Just Breathe...

10 days later

2008-12-07T11:21:00.003+05:30

As I lie down on my bed, the room is filled with light from a string of bulbs lighting up the building right opposite. It's Eid on Tuesday, and celebrations are in order. Earlier, on my way up, caught strains of Shakira from a birthday celebration in the society clubhouse.

Just this morning the newspapers made it a point of publishing quotes from Muslim celebrities about how Eid this time will be a colourless affair. As one read between the lines, one couldn't help feeling this was lip-service, as usual.

It's not about Eid; or Diwali; or Christmas. God forbid, but will it take one death per family for everyone to come together in word and in spirit?

The easy way OUT!

2008-08-24T20:55:00.000+05:30

Finally broke our jinx last evening by watching The Dark Knight – the jinx of having gone wrong on a series of movies that we chose to watch in theatres. And after movies like Black & White, U, Me aur Hum and Ugli aur Pagli, what a treat this was!

Enough has been said about Heath Ledger, who absolutely owns the film… it couldn’t have been anyone else’s show, despite their best efforts. But I have come back more impressed with the writers of the movie (Screenplay: Christopher Nolan & Jonathan Nolan) than anything else. Superhero films, to me, usually, have been instant gratification. I have watched them for thrills, and forgotten them the next day. Till Spiderman 2 came along – the first time someone seemed to be looking beyond the superpowers and special effects – trying to get across the message that it is not the extent of power one wields, but what one intends to do with it.

The Dark Knight seems to take this message further – to understand how everyone justifies their stand – the Joker, Two Face, or even Batman himself. And the way they write so effortlessly gets the complicated point-of-view across! Consider, for example, this conversation where Joker convinces Two-Face about the necessity of chaos as the only balancing factor between those who have power and those who don’t. You can’t help marvel at the perverse logic. And then, with a start you remember that these are just lines written for a movie by a writer. I could copy paste the entire script from the web – because this is what they do through out the movie – play along the two sides of the argument.

Which brings me to the part that I had actually set my mind to write about, when I began this post. What is the matter with the way we write our films? Why can’t we tell a story half as well? And why are we getting so, so lazy?

Let me explain. The major problem that I find with most Hindi movies that I watch these days is the laziness in building a character. Or working hard to explain a sequence of events that lead to certain emotions. We are comfortable with taking shortcuts like using voiceovers, or narrations from friends for this. And in some cases, even a representation from the media comes in handy.

Ugli aur Pugli, for example. Anyone who has watched the movie would remember how every couple of minutes Ranvir Shorey’s voiceovers would take over. Or Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na… we use the extremely easy way of friends telling a story to establish the protagonists and their personality. Or, how could we forget Rang De Basanti, where even Sue is used similarly when her voiceover lets us know that DJ (Aamir Khan) is actually awakening from his slumber while lying with his head on her lap. Was there no cinematic way of conveying this? U, Me aur Hum? Where the story is anyway in flashback with Ajay Devgan narrating it?

In some places it is even more blatant. Remember Krrish? Naseeruddin Shah’s character there had the habit of looking directly at the camera in an extreme close up and yelling out “BREAKING NEWS” to announce what he was going to do next. Shootout at Lokhandwala also uses the same trick through Dia Mirza reporting as a journalist from the place of the shootout. Rang De Basanti, once again, had half the story told through mike toting journalists reporting from various locations as the drama unfolded.

And if I am still not clear about what I’m trying to drive at, let me tell you about some of the films where we have seen beautiful narrative. Take any movie by Hrishikesh Mukherjee or Gulzar – where half an hour in to the story, one would have complete clarity about each character. In recent times, remember Lage Raho Munnabhai? What will it take for us to write more like that?

As someone said, being simple is the most difficult thing in this world.

The line I'm in love with now...

2008-02-20T21:04:00.004+05:30

In the long term, we are all dead ~ Keynes

John Maynard Keynes, British economist said this... presumably about economics or even capital markets... how waiting endlessly for projects, investments to bear fruit makes no sense.

But to me, this line is about that, and much more...it's largely about life. How almost all we are preoccupied with in life... my job sucks, my EMI's killing me, see - he's sucking up to the boss, when will I get rich, blah, blah, blah, blah...

But the point is, all of this is transient...it will all be over, sooner or later. Whether you like it not, whether you are winning or not, whether you had your chance or not. And when it does get over, all of us, no matter how rich, how powerful or with how much clout, will be on equal footing.

While you were sleeping...

2007-08-31T20:03:00.000+05:30

A friend gifted S a Worldspace subscription... so most of the time at home during the last couple of days has been spent testing its limits. But the real surprise came about late last night, when on switching on a Bangla channel, all we could hear for the next hour or so were old melodies by Manna Dey. No RJ spreading his/her gyan, no baniyan advertisements...only and only music - something I had forgotten to expect of radio. You see, listening to cassettes or CDs is not as much fun, because you know what song will follow. It's only a radio station that plays good music consistently that keeps up the suspense of what is to follow.

But what does that have to do with your (or mine, for that matter) sleep?

Listening to this station, I was trying to remember the last time I had heard uninterrupted music like this...way back, before the FM revolution. When all that we had was the non-commercial sarkari radio stations - Calcutta A and Calcutta B... with no FM stations till far, far away. Listening to this made me feel how I did not know how much I missed it. And I tried to think of some more things that had vanished silently

Some more things that vanished? The safari suit. Remember that grey/brown/powder blue coloured half-sleeved suit thing that was worn without a shirt inside, had collars similar to but smaller than a suit's? all the uncles used to wear it... with ridiculous pockets not only on the chest but also at near the waist of the short-shirt. Now the only people who wear it are the contractors and tent-wallahs. though there's proof that not only is it alive, it even has trends for 2007 and a calender to boot!!

Remember there was this time when one would land up unannounced at some one's place and sit and wait for half an hour? The only thing that surprised me when I first heard about how things were abroad, was the fact that no one ever went to meet anyone without calling... none of us ever noticed when that happened to us. Those were the times of ITI's heavy black telephones with circular dials... with a variety of services like false-rings and cross-connections... that is if your line was up and working, in the first place. Oh, these fancy credit-card size mobiles with speed dials are such a kill-joy!

Post It!

2007-04-25T19:38:00.000+05:30

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans - John Lennon

I think I am becoming a slave to organisation. Or at least to the quest of perfect planning. Not that my wife likes it, she objects to the bag being kept on a particular chair (closest to the door – helps when you have woken up late in the morning and are late to work), the bed compulsorily being made every single morning, even when all we do is get out of bed, run to office, run back and crash on that same bed.

But I don’t listen. A day spent without planning is a day lost. Post-It is the biggest invention of mankind... ok, may be after ice cream, but then too, it is big enough. How else would we remember to keep the milk back in the fridge after it’s cooled? How do you know which is dhania powder and which is jeera, unless the identical jars have those friendly little stickers on them? (My wife here says that stickers cannot be friendly. Helpful, yes. But not friendly. Gah!) Post-It, O Post-It, you are the God of the modern day!

Aaah, the joy of writing about Things To Do in those long narrow strips of paper! The more items to scribble, the merrier... and then, you can always count on the joy of scratching them off the next day! Single digit serial numbers make to double digits... and then to... no, one must not lie on a blog; I am yet to reach a three digit on the list of items. But on a particularly bad day, innovation always helps. Need to meet someone? That’s one item. Need to call him first to figure out his office address? That’s another item too.

Where is the problem then? Ah! Let me get to that. The problem is in the To Do lists. I have To Do lists for the kitchen and the doodhwala and the istriwala. I have to do lists for the bank guy, for the broker we need to meet, for the couriers we need to send, and for the phone calls home we need to make. I even have lists for topic I plan to Google for, when I have time to kill. All separate. Did I forget anything? Ah, yes, I also have To Do lists for the business calls we need to make, the reports we need to read, and the forms we need to fill up.

In fact, let me admit. I even have To-Do lists for To-Do lists. Now tell me, don't you think this makes life so much simpler?

Of all the things I've lost...I miss my mind the most.

2007-04-04T21:30:00.000+05:30

When did you fight a losing battle last? When did you do something last, knowing fully well that you had no hope in hell to crack it half as good as the best in business? Honestly? I don’t remember.

We are taught to be good from our childhood... if you can hold a tune – sing; If you can draw a crow that doesn’t look like a kite – paint! for you seem to have some hope. Till you grow up. As, somehow, the options seem to dwindle as years add up on your side. The harmonium goes first of all...gathering dust above the almari. Then the paintbrushes end up being used to clean cobwebs on a Sunday. And finally you end up being good at something that means nothing to you. And, you don’t care anymore, for the knowledge that you do it good stands above doing what you enjoy.

I have been fortunate. I wanted to be a journalist since I was fourteen. Well, before that I wanted to be, among other things, a private detective, a traffic-policemen and an actor, but journalist was the first secure enough option I gave myself. Though, my father breathed again only after I got my first job.

I’ve done reasonably well since, I’d suppose; or found options fast enough. But the one thing that I could not give up is writing. Or reading. Or at least missing both, when I didn't have time. I miss not having time to read as much as I would want to. Most of what I manage to read is literature on finance – something that pertains to my work directly, and to be honest, I do quite enjoy as well. But what about all the travelogues I fail to read anymore? the anecdotes and autobiographies? short stories?

I miss reading them, and I miss thinking about them. Oh, the joy of feeling enriched after you’ve been mesmerised by a master-craftsman who takes you in a journey with her while she is putting her thought in words. Literally. Thoughts-in-words. It doesn’t even have to be a classic. I go thorough http://55-words.blogspot.com/ as often as I find time. Why am I denied such clarity of thought? 55 words is all you have. And at least ten percent of these creations are mind-blowing. Or a dead blog I come across every once in a while, that takes my breath away. I take an hour and the archives have been rampaged; why did they stop writing... I wonder as I pine for more, all the time secretly wishing I could write as well.

But as I go through all my archives, I clearly see the learning curve has gone flat. I’m learning new words, but my thoughts don’t get any more lucid.

Where’s this journey going to end?

HoneymoonTravels...

2007-03-19T16:47:00.000+05:30

Lots been written about the movie... and I guess it is a trifle late in the day to write a review... so let me write why I like the movie... and defend the most common grouses levelled against it. Needless to say, grouses that I find justified as well, will not be addressed.

No one has faulted Reema Kagti on her ability to script the movie... it is her way of telling a story that they don't agree with. It's been often pointed out how after the first forty minutes or so she seems to be losing her grip on the story... and introduces the super-hero element as a face-saver... that is where I beg to differ... to me it seemed every character was given a lot of thought and was there with a purpose.

The Bong couple for example... like the Gujju or the Punjabi couple they were caricatures of what one from a particular ethnicity is assumed to be (that does not mean that my submission is that Bongs are far from how Kay Kay was portrayed... just that even though they may be prudish, deep down, take their hang-ups from them, and they ARE nice people)... but as the movie culminates you notice that their conjugal relationship has undergone a learning curve.

Ranveer Shourey – once again, brilliant as the oh-so-Gujjubhai-that-we-all-have-met-in-Bombay is wonderful... but again, a caricature from his Seelpa call, to his aake hisaab karta hoon, that he threatens Shilpa’s family with.

Ameesha Patel... the less said about the better. My suspicion is that she did not have to act too much.

But the point that I am trying to make is that, if you look at each couple behind closed doors, you realise honeymoons do not necessarily need to be the perfect period that they are portrayed as... in fact, in most cases, this is the time when the two people face each other with their insecurities, issues and confessions.

And that is where the superhero act of Abhay and Minnisshha (is that one extra ‘h’? But then, who’s perfect) come in... I’d like to believe this is a way of saying that for one to be ridiculously perfect and absolutely compatible, one would have to be superhuman. But look at what they lose out on in the bargain – these two characters do not develop at all... they go nowhere from where they were in the beginning of the story.

The ending is adorable too... everyone seems to learn to live with their lives – may be not at peace with it’s shortcomings, but aware of them, and determined to smile through them...

Nice.

How is married life treating you?

2007-03-09T16:01:00.000+05:30

...oh, it’s devastating! Wish I could tell someone this just to see how he reacted... what is one supposed to say?

Getting married is all about getting used to a lot of new things. Waking up with a new person, her idiosyncrasies, change in priorities, change in goals, blah blah... blah. But how exactly does one react to a vague enquiry... So? How is married life treating you? Some ask it with a tone of conspiracy... tell me all you can while your wife is out of earshot... Some ask it with a smug look... now you’ll know what you’re in for! writ ll over their face...

Some things have changed... weekend grocery shopping, for example... a 20 something boy pushing a trolley-full of normal vegetables and dal-chawal-atta always seemed to give aunties and uncles something to stare at, giggle about and worse still, point fingers at! Somehow they seem much more acceptable of the contents of the trolley in the presence of a woman alongside. Ah, he is the settled down sorts... they think, and must have recently graduated to eating healthy, normal khaana – the kinds that do not come out of a oven-safe packet.

Is this what domestication is all about?

Of fried fish and dhokar dalna

2007-03-04T19:30:00.000+05:30

We are a family that is unified in its joy, grief... and by the taste-buds. Eating is something that we take very seriously. You see, it comes to us naturally; take from a Bong, her pheesh, and she will cross the seven seas to reclaim it. We are that, and slightly more. I remember once ferociously telling a naive South Indian who enquired if Bongs were vegetarian by birth – “We eat anything that doesn’t bite us back”. Attribute it to a sea-faring father, and a liberal mother.

Now, I am not saying it’s simple, but it’s not rocket-science either – a family that likes to eat... often likes to cook. Now that is where the trouble is. We like to cook, we like to share what we eat... and the entire system of pots, pans and katoras goes all over the place. What goes up, does not necessarily come down... if my sister takes a pot-full of chicken rezala to my mother’s place it might move on in another re-incarnation of a pot-full of dhokar dalna to me. Similarly, my mother’s stuff shares shelf-space with mine, and mine with my sister’s. Throw in a couple of like-minded friends, and we have new utensils every fortnight.

I have so far been a gatherer. Of dabbas full of fried fish slated to survive the flight; of vanilla cake that’ll last the night train. But now, there seem to be a couple of air-tight Tupperwares that everyone is denying possession of.

Wonder which blackhole they went in to!

Where have you been?

2007-03-02T21:13:00.000+05:30

Right. So, I’m back... at least this once... Not that I did not want to be back for ever, or that there isn’t anything/enough to write about... but that there is too much of crowding happening inside the mind where all sorts of things seem to be throwing their arms up and yelling “pick me up! Write about me!!!” for me to be able to actually choose one and pick it up.

But that is not what made me put other things away and sit down to write right now. Lack of space in the mind has been there and still is. But the immediate reason that made me look beyond that and write this piece, might seem funny and at face value, even arrogant. I have come back to write on these pages, because there were too many people who have been asking me why I quit. I refuse to call it popular demand; it’s just friends and well wishers, who liked what they read. Many of them stumbled across these amblings through a web-link in a social networking site; most of them – post last August, post my last post.

Did I feel proud that they enquired, for they obviously liked something in what they read? More embarrassed than proud, actually. Because all I could offer them by way of a reason was the age-old “there is no time, I’ve been busy”.

I stopped writing because I could find no purpose of putting my thoughts in to words. This is not a blog on cinema; nor on social issues, or something equally purposeful. Then why take the trouble of writing down thoughts? Just thinking suits me fine.

Why am I back then? Still don’t know. possibly because of the discomfiture associated with answering these questions. Am back, hopefully for good.

