It was the stuff dreams were made of

When she was a child she had imagined a room full of innumerable mirrors, at all angles, of all shapes and sizes such that a single burst of light would make it sparkle and shine as brightly as a giant polished diamond.

And she would be inside too awed to speak, content to just bask in this sea of jewels, a queen in her own private fairyland.

The lights were dimmed now, pale blue and white.

She would dream of lands far away , smothered with clouds, pale blue and white, of sparkling fountains and snow capped peaks, of pale blue summers and white winters, of pale blue ribbons in white dresses.

Of a pale blue dawn seen through the whites of the mirrors, many mirrors, evoking a realm of possibilities, each mirror a vista silky white to the touch.

The lights that were falling were harsh and red, smouldering and fiery to the touch. the reflections were her own, many aspects, many faces, some whom she recognized, many whom she didn't.

Some enduring the harshness of the fiery light and getting lost in the darkness and shying away.

Some fighting the flames which would then glow orange and pink and illuminate a mirror, previously undiscovered, a face hidden in the shadows.

Broken shards from thunderbolts of light, broken dreams and broken personalities.

The room was dark and a single flicker of light would open a multitude of possibilities, a plethora of emotions.

But she knew that the sights would make her dizzy, so she stayed in the darkness.

And it was just another day

So being in Mumbai and staying alone at Worli, I have pretty much the same experience as many others , that of mute and horrified spectators. Much has and will be written about it, and my sense of outrage and disgust would be as good as any other. The weekend before i had watched two movies at Metro (yes the same one) and though it seems like an eternity away i shall do my best to return to normalcy.

So Yuvraaj happened to me the day it made its unwanted presence felt in the movie theatres. One time celebs rehashing a formula which might have worked once (and still makes me embarrassed that it did ). As if the effeminate, multi pierced, fake-accented , aging Khan wasn't enough, you had an eager to please by-copying-autistic-children Anil Kapoor along with the non descript(whats his name again?) Zayed Khan. Saas-Bahu inspired seductresses and holier than thou poison administering Mama-ji's completed the demented family picture (no Anil kapoor was not the only one). Katrina Kaif and Rahman were brought in to temporarily reduce eyesores, and calm nerves which had been frayed with trying to watch blubbering Khan's and hamming Kapoors. I rate it a sell (Ok so I am reading analyst reports)

Dostana was better than I expected and that is that.

There will be a time..

There will be a time when music would no longer accompany sorrow

When music would no longer accompany festivities

When outpourings of music would no longer mirror outpourings of grief or joy

When there would be endless music..

And it was not just the songs.

A chance remark evoking vague memories, innumerable objects, random people on the streets, making coffee and working nights, there was a bit of him in each of them.

Bits she was trying to shake off but they were parts of her and clung too tight.

He was no longer her last thought when she went to bed, or the first thing she thought of as she faced another dreary day, but they were there, memories , dozens of them , lodged firmly in the back of her mind, weighing her down.

The day he left, the day he died, she felt a void so sharp, as he took away a part of her that was made for him, for their lives together, a void which just got bigger the more she let him claim.

There was a time when reason and emotion had walked together and indulged in devious games of power play.

There was a time when she welcomed Fortune as a fitting adversary and exhilarated by the test she put her to.

There were times when she just succumbed.

