I've been meaning to write this for the past few days but procrastination keeps coming in the way—which, by the way, is par for the course if you know me.

So, the HBO show 'Boardwalk Empire' aired its second season finale last Sunday, and if you haven't seen it, and are allergic to spoilers then you can skip this post. If you are undecided about watching the show, I highly recommend it.

Anyway, SPOILERS AHEAD.

The ending of of the season was something I wasn't really expecting. Much of the 'shocks' happened in the two episodes leading up to the finale. But they weren't as big as what happened in the finale and, to be honest, I am a bit conflicted over the way events transpired, even if it all makes sense logically.

As much as Boardwalk Empire is all about Steve Buscemi's Nucky Thompson (loosely based on the corrupt politician Nucky Johnson back in the day) it is very much also about James Darmody (Michael Pitt) and the dynamic the two share. TV critic Alan Sepinwall constantly talks about how the 'camera loves Michael Pitt'. I would add that the writers also love Michael Pitt, a lot—or at least, loved. He probably has the best multi-dimensional and most interesting role in the show. I understand, from that point of view, it makes this sound like a case of me rooting for a preferred character rather than the story itself, but at this point, it forces me to take a leap of faith on there being a more interesting story to tell beyond this point. A story that retains some of its context as it changes from being about the dynamic of a pair of characters to the maneuverings of a corrupt politician who has gotten less sympathetic as the season wore on.

Which is not to take anything away from what has been a very good season. The disturbing back story (while not entirely unexpected) for Darmody lent depth to everything that transpired post-Angela's death. You always got the sense that there was no way back for Jimmy, and ultimately, he knew that quite well too when he went to meet Nucky, Eli, Owen Sleater and Manny Horvitz unarmed. But you also felt the show couldn't possibly kill off such a pivotal character even though, these days, you are conditioned to expect such risks from productions like HBO.

Which brings me to a final thought about Boardwalk Empire as a show. The unique thing about the show is there are two kinds of characters in it: the real ones, and the fictional ones. One criticism I've read about BE is how it attempts to hit your head with the history aspect of prohibition-era-America. For instance, there was this bit in season one where, when Chalky uses the word 'motherfucker', Nucky wonders, "What the hell is a motherfucker?" Moral of the story for the viewer: this word didn't enter the mainstream lexicon in the '20s and was used perhaps only among African-Americans. But I don't share this criticism. Anyway, the point I was making about the two kinds of characters is, we know what happens to most of the real life characters such as Al Capone (who builds a bootlegging empire in Chicago), Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky (who become one of the founders of the American Mafia), and others like Arnold Rothstein, Nucky (who clearly can't be killed off any time soon if the show is to go on for a few seasons) and a few others. It's only the fictional characters whose fates the writers can play with. James Darmody was among the the prime casualties. The real-life characters have to make up for the predictability of their fates by being more interesting characters in themselves. Apart from Capone, and Rothstein to some extent, we haven't seen much character exploration from the peripheral-for-now, but soon-to-be-major characters like Luciano and Lansky. Hopefully we do, and it sets the tone for the next season.

Since writer's block overwhelms me whenever I'm confronted with the thought of updating the blog, I suppose it's time I fill it with shit that's a lot easier to write—i.e., write about things I do to while away my spare time. This means writing about movies/TV shows I watch, books I read etc. I will make sure to mention if there are any spoilers.

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I finally watched Archer which was languishing at some obscure location in my Netflix queue. It came highly recommended and I quite enjoyed the first 2 seasons of the show. Season three is supposed to air early spring next year I think. It's a spoof spy-comedy animated series featuring the titular character Stirling Malory Archer who has mother issues. Those of you who have seen Arrested Development would appreciate the presence of some of the cast in voiceover roles.

*  *  *

After procrastinating for well over a year, and following much badgering from people around me who've read them, I finally started (and finished) reading George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series of books—the ones that have released so far, I mean—last month. I have HBO's Game of Thrones adapted from the series to thank for providing the necessary motivation to finish the books. Season 1 that just aired its finale last month is based on the first book, A Game of Thrones, and is a pretty good (and faithful) adaptation of the book.

