Here, where the hills slope before the sunset and the chasm of time
near gardens whose shades have been cast aside
we do what prisoners do
we do what the jobless do
we sow hope

In a land where the dawn sears
we have become more doltish
and we stare at the moments of victory
there is no starry night in our nights of explosions
our enemies stay up late, they switch on the lights
in the intense darkness of this tunnel

Here after the poems of Job, we wait no more

This siege will persist until we teach our enemies
models of our finest poetry

the sky is leaden during the day
and a fiery orange at night… but our hearts
are as neutral as the flowery emblems on a shield

here, not “I”
Here, Adam remembers the clay of which he was born

He says, on the verge of death, he says,
“I have no more earth to lose”
Free am I, close to my ultimate freedom, I hold my fortune in my own hands
In a few moments, I will begin my life
born free of father and mother
I will chose letters of sky blue for my name

Under siege, life is the moment between remembrance
of the first moment, and forgetfulness of the last

here, under the mountains of smoke, on the threshold of my home,
time has no measure
We do what those who give up the ghost do…
we forget our pain

Pain is when the housewife forsakes hanging up the clothes to dry and is content
that this flag of Palestine should be without stain

There is no Homeric echo here
Myths come knocking on our door when we need them
There is no Homeric echo here… only a general
looking through the rubble for the awakening state
concealed within the galloping horse from Troy

The soldiers measure the space between being and nothingness
with field-glasses behind a tank’s armoury

We measure the space between our bodies and the coming rockets
with our sixth sense alone

You there, by the threshold of our door
Come in, and sip with us our Arabic coffee
[you may even feel that you are human, just as we are]
you there, by the threshold of our door
take your rockets away from our mornings
we may then feel secure
[and almost human]

We may find time for relaxation and fine art
We may play cards, and read our newspapers
Catching up on the news of our wounded past
and we may look up our star signs in the year
two thousand and two, the camera smiles
to those born under the sign of the siege

Whenever yesterday comes to me, I say to her,
Now’s not the right time. Go
and come tomorrow!

I wrack my head, but uselessly.
What can someone like me think of, there,
on the tip of the hillside, for the past 3 thousand years,
and in this passing moment?
My thoughts slay me
my memory awakens me

When the helicopters disappear the doves fly back
white, very white, marking the cheeks of the horizon
with liberated wings. They revive their radiance and their ownership
of the sky, and of playfulness. Higher and higher they fly,
the doves, very white. ‘O that the sky
was real’ [a man passing between two bombs cried]
A sparkling sky, a vision, lightning!
all very similar….
soon I will know if this is indeed
a revelation
or my close friends will know that the poem
has gone, and yoked its poet

[to a critic]: Don’t interpret my words
as you stir the sugar in your cup, or munch your breast of chicken!
Words put me under siege in my sleep…
the words I did not utter.
They write me, then leave me searching for the remains of my sleep

The evergreen Cypresses behind the soldiers are minarets protecting
the sky from falling. Behind the barbed wire
are soldiers urinating- protected by a tank.
The Autumn day completes its golden stroll on the pavements of
a street as empty as a church after Sunday prayers

Tomorrow we will love life.
When tomorrow comes, life will be something to adore
just as it is, ordinary, or tricky
gray, or colourful…stripped of judgement day and purgatory…
and if joy is a necessity
let it be
light on the heart and the back
Once embittered by joy, twice shy

A satirical writer said to me:
If I knew the end of the story at the very beginning
there would be nothing to laugh about!

[To a killer:] If you reflected upon the face
of the victim you slew, you would have remembered your mother in the room
full of gas. You would have freed yourself
of the bullet’s wisdom,
and changed your mind: ‘I will never find myself thus.’

[To another killer:] If you left the foetus thirty days
in its mother’s womb, things would have been different.
The occupation would be over and this suckling infant
would forget the time of the siege
and grow up a healthy child
reading at school, with one of your daughters
the ancient history of Asia.
They might even fall in love
and give birth to a daughter [she would be Jewish by birth].
What, then, have you done now?
Your daughter is now a widow
and your granddaughter an orphan.
What have you done with your scattered family?
And how have you slain three doves in one story?

This verse was not
really necessary. Forget about the refrain
and forget about being economical with the pain.
It’s all superflous
like so much dross

The mist is darkness- a thick, white darkness
peeled by an orange, and a promising woman

The siege is lying in wait.
It is lying in wait on a tilted stairway
in the midst of a storm.

We are alone. We are alone to the point
of drunkenness with our own aloneness,
with the occasional rainbow visiting.

We have brothers and sisters overseas..
kind sisters, who love us..
who look our way and weep.
And secretly they say
“I wish that siege was here, so that I could…”
But they cannot finish the sentence.
Do not leave us alone. No.
Do not leave us alone.

