The Last Day...

At night it rained, but by then we were well on our way back to Bangalore. I couldn’t enjoy the rains since we were boxed inside the AC compartment thanks to an upgrade from second class. To top it, I was coming down with my fourth sore throat infection in the past three months. It was cloudy enough when we started from Bijapur. There was hardly a soul in the train. The first sign of company was unfortunately, a drunk. He tried his best to engage us in lively conversation, but we would have none of it. He was soon followed by a huge (literally) family, who were not satisfied the space available for luggage in the compartment. They wanted the whole space under the berth, and ordered us to move our baggage. Thankfully, they themselves moved away after a while.

The day had started very early and ominously – we had to hunt around for breakfast. Our “adda”, Mysore Restaurant was closed and we were informed that it would open only at 8:30. So would all other hotels. Visions of famished mornings in Rajasthan loomed. Thankfully, a small “darshini” was open, which served us probably the best Kesari Bath I have ever had!

Juma Masjid was crowded with worshippers even at 7:30 in the morning. We decided to skip it and headed to our next two destinations – Mihtar Mahal and Asar Mahal. According to The Bible, the former was a monument and the latter a ruin. To me, it looked the other way around.

Mihtar Mahal was a dark brown structure serving as a gateway to a little mosque. Even with its ornamental designs it was highly disappointing. A stream of filth flowed in front. A tied rope tied to its top window, passed overhead. Enormous amount of patchwork were visible on the upper deck. We did not linger.

Asar Mahal was entirely a contrast. The huge white building served as a court of the king, who would walk across the moat on a bridge leading to the upper story, where he held court. The rooms were full of beautiful paintings, all of them shown to us by Mr. Inamdar, the lone caretaker of the structure.

As we got out, children engulfed us. “What country are you from?” asked little Mohsin. Do we look like foreigners? But that was the invitation to join their game of cricket, and we obliged. Mohsin seemed to be a real champ (his hero is Yuvraj Singh), even switch-hitting SS. They wanted us to play a full match, but we had to let go. After a series of photographs and a promise that next time we were in Bijapur, we’d join them, we left…

...to the Gumbaz. The short ride on the auto-rickshaw was fun. Music was blaring (Mauja hi Mauja). The driver was dancing all the way. He offered us to take all over Bijapur, an offer we declined. The Gumbaz was crowded and the whispering gallery had turned into the shouting gallery. Every Tom, Dick and Harry wanted to test out the echo. SS tried to invoke Sherlock Holmes again, with no success. One guy even wanted to call up his dad so that he could hear the echoes through the phone. Thankfully there was no signal inside the dome. He was heard complaining that there was “no tower”. The last thing we need is a network tower inside the dome.

Lunch, back at Mysore Restaurant, was a struggle. The place was overflowing. We had to wait for 15-20 minutes. One guy even refused to move. “I want to have an elaborate lunch”, he averred. But then, as Milton said, “They also serve those who stand and wait”.

After time, it was finally time to wrap up the trip. But I still had time for shopping, and the only things I bought from Bijapur were…two rolls of Poppins.

The End...

Day Two

27th June 2009 - Saturday

We spent the evening sitting on the steps of Barah Kaman, watching the colours of the sky change. There was nothing else to do in those two hours preceding sunset. A recap of yesterday’s sights did not appeal anymore. All because, they couldn’t match up to the grandeur and magnificence of the two monuments we visited today.

The day started early, at 6:30 AM, in an effort to beat the usual crowd at the Gol Gumbaz. The monument is housed inside a large garden, thanks to the wholesome efforts of the Archaeological Survey of India. Early morning walkers were aplenty. The lady at the ticket gate seemed to be asleep, and we had to holler a couple of times to get her attention. Entry fee was only 5 rupees (for Indian nationals. For foreigners, it is around 20 dollars!), but we were incensed on being asked to pay an additional 25 rupees each for using a “digital camera” – of course, all those guys who use their mobile phone cameras do not need to pay anything.

