rajni? yum...

Yenna 'muthu' pol potato chips... (Won't translate because I don't know how)






AVM Films makes another with Superstar: 'Sivaji, directed by S. Shankar. There have been reports that the film is about Rajni scouring the world for seven look-alikes. Incidentally, superstar used to be called Sivaji Rao before he turned into Rajnikanth.

The movie's all hush-hush even after it's puja on Nov. 28. Of course, the following are guaranteed:

- A philosophy song, where you are asked not to fall for material things, because see how love and affection is opening the world out to you. That if you have just enough money to fill your palm, you're its master; but if you have money up to your neck, then it only is your master (money, not neck).
Also, that he's the autofellow who never says no to delivery case. That he's not from any political party, just makkal (public's) party. Aaha, thatthuvam. (Really, they have all been sung, and meant from the bottom of his heart).

- Many slow motion walks of pure style; swirls; smiles of divinity; kicks in the butt and gut of every bad guy who puts kann or kai on thaaikulam (eye or hand on womankind).

- A snake joke (p..p.. paamba?!)

- An actress (Shriya) quarter the age of our superstar, and there'll be a dream sequence (HER dream, not our decent hero's). Not in snow, but rain, especially since Shriya's already proved she won't maranjify (hide) when there's mazhai (rain).

- Some scene that'll draw attention to the beauty of sunglasses on our hero's face.

- A tragic, poverty-stricken past full of travails orphaned Rajni has triumphed over, as he raises his cute as a button brother by selling tea in construction sites. A dialogue that'll explain why young Rajni will NOT steal or beg. If it's a younger sister, she'll go to English medium school, wear half-sari and know how to milk a cow with one hand while she slaps an eve teaser with the other.

- An intro scene that will not not shift from Rajni even to move on with the script. It's whistling-and-going-mad-screaming-for-joy time for fans. (and for 3/4-fans like me to gape in wonder. Yes. 1/8 space is for Kamal Hassan in pre-Avvai Shanmugi films; 1/16 space for Suriya with murukku meesai; 1/16 space for the hero of current blockbuster)


There are also some rumours of Mohanlal being in the movie, with equal screen space and time as namma chandramukhilan. Would be a tough task, considering Tamil fans start yawning and going out for pups (puffs) the second Rajni's face goes off screen.


(Now I have to go and see Padayappa, and Bharatham)

airwaves crackle

CNN-IBN on air all over the country from December 16! On the web, so much fun too.
Still lots of glitches and nervousness, tickers that leave you to fill in the blanks, anchors who call me Mohini (yuckyuckyuck). No other woman in an office of 20, no respite even on crampy PMS days until I just list out (in shocking decibel levels) the perils of venturing within 10 feet of me and leave the room in all drama.
But there are anchors I don't know who wish me on air to "stay warm and dry" as I report on the endless cyclones, bosses that are thrilled to bits when we ignore some idiot DMK politician for telling the story of a whole street that's quietly flying black flags after 42 of their neighbours who died in a stampede at a flood relief camp. Then they ask someone in Orissa if they knew Tamil Nadu is not as parched, and still dying the same inhuman death.
I notice that it's taken over my dinner/breakfast for the past 3 months. That it makes me prioritise Office-Delhi calls over Mummy-Bangalore calls. I miss the complete control that newspaper articles gave me, and realise everyday how much I have to depend helplessly on every cog in the wheel (cameraperson, editor, driver, automan, watchman, landlord, carpenter). When the wheel falters, I'd like to jump into the sea, but when it zips smoothly right over all bumps and potholes, I absolutely love the ride.
I whine at being woken up from sleep at 3 in the morning by an assignment coordinator in Delhi, but then shut up after I know he wants me to get early responses from Chennai on what people think about Meerut police beating up couples in a park. They recognise blogs as strong valid voices and put them up on their own news website. They're so earnest, most of them. And so young.
I'm most excited, but am trying to be straight-faced reporter whose stomach and liver don't merge into one at the thought of suddenly being on TV 24 hours, and having to say sensible truths all the time. Brr.

spies came out of the water

I wonder if we've become a police state. And the police isn't always just the guys in khakhi… it's the nosy lady on the ground floor apartment; the maybe too-powerful theatrical media; hungry Uriah Heep lawyers; political parties making up 'ideology' over biryani; patchily scripted film personalities; the man speeding the screaming dirty Qualis he thinks is his dick/manhood.
Everyone wants to gun everyone else down. Actually, I understand that: the tendency to push people around. Especially when it's easy.
What I don't understand is how we let them. And live like fugitives, full of fear. And tell ourselves we're quiet because we want to be amused.

(Although The Hindu has written a first page Magazine article about the Kushboo issue in as stern a voice as the grand old paper can muster, it's forgotten to mention the real slap on the chastity protectors' face. The Madras High Court's observation last week: "The court is pained at the way these two women have been treated. They have the freedom to speak their mind. These protests... is this your culture?" And then asked the big-mustached police to work a little bit and please prevent such illegal protests if they happened again.)

new pal

His only job is to open the gate, shut the gate, and in between retrieve the screamer kid's ball from the sunshade every five minutes. He told me his name thrice, all when I asked, but I nodded without paying attention. I try to squeeze every bit of English out of my Tamil just to get him to dismount the wall he climbs every time I so much as look at him. It's a class thing, a friend said, but I naively want it not to be.

Today is ayudha puja, and on Sunday everyone in Sri Ramachandra Apartments was washing his/her bike. I rode off to work, came back with the same dried-up-and-unsuccessfully-scraped-off pigeon crap and all the slush in the city. But I wasn't going to clean it if it meant having the shirtless prowler attack me. The Prowler is an uncle who circles the apartment block and asks quick questions every time he sees my flat mate or me... "What time does work get over?" which means am I loafing (=going to night club with boys) till now; "You must be eating out everyday..." which means I'm the 'modern' girl they will ever despise; and "What salary do you get?" which means do you earn more than me. He was funny for 2 days. But then he tried to convince me to cover a wedding as national news, and I have been on the run since.

Anyway, watchman walks up to me yesterday and says, "Amma, neenga mind pannalena, naan unga bike-a thodachidava?" (If you don’t mind, can I clean your bike?). Offended at the presumption that I wouldn't clean my own bike (where would he get such an idea?), I quickly assured him that I would do it myself. To that,
"I don't mind, really. I'm here all day. Sunday I can do."
"No no, in Bangalore, I washed the bikes of everyone in the house. I'll manage."
"Oh, but now you're alone. You must be thinking who you'll clean for...”
(Laughing) "No no, I don't have such sentiments..."
"I understand, ma. It's ok, you don't have to pay me. But please, I can't see anything in such condition!" Then as The Prowler approached, "Ok madam, you go upstairs now."

The next day, Reddy was sparkling. Even the pigeons didn't want to crap on so shiny a surface. (Instead, they came to my balcony and relieved themselves on the broken fan blade). It hasn't been an ayudha puja with pori and sweet boondi, lemon, agarbatti, and bruised fingers... but in many by-the-electricity-meter conversations I have found in Palani the greatest bitch in town. Our victim: The Prowler. Apparently, The Prowler can never start his scooter in the morning.

tatabyebye

... since not much is being thrown in anyway.