tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-103185232024-03-07T23:22:50.003+05:30Banno, Dhanno and TejaIn Bumm-Bumm-Bhole-LandBannohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433419825301622636noreply@blogger.comBlogger228125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-12140623695059358122010-03-24T12:37:00.000+05:302010-03-24T12:37:43.887+05:30banno at wordpressI'm moving to wordpress. I'll miss blogger, especially the fab blogroll feature. But my blog has been virtually impossible to open on Firefox and Safari. Quite, quite fed up.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'll be here. <a href="http://batulm.wordpress.com/">http://batulm.wordpress.com/</a><br />
<br />
Hope you'll follow me there. It's going to take a while to build up my blogroll again. Cutting and pasting from blogger as and when it opens for a few seconds.<br />
<br />
So do leave your urls, on the comments at wordpress, will just make my life a bit easier.<br />
<br />
Jitters before I hit 'publish'.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-9650157507548898302010-03-17T10:10:00.002+05:302010-03-17T10:10:43.596+05:30platform no. nine and three-quartersNo, it's nothing to do with Harry Potter. But Amit Dutta's film 'Aadmi ki Aurat aur Anya Kahaniyan'. <a href="http://www.upperstall.com/blogs/banno/platform-no-nine-and-three-quarters/">Please go read at Upperstall. </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-21455951813017916932010-02-22T12:25:00.001+05:302010-02-22T13:47:09.594+05:30A lazy boy film"275 per ticket, Madam", he said. <br />
<br />
I gaped at him. <br />
<br />
"Recliner seats, Madam", he said sympathetically. <br />
<br />
"Can't you give me normal seats?" I gasped.<br />
<br />
"No, only recliner seats, Madam." <br />
<br />
I rushed into the theatre, determined not to waste a minute's worth of my 275 rupees. They were still cleaning up after the last show. <br />
<br />
Dhanno raised her eyebrows and said, "Mom, they'll let us know when they've finished." <br />
<br />
Once inside the candy-striped auditorium, I pushed the back of my seat. <br />
<br />
Dhanno said, "It's not a bus seat, Mom. Just wait." <br />
<br />
She found a secret switch in the copious folds, and the chair extended, my legs went up, my back slid back. <br />
<br />
"More, more," I said, "that's enough." <br />
<br />
A little boy passing by squealed, "Daddy, I want a seat like that." <br />
<br />
I was inclined to pull out my tongue at him, but his Daddy pulled him away, reassuring him that his seat was going to be as wonderful as mine. <br />
<br />
"Oh no," I said, as it suddenly struck me, "how will I get up for the National Anthem?" <br />
<br />
On the dot, the screen commanded, "Stand up for the National Anthem." I scrambled out of my seat; the chair lurched with me. Dhanno meanwhile, pressed a switch, her recliner went back to a normal position, and she stood beside me, tapping her foot impatiently while I shook myself straight. <br />
<br />
"I almost fell," I said. <br />
<br />
She nodded coldly. I noticed for the first time that the group of actors singing the National Anthem have weird eye-lines, because they are all keyed in. The thought that each actor has been shot separately against a green background depressed me for some reason. I slid back into the chair with relief. <br />
<br />
"Should we have some popcorn?" I said. <br />
<br />
"No, we've just had dinner, and you always say that the popcorn gives you a headache," Dhanno admonished. <br />
<br />
"Will you share the popcorn with me?" I said, ignoring her. <br />
<br />
She refused to answer. <br />
<br />
I asked the usher next to me, "Could you get me a regular popcorn?" <br />
<br />
He said, "Only large, Madam, no regular." <br />
<br />
I sank into the seat, defeated. <br />
<br />
"Isn't this chair like the one Joey has in 'Friends'?" I said.<br />
<br />
<br />
"No," Dhanno said, "That's a Lazy Boy." <br />
<br />
"This is a Lazy Boy," I said. <br />
<br />
"No, it isn't," Dhanno said, "for one, a Lazy Boy is much larger." <br />
<br />
"This is nice too," I said. <br />
<br />
I slid the back further. The ceiling was candy-striped too. <br />
<br />
"That's hypnotic," I thought. <br />
<br />
I woke up from a nap much later, and looked around. Peace prevailed, as people slept on their recliners. Dhanno looked more amicable in her sleep. Only the little boy behind me was awake. He was playing with the switch and had succeeded in turning his recliner into a swing. This time, I did pull out my tongue at him. His Daddy was asleep. <br />
<br />
So yes, do go see '<a href="http://www.upperstall.com/films/2010/toh-baat-pakki">Toh Baat Pakki</a>' if you can book yourself into a recliner chair. If you own a Lazy Boy, then stay home and watch TV instead. Even if you don't have a Lazy Boy, stay home and watch TV instead.<br />
<br />
There's enough bad acting, screenplays, camera work, music on the small screen to sedate you, you don't need to go to the theatre for that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-35831152221348262732010-02-03T13:58:00.000+05:302010-02-03T13:58:31.199+05:30comfort filmsIf you are stuck in a hotel room all by yourself, even if it is a very nice hotel room, <br />
<br />
and you've made those calls to your family that you've tried desperately to stretch for over 30 minutes, because you so want to be home, <br />
<br />
and your family is going all, "why don't you relax, and take that holiday from home and us that you are always talking about?", <br />
<br />
then the best thing you can do to cheer yourself up is watch '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaani_Dushman">Jaani Dushman</a>' (1979). <br />
<br />
It's full of the most gorgeous women, Neetu Singh, Rekha, Yogeeta Bali, Sarika, Reena Roy, Bindiya Goswami, Jayshree T, Aruna Irani and a few others, all a reassuring size 14 and above, dressed in tight blouses, big bare midriffs, and tight knee length triangular skirts, and angular eyebrows (yes, it was that time). Every so often they turn up in full bridal regalia.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6LspQ5F9PBAfGI0GeE9E7Wmm32wGf8EJIM5Xg-7vBuUhPaEuYr3OHTMGRJU14KnKSptWofXOUSPmK7M7JBC2x3mdGziErRSjQeFm45VMg1M8GeW1g3au9hQlBYkGwCEmzIoW/s1600-h/women%20jaani%20dushman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6LspQ5F9PBAfGI0GeE9E7Wmm32wGf8EJIM5Xg-7vBuUhPaEuYr3OHTMGRJU14KnKSptWofXOUSPmK7M7JBC2x3mdGziErRSjQeFm45VMg1M8GeW1g3au9hQlBYkGwCEmzIoW/s1600/women%20jaani%20dushman.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGg3kDJyXWAGQkAgyzyPwtWfkU_pBrmzzKmKBgYSpqyH-D6UvCxk1cnv324AzLObGxM6cUFya1H4WLPn6G6pHrekOVYY2-DZ0KtqGx0nohyphenhyphenF7-pRCKna0sgM2I41EYzOQVTkMP/s1600-h/men%20jaani%20dushman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGg3kDJyXWAGQkAgyzyPwtWfkU_pBrmzzKmKBgYSpqyH-D6UvCxk1cnv324AzLObGxM6cUFya1H4WLPn6G6pHrekOVYY2-DZ0KtqGx0nohyphenhyphenF7-pRCKna0sgM2I41EYzOQVTkMP/s1600/men%20jaani%20dushman.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The men are all tall and handsome, Sunil Dutt, Shatrughan Sinha, Jeetendra, and they dress in matching trousers and jackets, with patchwork on them, and big belts on their waists. Shatrughan Sinha is delightfully, unrepentantly evil. <br />
<br />
There are several brides, several songs, and several deaths. There is a lot of honour going around, and friendship, and brother-sister love that always ends in tears. The story goes around in a loop. Love scene, fight scene, death scene, comedy scene, love scene, and so on. The comedy scene is Jagdeep and Jayshree T trying to make out, and being disturbed by a rival lover, Paintal. The love scene is Sunil Dutt and Reena Roy trying to make out and being disturbed by a rival lover, Shatrughan Sinha. The sweet scene is Jeetendra and Neetu Singh trying to make out, and everything being hunky-dory, signifying an early death for both of them. The dramatic scene is Sanjeev Kumar, the righteous Thakur being horrified by his nasty son, Shatrughan Sinha and the mother, Indrani Mukherjee crying for her husband's forgiveness for their son. The sad scene is a bride being sent off in her palanquin by her tearful brother. The horror scene is an evil spirit attacking the bridal palanquin and killing the bride. The scenes play in a loop through the film, with insignificant changes in them. The flashbacks have the characters remembering similar scenes, as of course nothing else does happen in their lives but what's on the loop.<br />
