2006 will be a year best remembered for Friends.
Old friends who came back from ages ago - and never let you feel your age.
New neighbours turned into new friends.
Colleagues evolved into friends... and felt like they'd always been there. Hopefully, they'll always be there too.
Friends who happened out of the blue. And pulled one out of the blues.
And friends who could have been but, inexplicably, weren't to be. Sadly.
It was (and the year will be over in just a few hours) what Dickens may well have had in mind when he wrote "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
Amen 2006.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Bangalore's Most Stylish Place
If you're ever in Bangalore and are cursing Indian airlines because your flight back home is delayed, look at the brighter side of life. Or, better still, look for 39 St. Mark's Road and diagonally opposite KC Das stands Koshy's.Started way back in 1940, it won MTV's award for the Most Stylish Place earlier this year. And that's the beauty of this eaterie that wraps itself literally around the corner and around you with its character.
If you enter the place and turn right, you'll end up in the wrong section: sitting in the air-conditioned part of Koshy's is as bad as going to a Woodland's and ordering channa-bhatura! Enter the place and turn left and you'll taken back in time. Everything seems to come from an era left behind by the British and their pretender-followers. The menu has to be read to be believed (the food, mind you, is delicious) and the service is slow but you're not meant to be in a hurry when you come here. The loos is still called 'cloak rooms' with prominent red signs stating GENTS ONLY and LADIES ONLY (indicative of earlier goings-on behind their doors perhaps).
This is where Banaglore hangs out. And it's a good place to be in and watch locals, tourists, artists, ad-agency types and laptop-toting salesmen nurse chilled beer and masala peanuts (with tomato pieces).
However, if you're there on the last working day of the year watching old friends reunite, it's not such a good feeling. You could be amidst the crowd and still be all alone. Or you could be with a friend you're leaving behind and wondering why you have to part when everyone else is coming together.
But Koshy's couldn't care less if you kissed or cried. If you hugged or held hands. As long as you order and consume, Koshy's will find everything kosher.
You watch this and wonder... why must you leave at all? Perhaps because friends must part only so that they can meet again.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Upstairs Folks
A friendly neighbourhood super woman works for India’s largest BPO. Her husband is with the world’s largest software company. Her daughter (not yet a teenager) has, what must be, the largest heart in the condo.
While most of us went back to work after a three-day Christmas weekend, she had a holiday on Boxing Day. Why? Because USA was shut. Her normally hard-pressed husband also came back before sundown – again because his US office was shut.
And that simply drove home the point that there’s a corner in Gurgaon that is, for now at least, American.
But that’s where this family’s affinity with the Bushland ends.
Are they religious? Yes, but not in a mantra-chanting way. They come from two different communities, so that’s a great start anyway.
Do they have good old Indian values? Yes, but not in a prudish way. I mean, he cooks while she drives a mother-of-them-all Scorpio that terrorises most Jats as well as the ubiquitous bulls that are an integral part of Gurgaon’s landscape (must check Google Maps to see if the bovines feature!).
Will the daughter become Americanised as she grows up? Frankly, my dear, I don’t care a d! Chances are, her non-resident cousins in the US of A will become re-Indianised if our population keeps growing the way it is today. Haven’t the Japs displaced American cars? And China-made toys rule the world?
Well, they can keep their cars and toys. We have our people. And these lovely neighbours, to boot.
Cheers!
While most of us went back to work after a three-day Christmas weekend, she had a holiday on Boxing Day. Why? Because USA was shut. Her normally hard-pressed husband also came back before sundown – again because his US office was shut.
And that simply drove home the point that there’s a corner in Gurgaon that is, for now at least, American.
But that’s where this family’s affinity with the Bushland ends.
Are they religious? Yes, but not in a mantra-chanting way. They come from two different communities, so that’s a great start anyway.
Do they have good old Indian values? Yes, but not in a prudish way. I mean, he cooks while she drives a mother-of-them-all Scorpio that terrorises most Jats as well as the ubiquitous bulls that are an integral part of Gurgaon’s landscape (must check Google Maps to see if the bovines feature!).
Will the daughter become Americanised as she grows up? Frankly, my dear, I don’t care a d! Chances are, her non-resident cousins in the US of A will become re-Indianised if our population keeps growing the way it is today. Haven’t the Japs displaced American cars? And China-made toys rule the world?
Well, they can keep their cars and toys. We have our people. And these lovely neighbours, to boot.
Cheers!
Love Cabs
Bombay is a city with tiny homes, tiny taxis and a huge appetite for love.
Couples who don’t find privacy at home will happily crawl into the compact black & yellow Premier Padminis and snuggle up in the back seat. They couldn’t care less if anyone saw them kissing and fondling each other as long as it’s not a nosy neighbour or aunt.
And other Bombay-ites will not even ogle – unlike their cousins in Delhi who would hoot and whistle! Perhaps even shoot videos on the fly and MMS them… dumbkoffs!
But it still makes me uncomfortable to see this... until a friend very insightfully pointed out: “Isn’t it better that other people – especially children – see love being shared, kisses exchanged rather than violent arguments and blows?”
Perhaps displaying affection in Bombay’s backseats is better than witnessing heated arguments on Delhi’s streets.
Couples who don’t find privacy at home will happily crawl into the compact black & yellow Premier Padminis and snuggle up in the back seat. They couldn’t care less if anyone saw them kissing and fondling each other as long as it’s not a nosy neighbour or aunt.
And other Bombay-ites will not even ogle – unlike their cousins in Delhi who would hoot and whistle! Perhaps even shoot videos on the fly and MMS them… dumbkoffs!
But it still makes me uncomfortable to see this... until a friend very insightfully pointed out: “Isn’t it better that other people – especially children – see love being shared, kisses exchanged rather than violent arguments and blows?”
Perhaps displaying affection in Bombay’s backseats is better than witnessing heated arguments on Delhi’s streets.
