My father’s neighbour called.
It was a call ostensibly to invite me to his son’s wedding that was to take place next month.
That done he said, “Please tell your father to cut the tree. It may fall on us anytime.”
I was mystified. I asked, “Oh, has the tree been affected? Is it in danger of falling?”
“No,” he said, “But you know, it stands between his house and mine. Now it is December and the leaves are falling. It is always better to cut the tree.”
The tree in question is a Nagalinga, a beautiful old tree, whose flowers have a tiny ‘lingam’ each, ‘protected’ by a many-headed ‘naga’.
“Why should we cut the tree then?” I asked.
His reply foxed me. “Your poor father has to clear the fallen leaves every day.” Unsaid was the fact that the leaves also fell on the roof of his completely built-up to the compound-wall tree-less and cemented enclosure, which constitutes his home.
Why this tree paranoia?
This is not new to me.
My neighbours, where I live, have often forced me to prune the branches of my frangipani, the branches that extend over their drive-way. While I would never cut the tree, we have, from time to time, ‘pruned’ those offending extending branches so that their driveway is not ‘infested’ with leaf-rubbish.
And contrary to the neighbour’s anxious concern, my ‘poor’ father has never once complained of having to sweep up the fallen leaves, despite his advancing age.
I told the neighbour, “We will not cut that tree. It’s because of such tree-cutting that there was a Vardha at all.” And I hung up.
Yes, tree-fall has been the outcome of Vardha’s passing. But is the solution, a mass and indiscriminate tree-cutting, because this may happen again and the trees may fall?
I thought of the oncoming wedding that would surely leave a giant footprint of of plastic and non-biodegradable waste. And I have nothing more to say to him.
Friday, December 16, 2016
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Why Puppy refuses to play Pappu
Which is why I respect Puppy. Puppy could have been the master of this house. He could have been the Greatest Watchdog ever. He could be growly, gruffy and A Person in Authority. But Puppy knows his mind. He has no illusions about himself. He will not do anything just because mamma wants him to. He will think if I suggest something, his head cocked to one side, his eyes bright and lively with questions. If something does not suit him, he will not think twice about walking back to his mat and curling up on it for his forty winks. Yes, forty, for he is four-years-old.
For example, Puppy does not think he is ‘Youth’. Sometimes, for old times’ sake, I hold a hoop with a biscuit on the other side, and exhort, “Jump Puppy, jump!” Then he looks at me, censure in his deep brown eyes, saying, “Mamma, I am not six months anymore. Give me a break. I will not jump through a hoop, even for a biscuit!”
Then there is the time, when mamma in her infinite wisdom, thinks that Puppy ought to do the social rounds. Take a walk with mamma and a bag of bread, so that lesser dogs can have their day. Suggest it to him, and he growls. “Puppu can do it, not me,” he tells me, “Quit it mamma! I hate that common street dog down the road! He fights with me every time I go on a walk. I am not giving him any bread! You do it if you want to!” That’s honesty for you.
But mamma never learns her lesson, as Puppy knows. Again, her infinite wisdom comes to play as a TV channel walks in, attempting to do a pet story. Mamma, it appears, has arranged for it. There is a dumb interviewer making silly noises intended to attract Puppy but has the opposite effect. He bounds upstairs into the balcony and stands with his paws on the rails, watching the crows noisily circle the nearby tree. Now that’s interesting.
Mamma intervenes, hoping Puppy will see reason. Puppy only looks at me ruefully saying, “Come on Mamma, that’s really too much work.” He pads up the stairs to his jute mat and curls up on it, as the TV anchor, cameraman and producer look on. He then opens one eye. “Mamma,” he says, “I think you should consider interviewing that common street dog instead. He may have plenty to say.”
He then shuts the eye and settles down to snooze.
Puppy has the plot. Pappu still has not.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
THE POLL KITCHEN - Onion Skingh goes on a holiday
Onion Skingh was tired. Today, sitting on the upturned basket that marked his gaddi, he truly felt his age. He decided he needed a break. He turned to the turnip that was running around in circles around his basket in the name of security and said, “Turnturn Skingh, come here!”
Turnturn stopped running and hopped atop the basket.
“Go tell Madame Baingan… er…. Madame Brinjal that I am taking the day off. I need a holiday.”
Turnturn’s jaw dropped. Onion hardly took holidays. Granted, no one really saw him every day really, but everyone knew that he was sitting on top of the basket and running things in the kitchen – at least tried to appeared to. The real power, everyone knew, lay in the vegetable crisper inside the fridge.
Turnturn returned quickly with permission granted. Onion was relieved. He hopped down from the basket and rolled to the bowl where all the other members of his family lay. He called out to his wife, “Gunion, O Gunion! Let’s go out somewhere today.”
But Gunion was having a good time with her family members, playing cards. “Oh, ji! I am bijee ji… You go.”
Onion was disappointed. It was lonely on top of the basket. He had been hoping that Gunion would come. But now… he was alone, alone… It was alone at the top. Reflecting sadly on the situation that Time had placed him in, he hopped out of the window and rolled to the tar road outside the compound of the house he lived in. No one saw him leave. Not even the cook.
Poor Onion… alone and isolated on top of the upturned basket in the kitchen for years, no one told him that the world outside was not so safe. He missed being grabbed by a passing woman, narrowly dodged the wheel of a passing car, was nosed about by a dog that thought he was a ball till he found the opportunity to escape…! His heart thundering(not a good sign at this age), he rolled on till he found a shady spot beneath a stone near a tree. Gasping for breath, he lay there… until a drunken man lying on the shade of the very same tree spotted him and grabbed him. The man must have been hungry for he lifted Onion to bite into him skin and all, when his wife, who had been looking for him came by and grabbed Onion.
“Oho! Onions are selling at Rs.80 a kg and you want to enjoy it alone!!! You drunken lout! I am going put this in to a subzi I am making for the kids. Now come home immediately.”
A helpless Onion, firm in her grasp, was taken to the hovel which passed for her home. Three scruffy children sat there fighting with each other and playing some game on the mud floor. “If only Bir Raj were here,” thought Onion, “He would have made best use of this opportunity.”
He missed the media at this moment. He could imagine the headlines if they caught him, Onion Skingh, in the hovel of this wretchedly poor woman: ‘Onion breaks bread with Poorvathy Devi! Spends night feeding her kids!”
Sighing, for Poorvathy still held him tightly in her grasp, Onion watched the kids play. Suddenly the kids spotted Onion in their mother’s fist.
“An onion! Maa… you are cooking onion today. I get to taste it first!” said one.
“No, I get the first taste!” said the other.
In the scuffle, one of the children caught hold of Onion and threw him far… He could hear the family scream their loss as he sailed through the air and landed… outside the gate of the home where his kitchen was situated.
Greatly relieved, he rolled in, hopped back through the kitchen window, to the kitchen counter where the upturned basket lay. He was happy to be back where he belonged.
He was never going to take a holiday ever again.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
THE POLL KITCHEN – No Baingan Tonite
Onion Skingh sat on his gaddi in the kitchen, struggling not to roll off. He had upturned a basket to make for a high seat, so that the other vegetables could not hop up to sit next to him. He was on an all time high, but keeping position, as we all know, is a very difficult task. Besides, he was round as well.
Onion was also a bit worried about his appearance today. Some dry skin was peeling off, and he was rather particular about looking tidy. He was not looking so fresh, he felt. After all, his job was to keep a stiff upper lip and vegetate. He sniffed a bit – he hoped he was not giving off an odour due to the peeling of the skin. For today, Madame Brinjal was coming in for a meeting.
Onion was a bit uneasy. His price was at an all time high, which meant that it distanced him from everyone. He smelt a conspiracy. On one hand Madame Brinjal assured him that the pricey ‘ness’ was to keep his flag flying high. On the other, there was Bir Raj Brinjal, the heir apparent, who was behaving like he wanted to make onion chutney.
Bir Raj was a bit of an irritant. Onion hoped he wasn’t coming into the meeting. His chest felt a bit fluttery already. The fridge suddenly opened and there was Madame Brinjal, closely followed by a few beans, two-three carrots, one cucumber, a gaggle of ladies fingers, a turnip and a bitter gourd. One or two smaller brinjals tried to follow Madame but she deftly kicked them back into the vegetable crisper and shut the fridge door.
“Aah, there you are Onion,” she smiled, her purple skin crinkling. “Hope you are keeping power properly.”
“Madame! Yes, of course... Do hop up. I am keeping this basket warm for you and Bir Raj. Has he come?”
“Bir? No, no. He is sleeping in. There was some Currynival last night Onion. And Bir organised it... He is tired.”
“Yes Madame, Bir is indeed a shining star.”
“Stop that Onion! Now tell me, what’s today’s menu?”
“Ahem... er... it’s kichidi for breakfast and parathas for lunch with ladies finger. Then, for dinner I thought, rotis with brinjal chutney...”
Madame looked up sharply. “What do you mean Onion?”
“Er... I meant Tomato Chutney Madame!”
“Where are the Tomatoes?” asked Madame sharply. “Have we finished them off or what?”
Before Onion could reply, there was a shrill yell, “Nonsense, nonsense!”
It was Bir Raj, and he was holding aloft a rather shrivelled and dry looking onion.
Onion Skingh shivered. He had a premonition of things to come.
“Mamma! Make way!” He leapt on the upturned basket and with the force of the velocity of his movement, kicked at Onion Skingh.
