It's the one question I've always wanted to hate. But it's hard for me to hate things, because I usually find the things I want to hate so hilariously stupid, they end up being funny. Yeah, from my last ex-man...umm, I'm not sure the macho gender fits because it was so effeminate it once confessed "sometimes I feel like the chick in this relationship" to which I couldn't stop myself from saying "yeah? What's that like?"... to colleagues who've got on my wrong side to women who flirt with the object of my affection to Harry Potter, my hatred turns into amusement somewhere along the way.
I've been at enough job interviews and scholarship interviews and university entrance interviews to be asked that one question that is the holy grail of all HR theorists, hundreds of times.
I've come up with a series of innovative and impressive answers to where I saw myself five years from now, for a couple of decades now. (Yes, of course there were these people who would pinch my obese cheeks and ask if I wanted to be an engineer like Daddy or a doctor like Mummy or a lawyer like Patti.)
Every single time, I've been wrong. Hell, how do I know where I see myself five years from now when I'm not sure what's around the corner a month from now? When I was trying to deal with a radio show host whom no one else in the station would work with, did I think I would end up about seven thousand kilometres away from her tantrums and receiving an award for my documentary a few months later? When I decided to humour this effeminate dude right before I left for Delhi, did I think it would write me the most ridiculous poem I've had the misfortune to read? When I finally dumped the effeminate dude in the middle of its temper tantrum about four months after I began to wonder what it was doing in my life, did I think I would meet someone who would make it impossible for me (me who has always preferred long-distance relationships) to leave a city that didn't have a beach?
I've not known when the most painful, most hilarious and most wonderful parts of my life were round the corner or about to slip into my past.
But there's always been an urge in me to leave something of me in this world before I moved on. Most people see that as the motive force to have children, but as a wise man once said, progeny are not so much the assertion of one's will to live on as the insistence of life on asserting itself. I myself was never keen on having children until about a year ago. The somethings of me I always wanted to leave behind then, are the brainchildren I dream of - the ones I keep cocooned in my head, nurse into birth and spill out on paper. I long to dress them up in thick sheets of printed paper and hard-bound covers with blurbs and praise all over them.
My fear of death has less to do with the manner in which I will die and my emotions at the moment of death than the work I will leave undone. The idea of a photograph in an obituary column in place of the tributes in edit pages and mournful news bulletins, would be the realisation of this fear of death.
In the race to do something that will make me ready to die at any moment without feeling that fear, I feel another fear creeping up on me. Do I have the confidence, at this moment, now, to go the distance? Can I create that perfect brainchild that will speak for me long after I am gone? That brainchild in whom people who know me will see me, and people who don't will imagine me?
The answer came to me last night, while I was talking about it to someone I fondly think of as Superman. Perhaps it is these moments of doubt that are the birth pangs of that brainchild. Perhaps it is only after the scum of the earth have seeped into your life that you recognise the best things in the world when they happen to you. Perhaps it is only after your confidence has been shaken that you find the energy to prove yourself. Long before Barack Obama made it a cliche, some of us knew "Yes, we can" every day of our lives. Some of us took it for granted that "Yes, we would." Some of us grew up knowing we could never be mediocre. Perhaps it is only when we feel the pull of mediocrity that we can resist with our true strength.
Isn't that what happened to Kal-El?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
A Convenient Truth
(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 31st October, 2009)
There are some of us left, in this world that could end by 2012, who wish it would survive long enough for people to learn to nurture their neuroses rather than pour out their deep, dark confessions in an inexhaustible flow.
We don’t have roommates because we can’t bear to listen to them crib about boyfriends and parents. We start blogs in an effort to reduce human-to-human verbal contact. Our status on gtalk is nearly always ‘Invisible’. We were among the last to buy mobile phones and convert most of our incoming calls to messages that read, “Sorry I missed your call. Was in the shower. At a friend’s party now, text me if it’s important?”
Oh, we never go to parties, and Havana, Dublin and Q-BA are geographical names to us.
But to the world, we also have a titular moniker – “the good listeners.”
We never talk, and so we’re always called out to coffee breaks during office hours, so our colleagues can whine uninterrupted about their husbands, children, jobs, pimples, eyebrows, hair fall, receding hairlines, unrequited love etc..
Our best displays of uninterestedness have quite the opposite effect.
Display of uninterest: “I’m sorry, what?”
Response: “Yes, can you believe that! You heard right, he actually said that!”
Display of uninterest: (Makes poor attempt at hiding elaborate yawn and mumbles “sorry”)
Response: “I’ve been having hiccups all morning too. That means someone is thinking of you! Whom do you think it could be? In my case, it’s…”
Display of uninterest: (Begins detailed study of contours on the back of own palm.)
Response: “Oh, you do that too? You know, they say you can always tell a woman’s age by studying the back of her palm. And in our industry, it’s so important to look young. You know, but once, someone thought…”
And it spills over to the phone. Where most normal human beings’ unnatural silence would prompt enquiries as to the strength of the signal, disturbance on the line, soundness of one’s hearing etc. etc., the reticence of the “good listeners” is simply a foil to the outpourings of the interlocutor’s soul.
What’s even more annoying than the mega-serial-like histrionics of an interlocutor’s personal life is a ball-by-ball update of the subtle changes in the environs of the interlocutor.
There are these Compulsive Interlocutors who watch their phones like mousetraps. You send them a text apologising for not being available, and the next thing you hear is a ring.
“Hiiiiii! You’ve been ignoring me!” says the Compulsive Interlocutor.
“With good reason,” you reply, only half-ironically.
“Oh, I have so much to tell you. Yesterday…oh, Anjana has bought a new mobile phone. Anjana! Anjana!!! Come here…it’s kind of like mine, but you know, I think it’s a different colour…oh my God, they’re bringing new chairs into the office…show me your mobile…yeah, it’s kind of like mine, but it’s a different colour…let’s compare the…”
“Hey, why don’t you compare your panels and call me back later?”
“No, no, hang on a sec, I’ll get my hands free on…I’m talking to Nandini, and she’s getting irritated because I’m carrying on a parallel conversation…why do you think they’re bringing new chairs?...Yeah, the panel is different…”
But the magnitude of the problem struck me only recently, when a hitherto not-too-solicitous colleague texted me an enquiry as to whether I’d reached my vacation spot safely, and the statuses of my personal health and the health of my family.