<br />
It also has Vinod Mehra as a mad man wearing plants sticking to rags, which are then torn aside to reveal a very, very tight police uniform. And Premnath who plays a fat Bumm-Bumm-Bhole sadhu in a ankle-length orange robe with side slits. It's not clear until the end whether or not he is nurturing the evil spirit in the cave underneath his temple. <br />
<br />
The evil spirit wears a gorilla suit rented from Maganlal Dresswala in Girgaum Chowpatty (I presume). I'm not sure whether they had the Juhu branch back then. The suit probably still hangs around the godowns and I wonder if the evil spirit lurks in there. The evil spirit is of a hurt bridegroom whose bride sneaked out on their wedding night to meet her lover. When the possessed man dies, the evil spirit moves to another body. The gorilla suit remains the same. <br />
<br />
It's all very delicious. And it goes on forever. And it feels like you have gone back home for a while.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-28691260092787424292010-02-02T08:43:00.003+05:302010-02-02T20:06:27.965+05:30bravadoAfter hearing that Salman Khan was blasting all those critics who blasted 'Veer', Teja is seriously waiting for him to react to <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub060210take_take.asp">my review of 'Veer' in Tehelka.</a><br />
<br />
He's been going to the gym lately, and would love a fight. But Salman Khan is<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwm0LHZ8gRstIEQvFeXYvvZj6MZV93vo7tnulw320SJ4dceIuaKWah9kpKCP3mt9ldUZz3IfHxVa629oB8Q0ybZ0jcY8FPWVoyUyxqo0p58GRfKuHJ7sCFI9U4KhQIhEsEMJBX/s1600-h/VEER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwm0LHZ8gRstIEQvFeXYvvZj6MZV93vo7tnulw320SJ4dceIuaKWah9kpKCP3mt9ldUZz3IfHxVa629oB8Q0ybZ0jcY8FPWVoyUyxqo0p58GRfKuHJ7sCFI9U4KhQIhEsEMJBX/s1600/VEER.jpg" /></a></div><br />
So, no, I rather he stayed far away from Teja.<br />
<br />
<br />
In my defense, I did end my review with a line about his fabulous screen presence, and stardom. Not my fault it was edited out.<br />
<br />
Dhanno refuses to be implicated in any of this.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-52478468746141602162010-01-26T13:37:00.002+05:302010-01-26T13:41:48.046+05:30boys will be boysThe policeman said: "Wherever the media reaches, there is trouble. The backward places where there is no media, people are poor, they are uneducated, they don't know what is happening around them, they are happy. Educated people cause all the trouble."<br />
<br />
He forgot to say, "trouble for us, for the administration", but I wasn't going to correct him, as I was sitting in the police station, charged by local Congress goons for tarnishing the image of Dharavi. I had insisted on coming in the police van, much to the embarrassment of the two police officers summoned by the goons on 60 ft Road. <br />
<br />
"No, no, madam, come in your own car."<br />
<br />
"No, no,' I said, 'what if I run away? These people (the goons) don't trust me."<br />
<br />
"But we trust you, madam."<br />
<br />
I jumped into the police jeep anyway, enjoying their discomfiture.<br />
<br />
At the police station, the goons kept marching in, until 2 went up to 25. They went on about media people exposing the nakedness of poor people in front of foreigners. I tried to tell them our program was on the industry in Dharavi, but they were insistent that we were shooting gutters. <br />
<br />
The cameraman showed them the footage on the tape in the camera. They were impatient and wanted it fast-forwarded. The camera attendant explained that would damage the head of the camera. For 20 minutes, they peered into the viewfinder, looking for incriminating evidence. When they could not find it, one of them said, "What is the meaning of taking so many shots of the road, for so much time?" I said, "I must give you some film editing lessons then."<br />
<br />
Offended, they began to rant about a recent documentary appearing on National Geographic that has some shots of children shitting on the roads, and a local activist's interview. It was hard to understand whether they were angrier about the crap or the activist. They all wanted to show him his place. <br />
<br />
The angriest one said, "They are showing Dharavi as it was 40 years ago."<br />
<br />
Since the said documentary was made a few months ago, at the most a year or so ago, I did not comprehend how it represented a Dharavi from a bygone past. Or what it had to do with our crew. But this was hardly about logic, was it?<br />
<br />
Two policemen meanwhile diligently pored through a fat manual, wondering what they could charge me with. The other police staff looked quite fed up. They were all keen to go to lunch.<br />
<br />
A little man in white shirt and white trousers showed up. I smiled at him in relief, because he had worked with us on the Secret Millionaire show. Turns out that he is the master brain behind this 'issue'. He has decided that all foreign traffic and all film shoots in Dharavi will be routed through him. So he refused to acknowledge me at first, then tried to bring me around to his point of view.<br />
<br />
A couple of his goons came upfront and asked my white producer to dole out 5000/- to each of the goons for the trouble they had taken in creating this ruckus. Luck was on our side, because in fact, we were through with almost all our shoot, except a few general shots. So we could afford not to get agitated. Unable to understand this, they began instigating the policemen to check the back of our car, check all our equipment, check the passports and visas of the foreigners. "Who knows what they are doing here?" one said.<br />
<br />
A police official shooed away the goons irritably, "Get out of my office. This is not some criminal or murder case, that you are surrounding her." He grumbled about how these people walked in and out of the station, as if it was their father's kingdom.<br />
<br />
The police decided to fine the crew 5000/- on the charge of our not informing the local police station about the shoot. An officer said apologetically, "This is only a deposit, madam. You can go to the court on Monday morning with the receipt. The judge will charge you 2-300 rupees and give you the rest back. It's a minor offense."<br />
<br />
The little man called my colleague later to say, "We have all these boys in the party. We have to take care of them. You should help with funds."<br />
<br />
The next day, he called me twice, to ascertain where and what we were shooting. "Are you in Dharavi,' he asked, 'I saw your car there." I said, "Am I meant to report to you every morning?" "No, no,' he said, 'just let me know where you are. Then my boys won't trouble you. I had to take them all out last night, to cool them down. We'll talk over the charges later."<br />
<br />
I wondered if the boys would not be better employed making more public toilets in Dharavi, rather than worrying about photographs of children shitting. But apparently, the image of Dharavi will remain intact if the little man and his party boys get a commission from the film production budget.<br />
<br />
I said to him, "You've done more to spoil the image of Dharavi with your <i>goonda-gardi</i>, than anything we could do with our camera."<br />
<br />
He said, "Oh, boys will be boys. We have to employ these low-level types in the party."<br />
<br />
God save Dharavi, God save the nation from the party boys. <br />
<br />
I must say this for the Mumbai police. There were 7 men in the crew and me. Not once did they question my authority as a woman in representing these 7 men. I don't think that would have happened in many other states, in the country. <br />
