I’m pretty pleased with myself.
2008 was one of the slowest years for The View.
Only 16 posts and most of them sucked.
That’s not why I’m pleased.
I thought the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque series would be a two-parter.
A trilogy at the very most.
Now, we’re already staring down the barrel of part five.
BANG!
It was at the end of another woefully mismatched contest in the IPL between the Mumbai Indians and Deccan Chargers that the broadcasting channel decided to show some “exclusive” footage of that night’s post-match party. There’s this new concept they have of a party (in the city in which the match was played) every night at the end of the match with random celebrities preening and posing for cameras and hob-knobbing with cricketers, team owners and socialites. I hear they also have ramps and fashion shows by designers who couldn’t quite make it to a normal fashion show. Presumably, the cricketers model their wares. Or something. I don’t know.
And so, on this so-called exclusive footage was a television presenter with horrible facial foliage, who is described by a colleague of mine as a choosa hua aam (sucked-out mango). So this mango man walks up with his cameraman and microphone to IPL Commissioner (that name still makes me laugh; makes it seem like he’s on Raw or Smackdown) Lalit Modi and Sushmita Sen, who acts in films and adopts little girls. So, mango master asks some inane questions that are fresh out of the training manual for banal TV presenter-style chit-chat.
After gushing about Sachin was her favourite cricketer, Sen proceeded to answer mango mania’s next query about which team she supported. Some nit-witted giggly joke about being a neutral supporter was followed by—... You know what? This doesn’t really capture the essence of it at all. Let’s try again.
Mango Masala: So Sush... *cracks one of those ‘Eyyyy’ smiles* Are you enjoying the cricket?
Sen: Oh my, yes... of course *trying hardest, it would seem to convince herself* It’s... great.
Mango Masti: Yeah? *absolutely shocked by that response* Wow, that’s great. Do you have a favourite cricketers? Sen: Well, let’s see... *rumbled, she realises she needs to come up with some names*. I have a lot of favourite players *phew, she sighs, that was a close one, but it’s best not to take chances, so who’s that guy everyone knows... errr... he’s on hoardings, tv and errr...* But my all-time favourite is Sachin Tendulkar. He’s just... great *phew, home and dry*
Mango Mahal: Yeah? That’s... great *if it’s not a Citi Moment of Success, or a Karbonn Kamal Catch or a DLF Maximum... it must be great* Which team are you supporting in the IPL?
Sen: *bloody hell, what is this, a trial? what where those teams called again, she wonders briefly, grins and notices that creepy Modi leching at her from off camera* Well, you know I... just like your commissioner Mr Modi, I too am a neutral supporter
Modi: *ain’t got nothing to do or say... wait, camera’s turning towards him and so he grins*
Sen: I usually select the team I’m going to support after the match has started *need to know who’s winning to then support them... wait, that came out wrong... backtrack* and I always back the underdog.
At this point, Modi clears his throat and gets ready to open his mouth. The guy was adept enough at inducing thousands to cringe in the first couple of IPLs, but he has been nothing short of an utter embarrassment in this particular edition. First off, he has the most moronic speech-writers. Either that or he writes them himself and they’re very very poor. Secondly, at every match, he runs around the stadium in a bit to sit next to every vaguely famous person at the ground and ensures that he is shown doing so onscreen. And some member of the commentary team, usually Ravi Shastri (you too have become such an embarrassment) will announce in a regal manner, as his heart beats proudly in his chest, “The commissioner, ladies and gentlemen... Lalit Modi” or some shite like that and Modi’ll smile and wave at the camera. It sickens me.
Honestly, watching the IPL is an emotionally traumatic process. Ads. Interruptions. That stupid Spanish horn. Modi. Shilpa Shetty. Some would call it Emotional Atyachar. (Bud-dum thish!) A television show called Emotional Atyachar, which is basically a copy of the American show Cheaters as I’ve been reliably informed, recently received a strongly-worded call from the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena. It’d take too damn long to go into just how dodgy the concept of the show is so I’ll make it ultra ultra brief (Go me!). Boy/girl suspects partner is cheating, gets TV channel to plant spycams, microphones and decoys to administer “loyalty test” and show all footage to boy/girl who suspects partner, followed by a final showdown.
