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 cr̬me of the country, while the drones worked their butts off to make a living. They ensured that the drones did not get anything free Рthat 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 cr̬me of the country, while the drones worked their butts off to make a living. They ensured that the drones did not get anything free Рthat 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.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
How creative can you get?
Creativity in our country has no value. As in, you could create something and unless you really, really are smart or got some good legal work on what you have done in advance, your work stands for nothing.
‘Borrowing’, ‘being inspired’, ‘adjusting’ and downright unapologetic flicking takes place constantly in every field or genre of work. Why else would we see ‘copies’ of everything else under the sun, be they big brands or just pirated film DVDs? We care naught for the original thinker – we are past masters in taking the original thought and twisting it to suit our purposes and needs… and then we are creative as you please in justifying the act. Period.
No wonder the non resident Indian achieves distinction in academics, research only once he or she is non-resident. Then of course, we are quick to claim that he is one of us, not once wondering why this achiever had to fly out of the country to achieve what he or she has.
Actually there is no use playing the blame game in finding out who the culprit is; or passing on the buck. We appear to be a nation of sycophants, largely led by the medium of cinema, reading to digest and spew all that the screen and the stars show us. So every icon in our everyday lives is from some part of cinema, either Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood or Mollywood or whatever – which of course, even drove our political decisions. We never paused to think that just because someone ‘acted’ like they were a saviour of the masses, the image powerfully held up in technicolour, that would they in real life, without the greasepaint be actually capable of running a state or a nation? Do successful corporations employ film stars to lead their businesses?
And as for our legal systems – let’s not even go there.
The current ‘3 idiots’ controversy is what set off this particular rant. Yet, we are continually seeing ‘inspiration’ – very creative indeed. Like Salman’s Mel Gibson Braveheart look is being defended stoutly as reverse inspiration(http://movies.indiatimes.com/News-Gossip/News/Salman-Khan-trying-hard-to-be-Mel-Gibson/articleshow/5285330.cms); or Big B’s Johnny Depp inspired look(http://movies.ndtv.com/gallerydetails.aspx?id=4065&category=Movies&picno=5§ion=Bollywood&ShowID=0#BD) – all this is masala for the media yet ultimately no one stands up to ask the big question – why are we only inspired?
And as for ‘3 idiots’ – I have not seen the film but have read the book. It’s not in my view the best of Chetan’s works(I think his '2 states' is crafted better) but what’s more important is that it is an original work and set the tone for a different kind of an Indian writing that would reach out empathetically to a mass audience, in the time of its publication. It opened the doors for many new young writers of a different sensibility sans the heaviness and the angst that had been showcased internationally before.
Now, I am not sure I want to see the film.
And ultimately, we the audience will be the ‘idiots’ for we will forget and not care for the real issues that need correction. All we need is another film, another star… more panaceas. We are truly a people who don’t wish to look at ourselves in the mirror.
‘Borrowing’, ‘being inspired’, ‘adjusting’ and downright unapologetic flicking takes place constantly in every field or genre of work. Why else would we see ‘copies’ of everything else under the sun, be they big brands or just pirated film DVDs? We care naught for the original thinker – we are past masters in taking the original thought and twisting it to suit our purposes and needs… and then we are creative as you please in justifying the act. Period.
No wonder the non resident Indian achieves distinction in academics, research only once he or she is non-resident. Then of course, we are quick to claim that he is one of us, not once wondering why this achiever had to fly out of the country to achieve what he or she has.
Actually there is no use playing the blame game in finding out who the culprit is; or passing on the buck. We appear to be a nation of sycophants, largely led by the medium of cinema, reading to digest and spew all that the screen and the stars show us. So every icon in our everyday lives is from some part of cinema, either Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood or Mollywood or whatever – which of course, even drove our political decisions. We never paused to think that just because someone ‘acted’ like they were a saviour of the masses, the image powerfully held up in technicolour, that would they in real life, without the greasepaint be actually capable of running a state or a nation? Do successful corporations employ film stars to lead their businesses?
And as for our legal systems – let’s not even go there.
