State of War

Gaurav Parab

I declare a state of War!

On everything I hate, everything I adore

War on comfortable disease

On uncomfortable peace

War on fake applause

On every unjust cause

War on the dead in everything alive

On everything alive that cannot survive

War on the fear inside

On the strength I cannot hide

War on everything that challenges me

On Invisible threats that I see

War on my enemy’s last breath

On my undefeatable death

I declare a state of war

On everything after, everything before

War on love’s enduring brutality

The oneness in duality

On everything against, everything for

I declare a state of war on war

-------------

Dear friends,

I am also blogging for the Neev Team at SCMHRD. Neev is one of India's largest B school events open to participants from leading B schools, undergraduate colleges and corporates. The Neev 2009 blog will be a witty look at what goes into creating a massive event, attended by more than 20,000 visitors, with prize money of more than 20 lacs, showcasing national and international talent of the likes of KK, Euphoria etc.

I hope that the support you have given to Gaurav Parab Says is extended to neev-war.blogspot.com as well

I have nothing more to sell! Keep writing in.

Keylong

Gaurav Parab

Arrogance glints across the cliff face

A deceptive smile across the welcoming base

The snaking road ending like a bite

Keylong disappears out of sight

Too late to turn back, too soon to go on

The night is over, but it is not yet dawn

A slippery body lead by a firm mind

The next foothold is all I hope to find

How many have you dispatched below?

Quick ends to lives lived real slow

I look up as you look down

Is that a bell ringing at Keylong town?

What makes you come? The mountain asks

To claim another one of your masks?

You do not remember me it seems

You mountain! Appearing in my dreams

I dreamt you help those who seek their end

Once proud minds too broken to mend

Mountain, this is what I want you to do

Filter the morning from the dew

No life ever grew on these slopes

Plenty slipped away from jagged ropes

But before you let me go

To the end of my climb down below

I have one thing to ask, before I stop

Can you let me breathe once on your top?

What Dreams Give

By Gaurav Parab

Maybe that is not how it was

A dream is after all dreamt to have flaws

No one saw what I could see in it

Perhaps a trick of light inside eyes half slit

 

She could never be so beautiful it seems

Beauty lies in the power of dreams

She never lived for me they say

Her eyes were black, yet I claim they were gray

 

How could she have a taste for you?

In life you don’t bite what you will not chew

She must have a love, a home, her own dream

An idea like you sounds unsuitable in her scheme

 

I hear she sings it was all a phase

In flashy hotels and run down cafes

If she never happened, how I hear what she sings?

Unexplained is how non-dreamers explain dreams

 

Every person lives only for his dreams

Life he could not live he slowly redeems

We were a fast dream that cannot live

Reality is the true lie real dreams spit out to give

Whats in a Name ?

In the movie that I saw today, a bunch of Mumbai based gangsters are having a conversation about why not to go to Delhi.

“ It is too cold”

“The people are too loud. They play Bhangra with the car windows down”

“All the girls in Delhi are either Neha or Pooja”

As I rolled in my seat at this stroke of genius, the entire front row comprising of what obviously looked like Neha’s and Pooja’s turned around and glared back at me.

This really got me thinking.

a)      a)Movies are pushing the envelope as far as subtle humor is concerned.

b)      b) Hot girls. Act normal. Hot girls. Act normal.

 

Not that I claim to be an exotic Aryanabhata.  While the Tamils have rocket scientists and Health Ministers, the Telgus their computer engineers and film stars, and the Punjabi export import business – Maharashtra has an entire generation of Gauravs.

Some twenty years ago, while the Patels planned how to get a US Visa for Viren, Kalpesh, & Hiten, and the Rao's taught trigonometry to three year olds, us Marathi’s named our kids Gaurav.

Let’s call him Gaurav. We will see how it goes. Pass me the alphonso mango please.

Not that I am complaining. It could have been worse. Ask Kumar Gaurav. A name so statistically impossible to be unique, that there is a better chance of running into a John Lou with two toilets in his name, than not running into a guy called Kumar / Gaurav in the Indian subcontinent.   

