I was rather intrigued by friend Ganji's mentions of copious amounts of sex in the film Lust Caution by director Ang Lee (of Brokeback Mountain fame). He'd also said it's a 'very nice' film, by the way. I thought I'd go check it out. Junk food purchased, I waited for the action to begin, smugness firmly in place. What unfolded, instead, over a running time of 157 minutes, was a sad, bitter-(barely)sweet love story with a tragic end. Kinda reminded me of Raj Kapoor, remarking on Satyam Shivam Sundaram: something along the lines of "people will come in to see Zeenat's t***, but what they will remember, is a love story..."
A Chinese woman, working for an anti-government outfit, seeks to seduce a Minister, so the renegade boys can get at him.
What really moved me, apart from the delicious cinematography, was Lee's treatment of the relationship between the two. The seduction is spot on: tantalizing, yet working just when you're dejected it hasn't snared the wily minister. She succeeds where other seductresses have failed, but then, you realize to your heartbreak: it's because she has begun to love him. And while you're still feeling bad about that, you discover the minister is in it not just for the sex. The lovers are definitely not of the star cross'd variety; they know of necessary social boundaries - and so you know this one's not gonna end the way Stardust did.
I couldn't help noticing a parallel with Brokeback. Two people begin a relationship - a relationship that had no reason to be born, was not supposed to linger, and is not meant to last. But one that is love, nonetheless.
The second, eerily similar, if a bit tenuous link I find, is with Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi, which is also a tale of revolutionary ideals, sacrifices, and people pointing their love-rays in the wrong direction.
The other emotionally brilliant, honest episode in this film is when the young renegade group takes their first human life. Barely-out-of-college kids try and murder a man (who's found them out, and will squeal, or worse), with what looks like a kitchen knife. Stabbing looks easy enough in your usual film. Here, however, you see failed first stabs, determined (because now its a one way street) second stabs, and (when a normal hefty man refuses to die with some blood loss, and internal tissue injury) final kill-or-die stabs. When even this fails to finish the victim, the leader makes the leap to the point of no return - he finishes the job. Now he is truly initiated. He is a soldier.
Net, Ang Lee is a master of his craft, unafraid to explore raw emotions, that often lead to tragic (read human) conclusions. Recommended as chicken soup for the pining heart.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Dark: fragment 3
Downtown.
Busy intersection. Late afternoon about to give in to the evening. Vehicles whizz past by the hundred. A never-ending flow that would make you think the streets would be forever choked with oil drinking monsters that spew out smog. And yet, it all keeps moving, the traffic starting devil-knows-where, swallowed by devil-knows-what, providing the street with a constant supply of the only thing it is faithful to: chaos.
A crowd. Hundreds of people rushing from hell-knows-where rushing to hell-knows-what. A young punk in sharp business clothes and flashy, strictly cosmetic eyewear hurries arrogantly to nothing of consequence. He is speaking, no, shouting on his cellphone, not bothering to notice, much less apologize to, the old-timer he has just pushed into grabbing a nearby pole for support. A peroxide blonde, dressed in delicious red and deadly black, walks a poodle that is the envy of every male around, just because it is the only thing that she seems interested in.
He watches it all, as he always has. He stands there, near the newsstand owned by the immigrant, that also sells cigarettes, over-the-counter medication, instantly gratifying pulp in text, image, and video, along with elixirs promising instant youth perched the cutting edge of ethics and legality.
He watches it all with a kind of patience they say only the wise old ones have. The kind of patience that has built itself a quiet little country house on the edge of a cliff in a seismic zone. All it needs is a little tremor. All he needs is something to send him over the edge.
This newsstand is his vantage point into his own soul. A window of sorts, from which he can see within, as he looks without. He stands here for hours on end, soaking in all the angst that the city gives its inhabitants. He senses their longing, wallows in their lust, and absorbs like a stoic their frustrations. He feels he is their guardian angel, if an unknown, unwelcome, impotent one. This adds to the emptiness within him, and his rage swells. And yet, he does not move, nor act on it. For this rage is a self-feeding fire, and like most such fires, has the self-defeating intent of self-preservation, with only one possible end: the elimination of their host.