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-69336969073129442602010-01-14T18:34:00.006+05:302010-01-24T11:52:44.927+05:30the slumdog children of mumbai<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqeaR97wuwTviaFfBPRA6_KTBt_cTJNKtxRKB_qESSfMHTWCkNFd6T2o1mW8GlNFW5UX3AXgWHokVBe8IXryZRGXNTb6LXbsDgboNpONJHOuP3z-5QXUL0kgg6_czSzkbMYqJ/s1600-h/df8e98f3-c236-427f-ba64-57962a0ee389_412x232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqeaR97wuwTviaFfBPRA6_KTBt_cTJNKtxRKB_qESSfMHTWCkNFd6T2o1mW8GlNFW5UX3AXgWHokVBe8IXryZRGXNTb6LXbsDgboNpONJHOuP3z-5QXUL0kgg6_czSzkbMYqJ/s320/df8e98f3-c236-427f-ba64-57962a0ee389_412x232.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
</div>This is a programme that I think I am proudest to have worked on, in all these years. Simply because it was not only journalism at its best and most sensitive, but because the director Nick Read and the production company True Vision are committed to the ethics of working with children and helping them to improve their lives. And on a lesser note, because we shot in the monsoons in the most excruciatingly difficult circumstances.<br />
<br />
It is not always pleasant to work in the slums, or on the streets. More than the physical hardships, you are always being quizzed about selling India's poverty. You have your own traumas about the difference between your own life and that of the people you are working with.<br />
<br />
When you have lived for any length of time in Mumbai, you stop "seeing" the life on the street. There is so much of it that it can be overwhelming, and you ignore it to get on with your own life.<br />
<br />
But while working on this programme, I felt that it is important to give a voice to the people who are usually invisible. I stopped feeling ashamed of my work, and saw that it could be an opportunity to help at least a few children. <br />
<br />
The Channel 4 site has an article on street kids, my very limited experience with the children. Please read it here.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/articles/slumdog-children-of-mumbai-producer-feature">The Slumdog Children of Mumbai</a><br />
<br />
<b>Edited to add</b>. The film received a tremendous response with hundreds of emails, comments and enquiries to help the children in the film and others like them. True Vision has built a site dedicated to these children with links to some of the NGOs working for the children, and also ways to help the children directly. Within 48 hours, the Trust Fund for the children has already collected over 8000 GBP.<br />
<br />
The link to the site is here <a href="http://slumdogchildren.org/">Slumdogchildren.org</a><br />
<br />
The biggest challenge is not going to be money, but motivating the children esp. the boys to go to school or vocational training. Any suggestions are welcome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-17685874808319406132010-01-12T23:09:00.005+05:302010-01-20T19:59:56.136+05:30It's one of those daysWhen the doctor says there is nothing wrong with your insides. <br />
<br />
When an old man says you remind me of my daughter, may you always be happy and do well. <br />
<br />
When <a href="http://bigb.bigadda.com/">Mr. Amitabh Bachchan</a> thanks me in a letter to the editor in Tehelka, for <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub191209the_take.asp">my review of 'Paa'</a>. <br />
<br />
When we log in to book a train ticket for Teja for the same day and there are several seats vacant on the train he wants.<br />
<br />
When Penguin delivers my complimentary copy of the anthology <a href="http://www.penguinbooksindia.com/Bookdetail.aspx?bookId=3811">'First Proof 5'</a> which has my short story '<a href="http://bmukhtiar.blogspot.com/2006/07/your-room-short-story.html">Your Room</a>' on page 122. <br />
<br />
When it takes only an hour to get home rather than an hour and a half. <br />
<br />
When <a href="http://karmickids.blogspot.com/">Karmickids</a> <a href="http://karmickids.blogspot.com/2010/01/after-long-long-long-long-time.html">gives me</a> the superior scribbler award. <br />
<br />
When someone gifts us a pack of dark Toblerones.<br />
<br />
When I can spend the evening watching the end of '<a href="http://memsaabstory.wordpress.com/2008/09/01/dil-deke-dekho-1959/">Dil Deke Dekho</a>' for a few more laughs before I sleep. <br />
<br />
When someone quotes <a href="http://baktoo.blogspot.com/2010/01/its-so-simple.html">his guru</a> to me and says, "Don't renounce what you have, renounce what you don't have" and that gives me a new way to think about my name, which means 'someone who has the potential to renounce everything'.<br />
<br />
<br />
When it seems to me that it may not be a bad idea to blow the trumpet for a while, even if it means the ones in the vicinity will shut their ears.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Edited to add: Here's the link to Mr. Bachchan's email on the 'Bouquets and Brickbats' page of Tehelka. Scroll down to a box <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=Pe160110bouquets_brickbats.asp">Appraisal</a>. <br />
<br />
<P>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-45561148770159885822010-01-05T10:11:00.004+05:302010-01-05T10:23:08.683+05:30why aren't we in goa?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8G_vOCQl_tKlOLPR7sPsQwiNqW2jadG8iPSkJ-odQXJ2Dcl6ZUJ1iO3A8M7_Q0ITwHBB5wPRKKLowubH9ubf4ZEO6D3H805pl7Z-3PJvYikQ2qx3s2SSdpURNfZE5FKf47G9q/s1600-h/vivek%20in%20udaipur%20room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8G_vOCQl_tKlOLPR7sPsQwiNqW2jadG8iPSkJ-odQXJ2Dcl6ZUJ1iO3A8M7_Q0ITwHBB5wPRKKLowubH9ubf4ZEO6D3H805pl7Z-3PJvYikQ2qx3s2SSdpURNfZE5FKf47G9q/s200/vivek%20in%20udaipur%20room.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Teja fiddles with his camera.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">He says: "I don't like palaces and forts. Unless I'm studying them for some particular reason."<br />
<br />
Dhanno says: "We should go to Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Jaipur, Ajmer. I mean, we should really see the place."<br />
<br />
I say: "It's only 15 minutes since we landed here, people. Why did you say yes to Rajasthan? I knew we should have gone to Goa."<br />
<br />
Dhanno drools: "Hmm. Prawn curry rice. Pancakes in the morning. Cinnamon apple pie at night."<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Teja says unconvincingly: "Oh, I'm OK. This will be fun, too."<br />
<br />
Dhanno grumbles: "Yeah. But why are we staying in Udaipur for 3 days?"<br />
<br />
I look at the Lonely Planet guide yet again to find out why. I begin to read aloud from it.<br />
<br />
Dhanno flops on her bed, and says: "This is like sleeping in a hammock. I'm sinking."<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLWeaWYJjPmPBRkQwJObSdw5C_XEgsONnBkh3BtbPVcTTsP2-dFHQLtpuQgkmlUmA1a1Cx2HjxBUaz-zLNSOocjOBdFIz8_B-Z1HPQ5Zir8-1ODkw7A4jzp98tbsG3_tvfN3hR/s1600-h/vivek%20batul%20glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLWeaWYJjPmPBRkQwJObSdw5C_XEgsONnBkh3BtbPVcTTsP2-dFHQLtpuQgkmlUmA1a1Cx2HjxBUaz-zLNSOocjOBdFIz8_B-Z1HPQ5Zir8-1ODkw7A4jzp98tbsG3_tvfN3hR/s200/vivek%20batul%20glasses.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Teja wears his reading glasses, just because I am wearing mine. <br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIfZJefiIRMcXYPKjpyJSwX3yMw9m2_lWejp08z9Sk860Gfb-LZD4PBzo4YJ7gJZuLq-rTKWFGBPfI9H1YTqxFsd1XdCZY4tgbsKfY3fn8KQbgL1A3Ll1lisp87fYycmDD66sy/s1600-h/reading%20glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIfZJefiIRMcXYPKjpyJSwX3yMw9m2_lWejp08z9Sk860Gfb-LZD4PBzo4YJ7gJZuLq-rTKWFGBPfI9H1YTqxFsd1XdCZY4tgbsKfY3fn8KQbgL1A3Ll1lisp87fYycmDD66sy/s200/reading%20glasses.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
</div>Dhanno says: "Both of you act like they are new toys."<br />
<br />
I say: "I like the room. It has the same curtains as our bedroom."<br />
<br />