No, it isn’t the dubious moral leanings of the show that invited the MNS’ wrath and threats of violence. One of the girls who suspected her boy friend of being a dirty no-good rat, said “Bombay” instead of “Mumbai” on the show. This led to the threat, which was followed by extra care by the Emotional... people to never let anyone say “Bombay” again and a ticker across the screen apologising for the mistake. Ok. The Shiv Sena a few days earlier attacked the nearly 130-year-old Bombay Natural History Society for not changing its name to “Mumbai Natural History Society”. BNHS didn’t apologise or anything though. Good on them.
Which brings us back very neatly to mango mambo, Sen and Modi. To recap, Sen had just said that she supported the underdog and...
Sen: *underdog eh? so, by that logic...* And so today, I was a Deccan Chargers supporter
Modi: *jumps in over-enthusiastically* Nonsense, she supports Bombay!
Did you hear that, MNS and Sena? Lalit Modi said Bombay on TV. I don’t see your goons trying to break down his door, smear ink or paint on his face and tear his clothes up. What happened? Got scared that he might have security guards, who might have an automatic weapon that might be unloaded in the heads of your foolish followers? What’s the matter, o protectors of Mumbai and its culture? Doused your drawers at the thought of taking on Modi Inc? Happy taking on the little guy, but revealing what cowards you are when it’s time to carry your agenda to the big dog. It’s really sad.
Keep it up and carry on beating up North Indians and then see how quickly this city goes to hell. Honestly, starting fights when people say “Bombay”? Grow up. I bet Modi just said it to show how you can’t touch him. So this then, is for you, Shiv Sena and MNS. Read as carefully as you can.
Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay effin’ Bombay. Jo ukhaadna hai, ukhaad le abhi.
Having visited four of the major stops on the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque tour, the time has come to take a slight detour. Worry not, there’s plenty more subject matter that Earth 2010 has to offer for numerous more sequels to the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque tetrology or quadrilogy (I’m not 100% on which one is more correct). Anyway, there’s a lot more going on in the world than merely grotesque things like those beautiful little things that happen every so often.
For the more pedantic among you, there can be beauty in the grotesque and yes, I concede that at times, the grotesque can be beautiful, but that’s really not what I’m on about, so pay some bloody attention.
Justice is one such thing of beauty. From the way a little kid smiles when a toy or sweet or something that has been snatched from him, is returned to him and the snatcher duly punished to the relief the real mother of the baby must’ve felt when King Solomon of Bible Land weeded out the impostor mother. I assume you know the story of “Whose baby is this? Let’s cut it in half”. And I’m not just talking about the justice of men, whether that be criminal justice, civil justice, parental justice, street justice etc. etc. etc.
Animal justice is a thing of beauty too. Not a day goes by when the newspapers don’t have something about x number of animals being poached. Not a day goes by when the Internet doesn’t have a new picture of some poor defenceless animal maimed with an arrow or firecracker or something. And not a single day goes by when I don’t hear a dog howl in pain somewhere in the dark dead of the city. Then there’s times when animals are provoked and they retaliate, injuring or killing humans and so they just have to be put down... or to put it as what it is, killed.
Speaking of being killed, let me take this opportunity to make it abundantly clear that I do not revel in the joy of other people’s misfortune. Schadenfreude is not one of those things I consider as my hobbies. I do not wish death upon anyone and nor do I take joy in the death of anyone. I believe in justice, but I am opposed to the death penalty. So, keeping these pointers in mind, you may now read on.
Elephants, apart from seals and beluga whales (among others), are some of the most adorable creatures to have ever live on this planet. And they’re all essentially 
non-violent creatures until provoked. That seems perfectly rational. (I bet if you sat jabbing and prodding Mahatma Gandhi or Dr Martin Luther King Jr with a sharp object of some kind all day, eventually they’d probably snap and slap you upside the head.) Maybe. Seals, elephants and belugas are subjected to some truly heinous treatment that is dished out by man.