He barely notices this ebb and flow inside him. It’s been too long and he’s gotten used to it, after all. He just stands there, effortlessly tuning in and out of the airwaves of the city’s chaos - which is but a macrocosm of his own.
Suddenly, a spike!
He senses something out of place. Even chaos has a pattern, and this is definitely not it. He is forced out of his languor. The only external signs he gives of it is the rapid blinking of eyelids as he tries to figure out what it is, and the beads of sweat that break out on his forehead because of the concentration. He starts looking around, his face scanning the area around him for an answer, short arcs at a time, in no particular order. He notices nothing amiss in the crowds, or the automobile traffic, or the derelicts that walk aimlessly, or the purposeful groups of officer-goers.
And then he sees it.
There, across the street, barely a dozen yards across, stands a newsstand just like the one he favors. The crowds are thick as ever, but he is sure he has never seen him there before.
A hefty man. Wearing a cape of some sort. Can’t make out a face, not even outlines of features. The head, under a hat, seems to be turned in his general direction. Can’t be too sure, in this light. When in doubt, assume the worst.
He is scared. Throat parched. Heart racing. Adrenalin rushing.
Fight or flight?
He is never sure who made the call. Or even, indeed, what the call was. All he recalls is starting to walk toward the menacing silhouette.
He still can’t see any better, and yet he is sure the silhouette is looking straight at him now.
He walks at an even, cautious pace, dictated by a fine balance of anger, confusion and fear. He must know who has violated his personal space. Even if this is hell, it‘s his own private hell.
Busy intersection. Late afternoon about to give in to the evening. Vehicles whizz past by the hundred. A never-ending flow that would make you think the streets would be forever choked with oil drinking monsters that spew out smog. And yet, it all keeps moving, the traffic starting devil-knows-where, swallowed by devil-knows-what, providing the street with a constant supply of the only thing it is faithful to: chaos.
A crowd. Hundreds of people rushing from hell-knows-where rushing to hell-knows-what. A young punk in sharp business clothes and flashy, strictly cosmetic eyewear hurries arrogantly to nothing of consequence. He is speaking, no, shouting on his cellphone, not bothering to notice, much less apologize to, the old-timer he has just pushed into grabbing a nearby pole for support. A peroxide blonde, dressed in delicious red and deadly black, walks a poodle that is the envy of every male around, just because it is the only thing that she seems interested in.
He watches it all, as he always has. He stands there, near the newsstand owned by the immigrant, that also sells cigarettes, over-the-counter medication, instantly gratifying pulp in text, image, and video, along with elixirs promising instant youth perched the cutting edge of ethics and legality.
He watches it all with a kind of patience they say only the wise old ones have. The kind of patience that has built itself a quiet little country house on the edge of a cliff in a seismic zone. All it needs is a little tremor. All he needs is something to send him over the edge.
This newsstand is his vantage point into his own soul. A window of sorts, from which he can see within, as he looks without. He stands here for hours on end, soaking in all the angst that the city gives its inhabitants. He senses their longing, wallows in their lust, and absorbs like a stoic their frustrations. He feels he is their guardian angel, if an unknown, unwelcome, impotent one. This adds to the emptiness within him, and his rage swells. And yet, he does not move, nor act on it. For this rage is a self-feeding fire, and like most such fires, has the self-defeating intent of self-preservation, with only one possible end: the elimination of their host.
He barely notices this ebb and flow inside him. It’s been too long and he’s gotten used to it, after all. He just stands there, effortlessly tuning in and out of the airwaves of the city’s chaos - which is but a macrocosm of his own.
Suddenly, a spike!
He senses something out of place. Even chaos has a pattern, and this is definitely not it. He is forced out of his languor. The only external signs he gives of it is the rapid blinking of eyelids as he tries to figure out what it is, and the beads of sweat that break out on his forehead because of the concentration. He starts looking around, his face scanning the area around him for an answer, short arcs at a time, in no particular order. He notices nothing amiss in the crowds, or the automobile traffic, or the derelicts that walk aimlessly, or the purposeful groups of officer-goers.
And then he sees it.
There, across the street, barely a dozen yards across, stands a newsstand just like the one he favors. The crowds are thick as ever, but he is sure he has never seen him there before.
A hefty man. Wearing a cape of some sort. Can’t make out a face, not even outlines of features. The head, under a hat, seems to be turned in his general direction. Can’t be too sure, in this light. When in doubt, assume the worst.
