The times they are a-changin’. Nai boletho really kya!

If you had asked me yesterday to picture a TCE (those ticket inspector chappies on trains) it would have been a middle-aged, matte-haired, slightly thick-middled, sternish person with a bottle-brush moustache.
Everything has changed today.
Let me introduce you to today’s TCE. He’s 6’2 ish, youngish, with stylishly cut hair, has a body that would seriously challenge a bollywood starlet (is that what they call the male ones too?) and wears a peach/orange T shirt and very well-fitting jeans. Aur boletho, he even has a well-modulated voice and a nice air of reserve. What say huh? I been noticing prettier railway junctions and they say it’s a great railway budget. Do you think our Man is behind this new improved model?
What newnesses new days bring us, no? Can’t complain.

Account for neurosis (not sure I can)

Did I say people, people? In plural? I was right. Another one today. Journeys leave especially vulnerable to these inflictions on my nerves. I figure it is being trapped into one frame that leaves me inescapably, acutely and agonizingly aware of it.

Uncle in Safari suit. Has air of man who is used to travel. Probably does this route a lot, if not daily. Had thrown in his handkerchief through the window onto the seat to reserve his seat. Hmmm… Came in, wrote down a couple of notes in diary, presumably about day's transactions. Seemed reasonably satisfied. Now, opens book and prepares to enjoy himself. I like this well-prepared, nice organized businessman, I tell myself. Least likely co-passenger to demand my jealously guarded Bisleri Bada. He dozes on and off and I look on indulgently. That is, till I spot it!
A sticker on his reading glasses. Aargh! What kind of man does not remove a manufacturer's label from a two inch eyeglass? For heavens sake, I wear glasses, and quite a few water stains and such have given me nightmares of glaucoma.
Now I am not so sure about this man. I think his choice of book is all wrong. Some nonsense self-help type and I quite sure it has small print. Safari suit a bit too snug for a sensible man to wear on a journey. Plus I don’t think he has enough on his mind – He stares sillily… above those glasses.

Account for neurosis

This is an excerpt from my recent Kalluru diary. Sitting in my comfortable urban home I feel rather indulgent of my poor former jostled self. Come read…

People, several people I've noticed have no regard for their personal comfort. This man for instance. He's sitting two seats in front of me in the bus. The sun is on our side and it is catching his profile gently. I can see one hair, one spidery overgrown hair from his eyebrow. One of those freak mutant types. Must have taken a few months to grow out I think. It is constantly in his line of vision. His view of these stupendous sunflower fields must be streaked by the shadow of The Hair.
I am just itching to pull out my little Swiss card and snip it for him. The hair has begun to get on my nerves. But it does not seem to have bothered this farmer (he looks like a farmer) for months!
Such a small thing! Why doesn't he do it? He does not even need a pair of scissors, you know, he can just snap it off with his fingers. Or I could just…

At which opportune moment my stop at the village arrived, otherwise I may have had something quite different to say.

Colour me true

It’s been more than a week since I watched Rang de Basanti. I would have thought the disappointment would have worn out by now. However, since I still find myself gnashing my teeth at odd moments, I thought it was healthier to vent.
WHAT WERE THEY THINKING!!
Having said that, what were they thinking? Were they so much in love with the title that they had to sacrifice the script to justify it? Did they have a real, solid coming of age story that the first half promised and was this subverted by a cynical financer who wanted this irresponsible sensationalism? Because beyond anything else the film was irresponsible. Is this how a generation awakens? Not through sustained idealism in the face and in the midst of corruption. Not through self-belief and untiring efforts. Not through applied Karma Yoga. Oh no none of those Gandhian clichés for our Jawan. Give them instead an attention seeking blood bath of wasted youth and dubious potential.
Ok in the spirit of analysis – were they making a realistic, tell it as they are, arthouse type film? In which an ageing adolescent, a rich-with-all-its-problems young man with patricidal tendencies and unrequited love, a closet homosexual, and others with equally unsubstantial problems all in some deluded mass hysteria decide that a sensational death is the best use of their lives. Well no, it was not such a film. This film presumed to be about heroes. It was about leading the way. Which is why I find it hard to forgive. Who wants to be lead by a bunch of homicidal-suicidal maniacs? What do they think distinguishes these puppets from your average terrorist suicide bomber? Participate in the making of one film about a subject about which they formerly know woefully little, and our heroes react like they have been possessed by the ghosts of characters they play or at least high on some hypnotic drug.
It was a let down, this film. In retrospect I feel no charity with the first half either. If they knew this is what they were leading upto (and presumably they did, because at least three of the actors have vowed that it was the brilliant script that lured them) then they went about laying the track all wrong. We got not passionate young men with burning angst in whom we might have forgiven an extreme step; we got instead fun and frolic for our ticket’s worth. It wouldn’t do for the film to be accused of being too serious, now would it?
It might just be bitterness speaking - but what kind of a film do you expect then from a couple of ‘pitch for the shrillest’ Admen?