Why bother?

I watched two movies on consecutive days. The first was the Korean movie "Old Boy" and the next was "Scent of a woman".  Even though I am sufficiently fond of Al Pacino's style of acting, I think "Scent of a woman" sucked. Here was a story that bordered on the unbelievable as regards to the almost super-human charm of an almost blind man, and all the while every viewer could've told where the story was going. The acting was hammed, the lines were cliched and on any other day this mass produced piece of Hollywood pseudo-sentiments would leave me cursing. But not yesterday.

Yes, I know that "Old Boy" won the Jury Grand Prix at Cannes and all that. Without spoiling the suspense of the storyline, let's just say that the climax is very very disturbing. I am a firm proponent of artistic freedom and the need to express stories that tread beyond the norm. However this one shook me to the core or maybe even sickened me. The ultimate topic being broached in the movie is a very natural possibility yet our society has so conditioned us that we are nauseated even at its thought. Why should in these rare cases, even true love fall under the bracket of sin just because convention says so? 

"Old Boy" takes the viewer where he wouldn't dare to venture alone. Maybe therein lies its greatness as a film. It is crisply & beautifully shot, edited down to the final "d" and brutal in its message delivery. There is so much to talk about and fictionalize about in our complicated existence but to go to the places that this movie has gone takes a rare kind of courage and morbid curiosity. Using the imagination to probe the dark corners of the mind may be the big draw for some artists but it's downright scary for me to watch the results. So watching a movie like "Scent of a woman" full of corny, romantic lines and a very very typical climactic 'courtroom' speech, made me feel normal again and I was glad for it. I was back in the conventional world where love and honour meant what we were taught when we were immature; simplified concepts of black and white that were within our limited emotional grasp. Our thoughts would like to take us to a whole lot of nooks and crannies but I think its not always such a great idea to hitch a ride with them.

Meditative Sunday

This weekend there was glorious weather in Massachusetts. After innumerable consecutive weekends of cold, drafty, snowy cooped up inactivity, the sun was out in its full blazing glory. Yet I had to be content giving this great weather a quiet and slightly dejected wave-by as I was still winding down from last weekend's mega-exertions at Vegas.

Sometimes not making the most of any opportunity has its own pleasures. Here was the perfect weekend to go scouting in and around Boston and add another pin to the places that I had visited, and all I did was spend it in a semi-haze helped by the viciously strong cold medication I was taking. My cousin brother (another Vegas afflicted citizen) and I literally sat for hours on neighbouring couches at my aunt's place but hardly spoke a word. Both of us wore dazed, happy LSD smiles. In part it was the Vegas effect and in part it was the undeniable joy of being totally useless.

My smile took shape as I wandered through the places I'd been on this stint in the USA. I had seen the Atlantic from Castle Rock, Plymouth, Bristol, Boston, from 10000 feet above Newport before jumping out of the plane, and many of the beaches of Cape Cod. I had pondered on the Pacific shade of blue from the Golden Gate bridge in San Francisco and the beaches & spectacular rocky coastlines of Monterey. I had scythed my way through the teeming crowds in Manhattan, paused for a beautiful moment in Central Park on an autumn afternoon and had relaxed beer in hand with a clear, undisturbed view of the night-time Manhattan skyline from across the river in Jersey City. I had steamed past the ubiquitous symbol of America, Statue of Liberty, that green metal giant. I had taken a plunge into the sea of human enterprise that is Las Vegas, a settlement that literally rose out of the desert and does exceedingly well by any standards. I had stood in quiet contemplation over the rushing mountains of water at the Niagara Falls, and the unconquerable beauty of the Grand Canyon. I had sipped coffee in the company of the intellectual elite of the world at Harvard Square, had lunch at Stanford and stood at the same viewpoint where scientific geniuses of UC, Berkeley had hit their Eureka moment high above in their stunning mountain-top campus. Every little unnamed house that was made remarkable by the colours of fall or fresh snow danced across my mind's eye. 

Every new friend and every new experience on this trip re-engraved itself in my memory during that afternoon which I said nothing and did nothing. I let my mind replay those memories and organize them more efficiently. I really am glad for days like these. Sure, I could have been doing something for the betterment of the world in those few hours but I doubt whether it could have been so satisfying as these few hours of unrepented self indulgence. If there was more to life than this, I couldn't care less for it!

