Why, Lord? Why do You do this to me?

One stupid week has hardly ended that another starts up in full earnest.

— Md Hasan Kamal (allegedly)

I won’t spend too much time on this section, suffice it to say that you can refer to the last blog for a recap on what I’m on about. So Obama comes to India. He shakes hands with Ashok Chavan (who is soon kicked the F out off his job as chief minister). He does good business (worth a few billion dollars, I believe). He makes awkward and oh-he’s-so-shy faces while his wife busts a move with some kids. He meets some students, who seem to confuse politeness with fawning over someone. He namedrops Dr Ambedkar. After 40-odd hours of waiting, he mentions “Pakistan” leading to an outbreak of nitwits across India high-fiving each other. Why? I don’t rightly know.

He supposedly makes the sternest statements he has made against Pakistan. It’s gotta be true right? Especially if television news channels have said so. I honestly fail to see how saying, “Terror havens in Pakistan are unacceptable” is at all stern. Never mind sternest. I’ve known pint-sized toddlers to be sterner than that. He then says “I look forward to a day when the UN Security Council includes India” and the gathered MPs clap politely. Meanwhile, the news channels and sadly even papers have gone to town with “Obama supports India as permanent member” and “Obama wants India in UNSC”. The usual shrill gallery of morons on television shriek about what a great day this is for India.

What can I say? Barack Hussein Obama, you are a bloody genius. It is a well established fact that the people who inhabit this country (or the geographical group of kingdoms that it once was) are gullible simpletons. The smart ones pack their bags and head overseas. The smarter ones stick around and outsmart us simpletons (Suresh Kalmadi, take a bow). The British knew this. The Mughals knew this. And the Americans know this extremely well. And so, what better than a goodwill trip, in name at least, to strike up a truckload of deals for the betterment of the American economy?

At this point I feel compelled to ask, “Remember Union Carbide? Remember Bhopal?”. But what’s the point? Measly issues like these and the intrusion of American foreign direct investment into the agriculture and retail industries are best kept tidily swept under a rug or left unheard even as hundreds gather at places like Delhi’s Jantar Mantar to yell about them. I may not be a fan of the Communist Party of India(M). However, kudos and massive respect to people like Abdul Chowdhury, who went and made their views heard in a non-violent manner.

It irks to me go on about this, so I’ll make a quick beeline to the actual point of this post. I was reminded of an episode of My Wife and Kids around three days ago when I went to take a highly pointless and redundant exam. The episode is about the Kyle family taking a trip to the beach, where patriarch Micheal is relaxing on a beach chair, enjoying some time off from his hectic daily life. Suddenly, he spies his son Junior skipping around in a ridiculous manner in an equally ridiculous costume. Which is when he gazes skyward and dolefully asks, “Why, Lord? Why do You do this to me?”.

Maths has been a well-known stumbling block for me in the past and so, I turned up for my exam with all the relevant formulae memorised and set to be implemented. The last thing I wanted was for anything to dislodge even a single formula from the front row of my head. And things went according to plan, right? Why the hell would I be typing out these words if they had? Pay attention. So anyway, I get my passport out, get a clipboard with a confidentiality agreement and start filing it up. There’s a 150-or-so word passage about how you will not reveal anything about the exam to anyone. And you have to write this passage out in your own handwriting. Brilliant. So I’m doing that when I make the mistake of looking up.

When identical twins are toddlers or infants or maybe even children, their folks often dress them up in identical clothing. It’s fun, quirky and in a few cases, perhaps even cute. The only time identical twins dress alike as adults is at some sort of twins carnival, on comedy TV shows and in pornos. Best not to ask for details about the latter because I’m basing it on what I was once told by a tempestuous man, whom I consider a good friend.

And as I look up, I see two guys at the reception desk. One was looking the other way, but they both wore a beige t-shirt with this red whoosh across one shoulder. I figured, hell, maybe they both work at the same place. Who knows? It was only when the guy with his back to me turned around that I realised that the two had the same face. And the same t-shirt. And the same jeans. And this is ridiculous, but they also had the same Reebok Classic shoes. Later on, because of the over-enthusiastic air-conditioning there (I couldn’t feel my fingers after a while), they put on the same damn jacket too.

Hilarity ensued momentarily as one of the invigilators checked the identification details of one member of this diabolical duo and frisked him (for unauthorised materials), and then proceeded to tell the other one that she’d just checked him. She also asked why he was back for another inspection. Call it my fundamentally suspicious nature in top gear or whatever you will, I am convinced that those clowns planned to cheat. But how?

As I was mulling this over, I see a middle-aged gent stumbling into the waiting room, where all these shenanigans were being played out. He wasn’t particularly odd by himself, but wearing a sweater, a jacket and a ballaclava (monkey cap, if you prefer) in Mumbai seemed a little excessive. The temperature was around 27°C at the time. Odd, but not overly so, I reasoned. After being informed that he has to leave his bag in a locker outside, our man informs the invigilator that he will be requiring his medication during the course of the exam. She says okay, leave them with an invigilator and you can take them.

I must admit that I felt a pang of sympathy when I saw the poor guy pulling out strips of tablets from his bag. All those strips together seemed to reflect the colours of the rainbow. Yes, there were that many. He takes off his ballaclava and jacket and I notice that he has another item of clothing on his person — some sort of well-padded back brace that velcroed together around his mid-section. The invigilator looks at him with an utterly gormless and puzzled look. “What is that?” she asks him. “Yeah, I need it,” he says to her. Good answer, I think to myself.

Obviously, it’s a security hazard. For all you or I know, these fellow could’ve been a suicide bomber. A terribly unwell suicide bomber, but a suicide bomber nonetheless. I did feel at that point all that beefed up security during the O’s visit had affected my brain. She notices a zip on the left side of his back brace and asks him to unzip it. Another handful of tablet strips emerge. But he’s not done. There is still another zip on the right side.