Mall mania

2006-08-29T16:41:00.000+05:30

Is there a word for shopping-trolley-induced-injury? I’ll tell you where that came from…I spent a large part of my last Sunday afternoon in a mall where one buys usual day-to-day stuff. In retrospect it was a stupid thing to do. Not that I did not know that, but I needed some stuff and thought I will manage to slip-in and slip-out without being caught.

Caught in what, you say! Ah, so we haven’t been to a mall of late, have we? The Great Indian Consumer chooses the weekend to carry on his carnage. And it not just atta-dal-namak for Missesji, POLICE-goggles-at-thousand-rupees-only for Misterji, it is also bilkul-barbie-jaisa-doll for Pinky and Krrish-made-in-China for Paplu. Not to forget Puja-ka-mandir for Maaji.

What I mean is the madness I saw seemed to have no beginning or end, and definitely, no meaning. Huge fat uncles and aunties, pushing shopping carts bigger than themselves, loaded so high that they cannot themselves see where they are going which means there is every chance of you being run down should you happen to cross their way.

And what is it that they buy? Anything that is for sale. And the best way of studying their buying behavior is by standing near the counters. There are many interesting things to note, only if you make sure that you are safely out of the way of one of the trolleys. Like, did you know that a uncleji bought at least twelve 400gm packs of glucose biscuits. Either he runs his own mid-day meal scheme or he has one very very hungry family to feed. And bottles of cola. Oh, I could go on and on about how people buy their cola...cartons of them... one lady picked up cartons and cartons of cola. In fact that is all that her trolley held. I’m convinced she bathes in them.

The actual competition is not merely about taking in as much as possible. But about taking up as much as possible, as fast as possible. Because you see, no matter how big a store is, things do get over. And when everyone believes in taking up as much as possible, someone has to play fastest-finger-first.

And then begins the rush to the finish... the check out counters. And that is where it happened. One momentum driven aunty, one hapless me, and the wham-bam.

Thank you, ma'am.

Now I’m more scared of malls on weekends than Mumbai locals on weekdays.

What next?

2006-07-12T14:25:00.000+05:30

Something that started in 1992, continues. There have incidents in 2002, 2003, 2004. What started with (in)famous pictures of Bombay Stock Exchange and Air India building, continued with shots of the Gateway, demolished buses and bloodied people. Now, today, Mumbai has a new icon… lifeline of the city… trains – in a mangled heap of steel... blood-spattered, dark, gloomy, ominous; and crying against a weeping sky.

It’s been a tough week. First the high-water, and now the hell. And yet, in a day or two, people try and start behaving as if everything is alright. Well, not as if they have a choice!... what does one do? Not take the locals? Not go to office? What is the alternative? People are scared...but you have to go out to earn money, right? There is the spirit, alright, but tell me, is there any option?

I remember leaving home last week when it rained... it was nowhere close to the deluge we saw last year, but yet, streets were deserted, trains were empty. Of course one is scared. You mind?

Give Mumbaikars a break, they deserve it. They cannot be forever scared of everything. They cannot forever leave home, not knowing if they are coming back home at night. You cannot take them for granted like this. As the city yet again trudges to work, all you do is say... HOW SPIRITED! And you wait for the next thing to happen?

Rang De Basanti

2006-04-25T18:19:00.000+05:30

Finally Rang de Basanti has been watched. Technically quite brilliant. But that is not the point of this post. The point of this post is to express dismay at the lack of anything constructive in the movie.

The problem with the movie is that it plays to the gallery. Yes, I know, understand and admit that there are youngsters who are cynical, disillusioned, system-blamers; but what purpose does it serve to show that a gang of such friends are suddenly infused with a jehadi spirit? To my mind, the comparison between a corrupt government and the British does not work, simply because there are way too many gatekeepers that play the eternal game of checks and balances in the democracy that we are. ... for example, the police raining blows on a peaceful rally is extremely unlikely. Not that they do not happen. They do. But it is more likely to happen on let’s say, a rally of migrant labourers shouting slogans than a rally populated by educated, well-dressed people from south Delhi. The lack of equality is unfortunate but true.

Similarly, the climax - a government by which party, will order commando action on a group of students that too in presence of billions of journalists and their live telecast equipment? What will stop them is not their sensibility but their will to come back to power after the next elections.

But these are mere loopholes in the plot. Major ones, unlike the minor ones where a broadcast in a FM station apparently provokes listeners from around the country to call in.

There are bigger problems with the movie – those of perspective and interpretation. The film crosses over on either sides of reality and creative expression without warning. The scenes that show the friends hanging out, is exactly like how any of us would have experienced... and then suddenly, they transform in to a gang of mindless and impulsive beings masquerading as modern revolutionaries. The change is so seamless and abrupt that it’s not only scary it’s also possibly dangerous.

Dangerous – because this movie validates a concept of media-centric existence that we anyway see all around us. We all take our cues from the media – television, print, internet or SMS. I might seem like defending my profession when I say that the cynicism that the crowd of tv news channels preach with their finger pointing at politics and politicians is not the only thing that a viewing public is supposed to base its perspective on. It’s on one who watches tv to decide when to switch the tv off; when to say Enough! to the overdose of information; or how to separate the chaff from the wheat.

But the noise of the media stays. Which is why the director finds the easy way out in showing the progression of time and events through mic-toting-yelling-their-lungs-out reporters. Or the gang in the movie using it to confess their crime and convey their motive. But trust me, in real life the journey from point A to point B is not necessarily done by grabbing headlines, even if it’s the Big Idea whose time has come!

And which is why the film doesn’t work in the way it could have... in helping realise the necessity of loving for one’s country, caring for it and being proud of it. It basically does nothing beyond suggesting that today’s patriots are a bunch of unthinking, impulsive beings. Which still is okay, so far as it does not prompt people in to committing stupid acts of killing in a botched up attempt to cleanse the system.

Fingers crossed.

Looking for the complete woman

2006-04-06T12:00:00.000+05:30

I have been tagged by Arun and Ron.

The Rules of the game are:

1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. You need to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game and leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there’s no need to post again.

Sex of the target :Female (in this case)

The Perfect Woman... umm... let me see... since we are, anyway looking at a statistical impossibility, let me indulge...

1. Should be able understand the concept of time... may be, but definitely, SPACE... Preferably, personal space. (no, honey, you cannot come with me to the guys' night out at the strip-tease joint)

2. Should be able to laugh in a number of ways - it adds variety (ha-ha, heh-heh, snorkle-snorkle, giggle, cough-cough)

3 . Should have big eyes - since romanticism commands (demands?) endless eye-gazing, might as well have more details to look at (I love you...is that yesterday’s kaajal in the corner of your left eye?)

4 . Should be able to read (start with Noddy, honey, I will take you to Sartre)

5 . Should be unabashed about eating good food; in plenty. (Is that your second Death by Chocolate? I just finished my fourth)

6. Should have great legs (yes, I do comprehend that with great legs comes great kicking ability…but, what the heck)

7.Should be hygienically clean and physically fit (oh no, it’s not your knees that you hug, but your toes that you touch! And get those plants off your ears!)

8. Should be able to talk and should be able to listen, without one coming in the way of the other. Peace.

Can’t think of anyone to tag right away... We shall re-visit this later.

And where have you been?

2006-04-05T01:05:00.000+05:30

Work, work, work, work, work, work, OH MY GOD! IT'S THE BUDGET!!!work, work, work, COULD I HAVE THIS WEEKEND OFF?work, work, work, work, work, work, work, TRAINING TIME!work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work...

Oh, I've generally been lazy and not blogged. You mind?

Why don't I humour you some other day?

From Darkness to Light

2006-02-18T08:45:00.000+05:30

I reach office really early... by about six. This morning, soon after reaching, I went out to the office terrace for a quick cuppa.

Bombay is dark at that hour. The terrace and the surroundings were dark, gloomy, depressing, bleak. I felt oppressed... as if the darkness was closing in on me.

And then I looked up... there was the half moon in the sky - resplendent, bright... in borrowed light, yes, but it has reached high enough, where it has found it's source of eternal light.

Put this on our world-view now... we look at situations and feel hopeless, dark and dreary. But if we know how to rise, we can reach a place, where the sun is always in view. All that is around, is only light!

Amazing, no? The moon is assured. A promise that there will never be any darkness. Provided you rise high enough.

Bhil you be my Bhalentine?

2006-02-15T11:23:00.000+05:30

...so asked M in our college days... to a girl, who obviously wasn’t swayed, and asked him to go take some diction classes first. I don’t know if he did. And then there was S, who landed up in his college with a guitar on a horse hired by the hour. The dame was absent that day, and what was worse the horse messed up the college portico.

Yes, yes, the day has provided ample entertainment in its time, but isn’t it getting a bit relentless now? It’s as if there is no escape. On my way office, all I saw were teddy bears and pink roses with red hearts all around. Ninety percent of the people in office wore pink and red, and wished you Happy Valentine’s Day! I sympathise with someone I know who expressed a desire to join the Shiv Sena, even if it was only to burn all the teddy bears of the world.

You turn to tv, not one, not one movie channel shows anything close to a non-romantic movie. You turn to a business news channel and the big boss has a squeaky red heart pinned to his chest. A general news channel, if not getting hysterical correspondents in Agra to ask people aap kaise manane wale hai Valentine’s Day, was teaching you Cheap Dating Tips.

There is no escape.

But if it were not so funny, it would be quite serous. Imagine a college or a school... imagine the pressure to conform... where everyone in a class has people to take out or give flowers to... and would turn to anyone who’s otherwise with a Hawww! You don’t have anyone to give flowers to! Worse would be hawww! no one gave you flowers! I remember my days in college, and I remember how this is used to affect people. And am sure no one deserves this kind of peer pressure.

It’s not like a Diwali or an Eid. Those are festivals that select groups of people celebrate. And if you do not wish to, there is no pressure. But here, the greetings card and gifts industry ensures you do not get to get away.

As I said, there is no escape. And no, you cannot choose to feel valentiney on the 15th. The tyranny of the majority demands that you feel this way that very day!

Disclaimer: Views expressed above are mine, and my colleagues’ Tamanna’s and Swetank’s. Some of what is written above are expressions they used, thoughts they mouthed, so can’t take credit for the entire idea. The anecdotes, however are mine.

Virtues

2006-02-02T19:38:00.000+05:30

I remember my father saying humility is the greatest virtue.

I don't think so. I think patience is. May be the greatest virtue changes. Or may be we call that the greatest virtue which teaches us the most.

So?

2006-01-30T16:23:00.000+05:30

I live in an apartment that has two rooms – that is, one whole room besides the room that I call my bedroom. Plus a kitchen, etc, etc. And I live there alone, thankyouverymuch. Suffice to say that I am fond of The Good Life.

For some reason, that seems to raise the eyebrows of quite a few of the occasional visitors. You have a washing machine? Yes, clothes need to be washed, don’t they? You have a microwave? Yeah, I love cooking. So a micro makes perfect sense to me (subtext: your father what goes?).

The capital one came this weekend from friend of my landlords...You have all this space to yourself? My answer (and this, I have decided I will tell anyone who even as much as hints of taking this topic up!) Yes! All to myself. And guess what, I even have two saucepans to make tea in – a big one and a small one... when I feel like drinking enough tea for two people, I use the big one, at other times I use the smaller one. And your problem is?

If this doesn’t shut them up, I don’t know what will.

Overheard

2006-01-27T16:02:00.000+05:30

...in front of a garbage dump in Mahim where a old rag picker is teaching a young rag picker to sort the day’s spoils...

Aajkal kachra bhi achchha nahi milta, pehle itna achchha hota tha...

Guess no one’s happy with life after all ;-)

Parents!

2006-01-23T18:47:00.000+05:30

What's it with parents? I mean, after all these years of telling us to be mature and to keep changing their minds, why can't they do it themselves?

Take J's for instance. Her father left his job on fine day. Came home, and announced...anek hoechhe, tomader jonye ami ank korecchi, ebar ami Agartala phire jachhi, giye natok korbo (I'vehad enough, I've done enough for you guys, and now I am going back to Agartala, I want to act in plays) - apparently he dug out old contacts in theatre there, people he knew decades back before he started working. And now he is famous in the seven sister states of the north east. My friend and her family make regular trips to those states to meet their father during intervals.

Or M, for instance. She gets married next month. And what is her mother doing as she runs last minute errands? Buri hebi nervous hoye barite boshe ache aar amake galmondo korchhe (She's terribly nervous and sitting at home, and all she does is scream at me) - how does this even help?

Or mine for instance... after years in Calcutta, they left town for Baroda, lock, stock and barrel (Kolkataye lok thake? - is this a place one can stay in?). Six months and they were back (Jai bolo baba, bari holo bari - Home is home after all). And yesterday they say... Na, janis, ekhane lok gulo kemon jano... Baroda ta yi bhalo chhilo - People here are strange... Baroda was a better bet!

Uff! Why can't they make up their minds? Why can't they grow up?

vs

2006-01-19T18:55:00.000+05:30

An alarming number of my friends are tying the knot. Most will cross-over this year, some remaining, next year.

Mission will be accomplished by end 07.

And then, there's the other side. Like today I got to know of two marriages; and a divorce.

So, who wins?

Blankness

2006-01-18T18:16:00.000+05:30

At times there is so much to unload...I wonder why I did not choose an anonymous blog.

May be it's not that easy to live a life that's an open book.

Ab Mumbai Dauregi!

2006-01-17T21:40:00.000+05:30

All my attempts to run in the Mumbai Marathon failed. One month of practice, anticipation, planning, and strategy (well, in case I saw myself anywhere close to winning the Dream Run) went down the drain.

Tell you how.

Saturday night. Ten thirty. Me, like a good athlete who knows he needs eight hours of sleep before the Run has gone to sleep. Phone buzzes. The Journalist jumps up, picks the phone expecting breaking news. Indeed. Boss calling to say there is a crisis in office and I would be expected to fill in for the morning anchor. Sleepyhead (previously Journalist) says okay and promptly goes back to sleep.

Five minutes later he jumps up again. Was that a dream. Only boss can tell. Call up boss…yes, you gotta come in, no, no one else can do it, yes we know you were running, but what to do?

Grumble, Grumble.

Sunday morning am in the studio, and the closest I get to the Big Run is asking excited reporters…mahoul kaisa hai?

More Grumble Grumble.

Place under the sun

2006-01-09T18:53:00.000+05:30

I have two kinds of friends. Well, friends, acquaintances whatever you call them, on the parameter that I am going to employ now, can be divided ion to two groups – on one side are people who have always stayed with their family and those who have not.

The ones who have, are the sheltered, cocooned kind. I don’t mean that in a derogatory way – they have the advantage of sound advice and hot tea at a moment’s notice, never have to key their way in to an empty flat, always (well, usually) have the advantage of a shoulder to cry or crib on.

Those who have not, on the other hand, besides having to forego tea as it will not only involve boiling, mixing, stirring and the rest, but will also possibly mean doing the crockery later. But trust me, that’s the least of the problems. Or for that matter, the problem of going back to a flat alone. The problem arises when you have a bad day, or a bad week or a bad month! And if it’s at work, things are still okay, there’s a home to come back to. What when there isn’t a home worth its name, and what’s more, any effort to set up one, seems to be falling flat hopelessly!

If you still did not figure out the point of this odd amble is, it is basically to think aloud how sensible the rush to leave home, leave town was. Six years have passed, and even if I wanted, nothing is turnaround-able, but still.

I see friends back home – most of them, still hopelessly directionless, hopelessly dependent on family, hopelessly un-grownup. But they seem to have a sense of belonging, a sense of having roots. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for me. I’ve done my bit of travelling, lived in some of the greatest cities of this country, loved, hated all of them for various reasons, but never felt home in any of them.