Teja laughs: "We should have stayed at home then."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIfZJefiIRMcXYPKjpyJSwX3yMw9m2_lWejp08z9Sk860Gfb-LZD4PBzo4YJ7gJZuLq-rTKWFGBPfI9H1YTqxFsd1XdCZY4tgbsKfY3fn8KQbgL1A3Ll1lisp87fYycmDD66sy/s1600-h/reading%20glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-89996990507063298662010-01-03T18:21:00.000+05:302010-01-03T18:21:36.499+05:30self indulgence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwuVXZMKmc-UvpvjSku8QxoGccgDQVn0hPpMNzBRoBOndu9GEAYsyrgeUBqAZ9YgoOprStMad7S-nicua7-wkyvwQheDdEy50viaSLMf90GYqskvVTYofGIqb1vuLSM1qjdrOP/s1600-h/orange%20mojris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwuVXZMKmc-UvpvjSku8QxoGccgDQVn0hPpMNzBRoBOndu9GEAYsyrgeUBqAZ9YgoOprStMad7S-nicua7-wkyvwQheDdEy50viaSLMf90GYqskvVTYofGIqb1vuLSM1qjdrOP/s320/orange%20mojris.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfvBWIWBcx3ccIPMyuMZ-m42A4Wrop3l964aLAgz4TBmUzho5oZHX9iA8hEBjdHBykjE4GmzedkF88P_hrpral6r99umfmnvryGeKhe5mMQZf5PdzxZVy0sXNCrle31unJUn-/s1600-h/silver%20bangles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfvBWIWBcx3ccIPMyuMZ-m42A4Wrop3l964aLAgz4TBmUzho5oZHX9iA8hEBjdHBykjE4GmzedkF88P_hrpral6r99umfmnvryGeKhe5mMQZf5PdzxZVy0sXNCrle31unJUn-/s320/silver%20bangles.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
photos by DhannoUnknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-48446167889261308682010-01-01T15:32:00.001+05:302010-01-02T15:44:32.634+05:30almost a blue moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2R48I45QMxtlNhDwsk9Gi8o70GjTvxFCqQZ_lIrrzTncK8f2_vTfyuZcj0_x2tyhoeT00cLiAqhjCFeq4b1vob9mO-UyGYpupr3y8koOJ92YjiifziqN-oFoM11rAnYgD6HMT/s1600-h/P1000798-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2R48I45QMxtlNhDwsk9Gi8o70GjTvxFCqQZ_lIrrzTncK8f2_vTfyuZcj0_x2tyhoeT00cLiAqhjCFeq4b1vob9mO-UyGYpupr3y8koOJ92YjiifziqN-oFoM11rAnYgD6HMT/s200/P1000798-01.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
</div>In the last 10 years, the birt hday boy has taken<br />
5 years to move from 31 to 32,<br />
4 more years to be nudged ahead with a great deal of haranguing on my part, from 32 to 34, <br />
and another year to grudgingly accept that he was 38 yesterday.<br />
<br />
Being born on the last day of the year, for some reason, allows him to to remain a particular age for longer. I being born in the middle of the year, am apparently at a disadvantage. Depending on his mathematical prowess and annoyance quotient of the moment, I have been anything between 40 and 55, in the last 10 years.<br />
<br />
Thank god, it was not <a href="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/12/091230-blue-moon-new-years-eve.html">a blue moon day </a>when he was born. It would have taken him another 19 years to turn 39 (or not!). And I would be called <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/personal/12/30/rr.cougar.not.good/">a cougar</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-70919716392672772822009-12-19T21:57:00.000+05:302009-12-19T21:57:41.546+05:30udaipurafter a Fish a la Jagat dinner on a terrace restaurant over Lake Pichola, all I can say, folks, is have a lovely Christmas. <br />
<input id="gwProxy" type="hidden" /><!--Session data--><input id="jsProxy" onclick="jsCall();" type="hidden" /><div id="refHTML"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-57129777361177675802009-12-14T14:05:00.000+05:302009-12-14T14:05:40.837+05:30Dug up a mountain, out came a mouse!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuORS4LoswalU_MKb7XDJHN2ZCopnhz7Ren8WRBEF80GhYBMMNFPAAzEv_LjwzV1R7d_rib1oItPFoLwlicZFAHCm17hDVNJInfdF1wgMcbpKAd3FDlFs4vBmwqm7BH03A5ayy/s1600-h/rocket%20singh.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuORS4LoswalU_MKb7XDJHN2ZCopnhz7Ren8WRBEF80GhYBMMNFPAAzEv_LjwzV1R7d_rib1oItPFoLwlicZFAHCm17hDVNJInfdF1wgMcbpKAd3FDlFs4vBmwqm7BH03A5ayy/s200/rocket%20singh.jpeg" /></a><br />
</div>'<a href="http://www.upperstall.com/films/2009/rocket-singh-salesman-year">Rocket Singh</a>' moves as slowly as the rickshaw you always get by some law of the universe, when you are running late. Every 30 seconds, 11 vehicles zip by you on the highway, 7 amongst them other rickshaws. You come out of a soporific trance to make sure that you are moving. Yes, you are. But you have already forgotten where you were heading towards in the first place. You have reached a state of being. You just are. In a rickshaw. Inching along the highway.<br />
<br />
The only reason you don't jump out of the rickshaw is that you are watching the incredibly talented Ranbir Kapoor. You wonder how strange it is for the makers of the film to try and squash the very charm that should have been the film's biggest asset! Harpreet Singh Bedi (Ranbir Kapoor) starts off as a goofy, happy-go-lucky character and transforms into a too sincere, boring one. Perhaps that is called growing up?<br />
<br />
The film eschews melodrama and masala. But it also throws out of the rickshaw - romance, cinematic treatment and any sign of fun. <br />
<br />
What it does revel in are painstaking details on the world of sales and marketing. I feel pain because it is a world I ran away from 20 years ago. I feel 20 again, trapped in a dreary sales office, where everyone expects me to sell washing machines, and I'm looking for the nearest exit. Try as I might, I cannot get excited about a battle being fought for computer assembly and servicing territory.<br />
<br />
The pretence realism of the film is confused with filmi stereotypical characters, foul-mouthed 'item girl' receptionist, aggressive bully of a marketing manager, exploitative number-crunching boss, porn-addict techie, mean colleagues en masse who have nothing better to do than throw paper planes (rockets) at Harpeet, prescription-pretty, insipid girlfriend, doting grandfather. Thankfully, the actors competently redeem the over-the-top characterizations. <br />
<br />
Honesty is the best policy is the simple premise, refreshing in an age that reveres cleverness and success. But the premise gets muddied because Harpreet Singh Bedi's means to the end are not above reproach. The narrative remains simplistic. The climax of the film is frankly unbelievable in concept and embarrassing in its execution. Characters turn around too easily and therefore implausibly. <br />
<br />
There is a nebulous quality to the film. One is not quite sure what it is about, what it wants to say, or what one's own reaction to it is. It's not a film you can dislike vehemently, but not one to rave about. It's nice as mice, much as Harpreet Singh Bedi describes himself in a moment of anger against himself. But do I really want to pay to see mice?<br />
<br />
You may be better off watching Hrishikesh Mukherjee's '<a href="http://p-pcc.blogspot.com/2008/06/anari-1959.html">Anari</a>' made 50 years ago with Ranbir's grandfather, Raj Kapoor!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7-QJDrYgghrr_paak9lr-CyqaOmiEPuwl8LKUCVP7QS1Lyu13pkLHvC4BDV61GQX4gcehI-jCWuDRFWQIn7ONcdmV17tFziSbS_Zk6MUKEP1Jm2fS0kehhg9fv2RnKD9ZiWF/s1600-h/anari.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7-QJDrYgghrr_paak9lr-CyqaOmiEPuwl8LKUCVP7QS1Lyu13pkLHvC4BDV61GQX4gcehI-jCWuDRFWQIn7ONcdmV17tFziSbS_Zk6MUKEP1Jm2fS0kehhg9fv2RnKD9ZiWF/s200/anari.jpeg" /></a><br />
</div> It's pretty hammy, but also has the beautiful Nutan, the redoubtable Mrs. D'Sa (Lalita Pawar), fabulous songs, even one Helen number (1959), and loads of Raj Kapoor crying.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-16589659231183898412009-12-07T18:07:00.000+05:302009-12-07T18:07:36.511+05:30pink slippers<blockquote><i></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRjiMJHvP4cr4-afcyP77LX6s6etS-dK1gWwTVGYwsBrZeFGI5czNYmX51w8o1Zp6I78ryyBYUwi6oBzvjIiPE_BH06M6JtEYLY8zucsRYINIyTyKraK5k1CaBVZuxVPpex9u/s1600-h/pink-shoes-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRjiMJHvP4cr4-afcyP77LX6s6etS-dK1gWwTVGYwsBrZeFGI5czNYmX51w8o1Zp6I78ryyBYUwi6oBzvjIiPE_BH06M6JtEYLY8zucsRYINIyTyKraK5k1CaBVZuxVPpex9u/s200/pink-shoes-3.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
</div>Inspired by these, this:<br />
</blockquote><blockquote><i>"You haven't done it, have you? I knew you wouldn't do it. It's always the same with you. You just say you'll do it, and then forget all about it. This is the fourth time I've come. Each time you say, come in one hour, come tomorrow, come in the evening. As if I have no other work. You think?"<br />
<br />