Back in school, there were 4 Gauravs in my section. Yes 4 out of 40. 10 % of the entire class. If you are a Kapoor, imagine a pizza with 10 slices. One entire slice was called Gaurav.

And all of us usually spent our time together. I guess if you have the same name, you have a thing in common.

While Ameen, Shreyas, and Rohitesh came to be known as the Three Amigos, and Sidhartha and Savio became the dynamic duo, Dukle, Parab, Joshi, and Pandit were called the..well… 4 Gauravs.

Again, I am not one for complaining. I thought we got away lightly. If I were an Aryanbhatta, and I saw 4 Gaurav’s having lunch together, I would not call them the 4 Gaurav’s.

I would have called them the G string.

In our defense, Gauravs do have a lot going for them. While the Sameer in class fails in every second subject, and the hot Shweta finishes third – the Gauravs always make up the middle pack. Solid. Not brilliant, but sufficiently gifted to copy from the Chetans.

Like you will never come across a poor Oberoi, or a well behaved Rohit, you will never see a Gaurav going home worried about his report card. Sure, he would have other things on his mind. Like, how does a Smith live in England, how do Annas get married in Russia ? or how does an Amit ignore shouts of “Hey AMIT” for the twenty other Amits in the shop with him.

On the bright side, with time all the Gauravs I know have successfully dealt with the name issue.

 Some have migrated to Norway (“Eat this Djovicle! My name is more unique than yours”).

And the rare Punjabi Gaurav insists that he be called Garry.

Me on my part is either GP, or ‘you short guy with the paunch’ to the people I know.

Having discussed the name issue, in an important development elsewhere, DLF has decided to sponsor the stadium air during next year’s IPL. Every time a player inhales, the commentator will say, “…And this breath of DLF fresh air has been brought to you by DLF”. During exhalation, Vodophone will create a DOO DOO cartoon to perform random acts that no one I know finds funny.

Gauravs out there, - “ Jack Daniels Presents Indian Gaurav” may have a Las Vegas freak show ring to it, but there could be a US Visa in it.

-----------

If you hated this post, you will hate this more. 

Dancing with the Yaars

By Gaurav Parab

 

Last week I received 6 wedding invitations over email. This was in addition to the usual Agarwal Wedding: Pooja would like to invite you spam that greets me every time I open my email account. It is after all May, the month where the Indian male either gets married, or attends a marriage ceremony of:

a)      His closest friend.

b)      Amit / Vivek / Ramesh

c)       Some stranger, who has a couple of friends randomly waving arms – to direct morning traffic straight into wedding halls, that are full of clueless motorcyclists.

 

To be honest, I am not one for lavish wedding ceremonies. (As an experience, I would rate it right up with having to discuss “Where do you see yourself in 5 years” to a job interview panel). But it is something one has to encounter every now and then.

The lavish Indian ceremony, like all things in India, started in the NCERT history text book.

Caveman to Jurassic girlfriend: Pass me the Horse de vour. Burp.

Girlfriend: Yupiee/ Wowiee / Hieee-  let’s get married!

Caveman: Tomorrow,   I catch deer with my bare hands. It is too easy with the sniper rifle.

Girlfriend:  Let’s have a marriage ceremony bigger than the Chopras!

 Caveman:  How long do you think will it take someone to invent remote control?

Girlfriend: We would of course need to find a wedding planner. That is the thing this season.

Caveman to girlfriend:  Do you think I am being stereotyped in this article?

Girlfriend: We can start by finding a decorator willing to take large amounts of money.

Caveman:  I have a zit the size of a T Rex egg. And I can’t think of any more disgusting things to quote.

Girlfriend: Do you think a live band will be enough to spend the remainder of your life savings? I want to be sure.

Well, I am not saying everything about a wedding is bad. It does have its moments for the average male the world over

 

 

During weddings in Iran, men get to fire AK 47s randomly in the air to bring down unsuspecting rooftop based onlookers.

