There has been way too much mushy love on my blog lately. Gooey Hallmarky stuff. Bleh. And as any self-respecting Bollywood-obsessed person will tell you, where so much love exists, some gratuitous sex and violence have to soon follow. So here’s a story to please the masses. You can leave the pennies and 1 rupee coins at the door as you exit. Thankoo.

Yash Chopra Presents — Parr
(a Bollywood song-and-dance routine, with inspired interruptions from Hitchcock)

(Prologue in Amitabh’s voice)

This ditty has no pity,
This isn’t a story for the itty-bitty.
It tells the story of a fowl most foul,
The kind you want to disembowel.

Ugly birdie flying high,
dropped a message from the sky
“Oh”, said the blogger wiping her eye,
“It’s a good thing that bulls don’t fly!”

Once upon a time, there was a girl. Think of a Chopra/Johar heroine in a white salwar kameez who has nothing to do in life except skip gaily through hills and valleys with a mandatory vibrant dupatta fluttering in the background, be annoyingly chirpy and hum wordless la la laaaa laaa la la songs in Lata’s voice. Yep, Aishwarya in Mohabbatein types. (Please to note her character’s name in the movie. Yikes!)

Now, this girl loved to tell stories. Some real and some make-believe. So she started a li’l corner where she narrated her tales. You modern day techie folks call it a blog or something similar, but this was a long time ago, and we simply called it a story-telling place. Meghalaya, if you insist.

Now, so vain and self-obsessed was she, that she used her own name in a movie title to name her little corner. Even the address of her home was a variation of her initials. And just in case people didn’t get that it was *her* place, she put a bunch of clouds all over her area. Feeling suitably satisfied at the subtleties, she went on to tell her stories. At first nobody came. But slowly they started to arrive. I mean gradually, not in a running-in-slow-motion sort of way. People came, listened and shared better stories of their own. After all, who can resist talking about painful childhood memories of crappy Hindi films and bad PJs? So all the boys and girls bonded, loved each other and lived like one big happy org .. oops, I mean family. *lots of passionate sax playing in the background to set the mood* Lots of love everywhere. The girl sang dream sequence songs about the colors of her bangles and the tinkling of her earrings and how they reminded her of her hero Aryan while the chorus sang le ja le ja, soniye le ja le ja along with customary hand movements.

But one day the dark clouds rolled in. Dark clouds, but no rain — Lagaan style. Accompanied by a flap-flap sound. Thinking it to be her hero Rahul arriving, she hurriedly finished singing the title song and rushed to the window, hoping to spot the all-familiar black helicopter .. alas .. to find a big bird, instead. On further observation it turned out that he wasn’t the cute Maine Pyar Kiya courier bird bringing her a pehle pyaar ki pehli chitthi either. Instead he was a jealous psycho bird. Well, he was also ugly, but we try to not let our bias for pretty people show too much. It seems he wasn’t getting any worthwhile roles so he wanted to try his luck with the Chopra camp. He made enquiries on how to get in. But her happy family wasn’t looking for a pet, so they politely told our feathered friend to find himself another project. But he wouldn’t listen. Five times a day he stalked the studio creating a stink and demanding an audition. Finally they had to explain it to him that the fluffy white doggy had already been cast and he could even play cricket, so the bird didn’t stand a chance.

But birdie didn’t take kindly to rejection. Which, when you think about it, was odd, considering he had a lifetime of it to be used to. Angrily he flapped his wings and tried to poop on the entire scene. Total crapola, I say! Now, I don’t know about you, but Meghalaya is a country located right in the middle of a Chopra movie set, where anything dirty and unpleasant like pooping on people is a crime. Every dried leaf is strategically floated by for effect, and every sunshine-yellow curtain is meant to shimmer just so. Houses are mansions, people take private jets to the mall and wear designer labels when they sleep. They also wear the clothes that come attached to the labels, not to worry. And nothing and nobody is allowed to be ugly and dirty. Things are spotless white and squeaky clean and whatever needs to be done will be done, to keep it that way.

So the plan was made. The bird was sweetly invited inside for an audition, the spot-boys and assistants were called in at the right time, and the super-sized bottle of industrial-strength bleach was pulled out. And the deed was done. *violins playing appropriate shrill notes to create a sense of a bird-like creature scratching and clawing* They say implicit violence has a lot more impact, so I’ll leave it to your imagination to paint the rest of the picture. But if you need help, wacko + bird + violence reminds one of sheer Hitchcock-ian brilliance and I do love it when the dots connecteth.

But violence leaves incriminating evidence, so every now and then you might see a bleached feather float by, or poop stains of a ghost bird. Not to worry, our art director will airbrush those out soon enough. Feathers will turn to flower petals and the stain will become rain. And all will be well in the world once again.

Much celebrations happened throughout the land, the girl once again sang happy songs, this time about the colors of her mehndi and the decorations of her doli while the chorus sang lene tujhe o gori, aayenge tere sajna. Raj stood with his arms outstretched, as she ran towards him in slow motion synchronized with the flap-flap of the real helicopter this time. The scene melted into soft-focus and then became a blur of dupattas as the highly sentimental aaaaaaa and oooooo chorus version of the title song drowned out all signs of screechy psycho birds. On the screen the words flashed — The End.

(Epilogue, again in Amitabh’s voice)

This blog is much like a movie set,
It would make an art director proud.
Not a leaf looks ugly,
Nor a doggy barks too loud.

We keep this page a pleasant place,
With lots of laughing and singing.
But we’re not a bunch of idiots,
If that is what you’re thinking.