No Time for Time
The best way to lose track of time is not by not wearing a watch.
Some people do this in the (mistaken) belief that being freed of this handcuff automatically leads to a sense of being unhurried.
Having been a daily watch-man since Class IX when I was gifted an Anglo-Swiss by my father, I’ve been a slave of the ticking hands. And have tried often to shake off the feeling of being watched over my shoulder and rushing from one task to another. And I’ve failed.
Then, on a Saturday morning in Bombay, unable to laze around any longer in the transit flat’s comfortable bed, I sprung up, grabbed my camera, but not the watch, and set off to the nearby Hanging Gardens for a walk (someday I’ll give up the mobile phone as well). There was nothing unusual about the morning: the expected set of joggers, walkers, exercisers were all there… from the portly to the sprightly. I walked around – aimlessly for once. A path led past a temple and went down to Chowpatty for which I didn’t have energy enough to explore. On the way back, a chai-walla’s fare tantalised the tea-drinker in me and, for three rupees, a glass of freshly-brewed chai was had. I tried buying a couple of his glasses off him and failed – “Nalbazaar is where you’ll get it for five rupees each”, he directed me.
Again, not quite in the mood to seek out Nalbazaar, I went back into the park and marvelled at this oasis-like space in the concrete stalagmites reaching their ugly fingers up into the sky. If the voices around weren’t overwhelmingly Gujarati and the benches didn’t have donor plaques with Kapadias and Shahs and Mehtas on them, I could have been in another city.
Incidentally, why do people have this desperate urge to put the names of their kin on benches when they donate them? I mean, am I supposed to thank the deceased for giving me a butt-parking space every time I sit down? Isn’t the ideal donor the anonymous one?
But this was Bombay and three garrulous old men wouldn’t let me forget it. Under a gazebo, I sat on a Doshi-donated bench (or could it have been a Kapadia?) and was soaking in the golden morning sun when I began to eavesdrop on the conversation between these three retired gents (straight out of that Basu Chatterjee comedy, Shaukeen). They went effortlessly from discussions on Bombay’s income tax contribution to the country’s coffers to the miserliness of a Marwari colleague’s wife to the perils of flirting to a morning satsang… and I listened in shamelessly.
That’s when it struck me that none of the three wore watches. They had evidently worked hard enough (or inherited enough) to live in the most expensive area of the city and be completely bindaas about life. Time meant nothing to them except as a means of catching up with friends and reminiscing happily. Not once did I hear them discuss politics or rape or murder or inflation. It was either an unwritten, pre-determined code that kept ‘bad news’ out of the laxman-rekha. Or perhaps it was just the way they were.
I’d like to believe the latter.
Some people do this in the (mistaken) belief that being freed of this handcuff automatically leads to a sense of being unhurried.
Having been a daily watch-man since Class IX when I was gifted an Anglo-Swiss by my father, I’ve been a slave of the ticking hands. And have tried often to shake off the feeling of being watched over my shoulder and rushing from one task to another. And I’ve failed.
Then, on a Saturday morning in Bombay, unable to laze around any longer in the transit flat’s comfortable bed, I sprung up, grabbed my camera, but not the watch, and set off to the nearby Hanging Gardens for a walk (someday I’ll give up the mobile phone as well). There was nothing unusual about the morning: the expected set of joggers, walkers, exercisers were all there… from the portly to the sprightly. I walked around – aimlessly for once. A path led past a temple and went down to Chowpatty for which I didn’t have energy enough to explore. On the way back, a chai-walla’s fare tantalised the tea-drinker in me and, for three rupees, a glass of freshly-brewed chai was had. I tried buying a couple of his glasses off him and failed – “Nalbazaar is where you’ll get it for five rupees each”, he directed me.
Again, not quite in the mood to seek out Nalbazaar, I went back into the park and marvelled at this oasis-like space in the concrete stalagmites reaching their ugly fingers up into the sky. If the voices around weren’t overwhelmingly Gujarati and the benches didn’t have donor plaques with Kapadias and Shahs and Mehtas on them, I could have been in another city.
Incidentally, why do people have this desperate urge to put the names of their kin on benches when they donate them? I mean, am I supposed to thank the deceased for giving me a butt-parking space every time I sit down? Isn’t the ideal donor the anonymous one?
But this was Bombay and three garrulous old men wouldn’t let me forget it. Under a gazebo, I sat on a Doshi-donated bench (or could it have been a Kapadia?) and was soaking in the golden morning sun when I began to eavesdrop on the conversation between these three retired gents (straight out of that Basu Chatterjee comedy, Shaukeen). They went effortlessly from discussions on Bombay’s income tax contribution to the country’s coffers to the miserliness of a Marwari colleague’s wife to the perils of flirting to a morning satsang… and I listened in shamelessly.
That’s when it struck me that none of the three wore watches. They had evidently worked hard enough (or inherited enough) to live in the most expensive area of the city and be completely bindaas about life. Time meant nothing to them except as a means of catching up with friends and reminiscing happily. Not once did I hear them discuss politics or rape or murder or inflation. It was either an unwritten, pre-determined code that kept ‘bad news’ out of the laxman-rekha. Or perhaps it was just the way they were.
I’d like to believe the latter.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Twilight Zone
Twilight is an orphan.
The day doesn't want it any more.
The night won't own it yet.
Why do I get this feeling I've been in the twilight zone all my life?
The day doesn't want it any more.
The night won't own it yet.
Why do I get this feeling I've been in the twilight zone all my life?
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Jigsawing
There are people who watch movies on TV by appointment... as in, they keep track of which channel is gonna play which movie and will make elaborate arrangements to see it undisturbed by pesky children, low-level IQ maids, interfering moms-in-law, etc.
Then there are people who will watch a film from any point in time depending on what the remote discovers. They may or may not see the film through to its end.
And then there are those who will watch a film from, say, midway till the end. They'll figure out its name (tough if it's the local cable operator and his pirated DVD) and then look out for the next screening of this film... at which point they'll watch it from the start to only the point where they had started the first time around. Get it?
