On hindsight, he felt he should have seen this coming. It had been a horrible weekend from the very start. On Friday, there was that horrible royal wedding which he had to endure sitting with his youngest wife. She had kept sobbing and ooh-oohing “so cute” throughout, an experience worse than having a camel bite your balls. And he knew what was like, having experienced it many years ago. He had reminded her that she too was married to a prince. But somehow she didn’t seem to be too pleased by that observation. Saturday, the weather had been horrible and the kababs had been over-cooked. But nothing could have prepared him for this shocker on Sunday morning.

‘I am sorry. We have to lay you off. Or in your case, lay you out.’

He tried to sweep away the rising tide of panic. “I thought we had an arrangement Tariq. You guys pretend to hunt me. The US pays you millions for that. You use it to buy candy, perhaps a few guns. Some of it goes to the Kashmiris and some of it goes into protecting me so that you can get the next installment. From time to time, you guys kill some shepherd and pass him off as Al Qaeda’s No 3 man.  I thought this was all going well. Why do you want to get rid of the golden egg now, of all times?

Tariq adjusted his military cap, impatiently. ‘See that’s the problem. You have become so isolated from the world. Forgive me for saying this but that you are now a fossil, Like Simi the White. That arrangement you talked of that was with the old boss, the Mushy General. The new boss wants to do things different. And he has to. The world has changed sir. The US wants to withdraw from Afghanistan steadily and they cannot do it without answering to one question to their people “So what have we achieved?”

If you are killed, then they have that answer. Perfectly concise. And simple enough so that the dumbest can get it. You know the ones who enjoy Justin Bieber.

And this provides  their president an “achievement” before the next elections, and trust me sir he needs a few if he wants to win. For us too, in the ISI, getting the US to leave would be good. We are sick and tired of this war, sick and tired of the problems in transporting opium past those predator drones. The Yanks laying off a bit is exactly what we want. To be honest sir, the US has cottoned onto our little game of jihadi blackmail for a long time. It just couldn’t have gone on.  When we give you to them, we will get a bagful of chips which we can then cash in for more diplomatic pressure on the Indians on Kashmir and Afghanistan and more arms and ammunition for us.

Plus we need the Taliban back on our side—this good and bad distinction shit no longer works. Remember why the US went after Taliban in the first place? They were fine with those people when they acted as agents for that Indian plane we hijacked. Nothing really terrorist about that, in the eyes of the Americans. It was when they put their ass on the line for you that the US went after them and “Taliban” became a dirty word. With you gone, the Taliban will once again be rehabilitated by the US (perhaps under different names), past sins will be forgotten, and we can get back to doing what we brought them up for—controlling Afghanistan and later on Kashmir.’

He was angry now, spluttering with rage. ‘ You think you guys are going to get away by hanging me out to dry. Does your boss have any idea of my value, what I mean to the Islamic world?Do you think your countrymen are going to let you get away with handing their biggest hero over like that? And even forgetting that, who will be your jihadi master-mind?’

Tariq kept his cool. ‘With due respect sir, you were a jihadi master-mind, around the time when people thought Christina Aguilera would be the future of music and that Parthiv Patel would be India’s wicketkeeping-batsman superstar. Perhaps it’s because you cannot show your nose to the sun. But the fact is you have lost a lot of your operational influence. We have better brains now, people whose names the Yanks don’t know, who manage the business well. No one much watches your videos too any more—- why there were more downloads of the Asmit Patel-Ria Sen sex video than your latest missive. Your significance, if anything, is merely that of a symbol—and a symbol becomes more powerful when the man behind it is dead..’

‘So what you are saying is that you have found your Sachin, Pollard, Rayadu, Harbhajan and Malinga and that I have become a Shikhar Dhawan who you can comfortably let go.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself. Just because Ronald McDonald’s dies doesnt mean McDonald’s closes down ! Just because Heffner dies doesnt mean boys will stop playing….’

Tariq coughed, somewhat apologetically.. ‘You see, sir, you were always a foreigner. You have always had Palestine and the US as your focus. We here care just about Kashmir and the destruction of India. In all these years, you never did much about Kashmir did you except one or two words in your speeches? We had to do 26/11 all-by-ourselves with no  input from you or your near foreigner friends. And it went off bloody well too if I may say so.

So just put yourself in our shoes, what value do you have for us in this the new world order? The stage has been set for your demise already. Mr 10% has already taken 2.5 million, the 10 per-cent off your booty. The Taliban are on the path to rehabilitation. Within some time, Al-Qaeda  with their Palestine focus shall wane in Pakistan to be replaced by more India-facing Jihadi groups, baksheesh from the US will come in ting-a-ling and we will resume our activities in Afghanistan and then in Kashmir with Taliban friends freed up from having to fight the US.’

‘You have made a mistake. The good Muslims of this country won’t forget your treachery.’ He was hyper-ventilating now, the warm spit drooling down the side of his mouth.

‘We have that managed. This will be spun as an entirely Yankee operation—-we Pakistanis had no idea you were here. And so of course telling the Americans and cooperating them does not arise. There might be some anguish on the streets but don’t worry it will be directed at the Yanks and at the moron President. If he gets bumped off as a result, all the better.’

His head slumped onto his chest. They had figured this out pretty well. ‘So what happens now?’

‘ They will come soon. They will run about like they do in the movies, no American will be injured, bullets will fly and that will be that. Some people may ask how come the Americans faced so little resistance inside the mansion, considering how strong your security perimeter has always been. They might say that this shows that we gave you away. But those won’t be too many people.’  Tariq said, smiling for the first time.

He felt sick, sick to the base of his stomach. And scared.

‘Can’t you get me off, for old times sake? I mean at least let me know who wins DID Champs—Team Jalwa or Team Josh and whether KKR makes the play-offs? Please.’

‘Sorry no can do big-man. The deal has been made. It has to be on a Sunday to make the Monday morning headlines. Bad news on Friday night, good news on Sunday night—-remember? So today and now it has to be.’

Tariq turned towards the door and stopped. With his back towards him, he said, in a hushed whisper, ”Good-bye sir.’ Then he walked away briskly, before breaking into a half-run.

He sat silent, hearing and not hearing, counting now the seconds till they would burst in. Images of two buildings floated in his mind, of people, their faces twisted in fear, running about or calling their loved ones one last time, of metal melting, of flames, of men and women waiting for their inevitable death, terrified and alone.  He had seen these images before. Every time he had told himself—they had deserved it, those infidels. They had deserved the wrath of God. But then why was he today, just like them, waiting helplessly..waiting for the end?

No answer came. The deafening sound of a hovering helicopter blotted out his final thoughts.

Dad (not looking up from the newspaper): Why?

Son: You know I did not get through to a merit seat in engineering or medical. I need the money for capitation fees. You know none of this would not have happened if you had only managed to get a fake SC/ST certificate right? Or if our grandads had been like oppressed, depressed and suppressed like centuries ago?

Dad: Stop blaming me for everything. Its not my fault that your mother’s second cousin took our money claiming to have a jugaad in the Panchayat and ran away with all we paid him.

Son: She told me the guy who screwed you was her friend from college. I didn’t know she was her second cousin.

Dad: Well whatever. I dont have any money to give you soon. I am not Reddy uncle that gets crores a day from mining interests.

Son: What are your organs for Dad?

Dad: Sorry Son. I am saving my kidney for a Droid X. Your mother already used hers up for an iPhone. And she cannot even listen to all the calls her “second cousin” makes her as they keep getting dropped because of the position she holds the unit in. Serves her right….

Son: Well Dad what about my kidney?

Dad: Well what about it?

Son: Can’t we sell it for my education?

Dad: Oh I forgot to tell you. We sold that years ago—why exactly I cannot remember off-hand.

Son:  That sucks.

Dad: Yes sorry son. We are flat broke. My dad raised money to send me to the Idiotic Institute of Pottery Management and you know how well that turned out. No job ever, just a bunch of soft skills and I have spent my life counting chickens and eggs. I am not going to make his mistake with respect to you, i.e. pay for a worthless education.

Son: But then what the hell am I going to do?

Dad: Here is an idea. Yes the more I think about it the better I think it is. Go into the jungles and become a Naxalite terrorist. Kill some cops, plant some bombs, spring some ambushes —it’s just like playing Counterstrike except in real life.

Son: You mean make money from extortion?

Dad: Well no I meant this great scheme the West Bengal government has announced for the rehabilitation of terrorists.

The West Bengal government on Wednesday announced a surrender-cum-rehabilitation policy for the Maoist guerrillas with immediate effect.