The sharp and fierce blow sent the elderly Onion rolling off the basket straight into the dustbin. Bir then placed the shrivelled onion atop the basket, next to Madame. Flashbulbs popped as the media captured this unexpected elevation.
“What did I tell you Mamma, about velocity? See, I brought this onion from the dumps, and now your Onion is in the dustbin.”
“Bir! What are you doing?”
“This is a poor onion Mamma, and I used velocity to kick the old Onion out and elevate this poor onion...”
“By Jupiter, are you mad?” Madame’s lips purpled and quivered. “Put him back in the dumps, we need him there you fool. Without him in the dumps, what will you have to talk about? And have Onion Skingh picked up from the dustbin and brought back up.”
“But Mamma, you told me...”
“I have told you a lot of things, now do as you are told.”
Well, to cut things short, Onion Skingh is back on top of the basket alongside Madame and they are cooking up a new menu.
Bir, meanwhile, has taken the onion back to the dumps and lovingly put him back in a special hole dug in the mud. He has promised to visit him again.
Onion was also a bit worried about his appearance today. Some dry skin was peeling off, and he was rather particular about looking tidy. He was not looking so fresh, he felt. After all, his job was to keep a stiff upper lip and vegetate. He sniffed a bit – he hoped he was not giving off an odour due to the peeling of the skin. For today, Madame Brinjal was coming in for a meeting.
Onion was a bit uneasy. His price was at an all time high, which meant that it distanced him from everyone. He smelt a conspiracy. On one hand Madame Brinjal assured him that the pricey ‘ness’ was to keep his flag flying high. On the other, there was Bir Raj Brinjal, the heir apparent, who was behaving like he wanted to make onion chutney.
Bir Raj was a bit of an irritant. Onion hoped he wasn’t coming into the meeting. His chest felt a bit fluttery already. The fridge suddenly opened and there was Madame Brinjal, closely followed by a few beans, two-three carrots, one cucumber, a gaggle of ladies fingers, a turnip and a bitter gourd. One or two smaller brinjals tried to follow Madame but she deftly kicked them back into the vegetable crisper and shut the fridge door.
“Aah, there you are Onion,” she smiled, her purple skin crinkling. “Hope you are keeping power properly.”
“Madame! Yes, of course... Do hop up. I am keeping this basket warm for you and Bir Raj. Has he come?”
“Bir? No, no. He is sleeping in. There was some Currynival last night Onion. And Bir organised it... He is tired.”
“Yes Madame, Bir is indeed a shining star.”
“Stop that Onion! Now tell me, what’s today’s menu?”
“Ahem... er... it’s kichidi for breakfast and parathas for lunch with ladies finger. Then, for dinner I thought, rotis with brinjal chutney...”
Madame looked up sharply. “What do you mean Onion?”
“Er... I meant Tomato Chutney Madame!”
“Where are the Tomatoes?” asked Madame sharply. “Have we finished them off or what?”
Before Onion could reply, there was a shrill yell, “Nonsense, nonsense!”
It was Bir Raj, and he was holding aloft a rather shrivelled and dry looking onion.
Onion Skingh shivered. He had a premonition of things to come.
“Mamma! Make way!” He leapt on the upturned basket and with the force of the velocity of his movement, kicked at Onion Skingh.
The sharp and fierce blow sent the elderly Onion rolling off the basket straight into the dustbin. Bir then placed the shrivelled onion atop the basket, next to Madame. Flashbulbs popped as the media captured this unexpected elevation.
“What did I tell you Mamma, about velocity? See, I brought this onion from the dumps, and now your Onion is in the dustbin.”
“Bir! What are you doing?”
“This is a poor onion Mamma, and I used velocity to kick the old Onion out and elevate this poor onion...”
“By Jupiter, are you mad?” Madame’s lips purpled and quivered. “Put him back in the dumps, we need him there you fool. Without him in the dumps, what will you have to talk about? And have Onion Skingh picked up from the dustbin and brought back up.”
“But Mamma, you told me...”
“I have told you a lot of things, now do as you are told.”
Well, to cut things short, Onion Skingh is back on top of the basket alongside Madame and they are cooking up a new menu.
Bir, meanwhile, has taken the onion back to the dumps and lovingly put him back in a special hole dug in the mud. He has promised to visit him again.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Of cartoons and clowns
Aseem Trivedi is young, brash and angry.
His artwork is direct and confrontationist and no less obnoxious than a poster with the Ashoka lions, each morphed with heads of national politicos - that is currently going viral on Facebook.
He is young, he has a point of view, and like angry young people his age, he is vocal and strident about it and may not just listen to another point of view.
So here is the young man with ideas and a pen, who has given expression to his thoughts. Not many people actually saw his drawings, let alone knew he existed even a few days ago.
Today, thanks to the sedition charge, he has been catapulted to the national political arena, and is telling every television channel who want his bytes, his thoughts on ‘freedom of expression’.
Life could not get more comical or more surreal.
Before talent can hone or talent can mature, here is this young man who is convinced his ‘cartoons’ are bang on target.
Perhaps they are, for no middle-class Indian who views them would turn away – they reflect the anger perfectly. Very typically, every angry Indian is hoping to find someone who would stick as the poster boy of an ‘anti corruption’ movement, someone who would put themselves forward to reflect their collective ire. So far though, no poster boy has sustained the course.
Marie Antoinette may never have historically said, “...let them eat cake.” But this government is saying it, again and again, bumbling into ludicrous ‘cartoon’ situations.
How else will a young man with views that many young people in this country may have, find platforms to vent one after another? – it’s only thanks to a sedition charge; and thanks to the hunger for drama rather than news that drives television today.
I have spent today, my 9pm daily dose of the ‘news’, channel hopping, hoping to find an Aseem-free channel. He makes for great television, even out-shouting Arnab at the mike. Forcing a galled Morparia to mutter, “If he continues to draw this way, two years down the line no one will look at his cartoons.”
It is a sign of the times that in a time when a bill advocates promotion on the basis of reservation and not merit, that it does not take talent to take centre stage.
The political class has first to clear its court of jesters and find its misplaced statesman or two. They have entertained the country long enough.
His artwork is direct and confrontationist and no less obnoxious than a poster with the Ashoka lions, each morphed with heads of national politicos - that is currently going viral on Facebook.
He is young, he has a point of view, and like angry young people his age, he is vocal and strident about it and may not just listen to another point of view.
So here is the young man with ideas and a pen, who has given expression to his thoughts. Not many people actually saw his drawings, let alone knew he existed even a few days ago.
Today, thanks to the sedition charge, he has been catapulted to the national political arena, and is telling every television channel who want his bytes, his thoughts on ‘freedom of expression’.
Life could not get more comical or more surreal.
Before talent can hone or talent can mature, here is this young man who is convinced his ‘cartoons’ are bang on target.
Perhaps they are, for no middle-class Indian who views them would turn away – they reflect the anger perfectly. Very typically, every angry Indian is hoping to find someone who would stick as the poster boy of an ‘anti corruption’ movement, someone who would put themselves forward to reflect their collective ire. So far though, no poster boy has sustained the course.
Marie Antoinette may never have historically said, “...let them eat cake.” But this government is saying it, again and again, bumbling into ludicrous ‘cartoon’ situations.
How else will a young man with views that many young people in this country may have, find platforms to vent one after another? – it’s only thanks to a sedition charge; and thanks to the hunger for drama rather than news that drives television today.
I have spent today, my 9pm daily dose of the ‘news’, channel hopping, hoping to find an Aseem-free channel. He makes for great television, even out-shouting Arnab at the mike. Forcing a galled Morparia to mutter, “If he continues to draw this way, two years down the line no one will look at his cartoons.”
It is a sign of the times that in a time when a bill advocates promotion on the basis of reservation and not merit, that it does not take talent to take centre stage.
The political class has first to clear its court of jesters and find its misplaced statesman or two. They have entertained the country long enough.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Stuck in the middle
By all guesstimates, the middle class probably constitutes 30-40% of our population in India. The middle class is the one that consumes all media – yet, peruse the papers, watch television... other than sporadic outbursts on inflation and price rice, this voter community is largely a silent mass. This is simply because they are so busy working to earn their living, battle through the everyday business of budgeting so that they can live ‘decent’, honourable lives.
This middle class battles through great hurdles in every sphere of life, be it education, healthcare or housing or just living. This class also aspires and is the target for a majority of advertising that happens. Having said that, who really represents their concerns?
Anna Hazare was bang on when he touched upon the core hurdle that this class faces. But now, he is an icon with feet of clay. He showed the middle class hope and a light, then went on to dash the very same hope and put out the light faster than fast.
The middle class educates itself, saves something of its earnings, travels abroad to study, travels abroad on vacation, consumes, connects and... wishes to stay away from anything that could disturb its placid life.
Unable to handle the roughness of corruption and conversation on ground level, this is the class that is active on blogs and twitter, that thinks, converses and has gone virtual.
For a media that is largely disconnected from ground zero, the horror stories that poverty generates is TRP ratings, forgetting that for the majority in poverty – these are not one off stories – this is the story of each of their lives, one mirroring the other with no way out.
It is easy from the confines of an air conditioned studio, to exclaim on the drunken husband biting wife and child; or of the farmers taking their own lives tired of the circle of debt that cannot be ridden.