He is scared. Throat parched. Heart racing. Adrenalin rushing.
Fight or flight?
He is never sure who made the call. Or even, indeed, what the call was. All he recalls is starting to walk toward the menacing silhouette.
He still can’t see any better, and yet he is sure the silhouette is looking straight at him now.
He walks at an even, cautious pace, dictated by a fine balance of anger, confusion and fear. He must know who has violated his personal space. Even if this is hell, it‘s his own private hell.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Tag Time!
Tags are wonderful things. You tag someone, and dominoes start falling across cyberspace. Wicked!
I'm picking up two tags here:
The first from Mahogany: "If you were to go on a trip alone (i.e., minus partner), where would you go?"
I'd go on a homage trip - either to Dali (because his work intrigues the heck out of me) or Scorsese (because he is an influence I cannot shake off).This would vaguely mean visiting places that let me experience what shaped these gents.
By the end of it, It'd be nice to have a sketch or a script outline that is my interpretation of their work's essence. Or not.
p.s. - I fully share Mahogany's sense of dread at planning a solo thing. And that's only half because I rely on my wife to get the trip running smoothly. How life changes. :)
The second from Makdee: "What are your Quirks?"
My quirks are mini-OCDs. From childhood (yes, that long ago), I have fond memories of mini-OCDs (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders: seemingly mindless rituals or rules that you follow in everyday life, without which you feel uneasy). Google this.
Samplers:
1. If I must walk on a tiled/striped/striated floor, I must place my steps in the spaces between them. Never on them. No part of my foot, shoe or line of sight through trouser fabric, ideally, should touch the lines/borders. This has become much milder now, in old age.
2. As I walk out the door in the morning, the first step I place on the outside ground must be my right. This is part superstition, part OCD. Deliciously grey.
3. Specific hand/foot actions must be in even numbers, in even number of sets, must begin with the left and (therefore) end with the right. These again, are now few and far in between.
Some non-OCD (I think!) examples:
4. Writing my name on page 10 of every newly acquired book, textbook and exercise book (how Hindi-medium school-ish, I know). 10th of March is my birthday, by the way. The variation on this is making a full signature on aforementioned page (how Hindi-medium schooler admitted to English-medium secondary school-ish, I know).
5. Writing painfully detailed to-do lists, even seconds before executing the first task on it. Truly therapeutic. Try it!
And, in this spirit: Ganji (of footnotes shame), Sudha (of Mystic Pizza fame), Sumedha (of the Quirky Quill connection) - you have been hereby tagged. Choose one (or both) from the above, and do your bit of sneezing in blogosphere!
Haa-choo!!
I'm picking up two tags here:
The first from Mahogany: "If you were to go on a trip alone (i.e., minus partner), where would you go?"
I'd go on a homage trip - either to Dali (because his work intrigues the heck out of me) or Scorsese (because he is an influence I cannot shake off).This would vaguely mean visiting places that let me experience what shaped these gents.
By the end of it, It'd be nice to have a sketch or a script outline that is my interpretation of their work's essence. Or not.
p.s. - I fully share Mahogany's sense of dread at planning a solo thing. And that's only half because I rely on my wife to get the trip running smoothly. How life changes. :)
The second from Makdee: "What are your Quirks?"
My quirks are mini-OCDs. From childhood (yes, that long ago), I have fond memories of mini-OCDs (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders: seemingly mindless rituals or rules that you follow in everyday life, without which you feel uneasy). Google this.
Samplers:
1. If I must walk on a tiled/striped/striated floor, I must place my steps in the spaces between them. Never on them. No part of my foot, shoe or line of sight through trouser fabric, ideally, should touch the lines/borders. This has become much milder now, in old age.
2. As I walk out the door in the morning, the first step I place on the outside ground must be my right. This is part superstition, part OCD. Deliciously grey.
3. Specific hand/foot actions must be in even numbers, in even number of sets, must begin with the left and (therefore) end with the right. These again, are now few and far in between.
Some non-OCD (I think!) examples:
4. Writing my name on page 10 of every newly acquired book, textbook and exercise book (how Hindi-medium school-ish, I know). 10th of March is my birthday, by the way. The variation on this is making a full signature on aforementioned page (how Hindi-medium schooler admitted to English-medium secondary school-ish, I know).