The flat and somewhat ugly Archaeological Survey Museum blocks the full view of the Gumbaz from the gates. The Bible said the museum was “missable” and we faithfully followed its word. A small archway behind the building leads to the monument. Through the arch, one can spot an enormous doorway in the distance – the entrance into the Gol Gumbaz. As you step through the doorway, the monstrous structure towering over you takes your breath away. A huge façade with three arches reach up to the heavens. On either side, rise up octagonal towers seven tiers high. And on top, rests the massive dome – the largest in India.

The guard at the door stopped us saying bags are not allowed! No one told us about that, and we confessed the same to him. After a seemingly endless tirade against the guys manning the ticket gate, he let us in with our bags. We stepped though one of those doorframe-like contraptions (popularly termed as “metal detectors”) that never beep regardless of whatever things you carry with you.

The Gol Gumbaz is the mausoleum of Mohammad Adil Shah, and being a “resting place” if you expect it to be quiet, you’re grossly mistaken. The first thing that assaults you as you enter the square chamber is the noise. The massive hollow dome of the Gumbaz magnifies even the smallest whisper by more than 10 times. Above the mausoleum lies the “Whispering Gallery” and people are always testing out the phenomenon by shrieking and screaming at their fullest. It felt as if we were in a B-grade horror movie or in a Nirja Guleri serial.

The climb up to the dome leads through the minarets and is tiring with huge stone steps winding through claustrophobic passages. But the view from the top is fantastic. The city stretched out on all sides. A strong wind kept tugging at us. True to its fame, the Whispering Gallery was indeed a miraculous experience. Thankfully the screaming jokers had disappeared and we had the place almost to ourselves. I tried some shots of the place and was amazed at the echo. The soft pop of the flash and the click of the shutter reverberated through the dome. We sat down. As time passed, I felt increasingly sleepy inside that dark chamber. Something seemed to have come over SS also. He was blabbering all the time about Sherlock Holmes, The Hitchhiker’s Guide and James Bond.

Nevertheless, we sang our Harem Globetrotters’ anthem inside that dome!

After coming out of the gallery, I sat there on the upper deck gazing out at the city, as SS got busy clicking his 2014th, 2015th and 2016th shot of the adjacent minaret. Walking past, an employee of the ASI looked at me curiously.

Him: “Where are you guys from?”

We: “Bengaluru”

Him (pointing at me and smiling): “You look like the actor Ravichandran!”

Huh???

It is sad that many of us know Bijapur only for the Gol Gumbaz! For, at the other end of the city lies the immensely beautiful Ibrahim Rauza. During the afternoon, there was hardly anybody at that place. In many ways it reminded me of Hampi and Rajasthan, An elaborate green lawn with yellowish-green hedges adorned the tomb. Lush green coconut trees abutted the compound, providing a cool breeze all the time. The mosque on the right hand side had beautiful patterns adorning its walls. In front of it was what would have been a fountain, and facing the mosque across it, stood the immensely beautiful and richly carved mausoleum of Ibrahim Adil Shah. It reminded me of the Sheesh Mahal in the Amber Fort. The place would have been more beautiful if only it had been restored and maintained properly.

We spend three hours just gawking at it and clicking photos. As time passed, more people started coming in. Soon, children were running around the courtyard. At the door of the old mosque, I sat down to write. A couple of tourists got curious and came over to watch. “He’s an author. He writes books and takes photos!” SS made up a story. The guys said they were from a nearby village named “Halli”. SS couldn’t believe that (‘Halli’ itself means ‘village’ in Kannada). Soon he started relating about our travels to them. One of them even started pouring through The Bible.

By the time we left the place, the crowd was well in. We were no longer the only tourists in Bijapur – a fact that would hurt us later.

And…do not drink tea from that bajji place I suggested yesterday. Just be happy eating the bajjis.

