(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 19th September 2009)
There are some people who want the country to consider an amendment to the human rights laws. One must be entitled to free speech with a stranger/acquaintance as long as it is restricted to the weather, clothes and jewellery. The professionals who are vigorously nodding as they read this are – I don’t really need my crystal ball for this – doctors, lawyers, singers and people who work in the media.
The thing about working in a news medium is, people believe interlocution with a creature that is partially responsible for what they watch, read and hear, must compulsorily involve the information the said creature has spent about ten hours processing in the office.
“So, who is going to win the elections? Congress or BJP?”
“Is Osama alive?”
“When is the recession going to end?”
Whatever answer you come up with, the weather expert talking to you has the opposite opinion, and will spend another half-hour making you reiterate all the analysis you’ve just typed out in office. And those who don’t consider us Oracles, believe in the concept of encyclomedia.
“What are the advantages and disadvantages of the Indo-US nuclear deal?” (Maybe you should speak to Manmohan Singh and Prakash Karat.)
“What exactly is the subprime crisis?” (Look up ‘Bird and Fortune’ on Youtube.)
And then there are those who believe they hold the key to broadening the perspective of news media.
“You know, you people are all doing the same story again and again. You should do something about how corporation people have dug up the road outside my house and are not filling it in.”
“Nowadays, you get these sunshades for cars which you can put across the windscreen…”And then there are those lovely little innocent questions that insiders would roll their eyes at, but which might strike the layman as intelligent.
“Do you people learn the anchor reads by heart, or is it written on the camera?”
“What about reporters? Is someone telling them in their ears what they have to say?”
“How do you know when to start talking and when to stop?”
And of course, there is that dreaded ‘compliment’ – “Wow! There is SUCH a huge difference between how you look on television and how you look in person! I mean that in a good way!”
When I worked in radio, several curious strangers have asked me, “say something like you say it on radio?” A friend of mine who did a spot of playback singing has become a recluse because she couldn’t go to a get-together without someone asking her for a demonstration.
And then there are doctors. With every generation of my family sprouting a few of those, I’ve seen just what they undergo. At funerals, people want to know what could have caused the person’s death and how he or she could have been saved, and whether they themselves run the same risk. At weddings, people want to know what the possible causes of heartburn could be. There is always someone around who sticks out one’s forehead or neck, and wants to be checked for fever, or someone who sniffs and asks if the noise is indicative of swine flu.
My lawyer grandmother spent most of her youth being questioned about divorce proceedings, and turned rather cynical. But that world view came in handy when someone asked her opinion on a good time to make his will.
“Ask that man,” my grandmother claims to have said, pointing at a smiling gentleman, “he is an astrologer.”
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Culture Shock!
This is what Blogger's login page looks like, when you try from Oman!
If that was not enough to scare away a duo-cultural dehaati like me, an Arabic keyboard and the @ symbol hidden towards the right side of the keyboard (instead of the familiar 'above 2' - where the f*** is the double quotes key now? ) did the trick!
I guess a long post will happen only when I am back in any one of the two cultural cocoons I am familiar with.
Wishing everybody a great Pujo!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Face Off: Legendary Confrontations in Hindi Cinema
One beautiful thing I miss from the good ol' days of Hindi cinema is the Battle of the Middle Reels. In movies starring two leading characters (usually male), there used to be a fight to the finish (almost), post which the two leading characters discovered -
(a) mutual respect, since they beat the shit out of each other
(b) blood relations, because only sons brought on the same mother's milk could beat the shit out of each other
(c) change of heart, since the anti-heroic of the two usually got more shit beaten out of him.
Usually, this scene was a high-voltage, crackerjack one which laid down the expectations for the climax. When you watched this scene, you would be getting tense because two heroes would be at each other's throats but would also feel reassured that when these two would join forces in the climactic fight, whatay explosion it would be!
With metrosexuals spreading love, aaj kal there is hardly ever a proper fight at the climax - leave alone one in the middle. And this is can be so depressing at times.
So, in memory of this great Bollywood set-piece, here is my list of the my favourite Middle Reel Battles (in no particular order).
Hum Kissi Se Kum Nahin
The first one of the Battles has no fisticuffs!
It has Tariq Hussain and Rishi Kapoor facing off in a music competition with a series of totally brilliant songlets in a trademark Nasir Hussain scene. And what songs they were!
Chand mera dil, chandni ho tum. Tum kya jano mohabbat kya hain. Mil gaya, mujhko saathi mil gaya. Apart from a trumpet ditty at the beginning of the medley, played with gusto by Rishi. The two gladiators were ably supported by Kajal Kiran and an unknown busty babe with energetic gyrations.
(a) mutual respect, since they beat the shit out of each other
(b) blood relations, because only sons brought on the same mother's milk could beat the shit out of each other
(c) change of heart, since the anti-heroic of the two usually got more shit beaten out of him.
Usually, this scene was a high-voltage, crackerjack one which laid down the expectations for the climax. When you watched this scene, you would be getting tense because two heroes would be at each other's throats but would also feel reassured that when these two would join forces in the climactic fight, whatay explosion it would be!
With metrosexuals spreading love, aaj kal there is hardly ever a proper fight at the climax - leave alone one in the middle. And this is can be so depressing at times.