The books are quite unlike your typical fantasy genre novels in that there's very little fantasy elements to them; magic, supernatural beings, and other tropes that one would associate with the fantasy genre is muted or have a marginal role to play in the overall story. There is a gradual increase of the magical elements as you go deeper into the series, but nothing that actually takes over the story. Nor is it an evil dark lord vs the good guys story. Most characters are quite flawed and redeeming in equal measure. It's as much a heavy character-driven tale as it is a story of politics, statecraft and power.

The fifth book in the series, A Dance with Dragons, releases on July 12th (about three days time) and I can't wait.

*  *  *

A few weeks back, I saw X-Men: First Class and thoroughly enjoyed it. It was actually my first X-Men movie and got me to watch X-Men and X2: X-Men United, both of which were quite good and made me wonder why I never watched either of them till now. I've stayed away from X-Men 3 and the Wolverine flicks because I've been warned away from it almost unanimously.

Speaking of movies, I loved Delhi Belly too. Cheap laughs but totally entertaining.

*  *  *

I finally caught up with episodes of The Mentalist. It's the only police procedural I ever watch and that too because of Simon Baker (who plays the titular role). But I think I've reached a point where I'll give the next season about two-three episodes before I decide to continue or quit watching. Really, CBS, just give us the Red John episodes. I also watched Sons of Anarchy last week and this week to fill the void as I wait for ADwD to release. Liked the first two seasons. Season 3 was quite average but just about salvaged by a pretty great finale. It's about a motorcycle gang in California that deals guns.

*  *  *

Some good stuff to look forward to this month. Mad Men is supposed to land on Netflix streaming any time. Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm returns and so does season 4 of the terrific Breaking Bad.

It's quite possibly the seventh or eighth time I've seen this movie. I don't believe I quite enjoyed watching it the first time. I mean, if someone accosted me in the midst of the viewing with a "hey, are you enjoying it?" I probably wouldn't have known what to say. Maybe a half-hearted smile that accompanied a, "erm, yeah--okay, hmm".

I must say I didn't quite know what to expect before I sat down to watch it. But, on reflection, it's fair to say I felt a tad too involved in it at the time to actually dwell on it. Like most good movies there's conflict, a feeling of dread; a venture out into the realm of the unknown which makes the first viewing so special. It makes you wish, later on, for the the ability to remove that portion of memory to be able to watch it again for the first time.

Now, as I watch it for the eighth time I am no longer able to watch it from start to finish. In fact, I lied when I said I was watching it for the eighth time. I've only seen it in its entirety twice, in addition to the first time.

Now, I watch it in bits and pieces. Scenes you can stow away in discs, or whatever storage equipment that might withstand the test of time. A time you can go back to, forward to the good parts, smile wistfully as memories of watching it the first time flood your senses.

The packet of chips on the sofa; its aftertaste in your tongue and salty bits on your fingers; the sofa you were watching it on. But all those things are not much beyond being figments of memories. They don't give you the same feeling like they did the first time. Maybe it's because you know what's going to happen. Actually it is because you know what's going to happen.

And then it happens. You have goosebumps all over you, as Dhoni clears it over the fence, and pictures of his follow-through is all that fills your head.

That.

Because it seems relevant right now, in its own little (or big) way.

You might not have been living under a rock, and yet you might have missed it. Since there's awful little commentary on the protests in Bahrain I thought I'd weigh in with my impressions on the country I grew up in. (Note: I have as much idea about what's really happening over there as anyone with access to the internet and Google news.)

It's a really small country—even if a lot of people might have already told you that, it's worth saying once more. Less than a million people live there. Google "Bahrain" on Maps, and squint your eyes as you zoom in to locate a dot off the coast of Saudi Arabia. I was born in India, but grew up in Bahrain; spent 16-17 years there until I came to India for higher education. Of course, I spent two months of school vacation every year in India. So it's not like India was foreign to me. Nor was it ever going to, considering I went to an Indian school which had about 6000 students at the time with about 5000 Indians and followed the CBSE curriculum. And let's face it: out of the sub-million odd people that inhabited the island, about 50% was expat population. And a large chunk of that expat crowd was Indian. Oh, and unlike Indians in Kuwait, UAE, Saudi etc who were required to take Arabic as a subject regardless of the curricular affiliation of the school, it was compulsory only for the locals while we took Hindi as our second language.