Of Drona and other inconsequential things

So obviously this post is not on the current financial crisis, since the likes of Krugman have been commenting on it and have received Nobels for their effort , and I cant obviously better that !(heh), so would stick to movie reviews which are more my realm. But as an aside, I should seriously stop giving the impression that I am blessed with the intelligence of a housefly who likes reading. People at my work place are quite willing and beginning to believe that, but impression management in the office environs will be the subject of another painful post. Sufficient to say that I do understand math and finance and CDO's and all those subjects outside the realm of your regular Economic Times reading house fly.
So back to Drona (pronounced drone (ur lazy and boring male bees) and rhymes with groan). I think I sat through the flick in a state of suspended stupor, dozing off occasionally since what comes to mind are intermittent scenes which are scarring nevertheless.
So AB junior taking his junior status to heart plays an oversized Harry Potter , the uncanny resemblance to Privet Drive and his bedroom making it clear , even to the meanest intelligence. He is surrounded by a clan of protectors, a sample set drawn from the United Nations, signifying solidarity and unity in the face of Rizz Raizada oppression (a lesson imbibed by all governments while dealing with the liquidity crisis). Talk about drawing parallels!! Coz if that was not the intent, I don’t know what was the purpose of the motley crew, except Priyanka Chopra of course. She made hr stance abundantly clear, when she sang the "Drona Drona" number, in praise of the great one with a dance routine to match. She was his greatest fan, philosopher and guide and the female lead (they could not afford different people for these characters I guess).
Since the director realized that he could not appeal to the rock-on going audience, after a few shots he decided to make it a complete family entertainer, to hedge risks so to speak. He needed to. So enter the mom (or the only one who could be persuaded to play the mom, purely out of maternal instincts), who begged to be turned into stone before she could see her son embarrass himself further.
So Drona who till then looked as stoned as his mom, comes into his avatar, by donning a Mahabharata costume (so that’s why the name!! and of course not the other way around, since there is no other reason why he should be a Drona and not say "The-Indian-Hancock", but I digress), overcomes his fear of water by coming face to face with himself in his costume (guess that was scarier than any water could ever be) and visits Baghdad styled secret cities. After which the director having by then lost faith in the human race, introduces a horse into the script, mass appeal so to speak , presumably hoping for some equestrian following for his vapid script. The horse is whiter than the Drona and tries to conceal him for the rest of the film, and manages quite successfully I guess, since the only other thing I remember about the film is a black and white chessboard fight and I-want-to-be-heath-leger-Rizz-Raizada making grotesque faces..

The Broken Song

I'll write a song for you. A song with words so green and fresh that it would remind you of the times you walked with me and the air was full of promise and the world was full of laughter and dreams were but an inch away from reality and home was warmth and shelter and love was the clear, bubbling water of the brook, unhindered and unshackled.
The words would twist around that happy moment and there would be words and games, a play on words, there would be less spontaneous prose and more calculated undertones, there would be lines between the lines, spinning a tale of sorts, spinning the picture into havoc and it would remind you of hurt and tears and willful acts , of times when laughter was more contrived and conversation more guarded, when the brook was dry and the remaining water listless , and the world held foreboding and the air was heavy with the smell of rain.
The words would slowly unravel as the tone would become calmer , there would be philosophy, there would be experience , words of erudition backed by learning, words of age and age old, words picked carefully with a wealth of meaning, for those few who understood(if it was and worth understanding in the first place )or thought they did, and it would remind you of patience and discretion and of wisdom over emotions, of icy cool water washing away the distortions in the picture, which would emerge new though faded and not so colorful , divested of its vibrancy but toned down and pleasant and the brook would fill again , but the water would not dance over the pebbles but be frozen into ice and the world would be a set of rules and the air would be devoid of feeling.
I would then raise the music to a crescendo, the beats would shake you from your reverie and tear through that page of written words, and it would remind you of the music in you, within you ..but would you remember how to dance??

PS: After this long hiatus, I accidentally deleted all the comments while reviewing them, but thanks to all those who took the time out to read these ramblings, and the time to tell me what you thought of it. Trust me it means a lot!!