So, if you’re looking to join the fun,
“Well sure, do come right in!”
But if you’re looking to crap on us,
There’s a bottle of Clorox waitin’!

Target audience for this post:

• People who have watched Telugu movies of the 70s
• People who find a special joy in watching the stud-heroes of Telugu movies of the 70s
• My cousin, a fan of Telugu movies of the 70s, who will stop talking to me after reading this post
• Nice, sweet, wonderful people who will read anything I write (and hopefully not notice my use of multiple adjectives to sweet-talk them)

Yes, this is a something new I am trying out. Niche markets are common and products are often designed for specific target audiences. So why not my posts? (Saying this, she hid under the table while the Marketing MBAs in the audience heckled and laughed at her) Considering that I write about a lot of arbit things, and not everyone who comes to my blog will find every pearl of wisdom to be .. well .. a pearl, I shall henceforth warn you of the impending attack so you have a chance to escape. Of course, if you do not fit the target audience and still have an opinion to share, kindly ignore my attempt to stereotype you, and feel free to comment. Moving on to the subject of the post ..

A conversation with a friend reminded me of this. There used to be a Telugu actor with the impressive name of Sobhan Babu who was a firm believer in the number three. He often delivered punchlines in multiples of three. Imagine this — 45-year old Sobhan Babu in industrial strength makeup and an oh-so-believable wig that is perfectly gelled into place save the one curl that dangerously hangs on his forehead. We shall call this fine specimen of manhood — The Agitated Hero. Enter harassed wife waiting at home, looking grungy and grimey with an expression of perpetual suffering. I am unable to feed your three kids, the expression cries. The agitated hero has just lost his job. He needs solace, he needs support and comfort. He takes a step forward, pauses, flicks back the gelled curl with the back of his hand, takes two more steps towards his wife who stands in front of him and calls out in a voice full of anguish — Lakshmiii, Lakshmiiiii, Lakshmiiiiiii!

For anyone who doubts the effectiveness of this scene — there isn’t a single person in the audience who has any doubt left in their mind that the heroine’s name is Lakshmi.

That concludes our pointless peek into a cinematic moment from my childhood.

I recently chanced upon a nugget of information that left me horrified, so I thought I should promptly share it with all my readers and spread the joy. As someone once said — a hundred scarred souls are better than one. Yes that someone was me, so what?

Now, unless you were living under a rock all your life, you have heard of the movie Casablanca (1942). This Humphrey Bogart — Ingrid Bergman — Paul Henreid story of love, honor, duty and sacrifice set against the backdrop of World War II is a perennial cinema classic. But I bet you didn’t know they made a Hindi remake of it! Not just any aira gaira remake we’re talking about, mind you. None other than Armaan (1981). Bogart’s role (Rick) played by Raj Babbar (Yikes! Is there no God!?), Bergman’s role (Ilsa) by Ranjeeta (I’m still recovering from sher Babbar, so no comments) and my favorite block of wood — Deepak Parashar, playing the role of Paul Henried (Victor). Oh the horror, oh the tragedy! Oh that reminds me, the Germans are replaced by the Portuguese and the scene has shifted from World War II to Goa’s liberation. Pure joy, I tell ya.

Imagine this — the smoke filled Rick’s Cafe, Sam playing the piano, Bogey taking a long drag on his cigarette and .. <jarring scene change> .. Shammi Kapoor at the piano, Raj Babbar trying to swallow a cigarette and just when you thought it couldn’t get any better — enter Kalpana Iyer dancing to Bappi Lahiri’s ramba ho samba ho. Or is it Prema Narayan? Either way, it scars you for life, eh? Well, that’s about it for ugly.

Now for something a li’l more worth your time. A couple of days back, I got a very interesting comment from Braveheart on my Ghost stories blog. I am quoting the relevant portion here—

You have rightly pointed out that there is no reason God should be more respected than Ghost. But we the weak human beings protect us always through defence mechanisms. God is our biggest spoof, out strongest protector. We take refuge in his arms all the time. But Satan should be worshipped just as much. I am saying this because if you dont worship him, you fight with him. And fighting with him is fighting with urself. It weakens you. It wouldn’t ever let you discover yourself.

So the key lies not in surrendering yourself, but absorbing him into urself, and hence, growing bigger than him. You should not reject what you are afraid of, you should submit, absorb and grow through it.

It got me thinking again about a topic that I often mull over.

Good is not the result of the absence of evil, but the ability to take on evil, accept that it is a part of us, and then find mechanisms to deal with it. Reminds me of a line from a song from the recent movie Swades (2004) — Man se Raavan jo nikaale, Raam uske man mein hai. To do that one first has to accept that there is a Raavan in all of us.

I don’t think this is true only of evil. It extends to a number of negative emotions in general. Grief, hurt, fear, turmoil .. I once had a conversation with a friend about relationships. She mentioned that she avoids getting emotionally involved ‘cos it can lead to grief and pain and she doesn’t want to get hurt. I remember that my reaction was that as long as she avoided that pain, she’ll never learn to deal with it. It is much better that she jumps into a relationship and handles that hurt if and when it comes, and thus, no longer *fears* the pain. Not quite in the same spirit as good vs evil, I know.

They say that peace comes not from the absence of conflict in life, but from the ability to cope with it. True of inner peace too. Acknowledging one’s inner demons, and yet not letting them consume us, is one of the toughest things to do.

That, and keeping a straight face while watching Armaan.