Good grief, Kapoor!

“It’s bad enough you do it, you do it to yourself;
But taking someone with you
Well, you know that’s something else,”
—What in the World happened to You? (The Offspring)

Regular visitors to The View are in all probability fairly well versed with my limitless reservoirs of love for the television show 24 and my equally zealous abhorrence of the way actor Anil Kapoor has suddenly shot to “stardom” after Slumdog Millionaire. Don’t get me wrong. I begrudge no one the success one he or she has achieved. Like for instance, the way a television show can call itself a success after accumulating a rabid worldwide following after seven consecutively high-quality seasons. I would never dream of begrudging the show it’s success.

However, riding on 19 or so minutes onscreen (in a pretty pathetic manner, if you ask me) and then hopping around like a nutjob everytime the film’s makers receive an award and then, having the audacity to behave like you did a fantastic job... that is something I can and plan to begrudge. Mr Kapoor’s over-the-top antics since Slumdog went over at the Oscars are very well documented. As is the fact that the producers of 24 gave him a role in the upcoming and much-awaited eighth season of the show. What were they thinking? Believe me, I’ve asked myself that repeatedly and I find no answer.

Nevertheless, none of these facts are “breaking news” of any sort. What sparked off this particular post was an article I saw in Bombay Times today that included an interview with the “Slumdog Star”. He tries to talk 24 and with his first or second sentence, already has my blood boiling. He kicks off by trying to explain what the concept of the TV show is — “an espionage and political thriller”. Close enough, I guess. What follows next is a shitstorm of massive proportions.

“24 is to drama, what Friends is to comedy,” is one such choice cut. So, what’re you trying to say, Mr Kapoor? That 24 is mediocre, trite, made to cater to the lowest common denominator and full of highly irritating characters whose lives are only a series of sexcapades (overused word, but a good ’un), innuendos, goof-ups and lame jokes? All of that in drama form, I mean, since Mr Kapoor did say that it is the drama equivalent.

Get a clue, man!

Then, he goes on to reveal the character he’ll be playing. If he had bothered to look into 24 cameos (Arnold Vosloo, Lou Diamond Phillips, Dennis Hopper, Alexander Siddig and more that I’m forgetting), no one reveals the character they are playing. You’re not supposed to, because everything is supposed to be so damn tightlipped as to keep viewers hooked once the season begins.

But no, Mr Kapoor divulges his character and then says, “But I can’t tell you which Middle Eastern country my character is from.” If the moron had bothered to take time out from yelling, “MELLON-AYYYY” every two seconds, he would know that apart from the United States of America and maybe Russia and China, 24 never specifically names ANY country. Whether to avoid stereotyping, controversy, victimisation, I don’t know. Point is, that’s what they do. Right. That’s my rant out of the way.

I just looked at the article again... I cannot stop shaking my head. Why? Why would you honestly cast Anil Kapoor in 24? I’ll be happy to eat my words if he pulls off an excellent performance, but let’s just say it’s not bloody likely. Would you cast Vin Diesel in the remake of Rudaali? Or Jonah Hill in Kahaani Ghar Ghar Kii? Or The Great Khali in The Bold and the Beautiful?

You know the answer as well as I do.

Who the hell is MJ?

There’s a guy who was studying at Sheffield University, who was large, burly, bearded and bespectacled. Tall too. I was walking around Luke the Nuke’s hall of residence block (I think) when I walked past his room and found the door ajar. Seeing as it was just the first week or so, of university life and there were no hang-ups, no preconceptions, no cliques and no inhibitions, I decided to say hello. After introducing myself, he told me what course he was going to be studying and told me his name.
Large lad: My name’s Michael Jackson
Me: Excuse me? Michael Jackson?!?
Large Lad: Yeah yeah... I’ve got the same response all my life. I prefer being called Mike. Me: Alright Michael, nice meeting you

Not all that funny. I guess you had to be there.

From the first few facebook and other networking-site based “RIP” status messages all the way to the gigantic memorial service held for the late King of Pop, I’m pretty sure the world knows of his passing. Sequined white gloves (only on one hand, mind you), street dancers doing the moonwalk, commemorative t-shirts, badges and caps, celebrity tributes flew in from all angles all across the world.

But where did I discover MJ, I asked myself a few days ago. I believe it was sometime in 1990 or so, when music to me comprised only ABBA, Air Supply and the Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack. My family’s neighbours then were a wonderful Malayali family. All four members of the family were accomodating, friendly, generous and welcoming souls. The elder of the two siblings, was a medical student who to my six-year-old eyes was the embodiment of all things cool.