To be concluded…

Day One

26th June 2009 - Friday

I woke up and found myself in Maharashtra. The train was approaching Sholapur. Where were we headed? Pune or Bijapur? “We’ve been all over the world…first Andhra Pradesh and now Maharashtra!” exclaimed SS. From Sholapur, we turned back to Karnataka, towards Bijapur. There was hardly anyone in the train ever since we’d left Gulbarga. Not surprising, considering the route.

Through barren lands we sped along. But still, it was a picturesque journey. En route, we stopped at the tiny village of Nimbal, where nothing interesting happens except the arrival of the occasional train. And as if it were a festival, there were people dressed up in all colours. The most ubiquitous is the yellow-saffron turban that everybody seems to wear – be it while plowing the field or tending the sheep.

A few minutes before we reached Bijapur we were assaulted by a barrage of Nadeem Shravan songs from somebody’s mobile phone. Thankfully not for long! At 10:10 we pulled into Bijapur. The first sight that greets you as the train slows down is the magnificent dome of the Gol Gumbaz, rising above the railway buildings! Truly a majestic sight!

Bijapur is like any other quintessential middle-class towns in India. Nothing much happens over here. Autorickshaws and bikes crawl past in hordes, with the appearance of an occasional car. There is only one main road, which serves as the “city centre”. There are no “Nikes”, “Reeboks”, “Mac Donaldses” and “Pizza Huts” – only the local “Fashion Stores” and “Darshinis”. The roads are narrow and filthy, but sparsely crowded. Life moves at a leisurely pace.

“Hotel Tourist” was quite shady to say the least, but we had stayed in much more shadier places. After all we just needed some place to dump our stuff. And what more, with a perennial power problem in the city, the hotel possessed a generator! It was next to the city market. Colorfully dressed ladies were selling juicy yellow mangos on the street side. It took just one photograph from me for them to starting clamoring for more of their photos. Even the tangewalas were not to be left behind. It took all of our diplomatic skills to break loose from there.

Mysore Restaurant is set in a corner of Gandhi Chowk. “The locals swear by it”, says The Bible, and so do we. The dosas are awesome! It comes with a sprinkling of chutney powder inside, and served with thick coconut chutney. The place is always brimming with people and for a little town it’s tough to find a place to sit. This would be our “adda” for the next three days.

Nestled behind the hotel are the ruins of the Barah Kaman – a mausoleum of curving arches named so because it has 12 windows and once had 12 tiers (according to the guard – pretty hard to believe, and of course, there are other versions on the origin of the name). Today there’s only one tier, sans the roof. The arches are nevertheless beautiful, forming intricate geometric patterns. The gardens surrounding the structure were crowded with people – the men in their yellow turbans and the women in their colorful garments adorned with metal ornaments. They are a sight to behold, the ornaments being made out of 25 paisa coins. I soon realized that this was some kind of ritual gathering. They sat in circles – the men and women separately – and seemed to be in some debate or discussion. Food, which they had brought with them, was being served. The women seemed to be singing some folk tunes. It was like a mini-carnival.

On top of Barah Kaman, we were accosted by a group of curious and enthusiastic kids – Rukhsar and her little friends. They wanted their photographs both in groups and alone. We playfully obliged. After a zillion photos in various poses, they were still not sated, until we finally gave up, fully tired. They continued playing around us, singing nursery rhymes. Just as we were leaving, one of them unexpectedly posed the question: “Yeh kab paper mein chhapega?” Uh…oh! We had to lie: “Do din mein…”

Opposite the Barah Kaman stand the ruins of the Citadel, which houses structures like the Jal Manzil, the Sat Manzil and the Gagan Mahal – all of them in various state of ruin. Touching the sky, the marble façade of the Gagan Mahal is majestic among them. The place was closed for renovation, but the caretaker beckoned us inside. That is when we realized that in the whole of Bijapur, we were the only tourists!

If you happen to be here, try the chilli bajjis from the roadside stall next to the Gagan Mahal. It was the spiciest chilli bajji I had ever had in my life.