We moved in Indian circles, hardly ever mixed with the local crowd. I also, like most Indian children that grew up there, led a fairly cocooned existence. Went to school in the school bus, came back home by school bus, went out for groceries with parents to supermarkets which employed people from the subcontinent mostly, went to homes of other Indian families, attended religious bhajans and satsang, of which my parents were heavily involved. For major religious events we used to go to the Krishna temple located at the heart of the state capital, Manama.

Life was comfortable. And I suppose that insulated me from real problems in the country, if any. The state-controlled media would offer very little coverage that openly criticised the government, and you don't expect media coverage of Bahrain on the global news networks.

I've lived through the gulf war of the early 90s when Bahrain was (and continues to be) an American naval base. Of course, we were hardly in any line of fire. The only unrest of note however happened during the late 90s and early 2000s.

Bahrain as a kingdom is a rather unique case in comparison to the other neighbouring countries in the Gulf. The ruling class is Sunni, whereas the majority of the local population is Shi'ite. This is not true of Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Oman or the UAE. And it is a problem for the locals who feel there is discrimination in getting jobs in government. Islam is the state religion, but it is a very tolerant country. The royal family allows for building temples, churches, gurdwaras, and cultural samajs [nearly every state of India has its own club. You have the Kerala Samajam, Tamil Manram, Gujarati Samaj, Kannada Sangha etc]. Sindhis from India were in Bahrain well before India's independence. A lot of them were close to the Royal family [this is what I was told] and they run various businessess [gold, electronics etc] usually in partnership with a Bahraini.

Bahrain's tolerance extends to their tolerance of alcohol; also the presence of bars, night clubs etc. Most would joke that people from Saudi would drive across the 25km causeway over the sea to revel in the 'Vegas of the Persian Gulf', before sobering up prior to re-entry during weekends. [Saudis, we used to think, were the worst drivers.]

Bahrain is also relatively poorer in terms of oil and natural gas resources. Note the use of 'relatively' here. They have sizeable resources for their puny area, but are significantly dwarfed by Saudi, UAE or Qatar. Which is why—again, this is an impression—Bahrainis are relatively smarter, and have less things to take for granted than their Arab brethren. (I may be wrong on this)

The king, who ascended to the throne after his father's death about 11 years ago, did push to introduce more democratic reforms in the country by having some sort of a parliament. (You could wiki this, but I believe the reforms ensured the country was still way ahead in comparison to other gulf states.)

I left Bahrain in 2001 when I went to college in India, and I last visited the country in 2006 (just before I came to the US). So much has obviously changed since my last visit. My dad did mention isolated incidents of unrest that happened from time to time which were always curbed by government forces. A benevolent dictatorship is an oxymoron, and probably never works in practice. But my impression was that it seemed to work in Bahrain. Citizens got free education and healthcare. I believe they got a bunch of other pensions and benefits that expats weren't eligible for. Of course, there have been issues to do with human rights. But it seemed to work in my—albeit naive—eyes. The ruling class may be making boatloads of money, but they seemed to mean well to their subjects. There were efforts to look beyond oil dependence many years before even the likes of Dubai. It's possible the grievances are genuine among the protestors today, and are not on sectarian lines. But my belief is that Bahrain never had half the problems Egypt or Tunisia has. Or Iran for that matter.

Privately most Indian friends, uncles, family acquaintances would tell pro-democracy protesters in Bahrain: be careful what you wish for. Now I think there may have been a hint of selfishness or even fear in that sentiment. ["What if there is an increased call for 'Bahrainisation' of jobs due to democracy?"] But most of it was genuine belief that the country is better off right now the way it is.

My naive self many years ago thought the same. Now that sentiment, however genuine, feels a bit patronizing. But then having known so little it's not really my place to tell. I have only fond memories of that country. Hopefully all of that which is going on there leads to something better.