This piecing together of the celluloid puzzle in not-so-equal instalments is what I call 'jigsawing'. And, to the best of my knowledge, there's just one person I know for the last 15 years who has been doing this happily.
If you know of any others, please to tell.
Then there are people who will watch a film from any point in time depending on what the remote discovers. They may or may not see the film through to its end.
And then there are those who will watch a film from, say, midway till the end. They'll figure out its name (tough if it's the local cable operator and his pirated DVD) and then look out for the next screening of this film... at which point they'll watch it from the start to only the point where they had started the first time around. Get it?
This piecing together of the celluloid puzzle in not-so-equal instalments is what I call 'jigsawing'. And, to the best of my knowledge, there's just one person I know for the last 15 years who has been doing this happily.
If you know of any others, please to tell.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Being the Bridge
Not too long ago, I moved from what’s called ‘old media’ to ‘new media’ and was meant to be the bridge between the two worlds. Which sounds nice but is actually quite agonising.
The fundamental problem with being a bridge is that you get walked upon by people from both sides. People who don’t even think twice about it because you’re a bridge, damn it! Hullo... you’re there to connect two ends who are technically not created to be linked, and must be trod upon. (Not a doormat, mind you – I’ve been that too but just didn’t realise it at that point because the heart was ruling the head.)
It’s been troubling me for a while now until I heard Simon & Garfunkel this morning after a very long time and couldn’t help empathising with their lyrics:
…When times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down…
And the more I heard the song, the worse I felt. Why, I asked myself, was I beginning to wallow in Christ-like self-pity? And then, the ballad reached its wonderful end:
…If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
And I told myself, “Ease up, friend”. If this is what you’re meant to be, c’est la vie. At least in this life I’ll be the bridge. In the next, not the troubled water, hopefully.
It's what the Portuguese would call Saudade.
The fundamental problem with being a bridge is that you get walked upon by people from both sides. People who don’t even think twice about it because you’re a bridge, damn it! Hullo... you’re there to connect two ends who are technically not created to be linked, and must be trod upon. (Not a doormat, mind you – I’ve been that too but just didn’t realise it at that point because the heart was ruling the head.)
It’s been troubling me for a while now until I heard Simon & Garfunkel this morning after a very long time and couldn’t help empathising with their lyrics:
…When times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down…
And the more I heard the song, the worse I felt. Why, I asked myself, was I beginning to wallow in Christ-like self-pity? And then, the ballad reached its wonderful end:
…If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
And I told myself, “Ease up, friend”. If this is what you’re meant to be, c’est la vie. At least in this life I’ll be the bridge. In the next, not the troubled water, hopefully.
It's what the Portuguese would call Saudade.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Thank you not welcome?
Why is that most people don't even bother to thank others for the things they do for them?
And why do we have surly security guards at airports who are stone-faced when you thank them for letting you through after their frisking is done?
At this rate, we're headed for an ungrateful world. Will "thank you" disappear from the vocabulary? Or will "you're welcome" be seen only at the entrance of a shop?
Even if someone's just doing his duty, what does it cost to thank them? Two syllables. Just two.
Come to think of it, so does "F you".
And why do we have surly security guards at airports who are stone-faced when you thank them for letting you through after their frisking is done?
At this rate, we're headed for an ungrateful world. Will "thank you" disappear from the vocabulary? Or will "you're welcome" be seen only at the entrance of a shop?
Even if someone's just doing his duty, what does it cost to thank them? Two syllables. Just two.
Come to think of it, so does "F you".
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
Plutoed?
When you meet the country’s best-known astrologer, even the most age-concealing lady considers it the done thing to tell him her date of birth. And she can’t whisper it discreetly; she has to say it out loud because, at 76, the portly Parsi is a teeny weeny bit hard of hearing. He looks into the future, and doesn’t really need his ears as much as his eyes, I guess.
At a dinner on Saturday night where a motley crew had gathered, our astrologer was there too. And every time he met someone, he would introduce himself – rather redundantly – and would go on to ask the other guest his/her date of birth. Thereupon, a complimentary 5-second forecast would follow. Followed by his business card on which he would point out his residence-cum-workplace, just in case you desired a more comprehensive consultation. The host, however, known only to a few to be a rebellious prankster cloaked in the garb of a fearsome demi-god, gave our future-gazer his date of birth that was completely wrong! I know it because his birthday and my wife’s are the same (caught as I am between boss and spouse who share near identical traits with completely dissimilar rates of success) but no one else did; least of all the teller of fortunes.
Wrong date or not, the 5-seconder followed with a flourish of how lucky the number was for our chief and how we all owed our success to this magical number of his. Big Chief’s grin and guffaw was attributed to his “clean soul and balanced ego”. So much for the zodiac and the zoo that had gathered around to get their glimpse into what lay ahead.
People will believe anything they want to believe. An agnostic magazine editor once wrote the horoscope columns himself when the astrologer attached to his rag went on leave and no one was the wiser. Another editor was more enterprising – he just pulled out a week’s horoscope from a three-year old archive and did a Control C and an effortless Control V function. Cut and paste – cut out the past and stick it where you would believe it.
In conversation with this astrologer that night, he loved me for saying that the “past is best forgotten” and I have a feeling it’ll appear on his already overcrowded business card as his new catchphrase. He also loved me for offering to take his wife’s empty glass and save her the trouble of lifting her equally ample self to perform this simple task. “Cultured young man” is what I’m now tagged as in his set of mental files.
He left minus dinner because it was past his mealtime and the food was yet to be laid out. Had he seen his own future that night?
It was good while it lasted. At least there was some form of entertainment. After his rather sudden departure, it was back to the same old gang. And, while juices were doing reluctant rounds, wistful glances being cast by some at Salt Water Grill on Mumbai’s Chowpatty seen from a really highrise.
