The Miracle Worker

Still from 'The Miracle Worker'

For most of us who have been misguided (admittedly or not!) at some point of our lives, (could be in our rebellious teens, in our ‘mature’ mid twenties or at the ‘ripe age’ on the other side of the magic number thirty) – and have somehow managed to scrape through that phase (with incorrigible consequences, for me say my obsessive compulsive disorder), almost always have someone to thank for, in helping us scrape through that period.

How many things do we generally take for granted? My humble estimate would be: Many. The blessed ones like us with no apparent reason to be lost or troubled (lack of finances, education, physical disabilities, etc. etc.) are generally the ones who have a great affinity towards condemning the world around us and thereby finding the necessary justification for our acts of rebellion and protest. We are more or less ‘unhappy’ with things the way they are.

But the rebellious phase, how much ever insignificant the reason may be, always have the tendency to take one in a downward spiral. A phase that you fail to recognize as a ‘phase’, a state of being that you do not recognize as ‘downward’, it is confusing yet alarmingly assuring in your misguided confidence. How do we come out of it? On our own or may be at times with the help of ‘the miracle worker’ - a friend – a brother – a sister – mother – father – a dog – a book or a teacher?

Helen Keller fought vigorously in her dark silent world for seven years before she met her miracle worker…visually impaired, highly intelligent and extremely diligent one Ms. Anne Sullivan. All she had to do was to teach Helen one word ‘everything’. Arthur Penn directed this amazing tale for the 75 mm format in his film ‘The Miracle Worker’ (1962) brilliantly portrayed by Anne Bancroft as Annie Sullivan and Patty Duke as Helen Keller. While the young Helen fought violently in her rebellious world trying to protect her very few rights, the miracle worker worked with an iron fist to break her rebellion and take her to the enlightenment that she does not know exists.

Watching the film and reading about Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan made me wonder, do we thank our respective miracle workers enough? So here’s to the miracle workers of our lives – the high-school teacher, the elder sister, the tenth reading of ‘To kill a mocking bird’, the John Lenon music, a spiritual connection, strumming your guitar or beating on your drums – they do miracles and we survive.

As for me I thank my high-school teacher Amalendu Sir for giving my life a path to tread on.

(As usual, encourage you to share your stories, if any.)

Watch where ye goin’!

Warning: This post is for those who feel ‘strongly’ about most of the things ;)!

(Still from Manhattan)

Woody Allen walked the streets of Manhattan as the self-proclaimed intellectual with a condescending opinion towards almost anyone and everyone whom he did not fancy or had fancied at one point of time. His thoughts amused me but his ‘Manhattan’ stayed with me. Throughout the growing years, images of New York kept adding from the mushy ‘You’ve got mail’ to Spidy adventures to ‘As good as it gets’, ‘Raging Bull’ or sitcom ‘Friends’ – the city spoke to me from the frames of the 75 mm and the printed letters in paperback covers.

With a background of a city like Kolkata – a city that speaks to you, New York always appealed to me. Just as Bombay did, a city with its characteristics that either mesmerizes you or makes you curse it! I always aspire to live, work and brush shoulders with those who toil and sustain themselves in cities like Kolkata, Bombay, Paris or New York. A city about which the more you read, the more you watch, the more you feel that you cannot stay indifferent to.

Being a Bangali, I’m blessed with this sense of being overtly possessive about my opinions. Somehow the concept of ‘opinion’ for most Bangalis seems to sustain on uncontrolled emotions and strong feelings. Once there’s an opinion, it’s very likely that that would hold ground for ages to come. So if shi(n)gara (samosa) is good in Pun(n)tiram (a sweet shop chain), then that’s that. Period. We will shed tears if need be every time thinking about shingara that we are missing, sitting thousands of miles away from Kolkata. Or if it is the ‘lal jhanda’ of the communists that the Bangalis are vouching for – then they would do that for decades if need be.

So here I am, a Bangali, smitten by the thoughts and images of New York, finally setting foot on the big apple, already in ‘awe’ of what’s about to hit me.

First visual: Sardarji at the helm of a NYC yellow cab, in front of Laguardia Airport in his Punjab da accent, sternly at two Parisians ‘Maadam, tell me exactly bhwere to go.’
(The conversation that follows in French and Punjabi English makes the Bangali glad! She feels she is in New York!)

