Rainbow Scarf

Those eyes
I know they all fell in love
with them.
And no one saw what you hid?
An unbuttoned shirt is a fine cover.

The hair untied
bounced, 
delightfully.
No joy hidden.

When you made love
Lennon smiled.
Maybe even proudly.

And when He slashed an ear
you giggled.
I would've loved it, you know?
To hear you giggle.
Sexually.

I know you laughed
as you drove a knife through a pig.
The rainbow head in a trance
And those eyes.
Those eyes everybody loved. I loved. 
White. 
And then red. Drinking blood.

You sang.
You danced. 
Jumped.
Before them all, you sang
and laughed.
Did they think you are mad?

But such hate 
you hid so mischievously.
From yourself. So fiercely.
They never had a chance.
They were blinded. People.
They wanted to hate you. Failed,
so miserably.

And when you loved them
without the rainbow,
it was just too late.
Now they had learnt to hide
everything.

I loved you.
Even when you shouted
you had no mercy.
I didn't believe you one bit.
Could you kill christ? No!
He didn't care 
to see you die.
He let you rot
and laughed.

Everybody fooled you.
Stupid.


---
All things merciful and Biprorshee

One Word

Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
and words

Till the hand rots
Till that fucking head explodes


Words!

---
All words and Biprorshee

Sponge

How much can I soak in
and walk, try to walk, drag?
I can't feel my legs.
I can't feel my head.
Every thing so loud,
so bright.
I can hear but I don't want to.

My eyes must shut now.
Shut. I must go sleep.
I must never wake up
lest I cry;
lest I get scared;
lest I see.

I often dive
inside.
Through my mouth.
It is fun to float in.
So cold. So dark.
Alone. Liquid.
I slide swiftly.
And then jump out
gasping for air.
I don't even let me drown.

She could help
and I want to hear her sing me to sleep.
Forever sleep.
This must happen quickly.

---
All things cold and Biprorshee

May You Live To Be One Hundred

So fickle, it makes you cry.
So indecisive.
Then, now, tomorrow
so indecisive.

They found joy at last.
They forgot to give it to you.

Hopelessly, three cigarettes.
A lot of rum.

Another night, sleepless.
The lights will not be turned off.
You will not be scared.
Another night, deathless.


---
All things numb and Biprorshee

The Varanasi Trail

*phone rings*

I am visibly annoyed at the call. I am out on a lunch date with my wife who complains I don't spend enough weekends with her and here is Riju Dasgupta - my bandmate, my band manager, the sole reason why my wife might one day decide to give me long-lasting pain, my 'weekendstealer' and worst of all, a bassist - trying to reach me while I am devouring idli sambar and zoning the wife out. If you know me, you don't do that!

But then again, Dr. Hex has news.
"Dude, got a show offer from IIT in Varanasi".
"What? Varanasi? People want to listen to our music in Varanasi? Why?"
"I don't know, man. But the offer's great. The money's good. And it's on January 24th."

January 24th? I sheepishly look at my wife who still hasn't the slightest clue I am thinking - "New city. New people. Fucking Varanasi. Hell yeah! Let's do this shit."

And then I hear myself saying, "No man! That is the week I am moving homes. Mukta will need me."

A very apparently disappointed Riju says, "Ok man! But ...."

Cut to Utopia! All issues have been sorted. That bassist always has all the solutions. An early departure from Varanasi for me has been arranged for. Mukta was more upset about me turning down the gig than anything else. A set with incredibly long Albatross songs has been put together. What everyone conveniently forgets - We are flying SpiceJet from Bombay to the Holy City.

Yes, before we wonder if the fine lads at IIT-BHU will be enthralled much by Albatross, we are faced with a bigger question - Will SpiceJet even allow us to do the damned gig?

And then again, I have my own set of worries with a flight that is 6 hours late. "Just the gig and then fucking off the next morning. Fuck! I will not be able to see a city that had me fascinated for a long time". Of course, the vocalist in a band has the least baggage to carry on a tour, physical or otherwise.

We land in Varanasi at 8:30 pm, six hours late and very, very cold. We come from Bombay, remember? We are around 30 kms away from IIT-BHU. We are to take stage at 9 pm. "Fuck soundcheck! We will play 2 songs."

We completely don't know we have Paul Walker (God bless his soul) for two cabbies who drive those horrid, narrow streets of Varanasi piercing through blinding fog. "Boss! Theek hai. Aaram se chalao. Time pe nahi pahuche to chalega" screams Dr. Hex who probably would be telling his rosary if he was a believer. This after he had proudly declared, "Bhaiya, bhagao, ok?".