Our losses are between two and eight a day.
And ten are wounded.
Twenty homes are gone.
Forty olive groves destroyed,
in addition to the structural damage
afflicting the veins of the poem, the play,
and the unfinished painting.

In the alleyway, lit by an exiled lantern,
I see a refugee camp at the crossroads of the winds.
The south rebels against the wind.
The east is a west turned religious.
The west is a murderous truce minting the coinage of peace.
As for the north, the distant north,
it is not a place or a geographical vicinity.
It is the conference of heavenly divinity.

A woman said to a cloud: cover my dear one,
for my clothes are wet with his blood.

If you are not rain, o dear one,
then be a tree,
fertile and verdant. Be a tree.
And if not a tree, o dear one
be a stone
laden with dew. Be a stone.
And if not a stone, o dear one,
be the moon itself
in the dreams of she who loves you. Be the moon itself.
[thus a woman said
to her son, in his funeral]

O you who are sleepless tonight, did you not tire
of following the light in our story
and the red blaze in our blood?
Did you not tire, you who are sleepless tonight?

Standing here. Sitting here. Always here. Eternally here,
we have one aim and one aim only: to continue to be.
Beyond that aim we differ in all.
We differ on the form of the national flag (we would have done well if we had chosen
o living heart of mine, the symbol of a simple mule).
We differ on the words of the new anthem
(we would have done well to choose a song on the marriage of doves).
We differ on the duties of women
(we would have done well to choose a woman to run the security services).
We differ on proportions, public and private.
We differ on everything. We have one aim: to continue to be.
After fulfilling this aim, we will have time for other choices.

He said to me, on his way to jail,
“When I am released I will know that praise of nation
is like pouring scorn on nation-
a trade like any other!

A little of the infinite blue
suffices
to reduce the burden of our times
and cleanse the mud from this place right now

The spirit needs to improvise
and walk upon its silken soles
by my side, as hand in hand, two old friends
we share a crust of bread
and an old flask of wine
walking the path together,
then our days fork off into two separate paths:
I to the unknown, and she
sits squatting upon a high rock

[to a poet] Whenever the sunset eludes you
you are ensnared in the solitude of the gods.
Be ‘the essence’ of your lost subject
and the subject of your lost essence. Be present in your absence

He finds time for sarcasm:
My telephone has stopped ringing.
My doorbell has also stopped ringing.
So how did you know
that I am not here?

He finds time for song:
Waiting for you, I cannot wait
I cannot read Dostoyevsky
nor listen to Umm Kalthum, Maria Callas or another.
Waiting for you, the hands of the watch go from right
to left
to a time without a place.
Waiting for you, I didn’t wait for you.
I waited for eternity.

He asks her, “What kind of flower is your favourite?”
She says, “The carnation. The black carnation.”
He asks her, “And where will you take me, with those black carnations?”
She says, “To the abyss of life within me.”
She says, “Further, further, further.”

This siege will endure until the besiegers feel, like
the besieged
that anger
is an emotion like any other.

“I don’t love you. I don’t hate you,”
The prisoner said to the interrogator. “My heart is full
of that which is of no concern to you. My heart is full of the aroma of sage.
My heart is innocent, radiant, brimming.
There is no time in the heart for tests. No.
I do not love you. Who are you that I may give my love to you?
Are you part of my being? Are you a coffee rendezvous?
Are you the wind of the flute, and a song, that I may love you?
I hate imprisonment. But I do not hate you.”
Thus a prisoner said to the investigator. “My feelings are not your concern.
My emotions are my own private night…
my night which moves from bed to bed free of rhyme
and of double meanings!

We sat far from our destinies, like birds
which build their nests in cracks in statues
or in chimneys, or in tents
erected on the prince’s path at the time of the hunt

On my ruins the shadows grow green
and the wolf sleeps on a hybernating poem,
dreaming, like me, and like a guardian angel,
that life is pure and free of label

Myths refuse to amend their patterns.
Perhaps they were struck by a crack in the hull;
perhaps their ships have been stranded on
a land without a people.
Thus the idealist was overcome by the realist.
But the ships will not change their mould.
Whenever an unpleasant reality crosses their path
they demolish it with a bulldozer.
The colour of their truth dictates the text: she is beautiful,
white, without blemish.