The current ‘3 idiots’ controversy is what set off this particular rant. Yet, we are continually seeing ‘inspiration’ – very creative indeed. Like Salman’s Mel Gibson Braveheart look is being defended stoutly as reverse inspiration(http://movies.indiatimes.com/News-Gossip/News/Salman-Khan-trying-hard-to-be-Mel-Gibson/articleshow/5285330.cms); or Big B’s Johnny Depp inspired look(http://movies.ndtv.com/gallerydetails.aspx?id=4065&category=Movies&picno=5§ion=Bollywood&ShowID=0#BD) – all this is masala for the media yet ultimately no one stands up to ask the big question – why are we only inspired?
And as for ‘3 idiots’ – I have not seen the film but have read the book. It’s not in my view the best of Chetan’s works(I think his '2 states' is crafted better) but what’s more important is that it is an original work and set the tone for a different kind of an Indian writing that would reach out empathetically to a mass audience, in the time of its publication. It opened the doors for many new young writers of a different sensibility sans the heaviness and the angst that had been showcased internationally before.
Now, I am not sure I want to see the film.
And ultimately, we the audience will be the ‘idiots’ for we will forget and not care for the real issues that need correction. All we need is another film, another star… more panaceas. We are truly a people who don’t wish to look at ourselves in the mirror.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
In admiration of those who don’t want to be SOMEBODY
I am currently in admiration of all those who don’t want to be ‘Somebody’. The quiet ones who are doing their own thing, happy in what they do and uncaring that the limelight is far, and so are the reporters.
Nobel prize winner Ramakrishnan said it as it is:
“Last year, the lecture was held in [an auditorium] with a capacity for just 300 people, and half the seats were empty,” said a bemused Dr. Ramakrishnan, facing a jam-packed audience of 3,000 at the university’s Centenary Auditorium. “What has changed? I am still the same person doing the same science. Why are people so impressed when some academy in Sweden gives an award?” he asked.(The Hindu, Dec 22, 2009)
I am wondering as well. What had the 3,000 gone there for? I am sure that 2,700 of them had gone for the Nobel. And 300 for the Prof himself and what he had to say.
Closer home, a friend spoke of a relative, an eminent scientist and winner of many awards, who snuck out to get his awards and quietly returned home without any fanfare.
Life is less complex when you are not jostling for the peripherals, wondering who would beat you in the one-upmanship game.
Life is simple when your standards and your benchmarks are all your own. Then they become easy to achieve without the distraction of a ‘Me Too’ in the public arena, a state-of-mind so complex and complicated that your life and work will never be the same anymore.
Nobel prize winner Ramakrishnan said it as it is:
“Last year, the lecture was held in [an auditorium] with a capacity for just 300 people, and half the seats were empty,” said a bemused Dr. Ramakrishnan, facing a jam-packed audience of 3,000 at the university’s Centenary Auditorium. “What has changed? I am still the same person doing the same science. Why are people so impressed when some academy in Sweden gives an award?” he asked.(The Hindu, Dec 22, 2009)
I am wondering as well. What had the 3,000 gone there for? I am sure that 2,700 of them had gone for the Nobel. And 300 for the Prof himself and what he had to say.
Closer home, a friend spoke of a relative, an eminent scientist and winner of many awards, who snuck out to get his awards and quietly returned home without any fanfare.
Life is less complex when you are not jostling for the peripherals, wondering who would beat you in the one-upmanship game.
Life is simple when your standards and your benchmarks are all your own. Then they become easy to achieve without the distraction of a ‘Me Too’ in the public arena, a state-of-mind so complex and complicated that your life and work will never be the same anymore.
The naysayers
Strange are the ways of the naysayers.
When they say no, they mean yes. And I am not talking about the gender thingie.
I am talking about people who say, oh no… we don’t do this or don’t do that. And you discover that they are the ones who are doing it all the time, quietly, under the guise of a ‘no’.
Self-righteousness is the dead give-away.
Like someone recently shook his head gravely at the cutbacks that some members of his fraternity indulged in, and remarked to me, “They give our profession a bad name.”
I am in doubt. Is ‘they’ always someone else? Or is the shadowy third closer home?
When they say no, they mean yes. And I am not talking about the gender thingie.
I am talking about people who say, oh no… we don’t do this or don’t do that. And you discover that they are the ones who are doing it all the time, quietly, under the guise of a ‘no’.
Self-righteousness is the dead give-away.
Like someone recently shook his head gravely at the cutbacks that some members of his fraternity indulged in, and remarked to me, “They give our profession a bad name.”
I am in doubt. Is ‘they’ always someone else? Or is the shadowy third closer home?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Losers, are we?
