* Ram Dayal is the gangster from the movie Gangster (That’s what I am going to call him).

I do not know what do you look for while watching a movie but I believe that when watching a movie one either looks for entertainment in the form of humor, delight in the form of music or a situation or conception so deep that one thinks about it to bring about a transformation in one’s temperament (unintended and positive). One sees a character in a movie and is inspired by his acumen, heroics or bare effortless gestures.

After I saw Gangster, I was filled with terrible remorse for myself, for having tolerated the movie. The complete run time of the movie is about unnecessarily imposed hopelessness. Unnecessary emotions, unnecessary killing, just as if to show the ruthlessness of an otherwise guinea pig looking Ram Dayal. The female in the movie, speaks so unwittingly and terribly, as if she is sorry about something she has not conceived. (By the way, she couldn’t conceive in 5 years she spent with Ram Dayal). I strongly believe that anything that is in any way remotely connected to Mahesh Bhatt, Mallika Sherawat, Emraan Hashmi and Himesh Reshammiya is pure bullshit. And we see this vividly in Gangster. The story jumps from one place to another, as if the director decided to put in situations that hindi cinema has not seen in the past five years.
See here:
Gangster meets bar-dancer girl. The girl invites him to stay at her house for a night (OOW!!). They don’t employ into you-know-what (I am confused). The girl falls in love with the gangster, when he blows up the head of her customers and is fired from her bar. The gangster is a moralist (these two adopt a kid). They name him Bitoo (the 60’s?). The boy is killed in a police pursuit. (Insanity makes the Gangster – Bar Dancer pair to flee to South Korea). All this turns out be the past of the bar dancer when she is hooked by Emraan Hashmi. (Did we call that flashback?). The girl falls in love with Hashmi while Ram Dayal is in Dubai. (What Ram Dayal couldn’t do in 5 years, Hashmi does that in 5 minutes and that to while singing a song in autumn under maple trees and on a sheet that might as well be the mackintosh of an elephant; Predictable, we are talking Hashmi here). Gangster turns up when the bar girl is skirting Korean streets in a deceiving robe and Ram Dayal attacks Hashmi (Brilliant!!!). Then the Bar-Girl again hooks up with her of-late mate and realizes she is pregnant. Just when the Gangster forfeits paths of the gang, he is run into an ambush and survives 10 gangsters and begins his journey back to his slutty girl, looking like a dog miscreant. The slutty girl runs back to Hashmi, who convinces her to hand over the Gangster to the police (Is this an idiocy fest going on?). When the cops take over the Gangster, Hashmi turns out to be a cop. The cop-Hashmi harasses the bar-girl in front of the press and is declared as a savior. The bar-girl decides to call it up and shoot Hashmi. Hashmi dies, the bar girl suicides and Ram Dayal suffocates in his Fannsi Ka Fanda.
(Are we supposed to cry?). Enough? Apparently not.
The movie ends with the bar girl in a wedding decorous; running over green fields. She finds Ram Dayal and Bitoo smiling like goons in a fest of stupidity that can never end.

Are we so sucked up in a sense bereft world that we can call this gibberish as entertainment?

Gladiator is the story of Maximus Decimus Meridius, as he goes from a brave general of the Roman armies to a wounded fugitive to a stoic slave and ultimately to a gladiator hero. The movie runs on Crowe’s mane, as we discover his virtues of potency and nobility. (“You are a soldier Proxumus, and our victory is not this land of Germania; strength and honor”). With amazingly compelling scores, one is drenched into the world that is shown, forgetting the fiction, believing the screen reality. When you see Maximus kissing the feet of his dead wife, you cry. When you see him fighting in the local arena, you feel his tremendous power. When you see him turn down the emperor’s wish to kill his gladiatorial enemy, you sense his wisdom. When he dies, you sense loss. When he finally meets his son and wife, you feel contentment and happiness.

Every component of the movie is so perfect. There are certain dialogues which somehow give me some kind of energy when I listen to them. And it’s not psychological; I can literally feel heat exuding from my back.

Here is one of these:
(Maximus, to Commodus, the son of Marcus Aurelius, who slayed his father to gain power.)
“I am Maximus Decimus Meridius. General to the armies of the North. A loyal servant to Marcus Aurelius, the real emperor of Rome. Father to a murdered son, Husband to a murdered wife, and I will have my vengeance.”

Perhaps I can evoke such emotions because I have in my mind a pre-definition of what that is good. But if I can watch something for 7-something times, there must be some substance in it. And a 100 million fan-fellowship can’t be wrong.

