, saw the digital clock say 11:00, grunted that I missed breakfast time again, and pulled myself out of the monstrously large bed. I tried to draw an agenda of things to do, and finally decided to spend the day productively by playing the World Cup in Cricket 07, watch BBC, eat something, and play another World Cup. When I went to the door, I saw an envelope lying on the ground with At Nikko, We Serve With Love written on it. The letter informed me that I had exceeded my limit, and therefore had to “furnish cash” to the hotel. I looked at the words on the envelope again. Big love! The good thing though, was that in going to the reception to “furnish cash” I shook off the lethargy. My sweat glands salivated at the sight of the sun outside. Still, some strange andar ki awaaz advised me to stop being a lazy bum and go around the town. Now, I’ve been ignoring my andar ki baat ever since Sunny Deol started mouthing the very same words on national television, but this time I decided to heed the call. A slow shave and a quick shower later, I was out of my comfortable room and into the punishing heat of Kuala Lumpur, with a handkerchief and a camera in hand. My destination: Batu Caves.

Whenever I go to a new city, I try to use public transport as often as possible. I love observing the local junta even if I don’t understand a word they speak. Now, those of you who know me well enough will rubbish this entire love-to-observe story and say I use public transport simply because it’s cheaper. Well, that’s true to an extent, but only to an extent. My train ride to Pasar Seni was in the crowded LRT, which is the local train here. I was to take a bus from Pasar Seni to Batu Caves. When I dismounted at Pasar Seni, I almost felt like enquiring if I was still in Malaysia. Teeming crowds with veebodi (sacred ash) smeared across their foreheads, murukku and pakodam selling on the footpaths, a live Tamil ‘concert’, a signboard saying Jalan Doraisamy (Jalan means ‘Street’ in Malay), and a row of shops with Tamil boards- who says Chennai is only an Indian City? In the bus, I was surrounded by an Indian reading a Hindi Newspaper, an elderly Malaysian Tamilian couple, a native Malaysian Muslim woman, and a group of native Malaysian Chinese men- a snapshot of Malaysia in a radius of 1 metre around me. I was immediately delighted I chose to travel by bus.

Half an hour later, the bus stopped a couple of hundred metres in front of a magnificent wall of rocks and trees. Batu caves, famous for its temple of Lord Murugan and the annual Thaipoosam festival (nothing to do with Thailand), lay ensconced within that mottled façade of green and grey. As I walked towards the caves, an imposing golden yellow statue of Lord Murugan came into view. I learned later that this is the tallest statue in the world. Next to the statue was a flight of stairs that seemed to never end. The lead-up to the temple was littered with tourist buses, tourists, and empty Sprite cans. There were many small shops selling flowers and garlands, evocative of similar shops near every Indian temple. At the foot of the hill were temples, a small pond with beautifully coloured fish (I’d like to think some artist pulled them out of water, painted them, and threw them back in), a small gushing waterfall, and innumerable souvenir shops and restaurants.

I laboured up the 272 steps. It was a very uncomfortable climb, because the steps were very narrow and I almost had to walk sideways lest I trip. But boy! Wasn’t the climb worth it! A breathtakingly beautiful cave, with idols of Hindu gods and goddesses standing out from the jagged walls, and the Gayatri mantram playing in the background- it was all picture perfect. A short walk through the cave opened out into another grey-and-green façade with the temple of Batumalai Murugan in the foreground. I’m at a loss for adjectives to describe this setting, and I don’t think Barron can do justice either. I won’t attempt to describe. I’ll let the photographs do the talking.

The magnificent statue of Lord Murugan with the adjoining stairs




The Batumalai Murugan Temple

At the end of the 272-step climb

Inside the caves

Talking of photographs, none of the shots I took had me in them because I was alone. I tried snapping myself, and let’s just say that if it wasn’t a digital camera I would’ve slaughtered myself for wasting the reel. I had asked a Tamilian chap to click a picture of me against the rock wall when I was halfway up the 272 stairs. But he refused because he was afraid his wailing 4-year old would roll down to the foot of the golden yellow Lord Murugan. At the Batumalai temple I gave my camera to a babyless man, but the amount of instructions I had to give him could fill up a PhD thesis. I finally found a man without a baby and with some knowledge of cameras, but as it turned out, the self-snapped images were the best of the lot.