So, in memory of this great Bollywood set-piece, here is my list of the my favourite Middle Reel Battles (in no particular order).
Hum Kissi Se Kum Nahin
The first one of the Battles has no fisticuffs!
It has Tariq Hussain and Rishi Kapoor facing off in a music competition with a series of totally brilliant songlets in a trademark Nasir Hussain scene. And what songs they were!
Chand mera dil, chandni ho tum. Tum kya jano mohabbat kya hain. Mil gaya, mujhko saathi mil gaya. Apart from a trumpet ditty at the beginning of the medley, played with gusto by Rishi. The two gladiators were ably supported by Kajal Kiran and an unknown busty babe with energetic gyrations.
Joshilay
Anil Kapoor and Sunny Deol starred in what was a true Western style action-revenge film shot in a very barren-rugged terrain, probably in Ladakh.
Originally supposed to be directed by Shekhar Kapur, this film had a laconic Anil and a garrulous Sunny fighting each other to catch an elusive bandit - Jogi Thakur (played with customary glee by Rajesh Vivek). As they constantly clash, leading to the bandit escaping repeatedly - they make a pact. They would start fighting each other at nightfall and the man who would remain standing at daybreak would get to nab Jogi Thakur.
Needless to say, after the night of bare-knuckled daredevilry, both managed to stagger to their feet when the sun rose.
Khudgarz
Anil Kapoor and Sunny Deol starred in what was a true Western style action-revenge film shot in a very barren-rugged terrain, probably in Ladakh.
Originally supposed to be directed by Shekhar Kapur, this film had a laconic Anil and a garrulous Sunny fighting each other to catch an elusive bandit - Jogi Thakur (played with customary glee by Rajesh Vivek). As they constantly clash, leading to the bandit escaping repeatedly - they make a pact. They would start fighting each other at nightfall and the man who would remain standing at daybreak would get to nab Jogi Thakur.
Needless to say, after the night of bare-knuckled daredevilry, both managed to stagger to their feet when the sun rose.
Khudgarz
In this 'very loose' remake of Kane and Abel, Jeetendra and Shatrughan play foes turned friends turned foes turned friends. (Wait! How many times did I write 'foes'? Yup, correct!)
And the first time they meet (as foes) is when they are both kids - Jeetu driven to school in his father's Mercedes which splashes mud on Shatru, who promptly shatters the windscreen with a stone! A very kiddish fight occurs, post which Sushma Seth (Shatru's mother) brokers a truce and they even more promptly become fast friends.
Of course, they grow up to face evil machinations of Kiran Kumar and become foes again. Only to kiss (not literally) and make up in the climax.
Trivia: Just in case you did not get Shatru's state from his accent, his name was Bihari!
And the first time they meet (as foes) is when they are both kids - Jeetu driven to school in his father's Mercedes which splashes mud on Shatru, who promptly shatters the windscreen with a stone! A very kiddish fight occurs, post which Sushma Seth (Shatru's mother) brokers a truce and they even more promptly become fast friends.
Of course, they grow up to face evil machinations of Kiran Kumar and become foes again. Only to kiss (not literally) and make up in the climax.
Trivia: Just in case you did not get Shatru's state from his accent, his name was Bihari!
Devdas
A not-so-violent (actually, not-at-all violent) confrontation between Devdas' dames was invented by Sanjay Leela Bhansali for the film as Saratchandra Chattopadhyay did not imagine that his characters would - one day - be played by Bollywood's Reigning Queen On Her Way Out and the Crown Princess On Her Way In.
Madhuri Dixit and Aishwarya Rai pulled out all stops in this Saroj Khan choreographed number, whirling like dervishes and sparkling like diamonds - satisfying all Bollywood lovers with a smooth passing of baton.
Amitabh Bachchan is the acknowledged master of these Mid-film Mayhems as he has encountered countless villains, anti-heroes, side-heroes and brothers in breathless displays of dhishoom-dhishoom.
A not-so-violent (actually, not-at-all violent) confrontation between Devdas' dames was invented by Sanjay Leela Bhansali for the film as Saratchandra Chattopadhyay did not imagine that his characters would - one day - be played by Bollywood's Reigning Queen On Her Way Out and the Crown Princess On Her Way In.
Madhuri Dixit and Aishwarya Rai pulled out all stops in this Saroj Khan choreographed number, whirling like dervishes and sparkling like diamonds - satisfying all Bollywood lovers with a smooth passing of baton.
Amitabh Bachchan is the acknowledged master of these Mid-film Mayhems as he has encountered countless villains, anti-heroes, side-heroes and brothers in breathless displays of dhishoom-dhishoom.
Zanjeer
In his first solo hit, Amitabh Bachchan took on Pran - the leading character actor of the times, who got almost equal billing in the posters because he was a bigger star when the film released. Pran and Amitabh met in the police station, where Police Inspector Vijay Verma pushed away the chair when Sher Khan tried to sit down. "Jab tak baithne ko na kaha jaye, sharafat se khade raho. Yeh police station hain, tumhare baap ka ghar nahin."
Sher Khan taunted him back, saying it was the uniform speaking these lofty lines.