As per the package, based on guidelines formulated by the union home ministry, surrendering Maoists would get a monthly stipend of Rs.2,000 for a period of three years, while the state government would make a fixed deposit of Rs.1.5 lakh for three years for each.

Once the fixed deposit matures, the entire money would be handed over to the rebel if he shows good conduct for three years.

Son: You mean the government will pay me this amount of money for essentially promising to not be a criminal, after being one for a few years?

Dad: Absolutely son. Taxpayer’s money exists to bring “misguided” youth back into the mainstream, not for the well-guided youth who play by the rules.

Son: But why do I need to go to the jungles Dad? You know how much I hate big ants. Can’t I just do blow up a few schools here in the city and extort a few diamond merchants?

Dad: God, you are not too bright are you? Well I guess I should not have dropped you on your head when you were seven months old. The thing is that rural guerrilla warfare against corporations and the government is romantic. Doing the same thing in the cities is a law and order crisis. You won’t get any sympathy or rehab cash for that. Plus the international literati hasnt really taken up any urban violence cause yet as in they are not made out to be Robin Hoods as much as the jungle hoods are.

Son: Hey can’t I be someone like those people you once told me about, the champagne liberals who jet-set around the world, ink expensive book deals from corporate publishing houses, rail against corporations, US, Israel and India, and then try their best to get themselves to get arrested so that they ultimately get a Nobel prize? Honestly that sounds likes more fun than hiding in a bush full of ants holding a gun.

Dad: Well son, for that to happen, you need to be erudite. You however speak like a heavyweight boxer who has taken too many blows to the head. And neither would you be described in the press as “An explosion of curly black hair…showcases nearly childlike, saucer eyes and cheekbones that erupt the moment she talks or smiles“.  The truth is that you look as pretty as a character from a Ram Gopal Verma creation, the kind that sits in the dark in a Sarkar film.

Son: What to do Dad? I am just a reflection of you.

Dad:  Well knowing your mother, I am not too sure of that. Any case there are possibilities son if you adopt the path of violence. If after a few years you think the government stipend isnt to your liking and you would like to go for advanced study, you can go to the MIT for terrorism—Pakistan. Funding opportunities there are ample—-even if you cannot qualify for the  billion-dollar Kerry-Lugar fellowships unwittingly paid for by US citizens, even the Ten-per-cent Zardari scholarships would go quite a way in a place like the Afghan border. Trust me son, there is no better place in the world for this kind of education. Once you get a training in Pakistan, you can go anywhere in the world and I have heard that if you are a top performer, they organize a boat trip to India as part of your terminal practical training (TPT).

Son: Just a question. This joining Naxals and then going to Pakistan—this does sound kind of risky. What if I like die?

Dad (Looking up from the newspaper): Dying is tough. But it happens to all of us ultimately. The best thing about dying as a terrorist is that people, trying to win a Nobel Peace Prize or appear exaltedly liberal to their friends, will mourn your death and make you out to be some kind of hero. For the rest of us, who will die in a train accident in Bengal or will have their lights extinguished while making way for a VIP’s vanity posse or will be murdered for not buying a birthday gift,  there is not even the glory of a single tear drop. Better die loved and feted than cold and forgotten.

Son: I love you Dad. You are really the best.

Dad: Yes I know.

It was a quiet night. A stiff wind blew in from the west making the heat slightly less oppressive than on other days.

Rabin-babu was on the porch, reclining on an ancient chair. Nights in the village were always quiet. And today it was even quieter. There was a fair going on a few miles away and it seemed that the entire village was away.

Silence. That was what he had been seeking ever since he had arrived at his ancestral home ten days ago. Not that he had found too much of it.  Every evening there would be someone who would drop in—the postman, the village headmaster, the local political dada, the owner of the brick kiln and once they ensconced themselves with tea and biscuits it would be quite a few hours before they would leave.

Rabin-babu understood. Nothing much happens here. And they don’t much see anyone new. Given that, his sudden unexpected arrival from the city was indeed big news making him as much the object of curiosity as the circus clown and as much the subject of gossip as that girl who ran away with the low-caste sweeper four years ago. So whether these people who visited him every evening were genuinely interested in discussing the price of chicken feed and the latest happenings in Kolkata or were just looking to check him out, the last surviving scion of the Zamindar family who had never before in the last fifty years ever been seen here, Rabin-babu never quite figured out.

Today however there were no hangers-on. Today he was free from the ordeal of having to listen to them yapping away, from having to politely keep an interested smile on his face, from having to make the occasional exclamation or the “chuk chuk” sympathetic noise. Today he was free to just look at the stars and listen to the gentle chorus of the crickets.

Despite the frequent inane interactions he had to labor through, Rabin-babu liked it in the village. Here at least he was “somebody”.  Perhaps mainly an object of curiosity but there was no denying the accompanying respect. He was after all still the Zamindar-babu’s son. And though the big house was empty save him and the old servant and though the glories of old were a thing of the past, people here still remembered his lineage .  If indeed there was anything about the discussion of the mysterious cattle illness which killed Gopinath’s healthy cows or the need for a new room in the village school that he enjoyed, it was the hushed reverential tones of the interlocutors.

He was sure of it. Here he felt at home. It was almost a world away from his life in the city. There in Kolkata Rabin Ghosh was a nobody. A nameless faceless cog in the machine.  A government employee—the kind that used to be called a “clerk” till it became no more fashionable to use that term.

Thirty years. Of coming to work amidst the sweat and grime of the local train surrounded by the filth of city life. Of sitting at the same table shifting files from one pile to another. Quietly.

If there was one word that people would use about Rabin-babu, it was “quiet”. He didn’t engage in union-baazi. He didn’t sell insurance policies on the side. He didn’t deal with touts. He didn’t leave his table to discuss politics with the rest. He didn’t attend union meetings. He didn’t gherao superiors. He didn’t go upstairs to flirt with the third floor typists. He didn’t play bridge.

Of course all this meant he didn’t have friends at work . People maintained a certain distance from him. Rabin-babu preferred it that way. It was not that he was rude, he would have a conversation now and then. But most of the time he  kept to himself and after thirty years people knew to respect his privacy.

Not that people who want to be left alone usually are. But Rabin-babu, a loner with no family, had no scandal surrounding him and absolutely no color being the most ordinary of men doing the most ordinary of jobs with the most ordinary of pasts and the most ordinary of futures.

And so noone at work expressed any interest in him at all. Which of course suited Rabin-babu fine.

Then one day it happened.

There had been a rail-roko near Sealdah. Rabin-babu had to get down from the train and walk a distance, silently baking  in the heat amidst the stream of humanity.  This had made him late for work. Not that anyone cared. But he did. Because he was never late. The tea that Chotu served that day was different—-it was pale and lacked flavor. Not that this was a  rare occurrence in itself but still two things never went wrong in his monotonous life at the same time. Definitely not like this.

But what disturbed him most was the fan.

For thirty years he had sat under the same fan. Had become accustomed to its “chai pok pok” creaky rhythm. Today as he leafed through yet another moldy file, he realized that the fan was moving differently. In a funny, jerky sort of way as if he was watching a movie with a few frames missing.

Not only that. It was talking to him.

Rabin-babu was sure of it. He stopped several times and looked up at the fan. He kept working. He took out his tiffin carrier and had his lunch of two slices of bread and potato curry. The potatoes had hard centers—the kind he hated and the bread tasted stale. He threw away his lunch. That made it the third thing that had gone wrong.

He tried to work. But the fan. It went on and on. He thought of turning it off but then in April doing that would invite questions from those sitting at nearby tables, more so since they were also being served by the same fan.

The whispers grew steadily in strength.

By now Rabin-babu thought he could clearly make out the words.

Live. Live. Live.

The next thing Rabin-babu remembered was that people were rushing to him with agitation and fear writ on their faces. But he himself could hear nothing. Except the sound of the fan. And a feeling of overpowering warmth. Then he passed out.

At the hospital, the doctors told him what had happened. Evidently he had taken the paper knife on his table and had started slicing up his wrists.  Yes him the quiet Rabin-babu. Had tried to kill himself at the same table where he had worked for thirty years. At the same table where he had hidden from people behind the mountains of files and the wall of silence.

Rabin-babu had lost a lot of blood. But even more importantly for him, he had lost his anonymity. Now he would have to put up with stares and endure hushed whispers—from the peons on the first floor and the lady typists on the third–”There goes that old sod who tried to commit suicide at his desk”.

This he felt he could not deal with. At least not now.

So Rabin-babu had applied for leave. The application was readily approved.  Boro-babu, his boss, had been understanding. He agreed that Rabin-babu needed some time alone, somewhere away from the hustle-bustle, somewhere away from the stress. The fact that Rabin-babu hardly ever took a day off also worked in his favour.