Apart from the Batumalai temple, there were two other caves with Hindu deities and scriptures on the walls. The caves were simply spellbinding and I was really glad I shook off that laziness in the morning. This trip was worth every minute and every ringitt I spent on it. On returning to the foot of the hill, I had a sumptuous idly-vada lunch in a pure vegetarian restaurant (a dodo in this part of the world). I spent close to three hours at Batu Caves, and I might have lingered around for some more time if my mind had stopped drifting to that blessed air conditioner in my room.

Anyway, I was back at Pasar Seni at 5:30. The Tamil concert was gone, and in its place was a three-man band playing Stairway To Heaven on acoustic guitars. The song was a fitting description to my 272-step journey to the temple.

I lazed around in the room till 8:30 and stepped out again to answer my tummy’s call. I was in the mood for something different, and a cozy looking Taiwanese restaurant was just was the doctor ordered (as it turned out later, this is just what the doctor had NOT ordered). I combed the menu, and chicken was the least offensive animal on a menu that had coffee as its only vegetarian dish. When the waitress brought me a steaming bowl of noodles and a small tray of awesome-looking chicken chops, I was applauding myself for my choice. Ten seconds later, I realized I couldn’t have made a more daft choice. The noodles were insanely long; when I tried to suck a noodle in, it just kept coming till I was out of breath. The noodles were immersed in a spicy liquid and were so slippery I passed through hell trying to coil them around the fork.

Twenty minutes later, I was exhausted. Hunger wasn’t even a factor. I paid and ran out. Moral of the story: If you ever enter Little Taiwan, don’t waste time asking the waiter for tasty stuff or spicy stuff. Ask him what is easiest to eat.

Halfway to the hotel, the rumbling began, and you’ve already read what happened later.
It’s now 1:10 a.m. It’s the end of a long day. I fulfilled part of my earlier-planned agenda. I did watch BBC, I did eat, and though I didn’t play the World Cup, I beat Australia in Perth by 7 wickets. I’ll upload this one tomorrow. I don’t surf the internet much these days as I don’t have a connection in my room. Still, I’ll try to upload some photographs of my trip. Chalo chalo, let me sleep now. Tata.

Travelogue

Time: 2 a.m. IST
Date: 20th April 2008
Location: Mid-air

I sat reclined on the window seat, gazing at the vast stretches of darkness below. I was just ruminating about how the darkness rendered boundaries between land and sea, and land and land meaningless, when it happened. The plane tilted one way first, then the other, like a drunk staggering down the street. It then started wobbling violently. The deathly silence was broken only by the sound of glass hitting the floor dully. The trembling of the craft seemed to be enhanced by the collective trembling of a hundred-odd hearts that were now somewhere near the throat. The captain mumbled something in some language, which soothed none of the hundred-odd hearts, which, by now, were lodged firmly between the palate and the tongue. It was no less than an earthquake mid-air, the difference being that while in an earthquake you run out into the open, here running out would land you in a sea off the coast of Malaysia. Thankfully, the pilot leveled the flight, and the hearts commenced their return journey to the chest. Two minutes later, a life-size make-up kit walked up to me, bared her teeth, and said, “That was bad, wasn’t it?” I spent quite some time figuring out the colour of her face. As she walked past me, the colour was changing with the angle of incidence of light from white to dirty gold. (Don’t blame the champagne; it was the chamki on her face).

If reading the above paragraph makes you think I’m grossly exaggerating a routine case of aircraft turbulence, you are dead right. The fact is, I am bored, I have a pen and this notebook, and I have nothing better to do than write. I have my laptop with me, but I’m still writing in the notebook because it’s been ages since I’ve written anything substantial on paper. If you ask me to tell you the letters of the English alphabet, there’s a good chance I’ll start with QWERTY. My handwriting, which had been gift-wrapped and parceled to the dogs the day I began writing, is now going to rabid stray dogs. If things go on the way they are a little longer, I might soon become the exact antithesis of ambidextrous.

Anyway, let me continue with the travelogue. After landing at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA), picking up my baggage, and flashing artificial smiles at the stewards and airhostesses (earlier variously referred to as ‘make-up kit’ and ‘she’), I walked into an eerily isolated terminal. The only people around were other passengers of MH 187. It was so quiet I could almost hear my stinking breath. I walked close to a kilometer before reaching the baggage claim area. Thankfully, Murphy kept his ass out and my bag was one of the first on the belt.