[to a semi-orientalist] Let’s say things are the way you think they are -
that I am stupid, stupid, stupid
and that I cannot play golf
or understand high technology
nor can fly a plane!
Is that why you have ransomed my life to create yours?
If you were another – if I were another
we would have been a couple of friends who confessed our need for folly
But the fool, like Shylock the merchant,
consists of heart, and bread, and two frightened eyes

Under siege, time becomes a location
solidified eternally
Under siege, place becomes a time
abandoned by past and future

This low, high land
this holy harlot…
we do not pay much attention to the magic of these words
a cavity may become a vacuum in space
a contour in geography

The dead besiege me with every new day
and ask me, “Where were you? Give back
to the lexicon all the words
you offered me
and let the sleepers sleep without phantoms in their dreams!
The dead teach me the lesson: there is no aesthetic beyond freedom

The dead point out to me: why search beyond the horizon
for the eternal virgins? We loved life
on earth, between the fig and the pine trees
but we couldn’t find our way even there. We searched
until we gave life all we owned: the purple blood in our veins

The dead besiege me. “Do not walk in the funeral
if you did not know me. I seek no compliments
from man nor beast

The dead warn me. “Do not believe their rejoicing.
Listen instead to my dad as he looks at my photo crying.
“How did you take my place, son, and jump ahead of me?
I should have gone first! I should have gone first!”

The dead besiege me. “I have only changed my place of abode and my furnishings.
The deer now walk on my bedroom’s roof
and the moon warms the ceiling from the pain
thus putting an end to my pain
to put an end to my wailing.”

and the moon warms the ceiling
to put an end to my wailing.”

This siege will endure until we are truly persuaded
into choosing a harmless slavery, but
in total freedom!

To resist: that means to ensure the health
of heart and testicles, and that your ancient disease
is still alive and well in you
a disease called hope

in the remains of the dawn I walk outside of my own body
in the remains of the night I hear the footsteps of my own being

I raise my cup to those who drink with me
to an awakening to the beauty of the butterfly
in the long tunnel of this dark night

I raise my cup to those who drink with me
in the thick darkness of a night overflowing with crippled souls
I raise my cup to the apparition in my being

[to a reader] Don’t trust the poem
She is the absentee daughter. She is neither an intuition
nor a surmise, but a sense of disaster

If love is crippled, I will heal it
with exercise and humour
and with separating the singer from the song

My friends are ever preparing a party for me-
a farewell party, and a comfortable grave in the shadow of the oak
together with a marble witness from the tombstone of time
But I seem to be first in attending their funerals.
Who has died today?

The siege is transforming me from a singer
to a sixth string on a five string violin

The deceased, daughter of
the deceased, who is herself daughter of the deceased, who is the deceased’s sister
The deceased resister’s sister is related by marriage to the mother of the deceased, who is grandaughter of the deceased’s grandfather
and neighbour to the deceased’s uncle (etc. ..etc.)
No news worries the developed world,
for the time of barbarism has passed
and the victim is Joe Bloggs. Nobody knows his name,
and the tragedy, like the truth, is relative (etc. ..etc.)

Quiet, quiet, for the soldiers need
at this hour to listen to the songs
which the dead resisters had listened to, and have remained
like the smell of coffee, in their blood, fresh

Truce, truce. A time to test the teachings: can helicopters be turned into ploughshares?
We said to them: truce, truce, to examine intentions.
The flavour of peace may be absorbed by the soul.
Then we may compete for the love of life using poetic images.
They replied, “Don’t you know that peace begins with oneself,
if you wish to open the door to our citadel of truth?
So we said, “And then?”

Writing is a small ant which bites extinction.
Writing is a bloodless wound.

Our cups of coffee, and the birds, and the green trees
with the blue shade, and the sun leaping from wall
to wall like a doe
and the waters in the skies of infinite shapes, in what is left to us
of sky…and other matters the memory of which has been put on hold
prove that this morning is strong and beautiful
and that we are guests of evermore

We report, you decide.

The three differences between SRK’s recent detention at Newark airport and Amir Obama’s tryst with destiny (wink, wink)  at the Chicago Airport are as follows:

The above constitutes conclusive evidence that Amir Obama is not a Khan, and hence can never claim, “My Name is Khan”. Had Amir been a Khan, his name would have  triggered a terrorist alert. The airport authorities, suffering from an acute case of Islamophobia, would have held & questioned him. Instead, Amir generated no such reaction, he was looked upon merely as a piece of meat. Amir just triggered a pervert’s lust.

Hopefully this forever ends the debate on Amir’s lineage. Amir is not a Khan.