My reply was followed by “Miss u a lot. Bad day @ ofc.”
It was at that moment that I took a stand for all Good Listeners across the world and texted back, “Don’t worry about office. Unhealthy to think about it when you’re away.”
The reply was a historical triumph: “Ya, u rt. Swtch off ur fone and relax.”
There are some of us left, in this world that could end by 2012, who wish it would survive long enough for people to learn to nurture their neuroses rather than pour out their deep, dark confessions in an inexhaustible flow.
We don’t have roommates because we can’t bear to listen to them crib about boyfriends and parents. We start blogs in an effort to reduce human-to-human verbal contact. Our status on gtalk is nearly always ‘Invisible’. We were among the last to buy mobile phones and convert most of our incoming calls to messages that read, “Sorry I missed your call. Was in the shower. At a friend’s party now, text me if it’s important?”
Oh, we never go to parties, and Havana, Dublin and Q-BA are geographical names to us.
But to the world, we also have a titular moniker – “the good listeners.”
We never talk, and so we’re always called out to coffee breaks during office hours, so our colleagues can whine uninterrupted about their husbands, children, jobs, pimples, eyebrows, hair fall, receding hairlines, unrequited love etc..
Our best displays of uninterestedness have quite the opposite effect.
Display of uninterest: “I’m sorry, what?”
Response: “Yes, can you believe that! You heard right, he actually said that!”
Display of uninterest: (Makes poor attempt at hiding elaborate yawn and mumbles “sorry”)
Response: “I’ve been having hiccups all morning too. That means someone is thinking of you! Whom do you think it could be? In my case, it’s…”
Display of uninterest: (Begins detailed study of contours on the back of own palm.)
Response: “Oh, you do that too? You know, they say you can always tell a woman’s age by studying the back of her palm. And in our industry, it’s so important to look young. You know, but once, someone thought…”
And it spills over to the phone. Where most normal human beings’ unnatural silence would prompt enquiries as to the strength of the signal, disturbance on the line, soundness of one’s hearing etc. etc., the reticence of the “good listeners” is simply a foil to the outpourings of the interlocutor’s soul.
What’s even more annoying than the mega-serial-like histrionics of an interlocutor’s personal life is a ball-by-ball update of the subtle changes in the environs of the interlocutor.
There are these Compulsive Interlocutors who watch their phones like mousetraps. You send them a text apologising for not being available, and the next thing you hear is a ring.
“Hiiiiii! You’ve been ignoring me!” says the Compulsive Interlocutor.
“With good reason,” you reply, only half-ironically.
“Oh, I have so much to tell you. Yesterday…oh, Anjana has bought a new mobile phone. Anjana! Anjana!!! Come here…it’s kind of like mine, but you know, I think it’s a different colour…oh my God, they’re bringing new chairs into the office…show me your mobile…yeah, it’s kind of like mine, but it’s a different colour…let’s compare the…”
“Hey, why don’t you compare your panels and call me back later?”
“No, no, hang on a sec, I’ll get my hands free on…I’m talking to Nandini, and she’s getting irritated because I’m carrying on a parallel conversation…why do you think they’re bringing new chairs?...Yeah, the panel is different…”
But the magnitude of the problem struck me only recently, when a hitherto not-too-solicitous colleague texted me an enquiry as to whether I’d reached my vacation spot safely, and the statuses of my personal health and the health of my family.
My reply was followed by “Miss u a lot. Bad day @ ofc.”
It was at that moment that I took a stand for all Good Listeners across the world and texted back, “Don’t worry about office. Unhealthy to think about it when you’re away.”
The reply was a historical triumph: “Ya, u rt. Swtch off ur fone and relax.”
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Wisecracks
The Bengali penchant for repartee is almost like an affliction. If there is a situational joke to be cracked, the true Bong can NOT resist it. Usually sarcastic, never unfunny and more often than not involving interesting word play and puns, some samples are available here. And here.
Yesterday, I was reminded of some more of these.
In mid-90s Calcutta, there existed a revivalist organisation called Amra Bangali. When I say 'existed', I mean it in a purely circumstantial sense because there was no physical manifestation of this group - except posters and grafitti. They DID nothing to revive Bengali pride except write slogans on walls, exhorting fellow Bongs to do the needful.
Their most common slogan was - "Bangali, Jago!" and this was found across the city in all the wall-space that was not taken up by CPI(M) and Congress. However, laid-back Bengalis took this metaphysical awakening in a literal sense (or pretended to!) and very soon, a repartee was seen scrawled under the original message.
Under "Bangali, Jago", it was written - "Jegechhi, ebar cha dao." ("I am awake. Now get me some tea.")
In a story recounted by Satyajit Ray, he mentions actor Kamu Mukherjee. Kamu was a regular in Ray's cast & crew and a great wit.
In one of the scripting sessions at Ray's Calcutta residence, his wife (Bijoya Ray) served tea and biscuits. The biscuits were a little soggy. Kamu took a bite and asked innocently, "Boudi, biscuitey ki silencer lagiyechho?"
But why was I reminded of them yesterday?
I was alone at home, with my son. We were about to leave and I was getting ready. My son was sitting on the bed and picked up one of my books.
I said, "Why are you holding my book? This is my book. You can't hold it."
My son obediently put it down.
When we left the lift, I instictively held his hand.
He looked at me with a smile and said, "Baba, why you holding my hand? This is my hand. You can't hold it."
You can take a boy out of Calcutta.
Friday, October 23, 2009
It's Time to Take That Call!
(Published in The Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated the 17th of October, 2009)
“Oh tumi he! Kiman dinor murot kotha patisu tumar logot. Kene asa? Ghorot bhal ne?”
The speaker was one of those almost unbelievably genial, typical nice guys everyone wishes the best for. The spoken-to was clearly a close friend, judging by the look of delight on his face. After pushing my linguistic sensitivities to their full potential, I deduced he had exclaimed that it had been ages since he had heard from the speaker, and was keen to be assured of the well-being of the kith and kin of the same.
“Ki???” his face took on a shocked, traumatised look that nearly stopped me from shoving pasta into my mouth, “Bupai moi eengrazi buji nepao… Tumar bikrir jojona tu bhal…Bhal lagil tumar logot kotha pati…Ebar axomiya xiki ley bhal dore kotha patim diya.”