Second visual: The Port Authority bus drops her bang in the middle of 7th Avenue and Broadway. Faces greet her. Shoulders hit her. Neon Lights dazzle her. As she snakes her way through Friday afternoon pedestrian traffic towards the Path Stations, balancing her duffle bag and grabbing her camera, the Bangali tries to relate ‘Ah! It can challenge Shyambajar!’ .

Cars stop for people to cross and pedestrians give vehicles the famous ‘look’!

WE RULE

(c) Durba Gupta

First encounter: She finally reaches 33rd Street, Path Station. Sweating and dragging her bag (which by now, following the law of nature, has given away), tries to figure out the $1 and 75 cents to buy a ticket to Jersey city. She fumbles, keeps people waiting ‘impatiently’ (remember it’s New York) and delves deep into her bag to fetch the last quarter.

Finally one gives up! “How much are you short of?” he barks at her and then adds ‘Here’s a 25! Keep it moving’ he asserts. She uses his quarter, but finds her own quarter eventually and chases the good samaritan down the station to give him back his quarter. (he gives her the 'unlike New York' look and walks away with the quarter).

Second Encounter: On the platform trains whizzed pass her as she struggled to figure out her train, and inadvertently landed on people moving in unnatural speed. ‘Watch where ye goin’!’ said the strong jawed, bush shirt as he strode by quickly.

New York City, where they say no one has the time to stop, help and listen! First three hours in New York from the dazzles of neons to the famous New York ‘Attitude’ made her hungry for more…

The tryst with New York finally ended – after 36 hours – and I experienced a city with my eyes and my ears and my thoughts. I tried to take in as much as I could and I stayed true to my ‘opinion’ – a city given an opportunity, I would go back to feel more and live more.
Here's to Woody Allen's NYC vision:

(C) Durba Gupta
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Courage of conviction

walking the talk - how difficult is that? sitting within my sheltered walls how easy is 'talking'?

For those, who aren't aware of Chris Mccandless, here is the story - of a hero, a villain, a headstrong kid, an irresponsible son, a courageous man or a brave being? - that i leave for you to decide.

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in appreciation...

@all wanted to thank you all for your comments and sharing with me your thoughts. i've been barging your inboxes with updates and would probably keep doing that for a while ;)

@ abhay, lolz...no u are not digressing, the fact remains that the world is pretentious and probably very very afraid...a deadly combination, making life for lesser beings like us even more difficult.

@ anirban, thnx man! appreciate ur taking time out and reading the mindless babbles, and for the encouragement.

@ anu, thnx gal for your visits, ur observations always meant a lot! howz life? new documentaries?

@ deepti, howz u? getting better by the day. have planned to put up a blogroll...will add yours soon. i agree with your concept of 'home', that was mine too once upon a time, sadly though it's moving more towards 'feeling' though and less towards 'people'...let's c how it unfurls ;)

@ gunjan, sirjee aap aye...hum dhanya huye. appreciate ur thoughts...and 'totally' identify with your bombay ka theka...yes the hardship days somehow mean so much more than the good days...is this common to all or is this rare? i hear people recall their 'golden' days more fondly than the harsh ones! dunno!

@ raj, yo man! howz fayettville treating u?

@ richie, finally gal...bullied you into visiting. yay!

@ anons - ppl pls leave ur names so that i can thank you in 'person' ;)

Of Libraries and Homeless Existence

His long hair was tied in a surprisingly tidy knot behind his head. His long beard was braided. He wore a sleeveless black travel jacket, long shorts and trek shoes. His possessions were one big backpack, one shoulder sack, one bicycle helmet, one Rottweiler named Stephano and an Alaskan Huskie (name forgotten) tied to the fence next to which he sat, on the pavement, in front of the Chicago Public library. He nodded as I smiled at him while getting in to the library.

Chicago public library is this heavenly abode of nine floors, of the smell of books, of open spaces, of thoughtful silence, sounds of pages turning, high ceilings and free internet browsing. Chicago Public Library provides great facilities to its members. Free Membership. Free heating and cooling. Spanking clean restrooms, ample seating area, free internet browsing and not to mention the amazing collection of books, films and CDs – of different languages. No, ‘am not trying to ‘sell’ Chicago Public library to you. All of this has a point.

