The Unforgettable
For all those who wanted me to write about HIM! (Trust me, there were lots of u!!!)
It's a profile I dashed out for a magazine recently... Brickbats, bouquets, comments, Oh-iamme...bring it all on!
Here it is....
When Salman Khan walked out of the Jodhpur Jail clad in ganji and jeans, a top Bollywood actor remarked, "Look at him. It seems as if he's coming after a work out session in Gold Gym."
Khan's rival didn't intend the statement as a reproach. It was an affectionate acceptance of the way Khan chooses to live his life.
Mahendra Singh Dhoni didn't take off his shirt when ICC declared him as the Number One Batsman in the World. But Khan did a shirtless dance on the rooftop of his Bandstand home when he was granted bail.
In the normal course of his stardom, Khan shies away from media. But on this instance, all big and small television channels were granted candid one on ones. "That's because bhai wanted to thank his fans for their unflinching support in his hour of crisis. This was the only way he could reach out to them," says Khan's close aide.
Fair enough. All his sound bites reeked of genuine wonder and gratitude to millions of his supporters. But if you were expecting any explanations then obviously it's the wrong Khan you're tracking.
Close friends confess that though Khan took the verdict of five years imprisonment in his stride, he was really disturbed. But he decided not to show it.
Over the years, Khan's personal life has been dotted with many crimes of passion. The black buck incident apart, Khan is also fighting a hit and run case as well as the reputation of the worst boyfriend in the industry. His soap opera-ish dalliance with Aishwarya Rai is the stuff that Bollywood gossip rags are still thriving on. It's been six years and Rai has milked the I-Was-Salman's-Victim story to the hilt. But Khan chooses to keep silent.
The same law applies to everything that goes wrong. "While I'm doing something, I give it my 100 percent and once its done, it doesn't matter. I've always believed that nobody can break me because nobody made me," is his binding belief.
This insouciance is both, the most frustrating and fascinating aspect of Khan. His public demeanour suggests that he likes being the bad boy. It's almost as if Khan thinks of himself as a Springsteen like rock star who lives hard, parties hard and doesn't owe anyone an explanation. The swagger, the shirtless antics, the exasperating Southhall-meets-Manhattan-meets-Bandra accent and no explanations given: are all part of the Great Salman Khan Star Packaging.
Good friend Sushmita Sen takes up for him. "When people say Salman is the most misunderstood guy around, they're right. But Salman doesn't want to do anything about it. He says that if you've got to explain yourself, then the relationship doesn't have anything going for it."
Obviously he applies the same yardstick with his fans also. Till date, Khan has never told his side of the story. Ask Simi Garewal and Karan Johar. Garewal has been trying to get Khan on her Rendezvous show since the last three years. Johar used all his showbiz charm to get him on his couch for Koffee With Karan. But the Khan maintained that he has nothing to tell.
If it's an image then it suits him just fine. The obvious proof is the whopping box office returns of his movies. "Most of Salman's movies earn their recovery in the first three weeks itself because of the thumping initial he commands," says trade analyst Amod Mehra.
And because he is aware of this staunch fan base, he can afford to take the I-don't-give-a-damn stance. Mahesh Bhatt feels Salman is the endearing bad boy. "He has a vulnerable charm and people like his recklessness. They feel he is a badmash bachcha but since he's so charming on screen, he gets away with it," says Bhatt.
Nobody can blame Khan of being publicity conscious. He is every showbiz image consultant's worst nightmare. Yet he enjoys tremendous goodwill within as well as outside the fraternity. He has a reputation of being a friend's friend.
From giving free physique building tips to Hrithik Roshan in the beginning of his career to helping colleagues sell their movies at the cost of his name, Khan's generosity is well known. Recently, he helped out Revathy, Saawan Kumar Tak and Boney Kapoor with special appearances in movies like Phir Milenge, Saawan: The Love Season and No Entry respectively.