And so here he was. At his ancestral village home. The remembrance of what had brought Rabin-babu to this place gave him a momentary shudder. But presently as he looked towards Narayan-bari and the quiet darkness that had descended upon it, he again found silence.

Narayan-Bari. The old  Narayan temple that had been his family’s, once the hub of the village, a spot now taken by the new community center (the “aatchala”). The idol was still there and every year Rabin-babu would send a substantial amount of money for its upkeep. The rest of the money needed for temple maintenance came from small donations and income from the plots of land that Rabin-babu still owned in the village. Which admittedly after land reforms and encroachment was not much.

The Narayan idol was evidently very potent (what the villagers call “awake”) and people from far off would come to do darshaan. Not that it translated into much income thought Rabin-babu wryly. But it still remained the focus of local lore. The childless woman who bore two sons after a night at the temple. The blind man who sat in front of the idol without food or sleep for fifteen days and regained his sight. The death knell.

The death knell story. A few days ago he heard it from a distant cousin, a fairly regular visitor whose main reason for dropping in regularly Rabin-babu suspected was to get him to invest in his floundering poultry operation. The story goes that, very rarely, supposedly once every generation, the idol “cries out”. That is there is a sound that originates from the temple— typically at night. And among all those who hear that sound, it is written that one must die before the next sunset.

What kind of sound would this be?” Rabin-babu asked more out of politeness than anything else.

According to his cousin, those who hear it know. Evidently Rabin-babu’s grandfather heard it the night before he passed away. So did his father.

Rabin-babu couldn’t help but smile to himself. Considering his father was perennially drunk (or so he had heard since he had no memories of him) it was unlikely that the Lord would call out to him or that his father would recognize such a call. His father’s liver had given away one fine morning, to no one’s surprise, and that was the story.

But whatever it be Rabin-babu always liked a good yarn. More than the yarns themselves what Rabin-babu really liked was the way villagers spin their little legends—their eyes would open up wide, their shoulders would drop, they would look once around to check for invisible presences as if that in itself made their little stories more believable. Rabin-babu played along of course and would nod his head and mumble something on the lines of “One never knows” but of course he knew that these  tales were invented only to add a spark of excitement amidst the humdrum of village life.

Lost in his thoughts, Rabin-babu dozed off.  He woke up suddenly.

There had been a distinct though not loud clang. Framed against the silence, it had been enough to wake him up. The sound Rabin-babu was pretty sure of —it was the sound of metal being dashed onto a hard surface.

What however made him pause for a split second was where the sound had come from.

Narayan-Bari.

Rabin-babu quickly got up. He grabbed the heavy torch that lay at his side. The Nayan-Bari was barely fifty yards away from the porch. He had to find out what had caused the sound. The temple should be empty now and locked. What could be the cause of…

It did not take long to see what was wrong. The lock on the temple door was broken. Suspecting the worst, Rabin-Babu opened the metal door and shone the torch light straight at the idol.

And there he saw him. The thief. He was stripping the idol of its jewelery and putting it all in a bag. The other metallic utensils that lay about were also gone, one of which while stuffing in he had evidently let slip causing the noise.

The thief, who had obviously thought that the village was empty, was startled at the presence of another human being. So startled that he kept standing there looking at Rabin-babu.

Rabin-babu was startled too. Not because of the thief. But because the wind, that had been blowing gustily through the open door, was whispering something he had never thought he would hear again. Or perhaps he had hoped not to.

Live. Live. Live.

This time it was different though. He knew what it meant. In Kolkata he had been dead, buried alive by his insignificance and his silence. So he had obeyed the voice from the fan in the way he thought was the most logical. He had tried to escape death by ending his life.

But today logic dictated otherwise. Two people had heard the sound from the Narayan Bari. He and the thief. Just two people.

One of them had to die before the sun set tomorrow.

And Rabin-babu was sure it was not going to be him. He would not allow it.

That left him with only one other option.

The heavy torch made a smooth graceful arc in the darkness as it descended with full force. There was no sound this time except a soft dull thud.

Rabin-babu stepped out of the temple. His heart was beating fast. The sweat trickled in rivulets down his back. The crickets were chirping louder than usual. The wind had picked up its intensity—–there was possibly going to be a storm.

Rabin-babu looked up at the sky. And closed his eyes.

And for the first time, in many years, he felt alive.

In the world’s premier nuclear physics research facility CERN (Chattisgarh Entropy Research Nigam), Dr. Ganga (played by Mandira Bedi) , expert on super-string theory (she calls them noodle straps), has been able to isolate what high energy physicists call the Mamata particle, a sub-atomic “Nano” particle produced by colliding Jyoti Bosons.

The power of the M-particle is so enormous that if it comes in contact with matter, it will create a catastrophic explosion. So catastrophic in fact that there will never be any industry or prosperity within 250 miles of that cataclysm. Ever. Which is why Dr. Ganga keeps the M-particle in an egg-shaped vacuum chamber (called the Charu Sharma container) under high security.

But then one day she finds a Charu Sharma container full of M-particles gone.

The scene shifts to Harvard University, Ooty campus where Professor of Symbology, Bimbology and Dialogbaazi Krishnan Iyer PhD (also known as Robert “Langda Don”), former faculty at Lund University [played by who else but Mithun-da], is cavorting in a swimming pool with seven 250 lb female research assistants in skimpy clothing (played by seven baby whales from San Diego zoo).

A gentleman (Joginder) introduces himself as an emissary from the International Cricket Council. A crisis has arisen during the elections for the ICC president. The four “chosen ones”, out of which one would be elected as the new president, have been kidnapped.

And a mysterious message has been left, a message that only “Langda Don” can decipher.

A detached testicle.

Balla re Balla.

The “Langda Don” (Dushman ke lashon pe bhangra karne waale kabhi langda naheen hote) immediately recognizes this as a sign that the Testis-a-rati have returned (hence the testis).

So who are these people?

As the eminent “Magna cum laude ” scholar informs us—–the Testis-a-rati is a secret cabal of Test match connoisseurs who have a blood oath to obliterate the T20 form of cricket from the face of the earth. Because of this, they have been driven into hiding by the retributive activities of the T20-loving ICC. These detached gonads and the kidnapping of the chosen ones seem to be their revenge on their historic nemesis, the ICC.

Flying over to London where the ICC elections are being held, the “Langda Don” meets “The Lala” Modi (played by Shakti Kapoor), the man behind the ICC and a T20 faithful of the highest order. Modi tells the “Langda Don” that there have been other developments.

A mysterious video has been sent to the ICC, a video in which a figure calling himself the “fake IPL player” sitting in the shadow and claiming to be a “Testis-a-rati” master has threatened to execute the four ICC-president hopefuls using the ancient Test tortures (bat like Shastri, bowl like Raghuram Bhatt, field like Sandip Patil and umpire like Shakoor Rana) following which he will detonate the M-particles, hidden somewhere in the ICC headquarters.

Modi impresses on the “Langda Don” that this insidious plan needs to be stopped and the ICC’s billions need to be saved. He demands immediate action.

“Langda Don” will have nothing of it. At least not before he takes a strategy break in which he dances, along with Dr. Ganga also drafted into the cause, to “Swarg main milegi mujhe apsara yakeen hai, lekin aapne gaon ki gori bhi to haseen hai,  husn ko deedar kiya to kya buda kiya, kisi se jo pyar kiya kya buda kiya. Bolo…maine koi buda kiya”.

The “Langda Don” then reveals his plan. The only way to foil the plot of the “fake IPL player” would be to travel the secret Testis-e-rati route. And the clue as to where the first step in the path can be found would only be obtained by analyzing the transcripts of the commentary given by Arun Lal, a secret Testis-e-rati master who sought to escape ICC censure by hiding secret clues about the organization through his commentary, intentionally made inane (“It is raining. It is wet all around.”) to hide its intrinsic profundity.

A dangerous journey now starts for the Langa Don and Dr. Ganga from the ICC’s top-secret library.

A journey that combines insight, courage and pure genius as Langda Don cracks one code after another and still gets a glimpse at Ganga’s top quarks from time to time (which may be the reason why he sometimes mumbles to himself ” Apun ko massive hadron hain”).

A journey that takes them to the temples of Test cricket— public restroom in Eden Gardens, Shane Warne’s kit bag,  the Long room at Lords where clues are obtained from random things like in which direction the flush is aligned in the broken urinal at the High Court end of the Eden Gardens.

A journey in which Langda Don reveals many ancient Test secrets—like why Mohinder Amarnath carried a red hankerchief in his pocket, what Vengsarkar said to Malcolm Marshall for which he never ever forgave him, why Sambaran Banerjee never played Test cricket. Not to be outdone, Dr. Ganga also uncovers many things about Schrodinger’s pussy we never knew of.

