Sunday, June 10, 2007

my sunday brunch

Big B sits on the steps of a circular platform in the main party area and waits. Nathulal, owner of the proverbial moocchhen (bushy upper-lip appendage), gifts Big B a huge bottle of some brand of alcohol from the License Raj. And, behind him, waiting in line are several other well-wishers of the Budday Boy, that is Big B, with bottles similar to Nathu’s. After the gifting-shifting is over, one of the guests, quite nonchalantly, asks Big B as to why he isn’t indulging himself in cake-cutting and subsequent eating. To which he, Big B that is, remarks, in a demonstrance of his unsurrendered volition, Amaa, hamara janamdin hai, hamaari party hai, jab hamaara man kare hum cake kaatenge (my birthday, my party, i’ll cut the god-damned cake when i feel like). In the delivery of this fiercely individualistic line, though, a dil ka taar (string of heart) is strung, and Big B, reeling under the weight of the absence of a certain one in his party, accuses Munshiji of being culpable of a great, emotionally punishable, crime. He reminds the latter, though not in mockery, of what he, the latter that is, had said about an aurat (woman) lending wazan (weight, gravity) to a mard ki baatein (man’s words). Ho hum, hum mein hai dum (we have the guts; the introductory phrase only for musical impact, much in the lines of chhaiyan chhaiyan, tamma tamma, humma humma) may have cried the feminists. Munshiji, to his credit, doesn’t babble arey bhaagwaan (common form of address used by rural Indian husbands for their respective better halves). Instead, buoyed by his well-tuned gut feeling, he says, Mujhe yakeen hai woh aayegi, chaahe qayamat aa jaaye (I have faith in her coming, even if disaster striking). Big B orders all the lights to be switched off save one—that which glows pure as a flame, literally. He lays down his terms: He shall wait until the candle melts to wax, and dust grounds to dust, and if she does not turn up by then, his faith in candles shall be destroyed. The guests, mute spectators thus far, bow in shame served aplenty with hunger, and wait. So, Big B waits, Munshiji waits, Nathulal and his moustache wait, and the sidekicks in the crowd wait.

Unable to bear the wait now, with three-fourths of an hour past, Big B picks up a guitar and starts rendering a song about intehaan (test) and intezaar (wait) that is languid only to emphasize its synonymy with the purport of the song. Gradually, as he croons past the mukhda (opening line of the song), he picks himself up and asks pertinent questions such as aaaina kuch khabar mere yaar ki (mirror, do you have some news about my beloved?). The melancholy in the air runs itself thin and slips into the realms of the bizarre. However, just before this process is consummated and the mysterious sightings of an unidentified dancing object mindfuck Big B any further, attired in glitzy-glossy appropriated from the wardrobe of Baapida (legendary music director who weighs as much as his jewellery and speaks a language in which the last line of this post is written) appears the weighty (t)issue that is Jayaprada. The trumpets and the trombones give way to drums, lots of them, and those instruments that squeal disco Baapida sounds. A muhalla (neighborhood) crowd gushes in, in dated suits, sarees, and chappals to bestow significance upon the occasion. Jayaji, dances to Baapida’s beats and lip-syncs to the voice of Asha taai (rhymes with baai but men have lesser sexual motor response for this species). Gyrating, pirouetting, serenading. Big B, catatonic, with two left legs and two right (he is a leftie, ya) hands. Plays the drums, sings the song, and cavorts. All at once.

In Baapida’s words, it would hab been bhery phoolish to hab bhizualijed this song in any aather way.

P.S: (1) This post is my version of the song Intehaan ho gayi from Sharaabi, which I happened to catch on Max. For reference, Munshiji is Om Prakash and Big B is…now c’mon guys .

(2) I think the cellphone operators can use the waiting-period footage to make far better ads than the daadu-chessplaying-pota-traingoing Airtel version.


nutty said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
nutty said...

He He! Such a perfect follow up to the post before this, isn't it?!

All the same, one small correction if I may be so bold -
aaaina kuch khabar mere yaar ki..
It isn't aaina as in mirror but rather aayi na i.e. hasn't come.
so the translations would be, "there is no news of my loved one yet" ..

Thanks for the recap of a good 'ol Bappida song tho :)

satyajit said...

nutty: bravo! i was wondering why the hell should he ask "aaina kuch khabar..?" it made no sense..but now ya it falls into place..thanks a lot :-)

and do u know bappi is always baapi (his nickname) is actually alokesh (his first name)..i love his work, esp. his disco numbers

Nasal Crooner said...

kamina saale!!
he he...
saaxxxy write-up yo..


i am not sure about the interpretation of " aaina kuch khabar.."...dont think he is asking a all probabilities..a mirror would have been the theme for jayaprada with he diamond haar singing something like " darpan jhoot na bole...."

and lots of words i know in medicine put superbly into good use.

satyajit said...

nasal: thank you, my dearest bangla brother

sucharita: ya, its aai na and not aaina..i don't want to change it now or else all the comments abt it would appear stupid..and what song is "darpan jhoot" and have i used medicine words?


its strange but the song is from another movie called anycase on second thoughts jaya might as well ask "magic mirror on the wall who is the fairest of us all"

catatonic is a medical jargon for a very interesting case in common man's words its a type of epilepsy/hysteria where the body parts stay in whichever position they are kept...

aks said...

good one
i enjoyed it :)

satyajit said...

aks: thanks you :-)