Meanwhile, a girl walks towards the reception desk. She was seated right at the back so I presume she was one of the early ones. Good on her. Dressed casually and yet in the sort of today’s-not-a-day-to-chill way that people tend to dress for an exam. Like some idiot shining a laser pointer in your eye, something very very disconcerting elicited a sense of mild distress from my retinae. A bright blue flash of leather, maybe pleather caught my eye and I looked floorward. The familiar three stripes of Adidas confirmed my suspicions. The girl was actually wearing football boots. Well, blades to be precise. Can’t afford a pair of shoes, floaters, sandals or slippers, so I’ll wear football blades? No, it’s not an elitist thing to say.

I didn’t have time to contemplate the possibility that she may have just come from a game or that she may be off to play after the exam, because she was soon on her way back from the reception desk and about to have a run-in with Medicine Man. At this point, I don’t think I could even remember the Pythagoras Theorem. And even if I did remember it, the shenanigans that were about to unfold before me would have surely sent ol’ “x² = y² + z²” to the deep recesses of a pit that stores all the things I’ve forgotten, like checking the BEST timetable for Chirmi.

It unfolded like one of those set-pieces Monsieur Wenger and Señor Fabregas regularly mastermind. Medicine Man unzips the right pocket and moves away from his chair and into the aisle just as Bladesy returns from the desk. Bladesy’s stray right foot lands on Medicine Man’s right foot. He grunts loudly in anguish and twists around, sparking off a mini eruption of even more tablet strips that fly everywhere. In the melee, one of the twins gets pushed and he bumps into the invigilator. While Bladesy and Medicine Man exchange apologies, the incredulous invigilator sees the twin who bumped into her and... I wouldn’t say ‘bellows’; that’s a bit extreme... she screeches in a loud, whiny manner, “How many of you are there?” Needless to say, the twin had no response and neither did his brother who emerged from the toilet area moments later. The invigilator has clearly had enough so she follows up her rhetorical question with a series of questions that are even more rhetorical (if that was humanly possible).

“Don’t you have any sense? How old are you? Who told all of you to come here dressed like this?” Sharp. Searing. Brutal. I think it was safe to assume that she was alluding to them being dressed the same way and not passing judgment on their dress sense. Regardless, I’m sure I saw tears well up in the verbally assaulted twin’s eyes as his brother came to comfort him. I missed the rest of the episode because just then I was asked to go into the CCTV and microphone monitored testing rooms to take my exam.

Right, I thought to myself as I walked past the scene of the crash, as it were and begin jogging my memory. Now standard deviation, I began to recall, is σ = the square root of—... Blank. Goddamnit. God-frickin’-damnit!
Why, Lord? Why do You do this to me?

Big F'N Deal (!)

You know it’s a slow day in the news media biz when the main story is deputy CM and the (hitherto believed to be non-existent) missing link between humans and bulldogs, Chhagan Bhujbal saying, “I am the host of the meeting. Why should I give my passport details?”. The sad thing however is that it isn’t merely a slow day, it’s been an extremely slow week (if not fortnight). So much so that it’s really no fun reading the newspapers any more.

Being as it’s such a slow time, there’s only 2 stories that everyone’s yelling and screaming from the rooftops about. The first is that delightful Adarsh Cooperative Housing Society story, where the media actually seems surprised that Mumbai’s political top-brass (allegedly including human-bulldog hybrid) is complicit in claiming apartments that were meant for war widows. Plus, the building itself is unauthorised in that it is a security risk (too close to defence installations) and it violates environmental regulations. I got bored of this story in no time. Kick out the corrupt politicos and bring in even more corrupt bastards to replace them. That’s the general way things go.

The other story that has been dominating is quite obviously all the hullaballoo about Barack Obama’s trip to India. Let’s for a second put aside all this “visiting my role model Mahatma Gandhi’s country” and the “paying homage to the victims (of the November 26 massacre)” stuff. Let’s also put aside all these fanciful dreams and hopes (that verge on the delusional) that India has about this visit — the Security Council seat, a better defence deal, solid backing against Pakistan. Forget about it. It ain’t gonna happen.

Here is what is going to happen. There’s a reason Obama’s on his way with two full plane-loads of “captains of industry” — CEOs, MDs, GMs and the ilk or so I’m told — and there’s a reason the first (and arguably, more important to them than Delhi) stop is India’s financial capital. Keep in mind that the American economy is yet to recover from the debilitating recession. Business ventures in India could prove to be just the ticket for many firms feeling the pinch. Then of course, there’s the fact that looking like you’re best pals with India could help turnaround Obama’s sagging popularity. At least among the Indian-American voters. Finally, the third plus of this trip for Obama and possibly the most significant from a strategic standpoint, will be the message it will send out to China.

But that’s it.

Stories about how XYZ Road is being spruced up for his visit or how ABC cops are taking some precautions before the visit have bored the hell out of me already, but the worst is probably that stupid one about some hotel making an Obama platter. Big f'n deal. I was never even interested in that shit, so being bored is out of the question. Like I said, it’s a slow time for news.

Speaking of which, I’ve often wondered whether certain foreign celebrities enjoy such a thriving Indian fanbase to merit an almost daily update on them. Alright now if it was people like George Lucas, Jackie Chan, Sylvester Stallone or I don’t know, Bono... people who are EXTREMELY well-known in India, it would make sense. But what makes Eva Longoria so important and why is she plastered across papers nearly everyday for some banal reason or the other. How her relationship with her husband is so healthy, how she used to be bullied as a kid, how she is thinking of getting a driver’s licence, how she.. I don't know... bought a bloody hamster or something. As far as I know her only claim to fame was being in Desperate Housewives.

