Your Son Will Never Grow Up!

Dear Ma, Dear Baba,

It is 3 am in the morning. It is the eighth day of March this 2013. I am you know who. I am your son. I am yours. I type these words here where you probably shall never read them. It is better that way. I don't ever want to let you know, at this one moment I am any weaker than you already know I am.

This moment that I just lost; another coming up that I will too. Slowly, time inches towards the hour I will leave you. I will leave you to start a new chapter of this book, when you will not be holding my hand but someone else will. Someone I chose and you happily agreed to the choice. A hundred jokes about how marriage changes lives and this particular one isn't funny.

Thirty years, Ma. And I never dared to leave home. Thirty years, Baba. And I tagged along with you to every new city your work took you. Thirty years, only to be given up for a person I hope to give my next seventy years to. Of course, I want to live that long. And I want both of you to live longer to see me turn 100.

Is this going to be worth it? I don't know. Must I do this? I think so.

In less than a week, I take my first step out of my shell. Nothing felt this significant. Not finishing school, graduating college, getting my first job, losing my virginity, getting my first credit card, having my heart broken. Nothing.

It is now that I step out to see the world. It is now that I don't want to step out. I tried being brave to Mukta. She, more often than not, tried to break me down. "Baby, are you scared?" "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Is it not breaking your heart to leave your parents behind?" I knew she was scared. I knew she had second thoughts about this more than once. I knew she couldn't stand heading out on her own to a little house she chose for us. I told her otherwise. I tried being brave. I could not show her or you, I am brittle.

Till now.

Till now that Baba finally breaks his silence saying, he really likes my new apartment but he hates it because his son will no longer stay with him.

Last evening Ma, when I said, "I am not taking my books along with me yet to the new home", you were quick to point out, "Don't call that home. This is home."

This is home. Ma, you and Baba are home. And I am leaving home.

The first time we moved? To Indore after almost a decade in Bangalore, I wasn't sad. I was excited to head to a new city. I saw your eyes were moist, Ma. Baba was his stoic self. Over the years, I've learnt I inherited more than just my father's terrible temper. I got his ability to lie too, lie to the world that he is strong, lie to you and me that he stands unaffected, lie to everyone that he is not a child. Thank you, Baba.

The next time, we left Indore and came to Bombay. I protested although in my own 9-year old way. I realised I had begun to learn to love. I had begun to love like you, Ma. Like a child. Like a rebel.

And it was the time to rebel indeed. It was the time when parents are not cool. I kind of decided to stretch this phase a tad too long, I guess. And oh the stunts I pulled off. Stealing money from you guys, skipping school, buying cigarettes and trying to smoke them too, knowing women (...ok...girls) in a way, Ma you'd be appalled, discovering the joy that is pornography and ya, well, masturbation; everything forbidden was mine.

Somewhere during that particular stretch, in yet another city, I fell in love for the first time. And Ma, you were there telling me once you met her - "Forget her! She is bad news". My lovely little soothsayer, you were right and I was four years too late to see that. But you know how my first heartbreak helped me find you. I had already lost 19 years with you, Ma but no more. And I continued to lose more time with Baba while he still pretended.

Two years later, Baba, you hugged me for the first time. It was a 21st July. I just turned 21. You never learnt anything from Ma, did you? That lady didn't think it was uncool at all to hug her 17-year old son as his schoolmates stood amused just before he was about to enter the exam hall (Ugh!).Then a year later, another first. You said you were proud of me for having cracked an entrance test to an obnoxious media school. You are strange. I am worse though for having turned down better institutes to get that "Post Graduate" label because I wasn't particularly ready to live without the both of you. Remember Baba, how we ran from pillar to post trying to arrange the fees? Every bank turned us down. But you were adamant! Aamar chhele otai podbe jeta o podte chaaye, amaar chhele okhanei podbe jekhane o podte chaaye (My son will study what he wants, will study where he wants). We never managed the loan. But you managed the fees. That is you. A helpless middle-class man, stubborn as an ox, a helpless patriarch, a father.

Everybody around me was living alone, being 'independent'. I was still being fed by you, Ma just like how it is even today. You tried holding my hand through another heartbreak. I never learn, you said. I consoled you  (and myself) with a new tattoo -- your name across my chest. This time though, I walked through it alone and what a mess I was by the end of it till Mukta came by. I just cannot do anything right left to my resources.

I am scared right now, Ma. I have never lived for anybody else but myself. I have never been responsible for anybody else but myself. I learnt how to swim only in a swimming pool, Ma. I am still petrified of the sea.

I don't know if I want to watch football without you Baba. It just won't be the same without you cursing LiverpoolFC sitting next to me. I don't want to watch another movie. You won't be there all excited with your fists clenched as the baddies get thrashed. I am sorry I giggled a little every time.

