Why I Advise People to Break Off Engagements

(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 30 October, 2010)

“No, don’t marry him. You’ll regret it.”



My friend’s friend gapes at me. “Are you sure it’s not just cold feet?”


“Yes, I am. It’s not.”


“No, of course it is!” the common friend says, possibly panicked by the prospect of having to star in a five-hour version of this conversation overnight.


“What do you think?” my friend’s friend looks at me.


“You’ll regret it. You could throw a dart and hit something or someone more worthy.”


“No, she’s being sarcastic. She writes humour columns,” my friend is desperate now.


“Remember Bugs Bunny?” I ask, and my friend falls silent.


Bugs the Hallucinating Junkie is the one I credit with teaching me several truths about relationships, all of which I go on to expound to my friend’s friend.


Truth 1: When a woman introduces the man who has bumbled into her life to friends and strangers, you know it’s because (a) she’s been single for a while, and so decided to settle for anything that came her way because she’s too bored to think (b) she knows she’s making a mistake, and is not sure whether she wants to be convinced to go ahead or end it.

Sadly, most of her friends decide instinctive revulsion qualifies as bridal jitters. However, they insure themselves against blame by popping in an ambiguous sentence that serves as a lead-in to the ‘I told you so’ a few months down. Examples are:


You should do what’s best for yourself.


You deserve the best. When you meet The One, you should go ahead.


Aww. It’s all going to be okay. Give me a hug, now.


I heard the adjectives ‘loser’, ‘vacant’, ‘balding’, ‘weird’, ‘shrill-voiced’, ‘wimpy’, ‘dull’, ‘gross’, ‘crazy-eyed’ and ‘repulsive’ after my move to Delhi (and the discovery that a plaque on a door at the IGI Airport was funnier than Bugs – seriously, the name plate read ‘A.S.S.’, possibly short for Assistant Security Superintendent) had engineered a breakup three months later than necessary.


After falling in love with the man who has gone on to become my best friend, I’ve done a pretty decent job of keeping his identity secret. It helps that his name is an Unpronounceable.


Truth 2: Intelligent women usually date dudes of low calibre because of their need for validation, while intelligent men usually marry women with low IQs because of their need for flattery.


At the low-calibre-dating stage, women should acquire a distaste for flowers, heart-shaped chocolate boxes, cheap pink diaries and corny messages by association with the subject. In the life cycle of a silkworm, this is the part where you gorge on mulberry leaves till you want to puke, and then shut yourself into a cocoon. Ideally, you ought to get out before you’re boiled alive.


The distaste-by-association will help you grow fond of men who forget your birthdays, or buy you rings the wrong size after using a rubber band to measure the circumference of your finger under a random pretext.


Truth 3: Disillusionment makes you funny.


My column began with a piece on my first disastrous date with Bugs.


“I’ve read that one!” exclaims my friend’s friend, “I think I could relate to it because this guy cried after watching Jab We Met too.”


“I cried too, but that was after hearing a poorly-rendered narration from Bugs,” I say, as our common friend begins to relax, “so, ideally, you ought to break up before your dude shows up at your door with a rose between his teeth.”


“Maybe you’re right about this one,” my friend smirks, “you were funnier when you were unhappy.”

What Makes a Bengali?

Bijoya Dashami, which is happy Dussehra for most parts of the country, is a day of some sadness for the Bengali. After the intense festivity, the Goddess goes back on Dashami and despite the social gatherings, there is always a bit of melancholy in the air.
I did not know – introspection, even.
Because this Bijoya, I pondered a lot on a question a Bengali friend asked me ‘what makes a Bong?’ And he locked out my penchant for vague, tangential answers with a stern brief – ‘what are the 5 defining things that are required to be a true blue Bong?’
I am inclined to list procrastination first since I promised to write nearly a week back!

Seriously, what defines a Bengali?

Is it parochialism? Not really. Pride about one’s region & race is a very common trait among Indians –where regional identities are often stronger than the national identity.
Is it fish? Or sweets? Cannot say that either. I know many Bengalis who abhor either or both.
Is it sports? Or more specifically, watching sports? But then, a great sporting spectacle unites the country and not only Bengal. And as Bangalore just showed us, packing cricket stadia on weekdays is no longer an Eden monopoly!

So, what are those Elusive Five? Let me try my theories… every one can jump in after that.

Food
The Bengali cuisine is not about fish, biriyani or roshogolla. It is about investing deep thought and taking immense pains to eat well – and equally importantly – feed well.
Calcutta is a place where wedding menus are fixed long before the match. It is a place where people travel long distances early on Sunday mornings to capture the best cut of mutton. It is a place where people get violent discussing the relative merits of their favourite biriyani joints. And the smell of broiler chicken in a meal is a curse that requires seven baths in Ganga to expiate.
Anjan Chatterjee (of Mainland China and Oh Calcutta fame) once wrote about Chitol Machher Muittha (inadequately translated as fish balls made out a particularly fleshy fish) being prepared for special occasions and people considered it to be a scandal if a bone emerged out of any of the fish balls… That’s vintage Bangali for you!
Malayalis love eating fish. But only a Bengali would carry ilish in a cold case on a flight. And only in Calcutta airport, would they let you pass security with that. Hyderabadis invented the Paradise biriyani & haleem. But only a Bengali would know Gati does express delivery of those to Delhi. Every Bengali has at least one hole-in-the-wall joint which – he is convinced – serves the best Moglai Porota in the world and he is willing to defend it till death.
Such passion is, of course, a by-product of the wonderfully diverse Bengali cuisine that straddles a million tastes, uses a billion ingredients and engulfs the five senses.
Think about it, God gave South Indians curd and they made thayir saadam out of it. Bengalis made mishti doi.

