Oh, what a Happy New Year!

Should I voice my contrarian opinion that "Five Point Someone" is an extremely over-rated book and that Chetan Bhagat is possibly the most over-hyped undeserving author of all time? And can I claim in the same breath that I found "Taarey Zameen Par" to be a tad too preachy for my liking (I loved the first half of the movie before the character of Aamir "Know-it-all" Khan, the finger wagging art teacher appeared)? There! Nothing to be done. I've already said it! Then I must also tell you that 2010 is going to be an awesome year for me because the storm raging over the "3 Idiots" has me thrilled and clapping with glee, making me start the New Year with a mile wide smile.

Taking up the case of FPS and its author first. My family is a family of book lovers, all of whom have read innumerably more books (and good books at that) than me. Unfortunately for me and to my utter dismay, they are all fans and supporters of Chetan Bhagat. So within my own household, I am outnumbered 4:1 but still I hold fast to my point of view. I think that the book reeks of a 9 point something fellow trying desperately to imagine what the life of a five pointer might be & therefore someone who fails miserably in his attempt. Sure, we want to listen to an IIT+IIM graduate drone on about breaking away from the "beaten path" and fighting the system. He may have made truckloads of moolah as an investment banker for 10 years, but we'd just ignore the irony of the situation and the hypocrisy of his advice. Yeah, right!

An engineering college that is chock-a-block with entertaining characters and the madness of hostel life is so woefully represented in FPS that it really made me feel like crying or more likely chuck the book down one of those early morning hostel toilets with a non functional flush. It's really sad that a setting that had the potential to be so tremendously funny and energetic turned out to be a drab, slow, pedestrian account of 3 uninteresting characters and their trying-too-desperately-to-be-interesting (Read sex, drugs and rooftop rock-n-roll) lives. In the country of R.K. Narayan and Ruskin Bond, it's a true shame that Bhagat is the "best selling" English author. Not only does he murder the promise in such an extraordinary story, at the same time he also manages to gain a cult following among his "readers" who are also quite aggressive in their defense of him. I have been at the receiving end of many such "offence is the best form of defense" attacks to the tune of "You are such a phoney criticizing something just because it is popular", "Pseudo-intellectual" and such like. All I wanted was just a bearable set of characters/plot/style of writing, none of which came through in FPS for me.

Another tragic piece of news that drove a skewer through my heart was when I heard that Rajkumar Hirani of "Lagey Raho Munnabhai" fame was making a movie with Aamir on... horror of horrors, FPS. Aamir Khan is still my favourite actor in Bollywood by miles, even though TZP's in-my-face second half morality lessons have significantly reduced my appreciation of his work. But the real horror was that the script writer of the fundamentally super (Over the top - Yes, too melodramatic - Yes, loaded with social messages - Yes, still amazing - Yes) Munnabhai movies saw something of interest in that sorry sapper of a novel and wanted to make his third movie out of it! Until 2010 showed up and with it, the sometimes a bit too coarse debate over credits for the movie. It's rather mean to take pleasure at someone else's plight, but that's so me once in a while.

I haven't seen the movie yet I was overjoyed to see Mr. Hirani vehemently fight it out with the media over the changes he had to make to the script to turn the novel into a watchable film. Maybe the film is still heavily based on the book and if so, Bhagat's name definitely should up at the beginning of the movie rather than stuffed away at the end. But what fills my soul with gladness is that the need to make these changes was felt, to veer away from something which was paltrily ordinary to create what the reviews of the film seem to indicate, something truly extraordinary. "3 Idiots" here I come. No matter how the movie actually turns out to be, thanks for giving my 2010 such a great start. There is after all justice in this world and the hands of fate juggle us all. Being at the right place at the right time might get you up to where you do not deserve to be, but it won't keep you there!

One more for the ages

The urge to make resolutions is hard to ignore

Though the past has seen breaches galore,

The age-old sun rises just the same

Still must we play this pointless game.

This day is different, you see, not like the ones before

It's a new calendar, you fool, right down to the core,

Why then is life unchanged, frame for repetitive frame

Is there self-deception, a mass hypnosis to blame?