I’ve heard about Kuala Lumpur’s humidity, but having lived in Banaras for four years, and having made innumerable summer-visits to Chennai, I considered myself a seasoned campaigner. But when I stepped out of the cozy, air-conditioned airport, it struck me. The moisture hit my face like atomized pee. And it was just 5:30 a.m.! The taxi ride from the airport to Hotel Nikko lasted 30 minutes. In India, that would probably translate to a distance of 20-25 km, but here, it was no less than 50 km. I was initially preoccupied with inserting my new sim into the phone. When I was done, I looked out and saw a green wall. I looked out the other side and saw a grey wall. I looked straight, and saw a red needle resting peacefully at 130. I was half-impressed and half-scared. I’ve seen too many shows of World’s Most Amazing Videos on AXN to be completely rid of fear. When the car slowed down, the green wall disintegrated into trees, and the grey wall into metal rods.

Twenty minutes into the ride, I saw a few lights in the distance that were much higher than other lights in its surroundings. I eagerly leaned forward and asked the driver if that was the Petronas twin towers. He mumbled something in some language* which, as I realized 10 minutes later, was a yes. Two tall, imposing structures stood out against the morning sky. The Kuala Lumpur Convention Centre (KLCC) where Hotel Nikko is located is also home to the Petronas twin towers. In terms of height, many other buildings in the area are insanely tall, but in terms of magnificence, none of them are within a ballistic missile’s distance of the twin towers.

It’s midnight now, and as I lie sprawled on the bed, I look out at the awesome buildings across the street. It has been a long day. I walked twice to the twin towers- once with a handkerchief in hand to mop the steady stream of sweat, and the second time with a handkerchief and a camera. Dinner consisted of vegetable biriyani, mango juice, and Norflox 400 (to curb a possible revolt against the biriyani).

I’ll go to sleep now. I’ll promise I’ll type this out. If you’re reading this, I’ve kept my promise, and if you aren’t, then, well, what promise? What started off as a decently scripted article, is now almost an illegible scrawl. Anyway, good night, and wish me a fruitful month in Kuala Lumpur.

Yippee, I kept my promise!

* This is the second time I’m using this phrase. Creativity, where art thou?

Back to Where I Won't Belong for Long

As a throwback to the good old times when I used to write in class and blog pretty often, I've tentatively plagiarised the title of this post from my own blog. A lot of posts in my BHU days were based on train rides, trips to Secunderabad, and college; and since the last month has involved train rides, a trip to Secunderabad, and a trip to college, I sniff an opportunity to add another post to this increasingly dormant page.

Being in Bangalore these days, home is not too far away. All I need is a weekend, train tickets or bus tickets (if my stomach promises to hold up) or flight tickets (if those blessed frequent flier miles haven't run out). I had four distinctly different train rides in the last month; a to-and-fro Banaras-Delhi trip and a to-and-fro Bangalore-Secunderabad trip. The trip from Banaras to Delhi was in a Special train. Until that day, I considered special to be a word associated with positivity, i.e., a Shane Warne googly is a special ball, but Sreesanth's full toss is not. But I was forced to reconsider when I entered the train. How'd you feel if your first step inside the train was greeted by an intoxicating whiff of human execreta- a delectable mix of all three states of matter humans reject from their constitution? And what about the steel sink which has breathtaking patterns of paan spittle? Asian Paints must explore these patterns and start a new company called Asian Paants or something. How'd you feel when the blue seat you're about to sit on is not so blue, but has a thick brown layer which has to be breached by a newspaper / cloth / unwitting ass? What if the toilet is already caked with dried-up streams of urine and freshly deposited mounds of you-know-what? The sight in the toilet is a testimony to bad marksmanship. How do people consistently manage to miss that gaping hole and decorate its periphery? If all this wasn't bad enough, I saw a man making his kid pee on the vestibule. I really wished Sunny Deol was there to tear the vestibule away from the train.