Photo credit: 'Captain Confusion and the Chaos Butterfly' on Lionel Ash's flickr page

Audio: 'Bounce' - System of a Down

This post is inspired by the fantastic Inner Lives series on The Run of Play

 

Barney Ronay, in the Guardian, grapples with the concept of Spain's footballing success thus far in the tournament playing it in the style they've been committed to for a long time now.

To quote:

But still the feeling persists that this is an oddly frictionless excellence; that Spain play a kind of platinum-selling dinner party football – Coldplay Football – that is clearly and undeniably high spec, but also devoid of jarringly revelatory spikes and twists. Playing against Spain must feel a little like playing a chess computer: strangled, impotent, you gawp helplessly at its robotic grace.

I must be fair to him; he gives them due credit for their technical excellence at various parts of the article, but you always get the sense that the admiration is grudging. He almost wishes footballing excellence were defined by being able to ride the hard tackles; by players waltzing past two-footed lunges; and by referees not being card-happy for what are—in his opinion—relatively innocuous fouls. In the piece, there's visible uneasiness over FIFA's supposed open endorsement of Spain's tiki-taka style, and unhappiness over good-old blue-collar ethic relegated to the role of bridesmaid—or perhaps even worse.

My objection, of course, is in his "Coldplay Football" metaphor. I'm not a big fan of their work. [Okay, their early stuff was decent, but decent. Spain is not decent.]

The excellent Tim Vickery—the BBC's South American football correspondent—used to say that if football was a language, the different styles and philosophy in approach that teams brought into the game were its dialects. This, by extension means that there's no wrong style of playing the game. These approaches are constantly in a state of flux; subtle adjustments are made to varied degrees of success.

Whereas Holland dominated the 70s under Rinus Michels' total football—a dynamic, attacking style which involved all ten outfield players interchanging positions as they moved to fill gaps, and constant off-the-ball movement—they've changed their style to such an extent that total football is now a comfort-food term for pundits—those who've failed to do their research—to use and feign knowledge of footballing history. That and numerous puns around the word Oranje. This is not to say that the Dutch stopped believing in an attacking philosophy—they continued to put out sides that entertained and delighted the neutrals. But total football, they certainly didn't play. Primarily because it's really hard to implement without the right personnel. The current Dutch side plays the way it does, because, save for Sneijder, Robben and van Persie in their starting line up, they are really limited creatively. The addition of another creative midfielder might improve them, but it's the style they've decided to go for—presumably because an adherence to a more carefree philosophy hasn't worked for them so far. Evidently the manager doesn't trust his men to be capable of a more expansive style.

Which brings us to the crux of Spain's style.

It's a very different type of attacking football, unlike the champagne counter-attacking fare the Germans served up till the quarterfinals. The tiki-taka short-passing style is a strange attacking style because, it—much like total football—is an exceptionally difficult system to perfect. It requires players of supreme technique. There's a thin line that separates exceptional control and penetration, and aimless sideways or backward passing.

In full flow it's a joy to watch as Barcelona have shown us the past. As the stat that has come to pass by now would tell you, there was a phase during Spain-Germany when seven Barcelona lads made up the ten outfield players. [Maybe that's why they've not scored more, since a midfield of Xavi, Iniesta and Busquets kept looking out for Messi on the right, and had to keep reminding themselves that this isn't the Camp Nou. Of course, I kid, but think about it.] However, when not in full flow, or while protecting a lead, this short-passing style could very well be a perfect defensive tactic.

It's not explicit, like the Catenaccio-absorb-the-pressure defending. But it's more auto-pilot where, as long as you keep the ball, you're probably unlikely to let the opposition score, and you can cruise along winding down the clock with pretty, short-passing. You'll probably hear the phrase, death-by-a-thousand-passes, and whilst it's the death of the opposition, it could also mean haemorrhaging of brain cells of the casual viewer growing increasingly suspicious of the commentator's effusive praise of Spain's performance so far.