To reply, Vijay Verma landed up at Sher Khan's den in plain clothes and had a fight so amazing that when the Pathan gangster said, "Pehli baar Sher Khan ka takkar kisi sher se hua hain", it almost seemed like an understatement.
Amar Akbar Anthony
Amar Khanna was the dutiful inspector, looking for a smuggler who almost killed his foster father. Anthony Gonsalves was the bootlegger in Bandra village, who helped the smuggler escape to make a quick buck.
And they met in front of Anthony's booze shop. And they played a game of verbal one-upmanship. And they decided to go at each other with fists, headbutts, chickens and goats. And after an unseen explosion inside a poultry shed, Vinod Khanna carried Amitabh Bachchan out on his shoulders - unconscious.
As a 7-year old Amitabh Bachchan fan, I remember being devastated by that scene as it was inconceivable for me to imagine my hero getting beaten. Even by his elder brother.
Sher Khan taunted him back, saying it was the uniform speaking these lofty lines.
To reply, Vijay Verma landed up at Sher Khan's den in plain clothes and had a fight so amazing that when the Pathan gangster said, "Pehli baar Sher Khan ka takkar kisi sher se hua hain", it almost seemed like an understatement.
Amar Akbar Anthony
Amar Khanna was the dutiful inspector, looking for a smuggler who almost killed his foster father. Anthony Gonsalves was the bootlegger in Bandra village, who helped the smuggler escape to make a quick buck.
And they met in front of Anthony's booze shop. And they played a game of verbal one-upmanship. And they decided to go at each other with fists, headbutts, chickens and goats. And after an unseen explosion inside a poultry shed, Vinod Khanna carried Amitabh Bachchan out on his shoulders - unconscious.
As a 7-year old Amitabh Bachchan fan, I remember being devastated by that scene as it was inconceivable for me to imagine my hero getting beaten. Even by his elder brother.
Mard
This is actually not a mid-scene fight but nearer to the climax but the situation is perfect.
The two people who could rub the British Empire's nose in the dust were not Mahatma Gandhi or Subhash Bose. They were Raja Azaad Singh (Dara Singh) and his long-lost son Raju (AB).
This is actually not a mid-scene fight but nearer to the climax but the situation is perfect.
The two people who could rub the British Empire's nose in the dust were not Mahatma Gandhi or Subhash Bose. They were Raja Azaad Singh (Dara Singh) and his long-lost son Raju (AB).
The devious British have imprisoned both of them and realise the only way they can be killed is by each other in a duel. But of course, the father and son would not fight each other. So, they convince each of them that the other one in the arena would be a masked impostor.
And this sets up the two titans for an epic battle - interspersed with oft-repeated dialogues like Jo mard hota hain, usse dard nahin hota - after which, they realise their blood relation and proceed to polish off the British empire.
Whose bright idea was it to let real father and son in the same arena, so that they can find out about each other? Bob Christo's.
As they say, blood is thicker than water but not as thick as Bob Christo!
Kaala Patthar
And this sets up the two titans for an epic battle - interspersed with oft-repeated dialogues like Jo mard hota hain, usse dard nahin hota - after which, they realise their blood relation and proceed to polish off the British empire.
Whose bright idea was it to let real father and son in the same arena, so that they can find out about each other? Bob Christo's.
As they say, blood is thicker than water but not as thick as Bob Christo!
Kaala Patthar
This very under-rated Yash Chopra classic about the Chasnala mining disaster had three superstars of the times - Shashi Kapoor, Shatrughan Sinha and Amitabh Bachchan.
This time, Amitabh played the silent and angry young man who was being constantly riled by escaped convict - Shatru. After a super sequence at a chai stall where Shatru's verbosity and Amitabh's silence cause sparks to fly, comes the fuse lighting. Shatru insults Rakhee, who is Amitabh's love interest.
And the two go at each other in a mining area. The simmering build-up is so fantastic that it is almost relieving when the fighting actually starts. And it almost kills the two before Shashi comes and separates them. And at the exact moment - Amitabh holding a spade, Shatru with a chain and Shashi pushing them apart using their collars - comes the Interval slide.
A more Middle Battle cannot be found!
Saudagar
Saudagar
Again, a film about two guys who oscillate between friends and foes - but concentrate on the latter to keep the dialogue writers and action directors well-fed.
Dilip Kumar and Raaj Kumar's pairing as Rajeshwar Singh and Veer Singh was massively publicised. What was not publicised was Kamlesh Pandey's outing as a dialogue writer, who gave at least three Middle Scene Battles, without a single fist being thrown or a single bullet being fired.
I will not go on and on about Saudagar since I have written about it earlier as I did about 100 Days, which explains why I was getting this strong sense of deja vu, writing my earlier post!
But I have to (just have to) write one more brilliant dialogue I remembered.
Some prissy sissy asks Rajeshwar Singh if he will ever make up with his old friend - Veer Singh. And he replies - "Rajeshwar jab dosti nibhaata hain, toh afsaane likkhe jaate hain. Rajeshwar jab dushmani karta hain, toh woh tareekh ban jata hain."
When I make friends, legends are written. When I make enemies, history is written.
Wah!
That's nine from me. Do you have any to add?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Random Movies I Like: 100 Days
I just love when Hindi films give 'scientific' gyan!