While the memories of that train ride continue to haunt me as I write, other memories literally cry themselves into attention. Murphy is a bastard. Period. He is a genius, but he's a bastard. He knows I hate babies in trains, planes, theatres, and basically any place where I've no choice but to endure them. But he still surrounds me with groups of them. In the train ride from Bangalore to Secunderabad there were 3 babies in different stages of babydom in my cubicle. For the benefit of readers, a baby can be defined as "Human off-spring that is a breathing Bose system and a strong motive for murder." Apart from that there were a whole lot of babies in adjoining cubicles- babies that cried, babies that drooled, babies that ran around, babies interested in reading my book, babies refusing to eat, babies refusing to stop eating, babies refusing to pee, babies refusing to stop peeing. Mom says I too was as irritating as these kids. I agree. That's how babies are. My return journey however, had an interesting baby. She duly reported to me after her toilet visits as though I was supposed to keep count. She was chattering non-stop, and although she called me uncle (blame it on the beard), I thought she was quite cute.


My journey to Banaras was extremely eventful. I caught up with a lot of my classmates, juniors, and teachers. All of them had a lot of things to say, but one thing they all seemed to agree upon was my girth. "X, kitne mote ho gaye ho!" (where X = Bhaiyya, Saale, Akshay for juniors, classmates, and teachers respectively). We dined, we treated, we went to the ghaats, we ate paan, we clicked photos, we lost a digicam, we shot videos, we lost the handycam, we drove bikes, we had an accident, we stayed in juniors' rooms, we lost the keys to one room; and Oh! in the middle of all this we were given our degrees. The graduation robe made us look like wizards from some Potter flick, and the hat/cap was designed to give us a headache- a kind of retribution for all the headaches we gave our profs.

Alright, time to sleep now. I'm off to Malaysia tomorrow, so I doubt I'll post anything for another month. Till then, goodbye and goodnight!

Movie Review: Race

Cast: 3 supposed hunks, 3 babes (the names don't really matter; they're all fungible)

Director: Abbas-Mustan

Rating: Approximately 1 out of any positive integer multiple of 10

If you’re the type that is familiar with the kind of movies Abbas-Mustan make, I’ll bet a million that your first words after Race will be ‘phir wahi?’ If you’re not familiar with their movies, you might just say ‘what crap’. Race belongs to that league of slick Hindi cinemas whose heroes are always the cameras and the leading ladies' dress designer. It is well shot, has some racy action sequences and the works, but at the centre has a plot which is twisted beyond

a) recognition
b) interest

The Abbas-Mustan duo is famous for this. I’m sure they run a twist-the-plot contest on the sets. They give the participants a set of characters, ask them to make as many male-female combinations as they can (once homosexuality is legalized in India, they’ll have more diverse combinations), and break, make, re-break, and re-make the combinations till:

a) They’re bored
b) The actors demand a hike in fees

Let me try to tell you the story. Ranvir Singh (Saif) is a horseracing enthusiast in South Africa. He bets on horses and wins money in multiples of a million dollars. He’s the typical confident, suave, rich, main-kabhi-nahi-haarta, main-jo-chahta-hoon-who-haasil-karke-hi-rehta-hoon hero who sports a stubble and looks mean. His biggest competitor on the field is Kabir Ahuja (Dalip Tahil). Both these guys bet on their own horses and win; they sometimes bet on each others horses and crack dialogues like “Tum aaj jeet kar bhi haar gaye”. In the middle of all this there are 2-3 songs, 2 pairs of sexy legs, and a bomb blast that kills Ranvir’s jockey. Ranvir’s younger brother Rajiv (Akshaye Khanna) is an alcoholic and Ranvir pledges to transport his girlfriend Sonia (Bipasha Basu) from his bedroom to Rajiv’s. In return for this carnal gift Rajiv would have to promise to not touch sharaab. It turns out that Sonia and Rajiv fall in love, but Sonia is only interested in the money honey. Rajiv and Ranvir’s father left them an insurance policy worth $ 50 million each. So Rajiv and Sonia decide to play bad boy-bad girl and kill Ranvir to lap up his 50 million. In the next few minutes, plans are made, Sonia is shown conspiring both against Ranvir and Rajiv, each brother asks Sonia to push the other off the roof, and Sonia finally pushes Ranvir. All this is edge of the seat entertainment- it keeps you on the edge and ready to leave.

In the second half an Indian cop Robert D’Costa (Anil Kapoor) enters the scene to investigate Ranvir’s death. Robert D’Costa (RD) loves eating a different fruit at every interrogation. RD has a moustache that looks like somebody had melted it, allowed it to drip down the sides of the face to the chin, and then re-solidified it. RD has an assistant, Mini (Sameera Reddy), whose manner oscillates between slutty and stupid at dizzying frequencies. RD is a crazy cop whom his crazier assistant considers a genius.