• After the success of  SDM and a role in 24,  no one can seriously say that Anil Kapoor’s career  is over
• After working under SLB in Saboreriya (think “Jab Se Mere Naina” ), no one can seriously say that Ranbir Kapoor is still a virgin.
• After the super success of RNBDJ, no one can seriously say that that 2008 was a bad year for YRF
• After acquiring a double chin and a triple gut, no one can seriously say that trASH and Lil C are not meant for each other.
• After Tasveer & CCTC, no one can seriously say that Akshay is still anywhere near the top
• After  Woody Allen signed her for his next movie,  no one can seriously say that Freida Pinto is not the most happening  young Bollywood actress in Hollywood
• After the bitch slapping he got from i) SRK in Mohabbatein; ii) DK in Shakti; iii) Ayesha Kapoor & Rani in Black; iv) Manoj Bajpai in Aks etc (list is long), no one can serious say that  Big B is a great actor.
• After the expected flopping of Kati Patang & SLB’s next, no one will be able to seriously say that Lumbi Thoodi Natkhat Naak does not need Papa Roshan
• After using SRK in the promotion of Ghajini, no one can seriously say that Amir Obama can deliver a Block Buster on his own merits
• After the release and super success of MNIK, no one will be able to seriously say that K Jo is not IT

Unless you have moved to Mars, you probably know by now that  Kamaal R Khan has approached  SRK for his  mega budget superhero movie called “Mahdi, the ultimate superhero”.  To set the records straight we called SRK ‘s  office to confirm.  SRK’s  manager  informed us that indeed SRK has received the script from Kamaal R  Khan, but due to his injury and busy schedule, SRK has yet to read it.

On further investigation we were able to ascertain that Kamaal R Khan had also approached Amir Obama,  Hritikh Roshan,  Askhay Kumar and a few other  for the same role.  One of them  was so visibly upset by Kamaal R Khan’s double timing that he gave us a few pages  from the script that he had received. Hence Ladies and Gentlemen, my fellow members, I am proud to present to you the leaked portions from Kamaal R Khan’s “Mahdi, the ultimate superhero”.

In the capital of a Middle Eastern kingdom, it is “Arabian Idol” night.  The leaders and rain makers of the Arabian world have come together this night at the new Halliburtan Center on the equally new Simon Wiesenthal  Boulevard. The contest is about to begin.

The first contestant is George Bush, he comes on the stage like some royal primadonna , and sings in his now infamous Texan twang,

“Yaar dildaar tooje kaisa chaheeye, deen chaheeye, ke dunya chaheeye”

While George Bush struts like a peacock on the stage, Ronald Reagan turns in his grave, his vision for the Republicans blurred in the hands of compromised leadership.

Prince Baladi Bankasi stands up, blows  a kiss to Bush and shouts out loud, “We want you Booosh, we want you my Habibi”. Everyone nods, one even asks, “Is  Boooosh joking ? Does he seriously think that there will be any takers for Deen in the Middle East? Religion my friend has long vanished from this region, now it is all Politics “

Ahmedinejad, comes up next, he sings,

“Yeh duniya, yeh mehfil, tere kaam ki nahin, tere kaam ki nahin”

People start booing and throwing rotten tomatoes,  sadly he is not even allowed to complete the song, guards rush in to throw him out. Some people wonder how he got into the contest, while  a few in the audience also wondered why free speech does not apply to all ? Why is it that even jokes and parodies when they  mock us is OK , but in return we cannot even speak our minds or talk to each other?

NYC Times’ reporter in the audience twitters, “Ahmeddinejad has just threatened to blow up the world”.

Tony Blair is hurriedly pushed in to calm the audience down . He comes dressed like Ranbir Kapoor in Saboreiya, wearing just a towel.  To the steps of “Jeb Se Tere Naina” he sings,

“Aaadmi hoon aadmi se pyar karta hoon”

While dancing, Mr Blair allows the towel to slip a little (once in a while) so as to reveal his newly acquired Brazilian. With pouted lips and targeted winks Tony makes it abundantly clear that he is willing to allow a select few in the audience to have their way with him, as long as Britain the nation can have its way with Middle East.  A Sheikh from Q8 seeing Tony’s towel dance, SMSes to his architect to start work on Palace # 2009.

Slowly walking away from the audience with exaggerated swinging hips , Tony then breaks out into,

“Phoolon ke rang se, dil kee kalam se, tuz ko likhee roj baatein
kaise bataaoo kis kis tarah se, pal pal muze too satataa

tere hee sapane lekar ke soyaa, tere hee yaadon mein jaagaa
tere khayaalon mein ulzaa rahaa yoo jaise ke maalaa mein dhaagaa

baadal bijalee chandan paanee, jaisaa apanaa pyaar
lenaa hongaa janam humei kaee kaee baar
itanaa madeer, itanaa madhoor teraa meraa pyaar
lenaa hogaa janam humei kaee kaee baar”

The crowd now goes crazy. They start whistling & ululating. A few extra virile men in the audience start making a mental list of names that they could potentially give to their child from Tony. Ahmeddinejad is all but forgotten. Little does this audience know or care that this is exactly how Rome too was built on gold stolen from Egypt. This audience is just mesmerized by Tony’s grooming choice.