The fortune teller shouldn’t have Plutoed me. By the way, how come he and his tribe are never alluded to as misfortune-tellers?!
Plutoed? It’s now a verb and if you don’t believe me, check out another future-gazer – Wired magazine. It was SMS-ed to me by someone zipping through the night on a train as she kept asking herself what the future held for her on the eve of what was to be her wedding day. Only it wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
But, as the astrologer would have said: “What’s past is past. The only thing that matters is the future.”
Amen.
At a dinner on Saturday night where a motley crew had gathered, our astrologer was there too. And every time he met someone, he would introduce himself – rather redundantly – and would go on to ask the other guest his/her date of birth. Thereupon, a complimentary 5-second forecast would follow. Followed by his business card on which he would point out his residence-cum-workplace, just in case you desired a more comprehensive consultation. The host, however, known only to a few to be a rebellious prankster cloaked in the garb of a fearsome demi-god, gave our future-gazer his date of birth that was completely wrong! I know it because his birthday and my wife’s are the same (caught as I am between boss and spouse who share near identical traits with completely dissimilar rates of success) but no one else did; least of all the teller of fortunes.
Wrong date or not, the 5-seconder followed with a flourish of how lucky the number was for our chief and how we all owed our success to this magical number of his. Big Chief’s grin and guffaw was attributed to his “clean soul and balanced ego”. So much for the zodiac and the zoo that had gathered around to get their glimpse into what lay ahead.
People will believe anything they want to believe. An agnostic magazine editor once wrote the horoscope columns himself when the astrologer attached to his rag went on leave and no one was the wiser. Another editor was more enterprising – he just pulled out a week’s horoscope from a three-year old archive and did a Control C and an effortless Control V function. Cut and paste – cut out the past and stick it where you would believe it.
In conversation with this astrologer that night, he loved me for saying that the “past is best forgotten” and I have a feeling it’ll appear on his already overcrowded business card as his new catchphrase. He also loved me for offering to take his wife’s empty glass and save her the trouble of lifting her equally ample self to perform this simple task. “Cultured young man” is what I’m now tagged as in his set of mental files.
He left minus dinner because it was past his mealtime and the food was yet to be laid out. Had he seen his own future that night?
It was good while it lasted. At least there was some form of entertainment. After his rather sudden departure, it was back to the same old gang. And, while juices were doing reluctant rounds, wistful glances being cast by some at Salt Water Grill on Mumbai’s Chowpatty seen from a really highrise.
The fortune teller shouldn’t have Plutoed me. By the way, how come he and his tribe are never alluded to as misfortune-tellers?!
Plutoed? It’s now a verb and if you don’t believe me, check out another future-gazer – Wired magazine. It was SMS-ed to me by someone zipping through the night on a train as she kept asking herself what the future held for her on the eve of what was to be her wedding day. Only it wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
But, as the astrologer would have said: “What’s past is past. The only thing that matters is the future.”
Amen.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Journalist as Croupier
What's the point of a Bond film that doesn't have a car chase, a car with no major wizadry, no femme fatale worth ogling and no plot to boot?What's the point of Daniel Craig debuting in a dud film? Casino Royale is a royal flop! And Ian Fleming's first Bond mission could well be the last film first-time Bond-goers ever see. Much of the world doesn't agree. They can go jump.
Incidentally, try and see another film set in a casino - Croupier.
Having borrowed it from The British Council Library many moons ago, I could not but help thinking of the Journalist as a Croupier and wrote what follows in November 2004.
Rarely does a day go by when the phrase “loving detachment” isn’t heard somewhere in our offices. And, more often than not, examples are used to illustrate how we have been (or perhaps not have been) detached. Loving, we may be; detached we usually aren’t.
For those of us who do believe that the newspaper must be created with timebound loving care but cannot reconcile ourselves to the impassiveness implicit in ‘detachment’, a little-known film may help…
In 1998, British director, Mike Hodges, turned out Croupier, a gripper of a film set in a casino in London. With Clive Owen in the title role, the film is actually about a writer who can’t get a good enough idea for a book and returns to earning a living as a croupier. (“Welcome back to the house of addiction”, he mutters to himself.) A croupier, as we probably know, is somebody in charge of a gaming table who collects and pays out the players’ money and chips, and deals the cards or spins the roulette wheel. However, etymologically, the word has its origin in mid-18th century French, and literally means ‘person who rides behind.’ The modern English meaning is developed from “adviser standing behind a gambler”. And here’s the moral of the story…
The croupier in the film himself never plays the table (“Gamblers don’t gamble”, he says). Behind the self-disciplined, icy-cold demeanour is his one addiction of watching people lose. You have to watch the film for its intrigue, its insights and for the way it is made - all 91 minutes of it. But you also have to hear the film for what is said.
More than once, the croupier emphasises: “Hold on tightly, let go lightly.” In many ways, this one phrase is synonymous with “loving detachment”. Until the point at which we put the paper to bed, we caress every word, cross every ‘t’ but when the deadline approaches, we need to let go and move on. When there’s a story to be broken, passion drives the reporter; when it’s printed and picked up by bloodhound-like competitors, we need to stand back and watch them go. No regrets, no qualms, no possessiveness. Another day emerges, another story waits to be broken.
The croupier is merely the dealer. The journalist is the wordsmith who deals out news every day for his readers. The only difference is that the croupier takes (perverse) pleasure in watching the casino’s clients’ money “go down”, the journalist ideally should make his readers believe they win every day.
In a world where everything is like a gamble, this may be the safest bet you can place!
(So what happens to the frustrated writer in the film? Actually he turns out a bestseller but to know how, get hold of the film.)
Rarely does a day go by when the phrase “loving detachment” isn’t heard somewhere in our offices. And, more often than not, examples are used to illustrate how we have been (or perhaps not have been) detached. Loving, we may be; detached we usually aren’t.