To Khan's advantage, he directly works on his audience. He patronizes the St Anthony's Old Age Home in Mumbai and makes sure that the proceeds of almost all his stage shows go there. Fellow actor Govinda vouches that Khan has a heart of gold. He narrates how Khan played saviour to an unknown accident victim a decade ago. "I was driving home quite late on a rainy night when I chanced upon an accident victim. I was debating what action to take when I noticed that Salman had also reached the place. Immediately he took charge. He assured me that he would take the boy to the hospital. He really took care of the boy," he says.
"Jis insaan ke dil mein itna dard ho woh aisi koi bhi galat harkat nahin kar sakta (A man with such a heart can never do anything wrong)," says Govinda.
In January, his car hit a school going girl. Khan took the girl to the hospital and dropped her home. The next day, he presented the little girl with a brand new bicycle. And no, he didn't call a press conference to boast his Good Samaritan act unlike most of his colleagues.
Khan gets away with most of what he does because he has never projected himself as larger than life. He's almost nonchalant about his celebrity hood. He cycles to work, walks his dogs, Myson and Myjaan on bandstand every morning and conducts his meetings at Barista. There have been instances when he's taken auto rickshaws to make a quick dash at the Subway outlet in Linking Road.
If Aamir Khan has acquired an image of an intellectual and Shah Rukh Khan as the quintessential middle class boy who became a youth icon, then Salman's USP is his absolute commitment to live life on his own terms.
He refuses to believe that he's a hero. "There are no heroes in this world. There are just human beings who are reacting in the right manner in non-ideal situations," he declared in a rare interview.
Those who know him say that he goes through life as an observer. There is an aura of detachment with everything that happens. He's never thrown a bash on a film's success neither does he runs to the cleaners if he's implicated in any scandal.
Sen says, "Over the years, he's really mellowed. He's gotten in touch with a part of himself that was always there. He's learned not to react to anything. In his personal life, he does everything for others and where work is concerned, he doesn't take it seriously and works only for himself."
No wonder he told a TV channel that though he was mentally prepared for a long haul in jail, he contemplated a jail break when he learnt of his mother (Salma)'s ill health post his verdict.
Now he's off for a series of stage shows. In the meantime, he's already sent a cheque to the Jodhpur jail authorities to construct better toilets.
The stuff heroes are made of?
Monday, July 31, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Allez Zizou!
“He smiles like St Teresa and grimaces like a serial killer.”
So said rock singer Jean-Louis Murat about the greatest conductor of football in the world, Zinedine Zidane.
Everything that has been said about the maestro is true.
If they say he’s the greatest footballer of his generation, they aren’t wrong. If they say he is in the same class as Pele and Diego Maradona, they are right. Yes, he has the grace of a dancer and the agility of a panther. For me, Zidane is a bald poet. Born with a sublime touch, he can do anything with the footy- tease, cajole, dominate and mock! He is football’s Pied Piper.
The world’s most complete footballer of the past 20 years, Zidane is an attack-minded midfielder like David Beckham, but unlike Beckham he can thread the ball through the middle of the field and his goal-scoring record is higher. He mesmerizes defenders with a repertoire of skills that range from drag-backs and flicks to cheeky little passes.
He is a wizard. And like all genius, Zizou has a temper too.
Yeah so he head butted Italian defender Materazzi. And yeah, maybe this cost Les Bleus the cup. If reports are to be believed then the unrefined Azzuri had it coming. Apparently, he taunted Zizou by calling him a “terrorist.” That’s a clear-cut racial slur against Zidane’s Algerian aka Muslim origins.
Nah, I’m not condoning Zizou’s outrageous act. It would have been best if he had ignored the idiot Italian and shown him the finger by lifting the cup. That would have been the best reply not just to Materazzi but also to everyone who approves of sledging.
But then Zizou too is human. He reacted on the spur of the moment. While the rest of the world will forget the incident soon enough, Zizou will have to live with it for the rest of his life.
