A Kick rant: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me again and again, you must be bollywood.

Are these big shot Indian producers that scared of making a good film? I mean they have got themselves convinced that if a big budget movie so much as made sense, people would shun it. A good movie cant possibly make 200 crores. I'm sure the writers (yes, apparently Kick had more than one writer) have long sessions where they sit together and carefully weed out the clever bits, one by one, till the movie is stupid enough to make 200 crores.

And Kick is a Bhai ka move. Of course you can't let a thing like a clever engaging plot steal the thunder from Bhai. This is a guy who stands in front of a hockey goal-post and coolly dives to catch a rugby ball (thus completing a brilliant catch and dismissing Chris Gayle, maybe). God knows how many strips of Revital that sold. Now if that scene made sense, for example, Bhai standing in front of a football goal post catching a football, I'm sure Ranbaxy would have gone bankrupt by now. We love bullshit. And these film makers dump it on us again and again. And we pay for it, both literally and figuratively. Now, why had I gone to watch kick? I don't know. I was a fool. I thought that maybe all the stupidity would some how make me feel like a god damn genius. Well that didn't work. If I was a god damn genius I wouldn't watch this movie. 

This is a movie about a guy who needs to live on the edge constantly, needs adrenaline rushes time and again (basically Salman from the Thumbs up ad). He calls it getting a kick. And the movie takes the entire first half to establish this character trait. I must admit it was this part of the movie where I could actually relate to some of the characters. Like for example when Jacqueline Fernandes gets a call from Bhai early in the movie and we find out she'd saved his name as 'Headache', I could totally see where that was coming from. Again in another scene we have a cop played by Sanjay Misha standing in the middle if a scene with an ice pack on his head looking like he was only moments from blowing his own brains out. Again I could see myself reflected there in his utter helplessness as a very unpleasant variety of chaos unfolded around him.

Let me give you a bit of the premise of this movie. A so called Indian top cop has to go abroad and catch an Indian super thief who, helpfully, commits all his crimes in an incredibly dumb pattern (only steals during festivals? seriously?). This is just so the top cop can identify said dumb pattern and look intelligent to us mere mortals. The thief also leaves a miniature version of his mask at the crime scene so the cops know its him. Sounds a bit like Dhoom 2 so far? Well obviously you are wrong. And retarded. When has an Indian movie not been a hundred percent original? Like ever?

And if the pattern and the miniature mask wasn't enough, the thief at one point simply tells the cops who he's going to steal from next. Even sends a photograph of the person with a handwritten note. Needless to say the thief still manages to escape, albeit with a bullet wound to the shoulder. This is where I realise I will be going to a very special kind of hell for referring to Sallu bhai as just 'the thief'. If you want to know, the 'super' thief is called Devil. That comes from the characters name Devi Lal Singh. Yes. That's his name. I'm pretty sure he is somehow the ancestor of the star trek villain Khan Noonien Singh. Both names have that same utterly stupid quality that prevents most real people from getting names like that.

So yeah, just like Krishna became Krrish, Devi Lal becomes Devil. If Americans had the same level of ingenuity that our own film makers have shown we'd have brilliant superhero names like Bruceman and Clarkman. It's such a shame they don't.

There is this one scene in the movie where Bhai calls up the top cop to have a condescending chat with him. Obviously he proceeds to track where the call was coming from, all the while stalling Bhai. As the police closes in towards the phone booth Bhai is using, you cant help but expect something clever. Some deception Bhai is hiding up his sleeve so that Randeep Hooda is left looking like an idiot while Bhai makes a grand exit. Cue applause... and whistles... and screams of BHAIIII!!

Nope. Turns out Bhai was actually being overconfident. He gets cornered by cops leading to one of the most embarrassing escapes I have ever seen. All these big movies in the past have at least had some scenes of contrived intelligence fooling an audience into thinking their protagonist was a genius. This movie doesn't even make that much of an effort.