So it brings a smile to my face whenever I see these subjects of the Animal Kingdom get justice. Yesterday, at the Byculla Zoo, some stoned nitwit jumped the fence and entered the elephant enclosure and mosey down towards the pair of jumbos, who were busy eating. Like most creatures, elephants immensely dislike being disturbed or interrupted when they’re eating. But said nitwit decides to ignore the signs saying “Stay Out” and ventures in anyway.
I’m told that around Ganeshotsav (the Ganesh festival), fools often get wasted and in a bid to receive blessings from Lord Ganesh, they think to themselves, “I know! Here’s the next best thing!!”. And they invade elephant enclosures at zoos to go and touch their feet. Now you can only imagine what an elephant would make of this weird guy (or gal) grabbing at his feet. Think of your reaction if a sewer rat was on your foot. You’d kick it the F away, wouldn’t you? Same thing. Accordingly, tens of people are injured or worse trying to force some blessings out of elephants, every year.
Now back to our elephant, who was eating and who I’m reliable informed was 53-year-old Lakshmi, got mad as hell and told her food, “Hold up a second. I’ll be right back.” She charged out and walloped that sucka over the head with her trunk. Kablamis!! Don’t fuck with the eating elephant, son. Sadly, the impact of the blow caused serious head injuries to the man and he succumbed on the way to the hospital. Shame. It would’ve been a lot better if he had lived to tell the tale.
Just like animals that have been branded, probably gather at animal bars to tell each other stories about what they went through during the branding process, this guy with a massive dent in his skull would have people hanging on his every word at country liquor bars as he told them about the elephant that banjaxed his skull. That, unfortunately, was not to be. Talk about heavy-handed treatment (Highly inappropriate, I know).
What really took the cake though, after this whole incident, was the zoo’s vet reassuring me that the elephant was fine. She should be, considering she started a movement of justice for her whole species. All hail this big ol’ four-legged Rosa Parks with a Malcolm X attitude and a trunk. Hey, that just gave me an incredible idea for an eight-part TV drama or at worst, a sitcom.
As I kick off the fourth part — and probably not the last either — of the Grotesque series, I’d like to make a reference to a film I rather enjoy watching. It’s called Once Upon a Time in Mexico. I still recall my initial reluctance to watch it, but damn, is it ever good. The Depp plays Agent Sheldon Sands, a CIA agent who is in Mexico to try and bring “balance” to the country. His job is to eliminate anyone who’s either too much of a good guy or bad guy. In other words, rather his own words, “My name is Sheldon Jeffery Sands. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. I throw shapes, I set them up, I watch them fall.” There’s this book I quite like, one of the few money and finance-related books I’ve actually finished reading (A half-read Economics for Dummies has been lying forlornly on my bedside table looking up at me for God-knows-how-long). This book is called Confessions of an Economic Hit Man by John Perkins. Written from the author’s own experiences, it details how he was covertly recruited by the US National Security Agency, put on the payroll of an international consulting firm and told to visit several developing countries and get them to accept massive World Bank loans or US Aid.
In the process of paying them back, the countries in debt would be crippled by the loans and would effectively find themselves at the mercy of the US. Secondly, according to Perkins, the other job of economic hit men was to approach “strategically important” countries and try and broker some deal that would effectively trigger off events in those nations that would profit the US. The fall of the Shah of Iran, the Iraq invasion and even the death of Panamanian leader Omar Torrijos were triggered off by economic hit men, who in that regard were a bit like Agent Sands — throwing shapes, setting them up and watching them fall.
I’ve had some suspicions in the past — unfounded, I used to say dismissively — but I’m more or less convinced of a few things. The first of which is that we’ve been incredibly naïve. It began with economic liberalisation in India in 1991. Well, there really was no choice as we were bankrupt around then and the IMF had to undertake the dirty job of bailing India out of the red. International trade also began at kick off around that time and with it came Nestlé, Levis, Coca Cola (which had been banned previously) and of course, McDonalds.