Okay, now that I have written what I had to, here is the big question. Why was there a need to write such a post. The reason lies not with(in) me. The reason is that I have friends, who do not quite share my perception. And no matter how hard I try, it irritates me at one point. And for this, I have received insane banters from matrix, from Rohil; my friends. Say, Saksham, who normally shares my opinion in matters such as this, somehow, I don’t know why, loves this movie. And I hate him for this. Aman Hora, who had his birthday in April, asked for a cd of “Tera Suroor” as his birthday gift; It was embarrassing for me to pick up the cd from the audio cd shelf in Music World. Utsav Sharma, who claims to be a know-it-all movie buff, loved this movie, and I hate him for this. He does POOJA for Reshammiya, and I hate him for this. Abhinav who likes these bloody songs “Do me a favour, lets play holi” and “Ishq di gali wich no entry” hides behind his best defense strategy, to tell me that I do not appreciate Indian-ness. You should know this Abhinav, I love the music of Pandit Jasraj, the lyrics of Gulzar (not kajra re, so much; maybe) and so many others, all of whom are insanely Indian. And if you wish to call me 'untouched-by-nonsense-music-oh-worshippers-of-the-pure-form-of-music-oh-protectors-of-music', which I know you want to, you might as well do it. Coz I do not ridicule criticism as so many of my friends do.

Here is my final word: You may call me a psycho fundamentalist, a purist to a world of my own making, and I won’t mind. But for as long as I can, I will try and make you people see and understand my point, which I ofcourse realize, will be a difficult task.


Please, all my sensitive mates, don’t make an issue out of this post, if your name was mentioned somewhere in a not-so-positive-manner. I can only say sorry. And hey, I am hungry for comments.

Sounds like a pig? Well, pigs are cute, if and when washed, but that’s not the point. The other day, I tried to close my eyes and concentrate one of my other senses towards all the activity in my life. My ears, that is, tried to register the gist of the sounds going on inside me and outside me. Guess what, this is exactly what I heard. Honk Honk Boink Boink. It was being repeated rhythmically across all the while that I undertook this exotic expedition.

But why honk and boink? Could I answer that? Perhaps yes. Let me try and identify all the honks and boinks in my life. Beginning from when my day begins, I’m woken up by a honk – the sound of the alarm in my sister’s cellphone. Then I boink-boink like a pig because I don’t like to be woken up like that. I start getting ready slowly, but everyone else waiting behind me to use the bathroom starts honking. I’m out quickly then and realise I’m late for school (it is a well known fact that my watch is 15 minutes too fast). So I start hurrying up and honk at my mom for making breakfast quickly. But she, despite all my despair, begins to harp about my fetish for being late and how she honours discipline and punctuality. Sounds like a boink, this one.

Nevertheless, I’m in school right before Mr Suresh can honk. Yet, he has to let the wind pass out through his vocal cords. So there goes a honk, a boink, then “Ae Saksham” and a biiig honk. And a small cute Boink with a twinkle in his eyes at the Achchhi Ladki’s like Maitreyee and ‘Surrishti’. There’s quite a cocktail of sounds, for example, Niharika’s a honk-honk-exaggerate-as-much-as-possible-honk-honk. Geetika Kaushal is boink-tum-na-bas-rehne-do-boink. Mutreja, uhmm… boink-you-don’t-know-how-to-boink-boink, Swati (God knows when she’ll boink), Jyot boink-no-one-cares-for-me-except-SD-boink, Saksham boink-aayi-re-aayi-re-khushi-boink, Rohil honk-I’ll-kill-you-if-you-do-this-question-before-me-honk! Phew!

When I get ready to go back home, Sagar honk-don’t-call-me-pinky-honk. At home, when I think of all I’ve got to study, VM ke teachers dimaag mein aate hain. Physics – boink-padh-ke-aaye-o-na-boink. Chemistry – honk-main-bada-kamina-type-ka-aadmi-hoon-honk. Maths – boink-(smile)-you-have-to-practise-(smile)-boink.

Idhar honk, udhar honk. Idhar boink, udhar boink! Sadak pe honk, Metro mein boink. TV pe honk-SabseTez-boink-Football-boink-ArjunSingh-honk-Sonia-boink-Manmohanji-(feeblest) boink.

And then when I sit down to write an article, I don’t get anything sensible and I write down about honks and boinks. What a silly thing to do! I know you’re all going to pelt me with more honks and boinks. Sorry for wasting your time.

Honk Boink. (Happy Commenting)