Nawazuddin Siddiqui. Sorry man. there was nothing you could do. And if your final confrontation with Devil, mirroring (very faintly, I must admit) Dr. Siddhart Arya's final confrontation with krrish, was one of the most underwhelming climaxes to a Big-Bollywood movies after the climax of Boss, I refuse to blame you for it.

Randeep Hooda. I respect this man for not giving up on the movie till the end. He tried his level best and is probably the only reason I left the hall a sane man. Oh... and while leaving the hall I actually overheard a man saying that he could only figure out one of the twists and that the rest of them blew his mind. Yes. Twists. Plural. He must have seen Race 3 in the hidden Secret Future Movie Screen. Or maybe he was genuinely shocked when it was revealed that Bhai himself was Devil.

I am not proud I watched this movie. But I'm proud I held on to my sanity and, after a few hours of rigorous yoga and profound meditation, logic makes sense again. If you cut your hair short, your hair will be shorter. Hence proved. Over and out.

Do I need to know the lyrics?

In 2012 I was a part of the coordinating team for Metanoia, the Tezpur University battle of the bands, and as a result I,  along with the other two coordinators, spent most of the time worrying about stuff. There was a busted main line, due to a faulty cable, that threatened to end everything before it even began, a ruptured snare head that had to be replaced at the last moment before an early morning start (only possible thanks to the resourcefulness of fellow coordinator Rajkamal Sonowal) and people smoking on University grounds among other things. Of course, with the sheer talent and passion the bands brought to the stage, the end result was a rip roaring show and the satisfaction of a job well done made it worth all the little headaches.

The next year, with the burden of organizing the show on the able shoulders of my juniors, I decided I was going to have fun. Hang out with my best buddies and head bang like I just didn't care. The stage lay in the north east corner of the sports ground, facing roughly south, while the food stalls lined the west border, near the basketball courts. Standing here, at the stalls, you could enjoy the music and a plate of momos simultaneously (although, that is a practice frowned upon by most metalheads). 

When around four or five band were done with their sets, and my neck was already a little strained, I decided to go have a little snack with a couple of friends, neither of them fans of metal. We had just received our plates of soggy, flimsy momos when a new band started their set. Right off the bat they had my attention. It was tight, straight forward death metal and the crowd was loving it. 

"These guys are really good." I remarked, in response to which my friends turned and stared at the stage for a minute, mildly nodding their heads before one of them turned to me and complained that she couldn't understand a single word being sung. I told her death metal was not about the lyrics but about the overpowering nature of the music. The assault of the drums and bass, the push and pull of the guitar. There vocals were just another instrument. She didn't look convinced. How could the lyrics not matter? They were there for a reason. To her music had always been about the story told through it. She couldn't embrace the song unless it made sense to her.

That got me thinking. Was I listening to music the wrong way? I realised I didn't know the lyrics to a majority of the songs I liked. Songs I'd heard dozens of time without ever wondering what they were trying to tell me. There's this album called Jane Doe by Converge that I absolutely worship. I've heard it front to back many times, always with my eyes closed, and each time, the epic eleven minute closer fades away to leave me emotionally drained. I love the album. Life so often forces us into shells that its nice to have something that can pull us right out and make us feel. Thing is, I never understood a word frontman Kurt Ballou sang. 

I guess I have always used his screams as a placeholder to project my own emotions into the music. My frustrations. My anger. My grief. That is probably why this album moves me so much. Because in my head it becomes about me. And this becomes possible only because it sounds like gibberish on the surface. Words rarely suffice in representing the rawest of feelings. It has to be a bestial scream. It makes no sense. But it makes me feel.