A journey where the shadowy “fake IPL player” is always a step ahead of them as corpses drop like catches from the hands of Dilip Doshi with their seared chests branded with logos of IPL corporate partners.

How will it end? Will the M-particles be released creating Kolkata in London (as opposed to London in Kolkata which the Trinamool Congress has promised us)? Will the world be saved by the Langda Don? Will Dr. Ganga’s noodle straps hold up? And most importantly will the Testes-a-rati master be unmasked and the victory of T20 be made complete?

To find out watch “Pariyon Aur Haiwanon”.

—————-

Addendum: An appeal to donate for Cyclone Aila Relief.

Scene: A red heart shaped statue. A tourist guide with a bunch of tourists stand at its base

Guide to tourists: And this over here is the monument, the beautiful Broken Heart, constructed to commemorate all those marytrs for love who fell, many of them nameless, on that fateful Valentine’s Day. In the greatest non-violent mass movement since the Non-Cooperation andolan, young men and woman stood together and took a stance against repression. They took blows and punches and had their hair pulled so that successive generations have the freedom to get drunk, pass out, buy overpriced long-stemmed roses and splurge on “My heart will go on” -playing musical cards.

It was a time of great political ferment in the country. Scared that women in low-rider jeans drinking, dancing and cavorting with the Rocky Khannas of the world will wipe out Indian civilization as it was known then, a mass movement of cultural fundamentalists united under organizations with names like “Banar Sena” , “Dushashana Fan Club”. They then announced plans to forcibly prevent Valentine Day celebrations across the country and to marry off any girl and boy who were walking together, unless the boy tied a Rakhi around the girl’s hand and made her a behena.

But this oppression did not go unanswered. Just like how their great grandparents, many generations ago, came out in protest against the Rowlatt Act and braved the baton charges of the British, tens of thousands of socially conscious brave men and women shrugged away their apathy towards national security, economy, crime, environment and decided “this far and no further”.

As one of the greatest women of her age gave the call for “Pub bharo”, Indian youth put aside their petty differences, their entrance exams and ambitions of making it big to storm the pubs and engage in morally ruinous behavior so that the Banars and the Dushashanas may be baited. A secret society called the “Pink Chaddi League” started sending pink underwear (some used and soiled) to the leaders of the reactionaries in a show of brazen deviance. They were soon assailed by counter-reactionaries who formed the “Pink Condom Cooperative” and started sending the leaders of the Pink Chaddi League pink contraceptives.

Tourist: But why pink chaddis? What did underwear have to…

Guide: Simple. Because in those days there was an advertisement slogan for underwear which went “Yeh araam ka mamla hain. Apun ka choice ka mamla hain.” This line succinctly captured the sentiments of the Pink Chaddiwalas…

Old Man (Sitting at base of Broken Heart statue): Aare bhailog what bekar bakwas. This guide is telling you all the stuff she has memorized. Ask me what happened on that fateful February 14 and I will tell you.

Tourist: Why should we ask you?

Old Man: Because I was there that day. Do you want to hear what the text books tell you? Or would you prefer to listen to living history? Twenty thousand rupees is my fee for the story. And please no US dollars. Only Indian rupees.]

Tourists turn away from guide. Look expectantly at old man.

Old man: Myself Prakash. I was twenty two then. Ordinary dude. Used to sit on my bicycle while me and my friends would watch beautiful girls in their spaghetti straps and tight bottom huggers and skirts go clubbing and dancing with rich, English speaking guys , looking disdainfully at us “sadak chaap” folks. There was one girl I really liked. Let’s call her N. Beautiful lady, hanging out with her friends at discos and pubs never giving me even a glance far less a chance.

Guide: What does your love story have anything to do with this old man? Spare us…

Old man: Patience. So as Valentine’s Day came up, I saw from my position at Lala’s grocery store that she was gathering up her friends to take part in the Pub Bharo Andolan. Lots of nice cars with nice fairies, both male and female, started making the rounds of the mohalla. It didn’t take much for me to understand their plans. They were going to go to the pub, drink themselves silly and defy the “Dushashana Fan Club” by wanton public displays of affection. Needless to say, I saw a chance…..to be a not-so-innocent bystander.

The day arrived. A bunch of girls set off from N’s house in skimpy pub attire clutching their purses and cell phones. Now normally I stay away from pubs being more a “desi” person myself though sometimes when I come across some cash by picking father’s pocket I do have a drink or two of the phoren stuff and do some nayansukh. But today, I was enthused with the “Pink” spirit. Just as normal people got inspired and started following Gandhiji on the Dandi march, I too “spontaneously” followed N and her gang to the pub.

Inside the pub, the women were in a militant mood. I felt I was seeing the Rani Jhansis of today. Talking loudly and giving out hugs. I waited my time.

Soon they came. The saffron banded Dushashanas. They assembled outside the pub and started shouting slogans, calling the girls “Draupadi”, “Kunti” and such-like. I could see beautiful N was getting angry, I loved the way a nerve in her temple used to start throbbing when she got pissed off . She was answering the Dushbags back in her Anglicized Hindi.

This was my chance. The girls were forming a line, holding people’s hands. I slipped besides her. She was too busy exchanging heated words with the Dushbags to notice me.

And then just as the scuffles began I held her hand. And turned to the Dushbags and said “Chal kya kar lega…maar hi to sakta hain. Aur kya?”

N looked at me with startled eyes. I could see her cringe as she tried to brush me off.

I whispered “Mam, if you let me go, then they will think you are afraid of holding hands in front of them. Come on mam. Show them what you believe in.”

N whispered back “You are so…….” (rolling her eyes in digust) and looked around to see her friends engaged in increasingly heated verbal exchanges. She could not back down. So despite her obvious aversion to me, she held on to my hand.

Then one of the Dushbags shouted :”Besharam auraat. Holding hands with a mard…kya bhai laagta hain tera?”

Angry and close to an aneurysm she just turned around and in a show of defiance that will go down in the annals of history, planted a kiss on my lips.

That was it.

Heaven !

Soon we were surrounded by the goons punching and trying to seperate us. Though initially carried away by the Matangini Hazra-Pritilata Waddedar passion, N had now realized that she had just kissed a smelly, sadakchaap, “never been kissed” person, the kind of man whose friend ship requests on Orkut she declined every day by the dozen, the kind of man her profile message “If you do not know me, do not bother to add or scrap me you loser” sought to keep away.

But it was too late. She was now on the crest of the wave of history and there was no turning back. I kept the kiss as best as I could and every time I got dragged away I whispered “Mam you cannot let go. If you do, these bastards win. And there will never be any freedom”….poor N was torn between her revulsion for me and her belief in the cause.

After all “Rang De Basanti” was her favorite movie (her Orkut profile said that) and right here, she was being the change.

Except I gather she didnt quite like it all that much.

The crowd dragged us away. One of the Dushbag chieftains said “Enough. Bring the priest here. Let’s get these two married.” N was close to tears and totally silent. But still defiant. I was yelling “Yes yes get us married. We are lovers. We are not afraid of the world. We shall not resist. But we will not accept tyranny.” The priest started chanting some gibberish. Someone took a picture of us garlanded. Defiantly I smiled at the camera. N looked downwards in shame and disgust which I think made her look quite bridelike.

By this time, the cops had arrived and people were dispersing. N was only too glad to leave the Kurukshetra. Needless to say, I never saw her again. But for those few minutes that I shall never forget, I was part of something much greater than myself. A part of the nation’s voice. Connected to another’s voice in a way that was beautiful, poetic and utterly enjoyable.

And that young fellows is how our generation sacrificed so that you may walk freely today.

Tourist: Wow that is so moving. Did the blows the “Dush”bags rained on you not hurt?

Old man: Sure it did. But how different was it from the blows that rained on us poor frustrated men every day, the blows to our hearts and egos when we saw those rich kid’s sons leading a life we can only dream of, the cars, the women, the debauchery? That day was different in that I only exchanged one type of blow for another….

Guide: Hah ! What humbug. You just took this opportunity to get a kiss and a hug….how cheap !

Old man: Not just that. I had made a bet of Rs 2000 with a friend of mine that I would marry N one day. I showed him the picture and made him pay up….the poor sod cried and cribbed a lot saying this was not what he meant but a loafer’s word is sacrosanct. A kiss or two, a few hugs, and Rs 1000 at the end of the day—not bad rewards for political action eh? Now please everyone put your money in this hat—it better sum to Rs 20,000..