And the other is Lady Gaga. I’ve heard that her music is quite popular abroad, but I didn’t know it was all that big here. Now either both of them have a really hardworking PR team in India or I’m living in a completely alternate reality to the rest of India.

P.S - Which is probably more than evident given how much I fume watching the Indian version of Masterchef. Why is it that there is literally no TV show that we, Indians can replicate (or rip off) without making it cheap as hell, given that most shows we rip off are pretty cheap to begin with?

What’re you trying to prove?

Ad-libbing lyrics in songs is one of the more fun things one can do in a group, especially a drunken group. Now whether it be at Fuzz Club/BLEACH or at Yorks or even General, some of the most hilarious times I recall were usually right after some particularly funny ad-libs. The classics of course, were the “B-sides” that involved mainly AJG and me (and often an army of others) turning songs by Rage Against The Machine, System Of A Down, Disturbed and countless other bands into paeans to cheese and ham, brioche rolls, sleeping till late and some other less-than-complimentary concepts attributed (perhaps unfairly) to a friend of ours.

Then there were the General Sessions© that featured musical tributes to chips, Johnson’s stupidity, gaathia, all-night dandia and other such essential elements of life to the music of Bon Jovi, Metallica, Godsmack, Limp Bizkit and such like. The purpose of this exercise was not because we were devoid of original ideas. In fact, far from it. We enjoyed these songs and wanted to put a new twist on them. A customisation to suit present company. And it was a hoot. It was never for commercial gains or success either.

The major success one gained from this ad-libbing was being able to elicit laughter. If you did a particularly funny rhyme, your target got laughed at and if you’re ad-lib was lame, you were the one being laughed at. Everyone was a winner. And at the end of the night, each original track still had its dignity. Even professional bands ad-lib. Some change their own lyrics, some borrow lyrics from another band’s song and throw them in, just to get a pop out of audiences. But none of this is done with a view to making oneself seem cool or to make money. It’s always just about making a good time slightly more special.

Which is probably why I was mildly irritated (initially) and damn near apoplectic a few minutes later after listening to a song by another one of those dime-a-dozen products that America keeps churning out of its cookie-cutter of shit.

When I watched The Wedding Singer over 12 years ago, a song that plays at the very start of the film caught my attention. The song had that typically 80s vibe which made it catchy as hell and it got stuck in my head like a fishhook. Being an 80s classic, of course the theme was rooted in that era — it’s a song about hitting on someone, nothing particularly lewd or crude. Playful, more than anything. It was years later that a cover of that song by a nu-metal band, blew my mind. While preserving the playful theme and flow of the original, the song was now harder, edgier and rocked way way harder.

Now we return to 2010. A few years after Dope had “had their way now, bay-bayyyyyy” with Dead or Alive’s track, some unoriginal dipshit (look at his name if you need further evidence) called Flo Rida decides to get himself a piece of the action. Don’t get me wrong. I love covers that are vastly different from the originals, as long as they are a reflection of the spirit of the original song. One such cover is Terrible Lie (Maynard James Keenan’s version of a Nine Inch Nails track).

But back to Flo Rida now (what’s next? A reggae act called Mass Achu Setts?). So if it’s not bad enough that he wants to have a name like that, he decides to mess with a classic. In the process, he ropes in a woman (with probably the most ghetto-ass name out there) called Kesha (or is it Ke$ha?). And they go and turn You Spin Me Around (Like a Record) into a song about oral sex. What the hell, man?

“You spin my head round, when you go down-down?” Are you serious? Then after “Ke$ha” has finished singing that line, Mr Rida jumps in with something that sounds like “hibidi jibidi dibidi doo, hibidi jibidi dibidi foo” (I shit you not. If you don’t want to take my word for it, assail your ears and listen to it. It actually sounds like that). What he probably meant was something like “my ride’s so dope, my bling gives me hope, come play with my rope”. It’s horrific that people can get away with something like that. I’m all for songs about sex, sure. But not every song needs to be about sex. And these fuckwits killed the spirit of the song by shitting all over it for nothing but commercial purposes. Songs about fucking sell. It wasn’t something special done at a live show or among friends.

And I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that I have a bias against hip-hop. You’re going to tell me to stop taking lyrics so seriously because “the song is great to dance to”. Well first of all, I don’t think the song is hip-hop at all. There’s hip-hop and there’s pop music, both of which are genres that know where they stand and do their thing. I may not be a fan, but they believe in what they’re doing. Hip-pop is the category that this cock-sucking cover falls under. It’s got all the “bling-bling, guns, bitches and hos” stereotypes from hip-hop and the manufactured fakeness of what passes for pop (not talking about the late MJ here) today.

As for the point about dancing to it, go for it, dance to it. I don’t think it was ever my contention that you shouldn’t dance to it. I was merely railing against the uninspired, unoriginal, lame way Mr Rida (or the person who writes his “music”) decided to turn one of the most playful songs ever into just another piece of drivel about fucking. And there’s so much of it out there already. Just what are you trying to prove? That you have a dick?

Answers may be sent to the usual address. (I really hope he or ghetto-ass name woman reply)

My thoughts on Shite and Cack

It was May 2007 and I was in the middle of my first journalism-related internship, when I was asked to write a 600-or-so worder on the freedom of expression in the face of books being burnt and stuff. Naturally, conventional word limits are far too stifling for my requirements and so, I welcomed the idea of getting a few more words to play with. Long story short, the article was researched and typed out. It got printed. A good time was had by all.

Four or five days later, my boss at the time comes in with a hardcover book with a glossy dustjacket. Presumably it had to be reviewed. From afar I thought it was a graphic novel, due primarily to the fact that minus the black and white colouring of the dustjacket, the packaging resembled that of The Killing Joke. The signs looked good since I’d just written a piece on graphic novels a week ago. Arriving at the area where I was designated a seat, my boss hands it over with a smirk that turns into a grin and finally erupts in a raucous belly-laugh. What the hell? I didn’t really pay much attention to her reaction as i reached for the book.