The same thing happened with the album Sunbather by Deafheaven. I listened to this album right after I'd finished Deadhouse Gates, a rather grim fantasy novel by Canadian author Steven Erikson, and in my mind the evocative atmosphere created by the music raised various touching scenes from the book. When I later tried to read up the lyrics for the songs I found that they made no sense to me. The songs were incredibly well written, but in my mind they had already come to mean something else. I simply could not place the words I was reading into the songs. I realised I wouldn't enjoy the songs that way and so I decided to discard the lyrics completely.

That brings to my mind a certain song by Pearl Jam. Alive. Lyrically this is one of the darkest songs Eddie Vedder's ever written. It is about a boy who learns from his mother that the man he'd always thought was his father was actually not. And his real father, who he'd never met, had died long ago. So when Vedder sings out repeatedly that he's still alive it is only bitter sarcasm. A lament at the burden that life had become for this person. The song is of course semi autobiographical and was, to a large extent, written by Vedder about his own inability to fully come to terms with learning the same hard truth about his father. 

However, as anyone who has heard the song could tell you, it is simply impossible to listen to it and not feel uplifted. It seems more like an assurance that whatever it is you are going through, you can survive it, conquer it. And over the years Vedder realised that it was this sentiment fans responded to.

You can pick any concert footage of Pearl Jam playing this song and you will see the fans singing along with Vedder, arms raised and waving, no trace of bitterness on any of the faces. Fans have chosen to discard the original meaning of the song and turn the refrain of "I'm still alive" into something resoundingly positive.

Lyrics are an important part of a song. But it is not everything. And it definitely isn't final or binding. It is what an artist's own music means to them. You are free to have your own take on it. A song might mean something to the person who wrote it and something else entirely to another person listening. So the next time you cant make out what a singer is telling you don't immediately run to Google. Look inside yourself. You'd be surprised at what you find.

How the pig took out my internet

My house is situated on the intersection of a T made by a narrow street leading out in three directions. Now the two plots of land on both sides of the street leading straight on from our gate are empty. And there is a drain on either side of the street roughly the width of an average full grown pig, and slightly deeper than the height of one. Why draw comparisons to a pig of all things? Well... read on...

It was a late afternoon on Monday. I had come out of the house to see off an aunt. As my mom, my aunt and I stood at the gate wrapping up the numerous threads of the many conversations struck up during the afternoon, I could see people gathering on the street and peering into the drain. They were staring at whatever was in there, slowly shaking their drooping heads. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I just had to go and see for myself. It was a heart breaking sight and yet, even as my heart broke, I could hardly resist the urge to burst out laughing. It was a dead pig. Now, granted there is nothing inherently funny about dead pigs. But this poor thing was in the drain upside down. 

Now I can imagine a pig falling into a drain. But why was it upside down? Did it hear a joke and go OINK and then ROFL? Because of the recent rains, the drain had around a foot of sludge running through it and being upside down, the pig had is head in the sludge. This pig must have tried and tried, but not having the most flexible body in the universe, it just couldn't get its head out of the muck. It basically drowned in food and died. It DROWNED IN FOOD. AND DIED.

That is a cruel death. Made me wonder if maybe the pig was a reincarnation of Hitler. God got bored of roasting him in the fires of hell and so sent him back to die a series of cruel deaths (we Hindus believe in that sort of thing). Maybe he'll come back as a snake next. It will stick its head down a rabbit hole, swallow the rabbit, and then get stuck coming out because it had swallowed the god damn rabbit. And then army ants will come and eat it up. 

Now the pig had to be removed from the drain and buried because we are the Assamese people. We're the nicest people you'll ever meet anywhere. We believe that even the pig-that-was-Hitler deserves a proper burial. And also... well... rotting pigs smell bad. 

The municipality people came the next day to remove the dead pig. It was pulled out of the drain with ropes and laid on the street as they contemplated where it should be buried. After around ten minute of just standing there scratching their heads, they decided the plot of empty land just opposite them was as good a spot as any. 