Benjamin Netanyahu sensing an opportunity comes in next. Obama’s recent coldness towards Israel is weighing him down.  Hoping to win over some new support he sings,

“Koi humdum na raha, koi sahara na raha, hum kissike na rahe, koi humara na raha “

Netanyahu lets a few crocodile tears trickle out of his eyes while emphasizing, “Koi sahara na raha”. Seeing Netanyahu cry, the audience starts sobbing.  Saudis get up and pledge that come next summer they will back Netanyahu’s brutal adventure in Lebanon. Egyptians double that by promising to support  Gazan genocide.

The lights fade out gently. When the curtain goes up again, to everyone’s horror, OBL is at the center stage, dressed like  Darth Vader, he looks like a Hollywood prop. He sings,

“Hum arbi pathan ki baat mut poochoji, jo pyar kiya, toh pyar kiya, Jo nafrat ki, toh bomb maar diya.”

Fear grips the audience. There is a pin drop silence,  the powerful suddenly look impotent. As usual the world looks to George Bush, who stands up and orders to shoot, “Kill him”, he says, “don’t worry about collateral damage”.

Just as mysteriously as he had appeared center stage a short while ago, OBL mysteriously disappears.  Not a single bullet touches OBL, but as usual, quite a few thousand innocent humans die that night. It is sad how  this bearded monster, and his goons, appear whenever there is a need to justify the killing of decent people or tarnish the institute of religion. OBL is there whenever the powers to be need to take over lands (e.g. Iraq). He is there whenever chaos has to be injected into a country (e.g. Pakistan) to destabilize it.We need to ask ourselves who does OBL actually works for. He certainly has done humanity no favors. From Indonesia  to North Africa to beyond, every home has paid a price for OBL’s deed.

One young child who lost his parents that night at the “Arabian Idol”, sets off on foot, like Ibn Batuta did centuries ago, on a “Journey to Mecca”.  Through treacherous terrain and harsh weather he belabors on to Mecca to ask God what was his crime that he took away his parents. With a heavy heart, tears in his eyes, weak legs but a strong resolve, he marches on to Mecca. On the very first sight of the Holy Kaaba, all sadness and misgivings dissapears,  tranquility overcomes him, he surrenders to the will of Allah. Prostrate on the ground,  he prays  for peace, for all people, all races, all over the world. He begs to God to send a superhero to free the world from oppression & injustice.  To restore free trade & free speech, and reduce the tax burden.  To free all occupied lands.

Allah(swt) in his infinite wisdom accepts his prayers, and sends down the Mahdi (the ultimate superhero).

Armed with the few pages from the script we headed to Kamaal R Khan’s office.  Kamaal denies ever sending the script to anyone except SRK.

“Something has gone wrong here. There has to be some mistake. Why would I send my script to Dwarf Khan, when I need King Khan and only King Khan.”, he asks.

Kamaal R Khan clarifies, “My script requires The Mahdi to descend from heaven onto the Grand Mosque in Damascus Syria. I need special effects, and  only Red Chillies has the capabilities to make this happen. This is why I need SRK”.

Kamaal further adds, “The movie has kick arse violence because the Madhi fights the oppressors (occupiers),  the arrogant (today’s sold out leaders) and the ignorant (OBL type fake religious leaders).  On top of that the movie is slightly preachy, because the Mahdi shows where we have gone wrong.  The movie has no songs, and like CDI does not have a conventional heroine. Only SRK can pull this off. Amir Obama will fall way short, no pun intended. ”

We ask Kamaal R Khan if he thinks SRK would accept his offer, he replies, “One way or the other, Allah will send me my Mahdi. You wait and see, this world needs an honorable superhero”.

So my friends, fellow members, let us wait and watch. Let us wait for “Mahdi, the ultimate superhero”.

It is another Friday, and we have “as expected”, another flop from the Bachchan Parivaar. Mathematically anything multiplied by zero is zero. Lil C, the “Kala Bandar”, is that zero in Bollywood, unfortunately he negates ROM’s efforts & Sonam Kapoor’s lovely presence, and turns Dilli Ka 6 into a forgettable experience. The film has no story or a central arch which one can follow. Even the songs in the movie seem wasted. I recommend that you download these songs and enjoy them independent of the movie.

The movie had the potential of being better than RDB, but it squanders its opportunity. For all his undeniable talent, I do not think that Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra has the ability to see the whole forest because he is so focused on the leaves. The details, independent of the whole movie, are brilliant even in Dilli Ka 6, unfortunately they do not come together in a satisfying or even a coherent manner. In this regard, Amir “Obama” Khan is missed, who is the single actor/filmmaker in Bollywood who could have stitched up this mess and made it into a “complete” movie capable of grabbing the audience by their collar. Simplifying a complex narrative into a palatable but interesting spoonful is Amir Obama’s forte. I think a ROM/Amir combo would have better organized the Raamleela/Kala Bander within the narrative, they would have made the movie into a qualified contender.