For example, in Mr India, when Ashok Kumar is explaining the 'Theory of Invisibility' to his class, the blackboard behind says Boney's Law. What a cool tribute to the the producer of the film! Or in Ramsay Bros films when they explain the cause behind most chudails, the Theory of Unrequited Love almost sounds as scientific as Bernoulli's Theorem!
For example, in Mr India, when Ashok Kumar is explaining the 'Theory of Invisibility' to his class, the blackboard behind says Boney's Law. What a cool tribute to the the producer of the film! Or in Ramsay Bros films when they explain the cause behind most chudails, the Theory of Unrequited Love almost sounds as scientific as Bernoulli's Theorem!
And 100 Days, which was about ESP - extra sensory perception - had lots of such gyan.
It was directed by one gentleman by the name of Partho Ghosh. True to his name, agey parto kintu ekhon parey na! Bongs, stop laughing! Rest of you, excuse the joke since it can't be translated.
He made landmark films like Agnisakshi (the n-th remake of Sleeping with the Enemy, starring Manisha Koirala, Nana Patekar and Jackie Shroff), Dalaal (one of Mithun's earliest super-duper successes of the 90s, which started the trend of double-meaning lyrics), Teesra Kaun (a murder mystery starring Mithun and Rituparna Sengupta) and Geet (Divya Bharti's last - and posthmous - release).
Anyway, to get back to 100 Days - it was about Madhuri Dixit who had ESP. She also had a sister by way of Moonmoon Sen but the opening sequence had Ms Sen killed, dragged and sealed in a brick wall. She, being the second person to meet this fate after Anarkali.
Madhuri Dixit gets visions of the door, the wall and the wall-hanging (where her sister was being sealed) in her ESP-fuelled stupor (much more hallucinatory than LSD-fuelled ones!) but pressing matters like singing songs with Javed Jafferi beckon and all is forgotten.
Very soon, Jackie Shroff - in floral shirts, with moustache-sealed dialogues - appears on the scene and after romantic interludes involving conches, hammocks and SP Balasubrahmanyam, they get married.
In the ensuing 3-months-10-days that pass, Madhuri realises that Jackie Shroff's moustache is not the only complicated thing in his life and gets flashes of ESP-powered hallucinations. Just when it was becoming apparent that Jackies may have been her sister's murderer, a convenient ESP-burst and a violent villain appear and all is settled in a suitably ceremonial ending.
Why do I like this movie? Several reasons.
* It had SP Bala singing in a Punjabi accent. After the super-success of Maine Pyar Kiya, SPB was the King of Bollywood and he aimed to please. The same Tamil twang which sounded so natural on a Goanese fisherman (as long as it was played by Kamal Haasan on screen) was now replaced by a Bhangra roll. Who can forget the song which ruled Superhit Muqabla in those days... Sun belliaaaaaaaaa, Shukkkhhhriyaa, Meherbaaaaaaannne / Thoo kahein toh naam they-rey, khar dhoon saari jawaaaaaaani...
* Moonmoon Sen had a 5-minute role, in which her (bare) legs were the only thing visible for 4 minutes. Her 'friendly appearance' had her blow-drying her hair in a camisole, get shot dead and then we only got to see her legs as the brutal killer dragged her away. Full timepass!
* Apart from ESP, Madhuri Dixit had bad skin, bad hair and super-jhataak sarees. But when she smiled, she made every paisa of the ticket worth it.
Damn, that reminds me... I must catch that dance show she is supposed to be judging.
* Jackie Shroff's moustache started looking like Hercule Poirot's and somehow in that, all the dialogues got lost. The strength of the screenplay was that nobody lost track of the story despite this audio loss.
* One of the most durable villains I have ever seen in Bollywood. He looked exactly like the main zombie from Michael Jackson's Thriller. He chewed up lit cigarettes, went from bearded to skin-headed, thrown off the top diving board of a swimming pool, was run over by a car, was stabbed, was shot at, was made to listen to the full soundtrack of Radio before he died.
Unfortunately, he did not last beyond that one film!
* And a song which - a brilliantly inspired non sequitur by the lyricist - made fun of people who get scared easily. Gabbar Singh yeh keh kar gaya / Jo dar gaya woh mar gaya / Nadaan bachcha hansi khel mein / Kaudi ghazab ki dekar gaya...
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Shakespeare Gets it Wrong Now and Then
(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 5th September, 2009)
“I don’t even know these people!!! I mean, what the hell? Roschelle?!” my friend’s face was first puzzled, then angry, then quietly appreciative of his sense of poetry, while all of us wondered whether he was doing the British ‘apples and pears’-equal-to-‘stairs’, ‘Britney Spears’-equal-to-‘beer’ thing. Or the American, "no way, Jose!" thing. You’ve got to admit, ‘what the hell, Roschelle!’ has a ring to it.
“What…is a Roschelle?” he asked, looking at a piece of fancy stationery.
“Oh! Oh! Roschelle!” I came to life, “that’s…”
“A brand of Swiss chocolate?” another friend offered, “are they opening a store here?”
“No, Roschelle’s not an ‘it’!” I said, “it’s a she…uh…”
“Uh…Roschelle is not a ‘she’. It’s a groom!” the friend who was trying to figure out which wedding he was invited to, said.