She said she’d read a bit of it and it was hysterical. Hysterically bad that is. So it’s not a graphic novel then, given that I’m yet to read a truly BAD graphic novel. My mild sense of disappointment was then brushed aside by my curiosity to see what the hell that book was about. So, without reading the title of the book fully, I turned a few pages and began browsing through it.

Two pages in...
Four/five days after my book burning article...

I realised that this was the book that should’ve been burned. Maybe it would have shut the little cretin up. You hear me, Aditya? I’m talking about your poorly slapped together selection of “poetry” in three languages called My Thoughts in White and Black (I can’t find a link for it anywhere). That’s supposed to be the title of the book, by the way. Sounds a whole lot more like the title of an uninspired blog. The Marathi poems, I will concede, read quite well. All seven of them. The rest of the tripe comprises Hindi poems that read like they were taken from a primary school textbook. Don’t even get me started on the “Once I saw a cat; It was very fat; Because it ate a rat; Then it went and shat” type rhymes you’ve put down.

But I gotta hand it to you. Getting Granddaddy to have it published was a masterstroke. It actually looks like a credible book. What did he do to get such a high quality printing job? Did he send his goons to threaten the publisher? What happened after it was published? Did he threaten the publisher against ever publishing anything in any language other than Marathi? What about threatening a nationwide strike if any North Indian ever read it? I could go on forever, but the sad thing is it’s only a mild exaggeration of that whole family’s twisted way of thinking.

Now I know you’re going to ask me this, so you might as well get it out of the way now. That book was released over three years ago. So why am I ranting now? Well I’ll tell you why. Many reasons. Inertia primarily. But today happens to be the day that Aditya’s illustrious (cough cough) grandpa is going to declare him as their political party’s youth wing’s leader. (It’s amazing. These are the same geniuses who give shit to the Congress and call it a dynastic party)

Just a week and a half or so ago, the Shiv Sena’s scion (that would be Aditya, of course) saw fit to burn copies of a book that is part of the Bachelor of Arts syllabus at the University of Mumbai. The book, for those of you who don’t know is Such a Long Journey (which was also made into a film some 10-11 years ago. Anyway, the book is set in 1971 and does critique the politics of the time. Also for some more trivia, it’s written by Pastry’s uncle (Who is probably going to see some spiralling sales now. You know how well banned books sell).

Anyway, Aditya has his goons burn it and then gets the University’s spineless vice-chancellor to ban it from the syllabus. Straight away. Banned. None of the usual “we’ll consider it”. Just BOOM! Banned. It’s amazing how the bureaucracy is at its most effective at the most inappropriate times. That’s Bureau-CRAZY!!!! Roll your eyes as much as you want. I’ll wait.

Done? Okay. So the funniest part of this whole saga is that young Aditya hasn’t even read the book. Take a moment to laugh it up. He claims that people told him that it sullied the name of his family and party. WHAT’S LEFT TO SULLY, SON? Your party is a group of thugs, bullies and saffron supremacists. Most recently, ol’ Grampa Thackeray tried to shut down a reality TV show because it had two Pakistanis in it. He said and I quote, “We can’t let this green poison into our country.” Nicely done, Sir.

So as I was asking earlier, what is it you are trying to protect, Aditya? Your party sucks. I’m sure your mother is a wonderful person, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same about your granddad or your dad. I’d add your uncle to this list, but I’m quite happy that he could very well be that catalyst to destroy your archaic and backward Sena. You have a chance to be great. Hone those skills. Get back to writing. Put out a book on the back of the quality of your writing and not who your grandpa is. Don’t get sucked into this xenophobic, communal cesspool of hate that’s been in your family for so many years.

All I can do is to encourage you to break out!

Note: I doubt you’ll pay any heed to my advice, but what the hell? It was my duty to tell you. Now I’m gonna exercise my right to wait patiently and watch as your Sena and its “legacy” slowly burns to the ground like Ravana will later this evening. Happy Dussehra!

ReMatriculated

It’s been over a decade (more than 11 years even) since I first saw a film called The Matrix during its third or fourth week in cinemas. For curiosity sake more than anything, really. I didn’t know cyberpunk from skapunk, it’s safe to say. Back then, people who had seen it, all back and said, “Oh, you have to watch it!”. Hmmm. Next, I’d obviously ask what it was about. Far too often have people told me that I simply had to watch some film and I did. It was only after I’d actually spent my time, money and patience on the film that I wished that someone had had the decency to actually tell me what it was about.

I won’t bore you with the entire Hall of Shame. Only the top five.
5) Rudaali
4) The Bounty Hunter
3) Daisies
2) Freddy Got Fingered
1) Close-Up

There’s probably some others that’ll come to me in the dead of the night, but for now I would have to say that’s my top five for this category. With this quintet of films and its ilk, I just wish someone had actually shared with me a rough idea of what the film was about before I decided to part with my time, money and patience.

With The Matrix, all I got from people were these extremely pointless responses like “Dude, it’s trippy” and “That’s a mind fuck” and tonnes more such vacuous descriptions. Of course then you had the real geniuses — those masters of description — whose response to my question was to lean back, look like their eyes were following an imaginary fly all over the room, flay their arms outwards and move extremely slowly to avoid said fly. There were quite a few of them who did that. (God bless IMDB. I no longer rely on fools for a plot summary.) The only thing that came anywhere close to the same neighbourhood as a real answer was a simple curt “It’s about human batteries”. I see... errr.. what? And that was where the curiosity stemmed from, because if you recall the promos and trailers around that period, they were equally vague. Intentionally so.