During weddings in Russia, men get to take a break from trying to look like gangsters.

During weddings in Afghanistan, fathers and sons look for brides together.

During weddings in American Pie, men get to make out in the closet with random strangers.

During weddings in India – and this is what this video article is about, middle aged Indian men get to do the one thing that they are naturally good at, with no fear of censure or scorn.

Dance badly. And I mean, really really badly.

What the commentary box is to Mandira Bedi, the Indian wedding baraat is to 250 million Indian men. An opportunity to do their thing in front of an appreciative audience. Awkwardly.

As exhibt A, I give you “Dancing With the Yaars” from a good friend’s wedding. Before you view this video, I must warn you –this one minute video is not for the faint hearted. This is the kind of video that even Al Jazeera wont touch because of the graphic nature of its content.

 To view the video in You Tube, click here

 

Vote Vote Vote!

  By GAURAV PARAB

Hi, I was hoping we could talk for a little while

They say this village is this country’s last mile

This is where everything ends, this is where everything starts

Your life captured in little dots on your fingers and our charts.

 

Did they come again to ask you for your precious day?

To rant and rant till that shining machine flies them away

A million bucks to buy that bird safe and nice

And yes, it was bought by your money from last season’s rice

 

Ever wondered why they flew as opposed to drive?

See, even their mighty SUV’s need a road to arrive

They didn’t build no roads for sixty years

Even with a million unemployed engineers

You voted didn’t you?

Walking for miles to that booth

 

They have been coming every five years I have been told

In the heat of the summer, sometimes in the cold

To villages like yours, far and remote

Darn your vote, your vote your vote

 

That rich star on TV says even your poor vote counts

To deliver, to change, to lead it all amounts

It is for your children, so you are told

Where were they when your mother was sold?

You voted, didn’t you?

And your father did too

 

There are national issues that you should care about

The government is a thief the opposition shouts

The opposition was a thief when it was in power

Shouts the government every hour

 

They would call everyone a threat apart from you

You are not Chinese; you are democracy’s select few

Do you know they are all pals when no one is around

Laughing behind your back, in their town

You voted, didn’t you

Well, the jokes on you

 

Democracy will always be safe and sound

What goes around, comes around

They have been coming around only when they could

You want them to be gone for good

 

Soldiers die so you could have this glorious afternoon

To elect thieves who will send more to die soon

Thank you for listening to me this while

I hope a leader gives you a reason to smile

It is fashionable these days, so I will end my poem with a quote

“Please go out and vote, vote and vote”

 

Them Borders

By Gaurav Parab

Little men living by their guns to kill

Big children surviving by their untested will

Solitary souls fighting some stranger’s  war

In old Tel Aviv and once beautiful Lahore

Same flesh covering root through stem

That border in their minds dividing them

 

An old champion falls behind

An unknown at the start of the line

The finishing post comes into view

The champion finds strength to burst through

The difference between the race in each man

That border between winner and also ran

 

Mothers painting images of gods

Preachers screaming about imaginary plots

Each inspiring millions to their own way

Walking with things they heard them say

The difference in each word as it floats along

That border between right and wrong

 

A lost soul desperate to discover

Herself between true love and her lover

Is it wrong to love more than one?

To crawl, when the spirit wants to run?

Dead calm, and stormy weather

That border between breaking herself

 to stay together

 

Children begging for reasons and food

A wandering mind leading a body half nude

Staring at the young ones in their long cars

Is it my past, or is it written in the stars?

A child’s value, his chances and his worth

Divided by borders defining the accidents of birth

 

What should be done- where to stop?

Relationships to stitch and lies to chop

Sinful thoughts and the innocent mind

Promises to keep, horrors to remind

The skies to fly and the grounds to fall

Can do with borders strong and tall

Reasons to love, reasons to dance out with joy

Reasons to destroy everything made to destroy

Black, white and those shades of grey

 

Differences between tomorrow and yesterday

A place to stay, one to depart

Divided by borders than should be blown apart

The Worth Parked in a Valet

By Gaurav Parab

Heaven knows that I need this break

At a coffee shop holding some fancy shake

Staring out of the large window from in here

A large black car slowly turns to appear

 The parking lot is empty like my heart

As the valet rushes to the car with a start

 

Sir, you cannot park here

With the traffic- this nice car may interfere

May I ask you to park over there?