Clanking with every honour the game has to bestow, Zidane is also burdened with the almost insupportable weight of France’s expectations. Go back to the era of 1998 when graffiti and rap songs declared “Zizou President” and the Algerian flag flew beside the French tricolour in the Champs Elysées. Just last year, he topped a newspaper poll as “the most popular Frenchman of all time”.
“I am not Zorro,” he insisted time and again. But for the French he will always remain a latter-day Joan of Arc. Why blame them? We all expect too much from our heroes. Maybe its because there are such few contenders of that tag.
Bet it must be hard being Zizou right now. God knows whether he’s an angel or a demon but he’s damn good on the field. Somehow if Zizou is on the field, you know he will do everything to win it. And for a soccer fan that’s what matters.
It’s ok Zizou. I know that sometimes, somethings can’t be explained even when understood.
“He smiles like St Teresa and grimaces like a serial killer.”
So said rock singer Jean-Louis Murat about the greatest conductor of football in the world, Zinedine Zidane.
Everything that has been said about the maestro is true.
If they say he’s the greatest footballer of his generation, they aren’t wrong. If they say he is in the same class as Pele and Diego Maradona, they are right. Yes, he has the grace of a dancer and the agility of a panther. For me, Zidane is a bald poet. Born with a sublime touch, he can do anything with the footy- tease, cajole, dominate and mock! He is football’s Pied Piper.
The world’s most complete footballer of the past 20 years, Zidane is an attack-minded midfielder like David Beckham, but unlike Beckham he can thread the ball through the middle of the field and his goal-scoring record is higher. He mesmerizes defenders with a repertoire of skills that range from drag-backs and flicks to cheeky little passes.
He is a wizard. And like all genius, Zizou has a temper too.
Yeah so he head butted Italian defender Materazzi. And yeah, maybe this cost Les Bleus the cup. If reports are to be believed then the unrefined Azzuri had it coming. Apparently, he taunted Zizou by calling him a “terrorist.” That’s a clear-cut racial slur against Zidane’s Algerian aka Muslim origins.
Nah, I’m not condoning Zizou’s outrageous act. It would have been best if he had ignored the idiot Italian and shown him the finger by lifting the cup. That would have been the best reply not just to Materazzi but also to everyone who approves of sledging.
But then Zizou too is human. He reacted on the spur of the moment. While the rest of the world will forget the incident soon enough, Zizou will have to live with it for the rest of his life.
Clanking with every honour the game has to bestow, Zidane is also burdened with the almost insupportable weight of France’s expectations. Go back to the era of 1998 when graffiti and rap songs declared “Zizou President” and the Algerian flag flew beside the French tricolour in the Champs Elysées. Just last year, he topped a newspaper poll as “the most popular Frenchman of all time”.
“I am not Zorro,” he insisted time and again. But for the French he will always remain a latter-day Joan of Arc. Why blame them? We all expect too much from our heroes. Maybe its because there are such few contenders of that tag.
Bet it must be hard being Zizou right now. God knows whether he’s an angel or a demon but he’s damn good on the field. Somehow if Zizou is on the field, you know he will do everything to win it. And for a soccer fan that’s what matters.
It’s ok Zizou. I know that sometimes, somethings can’t be explained even when understood.
I Choose To Be….
Jean Paul Satre’s loaded- “Je suis mes choix” (translated, I’m my choices) has always intrigued me. Every so often I find myself meditating on Sartre’s wicked choice of words.
Last night I ended up having an uber deep discussion about it with The-Man-In-My-Head. In case I forgot to mention, The-Man-In-My-Head has led quite a ahem, colourful life. He likes to say that he’s played the game on his terms.
He supplies a lot of such one-liners. Over the years, I’ve developed a pretty solid statement-detector. Now I can easily make out when something has to be stored in memory and when something has to be rejected out rightly as pure bullshit!
Anyway, this isn’t about him. It’s about choices. Without going into the non-interesting parts of the conversation, let me just re-tell a very ahem, “interesting” part of HIS speech.