The Chronicles of BW- Part 1

BW decided that it was time for some soul searching. Ever since her entry into the real world so to speak she had been riddled with AOL banners, power yoga techniques, meditation pamphlets, reiki, kundalini, you name it. So she set out on a journey to discover the deeper meaning of "life". Not that she had much of a life anyway, or so said some equally lifeless colleagues.
So she bought a Ferrari , since that showed that you were serious, it was like an induction of sorts. Since a journey it would have to be, to attain the elusive nirvana. After all it did one good to mix business with pleasure. Till she morphed into a saint-with-a-ferrari , she might as well make the most of it.
So the third dimension it was and Pratchett's discworld seemed the obvious starting point. It was a world where unreality was its one reality, the rest were just figments of one's imagination.
So Death was companionable, witches were friendly guardians though slightly coarse and satire was king. “Such was life”, thought BW. A sense of unreality was exactly what one needed to try out the most bizarre. Here at last one could become oneself or one’s vision of oneself at least.
So she rented a cottage, kept cats, danced with witches at moonlight and made tea 5 times a day. And waited for realization to set in. She would be free at last, and at peace, no strings attached.
Days passed and yet she felt nothing. She did feel a vast void welling up inside her. But nothing else.
She slept in one morning, and when she woke up the sun was in her eyes, its rays sharp and she felt a spasm of irritation. And she realized what she had been missing.
She felt the heat of the sun coarse through her, and went to the garden and plucked out the roses feeling their silken touch against her skin, and pricked herself with the thorns, oozing blood and welcoming the pain. She bathed in icy water and shed hot tears. The tears were real, as were the roses, the sun was real because of the heat, and she was real because she could emote and feel again. Joys, sorrow, pain, happiness, fear, anger made her what she was, her ability to think, feel, reflect and smile were her own, they were unique to her. She couldn’t do without a life which did not stir them to some degree. Without them she had as much personality as those rapidly wilting rose petals.
So she decided on the next fad. After all philanthropy had many takers and what could be better than helping the underprovided little kids. Why she could even adopt a few after she was sufficiently famous.
So she plunged into the good works, cried buckets at her first encounter with misery and set about her duties zealously, and it must be admitted a tad self righteously. She was vociferous about their rights and their privileges and would tell anyone who listened how rewarding it was.
But days passed and her unhappiness grew. For how could she admit to herself that their unhappiness no longer moved her, that she was hard hearted enough to become immune to it.
Familiarity kills emotions. Familiarity leads to numbness. Or was it just a sense of belonging since you could never pity anything you were a part of?
There would be feelings if there was love in the first place. In this case there was none.
So what was the solution? To find something you truly loved, something which would stir your emotions to the right degree, something you would never get tired of? And then you would find your calling, your own personal Nirvava. Till then you would keep looking.

The Chronicles Of BW-Preface

So BW stepped out of her fairy tale land and into our world of dark knights and kung-fu pandas( ok this is a serious identity crisis). It is a world where Joker surpasses Batman (though I still maintain that Christian Bale was my draw) and Kismat Konnection manages to rake in moolah ( or so Google News would have me believe). But seriously what were they thinking!!Given my attraction for inane films I was drawn like a bored fly to a pot of honey. So I was able to witness first hand the actress-who-should-be-the-mom working on her sex appeal(??) to seduce the actor-who-should-be the-son. Wild hairdos dont work( though the collection of hair slides is another story), pious than thou , helping the aged, the mother teresa of the NRI image doesnt work (the aged themselves get on ones nerves, they are like the Chopra kids, I have spoken about that species at length in previous posts) And so the director had to resort to the totally believable plot of her being the guy's lucky charm to help us understand why he falls for her.
Lucky charmer (heh) does have a purpose in life quite apart from being the arm-candy-cum-mascot of the failed hero. In fact she has too many of them. She divides her time between caring for the aged homeless and relaxes by waving to the remaining on solitary beaches , presumably to include them in her ever encompassing frame (..of love of course what did you think ?) , romancing the first bf and running protest marches, romancing the second bf and slapping the first..
Such is the scintillating storyline..But it is didactic too and before we leave we have one of the aged beach wavers espousing the cause of not just the profit motive in business (CSR anyone??)..I mean talk about insights..This is one community-love story..
But we digress..when dont I??
So back to BW ..but thats another story..

The idiot box

So I switched on the television set and was greeted with He-Man (??) Baweja's vision of life , universe and everything in 2050. Apparently red heads would be a rage again, and that would be the crowning achievement of mankind's evolution... hair raising enough I would say. There would also be musically inclined robots, and the spectacle of them dancing well..robot like is enough to make an ancestor like me cringe and change the channel.
Next is what you would say..and so do I..What are we supposed to infer from a spectacle of Aamir Khan behaving like a chimp with headphones listening to celtic music and getting excited and reminded of the african jungles and grunting and oomphing (or whatever it is they do..or rather he does)..
And why are we being inflicted with the blast from the past a.k.a Mehbooba..this one is time travel gone badly wrong..the tuneless songs with the vapid lyrics (behold..jaaon doob doob doob doob..till u change the channel), accompanied by twitching belles afflicted with a seizure of sorts..so wild is the shaking, and passionate men who travese deserted terrains in search of the loved one, accompanied by nothing but their sunglasses which serve to reveal their angst when they take them of at the first glimpse of the leading lady (who behaves like a Miss Havisham of sorts clad always in a wedding attire of a red sari and the accompaniments)..