And then the smile was back. It was the first time I had ever seen him look triumphant and – could it be?? – evil. “These insurance companies, man!” he said, by way of explanation, “I speak to them in Assamese these days, man. I told them I don’t know English, but their scheme is wonderful, and it was really nice talking, and maybe we can talk more once they learn Assamese.”
Telemarketers…sigh…well, e-mails replaced letters, mobiles replaced landlines, palmtops replaced those ancient computers that groaned into life and they replaced door-to-door salespeople. The door-to-door salespeople would, at least, give up at some point of the day thanks to the angry afternoon sun and irate siesta-takers. But the breed of telemarketers, sitting in their air-conditioned offices, manage to sound bright and happy irrespective of what time of day or night it is.
Inspired by Mr. Nice-Genial-Guy, I have recently taken to speaking in Tamil when I get calls that begin, “namaste ji. Nandni Kishen-ji se baat karna chahta hoon.”
“Aanh sollunga,” I answer, “illenga, adhu en peyar illai. Nandini Krishnan.”
“Ji?”
I use my most obliging tone, and keep the conversation going, while my interlocutor gets bewildered, panicky and finally, hostile. “Madam, you can i-speak Inglish?” one of them barked to me.
It was the first time a telemarketer had displayed symptoms of human behaviour.
“Yes, I can, thank you, were you selling a Spoken English course?” I responded sweetly, and then hung up.
I had underestimated the constitution of these creatures, though. Encouraged by the dozen English words he had heard, the hostile telemarketer went on to make fourteen attempts at calling me (albeit from the same number) through the day.
Speaking Spanish worked slightly better, though. My “¡hola!¿quién?...Lo siento, pero no hablo ingles.¿Habla español?” (hello, who is this? I’m sorry, but I don’t speak English. Can you speak Spanish?) was met by a long silence, and then a telemarketer telling a colleague in an awestruck tone that I was speaking French. But I went on to receive five more calls from curious telemarketers trying to figure out which language I was speaking in.
It was while contemplating further evasive action that I came across that rare genius that makes you want to take a moment’s break from the rigours of life and pay obeisance in full.
I overheard a friend say, “yes, I am very interested in a loan…see, I am unemployed at the moment…Uh, I travel by bus…Well, I am leaving for the UK to try and find a job soon. I need a loan of three lakhs for my expenses here. I will pay it back once I come back from the UK…yes…yes…ok, I’ll wait for your call. But please don’t let me down, I’m depending on you for the loan…I’ll call you back at this number by five…hello? Hello?”
(With many thanks to a close Assamese friend who chose to remain anonymous, and a one-time schoolmate who gets too much publicity for his own good anyway.)
“Oh tumi he! Kiman dinor murot kotha patisu tumar logot. Kene asa? Ghorot bhal ne?”
The speaker was one of those almost unbelievably genial, typical nice guys everyone wishes the best for. The spoken-to was clearly a close friend, judging by the look of delight on his face. After pushing my linguistic sensitivities to their full potential, I deduced he had exclaimed that it had been ages since he had heard from the speaker, and was keen to be assured of the well-being of the kith and kin of the same.
“Ki???” his face took on a shocked, traumatised look that nearly stopped me from shoving pasta into my mouth, “Bupai moi eengrazi buji nepao… Tumar bikrir jojona tu bhal…Bhal lagil tumar logot kotha pati…Ebar axomiya xiki ley bhal dore kotha patim diya.”
And then the smile was back. It was the first time I had ever seen him look triumphant and – could it be?? – evil. “These insurance companies, man!” he said, by way of explanation, “I speak to them in Assamese these days, man. I told them I don’t know English, but their scheme is wonderful, and it was really nice talking, and maybe we can talk more once they learn Assamese.”
Telemarketers…sigh…well, e-mails replaced letters, mobiles replaced landlines, palmtops replaced those ancient computers that groaned into life and they replaced door-to-door salespeople. The door-to-door salespeople would, at least, give up at some point of the day thanks to the angry afternoon sun and irate siesta-takers. But the breed of telemarketers, sitting in their air-conditioned offices, manage to sound bright and happy irrespective of what time of day or night it is.
Inspired by Mr. Nice-Genial-Guy, I have recently taken to speaking in Tamil when I get calls that begin, “namaste ji. Nandni Kishen-ji se baat karna chahta hoon.”
“Aanh sollunga,” I answer, “illenga, adhu en peyar illai. Nandini Krishnan.”
“Ji?”
I use my most obliging tone, and keep the conversation going, while my interlocutor gets bewildered, panicky and finally, hostile. “Madam, you can i-speak Inglish?” one of them barked to me.
It was the first time a telemarketer had displayed symptoms of human behaviour.
“Yes, I can, thank you, were you selling a Spoken English course?” I responded sweetly, and then hung up.
I had underestimated the constitution of these creatures, though. Encouraged by the dozen English words he had heard, the hostile telemarketer went on to make fourteen attempts at calling me (albeit from the same number) through the day.
Speaking Spanish worked slightly better, though. My “¡hola!¿quién?...Lo siento, pero no hablo ingles.¿Habla español?” (hello, who is this? I’m sorry, but I don’t speak English. Can you speak Spanish?) was met by a long silence, and then a telemarketer telling a colleague in an awestruck tone that I was speaking French. But I went on to receive five more calls from curious telemarketers trying to figure out which language I was speaking in.
It was while contemplating further evasive action that I came across that rare genius that makes you want to take a moment’s break from the rigours of life and pay obeisance in full.
I overheard a friend say, “yes, I am very interested in a loan…see, I am unemployed at the moment…Uh, I travel by bus…Well, I am leaving for the UK to try and find a job soon. I need a loan of three lakhs for my expenses here. I will pay it back once I come back from the UK…yes…yes…ok, I’ll wait for your call. But please don’t let me down, I’m depending on you for the loan…I’ll call you back at this number by five…hello? Hello?”
(With many thanks to a close Assamese friend who chose to remain anonymous, and a one-time schoolmate who gets too much publicity for his own good anyway.)
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Spiritual Ancestors
It has been seen that often, characters in later creations of the same author or filmmaker are ancestors or progeny of their earlier creations.