Baba, I haven't had the chance to tell you enough that I love you. I will never be able to. I am a son, after all and us creatures head to mommy first. But Baba, I want to stay back. Stay with you. Never tell you that I love you. And always tell you that I love you.

Almost 30 but Biprorshee is much too young. He will never grow up. He will never learn to live without you. I so wish he never had to.

Sometimes, the thought of getting married sucks. I know you're reading this Mrs. Mukta Lad Das. Just know that I still madly love you. And we ARE marrying each other next week. This is just me being a tad sad.

Baba, Ma, thank you for loving each other enough. Thank you for loving me so much. Don't let me go. Please. I am just a child. Still!

Missing you already.

Tapu.

P.S.: Dear kid sister, you thought I forgot all about you, like always, didn't you? What I take from you is probably one of the best lessons - you helped me learn what it is to be a father. I made more than a few mistakes with you. I know I'll be more than ready when it is my time. I love you.


---
All things Ma, Baba and Biprorshee.

Yesterday's Dance

The evening tastes different.
Look, it's dark. Look, it's pale.
Look, it's strangely soothing.
Ghosts curl together in the stomach
and laugh
Oh! The din. The riot.
A hundred horses gallop.

You are still there, distant.
Still sweet.
So annoying.
Tickle.
A big lump in the throat.
You sing a happy, haunting song.

---
All things stale and Biprorshee

Battleship

When everything ends,
you will not be there.
There will be the cellar.
The rats won't be there.

---
All things sink like Biprorshee

Marijuana

Walk.
Alone.
Wind.
Not a sound
but Floyd's 'Brain Damage'.
Smoke.
"The lunatic is on the grass...
...the lunatic is in my head."

---
All things mad and Biprorshee

Ghost Writer

A song that will break all hearts.
A song that will well up eyes.
A song that will only hurt.
A song they will not ignore.

A poem that will beg for pity.
A poem that will pinch.
And everyone shall know
a poem that will scream.

For me, will you write?

---
Will nothing help Biprorshee?

With You

We could walk endlessly.
Holding hands, laughing.
We could walk endlessly.
Just you, just me.

Just you, just me.
So much joy, it's childlike.
Just you, just me.
So much of us, it's never enough.

So much of us, it's never enough.
I talk, you listen.
So much of us, it's never enough.
You share, I collect.

You share, I collect.
Little shells, filled with tears.
You share, I collect.
Little hearts, big hopes.

Little hearts, big hopes.
Little steps, big strides.
Little hearts, big hopes.
Home shall never come.

Home shall never come.
Feet shall never tire.
Home shall never come.
We could walk endlessly,
you know?

---
All things without you or Biprorshee

Lucky Town

Stranger, you shouldn't be here.
You don't belong.
Your sorrows are none of our business.
This is a happy town.

Stranger, you don't look too well.
We see through you.
You are too easy to read
and this is a happy town.

Stranger, we fear you.
You shall corrupt.
A touch and we will wither.
This is a happy town.

Stranger, don't even talk.
We are deaf to all but laughter.
We are blind to all but love.
Such a very happy town.

Stranger, we won't think twice and let you go.
There is no net to catch you. Be warned!
No trapeze acts here.
All clowns in a happy town.

Stranger, see our children?
They are all rats.
Your music seduces.
Get out of this happy town.

We thank you for your time, stranger.
We will never meet again.
And till the time you find your heaven,
best wishes with love from the happy town.

---
All rats wander like Biprorshee

Rock-A-Bye Baby

This little blanket saves me from the demons.

It's dark, very empty around.

It's dark, very empty within.

You could hear a pin drop.

But you wouldn't.

There isn't one to drop.

It's dark, very scary everywhere.

This little blanket saves me from the demons.

It's unbearably warm.

The sweat flows down

the forehead

carefully treading over the nose.

Into a mouth that is not welcoming.

The river has picked up all the dirt

along the way

to reach a gutter.

I hate the taste.

What else did I expect?

I am not thirsty and I drink

so much sin

I am not hungry and I eat.

Poison.

I am scared but I remember.

This little blanket saves me from the demons.

A silent word of thanks.

To whom?

To You?

Yes!

Thanks for the eyes

that see black.

Thanks for your eyes

that show black.

But the gratitude is sincere.

The prayer is childlike. Earnest.

Under a pillow.

With assurance, I unrest.

With fear, I tremble.

But this little blanket saves me from the demons.

Oyster.

Snail.

Shut.

Tight.

Black.

Protection.

I see nothing.

I hear all.

I hear all say nothing.

I hear fear.

I hear laughter.

Evil. Teasing.

Creeping up to sleep

next to me.

To tickle, to poke, to grab, to rape.

Knock knock. Who is there?

Not a joke for sure.

It's tucked deep.

It cannot be pulled.

Someone still tries. Someone walks by. Coughs.

But this little blanket saves me from the demons.

Will they still try to strangle me?