Over lunch, a friend and I were discussing the politics of social networking. It is a very adept player who succeeds and gets to the top, much like in corporate. You gotta be smart, you gotta know the latest and what keeps you afloat and well… you need the drive to get there.
“I am a loser then,” says my friend, a longstanding bystander in all antics social. Bystanding occurred partly, because it never occurred to him that this particular activity needed active lobbying and an understanding of the dynamics of the ebbs and flows of being on the guest lists of those who matter. So once you have missed the step on that particular carousel, you become a bystander, and the pleasure is all yours as you watch the antics of others. Except in some way, mused the friend, I feel I am losing out on something, can’t put a finger on what.
Once upon a time, all you did was make friends with the people who you liked; or with whom you shared a common interest of some kind; or your life overlapped with in some way(colleagues, neighbours, fitness partners, etc.) You then kind of drifted into circles of socialising with all these different planets, and really, it was no big deal. Until the arrival of the social networker.
From nowhere: This person was there somewhere in the periphery anonymous. One fine day, he wakes up, decides that he needs to be queen bee and throws the party of the month. Viola! Everyone knows him and he’s on everyone’s guest list.
Climber: This particular one begins at the bottom of the ladder and uses all sorts of contingencies and opportunities to work his way to the top.
Vine: Plays second fiddle to every queen bee and thus, is just there, everywhere.
The networker: Knows everyone, actively cultivates everyone including page 3 journos.
While all of the above enjoy pretty permanent status in the social whirl, the one below is usually touch and go.
The sensation: Hops into the limelight through something shocking, scandalous or by merely being in the middle or a controversy. Whether this one has a long shelf life depends on how smart he/she is. Mostly sinks faster than you can say ‘Titanic’.
“I am a loser then,” says my friend, a longstanding bystander in all antics social. Bystanding occurred partly, because it never occurred to him that this particular activity needed active lobbying and an understanding of the dynamics of the ebbs and flows of being on the guest lists of those who matter. So once you have missed the step on that particular carousel, you become a bystander, and the pleasure is all yours as you watch the antics of others. Except in some way, mused the friend, I feel I am losing out on something, can’t put a finger on what.
Once upon a time, all you did was make friends with the people who you liked; or with whom you shared a common interest of some kind; or your life overlapped with in some way(colleagues, neighbours, fitness partners, etc.) You then kind of drifted into circles of socialising with all these different planets, and really, it was no big deal. Until the arrival of the social networker.
From nowhere: This person was there somewhere in the periphery anonymous. One fine day, he wakes up, decides that he needs to be queen bee and throws the party of the month. Viola! Everyone knows him and he’s on everyone’s guest list.
Climber: This particular one begins at the bottom of the ladder and uses all sorts of contingencies and opportunities to work his way to the top.
Vine: Plays second fiddle to every queen bee and thus, is just there, everywhere.
The networker: Knows everyone, actively cultivates everyone including page 3 journos.
While all of the above enjoy pretty permanent status in the social whirl, the one below is usually touch and go.
The sensation: Hops into the limelight through something shocking, scandalous or by merely being in the middle or a controversy. Whether this one has a long shelf life depends on how smart he/she is. Mostly sinks faster than you can say ‘Titanic’.
Why there was a pause…
I don’t know why I have not blogged for the last few months. Is it that there is nothing of significance that I can see? Or is it that there has been too much happening that I cannot sift out the significant from the routine?
The friend who pushed me to resume writing, he has been off my radar for a while as well. Why else, would I completely lack the impetus to put finger to keypad?
But I am back and hope the momentum picks up…
The friend who pushed me to resume writing, he has been off my radar for a while as well. Why else, would I completely lack the impetus to put finger to keypad?
But I am back and hope the momentum picks up…
Monday, December 7, 2009
Bubble boy – a fairy tale
Once upon a time there was a boy who thought differently. As long as he was small and cute he was appreciated for his freshness and unique way of thinking. Everything he said and everything he did seemed wonderful and there was sunshine all around. He could do no wrong.
Then came school. The boy, so used to being encouraged to just be himself was part of the crowd. Now that was not easy. Every time now he asked a question or made a statement, he was looked at strangely. Some even laughed, thinking he was making a joke. But he was not joking at all. It took some time for the boy to realise that something was wrong.