In its present format, the pitch of Dilli Ka 6 is aimed at the NRIs. I do not think those that live within the system can critique or even evaluate it objectively; personal experience is bound to interfere. Alas this opportunity is also wasted thanks to DK6’s zero hero, Lil C. Note how Lil C is incapable of breaking loose of the ensemble around him in the manner that Amir Obama did in a similar situation in RDB. Very few movies can recover from its lead hero’s inability to rise up and shine. In Dilli Ka K6, from Om Puri to Pawan Malhotra to Vijay Raaz to Sonam Kapoor, everyone and everybody outperforms Lil C. Throughout his career, Lil C has shown no ability to go toe to toe with any decent actor. Almost anyone can pull the rug from under his feet. DK6 suffers on account of Lil C poor acting talent. An ensemble movie can ill afford a weak link like Lil C. Nonetheless what kills Dilli Ka 6 is Lil C bad accent; perhaps he grew up in Queens, NY in a Desi Ghetto along with the transient computer jocks.

I never believed that I would live to say that I liked Swades. I liked SRK in that movie. I liked quite a few things about Swades, but AG and his preachy tone turned me off. It could have been a super hit, but for the peachiness and its stalker heroine. Fortunately it earned enough to qualify for an above average status at the BO. BUT, after watching Dilli Ka 6, I think I appreciate Swades a lot more. Dilli Ka 6 makes Swades seem like an all time classic.

The future of Dilli Ka 6 (like the future of the Kala Bandar, Lil C) at the box office is bleak. Nonetheless, let us reveal to you some other expected developments. Henceforward ROM will not be considered a “cutting edge” director anymore by the Bachchnistas . Likewise post “Ravan” Mani Ratnam will also be the poster child of ridicule. ONLY those directors that are willing to take the risk and work with Lil C and or Amitabh Doodhwala are considered “premium grade” directors by the Bachchanistas. Post Dlli Ka 6 and Ravan, director Balki will be praised, and genuine oracles of talent like K Jo and Adi will be as usual denounced because they REFUSE to work with Lil C.

One would think after yet another flop, Lil C would quit, but don’t get your hopes too high. Lil C’s father, the Big B has not given a solo hero hit since the early 80s. No solo hero hit in approx 25 years. If the father is comfortable eroding his Ms. Indira Gandhi gifted legacy, do you think the son would be any less comfortable dishing out flops ? Shame is not something that the Bachchan Parivaar or the Bachchanistas possess. Hence the question is not whether Lil C will quit, but when will trASH dump Lil C and return to Salman Khan?

Now that we have buried Dilli Ka 6, let us move on, mourning for more than three days is not good anyways. 2009 is ahead of us, the best is yet to come. My Name is Khan and 3 Idiots is still awaiting us. MNIK will definitely please you.

With Lil C by his side, Big B tried to distract the Slumdog Millionaire enthusiast by saying, “Slum Dog is nothing, forget Slum Dog, Ladies & Gentlemen, I present to you Juhu Bitch”

An artist in absence of creative energy is like a lame horse, a spent force; Just like creativity in absence of passion is just a waste of time. Seeing Anil Kapoor fully clothed in his passion at the Golden Globe Awards last night was a sight to behold, an artist alive and kicking. It is sad that Bollywood and India have come so far but not far enough to get an award or even a nomination for Anil Kapoor and his performance in “Slumdog Millionaire”

I admire how effortlessly Anil Kapoor, playing a character loosely based on Big B, was able to channel the intrinsic nastiness & evil within Big B and project it on the screen. Hats off to Anil Kapoor for his courage and also his performance. I agree with SRK that no one could have done this better. Perhaps SRK could have, but he did not want to be the bearer of bad news. Just putting Big B in place via the hip and cool Don was an act that most Bachchanistas cannot forgive him for. Imagine if he had ripped Big B a new one with the SDM role.

Credit has to be given to Vikas Swarup and Danny Boyle for doing their research. They don’t shy away from calling a spade a spade. They accurately portray that Big B is so surrounded with muck (scandals & dirty tricks) that one has to be willing to dive into “shit” in order to embrace Big B. I admire how Danny was able to say so beautifully, and so diplomatically, what I have been saying for years.

Overall a wonderful feel good movie that exposes the under belly of India, Bombay and Big B. Slumdog Millionare makes you believe in destiny. To all those who want to see a slice of India, this is the movie. It was great to see it receive so many awards. The movie, A.R. Rehman, and yes SRK, made India proud at the Golden Globe this year. SRK who introduced Slumdog at the Golden Globe, had the difficult role of being statesman like, humorous, charming, articulate & cool, all in a couple of minutes. Needless to say he nailed it. It makes you wonder if there is anything that SRK cannot do.