Madhukar's long, thin face remained impassive as hers puckered up more and more with her scowl. It was as if he heard her from a great distance, and from a great distance he replied, "Come back in an hour, my son will keep it ready."<br />
<br />
The sharp quiver of his mustache could easily be mistaken for a smile, only an embarrassed one, but nevertheless a smile that only enraged the already infuriated woman. Bala glared at Madhukar and took one slipper in his hand, reluctantly. But before he could even turn the slipper in his hand, the angry woman bent down and snatched it. She didn't even see the faint tremor of fear on Bala's childish face. Bala picked up the other slipper beside him tentatively, and she grabbed that too from his hand. While she thrust the slippers into a humungous plastic bag, Bala stopped breathing, defying the tears to stay put in his eyes. <br />
<br />
After she had stomped off, Madhukar shrugged slightly and looked at the three people standing before him. His mustache quivered more definitely in a mute plea for support from them. But none of them wanted to encourage him with the faintest of smiles. They were on the side of the shouting woman; each of them had made one round or two to get their footwear back from Madhukar. <br />
<br />
Madhukar continued with his work silently. Bala rubbed a brown shoe vigorously with black polish. When the last of the three customers had gone, Bala exploded, "I am going to run away, Baba."<br />
<br />
Madhukar said distractedly, "No, you are not, Balu child."<br />
<br />
Bala said, "Yes, I am."<br />
<br />
Bala was ready to jump up this very instant and leave. Though Madhukar didn’t know it, Bala was quite sure of how to get back home to Aai. <br />
<br />
He suddenly remembered the smell that clung to Aai, the smell of her sweat mingled with the smoky smell of the wood in the clay stove, and one tear fell defiantly on his cheek. <br />
<br />
But then he remembered Aai kissing him over and over again, even after Baba had already reached the gate of their house. She had whispered against Bala's cheek, "You will stay with Baba, won't you, Balu? Don't leave him alone, you know what he is like."<br />
<br />
He couldn't go back home without Baba. Aai would only cry and worry about Baba, and not be happy that Bala was back. He was stuck here forever and forever in this tiny tin box in which he could barely stand, and Baba could only sit, on the corner of a busy road.<br />
<br />
So he pleaded now, "Why can't we just go back home?"<br />
<br />
Madhukar said, "We can't, Balu. We have a shop here now."<br />
<br />
Bala said, "This is not a shop. It's only a tin box."<br />
<br />
And that it was. They could lock up the broken slippers and shoes in it at night. But Madhukar would not leave his tools there, or the polish box. Those, they carried to the room in the slum everyday, the hot, smelly, cramped room they shared with 13 other men. Madhukar slept with his tool bag under his head, and Bala with the polish box near his feet.<br />
<br />
But Madhukar said, "It is a shop. I pay 500 rupees rent for it every month."<br />
<br />
Bala said, "Our shop in the village market is so big."<br />
<br />
Madhukar's mustache went up a millimeter, and his nose swooped down to touch it, as he said sullenly, "You know very well, Balu, that is not my shop, but belongs to your Ajoba. And after Ajoba, it will be yours. I have no shop in the village. This is my shop here."<br />
<br />
Bala knew that the shop in the village market would be Baba's after Ajoba. But who could argue with Baba's mustache or Baba's nose? Only Ajoba, who had a sharper mustache and a sharper nose. <br />
<br />
Bala decided that he would never grow a mustache, and he would rub his nose for 10 minutes every day to flatten it a little. He looked around him morosely, rubbing his nose. The city was so crowded. The noise of the incessant traffic and people made his head throb. How different from the market at home. <br />
<br />
That was crowded too, and got very dirty by the end of the day, garbage left by the stream of tourists walking through - cans, bottles, plastic bags, tetra-packs. Yet just beyond the market lane, there were the brown and blue hills, and tall trees, and a cold nipping air, and the lake down below. And Bala did not have to sit in the shop all day. He could run between home and market, shop and fields, school and hills, as fancy took him.<br />
<br />
But Baba and Ajoba fought all the time. Each time, Ajoba's nose would quiver with rage and he would say, "This is still my shop, and you had better do as I say."<br />
<br />
One day he said it once too often, and Baba took out a small suitcase from the loft, dusty and rusty with disuse, and put a few pairs of clothes in it. Aai cried and cried until he agreed to take Bala with him. And then she whispered on Bala's cheek, "You will stay with him, won't you, child? You know what he is like."<br />
<br />
Bala seemed to feel again the wetness of her cheek against his and remembering her puffy eyes he was determined to hurt Baba today. He said, " We don't even make shoes here. Just repair them."<br />
<br />
Madhukar remained silent. What could he say? He would not mind going back home himself; he missed his wife, and even his grumpy father, and the two little ones, Bala's brother and sister. But perhaps more than them he missed the hills and the sharp colors of the many flowers that grew in every nook and cranny of the winding streets of their village. <br />
<br />
He had always loved those colors, they seemed to seep through his eyes and stream through his blood and wanted to burst through his fingertips into the shoes he made. Pink, green, blue, purple. But his father's eyes and blood and hands wanted to stick to the colors that their family had used for generations in their shoes, the colors of the earth in their village, brown, rust, red.<br />
<br />
Each time Madhukar went to the city to buy materials, he would return to the village with stains of different hues. His father would fret and scold, "Why waste so much money on colors? If people want pink, or blue shoes they can buy them in the city." And Madhukar would say, "You are an old man now. You know nothing about how the world has changed. No one wants your dull brown shoes any more." And his father would say, "This is my shop. You better do as I say."<br />
<br />
Well, this here, this tin box on the corner of a busy road in the city, was his shop now, and even if he did not make shoes here, only repaired them for a few rupees, it was his shop, and maybe one day, he would have enough money to buy some leather and some more tools and some color stains and start making his own shoes.<br />
<br />
His mind started brimming with colors again, pink, blue, orange, purple. He came to because Bala was nudging him, his face flushed with excitement. A pair of pink slippers with brown flowers was right before his long nose. He took the slippers into his hands. He looked up at the woman who was looking at his dazed face with concern.<br />
<br />
In a voice that would barely come out of his throat, he asked, "Where did you buy these?"<br />
<br />
The woman said, "In the market at Mahableshwar."<br />
<br />
Bala squealed loudly, "Was it a big shop? In the village market?"<br />
<br />
The woman frowned and said, "Yes, I think so, a big shop."<br />
<br />
Bala said, "Next to the shop where you get strawberry cream? Was there an old man there?"<br />
<br />
The woman scrunching her nose in an effort to remember, said, "Strawberry cream? Yes, I think so, an old man."<br />
<br />
Madhukar meanwhile turned the pink slippers round and round in his hand, looking at the seams, the brown flowers, the soles. He recognized his father's hand in the stitches. On each sole there was a small etching of an M and a T. <br />
<br />
Madhukar Tambe. That was his name.<br />
<br />
He smiled and handed the slippers back to the woman, "There is nothing wrong with these; they are perfect."<br />
<br />
The woman said, "But the stitches have come out there, just there, you see?"<br />
<br />