On the foreign relations side of things, it began with Bill Clinton warming up to India and India returning the warmth. Then came George W. Bush and with the September 11 attacks, the War on Terror® was launched and Bush soon managed to become good pals with India. Tony Blair was already Bush’s best friend at this point. The Hyde Pact nearly split India in half, with the Left and Right of the country not taking too kindly to the US humouring and entertaining India’s nuclear aspirations.
Soon came the Season of Change™ with Obama — a man who in his speeches opposed the outsourcing of jobs — winning the US elections and stacking his cabinet and crew of advisors with people of Indian origin. India’s really on the map now, people began thinking. Wow! Sunita Williams going into space. Of course she’s Indian, everyone told themselves. She made some statement like “I like Indian food” and the whole of this country goes into a crazy frenzy with certain people nominating the American (read that again) for national awards.
November 26 hit Mumbai soon after. Hit Mumbai hard. Pakistan and India suspended sporting ties and all other ties and got caught in a war of accusations, with neither party willing to back down. India claimed that the state of Pakistan (and not just terrorists from there) launched the 26/11 attacks, while Pakistan countered that India was financing terror in Pakistan’s Baluchistan region. All along, random drone attacks on Pakistan, empty threats of consequences that would follow if Pakistan didn’t cooperate in the War on Terror® and assurances of justice to India flowed thick and fast from the US.
Obama in his baritone, would talk about how India and the US were closer than ever and his smiley-gladhands in India (sometimes called Consul-Generals and Ambassadors) would talk about the immense respect Obama has for Dr Manmohan Singh and how the US is committed to Indo-US ties... blah blah blah. Raising India’s dreams of permanent membership on the UN Security Council, only to back Japan instead did not sour India’s post-Cold War love for the US. And trust in the US. And at some point Slumdog Millionaire and its slew of Oscars happened and idiots were convinced that the world and especially, the US loved India.
In the last week, however... that’s when things turned interesting. David Coleman Headley in American custody, admitted to being involved in the 26/11 attacks and scouting out locations for the recent Pune blast. The US refused to extradite him to India so we could interrogate him. Until recently, they refused to even let us send a team to the US to quiz him (Note: The FBI merrily strolled down to India to interrogate people, including allegedly Mahesh Bhatt’s son, who from all indications, had nothing to do with anything). The final decision on an Indian investigating team getting access to Headley are still in limbo.
Why the US would be so cagey about letting India investigate Headley’s involvement is still a noodle-scratcher at this point. But let’s look at some points here.
- Headley visited Pakistan on numerous occasions on DEA work
- Headley claimed to be a CIA agent, a claim that the US has neither confirmed nor (more worryingly) refuted yet
- The 26/11 attacks brought India and Pakistan on the brink of another war
- In the aftermath of those attacks, India bulked up its armoury and set up the Force One commandos
- It’s all Taliban, Taliban, Taliban for the US; they’ve never been particularly keen on pursuing Lashkar-e-Tayyaba or any of the other terror outfits. It’s almost like they’re trying to sweep them under the rug. Hide them. Because-... No, that’s too whacky even for me.
Who else feels that something just isn’t kosher here?
I had written the phrase “In the last week” in bold letters above. This is why the last week turned not kosher into an all out paranoia attack. So, in this last week, the US gave indications that it would be signing a similar nuclear deal with Pakistan as it did with us. What the-...? But weren’t they just saying that Pakistan was a failed state, a short while ago? Would you really want to empower a failed state like that?
The claim from Washington now is that no such deal was actually planned, it was more a plan to discuss new energy sources for Pakistan. Well played. I’m not convinced.