Sense of Humour
Well, how many stand-up comedians do you know are Bengalis? Zero. No filmi comedians since Keshto Mukherjee either. Authors? Very few. Bloggers? A few, maybe. So?
Well, I should have said the ‘democratization of humour’. Because I don’t see any other state in India where the humour is so well spread out. The funniest Indians may not be Bengalis but the average Bengali is about a million times funnier.
Recently, I went to the local Bengali Society to pay the Durga Puja subscription. In the 7 minutes I spent there, two gentlemen (who – I am sure – hold very serious day jobs like database architecture and trade marketing) had me and my wife in splits. Allow me an example:
Gent 1: Kothai thaka hoi? (Where do you stay?)
Me: Sohna Road. Oboshsho road nei ekhon. (Sohna Road. Though, there’s no road left now.)
Gent 1: Kothaoi nei. Brishtir joley rasta porishkar hoye gechhey… (No road anywhere. The rains have cleaned the roads.)
Gent 2: Rasta nei. Ektu rustic. (Untranslatable.)
Okay, okay – one more.
Imagine an evening flight leaving for Delhi and turning back mid-way due to fog. And re-starting for Delhi, this time with a CAT-trained pilot. If the flight had originated from any other major city in India, there would have been aggression, raised voices and threats of legal action. I was fortunate enough to leave from Calcutta and overheard the following:
Gent 1: Bujhlen toh, aager pilot-ta CAT pash koreni. (The earlier pilot was not CAT qualified.)
Gent 2: CAT paini? Joint peyechhilo toh? (Didn’t clear CAT? What about JEE?)
This, at 2 AM!

Easy Riders
Bengalis love effortless people. And underdogs.
India admires Satyajit Ray – the legendary filmmaker who wrote his own scripts, designed sets & costumes, composed music, wrote books and was a certified genius. In Bengal, Ray’s charisma is matched by Ritwik Ghatak, who made only a few films and died in poverty of alcoholism. But oh - what films they were! And with what little effort!
In Bengal, the heroes are never the class toppers. They are the bloody swatters, who had no brains and slogged their bums off (gasp – how ghastly!). The heroes are the guys who spent the night before the exams at Dover Lane Music Conference and managed to answer only one question in the whole paper. But man, you should have read that answer. Isaac Newton himself would have sat at that boy’s feet to understand its gravity. Of course, he flunked the exam, the course and is now an accountant at a private tuition centre in Jalpaiguri but I am telling you that boy had the ‘potential’ to become a Head of Department at Harvard.
The word ‘potential’ is a big favourite in Bengal. It brings out all the unsung geniuses (heroes or otherwise) who could have but didn’t.
And even the workaholic Ray reveals a soft corner for the unsung genius, in the way he wrote Sidhu Jyatha (Feluda’s uncle, played brilliantly on screen by Harindranath Chattopadhyay). When complimented by Felu (“If you had been a detective, we would have been out of work”), Sidhu Jyatha responds – “If I had done a lot of things, a lot of people would have been out of work. So, I don’t do anything. I just sit here and keep the windows of my mind open…”
If Bengalis were as rich as Punjabis, they would have thrown coins when this line was first said on screen!

Stories
Every Bengali is a storyteller.
The ‘adda’ is a common phenomenon across India, where people get together for some chat & gossip. But in Bengal, it is an art form – ranging from the organized (where famous authors are invited to participate in addas) to the impromptu (while waiting for the next bus and continuing till the last bus has gone).
If you read Anandabazar Patrika (or The Telegraph), the journalistic style is very anecdotal. More often than not, the reports start with a story. Descriptions of how political leaders were dressed at rallies are again common. And first person accounts are almost de rigueur for most stories. For example, when a Metro snag happens – Delhi’s Hindustan Times runs a story like this (“Longer Metro ride, technical snag yet again”). The Telegraph leads with “Pride Derailed”.
Every mundane, day-to-day event of no consequence gets suffused with suspense and emotion when a Bengali narrates it. A simple interaction with a parking attendant who did not have change can assume the proportions of a Rushdie novel. A joke is not a joke. With a virtuoso performer, a joke can extend over an entire evening – not unlike a raag – interspersed with mimicry, leg-pulling, social comments, jokes within jokes (meta-jokes!) and requests for more whiskey. The stories are always long, never boring and sometimes true, even! But then, the truth is never allowed to spoil a good story.
A famous Bengali litterateur (Syed Mujtaba Ali) was once asked if the story he just recounted was true. He said, “A prince went hunting in a deep, dark jungle. There, he came across a big, bad tiger. The tiger said – Prince, I will now eat you up. This is a story. But tigers do eat humans, don’t they?”

Culture
This is the easiest one to propose and explain. Let’s face it – the stereotype is true. And everybody knows it.
The average Bengali has read more books than the average Indian. Hell, he may have even written more! He has certainly heard more music (not counting DJ music, where Punjabis beat him). He has learnt to play at least one musical instrument (male) or one dance form (female) as a child. He has written more Letters to the Editor. The aforementioned editors also had a higher-than-average proportion of Bengalis. And if they aren’t Bengalis, they will soon be claimed as one.
Only a Bengali will ask what defines a Bengali. And only a Bengali will oblige.
And yes, only in Calcutta can Ritwik compete with Hrithik.

These are – what I think – defines the Calcutta Chromosome.
And while on the topic, Delhi DNA or Mumbai Mitochondria just doesn’t sound so elegant – no?

Why a Woman Can't Handle the Driver's Seat

(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 16 October 2010)

“I bet that’s a woman!”



That was my pet phrase when I felt like annoying my feminist friends on the road.


Having zipped in and out of Madras for five years, I had comfortably settled into the backseat of all wheeled mobile objects. Which came with the privilege of taunting the drivers.


“Your mom drives!” a friend was fond of saying, every time I clucked my tongue at her for making an awkward turn.


“Yes. Badly,” I lied. The dents in my mother’s car have been engineered solely by the male members of the clan.