The JCB mini excavator got to work and it was not long before a proper ditch was ready for the pig. It was at this moment that one of the neighbours complained that they shouldn't bury a pig in someone else's land. What if the owners found out? That seemed reasonable. You are digging in your plot of land to lay the foundations of your future home and what do you find? A pig skeleton. Not an auspicious beginning. And who would want to live in a house haunted by the pig-that-was-Hitler?

So it was that the dead pig was moved across the street to just outside our premises. After fixing a spot by the street right next to an unused electricity post, the JCB sunk its teeth in. It was a few moments after that that my mom noticed our phone was dead. That struck her as odd and so she went outside to look down from the balcony, and sure enough, the municipality people were standing in the ditch looking completely baffled and holding in their hands what looked very much like a broken phone cable. Only, by the confused look on their faces, you'd think they'd found a gigantic earthworm.

When mom went down to talk to them they apologised and said they couldn't possibly have known. What was done was done. We promptly called up the telecom people. About an hour later who should come to fix the cable but a certain Mr Ali and a couple of Muslim workers. Muslim people tend to dislike pigs. They stood there looking disgusted for a while and then made it very clear they weren't going it. You couldn't blame them. You don't have to be a Muslim person to not want to jump into a ditch with a one day old rotting carcass of a pig. It was already starting to smell terrible.

Handkerchief covering their nose and mouths, they assessed the situation from outside the ditch and found out they couldn't see one of the cables that was supposed to be there. Meaning that more digging was required. By now I was standing with them looking at the dead pig. It just lay there, resolute even in death to deny me my broadband connection, as if saying "Internet chahiye toh mere laash ke upar se guzarni hogi!"  After a while the people left leaving me standing there alone.

And so the municipality people had to come again. They dug up the dead pig which was a grotesque mess by now with the entrails trailing as they carried it to the other side of the street where it found its final resting place (hopefully). The ditch lay open for the next two days but no one came to fix the cable. We called and they assured us they'd be here soon, which turned out to mean Friday. They were probably waiting for the land to forget the dead pig that was buried in it. When they did come though, they fixed the damn cable in a little under two hours. TWO HOURS! I had to wait three damn days for a repair that took two hours! Now that is what a perfect week reads like. Bloody pig!

The lake

Even though it was the morning after the exams Zubin woke up early. It was a few seconds before it really sunk in that he would not have to torture himself awake today. There were no formulae to revise. No chapter left for a desperate read-through in the morning. He could lie on bed and let his mind wander free. Ah the freedom of the mind. The joy of it all made him a little dizzy.

Sure he would eventually have to get off the bed and pack up all his stuff. He was going back home for the month long vacation. But that could wait a few hours without causing too much of an inconvenience. He plumped up the pillow and let his head sink in its softness. On the wall next to him the warm light of the dawn bled through the curtains over a broken window.

He had dreamed last night. He tried to remember what the dream was about and failed. All he remembered was that it was a sweet little dream. Some of the sweetness still remained like the taste of something delectable sometimes does long after the teeth have stopped chewing. But the dream itself had completely faded away. He had a feeling it was a dream he saw often. If only he could remember.

Zubin held the curtains slightly apart with a hand and peered out. From his hostel he could see a line of tall trees standing just outside the premises. He didn’t know what the trees were. They were taller than most trees around and had really large leaves. He liked looking at those trees. They looked to him like ancient trees from another age. All the view needed was a lake, a large one with the waters still as a mirror.

Zubin closed his eyes and pictured the lake. He liked lakes. There was one near his hostel. Well it was more of a pond really but to Zubin it held all the beauty of the largest lakes, if not as much water. Often times he would go and sit near the crystal clear water for hours. And a wishful mind would take him to the lake his mother would take him to when he was a child.

This was long ago. He was a little child then. He had no other memories from that time. But the lake the remembered like it was yesterday. And not without reason; his mother had passed away soon after with him not much older. He held onto that memory of her with all the tears he did not shed and anchored it in place with the smile he chose instead. A smile that mirrored his mothers he believed.