As I went into the cinema hall, I was sure it would end up being just a snazzy action film that people wanted to read too much into. It would be one of those things that people would want to sit “interpreting”, when all they were doing is creating something in their own head. (Requiem for a Dream is a good example of this phenomenon. It’s a superbly edited and shot film, I won’t deny that. But at the end of the day, there is very little that’s open to interpretation. It’s all sitting there in front of you.)

The little shot of the Warner Bros. studio and the Village Roadshow logos were bathed in a lovely colour of green and their texture looked odd too. Like it was in binary code or something. Fancy. The Heart o’ the City hotel. And then soon after came that unmistakeably calm yet ominous voice with some unique intonation, topped off with a lovely sophisticated and lyrical lilt (which over the next decade would turn its owner into a superstar).

“Lieutenant, you were given strict orders...”
And the lieutenant clearly tired of all the redtape and hierarchy in the system, fires off a crack about not wanting any of that “juris-my-dick-tion crap”. And besides, he’s already sent some two more units of the city’s finest to apprehend the suspect.
“No Lieutenant, your men are already dead...”

How did he know? Because he was Agent fuckin’ Smith. He knew everything. I’m going to have to do a tribute post one of these days about Hugo Weaving. I’ll call it From violent bowling to violent vendettas. I love it.

Anywho, I was really getting into this film. It was slowly making sense. It was coming together piece by piece. Keanu Reeves’ stoic (when I’m feeling less charitable, I’ll say wooden) acting worked perfectly with his role. Lawrence Fishburne was reinvented as people across the world forgot all about Cowboy Curtis. Joe Pantoliano never disappoints. Ever. And an androgynously pretty Carrie Anne-Moss paved the way for the tough-as-nails but head-over-heels-in-love female character in cinema (something Megan Fox failled at miserably in Transformers 2).

That’s the actors done. The story is phenomenal. Full stop. Let’s put it this way, the story and universe opened a door to a room for me. And that room is now one of the most important and vital rooms in my life — cyberpunk. I’d never have read William Gibson, Philip K. Dick, Greg Bear, Bruce Sterling or any other cyberpunk books had I not seen and been totally sold on The Matrix. There’s the unbeatable soundtrack that came out when I was just discovering acts like Rage Against The Machine, Rammstein etc. Then there’s obviously the action. More on this later.

Fast forward around just over three years and I was jumping around all over the place when I heard that they were going to put out not one, but two sequels in 2003. I went on the second day. Didn’t fancy going alone on Day 1 and going on Day 2 gave me the chance to meet Captain’s whacky European pals. I still recall the anguish I felt when they left that film at such an excruciatingly painful cliffhanger. Convincing Captain to sit through the credits was another task and a half. This was made more tedious by the fact that even the drivers for Keanu and Carrie seemed to have their own makeup artists and stunt coordinators. For what seemed like an eternity, these credits rolled and rolled and rolled until at last... the screen went black again. A teaser trailer for the final film in the series. Idiotically compelling “OHHHHH!!! DID YOU SEE THAT?” moments carried on into the night.

Later that year and on the day before the final chapter of the trilogy was released, LT, B and I couldn’t sleep and so we watched parts of The Matrix, Revolutions and what is probably one of the finest animé compilations out there, The Animatrix.

Around 10 hours later, as little Santi painted the sky in beautiful hues and enquired about whether she’d see Neo again, everything had come together full circle. All the loose ends had been tied and for the first time, the credits began rolling over an instrumental piece of music from the film’s score. The mood just seemed right. There wasn’t the “FUCK YEAH!!” adrenaline rush of the first one (complimented by Rage’s Wake Up). There wasn’t the “Ohhhh man, the final part is going to KILL!!!” of the second part (Rage again. Only this time it was Calm like a Bomb). There were vibes of completion, of closure and the melancholic finality of it all.

It’d be the first time in a while that a number of people I knew would be going to sleep at night, without flicking over ideas of what would eventually happen to Neo and the gang. There’d be no more heated marijuana-fuelled (seems like an oxymoron) discussions about what the final outcome would be, while one person would just sit quietly, nodding and rolling up. The bulletin boards would no longer speculate about storylines and be scattered with “exclusive” leaks.

Nostalgia trip over and long story short, I watched the trilogy over the past coupla days again after a long long time. Only this time, it was in High Definition. So all that action I was talking about earlier looked even more eye-popping. The blue tinges and hues (in Film 1) and the green tinges and hues (in Films 2 and 3) for one, REALLY stand out in HD. But, good graphics don’t mean good film (or video game even). That’s true.

Matrix Reloaded was a blip after the first film and Revolutions, while it certainly was better than the second film, just seemed to lack something. Something I couldn’t put my finger on and haven’t been able to, to this very day. But keep in mind that matching the original film’s quality would be nigh-on-impossible. Sure, you could throw in better (technology-wise) action sequences, but the perfect synergy between story and dialogue was something that I could never imagine the Wachowskis topping.

Think about it a second. Most of the dialogue is either very good or frickin’ superb. There’s only one crap line in it. Imagine that. 136 minute-long film. One crap line. You know the line I mean. Hehehe. No? Well it’s... nah... It’ll spoil the fun. So I’ll move on.

What I’m trying to say is that individually, the sequels aren’t as good as the original, but as a trilogy, it blew (and still blows) my mind. Someone once told me that the first film had the amazing ability to fill your intellect, whether it was the size of a thimble or a bucket. Truer words have yet to be uttered. And more than any of that, to me, The Matrix Trilogy was my trilogy. Everyone has a trilogy. For a tonne of people, it’s Star Wars (4,5,6). For some (I won’t be judgmental), it’s even Star Wars (1,2,3). Some swoon over the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and nowadays, even the Twilight Trilogy.

But, this was my trilogy and in HD, so much more so.

*puts on a pair of shades... looks left, then right, then upwards and flies off*

“whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. COME ON!!!!”

How do you sleep at night?