Libraries remind me of ‘home’. May be because ‘am getting old and sentimental, or may be because its been long that I haven’t called any place ‘home’, these days I tend to define places that flood back old memories as ‘home’. My grandfather left their home in Dhaka, Bangladesh in the 40s to find peace in India. I grew up in Agartala, Tripura, educated till 12th there, moved to Bhopal for college education, then traveled and lived across places - Bombay, Pune, England and the US (these days) as a ‘perk’ of married life. I do not go to Agartala anymore and when it comes to ‘maika’, I camp in Kolkata.

So, yeah ‘home’ is probably in memories now.

To make the long story longer, every time I step into the Chicago public library, it feels like home. I do not know how many of us associate good memories with libraries, but I certainly do have many. My introduction to Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay, that world is often enough for few billions, that Nicholai Gogol can dream, that Gandhiji traveled on trains, the first realization of being admired, sitting across the table and not talking, browsing the same shelf and sharing glances (yes, I belong to the stone age – things were slow those days), or merely to bunk ‘Debabrata sir’s’ class in school. Libraries from school to college to this city of Chicago still give me ‘home’ – of being on a known ground, of being confident.

The great physical comfort that the library offers is probably the reason that two tables away from where I am seated is a gentleman. He is African American, his meager possession a torn rucksack kept on the floor, unkempt clothing and hair, dejected eyes staring at the empty space filled with books, waiting away his time till the doors close for the day at 9:00 PM. He will look out for a shelter later, I think.

Next to his table is seated another lady – all her possessions bundled in her over coat. She snoozes as the young Japanese student struts by hurriedly towards the foreign language section. She’s startled for a while, but continues with her snooze nonetheless. For 12 hours Monday-Friday, she and her friend can stay off the scorching Chicago roads or the biting Chicago winds – a place that becomes a ‘home’ albeit not literally.

The restroom doors proclaim ‘More than one person is prohibited inside a booth.’ “A ‘home’ away from the crowded streets for some?” I wonder! Down in the computer floor, people are busy browsing the internet. From Turbotax.com to explicit pornographic sites. Free access and no ‘firewall’ to cross – touché to the indomitable human spirit.

I make up my mind for the picks of the day – armed with two Bangla novels, I walk towards the escalator. I’ll start my decent to the 3rd floor to issue the books. The African American gentleman decides likewise. It’s almost 8:30. 10 minutes later as I walk out of the door, I stop to hear their conversation.

“Hey man, you got a place tonight?” he asks the long haired man.
“I’ll be here,” the long-haired man says.
“How long are you on road?” asks the African American.
“8 years” says the man, “Started from Alabama.” He adds.

He had picked up Stephano from the roads he recalls. I smile at both of them and look at the dogs one last time, still lying down peacefully at his feet before I walk away to the 43rd floor where the roof and the walls wait to give me shelter.

Inside or out on the pavement, here’s to the library – ‘home’ to some of us.

If some hapless soul decides to visit this blog and read through it, please share your thought of ‘home’, if it appeals to you.

See you all - here - the 'helly' abode!

There always comes a time when one must take a moment off - a moment of self-reflection - a hard stare at the mirror and know who you are and face it.

Thankfully the world of Internet has made it so much easier for 'utterly busy' individuals like us. Who am I? What do I want? What will happen to me? All revealed in just a few clicks...I must oblige.

Test 1:

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished me to the Seventh Level of Hell!
Here is how I matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Moderate
Level 2 (Lustful)	Moderate
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Moderate
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Moderate
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Moderate
Level 7 (Violent)	Extreme
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Moderate
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Low

Take the Dante's Inferno Test

What is Seventh Level of Hell?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Guarded by the Minotaur, who snarls in fury, and encircled within the river Phlegethon, filled with boiling blood, is the Seventh Level of Hell. The violent, the assasins, the tyrants, and the war-mongers lament their pitiless mischiefs in the river, while centaurs armed with bows and arrows shoot those who try to escape their punishment. The stench here is overpowering. This level is also home to the wood of the suicides- stunted and gnarled trees with twisting branches and poisoned fruit. At the time of final judgement, their bodies will hang from their branches. In those branches the Harpies, foul birdlike creatures with human faces, make their nests. Beyond the wood is scorching sand where those who committed violence against God and nature are showered with flakes of fire that rain down against their naked bodies. Blasphemers and sodomites writhe in pain, their tongues more loosed to lamentation, and out of their eyes gushes forth their woe. Usurers, who followed neither nature nor art, also share company in the Seventh Level.