He had never been to that lake after his mother had passed away. He didn’t even know where it lay. No one even mentioned it anymore, probably worried that it would bring back memories of his mother. As if he could forget. As if he should.

And he made up his mind then, lying on his bed in the thickening morning warmth, he was going to find the lake this time.

The next day he Zubin woke up late. He was at home. The bed was infinitely more comfortable. He staggered off the bed and made his way down to the dining room where his father was already seated. On the wall opposite Zubin’s father was the TV. An 18 inch bravia flat screen. And it played the local news day in and day out. As he brushed his teeth, Zubin stared at the TV absently. Some person was complaining about something. The reporter stood, microphone extended, nodding vigorously as if only he could empathize with the poor guy.

“You want tea?” his father asked, eyes still fixed on the TV screen.

“It’s ok. I’ll make some. You watch the news.”

“Hmmm... don’t put in any sugar. You can add a teaspoon to your own cup if you like”

“Okay...” Zubin went into the kitchen. It stood just beside the dining room. You could see the TV from the kitchen. Someone else was complaining about something else now. Another reporter nodded in brotherly concern.

“The cracks have been getting wider since the last earthquake. For all the money they made out of this construction I want to ask them, could they live with our blood on their hands. There are children living in this building. Could they sleep at… “

The TV was muted at this moment. The disgruntled young man went on, vigorously gesturing with his hands. The reporter understood.

“Haa Maina… ”

Maina was what his elder sister was called at home. She worked at the Union Bank in Guwahati. She was to be coming home today for the weekend. They were going to their grandparents place. They’d both missed their cousin’s birthday a week ago.

“Okay. Give me another call when you reach… bye…”

“When will she be here?” Zubin asked as he put in the tea leaves and reached for the sugar.

“Not much longer. She’s reached Shipajhar… thirty forty minutes maybe”

Zubin pulled back at the last moment as he remembered his father’s diabetes. Some of the sugar spilled onto his feet and the floor. He swept the sugar off to a corner. He’d deal with it later. He poured the tea into two cups, put some sugar in his cup, and went and sat with his father at the table facing the TV.

Forty minutes later he was still sitting there browsing through the music channels. His father had gone to pick his sister up from the station. Zubin wasn’t really seeing the TV. He was looking at it without seeing a thing. The music flowed past him without touching him.

Zubin steepled his fingers as he tried to remember if his sister was ever there at the lake with him and mother. He didn’t seem to remember her being there. That felt odd to him. Why wouldn’t she be there? He’d never thought about that before. Maybe she was there after all and had only faded out of the memory, now that it had become the only one he had of his mother. It was okay really. She was in plenty other memories. She would be here in person any moment now.

His sister was four years older to him. She surely had a clearer memory of that time. Maybe she knew where the lake was. He was wondering how he should bring out the topic of the lake when the doorbell rang. His sister was here. She greeted him immediately as he opened the door. His dad passed by with her bags, handing one to Zubin as he did so.

She looked well. She had put on some weight since he had last seen her months ago. That, somehow, made her look a happier person. His sister was a tad taller than him. She wasn’t a very tall girl though. He was the short guy.  Zubin realized, as she smiled at him warmly, that he’d probably never stop being jealous of her for that.

“How were your exams?” she asked.

“I did okay…” Zubin looked around to confirm that his father was out of hearing distance. “Don’t tell dad though. I sort of gave him the idea that I aced it…”

She laughed at this. “You will not flunk it though will you?” she asked in mock concern.

“How dare you doubt my talents so…?” Zubin replied in mock disgust.

She laughed again. “Okay wait I need to show you something.” She went into her room and opened her bag. “Come here.”

Zubin stepped into the room just as she took out a little box from her bag. She opened the box and held it in front of him. “It’s for dad” she beamed.