“WHAT?!” and all of us pored over the invite. After intense scrutiny, and a search of social networking sites, we decided a man named Roschelle was unlikely to have friends, and had decided to send out invitations by the (phone) book.
It might be a source of comfort to him, if he happens to read this, whoever he is, that he is not alone in his misery.
Maybe months of being sick, clothes one cannot fit into, kicks in the gut, nightmares of being fat for life and scary scenes of childbirth from sitcoms and pulp movies leave women bitter enough to avenge their newborns by naming them. Or maybe it’s that the fathers get so nervous they can’t quite think and come up with the first word or object they can think of. Or the grandparents are upset they couldn’t name their own children, and the deprivation has had a lasting psychological impact. But whatever it is, some children are doomed from the start.
I logged on to a networking site after a four-month hiatus, and discovered three of my friends had had babies, and a couple of them had status messages about going nuts trying to pick a name.
“Oh, that’s a scary thing,” a friend of mine said, “I know someone called Rhythm.”“Rhythm? Like Hridim or something, or like ‘rhymth and blues’?”
“Oh, his sister is called Blues!” my friend said. Turns out their parents tried really hard at being musicians, and decided they would produce R&B one way or the other.
It was a story I refused to believe till I saw a Page 3 (or whatever the local alternative is) picture of Rhythm with his girlfriend (Jazz?)
Then, of course, there is the Ganesh-Dinesh-Mahesh syndrome. As a child, I knew a couple of sisters called Shruthi and Dhvani. When their mother discovered a third was on the way, guess what name the child was endowed with…yes, full points for Smrithi. It could have turned out to be a Princess September story, but the mother chose to act wisely. Instinct tells me she’d have started naming further offspring, if they had chosen to spring, after the ragams.
And then, there was this Sanskritisation syndrome. I have a feeling it all began with someone flipping open a religious text after a lot of hair-tearing and nail-chewing, in the hope God would solve the dilemma. Now, kindergartens are crawling with Dhrishtis, Shrishtis, Saattviks, and possibly Rajases and even Tamases (for the kids that turn out rather more base than their procreators hoped).
But one must give credit to the Egyptians. In defiance of the millions of Arabic names waiting to be chosen, they’ve populated the country with just three names – Khaled, Omar and Sharif. And after four years of my bringing up the topic everyday, my friend Khaled chose to name his first-born Hassan. Apparently, they’re facing quite a challenge with his passport.
“I don’t even know these people!!! I mean, what the hell? Roschelle?!” my friend’s face was first puzzled, then angry, then quietly appreciative of his sense of poetry, while all of us wondered whether he was doing the British ‘apples and pears’-equal-to-‘stairs’, ‘Britney Spears’-equal-to-‘beer’ thing. Or the American, "no way, Jose!" thing. You’ve got to admit, ‘what the hell, Roschelle!’ has a ring to it.
“What…is a Roschelle?” he asked, looking at a piece of fancy stationery.
“Oh! Oh! Roschelle!” I came to life, “that’s…”
“A brand of Swiss chocolate?” another friend offered, “are they opening a store here?”
“No, Roschelle’s not an ‘it’!” I said, “it’s a she…uh…”
“Uh…Roschelle is not a ‘she’. It’s a groom!” the friend who was trying to figure out which wedding he was invited to, said.
“WHAT?!” and all of us pored over the invite. After intense scrutiny, and a search of social networking sites, we decided a man named Roschelle was unlikely to have friends, and had decided to send out invitations by the (phone) book.
It might be a source of comfort to him, if he happens to read this, whoever he is, that he is not alone in his misery.
Maybe months of being sick, clothes one cannot fit into, kicks in the gut, nightmares of being fat for life and scary scenes of childbirth from sitcoms and pulp movies leave women bitter enough to avenge their newborns by naming them. Or maybe it’s that the fathers get so nervous they can’t quite think and come up with the first word or object they can think of. Or the grandparents are upset they couldn’t name their own children, and the deprivation has had a lasting psychological impact. But whatever it is, some children are doomed from the start.
I logged on to a networking site after a four-month hiatus, and discovered three of my friends had had babies, and a couple of them had status messages about going nuts trying to pick a name.
“Oh, that’s a scary thing,” a friend of mine said, “I know someone called Rhythm.”“Rhythm? Like Hridim or something, or like ‘rhymth and blues’?”
“Oh, his sister is called Blues!” my friend said. Turns out their parents tried really hard at being musicians, and decided they would produce R&B one way or the other.
It was a story I refused to believe till I saw a Page 3 (or whatever the local alternative is) picture of Rhythm with his girlfriend (Jazz?)
Then, of course, there is the Ganesh-Dinesh-Mahesh syndrome. As a child, I knew a couple of sisters called Shruthi and Dhvani. When their mother discovered a third was on the way, guess what name the child was endowed with…yes, full points for Smrithi. It could have turned out to be a Princess September story, but the mother chose to act wisely. Instinct tells me she’d have started naming further offspring, if they had chosen to spring, after the ragams.