---

All things scare Biprorshee

12 Months....Almost!

She asks how has life changed since I met her

But I just started living.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I kiss her eyes and tell her, "The lips can wait".

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I raise my mug. God turned the rum to tea. Lo! Miracle.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I laugh. Some more. And tell her, "Every time, it's for you (not at you)".

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I write. Some words. She reads. And knows the muse isn't pain.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I actually see what's the romance about beaches now, I say.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I hold her hand. I hold on to her hand. She lets me. This is how.

---

All things loved and Biprorshee

Fire Extinguished

“You saw Agneepath?” “No!” “Full of fighting, man.” That was the 90s. That was when the age was still a single digit. That was me being told why I need to watch this one movie without wasting a moment. I wasted a few before I actually did. “Fighting”? I loved.

Over the years, I saw it again and a few times more. Over the years, I also picked up a DVD. (Over the years, I also saw Scarface.) Over the years, I got my thrills hearing, “Vijay Dinanath Chauhan….poora naam”.

Years later there arrives another movie, incidentally also called Agneepath, allegedly a tribute. I am older now. Try “atthais saal, chhah mahina, aath din…ye unneesva ghanta chal raha hai…maloom (28 years 6 months 9 days.…19th hour this…dig)?”

This time around, I merrily hop to the movies. I have been told it is a must watch. I have been told it is way beyond the original. I have been told it is the lead actor’s finest performance. I have not been told my heroes are going to die a terrible death.

To cut a long story short (and I wish Karan Johar did that too), this was not what I ordered. Agneepath (2012 film) as Wikipedia loves to say -- fail, fail, fail almost everywhere.

Now where do I begin? How about the time I dropped my BlackBerry holster the minute I sat (For all you Agneepath – 2012 film lovers who will ask, ‘Why did you not walk out if you hated it from the very beginning?’)? It is an expensive holster and I had to wait till the very end for the lights to be turned on. So, thank you very much.

What is happening, boss? I know you wouldn’t want me to compare it with the original because you apparently have tried reinventing the movie altogether. I won’t. And even then, what is happening, boss?

I have to give it to the team for actually not copy pasting the original. Good move! Being a part of a heavy metal band in India, I know the flak we receive when we cover a classic song. Why did we not play an original composition? Why did we not reinvent the song if we were so keen on covering it? Same logic. So good show there.

The original was not without its flaws. I would not be in blind awe of it. But the grand manner the story was told; how could you miss that bloody point? My basic trouble with your version? Your characters and the way they were essayed.

I was bloody excited to see the way Hrithik Roshan interprets Vijay Dinanath Chauhan. I was bloody sad eventually. Of course, he should not have based it on Amitabh Bachchan. He didn’t. Some may say, successfully so, I see it as an absolute disappointment. This is not about Bachchan, this is about Chauhan!

You see, the grand daddy of all fictitious Indian angry men convinced me that he was a man on a mission. He was wronged and he was out to kick your damned ass. You know what? His character had style because he was Chauhan in the story and not Amitabh Bachchan. No you cannot pick an eye candy and try to tell me that this guy has learnt his lessons the hard way and watch out, revenge will be sweet. I would like to think there is a certain intensity that comes with this particular protagonist and a mere trembling of the fingers, a loud scream and slow motion fail to bring it out.

Years ago, I saw a movie, I liked. It was called Mission Kashmir. Incidentally, it featured the same actors at war with each other. I loved Sanjay Dutt. I could not stand Roshan. I mean, here is a guy who has very valid reasons for his anger. He wants to burn the world down, shoot the person responsible for his woes at sight but what does he do? Oh! He screams, he screams at the drop of a hat. That was Altaaf. Years later, it is the same Altaaf who becomes Vijay Chauhan.

Do you really want me to believe Roshan looked even for a bit as a leader of men, a mobster with a plan? Not for a moment did I even feel for the character. Hell! I even screamed out loud after he is stabbed multiple times, “Why doesn’t this man fucking die”! I didn’t feel the same when Bachchan was shot several times and came out alive and kicking.

Not for a moment does the 2012 Vijay Chauhan evoke any sort of sympathy. And to remember 1990 when Chauhan comes home to dine with his family or heads to Commissioner Gaitonde’s den to warn him before his family or when he goes out dining with his girlfriend at an upscale restaurant. Each time he is reminded, he is a ‘goonda’, you feel sorry for him. When this edition tries to replicate, you just yawn.

Kancha minus Cheena (minus hair)? What. The. Fuck. If you want a Voldemort, remake Harry Potter. Since when did being evil have to do with looking straight out of a graphic novel? Once again, remember the hairy Kancha? Now that was one suave evil sonofabitch! He didn’t have to go out of his way to make his intentions apparent. Once more, the character, mind you; this is not Danny Denzongpa versus Sanjay Dutt. What is with his cheesy pseudo dialogues right out of the Gita? Once more, was Dutt’s character convincing? Not to me by a mile.