With no efforts to reclaim the promised claims of education for the poor, no efforts to create the beginnings of the easing of corruption, the political class is now creating totalitarian spaces forgetting that come elections – the unpredictable could happen.
The current generation in their forties now has consumed like never before, aspired and has allowed in some sense, a personal ‘greed’ to fuel their success stories. Perhaps this is why, in this quest for better lives, better homes, better lifestyles, better cars, better brands... the list is endless... the generation in question allowed itself to be swept along without scruples, into the new era, even while several demons raised their heads in this journey.
These demons now threaten their next generation, many of who eschew this vicarious quest for ‘success’ and are treading new paths.
But the biggest demon that has been created in the last two decades has been the political class, who have in some sense walked this path alongside the success stories and who have exploited the means to the end.
The change may be beginning – many cannot see the big picture as yet, but there are little pockets of thought that are growing bigger as communities catch on. Media has just to catch the change correctly to create the big wave.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Taking the easy way out
The RTE this year had the Supreme Court ruling that ‘all schools, except unaided minority institutions, will have to admit at least 25% students from economically weaker sections in the neighbourhood’. This on paper is a fine thought – the government in its complete inability to administer its existing ‘government’ school system is taking the easy way out – ‘reserving’ 25% for underprivileged kids in neighbourhood schools.
So what are they going to do to the government schools? Are they going to be run in the same inefficient way for decades to come? (Check out http://www.bba.org.in/news/images/RTE-2011.pdf.) Will simple basic education the way it should be, be denied to children who, despite the 25% reservation, will not have access to these ‘neighbourhood’ schools?00 Schools today are crunch spaces, with little seats and more applications than admission space. While the RTE as envisaged is going to squeeze these already ‘gold’ seats, it’s certainly not long term vision on the part of the government or the Supreme Court, if their goal is to see every child born in India to have access to education. You can also read a point of view at this link http://www.livemint.com/articles/2012/02/22223606/RTE-and-some-realities.html.
Let’s face it, there is a paucity of vision, will and of course, discipline. The vision to actually understand and utilise the urban and rural wealth in its people – the mass of the population lost in politics and political manoeuvring. Why is not there a concerted effort to restructure and rebuild the government school system? If the government schools were well-structured, much of the middle class would find relief as well, without the pressure of acquiring a school seat by hook or crook. The RTE in its true spirit, would find its feet as it should.
In every field, the government (not this particular one especially, but successive ones), have shown themselves incapable of running institutions. Be it an airline, a healthcare system, an education system... there is nothing we can show that we have built for the common people as a nation post independence, that has grown in stature and spirit. Most of what we rely on are legacies of the British that we have piled bricks on – even the law is a legacy and many of its edicts have no bearing on the ethos of modern India.
As one wise chap who should be doing things to make things work said on TV(news as entertainment of course), ‘private school premises should be thrown open to children in the neighbourhood as play areas’. What was and is this gentleman and his ilk doing when real estate is gobbling up space like there is no tomorrow, government or no government? Why is it that every one of our cities, growing at terrific paces, sees no effort by any governing system to plan for play areas for children? Without that planning or that effort, or the mere execution of that job, the easiest thing to do is to pick on someone else to transfer the pain to.
So what are they going to do to the government schools? Are they going to be run in the same inefficient way for decades to come? (Check out http://www.bba.org.in/news/images/RTE-2011.pdf.) Will simple basic education the way it should be, be denied to children who, despite the 25% reservation, will not have access to these ‘neighbourhood’ schools?00 Schools today are crunch spaces, with little seats and more applications than admission space. While the RTE as envisaged is going to squeeze these already ‘gold’ seats, it’s certainly not long term vision on the part of the government or the Supreme Court, if their goal is to see every child born in India to have access to education. You can also read a point of view at this link http://www.livemint.com/articles/2012/02/22223606/RTE-and-some-realities.html.
Let’s face it, there is a paucity of vision, will and of course, discipline. The vision to actually understand and utilise the urban and rural wealth in its people – the mass of the population lost in politics and political manoeuvring. Why is not there a concerted effort to restructure and rebuild the government school system? If the government schools were well-structured, much of the middle class would find relief as well, without the pressure of acquiring a school seat by hook or crook. The RTE in its true spirit, would find its feet as it should.
In every field, the government (not this particular one especially, but successive ones), have shown themselves incapable of running institutions. Be it an airline, a healthcare system, an education system... there is nothing we can show that we have built for the common people as a nation post independence, that has grown in stature and spirit. Most of what we rely on are legacies of the British that we have piled bricks on – even the law is a legacy and many of its edicts have no bearing on the ethos of modern India.
As one wise chap who should be doing things to make things work said on TV(news as entertainment of course), ‘private school premises should be thrown open to children in the neighbourhood as play areas’. What was and is this gentleman and his ilk doing when real estate is gobbling up space like there is no tomorrow, government or no government? Why is it that every one of our cities, growing at terrific paces, sees no effort by any governing system to plan for play areas for children? Without that planning or that effort, or the mere execution of that job, the easiest thing to do is to pick on someone else to transfer the pain to.
A good idea lost in carbonated bubbles
A new ad to make the rounds on television shows a group of young boys on dry arid terrain, enjoying an uninhibited game of cricket.
The voice over tells you that they may not have a coin to toss(they toss a Coke bottle top instead) sport footwear, etc. etc., but that this is enjoyment of the game of cricket for the sheer pleasure of playing cricket.
The visuals are captivating, the children featured even more so. Smiling faces of your average boy on the street, obviously the poor and the ‘underprivileged’. The visuals are in sepia.
Cut. The shot moves to Sachin wearing bright colours of the brand, new hairstyle and all, guzzling down a bottle of Coke, which the aforementioned boys of course, cannot even afford, thanks to their lack of even a coin to toss.
Insensitive? Yes. Lack of empathy. Yes, yes.
My pleasure in the visuals of the boys playing cricket has been completely wiped out. What a waste of a good idea.
The voice over tells you that they may not have a coin to toss(they toss a Coke bottle top instead) sport footwear, etc. etc., but that this is enjoyment of the game of cricket for the sheer pleasure of playing cricket.
The visuals are captivating, the children featured even more so. Smiling faces of your average boy on the street, obviously the poor and the ‘underprivileged’. The visuals are in sepia.
Cut. The shot moves to Sachin wearing bright colours of the brand, new hairstyle and all, guzzling down a bottle of Coke, which the aforementioned boys of course, cannot even afford, thanks to their lack of even a coin to toss.
Insensitive? Yes. Lack of empathy. Yes, yes.
My pleasure in the visuals of the boys playing cricket has been completely wiped out. What a waste of a good idea.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Muddy eddies and unclear waters
BOOK REVIEW
Book: The Muddy River
Author: P. A. Krishnan
‘When the river is flooded, its water is muddier than at any other time, but when the flood has subsided, it becomes clearer than it was before.’ This quote is attributed to Gandhi at the conclusion of The Muddy River, by P. A. Krishnan. The plot is very much so – muddy, at this quote at least, strives to bring some clarity.
There is a novel within this novel, and a plethora of characters, who weave in and out of the narrative at will. The story of Chandran and Sukanya who have lost their child Priya is at the heart of this story. The relationship of the protagonists is like a theme song, an undercurrent running through. Streaks of brilliant narrative flash through like lightening on a dark stormy night. But on the whole, The Muddy River is a narrative that moves in fits and starts, and as Sukanya’s mails to Subir and Herbert echo, it is a narrative that does not tell the story perfectly.
The culprit you could say are the fonts in the book, the myriad fonts that muddy the reading so much, that you have to return after the first few pages, to figure out that one represents the book in the book, one represents real time and there is more.
Besides, there is some confusion as to the Voice at a particular point. On page 31, Sukanya is reading letters from Subir and Herbert. ‘She’ reads the letters. ‘She’ eased him on the sofa. And a couple of lines later, ‘I haven’t asked him who this Raman is...’ This ‘I’ pops up at a few more places but I have trouble placing the identity of this first person character.
The story hops between Guwahati, Calcutta, Delhi. Ramesh Chandran, as Chief Vigilance Officer, Power Transmission Corporation, a government entity, finds himself thick in negotiation for Ghosh, an engineer of the corporation kidnapped by a militant group.
There are some truly delightful characters who weave in and out – there is Bura, the contractor; Raman who dies in the arms of an ‘escort’ in the company guest house, Bhuyan, the cop; the Power Minister; the Power Secretary. The machinations of these last dignitaries are familiar, deliciously repugnant and corrupt.
It is a tale within the tale, and Ramesh writes out his life, it appears, to purge the guilt of the death of his child. Or is it?
We don’t know. Interestingly, Ramesh remains a mystery despite the first person narrative. He hides more than he relates, even as he shares with you his observations, his irritation, his anger. As the novel concludes, it is Anupama, who takes up a good part of the Assamese narrative who offers us a glimpse of the real Chandran, and then there is a tantalising possibility – did they have an affair?
There is pure gold in the plot of this book and its characters. But it is lost in the muddy eddies of the fonts and the back and forth telling, the he’s and the I’s, the italics and the bolds.
This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!
Book: The Muddy River
Author: P. A. Krishnan
‘When the river is flooded, its water is muddier than at any other time, but when the flood has subsided, it becomes clearer than it was before.’ This quote is attributed to Gandhi at the conclusion of The Muddy River, by P. A. Krishnan. The plot is very much so – muddy, at this quote at least, strives to bring some clarity.