Behind the bus stand rise up the twin domes of the Jod Gumbad. As we were clicking snaps, a chap shouted at us: “Andar mat jaana! Masjid hai!” We obliged, standing well outside. The kids were still enthusiastic – one in particular wanted SS to photograph him in various poses. He seemed impatient with SS’s focusing: “Why are you fretting around so much? Just click the photo!”

The evening was complete at the gates of the city. The city is enclosed inside the fort, on the walls of which stands Upli Buruj, the huge watch tower that gives a view of the whole city. It has two long cannons installed on top. But the more majestic cannon was the one at Malik-e-Maidan at the outer gate of the city – a huge 1.5 m diameter and (allegedly) 4m piece, intricate carved with the mouth resembling a lion sinking its teeth on a scampering elephant. As the sun started its descent, we sat there, discerning the huge saffron flag flowing in the strong wind.

The old lady at the gates tried to sell us post cards on our way into the Maidan, but we declined the same, with an excuse that we would buy them on the way out. She just smiled and did not utter a word of complaint. On our way back, we purchased two sets, for Rs. 20. She was happy to see us.

Swapna Restaurant was next door to our hotel. According to The Bible, it has a “70s lounge feel and outdoor dining” - probably a perfect place for dinner. According to everyone around, it was a favorite hangout for the tourists. The place turned out to be almost as shady as Brindavan Palace. The interiors were dimly lit, just like any other bar and restaurant. The place definitely had a “70ish” feel. The tables and chairs seemed to be 30 years old. A small TV at the centre of the hall was playing comedy scenes from Kannada movies of the 70s. Being thirsty, I ordered a Pepsi – the only thing I could trust to drink in that place. And for the second consecutive day, the dinner was nothing to talk about!

To be continued...

Day Zero

Halfway to the office, I realized I’d forgotten my ID card – Naturally, that’s the last thing to forget, but today was not a normal day.

You see, I’d been packing for hours…to select three T-shirts and a couple of underclothes for a three day trip to a place not more that 600 km away. Naturally, forgetfulness can set in.

And naturally, I reached office late – at 10:45. And at 11, I went back home – I’d forgotten to pack a jacket.

The arduous journey to Yeshwantpur Railway Station was a mini adventure. I waited 30 minutes for a bus to Yeshwantpur (“Naturally”, Yeshwantpur is so far away from our office that no buses will ever want to go there - It’s easier to flag down a spaceship to Betelguese). Then I waited 5 minutes for a bus to anywhere else in Bangalore. The bus to Shivajinagar was crawling along like a snail, taking more than an hour to reach there. The connecting bus to the station seemed to be in no mood to move. The driver simple refused to budge for a full ten minutes. Thankfully I had cut my nails before starting on the journey. By the time I reached the station there were just minutes to find the train.

The evening train ride was nice and jolly. Of course, SS seemed a bit miffed when he saw the train passing by his backyard. If this were Bihar, he could have flagged it down from there. We chugged along parallel to the road lined with flaming red Gulmohar trees, without stopping anywhere…until we reached Hindupur. And as if to compensate for the non-stop journey, we stood there for an hour, until the sun set.

The station was empty. No sign of those annoying hawkers who try to sell you everything under the sky. Locals were out for an evening walk on the platforms, and few of my fellow passengers joined them. The Iyengar family in the adjoining seat was in the midst of a lively discourse. The topics ranged from Shivaji’s court to Max Mueller to the phenomenon of Blogging. The elder gentleman was explaining what blogging was to the others: “The term ‘blogging’ stands for ‘board logging’. It is like a bulletin board on the internet, where one person puts up his opinion on a topic. Everybody else should reply to it and give their opinion!”

At 7:30 PM, we pulled out of Hindupur…and to my amazement; I noticed that there was still some daylight left in the sky. Perhaps it’s the same everyday, but in Bangalore you can never see it…Naturally.

At night we committed the biggest mistake of the day – we ordered food from IRCTC. We should have taken the egg biryani from the hawker…Naturally!