For example, Deshu of D (played by Randeep Hooda) is actually the starting point of Malik of Company (played by Ajay Devgan). D ends with Deshu becoming a fearsome mafia don by taking control of his godfather's empire. Company begins with exactly the same plot point and carries on with the trajectory of his don-hood, where his trusted lieutenant turns against him. The director/producer of the two films mentioned this as the connecting link between the two films, which read - quite unsubtly - D Company.
The idealistic police officer of Zanjeer - Vijay Khanna - was destined to come up against political interference, corruption, nepotism and rot in the system. He had exorcised his personal demons by killing his father's killer but he was unable to cleanse the system. His honesty being a liability, the authorities would have posted him in an obscure police training school. And over the years, he would have become a cynical, tired man - until he was called for an assignment of a lifetime.
Meet Anant Srivastav, of Khakee.
In Satyajit Ray's Pratidwandi, the protagonist - Siddhartha (played by Dhritiman Chatterjee) - goes through a series of debilitating job interviews. His obvious sincerity, strong articulation and intelligence comes to a naught as he faces questions with pre-decided answers. In the most famous sequence from the film, he is asked 'What is the most significant event of the last decade?' and Siddhartha answers 'the war in Vietnam'. This is not only at variance with the 'correct' answer (landing on the Moon) but sets up the damning next question - 'Are you a Communist?'
The previous year, Ray made Seemabaddha about an upwardly mobile executive - Shyamalendu - whose obvious sincerity, intelligence and charm made an observer wonder that if Pratidwandi's Siddhartha had indeed answered 'moon landing' to that question, he would have become Shyamalendu later in his career!
So, why this sudden chain of thought? Because of 2 States. Which is a love story between a Tamil girl and a Punjabi boy set in IIM Ahmedabad. The Punjabi boy is from IIT Delhi, had an affair with his professor's daughter and was almost expelled. His grade point average made him a Five Point Someone. The protagonist from Chetan Bhagat's first book is back!
And the book ends with the cheesiest line I have ever had the privilege of reading. Even if you don't like Chetan Bhagat, just pick up the book and read the last two pages. Its brilliant!
So, any other spiritual ancestors you can think of?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Autumn Nostalgia
In a burst of autumn cleaning, the blog gets new fonts and a brilliant new header, sourced from here. I could not identify the photographer from the link mentioned in the post. Therefore, anonymous thanks are in order.
If some copyright is violated, I would happily take the picture off. Or, give credit.
A picture like this evokes memories of old times.
Of time spent in Maddox Square. Of haggling for books near Gol Park. Of gazing at antique film posters in the lobbies of dilapidated theatres.
Basically, it smells of nostalgia and we all know what a sucker I am for that.
On a personal note, there is a reverse nostalgia when I see my baby cousins as adults and find it difficult to reconcile with my memory of them as infants or at best, little boys and girls.
My kid cousin (who is closer in age to being my niece!) now talks about Arthur Miller's The Crucible. She finds the play unbearably tragic and rejects my suggestion to watch DDLJ to lift her mood. She sternly tells me to read it. I am so speechless that I am unable to tell her that I did - at her age. Which was twenty years back and that has kind of dulled the impact.
Another cousin (on his way to becoming a lawyer) shares his thoughts about Monginis cakes, Old Spice, floppy drives and New Empire Cinema. I did not even realise that he was old enough to watch and remember an ancient film called Mohabbatein. And here he is, pointing out that some things don't change in Calcutta. Apparently, people still play chess under Gariahat Flyover. Wow - I thought that's something only I would notice.
This tells me that I should be careful. I cannot generally blabber about SRK and WWF with my cousins and get away with it any longer.
But it also tells me that the conversation is going to be very interesting in my old age!
If some copyright is violated, I would happily take the picture off. Or, give credit.
A picture like this evokes memories of old times.
Of time spent in Maddox Square. Of haggling for books near Gol Park. Of gazing at antique film posters in the lobbies of dilapidated theatres.
Basically, it smells of nostalgia and we all know what a sucker I am for that.
On a personal note, there is a reverse nostalgia when I see my baby cousins as adults and find it difficult to reconcile with my memory of them as infants or at best, little boys and girls.
My kid cousin (who is closer in age to being my niece!) now talks about Arthur Miller's The Crucible. She finds the play unbearably tragic and rejects my suggestion to watch DDLJ to lift her mood. She sternly tells me to read it. I am so speechless that I am unable to tell her that I did - at her age. Which was twenty years back and that has kind of dulled the impact.
Another cousin (on his way to becoming a lawyer) shares his thoughts about Monginis cakes, Old Spice, floppy drives and New Empire Cinema. I did not even realise that he was old enough to watch and remember an ancient film called Mohabbatein. And here he is, pointing out that some things don't change in Calcutta. Apparently, people still play chess under Gariahat Flyover. Wow - I thought that's something only I would notice.
This tells me that I should be careful. I cannot generally blabber about SRK and WWF with my cousins and get away with it any longer.
But it also tells me that the conversation is going to be very interesting in my old age!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Its Been a Long Time...
It has been such a long time...
Since I saw a father write 'Man' with a knife-point on his new-born son's chest.
Since a young man in a jeep followed the object of his affection and her friends on bicycles.
Since a ghost attacked a girl having a bath.
Since a doctor came out of the operation theatre, took off his gloves and glasses only to say that the patient needs prayers, not medicines.
Since both twins wore lockets of Maa Sherawali.
Since a rich father refused to let his son marry his chauffeur's daughter.
Since one brother was in the police and another in the underworld.
Since a comedian was fed purgatives and a he tried desperately to find latrines.
Since a film took its name from a word in most pivotal dialogue exchange in the film. No other connection.
Since a mother shed tears of joy. And prepared carrot halwa.
It has been such a long time since I watched films with villains named like these.
It has been such a long time since I watched films like these.
PS: This outburst got triggered by (a) Nilendu's post and (b) Sid (of Waking Up fame), who failed in B Com exams. When that scene happened in the movie, I instinctively thought it has been such a long time since a Hindi film hero said, "Maa, main pass ho gaya".
Since I saw a father write 'Man' with a knife-point on his new-born son's chest.
Since a young man in a jeep followed the object of his affection and her friends on bicycles.
Since a ghost attacked a girl having a bath.
Since a doctor came out of the operation theatre, took off his gloves and glasses only to say that the patient needs prayers, not medicines.
Since both twins wore lockets of Maa Sherawali.
Since a rich father refused to let his son marry his chauffeur's daughter.
Since one brother was in the police and another in the underworld.