It is safe and out of the Sun’s glare

 

I sip my shake and see a rich man step out

His voice is loud yet he begins to shout

I will park where I damn please

Clean my car, here catch the keys

His friends come out after him

Arrogance filled up to the brim

 

Look down at my cup, full a moment ago

I again look out of the window down below

 

The little valet clears his throat without delay

Sir, I am doing my job, this is my parking bay

I request you again to move your car

The new spot is not very far

 

The rich man looks over him as if he was blind

He shouts, Are you out of your crazy mind?

Do you even know who I am?

You have done your bit, now go scram

 

The group laughs on its way to the coffee shop

The valet stands helplessly, unsure to start or stop

The big pride inside a small uniform

He has a duty to perform

 

He follows them into the coffee shop

 

The valet softly calls out from behind

Sir, please do not mind

But do not talk to me in that tone

There are things you have, and things you can’t own

My job is to make sure everyone parks right

Like yours may be banks or customer delight

The rich man turns around with fire in his eyes

Remove this pest from this shop, he cries

What sort of people you employ around here?

I park where I want to, isn’t that clear?

 

My heart is pumping fast to see what the valet will do

Has he bitten more than he can chew?

The valet looks at the manager, who looks resigned

The manager says, I am sorry the valet is out of his mind

 

The valet storms out of the coffee place

The faceless man, suffers a loss of face

As he walks by the car, he stops

Don’t do it, I pray, as my cup drops

The valet whispers something to the black sedan

A machine may perhaps understand more than a man

 

 I pay for the coffee and walk towards a shadow left behind

His birth, his pride, his duty undefined

I take his hand and tell him it is all right

You have won, for you had the fight

I saw everything, I explain

I hope the next time you will do it all over again

 

Mister, Am I so ordinary and worthless?

That my mind says no, but I have to say Yes?

 

I apologize to him for another man’s mistake

All I was in there was for coffee and cake

No you are not ordinary, I find my voice

The worth you choose is a matter of choice

That fool and his friends who laugh inside

Are not worthy enough to decide

The Gift

By Gaurav Parab

Falling apart with a box in his hands

Held together by lace and colorful bands

It feels small to be a book about love

Yet too big to be a golfer’s glove

 

Elegantly shaped, tastefully designed

The wrapper hiding what he will shortly find

It was left at his door when he was away

Maybe she did not find it in her to stay

Or maybe the key to her heart stays inside

Coming out when those ribbons are untied

 

Maybe it is a simple memento between friends

An occasion to simply make amends

Do not open it till I am gone

You may see it an hour after dawn

 He looks at his watch and shakes his head

Maybe it’s a clock to keep besides his bed

 

Could it be another pint sized God?

The songs she sang inside an iPOD

A little bulb to light up his dark room?

He shakes it to see if it’s a perfume

 

He is faithful to the promise invoked

Unlike the hundreds he unfaithfully broke

As the Sun reluctantly nods his head

He sits down to steady himself on her bed

 

His hands shake while his eyes are steady

Some part unwilling, some part of him ready

As the last thread untangles itself

He keeps the unopened gift back on the shelf

 

Every day he looks at the gift with curious surprise

As tears escape his indifferent eyes

Some Dog Is a Millionairre

By Gaurav Parab

This article by Gaurav Parab is the Point of View Editorial in the Sakaal Times, 26th Feb 2009


While most applaud, a few ask - What is the big deal about winning an Oscar? And then some state the obvious.

Let us start by stating the obvious. Slumdog Millionairre is an average movie. Let alone it being the best movie of this year. Jay Ho and O Saya are not A R Rahman's best songs. They probably will not make it to the genius' own 100 greatest songs list. With this knowledge behind us, let us also acknowledge some remarkable facts. Slumdog Millionaire won 8 Oscars and the Madras Mozart won 2 in about 10 minutes.Anyone who has had anything to do with film-making will give an arm to win one in his lifetime. In spite of what he or she states to the media or scribbles on his blog.