Brace yourself. Here goes-
“I believe a great many people are born writer or artist, and die without ever realizing it. Books go unwritten, paintings unpainted. The fortunate ones are those who discover what they were meant to do. I might have been an excellent soccer player; I might have been an excellent writer. If I’d tried to do both, I’d have been no more than mediocre. I chose not to be mediocre.”
Pretty loaded, right? But pretty nonetheless. Don’t know if you identify with it but last night, this was just what I needed to hear.
Everything is about choices: What you want to be? Who you are today? How are you feeling? Who you want to be with?
Rest all is mere technicality.
Jean Paul Satre’s loaded- “Je suis mes choix” (translated, I’m my choices) has always intrigued me. Every so often I find myself meditating on Sartre’s wicked choice of words.
Last night I ended up having an uber deep discussion about it with The-Man-In-My-Head. In case I forgot to mention, The-Man-In-My-Head has led quite a ahem, colourful life. He likes to say that he’s played the game on his terms.
He supplies a lot of such one-liners. Over the years, I’ve developed a pretty solid statement-detector. Now I can easily make out when something has to be stored in memory and when something has to be rejected out rightly as pure bullshit!
Anyway, this isn’t about him. It’s about choices. Without going into the non-interesting parts of the conversation, let me just re-tell a very ahem, “interesting” part of HIS speech.
Brace yourself. Here goes-
“I believe a great many people are born writer or artist, and die without ever realizing it. Books go unwritten, paintings unpainted. The fortunate ones are those who discover what they were meant to do. I might have been an excellent soccer player; I might have been an excellent writer. If I’d tried to do both, I’d have been no more than mediocre. I chose not to be mediocre.”
Pretty loaded, right? But pretty nonetheless. Don’t know if you identify with it but last night, this was just what I needed to hear.
Everything is about choices: What you want to be? Who you are today? How are you feeling? Who you want to be with?
Rest all is mere technicality.
Monday, June 12, 2006
A Very Sorry Tale
One day, you'll land me in a hospital."
Ok, so he also said that I'll land him in jail/mental asylum/ purgatory
/Bermuda Triangle. So technically he should be happy that he still has four more chances. But then he’s never been happy with too little. (Sigh!)
My bad luck that this time he has full right to crow because its strike one Iamme!
You see, I did send him to the hospital.
And obviously my LIGHTHOUSE (that’s him by the way) is not very happy. But then he's never had a high opinion of me! And though I've made a lifetime of showing I don't give a damn about what he thinks, the fact is I do.
And since I can’t tell him in person about how very/ absolutely/ acutely/awfully/certainly/deeply/emphatically/exceedingly/extremely/greatly/highly/positively/ profoundly/really/remarkably/terribly/truly SORRY I’m for being the reason he is lying unshaven on a hospital bed…I’m doing it here. (Well, there is also the certainty that he’ll never visit this blog so I can be really really honest…hehe!)
Anyway, let me reconstruct what happened on the fateful night of June 7. PS: I won’t forget THAT moment as long as I live. Considering that I’ve only 29,693 such moments in my 26 years, you better take this seriously.
So this is what happened…
Me (Very crabby after spending 19 hours in office): “Yeah, what’s up?”
LIGHTHOUSE (Driving his Lancer): “I’m in Delhi. What have you been up to?”
Me (Munching on a very bad apple…yuck): “Just…what’s up with you?”
LIGHTHOUSE (Cruising along nicely now on some Delhi flyover): “Just…heard Salman Khan had a new hair-weave!”
Me (Making a face): “Yeah, in London.”
LIGHTHOUSE (Honking): “No, I heard it was in Canada.”
Me (Agitated): “Puhlease, I know better than you.”
LIGHTHOUSE (Honking+ Cruising): “No, I’m telling you it was Toronto. A friend has a salon and he told me.”
Me (Throwing my apple in the bin): “It was London.”
LIGHTHOUSE (Honking furiously): “Toronto”
Me (Pacing the floor): “London.”
Suddenly a loud noise and his phone started emitting a loud siren like long beep…….eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppppp
Me (Heart thudding): “Hello Lighthouse, can you hear me? What have you done to your phone?”