Not for once I am biased about the two actors. I’ve seen enough movies to know better than point fingers at their talent and that is why my problem is with the ones responsible for such shoddy storytelling.

Fine, the unwanted characters were done away with. Thank God there is no one to compete with the corniness of Neelam or Madhavi or Avatar Gill, Sharat Saxena and the other, I forget. But what about the ones those were not? Some justice to them? No? Ok!

Commissioner Gaitonde is reduced to a sorry cop who has nothing to do, nothing at all in the movie. In fond memory of Vikram Gokhale. Why the need for Azhar Lala (Deven Bhojani)? Where does the power of Suhasini Chauhan disappear with Zarina Wahab?

Why in the name of God does everybody have to break into a song and dance at every possible excuse? Oh, that is Bollywood, is it?

A brother’s not at all happy with the arrangement that his sister is not aware of his existence and there you are, the whole slum needs to start dancing to express solidarity in grief and what is worse, the brother soon starts dancing too.

Supposedly intense is the scene when Commissioner Gaitonde approaches Chauhan with words of wisdom as the latter is on his way to end Kaancha (and my misery). What is with what that follows? Chauhan’s girlfriend is sending her man to the front? Oh! My! Fucking! God! And then Chauhan decides to put his “war” at hold….and get married.

The story fails to remain consistent. The moment you think Chauhan will be up to something his girlfriend turns up to spoil the party, his sister decides to show up demanding a picnic and what not?

“Time please, Sir. I have suddenly decided to get married and another song (terrible like the rest) has to fit in” or “Kancha! Chill for a bit. The sister is here and I need to hit the beach with balloons…and guess what…sing another song.”

Just a few hours it has been since I’ve returned from the movie hall and I can’t remember one single dialogue from the 2012 edition. Over two decades and I still remember “Hawa tej chalta hai Dinkar Rao, topi sambhalo, udd jaayega”, “Bandook bhi dikhata hai aur peechhe bhi hatta hai” and some more. Do we miss the Salim-Javeds and the Kader Khans of the industry? Yes, we do.

It doesn’t have to be forever cloudy in Mandva to tell me that it is one fucked up place ruled by the Devil Himself. Karan Johar and Karan Malhotra need not be reminded time and again that it is a movie and not DC Comics.

Goddammit, it is a revenge saga. That 7 year old wanted some “fighting”. This 28 year old wanted an intense storyline or at least something that “looked” like it. Not a bloody glossy family drama.

Not all of it was hopeless though. While Krishnan Aiyar YUM YAY was missed, Rauf Lala more than compensated. What a performance, Mr. Rishi Kapoor! Who would’ve thought? Now that is fucking evil. No dumb make-up, no over the top screen presence but you want to tear into the screen and rip Lala’s head off. I think the last time I felt something like that was watching Denzel Washington play Alonzo Harris in Training Day. That motherfucker deserved to die (Both Lala and Harris).

Priyanka Chopra as Kali, if forgiven certain corny shades is definitely preferred over Madhavi’s Mary. A little more development of the Kali character sure wouldn’t have hurt.

But that is me! I regret watching this piece of crap and I can’t say that enough. I regret my slippery BlackBerry holster worse though.

And I didn’t mention Chikni Chameli because I didn’t care enough to. Katrina Kaif does make a better option than Archana Puran Singh who is busy laughing somewhere. Singh judges comedy shows, I hear. Nice!

---

All roads fiery as Biprorshee

Rode the Lightning: Confessions of a Fanboi

(Picture Courtesy: Metallica.com http://www.metallica.com/photo-gallery/oct-30-2011-bangalore-gallery.asp)

Something happened last Sunday. Something that was made of dreams. Something I am going to hold on to for dear life. Some kind of monster, we call "METALLICA!"

Here's my experience:

Also appears on indianrockmp3.com (http://indianrockmp3.com/2011/11/05/gig-review-metallica-in-india/)

---

Rode the Lightning: Confessions of a Fanboi

Chances are you went to school and then to college. Chances are you were a rebel without a cause. Chances are you sought refuge in music. Chances are you were (and I really, really hope still are) into heavy metal. Chances are you spoke of (heard of) this band called ‘Metallica’. Chances are you said at least once in your lifetime, “I grew up with Metallica”. Chances…

Well, that is my life, an average ordinary Joe, just like you, him or anybody else. Pushing 30, never too old to once push that tape into the player, then slip that CD into the slot and now, as much as a certain Lars Ulrich might hate, double click on a Metallica mp3 on my computer.

Yes, my journey into the much hated by parents and the straight A peer group world of heavy metal (Well, you stereotype. So fuck you. So shall I!) began the usual way. With a band called ‘Metallica’, with an album famously known as ‘The Black Album’, with a song called…errr…ummm…ok… ‘Nothing Else Matters’.