To be continued…

Office Office

I wake up one n a half hour earlier than the scheduled time to reach my destination. And the first thing I do, is not to use Jane... but to put on an episode or two, to which am gonna get ready to. Earlier, I used to have my companion, my sister who would dance before she'd leave for work.

Now that am alone, it’s all television.

As I look outside the window of my car, I find the glorious building standing tall, newly shined by workers who use a swing to make all fourteen floors of its body,pretty.

Beneath its beautiful exterior, hiding the traits of a lying, manipulative, sick boyfriend.

I remember the day the first time I saw it, fresh out college and a relationship. And it turned my stomach.

Walking up the stairs, I get glances, which tell me, oh look at this young one stepping outta a chauffeur driven car. I pass the lecherous glances of “executives" who look at me trying to bend a little to see under my top or beneath my skirt. The glances they get back not kind.

Taannnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg.... You enter the building after an X ray scan of all your belongings. Right, like anyone would want to do anything to this building.

Ahhhh, the rusty metal doors of the lift which happen to have their victims marked out for the day. Well, Videocon Towers has got scores of people, rushing in and out of the building but the lifts always manage to stir them out of their reverie.

And so I enter, not fearing its metal clasps on my hard earned clothes and wait for number 4.

Ms. Kone, the electronic voice of the most annoying ever, will not leave a moment to make her presence felt. And so she echoes through the 3 and half inches of confined space saying-" Please allow the door to close.” And if that wasn't enough, she goes further-" This lift is from Kone". Okay biatch. This is your turf. Your space.

I don't have one.

Our office doesn't have a concept of doors or cubicles or even assigned terminals. Anybody can steal your lip balm, kajal, water,your favorite pen.... Or the terminal you were working on till you went to Jane, coz the temperature makes you carry the same jacket you carry in November.

Right. And with me, enter caked girls smelling of perfume and nicotine. Carrying caffeine in their hands, I figure they are the ones who woke up today at 3 am to be in office, look pretty, not let their curls out of place and deliver an audience, the morning bulletin.

A fake smile here, an acknowledgment there and when Ms. Kone has told us to allow the doors to close a third time, Mr. bald spot with the sickest dressing sense comes and stands next to me.

I try and touch the close button but too late, his two heavy thighs have made their way into the life.

Great, nobody can catch him. Not God. Not his mother. Or his girlfriend. No, he doesn't have one.

Not even Ms. Kone.
Come on girl, be pink, be a girl.
It's us versus them.

As he seems to think of the lift as his second home, he exchanges pleasantries and niceties we are all at his place. Obviously, this is it. This is what got him his post. Sucking up and sucking hard. He was good at playing with words. I should know that. One should see his artful tactics that govern work.

Man, run for some shelter.

As am quite tall, I can’t hide behind any of the foul smelling ICICI “executives",an option for some of my friends. Great. So I show some attitude by checking myself in the mirror and pick number 7 as my destination while he addresses someone else.

You see its not so much about work or the lack of it, but the desire to pass him a smile, the guy who is responsible for ruining so many of my evenings just doesn't seem to be strong. Don't you want an appraisal, I ask myself. Not like this, says the honest, hard working angel in my head who believes in Karma. You’ll get your bit.

No you won't, says the practical one...Its all about niceties and PR. You better suck it up, put your chest out, fling your hair, and all of those 32.

32 teeth.

I notice my hair looks nice. Unfortunately, in a fraction of nano second, he catches my eye.

Uh-oh! The narcissist in me has cost me this. This is why God told us to never be taken up by our appearances, they only do your harm.But I am not even good looking, says the angel.

Here we go.

“Hi -----, how are you doing?"

So what’s its gonna be? Be humble or just a mumble? Before my head gives me answer, I flash my 32 teeth smile, wishing him a good morning and a terrible life.

No, that’s not enough. He prods me further."

So what’s plans for today? I hope you have some good ideas for today's show, we really should see some good numbers."

Ya we do, or your tushy, which beats Bangladesh, will be set on fire.