No response from the other end.
This part is edited because I can never really describe what I went through during this time.
CUT TO 7 minutes and 55 seconds later. I called his number and some alien voice picked up.
Alien Voice: “This person has had an accident and we’re taking him to Apollo Hospital.”
Devastation. Oops I did it again moment!
Frantic calls to Understanding boss and World’s best father. Both urge me to just leave for Delhi. I did.
And spent an entire day praying/fighting/transacting with God. LIGHTHOUSE was in deep sleep for one full day. His family was informed. Thankfully, when his parents landed, LIGHTHOUSE opened his beautiful light eyes.
And the light came back in my life.
I know, he doesn’t hold me guilty for this mishap. But I know better. Anyway, we have the rest of my life to sort this out. Right now, I just want to welcome him back. And to say again that I’m sorry.
Thank god, he won’t be reading this!
One day, you'll land me in a hospital."
Ok, so he also said that I'll land him in jail/mental asylum/ purgatory
/Bermuda Triangle. So technically he should be happy that he still has four more chances. But then he’s never been happy with too little. (Sigh!)
My bad luck that this time he has full right to crow because its strike one Iamme!
You see, I did send him to the hospital.
And obviously my LIGHTHOUSE (that’s him by the way) is not very happy. But then he's never had a high opinion of me! And though I've made a lifetime of showing I don't give a damn about what he thinks, the fact is I do.
And since I can’t tell him in person about how very/ absolutely/ acutely/awfully/certainly/deeply/emphatically/exceedingly/extremely/greatly/highly/positively/ profoundly/really/remarkably/terribly/truly SORRY I’m for being the reason he is lying unshaven on a hospital bed…I’m doing it here. (Well, there is also the certainty that he’ll never visit this blog so I can be really really honest…hehe!)
Anyway, let me reconstruct what happened on the fateful night of June 7. PS: I won’t forget THAT moment as long as I live. Considering that I’ve only 29,693 such moments in my 26 years, you better take this seriously.
So this is what happened…
Me (Very crabby after spending 19 hours in office): “Yeah, what’s up?”
LIGHTHOUSE (Driving his Lancer): “I’m in Delhi. What have you been up to?”
Me (Munching on a very bad apple…yuck): “Just…what’s up with you?”
LIGHTHOUSE (Cruising along nicely now on some Delhi flyover): “Just…heard Salman Khan had a new hair-weave!”
Me (Making a face): “Yeah, in London.”
LIGHTHOUSE (Honking): “No, I heard it was in Canada.”
Me (Agitated): “Puhlease, I know better than you.”
LIGHTHOUSE (Honking+ Cruising): “No, I’m telling you it was Toronto. A friend has a salon and he told me.”
Me (Throwing my apple in the bin): “It was London.”
LIGHTHOUSE (Honking furiously): “Toronto”
Me (Pacing the floor): “London.”
Suddenly a loud noise and his phone started emitting a loud siren like long beep…….eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppppp
Me (Heart thudding): “Hello Lighthouse, can you hear me? What have you done to your phone?”
No response from the other end.
This part is edited because I can never really describe what I went through during this time.
CUT TO 7 minutes and 55 seconds later. I called his number and some alien voice picked up.
Alien Voice: “This person has had an accident and we’re taking him to Apollo Hospital.”
Devastation. Oops I did it again moment!
Frantic calls to Understanding boss and World’s best father. Both urge me to just leave for Delhi. I did.
And spent an entire day praying/fighting/transacting with God. LIGHTHOUSE was in deep sleep for one full day. His family was informed. Thankfully, when his parents landed, LIGHTHOUSE opened his beautiful light eyes.
And the light came back in my life.
I know, he doesn’t hold me guilty for this mishap. But I know better. Anyway, we have the rest of my life to sort this out. Right now, I just want to welcome him back. And to say again that I’m sorry.