And then, there was this Sanskritisation syndrome. I have a feeling it all began with someone flipping open a religious text after a lot of hair-tearing and nail-chewing, in the hope God would solve the dilemma. Now, kindergartens are crawling with Dhrishtis, Shrishtis, Saattviks, and possibly Rajases and even Tamases (for the kids that turn out rather more base than their procreators hoped).
But one must give credit to the Egyptians. In defiance of the millions of Arabic names waiting to be chosen, they’ve populated the country with just three names – Khaled, Omar and Sharif. And after four years of my bringing up the topic everyday, my friend Khaled chose to name his first-born Hassan. Apparently, they’re facing quite a challenge with his passport.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Monkey in the Backyard
Waking me up - when I was a kid - was quite a task! Because (like my son now), I used to take a long time to fall asleep but when I did, a herd of bisons running over me wouldn't wake me up. And this posed a problem for my entire family in general and my early-riser father in specific.
You see, schools and other such death-zones started way too early in the morning.
So, my family - never short of ingenuity - came up with crazy ideas daily.
Basically, the idea was to create a furore in the morning that would make me get up. It went something like this...
"Oh, gosh - is that Babu's father driving a train on the road?"
"Bappa has grown a beard - my god!"
"Careful - Jogu (the cook) is jumping off the roof right now."
"Hey, look - there is a monkey in the backyard."
Imagine coming up with something like that EVERY DAY. Impressed?
And imagine the kid falling for things like these. EVERY DAY. Disgusted?
But the kid - yours truly - started catching on and very soon, it was only the promise of something as big as a monkey in the backyard that got me impressed enough to get out of bed at 7 AM on a weekday morning.
One day, it was a different story.
My father shook me and looked happier than he normally did in the morning. He said, "Get up fast. You now have a baby sister."
I thought, "Yeah, right!" as I started to turn around and go back to sleep. "No monkey today?"
"Wait", he said. "I am just back from the nursing home. See, I am wearing trousers..."
This last piece of information caused me to squint through my sleep-deprived eyes. Indeed, he was in trousers.
"See? Quickly, get ready for school. And then we can go and see her in the evening."
And that started off yet another school day.
So, why this story today?
Because we are at exactly the same day and probably, the exact hour when that event happened several decades ago.
And days like these make me wonder what would have happened if it wasn't a sister but a monkey in the backyard?
You see, schools and other such death-zones started way too early in the morning.
So, my family - never short of ingenuity - came up with crazy ideas daily.
Basically, the idea was to create a furore in the morning that would make me get up. It went something like this...
"Oh, gosh - is that Babu's father driving a train on the road?"
"Bappa has grown a beard - my god!"
"Careful - Jogu (the cook) is jumping off the roof right now."
"Hey, look - there is a monkey in the backyard."
Imagine coming up with something like that EVERY DAY. Impressed?
And imagine the kid falling for things like these. EVERY DAY. Disgusted?
But the kid - yours truly - started catching on and very soon, it was only the promise of something as big as a monkey in the backyard that got me impressed enough to get out of bed at 7 AM on a weekday morning.
One day, it was a different story.
My father shook me and looked happier than he normally did in the morning. He said, "Get up fast. You now have a baby sister."
I thought, "Yeah, right!" as I started to turn around and go back to sleep. "No monkey today?"
"Wait", he said. "I am just back from the nursing home. See, I am wearing trousers..."
This last piece of information caused me to squint through my sleep-deprived eyes. Indeed, he was in trousers.
"See? Quickly, get ready for school. And then we can go and see her in the evening."
And that started off yet another school day.
So, why this story today?
Because we are at exactly the same day and probably, the exact hour when that event happened several decades ago.
And days like these make me wonder what would have happened if it wasn't a sister but a monkey in the backyard?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
On a Platter
A platter is defined as a full meal served at the table consisting of the best that the restaurant has to offer. Visual aesthetics preferable, but not essential.
With the above definition in mind, here is a platter of probably the best five platters in Delhi…
Kashmiri Tarami – Chor Bizarre
Chor Bizarre has another platter on its menu called the Non-Vegetarian Sampler, which is an excellent mix of their kababs. But there is nothing to beat their Kashmiri platter as a main course. Served on a bed of rice, the Tarami is a mix of traditional Kashmiri dishes, that so few restaurants make and even fewer make well. It starts off with pretty unusual vegetables (lotus stem, for example) and signs off with a phirni. Their Goshtaba is to die for while the other items are not too far behind either.
Presidential Platter – Bukhara
Ever since Bill Clinton came to India, he became Bukhara’s most famous brand ambassador. And the restaurant returned the compliments by making a platter of their choicest delicacies (which the President liked) and called it the Presidential Platter. Meant to be a meal for two, it has a selection of kababs of all hues (except prawns, unfortunately), their fabled Dal Bukhara, an assortment of breads and a dessert choice. Very fulfilling – and for the vegetarian, there is a Chelsea Platter as well! Presumably, the President’s daughter is a member of PETA.
Antipasti Platter – Diva
Diva’s reputation precedes itself so the expectations are sky-high to start with. They live up to the promise magnificently right from their starters of which the Antipasti Platter is a splendid example. Composed of fresh green vegetables, cheese slices and an ensemble of meats and fish, this platter sets the tone for the rest of the evening. The chicken is smooth, the ham is perfectly smoked and the salmon is divine… the only sad part is that you cannot order two. After all, there’s a lot more on the menu to choose from!