To BITS with love

So Zans wrote a post on our BITS days and it frankly made me quite senti..what is it about things in retrospect which makes them so beautiful ??...as if a white mist runs through them..cloaking the painful moments, the ugly scenes, the anger, the frustration and leaving behind only a picture ....perfect ..more so because it is elusive and transient and always in danger of getting engulfed ...by the very same mist of time ..and thats why we love the memories and thats why we cling on to them..
And thats why we cherish the Bitsian lingo, and use it again and again, when we meet someone who understands , and it is a connection of sorts, a badge of belonging..guss, sac, insti, audi, sky, psenti, sidey..its amazing how special these words have become now..
I hope you remember how we went hysterical in Chemistry classes so much so that the professor remarked that society had a separate place for people like us, how that just made us laugh all the more..how when the professor repeated for the umpteenth time..so wat do u do with a chair polymer that I repeated in frustration "sit on it!!!" , how we fought so much that we hated the sight of each other but still elected to have our farewell speeches written by the other..how I felt when I wrote the testimonial for you..how we forced an unsuspecting soul into inviting us both for the Bhavans night and promptly ditched him..how I ran to you for advice whenever I had to dress up and u would give it in ur usual condescending way :p, how sundays would be spent trying to figure out ur face from the multitude of face packed faces, or trying to pluck you away from the mirror before every class where u stood like a permanent ornament in whichever wing we happened to inhabit, how we giggled over guys, fought over them, gave each other horrible advice and then went for moral support in all the "gate calling" sessions..how Cnot felt at 10;55 p m on an icy cold winter evening wen we had to mug for an exam, and promised to wake each other up in 7 mins and woke up the next morning just before the exam, the dressing up for Oasis, the walk from Meera Bhawan to the insti on the first evening of Oasis , all excited and enthued, NC on nites when it was so cold, that u wore Zans blanket thinking it was a shawl..the Comsci-Chem fites and all the nights when we would cry over something so inconsequential..
I hope u remember how much I loved ur room, the pink and whiteness and comfort of it in the Pilani bareness, the hue and cry we made about studying for CAT and went to the IC after keeping our books in the ref everyday, the bus rides to Delhi and the My Fair Lady evenings, FRIENDS reruns when both we down with viral fever coz the doctor said we "slept together", the way I managed to drag you to Cnot just before u had an exam and you never said no, the way you cried when someone close to you hurt you, and you got hurt too easily back then..songs played again and again in your room wen we were both supposed to be in class..egg cheese and mayo sandwich at sky, the thousand excuses you made to hang out with us when you had an exam and the rest of us did not, blue moon sessions and gobi manchurian, hysterical laccha sessions ...
I hope you remember the assoc ragging sessions , the welcome song, the spectacle we made, the feverish pratice , the elaborate "plans hatched for the temple lawns", dinner parties at "Profs places" where we would put these plans into action, all nite movies at Oasis and sitting in the corner refusing to be dragged to dance, IC sessions immediately after every exam, and bicycles which were always at the bottom of a pile..the disconnect you felt when you thought I had changed, all nite singing sessions of our favorite songs, mindless games in the temple lawns , "Oriya Assoc sports days" where I always had a sore throat excuse, and farewell parties and bday sessions..
I hope you all remember attending classes through the window, P 0.5 comps, arbit fundaes about the letter K and our "haunted" wing, wing wars at the end of every year !!! and diwali sessions when each of us cribbed about home, the last day of the term when no one wanted to go back, and the last few weeks, when every spot had to be clicked and every memory revisited, the numerous senti dinners and lunches and saree sessions..and musical troupes which specialized in Zombie renditions..
Back then when we were all starry eyed and idealistic and full of promise about the future and ourselves..Back then when would hum this song and believe in it
"And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees?Hot air for a cool breeze?Cold comfort for change?And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?How I wish, how I wish you were here.We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,Running over the same old ground. What have you found? The same old fears.Wish you were here"
Wish you were here..just as you were..