There is a novel within this novel, and a plethora of characters, who weave in and out of the narrative at will. The story of Chandran and Sukanya who have lost their child Priya is at the heart of this story. The relationship of the protagonists is like a theme song, an undercurrent running through. Streaks of brilliant narrative flash through like lightening on a dark stormy night. But on the whole, The Muddy River is a narrative that moves in fits and starts, and as Sukanya’s mails to Subir and Herbert echo, it is a narrative that does not tell the story perfectly.
The culprit you could say are the fonts in the book, the myriad fonts that muddy the reading so much, that you have to return after the first few pages, to figure out that one represents the book in the book, one represents real time and there is more.
Besides, there is some confusion as to the Voice at a particular point. On page 31, Sukanya is reading letters from Subir and Herbert. ‘She’ reads the letters. ‘She’ eased him on the sofa. And a couple of lines later, ‘I haven’t asked him who this Raman is...’ This ‘I’ pops up at a few more places but I have trouble placing the identity of this first person character.
The story hops between Guwahati, Calcutta, Delhi. Ramesh Chandran, as Chief Vigilance Officer, Power Transmission Corporation, a government entity, finds himself thick in negotiation for Ghosh, an engineer of the corporation kidnapped by a militant group.
There are some truly delightful characters who weave in and out – there is Bura, the contractor; Raman who dies in the arms of an ‘escort’ in the company guest house, Bhuyan, the cop; the Power Minister; the Power Secretary. The machinations of these last dignitaries are familiar, deliciously repugnant and corrupt.
It is a tale within the tale, and Ramesh writes out his life, it appears, to purge the guilt of the death of his child. Or is it?
We don’t know. Interestingly, Ramesh remains a mystery despite the first person narrative. He hides more than he relates, even as he shares with you his observations, his irritation, his anger. As the novel concludes, it is Anupama, who takes up a good part of the Assamese narrative who offers us a glimpse of the real Chandran, and then there is a tantalising possibility – did they have an affair?
There is pure gold in the plot of this book and its characters. But it is lost in the muddy eddies of the fonts and the back and forth telling, the he’s and the I’s, the italics and the bolds.
This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!
Thursday, November 3, 2011
A Civil Society Bill?
What if there is truly a civil society mandate? What, if those who are opinion makers, and those who have the power to make the change grab the bull by the horns, and create a Civil Bill that underlines certain requirements that the Common Man asks for, from those they have to vote for?
This Civil Bill, among other things can create a Code for the politician, for the man who wishes to stand for elections. Of course, the age of retirement should be a given. If a man has to retire at 60 or 65 years to give way to new talent and new energy, in politics too, this should be the norm. The Bill can set this and others like:
1. Every aspiring politician should have a minimum education level. Papers to this effect, double ratified, not by a random notary, but by the educational institution and the university, should be presented in the public domain. This will eliminate fake degrees and certificates as well as proxies sitting in for exams.
2. Every aspiring politician should have put in say about a year of ground level social work. He should live in the area where he works, travel on local trains, visit the shanties of the poor and the homeless and have tea with them, without the press and the media being present. There should be an everyday system, perhaps with the new computerised UID support, to ensure that the year of work is clocked, say about 9am-5pm. No excuses, no hospitalisation please.
3. The area of social work can cover any field from education to social or civic support/services.
4. At the end of this year, the aspiring politico shall present a paper on his work, with suitable statistics and other information to the university of the state he belongs to. He shall then immediately be awarded a doctorate, if the quality of his paper passes muster. This short cuts the unnecessary need to get to power, pull all strings, and after two decades of struggle to stay in power, just to have some random university award him a doctorate.
5. This year long social work experience shall be the criteria for standing for any kind of elections. Without this experience, a candidate’s application should be declared null and void.
6. Once elected, the candidate should be eligible for accommodation and other incentives that will average the income levels of his constituency. For example, if the poor in the constituency are surviving on Rs.32 a day quite easily, it would be ridiculous for its elected representative to live in a villa, with Z-category security and move about in an entourage of 10 Ambassadors and a personal SUV.
7. An elected representative cannot act in a film, even if before he entered politics, films were his calling. It would be rather fitting that he should opt for reality television instead. It would connect him instantly to the viewing public, and eliminate any selfish motives of amassment of personal wealth, name or fame - since as per the Civil Bill, he would have to plough any gains thus accrued into the betterment of his constituency.
The above is just a sample of some of the codes that could well cleanse the system of its black sheep. Building on this, it would be needless to say that those accused of murder and corruption, and who may not have been convicted, still cannot apply. A clean slate is a mandate to getting to be our leader.
This Civil Bill, among other things can create a Code for the politician, for the man who wishes to stand for elections. Of course, the age of retirement should be a given. If a man has to retire at 60 or 65 years to give way to new talent and new energy, in politics too, this should be the norm. The Bill can set this and others like:
1. Every aspiring politician should have a minimum education level. Papers to this effect, double ratified, not by a random notary, but by the educational institution and the university, should be presented in the public domain. This will eliminate fake degrees and certificates as well as proxies sitting in for exams.
2. Every aspiring politician should have put in say about a year of ground level social work. He should live in the area where he works, travel on local trains, visit the shanties of the poor and the homeless and have tea with them, without the press and the media being present. There should be an everyday system, perhaps with the new computerised UID support, to ensure that the year of work is clocked, say about 9am-5pm. No excuses, no hospitalisation please.
3. The area of social work can cover any field from education to social or civic support/services.
4. At the end of this year, the aspiring politico shall present a paper on his work, with suitable statistics and other information to the university of the state he belongs to. He shall then immediately be awarded a doctorate, if the quality of his paper passes muster. This short cuts the unnecessary need to get to power, pull all strings, and after two decades of struggle to stay in power, just to have some random university award him a doctorate.
5. This year long social work experience shall be the criteria for standing for any kind of elections. Without this experience, a candidate’s application should be declared null and void.
6. Once elected, the candidate should be eligible for accommodation and other incentives that will average the income levels of his constituency. For example, if the poor in the constituency are surviving on Rs.32 a day quite easily, it would be ridiculous for its elected representative to live in a villa, with Z-category security and move about in an entourage of 10 Ambassadors and a personal SUV.
7. An elected representative cannot act in a film, even if before he entered politics, films were his calling. It would be rather fitting that he should opt for reality television instead. It would connect him instantly to the viewing public, and eliminate any selfish motives of amassment of personal wealth, name or fame - since as per the Civil Bill, he would have to plough any gains thus accrued into the betterment of his constituency.
The above is just a sample of some of the codes that could well cleanse the system of its black sheep. Building on this, it would be needless to say that those accused of murder and corruption, and who may not have been convicted, still cannot apply. A clean slate is a mandate to getting to be our leader.
We get raped every day, but we don’t know it
Every day there is a new scam, a new leader, administrator, politician behind bars. Every day there is someone who ought to be giving to society, taking from the economy instead. Every day, the people who are hired/voted/in positions to protect us, disappoint us, leaving the stage open for someone new, appearing to bring in hope, to step into the limelight. Apathetic, we watch the drama as mere spectators.
Considering the kind of news that is being presented to us on television and in print and in every other form available, life has become very difficult to live. You cannot step out of your house for any of the below reasons:
1. Petrol price hike every two months.
2. Attendant price rice of vegetables and essential provisions, you don’t dare go out shopping for you may not have money to pay in your purse.
3. Eve-teasers who bully women and kill men who try to protect them
4. Apathetic policemen
5. Drunken cadre who abuse motorists like the professor who drove slowly on a Chennai road blocking their path.
6. Apathetic policemen
7. Dustbins spilling stinking rubbish on the roads
8. Apathetic corporators
9. Speeding motorists liable to hit you and drive on
10. Speeding buses
11. Murderous water lorries that don’t look behind when they reverse...
You can add yours to the list...
But the fact remains that either which way, you and I lose, despite our fasts and candle-light vigils, in large groups where we feel warm, cocooned and safe. The shivering spectators who watch vicariously, with no guts to intervene are us. We have no excuse. Every day we get raped, and we don’t know it.
Considering the kind of news that is being presented to us on television and in print and in every other form available, life has become very difficult to live. You cannot step out of your house for any of the below reasons:
1. Petrol price hike every two months.
2. Attendant price rice of vegetables and essential provisions, you don’t dare go out shopping for you may not have money to pay in your purse.
3. Eve-teasers who bully women and kill men who try to protect them
4. Apathetic policemen
5. Drunken cadre who abuse motorists like the professor who drove slowly on a Chennai road blocking their path.
6. Apathetic policemen
7. Dustbins spilling stinking rubbish on the roads
8. Apathetic corporators
9. Speeding motorists liable to hit you and drive on
10. Speeding buses
11. Murderous water lorries that don’t look behind when they reverse...
You can add yours to the list...
But the fact remains that either which way, you and I lose, despite our fasts and candle-light vigils, in large groups where we feel warm, cocooned and safe. The shivering spectators who watch vicariously, with no guts to intervene are us. We have no excuse. Every day we get raped, and we don’t know it.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
You have heard the Voice
We the People are so busy trying to make ends meet, that we have forgotten what it is to think. Mostly, our attitudes unconsciously reflect our desire to be left alone to lead our lives – we want someone else to do the dirty work.
