Katrina Kaif depresses me. There is something unwholesome about her peaches and cream complexion and her vapid smile. Something deeply demoralising. When I see her dance and smile, I feel the sun will never shine down on me again.
I read today she was voted the sexiest woman in some place by someone. I think it is time for me now to resign from the human race.
I finally read Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger. It was very good in some ways, but I seriously felt that journalistic technique interfered very strongly with the narrative. I loved the Roosters in a Coop bit. So apt! This, I know, is woefully inadequate while commenting on a book but it is such a relief to say just this, since I am not supposed to be writing a sane, professional review here.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Katrina Kaif and Aravind Adiga
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Writing seriously, Nagina and Chetan bhagat
I do not always wish to write things that make sense to everyone. Everything rarely makes sense to me.
Every morning, when I sit down to work, I am supposed to write meaningfully. That sometimes can last only till exactly two-and-a half sentences. Then I stop and stare. At the screen, at the accusing blank page of my notebook.
Maybe I can escape some of that writing-anxiety here.
Today, I started writing a new chapter. I was sure the first paragraph was working. I was sharpening my pencil for the second one when it started, filtering into my room from a shop in the market outside-
'Main teri dushman, dushman tu mera,
main nagin tu sapera'
I tried for a while and then gave up. The screeching voice and the vision of a glaring, clad-in-white Sridevi together were too much. I spent a fruitless half-an hour thinking about snakes and their trip in life, as imagined by me. Then idly wondered what kind of a mother Sridevi makes, whether I would like to be a snake and why Rishi Kapoor seemed to like his sweaters so much. Always found them slightly depressing after his silver and gold bodysuits.
It was back to bed with Chetan Bhagat's One Night at the Call Centre. Will not go into the high brow, low brow aspect of it, which, to me, is largely imaginary.
I was intrigued when I began the book (never mind the very, very bad prologue). It seemed that Bhagat had begun to write about interesting lives, their traps, their conflicts. Conversations were quite well done. They gave a lot away, as they should, in one way or the other. The characters were real enough.
And then, he did absolutely nothing with them. There was a quick, simple resolution to everything. The 'playing on the American fear' incident was not very believable and tasted too much of 'let us quickly bash up the bad guys now that the movie is ending', the phone call from God was too easy, the traffic lights chase of the beloved didn't work for me at all. Wish he had taken the characters on a different ride.
Most opinions I have heard and read about this novel seemed too simplistic. Either patronising or effusive. Could only relate to a certain extent to Jabberwock's opinion, though he lets me down by liking Jaane tu ya jaane na...
Every morning, when I sit down to work, I am supposed to write meaningfully. That sometimes can last only till exactly two-and-a half sentences. Then I stop and stare. At the screen, at the accusing blank page of my notebook.
Maybe I can escape some of that writing-anxiety here.
Today, I started writing a new chapter. I was sure the first paragraph was working. I was sharpening my pencil for the second one when it started, filtering into my room from a shop in the market outside-
'Main teri dushman, dushman tu mera,
main nagin tu sapera'
I tried for a while and then gave up. The screeching voice and the vision of a glaring, clad-in-white Sridevi together were too much. I spent a fruitless half-an hour thinking about snakes and their trip in life, as imagined by me. Then idly wondered what kind of a mother Sridevi makes, whether I would like to be a snake and why Rishi Kapoor seemed to like his sweaters so much. Always found them slightly depressing after his silver and gold bodysuits.
It was back to bed with Chetan Bhagat's One Night at the Call Centre. Will not go into the high brow, low brow aspect of it, which, to me, is largely imaginary.
I was intrigued when I began the book (never mind the very, very bad prologue). It seemed that Bhagat had begun to write about interesting lives, their traps, their conflicts. Conversations were quite well done. They gave a lot away, as they should, in one way or the other. The characters were real enough.
And then, he did absolutely nothing with them. There was a quick, simple resolution to everything. The 'playing on the American fear' incident was not very believable and tasted too much of 'let us quickly bash up the bad guys now that the movie is ending', the phone call from God was too easy, the traffic lights chase of the beloved didn't work for me at all. Wish he had taken the characters on a different ride.
Most opinions I have heard and read about this novel seemed too simplistic. Either patronising or effusive. Could only relate to a certain extent to Jabberwock's opinion, though he lets me down by liking Jaane tu ya jaane na...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
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