Tourist: Wait wait wait. First of all, if you made a bet with your friend for Rs. 2000 how did you gain just Rs 1000 at the end of the day? And second, if the Dush-bags forcibly took that “wedding” picture, how did you get hold of it in order to show as proof of having won the bet? As in why would the Dush-bags, who were beating you up, give you back the picture they took…unless you and the Dush-bags…..”

Old man smiles gently, shakes his head, winks and moves away.

Abh Bas Bhi Karo Sarkar: The “Sarkar” saga continues with the fourteenth installment of the mega mafia drama. This time Abhishek and Aishwarya’s son, Mangalik Bachchan is crowned the new “Sarkar” making ” Sarkar” the first movie series in cinema history where more than 50% of the cast comes from the same family. The story is totally new: Sarkar’s empire is under attack from movie reviewers/failed movie makers, all jealous of the genius of “we-all-know-who”.

Armed with a blog, the new Sarkar attacks each of his enemies viciously with enormously laborious point by point deconstructions of their reviews. Noone is spared from his wrath—not the over-acting Masand, not over-genteel Khaled Mohamed, not the treacherous Madam Deepa Gehlot (not Gehloth) and definitely not the biggest threat of them all: Public Enemy Number 1, Rediff’s Raja Sen, a one-legged, one-eyed devil who according to Rediff message board, eats little children for dinner and deliberately uses big words in his reviews.

Directed by Ram Gopal Verma, directorial highlights of the movie are 25 minutes of total darkness where the only sound is Mangalik Bachchan’s keystrokes as he blogs, shafts of light that stream in every 30 minutes, another two scenes inspired by the Godfather series and most famously a guest appearance by Verma-friendly reviewer, Taran “Usool” Adrash who comes in 10 minutes before the interval and explains why his reviews are always laudatory to the big-shots with the very original line “Maine aap ka namak khaya hain Sarkar”.

[Cholche cholbe...What is will continue]

Main Hoon Kahawaat: Inspired by Will Smith’s “I am Legend” this movie opens in a future Kolkata where the dangerous Bandh-virus, unleashed by its mad creator Dr. Mamata Banerjee, has wiped out much of humanity. Those who have survived remain as undead zombies, hiding during the day and doing no work, coming out at night to protest against SEZs and to buy their copies of Ganashakti. Arrayed against them is the only person immune to the virus, crazy scientist Buddha who passionately hunts “bandhies” while frantically searching for a cure.

Is humanity saved? Does Kolkata go back to normal? Or is this what is normal in Kolkata?

Watch to find out.

[Prabhuji ---Does a Licking and Keeps on Ticking](Picture courtesy “I love Trashy Movies“)

It’s Time to Deesco: [Idea inspired from a comment here]

Prabhuji (played by Mithun Chakraborty) is a faded disco-star. Running a dingy hotel, telling tired travelers tales of his glory days when “Aooooaa Aoooaaa” ruled the country and in generally drinking himself to ruin, his life is interrupted one day when a priest, Father Anthony comes to his door with a overweight young kid. Father Anthony tells Prabhuji—this is his son, the product of a night of passion with a groupie. Prabhuji has blanks in his memory, there had been nights when he had maangta”-ed many Julies and Sandras from Bandra. So he accepts the overweight kid as his own and calls him Momo, after his favorite dish and devotes his time and his savings in making Momo the biggest dancing star in the world.

Prabhuji sells his hotel and most of his clothes, takes Momo (Mimoh Chakraborty) to New York, cleans his soiled underwear and cooks for his son just so that Momo can learn to dance (and at the same learn Astro Physics at NASA) and the win the deeesco competition at the world-famous International Youth Conference, where he would have to defeat the notoriously demented “Son of Sam” , the offspring of the legendary “Sam” whom Prabhuji humiliated many years ago in Disco Dancer.

Just before the event, Prabhuji gets word that there will be a terrorist attack from the Shiv Sakti Organization at the conference. But what really shocks him is when Father Anthony confesses that he had lied—Momo is actually good friend Aoooo (played by Shakti Kapoor)’s illegitimate son.

So what does Prabhuji do now? Will he dance again with his guilty feet that got no rhythm and help Momo humiliate the Son of Sam? Will he again assume his alternate identity, Gunmaster G9 and save the world from certain ruin ? Will he accept Momo as a son or will he hang him to dry by letting him make his debut in a movie directed by Raj Sippy with a budget of 1 lac?

[Take that, India.]

Jasbaat, Junoon, Jung Aur Jangiya

Directed by Mahesh Bhatt, the plot of this movie is, like most of Bhatt’s offerings, most original. It involves a director having an extra-marital affair with a mentally unstable actress, an Indian who becomes a terrorist due to the oppression of the government, a tri-angular love story that involves murder and “sheets-covering-body” sex in front of a dead body. And yes it also involves Emran Hashmi, Shoaib Akthar, Kangana Run-Out, totally original music from Preetam. Needless to say, it will have its premiere in Pakistan (which explains the profusion of Urdu words in the title).

[Oh how hot I am ]

Ek Aur Mohabbatein

Shahrukh Khan (Raj Aryan) is a strict jailer who runs a men’s prison called Gaand-u-Kool. He also does not believe in love, especially of the kind that flourishes in the common bathroom areas. Into this colorless world comes a new inmate —Gaytunde (played by Karan Johar) , once a prison-guard at the same facility who was fired by Aryan for helping an inmate pick up a bar of soap. Soon the ordered world of the jail and of the jailer is thrown topsy-turvy. What is Gaytunde’s gayme? Does he want to engineer a prison riot and undermine Raj Aryan’s authority? Or does he want to teach the prison warden the beauty of love —a love that Gaytunde has for the jailer even today?

Watch out for a special item number by Ritu-bondho Ghosh in the jail shower—the song being “Hakka Bakka Hakka Bakka Hakka Bakka Hakka, Ikka naheen, Chauka naheen, chakka chakka chakka”.

Bullah Ho Gya Kharah—the Rise of Bullah

The long-awaited prequel to Gunda —this mega budget movie has been years in the making. Tracking the “rise” of Bullah, it begins with Bullah (Mukesh Rishi –official website), Chutiya (Shakti Kapoor) and Munni (arbit actress) coming to Mumbai as innocent bacche and their consequent loss of innocence as they transition from people “jo din main boot polish aur raat main tel malish karte hain” to the dark side of the force through the machinations of the evil Kafanchor Neta and Bacchu Bagona.

A treasure trove for Gunda fans, people will now get to know how Bullah and Pote became fast friends, why Chutiya was fed only London se sex ke goliyaan, the story of Ibu Hatela and his carbide-ripened kela, the strange case of Nirodh Kumar and Lucky Chikna and yes even details of the how Lambu Atta breast-fed Bullah in his nascent years (“maine usko doodh pila pilaake ke bara kiya aur abh woh mere chathi chabana chahata hain mere chathi” as Gunda fans would remember). Violent, profane and also allegorical, this prequel of “Gunda” is the most anticipated movie event of the decade.

And with Sanjay Leela Bhansali at the helm, one can be sure of blue and green tinged lenses, grand sweeping songs like “Jaha Nimboooda Nimbooda naheen ghusta wahaan nariyel ghused dete hain”, the “chinaals” from Lucky Chikna’s “latakta circus” brothel dancing in lock step to “Humara Baaje re baaje re baaje re”, a gritty castration scene softened by “Maar dalaaaa” in the background and of course Chutiya (Shakti Kapoor) wiping his buttock with a gossamer thin sheet.

A sure fire hit.

Humare Woh Aap Ke Haath Main Hain

Brought to you by the Bore-jatiyas and the world’s biggest adult features producer Vividly Video, “Humare Woh Aap Ke Haath Main Hain” is a genre-bending experiment that takes two of the world’s most successful cinematic formulae—the great Indian family drama and erotica and fuses them together in a way that noone ever thought possible. Comprising a multinational caste that constitutes Alok Nath, Reema Lagoo and Bindu on one hand and Ron Jeremy, Jenna Jameson and Slyvia Saint on the other, HWAKHMH tells the story of two innocent girls from the mountains(Jenna Jameson and Sylvia Saint), their doting dad (Alok Nath) and how once one of the sisters (Jenna Jameson) dies after she falls down the stairs, her other sister (Sylvia Saint) takes over her duties in the sasural.

Not much about this movie is not known except of course the picturization of an item song titled “Hoton se choo lo tum”. However we have managed to get hold of a few exclusive clips.

As we conclude this week’s Isko Dekho Please, we leave you with these scenes.