Thank god, he won’t be reading this!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Heartbreak Kid
The day I met Manu, I was nursing the worst kind of heartache. My most precious-pretty-plastic-pink-pencil box was suddenly declared missing by my brother. Since it was his responsibility of making sure that the prettiness remains in my life, can you blame me when I decided to never speak to him?
Anyway, since I don't want to remember past hurts, let me quickly get on to the real topic.
Manu.... the most special boy in my life.
The first thing the then-six-years-old-boy did when he looked at the sulking me was to laugh uproariously. He threw back his head and…just laughed. You can imagine what that did to my already splintered heart!
Apparently his laughter had an equal and opposite reaction to my lachrymals. I cried buckets. But Manu wouldn't stop laughing! Insulting. Embarrassing. Humiliating. Awkward. Bewildering. Compromising and Very Confusing.
Once the torrent was over, I went up to his mother and enquired quite belligerently if her son was mad. The pretty lady looked at me, smiled and whispered, "Yes, Manu is special."
The import of her comment went unnoticed to the ditzy, melodramatic 12-years-old that I was (at that time). I could just stand there, stare at him and call him a basket!! I don't think I was this miserable ever.
When we got home (the incident happened at a family friend's place) my mother informed me Manu was an autistic child. I didn’t know what that was. So, mom made me read up on autism. I did. And life changed for me.
Manu was instrumental in my decision to study psychology in college. Manu also became the trigger point for an important learning: that doctors and medicine don’t always have all the answers.
Over the years, Manu and I have kept in touch. Everybody around him tells me that he is quite fond of me. And that our first meeting was quite historic. Apparently, Manu rarely smiled. And I managed to make him laugh…
Now Manu is 20 years old. He hardly talks to me, doesn’t let me touch him at all…but somehow whenever he sees me… he laughs.
I don’t mind the laughter anymore. Because I know it’s only for me.
Love him!
The day I met Manu, I was nursing the worst kind of heartache. My most precious-pretty-plastic-pink-pencil box was suddenly declared missing by my brother. Since it was his responsibility of making sure that the prettiness remains in my life, can you blame me when I decided to never speak to him?
Anyway, since I don't want to remember past hurts, let me quickly get on to the real topic.
Manu.... the most special boy in my life.
The first thing the then-six-years-old-boy did when he looked at the sulking me was to laugh uproariously. He threw back his head and…just laughed. You can imagine what that did to my already splintered heart!
Apparently his laughter had an equal and opposite reaction to my lachrymals. I cried buckets. But Manu wouldn't stop laughing! Insulting. Embarrassing. Humiliating. Awkward. Bewildering. Compromising and Very Confusing.
Once the torrent was over, I went up to his mother and enquired quite belligerently if her son was mad. The pretty lady looked at me, smiled and whispered, "Yes, Manu is special."
The import of her comment went unnoticed to the ditzy, melodramatic 12-years-old that I was (at that time). I could just stand there, stare at him and call him a basket!! I don't think I was this miserable ever.
When we got home (the incident happened at a family friend's place) my mother informed me Manu was an autistic child. I didn’t know what that was. So, mom made me read up on autism. I did. And life changed for me.
Manu was instrumental in my decision to study psychology in college. Manu also became the trigger point for an important learning: that doctors and medicine don’t always have all the answers.
Over the years, Manu and I have kept in touch. Everybody around him tells me that he is quite fond of me. And that our first meeting was quite historic. Apparently, Manu rarely smiled. And I managed to make him laugh…
Now Manu is 20 years old. He hardly talks to me, doesn’t let me touch him at all…but somehow whenever he sees me… he laughs.
I don’t mind the laughter anymore. Because I know it’s only for me.
Love him!
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
P.S. Aamir!!
Bye bye George Clooney. Hello Aamir Khan. Agreed Aamir doesn’t do what George does to a shirt but heck, Finally we also have a poster boy activist like the Cool George.
Aamir’s journey from chocolate boy actor to activist has been very riveting. His recent liberal activism and unabashed political views have made it to headline-attracting public prominence. But I’m not sure he is enjoying the limelight.