5. Writing painfully detailed to-do lists, even seconds before executing the first task on it. Truly therapeutic. Try it!
And, in this spirit: Ganji (of footnotes shame), Sudha (of Mystic Pizza fame), Sumedha (of the Quirky Quill connection) - you have been hereby tagged. Choose one (or both) from the above, and do your bit of sneezing in blogosphere!
Haa-choo!!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Dark: fragment 2
The Recurring Nightmare.
Vast, empty desert, endless in all directions. Cloudless, yellow sky. No sign of a sun, yet he recalls plenty of brightness.
No vegetation, not even cacti. Sand smooth as silk, hot as lava. Must be searing the soles of his feet, yet, strangely he does not recall a burning sensation.
Noxious, green air. Must be foul smelling, even corrosive to his respiratory tract, yet, strangely he has no recollection of any breathing discomfort.
He instinctively looks toward the horizon, hoping for an end in sight, even if illusory. His eyes seek the thin, hazy line marking ‘up’ from ‘down’. He finds none.
An endless world of dubious physics, justified by the in-built logic of all dreams. His questions have been made redundant even before he could ask them. After all, his mind has an unfair advantage - it knows what he’s thinking.
Lead-soled boots, it proffers. Special respiratory apparatus, it reasons. Parallax, it shrugs.
It is his own private mental hell.
Suddenly, darkness.
Eyes try to adjust, playing games with his mind as they do so. First to disappear is slimy green, then bold yellow, and finally blazing red. Enter blue, then black, then that eerie shade known simply as Night. Rods-reduced, Cones-colour, they taught him at school. Both seem not quite up to this task. Or maybe just unwilling to cooperate.
Sand blows around in small, crazy spirals. Seems to metamorphose into solid shapes, then back into being animated grains of sand.
Did he just see a tree turn into spirals of sand?
Did he see a dog disintegrating into a million particles that vanish into the nearby dune?
Did he just see the silhouette of a dark man in a cape, melting into a…
No.
That is indeed a man he saw.
A hefty man. Wearing a cape of some sort. Can’t make out a face, not even outlines of features. The head, under a hat, seems to be turned in his general direction. Can’t be too sure, in this light. When in doubt, assume the worst.
He is scared. Throat parched. Heart racing. Adrenalin rushing.
Fight or flight?
He is never sure who made the call. Or even, indeed, what the call was. All he recalls is starting to walk toward the menacing silhouette.
He still can’t see any better, and yet he is sure the silhouette is looking straight at him now.
He walks at an even, cautious pace, dictated by a fine balance of anger, confusion and fear. He must know who has violated his personal space. Even if this is hell, it‘s his own private hell.
He is now barely a few feet away from the silhouette. He can now see the cape is an overcoat. A dirty shade of green? He isn’t too sure. The shadowy figure is still unmoved, but now he realizes it is not facing him, rather, it is facing the other way. Realizing the error of his initial assumption does not come timely enough. His hand is already raised to meet the silhouette’s shoulder. He makes contact. The shoulder feels strange - harder and warmer than usual. The silhouette turns.
He wakes up to a dark room. As if it is pre-ordained, his eyes meet the bedside clock. Splash of red. Blink. 21:00 in one-inch-tall numerals. That damn blinking colon. That nagging pain in his head that won’t leave him be. Shit. What an hour to wake up. What a city to wake up in. What a life to wade through.
Vast, empty desert, endless in all directions. Cloudless, yellow sky. No sign of a sun, yet he recalls plenty of brightness.
No vegetation, not even cacti. Sand smooth as silk, hot as lava. Must be searing the soles of his feet, yet, strangely he does not recall a burning sensation.
Noxious, green air. Must be foul smelling, even corrosive to his respiratory tract, yet, strangely he has no recollection of any breathing discomfort.
He instinctively looks toward the horizon, hoping for an end in sight, even if illusory. His eyes seek the thin, hazy line marking ‘up’ from ‘down’. He finds none.
An endless world of dubious physics, justified by the in-built logic of all dreams. His questions have been made redundant even before he could ask them. After all, his mind has an unfair advantage - it knows what he’s thinking.