Before I could reply, he steps out of the lift. Well, if you didn't want an answer, then why ask a question? I hope the juice he has in his hand, spills on his crotch and looks like he just wet himself. No.Too mild.

I hope the juice he just gulped is expired and it gives him the loosies. No, I want....

Woah...There he was, trapped in the arms of my gal pal, struggling to get his 2 rupee coat made of metal out of Ms Kone's hand. So much so, that he dropped his drink, skids on it and falls on the slippery in- betweens.

Burning bra's together in the sixties finally pays off in Kalyug with an electronic whiff of a woman trapped inside a speaker.

She had watched me worked nights, days and evenings with hundreds of others whom he never thanked once. She heard my constant bitching, not without reason, and she had heard a hundred others.

All this while, Ms. Kone has been watching. And unpredictably, she chose the harshest way to put him down.

And make my knees go weak with glee.

When bad boys need to be spanked, all the bad girls come out to clap their hands together.

Angels and Demons

First things first, it’s too late to be reviewing this movie. In spite of the “blessed” strikes, Angels and demons has come far from it’s release.It maybe late for a review but it’s never too late for a perspective.

I never managed reading both the Dan Brown sellers. I saw both the movies. The first one made less sense to me. Maybe it was horrid or maybe it was ignorance. I don’t plan on talking or blaming it. Dan Brown has been often regarded as a “beach read” author – the kinds who churns out a higher concept, slightish adventures that could help you pass a 7 hour flight. Take for example, Angels and Demons the film has everything from the plot, to the the writing, to the history, to the direction, to the performances – executed to utter competence.

The plot : Angels and Demons has the returning Tom Hanks as the symbologist Robert Langdon. He is called upon by the Vatican to investigate the kidnapping of four roman cardinals who turned missing during the vote in of a new pope. A bomb well not exactly a bomb but antimatter with a standard battery life has been planted somewhere in the Vatican city and it is up to Langdon, a female scientist Vittoria and the priest Camerlengo Patrick McKenna to figure out clues and find the bomb in order to save the cardinals and Vatican city. It is a race against time and orthodox tradition. The plot points towards the ancient sect Illuminati, a group of academics and intellectuals who has an age old feud with the Catholic church.

That’s what I want to talk about more than the movie, the age old fight between science and religion. Have they started to co-exist? There are a few theories and few answers to everything. There is no proof although. It is true that majority of people now embrace both science and religion. They seem to use different parts of their minds for each of these, with no or hardly any interconnection between these parts. At least we no more associate bad weather, illness to curses; or earthquakes, storms and eclipses to angry gods.

The conflict has been there right from the 16th century. Both theologians and scientists presume different things and continue to think the way they do. Laplace, dedicated his entire life to finding answers and died exclaiming : “What we know is nothing, what we don’t is immense!”

The truths hidden are greater than our being, generations have passed by and the answers are still not clear. What I have learnt over the years is wisdom in this sentence : “God helps those who help themselves.” I remember my sister praying for 2 hours before every exam…she was never helping herself that day. But till day, she claims that the prayers were answered. My mom is a strong believer in the almighty, the puja in my house has every idol right from all the Hindu gods to Gurunanak and also Jesus. I have wondered if her prayers have any significance, but then who am I to question her faith. My husband dwindles in his belief, I see him praying but never in a temple, but then faith continues to govern our lives.

There has always been a divide and the two groups never saw eye to eye. In the seventeenth century, Galileo stood trial, was found guilty and spent the last eight years of his life in house arrest over the issue of geo centrism. When Darwin's Origin of Species was published, people were divided among those who supported evolution and those who opposed it. Heated and sometimes hostile debates were commonplace. Even today the controversy continues. A Brief History of time is an attempt to explain a range of subjects in Cosmology, including the Big bang, black holes, and light cones to the non specialist leader. Its main goal is to give an overview of the subject but, unusual for a popular science book, it also attempts to explain some complex mathematics. There are no conclusions but it comes very close to answering the so called questions.