So here we are, watching on national television, and on our streets, the frustration of the collective. Suddenly, there was the septuagenarian, who has miraculously emerged from the mess, to allow us to see what we were.
So in a surge of oneness, the Great Indian Middle Class is out there, showing its strength. For the first time in 64 years, it discovered its Voice. However, in the melee, in the comparisons to Gandhi, one thing is emerging slowly, that some of the commentators are piecing together and putting into words. What everyone missed and what everyone is discovering now.
The ruling class across polity is not just a bit confused. They have lived in a time warp, feasting on the crème of the country, while the drones worked their butts off to make a living. They ensured that the drones did not get anything free – that every bit of education, medical care or essentials of basic living, were fought for tooth and nail, thus allowing those in power to feast on, uncontested.
This ruling class is yet a leftover of the children of the Midnight Generation, who probably saw Freedom happening but were too young to participate in the building of a nation. So without the pain of hard labour, they grew into understanding power and what it could achieve. Now in their sixties, seventies and eighties, these illusionaries, our elected representatives, wise in experience - stand there bewildered not understanding the actual truth of what is happening out there. And Anna was visible, they targeted him; fell flat. Every party in the opposition is glad they aren’t in the hot seat.
But this isn’t about Anna at all. This is about the Voice that has been emerging, a Voice we see every day, we have nurtured them, brought them up and allowed them to grow into the New Generation. This New Generation is not really looking for the privileges of stepping into the shoes of their fathers, mothers, grandfathers or grandmothers like the Leaders who try to be role models. They are discovering new things to do, new things to enjoy and new experiences to explore. In fact, this is the Generation that sees little beyond themselves and their concurrent life circles, the Generation that believes that they are their own role models. Freedom and Gandhi then, were things they read in history before the 11th standard.
This Generation is from the Great Indian Middle Class, looking for good educations, for better degrees, better paying jobs, good lives, well-furnished homes and happy experiences. This is best epitomized by the current Airtel ad so brilliantly interspersed between the news on channels capturing the Voice, where groups of youngsters sing to let you know what their different friends are and how these friends are important to them. And they are the Voice – they are right in front of you and they will not listen to what you say unless they themselves believe in it or are convinced about it.
They are our children, our grandchildren – and no – their Voices are not that of merely the rich and the powerful or those in the media. They are the Voices of those who live next door, who catch buses, trams and autos to college or to work, without the media making them into youth icons. They take loans to get them through college, they aspire to study or work elsewhere in the world and in their own eyes, they are global citizens, yet contemporary Indians.
So is this about Anna? Not at all. This is about the Voice everyone missed, and the Voice that the Wise, in their elected confidence are completely disconnected with. This Voice votes/or not votes, but they are in touch with reality. They have always known what they do not want. (Have you tried persuading your child to do something against his/her wishes? You will understand what I mean.)
So when this pristine, grandfatherly man, who seemed sincere and who suddenly emerged talking Jan Lokpal exhorted them to be there with him, they needed no encouragement. Like a dam burst, they are there flooding the streets.
The Wise Ones have retreated, licking their wounds. They Youth Politicos cannot help them for they themselves grew up in the lap of privilege, acquiring easy educations in Harvard or Cambridge, touring the world young and cocooned in security.
Anna is merely the metaphor, a strong one nevertheless. The voices on television grow stronger, and they are from the Voice – now not shy from showing a Face. There will be others who will speak as loud.
So here we are, watching on national television, and on our streets, the frustration of the collective. Suddenly, there was the septuagenarian, who has miraculously emerged from the mess, to allow us to see what we were.
So in a surge of oneness, the Great Indian Middle Class is out there, showing its strength. For the first time in 64 years, it discovered its Voice. However, in the melee, in the comparisons to Gandhi, one thing is emerging slowly, that some of the commentators are piecing together and putting into words. What everyone missed and what everyone is discovering now.
The ruling class across polity is not just a bit confused. They have lived in a time warp, feasting on the crème of the country, while the drones worked their butts off to make a living. They ensured that the drones did not get anything free – that every bit of education, medical care or essentials of basic living, were fought for tooth and nail, thus allowing those in power to feast on, uncontested.
This ruling class is yet a leftover of the children of the Midnight Generation, who probably saw Freedom happening but were too young to participate in the building of a nation. So without the pain of hard labour, they grew into understanding power and what it could achieve. Now in their sixties, seventies and eighties, these illusionaries, our elected representatives, wise in experience - stand there bewildered not understanding the actual truth of what is happening out there. And Anna was visible, they targeted him; fell flat. Every party in the opposition is glad they aren’t in the hot seat.
But this isn’t about Anna at all. This is about the Voice that has been emerging, a Voice we see every day, we have nurtured them, brought them up and allowed them to grow into the New Generation. This New Generation is not really looking for the privileges of stepping into the shoes of their fathers, mothers, grandfathers or grandmothers like the Leaders who try to be role models. They are discovering new things to do, new things to enjoy and new experiences to explore. In fact, this is the Generation that sees little beyond themselves and their concurrent life circles, the Generation that believes that they are their own role models. Freedom and Gandhi then, were things they read in history before the 11th standard.
This Generation is from the Great Indian Middle Class, looking for good educations, for better degrees, better paying jobs, good lives, well-furnished homes and happy experiences. This is best epitomized by the current Airtel ad so brilliantly interspersed between the news on channels capturing the Voice, where groups of youngsters sing to let you know what their different friends are and how these friends are important to them. And they are the Voice – they are right in front of you and they will not listen to what you say unless they themselves believe in it or are convinced about it.
They are our children, our grandchildren – and no – their Voices are not that of merely the rich and the powerful or those in the media. They are the Voices of those who live next door, who catch buses, trams and autos to college or to work, without the media making them into youth icons. They take loans to get them through college, they aspire to study or work elsewhere in the world and in their own eyes, they are global citizens, yet contemporary Indians.
So is this about Anna? Not at all. This is about the Voice everyone missed, and the Voice that the Wise, in their elected confidence are completely disconnected with. This Voice votes/or not votes, but they are in touch with reality. They have always known what they do not want. (Have you tried persuading your child to do something against his/her wishes? You will understand what I mean.)
So when this pristine, grandfatherly man, who seemed sincere and who suddenly emerged talking Jan Lokpal exhorted them to be there with him, they needed no encouragement. Like a dam burst, they are there flooding the streets.
The Wise Ones have retreated, licking their wounds. They Youth Politicos cannot help them for they themselves grew up in the lap of privilege, acquiring easy educations in Harvard or Cambridge, touring the world young and cocooned in security.
Anna is merely the metaphor, a strong one nevertheless. The voices on television grow stronger, and they are from the Voice – now not shy from showing a Face. There will be others who will speak as loud.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Chemistry
It was a moment she had not anticipated ever. Romantic novellas were her bedtime treat when the burr bugged her brain: but they were soporific tranquillizers, not real books. So it was that in her declining years, she imagined stories of romantic trysts for herself, imagining a time when life would begin again, and when she would regress to a start-up twenty. Nice. Almost as tranquillizing as the books that dished them out.
Very often she would try to imagine, wonder, if that ‘chemistry’ that kept the romance together in the books happened to her in real life what she would do. But it was an imagination that she could not fathom. She gave up, since it was beyond the realm of the real and in books of course, it strung the poor thread of a plot together to the inevitable end.
But it happened, and when it did, she could not believe it. “It is in my imagination,” she thought to herself. Deprived of the oxygen of a life, she was beginning to imagine reality in unreal situations. Or so she thought.
But she could not have imagined the first look. The first pull of something that told her this was ‘the’ zing. The something that made her look at his face again to wonder why it made her look again. Not a handsome face, but a pleasant one. Not certainly tall, dark and handsome – for he was a bit stocky, fair and light-eyed to boot.
And then it happened again. The fine thread that made the link was getting clearer by the minute. This was something more. There was electricity in two hands that came close to touching but did not. There was a buzz in the smiles and the conversations. The fine thread that was almost transparent began to acquire form and a steady shape – it was a line that connected and each time the connection was made, there was a zap. It could not be ignored anymore.
She put down the book which had lost its lustre and tried imagination. This time, it just wouldn’t work. There were no stories or situations that would fit this one. For there it was, moments and moments in time, of a link, an electricity and a puzzled acceptance of this happening.
Once the acceptance came, she shrugged and relaxed. There was nothing, truly nothing she could do about it. For he was a twenty to her thirty-five and there would be plenty others he would surely connect better with, perhaps of his own age?
As she brooded, he came up to where she was seated, at the lounger by the poolside and smiled. The electricity crackled and their eyes met. “May I join you?” he asked.
Very often she would try to imagine, wonder, if that ‘chemistry’ that kept the romance together in the books happened to her in real life what she would do. But it was an imagination that she could not fathom. She gave up, since it was beyond the realm of the real and in books of course, it strung the poor thread of a plot together to the inevitable end.
But it happened, and when it did, she could not believe it. “It is in my imagination,” she thought to herself. Deprived of the oxygen of a life, she was beginning to imagine reality in unreal situations. Or so she thought.
But she could not have imagined the first look. The first pull of something that told her this was ‘the’ zing. The something that made her look at his face again to wonder why it made her look again. Not a handsome face, but a pleasant one. Not certainly tall, dark and handsome – for he was a bit stocky, fair and light-eyed to boot.