Hopefully the Globe awards are a harbinger of how things will play out at the Oscars.

There is no doubt that, inspite of so many flaws, Ghajini is a block buster hit. The box office response to Ghajini has been historical. Hats off to Ghajini. Amir Obama proves once again that he is an star actor almost in SRK’s league. Ghajini’s success is unique in many ways, for one, regardless of its flaws, we cannot lump the success of Ghajini along with Akshay’s (or Big B’s or Govinda’s) mindless comedies. While Askhay, or Govinda, or Big B in the two years of his Bollywood rein, made hay while the sun was shinning (basically the sun did all the work), Ghajini came at a time when the sun was unfavorable to action movies and yet it succeeded. Hence Ghajini is far better than all those crappy hits of Akshay or Govinda or Big B.

Nonetheless, let us analyze this a little. The success of Ghajini proves a few things.

1. Amir Obama is not the yard stick by which Bollywood measures quality. If Amir had been the measure of quality, than the critics would have penalized him for the obvious and numerous flaws in Ghajini. But, as we have seen, the critics overlooked all the flaws in Ghajini, which only means that they do not “really” expect ONLY quality from Amir Obama. One can argue that perhaps the genre of Ghajini allows cinematic liberty, but this argument falls short because critics have never taken into account cinematic liberties when evaluating SRK movies. Therefore in consideration of the fact that “What is good for the goose is good for the gander”, we have to accept that while quality is expected out of SRK and hence he is held upto that lofty standard, it is not equally expected out of Amir. Ghajini’s success destroys the Bachchanista perpetuated myth that Amir represents quality.

2. Amir is perhaps one of the most intelligent film maker is Bollywood. He like Raj Kapoor, is a better film maker than an actor (not that I am saying he is a bad actor). When faced with an hurdle called SRK, Amir invented a new paradigm, “less is more”. Perhaps, Amir was hoping that somewhere along the line SRK would fumble, and give him the opportunity to grab the ball and score a goal. Unfortunately for Amir, SRK is like the legendary horse Seabiscuit, SRK runs faster when he hears approaching footsteps. Amir’s “less is more” strategy just took him beyond the lame dilapidated horses like the Bachchans, but still left him trailing Seabiscuit. It was hence time for the intelligent Amir Obama to abandon the “less is more” strategy and adopt a new one. He figured, “if you cannot beat them, join them”. For a genuine respectable block buster (not the Akshay or Govinda or Big B kind), Amir realized that he needed SRK. Hence, the very gifted Amir decided to ride SRK’s coattails. Ghajini was therefore released along with SRK’s RNBDJ. The PR campaign of Ghajini was planned using SRK & RNBDJ as a platform. Paid journalist were placed amongst the crowd at Ghajini events to insert SRK into the discussion. Amir talked about SRK almost as if SRK was a part and parcel of Ghajini. At some events he talked less about Ghajini and more about SRK. The results of this new strategy is there for all to see. Ghajini’s success is therefore less of Amir’s success and more or SRK’s success. Mind you, it was SRK and RNBDJ which brought back the audience to the theaters after 26/11. The year 2008 has therefore proven that one needs SRK for a genuine block buster hit. If you cannot have SRK in your movies, atleast like Amir Obama and Vivek Vaswani, build him into your PR campaign.

Ever since I promised a few friend that I will recite a few lines from Haribhari Chatpati’s last but incomplete poem, they have been pestering me with emails on a daily basis. So here goes nothing. The few lines that I am about to recite is not as popular as the same poet’s “Rail Gaadi”, infact most people don’t even know of the existence of this poem. Try to sing it with the same enthusiasm as Ashok Bimar did “Rail Gaadi”.

Maamu Ke Mummeh Dus Kilo Ke Hai

Maamu Ke Mummeh Bees Kilo Ke Hai

Maamu Ke Mummeh Keetne Kilo Ke Hai

Bolo Re Bolo Maamu Ke Mummeh Keetne Kilo Ke Hai

The above few lines form a trick question, don’t even try answering it because Maamu’s left Mummah (the one that points towards south west) is smaller than Maamu’s right Mummah (the one that points towards south east). But, be warned,

Hai Goozarish Ke Aaap Na Jaao Pass Pass

Because Maamu Ke Mummeh Hai Fail Fail

Yes you heard it here first. The movie is a cluster bomb. Allow me to put it this way, take one cup of spicy sambhar and pour it like the illustrious British chef Shaan Khan of the Rajput (a different Shaan Khan not me), into a large bowl. Add to that bowl, four large table spoons of sweet Punjabi Rubdi. Now insert you index finger in your nostril and pull out a few boogers. Add the boogers to the bowl, and stir it with the same index finger that you had inserted in your nostrils. After stiring for few minutes, taste the blend. If you like it, you will like Ghajini, the braless Rajni.