It was under his feet that I first saw a skateboard. In his hands that I first saw an air-rifle. Through his tutelage that I learnt to use a crossbow he’d made. And in his room that I saw a door-size poster of this slightly crinkly and long-haired guy wearing some peculiar black studded jacket, black trousers with a red stripe down the side, covered with silver buckles and two silver-studded biker gloves on his hands. Not to forget the boots with the same silver buckles. Along the side in a red scrawl that ran from bottom to top, it said “Bad”.

What the hell is this, I recall asking him, in my juvenile curiosity.

So I heard me some. Bad and The Way You Make Me Feel were the two songs I heard before it was time to pack it in and go home. I thought at the time, “It’s not bad at all! Of course, it’s no Air Supply, but still pretty good.” Why’s it called “Bad” then, I asked him. He told me “bad” was a complex word. “I see,” I responded. I clearly didn’t see anything. Months later, the first audio cassette I bought was the album Dangerous.

I think that’s where it began. That’s where MJ stopped being that guy in the poster and turned into the music filtering out of our archaic music system at home. And over the years, I also heard Off the Wall, Thriller and of course, the whole Bad album, which back in 1990 was an enigma to me. (Some other time, I’ll tell you all about how the artist/band Enigma scared the bejeezus out of me in ’93) I still didn’t see what the complexities of “bad” were.

The paedophilia scandals, the plastic surgery theories, the oxygen tent, the Neverland conspiracies etc. etc. all played out over the next few decades. I remember thinking there’s no way someone as soulful as this could perpetrate some of the heinous acts MJ was being accused of. It didn’t really kill what had by now turned into some serious love for his music.

Then there was the India tour. Sponsored by Pepsi, if memory serves and wholeheartedly endorsed by Bal Thackeray. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I couldn’t go for the show, is something I still remember. The wide-eyed awe I felt while watching the television footage of the crashing rocket and MJ walking out of it and bursting into a song, is something I remember far more vividly. The sheer glee of getting my hands on HIStory the day it released in India and the soaring levels of anticipation in the car ride home, as I thumbed the little booklet inside, were indescribable.

Fast forward and in the 21st century, Invincible was MJ’s first release. Most people said it was pretty bad. I wasn’t awfully keen on it. But I still didn’t see what “bad” was. There was a track that had a music video featuring Chris Tucker. That’s insane! Tucker’s rendition of Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough in Rush Hour 2, was brilliant, after all. Then, there was to be that farewell tour. 50 dates (I think) at the O2 arena in London. I was kicking myself that I’m nowhere near London.

Now, it’s been over a week or so since his bald, bruised and battered body was declared dead. It was only to be expected that the “world’s greatest entertainer” would receive a send-off like no other. The humongous memorial service was to be expected. I guess in a number of ways it was also to be expected that people would try and cash in.

1.6 million people entered a lucky dip of sorts to win around 25,000 or so pairs of tickets for the service at the Staples Centre, LA. Of the tiny number that won the tickets, some even tried to auction them off at ridiculous rates. That’s pretty bad, if you ask me. God bless eBay, Craigslist et al for pulling the plug on that racket before it was too late.

The debate on his cause of death, the motivation behind it, the debts he left behind, the crimes he committed, the people whose lives he ruined will go on and on, long after a film is made. It’ll probably have Johnny Depp slightly modifying his role as Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and playing MJ. Actually, that flick I’d pay to see.

None of the controversies ever really stopped me from listening to or changed the way I received his music. Which is why, as far as I’m concerned I don’t care who MJ was. I care about who MJ is, which to me is the voice coming out of my phones, backed by some incredible beats, samples and at times, Messers Hudson and Van Halen. And that MJ isn’t too bad. Isn’t too “bad” at all. Chamone!

Meteorology and the Art of Winging It...

And so, despite the Regional Meteorological Department’s best efforts to baffle and confuse citizens about exactly why the rains are late and so Goddamn sporadic, they are finally here — albeit nearly a month too late. That’s not to say it was a smooth entry either... Far from it, in fact.

A bit of rain today. None tomorrow. Sunny skies when I leave home. Getting soaked on the way to work. Then it’s all hot and sunny again when I reach the office. The whole day’s nice and sunny and at night, it goes and pisses down on me. And that’s just me. Other folk head out of their homes and end up returning to waist-deep water. But that’s if they’re lucky. Some watch articles from their homes — at times, even their entire homes — getting washed away by water-logging and eventually, floods.