And then it happened again. The fine thread that made the link was getting clearer by the minute. This was something more. There was electricity in two hands that came close to touching but did not. There was a buzz in the smiles and the conversations. The fine thread that was almost transparent began to acquire form and a steady shape – it was a line that connected and each time the connection was made, there was a zap. It could not be ignored anymore.
She put down the book which had lost its lustre and tried imagination. This time, it just wouldn’t work. There were no stories or situations that would fit this one. For there it was, moments and moments in time, of a link, an electricity and a puzzled acceptance of this happening.
Once the acceptance came, she shrugged and relaxed. There was nothing, truly nothing she could do about it. For he was a twenty to her thirty-five and there would be plenty others he would surely connect better with, perhaps of his own age?
As she brooded, he came up to where she was seated, at the lounger by the poolside and smiled. The electricity crackled and their eyes met. “May I join you?” he asked.
Extreme beauty
Extreme beauty does that to you. Makes you dissatisfied. Having returned from a tryst with true Nature: no faux 'close-to-nature' resort in the sun - there seems nothing left for you back here.
The need to return pulls. If only I were born in another time. Perhaps two decades later.
The need to return pulls. If only I were born in another time. Perhaps two decades later.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Bollywood special with imported bombshell
The film begins well enough. You have a charming but unscrupulous hero who earns his moolah mainly by wedding young women looking for a green card. The scene is of course, Vegas. Then you have the illegal Spanish immigrant, once again, out for the money, but is fairly plain about her intentions. Both of them are in relationships for what they can get out of it to make their lives easy.
So you have a casino, it’s wealthy, ruthless owner(Kabir Bedi in a wasted role), his son(affianced to the hyped Barbara Mori) and daughter(played by Kangana whom Hrithik pretends to love for the lucre). Then there is a bit of the past where Hrithik has had a wedding with Barbara to help her get a green card and him the cash.
All very well. Stage is set for some interesting encounters and plenty of chemistry you think, when this whole bunch meet at the beach house of Kabir and family for the engagement of son to Barbara. There is much exchange of looks and pursing of lips and the premise for an illicit tryst is set between the lead pair. And then… I think I missed the kite. And so does the director.
Where earlier Natasha(Mori) was a delicious gold digger, the second half shows her soppy and giving up her earlier ambitions for ‘love’! So too with J(Hrithik). Then what? Well… there is nothing you can do when the first half of the storyline cannot even connect with the second. The lead pair show no justification for their change of heart. There are plenty of hide and seek thrilling chase scenes; many many scenes of romance(yawn) with significant exchange of looks and the poster lead pair posing against glorious backdrops. And then… some more story, where there is no Kabir Bedi or Kangana, but only the official villain weekly gnashing his teeth and chasing the lead pair to the end.
Someone has had fun writing the first half, while another writer went wild with the second – that’s the way the script seems.
Makes you feel sorry for poor Hrithik who has made the effort to look gorgeous and act some part - someone please tell Barbara that showing teeth and tongue between teeth cannot constitute acting.
Meanwhile, there is enough craft in this beautifully well-shot movie to make you think what could have been done with this story had they stuck their necks out to make a proper movie and not a Bollywood love story special with an imported bombshell.
So you have a casino, it’s wealthy, ruthless owner(Kabir Bedi in a wasted role), his son(affianced to the hyped Barbara Mori) and daughter(played by Kangana whom Hrithik pretends to love for the lucre). Then there is a bit of the past where Hrithik has had a wedding with Barbara to help her get a green card and him the cash.
All very well. Stage is set for some interesting encounters and plenty of chemistry you think, when this whole bunch meet at the beach house of Kabir and family for the engagement of son to Barbara. There is much exchange of looks and pursing of lips and the premise for an illicit tryst is set between the lead pair. And then… I think I missed the kite. And so does the director.
Where earlier Natasha(Mori) was a delicious gold digger, the second half shows her soppy and giving up her earlier ambitions for ‘love’! So too with J(Hrithik). Then what? Well… there is nothing you can do when the first half of the storyline cannot even connect with the second. The lead pair show no justification for their change of heart. There are plenty of hide and seek thrilling chase scenes; many many scenes of romance(yawn) with significant exchange of looks and the poster lead pair posing against glorious backdrops. And then… some more story, where there is no Kabir Bedi or Kangana, but only the official villain weekly gnashing his teeth and chasing the lead pair to the end.
Someone has had fun writing the first half, while another writer went wild with the second – that’s the way the script seems.
Makes you feel sorry for poor Hrithik who has made the effort to look gorgeous and act some part - someone please tell Barbara that showing teeth and tongue between teeth cannot constitute acting.
Meanwhile, there is enough craft in this beautifully well-shot movie to make you think what could have been done with this story had they stuck their necks out to make a proper movie and not a Bollywood love story special with an imported bombshell.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Chase Legacy
‘One Bright Summer Morning’ is one of James Hadley Chase’s best books I think. This prolific and wonderful story teller had his books marred by skimpy babes on the rather lurid covers. One reason why your hand extended to pick them up; one reason why you hesitated to hold them aloft while reading them as a teen.
Yet, his books have been the most captivating, delving deep into criminal minds, their impulses and of course, mostly always they got their just desserts. But the story telling and the plots were without exception masterly and Chase is an un-anointed classic story teller about the darker side.
Last week at my friendly neighbourhood bookshop, ‘Words and Worths’ I stumbled upon these books with lurid covers, with production values akin to pirated versions that you see on pavement vendor’s shelves and uneven, uneasy fonts/production values.
Curiosity got the better of me (the same curiosity that helped me discover and buy Ashok Banker’s ‘Ten Dead Admen’/’The Iron Bra’ and ‘Murder & Champagne’ as a set of three for a sum of Rs.50 many years ago), especially since the author of these obviously crime novels with was Dr. L. Prakash, the doctor who is counting his time behind bars in a pornography case. Below his name is the blurb “India’s Most Prolific Author” attributed to Outlook.
The back covers are very candid. They carry his photograph as well as a brief profile and his life imprisonment and the fact that he ‘scribbles away’ his novels in Puzhal Prison. And his publisher? – Banana Books based in Triplicane.
Curiosity won. The books were expensive, for their kind of quality, close to about Rs.200 each. I fell into ‘Tangled Web’ a narrative about a new kid in town, the murder of a starlet and a whodunit that echoed a ‘Chasey’ feel. Curiously, the language was clumsy, but the plot and narrative held together in a strange atmosphere of suspense. Words were used wrongly in contexts; crème substituted cream in one place and automotive substituted automobile. But in our very Indian way, one understood the substitutions and went on with it. The plot stood the test of suspense and held on to the very end. You even kind of empathized with the hero, who actually is not very likeable; hoping he would get out of his entanglement. All very evocative (mind you nowhere near the class or the mindgames that Chase novels depict) but somewhere, I should say reminiscent.
I have just begun his next ‘Maybach Maiden’(yes, that is the title) which unsurprisingly is about a Gutka/Paan Masala tycoon who gifts his daughter a Maybach – rings a bell?
The point of this blog actually, is that all this made me curious about James Hadley Chase. Now Dr. Prakash’s understanding of crime and criminals in his novels one supposes, were enhanced by his time in prison. Making you wonder if Chase himself had a brush with the law? Or was he ever in law enforcement? How else could he figure out a Riff and a Chita or a Helga Rolfe?
I googled – he seemed to have been a very reclusive writer. One interesting fact I found is that some part of his young life he spent in Calcutta.
Now only his books with the dated babes on the cover stand out. Btw, invariably the babes are the only sex that the books see. Chase’s novels invariably are clinically criminal.
Yet, his books have been the most captivating, delving deep into criminal minds, their impulses and of course, mostly always they got their just desserts. But the story telling and the plots were without exception masterly and Chase is an un-anointed classic story teller about the darker side.
Last week at my friendly neighbourhood bookshop, ‘Words and Worths’ I stumbled upon these books with lurid covers, with production values akin to pirated versions that you see on pavement vendor’s shelves and uneven, uneasy fonts/production values.
Curiosity got the better of me (the same curiosity that helped me discover and buy Ashok Banker’s ‘Ten Dead Admen’/’The Iron Bra’ and ‘Murder & Champagne’ as a set of three for a sum of Rs.50 many years ago), especially since the author of these obviously crime novels with was Dr. L. Prakash, the doctor who is counting his time behind bars in a pornography case. Below his name is the blurb “India’s Most Prolific Author” attributed to Outlook.
The back covers are very candid. They carry his photograph as well as a brief profile and his life imprisonment and the fact that he ‘scribbles away’ his novels in Puzhal Prison. And his publisher? – Banana Books based in Triplicane.
Curiosity won. The books were expensive, for their kind of quality, close to about Rs.200 each. I fell into ‘Tangled Web’ a narrative about a new kid in town, the murder of a starlet and a whodunit that echoed a ‘Chasey’ feel. Curiously, the language was clumsy, but the plot and narrative held together in a strange atmosphere of suspense. Words were used wrongly in contexts; crème substituted cream in one place and automotive substituted automobile. But in our very Indian way, one understood the substitutions and went on with it. The plot stood the test of suspense and held on to the very end. You even kind of empathized with the hero, who actually is not very likeable; hoping he would get out of his entanglement. All very evocative (mind you nowhere near the class or the mindgames that Chase novels depict) but somewhere, I should say reminiscent.
I have just begun his next ‘Maybach Maiden’(yes, that is the title) which unsurprisingly is about a Gutka/Paan Masala tycoon who gifts his daughter a Maybach – rings a bell?