I had set out intending to write a scathing and insanely vitriolic attack against a regional party in Maharashtra, but unique circumstances have compelled me to make my attempt at hitting out at a pan-national piece of shit. Any guesses? Come on... give it a shot (this one’s for all the Indians out there). Who is the biggest piece of shit you know, on television anyway? Who enjoys using the misery of others to his own gain and that of his television “news” channel (big hint there)?

I’ll cut to the chase. The person in question is Arnab Goswami.

To set the scene and despite Goswami and his channel’s assertions, Omar (in a speech before the state assembly on October 6) did not question the status of the heavily debated state of Jammu and Kashmir. What the J&K Chief Minister did in fact say in his speech, was that a solution needs to be found “that is fair to the three regions of the state (Indian Kashmir, Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir and what I imagine is No Man’s Land) and the neighbouring country”.

With me so far?

Okay. He added in a later statement (and this is the interesting part) that the state had never truly merged with India, but it had merely acceded to India. Sure enough, if you check the Instrument of Accession (Jammu and Kashmir) and I have, on October 26, 1947, Maharaja Hari Singh acceded to India, but not like Junagarh and Hyderabad that merged with India.

These are facts.

Put them together and what you have is the Chief Minister of J&K merely quoting his history lessons. Given the fact that opposition parties all across the world find absolutely any reason to rebuff or slam the ruling party, it was no surprise that BJP members protested and were up in arms. To its credit, the Congress stood by Omar (once in a while, they do something right). And here is where Goswami steps in. Trying to be sensationalist and grab eyeballs is great, but when you do that at the risk of national integrity, you are a traitor, Goswami. No two ways about it.

We’ve just come out of the Ayodhya verdict (see previous post) and this jerk sees fit to make a mountain of a molehill. His news channel carried this ticker all day about how Omar had “gone too far”. Wait a second. Was Omar some lapdog of yours whose gone and pissed on your lap, Goswami or did you just not have any other topics for a discussion show to do today? Then, in said discussion show, he assembles a posse of speakers (two of whom including Sajjad Lone were remotely sensible). There’s a BJP spokersperson who obviously lays into Omar.

What was interesting though was as the “discussion” progressed, Goswami’s problem with Omar’s speech evolved too. I’m not being cynical for the sake of it. I know exactly how much discussion Goswami actually does. There is no one on the planet who loves the sound of one’s own voice as he does. My former resident editor will testify to this fact. From having a problem with the “status” Omar supposedly conferred on the state, to him flip-flopping on his stand (again, with ropey evidence to put his case forward) to saying he was just trying to extend his political career, Goswami struggled to clutch at straws. I smiled.

But, unhampered by a lack of facts on his side, Goswami chose to keep repeating his opinions again and again, hoping (nay, praying) that someone would say, “Yes, you’re right. Have a biscuit.” But no biscuit was forthcoming. Meanwhile, his channel’s ticker continued to flash a message saying that if viewers objected to the content, they could lodge a complaint with the National Broadcasters Association and sure enough, the website was provided.

Upon visiting the website, you find out under the appropriate tab how one can go about complaining. And it reads as follows.

A complaint must be made in writing, either in English or Hindi, and must include the following:

Copy of the complaint letter sent to the broadcaster; Copy of reply received from the concerned broadcaster ; Name and address of the broadcaster. Specify the news item, programme Date, time and channel of broadcast. Short summary of what the complainant is aggrieved of, in particular what precept of the Code has been breached (detailed in the section “What can I complain about?” of this booklet). All relevant documentary or other material, if any, in support of the complaint

Redtape rules supreme once more. Does the National Broadcasters Association actually believe that Goswami’s channel will send me a reply about how they could be so brazenly irresponsible and go so far out of their way to try and rake up tension in the country? If they do, then the association must be more foolish than the concept of Argentina trying to qualify for Euro 2012.

In conclusion and on the off-chance that Goswami reads this diatribe I would love to have a talk with him. It’d be short. Extremely short. I’d marvel at the fact that he asks people the most obtuse questions and then ask him just how he sleeps at night. No, really... How does a person like that sleep? Perhaps he talks himself to sleep. Hyuk hyuk.

Growing pains

I haven’t written very much (hardly even a word) about the two most burning issues in India yet and it’s not been only due to laziness. I figured they’re getting enough attention from other sources, so why me bother? Right? Well, yes and no, it’s just that now the time seems right to offer comment. But first... the good news. No wait, the good news will have to wait a second. Let’s have the AWESOME news first.

Err... I’m actually lost for words. For the last few days I’ve used the most outlandish metaphors, similes and general statements to describe this news, and now I seem to have blown a literary fuse. I haven’t the words to embellish this outstandingly wonderful good news. I’m still reeling from it, y’see. Reeling from the fact that I haven’t been on a self-destructively fun holiday in a while, with the exception of monkeying around with LT, but that was more of a babysitting assignment (hyuk hyuk). So Bengaluru and New Delhi it is. January. To see The Prodigy. That is all...

Now onto the good news. The Commonwealth Games (to be referred to from this point as simply CWG) look like they’ll actually happen. Well, they bloody well should, given that today’s the opening ceremony. I know what you’re thinking. ’Twas only a matter of time till I too jumped on the CWG-bashing bandwagon? No. Be patient and read (and besides, I’m fighting a tight deadline, targetting wrapping this up before the ceremony starts, so I know how the CWG peeps feel).

The reality of the situation is that while the enduring image of these games, to me at least, should have been the awestruck faces of little kids watching a 100-metre race or some long (or high) jump action or the pole vault event or anything for that matter. My theory is that the more kids who find themselves more enamoured by a long-ass fibreglass pole than a wooden bat, the better our nation’s level of athletics will be. But I digress. If the kids don’t turn up, then I’d have hoped that the enduring image would have been the victory dance or celebrations of a new star. Someone who’d just broken a long-standing record. Someone who’d picked up a stack of medals.