Scene 1:

Ganga (Slyvia Saint) Radheshyam ji, aap ko hum aise thoree jaane denge. Itne dinon ke baad aaye hain. Aap ko to mooh meetha karna hi padega. [Radheshyam ji, I shall not let you go like this. You have come here after so many days. You cannot leave without making your mouth sweet]

Radheshyam (Pariksheet Sahani): Ganga tum bhi. Tumhari itni badi ho gayee hain par bhi kitni natkhati ho. Tumhare baat to maan na hi padega. Magar mera ek shart hain. [Ganga, you are too much. You have grown so much and yet you are so naughty. I have to give in to you. But I have a condition.]

Ganga: Kya Radheshyam ji? [What Radheshyam-ji?]

Radheshyam: Yeh ki tum mujse aapne haathon se khilaogi [That you feed me with your own hands]

Scene 2:

Anandamohan (Ajit Vachchani): Aap to Paharganj ke misaal hain, Deendayal babu. Is umar main bhi aap sara din come karte hain. [You are Paharganj's legend, Deendayal babu. Even in this age, you keep your hands busy all day]

Deendayal (Alok Nath): Kya kahen aap ko. Woh to jawani se hi adaat par gayee hain, din bhar come karne ka. [What to say to you.I have been working my hands ever since I was a young man.]

Scene 3:

Deendayal (Alok Nath): Ganga beti tum to Ganga jaisi pavitra thi. Aur aaj tum ghar ghar main apne…chi…chi..chi..sharm ata hain mujhe tumhare peetaji kahelate huye. Aise tumne kyon kiye beta? [Ganga my daughter you were as holy as the Ganga. And today you are going from door to door and...shame shame...I am ashamed to call myself your father. Why did you do this my offspring?]

Ganga (Sylvia Saint): Peetaji, aap hi to kahte hain ki aapki beti paraya dhan hain. Main to sirf logon mein woh dhan ko baant rahi thi . [Dad, it is you who keeps saying that your daughters are someone else's property. I have just been sharing that wealth with everyone.]

Scene 4:

Bari-ma (Bindoo) [to Lajwanti (Jenna Jameson)]: Badchalan ladkee, kahaan se aayi hain mooh safed karke? [Lost in translation]

He is naked. Stripped off all clothes.

Except for a baseball cap on his head.

Presently, the silence is shattered by the pitter-patter of heavy shoes on gravel as a man steps into the light from out of the shadows. Dressed in a black suit and wearing dark shades, he leans forward and smiles at the prisoner.

“Good evening. My name is Agent Z. I am here to have a chat. And ask some questions.”

The prisoner looks up—-his eyes the center of a still cyclone of hatred.

Holding up a newspaper Agent Z reads:

If you are sick and tired of watching singer Himesh Reshamiya all over the place, then beware – you may soon suffer from the M3 phobia.

M3 or the mega music movement that also goes by the name of sangeet, sur and surror movement has been kick-started by Himesh.

So get set to learn music form the Himesh Reshamiya School of Music, wear your love for him on your sleeve by buying dresses from his clothing line, get a recording deal under his music label, drink coffee at his music cafe and pit your talent against others in his music reality shows.

“Himesh Reshammiya as a brand is an emotional and good human being and wants to work hard and continue to do so,” Himesh said.

First in the line is the HR School of Music. With eight centres in four metros, the schools will be functional in the next two or three months.

His fashion label, designed along the lines of his songs, surror, jhalak, aashiq and jhoom, kicks off with T-shirts that will hit the local stores soon.

Himesh will also be endorsing a new brand called Denim Jeans and Casuals (DJ&C). Brand Himesh is being promoted by Future Group who has brands like Pantaloons and Big Bazaar to their credit.

Agent Z stares straight into the defiant eyes of the prisoner.

“So Mr. Reshammiya, why don’t you start by telling us about this M3 movement—this massive conspiracy to corrupt the youth of our nation and bring down the political system through sangeet, sur and suroor ? You think you are very smart? You think we do not know that when a man or a woman buys a Reshammiya Tshirt, his or her soul becomes sold to you? You think we have not cottoned on to the fact that you are trying to start a new religion? That these so-called Schools of Music are nothing but devious churches whose only job is to preach that there is only one true saviour—the “emotional and good” Himesh Reshammiya?

The prisoner tries to turn his face away as Agent Z’s words and the frothing spit that accompanies it hits him square in the eye.

Agent Z laughs—humourless and cruel.

“I am sick and I am tired of you Mr. Reshammiya. Turn on the TV and it’s you. Board an autorickshaw and it’s you. Go to the temple and I can hear your music blaring from outside. My little daughter’s CD case is full of your albums. My wife wears revealing “jhalak” tops and all the “aashiq” T-shirt-wearing lowlives flirt with her singing ” Jhalak Dikla Jaa”.

You, sir, are a virus. A cancer. You need to be eradicated. ”

The prisoner smiles back—flashing a challenge with his eyes. He knows that while Agent Z may have stripped him naked and shorn him off his dignity, it was his named apparel that was touching the Agent’s wife and it was his songs that she sung to herself as she took her shower. Soon, very soon, she would surrender herself totally to him. Like many others.

Agent Z realizes that his manhood is being silently mocked.

The smell of fear permeates the room.

Agent Z takes another piece of paper and reads.

Bollywood’s reigning music sensation, Himesh Reshammiya, is in love with telly actress, Sounia Kapur.

Both are in a denial mode, but sources say, Sounia and Himesh became more than pally during the US tour and they were virtually inseparable in the UK.

Sounia is seen in the SAB show Ishq Ki Ghanti, and has done television serials like ‘Sati’ (SaharaOne), ‘Remix’ (Star One) and ‘Kaisa Ye Pyar Hai’ (Sony) as well as the Hindi play, ‘Yeh Tedha Ghar Yeh Medha Ghar’.

Himesh is a married man, with a son.

Agent Z sneers: “emotional and good eh Mr Reshammiya?”

The prisoner stays silent. He closes his eyes…blotting out the stench of Agent Z’s breath and the heat and the sweat and transports himself to another place, another time—-the intoxicating smell of aromatic candles, the comfort of a luxurious suite in a hotel room, the wanton calisthenics on a king-size bed and the reassuring realization that by simply turning off your cellphone, you can avoid your wife’s interference in your love life.

Brought out of his reverie by the heavy breathing of Agent Z, he is forced to endure his torturer’s tortured whisper: “I don’t think you understand what trouble you are in Mr. Reshammiya. If I want I can send 440 volts of electricity through your “Ishq ki Ghanti” ……and trust me I shall, if you continue to stay silent.”

Agent Z reads on...

Himesh Reshammiya promises to answer all FAQs about himself in his semi-autobiographical film Aap Ka Suroor-The real Love Story coming in June. “People ask me why I wear a cap, never smile and why I always lose the girl in my music videos,” says the singer. “The film has all the answers’’. The movie will be based on his own love story. Shot in 18 countries, the film pairs two actresses opposite him, and will feature nine of his biggest hits. The buzz is that the actor-singer has roped in a foreign actor to play the lead. “It’s still too early to give out details,” says Reshammiya mysteriously.

Agent Z’s face is now improperly close to the prisoner’s.

“No Mr Reshammiya, I cannot wait for the movie to be released. I need to know. I need to know now. Why you always lose the girl in the music video? Who paid 75 crores to finance this movie? Why you never smile? And why oh why do you wear a baseball cap? Please…I need to know.. I need to know…tell me baby girl cause I need to know.”

The prisoner breaks his silence.

“You made a big mistake Agent Z. You have tied my hands, you have put small clamps in bad places and you have even wired up the Chotemiya of Reshammiya. However you forgot one thing.”

“What the hell…?”

“You forgot to gag me.”

Before Agent Z can react, the prisoner unleashes a blood-curdling “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaann ………. nnhhhhhhhhhhhhhh “. Agent Z, caught in the sonic boom, is flung away. Metal and wood splinter and fly all over. Tongues of blue electricity leap outwards. The prisoner sings “Tera surroooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrr…………” drowning out the disembodied voice in the background:

“Level 1 security breach. Facility lockdown. Quarantine process activated. Biohazard uncontained and dangerous.”

Agent Z clutches his ears in pain. Blood trickles down his fingers—his ear drums have been blasted to smithereens. Even worse, a rib displaced from its cage by the sonic blast has punctured his heart.

As he drifts away into the next world, seared by a blinding moment of pain, the last thing he sees is the naked figure of the baseball-cap-wearing prisoner, free of his shackles, leap ten feet into the air and lay low the security guards with his vocal punches.

———————–

Epilogue:

Agent Z awakes. A green field. A bright cloudless sky above. A gentle breeze. He feels peace. And he feels light.