Oh! All this while I forgot to mention another puppet- Sophia (Katrina Kaif)- Ranvir’s secretary. It turns out that Ranvir married Sophia during a business visit and so all of Ranvir’s insurance money would be hers. They also managed to do a song-and-dance sequence after getting out of the marriage registrar’s office. Cho chad for Rajiv no? But another winner of the twist-the-plot contest suggests that it’s time to bring Rajiv and Sophia together. So now it turns out that Sophia actually married Rajiv, and so the money comes to Rajiv after all. But RD (who’s actually complicit with Ranvir), finds Rajiv guilty of murdering Ranvir and takes a hefty bribe to give him a clean chit.

Let me cut to the climax- Ranvir is alive (did some MI-2 rope stunt thanks to his buddy RD and only acted dead), Sonia is shown to be loyal to Ranvir finally, and Rajiv is too tired juggling babes around so he pants away with Sophia. The directors realize the movie is called Race, so they decide that the brother that wins a final car race will walk away with 200 million dollars. Ranvir wins. Rajiv dies. Ranvir gives RD his share. They drive away in opposite directions and thankfully vanish from the screen.

You could argue in the movie’s favour by saying you could never guess what’d happen next. Seasoned Abbas-Mustan viewers will tell you that the directors wouldn’t themselves know. The characters of Anil Kapoor and Sameera Reddy were both unbelievable and unbearable. Saif just had to looked pissed all the time. Akshaye Khanna seems to be stuck to Abbas-Mustan for life. Bipasha does well. If you’re in the habit of saying touchwood often, you might want to have Katrina around you. If Anil Kapoor and Sameera weren’t irritating enough, Abbas-Mustan gave Johney Lever a chance to make a fool of himself again. If you observe, Johney has changed his spelling, getting it closer to phoney. The action sequences are shot well, but that’s no longer a novelty in Hindi cinema. The only competition among the ladies was the length (height?) of their skirts.

The songs were all ill-timed. Three of them were inside the first half-hour. Like all cool-dude and yo Hindi songs today, many of these songs had a smattering of the Queen’s language. Songs like Zara zara kiss me touch me and baahaon mein aake ashiq banaakecome shake it…shake it…some more were so wannabe that I was almost amused.

Many people will like the movie. It’s a typical masala flick with songs, sex, sirens (not the police ones), cars, a lot of dhokha and shadyantra which is supposed to titillate jawaan guys like me. But it was just a case of been there-endured that, and beyond a point you don’t give a damn about who loves whom for what and for how long. Thank god Abbas-Mustan make films together; can’t imagine what it would be like to have both direct their own films.

Budget Reactions

Market Mayhem

Tagged

Ladies and gentlemen, I've finally been tagged. Here goes:


1. Name Three Most Valuable Assets?
Wit, talent, and passion


2. If you have the chance, what would you probably say to your beloved one?
Hmmm…sochna padega


3. Where is the place that you want to go the most?
The only place I’m really particular about going to- and everyday too- is the loo.


4.If you can have 1 dream to come true, what would it be?
I’d want to become a best-selling author- that’s about as dreamy as I can get.


5.Till now, what is the moment that you regret the most?
The moment I decided to stop trying to become a best-selling author.


6.What are you afraid to lose the most?
The dream that I’ll one day become a best-selling author. Ok, enough of this best-selling author stuff; one thing I’m really afraid of losing is my love for words.


7.What would you do if you found a briefcase full of money?
Wake up


8.If you meet someone that you love, would you confess to him/her?
If I love that person I’d have already met her right? Unless you’re talking about Gayatri Joshi or Priyanka Chopra ;)


9.Which type of person do you hate the most?
I dislike certain traits in people, but don't really hate anybody.


10.What is your ambition?
To be happy, successful, and enable others to be so too.


11.What is the thing that will make you think someone is a bad person?
Bad person? Kya bachpana hai?


12.If you could do one thing different in life, what would it be?
Put less salt in my pizza


13.Are you a shopaholic or no?
What kind of shop? If you consider DG corner and Limbi corner shops, I was a major shopaholic.


14.What is your stress buster?
Music, words, and images


15.Do you have any plans for tomorrow?
Let’s start by waking up in time

A Perthfect Victory