Don’t really regret what I did... most of what I am today got formed in these years... but the problem is this while has also given birth to a rootless ness. Even the city that was home, might not be one too, because dimensions there have changed. Just as I have moved on, friends there too, have moved on. With newer dimensions in life and newer priorities. Guess a visit is due, to try and find my space there. Or elsewhere. Who knows?

Dialtone

2005-12-09T21:46:00.000+05:30

He was used to his unhappiness. Not at peace with it, mind you, but used to it. It was like the dull, numbing toothache one gets used to; or the throbbing buzz of a power drill that one is resigned to.

But no, He was not at peace with his unhappiness. And what made him unhappier was the fact that there was no one He could talk to about it. The best answers to Big Boss’ insults in front of the rest of the office always came to him thirty minutes too late, when he would usually be recuperating in the loo.

As for his wife, in the first month after they got married He actually tried saying how Her sneers made him feel. All these years later, She still cited memories of that experience as the primary cause for her hypertension.

And no, He did not ever manage to tell her that her reactions, on the other hand, had given him a nervous breakdown. Or that that was the last time He had ever felt optimistic about life.

As He sat gaping at the misery of life ahead, it became clear to him that all he needed now was a vent. He could feel it inside him – building up like a pressure cooker – one vent, just one, and He would go about life. Perhaps even manage to smile a bit.

The black phone instrument was within reach. As He picked it up and started speaking in to it, the drone of the dialtone soothed him – as if agreeing, as He went on with a tongue tired of waiting.

Till the Operator spoke up, “What is your problem? You have to dial a number before you speak, don’t you know that”.

“Yes I know, but I don’t want to. Can you mind your own business and leave me alone?”

“Well, this IS my business,” and she disconnected the phone.

The phone was dead. It too had stopped listening to him.

All made up!

2005-11-18T20:48:00.000+05:30

A friend has objected to my not updating my blog ever since Eve had her first child. Apologies, aunty (oh! or should I call you Pishi?), but I have been busy. Doing what, do you ask? Oh, let’s not get in to that. Let’s just say, I have been busy earning a living.

And earning a living, how? In my desperation to see my blog fresh and updated, I will now broach a subject, a confession that I had decided to keep for days when I completely run dry of things to talk about. That and the fact that things related to this have been keeping me busy all this while, have made me decide on spilling these beans.

So, here it goes. I belong to a very very small minority of men who don makeup every single day for a living. Hang on! I don’t like the way it sounds... before you get me wrong, please let me tell you, it is only because I’m a journalist, a news-anchor who hosts news shows.

And therefore, I spend ten hours a day with pancake on my face – they call it Concealor (because it completely conceals the way I look and makes me look like someone I wouldn’t say hello to if I met in an elevator) – a gooey flesh coloured paste that makes you itchy and Translucent Powder – something to take the shine away (and I thought looking bright was a plus point). First the Concealor, then the powder, then a few dabs from a wet tissue to blend the two. Look up, sir... dab, dab, dab. Eyes closed sir... dab, dab, dab. The result is a mask on my face that makes me want to go itching all over; all over the face, that is. The ordeal used to be over in ten minutes when I had started. Lately they have been taking double that. Does that mean that the longer I use makeup, the uglier I get and the longer it takes to conceal me?

Some men are known to take to blusher (men – its a red paint kind of a thing used to accentuate cheekbones; women – stop laughing). I’ve not treaded those waters. Worse still, men with nicotine-darkened lips are even made to put on lipstick. Never been happier about my decision in college to not smoke.

As for clothes I’m made to wear, don’t get me started on them. They’re costumes. Where do they buy those ties from?

Smell

2005-10-21T17:46:00.000+05:30

A friend has mailed. Winter’s on it’s way to Delhi. Leaves are changing colour, there’s a slight fog on the Ring Road. And it smells like it’s going to be cold.

Smell. Perhaps the second most important sense after sight. Home – Calcutta is amazing with its sights too... Noticed in one of the channels, the sky has turned bright light blue, with white fluffy clouds floating across (doesn’t sound quite as beautiful as it does in Bangla). I know exactly how it will smell – slightly wet, from the rain and steely- from the blue sky.

Bangalore would smell like wood-smoke. Tiny yellow leaves from trees unknown carpeting the city would release strong musty scents once tread upon.

But surprisingly, Bombay doesn’t smell. It has it’s own stinks, but it does not smell. I have been spending this last one-week with an eager nose – trying to smell the weather in Bombay. I’m sorry, but I can’t find it. My work entails getting to office at wee hours of the morning - hours when traffic and therefore pollution it as the lowest. I’ve been trying to smell the city in those hours when the overwhelming exhaust fumes have died down – their sole thirty minute break in a twenty-four hour cycle. But it’s not there.

What is there then? If you take the stink off? A dullness that you cannot attribute to anything. Its like that on Bandra Bandstand and on Marine Drive; on the Western Express Highway, and the Harbour Line tracks. Even a friend born and brought up in Bombay and addicted to the city associated Bombay with the smell of polluted sea.

I don't know what I have, but I at least hope it is temporary!

First Class !

2005-09-14T09:16:00.000+05:30

Day before I upgraded my railway pass to First Class after it expired. It’s just been two days, but I think I have found the famed underbelly of the city. In fact I have even begun to believe if someone took the trouble of monotonously bomb the place, they would eventually run out of all the rude and grumpy people in the city. People in First Class are smug.

Possibly because they have able to afford a ticket like that and now feel that where they sit and all around it is their own. So much so, that if you are standing and are forced to push, they will push back – deliberately, unlike you. That doesn’t happen in Second Class. If you push, they are inconvenienced, but realise that you’re even more inconvenienced – they at least have a piece of hard wood to rest their butt, unlike you, every square inch of whose body is under pressure from different directions. They’re grumpy, which is funny, because they have bought more space, and comfort, and that should have made them happy.

I remember reading somewhere that every square foot of space in a Second Class compartment holds twelve people during rush hour... what they did not write is that people there still find space to move their hand to accommodate yours. Obviously, in First Class no such concept exists. I’m sure the usual sight of a hundred hands reaching out to pull you in when you run to get in to a moving Second Class compartment will also be missing here.

Here you do not talk to your co-passengers... Second Class guys poke fun at their own misery; but in First Class everyone you read, instead. The Alchemist, Chicken Soup for the Soul, or even the day’s Business Standard... but you do not speak.

A friend, on hearing all this pointed out how we subscribe to expensive offers because we want to enjoy better service; but we end up exactly with the crowd we wanted to avoid. It’s as if the ability to pay for exclusivity brings about an arrogance that spoils the environment much more than the lack of exclusivity would have.

As this friend put it... Padhe likhe logo ke dil mein jagah nehi hoti!

My new haircut

2005-09-07T12:39:00.000+05:30

Yes, yes, have been away for long, but have been really busy. And surprisingly, what I missed more than updating my blog was reading all the blogs that I do regularly. Couldn’t help - work’s been crazy.

But crazier have been the changes I’ve been subjected to! Read on...

All my life I have wanted a real cool haircut... and had a loathing for the goody two shoes do I’ve had since even I don’t know how long... carefully parted on the left, hair swept to the right...

So, predictably, I jumped at the option of a haircut that came my way as a professional necessity (sounds strange I know, but that’s the best way I could think of describing it in). An appointment was arranged at this really hep salon (I am told one of the letters in that last word is silent, though I have not been able to figure out which one), I went and met this gentleman there who is far removed from our neighbourhood naapit or nai¸ that you have been used to, depending on your geographical location within India.

So our man, took measurements of the outsides of my brain (no kidding), asked a lot of questions, and stopped short only of asking me how high the SENSEX will go. And then he gave me a haircut that is exactly everything that my hair has never experienced. If anyone at any place I’d been to out of my own free will had done half of that to my hair, I’m sure I would have boxed his ears. But then...

So now I have this new haircut, which most people I meet say looks sporty and nice and less boring and all that... given that people saying that the style looks funny are there, but far far fewer in number, only makes me believe that the former group might have something to it. Problem is, I DON”T LIKE IT AT ALL!

In fact every time I see myself in the mirror, I have to stop myself from saying hello to the stranger. Early morning encounters while attempting to brush with half closed eyes are particularly traumatic.

The good doctor speaks...

2005-08-12T13:14:00.000+05:30

The PM yesterday apologised in Parliament for anti-Sikh riots.

His silence on the matter was bugging me ever since the Nanavati report was tabled in Parliament. Yes, it is but natural for political parties to try and guard it’s foot soldiers, may be even more when they had perpetrated their deeds on behalf of the party. A theory suggests it was allowed to carry on so that the party could cash into a vote-rich Hindu backlash.

But I was too young then, and have no idea whether the Tytlers and the Bhagats of the world were really involved, though their names had come up for long enough and too often for anyone to not take a long hard look at what these men were up to in those very hours.

But what I did find uncomfortable was the good doctor’s silence... as I scribbled somewhere on my notepad... may be the gentle professor needs to speak up. May be he is. But we at the back of the class won’t know till he raises his voice... Not because he is a Sikh himself, though pride about one’s roots is a very strong thing. But because he is still epitomised by a lot of us as one above such pettiness of politics as possible while standing in that muck.

And he did raise his voice! Just as one felt that this issue too would be lost in the correctness of Parliamentary politics, the admission came about. Even beyond the compensations that the Home Minister has promised to ensure, this one admission would possibly comfort many families in grief.

Because two decades on, not many lives would have stood still in wait of material compensation. Where even a simple acknowledgement has been hard to come by, for most hearts all that would matter is at least the admission of a wrong done. There still remain more riots, more commissions. Reports ready, victims waiting an endless wait for at least an acceptance of wrongdoing – the riots of Bhagalpur, or of Bombay, or most recently, Gujarat.

The PM’s apology might be too late to heal wounds. The least it could do is bring some hope.

944 and after

2005-08-05T19:18:00.000+05:30

It’s funny how events are almost always associated with numbers – in some cases qualifying, sometimes quantifying. 9/11 for New York, 7/7 for London. And now 944 for Mumbai. 944 mm equals 94 cm. 94 cm is marginally lower than 100 cm, which is exactly one meter of rain. In other words, three and a half feet of rain; over level ground, assuming there is no outflow and no seepage – as IMD puts it.

It’s supposed to be the eighth highest in 100 years in India; alternatively it’s broken a decades old Cherapunji record. For me it meant staying back in office for three days, with little sleep or a shave. But as I figured out on July 26, July 27 and July 28, even when you are too tired to shift another inch, your mind does not lose the ability to emote. You still feel surprised when the normal twenty minutes it takes to cross Mahim from Lower Parel takes seven hours; shock, when you see exhausted people sitting along the sides of the flyover at Santacruz – people like you and me, who were trying to get home and ran out of strength and hope to keep wading through waist deep water. Your mind still goes numb when you see a body float past in shallow water – turned white by cold water and death. Everyone you know knew someone who tried to get back home but could not make it.

My takeaway from the entire episode? A brush with people that make this city. Even before trains resumed, before highways were cleared of cars gone kaput, the sun shone for a brief while the second day. And immediately these people stuck in offices resumed their journey home. Cars, taxis and buses had stayed away... so they walked. Thousands of them, covering every inch of space on the road, smiling and chatting. Anxious, but in control as they marched in an endless stream. The next day, even as civic authorities were nursing their blows these people had taken things in their stride. They were back in the roads, offices and markets. With a shrug of acceptance and an extra set of clothes.

The government here is like everywhere else – mostly worthless. Unfortunately their letting down the people has made a dent somewhere. The next time it rained on Monday, August 1, the same people who had braved the elements a week back, stayed indoors. Trains were running empty, not a single street reported logjams. The few who had to venture out kept giving nervous glances towards the sky. Hurried steps, a prayer under the breath.

The Mumbaikar’s romance with the rains is over.

Footsteps

2005-07-14T21:51:00.000+05:30

I bought Shantaram yesterday. Also, The Unauthorised Biography of Lemony Snicket... first time I stepped in to a bookstore (albeit in the sidelines of a shoot) since stepping in to Mumbai about two and a half months back.

Much later in the evening I sat down to browse through them. I turned to the first pages of both and wrote Deep Pal, Mumbai 13.07.05 before dropping them in to the pile on my table.

It’s funny how books gather a record of your footsteps. The book right next to Shantaram is The Age of Kali – Deep Pal, Bangalore, 07.02.05. Then there is Angela’s Ashes – Deep Pal, Bangalore, 23.12.05 – a gift to myself on what I was sure was going to be the last Christmas in Bangalore.

Mister God, this is Anna – Deep Pal, Bangalore, 11.08.01 goes back a long way – just after I had moved to Bangalore; a time when books more than ever gave the shelter and solace that was needed in the first few days away from home. Befitting that it should sit just on top of Maximum City – Deep Pal, Bangalore, 25.04.05 – bought on my last day in my previous office to celebrate the impending move to a new city, a new life, a new beginning.

Then there are older copies that were bought even before. Most of them Bengali, old favourites brought along to provide company in an unknown city – some of them gifts, marked Deep Pal, Calcutta, July 01 – the last few days. As more of these had come n there was a tussle for space between these books and clothes in the luggage. Manufacturing Consent – Deep Pal, Calcutta, 18.02.99 stands out as a favourite as does The Little Prince – Deep Pal, Calcutta, 07.02.96

As one keeps moving, the pile on the table grows bigger. And the locations on the first page keep adding up...

Vir ka teer

2005-07-13T23:53:00.000+05:30

I interviewed Vir Sanghvi today, on the eve of the launch of Mumbai edition of HT. And yes, it happened quite some hours back, but it’s taken me this long to stop jumping and settle down.

As I finish my long list of questions, he tells me... You know I have been giving quite a few interviews on this for a while... and this didn’t happen in others... You asked all the right questions; you have been thinking about this. You had me a couple of times. As I’m still gaping, he smiles and says, No, that’s a very genuine compliment...

Which is when I manage to wet my lips slightly and tell him, Thanks, coming from you it’s really worth a lot... As he nods and gets up, I ask for his card... he brings his out and tells me, Could I have yours also? And once we're done exchanging cards, before I manage to ask for his mobile number, he says, Could I have your mobile number?

Wow.

Life is good, undoubtedly. It is also brilliant in fits and starts.

Freedom of the Press

2005-07-08T20:33:00.000+05:30

I had decided to post this yesterday morning as I got to know about it, but the subsequent London bombings took over everything else, and it didn’t happen.

But I do think this incident affects me as much as the bombings do, in fact may be slightly more, because it raises questions about my profession... how far do I stand immune because of my profession? And, while I say the immunity is to safeguard the truth, how do we not let dubious individuals/groups take the same guard for their ends? And finally, is the state the right one to decide whether I should be at liberty or not?

Check the following report from The Indian Express and leave your comments on my blog. The original is here.

New York Times journalist jailed

Reuters
Posted online: Thursday, July 07, 2005 at 1303 hours IST
Updated: Thursday, July 07, 2005 at 1342 hours IST

Washington, July 7: A New York Times reporter was jailed on Wednesday after she said she could not break her promise and reveal her confidential source to a grand jury investigating the leak of a covert CIA operative's name to the media.

Chief US District Judge Thomas Hogan ordered correspondent Judith Miller to jail immediately and said she must stay there until she agreed to testify or for the rest of the grand jury's term, which lasts through October.

Another case involving Time magazine reporter Matthew Cooper was resolved when he told the judge he had just received the "express personal consent" of his source to reveal his identity. "Consequently I am prepared to testify," he said.

Miller told the judge she did not want to go to jail but had no choice but to protect her source. "If journalists cannot be trusted to keep confidences, then journalists cannot function and there cannot be a free press," she said in a clear, firm voice in the packed courtroom that included her husband and the newspaper's top editor.