It was a watch. Brown leather strap. White dial. “It’s beautiful…”

“It is naa?” she smiled wider. And this is for you. She held out another box in front of his face.

Zubin was surprised in spite of the fact that it should have been fairly obvious that his sister would get something for him as well. “Thanks”

He opened it to find another watch inside. A fastrack. It had a round white dial similar to the other one. The belt was black. Not quite as elegant as the Titan. Zubin didn’t care. He hadn’t ever seen a more handsome watch. “It’s perfect”

“It’s cheaper than the one I got for dad. Hope you don’t mind.”

He laughed out at this. Then he hugged her. “Thanks di.”

“Hmm… Something’s bothering you Tikla… I can tell. What is it?”

Zubin stepped back from the hug, a little surprised again. “No. Why would you say that?”

“Nothing, you just seemed to have something on your mind…”

“Well…” Zubin paused for a long while as he thought of what to say next, “there is this one thing I was thinking about.”

“Hah. I knew there was something. Tell me.”

” I was thinking about mom the other day…”

“And…?” His sister urged. She looked concerned. A little bit too concerned, Zubin thought. Her eyes held his firmly. There was a worried look in them that puzzled Zubin as he stared back.

“No no… don’t be worried…” he added smiling, trying to allay whatever fear gripped his sister so “It’s nothing serious… I was just wondering if maybe you remember the lake mom used to take me to… you know… before she passed away?”

She stood there stunned for about half a minute. Then the tears flowed, uninhibited. For a long time his sister couldn’t speak.  Zubin stared at her, astonished at her reaction. “What is it? Tell me.”

His sister wiped her tears and tried to put on a smile. “Nothing. You just reminded me of mother, that’s all.” She went and sat on the bed. “I do remember going to the lake with mother. Such a peaceful place wasn’t it?”

Zubin sat down beside her. “Could you take me there?”

“I’m so sorry I don’t remember where the lake was.”

“Let’s ask dad.”

“I’ll ask him. Listen could you do me a favour?”

“What?”

“Could you please go get me a bottle of shampoo? I don’t want to use the one at home. It spoils my hair. Please.”

“Alright.” Zubin said after a moment. Then he stood up to leave but turned back at the door. “Is there something you are not telling me?”

“About what?”

Zubin stood there his eyes searching her’s. “No… nothing… I’ll go get your shampoo.”

He took his wallet and left. He was still thinking about his sister’s reaction as he walked down the stairs to the veranda but he decided to let it go. They hardly talked about mother. It was only understandable that his sudden question would startle her a bit. Just as he was closing the gates behind him on his way out he remembered that he only had around twenty rupees in his wallet. It wouldn’t be enough.

So he went back into the house to get some more. As he approached the stairs that led to his room upstairs he heard voices coming out of his sister’s room. His father and sister were talking. Something stopped Zubin from going in. Or going away for that matter. Something held his feet in place with an unbreakable bond.

Presently his father’s voice drifted out.

“…so we told him she died of an illness. He was a child when he first asked about her. What else were we supposed to tell him?”

“He’s mature now… maybe he deserves to know now.”

“But why? I don’t know he got this memory of his mother but it comforts him. Let him keep it. You want to go tell him his mother died giving birth to him. It would break his heart.”

Outside the door Zubin’s heart shattered into a million pieces. Silently. But the dining table screeched loudly as Zubin leaned into it for support. Both his father and his sister rushed out. His sister let out a sharp gasp when he saw him lying there amongst the fallen chairs. He was still conscious. But he wouldn’t speak when she asked if he’d hurt himself. His father checked for a head injury and was relieved to find none.

They took him to a bed and made him lay down. No one spoke. There was nothing left to say. At least for the moment. Zubin closed his eyes. His sister caressed his head. For a long time there was silence. Not the nice kind. The kind that felt empty and dark. The kind that bred monsters in the frozen heart. The kind that fed them. To kill this silence she hummed a tune. And the monsters fled from the glare of her voice. And from the warmth of it Zubin’s heart thawed. And surprising everyone, most of all himself, he fell asleep.