What this kind of possession masks however, is how difficult the act of possession itself is. It's noticeable more when the opposition gets the ball and promptly loses it either to a panicky hopeful punt up-field [apparently to make up for time lost due to Spain hogging the possession] or to the high pressure Spain's players apply the moment they lose possession.

The reason why a lot of people have a problem with Spain's style is probably because their style hasn't really been challenged. They've suffered two losses in the last two years. The Switzerland loss must be a statistical anomaly; something they've managed to shrug off quite easily till now.

So, it's either their methods that haven't really been challenged, or that they have yet to meet a side that could match this talent man-for-man; which, right now, is perhaps another hypothetical Spain, as Ronay suggested.

This ease is what disturbs some. The irony of their ruthless streak—that their goal was actually 'ugly'—scares others. When in possession it feels like watching someone who had the questions to the maths paper the day before, (and solved them all that night) so now in the exam hall he is answering the questions by rote rather than having to stretch his brain—like his peers—to solve them.

James Richardson on the Guardian podcast nailed it when he said it's like the last scene in the Matrix where Neo has Agent Smith all figured out such that he anticipates his every single move and blocks every punch with annoying precision.

This is not to say that their system isn't flawed—there has been a tendency to over-elaborate, often in a bid to walk the ball into the net for a perfect goal—but it's a solid system that's beautiful to watch; well, at least for me.

*

[In conclusion, my gushing praise for Spain's brilliance is probably going to jinx them, much like my previous post in praise of Dunga's Brazil. What to do? I'm no Octopus--merely human.]

I was planning to write a post on Brazil following the match against Côte d'Ivoire, but one of the most anticipated matches -- at least for me -- had to be skipped due to unplanned events. I had to travel out of town and back to drop off a friend at the airport. Even the choice of restaurant, while we stopped for lunch, couldn't have been worse: no TV!

Meanwhile, due to some legalese that I will never quite understand, replays of matches telecast on ESPN's sister (parent?) network, ABC are not allowed to be up on ESPN3.com until the next day. So I've decided to write about Brazil anyway. Read on.

Populist pre-world cup predictions have an unhealthy relationship with reality. In 2002, an awesome Argentina squad -- with Veron at the peak of his powers -- was everyone's darling. So were France. Brazil limped its way through qualification -- and went by their business almost by stealth.

Brazil was the buzzword in 2006 -- and in case you missed it, Nike made sure they told you about Joga Bonito [more on that later] -- whilst Italy were clambering out of a match-fixing swamp that threatened to suck Serie A (and Italian football) into oblivion.

2010: Spain and Brazil are everyone's favourites and for good reason. Spain, for the purposes of this post, are irrelevant.

Following international football has been a largely neutral vocation for me with a soft corner for sides that play good, attractive football. It's simple really: it's the joie de vivre version of the game that made me fall in love with it in the first place. Also, I'm far too invested in club-level loyalties to enjoy football at that level without anything but a looney red-tinted lens.

This Brazil, however, is a strange thing. It's frustrated purists for good reason. More accurately, Dunga has. Even as late as the eve of the World Cup, the popular emotion from the Brazilian public was for a return to their "Samba-style, beautiful football". I'm sure the Brazilians crave for that kind of football genuinely. But Brazil have slowly but surely, under Dunga, eschewed all such pretense to play football with the intent to win: beauty if it manifests would be wonderful. But it's incidental.

But there are two myths about Brazil, that I seek to debunk. The first is easy: the myth that Brazil are somehow the last guardian angels of the beautiful game; or as we've been told by snooty observers from anywhere but England: football played the right way. The fault, for that perception, isn't Brazil's. It's in the marketing, and perhaps, partly the Brazil FA's willingness to cash in on this positive worldview on their brand of flair football. [Case in point: Nike's endless reels of commercials showing Brazil players goofing around doing silly things with the ball, and Ronaldinho's rise (and fall?) to a mascot. Also: Brazil charging princely fees for playing friendlies against 'lesser' nations.] But the greater fault lay at the almost ubiquitous lazy writing and ignorant punditry that continued to assign adjectives such as free-flowing and Samba-style a good decade after they last played such football for a sustained period. So in the words of Penn & Teller: Samba style? "Bullshit!"