For those of us who do believe that the newspaper must be created with timebound loving care but cannot reconcile ourselves to the impassiveness implicit in ‘detachment’, a little-known film may help…
In 1998, British director, Mike Hodges, turned out Croupier, a gripper of a film set in a casino in London. With Clive Owen in the title role, the film is actually about a writer who can’t get a good enough idea for a book and returns to earning a living as a croupier. (“Welcome back to the house of addiction”, he mutters to himself.) A croupier, as we probably know, is somebody in charge of a gaming table who collects and pays out the players’ money and chips, and deals the cards or spins the roulette wheel. However, etymologically, the word has its origin in mid-18th century French, and literally means ‘person who rides behind.’ The modern English meaning is developed from “adviser standing behind a gambler”. And here’s the moral of the story…
The croupier in the film himself never plays the table (“Gamblers don’t gamble”, he says). Behind the self-disciplined, icy-cold demeanour is his one addiction of watching people lose. You have to watch the film for its intrigue, its insights and for the way it is made - all 91 minutes of it. But you also have to hear the film for what is said.
More than once, the croupier emphasises: “Hold on tightly, let go lightly.” In many ways, this one phrase is synonymous with “loving detachment”. Until the point at which we put the paper to bed, we caress every word, cross every ‘t’ but when the deadline approaches, we need to let go and move on. When there’s a story to be broken, passion drives the reporter; when it’s printed and picked up by bloodhound-like competitors, we need to stand back and watch them go. No regrets, no qualms, no possessiveness. Another day emerges, another story waits to be broken.
The croupier is merely the dealer. The journalist is the wordsmith who deals out news every day for his readers. The only difference is that the croupier takes (perverse) pleasure in watching the casino’s clients’ money “go down”, the journalist ideally should make his readers believe they win every day.
In a world where everything is like a gamble, this may be the safest bet you can place!
(So what happens to the frustrated writer in the film? Actually he turns out a bestseller but to know how, get hold of the film.)
Friday, November 24, 2006
Nuns in a Brothel
One of the most hilarious – and clever – definitions of serendipity I’ve come across wasn’t in a dictionary. I forget where I read it but, at my age, I can be excused for the occasional bout of amnesia, I guess.
Serendipity, it said, is like looking for a needle in a haystack and finding the farmer’s daughter instead!
And there must have been a hundred different moments when you’ve been serendipitous but perhaps not realised it. From the Sunday morning rummage that reveals a long-forgotten photograph of college friends to the salary slip that surprisingly shows a reversal of last month’s tax deduction (wishful thinking perhaps but so what!) we’ve all had deliciously wonderful reasons to rejoice.
Now consider just the opposite. When a cold shower of reality strikes you… like the wit who made up ‘chandni raat, haathon mein haath… saamne khada ladki ka baap!’ Or when the harried, hen-pecked husband steals a beer with his colleagues at a makeshift bar in the parking lot only to be caught in the glare of headlights as his wife unexpectedly turns up to pick him up from work! Poor soul. Un-cheers?
I haven’t found a word for these horrendous moments yet but the closest analogy I have come across – again my memory fails me and I must remember to do something about it before I tie myself up in knots – is the headline you see above… nuns in a brothel.
Was it Summer of 42 where a group of adolescent boys discovering their manhood also discover a teacher – or perhaps a preacher? Doesn’t matter really ’cause I think you know what I mean.
They say serendipity also has its origins in the old name for Sri Lanka – seren dwip. and in the fact that some sailor navigating his way to India via the stars stumbled on this gem of an island instead.
If this very sailor came to any of our Indian cities today, he might even contribute to the ‘nuns in a brothel’ community. The mosquitoes that plague Delhi’s posh golf courses despite its pretensions to be a world-class capital getting a makeover for the 2010 Commonwealth Games give this ancient Mughal bastion the same feeling one gets at bumping into Shahnaz Husain. One look at this peddler of beauty trying valiantly to reverse time is enough to remind you of that immortal line ‘khandhaar bata rahein hai ki imarat buland thi.’ Look at Bombay and the human road dividers in Mahim late at night – almost tempting the night-riding Salmans or Alistairs to dispatch them into another life. Some cities manage to look filthier at night and, Queen’s Necklace not withstanding, Mumbai must be high on the list of cops-in-a-dance-bar syndrome.
You could also call it the Ash-as-Umrao Jaan condition. Some film rag writes that Rekha is upset at Ash claiming the title of being Umrao. Will someone please tell our desi Zsa Zsa that she needn’t worry? Ash is only living up to her nickname and consigning her future to the very powder she uses to make an already plasticky face look even more dumb.
But I’ve meandered away from where we started, haven’t I?
Mama-ji at the maikhana, pundits at the races, boss walking into the restaurant just as you’re asking his secretary about whose place you two could head for, the toddler tottering into the bedroom at the point when Richard Gere is taking off Julia Roberts’ clothes… there are a million such moments in everyone’s lives.
At such points when the clock seems to have stopped dead in its tracks, you will probably focus on the nuns and rue what could be but won’t. Or pull yourself out of the situation and marvel at the sheer irony of it. And laugh your head off to defuse the toofan in the teacup.
To moments like these and to the farmer’s daughter as well… Cheers!
Serendipity, it said, is like looking for a needle in a haystack and finding the farmer’s daughter instead!
And there must have been a hundred different moments when you’ve been serendipitous but perhaps not realised it. From the Sunday morning rummage that reveals a long-forgotten photograph of college friends to the salary slip that surprisingly shows a reversal of last month’s tax deduction (wishful thinking perhaps but so what!) we’ve all had deliciously wonderful reasons to rejoice.
Now consider just the opposite. When a cold shower of reality strikes you… like the wit who made up ‘chandni raat, haathon mein haath… saamne khada ladki ka baap!’ Or when the harried, hen-pecked husband steals a beer with his colleagues at a makeshift bar in the parking lot only to be caught in the glare of headlights as his wife unexpectedly turns up to pick him up from work! Poor soul. Un-cheers?