In his slumber he dreamed. It was a dream he dreamt often. He sat with his mother by the lake. Far away beyond the trees on the horizon the sun was setting. The orange glow bled into the lake. It mesmerized him.

Zubin heard people walking up to them. He turned to see this father and his sister walking towards where they sat. He smiled at his sister. She smiled back as she sat beside him. Their father sat down next to her. The red glow of the setting sun engulfed them all in a beautiful haze.

And when Zubin had soaked in enough of the twilight haze he lay down on the wet grass. His mother softly caressed his head. And she hummed a tune. And the warmth of her voice chased away a chill Zubin didn’t know he had inside. It was the sweetest dream.  

Game of Thorns: Is fantasy about escapism and wish fulfilment any more?

Our lives are mostly boring. Colourless... Sorry? Your life isn't? You've got lots of stuff going on? Well does any of it beat flying over Epicvale on a dragon, fighting off minions of Lord Baddybad and saving millions of helpless people who will chant your name every time you enter a tavern? No? See. Boring.

That is what fantasy is about. An escape from our humdrum lives into a more magical, a more epic place. A place you'd rather be. Well. Is it really?

With Game of Thrones becoming a worldwide phenomenon, does this notion of fantasy still hold? How many times after a particularly exciting episode have you gone 'awww... I wish I was there...'? How many times while trying to sleep have you thought 'how awesome would it be if I woke up to find myself in Westeros'? Never? Figures. Who would want to be in a world so full of incessant danger and blood spilling? And it's a world without heroes. A world where good thriving over evil is a matter of probability just like here in reality. At least here in the comfort of your homes you don't have to worry about getting on the wrong side of the Mountain. Or a certain wall in the North. 

If anything Game of Thrones only reinforces your will to be right here right now. No matter how tedious your life is, you still wouldn't want the excitement of being impaled. And its not just game of thrones. A lot of fantasy today discards outright heroes and the triumph of good over evil. 

Another fantasy series I quite like, The Malazan Book of the Fallen, also has grey characters in a bleak world suffering from interminable warfare. Over the course of a book, thousands of soldiers die excruciating deaths. And the author, Steven Erikson, doesn't shield you from that pain, doesn't sedate it ever so slightly by making every death mean something, by making every death heroic. Yes there are all-powerful badasses with big swords but the book is written in such a way (it's called the 'Book of the Fallen') that you relate more to the soldiers, even the nameless ones. Or maybe especially the nameless ones. But you still wouldn't want to escape into the world to stand and die beside one. 

Man of Steel. Granted it's a superhero movie but no matter how much they try to explain everything through science I have always considered Superman fantasy. *Man of Steel Spoilers ahead* Hasn't superman always been about wish fulfilment? In a world so bad, it felt so comforting to have a Godly figure looking over us (I take the liberty of saying 'us' even though I'm not American). So, by the end of the movie, Superman is at least partially responsible for levelling metropolis to the ground. Again, thousands die. If you were there, it could have been you. So much for wish fulfilment. And I'm not even going to go into the neck-break incident. 

Fantasy has changed from the Lord of the Rings, Narnia and more recently Harry Potter days. Its no longer inviting. It is no longer grandma's tales. It much more like a burly drunken guy in a bar, who you hate at first sight, loudly telling tales of the bad things he's seen and done. They are interesting stories and he's got your attention, but you are not joining him on for his next adventure. 