Lead-soled boots, it proffers. Special respiratory apparatus, it reasons. Parallax, it shrugs.
It is his own private mental hell.
Suddenly, darkness.
Eyes try to adjust, playing games with his mind as they do so. First to disappear is slimy green, then bold yellow, and finally blazing red. Enter blue, then black, then that eerie shade known simply as Night. Rods-reduced, Cones-colour, they taught him at school. Both seem not quite up to this task. Or maybe just unwilling to cooperate.
Sand blows around in small, crazy spirals. Seems to metamorphose into solid shapes, then back into being animated grains of sand.
Did he just see a tree turn into spirals of sand?
Did he see a dog disintegrating into a million particles that vanish into the nearby dune?
Did he just see the silhouette of a dark man in a cape, melting into a…
No.
That is indeed a man he saw.
A hefty man. Wearing a cape of some sort. Can’t make out a face, not even outlines of features. The head, under a hat, seems to be turned in his general direction. Can’t be too sure, in this light. When in doubt, assume the worst.
He is scared. Throat parched. Heart racing. Adrenalin rushing.
Fight or flight?
He is never sure who made the call. Or even, indeed, what the call was. All he recalls is starting to walk toward the menacing silhouette.
He still can’t see any better, and yet he is sure the silhouette is looking straight at him now.
He walks at an even, cautious pace, dictated by a fine balance of anger, confusion and fear. He must know who has violated his personal space. Even if this is hell, it‘s his own private hell.
He is now barely a few feet away from the silhouette. He can now see the cape is an overcoat. A dirty shade of green? He isn’t too sure. The shadowy figure is still unmoved, but now he realizes it is not facing him, rather, it is facing the other way. Realizing the error of his initial assumption does not come timely enough. His hand is already raised to meet the silhouette’s shoulder. He makes contact. The shoulder feels strange - harder and warmer than usual. The silhouette turns.
He wakes up to a dark room. As if it is pre-ordained, his eyes meet the bedside clock. Splash of red. Blink. 21:00 in one-inch-tall numerals. That damn blinking colon. That nagging pain in his head that won’t leave him be. Shit. What an hour to wake up. What a city to wake up in. What a life to wade through.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Dark
Night.
Rain. Incessant rain. Without mercy or regard. Occasional lightning and thunder clap.
The city.
Graffiti covered walls, standing tall and proud against the onslaught. Or maybe just indifferent. Maybe even hopeless. Standing until the day they can’t stand anymore.
Suburbia.
He wakes up to a dark room. As if it is pre-ordained, his eyes meet the bedside clock. Splash of red. Blink. 21:00 in one-inch-tall numerals. That damn blinking colon. That nagging pain in his head that won’t leave him be. Shit. What an hour to wake up. What a city to wake up in. What a life to wade through.
Thunder shatters his thoughtlessness. Coaxes his mind into thinking. And he doesn’t find it fun. He hates the rain. He looks toward the window. Wild wind outside, as the draft tells him. The two halves of the curtain dance the mating dance of an ancient tribe, as if around a fire. Moving in spirals of decreasing size, finding it futile at some point and starting over again. Thunder is the drumbeat. Lightning is the fire. The curtain-halves are the lovers. And him? He is the outsider. The spectator. The One without any physical locus standi. A ghost. Just like he’s been all his life.
A bad day to be out, this. Can’t be worse than the rest of his life, he reasons. He grabs the raincoat. Exits, not bothering to lock the front door. Why should he? He’d love a break-in. He’d love the chance to go after the poor sonofabitch who violates his shithole apartment with nothing worth stealing, just so he can justify kicking the poor sod’s teeth in, when, sure as hell, he catches him.
Outside.
The Street. Still raining. Raincoat barely does its job. He’s drenched within a minute. Fumbles for and locates the crushed soft pack of cigarettes. 20 Class A cigarettes. Fine tobacco. A carefully selected blend, chosen by discerning idiots who never had the sense to buy a hard pack, that would at least hold up against violence. Of the natural kind, and the human. He finds a cigarette and, despite the rain, tries to light it. There’s an awning barely a step away, but he disregards it completely. He wants to light it as it pours down hard. Very stupid. Very defiant. Very Him.
To be continued...(or not!)