The point of this blog actually, is that all this made me curious about James Hadley Chase. Now Dr. Prakash’s understanding of crime and criminals in his novels one supposes, were enhanced by his time in prison. Making you wonder if Chase himself had a brush with the law? Or was he ever in law enforcement? How else could he figure out a Riff and a Chita or a Helga Rolfe?
I googled – he seemed to have been a very reclusive writer. One interesting fact I found is that some part of his young life he spent in Calcutta.
Now only his books with the dated babes on the cover stand out. Btw, invariably the babes are the only sex that the books see. Chase’s novels invariably are clinically criminal.
Tomorrow is another day
Faith makes no connections
My good friend and designer is lucky in his BSNL connection. I keep telling him that. He speaks of his broadband, its speed and the fact that it has so far, not let him down. I keep reiterating that he is lucky and now I know – he is lucky.
Now most of us, for sheer value of getting some reaction if not service for money’s worth, do prefer to engage with the private sector. So it is that my broadband and the mobile connections of various family members are from private operators. While I am not saying that their service is fantastic, a combination of low expectations and the fact that some amount of threat (“I will go to consumer court.”) or coaxing (“Please, please… er… that’s begging) can get some reaction out of them.
Try that with the EB/BSNL/etc and you will know what I mean. So it is better to give them a wide berth or so one thought. But of late, my private operator’s undersea cables, poor guy, is giving him problems, and of late has been a good three weeks. One working day saw the internet down, another saw it slow, and so on and so forth. Not a good thing, since our life’s revenues these days are driven on the net, and in hindsight, perhaps an alternate source of internet would be good as standby, was the thought that drove my next move. I mailed back a BSNL franchise who had sent me a mass marketing mail (after deep thought, of course – for one knows that service or what I call reaction, cannot be that bad, can it, esp. since the marketing blitz that one sees with the svelte Deepika on TV and newspapers).
So reacting to the marketing mail of the BSNL franchisee in T. Nagar, I mailed – they came after two weeks after a little bout of reminder calls. No big deal, since we are used to begging for service anyway (the fact that we pay for such favours has nothing to do with it). After my gentle reminders, a gent called saying he needed two passport photos and two documents, one verifying that I was indeed who I claimed to be and the second, that I lived where I claimed to live. Since all this ID verification has now become part of our existence, I had the stuff ready when he arrived and proceeded to fill up one of the boxed forms that are now the norm.
Once that was done, he gave me the particulars and then… hold your breath… asked for cash. I said crossed cheque or no deal. This confused the gent a bit who made a flurry of calls and then decided that he wanted my money after all, no problem if the bank got it straight. He alertly reminded me that I will not get my object of desire until my money is in the franchisee’s bank. Whatever, I said, but tell me how it goes and deliver my USB modem and post paid connection.
About three days later, checking my online resources thanks to good ol’ SBI, hurrah! I discovered that the franchisee had got his monies, but as usual, his memory was a bit weak. So I made my gentle reminder call and the person in charge, of course was not available, until my voice got a bit sharper, and then of course he was there apparently and he came on the line.
I explained and he was kind – if the money has come in, the USB should be with me that very evening. No issues I said equally kindly, but time, we all know does get a bit elastic and it was the next day evening that the thing actually made its tired way to my home. How exciting. They gave me what looked like a DVD case with a nice blue background and a pretty Deepika Padukone surfing on some laptop wearing a net or crocheted top. Pretty cool.
It’s all done and ready, said the chap who delivered. The seal in the box was broken and the modem loaded with the SIM - we check it before we give it to you, said he. After verifying my identity(my driver’s license this time), it was time for the big logon!
The modem looked sleek and I was keen to do a Deepika. (Do remember it’s thanks to BSNL that she delivered some baby in the back of boondocks in some advert, so it felt all very positive.) Besides, the top of the box said in nice bold letters – BSNL 3G, a generation ahead. I plugged in the USB and feeling all generation ahead, installed it. Very efficient. All things done, I pressed ‘connect’.
This was the beginning of a long series of disappointments. While the thing behaved very positively saying ‘port opening’ and then ‘authenticating’ and then… dial in failed. Being completely a citizen of my country and of course, therefore, not unused to working my fingers off for every facility that I pay for, I tried and tried. Then, I turned the box over to look for a helpline number. Na da.
Never mind. I had my local BSNL number and the trusty chappie answered, giving me the helpline number. Helpline said that my SIM had not been registered and gave me some steps to do (don’t want to bore you now, if this, like a formulaic Bollywood hit hasn’t bored you already), and asked me to try a couple of hours later.
Na da.
Another call.
Chappie says, your SIM is not registered.
I say I have BSNL receipt.
He says na da. So he says where buy?
Franchisee.
Oh, they can’t sell you post paid.
But they did and I have Bharat Sanchar Nigam receipt no so so.
I don’t want your receipt number, go to nearest BSNL.
Check your system.
Ask your franchisee.
All the above conversation is in Tamil.
He is determined not to let go of the fact that it is not his duty.
Of course, I am the customer and it is my duty to give up.
I duly do so.
Then he switches to English and says,
Anything else ma’am.
Now I get a bit sarcastic. What else would I want I ask him.
It doesn’t register with the parrot.
He says in well modulated English,
Thank you for your call madam,
Have a nice time.
I laugh out aloud but he is impervious. Happy with a job done, he disconnects.
Oh well.
Tomorrow is another day.
Scarlett was so right.
My good friend and designer is lucky in his BSNL connection. I keep telling him that. He speaks of his broadband, its speed and the fact that it has so far, not let him down. I keep reiterating that he is lucky and now I know – he is lucky.
Now most of us, for sheer value of getting some reaction if not service for money’s worth, do prefer to engage with the private sector. So it is that my broadband and the mobile connections of various family members are from private operators. While I am not saying that their service is fantastic, a combination of low expectations and the fact that some amount of threat (“I will go to consumer court.”) or coaxing (“Please, please… er… that’s begging) can get some reaction out of them.
Try that with the EB/BSNL/etc and you will know what I mean. So it is better to give them a wide berth or so one thought. But of late, my private operator’s undersea cables, poor guy, is giving him problems, and of late has been a good three weeks. One working day saw the internet down, another saw it slow, and so on and so forth. Not a good thing, since our life’s revenues these days are driven on the net, and in hindsight, perhaps an alternate source of internet would be good as standby, was the thought that drove my next move. I mailed back a BSNL franchise who had sent me a mass marketing mail (after deep thought, of course – for one knows that service or what I call reaction, cannot be that bad, can it, esp. since the marketing blitz that one sees with the svelte Deepika on TV and newspapers).
So reacting to the marketing mail of the BSNL franchisee in T. Nagar, I mailed – they came after two weeks after a little bout of reminder calls. No big deal, since we are used to begging for service anyway (the fact that we pay for such favours has nothing to do with it). After my gentle reminders, a gent called saying he needed two passport photos and two documents, one verifying that I was indeed who I claimed to be and the second, that I lived where I claimed to live. Since all this ID verification has now become part of our existence, I had the stuff ready when he arrived and proceeded to fill up one of the boxed forms that are now the norm.
Once that was done, he gave me the particulars and then… hold your breath… asked for cash. I said crossed cheque or no deal. This confused the gent a bit who made a flurry of calls and then decided that he wanted my money after all, no problem if the bank got it straight. He alertly reminded me that I will not get my object of desire until my money is in the franchisee’s bank. Whatever, I said, but tell me how it goes and deliver my USB modem and post paid connection.
About three days later, checking my online resources thanks to good ol’ SBI, hurrah! I discovered that the franchisee had got his monies, but as usual, his memory was a bit weak. So I made my gentle reminder call and the person in charge, of course was not available, until my voice got a bit sharper, and then of course he was there apparently and he came on the line.
I explained and he was kind – if the money has come in, the USB should be with me that very evening. No issues I said equally kindly, but time, we all know does get a bit elastic and it was the next day evening that the thing actually made its tired way to my home. How exciting. They gave me what looked like a DVD case with a nice blue background and a pretty Deepika Padukone surfing on some laptop wearing a net or crocheted top. Pretty cool.
It’s all done and ready, said the chap who delivered. The seal in the box was broken and the modem loaded with the SIM - we check it before we give it to you, said he. After verifying my identity(my driver’s license this time), it was time for the big logon!
The modem looked sleek and I was keen to do a Deepika. (Do remember it’s thanks to BSNL that she delivered some baby in the back of boondocks in some advert, so it felt all very positive.) Besides, the top of the box said in nice bold letters – BSNL 3G, a generation ahead. I plugged in the USB and feeling all generation ahead, installed it. Very efficient. All things done, I pressed ‘connect’.
This was the beginning of a long series of disappointments. While the thing behaved very positively saying ‘port opening’ and then ‘authenticating’ and then… dial in failed. Being completely a citizen of my country and of course, therefore, not unused to working my fingers off for every facility that I pay for, I tried and tried. Then, I turned the box over to look for a helpline number. Na da.
Never mind. I had my local BSNL number and the trusty chappie answered, giving me the helpline number. Helpline said that my SIM had not been registered and gave me some steps to do (don’t want to bore you now, if this, like a formulaic Bollywood hit hasn’t bored you already), and asked me to try a couple of hours later.
Na da.
Another call.
Chappie says, your SIM is not registered.