Vegetarian Thali – Andhra Bhavan
Visual appeal takes a backseat in the no-nonsense canteen of Andhra Bhavan. It serves fiery curries and piping hot sambars on mountains of steamed rice. Of course, the prerequisite for trying this one out is a high degree of spice-resistance since the Telugus believe in loading their dishes with lots of chilli. Non-vegetarian side dishes can be ordered as can be the butter-milk (essential to survive the spice)! And the service is super-fast, which is in keeping with the speed at which the food is devoured!
Gujarati Thali – Rajdhani
Where is Dipta? No, really – tell us where you have hidden Dipta? You impostor – he couldn’t have put TWO vegetarian thalis in his list. What do you mean the Rajdhani thali is really good? Okay, okay – it has a lot of ghee but… What did you say? There are 10 different side dishes? And is it unlimited? Only 225 bucks? What are you saying?
Well, stranger things have happened than my choosing a vegetarian platter in my fav list. So, don’t get hassled about this. Just try Rajdhani out and don’t plan for any other activity after the meal.
Actually, the best platter I have ever had is the Sunday lunch at my grandmother's - which was always simple and elegant. Starting with bitters, followed by daal and fried brinjal, followed by fish (hilsa in mustard, during the monsoons) and ending with mutton. And then, a long nap. Ah - bliss!
A Life of Serendipity with Interference from a Walking Sponge
It could be that I have been watching too many sitcoms for my own good.
Perhaps it's that at some level, I am grateful to be here. Thankful for my life, and happy about everything I have experienced, achieved, been and been a part of.
But watching the final episode of the fourth season of How I Met Your Mother, I've been doing a lot of thinking about chances, the choices you have at every step and the ones you make, that lead to more of those chances and choices.
Ten years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed this would be the life I would live, and perhaps not even five years ago. And yet, the biggest things in my life, the ones I treasure most, have happened not by design but by serendipity - theatre, work, and fulfilment.
I never imagined I would start working young - I assumed I would do a Ph.D. and then look for work. A phone call to a schoolteacher, a few months after I had seen her name under an article in The Hindu, ended up giving me my first job. I'd called to say hi and she was scouting for someone who could speak good English. And it was because the MGR-Janaki college was near my workplace that I agreed to take part in a quiz someone had backed out of - a quiz that would change my life.
So there I was, answering away to all these bizarre questions - our team comprised one woman who read the newspapers, one woman who could map the history of the world and me...the woman who knew random bizarre things the others didn't and who would blink if someone asked her which party Narendra Modi was from (all that has changed now, thankfully) - and impressing the quizmasters, who happened to be of my ilk. And when I had to call someone to conduct a quiz in my college, I turned to these two. And I met a friend of theirs whom I studied with in school, through whom I met another of my old schoolmates.
Chapter Two: The old schoolmate worked with a theatre group, which I got involved in, and met someone from radio, who was looking for a field reporter.
Chapter Three: My radio experience found me a job in radio in London and a higher-paying job in radio back at home when I returned (though the interview was fixed by one of my best friends, also known as The Walking Sponge). The building where the job was, turned out to be more significant than the job.
Chapter Four: It was a time when I was all ready to do my Ph.D. in London. My university had given me admission and I was waiting for a grant (which, eventually, went to China). Blissfully unaware of this, I was sitting at work one day, torn between gossiping with my best friend in office and accompanying the most petulant RJ in office to pick up a couple of CDs from his car. I spent about five minutes refusing to go with him, till he practically carried me to the lift. Downstairs, we bumped into a well-known television journalist, who was waiting for the lift. I happened to mention the encounter to The Walking Sponge, who asked another friend what the journalist was doing there, and it turned out a new channel was being launched. A couple of months later, I was in Delhi and working for the channel.
The past couple of years have been among the happiest in my life, and the ride from last summer to here makes me wonder how easily it could all have never happened - a phone call made a couple of months later, a quiz turned down, a missed audition, a successful argument, my university wanting research on India instead of China...any of these could have changed my life. I could be an English teacher or a radio presenter or a media scholar and never got my face on television. I could still be in Madras, possibly married to some twisted software dude, or London sitting with my Egyptian friend at Costa, and missed out on everything that's great about the life I live today. And yes, my Hindi would still be limited to, "billi ek paltoo janwar hai". And I would never have added a fifth to the number of languages I can write in (and I know that will make at least one reader wince!)
Maybe everything in our lives, including missed scholarships and unsuccessful job applications, happens for a reason. Maybe every little disappointment leads to something that is worth a lot more. Perhaps there is a pattern in the universe, in our lives, or perhaps we make it as we go along. At times, I suppose it is comforting to think of the universe as a machine, with grinding parts that just happen, something we can't alter by design because everything is pre-destined anyway. But that's not how I like to think of it. Maybe we pull these little threads of coincidence into a pattern by choosing how we twist the needles. And everytime you pause and look at just how beautiful the design's turning out to be, you thank the heavens those particular colours and textures of thread happened to be available.
Perhaps it's that at some level, I am grateful to be here. Thankful for my life, and happy about everything I have experienced, achieved, been and been a part of.