All my scepticism and cynicism aside, I never thought it would be that image. You know the one I mean. Maybe I believed that somewhere, at some point, the authorities would actually get serious about more than lining their own pockets. It’s possible. You’d have thought that they would have considered the potential for embarrassment in front of the whole effin’ world. Maybe? The thought had crossed my mind. That’s when it hit me. Kalmadi’s corruption is not something I wish to discuss (although you have to wonder how Rs 70,000 crore or 700 billion could be so shamelessly pilfered) but it’s glaringly obvious why the CWG village was in such a squalid state.

The sports authorities in this country have always treated our athletes like shit. There’s no way of sugar coating it. Unless they’re cricketers or someone who’s (despite the shitty facilities and management) gone and won a medal somewhere — then there’ll be loads of fawning and photo opportunities. But for the majority of athletes, they’re horribly ill-treated and so, Kalmadi probably thought, “Hey, athletes are athletes. Who’s gonna notice if I pocket the money meant for them and let them slum it out. Besides it’s only 14 days. Fuck ’em.”

No Mr Kalmadi, fuck you. Corruption is one thing. Stupidity and arrogance is quite another. Claiming that these Games would be bigger and better than the Beijing Olympics is the single most moronic thing you could have ever thought of. Never mind the fact that you actually said it. And also, when you’re in the wrong, accept it. Don’t act so Goddamn brazen. Please.

Getting back to the international humiliation aspect, a lot of people are upset at the sort of outspoken criticism that India has been receiving from all quarters. Some are even questioning why the world hates India. The first thing to do is not cry and feel sorry for ourselves. Instead, use it as a reality check. Yes, the organising committee really screwed up. The government did drop the ball on this one. A lot of people made us, Indians look extremely stupid (Like the dumbass who said foreign standards and our standards of hygiene are different. WTF?). And finally, the brilliantly understanding cricket board decided to schedule an India-Australia series at the same bloody time.

But if we are to harbour dreams of rising out of this Third World Country status and being taken seriously as a world power, scrutiny and indeed, criticism is inevitable. It’s been around forever. Remember Prince Phillip in all his princely majesty looking at a fuse box that was faulty and proclaiming, “Oh I do say Lizzie, this fuse box looks like it was put together by an Indian. Narf narf narf.” To which, I’m told the Queen replied, “What have I told you, Phillip? You call me Queen.”

In fact, it’ll be worse than ever when the world sees we’re trying to assert ourselves. The criticism will go from “Oh, you’re so filthy” to “Your momma” type insults. Being so thin-skinned and crying about it isn’t the way to go. And sure, our momentum has been hit by this fiasco. But that’s alright. There’s still time. And usually, the really malicious insults have a way of coming back to bite people in the ass.

Slight detour: I was on a Prodigy bulletin board the other day, when I saw a thread about the upcoming India tour and in one of the entries, some user whose avatar picture depicted some sort of eagle in the foreground with the St. George’s Cross in the backdrop. He had written something along the lines of “Are the lads sure they want to go there? What if the stage collapses like? Heh heh”. Not very nice, but okay. On Saturday, a burst water pipe causes part of the ceiling of the visitors’ changing room at Sunderland’s Stadium of Light to come crashing down, leaving Manchester United homeless. Karma? Maybe. That’s why I’m not going to tempt a Karmic bite in the ass by saying something like “Stadium of Shite”.

Also, a shitty build-up doesn’t necessarily mean crappy Games, right? They could end up being quite good actually. India could get a massive haul of medals. Some new stars could be born. Who knows? And now that the CWG is hours from getting underway, I plan to put my support behind it. There’ll be enough digging around and heads rolling after they’re done, anyway. I just hope the right heads roll and not some scapegoats.

Speaking of scapegoats, God, who has often been blamed for so much bloodshed, animosity and bigotry in this country I call my home, probably breathed a sigh of relief this Thursday. Not for the sakes of our livers though (it was the first of three back-to-back dry days), but because the nation finally showed a bit of maturity. It hinted that maybe it’s citizens are growing up. Maybe there’s more than black and white (or in this case, saffron and green). Yes, the Ayodhya verdict where the land was split three-ways, was a little controversial, but it was brilliant to see most people saying, “Yeah alright then. It’s the fairest decision.”

Sure, the petitioners are going to appeal to the Supreme Court, but that’s what a democracy is about. Go for it. Appeal. HOWZZAT!!! (Poor taste, I know). But answer me this: how many people were killed in communal riots after the verdict? Zero. Despite the fact that the media in its overzealous reportage seemed like it was almost goading people to fight (and one newscaster actually looked dismayed at announcing that there was no violence), no one took to arms. I liked that. It filled me with hope. A feeling that despite the fact that there are still creases in our system, the ironing process has begun.

And after the CWG, we’ll suddenly wake up and realise something. Two things. Who the fuck cares about the Commonwealth anymore and why the crikey-fuck are we trying to preserve the history of colonialism?!?

System Reboot

doof doof doof doof doof
thish thish thish
doof doof

Check 1, 2... Check...

ffsssshhhhhhhhhh *a smoke machine belches out a thick cloud forming a near-opaque mist*

It’s that tingly few seconds after the last support act of the evening has wrapped up. The drumkit’s been replaced, but you can’t see it because of that curtain. Sure, you can hear the mammoth sound the drumkit makes during a simple soundcheck, but you can’t see a thing, save for a tiny bit of smoke slipping out from below the curtain. If the weight of expectation, impatience and curiosity could be transformed into a physical object, it would most likely bring the curtain down to the ground and with it, smash the stage in half. Which is fair, considering this is the first show of a whole new tour, in support of a whole new album.