Seeing past the frenzy, bringing logic to the fore

Hope's house needs refurbishment, rooftop to the floor,

Slaves to routine we are, no matter how we strain

A stop we need, to hop off this slow moving train.

Worries and fears, only deeper will they bore

Joy and laughter, strictly rationed is their store,

The road retains its mystery, the destination stays unknown

Pause we must to ponder, to paint time in a suitable tone.

Istanbul

As far as improbable connections go, a link between a pizzeria, the Corner Cafe on 500 Mass Ave in Boston and my book-shelf back in Calcutta must be quite high on the list but there is such a connection! "Istanbul", a personal memoir by the Turkish Nobel winning author Orhan Pamuk was one of the first books that I bought with my own money and also one of those books which I have forever wanted to begin and hadn't found the time to begin. It rests like an unopened box of treasures in the small cupboard that I use to keep my books together in Calcutta.

Then four days before I return to Calcutta to pick up this unfinished task of mine, I sell my car to a Turkish guy who is going to use it for pizza deliveries. The pizzeria is run by a Turkish fellow Mehmet, who has two employees both of whom are Turkish again, one of whom bought the car off me. Consequently I spent half a day in company of my Turkish friends answering questions about India and learning about the bridge country between Asia and Europe while we went through the formalities of transferring the car ownership. Though none of them were from Istanbul, the awe with which they described their capital city made the city seem all the more alluring. Maybe someday I'll visit this grand city whose personality is split between wanting to be Asian and wanting to be European. In the meantime, even reading about Istanbul when I get back to Calcutta would have a uniquely personal perspective to it.

Salient advice

It's a tough task to distill practical advice from an international spy thriller. They are always filled with guys who can speak 10 languages with ease, be deadly with anything from a pocket knife to a rocket launcher and seem to possess the ability to win over the most exquisite girls by their cold, professional natures. If there are such people in real life, I shall still deny their existence only because then that would be one more thing in life to be frustrated about at not being able to be. Plus little details like a description of the back alleys of Kowloon, or a fictional high level meeting discussing the fate of the world are not something which can be used in casual chit-chat.

Profoundness is something which these thriller writers do not excel at, so when I came across this nugget of priceless advice in one of the Bourne books of Robert Ludlum, I reprimanded myself for not putting faith in authors of his kind. Throughout that particular book as the injured Jason Bourne pieces his memories together while being hunted by enemies he does not remember making, tired and stressed out from all the incredible chases that he has withstood, he is reminding himself "Sleep is an ally..." Wow! What a sincere bit of advice so concisely put. In Bourne's case, it meant taking a couple of hours off his escape run every day to take a nap, and pause before he got back. I on the other hand take special effort to run up sleep figures of at least 3 to 4 times his ration. There is no greater ally than slumber for the hard-working/hard-fighting man and I thank Mr. Ludlum for putting in words what has always been known by my heart!

Fishy history

My track record with pet fishes has been terrible. I have adopted and lost to the toxic tap water of Calcutta a total of 4 goldfishes in the first 2 years that I took up a job there. My last aquarium based pet was a pink gorami who turned out to be quite a sturdy fellow. He was with me for nearly 3 months before I came to the USA and I hope an impossible hope that I will find it hale and hearty with my aunt in Calcutta who graciously offered to take charge of him. That is extreme optimism on my end but losing a pet hurts bad, even if it's a tiny little fish. I never give them names 'coz I never know when I'll find them belly-up in the water when I come back from work. It doesn't help that I only keep 1 or 2 fishes at a time restricted by the size of my fish bowl and I'd rather save myself the discomfort of burying a "Nemo" or a "Flounder". Goldfish 1, Goldfish 2 are a little impersonal but that's what works best for them and me.

Fishes are fairly unsociable as far as pets go. They can't be petted & cuddled and it is impossible to sense any kind of affection from their cold fish eyes. They'll swim right up to the surface when they sense that it is food pellet/worm time but apart from that they have a tendency to ignore their owner as they paddle around their limited little world - an aquarium or a bowl whatever may that be. However their lack of the need of any special attention except for regular supply of food and fresh supply of water is sometimes a boon as anyone (including yours truly) who has had a tiring day at work and a dog going crazy for a walk will testify.