Grand

"You might think that the name 'Grand' is a bit too unimaginative and simplistic", said Lewis Carol, our giant of a guide, "Just wait till you get there." The south rim of the Grand Canyon is a 5 hour bus ride away from the sheen and glitter of Las Vegas. After partying all night for the past two nights, a bus which starts at 6:30 in the morning is not the place where you'd want to be. But I was running short of time.

Moving through the sparse vegetation of the Arizona desert on both sides, with only rock mountains for company, the Native Americans had been making this journey for thousands of years. They had set out for the place where the spirits of their forefathers roamed and they felt the need to confer with them. The road was metalled now and we were ensconced in the comfort of a luxury coach but the journey felt like it would lead to something really special.

The parking lot is a long walk from the edge of the canyon and signs led you to your first glimpse of the stateliness of the Canyon. Sheer rock walls dropping thousands of feet below, their colours varying with every few feet of the change of depth. There were peculiar shapes all around this magical landscape, carved by the twin genies of wind and water. The water of the raging Colorado was so deep down below that it was a worm at the base of the canyon. The wind flew through the channels, at times singing, at times roaring, a wild, wonderful song. I had seen both sides of the world within the space of a few hours. One was the ultra-commercialized world of desires as exemplified by the city of Las Vegas, and this the timeless masterpiece by Nature carved of wind and stone yet embodied with a soul far greater than what was capable of residing in a single human. 

Sin City

Forget about the trucks carrying giant billboards proclaiming "Girls direct to your room in 20 minutes!" on the roads. It's such an ugly thought that it brings last night's dinner right back up.

A few hours spent in Vegas will teach you not to give your heart out to that angelic little face who talks ever so sweetly to you at the casino table. It's only a matter of time before she tries to fix a rate with you.

The free ride that the cabbies offer to the scores of strip-clubs seem as interesting as a trip to the meat factory.

Money is meant to be burnt away for a number of pleasures, but it's just too gross to shell out any cash for a certain few activities. An opinion which seems to be shared by very few in the city of Las Vegas.

It's your first night out in this town and you know that none of the options discussed above are meant for you. Instead you go into the smoky, strobe light streaked interiors of a regular club/disc/lounge (Though a regular club in Vegas terms is really a spectacular club for any other city in the world). It's a vast cavern throbbing with music and psychedelic colours. Taut, shaped to perfection bodies groove in the space all around. You grab a Captain' n 'a Coke from the bar and take a look around. There's a group of girls right next to you and you sense that there's something in the air. Smells like a exquisite woman's perfume.

Within an instant, right in front of you in a lil' white dress is a pretty young blonde inviting you to dance. A quick confirmatory glance tells you that you'd be a raging maniac to take more than a second in making your decision.

"So where're you from?", you ask.

"I come from Oregon. And you?"

"From Bawston!", you say in the worst possible fake Irish accent.

You dance with her, entranced by her nymph like fluidity. A toss of her golden hair, the fleeting gaze of her blue eyes, the occasional smile, the twist' n 'twirl of her skirt all drag you deeper into this sensual paradise. A beauty induced state of hypnosis and wonder produces a rhythm that is impossible to disregard.

You think to yourself that maybe this was the reason why you were so resolutely single and commitment-phobic all your life; it was for these few moments of guiltless bliss. And then she whispers into your ear, "I think you're cute. You really needn't worry so much about touching me!"...

Welcome to Las Vegas. Welcome to Sin City!

The namesakes

For long I took secret pleasure in the fact that my name was uniquely long and rare. Anyone who'd possess the capability to memorize it would definitely remember it for the rest of their lives. In a world tired of Amits, Abhisheks and Rajeshes, a Anuranjan stood alone and unique. The only other Anuranjan I had ever seen was a Anuranjan KT, a member of the JCT Mills hockey team back in 1994-1995. Not exactly my ultimate ideal but at least he was on TV. So there were two Anuranjans, one on TV and one growing up to be on TV. Or at least so I thought.

The first tremor came when I got an invitation to join the "My name Anuranjan"(sic) community in Orkut. I promptly turned it down. I mean what's the point of joining a community with 2-3 people anyway? I go on it to find there are 11 guys by the name that I hold so dear on Orkut alone. Most of them seem to be from Bihar too, barring the Rajasthani who started the community. Never mind then the millions of non-tech savvy Anuranjans around the country. 