All the I-Rocks (strictly Rang Bhavan, thank you very much) and the GIRs of the world, all the Sceptres and Brahmas, all the cover heavy days of the late 90s and the early 2000s; I knew that was the closest I could hear a ‘Master of Puppets’ or a ‘The Memory Remains’ live. So tap that 18-year old on his shoulder and tell him, “You will see the actual band who wrote these songs playing these songs in flesh and blood in your own country one day” and I would politely smile back and maybe sigh.

Even 2007 and then 2008 and then 2009, after being in the front row watching my absolute Gods, Iron Maiden (yes, I still refuse to grant the divine status to the band in question), I remember excitedly chatting up with a Maidenhead brother saying, “WHAT IF we see Metallica one day?”

What if then! Fuck yes, now!

So one evening in June 2011, I call up my kid sister and tell her, “Are you too busy this October 30? If not, your birthday gift is a Metallica concert ticket in Bangalore.” The biggest band in heavy metal history was coming to my country for the first time. Laugh, if you may but it was surreal then, it was surreal on Oct 30 and it still remains dreamlike a week later. The biggest band in heavy metal history played in my country for the first time.

October 30, 2011. Palace Grounds, Bangalore, India. I SAW METALLICA LIVE! There, I said it!

This is not a gig review. You don’t review a Metallica gig. You recall the experience.

Land up at Bangalore airport after an hour and a half long flight on October 28 and you are greeted with a text message, “Dude, Delhi gig postponed.” (And you know what happened later). Fantastic! Inevitable doubt – Will Bangalore happen now? We know better now.

Let’s move beyond the beautiful Bangalore weather, cheating auto rickshaw drivers, insane dosas, excessive beerage, magnificent Kryptos-Bevar Sea-Dying Embrace gig, shall we? It is Sunday morning. The Delhi fiasco has been discussed to death, breakfast has been excitedly had, Metallica t-shirts in your backpack have been carefully avoided, passes have been double checked, “Dude, Bangalore is happening?, Yes, Bangalore is happening” has been done. It is a fine day to be alive.

With family and friends, I arrived fashionably late at Palace Grounds. To avoid the initial eager crowd, we thought. And with the sea of people we were greeted by, we knew we weren’t wise enough. Bangalore was no longer a city of strangers. You recognised faces, you didn’t recognise them; it was immaterial. You flashed the Devil’s Horn to everybody. You screamed if you could, “METALLICAAAAA!!!!” as you waited for the gates to open.

I gave the opening bands a miss. I hope Inner Sanctum and Guillotine won’t hold that against me. I couldn’t give Biffy Clyro a miss. I hope I will hold that against me.

Braving the rain, bullying the security and walking in proud with my backpack (DNA! DNA! DNA! *shakes head*), I am there among each one of you lucky 29,000 people waiting.

A long wait between 7pm – 8pm and then finally on a huge screen, I see Tuco running through the graveyard searching for gold as I hear ‘The Ecstasy of Gold’. This is it! I am being born again. My eyes are probably even welled up.

And then bang! The opening riff of ‘Creeping Death’. Yes, now there is a tear that rolls down. I AM WATCHING METALLICA LIVE! The head is going to snap off and fall. The fist up in the air, refuses to come down. “Die, by my hand….”

It has just begun. Creeping Death ends and immediately Lars thunders and so does the sky. ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ now. Then ‘Fuel’. Then shoot-me-fucking-dead ‘Ride the Lightning’, ‘Fade to Black’, ‘Cyanide’…. What a setlist! What a fucking awesome setlist (I could live without the Death Magnetic songs though. Maybe ‘The Day That Never Comes’ would have been fabulous)!

People around me going berserk, genuine fans, fake fans, know lyrics, don’t know lyrics, no one cares. Every man for himself here.

I have always enjoyed watching concerts feeling one with the crowd. That moment came with ‘The Memory Remains’. We all sang in unison, we all sang terribly. “Na-na-na-naa na-na-na na-na-na-na-naa…” Marianne Faithfull be damned!

I heard ‘(Welcome Home) Sanitarium’. The one line in the song summed up my existence through a college life I hated – ‘Leave Me Be’. Then ‘Sad But True’, ‘All Nightmare Long’ and the beyond magnificent and classic ‘One’. I think I really, really wanted to die and freeze it all when ‘Master of Puppets’ began. My most favourite, MOST FAVOURITE guitar solo and all your ‘100 Best Guitar Solos’ lists could go to hell. Once more, we all sang with Kirk Hammett and James Hetfield and their guitars. Once more, that insane feeling of brotherhood only and only heavy metal provides!

Climaxed? Not yet. It was back to …And Justice For All when Hetfield broke into ‘Blackened’. Sweet Mother of God, the pyro! Ok chill now….but bring those lighters out. It is ‘Nothing Else Matters’ time. No, nothing fucking else matters!