Having won my driving licence as an eighteen-year-old, for driving ten feet in first gear without killing the engine or a bystander, I was proof that you needn’t know how to drive to be allowed to, if you could look helpless enough to rouse the chivalry of the driving inspectors.


“Women can’t handle positions of power,” I would say, and smile smugly when a furious friend nearly crashed her car in response.


It’s true that I still wish we lived in times when ladies sang to each other in harems, learnt science and language for entertainment, had maids to fan them, and were authorised to move on to someone better if their spouses were vanquished in war.


But my theories on women and driving were due to change when I made a purchase that took me places.


While I usually use my indicators correctly, reverse in reverse gear and can park, two months and several dents later, I’ve discovered that it isn’t always the woman’s fault that she cannot drive well. The threats are threefold:


The Forty-Minute Aunties: This species teeters off the pavement to check whether you accelerate or slow down. Once you slow down, and they have peered in to ascertain you’re a woman, they decide you can empathise with why it takes them forty minutes to waddle across the road.


The He-Men: This genum may be found in four manifestations – the bipeds who can only ride at a non-right angle to the road, the tripeds who swing either way on a whim, the quadrupeds who don’t use their indicators, whine after they bang your car and shut up when you swear like a sailor, and the pedestrians who wait until you’re two feet away before they lunge across.


The Professional Chauffeurs: Every time you see a car that’s nearly as wide as a bus and shorter than Danny DeVito, you know the guy at the wheel is sponging ten grand off his employer to learn to drive it. Whether it’s making an illegal U-turn, coming at you from the wrong end of a six-foot-wide one-way or being righteously angry when you come face-to-face as they’re trying to overtake a bus, you can bet on these guys to do it with panache. And they all stick their hands out at you in an ambiguous curse for playing by the rule book.


I draw solace from the fact that I have a Voice of Reason who cannot drive and assures me that I’m never at fault.


“Today, a guy overtook me from the left and hit my bumper. I swore at him, though.”


“Maybe you should carry pepper spray and a baseball bat.”


“A fool on a bike ripped the number plate when he was trying to overtake a bus. And then an old man with an L-Board lost control of his Scooty and made a dent.”


“I hope they were both injured?”


“This time it was my fault. I hit the concrete base of an electric box. It was jutting out…”


“No, that’s the municipal corporation’s fault!”

An Unlikely Chain of Events and Wise Versa

(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 2 October, 2010)

It’s only when someone starts snoring, and a fellow-passenger glares at you, clearly holding you responsible for the somnolent transgressions of the other members of your party, that it dawns on you.



It crystallises when someone else puts his mobile on loudspeaker and a high-pitched, crackly version of the Gayatri Mantra begins to shake up the airwaves; the fellow-passenger’s look turns murderous.


You are officially on a pilgrimage.


I think it began when someone happened to mention the beauty of one particular idol during one particular darshan on one particular day of the year.


An Innova-load of people had piled on to each other and then hopped on an overbooked train. Two mamis had managed to wrangle ‘Second Class A/C’ tickets for themselves, leaving the rest of us to join a motley crew of mice, cockroaches, labourers and IT executives in what I called ‘Third Class’ till an offended fellow-pilgrim told me it was ‘Second Class Non-A/C’, thank-you-very-much, third class had died with the struggle for Independence.


Since the inception of the journey, my quest for inner peace had radiated outwards till I couldn’t quite decide whether I wanted the singer to drone out the snores or vice versa.


“The Versa was nice,” someone else said, startling me into looking up at what I initially misinterpreted as telepathy, “but too many scratches, saar. I sold it off. No rasi.” They both turned to me. “How many scratches on your car, madam? You bought only now, no?”


I smiled noncommittally.


“You will get three or four dents at least,” Mr. Ex-Versa assured me, “traffic-le you can’t do anything. That too, lady driver. Hahaha! Enna, saar, am I correct?”


“Cent percent,” his sympathiser assured him, and they shook hands.


“Madam, are they going to kill Jayalalithaa?” the wife of Mr. Sympathiser asked.


“Ssh!” her husband hissed, “do you want them to arrest you?”


“Aiyo, sorry,” she hissed back, “it seems she got a threat letter. I saw it on the news. She has filed a complaint and all. Will they kill her?”


I shrugged.


“Madam, you are a journalist,” Mr. Ex-Versa hissed, “you should know these things!”


“If I did, I might be otherwise occupied,” I pointed out.


Mr. Ex-Versa and Mr. Sympathiser slapped their thighs in a perfectly synchronised move.


“Excellent sense of humour!” Mr. Ex-Versa said appreciatively, “but tell me, will they cancel the Commonwealth Games?”


I shrugged again.


“What do you know, madam?” Mr. Ex-Versa demanded, and then turned to his wife, “do you have Sriram’s Maths paper?”


She obligingly fished out a few pages from her handbag and passed it on to me.


“Read it. Thirty five questions. How are CBSE schools expecting children to finish it in half an hour?” he glared at me.


“Three and a half hours,” his wife corrected and he snapped, “be quiet!”


In a vague attempt not to seem completely apathetic to current events, I accepted the question paper and clucked my tongue in what I hoped was an appropriate response.


Mr. Ex-Versa thwarted my attempt to pass it back, “no, no, read it, madam, and kindly explain the justice in the timing.”


Four sleepless hours later, we dragged ourselves on to the platform.


“Where are the mamis?” Mr. Ex-Versa wondered, as the train trundled off. Suddenly his wife shouted, “there!”


The two mamis were looking sheepishly out of their windows.


“Chain! Pull the chain!” Mr. Ex-Versa screamed.


The train jerked to a stop. Five hours, a tête-à-tête with the police and a fine later, we reached the temple.


“Today, God granted one wish of mine,” one of the mamis beamed, closing her eyes in rapture, “I’ve always wanted to see whether the chain actually works.”