Here’s what I do think. India for a while, enjoyed naïve childlike hoop-la over receiving all these gifts from the phoren, kinda like little kids go nuts when relatives from abroad — aka the phoren — bring them a little chocolate bar with some snazzy logo or some Made in China toy that they’ll forever cherish. And so with the secret sauce of a Maharaja Mac (the Indianised Big Mac, for the uninitiated) dripping from Mother India’s Maybelline-lined lips onto her Prada bag, that rested on her new Levi’s that look so cute with that new pair of Jimmy Choo peep-toe pair of shoes, she never saw Uncle Sam play her like a fiddle.
While ol’ Devious Sam was giving Mommy India all sorts of gifts and presents, she never saw him handing some out to Step-Uncle Pakistan just around the corner. She never realised that when Uncle Sam sold her his A-Class Merc and sold Uncle Pakistan his E-Class, it wasn’t by mistake! It was an intentional ploy. Hollywood and the Academy was in on it. How did you miss it, Mother India? Were you so blinded by the gaudiness on offer?
Did the bright lights and shiny pretty things make you lose focus? Or were you just being naïve? You better shake out of it soon, Mommy. Despite Tony’s submissiveness to George in modern times, the British did teach the Americans a few tricks. It’s divide and conquer all over again up in here. There’s never been a more urgent need for paranoia.PS: Coming Soon — Paranoia in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque
Part three of this ongoing series on the grotesque deals with a towel, a small white towel to be precise. And to be even more precise, the tossing of that towel into the ring, when the grotesque takes its toll on you. Let’s stop there a second. Perhaps I’m exaggerating slightly. This sense of resignation to the grotesque I feel isn’t so much the type of towel that a boxing manager throws into the ring when his prize fighter takes a skull-crushing blow and his eyes roll into the back of his head. The manager sees it all happen in slow motion... Maybe, the mouthguard flies out of the boxer’s mouth like a comet, followed by a trail of blood and saliva. His knees are buckling and arms go limp at the side, with barely enough gas left in his tank to take another blow. His opponent is winding up and ready to unleash one final uppercut and put him out of his misery, as the manager lobs the grimy white towel in, surrendering.
That’s not the kind of towel I’m talking about.
There’s usually a neatly-folded variety of towel that finds itself in the track suit trouser pocket of a casual jogger. You know the kind. They sometimes carry a water bottle, a sweatband across their foreheads, despite knowing that they’re slow as shit they’ll still time themselves to see what fraction of...of... of a YEAR they shaved off their previous time. Running up a steep(ish) slope at times, a jogger belonging to the species I described will often pull up the to the side huffing and puffing a little, swearing that the air has gotten a lot thinner. The jogger reaches into his pocket and pulls out the neatly-folded towel and mops the sweat off his face, while taking a little break.
That’s the towel I’m referring to. And this right here,
is the grotesque I’m referring to. The big ol’ mammoth of a caterpillar looking thing, as you probably know, is a garland made of nothing but 1000-rupee notes being presented to Uttar Pradesh chief minister Mayawati. It cost around Rs 5,00,00,000 allegedly, which is an obvious crock of shit (Remind me to get back to this). A few days later, another similar monstrosity was presented to her at a rally, followed swiftly by someone from Mayawati’s party, the BSP, proclaiming that henceforth, she would only be presented garlands made of money. Fantastic stuff.
This is the same woman who sanctioned a butt-load of statues of people (Kanshi Ram, Ambedkar etc.) to be built all across her state, including no less than six of herself. All this happens during a time when prices of essential commodities are skyrocketing and people are losing their jobs at the drop of a hat. In addition, her party members allegedly also beat up and killed (allegedly) some chaps for not contributing to her birthday fund.
To me, the goings-on in that state represent the zenith of grotesque. It isn’t only the chief minister either. I am certain that at least 90 per cent of all cases in India of major human rights violations and rampant corruption come from UP. Of course there will be those of you who will claim I’m overlooking all the good Mayawati is doing for UP and India and how the Congress is the true leach that is sucking life out of India etc. etc. That’s your opinion and you are entitled to it. I’m just talking about grotesque here.