Test 2:

Always knew...just needed some confirmation...it's all about 'assurance' at the end of the day.

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	Moderate
Schizoid:	Low
Schizotypal:	Moderate
Antisocial:	Low
Borderline:	Moderate
Histrionic:	Moderate
Narcissistic:	Moderate
Avoidant:	Moderate
Dependent:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Moderate
-- Personality Disorder Test --

Test 3:

Getting there...



Free-IQTest.net - Free IQ Test

Finally some confirmation, affirmation and promise of 'doom'...I'll sleep well tonight.

“You have been chosen…”

“You have been chosen…” the famous words were spoken. Finally. To me. …the words that I’ve always waited for, in bated breath…when I took part in a competition or in a lucky draw ever since I was a toddler, waiting for the results of a dance, art or a singing competition. Never happened then – may be now is My moment!! He was tall, well-built and looked like someone in control. He stared at my boarding pass, looked at me, my photo-ID (US-issued…yay!!) again and nodded: ‘M’am the Airlines has chosen you…’…aa-papapp-shhhh---don’t say anymore, let me savour the moment – let me hold on to it – let me relish it for a while…pls!

What could it be? ‘Upgraded to the Business class?’ – hmm but that’s not happening coz I’m traveling in a 35-seater inter city American Eagle flight – difficult to stand straight – let alone business class! Seconds pass by – he opens his mouth to complete his sentence. Hold on my man! I search frantically – ahhh I know what it is! May be you wanna gift me a free airline ticket – aha! That sounds neat! Or some free gifts – I inhale in great satisfaction – you have no idea what few seconds can bring for you – utter joy to sheer disappointment. In those few seconds that ‘my good man’ took to complete his sentence, I experienced pure bliss.

“’Am all ready for you, my man – bring it on”, I smile.

He continues, “Ma’am the Airlines has chosen you TO GO THROUGH EXTRA SECURITY CHECK. PLEASE STEP ASIDE.”

What?!! Come Again!!! That’s not how the story was to unfold, this is not how one says ‘you browny step aside – wanna double check if you are carrying some weapons of mass destruction'! Nope that’s not how it's played out…ask me – I know. Heathrow – circa 2001 – one look from the security guard and I turn myself in for on-the-spot-frisking as my fellow non-browns walk by. I know this charade – I am quite comfortable with it by now. But…you don’t stop me and tell me ‘You’ve been chosen by the Airlines…’ no sir…no. You can’t raise my hopes like this and crush them – I want my free goodies.

But instead, I did step aside. Watching my personal belongings being examined, I decided it’s better to be generous than bitter and offered a cookie to the security person who was busy putting back my moisturizer into the zip lock. ‘No thanks ma’am. Pls don’t worry, it’s just a protocol.’ He tried to assure me. To tell you the truth, in fact I started to feel better – less disappointed. Since my personal belongings posed great threat to the ‘greatest nation on earth’ (oh that’s another story!), he chose to carry those himself – the 3 kilos laptop bag and an one kilo purse (‘am sorry, I generally carry my world in my purse, if you look hard enough you may find my salsa shoes in there too), I proudly glanced at the poor ‘unchosen’ ones – standing in the queue – carrying their bags and holding their jackets. A-h-a!

Then came the glass booth – holes on each wall – and I passed by it. I was not frisked by the security guard there but was taken to another isolated area where two ladies greeted me. Such beaming smile – am I in a spa I wondered! They explained to me that I need to stay calm (duh! What are you gonna do? Inject me with hallucinating drugs?!). So making me pose at different angles and using different devices they examined me and my bags. I spread my hands, then stood up straight, then sat down with my hands on my lap and then stretched my legs in kicking position. Midway into the inspection – the lady realized that she was not wearing her latex gloves. ‘I hope your hands were clean, lady’, I winked.

15 minutes since my fleeting self-assumed seconds of glory, I walked out of the security area – no more a threat to the society – being reassured by the airport staff again and again ‘Ma’am pls don’t worry. Did you change your flight? It often happens when you change your flights.’ She assured me. I in fact did had to reschedule my flight.