I haven’t found a word for these horrendous moments yet but the closest analogy I have come across – again my memory fails me and I must remember to do something about it before I tie myself up in knots – is the headline you see above… nuns in a brothel.
Was it Summer of 42 where a group of adolescent boys discovering their manhood also discover a teacher – or perhaps a preacher? Doesn’t matter really ’cause I think you know what I mean.
They say serendipity also has its origins in the old name for Sri Lanka – seren dwip. and in the fact that some sailor navigating his way to India via the stars stumbled on this gem of an island instead.
If this very sailor came to any of our Indian cities today, he might even contribute to the ‘nuns in a brothel’ community. The mosquitoes that plague Delhi’s posh golf courses despite its pretensions to be a world-class capital getting a makeover for the 2010 Commonwealth Games give this ancient Mughal bastion the same feeling one gets at bumping into Shahnaz Husain. One look at this peddler of beauty trying valiantly to reverse time is enough to remind you of that immortal line ‘khandhaar bata rahein hai ki imarat buland thi.’ Look at Bombay and the human road dividers in Mahim late at night – almost tempting the night-riding Salmans or Alistairs to dispatch them into another life. Some cities manage to look filthier at night and, Queen’s Necklace not withstanding, Mumbai must be high on the list of cops-in-a-dance-bar syndrome.
You could also call it the Ash-as-Umrao Jaan condition. Some film rag writes that Rekha is upset at Ash claiming the title of being Umrao. Will someone please tell our desi Zsa Zsa that she needn’t worry? Ash is only living up to her nickname and consigning her future to the very powder she uses to make an already plasticky face look even more dumb.
But I’ve meandered away from where we started, haven’t I?
Mama-ji at the maikhana, pundits at the races, boss walking into the restaurant just as you’re asking his secretary about whose place you two could head for, the toddler tottering into the bedroom at the point when Richard Gere is taking off Julia Roberts’ clothes… there are a million such moments in everyone’s lives.
At such points when the clock seems to have stopped dead in its tracks, you will probably focus on the nuns and rue what could be but won’t. Or pull yourself out of the situation and marvel at the sheer irony of it. And laugh your head off to defuse the toofan in the teacup.
To moments like these and to the farmer’s daughter as well… Cheers!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Twenty Plenty
Everyone I know hates flying. If there’s anything more they hate, it’s the delays that are a part of daily life at airports today. (Ask me! I'm experiencing yet another of the infamous delays that Delhi airport is known for.)
Actually, on the other hand, I am skull over stilettos in love with flights. But what really turns me on is the inevitable delayed-flight announcement that gets my co-passengers groaning.
What’s wrong with me? Actually, what’s wrong with you, huh!
Don’t you just love the time you can spend with yourself alone without being lonely? The best place to let the weary mind wander is not on a mountain-top or a quiet beach. It’s the busy, plasticky, characterless airports. No one knows you (hopefully), no one’s gonna come up to you and ask for a light or directions to the loo. And no one’s gonna offer you a drink either – at least not in the security holds of India’s domestic airports yet.
Enjoy this time, my friend. Pull out that book you’ve been hiding inside the laptop bag over the last nine trips. Don’t touch the laptop though, that mistress you lug around Betaal-like. Can’t do without it, can’t get rid of it either. Plug in the i-Pod’s chatter-obliviating earphones into your aural orifices (where else!). Find yourself the cornermost seat you can get – or, buttocks-permitting, perch yourself on to the window-sill overlooking the runways and tell the world to go jump. Relish the next 45 minutes because you won’t get it again – till your boss wants you to fly again (bless him!).
Don’t get distracted by the mother trying hopelessly to curb her children from running up and down the terminal and messing up shiny new clothes bought especially for this their first flight to nana-ji’s home. Don’t let the cooing newly-copulated couple all dressed in bangles and a matching purse and salwar-kameez set (the bride’s, not the groom’s) steal your concentration. Immerse yourself in Neil Diamond or Gulzar or Rabbi Shergill or whatever it takes to get your nostalgia going. And rediscover the rewards of reading, of words that conjure up images long forgotten. Trust me, you need nothing and no one at this point; no guilt either – this time belongs to you. Not to your office, your spouse, son… no one.
At some point, your flight will be announced. Relieved passengers will scramble to board the bus, almost as though being the first ensures that the flight will take off. You should stay where you are, pretend it isn’t your flight they’ve called. But stop reading and take the earplugs off for a minute. If you have a God above, pray hard and ask Him for that one passenger who will invariably hold up an already-delayed flight either because he’s snoring off last night’s whisky in some corner or stuck in the restroom while his bowels evacuate his backside of the prawn masala curry his greed couldn’t refuse.
Hope like hell because the only thing that beats a delayed flight is another 20 minutes waiting on the aircraft. 20 minutes to pause before you dash off again in pursuit of you know not what.
Actually, on the other hand, I am skull over stilettos in love with flights. But what really turns me on is the inevitable delayed-flight announcement that gets my co-passengers groaning.
What’s wrong with me? Actually, what’s wrong with you, huh!
Don’t you just love the time you can spend with yourself alone without being lonely? The best place to let the weary mind wander is not on a mountain-top or a quiet beach. It’s the busy, plasticky, characterless airports. No one knows you (hopefully), no one’s gonna come up to you and ask for a light or directions to the loo. And no one’s gonna offer you a drink either – at least not in the security holds of India’s domestic airports yet.
Enjoy this time, my friend. Pull out that book you’ve been hiding inside the laptop bag over the last nine trips. Don’t touch the laptop though, that mistress you lug around Betaal-like. Can’t do without it, can’t get rid of it either. Plug in the i-Pod’s chatter-obliviating earphones into your aural orifices (where else!). Find yourself the cornermost seat you can get – or, buttocks-permitting, perch yourself on to the window-sill overlooking the runways and tell the world to go jump. Relish the next 45 minutes because you won’t get it again – till your boss wants you to fly again (bless him!).