The coolest thing about fishes apart from their flashy colours is the weird feeling that you get if you study them for a little while. They seem like alien creatures in a way only land-locked creatures like us can appreciate. The few deci-litres of water inside their aquarium is a section of deep outer space and their funny shapes are spaceships sleekly gliding through this watery sky. Put in the few customary bubbling divers, faux boat wrecks, moss covered submerged castles and wavy water plants to complement their fantastic world, and you can imagine that you are watching some kind of an extraterrestrial ballet routine. The quick darting, twists and turns, random chases without justification and the grace in the madness make for a great show irrespective of when you take some time to watch it. What is not a recommended course of action is to disturb a sleeping fish or a sick one as it'd lead to a rather rapid demise of the entertainer. They are indeed extraterrestrials in one sense of the word and trapped though they may be in our little glass prisons, I really treat them as honourable guests from another world and enjoy their quirky company.

India : Take 2

In about a week's time, I'll be back to the one place with which I associate my identity. It's not one place so to speak, but my need for a classification simplifies it to be. I've been all over the country and there is no place I can really claim as my own except the whole giant complicated thing. All of India, the 1% that I have seen, the 10% that I have known and the remaining vast unknown is a tag I wear, on my heart, on my sleeve and on my gut. For the past year and a half in a foreign nation two oceans away, the last drops of unrealized loyalty have crystallized into concrete understanding. I am an Indian even if it is the only thing I am, for better or for worse.

Yet they say, it'll be difficult. The traffic noise is going to get you, the smells are going to make you wrinkle your nose, the 'rudeness' of the people is going to put you off, the 'corruption' in the 'system' is going to drive you insane, even the time it takes to load YouTube videos is going to be a major aggravation in your life - all dire warnings on similar lines after an extended stay in a "first world" country are a dime (or more appropriately 10 paisaa) a dozen. You'll realize it from the moment you step out of the plane, they say. Yes, of course, it has to feel different, I agree with that sentiment to some extent and it should be that way. Isn't that all the more reason to return home? To breath in all the weirdness and the chaos, marvel at it still being functional and feel a sense of achievement in having played a part in it keeping it going. It's too much of a fun thing to be in the most irrational and unpredictable ways. Wouldn't want to swap it for anything in the world.

Flu-tag

One of the games I wasn't too fond of as a kid was "pakkad dao" or as it is called in English, tag. It took me about half a minute to get tagged and become It. The painful process of trying to pass my infection continued till I came to the verge of passing out and some pal of mine with superior athletic ability (that meant everyone else) would take over out of sympathy or just to remind me of my lowly position on the pecking order of physical prowess. No wonder I kept the team cricket bat and ball securely at my flat. No one was going to get me to play tag if I had anything to do about it.

Nowadays I am an unwilling participant in another game of tag, one which I am glad to say is not enjoyed by the other participants too. The drastic fluctuations of temperature at the beginning of winter as the mercury dips low then jumps high within a couple of hours are setting up the right kind of conditions for the flu to spread. Swine flu thankfully is more hype than reality and as it is, the 'normal' strains of flu are bad enough. First to go down was the head honcho of the Inspection Lab where I am doing some training and he was It for a week. Then he tagged my instructor Rob who had his bout of aches and pains, a horribly sore throat and a general aura of 'unwell'. As in the bad old days, it took just one day for Rob to tag me and I found myself clogged nostril downwards to the depths of my lungs. For a couple of days, I decided to bank on my immune system but I soon found out that this bank was already very weak from a number of faulty loans it had given out.

If my past sporting records were any indication, it'd take my hospitalization to continue at this game so I finally displayed some common sense. You could call me a cheat at flu-tag but I went to a doctor (a Gujarati based in the US for the past 29 years) who happily jabbed two injections worth of medicine where it stings the most, a sharp temporary pain for a much greater gain. Sporting endeavours were never my forte anyway. I just couldn't play the damn game anymore.