The other myth, which sort of works against the backdrop of debunking the first one, is this: Dunga is playing boring, negative football.

This is especially something his harshest critics love. They don't like what they see on the pitch: football is not being played like those pretty boys from Barcelona or Spain's national team, or heaven forbid, even like those (recently) schizophrenic Argentinians. So it's a very powerful stick to beat Dunga with, when he fails; or, should we say, if he fails. To their disbelief, Brazil lost just one match back in October 2009 which ended a 19 match unbeaten streak. They got back from 2-0 down to the USA in the Confederations Cup final in June 2009 to win 3-2. But they just found a way to win.

Dunga's Brazil on the surface may be ugly, but they're not your usual ugly. They're like that giant, intimidating, grumpy man you saw in your neighbourhood, who, Gran Torino-style threatens to shoot a trespasser, but secretly helps out poor and destitute kids in his spare time on weekends. Brazil aren't exactly the grumpy-old-man-with-a-heart-of-gold metaphor I've tried to create here, but they probably are more like you don't know if it's the grumpy old fart or Jesus who's going to show up. Either way, they get the job done. You get to see the grumpy, menacing (almost beastly) face more often. In the rare occasion, you'll see Jesus in all his glory -- and everyone loves Jesus. I suppose people who saw the match yesterday saw Jesus, live.

In Maicon, in Lucio, they have machines who can run up and about the pitch for 90 minutes, like they have ten lungs. In Felipe Melo and Gilberto Silva, they have the creaky, boring functional heart of the Brazilian midfield, that somehow works -- presumably held together under the 'evil' gaze of Dunga. They have a tower up top in Luis Fabiano. But their soul, often overwhelmed by the machinery surrounding him, is Kaka. The part that's human, beautiful (especially while working in tandem with Robinho and ably supported by Elano) and also flawed.

His form is the switch that lights up Brazil.

They're almost always in control, even when they're playing poorly. Which is perhaps a little different from negative football. This is a much more European-looking Brazil than any of its predecessors: tactically astute, hard to be bullied and constantly under the gaze of a man with questionable sartorial sense. Vulnerable, sure, like all of its contemporaries, but beastly too.

That's Brazil, and I suspect the same Brazil that turned up against the Ivory Coast.

Now off I go to watch the game.

Assuming I have things in place -- documents, tax returns filed on time, and the small matter of a passport -- I should be boarding a flight to India this Saturday.

Vacation. A vacation it is, but that term applies a bit loosely here. I am assuming the most comfortable part of the trip will be the 20 odd hours spent few miles above ground. After that it's most likely going to be lost in a blur of visa interviews, meeting and greeting relatives, and staying at each city for a couple of days at most. Mental preparation has begun in earnest. I've decided to sleep by standing up straight. The problem is I've got the standing up part right, but not the sleep. Maybe I should try it at night.

But I think I can master even that over the next three days. Even if it's a tad idealistic, let us assume for argument's sake. What worries me is the teeming mass that is bound to greet me. You see, I am going to be attending a cousin's wedding, and I am approaching the wrong side of twenty.

This all started about three years ago when, during a Skype conversation, my parents first mentioned marriage in a sentence addressed to me. It was a little unusual; awkward even. But I was in the middle of a sentence, rattling on about how amazing this high-speed internet connection was in the US. I paused for a second, thought I heard the word kalyanam, but was determined to finish explaining how I didn't have to wait to let YouTube buffer before playing the video in whole. As it turned out, my father all of a sudden exclaimed, thanks to a spike in a stock he'd purchased the previous week, and my mother had to attend to a phone call. [Two months ago was when my mother actually discovered YouTube because it had 'good recipe shows'] So much for my hyperventilation over high-speed internet. But I digress.

Last year was when they got a little earnest about this 'get-married' thing. But it was by way of showing understanding, in keeping with the 'modern outlook of this current generation.'

"Son, it's alright. We understand. You need to get settled career-wise. Then only we can talk about marriage and all."