And just before the first tease, the opening song on The Black Album…. ‘Enter Sandman’. By now, I can’t see anything onstage. Just heads and thousands of them, I see screaming, banging. I have to completely depend on the screen. Aunty in front of me is tired of trying to climb up her husband’s shoulder and me yelling at her to behave herself.

Then those four men onstage leave. They do. And we beg and plead for more. They return. Encore act! Tribute to Diamond Head. ‘Am I Evil?’ Yes I am!

Yes, we had a broad idea of the set list after Abu Dhabi but then came a surprise…. ‘Battery’. I am running short of interjections and exclamatory marks here. I don’t care anymore. Every Metallica song I cared about, well almost every (‘Turn the Page’, ‘Outlaw Torn’, ‘The Four Horsemen’ and ‘My Friend of Misery’ would have improved perfection), I heard live till the madness came to a close with ‘Seek and Destroy’. Sought! Destroyed! Done!

It is almost 10-30. Two-and-a-half-hour of being in heavy metal heaven has been ensured. I am tired. I am beyond happy. The band takes a bow, thanks the crowd. We thank them back. We thank you in all sincerity James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, Kirk Hammett and Robert Trujillo for this evening. We thank you Cliff Burton, Ron McGovney, Dave Mustaine, Jason Newsted for helping build this monster. This monster lives!

With Ulrich promising to be back soon, we once again believe. Just how we believed Bruce Dickinson when he promised the same in 2007 and the man kept his word.

Argue that Ulrich probably doesn’t pack in the same punch with his drums (showed most on Battery). That Hetfield tries a bit too hard to bring back that raw energy to his voice. Or maybe Hammett’s shredding isn’t what it used to be. (Say nothing about Trujillo because that man is probably the best thing to happen to Metallica ever since Mustaine left, and is pure powerhouse.)

But this was much more than any of that. This was for a larger cause….to experience Metallica. And that by God, we did!

As the evening sunk in and I left, I knew what I witnessed was more than just a concert, it was more than just another day in my life. On October 30, 2011 chances are….lives changed!

---

All things Metalllica. Period!

Lights Out!

blink blink blink.

sunrise sunset sunrise.

one day second third.

new day?

same same same!

hurt defeat boredom.

pain pain pain.

I stare into you.

blank.

I peep into the cavity

that is I.

dark damp cobwebbed.

how are you and I

then different?

how are you not ugly?

how do I stink?

a scent

beautiful, seducing

factory made.

you offer, I deny.

you laugh and say

"fool, this is how I am different."

no, say I.

you are sunrise

sunset I am. am I?

we both have the sun....

...or maybe I have the night.

"no," say you.

"you Also have the night."

maybe that makes me

different.

different but invisible.

invisible to you, to them.

invisible and ignored.

A gift, a clap of thunder

on a sunny day.

maybe they will not

ignore me

for a moment.

---

All nights dark and Biprorshee

Delhi Belly Ki Maa Ka Bhosda!

Yes, Delhi Belly ki Maa ka Bhosda! Oh, offended, are you? Didn't I tickle your funny bone? No? You will not laugh hysterically? Even if I use crude Hindi to suggest that my posterior is being split into two or tell you in all graphic glory how my faeces look like? You would at least chuckle if I let one rip, won't you please?

No? Wait! You are throwing the world's 'ewwwwws' and disgusted looks at me?

I'm aghast. On Saturday though you wouldn't stop laughing at these very things when Abhinav Deo and Aamir Khan told you that it is funny or at least implied it is.

Seriously, what did I miss?

At the very onset, let me say this is not a film review. I am not qualified to do that. And I am very sure, by now you have your own 4.96418733333/5 stars for Delhi Belly.

This is about a question I need to ask. And you are free to question my intellect, sanity, of course perspective and you are free to be judgmental.

Question? Yes! When did cuss words and reference to human waste become funny? No, do not give me that 'situational' bullshit -- "Oh! But in that situation, it was funny." No, it wasn't.

There are millions of videos on YouTube that show off a "swearing baby", "baby saying fuck", "cute baby farting" and gazillion comments that scream, "Awwwwwwwwww...."

How old were Imran Khan, Vir Das (why does that dude even bother?) and Kuna(a)l Roy Kapur in the movie again?

Seriously, are you going to give me the "Oh-the-movie-kept-it-real" crap now? Am I the only person who thinks it is NOT real and is a bit abnormal for swear words being thrown around like that? No, you do not know what a truck driver's vocabulary I have, so don't get there. I have learnt my Hindi in one of the most crude belts of the country and words/phrases such as "bhenchod" and "teri maa ki chut" were as elementary as the school I went to those days.

You think it is normal and "real" for every second word in a sentence to be "chutiya" or "bhenchod"? You do that? I don't think so.