Like these umpteen awards shows that are organised nearly every second day and have the same dodgy ‘song and dance’ sequences and awards designed to merely give a few actors or directors or producers a bit of a leg up (glorified PR exercises) or to invite A.R. Rahman and announce the words “Oscar winner”, because we are so Goddamn worried that no Indian will win an Oscar again. These horribly grandiose shows drip with money. It’s known.
Almost as much as the IPL. Actually, they’re nowhere near how gaudily gilded with gold the IPL. But they’re still pretty lavish displays of wealth. Now the Congress-ruled state government has in its infinite wisdom (See, I’m attacking the Congress too) to slash the entertainment tax on both those sets of events. And all along, I don’t see the price of essential commodities dropping. I don’t see the taxi/rickshaw meter running any slower. I don’t see any tax waivers in my salary. So why do Manikchand and Lalit Modi deserve these lowered taxes?
It’s for those reasons and many more that I realise the futility of not accepting the all pervasiveness of the grotesque. It’s here. It’s queer (as in weird). Get used to it (I guess). It’s not a complete surrender, mind you. It’s just time to catch our breath. Mop the sweat off our collective face. Have a swig of water. Walk off that hamstring cramp. And we’ll resume jogging soon.
And now, about that crock of shit : Rs 5,00,00,000 translates to 50,000 notes of the 1000-rupee denomination. Correct? Look at that garland once more. Does that look like 50,000 notes to you? Even if they were folded in half? That’s still miles off target. Just look at it. I hate to imagine how much it actually cost. For now though, I am pleased about what happened in another part of the country, when a member of Parliament of the same party I believe, was presented with a similar garland of money. Supporters (not even enemies, but honest-to-God supporters) ripped handfuls of money of the garland after mobbing him. ’Ave some of that!
Grotesque is easy to find, anywhere you look. A large man’s sweaty hairy ass-crack hanging out. Overflowing garbage dumps near restaurants. Being 60 and dressing like you were an 18 lady of the night. Makeup on nine-year-olds. iPopularity. And such like. But, we’re talking sports and entertainment. Arguably, the most grotesque of the lot (televised and shown in over 10 countries) is pro-wrestling.
Here’s merely one reason why — Katie Vick. On a show watched by kids all over the world. Yep. But then, WWF/E have always had to resort to gimmickry. I’m by no means suggesting that shit like that Katie Vick thing can be justified. Don’t get me wrong. But gimmicks, yes. All the fireworks, the entrance theme music, the massive screen and the video segments on it. Long and sometimes painfully long storylines. Cars being run over by other cars. People being run over by cars. Affairs of a sexual nature and so on and so forth.
But, I realise they have to resort to the gimmickry. Can you imagine how boring it would be for people to watch two hours of oiled men in spandex just grappling each other. Match after match? Why do you think normal wrestling sucks so much? Pro-wrestling tries to distract viewers from the actual wrestling aspect of it and throws all sorts of other things to keep them interested. Why do you think the “Divas” league in pro-wrestling was set up at all? Because they can really wrestle? Sure. Whatever you say. I’m not talking about actual women wrestlers here, like the ones who go to the Olympics.
Cricket on the other hand, in India at least (so basically 50 per cent of the world’s viewing population), is interesting enough to engage viewers for hours and hours. And this has been the case since long before the cheerleaders, the fireworks, Twenty20 or any of that other stuff entered the fray. Cricket doesn’t need things to be thrown in just to distract spectators. It’s not wrestling. Twenty20 was created as a format to hook newbies and bring them into cricket and not make them dislike the sport more.
Last night, I got a glimpse of just how bad things have become today and got a glimpse into Commissioner Modi’s nefarious scheme to kill cricket altogether. Random music playing at arbitrary intervals including two shocking theme songs (will elaborate at the very end) and a creepy — yes, that’s the best word — version of 7 Nation Army. Explosions going off, cheerleaders and an ass of an announcer yelling at the crowd to make some noise and demanding Mexican Waves every two minutes.