Don’t get distracted by the mother trying hopelessly to curb her children from running up and down the terminal and messing up shiny new clothes bought especially for this their first flight to nana-ji’s home. Don’t let the cooing newly-copulated couple all dressed in bangles and a matching purse and salwar-kameez set (the bride’s, not the groom’s) steal your concentration. Immerse yourself in Neil Diamond or Gulzar or Rabbi Shergill or whatever it takes to get your nostalgia going. And rediscover the rewards of reading, of words that conjure up images long forgotten. Trust me, you need nothing and no one at this point; no guilt either – this time belongs to you. Not to your office, your spouse, son… no one.
At some point, your flight will be announced. Relieved passengers will scramble to board the bus, almost as though being the first ensures that the flight will take off. You should stay where you are, pretend it isn’t your flight they’ve called. But stop reading and take the earplugs off for a minute. If you have a God above, pray hard and ask Him for that one passenger who will invariably hold up an already-delayed flight either because he’s snoring off last night’s whisky in some corner or stuck in the restroom while his bowels evacuate his backside of the prawn masala curry his greed couldn’t refuse.
Hope like hell because the only thing that beats a delayed flight is another 20 minutes waiting on the aircraft. 20 minutes to pause before you dash off again in pursuit of you know not what.
Below the Belt
Maybe it’s time to remix the old phrase to ‘Waist not, want not’. Actually, not maybe, but definitely. And, for once, this isn’t about the female waist struggling to slip into a size smaller, skin-smooching skirt. This one’s about the good ole male waist…
Or, to be sartorially accurate, his belt. Yeah, that inch-wide cummerbund that’s meant to hold up his sagging trousers. Like most things around us, the belt too has morphed into realms of utility far beyond its original purpose. Like its other cousin, the shoe.
History has it that the shoe was originally meant to cover the hunter’s bare feet and protect him. Today, the more supple the shoe, the farther it is from protection, the more it is valued. Women, they say, will willingly suffer the agony of squeezed (almost amputated) toes to wriggle into tiny pieces of leathery lingerie for their feet just in case some hunk does look at them from top to toe.
If the belt was meant to hold up trousers once, it’s multi-tasking today. But, then, aren’t we all? If the ‘over the shoulder boulder holder’ has evolved from discreetly supporting drooping breasts to being brazenly displayed from under contrastingly-coloured spaghetti-strapped tops (beau peep, R.I.P.) why should the belt remain where it was?
Today, a man has to carry a few essentials that go beyond what’s already in the belt’s third cousin, the wallet. There’s his mobile phone – or phones depending on whether he’s a tycoon or a terrorist – plus his Blackberry plus an MP3 player plus a digital camera (on vacation, at least) plus a belt-pouch for some essential chewies, passport et al plus the case for his designer glares. That’s five items already looped into the belt – get the idea?
However, there’s just one problem: while we busybodies sweat to lose flab by sitting at desks for 14 hours and then running on stationary belts in air-conditioned gyms, the very waists we work on end up bulging in the oddest ways. Did you ever see Clint Eastwood look weird with holsters on either side tucked into his belt?
I mean, two attachments around the belt are just about all it can take. But five? Have a life, guys! And don’t get withdrawal symptoms just because the man ahead of you in the queue at security check is holding up everyone while he gingerly takes off his belt and places his prized jewels in a plastic tray for everyone to ogle at. When did you last see an intelligent, beautiful lady eyeing a man’s digital assets? If it’s just a man thing and you’re not a lisping film director showcasing a particular superstar in every one of his films, then why load yourself, darling?
Rest assured, my friend, the action is always below the belt. Or, at best, above it. Not around it.
And don’t waste another moment wondering. Get going on those abs, tighten the belt another notch and you won’t be left wanting.
(First written October 18, 2006; waiting patiently to be published since)
Or, to be sartorially accurate, his belt. Yeah, that inch-wide cummerbund that’s meant to hold up his sagging trousers. Like most things around us, the belt too has morphed into realms of utility far beyond its original purpose. Like its other cousin, the shoe.
History has it that the shoe was originally meant to cover the hunter’s bare feet and protect him. Today, the more supple the shoe, the farther it is from protection, the more it is valued. Women, they say, will willingly suffer the agony of squeezed (almost amputated) toes to wriggle into tiny pieces of leathery lingerie for their feet just in case some hunk does look at them from top to toe.
If the belt was meant to hold up trousers once, it’s multi-tasking today. But, then, aren’t we all? If the ‘over the shoulder boulder holder’ has evolved from discreetly supporting drooping breasts to being brazenly displayed from under contrastingly-coloured spaghetti-strapped tops (beau peep, R.I.P.) why should the belt remain where it was?
Today, a man has to carry a few essentials that go beyond what’s already in the belt’s third cousin, the wallet. There’s his mobile phone – or phones depending on whether he’s a tycoon or a terrorist – plus his Blackberry plus an MP3 player plus a digital camera (on vacation, at least) plus a belt-pouch for some essential chewies, passport et al plus the case for his designer glares. That’s five items already looped into the belt – get the idea?
However, there’s just one problem: while we busybodies sweat to lose flab by sitting at desks for 14 hours and then running on stationary belts in air-conditioned gyms, the very waists we work on end up bulging in the oddest ways. Did you ever see Clint Eastwood look weird with holsters on either side tucked into his belt?
I mean, two attachments around the belt are just about all it can take. But five? Have a life, guys! And don’t get withdrawal symptoms just because the man ahead of you in the queue at security check is holding up everyone while he gingerly takes off his belt and places his prized jewels in a plastic tray for everyone to ogle at. When did you last see an intelligent, beautiful lady eyeing a man’s digital assets? If it’s just a man thing and you’re not a lisping film director showcasing a particular superstar in every one of his films, then why load yourself, darling?