We actually make it on time. The cars stop right next to the stage. We get out of them feeling like absolute bosses. Of course, the change of clothes behind the stage in full public view is a fine reality check.

Not two songs, we play our entire set! We even manage an encore act complete with a very weird and impromptu drum solo and a guitar duel. My performance would rank among my very worst but the kids have fun and I now know, that matters a lot more. To have a bunch of them jumping onstage, kneeling down and headbanging in unison as if in a strange trance is absolutely worth 4 SpiceJet trips. To say nothing of my Bret Hart act walking up the ramp high-fiving all and sundry, girls running onstage to kiss a very conscious and irritated Nishith Hegde and Dr. Hex being all excited about his wireless unit all day then forgetting to connect it properly onstage and murmuring behind his 'ball-guard' (Thank you, Nolan!), "Bhenchod! Ye use karne se pehle hi kharaab ho gaya".

Much to my dismay, all the Varanasi I get to see the chilly Jan 24th is the magnificent IIT-BHU campus. I will not complain much. The kids go out of their way to make us feel special and comfortable. I wish we were half as good as they make us seem to be. They hang out with us late into the night, smuggle in the inevitable Old Monk bottle and of course, get us the 2:30 am hostel canteen's Maggi and omelettes.

I have grand plans of visiting the Ghat early next morning. Needless to say, that doesn't happen. I remember being amused the previous night at a remark made by the cabbie - "Sir, morning mein ghat zaroor jaana. Bahut foreigner tourists milenge". The pervert obsession with fair-skinned tourists remains appalling and funny to me at the same time.

 I have to make a dash for it the next morning to catch my 11:30 am Air India flight. I will not lie but I was really hoping the flight would get cancelled, the boys would scream, "Surprise! We rescheduled your flight and you are going back with us tomorrow" because if you didn't already know, I really wanted to check the city out. Of course, the boys don't love me as much.

My trip back to the airport at 8 am happens in a local auto-rickshaw. All the cars are busy ferrying other guests, I am told. I groan but it all works out fine in the end.

Risking sounding like an "Oh-You-Know-I-Tasted-Real-India" for my social media followers, I quite enjoy the 90-minute auto-rickshaw ride. I doubt I would have been able to smell and actually, yes, taste Varanasi in an air-conditioned cab.

Pathetic, absolutely pathetic roads that are dug up at every nook and corner, nightmarish city design, dirty but that gorgeous Kashi morning, people on cycles rather than huge sedans, people hanging out with tea, cigarettes, newspapers at rundown stalls; I am forced to go back to a typical cold morning in Kolkata, something I terribly miss. Mukta would have hated it but it is just how I love things; being a small town lad and ... hold your breath ... awfully OLD SCHOOL!

Thankfully, Air India isn't as bad as people say it is. SpiceJet is trying its level best to beat them at this game. The flight takes off 15 minutes late and lands in Bombay 20 minutes before scheduled time.

The next day, the boys call me from Varanasi before they board their flight home. The buggers didn't see the city, didn't meet aghoris and smoke grass with them like they planned to. They got incredibly wasted in their rooms instead and fell asleep. One day Dr. Hex and his henchmen will know what an incredible opportunity it is to travel being in a band.

I missed out on the jalebis. But I hear, we might do a trip up north later this year. Till the next time then.


---
All things Holy and Biprorshee

The author is the frontman of a Mumbai-based heavy metal band - Albatross - and he loves everywhere his band takes him. He loves his wife a tad too much too. 

Kya Behan Ki Lorry Picture Hai, Boss!

(This review was done for Flickbay and first appeared on http://www.flickbay.com/UserProfile/Biprorshee-Das/320/4)

I watched a movie today, a movie called How To Get Your Brother Out of Jail Without Any Trouble In 24 Hours While Grooving To Yo Yo Honey Singh Sitting On Human Furniture and Drinking Mangola. Ok, this is insider information. The movie was renamed Boss when the filmmakers thought the abbreviation ‘HTGYBOOJWATITFHWGTYYHSSOHFADM’ would be a mouthful. Jokes apart (I try), the only exaggeration in the ‘original’ title is the Mangola bit.

It all started some time ago when my then-girlfriend-now-wife refused to watch Rowdy Rathore with me. “Why would anybody watch an Akshay Kumar movie,” she asked. I protested meekly. “He isn’t that bad,” I said (Rowdy Rathore is a TERRIBLE movie, just for the record). I don’t quite mind Mr. Kumar. And no, I won’t refer to him as ‘Khiladi’ Kumar. I am embarrassed to do so and he must be too.