It’s not like the authorities are doing nothing at all. I’ve seen some of the efforts being put in to help water drain away faster, to help it stop collecting at one place and to help it flow back into the sea effectively. It’s not like the meteorology department is purposely coming up with kookie tales to justify the lack of rains or the overdose of rains (as the occasion demands). I’ve seen some of the charts and satellite images they use to predict climactic changes. They’re pretty hardcore.

The bottom line is this. As much as we can build machines, sensors and devices to try and predict weather patterns, rainfall, earthquakes and even human responses, there comes a point where one just has to sit back and take it as it comes. Letting go. Letting Nature be Nature. Preparing for all eventualities. But expecting none. And when it does come along, sometimes, one just has to wing it. Hurl it at the wall and hope it sticks. Singing when you’re winning. Running for cover when it’s over.

Which is why the people desperately trying to put predictions, plans and flow models into place have my admiration and sympathy. Trying to turn the illogical, chaotic and entropic into a logical set of algorithms or patterns that stay consistent. That’s some serious shit right there. Sometimes makes you think it’s bloody pointless trying to pin down the unpinnable. Isn’t it fascinating though? That struggle to make sense of nonsense? Think about it for a second.

And then, you’ll always get people who’ll forget the serious implications of rain (excess or lack thereof, either way) for just a moment and think about how pretty a bit of rain makes the world look. Like diluted paints mixing as they runs down a water-coloured picture. Like mascara streaks down cheeks. Like a dew-covered flower. They’ll think about how romantic the rain is. Getting caught in the rain with someone special. Running for cover hand-in-hand with said someone special. There are always people who will look for that silver lining on thick grey clouds (Rain-pun Mcgee!!).

Not me though. Rain is rain and it’s time to go to the authorities for their rain update. Happy Monsoons!

Tread softly...

“... because you tread on my dreams,”
Yeats, I know... More commonly referred to as “What was that poem that British geezer in Equilibrium is reading?” But why is it this little excerpt from He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven at all relevant? Who says it is? Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?

A landmark judgment (I’m certain I’ve had that phrase a good few thousand times since yesterday) was passed by the Delhi high court just yesterday and it knocked major chunks off one of the most oppressive, inhuman and backward elements of the Indian Penal Code (aka the tome for India’s justice system). This element has long blighted and dehumanised a significant section of the population.

The following is the article in its abridged form:
Unnatural offences: Whoever voluntarily has carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal, shall be punished with imprisonment for life, or with imprisonment of either description for term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine.
Explanation: Penetration is sufficient to constitute the carnal intercourse necessary to the offense described in this section

Until yesterday, homosexuality used to be lumped under “carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal”. Until yesterday, it was a criminal offence to be gay. Until yesterday. Many — gay and straight alike — rejoiced as the verdict was over. The battle was won. And India had taken a major step into the 21st Century.

So what do I have to rant about then, you may well ask.

Not a few hours had passed since the verdict, that murmurs of disapproval turned louder and cruder. As usual, right-wing parties were opposing the decriminalisation of homosexuality. But they’re about as relevant these days as the Laser Disc, so screw them. What caught me a little off-guard was when people I’ve known for a while as decent, broad-minded people seemed to have suddenly had a change of heart.

“Good grief, now these homos will be rampant all over the place,.. doing their thing” was one of those remarks. “Does this mean that kids who are gay will openly be gay in schools that I send my kids too?” was another brilliant chunk of insight I was privy to, which is almost up there with a question I remember from sex ed. class in Class 7 — “Can ‘homo-ness’ spread by touching a homo?”. Genius.

The award however goes to “Decriminalisation will just encourage them now”. Encourage them to do what? Live without fear of prosecution, persecution and of course, being extorted by policemen? That’s right. Sources tell me that the Mumbai police is among the most homophobic citizens of the city. So the decriminalisation will hit them worst, presumably, if they can’t extort money from gay people threatening to arrest them. Fact? Possibly.

Right now, however, all is well. Most people are busy thumping themselves heartily on their backs that they are such an open-minded and tolerant people. “Ah yes, we accept and tolerate homosexuality, don’t you know... And we’ve saved up for our annual trip to Switzerland... Life is good”. When the proverbial honeymoon period is over, that’s when shit will hit the fan. I dread to imagine it.

I guess this is where Yeats’ line — maybe not in the same context as the poem — comes in. Through decriminalisation, a number of hitherto pariahs have been handed back their dreams. Dreams of walking arm-in-arm with their same-sex partner along the beach, without a care in the world about who’s going to try and come and swear at them or worse, beat them up. Dreams of filling in forms that require a partner’s name and entering the name of a person of the same sex. Now that they’ve been handed their dreams, let’s not trample all over them. What say?