When Faithlessness Takes a Hike

(Published in I-Witness, The New Indian Express, dated 27 September, 2010)

Title: Manasarovar

Author: Ashokamitran
Translator: N Kalyan Raman
Publisher: Penguin
Price: Rs. 225
Pages: 176




Many of us have felt that sense of uneasiness, the emptiness inside that begs for an epiphany. We blame it on our cushy lives, our draconian colleagues, our demanding partners, inflation, media, the pace of life, petty obsessions and everything else our social narrative has taught us. And then we set off on our spiritual quests.




But long before terms like ‘self-discovery’, ‘sabbatical’ and ‘unlearning’ came into common parlance, one man wrote of the deeply personal journeys of two men, spurred by very different circumstances. Ashokamitran, one of the best novelists Tamil writing has produced, has crafted Manasarovar from the inexplicable ache to find the answers one seeks, and drawn the reader into the characters’ struggle to express their dilemmas.




Mansarovar is set at a time when the pilgrimage to the legendary lake was largely banned, as religion had to bow down to politics.




It is the story of the evocative, poignant quest of a ‘middling studio writer’ Gopal, whose life of ordinariness and routine is shattered by a psychotic episode his wife goes through. Gopal’s predicament is interwoven with a leading film star’s fervent despair to find meaning in his existence.




In a note, the translator, N Kalyan Raman says:




The exhortation of ‘move on!’ is often seen as the answer to periods of crisis in the lives of individuals. To move on, away from the cycle of memory and guilt, trust and betrayal, can only be an act of faith.




Within the framework of this narrative – of a studio writer whose experiences and encounters seem to be drawn from Ashokamitran’s own long stint at Gemini Studios, and of an actor who may be loosely based on Dilip Kumar – each line is reflexive, and one doesn’t have to wait for a revelation at the climax. It is remarkable that such complex themes and layered ideas can be conveyed in such simple language.




Perhaps thanks to Ashokamitran’s own lyricism, the translator has been able to retain the dreamy quality of the narrative, choosing words that give root to the diaphanous ideas he plays with.




Certain passages stay with the reader long after he or she has turned the pages. For instance, there is a little vignette where one of the characters, caught searching for something, hastily makes up a story about a ring he has lost. Another character, who offers to help, does find a ring.




An incident which might not be of much import in itself, gains significance in the context of a larger theme – loss and recovery, resignation and hope. In exploring this dialectic, Ashokamitran leaves his most potent ideas floating in the reader’s mind, without being spelt out. When a Muslim heroine is allowed to retain her name, why does a Muslim hero have to assume a Hindu pseudonym? What component of one’s identity is locked in a name?




How much does family matter? Where does duty begin and end? How must one come to terms with the guilt of not supporting his parents because he cannot trace them? How can one find solace, knowing that he did not do right by his children?




The concept of freedom is explored at several levels. Real-life figures such as Jawaharlal Nehru and Meher Baba are featured in cameo roles. While the first Prime Minister of India ponders over the political correctness of his thoughts, the silent mystic’s promises of a ‘word’ are cast in sharp contrast. As one man made powerful speeches and posed for pictures with a sorrowful smile, another’s features bubbled over with joy as his hand gestures and writing board told the world all he had to say.




Meher Baba, who was once a poet and singer, who claimed to be an avatar of God, finds a parallel in the scriptwriter Gopal, who has lost the plot of his own role in this world. Meher Baba’s ‘The New Life’ quest, resting on the mantra of ‘hopelessness, helplessness and aimlessness’, is echoed in Gopal’s journey.




Nehru, who carried the burden of power and privilege, finds a kindred spirit in Satyan Kumar, screen icon, role model and tortured human being.




The relationship between Satyan Kumar and Gopal is not really an equal friendship. Even as both of them seek out guides, the actor looks up to the scriptwriter, and appoints himself the latter’s guardian.




One is left wondering whether Ashokamitran was subverting the concept of a guru, when all three mentors in the story – a mysterious swami, Meher Baba and Gopal – can only respond to the film star’s devotion by inflicting disappointment on him.




The black-and-white portrayal of women is not unexpected from a book of its time. The demure housewife who lusts after a visitor is a foil to the cinema industry denizen who is a good mother and homemaker; while the one dishes out domestic abuse, the latter suffers it.




The only other drawback is that the writer, in rare cases, takes liberties with facts. For instance, Dr. Zhivago is said to have won a Nobel Prize, which is not awarded for particular novels.




But these minor errors can be easily forgiven in the face of the dexterity with which the author deals with the concept of redemption in less than a hundred and fifty pages. The subtlety of expression and the intricacy of description are captivating.




This book will get you nostalgic for a time when people could drive their cars along the railway platform, right up to their coaches. It will make you wonder whether Manasarovar is a source or a destination. More than anything else, it will convince you that a solitary journey is not a lonely one.

The Vas Deferens Between a Fundamentalist and Teenager

(Published as 'A Boy's Guide to Growing Up', I-Witness, The New Indian Express, dated September 20, 2010)

Book title: The Sacred Grove

Publisher: Harper Collins
Price: Rs. 250/-
Pages: 237




If it weren’t for the impeccable English and the fact that twelve-year-old boys spend more time with their Wii than Word, you might well believe The Sacred Grove was written by the protagonist Ashwin.




My propensity to form preconceived notions about a book before reading it let me down big time during this read.




“The Sacred Grove,” I sniggered to myself, “it has to be a take on The Secret Garden – it might at least have been better disguised!”




Moving on to a write-up on the author, I thought “oh no, yet another government servant who wants to write fiction to pass the time!”




Well, I had to eat humble pie on both counts. The book has nothing to do with gardens or convalescing boys (though it does have a rather plain girl leaving an adolescent boy quite confused about the morality of having a friend of the icky sex.)




Daman Singh, pictured wearing a demure sari in the slot for the author’s bio, knows a whole lot more about video games, cricket and Pokemon than she would need to qualify for induction into a secret club comprising boys in the eighth grade. She might well get elected its president too.




