Filmy dost

His inquisition was similar to mine to notice Hrithik’s sixth pinky finger when Kaho Naa Pyar hai was released. More or less I was always satisfied to spot it while watching him challenge the human mucular system in Ek Pal ka jeena. Even before I could really calm his anxious nerves down he had already started stammering at a pace tht poor Shahrukh would feel embarass. The words came out with same monotonic frequencies combined with the usual banal use of head movements. I was just glad it was not complimented with the yelling and shrieking of Kareena with loud words bubbling out with no awareness of around. I asked him to relax and gave him a glass of water. He got little relax and muttered something that only Amitabh Bachchan could understand and decipher. His sounds oozed out of his lips which gave Abhishek a second runnerup trophy for ‘Fattest Lips contest’. I wanted to runout of the situation faster than Akshay Kumar ever ran in his annual relay race of ‘comedy of errors’. Though I couldn’t run out as I was as faithful to the relation as Himesh to his claim of ‘no nasal singing’. My headaches were growing at a pace higher than the rate at which body of Amrita Rao/ Ayesha Takia/ Hansika Motwani/Celina Jaitely grew. I wanted to escape but was stopped by his whimpering state borrowed by after effects of watching Salman attempt comedy. Few more minutes had passed digesting his usual state of repetitive act a la Shiney Ahuja/ Emraan Hashmi. He mellowed down and the next moment came out with an irritating act like Rani’s obsession of trull roles or Preity’s obsession with excessive hard exterior and marshmallow interior looks. The mannerism was fully desi but ashamed to adorn it publicly on the lines of typical Saif or Fardeen. The eyes were droopy with sagging eye bags with space larger than Sanju baba. The hair was rumpled but in a slightly better condition than alfa alfa on Vivek oops Viveik Oberoi’s head. The talks were not even welcomed in my left ear much to the delight of right ear which filtered talks of likes of Uday Chopra/ Zayed Khan/Arbaaz Khan/Aftab Shivdasani/Sohail Khan/Arjun Rampal. The talks were gladly ignored and now sounded as a background score but obviously better than Sunil oops Suneil Shetty’s or Bobby Deol’s baritone. πŸ˜‰ His body frame was shivering and reminded me of all the effects wind had on Shahid Kapoor. The heart was giving refusal to believe he was growing old much to the delight of Anil Kapoor. He wanted me to hang around him but I am no Arshad Warsi/Tushar Kapoor. His eyes were intense but had not yet convinced me as they weren’t as intense as Aamir’s or Ajay Devgan’s. The facial expression were stuck and reminded me of a certain John Abraham or his best friend Dino Morea. His history with me was long forgotten as likes of Chandrachur Singh/Esha Deol/Tanishaa/Amisha. I loved him, criticized him, danced with him, fought with him. He was my friday man. If my mood was good I’d treat him a box office success or else I’d tear him apart doing his critical analysis. He was and he will always be my filmy dost.


My fake side is on

I said Hi to her and talked for another long ten minutes forty five seconds. I know the exact time because I looked at the timer at the end of the call. We didn’t liked each other for so many years but still continued to give each other complimentary formal hellos and how are yous? We know we don’t like each other but the hooded pride always steps over the strong inner self . The heart pangs grow higher at the mere presence but a stretched smile runs across the lips as a reflex gesture. A prompt greeting pops out of the muttering lips on its own.

As soon as we cross paths- whispered swearings ooze out on own inside the heart. The feminine characters come out to prowl on the past 00:10:45 of my life.

Meeting people at parties who I hardly know is another sad saga. Kissing ass is most torturous here. I feel like shaking the person sitting opposite completely and yelling till my lungs protrude- ‘You’re the biggest jerk I’ve ever known-get the hell out of here‘. But instead the same fake side takes precendence and my usual reflexes prompt a stretched smile and a sweet hello.

I don’t know for how long will I have to keep my fake side on?

I know we should have-‘ in your face’ attitude but I guess I don’t belong to that race. Being nice comes naturally to me. My fake side is on.

πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚

Please let me listen

Has it ever happened to you? Your favorite song is playing and you are just deep into it when someone comes and starts talking to you? It happens to me a lot of times. I upload new songs on the iPOD and plan to listen it on my way. But at that time only-either the phone rings, or some (not so)interesting topic comes along and I have to lower the volume.

Sometimes when I am travelling by a bus and listening to nice songs that moment only strangers try to strike a conversation!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I mean they don’t try to strike one when I forget to get iPOD. No- because they only disturb when you’re listening and syncing in with a nice number. The weirdest part is when they poke you and ask you- hey which song are you listening to? Hey backoff how do you care? Even if you know I am not lending you my earphones. So forget it. πŸ˜‰

It even sometimes happen when I have to watch something interesting on the TV. At that moment only mom has to call, the courier guy has to take my signatures, the phone rings, partner gets mushy! Why god why ?

Please let me listen…. πŸ˜‰


Making Lasagne always looks like a daunting task to me. I get tired and feel every joule of energy has been drained out. I feel like a lemon squeeed out of its juice.

Being honest, so far I have made lasagne only three times. Every time it has turned to be a challenge for all the Italian joints. People just gorge over my culinary treat. I dedicate myself towards it. It takes good number of hours for me to set the layers and put the dish into the oven.

The sauces preparation seems easy but the amount of cutting and chopping involved takes its toll over me. I usually initiate with pressure cooking the spinach. By the time the cooker whistles I just grab chopping board and chop and chop and chop and chop. 😦 I particularly don’t like peeling off onions (who does???) and skinning garlic.

It gives me immense satisfaction when Sauce #1 gets ready and taken out in a bowl to cool over. I feel like a consumer who has paid off half of his loan amount. I then clean the pan and make another layer. Sauce #2 usually takes longer and I place the large dish to boil the sheets.

So far so good. I have come so far but the real battle is yet to be won. Yes- I know you know-The Classic White Cheese Sauce(Bechamel). People have been wondering and yelling and shrieking to know the perfect forumla to make a lumpfree, perfectly consistent and cheesy cheesy sauce. Every time I make this sauce I pray to god – ‘please free thy sauce from all the lumps for its not her fault that flour was more than butter…..O Lord! Please bless thy sauce to be consistent…thou shalt work harder‘. πŸ™‚

When the lord passes on his blessings I look queerly at the glistening baking dish. The dish looks like crying out to me- ‘I am empty please fill me with delights of all kinds‘. And I do laugh in my conniving manner at the poor dish’s fate in hot hell a.k.a oven.

The layers are laid out reminscing me of how road roller rolls out perfectly spread out coaltar. The sauces are filled out, evened out and covered with another layers- layers after layers. Its just like how an interesting book is read pages after pages while the reader enjoys the saucy concoction served by the author.

The sauces bowls are then shifted away to the washing area. The blessed white sauce is then poured over the bed of sheets. The sin is committed- bowls and bowls of shredded cheese are spread. This reminds me of warfare where food and essential supplies are provided by helicopters. The last minute goes onto grating the mighty nutmeg on top.

The dish looks at me twitching its eyebrows and passes a sarcastic smile-‘look all your labour is in me now‘. It seems to laugh at me. I give an awful look and just try to stop its laughter by pulling his ears with my baking mittens and throwing the nasty bugger in the preheated oven.

Fifteen minutes pass by and I hear the bell. I open to check the bugger. He has mellowed down. I check it and feel its still little stubborn and toss it back inside.

The cheese starts bubbling and bursting to pop out and I now know for exactly that the bugger has been tamed.

People hover around the dish passing on their comments regarding- ‘oh you must tell me the recipe,‘ ‘you know my aunt makes it too‘ , ‘can I have a bigger portion‘, ‘the golden color is just perfect‘. The comments are halted once someone cuts out a sliver and starts devouring. Slivers after slivers, compliments after compliments I realize I just don’t feel like tasting it.

May be I am still tired? Crazy bugger– I will eat you tomorrow after heating you in the microwave.

I win.