Rain. Incessant rain. Without mercy or regard. Occasional lightning and thunder clap.
The city.
Graffiti covered walls, standing tall and proud against the onslaught. Or maybe just indifferent. Maybe even hopeless. Standing until the day they can’t stand anymore.
Suburbia.
He wakes up to a dark room. As if it is pre-ordained, his eyes meet the bedside clock. Splash of red. Blink. 21:00 in one-inch-tall numerals. That damn blinking colon. That nagging pain in his head that won’t leave him be. Shit. What an hour to wake up. What a city to wake up in. What a life to wade through.
Thunder shatters his thoughtlessness. Coaxes his mind into thinking. And he doesn’t find it fun. He hates the rain. He looks toward the window. Wild wind outside, as the draft tells him. The two halves of the curtain dance the mating dance of an ancient tribe, as if around a fire. Moving in spirals of decreasing size, finding it futile at some point and starting over again. Thunder is the drumbeat. Lightning is the fire. The curtain-halves are the lovers. And him? He is the outsider. The spectator. The One without any physical locus standi. A ghost. Just like he’s been all his life.
A bad day to be out, this. Can’t be worse than the rest of his life, he reasons. He grabs the raincoat. Exits, not bothering to lock the front door. Why should he? He’d love a break-in. He’d love the chance to go after the poor sonofabitch who violates his shithole apartment with nothing worth stealing, just so he can justify kicking the poor sod’s teeth in, when, sure as hell, he catches him.
Outside.
The Street. Still raining. Raincoat barely does its job. He’s drenched within a minute. Fumbles for and locates the crushed soft pack of cigarettes. 20 Class A cigarettes. Fine tobacco. A carefully selected blend, chosen by discerning idiots who never had the sense to buy a hard pack, that would at least hold up against violence. Of the natural kind, and the human. He finds a cigarette and, despite the rain, tries to light it. There’s an awning barely a step away, but he disregards it completely. He wants to light it as it pours down hard. Very stupid. Very defiant. Very Him.
To be continued...(or not!)
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Rock: an episode
This will be a moody post.
Just finished watching Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz, a documentary/ concert video featuring "The Band". In 1976, "The Band" gave their farewell concert. A few rock legends turned up to perform with them.
On the DVD, the songs (concert footage) are interspersed with sections of the band members in conversation with Scorsese, as he asks them questions about how it used to be, what it meant, and so forth. Between tokes of whatever it is they're toking, they answer in simple, spontaneous, honest sentences. That hit you hard.
I'm fairly ignorant on the early rock movement in general, but that's the beauty of emotion: it-don't take-no, aeyy-ju-cayy-shun.
I haven't heard even one of these songs before (shame!). The music transports me (on a damn weekday!) into a surreal state of mind. The mental fatigue from the workday helps me surrender. The band members' candidness touches my heart. There is a tragedy unfolding, as "The Band" begins to end. I empathize. And I suspect I begin to understand. About the generation that didn't give a damn. About the folks who yearned for freedom of the spirit. And sang about it.
The feeling I'm left with: Rock-n-roll is dead.
[you were warned at the beginning of this post.]
Just finished watching Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz, a documentary/ concert video featuring "The Band". In 1976, "The Band" gave their farewell concert. A few rock legends turned up to perform with them.
On the DVD, the songs (concert footage) are interspersed with sections of the band members in conversation with Scorsese, as he asks them questions about how it used to be, what it meant, and so forth. Between tokes of whatever it is they're toking, they answer in simple, spontaneous, honest sentences. That hit you hard.
I'm fairly ignorant on the early rock movement in general, but that's the beauty of emotion: it-don't take-no, aeyy-ju-cayy-shun.
I haven't heard even one of these songs before (shame!). The music transports me (on a damn weekday!) into a surreal state of mind. The mental fatigue from the workday helps me surrender. The band members' candidness touches my heart. There is a tragedy unfolding, as "The Band" begins to end. I empathize. And I suspect I begin to understand. About the generation that didn't give a damn. About the folks who yearned for freedom of the spirit. And sang about it.
The feeling I'm left with: Rock-n-roll is dead.
[you were warned at the beginning of this post.]
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Godspeed, Sheru!
There's a guy in my office. He's not one guy. He's many (a la the recent Nokia ad, "There's a thing in my pocket" - interesting, but fairly irritating after the first few times, methinks).