The book begins with the horror of discovering the reproductive system – how well we all remember the day we walked home from school in a daze, not wanting to look at our parents! – and ends with the horror of discovering India.




The author’s portrayal of an adolescent boy has just the right doses of poignancy and irony. With its graphic descriptions of not-quite-aesthetic biological functions that fascinate a twelve-year-old, the book is not the best accompaniment to a meal. However, Daman Singh shows remarkable sensitivity in looking at the spectrum of issues that troubled all of us at that age.




To begin with, adolescence is pretty much the worst time to have to welcome a little sibling into the world. Between wanting to be treated as his mother’s boy and respected for his individuality, Ashwin also has to decide how to cope with this thoughtless embarrassment his parents have caused him.




As the son of a district collector, the boy faces a rather unique challenge in dealing with the small-town mentality at home, school, as well as the adult world outside. Within this framework, Daman Singh skilfully creates vignettes that stay on in one’s mind long after one has turned the page.




Adults usually forget how much conversation they understood when they were teenagers. They rarely remember that they themselves were broad-minded at that age. Throw in a nosy journalist, a hypersensitive housewife who happens to be pregnant, a diplomat who has overcome the destiny chalked out for the son of a farmer, the saffron brigade, Islamic extremists, and an intelligent teenager, and you’ve got a book in your head.




The author brings out Ashwin’s dilemma as his best friends – the boy who first accepted him as a member of the cricket team, and a driver who coached him, bought him a samosa and gifted him a taviz – become victims of religious prejudice, albeit in different ways.




There are times when one finds oneself brimming over with righteous anger as Ashwin resents being penalised because sycophants use him to cosy up to his father. One empathises with his struggle to reconcile his father’s standing in society with the man’s subservience to politicians, who are half as educated as he is.




Using a matter-of-fact tone, Daman Singh shows a keen sense of observation as she explores the hurt of a daughter whose mother doesn’t want custody of her, the angst of a journalist who has seen too much, the concern of a mollycoddling mother, the passion of a schoolteacher who “doesn’t know where to draw the line” and the shades of a one-time sports champion resigned to matronhood.




While there are occasional slips in the language and stream of thought that remind the reader that the book is not actually an autobiographical piece, they are necessary to bring in perspective. Given that she has worked in the field of rural development for a couple of decades, Daman Singh’s narrative has an authentic ring to it.




You will not regret paying the price of a pizza to pick up this book. The author is certainly one to watch out for.

Tupperware and the Sanctity of Marriage

(Published as 'Earl T. and the Boxes of Bliss' in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated September 19, 2010)

“See, this is how you spot a happily married North Indian man!”

My friend was, and still is, a rather-too-effervescent television product that is notorious for throwing people into uncomfortable situations.




The happily married North Indian man, whom I had just sent a stinker to, was staring at his mail-trail- bête noire and her bubbly friend with a hunted look.




“Dabba,” she explained, unnecessarily, pointing at his hot pack, “every man from this part of the country will have to carry a shiny metal tiffin box to show that his wife cares for him.”




“No,” the happily married North Indian man finally managed to cut in, “it’s Tupperware, yaar.”




With the alacrity of a professional model, he fished out the various components that stood testimony to his nuptial bliss, “one for roti, one for chole, one for sprouts, and one for achaar.”


Now beaming, he waved a hand at the spread and offered, “you ladies can try.”




I could hear the ridiculously husky voiceover:




Tupperware – bringing you marital joy and corporate peace


Nine months and two thousand kilometres later, I was to see fresh evidence of the influence of Tupperware. This time, it was four happily married South Indian men at the neighbouring table, who seemed quite thrilled at finding that our table had a similar array of lunch dabbas.




“Tupperware,” one of them said, proudly, as he passed us, “it’s wonderful how well it’s penetrated the world market. We Indians are great!”




“Does that guy think Tupperware is an Indian brand?” I asked, thinking it might be rather presumptuous to laud our countrymen for buying the brand.




“Of course it is an Indian brand. Isn’t it?” one of my lunch buddies frowned.




My snide remark having hinged on a single episode of Sex and the City in which Carrie Bradshaw mentioned Tupperware, I decided to safeguard my indisputability by raising my eyebrows and saying, “duh!!!”




Now that two people had endorsed the brand as Indian, I thought it might well have been a Parsi who decided, sometime in the sixties, that he would start a company to carry lunch for billions of working professionals the world over.

Contemplating that nearly all our visionaries turn out to be Parsi, I ran an online search that assured me it wasn’t an Ehsan Tupper, but an Earl, that started the chain.




This pat on the back from Wikipedia had even a hardcore anti-feminist like me startled, though:


Tupperware created a means for the housewife to maintain her obligations in the domestic sphere of the household while creating an independence from the home in a sociable atmosphere.




But the import of that was made clear only when a friend took to asking me if I wanted to buy any more Tupperware.




“Dude, there are four working people at home. There’s enough Tupperware to start a store,” I said, finally.




“Well, Mom’s started one,” he said despondently, “she’s an agent. Wants to work from home. And I’m forced to volunteer as the head of advertising.”




Tupperware – the leader in claustromarketing strategy.




“It’s not so bad,” he added, after a moment’s reflection, “my dad’s got it worse. She doesn’t see why he can’t take meals in Tupperware when they have their management retreats at his workplace. She says ‘can’t you spot a golden marketing opportunity!’ I think he’s ghost-bought some himself to keep her happy.”




Tupperware – it’s cheaper than alimony!