So much hard work just to distract people from the actual cricket on display. Bowlers having to wait till a song was over or till the announcer was done bellowing. The match seemed to revolve around the bullshit that was going on around the stadium. I’ve never ever thought very highly of television advertisements in the middle of cricket matches, but after last night, I will gladly put up with them, because at least I can change the channel. I’d happily eschew the charm and atmosphere of a stadium and watch the match on TV knowing that the dumb ass announcer can’t hurt my eardrums.
I’d miss out on impossibly long lines for refreshments with people shoving each other hard because obviously them getting their food and drinks first and getting in their seats first is the most important thing. I’d miss out on elbows in my face in my attempt to buy an overpriced cup of warm, syrupy and flat Pepsi. I think I’ll manage without that. I’d miss out on all the characters. I’d miss out on seeing people like this group of business yuppies, whose behaviour would probably make Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx’ drunken antics seem polite. Chirmi was right. “The one thing business schools or B-schools don’t teach and bloody well should, is manners”.
Just in front of those fuckwits was an absolute legend. A skinny bespectacled guy wearing a Kolkata cap and jersey, who was a friend of the B-school boneheads (I think). His jersey bore the number 13 and his name (presumably, unless he stole the jersey)... Anuprit. This guy would get up and start gyrating as fast as he could, limbs akimbo, singing along to Kolkata’s ridiculous theme music — while actually knowing only one line. Good for him, the handicap of not actually knowing 90 per cent of the song didn’t stop him one bit. When his team hit its first six, he began shaking violently as he spasmed in his seat like some sort of localised tornado. I instinctively reached for my phone to call for an ambulance. I’m nice like that. His palms turn into fists with unfurled middle fingers and within the space of 4.3 seconds, he’s flipped off everyone at the stadium. The Man with the Fastest Fingers in the East — Anuprit 13. What a legend.
And then there was the cricket. Sure, it was good in parts. A Krappy Kolkata Kombination snuck past the Decidedly Complacent Deccan Chargers. Good match. I like watching a team snatch a loss from the jaws of victory as much as watching a team snatching victory from the jaws of a loss. This match had both elements. But it kept getting interrupted by the crowning jewels of grotesque that night.
“Too hot too cool, All the king’s men We rule!!! We too hot We too cool, Aamhi Kolkata We rule!!!” Anuprit 13 nearly burst a blood vessel every time excerpts from this Kolkata theme music played, which it did regularly. As for the Chargers’ they had Shaan singing some song that went along the lines of “Tum paan khaaoge, Hum chaar khaayenge.... Tum paad maaroge, Hum do maarenge”. Which roughly translates of course to: You eat one betel leaf, we’ll eat four and you fart once, we’ll do it twice. And these songs kept playing after every wicket, boundary, six, no ball, wide, every time the umpire coughed etc. etc. etc.
Relevance to cricket? None
Distraction from cricket? Total
Grotesque nature of the theme songs? Extreme
How did it make me feel? Scowl-y
There was a television show once — one I greatly enjoyed through its three seasons — called Bo Selecta. It was a sketch show that took its antics to ludicrous levels of stupidity and sometimes, that’s fun. The ‘celebrity masks’ used on the show were pretty damn grotesque and one of the most grotesque ones was the Kelly Osbourne mask (and character too in fact). There was one particular sketch where the Kelly Osbourne character was trying to pimp some show and suddenly takes on this bizarre cockney voice and says something like, “Look kiddies, we got aww yow five’ritz (all your favourites... duh)!!”I laughed then...I sure as hell wasn’t laughing last night when IPL “commissioner” Lalit Modi seemed to be saying that at the IPL opening ceremony, considering the “entertainment” in store for ticket-holding suckers. Some sources told me that the Deccan Chargers management organised the opening ceremony. Unconfirmed rumours of course, but regardless, an opening ceremony there most certainly was. And amid the ceremony were “aww yow five’ritz” comprising Lionel Richie, UB40, some stupid parody act called Bjorn Again and the truly Godawful (there really is no other word) Deepika Padukone. *shudder*Who, it must be asked, would organise a the inauguration of a tournament of Twenty20 — a game that’s meant to be 21st Century fast, loud, brash — and invite the first three clowns to perform? And then think it’s a good idea? What percentage of the audience actually wanted to see Lionel Richie, UB40 and a joke act from Australia pretending to be Swedish? Padukone on the other hand, was just a joke. Spinning around sluggishly to some frankly foolish Bollywood songs and some Black Eyed Peas stuff. And calling Navi Mumbai “Mumbai”. Good one.