Now, let's return to the jazz about winning the Oscars.

Is it the World Cup of filmmaking? No.

Does it reward the best achievements in filmmaking? Not always.

How else can you explain Nolan's Dark Knight – which seamlessly blended old fashioned storytelling and Summer Blockbuster with the performances of a lifetime and beyond, not even making it to the list of nominees? Slumdog, on the other hand, made a dozen times every year in India, swept every major award worldwide.

Now, is winning the Oscar's still special, important and very difficult? Yes. It is. Ask Kate Winslet, one of the finest actors of this generation, who finally cracked the code after years of disappointment. And this is where we need to take a moment. Shed our holier than thou, oldest civilization, billion people, maximum movies made in a year, I hate Anil Kapoor's chest hair, we don't care for western appreciation; cloak.

We need to simply say, Congratulations AR Rahman, Resul Pookutty, and every member of the Slumdog team. You made us proud.

And this is in spite of that inexplicable part of us that wants India to do well at everything, yet doubts Indian achievement when it is done. Yes, that part which says – was the Miss World and Universe fixed by the cosmetic industry in the nineties to push sales in the world's biggest market? Are Australian Cricketers over the hill? How else could a team of people like us beat them? Is the Nano really an engineering achievement, or an invitation to parking problems we never previously worried about?

Kill that part, and join the celebration when one is due. We will most definitely not have a reason always. And yes, it is important to congratulate Danny Boyle too. Some may have called you a predator, and yes you may have done what a hundred others have done before in Bollywood, but none can deny the fact that you did what you set out to. You did your job well. Period. You showed Mumbai as Mumbai, and not the true or false,westernized or Indian, modern or slum tourism version. In an ideal word, we wish for a heartwarming Oscar winning thriller about India's Space mission prowess, yet we will take and respect your movie for what it is. Somebody had to win the Oscars, and we rather have an honest friend of India like you do it. Like A R Rahman so rightly said, if anyone has a problem with Slumdog and its success – why not make one yourself.

Speaking of A R Rahman, finding the right words is as tough as defining a genre for the music he creates. Magic, perhaps, best describes it. Oscar winning or otherwise. How many Oscar winners have the humility and clarity of thought to say, "I will say what I have always said at the end of every acceptance speech. God is great". The Oscar selection process may be as flawed as any other,but that is a fundamental factor that every art or performance award will always have to deal with it. One man's art can easily be another's fart.What the Oscars manage to do, and this is what makes it one of the most recognizable events in the world is that it put up a spectacular show – which entertainment and entertainers truly deserve. It awards performances with a place in history and bragging rights for a lifetime – unlike the multiple sponsorship driven award ceremonies in Bollywood which come and go with zero longevity and recall. And with documentaries like Smile Pinki – it helps us share stories of human triumph on a global stage.

While the sight of Anil Kapoor jumping up and down after every award ceremony does make one want to destroy something beautiful, it is important to understand that the occasion indeed is special. It marks a watershed moment, when East meets West like it has never done before. Through television, on the big screen and through the millions of articles being written about the billion stories India and Indians like Vikas Swarup have to offer. Brilliant,mediocre or otherwise.The euphoria is not too different from the early days of Mahesh Bhupathy and Leander Paes beating the best sides in the world. We tracked their progress, celebrating each victory in a preliminary round like the best thing to have happened in Tennis – until the time when they started winning so much, that we took Grand Slams as a matter of fact. This is exactly what Slumdog's success will do. We might be accused of going overboard this year, but the next time some dog wins a million – we will raise a silent toast and appreciate success without any shadow of doubt in our minds. Like Pookuty said, this is not just a sound award, this is history being handed over to me. Till history is made again, let us not resist saying Jai Ho, no matter how clichéd it might sound to the natural Indian critic in us.