All around him were tables and chairs and things that sat on them. He alone, was a moving ray, catching the sun as it shone from varied angles. He was reflecting the rays and each reflection was unique. But then, these bright lights and their reflections became a pain for those around him. Especially the ones who tried to beat him into shape, into what they thought he should be.
The boy however, was like this flexi bubble: every time he was flattened into a bewildered mass, it took him some time to understand that this was not it. They wanted him flat and biddable, so that they could walk over him and keep him in one place: while all the time, he would get back into his little bubble shape and float upwards. It became a game for the boy: for his controllers, it became a battle of wills.
It could not last long. The fairy tale ended. Or did it begin? We don’t know. The boy learnt to flatten his bubble when he went into the common environment. He tried his best to keep flat and not bubble up – and most of the time he succeeded. Sometimes, little bubbles would pop up about his flat surface threatening to betray him. The flat substance around him would notice and exclaim or be rowdy, slapping him back to flatness. The bubble came back some time later, when he was on his own, lightening up dark evenings that were happy evenings.
So what did he become? We never did find out. He was flat and luminous by turns. Who was he? Those close to him discovered some glimmer of it but never could catch the light. But one day, he was destined to be the sun. I am quite sure of it.
Dedicated to A. For all the times we saw the sun shine out of him! :)
Then came school. The boy, so used to being encouraged to just be himself was part of the crowd. Now that was not easy. Every time now he asked a question or made a statement, he was looked at strangely. Some even laughed, thinking he was making a joke. But he was not joking at all. It took some time for the boy to realise that something was wrong.
All around him were tables and chairs and things that sat on them. He alone, was a moving ray, catching the sun as it shone from varied angles. He was reflecting the rays and each reflection was unique. But then, these bright lights and their reflections became a pain for those around him. Especially the ones who tried to beat him into shape, into what they thought he should be.
The boy however, was like this flexi bubble: every time he was flattened into a bewildered mass, it took him some time to understand that this was not it. They wanted him flat and biddable, so that they could walk over him and keep him in one place: while all the time, he would get back into his little bubble shape and float upwards. It became a game for the boy: for his controllers, it became a battle of wills.
It could not last long. The fairy tale ended. Or did it begin? We don’t know. The boy learnt to flatten his bubble when he went into the common environment. He tried his best to keep flat and not bubble up – and most of the time he succeeded. Sometimes, little bubbles would pop up about his flat surface threatening to betray him. The flat substance around him would notice and exclaim or be rowdy, slapping him back to flatness. The bubble came back some time later, when he was on his own, lightening up dark evenings that were happy evenings.
So what did he become? We never did find out. He was flat and luminous by turns. Who was he? Those close to him discovered some glimmer of it but never could catch the light. But one day, he was destined to be the sun. I am quite sure of it.
Dedicated to A. For all the times we saw the sun shine out of him! :)
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Everyone wants to be big
Everyone wants to be big,
Everyone wants to be BOSS,
Everyone wants to be Top Dog,
And talk down to the folks.
But bosses, top dogs and the big ones,
At least the ones that are truly so,
Are never seen or heard,
Their power invisible.
It’s the ones that make noise,
Issue the threats and talk big,
Who you know,
Are not really…
The BOSS, the Top Dog,
Or the Big One.
And to hide that,
They talk down to the folks.
Everyone wants to be BOSS,
Everyone wants to be Top Dog,
And talk down to the folks.
But bosses, top dogs and the big ones,
At least the ones that are truly so,
Are never seen or heard,
Their power invisible.
It’s the ones that make noise,
Issue the threats and talk big,
Who you know,
Are not really…
The BOSS, the Top Dog,
Or the Big One.
And to hide that,
They talk down to the folks.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
True confessions of an undercover woman operator
She didn’t quite see herself CID. But she knew she was good. For example, she was the first to spot and tell everyone about the Atiya-Anish love story that was taking place right in the middle of the neighbourhood. No one else had spotted the budding romance as yet, but she, the one who had her finger on the button, just knew, just saw and figured out what the scene was.
She had her faithful band of followers. They primarily hated her, partly out of fear that she would find out something about them. But she was careful not to alienate her followers, since that then, would be disaster and would put an end to her undercover operations. Yes, she was the harmless, dull looking maami next door but who was to know that SHE, yes she, of all people, if she ever wanted to blackmail anyone in the neighbourhood, had the information, first hand, to do so?