The grand jury investigation by special counsel Patrick Fitzgerald, a Justice Department prosecutor, seeks to determine who in the Bush administration leaked the name of covert CIA operative Valerie Plame in 2003 to the media and whether any laws were violated.

Plame's name was leaked, her diplomat husband said, because of his criticism of the Bush administration's handling of the Iraq war.

When Hogan ordered Miller to jail, she showed no emotion, and one of her lawyers put his arm around her shoulder. The judge said confinement at a jail in the Washington DC, area might convince her to change her mind and testify.

CONFIDENTIAL PLEDGES

Miller earlier in the hearing was firm that she would not testify. "I do not make confidential pledges lightly, but when I do I must honour them. If I do not, how can I expect people to accept my assurances," she said.

"Your honour, in this case I cannot break my word just to stay out of jail," Miller told the judge during the hearing which lasted about an hour.

The case has pitted the news media's traditional use of anonymous sources against the efforts by a federal government prosecutor to investigate a possible crime.

Miller said she did not consider herself to be above the law and that she had thought long and hard over the July 4 Independence Day holiday about her decision.

She said her decision was necessary to help ensure an independent free press.

After Cooper entered the courtroom, he went over to Miller and they briefly hugged. Before the hearing began, perhaps anticipating that she would have to go to jail immediately, Miller handed her necklace to her husband.

Her attorney, Robert Bennett, told the judge that Miller had not committed any crimes and that she never even wrote an article about the Plame matter.

"After 40 years in this business, I have the nagging feeling that Judy Miller may be the only person to go to jail in this case," Bennett said. No one has been charged as part of the grand jury investigation which began in January 2004.

Hogan said that Miller has no choice but to cooperate under the law. He said she was defying the law by not testifying and "may be obstructing justice."

In a statement afterward, Arthur Sulzberger Jr, chairman of The New York Times Company and publisher of The New York Times, said, "There are times when the greater good of our democracy demands an act of conscience. Judy has chosen such an act in honouring her promise of confidentiality."

Bengali outside Bongland

2005-06-30T21:30:00.000+05:30

I‘m not sure, but I think mass memory’s attention turned towards one’s Bengali bearings with Devdas. Ms Rai’s Isshh actually. Soon after that particular phrase was uttered by the actor my classmate from Meghalaya, Caroline Wahlang came up to me and gleefully announced that she had mastered my mother-tongue; before I could react she said – Isshh. She never believed when I tried to explain that that noise had nothing to do with Bengaliness. Till date, a good three years after the movie released she believes she has picked up and is carrying a bit of the language with her. I suspect in this while she would have tried to entertain other Bengalis with that noise and delve in to the genesis of the word.

The movie that had some astoundingly terrible sounding Bengali dialogues after that was The Legend of Bhagat Singh, where thankfully we were spared the onslaught as the Bengali characters were minor. Never before have I been so glad that a Bengali took center-stage for such a short while.

But what has now put me a spot is Parineeta… and it doesn’t help that the movie is quite a hit. Two days after the film released, a friend called up and said – can you explain the ending of the film to me? I had no clue, so instead of bravely trying to make up a climax neither in the novel nor in the movie, I tamely gave in. The next phone call was easier as all I was asked is What does Pareineeta mean? I quickly answered – Prostitute. Two hours and a short nap later I suddenly realized S***! That’s Pateeta and not Parineeta. I didn’t have the heart to call up and inform him of my faux pas. Am still waiting for him to find out; and meanwhile, every time his number flashes on my mobile screen, I have a quiet heart attack.

The tensions of being a Bengali outside Bongland, I tell you! Immediate goal – read up about the film and more importantly, the book. Stop being an ignoramus; not liking Shratchandra is not an excuse. And then I will come back and tell you what Parineeta means.

PS: A guy I’d gotten introduced to in a party in Chennai stared at me curiously all evening. Just when I had mentally begun questioning his orientation and secretly started calculating the possible trajectory between the nearest exit and me without him in the locus, he came up to and very hesitantly said… You know you are the first Bengali I’ve ever met… is it true that you guys wake up and eat a kilo of jalebis first thing in the morning? I didn’t have the heart to say no...

Bombay 2

2005-06-29T19:25:00.000+05:30

As promised am revisiting the topic of my discovery of Mumbai. For want of time, I shall enumerate my experiences in snippets.

My experience tells me this is a very filmi city. In fact, very, very filmi. If you ask me exactly what is it that I find filmi, I will not be able to tell, but I guess it’s the seriousness with which people here react to anything remotely associated with films. For example, the crowd outside Amitabh Bachchan’s Juhu home which I saw on my way to office from a shoot. Were they there because he was about to leave home? No. Because he was coming home? No. Then? They were generally there, standing patiently on the opposite footpath waiting to catch a glimpse wherever he is going in/out of the house. A colleague tells me there are even people who never start anything new before they see him once, much the same way people visit temples before starting a new project. And these are ordinary people, mind you, not even remotely associated to the film industry. The second instance is of the taxi driver I met one of these days. As I handed over the fare to him, he nodded the way Dev saab did in his heyday and said thank you, thank you, thank you. Now you gotta admit that’s filmi!

To compensate for the length of the previous snippet, this one is going to be really short.

Place – Andheri Station
Time – 9:30 am on a rainy weekday
Sight – People in ironed work shirts and polished leather shoes but wearing shorts
Explanation – No, he is not completing his morning walk en route to office. His trousers are in the polythene bag he is carrying and he will change in to them once he gets to office.

Best thing about Bombay – the sea. It is the only thing in the city that is not competing with anything or anyone. Setting it’s own pace even as everyone around keeps accelerating to keep up with other people’s stupidity. My work takes me past Marine Drive almost every day, though I have been able to afford the luxury of stopping there only once. But nevertheless, those few moments looking at the sea fill me with this peace and a sense of sustenance like nothing else.

Sunday…and at work

2005-06-19T11:51:00.000+05:30

Not the ideal way to spend the weekend, one would say. But then, the Ambanis did not know what they did in their private offices with public money would affect journalists in this way. As a colleague today said, when Anil Ambani said “there are going to be long days and long nights”, he meant it for us.

How true!

Walked in to office really early – by about six; and with enough misgivings about working on a Sunday. But then, the trip to Marine Drive happened; almost two months in Bombay and this is the first time I stop at Marine Drive. It’s raining on the sea, which then engulfs the street and us, as we stand while others run to save themselves from the onslaught of the rain.

Life’s good again.

Euthanasia

2005-06-16T12:12:00.000+05:30

I haven’t been writing as regularly, but that hasn’t stopped me from visiting the blogs that I usually do. Though this is one I touched upon quite some time later. And as I found out, she’s died a month ago.

Died seemed the most appropriate word to use here. And by here I do not mean merely in this case, but every time someone pulls the plug on their blog, disappears from the blogosphere, I get this feeling that one more person form amongst us has moved on… only unlike usual medical emergencies, this time having decided to do so. And like the real world, there is a sense of missing a person…

Surprising how real our virtual identities have become.

Bombay 1

2005-06-07T12:51:00.000+05:30

Bombay has been busy. Very busy.

Been observing quite a bit in the city, and will write about that… but plan to spread it across days and entries.

Am not yet sure if I love the place more or hate it more, am certain that everything in Bombay, like the line above, is about two sides – and the art of balancing them.

I’ve been looking around, and the most apt mascot for this city is possibly the local train. Speed, energy, volume, unending flow… you name it, it stands for that. Andheri, and I’m sure a number of other stations buzz even at eleven at night. People running home from work. Early next morning they will again make the trip to the other end of civilization. Dutifully.

Which is what made me think… what is it that they are running for? More money? More comfort? A better life for him/her, the children? But if you are sixty and are still running, when will you enjoy the fruits of your run?

Bombay is a very good station in life, methinks, but it is definitely not the terminus.

First week in Mumbai

2005-05-06T13:54:00.000+05:30

jumbo-king vadapao, world-famous chandu ke chacha steps in just 2 days - contact dance master bhede, dhanda, sholay power laundry, ghoda, pugdee, Lower-Parel return - ek, bajau kya-kaan ke neeche

More later

Mum - bhai

2005-04-22T22:21:00.000+05:30

This is Mumbai.

I will be shifting there for good (alternatively, for quite a large part of my life) there, in about ten days or so. So, true to being me, I have bought a map of the city to familiarise myself.

Every evening I get back home and dutifully unfold the map, check out the city, the places.

And then I quietly freak out.

Inda Pakkam Anda Pakkam

2005-04-08T19:55:00.000+05:30

This is not the first time that I have been to Chennai, but the city still manages to surprise me with its colour. A week here, and I’m convinced – there are two things that run this place – politics and films.

The people here are amazingly politically minded. During a hearing about the Sankararaman murder case in Kancheepuram, the whole town and its sister turned up to follow (and I suspect also to participate in) the proceedings; not only was each conversant with the minutest details, each had his own thesis, with twists and turns that would either amount to contempt of court or divine wrath, depending on the camp one belonged to.

Every small tea-shop gives you two kinds of tea – normal tea and sp tea. A week of this and I finally asked –what the sp all about… apparently it stands for special tea; and, what’s so special about it? According to my cameraman, nothing really… the glasses are cleaner and the tea is actually hot. Ah!

The sense of power and glory in Tamil establishment comes with the ability of making the other side do things your way. Never mind if the way he is doing it is right, if the balance of power is tilted to your side, you will make him do it your way. The most usual way of this is by making you go round and round perennially in government offices/courts/police stations/take-your-pick. The phrase used is Inda Pakkam Anda Pakkam. Literally translated – this side, that side… And you go stumbling from one door to anther, one desk to another… Inda Pakkam Anda Pakkam…Inda Pakkam Anda Pakkam…

Language is a problem; that is, till you learn to add a simple aa as a suffix. To demonstrate, to ask an auto to go left, say left-aa. To ask if you want to go left, say left-aa? Simple.

Black

2005-03-27T12:29:00.000+05:30

Good movie, if I were to sum up it in two words. Touches you, but doesn’t make you think… if I were allowed a line for the same.

Very, very good story line. Makes you feel for the characters, initially as Michelle (Ayesha, Rani) gropes through life trying to find a meaning with her mother (Shernaz) doing her best to help as she herself feels engulfed in the darkness of despondency. You applaud as Amitabh breaks into the scene with hope, and then your heart sinks as he himself loses his way in the quagmire of age.

But the just as you get engrossed, the experience is broken by contradictions and questions.

Is it because I’ve had a course in film-studies that I looked at the movie like this? Art direction – fabulous; the cinematography complements it like a poem. But which era Shimla are we talking about? Why are all cars vintage, and everyone in town wearing muted blues, greys and blacks? Questions, questions...

More than once during the movie I felt like I was watching a play – remember the scene where Michelle’s mother finds out the baby is blind and deaf? Oversized dark shadows on walls with paintings come forward, announce the ominous and leave, and how? Use an age-old theatre tactics that gives a sense of space – receding, invisible, footsteps.

And like stage, acting here is the key. The first two names that come to mind are Ayesha Kapoor as young Michelle and Shernaz Patel, Michelle’s mother. The film belongs to them. My mention of Amitabh would come after that, as his age and experience, am sure would have helped, notwithstanding the challenges of what would have been an exceptional role. What I’ll remember the most about Rani’s performance is her jig…

As for Bhansali, I have enjoyed his Khamoshi more, and despite all the grandeur that Black has to offer, will rate it as better in many ways. Not only because extracting those performances out of Salman Khan and Manisha Koirala, am sure was more difficult than directing Amitabh Bachchan and Rani Mukherjee, but also because it somehow has the rare thought element. Remember the scene where Manisha comes back after marriage with her kid and husband in tow and finds that her parents have learnt to be independent – they have actually installed a light bulb to the doorbell to sense someone ringing… know what I mean?

Go see the movie anyway. Unlikely that you will regret it.

Movie, masti, magic?

2005-03-21T18:16:00.000+05:30

There's something with me trying to watch movies...

The last time I tried was on December 26, 2004. Infamously, the day the tsunami broke. The movie was Swades, the tickets bought the previous day. And the time the show started was the time we had just started waking up to the fact that the calamity was big. I went nevertheless, thinking I will manage to squeeze those three odd hours...

I shouldn't have. My recollection of the movie is one shot where I see a Shahrukh Khan in crisp formals sitting for what looked like a presser at NASA. My phone rang soon after and as I left the theatre, the question on my mind was... Did I just see Shahrukh speaking in Hindi to a NASA audience??? I did not get another chance to see the movie in the ensuing months.

The second try was yesterday, the day the second India-Pakistan test match ended. I was told, and ready for arrival of the teams late at night. And so, thought it fair to spend the morning gainfully by watching Black. In a painful action replay, as I was buying the ticket I was called back by my office. I'll spare you the details... suffice to say my day ended at about one in the morning; the ticket still mint fresh in my pocket.

Why, oh why?

Faux pas

2005-02-18T13:34:00.000+05:30

Some days are like this.

I just got a call from an Admin person in my head office who tells me that he’s not got the air ticket for my trip to Chennai last December. And that if I do not deposit it soon, the amount would be deducted from my salary. Now where do I get him an air-ticket for a chartered helicopter - especially when the amount in question is slightly scary – around 3 lakhs?

Soon after I get a call from a lady in an ad agency, where the conversation goes like this.

“Deep?”

“Yeah?”

“Hi, this is P from EN, I was asked to call you and find out – when could we come to pick up the cheque?”

“CHEQUE ? !”

“Yes, the two-lakh cheque for printing and publishing”

“! ! !”

Now, being a broadcast journalist, I have never ever had anything to do with printing anything. Definitely not something that could cost 2 lakhs. Thankfully, half an hour later I’m called back and told, oops, sorry, the call was for the owner of a lounge-bar in the city who shares my name. I am glad he does not deal in arms and ammunition.

As if this wasn’t enough, a lady in a coach building company that I have called up for a story, completely misunderstands my intentions. Nothing very serious though –she just asks me what kind of bus I would like to buy, “AC, non-AC, 12-seater, 38-seater, 72-seater?”

I think it’s the soaring temperature in the city that’s responsible for all this. And oh, the Met department guy just backtracked on his promise of an interview. You know, that would possibly make me the first person in the history of journalism to have been told off by a Met department official!

What dreams may come

2005-02-13T13:28:00.000+05:30

The PM was in town recently. And as we were waiting for a press conference that went on being delayed inordinately, the protocol officer for such VVIP trips went on regaling us with stories of visiting dignitaries…

Last year the First Lady from a country in sub-Saharan Africa came visiting. And along with her she brought the wish to see a jackfruit – something she had never seen. Nothing wrong, except that she was in Bangalore in December; and that, as anyone from a jackfruit bearing part of the planet will tell you, is not the easiest time to get the fruit. However, finally one was hunted down, brought to her, broken open, and her wishes of tasting it, fulfilled.

Then there was this other gentleman, the head of a state in east Europe, who wanted to ride an elephant. So a substantial chunk of is itinerary was taken up in the travel to Bannerghatta National Park outside the city for a joyride. The rest of the time, was obviously taken up in travelling to Infosys, at the other end of town, to plant a sapling.

This is another must-do; an Infosys campus visit. According to this GoK officer, the way it works is simple. Like regular tourists, dignitaries too consult tourist brochures before travelling. And if they see everyone travelling to Infosys, they do it too. Or Lalbagh Botanical Gardens, for that matter – apparently, each one of them go there to see this three centuries old banyan tree and ”spend some time with it alone” (!). The latest in list was the premier from one of our large neighbours who sent off all his security men, kowtowed under the tree and, who knows, maybe even attained enlightenment.