Well ok, let's say you do consider it normal. If it's normal why are you laughing then? Are you laughing with that whole "Hawwww...dekho gaali diya" thingie on your mind? Then you sure sported a fake ID proof when you went to the movies to enjoy Delhi Belly.

And of course, "crappy" jokes never cease to be funny, does it?

Is it just me who smells a rat behind the swear and shit? Is it just me who thinks that the film makers knew that the plot was weak and the movie had to be sold hyping the profanity and a sex scene that was really much ado about nothing. (Seriously, if that is the hoopla you are going to create about your female lead's pussy being licked, I want to see and hear more than just her moan and groan!)

Does nobody see that there was nothing new about the plot? Does nobody think Guy Ritchie and Snatch? Does nobody find it weird that we are not really laughing at jokes and gags anymore but stuff we wouldn't give two fucks about otherwise in real life?

I have groaned enough thinking when would Bollywood stop paying its unwarranted and terrible tributes to Coppola and The Godfather. I think a new God has been found in Guy Ritchie. At least be worth his style when you copy.

I believe Aamir Khan when he said he never saw Memento. Christopher Nolan would too if he saw the disaster that was called Ghajini. So I'll also believe if anybody makes the Ritchie reference and Khan and his team decide to deny the existence of the film maker.


Take a flying fuck, Aamir Khan and Abhinav Deo and next time you or anybody want to feed me with shit....chal bhagg, bhosdi ke!



Almost forgot...gave you cuss words, potty reference, here's titillating eye candy. At least, now laugh!









---
All things chutiyapa and Biprorshee

A Man Was Murdered Three Days Ago....

Guns, murder, crime have always fascinated me. Rather morbid but yes, they have. I have loved reading about special reports on the 'underworld', the dons' life, murder conspiracies and some such. My favourite movies have been flicks like The Usual Suspects, Reservoir Dogs, Scarface, of course, The Godfather and blah.
And inevitably has remained my fascination for crime reporters! Why, in my journey to become a 'journalist', did I not take the turn to the crime beat, beats me. Seriously! The high point in my career as a journalist writing on finance and later, advertising and media? Covering (Ok! Let us be a bit honest here, 'being there') (in the thick of things of) the 2008 Mumbai Terror Attacks (I did file a couple of stories from Ground Zero, ok?).
Looking around there were my seniors in college writing for the broadsheets and the tabloids covering the crime beat. Looking around there were my classmates cancelling Friday night plans because they had to rush to a crime scene. Looking around there were 'journalists' who were wearing out their soles on the dirty streets. Looking around there were these two men -- Hussain Zaidi and J Dey. And only one remains today!
J Dey, and I confess I did not know it was 'Jyotirmoy Dey' for a long time, was shot dead on Saturday afternoon in a busy neighbourhood in Mumbai. Insensitively, I will say, a just death! If I were to know that Dey had succumbed to a kidney failure in some local hospital, somewhere I would think that it wasn't the end he deserved. I mean seriously, you could get all poetic here and probably write a tragic ballad on guns, goons and J Dey's art.
Dey wrote the best movies I read on print!
For example, Sorry Apoorva Lakhia, your pathetic excuse for a film called 'Shootout At Lokhandwala' just told me that Vivek Oberoi is a joker. J Dey gave me the real Dilip Buwa and Maya Dolas with his stories.
But this isn't a tribute to Dey. I am tempted to show my respect for Zaidi too here but in this country of mine, it is the dead man who is the hero. For how long? Days? Maybe months.
No, this isn't about a tribute to a much respected crime reporter. This isn't about condemning the murder. This isn't about being a part of the fraternity and being one in outrage.
This is about questioning, the fundamental job of a journalist as we were told in media schools. While you question the government, the law; I question you! And dare to suggest that maybe your question is wrong. I beg of you to stop the circus. Maybe even tell you that as a journalist, my job might not be to question the administration and find faults every time.
This is about my absolute hatred for segregation. You protest and demand a law to protect journalists? Why? Why not a law to protect the common man? You demand for answers and for the authority to grab the miscreants by their collar within days? Did you ask for similar results when the old lady in your neighbourhood had her throat slit by a couple of rogues who wanted her money? Your patience is of epic nature then.
This is about my absolute hatred for screaming but not voicing out. What do your candlelight vigils translate into? Post the terror attacks, there was one. Post the terror attacks, there were questions once again thrown at the administration. Post the terror attacks, the turnout for the election thereafter was worse than dismal.
Sadly, your questions each time are just rhetorical!
Quit waving the journalism flag when you don't see yourself bringing a change. Quit waving the journalism flag when you don't see yourself being the common man first. It is a murder investigation. It has been only 3 days. It takes time, right? So what if a journalist was killed? Condemn the fact that a man was killed in broad daylight.
Protest the J Dey murder today and go get your beer later tonight. Return to work the next morning and demand answers to your questions, make a noise. Somewhere you want the administration to be ineffective and callous because that would give you another story for the day. Somewhere you want your leaders to fail to fire your "revolution". Somewhere I don't want to be a part of your family anymore.