I say I have BSNL receipt.
He says na da. So he says where buy?
Franchisee.
Oh, they can’t sell you post paid.
But they did and I have Bharat Sanchar Nigam receipt no so so.
I don’t want your receipt number, go to nearest BSNL.
Check your system.
Ask your franchisee.
All the above conversation is in Tamil.
He is determined not to let go of the fact that it is not his duty.
Of course, I am the customer and it is my duty to give up.
I duly do so.
Then he switches to English and says,
Anything else ma’am.
Now I get a bit sarcastic. What else would I want I ask him.
It doesn’t register with the parrot.
He says in well modulated English,
Thank you for your call madam,
Have a nice time.
I laugh out aloud but he is impervious. Happy with a job done, he disconnects.
Oh well.
Tomorrow is another day.
Scarlett was so right.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Ode to a regressive Salman, by Salman
Nothing Veer about it. Lots of Mel about it, and yes, it’s Gibson we are talking about. The hero and his family spend plenty of time thumping biceps, getting dunked in wells while an inanely smiling Nina Gupta looks on, over-dressed in some Lambadi or Rajasthani clothing. The Pindaris(prideful, brave, nationalistic, brave clan, we are told – history said something else: but we shall revisit to give Salman the benefit of doubt), in the meanwhile, spend their time looking tough, uncouth, drinking some obviously alchoholic stuff from ceramic beer mugs, dancing to the strains of Russion or European sounding string instruments in European-looking wooden barns, wearing fur-lined(er… yes) fur-lined waistcoats, capes, etc. in what is THE MOST ORIGINAL take on Indian history certainly.
Cause there are villainous Englishman, a villainous-looking raja played by Jackie Shroff with a golden arm that was cut off by Veer’s(Salman’s) dad Mithun Chakraborty(sadly misused and miscast) in a battle that was to change all their lives forever!!!!
Whatever, Veer’s a script that’s nothing new, not even in the Karina Kaif(minus the size zero) look-alike who is supposedly a Rajasthani princess and daughter of Jackie but who appears in badly-stitched Western gowns and gloves in purple-mauve or buttercup yellow, and who, in the trite regressive thinking of badly made cinema, correctly appears in a neatly draped saree only in a moment of Indian-sadness and widowhood. Her claim to ‘acting’ is pricelessly parted trembling lips that could, at a pinch be interpreted as ecstasy, happiness, love, sadness, tragic… a la Barbara Cartland – the liberty is yours dear viewer depending on how you feel at that particular moment in the movie.
So what was Salman thinking when he made this movie where Jackie Shroff looks more impressive than the duh Veer who relies on stock expressions to get through the film? The Englishmen depicted in the film seem even more moronic and flat. Not a single character stands fleshed out in this cinematic attempt full of paper tigers. Puru Rajkumar looks promising, but I suppose Salman-Veer, recognising the challenge to his non-acting from that particular quarter, shoves him atop a sharp spike?sword? and finishes him off. So, that’s that and the rest of the film is soooooo blah the only thing missing are the kabutars. With Puru gone and Jackie relegated behind the curtains of history only to be brought back in order to be killed towards the end, there’s nothing for you to look forward to except cringing when Salman makes a hash of everything else trying to be Mel G - swagger and expressions. But the immaturity shows.
Ideally, I should begin my take on the movie speaking about the breathtaking sweep of the narrative and the story that spans the deserts of Rajasthan(?) and a very cardboard-cutout London(hark to the days of painted backdrops) where everyone looks at Salman with doe eyes despite him looking like a barbarian with outlandish clothes(nothing Indian about them thank you). He even has a dream song set there.
Story in a nutshell:
Pindaris attack train. Salman sees Katrina clone. Falls in love. Comes to London aided by some random Padre, as part of a Brit mission to educate natives and make them think like them!!!! And… pls. don’t bother to hold your breath – there he bumps into Katrina-clone on the street in a carriage; runs about like a madcap looking for her, when he should not have bothered because surprise of surprises, she is studying at the same school/college as he.
Katrina-clone is most un-patriotic and swans about togged in Brit-apparel and our patriotic-Veer finds it offending not.
The other parts of the Veerdom are random takes on oaths to finish enemy raja(who is also Katrina-clone's dad(yawn)) who is cozying up to the Brits and who once betrayed the Pindaris. Never mind. You can imagine the rest but what I promise you that what you cannot imagine is the ending, which is sheer brilliance of Bollywood invention when the well of ideas falls dry.
Makes you wonder:
Is Salman still living in Maine Pyaar Kiya when the rest of Bollywood is fast catching up with the rest of the world? Not all brilliant films certainly but Bollywood is on the ball with some interesting storylines, original characterisations and out-of-the-box thinking…
Even a Dance pe chance, or was it a Chance pe dance? – was slickly made, well-edited with fair characterisations despite a trite and wafer-thin storyline. It did not cast aspersions on our very intelligence by pretending to be what it is not.
A self-indulgence indeed, narcissistic to boot – and the bottomline is, don’t believe all those polls that bill you as the sexiest or most good looking guy on the planet. Everything is subject to the intelligence of the viewer, not merely their hormones.
Made all the more difficult since the ‘hero’ in question is shadowed by a personal past so wasteful it make you wonder if there is a thinking public out there at all – alleged to have hunted and eaten a blackbuck(a protected species, so how ‘heroic’ does it sound to hunt and eat one?) and alleged to have mowed down sleeping pavement dwellers in a nightly caper.
Can’t popular art throw up some real heroes please, and let’s not call him Veer.
Cause there are villainous Englishman, a villainous-looking raja played by Jackie Shroff with a golden arm that was cut off by Veer’s(Salman’s) dad Mithun Chakraborty(sadly misused and miscast) in a battle that was to change all their lives forever!!!!
Whatever, Veer’s a script that’s nothing new, not even in the Karina Kaif(minus the size zero) look-alike who is supposedly a Rajasthani princess and daughter of Jackie but who appears in badly-stitched Western gowns and gloves in purple-mauve or buttercup yellow, and who, in the trite regressive thinking of badly made cinema, correctly appears in a neatly draped saree only in a moment of Indian-sadness and widowhood. Her claim to ‘acting’ is pricelessly parted trembling lips that could, at a pinch be interpreted as ecstasy, happiness, love, sadness, tragic… a la Barbara Cartland – the liberty is yours dear viewer depending on how you feel at that particular moment in the movie.
So what was Salman thinking when he made this movie where Jackie Shroff looks more impressive than the duh Veer who relies on stock expressions to get through the film? The Englishmen depicted in the film seem even more moronic and flat. Not a single character stands fleshed out in this cinematic attempt full of paper tigers. Puru Rajkumar looks promising, but I suppose Salman-Veer, recognising the challenge to his non-acting from that particular quarter, shoves him atop a sharp spike?sword? and finishes him off. So, that’s that and the rest of the film is soooooo blah the only thing missing are the kabutars. With Puru gone and Jackie relegated behind the curtains of history only to be brought back in order to be killed towards the end, there’s nothing for you to look forward to except cringing when Salman makes a hash of everything else trying to be Mel G - swagger and expressions. But the immaturity shows.
Ideally, I should begin my take on the movie speaking about the breathtaking sweep of the narrative and the story that spans the deserts of Rajasthan(?) and a very cardboard-cutout London(hark to the days of painted backdrops) where everyone looks at Salman with doe eyes despite him looking like a barbarian with outlandish clothes(nothing Indian about them thank you). He even has a dream song set there.
Story in a nutshell:
Pindaris attack train. Salman sees Katrina clone. Falls in love. Comes to London aided by some random Padre, as part of a Brit mission to educate natives and make them think like them!!!! And… pls. don’t bother to hold your breath – there he bumps into Katrina-clone on the street in a carriage; runs about like a madcap looking for her, when he should not have bothered because surprise of surprises, she is studying at the same school/college as he.
Katrina-clone is most un-patriotic and swans about togged in Brit-apparel and our patriotic-Veer finds it offending not.
The other parts of the Veerdom are random takes on oaths to finish enemy raja(who is also Katrina-clone's dad(yawn)) who is cozying up to the Brits and who once betrayed the Pindaris. Never mind. You can imagine the rest but what I promise you that what you cannot imagine is the ending, which is sheer brilliance of Bollywood invention when the well of ideas falls dry.
Makes you wonder:
Is Salman still living in Maine Pyaar Kiya when the rest of Bollywood is fast catching up with the rest of the world? Not all brilliant films certainly but Bollywood is on the ball with some interesting storylines, original characterisations and out-of-the-box thinking…
Even a Dance pe chance, or was it a Chance pe dance? – was slickly made, well-edited with fair characterisations despite a trite and wafer-thin storyline. It did not cast aspersions on our very intelligence by pretending to be what it is not.
A self-indulgence indeed, narcissistic to boot – and the bottomline is, don’t believe all those polls that bill you as the sexiest or most good looking guy on the planet. Everything is subject to the intelligence of the viewer, not merely their hormones.
Made all the more difficult since the ‘hero’ in question is shadowed by a personal past so wasteful it make you wonder if there is a thinking public out there at all – alleged to have hunted and eaten a blackbuck(a protected species, so how ‘heroic’ does it sound to hunt and eat one?) and alleged to have mowed down sleeping pavement dwellers in a nightly caper.
Can’t popular art throw up some real heroes please, and let’s not call him Veer.
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