Seven Deadly Films: My Favourite Thrillers

Depending on where you are looking from, the number of movies in the thriller genre can be surprisingly high or depressingly low.
There are so many stories around the hero looking for a tell-tale sign that will reveal his parent’s killer. In fact, three of Ajit’s iconic films – Kalicharan, Zanjeer and Yaadon ki Baraat – had him identified as the elusive killer with a distinguishing mark right from th start and the only suspense was how the mark would be discovered by the hero.
There have also been several films that have a ‘detective’ in the lead role (title role, even) but his sleuthing is more-often-than-not obscured in tomfoolery and gadgetry. Try Do Jasoos and Badshah respectively.

My list consists of films that get as close to a true-blue murder mystery as possible. Barring some minor diversions – brilliant songs that need to be accommodated, star comedians who need to be given screen time and romantic sub-plots that need to be woven in – all of them have a gruesome crime, an interesting investigation and a gripping climax, which have thrown up a suitably ingenious criminal.

Without any further ado, here are my Seven Deadly Films…

Jewel Thief
There were no murders in this film… but then, the title told you that already. A police commissioner’s wastrel son is an expert in gems and his boss’ daughter. All is hunky dory till he gets mistaken as the notorious jewel thief. The two look identical – except for an extra toe – and a deadly game of mistaken identities start. To clear his name, the man decides to infiltrate the jewel thief’s den and all hell breaks loose.
The thriller format is embellished by the many red herrings, some cool locales, rocking cinematography and some very strong cameos. Songs are usually a hindrance in a thriller but here they actually manage to give the taut film some much-needed breathers. Of course, it helps that this is probably SD Burman’s strongest soundtrack.

Teesri Manzil
The film opens with a hysterical woman falling to her death from the teesri manzil of a hotel. Just before the fall, she was banging on the doors of the hotel’s handsome singer on whom she had a crush. Her sister suspects that she was driven to her death – murder? suicide? – by the singer and lands up to teach him a lesson. She meets a funny guy. The funny guy meets a prince. The prince meets a cabaret dancer. The dancer meets a reticent waiter. The waiter meets a detective. Nobody is what it seems. Not even the victim.
You will go crazy keeping track of the brilliant songs and the decoys the film throws up. That’s RD Burman and Vijay Anand on creative hyper-drive… Get out of their way and enjoy!

Ittefaq
In the melodious world of Bollywood, a songless film is bit of a novelty. More so, when the entire cast consists of just two lead players and a few mysterious cameos. And when the protagonist is the chocolate-boy King of Hearts, playing a psycho convict – the film is unique by all standards. An escaped convict barges into the house of a lone woman and holds her hostage. There is a manhunt for the convict and sundry surprises keep happening as the two play a cat-and-mouse game. The twists keep piling up and nothing ends the way it started as.

Khel Khel Mein
The film starts off as a college romance with frothy songs and hockey matches. But then, there is an innocent prank to extort money that goes horribly wrong. There is crooked twist involving a dead jeweler, a typewriter with a crooked letter, lots of people with crooked ideas and the only thing straight is the moustache of the mysterious guy in the overcoat!
A couple of youngsters with guitars are usually enough to get RD all excited and composing great songs. That those youngsters have death staring them in the face is a minor blip geniuses don't bother with.

Khamosh
The classical whodunit features a dysfunctional group in a closed location, where people get murdered one by one. The best ones usually have the most nondescript or the most suspicious characters getting knocked off first. Imagine this group as a Bollywood film crew in a remote location. Add to that professional jealousy, sexual tensions and over-the-top psychosis usually associated with a Bollywood shoot, you wouldn’t have required a detective at all. But this film had that as well, not to mention a sleepwalker!
After Sazaye Maut, this was Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s second thriller and it totally rocked.

Ajnabee
Two hunks married to two babes, vacationing in Mauritius is a perfect setting for the advertised plot of the movie – wife-swapping. But if mystery plots were given away in posters & promos, filmmakers deserve to die starving. One babe gets killed, the other hunk gets accused and you have a standard-issue Abbas-Mustan mystery thriller. Weaving its way through hit songs and headachey comedy tracks, the plot zips from India to Switzerland to Mauritius to Switzerland to a Singapore as alibis, lives and hearts get made and destroyed.
And by the way, there is a bit of wife-swapping in the movie. Go figure!

Parwana
It started off as a love story, with the usual song-and-dance routines. It threatened to become a love triangle and nobody would have noticed it if it had ended like that. None of the three leading actors were of any consequence at the point of time anyway. But then, the suitor killed off his fiancee’s uncle in a fit of rage. He didn’t seem that sort but everybody else had watertight alibis. The court-case was about to end predictably when a strange twist emerged. The twist was cool enough to be replicated - with appropriate credits - in a film called Johnny Gaddar nearly three decades later.
One of the three leading actors went on to rule Bollywood in the coming decades. Seeing the film now, that twist is the easiest one to figure out.

That’s it? Missed out some obvious ones, didn’t I?

UPDATED TO ADD: Though horror is not always mysterious - at least, definitely not in the Bollywood context but all of you MUST read Aditi Sen on Bollywood horror films (in all four parts). And like a true connoisseur, she not only talks about the Ramsays but Mohan Bhakhri as well!

What I Do When I'm Bored

This happened after a certain someone told me I should 'stick' to what I do best...

I, Robot? Ai ai yo, Robot!

Okay, let me get this out as fast as possible...
Enthiran (though, I watched the Hindi version) is I, Robot meets The Matrix meets Green Goblin meet Darth Vader meets ASSHOLE.
The films fails spectacularly at two levels. But on the moolah level, it is doing just fine thank you, so all you Rajini fans who have cut their wrists for not getting first day tickets would do well to ignore my rants and move on to queuing up for his 2014 release.