Very happy in my heart, dil dance mare re

Since no one wants an update on what I have been upto in this hiatus , I will refrain. I hate giving them anyway.
So now that I have joined the teeming multitude which commutes to work every morning, checks orkut in the afternoon and finds nothing to do in the evenings, I shall dutifully update this blog since that is what is done in the night.
But like I said there is nothing I find more boring than describing the events of a day/week so this will not be a chronological time line with milestones described.
Though I have been on a movie watching spree ever since my last term at ISB, of course the one movie I remember the most purely because of the effect it had on me is Tashan. I have to thank the Chopra community for providing me with such an extensive repertoire. I owe them many film reviews.
So size zero Kareena manages to find time between doling out "power yoga" discourses and the benefits of the "aloo-paratha" breakfast to "dance mare" with much publicized and much tattooed boyfriend and "chance mare" with Akshay Kumar in a highly unconvincing childhood sequence which which explains the rise of a small town belle (gudiya to her fans) to the scheming seductress , a career move justified as the best course to avenging her father's murder. She avenges him by running off with his killer's money to Mauritrian islands where she dances and sings in tropical paradise " very happy in her heart", till the director remembers the reason for her stealing the money and sends her to "Benares", where she is discovered mermaid-like underwater by Saif and Akshay who are pretty aquatic themselves. This amphibian trio then sets out to recover the stolen goods hidden wherver the unit got a chance to shoot or wanted to visit. Here "white white face" Kapoor sheds and cuts garments to reveal the sole reason for her agreeing to do the film, and discovers childhod flame in Chesire Cat Kumar. He is the "good bad-guy" (its a Chopra invented character trait) , and tries unsuccessfully to look coy in all romantic sequences as befits a small town "seedha-saadha" murderer, but probably too aware of boyfriend Saif lurking behind, just ends up looking harassed. Then enters "Tashan" laden Anil Kapoor (he he this has to be an oxymoron, for the uninitiated Tashan=style), and seductress murders him in a Kill Bill (shocked emoticon) sequence.
Since the director thught the story would be too brutal to digest, he interspersed the film with well meaning light hearted sequences. So Anil Kapoor tries to be diverting as a novice to the Englsih language, but speaking it nevertheless (aww so cute na?? ), Akshaye is the village hottie (maidens swoon "dil ye beating fast") who works on his bad boy image by playing "Ravana" when not getting electrified by Kareena and poles in that order.
Worth a watch.

Sea-Faces

She stood on a cliff overlooking the crystal green waves, a trick of the afternoon light... and thought of despair.
He tried to drown the voices in his head, with the roar of the sea breaking against the rocks he sat on and thought of hope.
She rested her head on her hands, looking out of the window, hearing the muffled sound of the waves and feeling the spray on her face . She was tired..very tired.
They stood on the beach feeling the warmth of the sun bring a rosy hue to the inky blackness of the water and thought of love.
She traced the name in the sand, feeling the water slipping between her fingers and the mud which clung to her nails and would not come off.... as she flailed her hands in the water and thought of favorite dreams.
The sun was in his eye as he walked back from the beach, feeling the sand clinging to his toes and as he shielded his face from the sun.. he thought of loss.
The sea absorbed each of these shades. After all it was known to change colors....


PS : Made someone read this..so these are not 2 people but many..its different colours for different people and moods at different times of the day..and its about the sea

Somewhere, between the sacred silence and sleep

Can music save your mortal soul

Can thoughts be orchestrated?

The noise was loud, deafening , piercing right through her ear drums to head throbbing sonicity. It lashed out relentlessly, mercilessly. She would not stop it. She could not. It was after all her own music.

There were moments when she could manage to turn it off for a brief respite, and others when she could turn it down, when the strains were lower, softer and if you listened hard you could almost hear the rudiments of a piece which was once joyous , brilliant, and there were other moments, though few and far between when the song would burst forth into a crescendo, a medley of desires, and at moments like these she would smile such that her eyes crinkled at the corners, she would talk such that there was a promise of sunshine and she would sing along.

But sometimes the music was frighteningly loud, jarring, shattering hopes, eroding convictions, tearing to shreds all measures of normalcy, the notes dark and foreboding, casting a shadow over her face. In such times she would be wary, her eyes would reflect the sounds of the music and they would shift warily, uneasily and if she were lucky she would manage to shut them and drown herself in that disturbed melody.

And sometimes she would slowly find herself even enjoying it, she would deceive herself into understanding it, she would find comfort in the words and a sense of familiarity in the music. And these were the most frightening, when she would find herself slipping into the cacophony , the music taking hold of her and she letting herself be sucked in .

These were the most intriguing, cause when she returned she would often not recognize herself.

My own version of the random walk theory..