Somehow the script has gone horribly wrong for him. And knowing how particular Aamir is about the small stuff, he really must be upset.
Strictly speaking, I’m not an Aamir Khan fan. But I genuinely feel that the recent Aamir bashing is unwarranted. Who the hell cares whether Aamir Khan knows the length of the damned dam or not? What matters is that he became the voice of thousands of nameless, faceless people.
It takes courage to answer a call. As it is, the fraternity that Aamir belongs to is notorious for their code of silence. So when Aamir comes out and takes up a cause, instead of supporting him, what do we do? Run him down for being anti Gujarat and BJP etc etc. Come on people; let’s quit living in 3rd rock from the sun.
It’s really ironical. First, they blame him for being damned materialistic and hardcore selfish. (Do-you-know-he-asked-for-eight-crore-from-Aditya Chopra-was Bollywood’s big question till the time Fanaa released.) Now they blame him for having an opinion. (Aamir Khan is an actor and he should just sing and dance, Gujarat CM has supposed to have said something to this effect).
So basically, he is damned if he does and damned if he earns!
Come on guys, give the guy a break. Just have some thande ka tadka! Or watch him smolder in Fanaa.
Bye bye George Clooney. Hello Aamir Khan. Agreed Aamir doesn’t do what George does to a shirt but heck, Finally we also have a poster boy activist like the Cool George.
Aamir’s journey from chocolate boy actor to activist has been very riveting. His recent liberal activism and unabashed political views have made it to headline-attracting public prominence. But I’m not sure he is enjoying the limelight.
Somehow the script has gone horribly wrong for him. And knowing how particular Aamir is about the small stuff, he really must be upset.
Strictly speaking, I’m not an Aamir Khan fan. But I genuinely feel that the recent Aamir bashing is unwarranted. Who the hell cares whether Aamir Khan knows the length of the damned dam or not? What matters is that he became the voice of thousands of nameless, faceless people.
It takes courage to answer a call. As it is, the fraternity that Aamir belongs to is notorious for their code of silence. So when Aamir comes out and takes up a cause, instead of supporting him, what do we do? Run him down for being anti Gujarat and BJP etc etc. Come on people; let’s quit living in 3rd rock from the sun.
It’s really ironical. First, they blame him for being damned materialistic and hardcore selfish. (Do-you-know-he-asked-for-eight-crore-from-Aditya Chopra-was Bollywood’s big question till the time Fanaa released.) Now they blame him for having an opinion. (Aamir Khan is an actor and he should just sing and dance, Gujarat CM has supposed to have said something to this effect).
So basically, he is damned if he does and damned if he earns!
Come on guys, give the guy a break. Just have some thande ka tadka! Or watch him smolder in Fanaa.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The Man-In-My-Head
Okay, now its time to introduce someone from my life.
I’ve known him since I was three. Or rather I became aware of his presence at that age.
He’s someone I know very well. He’s someone I still want to know. There are days when I think I’ve figured him out. And then I feel I’ve yet to go past introduction stage.
He doesn’t have a name. He’s the Man-In-My-Head.
I don’t know his age but I know he’s wise. I don’t know his sun sign but I know he has hidden depths, fiery desires and soaring dreams. I don’t know what he looks like. But I’d like to believe he has the looks of Robert Redford, the smile of Tom Cruise, the easy sexuality of George Clooney and the voice of Heath Ledger.
He listens to me. He talks to me. He questions me. He replies to me. He’s just…. there.
Every morning he supplies me with a thought of the day. Then he pushes me to think about it the whole day. And just when I’m ready to call it a night, he gives me a learning of the day.
The Man-In-My-Head is colourful. He’s adventurous. He’s ballsy. He’s entertaining. He’s irritating. And he thinks he’s right most of the time.
You’ll be hearing a lot about him. So I thought I’ll just…you know, mention him.
PS: Today’s thought of the day: "People change. They end up having nothing to say to each other even if they were best friends years before."