Since a comedian was fed purgatives and a he tried desperately to find latrines.
Since a film took its name from a word in most pivotal dialogue exchange in the film. No other connection.
Since a mother shed tears of joy. And prepared carrot halwa.
It has been such a long time since I watched films with villains named like these.
It has been such a long time since I watched films like these.
PS: This outburst got triggered by (a) Nilendu's post and (b) Sid (of Waking Up fame), who failed in B Com exams. When that scene happened in the movie, I instinctively thought it has been such a long time since a Hindi film hero said, "Maa, main pass ho gaya".
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Kab Tak Bachchan?
I still recall a cover of Sunday magazine in end-80s. It had Anil Kapoor in full unshaven, black-shirted, shirt-unbuttoned glory. And the cover story was 'The Next No. 1?' - which also featured an interview with Amitabh endorsing Anil's numero uno status?
Anil Kapoor was the hot property then, with hits like Tezaab, Ram Lakhan and Parinda under his belt and I thought it is only normal that Amitabh - nearing 50 then - now eases into 'character' roles.
Felt a bit sad because there were so many roles I wanted to see him do. All his roles had been in the conventional mode and that was a little disappointing. In fact, I hoped that Satyajit Ray would make a film with him. Sigh!
About two decades after that Sunday issue, I read an article in Hindustan Times last week that a study has found MS Dhoni, Sachin Tendulkar, Shahrukh Khan and Aishwarya Rai to be more powerful brand endorsers than Amitabh Bachchan - who was the only sexagenarian (actually, the only one about 45!) in the Top 10.
In between, of course, there have been many obituaries like this one.
For the last god-only-knows-how-many years, Zee Cinema has been running Shanivaar ke Raat, Amitabh ke Saath. SET Max is going on and on with Ab Tak Bachchan. Surely, SRK now has a decent body of films to let us spend successive Saturday evenings with him?
Rajesh Khanna refused to work with him after Namak Haraam. Vinod Khanna became an Osho follower. Shatrughan Sinha alleged that AB got his roles chopped. Mithun's lobby claimed the same with him. Anil Kapoor did not have the best of relations. His battles with SRK are now part of industry folklore. I am seriously hoping that Shahid or Ranbir don't get into a tussle with him!
Of course, not forgetting VP Singh, Raj Thackeray and their ilk...
I mean, give the man a break.
Two generations of Bollywood have been squabbling with him now and to be fair, he has not held back the punches either!
It is time that we found newer heroes to battle with.
When Manmohan Desai famously said, "Amit is like Haley's Comet. A star of his stature comes once in 73 years.", it sounded like a fond exaggeration for his favourite star. Now, it seems almost accurate.
Hang in there, Mr Bachchan. Your successor is exactly 6 years away!
And guess the coincidence? You have six more roles from this list to tick off!
Movie Review: Unnaipol Oruvan vs. A Wednesday
It's hard to have to pit my favourite film icon against my favourite stage actor. Kamal and Naseer have always brought credibility to their roles - they make you forget it's them in a role, and make you empathise fully with the characters they play. And both of them fit seamlessly into the role of the ordinary middle-class family man who goes to the market and picks out vegetables for the wife. I had the advantage of watching A Wednesday with absolutely no clue about the subject of the movie - and watching Naseer try to file a complaint about his wallet being stolen made my heart go out to him, and hope he would get it back. With Kamal, though I knew the story, I felt the same pang of sympathy.
The movie opening in the Tamil version was more credible, in that the setting was timeless. In the Hindi version, the hoardings and traffic are a bit of a giveaway that not much time has passed since 'that Wednesday'. But the song at the beginning of 'Unnaipol Oruvan' gives the movie a rather religious bias. With the Hindi version, the religious identity of the Common Man remained secret, while the Tamil version seems to have a slant, although that's open to debate.
That said, the scripting in the Tamil version is brilliant. Realising it's hard to localise a series of events that happened in Mumbai, the writers have chosen to focus on the 'it-can't-happen-to-me-bomb-blasts-don't-happen-here' attitude. For a state that witnessed the assassination of a former Prime Minister, Tamil Nadu was, perhaps is, delusionally confident. The dialogue steers clear of cliches, which can't be said for the Hindi version, and the idea of using the numbers of blast victims brought in an added poignancy. There's one shot which threatens to descend into maudlin, but Kamal Haasan just about manages to recover from the moment in which he wells up. But the segue is less smooth than it could have been.
The dialogue in 'A Wednesday' is rather cliched, though. There was no foil to the bravado, and the geek's language and accent are a little more putting off than necessary. In 'Unnaipol Oruvan', Mohanlal's dialogue is set off by asides like, "Tamil-le pesu. English-leyaa solleetruppey? Chief Minister TV parthuttuppaaru" ("Speak in Tamil. Why are you speaking English? The Chief Minister will be tuned in to TV") and a reference to the alienation of a Keralite in the Tamil Nadu Police Force.
The handling of the Chief Minister's role in 'Unnaipol Oruvan' was a riot. From using Karunanidhi's residence for the shoot, to using a mimicry artist who had people wondering if the man had chosen to make a guest appearance, to making digs at the Tamil agenda of the DMK, Kamal's fidelity to reality in this particular aspect is no-holds-barred. While it could be argued that the Chief Minister might take a terror threat more seriously in Mumbai, it seemed to make more sense for the Chief Secretary to come over and put up bureaucratic roadblocks all over the place than for the administrative head of the state to come over.
But one of the disappointments of 'Unnaipol Oruvan' is that there is too much frame-by-frame fidelity. What could pass for a Mumbai chawl doesn't translate well into a Madras slum. The actor who wants police protection works as comic relief in the Hindi version, but comes across as rather silly in the Tamil version. It isn't funny, it doesn't fit in with the plot and it doesn't contribute to the film in any way. The vernacular channels in Hindi and Tamil don't do the same kind of stories or programmes. Yes, the one in 'Unnaipol Oruvan' was a different show, but no Tamil news channel has a retarded programme with two mannequins talking. The fact that every Tamil news channel has some political affiliation if not agenda, affords a lot of plot-play, and it's surprising that the filmmakers didn't exploit that for circumstantial comedy.
The TV reporter bit was one area where neither film scores. Why call up a single vernacular channel instead of creating a sensation? While both reporters are suitably annoying, the lines are way too cliched in both languages...as is the police's bizarre decision to trust them with information. Since the reporter's role didn't amount to much in the end anyway, it could easily have been done away with.