The President of another European country is here again next week. Might get interesting...

Comments

2005-01-21T13:44:00.000+05:30

Have removed the link for the external comment that I've had all this while. Which means I lose all the old comments yuo guys had put in...but the idiots were anyway taking away my comments every three months...

From now on, leave all your comments on the Blogger's internal service. So start early and make up for all the old comments lost...

If all is not lost, where does it go?

2005-01-18T20:07:00.000+05:30

Arun sends some Jewish Zen my way. Samples -

Be aware of your body.
Be aware of your perceptions.
Keep in mind that not every physical sensation is a symptom of a terminal illness.

Let your mind be as a floating cloud.
Let your stillness be as the wooded glen.
And sit up straight.
You'll never meet the Buddha with such round shoulders.

We are going on a...

2005-01-16T19:51:00.000+05:30

Winter holiday, actually... not summer... I have this craving now, for a holiday…my stay in Karnataka has been exciting, fast-paced, and everything that I could have possibly asked for. I have travelled across the state – from Gulbarga in the north, to Udupi in the west to Mysore in the south. Bangalore is anyway in the easternmost end of Karnataka.

But though I have travelled to all these places, they have been short, whirlwind tours. Over the weekend I travelled to Mangalore for a story and came back in 36 hours flat. The longest I have stayed in a city is about 12 hours. And almost every single place I have been to, I have found something that has made me want to come back. Gulbarga, for instance – has this museum that I would love to go back and see; both for the exhibits and for the architecture of the building; Bijapur, on the other hand is this city where palaces spring up a every nook and corners – there are tarred roads that have been constructed as shortcuts through walls of palaces. And I haven’t even mentioned Gol-Gombuz. I would love to go to Hampi for the Mango Tree; or Mangalore for the cheap and incredibly sumptuous sea-food.

But if I had a choice to spend a couple of days, I have a list in mind. And what would make me go to these places rather than anywhere else? Easy. The fact that these places have absolutely no mobile connectivity. First on the list would be Kabini – take a tent close to the river; go for safaris into the reserve forest (they say the best time to sight animals is winter). At nights listen to the river as you fall asleep.

Then again there is Coorg – in fact this small hotel about six kilometres from the main city…set in the midle of fields. Imagine a time when all you do is sit on a beanbag with your legs atop something comfortable. Nice book/music and great coffee! You lift your eyes, and they wander off in to the horizon...

Hampi has no cell reception too. And though there is enough to go around and see, I would consider my time fruitful even if I could spend my entire day reclining at Mango Tree with a good book in hand…

Turtle Bay – past Mangalore and Udupi would also have made it to the list. The only thing stopping it is the fact that our friendly cell operators have decided that the network should follow us there…strange guys – they can’t give you clear reception in downtown Bangalore, and so they make up by making you track-able in the middle of nowhere!

Ok, enough for a day. Let’s get back to work now... deadline’s coming up.

... and Jack came tumbling after

2005-01-10T19:42:00.001+05:30

We all know about Jack and Jill tumbling down the hill…but few know what happened after that.

Jill grew up, got married and soon realised that her thrill in life was in breaking marriages faster than you can say "I do". Jack however, mended his crown, moved to a new city and studied to become a psychiatrist, which he did.

Now, Jill’s fifth husband was Danielle, who was hell-bent on fixing her obsession with new marriages. He decided that they’d go to a psychiatrist, and as fate would have it, and our story would most definitely have it, it was our old hero, Jack.

The moment Jill saw him she felt familiar emotions rushing inside her. She decided to go for a kill, especially as Jack did not have a girl friend. She accused Danielle of being unmindful of her needs and being attracted to men!

Danielle, though denied he was unmindful to her, sheepishly admitted that he did find men rather attractive...

Jack, keeping a clinical distance to his childhood sweetheart's life, said, that in such a case divorce was the only alternative. And so they got divorced. Jill decided to give it time.

After about a month, she wore her favourite low cut strappy red dress and visited Jack.

As she walked up the pathway to Jack’s house she realised why Jack did not marry. Or why, he never had a girl friend. The freshly painted white door had a new nameplate...

Jack-Danielle.

NB: NOT ENTIRELY ORIGINAL - Read the idea somewhere; the way it sounds here, is my doing... put it up because I find it unbeatable!

As the sun rises...(Old Jap proverb!)

2005-01-07T18:55:00.000+05:30

My definition for self-indulgence has shrunk… I no longer look forward to doing things during the weekend. As long as I can keep myself out of office, I am happy. In fact I have come to consider that an achievement.

That brings me to an impromptu list of things I’d like to achieve this year…

Save money!
SAVE money!!
SAVE MONEY!!!
Dig out more old friends – recently bumped into two such people on the messenger who had been mute icons for a long time. Had a good time and the chat was followed by updating of numbers and phone calls; and what’s more, one of them has promised to come visiting the city I’m in.
Learn something absolutely for the sake of it and with no utility whatsoever professionally – any form of dance would be good; otherwise a language like Urdu or French… Parlez-vous français ?
Find some meaning in my profession. I’m already in love with it, but get this feeling that no one is exploring the full potential of the medium, including me. Realising that is a long-term affair, but would want to start on that. ASAP.
No contradictions with the previous point, but would love to find some time for myself. Quite an impossible task, given the parameters of my profession, but still… the draw of the combination of a lazy afternoon, good music/book, beanbag and coffee is too much to give up!

Surprisingly, I cannot think of anything else… then again, that’s good, as it’s just January now, and I better not have my hands too full for newer cravings that are sure to come up later in the year.

As for the rest of the proverb, you are free to make it up yourself!

As 2005 breaks...

2004-12-31T13:39:00.000+05:30

Even before the ravages of tsunami have been fully comprehended, the last day of the year brought more news that none of us were eager to hear.

A house in Delhi caught fire... the area has timber yards and furniture shops. The fire was still raging when three people died. Funnily, none of them were residents – not that that would have made it any less tragic, but somehow, in situations like this, when entire families are stuck, they are possibly more prepared – knowing that each has an outside chance of making it.

These three guys, on the other hand were firemen who got trapped after a wall collapsed. They must have come from families that saw them off in the morning... children who must have asked them not to go; or at least to comeback early... it's new years’, after all... and see what happened...

We will at least get back home... may be late, maybe to empty houses away from our families... but most importantly, safe...unlike these guys.

As the New Year breaks on us, I guess a little prayer of thanks won't hurt... things weren’t the best this year. They undoubtedly could have been better.

But the best thing is we’ll be around with our families to hope situations make a turnaround next year.

Have a good 2005.

Friends Indeed...

2004-12-29T18:29:00.000+05:30

The biggest problem that one could have even when blessed with the second most exciting job in this planet is that your friends have equally exciting jobs and therefore don’t take your exploits too seriously.

Take my meeting Jackie Chan for instance. The guy is entertainment personified, unless of course your idea of a good movie is limited to anything between Les Miserables and Gone With the Wind (which are absolutely great movies in themselves, no offence to anyone). Now, the meeting was extremely entertaining – Jackie Chan is exactly as animated off screen, as he is otherwise... his hand moved around my microphone missing it for millimeters… and I didn’t know if I should concentrate on his acrobatics or on what he was saying… for even that was as interesting. Did you know the most mysterious thing about India according to him is the cow standing in the middle of the street? It is calm… he says… no one disturb him! So mystery!!! (him?). But my friends did not find that interesting…. What amused them was the way we had to go past a Laurel & Hardy set of Chinese women assistants whose skill at an Indian language including English, is limited to namaste. I mean, you ask them… May I speak to you for a minute? She looks at you, smiles, one namaste your way and… NO. I mean, how weird can you get? But if you noticed, even in the middle of all that they kept their smiles on. Not for nothing do they say that the Chinese are the most polite people in the world.

Or the recent time when I undertook my maiden helicopter ride to shoot tsunami hit Andhra and Tamilnadu coasts. The occasion was tragic enough to feel subdued, aided by the fact that the kind of expenditure that was being made for the arrangement. But what did my friends find exciting? Not that being chosen for something like this is such an one-off opportunity. But how queasy I felt when the chopper took that almost vertical turn towards the sea! It went like this… the pilot, a typical army guy, insists on flying his chopper exactly the way he wants to… and he doesn’t take it kindly if a guy half his age and with no military experience whatsoever asks him to circle half broken houses at 150 feet. But what has to be done has to done. And that is when our man takes revenge by flying his chopper almost parallel to the ground. All my cameraman managed to do was point his camera out of the window. The rest was a blur...

But are my friends interested in the heroics of it all? NO. Just the times when I’ve goofed up. Or been clumsy. And why? Because they are all in similar fields and can’t see the glamour to it, the idiots!

Thank heavens none in my circle of friends is in the most exciting job in this planet – acting.

Reality Check

2004-12-18T19:43:00.000+05:30

Someone I used to know as a junior in college has apparently been sacked from his latest job. Those who updated me said that it came about not because he hated the industry, but because he had grown to disregard his job as anything important to his life. He felt he was cut out for better things in the same field, which is advertising. Could be an absolutely accurate assessment about oneself, except that it is unlikely that you would be given anything mission critical to do when it’s not more than a year since you have started working. And at 23-24, the idea of just sitting on one’s behind with no backup except Hotel de Papa, somehow does not appeal to me. Could be something wrong with me.

Round about the same time a friend finally broke in to the world of broadcast journalism that she has been trying to for a very long while now. It’s been so long trying that she says it’s not sinking in. Best wishes to her and I hope she doesn’t crib ever again about how the profession she is in is not something that her mind is in.

I guess I’m one of the very few people who are in the professions that they wanted to be. For whatever reason even that does not seem to make things easier, as every second day I wake up not feeling like going to work; or end a day feeling it’s been a waste. This is spite of the fact that by sheer variety, my work is possibly more exciting than that of an astronaut, and slightly less so than that of an actor. But in the middle of all my cribbing I realize that I’d rather be doing this than anything else, for I at least don’t have to feel Only if I’d followed my dream…

Two years in the job market and I’ve picked up something that I don’t think could be taught in even the best institutes. That no matter how exciting your job is, it still gets monotonous. It’s natural to feel jaded. And the only way you can carry on is by rediscovering your job for yourself. There is no magic that will make you feel as exited about your job on your fifth year as it did on your first day of work, unless you yourself want it to.

And that’s that.

Some Maths…

2004-11-29T11:56:00.000+05:30

Have been hearing forever that we are supposed to sleep 8 hours a night. Considering there are only 24 hours in a day, this means we are ideally meant to sleep through a third of our lives. Considering I’ll live for another 45 years, I’ll sleep through 15 of them!

On a more academic note… I take about 10 days to finish a book. That means 3 books a month and in the same 45 years, 3x12x45 i.e 1600 odd books; not counting the ones that I would like to re-read and re-re-read. So, this means the maximum number of new books that I could possibly read is just about 1200 odd. That’s an awfully low number by any standards! I better choose them well!

Of course, all of this assumes that I shall, live to a ripe old age – not get polished off in an accident or epidemic; or not be gifted undue longevity by advances in medical science. All of that would, obviously necessitate new calculations.

Maybe I should just sleep less and read more!

The Mango Tree

2004-10-15T19:21:00.000+05:30

One must visit if you go to Hampi is the Mango Tree. Well, it’s no ordinary tree, in fact it’s not the tree but what’s underneath, that’s so exciting. It is this restaurant for which you walk past the main temple at Hampi – the Virupaksa temple, walk all the way down to river past all these shacks selling Falafel and what not (menus written in Hebrew!) and then keep walking with the river to your right.

The river too, like the rest of Hampi is rocky while the water finds its way through. And right when you think this road is going to get you no where, you reach a board that points to a narrow way through the wilderness saying “Mango Tree”. The wilderness doesn’t last for long – it so takes you to a banana plantation. You walk on wandering if Mango Tree wasn’t a misnomer… till you reach this house with a thatched roof, where you’re welcomed, politely asked to take off your shoes, wash your hands and then walk right through the house and emerge at the other side.

You are back at the riverbank. Only, you are under a mango tree that spreads on this huge area on the sloping bank. You sit on granite slabs that form the floor… with granite backrests. Since it’s riverside mud that we are talking about, there is a liberty of choosing different levels to sit on depending on how many you are or where you get the best view of the river from. Settle down. You will be given chatai to sit on and low tables on which your food will arrive. The food is simple, vegetarian, inexpensive, and yes, most of it contains mangoes. Sit. Eat. Enjoy the quiet. And once you are done, sit and soak in the quietitude some more. Chances are you will speak less and less as you stay there more and more… and finally just stop speaking.

There is still this power in nature that awes you speechless. And of course there is good food.

Hampi

2004-10-09T19:04:00.000+05:30

Fulfilled one long-standing aspiration – a visit to Hampi. For those who are not sure, Hampi was the capital of the Vijayanagara Empire and thrived between 800 and 1400 years back. The singular factor that makes the ruins so breathtakingly beautiful is the detailed stone sculptures. What aids it is the presence of the huge rock structures that look as if they are waiting to be carved out.

The main complex has the Virupaksa temple – dedicated to Lord Vishnu. Facing the temple is one of the most important thoroughfares in the ancient city - the Hampi bazaar. It is this pathway with pillared corridors on either side – unbelievably magnificent. Leads on to a two-storied mandapa with a dozen stone pillars. The sight from the top of the mantapa is breathtaking – nothing to stop your vision as it goes down the pathway all the way to the horizon where the Virupaksa temple stands.

There’s a lot to see and be marveled. So am not going to talk about all of them. If you are so interested, you better go down. There is a distinct difference in the way they are structured – like a wave. The initial structures are small, hesitant… till they rise to the magnificence of the Stone Chariot - huge and confident much like the empire in the pinnacle of its glory. And then they slowly lose their way again, in the half-carved stones of temples that they left unfinished and fled as the Bahmanis closed in. As you approach the main complex at Hampi you first notice the massive rocks. And then, as you look on, you notice carvings in them… there’s half a pillar in the beginning… making way for a full, elaborate and carved temple and you move on. Till you realize you have been looking at it at the chronologically wrong order… the unfinished pillars melting in to rocks were created the last.

What I went to Hampi for – oh, to meet Jackie Chan. But then, that’s another story.

Chucks

2004-09-24T19:57:00.000+05:30

Chucks died last night.

He was my cinema teacher during post-graduation, an entirely forgettable period save a few moments of brilliance. But then, I suppose most of us spend a large part of our grown up lives bereft of the joy of discovery at every turn. So, what makes Chucks all the more important was the fact is that he taught us, me, at least, the joy of discovery in cinema. Till then, movies were stories told in front your eyes; there was a vague consciousness of colours, angles, movements as tools that added to the experience, but it was more like a language whose richness you have heard about but lack the skills to read.

The first movie I saw after his initial classes was Dil Chahta Hai. That completely did it. The way I was to watch cinema had changed. It was not a story anymore; it was a tapestry woven out of treatment, plot and much more. Suddenly, cinematography, editing and charecterisation were neither alien words, nor concepts. Movies now lingered beyond the three hours, remembered more for the way they were made than what they said. I doubt if I would ever sit through movies like Citizen Kane or Thelma and Louis if it were not for his explaining what things like deep focus were and why they were significant; or the fact that Thelma and Louis had a different ending, which was later changed.