---
All things question, Biprorshee questions things

The Jester

My head hurts.
Going round and round in circles,
it spins.

I just described an entire nightmare
in two sentences.
To you.
Did you realise?
Did you care?

Stepping out of the circus
of sand,
I am so small against
how I see you to be.
I am tiny
and you intimidate.
I am puny
and you laugh.

Such might.
Such bravado.

I step back.

I bury my head
in the sand.
And shut my eyes.
I dream!

You eat
me.


---
All things entertain like Biprorshee

Death, do be proud!

Death,

I am kinda humbled.

A little jittery

with a faint smile

and a shocked emoticon!

For you came knocking.

You rang the doorbell

and like an impish child,

ran away before I could answer.

You dirty tease!

I know where this is coming from.

I've teased you enough too;

mocked and poked.

And you never listened.

But you did hear.

I know now.

A slight pinch to say

"Preview of upcoming attraction, kiddo"!!!

Charmed! Thanks.

Saved! Thanks.

Still breathing! Almost thanks.

Next time, give me prior notice.

Got some packing to do.

And when you do knock

don't run away.

Wait, and let us flee together!

---

All things immortal and Biprorshee

Anaesthesia

Layers!
One above the other.
Stacking it all up.
Very heavy within!

And it lessens the load.
Trust me, it does.
You forget the pain
that is at the bottom of the pile.
What is on top does not matter,
as yet!

By the time it does,
it too shall have
a heavy load to bear.

My fine remedy.
Guess even pain
can't stand pain.

Only fair then
that I can't bear
myself!

Imaginary foes
help me live.
I talk to them
in my head.
Imaginary foes
help me hurt.

Press.
Harder!
You'll know what I'm talking about.

Squeeze.
Watch it flow.
Paint all crimson.
Eyes, skin, soul, the works.

Lose consciousness.
Fall.
Sleep.
There shall soon be no pain.
Anymore!
And you and I shall sleepwalk.


---
All things painful and Biprorshee

Lunch

Worms wriggle
in my head.
Dance an ugly song
in my head.
Why?
I don't know or
maybe I do.

Maybe I gave them life.

Of course I did.
I wanted them
to be there,
didn't I?
I wanted them to feast
on what they could find,
didn't I?
They found my thoughts.
Eat! Eat! Eat!

What is that music
they dance to?

I can't hear.
I am deaf!
I can't sing.
I am dumb!
I can see
the nightmare.
I am not blind!

What a gift!
Happy happy!

With my hands tied
to a chair.
And my legs bound.
They eat and they
force feed
me.

Feed me my brain.
Adulterated.
Made bitter.
Eat, with love!

Tomorrow?
Yes!
Why?
Is your life over,
fool?...
...Suffer more!


---
All things corrupt and Biprorshee

To Love You Less...

To stand outside and look at you
is not something I can do too well.
It becomes easy to be judgemental
and call you names
but it is not something I can do too well.

I can point out your flaws.
Being on the other side,
I can be spotless.
Not attempting to break the glass
lest it breaks my fairy tale self.
But it is not something I can do too well.

You will seem ugly to me.
Through the transparent mirror
that is not honest;
as it lies, with you as my reflection.
Of course it lies.
I am not ugly!
The mirror shows the dirt in you
that I must see.
But it is not something I can do too well.

I can be at peace.
I can be comfortable.
I can say that it is all your fault.
I can call it your monster
and not mine.
But it is not something I can do too well.

I can scream
and thrash.
And watch a tear fall down your face.
As it does, I can smile.
And free myself of guilt.
But it is not something I can do too well.

I can take my pain and put it away.
Own yours and hurt.
I can love you too
but it is not something I can do too well.


---
All things useless like Biprorshee

Welcome Freddy!

Since when did I begin to deal with nightmares?
Not my area of expertise, I always thought.
It was yours;
as you told me how you couldn't sleep;
as you told me how you couldn't dare.
When did I begin to show such courage?

It was ok, I think, when I was an insomniac.
I slept so little; I confused scary dreams.
I slept so little; the alarms broke.

Now, I sleep early.
I think of healthy habits.
And I dream of the worst addictions.
I wake screaming
or maybe wanting to scream.
I have no voice to shout.
I could cry but not out loud.
I would still call it
'To wake up screaming'.

And there's no one around.
Drenched in sweat and there's no one around.
Just black. Just dark. Just a buzz.
You know what I am talking about?
Did this happen to you?
Spooked...Screamed...Black?
Spooked...Screamed...Black!

I was better off not sleeping.
I was better off unhealthy.
I am not healthy.
I am scared.
I don't want to
sleep.


---
All fear awake and Biprorshee