The end in the Tamil version in terms of what happened to the Commissioner of Police is rather more credible.
Mohanlal looks rather young for a top cop set to retire, but given that the actor himself is close to the government's retirement age, I let that pass. He does a great job of making the role his own, and plays it very differently from Anupam Kher. Where Anupam Kher brings in a hint of indecisiveness, Mohanlal brings in an edge of frustration that portrays India's tedious layers of protocol that restrict officials' powers even at a time of crisis.
Jimmy Shergill's portrayal of Arif was flawless, and he became the character in the film. While relative newcomer Ganesh Venkatraman doesn't do a bad job, some of his actions are a little too conscious - putting his necklet with the qibah on display, for instance, or making a show of listening in when the Commissioner has a private talk with the Inspector. The other characters didn't really have much screen time, though perhaps the Inspector's wife, who's on a train with a kid, should have ideally had even less.
The music in the Hindi film is in sync with the story - it pumps up your adrenaline when the action calls for it, makes you reminisce when the script calls for it and alerts you that you are supposed to mourn for blast victims. The music in 'Unnaipol Oruvan' is extremely unremarkable. A film like this needed the genius of a Raja or Rahman. The final track, which has verses from the Bhagavad Gita, is both out of context and jarring - it's best described as Kula-Shaker-meets-Himesh-Reshammiya.
I suppose every fan of Kamal Haasan or everyone who hasn't seen 'A Wednesday' is bound to think 'Unnaipol Oruvan' is out of the world. But if it hadn't been Kamal Haasan in there, would the film have worked for me? Not a bad film by any standards, but 'Unnaipol Oruvan' could have been a better film if it had chosen to iron out the kinks in the Hindi version rather than replicate most of it.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
My Introduction to the Chic Kharab
(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 3rd October 2009)
One of the most fascinating discoveries I made right after my move to Delhi two years ago, is the word ‘kharab’. It goes with just about everything, and has the advantage of sounding as offensive as a swearword without carrying the label. I loved how switches are kharab, milk goes kharab, someone can make your mind kharab, this pen is kharab…I was in love with the word!
And then it happened. I remember that fateful day, as I stepped in from the winter evening into the heated interior of a salon. I smiled warmly at its occupants, only to be greeted with a look of intense pity and the damning statement, “madam, your skin is so kharab.”
I would have been less surprised if someone had told me my face was blue. I write with an ink pen and the finesse with which I handle it is rather pathetically at discord with the maternal love with which I care for it (no one else is allowed to use it, it lies on a bed of handkerchiefs and I bathe it every other day).
Back to the point – I was the only kid in school not to sport a single pimple, and not an extra pigment permeated my skin despite years of swimming and biking under the Madras sun.“It’s tanned, it’s dry, you have an oily T-zone, you have open pores, it’s bilcul kharab,” my interlocutor certified, as others gathered round.
And suddenly, as I looked at the mirror, I could see craters open up in my face, my skin grow a few shades darker, white patches peel off, oil spills on my nose and forehead, and pimples sprout across my cheeks. I shook my head to clear it, and then looked rather admiringly at the said interlocutor.
I think it’s a course they do. Before they learn how to thread and tweeze and wax and cut, they are taught how to depress a customer with carefully chosen insults, and then offer an array of treatments that would otherwise be laughed away.
“You should wax your hairline,” one woman suggested, and stared blankly when I shot back, “it’s a Widow’s Peak! It gives me my arrogant look!”
“Yes, madam, you’ll look friendly without it,” she agreed, after absorbing the information.
“I try very hard not to.”
“Or madam, laser treatment lelo. It looks very kharab.”
Lasers to me were those light sabers they used in the Star Wars movies (and I have to grudgingly admit, something my dentist used to seal a lot of white cavity-filling goop), but NOT something you target at your face to destroy a Widow’s Peak.
On the subject of hair, I’m one of those people who are actually grateful for the curls. I enjoy it when people with straight hair are envious of my mop, and refuse empathy when my curly-haired acquaintances wistfully ask me whether I would not rather have had easier-to-manage hair.
“Mine’s pretty easy to manage,” I say, running my fingers right through it, “I wash and condition it every day.”
It’s not just my USP, but the storehouse of my humour. Yes, I do find I’m rather less witty and slower on the uptake when it’s been blow-dried straight. It’s the reason I can wake up and rush to office, and look like I have spent hours styling my hair. It’s my claim to fame – I was once stopped and photographed by a hair products company at Covent Garden, and made two hundred pounds for the trouble.
So, when someone blasphemed, “madam, why don’t you go for hair rebonding?”, I turned back and said in my syrupy voice, “because I think people with straight hair look kharab.”
That was the last time I’ve heard the word used in that salon.
One of the most fascinating discoveries I made right after my move to Delhi two years ago, is the word ‘kharab’. It goes with just about everything, and has the advantage of sounding as offensive as a swearword without carrying the label. I loved how switches are kharab, milk goes kharab, someone can make your mind kharab, this pen is kharab…I was in love with the word!
And then it happened. I remember that fateful day, as I stepped in from the winter evening into the heated interior of a salon. I smiled warmly at its occupants, only to be greeted with a look of intense pity and the damning statement, “madam, your skin is so kharab.”
I would have been less surprised if someone had told me my face was blue. I write with an ink pen and the finesse with which I handle it is rather pathetically at discord with the maternal love with which I care for it (no one else is allowed to use it, it lies on a bed of handkerchiefs and I bathe it every other day).
Back to the point – I was the only kid in school not to sport a single pimple, and not an extra pigment permeated my skin despite years of swimming and biking under the Madras sun.“It’s tanned, it’s dry, you have an oily T-zone, you have open pores, it’s bilcul kharab,” my interlocutor certified, as others gathered round.
And suddenly, as I looked at the mirror, I could see craters open up in my face, my skin grow a few shades darker, white patches peel off, oil spills on my nose and forehead, and pimples sprout across my cheeks. I shook my head to clear it, and then looked rather admiringly at the said interlocutor.
I think it’s a course they do. Before they learn how to thread and tweeze and wax and cut, they are taught how to depress a customer with carefully chosen insults, and then offer an array of treatments that would otherwise be laughed away.