But watching the final episode of the fourth season of How I Met Your Mother, I've been doing a lot of thinking about chances, the choices you have at every step and the ones you make, that lead to more of those chances and choices.
Ten years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed this would be the life I would live, and perhaps not even five years ago. And yet, the biggest things in my life, the ones I treasure most, have happened not by design but by serendipity - theatre, work, and fulfilment.
I never imagined I would start working young - I assumed I would do a Ph.D. and then look for work. A phone call to a schoolteacher, a few months after I had seen her name under an article in The Hindu, ended up giving me my first job. I'd called to say hi and she was scouting for someone who could speak good English. And it was because the MGR-Janaki college was near my workplace that I agreed to take part in a quiz someone had backed out of - a quiz that would change my life.
So there I was, answering away to all these bizarre questions - our team comprised one woman who read the newspapers, one woman who could map the history of the world and me...the woman who knew random bizarre things the others didn't and who would blink if someone asked her which party Narendra Modi was from (all that has changed now, thankfully) - and impressing the quizmasters, who happened to be of my ilk. And when I had to call someone to conduct a quiz in my college, I turned to these two. And I met a friend of theirs whom I studied with in school, through whom I met another of my old schoolmates.
Chapter Two: The old schoolmate worked with a theatre group, which I got involved in, and met someone from radio, who was looking for a field reporter.
Chapter Three: My radio experience found me a job in radio in London and a higher-paying job in radio back at home when I returned (though the interview was fixed by one of my best friends, also known as The Walking Sponge). The building where the job was, turned out to be more significant than the job.
Chapter Four: It was a time when I was all ready to do my Ph.D. in London. My university had given me admission and I was waiting for a grant (which, eventually, went to China). Blissfully unaware of this, I was sitting at work one day, torn between gossiping with my best friend in office and accompanying the most petulant RJ in office to pick up a couple of CDs from his car. I spent about five minutes refusing to go with him, till he practically carried me to the lift. Downstairs, we bumped into a well-known television journalist, who was waiting for the lift. I happened to mention the encounter to The Walking Sponge, who asked another friend what the journalist was doing there, and it turned out a new channel was being launched. A couple of months later, I was in Delhi and working for the channel.
The past couple of years have been among the happiest in my life, and the ride from last summer to here makes me wonder how easily it could all have never happened - a phone call made a couple of months later, a quiz turned down, a missed audition, a successful argument, my university wanting research on India instead of China...any of these could have changed my life. I could be an English teacher or a radio presenter or a media scholar and never got my face on television. I could still be in Madras, possibly married to some twisted software dude, or London sitting with my Egyptian friend at Costa, and missed out on everything that's great about the life I live today. And yes, my Hindi would still be limited to, "billi ek paltoo janwar hai". And I would never have added a fifth to the number of languages I can write in (and I know that will make at least one reader wince!)
Maybe everything in our lives, including missed scholarships and unsuccessful job applications, happens for a reason. Maybe every little disappointment leads to something that is worth a lot more. Perhaps there is a pattern in the universe, in our lives, or perhaps we make it as we go along. At times, I suppose it is comforting to think of the universe as a machine, with grinding parts that just happen, something we can't alter by design because everything is pre-destined anyway. But that's not how I like to think of it. Maybe we pull these little threads of coincidence into a pattern by choosing how we twist the needles. And everytime you pause and look at just how beautiful the design's turning out to be, you thank the heavens those particular colours and textures of thread happened to be available.
Midnight to Middle Age
I'm not quite a Doris Lessing fan, but she does write some exquisite passages. Here's something from her series Children of Violence I find particularly appealing:
"Money chimed through their talk like a regulator of a machine. For all the heavy insurances, the mortgages, hire-purchase, the servants were made possible because of their ingenuity with money...They were all perpetually short of ready money, because of their god, a secure and comfortable middle age. They sighed out, 'when we retire...' as if they were saying, 'When the prison gates are opened...' "
Perhaps it's a colonial hangover, but the British middle class, the civil servants, the cream of the colonials and the bourgeouis of the isle, seem to left their aspirations behind here. And we, the independent Indians, have lapped up those aspirations, and dotted our lives with milestones that will lead to a comfortable middle age and a secure retired life. Education, cars, land, houses, things we will work our entire life to finally be free of debt in our fifties. By which time, we will want to secure the lives of our children, and thanks to inflation, they will work for a comfortable middle age too!
"Money chimed through their talk like a regulator of a machine. For all the heavy insurances, the mortgages, hire-purchase, the servants were made possible because of their ingenuity with money...They were all perpetually short of ready money, because of their god, a secure and comfortable middle age. They sighed out, 'when we retire...' as if they were saying, 'When the prison gates are opened...' "
Perhaps it's a colonial hangover, but the British middle class, the civil servants, the cream of the colonials and the bourgeouis of the isle, seem to left their aspirations behind here. And we, the independent Indians, have lapped up those aspirations, and dotted our lives with milestones that will lead to a comfortable middle age and a secure retired life. Education, cars, land, houses, things we will work our entire life to finally be free of debt in our fifties. By which time, we will want to secure the lives of our children, and thanks to inflation, they will work for a comfortable middle age too!