G's Spot

Which wall should fall? All?? Or those thrust unto man? On maps of paper, now plastic. With rocks plastered, now sand. By palmistry's swelled hand. So many crumbl'd. By Kookies. Hitler. Berlin'd. Remember? Lehman Lynch'd. Wall Street. Recall? Rome. Ceaser'd. Read? Tienanmen. Squr'd. Saw? Commandments. Moses'd. Confessed? Yet, so many still grow.  Through Babel babble. From Bible.  Palestine. Know? I doubt. Iraq. Care? Unlikely. Religion. Kneel? Enough. Freedom. Want? Unsure. Race. White? Colour'd. Which wall should fall? All? No, they'd crush too many heads,  Paying for just a night's sleep. Of their once ones. Through four closed debts. On post-paid loans.  And the resultant flats?  No better. Once felled into. Than bloody tourists' uploads. Of pixel unfriendly photographs. Clawing from wall-to-wall. Which wall should fall?

Mumbai, September 13, 002026. I hit the pedal of the sleek six wheels that i drove. I had just gotten back from my live performance at the 25th 9/11 anniversary in NYC. The re-stored Twin Tower were a marvel of architecture, economic recovery, patriotic grandeur and unchartered financial risk-taking. The acoustics were phenomenal. Mumbai, was still a far cry, despite its sluggish march towards flyovers and sky-skrapers. But, the roads had improved and my 15 series beamer was now legitimately allowed to drive at the the speeds i was on. I turned up the system. Sounded like "Highway Star", remixed. Not that it mattered, since the gig had been so good. I had done my version of Celine Dion's masterpiece, "My Heart will go on". Rock rendition, needless to add. The babes had gone wild and flashed enough breasts to fill a billion Penthouse center-spreads. My original, "The half blind king", got them in near frenzy. If it had not been for the moral police, it...

‘Tween dark skin, lighter house. The reds and the blue. Holy Cross and some crescent star. Sprangled Bannered. ‘Tween a marsupial, pachydermus. Every type of polar “isms". Racism? Bushism? Chasm? Crumbling Banks on walled streets. ‘Tween the web, net, foreclosed home. The dove and the crowe. Green piece or Peace. Kenyan? Canyon? Ah! Moment of Truce, You, trojan horse. It’s That mcCain, un Abled. It's Sorry, a’Palin. Hellen’s still mine.

Pali Hill, Mumbai - November 18, 0002008. Most people who've visited, adore my home. I do too. At over 4,000 sq. ft., on Pali Hill and flanked by "illustrious" neighbours like the Kapoors, Dutts, et al - it is a far cry from the 60 sq. ft. chawl room that i was born and grew up in, barely 10 km from here.. Yet, today, I realized that this opulent neighbourhood is just an outward shield to conceal the omnipotent impotence that has become the hallmark of modern, "progressive" India. Six days ago, a stretch of about 100 meters was dug up right outside my apartment. I grumbled at having to travel an extra two kilometers to work and got on, as is usual custom. (In these days of oil wars, that alone is a crime). Until today, for some strange reason, something sparked off inside. I asked my driver to stop (it was 10 pm, and the workers were still busy digging away) and walked up to one of the vandals. "For what and whom, are you digging up this road?" I casu...

“Oh! What is this life, so full of care? You call this nursery rhyme POETRY? Which world do you exist in? Jerk!” Said the publisher, as he brushed aside the flimsy set of papers that had been recommended to his random publishing house. “For starters, this piece of junk should be called frenzy, not leisure!” He brandished his snow-capped pen, and furiously struck at the title of one poem, replacing it with his feedback, in all caps. An eager intern picked up the scattered papers, and scurried out of the opulent cabin, decorated with his boss’s expatriated name plate. “Sorry, dude!” he muttered, as he handed the sheets to the disheveled writer - a pensive looking romantic, who had been suggested fame and fortune, and everything that goes with it, by his buddies in need of someone else to foot the regular alcohol tabs. William Henry Davies, a Newportan tramp, walked away disappointed. He glanced at the shuffled sheets of writing, and noticed the bright ball-point poured onto his work fro...

Mumbai, January 28, 002011. I took a smoke break at the Palladium TGIF, last night. (It's good thing, they still have a few of those left around for old-fogeys like me.) It's not much of a smoking space - about 30sq. ft. or thereabouts, where consumption of liquor or meals is prohibited. I.e. you can either smoke here OR you can drink + eat, outside. Duh!! I walked into that designated area sans drink, and a pack of other smokers followed suit, before i could light up. In keeping with the spirit of this whole thing, the folks at TGIF have gone out of their respective ways and put up some interesting blanc et noir pictures from the times of old fogeys like me. Such as Princess Lea, brandishing her pigtails and Beretta, Herr Einstein about to take a puff from his cherry pipe, and four other close-ups cinema's stars. Einstein sticks out, like his sorely proverbial tongue.  On cue, one rat-pack filled up those 200 cubic feet of the smoking room, so quick, that the...

Christmas Day, 002008. There is no point even attempting to critique Ghajini, as the commercial fate of the film is pre-ordained, rendering any attempt at analysis redundant in today's cash obsessed world. Besides, you don't have to be a trade pundit, to forecast Ghajini's bright prospects at the box office. It is an extremely "realistic" and "perfect" film and is bound to rake in oodles of blood money, for the following obvious reasons. 1. It is blatantly plagiarized - and India absolutely has no respect for good Camembert. In fact, we loves copies more than the originals. So, Mr. Khan can deny that the film has nothing to do with Chris Nolan's path-breaker and he is theoretically correct. While the plot, process and devices are exactly the same, the result is as different as chalk and good cheese that is "badi hai mast-mast". 2. It is being shamelessly peddled on every mainstream "news" format. Be it daily newspapers, "new...