Rest assured, my friend, the action is always below the belt. Or, at best, above it. Not around it.
And don’t waste another moment wondering. Get going on those abs, tighten the belt another notch and you won’t be left wanting.
(First written October 18, 2006; waiting patiently to be published since)
Goaaaaaaaaaaal!
Every Sunday, a motley crowd gathers at the Shri Ram School campus in Aravali, Gurgaon, to encourage their sons to dribble, head and kick. And, most of all, to win. It is, after all, a competitive world that's getting more competitive by the day, isn't it?
At this school football league match being played between children of class 1 (average age: 7.5 years), it is evident that the parents on the sidelines have a larger stake than the footballers themselves.
While it's great fun to watch every one of the four-feet-something boys fight it out, what's even funnier is their forty-fast-approaching fathers yelling themselves hoarse from the sidelines. Strangely, things always seem easier from the sidelines. And instead of revelling in the sheer joy of watching the whole team (goalkeeper included) crowding around the ball, forgetting carefully-tutored positions and leaving defences wide open, here's a bunch of dads (mostly) trying to be coaches. Or perhaps trying yet again to get their sons to be what they couldn't.
It's what a student of Shakespeare would call tragicomedy.
While the matches themselves are played in all seriousness, what's worth staying on for is the post-match analysis by the school's football coach - the only one really qualified to comment on the match. There was something he said at last Sunday's match that stuck - and it was addressed to the parents: "Let the game be the teacher".
Everyone heard him. But I'm not sure how many listened.
At this school football league match being played between children of class 1 (average age: 7.5 years), it is evident that the parents on the sidelines have a larger stake than the footballers themselves.
While it's great fun to watch every one of the four-feet-something boys fight it out, what's even funnier is their forty-fast-approaching fathers yelling themselves hoarse from the sidelines. Strangely, things always seem easier from the sidelines. And instead of revelling in the sheer joy of watching the whole team (goalkeeper included) crowding around the ball, forgetting carefully-tutored positions and leaving defences wide open, here's a bunch of dads (mostly) trying to be coaches. Or perhaps trying yet again to get their sons to be what they couldn't.
It's what a student of Shakespeare would call tragicomedy.
While the matches themselves are played in all seriousness, what's worth staying on for is the post-match analysis by the school's football coach - the only one really qualified to comment on the match. There was something he said at last Sunday's match that stuck - and it was addressed to the parents: "Let the game be the teacher".
Everyone heard him. But I'm not sure how many listened.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
The Morning After (Diwali)
आग और राख में सिर्फ़ एक चिंगारी की फ़र्क होती है...
No, this isn't just a take on Saif's classic line in Omkara.
It's just a very basic look at what a spark can do.
Diwali came and went - like it does every year. In what can only be described as a miracle, a country where power shortages are commonplace, somehow found hidden reserves of energy to accomodate the millions of additional watts required to light up every God-fearing, neighbour-peering Hindu home's window and balcony (and, of course, all the rooms in case Santa Claus-like Goddess Lakshmi dropped in at night and couldn't see where to leave behind the wealth she was ordained to bring). Including the bathrooms, if you please.
Fireworks went off - like they do every year. Some people watched while others burnt cash; the more they burned, the happier they felt. Others jumped every time a cracker exploded (perhaps Diwali should be renamed 'Festival of Frights') and watched in awe as rockets lit up the October sky. The Goddess, evidently, isn't scared of all the explosions around Her.
There was, however, one difference: parents in their late 30s/early 40s were more keen to burst crakers than their children. Surprise, surprise! Here were eight-year olds educating their dads on pollution even as they had both ears plugged with little fingers hopelessly trying to drown out the cacophony of a thousand crackers going off. It does look like some institutions in Delhi like The Shri Ram School are winning the battle. Of course, there was also the wind that blew away pollution - or so said the weatherman.
But the fact is that a spark seems to have been lit. If these very children can continue resisting the temptation to out-burst their neighbours next year, we may see fewer sights like the one above of the morning after, outside a high-rise.
Until then, keep the faith. And don't let the flames of passion turn everything into ashes.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Lagaan ver 2.0
The next time you visit Shah Jahan's monumental tribute to Mumtaz Mahal, look around at the angrez tourists before you start looking at the intricate details that took 22 years to complete.
Listen to the guide - Wahabuddin, who's been doing this for 30 years, if you can find him near the ticket counter, that is - and you'll hear a suppressed tone of anguish. The Taj Mahal, supposedly one of the wonders of the modern world, is probably the sole reason why Agra even exists today. And yet, it was almost auctioned off by the British during the regime of William Bentinck. No guide will tell you this - you have to read the inscription outside, installed by the Archaeological Survey of India. But what they will tell you is that "many British person come and loot the Taj". Now this is only partly true - so did our very own Jats and Marathas (again, courtesy the ASI). Apparently, what we see today is just a pale, white shadow of a resplendent monument whose riches were taken away.
That the Koh-i-noor diamond is in the crown of the English monarchy is a well-documented fact. But apparently, there are many more riches that were taken 'back home'. The Indian in us will be wrathful for a while but will forget about it until the next time we encounter history.
So, here's a thought: while we do charge foreign tourists and unfair and exorbitant amount to enter the Taj (of course they do get cloth covers for their shoes and a bottle of water, as value for money) are we missing an opportunity here, as someone (henceforth to be known by the name 'Hey!') pointed out?
Consider, for a moment, that instead of this discriminatory pricing - which, incidentally, prevails at most tourist attractions across the country for no documented, logical reason - suppose we charged British tourists nothing. Not one single penny. Instead, suppose we requested them to contribute to a 'Return our Riches' fund and sign an online petition that would pressurise the British Government to finally return all that they looted.
One option is to prevent them from even visiting such monuments until they return what belongs to us first. But that's not such a good thing from a diplomacy point of view, is it?
Will guilt work where half-hearted governments have failed? Kya bolta?
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