“I hear they’ve changed the musical style completely,” you hear one voice pipe up. A deeper voice rebuffs, “Yeah, but it’s not all that drastic a change... I hear”. Hmmm... That’s neither here not there. “The band’s changed its ideology though for this album. They’re less shrill about their viewpoints and more refined when it comes to putting them across,” squeaks a little voice. Is that a good thing? If it ain’t broke, why fix it?

You ask yourself questions, knowing full well that you don’t have the answers. But the answers are only a matter of a few seconds away. “What have they changed for this tour? Have they changed costumes, stage placements or props? Are there some new band members? Has the old guard been replaced? Will they still do that extremely childish-but-fun thing where an effigy of some idiot is set aflame on stage at every show?” Each second drags on and on and on...

Until the curtain rises...

Pompous? Perhaps
Self-aggrandising? Slightly
Overly indulgent? Possibly
Typical View from Beneath? You betcha!

Welcome to VfB version 5.0. Or Vv5-... no wait a minute!! VvV, if you REALLY wanna be cool (that is frickin’ awesome, if I do say so myself — Ed). It’s the first design revamp in over two years and I think it’s pretty cool. How the content will differ after this four-month hiatus, remains to be seen. In fact, that’s for you, the VfB Massiv’ (formerly known simply as the VfBers) to tell me. And now, on with the show.

Given that there’s a glut of terribly bitter bile waiting to be spilled, let’s kick off this new era on a positive note. In the time since my last communiqué, I managed to acquire an absolute beast of a computer. *Leans forward and kisses the starship-looking mofo of a black and white CPU* Oh. A speck of dust. Best get rid of that. There we go. So as I was saying, I finally have a machine capable of playing every single PC game available today (not counting old ones with backward compatibility issues *sniff* Full Throttle) and I decided to make the most of playing a tonne of different games. FPS, RPG, RTS and all the other little abbreviations you can think of. I binged like there was no tomorrow.

But just like a womaniser, who after years and years of fucking all sorts of women gets that little moment of clarity, that epiphany if you will and goes back and knocks on the door of his one true love, I too had my epiphany. So the womaniser goes and knocks on his one true love’s door. Most often, she’ll let him in and agree to talk. Or they talk on the porch. It’s all good. Mushy shit follows and they end up in each others’ arms, slobbering all over the other and marvel at the fact that their bodies still fit so snugly together like jigsaw puzzle pieces.

And then there’s those times when the one true love introduces our womaniser to her husband, who introduces himself with a finger-crushing shake of the hand. Obviously, he has a solid well-paying job and no vices whatsoever, as our womaniser nervously thumbs the top of a hastily ripped open pack of cigarettes in his pocket. If that wasn’t a big enough kick in the crotch of our womaniser, this guy who just happens to be in good physical shape, is a devoted husband, a doting father and a generous and gentle lover (the womaniser can only assume). The best part comes when the one true love politely requests our womaniser to leave, because the family needs to pack and head to the airport as their perfect little child enters the room to politely say that he has completed his homework for the week and the next and then jumps into his father’s arms. The perfect husband and father has, after all, planned a vacation in Galapagos Islands. As you do.

In a related scenario, the womaniser knocks on the door and finds that his one true love is dead. Okay, that’s not quite as funny, but you get my point. Fortunately for me, my one true love was neither dead nor in the arms of some guy with a laptop who was going to take it the Galapagos Islands.

In fact, my one true love had gone and gotten herself an almost complete makeover. The proud owner of what can only be compared to a body sculpted by angels, one true love hadn’t lost a shred of the intelligence and wit that I’d fallen in love with so many summers ago. Gorgeous, smart as ever and so understanding (no backward compatibility issues here). Sigh. Thank you for coming back into my life, Monkey Island.

This series by the infinitely talented team at LucasArts, originally launched in 1990 (so you can imagine what the graphics must have been like). I played The Secret of Monkey Island at the start of 1999, if memory serves and I played the sequel soon after. I remember how I laughed at the dialogue and some of the inane things that happened. Even with those blocky as hell graphics, the changes of expression were noticeable and added so much (surprisingly) to the experience. The games and indeed the series, were essentially point ‘n’ click adventures. It was a crisp and compelling storyline laced with memorable characters that kids could get into, combined with the kind of wit and satire that would make adults chuckle, that made the Monkey Island franchise such a tour de force.

The series was responsible for getting me hooked onto other point ‘n’ click adventures and later, full-blown role playing games, where a story-driven narrative (as opposed to bang! bang! driven narrative) had me hooked. Kudos Bioware for Knights of the Old Republic (obviously), Mass Effect and the delectable Dragonage: Origins. These restored my faith in gaming in an age when (without a sliver of offence meant, I assure you) games like Manhunt, GTA: San Andreas, Bully, Rapelay (utterly disgusting concept) and their ilk were all out to garner controversy by alienating gamers rather than draw in new gamers and watch the community multiply.

Anyway, it all came back full circle when I got hold of the Special Editions of the two Monkey Island games I’d mentioned. Totally revamped graphics (with the option to switch back to the classic look at the touch of a single key) and smooth voice acting make it seem like a new game, but the humour and wit that drives the story forward is classic old-skool stuff. While I’m sure the idea that something related to Lucas was going to be involved in retouching up a classic (RE: All the belly-aching about Star Wars and Indiana Jones), must have sent alarm bells ringing across the world in the minds of all sorts of fanboys (big and small), it’s incredible that the game’s charm and beauty has been preserved, while dressing it up for the 21st Century.

Sigh.

Right, well, seeing as how I’ve just gone on and on and on with the good stuff, I’ll leave you to bask in the warm and tingly sentiment expressed so far. The unpleasantness shall commence in the next post.

(Note: To you lazy members of the VfB Massiv’ who seem content to read this stuff on Facebook, I urge you to actually see the new look VfB and tell me what you think.)