I have seen one miracle in my life which is probably to personal to pen down. But that made me realize that if nothing else, we got to keep the faith. If nothing else, we need to bow are head and if nothing else there is no point in the arrogance since there is so much we don’t even know.

I have no ways of structuring this article. It seems as confused as my mind is and as strong as my faith is.

Coming back to the movie, it’s definitely something worth seeing. It is a treasure hunt that takes place in the Vatican and that’s what makes it so enthralling. The performances are strong and the actors remain true to their characters. Rated PG-13 for sequences of violence and disturbing images, Angels and demons has surpassed it’s prequel. A must watch, I say.

"Drink from me and live for ever..."

Frankly, I was surprised that most people had not heard of this 1994 star-studded (by today's standard) movie adaptation of Anne Rice's best-selling novel. A stellar cast consisting of the likes of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Kirsten Dunst, Antonio Banderas and Stephen Rhea is certainly mouth-watering. And Neil Jordan's "Interview with the Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles" does not disappoint on this count.

This is a story about vampires...oh yes, those creatures who have sharp teeth, drink blood, and sleep in coffins. But no...contrary to popular perception, they don't fear ordinary light, crucifixes or the stake through the heart. But they too have their Achilles Heels - one should not drink the blood from a dead body, ordinary light may not harm them, but sunlight is deadly. And so is fire...

This is a story about vampires...and if you thought this was a run-of-the-mill horror film, you're grossly mistaken. For "Interview..." is a grand story-telling experience - lavish and grandiose in its application. "Interview..." is a story of love, betrayal (of one's own soul), cruelty, treachery and the inner struggles of an "immortal with a mortal soul". Daniel Mallory (Christian Slater), a newspaper reporter manages to lure Louis (Brad Pitt) to relate the story of his life. Louis was an 18th century Louisiana planter, who after the death of his wife and child, is out looking for death. A chance encounter with the vampire Lestat (Tom Cruise) alters his life once and for all. Lestat offers him the choice of being young and immortal for ever, and he readily accepts it to become a vampire and a companion to Lestat. However, he still possesses a soul that hesitates to kill humans and is tormented by his choice.

In his loneliness, he turns a little girl Claudia (Kirsten Dunst) into a vampire, with Lestat's help, and the three of them start a life together as a family. As years pass by, Claudia matures into a woman, but is imprisoned in the body of a 12 year old. In despair, she plots to kill Lestat and with Louis, runs away to Paris in search of more vampires. In Paris, they meet some of their own kind - Armand (Antonio Banderas), Santiago (Stephen Rhea), and their coven, who run the "Theatre des Vampires", a society of vampires that masquerades as actors killing their victims on stage as part of well-orchestrated plays. However, their past catches up with them.

This movie is all about its two leading actors. Brad Pitt has the more difficult role as the conscience-ridden Louis, brilliantly conveying his emotions through his eyes. But Cruise steals the show. As the supremely evil Lestat, he is brilliant and chillingly exudes a devilish charm. Kirsten Dunst as the 12-year old Claudia is good enough, but struggles to portray the role of a young woman trapped in a child's body (a role which is really difficult to carry out). The others, though they have shorter roles, do justice to their part. The movie has high production values. For a story set across centuries, it travels at a good pace, never boring the viewer, thanks to the brilliant screenplay. The scenes are brilliantly executed. Some of them really stand out in your mind - the constant verbal duels between Lestat and Louis, the drama scene in the theatre where the vampires kill a helpless young woman in front of an unsuspecting audience, the gruesome murder of Madeleine and Claudia at the hands of the vampire society, by exposing them to the rays of the rising sun, and Louis donning the role of the grim reaper to wreak his revenge on the vampires - to name a few.

"Interview..." is definitely not for the weak-minded or the average cinema-goer, who would balk at the thought of the constant gushes of blood on the screen - be it from all the bites on the neck or from the rats who are fed upon frequently by the lead cast. This one is for the movie buffs who appreciate the cinematic values on screen.

Drink from me and live forever...