Madhukar shook his head, his face stretched in a beatific smile. The woman bemused walked away.<br />
<br />
Madhukar smiled and said, "We'll go home then, shall we, Bala? You must be missing Aai, no?" Bala grinned and nodded his head. The brown shoe in his hand was now completely black.<br />
</i><br />
</blockquote><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="color: #660000;">© Batul Mukhtiar, December 7, 2009 </span></b></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-43496563037603100612009-12-05T18:13:00.001+05:302009-12-05T18:14:43.905+05:30de din-a-din<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgza4L3hfFrSuqe9NYeqXXBii4TIgqOacyk85rAJomtKThDzBr9ymVSySyQbMGtqoiMetn3uaTPtXNawi6Gjv08WM2qKW3H1Wi_8aQJwG3X8VnwF_xicvvh1iOykzPAqD8EOjff/s1600-h/DE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgza4L3hfFrSuqe9NYeqXXBii4TIgqOacyk85rAJomtKThDzBr9ymVSySyQbMGtqoiMetn3uaTPtXNawi6Gjv08WM2qKW3H1Wi_8aQJwG3X8VnwF_xicvvh1iOykzPAqD8EOjff/s200/DE.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><br />
<a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub121209the_take.asp">my review at tehelka</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-69192096386667472782009-11-24T09:40:00.002+05:302009-11-24T09:52:18.585+05:30taal se taal milaIf Gabbar Singh were to ever capture me, and Teja coming to the rescue was tied down hand and foot by Gabbar Singh's henchmen and put at gun-point, he would never ever have to flare his nostrils and shout at me, "Banno, <i>in kutto ke saamne mat naachna</i>." (Banno, don't dance before these dogs.) <br />
<br />
For Gabbar Singh would himself clamber down from his high rock, put a shawl over my trembling body, untie Teja's bonds and tell Teja, "Teja-<i>bhai</i>, <i>tum Banno-behn ko ghar le jaao. Hum ko koi naach-vaach nahin dekhna, Nahin dekhna naach-vaach hum ko</i>." (Teja-brother, please take Banno-sister home. We don't want to see any dance. No dance we want to see.)<br />
<br />
For a 10 second demonstration would have made it clear to him that Banno-style dancing goes like this: 1. Move right foot sideways. 2. Move torso to the right. 3. Lift right arm up. 4. Twist right hand. 5. Move left foot towards right foot. 6. Move torso to the left. 7. Lift left arm sideways. 8. Turn left hand round and round. 9. Stand still to listen to beat. 10. Catch it again and start motion in above sequence, now completely off-beat. Repeat ad-infinitum.<br />
<br />
Is it any wonder then that anyone who can move arms, legs, shoulders, eyes, face, head, and other body parts in one continuous, rhythmic motion and stay with the beat, for any length of time mesmerizes me? <br />
<br />
As if my own gracelessness were not enough, my ignorance about any form of classical Indian dance (or music) is shameful. So I am always hesitant to attend dance performances. But for once, I decided to diss the computer and the DVD player, and stretch my mind, if not my limbs a little.<br />
<br />
The dance performances at the Bandra festival were meant for ignoramuses like me. The open air stage attracts a mixed crowd, street children, regular promenade walkers, young couples who've made their way up from the rocks by the sea after sun-down, friends and family supporting performers. <br />
<br />
The performances by children from 2 NGO shelters, had me doing that thing I do to stop howling - gulp, gulp, close mouth, squeeze nostrils, stop breathing, face swelling up, getting red. Theirs was a dance I understood, because it was close to Banno-style dancing.<br />
<br />
The three other presentations were Kathak, a duet of Bharatnatyam (performed by the male dancer) and Odissi (performed by his female partner), and a group of students performing Bharatnatyam. I was unable to capture the finer nuances of the performances, so I concentrated on watching the expressions, the costumes, the flowers in their hair, the sparkle of the jewellery.<br />
<br />
And going on in my mind, "Why are they wearing black? It's showing the dirt. If she was wearing red and yellow, why is he wearing maroon? Her <i>ghaghra</i> is too stiff. It doesn't show me the play of her legs." And so on. Because of course, to me, commenting is half the fun of watching anything. <br />
<br />
What I also love doing during live performances is to watch the people who are watching. Some young boys getting impatient. A little girl with dirty frock, matted hair and blond streaks. An old couple who really seemed to get it. Parents of the performers, whose eyes and cameras were focussed only on their kids. <br />
<br />
There was also a school-principal type of MC who scolded all of us before and after the presentations.<br />
<br />
Of course, going to Band Stand is never complete without shouting "Ee, ee, Shahrukh Khan's house." I almost never have to do that myself, because someone always gets in there before me. This time, it was Pu. <br />
<br />
However, in my book, this is highly excusable, because just a few weeks ago, I met an old doctor who lives across Shahrukh Khan's house and he was pointing out of his window, going, "Ee, ee, Shahrukh Khan's house." And the old gentleman and his family have lived there for years before SRK. <br />
<br />
After, a walk through Bandra, and then prawn curry-rice, fried <i>surmai</i> and fried <i>bombil</i> at Soul Fry.<br />
<br />
Made me forget <a href="http://bmukhtiar.blogspot.com/2009/11/david-and-goliath-of-film-making.html%20">all my film woes</a>, for sure. I was also quite pleased when I liked the same dances that Pu had liked, considering that she is studying dance since she was a child. Some hope for me, I say. And for Gabbar Singh.<br />
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-6079308632302491182009-11-23T11:06:00.003+05:302009-11-23T11:31:52.177+05:30the david and goliath of film makingThe following exchange between <a href="http://karrvakarela.blogspot.com/">karrvakarela</a> and me on <a href="http://bmukhtiar.blogspot.com/2009/11/prelude-to-bad-hair-life.html">my post on 'Tum Mile</a>' seemed too important to be hidden in the comments section. Some of my Film & Television Institute friends, filmmakers themselves, <a href="http://www.upperstall.com/">The Third Man</a>, <a href="http://blogs.4indianwoman.com/">Irene Dhar Malik</a> and I, review films regularly, and we are often accused of hating Bollywood.<br />
<br />
At the risk of sounding silly, I actually feel physically sick when I trash a film. As a film maker I know how difficult it is to get a film off the ground, and to actually see it through to the end. <br />
<br />
So I take the liberty of speaking for all of us, and other film critic, film maker and film lover friends, in saying that the fact is that we love films, and therefore hate the sheer waste of money, effort, technical skills and star power expounded in an obviously lackadaisical manner, to make what can only be called 'products' and are definitely not films. <br />
<br />
This displays a callousness in the film industry towards the audience and leads to a desensitization of both film makers and the audience. The Times of India today carries an interesting article '<a href="http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Default/Scripting/ArticleWin.asp?From=Archive&Source=Page&Skin=TOINEW&BaseHref=TOIM/2009/11/23&PageLabel=12&EntityId=Ar01200&ViewMode=HTML&GZ=T">Directors on the Fringe</a>' which introduces us to a few of the film makers who are struggling against the system.<a href="http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Default/Scripting/ArticleWin.asp?From=Archive&Source=Page&Skin=TOINEW&BaseHref=TOIM/2009/11/23&PageLabel=12&EntityId=Ar01200&ViewMode=HTML&GZ=T"><br />
</a><br />
<br />
Anyway here is the exchange between karrvakarela and me, and I hope that all of you will add your own thoughts to this. <br />
<br />
karrvakarela said...<br />
<br />
Hi Banno, <br />
<br />