“You should wax your hairline,” one woman suggested, and stared blankly when I shot back, “it’s a Widow’s Peak! It gives me my arrogant look!”
“Yes, madam, you’ll look friendly without it,” she agreed, after absorbing the information.
“I try very hard not to.”
“Or madam, laser treatment lelo. It looks very kharab.”
Lasers to me were those light sabers they used in the Star Wars movies (and I have to grudgingly admit, something my dentist used to seal a lot of white cavity-filling goop), but NOT something you target at your face to destroy a Widow’s Peak.
On the subject of hair, I’m one of those people who are actually grateful for the curls. I enjoy it when people with straight hair are envious of my mop, and refuse empathy when my curly-haired acquaintances wistfully ask me whether I would not rather have had easier-to-manage hair.
“Mine’s pretty easy to manage,” I say, running my fingers right through it, “I wash and condition it every day.”
It’s not just my USP, but the storehouse of my humour. Yes, I do find I’m rather less witty and slower on the uptake when it’s been blow-dried straight. It’s the reason I can wake up and rush to office, and look like I have spent hours styling my hair. It’s my claim to fame – I was once stopped and photographed by a hair products company at Covent Garden, and made two hundred pounds for the trouble.
So, when someone blasphemed, “madam, why don’t you go for hair rebonding?”, I turned back and said in my syrupy voice, “because I think people with straight hair look kharab.”
That was the last time I’ve heard the word used in that salon.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Bookstore Mojo
What makes a great bookstore?
Size can be one big draw. A massive store with miles and miles of shelves can be mesmerising. A riot of colours of the spines looking like a kaleidoscope from a distance.
Knowledgeable store attendants can be another. This, for example, distinguishes every counter guy at the College Street bookshops. For every arcane request you make, they invariably manage to come up with "Apatoto-out-of-print-oi-lekhoker-second-boita-achhey-Bibhu-Robin-Wooder-hardcoverta-nama".
A critical part is also an understanding management. That don't insist on hissing "May I help you" when you are silently devouring Tintin in Congo in one corner!
Knowledgeable store attendants can be another. This, for example, distinguishes every counter guy at the College Street bookshops. For every arcane request you make, they invariably manage to come up with "Apatoto-out-of-print-oi-lekhoker-second-boita-achhey-Bibhu-Robin-Wooder-hardcoverta-nama".
A critical part is also an understanding management. That don't insist on hissing "May I help you" when you are silently devouring Tintin in Congo in one corner!
Bargains are most welcome. Haggling preferable, but not essential. A 15% discount on the cover price makes the book go from exorbitant to reasonable in a jiffy. Or at least, seems like it.
In my book, however, the biggest attraction of a bookstore can be the promise of serendipity.
You are wandering in a largish bookstore, lazily flipping through books without really looking for anything in particular. And then you come across this book. It could be a book, which you borrowed as a child/youngster and had to return before you could finish it. It could be an out-of-print title, which you were hunting for a very long time. Or it could be a book, which you had only seen in your dreams. Or best of all, it could be a book that you felt somebody should write one day!
On a recent holiday to Dubai, I was taken to a bookstore called Kinokuniya. By my sister, who knows exactly where to take me to if she has to shop uninterrupted with my wife.
And for the first time, I realised that the Bengali word digonto-bistrito ("spreading to the horizons") can be applicable to a bookstore. I walked into the store and two minutes in, I could see neither the entrance nor the extremity. I was excited enough to start taking pictures before an attendant requested me not to!
What an amazing place to get lost in, which got me wondering about my favourite bookshops.
The Landmark Bookstore in Chennai is this huge expanse of books and CDs that you can get lost in. As is Walden in Hyderabad.
I remember these two stores very fondly because the first two postings of my first job were in these two cities and the two bookstores provided immense succour in times of stress. More specifically, I completed my entire Calvin & Hobbes collection from these two - apart from several other serendipitous findings.
My only crib about Landmark is that (probably) because of its size, the store attendants are uniformly clueless as are the merchandisers. Calvin & Hobbes comics, for example, are always found under the Children's comic section along with Superman, Tenali Rama and Tintin!
On the other hand, my latest favourite bookstore - Quill & Canvas in Gurgaon - is owned by this very up-to-date lady, who manages to recommend very good books basis what I bring to the billing counter. And that invariably gets my bill to inflate one more time! Bookstores should realise that the additional salary one has to pay to well-informed attendants is more than recovered by the additional stuff they manage to subtly push.
Quill & Canvas has the added benefit of having an art gallery within the bookstore, which is a stunning way of keeping browsers engaged.
And inspiring too. I always realise that I have to work much harder to buy that Shuvoprasanna whenever I am in Q&C!
Serendipity is something which I found in abundance in Bangalore. The Strand, in particular. Mumbai's iconic bookstore has a smallish setup in Manipal Centre (off MG Road) and has a rather quirky attitude towards classifying books. So, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy would be found in Popular Science. Lust for Life would be hidden among coffee table books on Art. And of course, there is the standard 15-20% discount applied to all purchases which becomes much more lucrative at the time of their Annual Sale.
Many Bangaloreans have gushed about Premier Book Stall (I hope I got the name right). It is a bookstore, which looks as if the walls have been constructed out of books. I did not find it too great simply because browsing was next to impossible. The massive, slightly leaning stacks of books meant that you could never pull out a book without the whole edifice crumbling all over you.
On the other hand, Blossoms on Church Street is a happy mix of chaos and order. Two floors packed with new and old books. All kinds of books. The staff is cheerfully clueless about location of titles but very helpful in being unobtrusive and letting you browse to your heart's content. Their second-hand selection is supposed to be very good (and at nice discounts too!) but unfortunately (and surprisingly), I have never bought anything from them.
Coming to my absolute favourite bookstore, I have to admit it is not really a 'store' but more of a 10 feet by 8 feet booth on a pavement near South Calcutta's busiest junction. The stock is only about 100 titles of the latest bestsellers - in both English and Bengali. The junction is so dusty and dirty that all the books he keeps have to be wrapped in polythene.
I have been buying books from this place for the last 25 years or so. My standard operating procedure used to be to go to Oxford Bookstore or any other browsable shop and take down the titles. Barun-babu, the shop owner, used to get them for me within a day at a 10% discount.