Epic Fail #1: Where is SUPERSTAR Rajni? 
I was led to believe that this movie starred Superstar Rajnikanth -a paean to the man, the machine, the Botox-box whose epithet and name can no longer be separated. Whose films are like maha-kumbh, where all purveyors of South Indian celluloid must dip to attain salvation. Whose films' runs are measured not in weeks but in years. Whose facial, oral and physical symbols are meant to be imprinted on body and soul. I was once told that it is a good thing that Baba flopped else we would all be typing only with our index and little finger extended! (Reference.)
But in Robot, where was Thalaivar? Except for the title sequence where SUPERSTAR RAJNI appeared in the ESPN font, size 4400 (causing a Tamil member of the audience to scream out loud), I could not find Rajnikanth.
Where was the entrance? Shankar - dude, watch a couple of Raj Kumar movies to see how a hero, a superstar enters a film.
Where was the elaborate putting on of sunglasses (which, this foreigner calls 'more elaborate than Vegas floorshows')? Here, somebody else put it on him.
Where was the swish of the angavastram? And the whiplash of the pointed finger?
Where are the punch diaogues?
And, who is this slightly dark, wrinkled guy with bad skin and strange wigs?
The only person who seemed to have got some Superstar out of the movie was director Shankar, who peddled Rajnikanth to get Sun Pictures to cough up Rs 150-crore for his techno-masturbation. The tragedy is that the rest of the fans were so busy doing aratis and screaming their vocal chords into chowmein that they did not notice either.  
All I got out of the movie was a feeling that tons of money were burnt to make needlessly complicated sets, costumes crazier than Mohan, outlandish locations (along with lyrics involving Mohenjodaro and Kilimanjaro), AR Rehman's worst score (Boom Boom Robot is much worse than the CWG anthem).
The only not-enough-to-be-saving grace was that Shankar has finally moved on from the vigilante-killing-traffic-inspectors-and-capitation-fee-purveyors-in-elaborately-choreographed-ancient-rituals theme.
That's a first step. Maybe he will write a script instead of cheques in his next venture.

Epic Fail #2: The Cultural Baggage of a Superstar
As I saw the film squirming and waiting for what I hoped would be a Supertar Entry, I realised that one needed a whole lot of cultural conditioning to enjoy movies of aging superstars.
For example, my generation never saw Amitabh Bachchan in his prime. We only hear stories from parents, uncles, elder brothers. The legends - wildly exaggerated when they reached us - spread like juicy rumours. His explosive earlier films. The lines of Salim Javed, which seemed to be there for every occasion. The hundreds of rupees in coins that were swept off cinema floors after first shows. The press ban, making him even more exclusive. The Allahabad election. The Amul hoardings. The corporation.
When I went to see Mohabbatein with a South Indian friend, I was seeing the professor of Kasme Vaade, the father of Adalat, the bearded hero of Shahenshah. And he was seeing a slightly caricaturish disciplinarian, who was getting trumped by SRK in almost every scene. I came out predicting his triumphant return to Bollywood and my friend came out wondering if dinner at Hotel Swagath would have been a better idea.
I am sure if Ganga Jamuna Saraswati's crocodile scene had been shown South of Vindhyas, it would have got booed. I got goose-bumps during the same scene.
All I know about Rajni is that he has counted to infinity, twice. And *hyuk hyuk* he knows Victoria's Secret.
I have no experience of Billa (a frame-by-frame copy of Don, incidentally), Basha, Muthu or Annamalai (love this scene, even if I don't understand a jot of it!). I was never lathi-charged in front of Matunga's Aurora Cinema. I never preserved the tickets for my show of Padayappa.
I have no connect with the huge history that holds up the cardboard cut-out when tons of garlands are put around it. I am untouched by the passion that causes aratis to be organised before shows. I never stressed over Rajni's entry into politics and therefore, I miss all the socio-political references (not that there were any in Robot). So, when fans are seeing 150-films-worth-of-ecstasy, I am just seeing a bad wig.
Fans would say this is the evolution of Rajni. He is now confident enough to eschew 'punch dialogues' and grand entries. He is willing to let new directors experiment with his image.
If that is true, then he should go the distance. He should get people in cinemas with his super-stardom and surprise them with some super-acting instead.
(And to know how its done, he can always look at recent references.)

After all, he probably remembers the lines of a forgotten superstar - I will do what I say. I will even do what I don't say.

Quiz Time (2): In Defence of Dadagiri

Having put down my thoughts on ‘good’ quiz questions, I realized that I had disguised my philistinism quite well since a commenter pointed out that Dadagiri (a Bengali TV quiz show, conducted by – who else – Sourav Ganguly) is the worst form of quizzing. Now, TV quiz shows form my favourite genre – not because the questions are tough (sometimes, they are) but because of the host’s charisma.
Also, I would like to distinguish between quiz shows and game shows. The former requires a spot of grey matter, a little bit of listening skills and a bit more of nerve (e.g. Kaun Banega Crorepati). The latter requires no grey matter, no hearing and a passion to demonstrate the lack of them to a million people (e.g. Dus ka Dum).

So, here is a quick recap of 5 quiz shows on Indian television. (BONUS QUESTION: Which film had the tagline – 50 million people watched. No one saw a thing?)

One of my earliest memories of Doordrashan involve Narottam Puri conducting a Sports Quiz (which was called the ‘longest running television quiz show in the world’ on the blurb of his book) where questions ranged from “Who won the gold in Men’s 400m in the Helsinki Olympics” to “Who was at the non-striker end when Bradman got out for a duck in his last innings”.
The questions were strictly in the rote-learning zone but Dr Puri’s genial charm and clipped accent made it quite watchable.
In any case, it was not as if MasterChef Australia was running on the other channel, then!

After a few years, we had Quiz Time and Indian television’s first non-fiction star was born – Siddharth Basu. While the first season succeeded purely because of the quality of questions and competition, Mr Basu’s smiling visage and Stephanian diction did a lot to improve the viewership from the second season onwards. The questions were not really ‘workoutable’ but the general appeal of ‘GK’ in India, the sight of pleasant youngsters from pitting their wits against each other and the Indian family trying to answer questions before the college dudes made the shows a huge success.
For me personally, this was the first time I was hooked to a TV show!