The uniqueness of my identity bruised, I turn to Google "ego search" to establish that at least I am the most important Anuranjan around. I type in just my first name, and I have to scroll through 12 pages to get to the first page that even mentions me. And shame of shames, it's not my blog, or my writing contest win that is featured even so deep down the unimportant links list. It's a YouTube video of me making somewhat of an ass of myself playing golf (A momentary lapse of reason from my trip to California). Boo hoo!

Shattered in spirit, I look at all the other Anuranjans who have stolen my limelight. There's a Dr. Anuranjan Bisht, who's a MD in Psychiatry in Nevada somewhere. He must be handling casino crazed clients from Vegas then. There's a Anuranjan Jha, who is/was a Ph.D student and now works in Silicon Laboratories in Austin, Texas. He's the lucky ***tard who got the 'anuranjan@gmail.com' ID. My venomous stares at him then. Then there's a female Anu Ranjan, some kind of socialite in Bombay who's all over the place having celebs 'party' at 'her place' and attending 'Anti Pakistan artist' meets. Yes, I don't know what that extraordinary class of artists means either!

But there's one Anuranjan who seems to be more like my long lost brother from the Mahakumbh. His name is Anuranjan Pegu, and he says that he is a graphic designer. His synopsis of himself is what confirms my blood relations to him. It goes "Anuranjan Pegu - The king of vague". Now that's an interesting one, that is!

Ball economics

Opposite my house in Calcutta is a apartment building and the central passage leading to the stairs in these apartments is bang opposite my garage door. It so happens that the dimensions of this restricted passage are just ideal for playing plastic ball cricket and such a golden arena never lies unused. Kids play their hearts with fluorescent yellow plastic balls, whose garish colour is probably justified by their better visibility in the permanent shade of the passage. A full blooded shot straight down the ground leads to the balls slipping beneath the wire gate at the approach of my garage before clattering right into our garage sneaking below the solid iron gates guarding my brand new Pulsar and my uncle's car. 

This being Central Calcutta, the haunt of mythically super-capable thieves, one lock is never considered enough. There are at least 3 different barriers to unshackle or to key open, so the kids knew with a patient acceptance that the balls that went into our garage stayed there. The balls would be normally be gathered by my cousin and piled up inside a bucket within our garage unwanted and unappreciated. Then on a bright sunny winter morning I decided to play the benevolent Godfather.

I observed from my third floor room on the roof that the set of kids who were the most regular set of players were in action. I went to the garage, opened the garage gate with a grand flourish and walked out with a bucket full of fluorescent yellow balls. The kids abandoned whatever petty argument they were engaged in and congregrated around me, an awestruck glint in their eyes. I turned the bucket upside down and their playing field was a sea of plastic balls. Within seconds, I saw the biggest boys in the group had gathered nearly all the balls, some holding more than 4 while the little ones or the weaker ones gave a long, pained look with their hands empty. I told myself "There you see, that's why capitalism never works! There's always someone overfed and someone underfed." 

In a month's time, my garage bucket was full of plastic balls again. This time I decided on better control. I walked out with a stern expression on my face and told the kids "Listen guys! I don't want to see you fight over these balls again. Take them but ensure that they are split equally." And to my shock, the smallest in the group piped up something to the effect of "These are such old, poor quality balls. We'd rather buy some good new ones!" So came my next lesson in rudimentary economics, "Communism doesn't work either!"

Ho hum, what a conundrum!

My apologies, Las Vegas

I haven't even left for Vegas and here I am eating up my own words from my first post about Vegas. A single website has already told me that Vegas is much bigger than just gambling and strip clubs. I just jotted down 3 awesome car museums cum showrooms to go to. There are super insane roller-coasters or wild rides to get on, so that's another thing that floats my boat. Not to mention the spectacular exhibits/shows over which I am having a tough time making a choice. Plus in the hectic 2 day schedule, I am cramming in a trip to the majestic Grand Canyon too. Boy oh boy, what a weekend is to follow! And my apologies in advance for any misconceptions that I had about the city. It's best to own up right now that I was wrong in my assumptions, yet again!