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Right Said Freddie
I wasn’t supposed to start with him. But he just refuses to leave my mind space. So I decided to give him the due respect of the day.
There is something about Andrew Flintoff that makes me go mmmmm… Till about three years ago, the only aspect I noticed about him were his lascivious lips (cherry red and so full that it’s criminal.)
Yeah yeah, he can hammer a few and bowl a couple too. But that don’t impress me much…at least when he’s giving it to My Men In Blue!
I like Freddie because he’s conquered his mid-twenties life crisis and come into his own. He enjoyed his phase of beach bummin’. Lived in the fast lane. But eventually chose to answer the knock of his true calling—cricket.
He fought substance abuse___in his case beer and chocolates. (The latter I couldn’t care about even if God forced me to… But the former…oh man, I understand Freddie!!!!)
He faced the Weight Devil and from a very huge maan (as Geoffrey Boycott would say), he became Inzamam-ul-Haq’s role model.
Currently, he’s International Cricket’s latest blue-eyed boy. But does Freddie give a damn? You bet the Union Jack, he doesn’t. And that’s what his appeal is.
Does it bother him an iota that he has been given a half-baked team to captain? That he was the last minute choice of captain after Michael Vaughan took ill? No way.
Freddie just goes about his job…taking each day as it dawns. With the trademark chewing gum in his mouth and those blasted strokes in his armory… he just plays.
Now, here is a man who will go on even after he hangs his bat n’ ball. Cricket doesn’t define him. Fun and enjoying the game that he truly loves does.
And that’s what I like in a man who matters.
Of course there are those lips too! But that’s for another game…
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Men
Some like watches. Some dig heels. I like men.
Nah, it isn’t an Electra complex. I’m a psychology major so I’ve analyzed all my leanings quite neurotically. Yeah, yeah…you never really know! But life is all about premises right? What appeals right here, right now…that’s what we go with.
Anyway, now that I’ve sufficiently proved my premise, let me inform you (if you haven’t guessed already) I have very strong likes. And even stronger dislikes. But that’s for another day.
I dedicate this space to the men who matter. The little boy in my nursery class who told me with the best intensity of a four year old---“You have pretty teeth.”
The university friend who once recited Robert Frost’s A Rose Is A Rose with a strange look in his eye.
My cosmic twin because of whom I send a prayer of thanks to my family that they forced me to spend the summer after my Xth boards in Delhi.
The lighthouse of my life who…just is.
The brother who makes me laugh when I most want to kill him.
The dad (ahem…can see Lady Electra sneering) who makes me believe every day I’m the king (we don’t believe in gender here, you know!) of the world.
This space is also devoted to the men in my head. Those who engage me in such seductive conversations that I forget they are in my head. The screen heroes, the book characters, the actors, the singers…who help me find the magic in life everyday without fail.
Here’s to all of them.
Some like watches. Some dig heels. I like men.
Nah, it isn’t an Electra complex. I’m a psychology major so I’ve analyzed all my leanings quite neurotically. Yeah, yeah…you never really know! But life is all about premises right? What appeals right here, right now…that’s what we go with.
Anyway, now that I’ve sufficiently proved my premise, let me inform you (if you haven’t guessed already) I have very strong likes. And even stronger dislikes. But that’s for another day.
I dedicate this space to the men who matter. The little boy in my nursery class who told me with the best intensity of a four year old---“You have pretty teeth.”
The university friend who once recited Robert Frost’s A Rose Is A Rose with a strange look in his eye.
My cosmic twin because of whom I send a prayer of thanks to my family that they forced me to spend the summer after my Xth boards in Delhi.
The lighthouse of my life who…just is.
The brother who makes me laugh when I most want to kill him.
The dad (ahem…can see Lady Electra sneering) who makes me believe every day I’m the king (we don’t believe in gender here, you know!) of the world.
This space is also devoted to the men in my head. Those who engage me in such seductive conversations that I forget they are in my head. The screen heroes, the book characters, the actors, the singers…who help me find the magic in life everyday without fail.
Here’s to all of them.
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