"Yes, ma. Fair enough."

A few months later, after having shared an apartment for a major part of my relatively short life in the States, I moved to an apartment to live all by myself last August. That was when this gentle strategy of understanding segued smoothly into a quest for concrete answers.

"So, now that you are settled, and on your own, when do you want to get married?"

"You see, ma, it's only now that I've finally moved to live on my own. I want to get to spend some, erm, alone-time. I think it's been quite peaceful till now. Why the hurry?"

"Fair enough. But give us a time frame."

This was a little hard. On the one hand you look forward to a period of living alone, in peace. On the other you're given a stern reminder (expressed in very kind terms, nonetheless) that this can't last. A time frame! What is this? Afghanistan?

"Erm, maybe a year and a half should be okay. I'm not prepared for a married life right now."

"But what if we start looking now so that you will be all set in a year or so?"

"Hmm, that sounds nice in theory, but what if you find someone in a couple of months -- by some freaky coincidence? I'll be forced to marry."

"Yes that's a possibility. But we shouldn't wait. You know you're also losing hair--"

I nodded. I was indeed losing hair.

"So when should we get the horoscopes and talk to the astrologer?" They quickly added.

"Erm, end of next year I blurted."

It was agreed that on one auspicious day, towards the end of 2010, my parents will go, life full of hope, to an astrologer and place it in front of him for his verdict.

But they went anyway... in January.

Astrologer told them -- and this is perhaps the rare occasion when I've raised my glass of orange juice to an astrologer -- that they can start 'looking' only after September 2010.

Of course, this didn't stop them from occasionally debating the institution of marriage and such-like.

"Why don't you get married?" They'd ask, possibly by force of habit now.

"Sigh. Okay, but I don't want to have any kids."

"*gasp* Wait, what? Why? What's the point then?"

"Exactly."

Or the other occasion when they used subtler methods, like the time when my grandmother was handed the phone.

"Hello, grandson, how are you doing?"

"Hello grandma, namaskarams How are--"

"When are you going to get married?"

"Uh, I don't think I will for another year at least."

"No no. How can you say that? I don't even know if I'll be alive then. It's my wish that you should get married now that your cousin A is getting married. You're next in line. Can't you grant me this one wish? No?" She inhales deeply.

"Er, good point you make. Er-- what's that? Wha--? I can't hear you in this line. I'll call you in five minutes." I exhale, with all my might.

*

Part of this post is fact, and part fiction. Just like in the works of legendary author, Dan Brown, it's cleverly juxtaposed so you couldn't tell.

Wish me luck as I wade my way and hope to come back in one piece and unhitched.

Nostalgia had a place in my writing, I think. Or did it? Okay, scratch that. Let me start over.

I don't come across as someone who clings fondly to the past; real-life friends would attest to that. This is especially true when it comes to people and relationships. But every so often, there are moments; at times a brief but wistful glance at my version of the Wonder Years. Moments spring out like thumbnailed revolving picture-postcards with images that become a video clip when each one comes to the fore. Fragments that run for a few moments, and then, as abrupt as they come, they disappear. The effect tends to linger a little longer though; threads of thought branch away from those moments, as the mind attempts to extrapolate these clips to a series of 'what-ifs', meandering towards a merry smorgasbord of an ideal life.

As long as these moments might seem, the reverie tends to last just a few seconds. I get caught up in these few seconds once a month. (Maybe once in three months? I'm not sure.)

As with many introverted beings, verbal communication has been optional. Writing was how I'd articulate as best as I could. The advent of blogging, or when I discovered it in 04/05, drew me to it. Indeed, I wrote because I loved writing. And I'd like to think I still do it for that reason. The moment it becomes a chore, it shows -- to me at least. I think I had less discretion back then, so I wrote a lot more about myself.

But most importantly, I had in my midst (out of the people I knew in real life) some fine writers. Primarily, two of them. PTV continues to pour his heart out in his blog. Some of it obscure and perhaps very personal, but just wonderful writing. Keerthi was the other. He may have coined the adage that if you are good, then your stuff must come at a premium.