The world has changed. We live in precarious times. We inflict pain, we are pained too. For someone like me, when I face thorough inspection every time that I leave or enter my country while I watch at the same time people blessed with better skin color and citizenships are allowed to pass by with minimal questions, such charades in foreign lands do not matter much anymore. I just try – in every such situation – to look for some ‘fun’ in the experience. This time it was being the ‘Chosen one’.

To the Forbidden Land

We all have ‘Wish’ lists! Don’t we? I HAVE. Some good, some bad, some naughty, some funny and some weird! Recently I had couple of my wishes come true – all in one time – pretty amazing – huh! I won’t write down all the wishes – believe me you don’t want to hear those! There are some thirty of those. But one long-time wish was to answer the eternal nature’s call in a forbidden territory – ummm– the Men’s Room :).

As it happens to most of us – we take things for granted. What’s good in the Ladies Room? It seems mundane – walls raised between booths, the good ones with some lotion and cream to pamper yourself with – the unassuming ones forcing you to wade through some hurdles – do it and leave – the message. But we still stop for a while, just a casual glance at the mirror at least, if not touching up the make-up, a little chitty-chat with a colleague…all so common and known.

On the other hand, I have always wondered while bypassing the forbidden territory – why are they in so much hurry? They just rush in and rush out – don’t they have mirrors in there? A little checking oneself out, some attention to the booth next to them – some revelations, some pride, few moments of glory, may be? Do they have partitions? How dirty would the territory be? When do I get to ‘go’ in one? ...I wished;).

Well this weekend when I was in Washington DC, a friend fulfilled my wish. It was not planned, it was just to solve an urgent need – but boy oh boy was that ‘fun’! The friend had to stop by his office to check a mail from his wife. I, of course, had to ‘go’…that happens way too often with me :(. Anyhoo – being a weekend the office was closed and the friend looked around for the key to the Ladies Room. As destiny would have it, he didn’t find any…but, he had with him the key to the Men’s Room.

So as my friend stood vigil outside the door, I took my ‘sweet little’ time to explore the forbidden land. The booths were truly side by side – no partition but no mirrors either over each – would have been fun, I feel! The distance between the booths was not uncomfortable – it’s not that one has to elbow his way through – but close enough for greater revelations of life. There was no tissue dispenser next to each booth – I wonder why? Won’t it be hygienic? But then what do I know of the bigger mysteries of life?  The mirrors were above the sinks – big, shiny, but no basket of creams or lotions. Then there were also the walled booths – same height and size as one would find in a ladies room. It was surprisingly clean – no stink at all and all the toilet seats were DOWN!

As I walked out of the door, standing tall on my latest ‘achievement’, I thanked my friend and decided that I need to add more ‘weird’ stuff in my list. Any ideas people? And want a partner in crime? Yours truly is always ready!

Oh! By the way, if you are wondering, I ‘did’ it, before I walked out of the door.

"Hope you’ll have a great weekend!"

She sat there smiling. Dark glasses sat tightly on her eyes. Her short hair pulled together in a clip. Age had left its mark on her wrinkles, curled fingers and her short stature. She held her purse close to her body. The bus was full. Someone pulled the string to request a stop. She looked up at the person – a young lady, dressed in all white, busy on her cell phone and smiled at her and said ‘Wish you a great weekend.’ The lady nodded, stepped off the bus and the doors closed.

She looked divine.

Next was a middle-aged African American lady. “Hope you have great weekend” she said to the lady. The lady smiled and wished her the same. Every single passenger who got off the bus – she smiled at them, wished them a great weekend and she shined brighter. Some acknowledged her wish, some wished her back, some didn’t spare a glance – but she sat there smiling, her hair softly surrounded her face, her expression – content and satisfied, wishing every single person who got off the bus ‘a great weekend’.

She touched my soul. I have always been hopelessly romantic and unfathomably foolish when it comes to emotions – but sitting there in that bus along with her in a sleepy town of the United States, I felt her divinity infectious.

Does she do this every Friday? Sitting on a bus, on her way back from work, does she wish each and every passenger ‘a great weekend’? She must be a very happy person. Call me naïve but how else can anyone spread happiness so spontaneously? Is this her habit? Her mother did that always, and she is doing that too?

The wedding band on her finger has lost its shine. The green jacket that she wore has worn off too. Her boots are dusty. Her smile though is the brightest. She takes off her hairpin – takes out a black woolen hat and puts it on. She grabs her bag and looks at everyone left in the bus, “I would like to wish you all a great weekend” she smiles, and gets off the bus. My eyes follow her…she turns away.