Deadhouse Gates review

The ending. God That ending. 
I am a slow reader. And I mean glacier-in-slo-mo slow. AND I like big fat books. Oh the irony. And the inconvenience. So as a result I read a very few books every year.
I don't have the luxury of picking up whatever new series catches my fancy. I read a lot of reviews and only take up what I think I'll absolutely love. This is a rule I broke when I started on the Malazan Book of the Fallen.
People either love this series or find it frustratingly hard to get through. I had no idea which group I'd fall into. Gardens of the moon left me tilting towards the latter. I gave up on the book around midway. Took a break, read Name of the Wind which I loved, got back to it and finished it. The ending was good. Kinda great even. There was a lot of Bad-Assery all around. That was cool. There was just.... too little heart I guess. Or if there was it got lost in all the chaos. 
I don't even remember what made me decide to follow it up with the next book. But boy, am I glad I did 

Deadhouse Gates-
By now I was getting used to Erikson's style. This book got me invested in the new characters and settings with relative ease. There were at least four different story lines moving together. Basically groups of people in different situations. Occasionally breaking into more groups or melting into new ones unexpectedly.
What Erikson does brilliantly here is that he keeps every thing constantly moving. Yes some parts were a bit of a slog. Some parts were a bit confusing. But before I knew it I was out of that place and somewhere else. And I'm not talking about jumping to another POV. Each story line in itself is constantly moving.
As a direct result of this a lot happens over the books considerable bulk. A LOT. When there's build up to a battle, we get a battle. The strategy, the implementation, basically every moment of every skirmish, not just the description of the soldiers and the final body count. True, I may not remember all the banners and sigils, but I'm not sure I mind so much. 

So even though the whole story is people moving around a big bad desert (with a few detours into awesomely eerie warrens) things never get boring. Ok maybe it does in a very few places. But never for too long. 

And the ending...
All the story lines reach some sort of a resolution. But one of them really really grabbed my heart and squeezed till it hurt. And the bruise remained for quite a while. I've never wanted so much to participate in a story before. If only so I could slap a certain person to death for being so stupid. And another for being so god damn vile. I would have shed a few tears, if I wasn't so shocked at what was happening. 
If the ending of the series as a whole comes even close to the ending of this book, then I've made a great decision to read this series however long that might take me to do.

Why metalheads love metal...

Close your eyes and think metalhead. Do you see a long haired ganja smoking, expletives spewing guy in camouflage pants and a vest? Nope. That is not a metalhead. That is a long haired ganja smoking, expletives spewing guy in camouflage pants and a vest. What then does a metalhead look like? He looks like me. And he could look like you. Point is... a metalhead is a metalhead because of the way he or she thinks. So... does he or she think of alcohol and drugs all the time? No. I could accuse Honey Singh fans of doing the same. But I know better. You should too.

So is there anything common in all metalheads? I mean apart from the obvious fact that they love metal music? There just maybe.

 I'm ready to wager my very dear music collection (physical CDs I bought that I am VERY attached to) that most metalheads can play at least one musical instrument. And no... not just guitars and drums. A friend of mine, a most devout metalhead, also plays the tabla, besides the guitar and bass. And he can tinkle around with a keyboard well enough for it to not feel violated. Another friend of mine, who is a drummer, also plays the pepa, which is a traditional assamese folk instrument. So... there... next time you close your eyes and think metalhead try and conjure up a guy playing an instrument. And bingo! You are closer to the bullseye.

That leads me onto the next common characteristic of a metalheads. Metalheads strive to understand the music. They will try to figure out what the guitarist is doing. Then they'll often sit down and try to replicate it. A riff. A groove. A drum fill. A solo. Each new song is another chapter to be studied. This is why a common complaint among metalheads about new music is that a song is too generic. Meaning that it feels like a chapter already well studied and revised. 

I must, however, admit that the most basic appeal of metal music does not come from the chance it provides to learn, implement and innovate. That is just a common trait I have noticed among most metalheads. The basic appeal of metal music comes form the fact that once you learn to lose yourself in it, it feels like the most natural state of being. Headbanging feels like the natural thing to do. The mere thought of not headbanging would be the most alien thought you've ever had. And you will find yourself going back for more and more. Why do metalheads love metal? I invite you to come see for yourself.