Free-flowing, long-form prose that I wish I read more of these days.

I remember writing some Kafkaesque gibberish back in the early days. I shudder to imagine the stuff I came up with -- stuff only a disaffected Indian male in an engineering college hostel could write. Mercifully -- and I'm sure you'd appreciate this -- the stuff wasn't suicidal or perverse. But then, pseudo-intellectual psycho-babble that seemed to characterize a lot of blogging back then isn't any better. But, as risible as my attempts at 'writing' back then might seem now, it was personal. It meant something at the time of writing. And I think some people even left kind words in the comments. I shudder, nonetheless, as a part of my mind sheepishly thanks those people; it has little place or time to consider how many of those were ironic.

I'm sure that kind of blogging exists in the internet. I long to be able to write stuff like that -- stuff that feels right when I write it. Stuff that is borne out of inspiration, without being overly self-indulgent -- after all, it is a blog that's public, and like all materials published in the open, a sliver of vanity creeps into the author's head that cannot be discounted.

I long to be able to do all that.

So much for not clinging on to the past, eh?

After reading our exclusive on Aamir Khan, we at, er, OCAD towers were contacted by Mr. Shah Rukh Khan who offered to tell his side of the story to counter the bad publicity his arch-nemesis was giving him. (Also, we think it's due to the impending release of his new movie, but let's leave aside our personal prejudices eh?)

Anyway, SRK has offered to do one guest post here, and as the guardians of free speech, we have decided to offer the stage to him to explain himself. So without much ado, we present:

Hey guys, sorry it's hard for me 2 reply 2 evryone. This mdium is too hard, u knw too mny flloowers--

[At this point we had to interject and remind him that he didn't have character limits in this blog and that he could be a bit more free in expressing himself, using appropriate phrasing where necessary; a euphemism for avoiding sms lingo. He assumes we'd edit out the above lines, but we made it clear that his message would be sent out unedited in the interest of our readers.]

Wednesday, January 27, 2010 - 10:00 am
Hey guys, I am Shah Rukh Khan, or SRK (hence, @iamsrk). I woke up today morning. A purple haze was all over the room. Ah, purple! Which is similar to violet. I love violets. I've seen violets several times while shooting for many songs in my films. Violets give me happiness. Happiness is a nice feeling. So think of purple hazes when you wake up every morning.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010 - 11:10 am
People think I'm stupid, but I must tell you I am very well read. It's a misconception that Bollywood actors are dumb. Not true. I've read every Dan Brown book there is. I have the hardcore version, the bare paperback version as well as the softcore version which is on my Kindle. BTW, the iPad totally rocks. Maybe I'll get one when I visit the US. I haven't seen the demo videos yet. My Kindle also rocks by the way. I love douglas adam.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010 - 1:25 pm
Speaking of Dan Brown I feel very inspired by his writings. Like the other day I was wondering why my son told me to wake up by noon. I kept thinking and suddenly I remembered that the release date of my movie was 12 Feb. Noon = 12pm. That's why. You see, everything in this world is connected. Later on my son told me that I had to pick him up from school at 1pm because Gauri was out shopping that day, but still, if I hadn't used my skills to draw this connection between numbers, I wouldn't have slept that night. I see a bit of Dan Brown in everything in life. But I really love douglas adam. Sometimes I really wish I could Hitch-hike around the Universe. Maybe I can visit a black hole or two.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010 - 7:30 pm
I saw the sunset a couple of hours ago. Poem time!!! This is a haiku. I hope you'll like it:

The circular sun
was shining very brightly
Moon crater is mine.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010 - 11:30 pm
Alright folks, I have to sleep now. It's dark. There is blackness everywhere outside my window. Maybe black holes look like this. Black reminds me of my darkness. But it can be positive. Like Rani Mukherji in Sanjay Leela Bhansali's movie. I can look at happiness too. So good night.

Remember my happy thoughts, and think about it.

[Well so there you have it. He has had his share of views. We'll let you be the judge.]

PS: If you're confused at the end of this, just have a look at his twitter profile: @iamsrk

PPS: For those who didn't get it, the above was a fake.