This has nothing to do with your review, or the film, which I will assiduously avoid, but is it just me or is the recent urbanization of Hindi cinema starting to get stale? Granted a lot of the audience is concentrated in the cities so it makes sense to make movies they can relate to but as an industry whose job it is to tell stories I think most new filmmakers have been willfully negligent in ignoring the rest of the country. I was watching Prakash Jha's Hip Hip Hurray the other with its charming portrayal of small-town Ranchi and it hit me how little we've seen this kind of story-telling of late. Films like Gulzar's Namkeen and Mausam, Shyam Benegal's Manthan, Basu Bhattacharya's Teesri Kasam; stories with local flavor and character. Where are they now? Will they ever be made again? I think Vishal Bharadwaj may be the only one who is exploring those possibilities and transcripting them into his own private genre. Everyone else seems too obsessed with the urban grind. <br />
<br />
Banno said...<br />
<br />
Karrvakarela, true. The trouble is not that those stories are not being written, nor that those films are not being made in the face of severe odds, but that those films are not getting distributed, and don't even have a chance of reaching the audience. When they are picked up by a distributor, they are released in a few multiplexes, where the audience is not necessarily interested in these films, and the ticket prices are too high, thereby killing the film.<br />
<br />
I've watched several small films which are in fact fresh, interesting stories, different from this no-man's land, which is not even truly representative of any urban concern. In the last year itself I have seen, Sushil Rajpal's 'Antardwand' (not released), Paresh Kamdar's 'Johny Johny, Yes Papa' (not released), Paresh Kamdar's 'Khargosh' (not released), Ranjit Kapoor's 'Chintuji' (didn't do even one week), Shyam Benegal's 'Welcome to Sajjanpur' (did reasonably well through word of mouth), Pravesh Bhardawaj's 'Niyati' (today he is celebrating 2 years since he finished the film) . These are just a few off the top of my head. A couple of days ago, I saw Bela Negi's film 'Daayen Baayein' (awaiting release, and all of us waiting with bated breath hoping that this lovely film gets its due viewership).<br />
<br />
Often, I am unable to review those films because they are still in the process of being sold. :(<br />
Which usually never happens.<br />
<br />
A lot of us now feel that unless there are exhibition spaces for art-house cinema, where ticket prices are low, there is no hope for it.<br />
<br />
Marathi cinema, in fact, has made a huge comeback because of government subsidies in the making, and also tax-free exhibition, made compulsory for cinema halls.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-3013906596574716222009-11-22T15:37:00.007+05:302009-11-22T16:41:18.241+05:30a 'bad hair life'A group of college students enters 10 minutes late. Of course they are chattering. Loudly. As they shuffle across me. A girl who has actually (really?) seen the film earlier gives them a vague update on what has happened so far. <br />
<br />
The vagueness of her story-telling makes them ask more questions and the chatter goes on for some more time. When they finally settle down, the girl who has seen the movie before dials a number and starts cooing into it. I stomp off and change seats. I can hear them sniggering. <br />
<br />
Another group enters late and sits down to the left of me, thankfully a few seats away. Yet another group enters late and sits down to the right of me, giving me a wide berth. I am <i>khush.</i><br />
<br />
The people on the right tentatively deposits an infant in the seat nearest to me. But perhaps my scowl is fluorescent. It makes them change their mind. They take the infant and place it in the aisle near their feet, presumably to be trampled upon by hovering popcorn vendors. <br />
<br />
I look at them in horrified disgust. They ignore me. The man then spends the rest of the film talking to his clients. From the various instructions about a car in Mira Road, and a driver in Vasai, I gather he runs a transport company.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, a man 2 rows behind starts yelling abuse. I turn around thinking that finally someone has lost their head in the way I've been wanting to for the last 40 minutes. But the man is raging with eyes in space. Ah, a hands-free phone. "Tell the bastard that we won't do anything till we get the money." He starts walking towards the exit, yelling all the way, his 'b******d's and 'f******'s lighting his way. <br />
<br />
I burrow into my seat and think viciously that an audience like this deserves a film like 'Tum Mile'. We have become so desensitized as a society that we deserve to pay obscene amounts of money to watch complete shit about 2 people who make the most boring couple in the world.<br />
<br />
Why write a script where two ex-lovers meet after 6 years on a day that is bound to give them bad hair?<br />
<br />
Soha Ali Khan is gutsy. Her hair goes from wet rats tails to dried frizz. Perfectly natural when one has been pelted by the rain for hours. But since the 26 July 2005 deluge is only a pretext for the two ex-lovers, Sanjana (Soha) and Akshay (Emran Hashmi) discovering that they are after all, just right for each other, surely a background kinder to the heroine's hair could be chosen for this reconciliation of kindred boring souls?<br />
<br />
Sanjana is rich and modern. She lives alone, then lives with her boyfriend. She enters a room and takes off her shirt and does the rest of the scene in her slip. She lounges around in teddy shorts. She displays a beautiful cleavage whenever she can. Soha is comfortable with her body. She does little things with her eyebrows and a flick of her hand that tell us she knows about acting. And yet, I spend the better part of the film wondering why she does not allure, why she remains an ordinary girl. Surely I should admire her for acting an ordinary girl, but I find myself resenting the total lack of glamour.<br />
<br />
Even her supposedly rich father lacks glamour. Sachin Khedekar does not look like rich Sanjana's rich father, but in his black shiny coat, a lawyer soliciting clients for 100-200 rupees outside Bandra Court.<br />
<br />
Emran Hashmi seems to have put a cap on his sleaziness. But that unfortunately just makes him flatter than a paper <i>dosa</i>. He's nothing without his torrid kisses. He plays an inexplicably bitter painter. <br />
<br />
Inexplicable because in fact, he paints for the common man. Melting moons and beautiful sad women by windows, which in the real world, should sell like hot cakes to hotel lounges. Instead he is poor. Even though the 'common' electrician too loves his painting. There is much talk about the opinion of the common man. It's a message to all those out there, yes, the critics may bash our work, but the common man loves us. <br />
<br />
Sadly, the 'common men' watching 'Tum Mile' did not seem too happy on the ride.<br />
<br />
There is no point in even elaborating on the illogicalities in the plot. There are many but they float like dead rats in the dirty water. However, because this is a love story, and not a documentary, we do not see the dead rats.<br />
<br />
What remains is a sense of terrible boredom. The two narrative threads, the past and the present, play like two different stories. The trouble is that Sanjana and Akshay are just not interesting enough a pair for us to be interested in their love, hate, love lives. You feel sad that Sanjana hasn't found anyone more worthy in all these years. <br />
<br />
Akshay is given a chance to vindicate his earlier 'loser' status, someone who had to let his girlfriend pay the bills, by now flying business class, buying art galleries and going to Tokyo to pick up awards for his design company. He is also given several chances at displaying his manly heroics during the flood, while Sanjana is suitably, femininely helpless and afraid. <br />
<br />
What is conveniently forgotten is that things went wrong in the past because Akshay didn't communicate. That Sanjana just got tired of dealing with someone who was so self-obsessed. All doubts about compatibility are washed away in the deluge. <br />
<br />