Meetings in the year and a half after college were few and far in-between. But news of his health failing, him having to undergo chemotherapy, reached with alarming regularity. In the few times we met, his spirit shone through. Once at his brother’s wedding, someone brought up an old joke – about how now that all his siblings were married, there was no excuse for him not to. He looked straight at us and said, “Yes, I’ve asked them to look for a girl. But I’m very particular.” Then he went in to a lengthy description of the kind of girl he would agree to marry. The other time was a when I went to the institute last. He had never looked so ill, so frail. He could hardly stand up. But when I asked him what was up, he very matter-of-factly said that he had decided to give up teaching… “There’s no money in it. All my friends are making their first movie, so it’s about time that I started. I’ve already sold a script, so there shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

Surprising how a man who had so little to look forward to, still made such a celebration of life. Teaches a thing or two to us cribbers who have so much going but still crave for more.

Some say he was in denial. I like to believe he was in celebration.

Get a life!

2004-09-10T15:30:00.000+05:30

… I finally got one. Never knew it was so easy. If you are trying to figure out what I am talking about, Deep proudly announces, he has joined salsa classes. Yippeeeeeeeee!!!

Finally, something to make me feel that I have another place to go to apart from work, when I get up in the morning. Something that has no utilitarian value. Except to make me happy. And it is this lack of a tangible benefit that makes it the best thing to have happened to me in a long time.

On the flip side, now I also know what having two left feet means!

Cosmo Nomad

2004-09-02T21:27:00.000+05:30

Yesterday I was on the phone with a friend and had to simultaneously speak to someone on my cell phone in my mother tongue. This friend had never heard me speak in Bengali, and when I got back to speaking to her, she said that I sounded quite different in my mother tongue. Hang on, that’s not what she said. She actually said, now that she’s heard me in my mother tongue, she thinks, in any other language like Hindi or English, I sound like a nomad.

That’s actually an interesting thought. A nomad, bred by cosmopolitanism. You are brought up in a particular environment and you enrich yourself in the elements of that milieu. You use your own language, your own idioms to describe your experiences there. And then, when you change location, you adjust to a new environment, the language changes. The idioms are no longer same. You learn to think in another language, so that you can communicate sense. But possibly the mind takes longer than that to figure out what happened. Matters are worse if the change of location is work related. You end up speaking perfect jargon at the workplace, but out of it, your expressions are so incomplete!

Take this blog for instance. If it were in any of the Indian languages, it would have all the peculiarities of such a language – the double words implying plurals, the words that are pronounced like a sound to imply an action that makes the sound… heck! I’m sure there’s a better way of communicating what I mean! See what I mean when I say expressions are incomplete?

Just as I was about to upload this post, I found a similar thought here.

And perhaps, that is why at times your conversations are most complete when the person you are talking to understands not a word of what you are saying.

Spiderman, finally

2004-08-15T19:29:00.000+05:30

The sequel, actually. And the finally, is because I didn’t think I’ll ever make it to the theatre in time. Much like Peter Parker in the movie, standing his friends up, but before you get your eyebrows up, yes, yes, with responsibilities far less selfless than his.

In fact that is where the movie had me. The computer generated animation and the works is fine, any movie worth its money in Hollywood gets them done, in fact I have long decided to resist from judging movies on technical brilliance. At least Hollywood ones. What hit me as extraordinary in the movie was the humane nature of the super-power.

To elucidate, we have seen Batman, we have seen Superman. But in neither does the person become bigger than the superhero. At the end of the day it is yet another flying through purple skies/clinging to walls/swinging through skyscrapers, guy. Without fail, all of them go through this phase of being in love with a mortal woman, and are torn between personal happiness and responsibilities towards the world. And without exception, they are brought out as these holier than thou men who sacrifice for the cause of the world. And yes, before deciding they do go through some anxious moments.

It is the portrayal of this period in Peter/Spiderman’s life that makes the movie extraordinary. He is torn between three worlds – his responsibilities towards his aunt, who is old and needs financial and emotional support, his responsibilities towards his friends and his career, and his responsibilities towards the world. The movie convinces you that though the magnitude of the responsibilities may be different, the nature is just the same as yours and mine. And the person torn between them undergoes as much anguish. For, at least while deciding this, he is of as ordinary faculties as can be. That is what makes Spiderman 2 believable, that is what makes the movie stand out in a crowd of superhero movies – from Superman to Batman… with forgettable ones like Justice League and Captain America thrown in in-between.

I could identify with Peter, have somewhat similar problems managing time, deciding priorities. I guess most in my place wouldn’t have a problem to, and I guess that’s what director Sam Raimi aimed at. It’s evident even in his portrayal of other characters. MJ looks ordinary and believable, never a Catherine Zeta Jones. Aunt May too, is not a character in the background but one complete in flesh and blood.

Can’t wait for 3… any news on that?

The way things are… II

2004-08-14T21:51:00.000+05:30

My turn to collect pearls of wisdom about life from my more experienced and also possibly more daring friends continues. Last time it was about work, this time it is about life. Love-life, actually. So, friends, Romans… etc.

They say that love is the sun rising on marriage, and marriage is the sun setting on love. But the most endearing period in a romantic relationship is not even the courtship, but the period before the courtship… when the two are trying to find out if their feelings towards each other is reciprocated or not.

Hmmm…

Go figure. Am trying to.

Nemesis

2004-08-13T21:32:00.000+05:30

It’s the end of the road for Dhananjay. 14 long years after he had actually committed or not committed the crime that is to be his nemesis, he is finally going to meet his maker.

We, the media and those who follow it, true to our nature picked it up only when there was human drama involved. Should Dhananjay be hanged? I don’t know. There is enough to say for and against the phenomenon and after all, truth is often a matter of how convincing one’s argument is. But as the issue dragged on, there seemed to be total disinterest in the fact that there could be another side that is unable to make it heard.

I do not know if there is truth in the opinion that Dhananjay’s lack of financial power made it easier for the prosecution to prove his guilt. But I do know that his family’s untrained voice, uninitiated in soundbyte journalism, did make it difficult for them to reach out with their version of the story. Not that there was any dearth of microphones ready to listen to them. But what are they after all, but 20 seconds of a soundbyte pasted between two voiceovers to add the “balance” to the story. And they too, foolish people, did not act out the vehemence they felt against the world; did not shout, scream, abuse our “independent judiciary”. It was tepid television, at best.

Hetal’s principal, on the other hand was better television. Her contorted face as she recalled the day’s events with alarming detail as if she was there, brought out the anguish needed for the second voiceover. And once it began, there was no looking back. The evenings just before the President rejected the clemency petition – every network was filled with hateful words against him from anyone we could find…her neighbours, her teachers, and even young girls from her school who possibly weren’t even born when this unfortunate event took place. After all it was a question of half an hour specials to be filled up.

And all this venom against a man who, in the last 14 years has been interviewed only once by the media. In 1995, and even that did not see the light of the day. The rhetoric went on, unmindful of the fact that the “balanced story“ could not be there for the voice on the other side had no way of making itself heard.

What is extremely scary in all this is the fact that with this, mainstream media showed how far it can successfully throttle an alternative perspective thorough advocacy. Not that the candlelight vigils were not covered, they were. But obviously, we all know, the TRPs are not in that.

Dictatorship of the majority…

While this was happening, we were also witnessing flood and related ills in other parts of the country. Unlikely though, that they got as much airtime. Perhaps this is a good time to stop in our tracks and take stock of our priorities.

Update on August 14, 2004.

Finally the hanging has taken place. This morning at 4.30 AM. Hopefully this will be the end of the circus for the time being. But the questions remain. For those on either side of the media – who are here to listen and see as well as those who are here to show and tell.

...

2004-08-02T21:04:00.000+05:30

It’s been very long since I wrote last. But that’s all right. Hectic schedule, busy life and the usual jazz. I have forgiven myself already for not writing earlier, it is now your turn. Amen.

However, I have been trying to write for quite a few days now… squeezing out time from here and there. But I haven’t been able to.

After the first few times I sat and tried and failed, I realised that the problem was with the fact that I have been running too fast. And when you do that your mind loses the capacity to hold on to the sights and sounds and distil them in to experiences for later. So I decided to cheat a bit and take the easier way out – simply describe something that I have been doing; any one interesting sounding thing, with a dash of humour here and there… just to say in touch with the art of writing!

And that is when the really scary thing happened! I couldn’t sustain any topic, any incident… no matter how interesting, beyond the first couple of lines. Why? Because my mind is too full of impending work to let anything else take wing; even if it is what was once work. Not that there is a dearth of interesting anecdotes. Last week I started a day documenting a death and ended it by chronicling efforts to save a newborn baby. I consider that interesting. And yes, it is one of the topics I had started writing on, and no, it did not get very far.

The death was that of Mehmood – the actor… and a separate post on him started like this… Mehmood must have lived a great life. If you can make hundreds and thousands of people laugh and forget their trouble for three long hours, what more could you want...

That is where went blank.

The point of writing all this is that I realise the danger of things being this way. All it means is that my mind is getting no respite from work. And in effect I am not exercising myself in any other way, not involving my capacities to do anything else. One way of qualifying it would be by saying that I need to get a life… but I think such a description actually dilutes the problem.

Now what? Suggestions anyone?

The way things are...

2004-07-06T22:15:00.000+05:30

A friend who started working two months before me and therefore has, till date worked exactly for one and a half years plus two months, has claimed to have attained enlightenment about the reason for this sin to earn our daily bread. Here goes his gyan

Postulate # 1

We are hired because someone, somewhere needs you to be there for your ass to be whipped when something goes wrong. So, as long as your ass is available for the whipping you’ll keep your job. Unless of course he makes mistakes so often that it makes you look really inefficient.
You’ll be the most important person in the organisation and rise up the chain the fastest if you can ensure that your and the someone’s asses are never whipped.

Postulate # 2·

But actually the most important people are the people who take care of small things. Bigger guys are trained. A reporter is trained to report, a sales-person to sell, a super-computer-runner to run a super-computer. But it takes monumental intuition to look out for the small things and plug the leak.

My learned friend also argues - You may say you want to be the best in what you do, but frankly, that is all for you to feel good about yourself. It doesn’t really matter.

So far so good. Am not sure if I agree immediately or if in another two months I will be as enlightened. But what I am more unclear about is what this makes the aim of our lives... does it mean the ultimate aim is to get to hire someone whose ass can be whipped as need be???

Burnout Blues

2004-07-04T22:09:00.000+05:30

I can’t say I am still a major tennis fan. But the sport has always had it’s appeal since my elder sister explained the basics in a Steffi Graf versus someone match. In that one moment I was as hooked to tennis, as Steffi Graf would allow. Men’s tennis mostly meant watching fellow German Boris Becker. Even Jim Courier had his moments. But the sport lost its appeal soon after Steffi retired. Gone was the skill, the grace, the beauty. In its place came raw power and muscular energy. He who served the most aces became the best. Stood out Pete Sampras for consistency and Andre Agassi for springing surprises. And yes Agassi, also because of the Steffi angle. It became difficult to keep track of the number one – for it kept changing every second week.

Women’s tennis was worse. No one made a mark in the mind after Steffi. Guess, the void was too big. But otherwise too, no one seemed as consistent, as stable. What was more pronounced in the version than men’s tennis was the fact that the age for success came down drastically.

And now it’s Sharapova who’s done it. The scary part is that she’s 17 and the one who she’s defeated is only 22. That possibly means that by 22 you are too old to win consistently. You will win, but not as often… till you fade away. Martina Hingis, for example. I don’t even know if she played Wimbledon this time. But every mention of Sharapova’s since yesterday has a mention of her name as she is the second youngest woman to have won the title. Sharapova is the third. With that under her belt it is ironical that each of the first ten results in a simple search of Martina Hingis’ name on Google churns out entries that mention her in relation to Sharapova’s feat.

I guess it’s the rate at which you burnout. And that, because today you peak early, you also finish off faster. It’s not just tennis, it’s everywhere. Women’s tennis maybe exposes it best. But journalism comes a close second. I doubt if any of us that started on television at the very beginning are going to last half as long as those who had a good long stint in print before they shifted to TV. So, how long would we last? Seven years? Ten? Scary.

Give me Martina Navratilova’s innings any day. She says she played because she loved playing. Look at the innings her love for the game made her play…

Flick Pick

2004-06-23T12:25:00.000+05:30

Dev

The essence of the movie according to me lies in Amitabh’s beard. That is, the inconsistency of his stubble symbolises the way in which the quality of everything in the movie dithers from time to time. In one shot, his beard is thick; in the next one it’s barely there… the movie suffers from the same problem. At times the dialogues are brilliant, hard-hitting and meaningful – especially when Om Puri and Amitabh sit across the table and talk about their difference in ideologies. In places Om Puri almost begins to make sense, the dialogues are so powerful. But then again, the moment the two young, picture-perfect romantic interests appear, the dialogues suffer strangely. S if the lovebirds are tongue-tied in expressing their feelings to each other. The emotions seem forced and expressions rehearsed.

Rehearsed. That’s the word for this movie. Anyway the extensive use of sets and artificial lights make the movie look more like theatre quite often. Add to that rehearsed expressions and dialogues. Cinema is not theatre, goddammit! Kareina’s entry after Fardeen’s father dies, for example. She enters like she would everyday, nonchalantly. You would believe she did not know of Fardeen’s loss, till she opens her mouth and you know that she does. Then why walk in like nothing has happened? Since she knows, wouldn’t she be extra careful, look for him as she enters instead of looking down?

But the strength of the movie lies in Amitabh and Om Puri. In fact more on Puri than Amitabh. For Bachchan, as usual plays himself. He is Amitabh playing a police officer. But Om Puri is the police officer himself.

The biggest character in the movie is the theme itself. It is larger than all the rest. And that, is vintage Nihlani, worth looking out for. As I already mentioned, the conversations between Om and Amitabh. Worth a watch.

Lakshya

Farhan Akhtar has not only watched a lot of Hollywood flicks. That all of us do. What he has done, is making an attempt to use a canvas as big and give the feel of watching a movie technically as solid. And succeeded at that.

The night battle scenes, for example. JP Datta tried, but for all his grandeur fell short somewhere. Farhan does not. Also the rock-climbing scene – reminds you of Cliffhanger and the first scene of MI-2 at the same time. The beginning, which traces the route a jeep takes also reminds of countless foreign war movies. And the background score, in all these scenes, is very, very Hollywood.

On the flip side, what is not very solid is the plot. I mean, nothing wrong with it, but nothing very great. Also, since he went in to so much pain to ensure the army details were accurate, may be he could have done the same about the news channel bit. Use the proper lingo, may be…and also take a look at the technical probabilities of news? I doubt if any anchor says - Aath baje meri news reading hain.

But for all you know, may be an army guy holds exactly the opposite view - the news part is done so well, why not the military part...

May be next time.

Fill in the blanks

2004-06-13T18:43:00.000+05:30

Was in a party last week with lots of people who I had only spoken to over the phone. So the excitement was of matching the names to the voices and getting surprised by the faces that come with them. And obviously if you are doing it as a part of a game where you identify people you end up making quite a fool of yourself. After I while, I think I tried to blame it on the drinks. Not sure if anyone believed me.

One gentleman’s voice had given me the impression that he is this clean-shaven guy with glasses, and a side parting on thick black hair. He turned out to be tall, athletic, with gray, curly hair and a small bald patch at the back. Also, a gray moustache. Another was this guy who was supposed to be tall, lanky, betel-chewing, hair standing on end. Our man is actually short, slightly long hair and the coolest customer you would have seen. Just two instances in the course of the evening when I met about 25 such people. And no, I was not correct in even one count.

Now is it my overactive imagination or what. Do you think they will take it as a compliment if I told them everyone is generally far younger than I thought they sounded?

Points to Ponder

2004-06-11T20:58:00.000+05:30

Don’t worry, I hadn’t gone off… just had one of those phases when I can’t stand sound that makes sense.

How often do we do things anymore just because they are right and not because there is something for us at the end of it all? Not often really, I suppose… did a quick survey and I must say that people were candid enough to admit that it’s utility that rules. But don’t get me wrong. Am not for once saying that we should all turn in to do gooders generally.