A kindly bearded man comes upto him and says:

“My son, welcome to heaven. Peace and goodwill be to you.”

The man is wearing a baseball cap.

And his white gown says “Aap ka Suroor”.

This is also my review of the movie "Zinda"]

Sanjay Gupta, director of “Kaante”, “Zinda” and other Bollywood classics, wakes up one morning. His mind is reeling—last memory he had was a drunk evening with Sanjay Dutt, Mahesh Manjrekar groveling in front of Dubai Bhai on the phone and doing screen tests for some actresses.

But where is he now? A small room with one television set, a rack full of DVDs—it is obvious to him he has been kidnapped.

But by whom? He had given the overseas rights to Bhai, sought the “blessings” of the Balasaheb–in all discharged all the duties of a Mumbai director/producer. And yet why is he in this solitary room with just a TV set , DVDs and a plate of pao bhaji inserted through a hole in the door?

He breaks down. Pleading with his unknown captor to let him go. But noone replies to his anguished cries. He only gets regular meals of the same pau bhaji and nothing else. The TV tells him about the outside world—-and then there are the DVDs. Realizing he can do nothing else and besides he always made films based on DVDs, Sanjay Gupta starts watching these movies one by one. Putting the time to good use—he thinks.

Aaah what a treasure trove. He starts making copious mental notes of which movies to copy once he gets out, how to “Indianize” it and how to pass off each of them as his creations. But he knows not when he shall get out—if at all.

From time to time, a strange tune plays (he notes in his mind to copy that tune once he gets out), his room fills with noxious gas—the kind one smells after one too many bean burritos and he collapses. When he comes to, he finds he has been shaved, bathed and his DVDs replenished with new ones.

A year passes. And another. On the TV he sees all the movies he had plans of Indianizing being remade one by one by his one-time friends—Manjrekar, Ramgopal Verma and suchlike. All his babies being taken away from him in front of his own eyes and Sanjay Gupta powerless—confined in this hellhole. He breaks down, tries slashing his wrists with a extras DVD (the 2nd disc noone watches) but his evil captor wont even let him die.

And then he decides to strike back. No more wallowing in self pity. He tells himself that he has to keep himself alive in order to seek revenge on the man who has imprisoned him. It is obvious that it is one of his “friends” who have kept him imprisoned so that he can pass of Hollywood/Korean movies as his own and not have to contend with the master of the lift—Sanjay Gupta.

Revenge.

He starts thinking for the first time in his life—working on a original plot. He makes copious notes, does and redoes the script—after all he has all the time in the world. Because when and if he comes out, he needs something “original” to get into the game—something to challenge his friends who have taken the patent on copying while he rots in this cell.

Then it happens. 15 years to the day he was kidnapped he is released. He finds himself on the top of a Mumbai roof, a set of cool shades and a wad of cash in his pocket. And a cell phone. Which rings. A voice says :” You have 5 days to find out who did this to you—-that is find out who I am. I can either be a madman or someone who hates you so much that he could do this to you”.

Sanjay Gupta then embarks on a mission of singular revenge and hate where he goes after his captors. Hammers are wielded, teeth fly, blood splatter, tons of paubhaji are consumed and then in an amazingly original scene where with a director’s megaphone stuck up his ass, Sanjay Gupta takes on a roomfull of murderous clapper-boys.

And then the climax. He comes face to face with his nemesis. Sanjay Gupta is zapped. No it is not a Bhai. It is not Subhas Ghai. It is not the husband of any starlet who auditioned for an item number for his movies.

It is a Chinese-type guy—Sanjay Gupta asks “Kaun bhe tu?” (Who the hell are you?)

The evil man smiles—Sanjay you lift my movie in its totality to make “Zinda”—and publicly claim that you only took a scene. And then to top it off, you cannot even recognize me when I am standing in front of you. I am Chan-wook Park, the director of “Oldboy”.

Sanjay: And for this you ruined 15 years of my life. Ruined so many scripts of mine. Just for this one small thing? And oh for your information, “Zinda” is not a straight lift —it is an “Indianization” of your movie…..

Park: Indianization—now what’s that? Is it like taking a while loop and making it into a “repeat-until”? Or taking a variable “i” and renaming it “counter” ? That kind of originality, Mr Sanjay Gupta? Is that what’s called Indianization?

Sanjay: No no wait. I did make a lot of changes. Like you had the guy kidnapped from a police station after a drunken binge —waiting to go to his daughter’s birthday party. I made him “pretending” to be drunk so that he gets a seat in a posh restaurant where he didnt have reservations. Plus in ” Zinda” the wife was pregnant but the hero didnt know it—in “Oldboy” he already has a daughter.

Park: Oh wow. So was this change something that was your idea or was it because Celina Jet-Li did not want to play a Mom?

Sanjay(smiling sheepishly): Well that’s Indianization for you.

Park: And you know what, Sanjay. There was a reason why the protagonist is shown drunk and missing his daughter’s birthday party—it kind of sets the stage for the end….basically doing something called “character development”. Ever heard the term?

Sanjay: Mmm no. Property development I know. But character development?

Park: Baaah.

Sanjay: Okay okay I made a whole lot of changes now that I think of it. Show me where in your movie the girl says “Meri ma bhagwan ke liya paratha paka rahee hain ” ( My mother is making parathas for God)—-and before you make a wisecrack I dont recall her saying that her mother is making smelly tofu for God either. And the things that Sanjay Dutt sees in his prison cell—99 Kargil etc etc are all original ideas of mine. In your movie the term of imprisonment was for 15 years, in Zinda it was 14 years—like Ramji’ s exile.

And oh, I showed Lara Dutta in a bra with her shirt ripped off—your movie had a gratuitous breast shot. Okay I accept I could not show that scene without getting in trouble with the Indian censor board—while they are fine with blood flying around, a breast shot is not kosher for the boobs on the committee.

Park: Bullshit. Hogwash. All minor cosmetic changes—mostly dictated by circumstances beyond your control. You dont know how anguished I have felt seeing “Zinda” again and again—it has been a violation of my artistic soul. Oooh the blatant copying, the same sets, the same ideas, the same gasmask—-uff it just makes me want to take a hammer and pull out your teeth.

Sanjay: Forgive me oh Mr Park. It was a small mistake—okay I accept I copied all my movies from one source or the other , however I did some work also. But I went overboard with “Oldboy”–did virtually nothing. I made a mistake. But why make me suffer for 15 years? Why?I have changed—I have made a new script…an original one.

Park: Ha ha ha. Look around you. See those TV screens. Do you see what’s going on there?

Sanjay: Mmm a movie is being shot…..so what?

Park: Ha ha again. Do you know what the script for the movie is? It’s the same thing you wrote during those 15 years. Your masterpiece. Your brainchild. It is now going to be raped…no make it gangraped in front of your eyes by those hacks you see there on the TV screen—-obviously you will not be credited for the script. It will be as if you don’t even exist.

Well Mr Sanjay, how does it feel to be on the other end? How does it feel to see one’s labors being passed off by someone else as theirs without acknowledgement? Are those tears on your face? I love them. Yes 15 years was needed Mr Sanjay to give you time to lovingly create your own intellectual baby, for you to have a bond with your creation. So that when you see its rape you anguish more. And feel my pain. And of countless other directors.

Now brace yourself for the final shattering truth.

The movie’s director is Dev Anand. Obviously he is also the hero. Uday Chopra is the second hero—you last saw him 15 years ago..now he has lost all his hair and has made the full transition to a trans-sexual. The heroine is Payal Rohatgi whose implants, in the 15 years you were gone, have lost some of the saline solution and the technical staff are all from Mithunda’s Ootie filmcrew.

How does it feel Mr Gupta?

Gupta (on his knees crying like a baby): No no no I beg. I plead. Do not do this to me. Give me back my script. It’s my life—it’s my 15 years. By the way, Dev Anand is still alive?

Park (taking a bite out of a bean burrito) : Muaahhhhhhhhh………………….Mr Gupta, sorry to say no feel-good ending here.

Welcome to the club.

He walked up the steps.

He was happy—another job well done. Within moments, he would be with his ten year old son and his lovely wife.

He knew he was not like any other dad or husband. A life of sitting behind a desk was not for him.

Ever since he was a kid, he knew his calling —-to be an artist. But not a painter or a musician—-those had been done to death.You go to an art gallery. You see a painting. You move on. Listen to a tune. Move it from your mind for another. Too ephemeral. He wanted his art to leave a lasting effect—once you would be touched by his “brush”, there would be no going back.

And what, he reasoned, could leave more irreversible impact than personally drawing the line between life and death?

His art was murder– and vocation.