As far as I am concerned, I have begun to like sambhar (ever since I found the secret to making an awesome sambhar) by itself or with Iddly. I also like Rubdi, although my trainer forbids me to eat it. But I cannot tolerate them blended together. Furthermore I am not into boogers. Unfortunately Ghajini has too many boogers. Hence those that are adventurous enough to try this bizarre blend of sambhar (extreme action) and rubdi (extreme romance), please watch out for the boogers. I say, it is best to stay away. Maamu Ke Mummeh is fail fail.

Just when the news of RNBDJ’s block buster week was tricking through, Newsweek announced that SRK is amongst the 50 top most powerful men IN THE WORLD. SRK fans have gone into a celebration mode while Bachchanistas (some masquerading these days as Akshay and or Amir fans just like they were once posing as Ajay “Pan Stain” Devgan and Sunny Deol fans) have gone into depression. Needless to say we feel sad for the Bachchanistas. Using Bubba Clinton’s words, “ I feel their pain”. I want the Bachchanistas to know that I am there for them in their hour of need. Should they need a shoulder to cry over, I am there. Should they need someone to listen to them babble, I am there.

To S S Sunderum, in particular, I want to reach out and say that this does not mean the end of the world. There will be a new dawn tomorrow, the sun will rise again. Please continue posting your lengthy illogical dribble. Your selective and unfair condemnation of SRK has unified and energized the SRK fan base. S S Sunderum, you my demented homie, are the wind below the wings of SRK fans. Without your hate filled post, SRK could have never done it. In the absence of your post I would not have taken the time or the trouble to write on behalf of truth & justice. Please do not stop, because most SRK fans would like to see SRK become the PM of India some day, and you my bitter looser, have the power in your poisonous pen to make this dream come true.

Ladies & Gentlemen, my friends, SRK is like that legendary horse, “Seabiscuit”. He runs faster when he hears approaching footstep. On any given day, SRK is a winner but when faced with competition, he becomes invincible, he becomes infinity. For instance, consider RNBDJ . Two of the best things about RNBDJ (we cannot state all the good things about RNBDJ because the list is too long) are, i) Adi abandoned his comfort zone and made an against the grain risky movie and ii) In keeping with the demands of the story that Adi wanted to tell, he intentionally kept the budget low (RNBDJ is relatively a low budget movie with little or no promotion either). These two factors (amongst so many factors) have made RNBDJ an iconic movie that people would be talking about for years to come. Success notwithstanding, many people still cannot get over the fact that Adi took the risk of making a low budget movie. People invariably ask, where did the courage come from ? The answer is very simple. The answer is that the courage stems from SRK. SRK is infinity and almost anything multiplied by infinity becomes infinity. The low budget of RNBDJ when it is associated with SRK becomes priceless. This is why Producers want SRK at any cost. Compare that with Lil C. Daraaouna had a huge budget, but when combined with a zero like Lil C, the whole movie became worthless and that is why Lil C as a lead anchor actor, has no future in Bollywood.

Bollywood today is in a transition. It is becoming more fragmentized like good old Hollywood. The era of one sole King is over. In time to come we will see an establishment of a multi polar structure, one king for each segment of the market. Nonetheless, SRK remains the solo king for the moment, the last of the Mohicans. Recent events have made this fact abundantly clear. Hence for the time being the wanna bees of Bollywood should take consolation in the fact that they had the privilege of also running. Akshay, Amir & Co should learn to wear their loss to SRK as a badge of honor. Those that attempt to topple SRK will like S S Sunderum only increase SRK’s longevity. Akshay and Amir should take note of the disastrous consequence of a similar attempt by Big B. To begin with, Big B made a run at SRK when everything around him was falling apart. It was a kamikaze attempt to revive a dead career. It was Big B’s attack on Pearl Harbor. Forget “not having a pot to piss in”, Big B when he tried butting head with the great Khan did not have “a dick to piss with”. Years of poor script selection and failures had already castrigated Big B . Hence, Akshay and Amir do injustice to themselves when they attempt to do a Big B. Both of these guys have a lot working for them and need not be as desperate as Big B. Unfortunately, it might take the failure of Ghajini, the braless Rajni (aka MKM) for Amir Obama to learn that you don’t mess with SRK and win. Perhaps someone should just send a copy of the latest Newsweek to Amir Obama. SRK is the king of Bollywood and will remain the king till he willingly abandons the throne.