What is actually my concern is the fact that what then, happens to all we were taught by elders, school and all… that a good human being is one who does what is right. Now, we may all choose to be bad people, or even choose to not accept this definition of good people. But come on, why is it then every time we do something entirely selflessly, we feel nice about ourselves? Why is it that things done without any apparent logic of gain make us feel proud and add inches to our chest?

My profession, for instance. It is market-driven, I admit, like every viable thing has to be. But at some level, when you use phrases like people want to know or people have a right to know… you consciously end up masquerading as a people’s representative. And that makes it all the more important to keep the people in mind. Sadly, am not sure we do it often in our stories. Sad. Painful. Even guilt-inducing. But as we said, practical.

The way then, I suppose is to wait. And look for windows where the no strings attached right can be done simply because its right. Not by going out of the way, but within the parameters of daily life… at work, for instance. Provided of course you feel like doing it. No forcing.

pet pooja

2004-06-03T14:11:00.000+05:30

One of my ultimate aims in life (and a pretty important one too) is to be able to travel only for gastronomical ends. As in take trips, go to places, only to eat. Good food, end of story.

The inspiration comes partly from people I know who are practicing this with a great deal of success. Also, in all my travel over the last few months, I have come to realise it is the food that sets a place apart from others. I mean, other things do too, but none as much and as comprehensively as cuisine does.

And also because almost nothing else rings the bells of my heart as food does.

Now that the maksad is in place, the next step is to start somewhere. My current haunt Baroda (Vadodara, if you please,) sounds good for three reasons. The first reason - there's enough good food here to go around; secondly, the foodie has not yet discovered this place, therefore I stand the chance of being hailed by posterity as Vasco Da Gama. Thirdly, I have just about started here and so the description is at its graphical best.

May be we should start with Raju Omlet - it's a one-stop shop for any kind of omlette that can exist - even ones without eggs. If you are bored of the usual anda-toast try the "boiled egg crushed masala"... swimming in groundnut oil or butter, if you please. Usually had with toast, but since you are just about at the beginning of your trip, it is advisable to save stomach-space for other things. Once done, proceed to Nilkanth. A lot to die for, but stick strictly to dry-fruit lassi. Worth every calorie you add. And if it is thali you crave for, try Kangsar. Only, beware. If you don't eat enough, you suffer the ignominy of paying for a half-meal.

But I still maintain that for the serious foodie, Calcutta is the place to be. Too many places to go to, but definitely try the chinese breakfast at Poddar Court, the paan at Montu's and the sweets at Putiram. Alternatively, the biryani opposite Statesman House, sweets at KC Das. Contact me before your visit for your personalised eat-itinerary.

Oh, there's so much more to eat. Apparently at Daman there is this restaurant by the sea… you start with tea and fish-snacks in the morning and leave only after your dinner with five kinds of fish. Have you been to Cochin? Restaurants along the waterfront with all the sea-food you can dream about.

I would love to tell you more but masochism has its limits. Am off to the fridge.

Life at 30,000 feet

2004-05-30T18:07:00.000+05:30

I still believe flying is the worst way of travel…you don't see a thing, don't feel the place, you just reach. But it makes sense when the alternative is a three day long train ride.

Every meal I ate today was in an aircraft. With the happy exception of dinner. My breakfast, lunch and tea comprised partly or wholly of buns that airlines insist on providing with every meal. Even a meal of rice and vegetables is accompanied by the ubiquitous bun! What is one expected to do with it, I do not know. I mean, why would anyone want to eat a cold bun with butter at the end of an Indian lunch? I planned to ask the cabin-crew, but well, Maharaja Airlines isn't exactly known for its friendliness. However there is one thing I still aspire to do - meet the chef who cooks airline food. In spite of all the visible oil and spices, the food is absolutely bland. I suspect his food is loved greatly by all the curry craving gora sahibs.

Pretty-Young-Things (hereafter referred to as PYTs) usually tend to brighten up the lives of those sitting next to them. So the world believes, and so did I. Correction # 1 - not if they speak in a sickening American accent. The PYTs in question here amused themselves by stabbing a melting slab of butter with a plastic fork and then pretending that the tub of jam and the ketchup were having a conversation about that. Have you ever been close enough to these wannabes to see how they put a character to everything? For example, the bun becomes a 'stupid bun'. If I wasn't sure that despite their best efforts the bun wouldn't come to life, then I would have felt really bad at it's sentiments being hurt by the abuse.

Clumsiness revisited

2004-05-18T11:30:00.000+05:30

I have a colleague who recently gave a rickshaw driver her visiting card after reaching office in his auto. The poor guy obviously was expecting more materialistic benefits and hollered when the absent-minded-professor actually walked off without paying any attention to his hopes. What followed is anyone’s guess.

Now she is no ordinary woman. So if you thought she would be acutely embarrassed at the incident, you might be slightly off the mark. Here we are talking about someone who has spent years practicing bumping in to glass doors (Saint Gobain or otherwise), rushing in to cars of perfect strangers thinking it’s someone she knows, and the like… she spills coffee with a flourish while claiming she’s actually cooling it. I have even seen a window develop cracks soon after she leaned against it.

Believe me, none of this is make-believe. Once this lady reads this she will obviously claim otherwise, but well, some of this actually has witnesses other than I. This entry is my humble homage to her spirit.

Because it is instances like this give me more and more reason to be hopeful. All is not lost, I say!

It's only words...

2004-05-17T21:40:00.000+05:30

I have realised that my day consists only of words. I get up in the morning, usually to a call from office and yap for a while. Soon, I yap my way to office, yap past the reception and reach my cubicle to yap some more with whoever’s around. That is, if I’m not already yapping on my phone all this while.

Soon it is time to call up, fix appointments, and go meet people. And in case, you did not know, my work is all about asking questions. So that’s some more talk coming your way. The day ends this way. Talking to people you need to meet, talking to more people as you work your way past them to meet the people mentioned above. You talk even as you wait for either of the two kinds mentioned above.

The fatigue sets in by evening. When it’s time to put the day’s work in ink. In the beginning it is all very well, ideas clear, thoughts happy at the prospect of life changing from the spoken to the written. But that seldom stays beyond the first 30 minutes. By the time you finish, even the prospect of thinking in a known language is unbearable. A friend once said he has stopped listening to songs in known languages. That’s the thought. Ditto.

Later in the evening, you either meet more people, or you bury yourself in a book. More words. Television’s no good either.

Ever thought how all we do is so engulfed by words? But what could be the alternative… let me know if you can think of one.

Just call or write.

secrets

2004-05-15T19:13:00.000+05:30

se·cret (s kr t) n. – Something kept hidden from others or known only to oneself or to a few.

I wish there was a better word to express the idea of a secret. For there are times when it goes beyond an idea...and becomes an emotion.

I know there's a job there – but I'm not telling... that’s what you call keeping a secret. Mundane, everyday half chances.

But the word falls short when a friend tells you about a marriage that did not work out.

I was not taken in by the grief of her loss.What did move me was how this could never be oh so matter-of-fact. This friend is known to be spunky, full of life and open about most things. And this is not the first time that this is happening to anyone - in fact it is pretty common now. But none of that, absolutely none of that perhaps takes away from the sense of loss that something like this brings about.

Not that the secret makes itself conspicuous. But it refuses to go away. Or come out. It just occupies space. Enough space that prevents it from becoming commonplace. Even in an existence that is otherwise as wind in the air as can be.

Hop, skip... CRASH!

2004-05-10T11:42:00.000+05:30

I recall being chided as a kid for being clumsy – dropping the pencil, oops, dropping it again… and the works. In fact I even recall one of my sisters (hint: the one who reads my blog, but does not publish public comments) being acutely embarrassed of my clumsiness quite often. What I do not remember is the course of events that led to such an opinion, but even if I did, I would not tell you.

But it was irritating, believe me, when a friend recently called me clumsy. She also believes that all Aquarians are clumsy. This woman, slightly older than I, used a tone that, for some reason transferred me back to my pre-teens when I used to have to look up (literally; otherwise, I still do) to my sisters when they spoke to me. A few seconds, but she had actually managed that.

I want to set the record straight. I am not extra-clumsy. I have had my share of knocking glassfuls of water on unsuspecting laps, and I continue to have my tryst with them, but so do others. I have seen people do worse things with their water/juice/coffee/whatever. The friend mentioned in the previous paragraph included.

In fact, I have even secretly kept a log of social occasions, which records the number of time I have been clumsy vis-à-vis, others. Believe me, others are quite bad too. In fact some of them are worse than I. Mostly so when they are in high spirits. Are they all Aquarians? Have you ever tried asking a drunk guy, his sun sign?

Try, try, try again

2004-05-09T20:36:00.000+05:30

I first started writing unprivately exactly a decade back. I came back to it this year, after a three-year break. But what I am still not sure of is if my writing has at all developed. Personally I believe it has gone south. Really. What has developed is my ability to package the entire unit well. Most of what I have written does not go anywhere. Certainly not deep in to anything – they are usually shallow, hollow pieces. Simply timepass. The only joy in that is of describing something.

I don't know if I ever wrote well. But I did enjoy writing. The purpose of starting again was to revisit that. Unfortunately, that has not yet happened. I am still not enjoying it as much as I used to. My profession has moulded my style. I write short, clipped, crisp sentences "one could read without losing breath and in a language that sounds okay to the ear". As a result I am always caught between the fear of digressing and the wish of elucidating an idea. Sorry if you did not get what that means.

Nothing wrong with it though. Only that they are still not as lucid, as well composed as a lot of writing I keep on reading. Gotta get there soon. It’s getting my goat. (Wow, alliterations! Maybe there is hope after all…)

dhisum dhisum, dhisuuum

2004-05-09T19:58:00.000+05:30

Have been on a feed of south Indian movies of late…. Arul, in Tamil and Durgi, in Kannada… both mass entertainers with revenge as the theme…innocent people, wronged people, decide to settle scores. The process necessitates creating pools of blood, as it seems that in cinema, settling scores isequalto meting out grotesque deaths to all baddies. Yes. The world is smaller than you think. But even here, hierarchy has to be maintained. You start with the smallest baddie and lead up to the bigger ones, in the way you peel an onion.

Now I usually stay away from the blood and the gore in cinema. The doctor has not told me, but I suspect it does not do me any good… I consider myself quite weak-hearted as far as celluloid violence goes. In both these cases, I got pulled in by peers. Why? That’s a separate blog altogether. It’s not that I have got anything against the dhisum-dhisum, for psychology class did teach me that movies are a huge way of wish fulfillment. But of late, especially while I was watching these two movies (with-live-dialogue-translation-from-benevolent-friends-who-didn’t-want-me-to-miss-nuances-of-the-dialogue) I just figured out why I cannot make myself watch this anymore. For I have ceased to believe that a one-man (or woman) army out to set things right, works. Especially if the only prescribed way to end evil is by bumping off the evildoer. I mean, wouldn’t anyone else be ever tempted to take the easy way out to wealth and power? How exemplary can you get in punishing people? Also, if you notice, people almost never differentiate between the violence doers… so you can’t even say it’s your Good Samaritan work for the masses…

Then what is the way, I say? I would get on to it, but when I started this piece I promised myself to keep it light-hearted. I suppose I have already broken that. The least I can do is not ramble on...

Arun's dream

2004-05-04T15:43:00.000+05:30

What I like best at Arun’s place is the kitchen. But more on that later. There is so much about that place that merits more than a mention that it is difficult to start at any given place. The beginning is in order to set the record straight about my preferred place in that house.

500 plus villas on green turf built on similar architecture, but each with a different dream and theme make for mind-boggling beauty. Add to that the fact that your get the silence and serenity of the wilderness with the security and convenience of city-living. But though that has its place, the highlight of the house lies beyond its geography.

Arun says they built the house with every single thing that they wanted in it… which is perhaps the most succinct and accurate way of describing the place. Every bit of the way the house stands for the thought that went in to it… from the spice rack in the kitchen to the selection of tiles in Mithila’s bathroom that follows an ocean theme. None of the gadgets seem construed, forced upon; every bit of space in the floor-plan is accounted for. It is not as if as shifting to a new house necessitated better technology. It is more like as if they had worked on a list as they had gone on. Painstakingly keeping note of each that worked best in combination with others. And then, as they set up this place, all of that got included. So that now everything works in tandem and as a combination. The triangle, for example between the refrigerator, cooking area and place to keep the food; where despite ample space nothing is beyond arm’s reach. Even the bottles/utensils/cups reflect the care taken to choose them so they suit the bigger picture. Or the designated corners on the wall where each one is to record moments from his or her life. Arun’s is most organised at the moment – a note from Amitabh Bachchan, certificates for skydiving and a cartoon by Ajit Ninan… The second most organised wall is Mithila’s.

Difficult to get over the breath-taking experience. Arun says I can come over again next year, so I am trying to find and befriend other people who live in the same property. And while there I could casually drop in…

On a different note, what is it in us that make us agree to be a part of such an arrangement where we can escape the realities of the strain of a modern city life? Where all agree to be a part of the same plan, same dream and same design. Even give up a part of your freedom to be different. Perhaps the aspect that every amenity is taken care of and arranged for so that the petty details do not consume every free living moment justifies the move. We all know we have to come out in to the grind of the city, But we still crave for the solitude that allows us to believe that it does not exist.

Jana Gana Mana

2004-05-01T14:45:00.000+05:30

While on a story, met this guy today… owner of a theatre in Bangalore who plays the National Anthem before screening every show and insists that everyone stand up while it’s playing. He sends his people round who ask lazybums to straighten up. And one who doesn’t, gets a refund and is shown out.

Suppose there’s still some hope left.

pilgrimage

2004-04-18T16:47:00.000+05:30

Been away for long… a pilgrimage on the hinterlands of Karnataka… pretty hectic, but extremely educative. Especially on a pre-election milieu… in the meantime, traveled 2000 kilometers, across 10 districts, met a man who resembles Osama Bin Laden but campaigns for the BJP, and ate hard-as-rock roti that keeps you full for the entire day.

Taking you through the convolutions of the trip would possibly test your patience. So let me recollect the highs and the lows of the trip in sub-heads of the best and worst of…

BEST VISIT – Undoubtedly to Belgaum. Nice, small town, clean for most other places its size. Bureaucracy is tolerably fast and quite helpful. But what was a clincher was the weather. Every evening we were there, a cool breeze would blow soon after sundown. You hardly expect that in North Karnataka. The fact that our hotel was right opposite a girls’ college and that the hotel had a chat and ice-cream corner too, helped.

WORST VISIT – To Sandur. A small town in Bellary close to Manganese mines. The town is covered with red dust. There are no roads. Hang on. That lets it off too easily. I wish I knew a better way of putting it… you commute there basically by finding your way between houses, shops, and the works… woven together. It is not even a mud road. There is no road. Period. And in the heat, the red dust from the, well, road covers everything you see around you… trees, houses, coolers in hotel rooms… after a while you think that even people there have a thin coating of red dust on them! The local MLA is a member of the erstwhile royal family ruling Sandur. He has been around for 50 years… and still gets votes.

MOST IMPRESSED BY – The short visit to Bijapur. The Gol Gombuz, everyone knows of. Look out for the ruins of forts/palaces strewn all over town. Sometimes, you look on either side of a road and notice broken fort walls; and you realise that the road has been made through what used to be a fort closed away from the outside world. In fact if you are careful you also see part of the ruins. You look around and notice the architecture change before and after the walls...