Anyhow. Sheru joined us when the company he used to work for, got acquired by the company I work for now (soon to become the one he used to work for. Simple!). He joined it around the same time as I did, albeit at a senior level, commensurate with his superior skills, experience and luck (hah! I love it when it's my blog). Snigger!
We got to know each oher through the new hire indoctrination sessions that companies believe in so strongly. And we had quite a bit in common. We came from similar companies (both said to be relatively less 'structured' in their approach to business, both having a more 'hardcore' approach to sales, and both having iconic brands in their stables). We were also bound together by nicotine, us smokers. We loved 80's rock. And video games (nerds!). We shared a bittersweet love for Calcutta. And above all, I think, we both seemed to appreciate, with seemingly deliberate nonchalance, the slightly dark sense of humour life seems to show, on occasion.
We had plenty of differences too. He is a regular freak of cricket (and of beer-friendly sports in general, I guess). The only game I have any amount of passion for is badminton. His approach to movies is transactional gratifcation (popcorn; intermission; thank you, ma'am!). I tend to bore all who would listen with passionate renditions of what I loved (or hated) about such-and-such film. I am pretty much a vegetarian. He eats anything that moves (and moves what does not move).
We also had the good fortune of being attached to the same team, hence working in somewhat close proximity. I came to see him as the one guy on my floor, who would laugh out loud with me, at all things dark, real or perceived. Even better, who would subtly chastise me when my frivolousness got too far (yeah now, it was funny, but get back to earth, cause I have to catch my bus home at 6, dude).
Where do you find such people? How do you locate them? I can't buy companies all by myself.
Long story short, I am truly (yes, that's B, I and U) sad to see him go. I don't claim to have become one of those he would remember on his death bed, nor do I think I am one of his transactional gratifiers. I lie somewhere in the middle, perhaps. Perhaps I have made him feel there is another soul that bends around similar bumps in the spacetime fabric, that makes the same mistakes when drunkenly humming that legendary rock song. Perhaps his belief in humanity has become a bit less easy to shake. I hope.
Godspeed, Sheru! These paths shall cross, I promise.
Anyhow. Sheru joined us when the company he used to work for, got acquired by the company I work for now (soon to become the one he used to work for. Simple!). He joined it around the same time as I did, albeit at a senior level, commensurate with his superior skills, experience and luck (hah! I love it when it's my blog). Snigger!
We got to know each oher through the new hire indoctrination sessions that companies believe in so strongly. And we had quite a bit in common. We came from similar companies (both said to be relatively less 'structured' in their approach to business, both having a more 'hardcore' approach to sales, and both having iconic brands in their stables). We were also bound together by nicotine, us smokers. We loved 80's rock. And video games (nerds!). We shared a bittersweet love for Calcutta. And above all, I think, we both seemed to appreciate, with seemingly deliberate nonchalance, the slightly dark sense of humour life seems to show, on occasion.
We had plenty of differences too. He is a regular freak of cricket (and of beer-friendly sports in general, I guess). The only game I have any amount of passion for is badminton. His approach to movies is transactional gratifcation (popcorn; intermission; thank you, ma'am!). I tend to bore all who would listen with passionate renditions of what I loved (or hated) about such-and-such film. I am pretty much a vegetarian. He eats anything that moves (and moves what does not move).
We also had the good fortune of being attached to the same team, hence working in somewhat close proximity. I came to see him as the one guy on my floor, who would laugh out loud with me, at all things dark, real or perceived. Even better, who would subtly chastise me when my frivolousness got too far (yeah now, it was funny, but get back to earth, cause I have to catch my bus home at 6, dude).
Where do you find such people? How do you locate them? I can't buy companies all by myself.
Long story short, I am truly (yes, that's B, I and U) sad to see him go. I don't claim to have become one of those he would remember on his death bed, nor do I think I am one of his transactional gratifiers. I lie somewhere in the middle, perhaps. Perhaps I have made him feel there is another soul that bends around similar bumps in the spacetime fabric, that makes the same mistakes when drunkenly humming that legendary rock song. Perhaps his belief in humanity has become a bit less easy to shake. I hope.
Godspeed, Sheru! These paths shall cross, I promise.
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