(Call that nitpicking if you will, but to me that’s like some punk act I once saw claiming that Leeds was their favourite place in London, England)The theme of the whole event however, was what baffled me the most. I had heard somewhere that the IPL (or maybe one of the franchises were supporting the UNAIDS programme). The curtains (?) around the stage that were inflated at the start and floated skyward and hung there and acted as a projector screen (I’m not kidding) seemed to resemble a condom cut in half. Then, each of the eight franchises were represented by what looked like large inflatable penises with their logo on them. Finally, the stage was surrounded by these people in what to the best of my understanding resembled chef outfits with a white triangular hat (that looked like a piece of cheese).Actually a better comparison would be Ku Klux Klan outfits, with that piece of cheese on them. Now one can only assume that these people — going with the analogy — were supposed to represent sperm cells. So you got the penises, the condom and the sperm cells running around everywhere randomly lighting up in all sorts of different colours (with some LED set up). I don’t know what that’s supposed to represent. Maybe a message of how every sperm is special and so you shouldn’t masturbate? Mr Modi, care to clarify?But as with everything in life, there’s always something positive to every negative and believe me, you’d be real hard-pressed to find anything positive in thousands of grown up men and women pretending to be sperm cells. But, here goes. 
One particular segment of the silhouette of a drummer on a curtain (that condom from earlier) as he drummed away was rather good. Laser Man was the BOMB!! I love lasers and that performance was some unequivocally mad shit. It’s dawned on me now that it’s pretty rude to call those Nu Klansmen “sperm cells”. I think I’ll call them “little chefs” henceforth. Lionel Richie came on at the end and performed one song called Lord-knows-what... oh yeah, Dancing on the Ceiling. That’s the one. Now these little chefs were positioned in straight lines from the stage over to the boundary. So if the ground was a cycle tyre, these little chefs formed the spokes. Got it? And they had to do some obscure dance where they were swaying from side-to-side while doing jumping jacks. This, to me, was more than just ill-conceived choreography. I’m doing my best not to underplay the profundity of this.
The cycle spoke thing for me, was a metaphor for life. In life, as those little chefs demonstrated, you are expected (seldom for some, regularly for others) to fall in line and dance to the beat of someone else’s drum. Painful job or relationship perhaps. And sometimes, you’re even expected to do so while dressed foolishly. Painful job that requires you to wear a chicken suit (or a normal suit and tie for that matter). Savvy?
Every now and then somebody comes along, who falls in line, dresses foolishly as told and dances to someone else’s beat... but does it with such a massive grin on his/her face that it really makes you stop complaining about trivialities. Most of the little chefs were just going through the motions, while wondering how many bedsheets they could make from their costumes. A couple of them, whom I dubbed “happy little chefs” were really getting into it, jumping around all over the place. If behaviour or body language was in fact a window to a person’s feelings, their vigorous, energetic and really really happy movements told me that person’s face must be home to a humongous smile.
And suddenly it didn’t seem to matter that they may have been playing sperm cells in a macabre skit also involving a giant condom and eight penises. The little chefs lighting up randomly now seemed quite cool. They had a job to do and were doing it, some with a hell of lot more enthusiasm than others. They were on the world’s stage after all. Their happy jumping jacks took away all the incredulity, irritation and disgust I’d been harbouring until then. Sachin, Warnie, Ganguly, Dhoni, Padukone and Richie all got pretty robust rounds of applause and cheers from the crowd. I saved my loudest applause for the happy little chefs.
Bring on the cricket!