FOOD TO DIE FOR – A place called Aahar 2000 in Davangere. 20 bucks is all it takes for a south Indian thali. Every sabzi, sambar, rasam has its own distinct taste… you can even make out that every single spice is freshly ground. Lip-smacking. Try it.

AND FINALLY… 48 degrees. The temperature in Gulbarga when we were shooting a rally. Cap, sunglasses et al, just whither away in front of temperatures like that. It burns your ears and the back of your neck. Makes your mouth so dry that when you open your mouth to speak, you realise that you can’t, for your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth. Quite an experience to SMS your friends about. I did.

PostScript – And through the long and short, good and bad of it, people may not have water, electricity and roads, but they have the votes. They get to shout slogans, carry flags and even get paid for all their trouble. See, they are empowered; even if it’s for a fortnight.

Mohan

2004-04-06T22:25:00.000+05:30

We went to see Mohan today. For the first time since he had lost use of both his legs. Waist downward.

Thankfully, things have improved a lot since then, and the virus doing its rounds about his spine has been found out and suitably dealt with. He is regaining use of his legs, they said. You decide to enter, exchange pleasantries, talk about what’s been happening, and after about half an hour wish him a speedy recovery and leave. But I guess that’s not enough.

Because no matter how you prepare and how much time you spend rehearsing it, can you be ready you for a scene like this. You enter, determined not to show the shock on your face and smile and say, “The elections are waiting for you…” He smiles back and says, “It’s much better now.” He holds his thighs and hauls up his leg to show how he can not only hold the part of his leg from knee-downwards up in the air, but also wiggle his toes. “Anyone who has seen me after this happened will know how much of an improvement this is. Another couple of months of physiotherapy and I’ll be up.” You hold your breath. Who thought that after years of walking on God’s earth one would again need to start from learning to walk?

Suddenly that puts everything in perspective. While we run out of goals, milestones and satisfaction every two weeks (faster, in some cases), here is a guy for who, a promotion, money, more contacts, have all taken a backseat. All that matters is being able to walk. Suddenly he reads your mind. “A lot of people are shocked to see me… oh Mohan, you were so agile; what happened… so I console them – I say, don’t worry, I will be okay. Because otherwise their negativity might affect me…”

He will make it. Not because we are fond of happy endings, but because his treatment is going the way it should. At the same time, his life will never be the same again; changed by this period. By lessons from it.

But we got the lessons cheap. No pain at all. And that makes it so much more difficult to keep them in focus.

Ekdum Jhinchak!

2004-04-02T17:57:00.000+05:30

I have recently become the proud owner of a VCD cum ACD cum MP3 system. That explains the title. And that fulfills a longtime aspiration. Now I can enjoy the movies that I have always wanted to. Have formed a sort of a list and midway figured out that it will need help, as my knowledge is woefully limited to whatever I have already watched or along a slight periphery beyond it. My list so far goes like this…

Sound of Music
Singing in the Rain
Everything available on Charlie Chaplin and Tom & Jerry
Rainman
Guns of Navarone
Chicago
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
Life is Beautiful
Road to Perdition
Satyajit Ray movies
Dil Chahta Hai
Golmaal
Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron

You may ask the criteria for selection of movies in the list… nothing exceptional really… just that all of them are special in some way. Guns of Navarone, I watched when I was a kid and loved it immensely (you can’t help me selecting movies that fit THAT bill), some because they are technically quite nice – whatever little I understand of movies. Dil Chahta Hai, for example – was really fresh in a lot of ways, considering the way most of Indian movies are made. The ending was atrocious though.

Another unbelievably likeable movie is Chicago – out of this world editing, music, use of space/time and acting… (you can help me select movies like this one…)

And some because they are clean, good wholesome entertainment… the kind that can act as a pick-me-up no matter how deep the shit you are in, is. Golmaal, for instance.

Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron would stand somewhere in between the last two categories mentioned above. And have an extremely strong presence at that…

Now that you have seen the list, and know how to go about adding to it, help me take it forward.

Incommunicado

2004-03-30T22:03:00.000+05:30

I cannot call up and talk about this… and that explains why I am writing this. Also that my emotions about this particular chain of events would possibly be more coherent in writing.

My cell phone has been robbed of its outgoing call facility because the agency where I paid my bill forgot to furnish the first numeral on the left while clearing it’s accounts with Airtel. And so, it was around ten phone calls (Them – 8, Me – 2) before I went down to their office to settle it for once and for all.

But hang on. Here we come to the most irritatingly devoid of human touch part of the story. In all the calls that were made to me, not once did a human make the calls. They were all pre-recorded, cold messages that tell you that you owe them money and you better pay it or else… Doesn’t it, for some reason occur to them that they might need to find out if the problem is elsewhere? That for someone who has been using their service and running substantial bills and paying those bills punctually as well for quite some time is unlikely to lapse on payment?

No it doesn’t. So, after I walked in to their office today to explain the problem (and also to find out if there were any real people working in the company), I was told to go home smiling. “God willing”, the gentleman behind the desk told me, my outgoing facility should be restored soon.

Well, God did will, about half an hour back. And just now, a lady (real one) called me up to ask me if I have paid my bill! So I told her, “There’s ample documentary evidence to show that I have indeed paid and how much. You did not need to waste a phone call on me for that. But doesn’t it ever occur to you to ask if the service is okay? Even my corner chaat-waala asks me if the salt is okay in the pani-puri he’s just served.” The lady was at a loss to understand what I was saying. She did not tell me, but I have the feeling that she was surprised that one could have a cell-phone and still crib about something as trivial as how he could only receive calls in it.

I don’t know how many subscribers these guys have. I was told once, but like all important things, I have forgotten. But when will they learn that the subscriber is at the center of all they do? And that it is poor business sense to take him for granted.

However, even as I write this I have helped Airtel make pots of money by calling/messaging all those who had been informed that I am incapable of making a call on my own.

Heads they win, tails you lose.

Sorry for the interruption

2004-03-30T21:29:00.000+05:30

Long time no see… but will be back soon… hopefully tonight.

Breathe In... Breathe out

2004-03-16T14:36:00.000+05:30

I guess I’ll stick with this title to the blog for a while. Hopefully. And what is it with this title, you may ask. Nothing really, except that it came bang at me on a lazy day when nothing much was moving. Till this came about, of course.

In other words, you may call it enlightenment. Or the perfect answer. Or G*A*S, if you so please.

But for me, it works quite well, thank you very much. At least at this juncture of space and time. Like all of us do, I too have been trying to figure out that question that bugs one to death. What is life? And, how should it be lived? And also, how is it that some have it all worked out and some don’t? Especially me? Blah blah… blah… blah blah.

And then I figured it out. That, there was nothing to figure out. You could not have an answer to the existential question because there was no answer. And the more you killed yourself over finding that elusive answer, the less you lived. The more closely you watched every tomorrow, the more todays you lost on the way.

It was like the desperate urge to grow up and be able to shave. Till you actually had to, and realised it was not so cool. Also known as the glasses-on-the-forehead syndrome. It has taken long but then, it’s okay. I guess we all are allowed our own sweet time in understanding that life is this busy, confusing and beautiful jigsaw puzzle where some pieces will always be missing and it still does not matter; for the correct way to solve the jigsaw puzzle are many.

Right now I am in that phase of life where it is okay to believe that the best way to live life is by remembering to breathe well. Leave the rest on the inherently human quest to adapt to improve. And all is well with the world.

How long will I stay here? No idea. Watch this space!

Razzle Dazzle

2004-03-15T23:11:00.000+05:30

I saw this another ad today where an young woman with a microphone in hand runs around as a television journalist. The ad showcases (no, not her spunk, there is a Chwanprash ad for that,) the cleaning power of a detergent. Therefore she is shown running to hostile (and suitably muddy) territories, and/or thrusting the foam covered piece of rod (uh… that’s the prop for microphone) under supposed celebrities’ noses (did I tell you about the time when a microphone hit Jaswant Singh under the nose?) … and the like. In doing all this, her salwar gets stained with grease, mud and other devilish concoctions. A worried mother tries to wash the clothes clean, to no avail, till voila! This new detergent saves the day, and the daughter goes scavenging the next day with undented vigour!

Then there was another soap commercial where cleaner clothes washed in a particular detergent allow this lady to go past her competitor in bagging assignments.

A shampoo commercial where a woman with dandruff free hair gets selected as a news-anchor. Why? Her competitor had dandruff, silly.

A cell service provider commercial shows a young woman with a microphone reprimanding a uniformed guy behind a desk – obviously a symbol of the establishment.

The Chwanprash ad I was mentioning earlier shows a very worried looking, but absolutely propah television journalist (!?) speaking in front of a camera, supposedly being beamed live to the entire nation. FACT: You cannot usually go live unless your camera is connected and cabled in some way. Wireless video technology is available, but is extremely expensive and isn't used very often in our country yet. But let’s keep the technicalities out of this. So this lady suddenly sees an old woman in distress and rushes to help her …

Oh Please!

What would it take to convey that all the broadcast journalism is not about adventure. Not about running fast with a microphone in hand. Not about being beamed across the country, if not the world. It does look glamorous, but that’s about it. It is a lot of hard work, like every other profession. And yes, tact more often than confrontation yields results. Moral of the story – if you end up like the girl in the cell ad – don’t shout. That won’t help.

That reminds me, why is it that all these ads portray only girls? Why? All these products are equally useful to boys, at least clean, tolerably groomed boys? Then? I remember a study mentioned in a newspaper a while back – how a study puts broadcast journalism at the top of the career of choice for most young women in schools and colleges across the country. So, … if you eat the right Chwanprash, wash your clothes in the right detergent, (use both. Don’t leave anything to chance.) use the right shampoo and use the right cell service… you shall be at least as good as Barkha Dutt.

Ye Gads!

The spotlight IS on the profession. Have to give you that. Remember Richard Gere in Chicago?

Give 'em the old razzle dazzle
Razzle Dazzle 'em
Give 'em an act with lots of flash in it
And the reaction will be passionate
Give 'em the old hocus pocus
Bead and feather 'em
How can they see with sequins in their eyes?

What if your hinges all are rusting?
What if, in fact, you're just disgusting?

Razzle dazzle 'em
And they;ll never catch wise!

Give 'em the old
Razzle dazzle 'em

Give 'em a show that's so splendiferous
Row after row will crow vociferous

Give 'em the old flim flam flummox
Fool and fracture 'em

How can they hear the truth above the roar?

But is the glamour of reporting all there is to it? Not sure.

Ever thought about the troughs in it? And the immense amount of passion needed to survive that? Believe me, the troughs are, invariably, many times more than the crests...

The purpose is not to be holier than thou. A thousand pardons if it seems so.

For every face that is seen reporting and therefore gets a credibility attached to the face, there are a thousand more who are equally good and completely invisible. And not only are they more on number, they are as good, if not better. For screen time does not eat in totheir time for digging out the truth. But they usually do not make an impact. Why? For they lack the credibility that visibility apparently lends. Seeing, unfortunately, is still believing. For every sharply-clothed, smiling anchor, for every scrutinising, meddlesome (?!) reporter, there are innumerable more who could not get there. Less seen; less recognised.

So, do the ones who are seen on screen dissecting political motives, economic policies and social trends necessarily exude more wisdom? Sure they do, but might not, too. As in, they are human too, and don’t blame them if they are biased or wrong. After all, they did not commission the ads.

To cut a long story short – glad that a profession beyond engineering and medicine is getting the spotlight. But puhleez, don’t believe all you see. It’s like any other occupation. And yes, shooting a one-minute news story is often a whole day’s work. If you are very very lucky, you just might get seen.

And next time please cable up that camera.

energy

2004-03-14T17:41:00.000+05:30

Advani was in town. Actually he was here day before but I didn’t get round to writing about it till today. He was in this massive, hi-tech bus that he calls his rath … but that is not what caught my attention…

For all that is said about how ageing politicians slow down both physically and mentally, here was a guy who is 75 years old, who will travel a distance of 8000 kilometers in 45 days in a bus! Irrespective of how hi-tech the bus is, it does not take away from the fatigue such a lot of traveling would lead to…imagine the energy levels… And almost every moment of his yatra in the rath is spent in waving to people, speaking to them, speaking to scribes… I’m not sure if even red bull could allow all that. And even after all that he finds the energy to stand and deliver a 40 minute long speech in a rally…

How much would it take to do this for 45 consecutive days?

I thought hard, but could not remember too many other national politicians who fit this same bill of such agility at such age. Arjun Singh was on television a few days back, after a long time; and he sure seems to have aged. So have Natwar Singh and the lot. We all know of the Prime Minister’s health complications…

Jyoti Basu has been, for long, an example. Anyone left... Am I missing anyone?

Yes, it is the good life and all that but there surely has to be something beyond that which drives such a thing. Could it be the proverbial conviction in one’s ideals? I have no idea.

It's raining at home

2004-03-07T22:19:00.002+05:30

What I miss most about Calcutta is the rains. The preparation of it all. The way everything stands still in expectation. The drum-roll as you see a corner of the circular sky turning black. The wind stops; then begins again. Bringing the fragrance of wet earth from elsewhere. And then all hell breaks loose. Trees sway, raindrops lash down – first warm then cooler. Try walking through that; preferably in a grassy field, if possible. Feel the rain on your face. Splash through the puddles. And yes, ignore the mud and the dirt. That’s inevitable anywhere in India.

Rain here is part of the system. It is anyway grey, and that doesn’t change much when it rains. People anyway carry a jacket, so it doesn’t matter as much. But it starts, ends on it’s own, and no one notices. Except some lost souls that suddenly come across it on visits outside air conditioned offices and yell out – it’s raining!

cold mountain

2004-03-07T14:55:00.000+05:30

Saw the movie. Eminently watchable, if only for Rene Zellweger. She takes the cake (with the cherry on top - a la Siddhu). What does depress one is the futility of it all. The journey that Jude Law undertakes, the wait... one wonders if anything would have been different had he survived that last duel. The scene at the end where he is shown as living through their child… well I found it clichéd.

But has it ever occurred to you how much a matter of chance his reaching Cold Mountain finally has been? I mean, okay, he survived being shot in the throat, but later, when he is chained with other Confederate deserters who try to escape, couldn’t they have allowed at least one more prisoner to live along with him? That seems like too much of a coincidence, considering he was bang in the middle of the chained guys, and every one of them, from his left and his right was shot. But not him.

Watch it also for the battle scenes. Shot brilliantly. The blood and the grime and the failed efforts bring you back to the futility of it all. In all – there is brilliance in parts, but not on the whole.

glass house

2004-03-06T23:13:00.000+05:30

If modern technology had not allowed us to blog, would we have showed our diaries to everyone? not that we have done that ever. But now that we can, we let the voyeur in us read.

Voyeur.

voy·eur (voi-yûr ) n. An obsessive observer of sordid or sensational subjects.

So here we are, viewers of our own thoughts. Like building a glasshouse and joining the multitude outside to look at it. Not that it’s not enjoyable…

Comments, anyone?

heart to heart

2004-03-06T22:20:00.000+05:30

The security guy in my office speaks only Kannada and possibly Tamil. None of the north Indian languages, definitely. And our OB driver, who walks in late in the evenings to watch news on television, does not speak any language spoken south of Maharashtra. But loneliness of a night shift (I guess) forces the security guy to try his best to converse. The result is pretty interesting - neither understands a word of what the other is saying, and so they speak with absolute lack of interruption from each other.

They have possibly got used to a silent me. I suppose they consider me as harmless as a tranquillised PC.

The security guy talks about his home and people he has left behind. Possibly because he is sure no one can understand him, though his optimism is betrayed by my partial knowledge of the language. The driver does not talk of anything as interesting. I guess he waits for me to leave before he does - when there is absolutely no one who can understand Hindi.