Whom is she going to? Is it that her family awaits her when she gets off the bus? A family of loving comfort and warmth? A husband, a couch, the mashed potato and even a cat with a small porch?

Or is it that she walks into a dark room and switches on the light? Her eyes take time to get accustomed to the darkness. The cat walks past by. She takes off her jacket and pours a cup of coffee. She sits on her chair, looks out at the porch, takes off the wedding band, touches it lovingly, puts it on her side table and smiles. Is that her story?
Her story… I’ll never know. But she stays in my mind and finds that small little place where you stock up your memories. You take those memories out and brush off the dust in the days that seem dull and the mind is numb. You are always thankful for such memories.

“Good bye ma’am. Hope you have a great life!” And yes…I am sure my weekend will be great!

Killing - people or films!

The land stretches for miles, deserted. You can smell your skin burn under the sun. The nature is timidly dry. The baked air crushes on the blades of a wind mill. The camera picks up a police car. The policeman makes an arrest. Puts the handcuffed arrested man – back shot of a moderately-built tall man with bowl-cut neck-length hair in the backseat of the police car. A gas cylinder attached to a captive bolt pistol finds its place in the front seat of the car. A voiceover narrates the deterioration of the crime scene in the locality. It is Texas, 1980.

The hot Texan landscape melts into the interiors of a police station. The camera freezes on the policeman now on a phone. The bowl-cut walks himself to the policeman from behind his back, grabs his neck under his handcuffs and pulls him down. The shoes struggle for breath and scratch the floor leaving marks, the marks grow thicker and deeper and then they stop. The bowl-cut has finished his job. Camera follows him outside the police station, taking the police car and driving off with the cylinder.

10 minutes after the opening scene, a killer begins walking his time in Texas.

“Would he be caught? Who else would he kill?” I shift my weight on the chair. “The heavy southern accent is killing me,” I frown. “So what is it leading to?” “It has to be good." I assure myself.

Back to the desolate landscapes…this time the camera picks up a hunter. He doesn’t get his game but he sure gets some money. As he sifts through the bloody scene of corpses and guns - a drug deal gone horribly wrong in the desert, he comes across two million dollars – the money for the deal. The true southerner walks back home with the booty.

But two million dollars that too looted can hardly give anyone peace! So begins the cat and mouse chase where the bowl-cut, as it turns out is actually a hit man, chases the hunter to retrieve the booty across motels in Texas and Mexico. The hunter puts up a brave fight. The 1980s Chevrolet chases and cowboy hats falling – the bowl-cut brings death wherever he goes in search of the booty. Very rarely does he give any innocent bystander a chance to choose their life or death!

“Too much of blood and gore.” I complain. “But the bowl-cut has the nerve of steel.” “So it is indeed a crime story.” “Is there an inner meaning?” I keep my thoughts busy.

He is limping and bleeding.He runs himself a bath. Pulls out a knife. Cuts off the trouser he is wearing, injects himself an antibiotic and the knife goes into his thigh. The bath tub goes red. His face doesn’t quiver…neither does his hand. In one quick motion he takes out a bullet. He lets some more blood flow. Washes the wound down with alcohol and gets up from the bath.

The bowl-cut just took care of the hunter’s bullet during one of the chases.

More characters keep adding to the film reels. They all sport the 80s look and clothes. One more bounty hunter. The hunter’s wife and mother-in-law. More motel owners. A local sheriff. His assistant. Sheriff’s wife. They come, some stay, many die.

And I desperately try to solve all the murders, trace the DNA in my mind and know that the bowl-cut would be caught if only Horatio and his team (CSI: MIAMI) were here. Most of my television watching in crime-infested America revolves around crime scenes and nailing the ***.

But it is 1980s. The Sheriff fails, the hunter gets killed, the bowl-cut gets his booty and walks away. The voice-over rants of a dream. A dream that suggests that there is ‘No Country for Old Men’ anymore.

Probably this year’s OSCAR was less of an ode to a good film (like it almost always is) but one to the criminal activities of present day America. “One burglary in every 15 minutes,” the stats say.

Javier Bardem, the Spanish actor in his late 30’s as the bowl-cut killer Anton Chigurh is the saving grace of the film.