A couple of years back, we had Bollywood Ka Boss. It was a ‘tough’ quiz on Hindi cinema, made quite interesting by the anchor’s (Boman Irani) personal proficiency in trivia of this kind. It was quite obvious he was having a lot of fun himself when he asked questions like “From which film’s song does DDLJ take its title from?” and “Which pair of siblings sang the children’s version of Kitni hain pyaari pyaari dosti hamari from Parinda?”
The show suffered a bit on the production values because Indian TV audience had seen far swankier sets and fatter prize money than on BKB but for Bollywood trivia buffs, this was the best attempt to have something that made sense. (BONUS QUESTION: Which blogger could not take part in Bollywood Ka Boss because he contributed questions to it?)

There are quiz shows on television. Then, there are quiz shows on television. And finally, there is Kaun Banega Crorepati.
Starring India’s two biggest superstars, KBC transcended the boundaries of TV and became a part of its life – evolving its own lingo (“lock kiya jaye?”), own furniture (“hot seat”) and a cult following.
Here, the first host – Amitabh Bachchan – had a stellar role to play. Seen on the small screen for the first time, the Big B was the kind uncle, the humourous cousin, the flirtatious neighbor and sometimes even the superstar. The questions were completed only by his passive hints – the naughty smile when somebody answered wrongly, the quick ‘locking’ when somebody answered correctly and his mock consultations with Computer-ji. KBC was not about winning (then) the biggest prize money offered on TV, it was also once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to interact with Amitabh Bachchan.
My favourite KBC moment is not when Harshvardhan Navathe answered “Who among these does the Indian Constitution permit to take part in the proceedings of Parliament?” but when Amitabh asked a lady contestant, “You had won Rs x at the end of yesterday’s show. What were you thinking about last night?” and she said with a giggle, “Aap ke baare mein…” Sweet!

When a celebrity anchors a show, his personality becomes an intrinsic part of the package and even more so, when the show is named after him. Therefore, Dadagiri is nothing without Sourav Ganguly.
But as a new fan, I find the questions (at least some of them) and the way Sourav conducts the show very interesting. He handles the celebrities on the show with just the right amount of disdain that made him Maharaj and the commoners with just the right amount of chumminess that makes him Dada. He gives away hints as if they are going out of fashion but doesn’t forget to sneer (“Etao parlen na?”).
And the questions are nicely topical. For example, actress Locket Chatterjee was shown a clip from Kuch Kuch Hota Hain and asked “What was written on Shahrukh’s *crooked grin* locket *pause* in that scene?”. Another question featured a song from Gupi Bagha Phirey Elo and the singer had to be identified. The hint was “amader khub kachher manush” (Somebody very close to us). The correct answer turned out to be one of the other contestants on the show!

Hence, my humble submission is that TV quiz shows – especially celebrity ones – feed a lot from the host. And there is nothing wrong with it. The mannerisms, the turns of the phrases and the fan-boy reactions are all part of the package.
After all, it is not only a quiz. It is a show as well.

Quiz Time

The first question I ever answered in an ‘open’ quiz was when I was about ten.

To be honest, it was not a fully open quiz but among the clubs of Calcutta. Since Dalhousie Institute was one of the participants, let me assure you a club quiz in Calcutta is nothing like the vodka-drenched Tambola that typically constitutes intellectual pastimes in Delhi clubs.
I managed to answer the question, which even the venerable DI could not answer, simply because I was closest in age to the factoid – “What is the name of Aladdin’s father?”

Now that I have bragged a bit, let me accept that that was not a very good quiz question because it tests only your memory.
Either you remember your fairy tales or you don’t. There is no other way to answer that question.
On the other hand, a really good quiz question tests your memory (remembering at least two reasonably well-known pieces of information), logical reasoning (connecting the aforementioned pieces of information), psycho-analysis and social skills (because sometimes, you also need to know the state of the quiz-master’s mind from your interactions with him before and during the quiz).
And after all that, you need a wee bit of luck.

Enthused by the venerable JAP’s deconstruction of a good quiz and Arul Mani’s reminisces, I thought I will also put down some of my fondest memories of quizzing.

Consider this question for a moment.

How do we better know the friendly cricketer, who used to play for the MCC and was called the 'Tate of India' because he was thought to be as fast as the legendary English fast bowler?
Okay, what are the hints in the question? He is an Indian fast bowler, who played for the MCC. How many Indians have played for the MCC? Very few, right? The Senior Pataudi. Anybody else – because he wasn’t a fast bowler? Did either of Amar Singh or Mohammed Nissar play for MCC?
At this point, you want to buy some time and ask the quiz-master to repeat the question. He starts again and you suddenly hit upon “…know the friendly cricketer…”
Why friendly cricketer? He had a lot of friends? How do we know? Was there some story about him and his friends? Him and friends?
Oh god – wait a minute! That MCC is not in Marylebone. It is Malgudi Cricket Club. This is not about Nissar. This is about Swami and Friends!

Some concrete knowledge – preferably not too esoteric – with some circumstantial evidence and a little bit of joining-the-dots… that should be a good quiz question.
For example, Sholay had a phenomenal record for running for 5 years at a stretch in Minerva theatre of Bombay. Why was Sholay taken off from Minerva?
Okay, so Sholay released in 1975 and ran till 1980 – common knowledge. It couldn’t have been taken off for not packing it in – gut feel. There has to be a emotional reason, then – deduction. Who will Minerva do a favour to? Should be the guys who helped them rake in the moolah in the first place, right? What did Sippy Films do in 1980? Oh – of course, they released their next blockbuster, Shaan! And that’s why Sholay was taken off. It made way for the next film of its makers.

Nice, no?

As the venerable JAP has propounded, brevity is the soul of Twit (and blogs as well), I will stop here. Will be back with more soon.
In the interim, you might as well read my earlier posts – here, here, here.