A shorter version of this review published <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub281109the_take.asp">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #660000;">BTW, header photo by Teja. </span></b><br />
<br />
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-9401553199022059872009-11-19T19:45:00.000+05:302009-11-19T19:45:40.153+05:30pure gold<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJj27d5UUE9FU4CdxqW6f0PrTy031HiNms-8Fh9hz3KI389fyfc-y1sZdHx_Q2Vy5dLnPcMxyO7G-c9QlhPCPc16rOH1cujIuxlxEOYxVIwa-FrXMZeuZhbZTDFRMbpiAFbAA/s1600/vivek-in-golden-light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJj27d5UUE9FU4CdxqW6f0PrTy031HiNms-8Fh9hz3KI389fyfc-y1sZdHx_Q2Vy5dLnPcMxyO7G-c9QlhPCPc16rOH1cujIuxlxEOYxVIwa-FrXMZeuZhbZTDFRMbpiAFbAA/s640/vivek-in-golden-light.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-12136775349778375822009-11-18T13:10:00.000+05:302009-11-18T13:10:49.801+05:30i dress therefore i am ....at Upperstall Blogs. <a href="http://www.upperstall.com/blogs/banno/i-dress-therefore-i-am/">My confused thoughts on 'purdah'.</a><br />
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-55779969512440652252009-11-15T20:02:00.000+05:302009-11-15T20:02:36.756+05:30it's been a long haul<a href="http://bmukhtiar.blogspot.com/2008/09/rabbit-and-raft.html">'Khargosh'</a> won 3 awards at the Osian festival this year - the Special Mention and the Audience Award and shared the NETPAC-FIPRESCI award.<br />
<br />
Trisha at Tehelka wrote <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub141109rabbit_in.asp">this.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-79964016919900536472009-11-12T10:58:00.004+05:302009-11-12T11:18:51.617+05:30in loveIn our house, Ranbir Kapoor is mentioned several times a day.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ixNMI_BfrvPYi-kSx4ZeN9VitQXWPPTTcNhAMJ9YHcoSYxKNaznbBKRdRHWtBQgYHLzbW-jP_vjKUSFDBZAqjXWvc1RR9SRvLO7JVrJs4AeyA-4zFj4Z2F1tOslvm-p6sl_I/s1600-h/ranbir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ixNMI_BfrvPYi-kSx4ZeN9VitQXWPPTTcNhAMJ9YHcoSYxKNaznbBKRdRHWtBQgYHLzbW-jP_vjKUSFDBZAqjXWvc1RR9SRvLO7JVrJs4AeyA-4zFj4Z2F1tOslvm-p6sl_I/s200/ranbir.jpg" /></a><br />
One of our family members is madly in love with him. <br />
<br />
I am meant to make it very clear to all and sundry that that family member is not me. I am not supposed to love Ranbir Kapoor, though I am allowed to like him, in a maternal sort of way.<br />
<br />
One of our family members also hopes to be an actress, work with Ranbir Kapoor, have him fall madly in love with her, and marry her, one day.<br />
<br />
I, meanwhile, am trying hard to imagine what it would mean to be the '<i>samdhan</i>' of Neetu Kapoor. And I am glad for the temporary reprieve from worrying about all those next-door boys .<br />
<br />
We have spent a fortune in movie tickets watching 'Wake Up Sid' 4 times, and 'Ajab Prem ki Ghazab Kahani' twice.<br />
<br />
We don't like Deepika Padukone or Katrina Kaif much in this house. In fact, we hate them.<br />
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-26293805984893151772009-11-01T12:39:00.003+05:302009-11-01T18:11:13.984+05:30bon appetit at tehelkaThere's <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub071109the_take.asp">more</a> where <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main42.asp?filename=hub260909the_take.asp">that</a> came from.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub071109the_take.asp"><br />
</a><br />
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-28115804680822456872009-10-28T12:56:00.002+05:302009-10-28T15:56:55.108+05:30for those on a diet,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJsAn5Tms1EzD5jdGGTj5NfvibT2GJTN7oGu9S0YLitxsb-LyTAWOgX5VtqDOyt6GZQrXRZYqYMI9NR_I8hHOF2N-BQ1WnQnrc0rWBrbzG7wWGDM9wcOy8t4SITaxIHhoahEy/s1600-h/juhu+balloons+%26+swords.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJsAn5Tms1EzD5jdGGTj5NfvibT2GJTN7oGu9S0YLitxsb-LyTAWOgX5VtqDOyt6GZQrXRZYqYMI9NR_I8hHOF2N-BQ1WnQnrc0rWBrbzG7wWGDM9wcOy8t4SITaxIHhoahEy/s200/juhu+balloons+%26+swords.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>if not candy floss, how about some balloons and glittery swords? No? Bows and arrows, then?<br />
<br />
Photo by Dhanno.<br />
<br />
If you don't like any of these, or even if you do, you could go read my post on Upperstall Blogs, <a href="http://www.upperstall.com/blogs/banno/30-days-in-58-years/">30 days in 58 years.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10318523.post-66974005163356633642009-10-26T10:14:00.003+05:302009-10-26T10:18:28.866+05:30candy floss, anyone?So I'm going to be traipsing the streets of Bumm-Bumm-Bhole-Land again for a fortnight, going darker and darker in the white glaring heat of October. Thought I'd leave you with a few photos by Dhanno, taken at Juhu beach, a couple of weeks ago.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL0kkDugSX6Sk1PgRAr-atawYvSvLViILIz7IBkwATtkvQiHHTMu-JVStkmL6p8rGCdaYQeZdY-tSG42yFVYk9jqAMAXFNyqB9jpo90IiJQqZZ71B3L675khmqUIZ80ktZzjJ/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL0kkDugSX6Sk1PgRAr-atawYvSvLViILIz7IBkwATtkvQiHHTMu-JVStkmL6p8rGCdaYQeZdY-tSG42yFVYk9jqAMAXFNyqB9jpo90IiJQqZZ71B3L675khmqUIZ80ktZzjJ/s200/juhu+candy+floss+1.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6NGKXgsrp5At4w7ik4GD0B7qWeSdNvUbMU8LCo0gLKuyxqErvSRJVbeqzOIoWQposeR6QEdPfac1EhzK5WUU09wjhMnO7PO06zYLtAXLTOA7OGfmWG6Mh4VlnQMAnEmEy7vK/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6NGKXgsrp5At4w7ik4GD0B7qWeSdNvUbMU8LCo0gLKuyxqErvSRJVbeqzOIoWQposeR6QEdPfac1EhzK5WUU09wjhMnO7PO06zYLtAXLTOA7OGfmWG6Mh4VlnQMAnEmEy7vK/s200/juhu+candy+floss+4.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qWGd_nm5knrSiboQCfCzqAyx-ABUi4yG7nql7hlaLkPCT-B6Gj-3edw3EpCXE3SnhavQIi4RoyMuhvpjmZglT4hyphenhyphensCqHBMks2TpsPNnMeRUwgY5L5g4F1BiggnJhZXoqZGkv/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qWGd_nm5knrSiboQCfCzqAyx-ABUi4yG7nql7hlaLkPCT-B6Gj-3edw3EpCXE3SnhavQIi4RoyMuhvpjmZglT4hyphenhyphensCqHBMks2TpsPNnMeRUwgY5L5g4F1BiggnJhZXoqZGkv/s200/juhu+candy+floss+2.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VRN3rAI7ml0zYF2DfZYT5oTDM8ADRnpq5to4eXCABCFq25Jz1TRCsHC22PVyyhrBlx0abOOcWcznqQgj9DK3by9c8IkOxp4_mODEB3uhAy69tQOv2hfMyql2yZFBOpJItreG/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VRN3rAI7ml0zYF2DfZYT5oTDM8ADRnpq5to4eXCABCFq25Jz1TRCsHC22PVyyhrBlx0abOOcWcznqQgj9DK3by9c8IkOxp4_mODEB3uhAy69tQOv2hfMyql2yZFBOpJItreG/s200/juhu+candy+floss+3.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4W_oDOdBY5UCJQE6RhNDV5mTdyPoKzjTR1qguf4B4MmRzu_nchSewHH3NhH4gsDkxt6AxJg__bSHc7Jtsrr81Euz5hGSKGKtqLJLyRFDf4qX3dpdvpLxeFUMb5wPz2GU45ATq/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4W_oDOdBY5UCJQE6RhNDV5mTdyPoKzjTR1qguf4B4MmRzu_nchSewHH3NhH4gsDkxt6AxJg__bSHc7Jtsrr81Euz5hGSKGKtqLJLyRFDf4qX3dpdvpLxeFUMb5wPz2GU45ATq/s200/juhu+candy+floss+5.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmaFvjwGkRVRh_m_ZGwVXfIewqWwlHh3uG7da-AuCI_a66mjRc57lHgLDQgBzleuVw7-GVmh-e6nh1UPi77Le94spfQYRuU_JibiwsTp1bR9Py-JfUAtmF86eiy2VYLDTsN2H/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmaFvjwGkRVRh_m_ZGwVXfIewqWwlHh3uG7da-AuCI_a66mjRc57lHgLDQgBzleuVw7-GVmh-e6nh1UPi77Le94spfQYRuU_JibiwsTp1bR9Py-JfUAtmF86eiy2VYLDTsN2H/s200/juhu+candy+floss+6.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmCMDYKhl_uBo44I4gGl3RE_dLNilOPYDNviqHX9Jlfd4PMWqLveeIRgaRDE2oR2pmSt5PherVRo3AR2nFAAKJYonreqISfeYFDqCW0dQs7mZytrnnA7cWRwI60LFQkE_4A2D/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmCMDYKhl_uBo44I4gGl3RE_dLNilOPYDNviqHX9Jlfd4PMWqLveeIRgaRDE2oR2pmSt5PherVRo3AR2nFAAKJYonreqISfeYFDqCW0dQs7mZytrnnA7cWRwI60LFQkE_4A2D/s200/juhu+candy+floss+7.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijulOhbXbWWoWRRg1Li58zVlwD5Uij_Hb19NrSy4L5ABh0VKHImSCrzVXQXhDNcBkDAmAV_eejRgH5Z9uFuYVOfjgq-ERogiOYUKZ8KSRLA-6yBWDZbNeHyYE-d23DP6uadKON/s1600-h/juhu+candy+floss+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijulOhbXbWWoWRRg1Li58zVlwD5Uij_Hb19NrSy4L5ABh0VKHImSCrzVXQXhDNcBkDAmAV_eejRgH5Z9uFuYVOfjgq-ERogiOYUKZ8KSRLA-6yBWDZbNeHyYE-d23DP6uadKON/s200/juhu+candy+floss+8.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
The header photo is by her, as well.<br />
<br />
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5