Apart from the obvious ones, I have lost count of the number of obscure books he has tracked down for me. My standard instruction would be to give him the name and a budget. He got the book only if it was within the budget!
He knew about books. He read most of them. Gave a whispered review for most of the books I picked up. Even let me 'borrow' books overnight to sample before I bought them. A pretty bad business decision, I would say (because I did not like the book).
Once when I had resigned myself to buying a hardcover (the fourth Harry Potter), he asked me to wait for a week since the paperback was about to be released. I guess he lost about 200 bucks in the price differential of the two books and got a lifelong devotee. Not a bad business decision, I would say.
To get back to Kinokuniya, I bought a really eclectic selection of books, all of which were horrendously expensive and weighed down our luggage a lot but TOTALLY worth it - in hindsight!
A lovely 2010 calendar of 12 posters of iconic movies.
A pop psychology book, which classifies people on the basis of their favourite (Hollywood) movies. There is such a crying need for a Bollywood equivalent!
The best stories from The Onion - America's Finest News Source.
99 classic movies, explained in 4 comic panels. This is like a Bluffer's Guide. But why would anybody want to bluff about seeing Chinatown or The Good, The Bad and The Ugly? They should be seen anyway!
And The Rough Guide to Film. Which is, well, a rough guide to film.
Here, take a look at the booty!
Updated to add: Here is a list of the 10 Coolest Bookstores in the US. New York has the most entries, followed by San Francisco.
You are wandering in a largish bookstore, lazily flipping through books without really looking for anything in particular. And then you come across this book. It could be a book, which you borrowed as a child/youngster and had to return before you could finish it. It could be an out-of-print title, which you were hunting for a very long time. Or it could be a book, which you had only seen in your dreams. Or best of all, it could be a book that you felt somebody should write one day!
On a recent holiday to Dubai, I was taken to a bookstore called Kinokuniya. By my sister, who knows exactly where to take me to if she has to shop uninterrupted with my wife.
And for the first time, I realised that the Bengali word digonto-bistrito ("spreading to the horizons") can be applicable to a bookstore. I walked into the store and two minutes in, I could see neither the entrance nor the extremity. I was excited enough to start taking pictures before an attendant requested me not to!
What an amazing place to get lost in, which got me wondering about my favourite bookshops.
The Landmark Bookstore in Chennai is this huge expanse of books and CDs that you can get lost in. As is Walden in Hyderabad.
I remember these two stores very fondly because the first two postings of my first job were in these two cities and the two bookstores provided immense succour in times of stress. More specifically, I completed my entire Calvin & Hobbes collection from these two - apart from several other serendipitous findings.
My only crib about Landmark is that (probably) because of its size, the store attendants are uniformly clueless as are the merchandisers. Calvin & Hobbes comics, for example, are always found under the Children's comic section along with Superman, Tenali Rama and Tintin!
On the other hand, my latest favourite bookstore - Quill & Canvas in Gurgaon - is owned by this very up-to-date lady, who manages to recommend very good books basis what I bring to the billing counter. And that invariably gets my bill to inflate one more time! Bookstores should realise that the additional salary one has to pay to well-informed attendants is more than recovered by the additional stuff they manage to subtly push.
Quill & Canvas has the added benefit of having an art gallery within the bookstore, which is a stunning way of keeping browsers engaged.
And inspiring too. I always realise that I have to work much harder to buy that Shuvoprasanna whenever I am in Q&C!
Serendipity is something which I found in abundance in Bangalore. The Strand, in particular. Mumbai's iconic bookstore has a smallish setup in Manipal Centre (off MG Road) and has a rather quirky attitude towards classifying books. So, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy would be found in Popular Science. Lust for Life would be hidden among coffee table books on Art. And of course, there is the standard 15-20% discount applied to all purchases which becomes much more lucrative at the time of their Annual Sale.
Many Bangaloreans have gushed about Premier Book Stall (I hope I got the name right). It is a bookstore, which looks as if the walls have been constructed out of books. I did not find it too great simply because browsing was next to impossible. The massive, slightly leaning stacks of books meant that you could never pull out a book without the whole edifice crumbling all over you.
On the other hand, Blossoms on Church Street is a happy mix of chaos and order. Two floors packed with new and old books. All kinds of books. The staff is cheerfully clueless about location of titles but very helpful in being unobtrusive and letting you browse to your heart's content. Their second-hand selection is supposed to be very good (and at nice discounts too!) but unfortunately (and surprisingly), I have never bought anything from them.
Coming to my absolute favourite bookstore, I have to admit it is not really a 'store' but more of a 10 feet by 8 feet booth on a pavement near South Calcutta's busiest junction. The stock is only about 100 titles of the latest bestsellers - in both English and Bengali. The junction is so dusty and dirty that all the books he keeps have to be wrapped in polythene.
I have been buying books from this place for the last 25 years or so. My standard operating procedure used to be to go to Oxford Bookstore or any other browsable shop and take down the titles. Barun-babu, the shop owner, used to get them for me within a day at a 10% discount.
Apart from the obvious ones, I have lost count of the number of obscure books he has tracked down for me. My standard instruction would be to give him the name and a budget. He got the book only if it was within the budget!
He knew about books. He read most of them. Gave a whispered review for most of the books I picked up. Even let me 'borrow' books overnight to sample before I bought them. A pretty bad business decision, I would say (because I did not like the book).
Once when I had resigned myself to buying a hardcover (the fourth Harry Potter), he asked me to wait for a week since the paperback was about to be released. I guess he lost about 200 bucks in the price differential of the two books and got a lifelong devotee. Not a bad business decision, I would say.
To get back to Kinokuniya, I bought a really eclectic selection of books, all of which were horrendously expensive and weighed down our luggage a lot but TOTALLY worth it - in hindsight!
A lovely 2010 calendar of 12 posters of iconic movies.
A pop psychology book, which classifies people on the basis of their favourite (Hollywood) movies. There is such a crying need for a Bollywood equivalent!
The best stories from The Onion - America's Finest News Source.
99 classic movies, explained in 4 comic panels. This is like a Bluffer's Guide. But why would anybody want to bluff about seeing Chinatown or The Good, The Bad and The Ugly? They should be seen anyway!
And The Rough Guide to Film. Which is, well, a rough guide to film.
Here, take a look at the booty!
Updated to add: Here is a list of the 10 Coolest Bookstores in the US. New York has the most entries, followed by San Francisco.