So she put down all her observations, inferences and conclusions neatly in a little notebook, that she billed her diary. It was a innocuous looking ruled notebook, 200 pages, that had a chubby child on the cover, a butterfly or even sometimes, a tree or a garden. She had 15 such notebooks stashed away in the tin trunk under her bed. What a pleasure it was to go back to some of them.
For example, one day Ruth aunty from next door was remembering Leela from the third floor of the opposite house(at one of their impromptu neighbourly conclaves when Amina, Ritu and Meenakashi were present) and suddenly, she remembered the rotund, cheerful woman with her string of boyfriends. True, Leela at thirty was not married but her string of BFs would also ensure that she never would. She sniffed at the memory and suddenly felt the urge to relive those days when Leela was her pet subject. So to the tin trunk and notebook number 9 it was… and did she enjoy going back!! The Leela who scorned her neighbours, the same Leela who thumbed her nose at them, even as boys, boys and more boys trooped in and out of the door.
Leela, for example, would take a bath at precisely 7.15 every morning, breakfast at 7.45 and leave home at 8am. She would be back at 4.30, after which a stream of young men would adorn her doorstep one after another. She read through her observations, enjoying every relived moment, relishing it slowly like a toffee being sucked till it vanished on the tongue. Some things are best enjoyed at leisure.
A week after Leela was remembered with fondness, a young man came knocking at her door. She peered at him, for it seemed a familiar face, yet one that she was sure, she could not have known personally.
“Aunty,” said the boy. Aunty? Did she look like his aunt?? She peered closer. He could not have been older than 21. She relaxed a bit and waited. “Aunty, sorry to bother you but would you know where I can get a contact number or address for Ms. Leela who used to live opposite?”
“Er… I really don’t know…” she said, her antennae up at once, “Who shall I say asked for her in case I am able to find out?”
“Oh,” said the boy smiling, “Please tell her it is Aditya from Balakrishna College who took chemistry tuition from her – and graduated from being blockhead to brightest.”
It took a few moments for the undercover woman operator to steady her smile and nod her head.
She had her faithful band of followers. They primarily hated her, partly out of fear that she would find out something about them. But she was careful not to alienate her followers, since that then, would be disaster and would put an end to her undercover operations. Yes, she was the harmless, dull looking maami next door but who was to know that SHE, yes she, of all people, if she ever wanted to blackmail anyone in the neighbourhood, had the information, first hand, to do so?
So she put down all her observations, inferences and conclusions neatly in a little notebook, that she billed her diary. It was a innocuous looking ruled notebook, 200 pages, that had a chubby child on the cover, a butterfly or even sometimes, a tree or a garden. She had 15 such notebooks stashed away in the tin trunk under her bed. What a pleasure it was to go back to some of them.
For example, one day Ruth aunty from next door was remembering Leela from the third floor of the opposite house(at one of their impromptu neighbourly conclaves when Amina, Ritu and Meenakashi were present) and suddenly, she remembered the rotund, cheerful woman with her string of boyfriends. True, Leela at thirty was not married but her string of BFs would also ensure that she never would. She sniffed at the memory and suddenly felt the urge to relive those days when Leela was her pet subject. So to the tin trunk and notebook number 9 it was… and did she enjoy going back!! The Leela who scorned her neighbours, the same Leela who thumbed her nose at them, even as boys, boys and more boys trooped in and out of the door.
Leela, for example, would take a bath at precisely 7.15 every morning, breakfast at 7.45 and leave home at 8am. She would be back at 4.30, after which a stream of young men would adorn her doorstep one after another. She read through her observations, enjoying every relived moment, relishing it slowly like a toffee being sucked till it vanished on the tongue. Some things are best enjoyed at leisure.
A week after Leela was remembered with fondness, a young man came knocking at her door. She peered at him, for it seemed a familiar face, yet one that she was sure, she could not have known personally.
“Aunty,” said the boy. Aunty? Did she look like his aunt?? She peered closer. He could not have been older than 21. She relaxed a bit and waited. “Aunty, sorry to bother you but would you know where I can get a contact number or address for Ms. Leela who used to live opposite?”
“Er… I really don’t know…” she said, her antennae up at once, “Who shall I say asked for her in case I am able to find out?”
“Oh,” said the boy smiling, “Please tell her it is Aditya from Balakrishna College who took chemistry tuition from her – and graduated from being blockhead to brightest.”
It took a few moments for the undercover woman operator to steady her smile and nod her head.
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