So, I don’t quite mind Mr. Kumar and when I was offered two tickets to the screening of Kumar’s latest masterpiece – Boss – I asked the wife if she wanted to join and she refused yet again. I ignored her warning and headed to the movies anyway.

I must admit, I had an opinion and not a very good one about Boss well before I even reached the theatre. Let’s see what the trailer told me –

a.      There’s Akshay Kumar with a terrible Haryanvi accent.

b.      There’s Akshay Kumar cracking God-awful jokes.

c.       There’s Akshay Kumar calling himself ‘Boss’.

d.      There’s Akshay Kumar delivering dialogues in his own voice.

e.       There’s Akshay Kumar telling me this looks exactly like a movie Prabhudeva would make (and that can’t be a good thing).

From the very beginning, every clichéd trick in the book is tried to make the audience go, “Oooohh aaahh”. From an introductory narration by a man celebrated for his voice, movies, daughter-in-law, brand endorsements, Juhu (let’s say, we call him Amitabh Bachchan) to star-cameos, South-Indian-styled (NO OFFENCE MEANT AT ALL) action and finally, even Shakti Kapoor, we have seen it all and Boss doesn’t surprise.

The storyline offers nothing new either but if you expected anything better, I’d give you a cookie. And if the plot is hackneyed, Boss is further marred by some absolutely inane, corny dialogues. Get a load of this – “Apne ko kya hai! Apne ko bas paani nikalna hai”, “Maut ko yu hi badnaam karte hai. Taqleef to zindagi deti hai”, “Gusse ko thook de. Apne dushmano ko phook de” and some more.

The comic relief comes in the form of very, very pathetic attempts at being funny – “The Boss is always right” when Boss is asked why he is standing to the right and not in front; the Boss loves to jog “on Jogging Trucks”; the clincher – Boss’s favourite truck gifted to him by his sister that he calls “Behan ki Lorry”. Did I give it all out? No, there are more to make you cringe. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT miss the ‘Rocking Chair’. Home furniture will never be the same again.

The scenes are linked together by a thread that threatens to snap any moment. The jumps are abrupt. Dialogues are often forced. Songs appear out of nowhere and make Hum Aapke Hai Kaun look so much tolerable even with that retarded dog.

The performances? Oh my God, the performances! Almost each and every actor will look back at this movie and ask ‘why’. If they don’t, they must. Be it Danny Denzongpa, Mithun Chakraborty, Shiv Pandit or even Akshay Kumar himself.

I was almost pleased to see Johnny Lever on screen again after a pretty long time till I saw how he was utterly wasted through the movie. Once again, there are the terribly written lines, 17^th century jokes to blame and there is a visibly old and tired Lever. Govind Namdeo hams so much, it breaks your heart. Aditi Rao Hydari is seen in a bikini and that is pretty much her most significant scene in the movie because she almost has no dialogues to deliver or no role to play.  Parikshit Sahni still can’t act. Perhaps his only glorious moment in Hindi cinema was asking the courtroom judge in Meri Jung, “Whaaaat is this, judgesaab?”.

The one positive for me though was Ronit Roy’s performance, which I thought was sincere. As the main antagonist ACP Aayushman Thakur, Roy oozes evil. Not the kind that would remind you of Atul Kulkarni from Dum, which I still think was a brilliant performance, but good enough.

Boss is yet another one of those movies that is riding a wave; a trend that scares you and leaves you wondering if all that was most terrible about the Hindi movies of the 80s is staging a comeback. And you only have Rohit Shetty to blame! I sincerely hope Sajid Khan has given up on making movies after Himmatwala.

After a couple of agonising hours, I left the theatre. Ah! Look, Ronit Roy. I was most tempted to go up to him and say, “Sir, I liked Bomb Blast better” and sing, “Lena hai, lena hai …” What? You haven’t seen Bomb Blast? Go, watch now!

Let me go tell my wife how she is always right! See what I did there?

---
All things 'Bigg' Boss and Biprorshee

Can't Scale This!

I may have learnt to hate a game I loved with all I had but I could never not respect the only hero I knew.

Rahul Dravid, forever!

Verb

Cave in.
Come caving in.
Shut and suffocate.
Pure fucking rage.
Punish.
Avenge.
Make hate.
Pay.
Be stupid.
Spite.
Fight.

Fall down.
Crash.
Fall in.
Straight.
Fuck.
Sympathise.
Spit.
Strangle.
Destroy
something
beautiful!

Be.


---
All things hate and Biprorshee

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!

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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/)

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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!

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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.

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All nights dark and Biprorshee