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.)
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