And today he was coming back from a “hit”—oh how he hated that word. He much preferred the word “execution”. A “hit” implied a hodge-podge job whose success depended on fortune—hit or miss.

However when he did his job, there was nothing left to chance. Every execution was meticulously planned, all emergencies accounted for. Even the person executed suffered the minimum pain possible—a clean bullet through his heart. Nothing messy, nothing unaesthetic.

It was because of the perfection he brought to his work that he never had a police record. As far as the law was concerned, he just did notexist.

But he did. And there is nothing a true artist hates more than anonymity. So he signed each of his masterpieces by leaving a picture of Michelangelo on the dead body—-a calling card to tell the world that the master was here. He always carried a Michelangelo picture card in his jacket pocket because Michelangelo was his talisman. He was Michelangelo.

He knocked on his door. Today had been his sixth execution. A darkroom, a sleeping mafia boss, one muffled shot and then silent death.The streets however will not be silent. Soon they shall burn as the vendetta wars begin. He would be out of it though, reading his son a bed time story.

His only regret was that he could never tell his family what he did for a living. The ones he loved most would never know how great he was.

The door opened and his son ran into his arms shouting “Daddy”…………His wife was behind him smiling.

” I told him to go to sleep but he is so excited about some prank he has pulled that he insists on telling you about it.”

Yes he thought. His son is at that age when they begin playing pranks. The age of innocence——–he wondered when that passed him by.

Giggling uncontrollably, his son said “Papa papa, today I saw you put a card with the picture of an old man in your pocket. And while you hugged me in the morning, I put my hand inside your pocket and replaced his picture with this picture………ha ha you did not even notice.”

Clasped in the child’s small hands was a signed family group photo that he had printed out as a card to fit into his wallet. He had printed out two of them—one of which was being held by his son.

The second family group photo lay drenched in the blood of a 60 year-old mafia don.

The master had made a mistake.

From BirthdayBoy_at_20: Hi. I know this sounds kind of weird. I am you ,when you were 20. I just wanted to see if you are online….had some questions to ask you.

Yeah right. This has got to be a practical joke. A few of my friends—the very few I have know its my 30th birthday on the 30th of December and this must be their idea of a joke. Very funny.

I type back. Yes BirthdayBoy_at_20 , this is BirthdayBoy_at_30. Nice joke. Now which clown is this?

From BirthdayBoy_at_20: As I said, BirthdayBoy_at_30 this is going to sound weird. I am actually “you” 10 years ago. I don’t know how this is happening but somehow we are being able to communicate through chat—-and I want to ask you basically—-how did I turn out?
Some people take the gag so far that it becomes unfunny.

BirthdayBoy_at_30: Okay smart guy, I may be a bit drunk but not that sloshed. Buzz off.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Wait wait. I have proof. I am sending you a picture—-no-one else is going to have this picture, at least none of your friends . It feels strange saying “yours” because these friends are mine too. Or will be. See this picture. Recognize the guy?

Holy moly. That’s me at 20. I could not believe it. How the hell did this guy…………………..

BirthdayBoy_at_30: Okay I don’t know how you did this. Or what in the name of Mithun is happening. But it seems you are me at 20. How creepy meeting you again, like this, just when I am going to turn 30. So what do you want to know?

BirthdayBoy_at_20: First up, am I a MBA from Columbia making 7 figures a year, driving a Lamborghini and jetting around the world first-class?

BirthdayBoy_at_30: No you are not. Listen to yourself. What expectations baah !

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Sooo….what am I then? You mean I am not an MBA? Dont joke man…..I gotta be an MBA from somewhere……

BirthdayBoy_at_30: No you aren’t an MBA. The only thing your car will have in common with a Lamborghini is that both of them will have innovative doors—the Lam’s open upwards, your passenger side door will be frequently jammed. It’s a 94 Honda Civic, for your information.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Cool at least a new car. Ooh wait I forgot. You are in 2005 right?

BirthdayBoy_at_30: Yes I am. Very clever of you to realize.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: So if I am not an MBA what am I ?

BirthdayBoy_at_30: I am sorry to have to break this bit of news to you dude. But you are a PhD working in a R&D lab.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Haha now you are pulling my leg. You know me better than anyone else and you know I have always wanted to be like Banerjee uncle upstairs with the company car, the Calcutta Club membership and the masseur who comes in on Sundays.

BirthdayBoy_at_30: Immature. Of course I forget you are only 20. You see at the age of 30 I have come to the conclusion that I am, in the final analysis, way too much like my father. I value my freedom and I am willing to make a financial compromise for it. It was tough coming to terms with this realization but it is true.

And this epiphany didn’t come all of a sudden—it was a lesson acquired by walking the path between 1995 and 2005. So straight off the bat, this may be a bit too much for you to understand right now but trust me on this one—-maybe we did not set out to be a PhD but it’s a rather good place to be. Considering the type of person we are and what we value in life.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Please don’t mind but you are kind of sounding like Dad. Change of topic: have I traveled the world? Have I been to all the places I wanted to go?

BirthdayBoy_at_30: Well quite a few of them as a matter of fact. You have been to Copenhagen, Switzerland, Barcelona , Vienna and around USA and Canada and all the European countries you have visited has been on funding money (ie not out of your pocket). So you see a PhD is not without its corporeal benefits also. And the thrill of publication, presenting original work in front of peers and interacting with some of the best minds in the world is a heady experience—-something a twenty year old might not value but I have come to love.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Ooh good. Sounds fine. So I do my PhD in US…mm…feels kinda uncomfortable asking someone who is so much older than I am….but since you are me after all….do I turn out to be the super-rocking stud I always wanted to be? You know chick-magnet, party animal, bohemian hedonist without a care in the world. Do you remember how constricted you used to feel at 20 in an all-guys engineering college, growing up in a middle-class Bengali milieu, wanting to break free—total social and ethical anarchy. Do you remember, BirthdayBoy_at_30 ?

BirthdayBoy_at_30: Yes BirthdayBoy_at_20 I remember. Only too well. I am sorry to have to break it to you—but things didn’t quite turn out that way. Again what you cannot accept right now is that you have your limitations. As a matter of fact, turning 30 is possibly the stage when you truly realize the magnitude of all the things you cannot do. Its a sobering thought and one which, even though it comes at the cost of heartbreak and much sadness, makes your life that much easier.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Excuse me but could you repeat that in plain English?

BirthdayBoy_at_30: It means “No”. You won’t have that lifestyle because your background and your upbringing and your sensibilities (the ones you are still not aware of) will pre-program you to take a different path. Plus lets face it—-you wont cut a dashing figure in a club, you wont have the cash nor the style. Your time will be spent better staying at home, reading a book, doing creative writing…..”

BirthdayBoy_at_20: In other words, no Ecstasy-induced sandwich dance, no bumping and grinding.

BirthdayBoy_at_30: Well there will be a lot of ham sandwiches. And burgers. Which will bring in a lot of pounds. The bad kind of pounds….not the currency.

There will be grinding work and a few bumps along the way. And oh a factoid: Do you know that Tiger Woods was born same day same year as us? Somebody born that day sure achieved a lot.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: So I let myself go and become fat. Not good. Will I get married?
BirthdayBoy_at_30: Yes you shall. To a lovely person who is exactly right for the type of person you will grow up to be.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Oh ! That’s good…..So summing up, how do you feel now?

BirthdayBoy_at_30: A bit sad. The sadness from knocks sustained, trusts broken and overall cynicism about the institutions I once worshipped. The sadness from seeing ideals break and idols cracking. The sadness from knowing the things you can and cannot do. At 20, the world lay before me—I could be anything I wanted to be. I am not so sure anymore.

A bit afraid. More responsibilities. More thinking of others and less about myself. More aware of my own mortality and those others whom I love.

And finally more than a bit glad. Things could really have been much worse.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Boy you do sound old. I cannot believe I shall grow up to be you. In any case, thanks for all the crap old-timer. I have to go and start watching the cricket match—my favorite cricketer Azhar …Don’t want to miss his batting.

BirthdayBoy_at_30: I am sorrry again to tell you this but Azhar fixes matches—he has put money on the other side.

BirthdayBoy_at_20: Get lost….ewwwwww…….I am better off not knowing.

I sit head in hand. Did I dream that all up? Was it the alcohol? Perhaps.

Feeling emotional and light-headed, I think of the innocence , hopes and the aspirations of the person I talked to right now—so familiar and yet so strange, so present and yet so lost. Caught in the twilight haze of rational thought and hopeless dreams, my hand moves to the keyboard :

To BirthdayBoy_at_40: Hi. I know this sounds kind of weird. I am you , when you were 30. I just wanted to see if you are online….had some questions to ask you.