I looked to the books for inspiration..they were strewn around...but I was listless and fidgety..movies did not help..introspection was a scary thought....at least right now ....A lot has happened and more will follow....I guess someone needs to record it..for later when I am old and less wise..I can look back dispassionately and find patterns..I can look back unemotionally..for that pretty pink thread....I can look back with indulgence and laugh at my naivety..I can make a jigsaw where this piece fits perfectly...

As an aside...I have been told I have a good memory..I can recite passages of Shakespeare verbatim.. I read those some 8 years back...I can remember random poems..word from word..lyrics of all songs I have ever heard...I can tell you about Greek and Roman mythology..and all through my MBA career I was wishing I could exchange this for something more practical..something which would make me less of a misfit in the business world..So when today, in a class I am taking..when the professor recited my favorite passages from "Ulysses" verbatim..I found myself reciting along ...when the discussion veered to Greek mythology..I found myself smiling..there is still hope I find..

Forward to the past..
I have mentioned before that when I become too aware of the fact that people read this blog..I feel stifled and cant express enough..but given my hiatus..I think the possibility is pretty microscopic...so I'll tell myself that no one is reading this..

So what happened between the last time I updated this post and now.?? Lots actually. It all started with the Mck shortlist n then BCG n then ATK n then Diamond, HUL....I just had to send in my resume..and my name would be there on the shortlist...bizarre..eyebrows were raised..tactics were questioned..resumes were demanded..with a GMAT of 760, a job ex at Oracle, and a batch topping CG frm BITS..I still went around offering explanations...hating myself for it..so neway I was lulled into a false sense of security...though I was still as confused as ever...but started consulting prep...n then the bubble burst..5 companies on day 0..n none worked out..no applications for the subsequent days..since I hadn't made any!!!

Looking back now I can think of a million reasons of what went wrong and why this happened and why that did not happen..but it really does not matter...but an experience like this shakes you up..You come with a set of notions and values..u are forced to change it given the circumstances..u embrace the new set of values eagerly..there is a lot at stake you think...u go through the motions sincerely..so sincerely that the line is blurred and wht u were no longer exists...at least u can no longer remember it...since there is a new story being spun..and you have been selected as one of the actors..but the story is too powerful..or you are too impressionable..

And just when the line completely fades..is this last minute change to the script..and u are forced to return to what u were before..to the person u were so willing to forget..to either return..or to seek a new part..a new play..one which feels more right..one which does not demand compliance..though the old story does make u question ur abilities and wonder when was it that u started acting..was it just the previous story..or did it go further back than that..do u question the person u are based on the 30 min verdict of 5 people ?? I don't know..I'll never know..

But anyway I managed to push in my resume to one of the firms on campus..who were kind enough to interview me and so I do have a job..But neway enough of my diary

After a void so long when u do sit down to write, u tend to look for inspiration..since ur unsure..

I had a couple of completely random interview experiences....
One walk-in
Interviewer: So whats ur fathers name
Me: blah blah
Interviewer: Mother, sisters, dog!!
Me: blah blah, blah!!!!
Interviewer: Are you married?
Me : (furious) blah blah@^$#^
Interviewer: Have you found someone??
Me :(faints)

Another:
After the usual family tree had been sketched out
Interviewer: So tell me about an ethical dilemma
Me: (well rehearsed)blah blah, blah!!!!
Interviewer: Ahh so Oracle..so what ethical issues did you face there?
Me : (slightly shaky now) blah blah(unconvincing)
Interviewer: Ahh so teams..tell me about an ethical issue you sorted out
Me : (checking the job description to confirm that I was not interviewing as an HR to a nunnery) blah blah(weakly)

Term 8 promises to be relaxing..and I have been busy..watched No Man's land...everyone should see it..and then watched Jodha Akbar n Welcome..about the latter..it was as traumatic an experience as my interviews but Jodha was different..trying to pass of a very average old-bollywoodish-vapid-histrionicsish love story under the garb of a period film..well people can see through it, and add to that an Akbar more concerned about his biceps than his subjects, a simpering Jodha Bai who dons some crouching-tiger-hidden-dragonish get up to seduce and simper when not ogling at a six pack Akbar or screeching an extremely tuneless Bhajan to disrupt the few instances when Akbar tries to rule..the music tried to save the film..but quelled under the combined influence of the Bhai Jaan and his rasping histrionics and Akbar's futile taming the elephant stunts and a very Troy inspired duel.