View from Beneath your Skin

Intermission

2011-05-10T13:33:00.002+05:30

Call it a lack of inspiration, ennui, inertia, a dearth of ideas or quite simply, just a mental block, but the fact of the matter is that we’ve hit a wall here and it’s impossible to move forward at this point. It’s been this way for a while now and even though I haven’t really expressed this feeling, its presence has been as unmistakable as that of a fly on a television screen. This isn’t your fault any more than it’s mine. Circumstances beyond our control. That’s really all it was.

And so I guess what I’m trying to say is that we should go our separate ways at this point. Maybe for a few days, more likely weeks, perhaps months... To put it a little more succinctly, I only know that now isn’t the time. Now would be a better time to go get some popcorn, perhaps a cold drink or even make a trip to the loo.

Normal programming will resume soon.

The league of the disgusting out in full

2011-02-21T11:03:00.007+05:30

The tenth edition of the Cricket World Cup began over a month ago, but it was on Tuesday that the business end of the tournament actually commenced. “Business” in terms of the quality of cricket on show as well as obviously, the increased match ticket prices, ad revenue rates etc. For the record and to quote Graham Swann, I do believe that by removing the Associate nations from the World Cup in subsequent editions, the ICC will be removing the “World” from the World Cup.

But moving on, with said business end in motion, the first quarter final between Pakistan and the West Indies petered out into a foolishly one-sided ho-hum so-not-worth-it squash. Really, there’s nothing more that can be said about that particular match. And then this Wednesday rolled around. India V/s Australia. The Big One. The media, general public and the people that call themselves experts painted it as a “revenge” match. Revenge for what? For a game that took place eight years ago (WC 2003 finals)?. I’m certain commentators and sportscasters have described other Indian wins over Australia as revenge for that drubbing by 125 runs in Johannesburg all those years ago. And yet, they haven’t had their fill.

Ok. Sports rivalries often use the word “revenge” repeatedly (England-Argentina matches where England wins are still referred to as revenge wins), so I’ll let it pass.

While on one hand, the buildup to the game was quite well handled online (more specifically, on Cricinfo), television and newspapers had already started talking about an India-Pakistan semi-final. Talk about jumping the gun. Regardless, match starts. Sways back and forth. The four-time champions get off to a solid start until India hit back. The home team looks like restricting the Aussies to a low score. Ponting has other ideas and hits a gritty 100. India get off to an okayish start but lose Sehwag early. Solid partnerships. Clatter of wickets. Last recognised pair at the crease with 70-odd still required. Sensible batting and cool heads prevail and India earn a well-deserved win. All good so far.

That’s when the bullshit begins. A cable news channel that has over a period of time become my most loathed television channel (nope, it’s not India TV) immediately runs with these screaming banners about how “India thrashed Australia”, “Aussies taught a lesson” and most indescribably, “Ponting plays dirty”. I later discovered that what they were referring to was a moment in the game where the ball was in the air and Ponting attempted to catch it and “did”. He wasn't sure if he had caught it so it went to the third umpire, who ruled that it had bounced before it was caught. So, not out. The system works. Why that equals Ponting playing dirty, I’ll never know.

And then the bile overflowed in cyberspace. I guess this is what Fear Factory referred to in the track Cyberwaste. It's probably not, but the lyrics fit in perfectly in this case. Anyway, before long some of the nastiest and sickest shit was splattered all over the entire gamut of the social networking universe. From pathetically over-exuberant chest-beatings of triumph to atrocious and bitter little rhyming four-liners, schadenfreude spewed in the form of status updates and tweets. After a while, it just got puerile, shrill, crass and disgusting. To think that some idiots actually mocked Brett Lee who ended up with a bleeding head after diving to stop the ball.

Was it a collective outpouring of an anti-Australian sentiment? Perhaps in light of all the violence being doled out to Indians in Australia. If so, that’s bullshit. Far more Indians have been beaten up, killed and raped in the United States of America than in Australia. But the Americans don’t get any such reaction. Was it an overly raucous and boorish display of disbelief that India actually won? Or was it just a widespread display of what bad winners we really are? Bad losers are one thing, but bad winners just stink. With bad losers, you know why they’re acting like shitheads, but with bad winners... What the hell is their excuse?

But, what’s done is done. Bad karma caused by being a bad winner follows you around. It better not screw up India’s chances at the trophy. If it does, it’ll be those TV channels’ and those people’s fault. They can write their moronic four-line poetry then.

(Reprise)

2011-01-27T12:04:00.004+05:30

This post was originally going to be titled “Your truth, my truth, teri maa ki-.....”. Catchy ain’t it? Anyway, it’s been over two-and-a-half months since I last posted, as the more astute (or bored enough to check regularly... you decide) among you would have undoubtedly noticed.

This one’s going to be extremely scattered and all over the place. Bear with me.

And that is the sad state of my present blog-rust. In fact it’s so bad that I’m still a fair bit from even starting up on the point of this particular post and yet, I’ve run out of things to type. Let me try and trace my footsteps. Right. Here we go.

Circa October 2010, I hit upon the idea to try and save up and make a trip to Australia to catch a Big Day Out show in Perth. Why Perth? I haven’t a clue. And when those plans went from musing to actual planning, I got home to check out airfare and just happened to check my mail first. Total coincidence. What I saw on my screen blew me away and scorched my retinae. Could it be? Fuck going to Australia. This is what I’m going to be doing, I told myself. Watching almost every single band I love perform at one place (and that too on the edge of the earth) would have been awesome, no doubt. But the subject matter of that email I saw referred to something that was happening in my own backyard. On my own turf.

The decision wasn’t exactly difficult and my bank account was extremely grateful to me. Every single day leading up to this particular thing was no more than a stepping stone — something to do till the day rolled around. Weekends were immaterial. The holiday season wasn’t important. New Year’s Eve didn’t mean diddly squat. I was waiting for my own personal big day out.

And then it came.

January 13, 2011: THE PRODIGY live at Palace Grounds, Bangalore!

The extent of foolishness that went on before and after the show is something that’s far too much to go into. It’ll require a separate post. And yes, the show was blindingly good. But amid all the mirth-making and coming to life of something for which I’d been waiting so long, were some extremely profound moments, one of which will help this clumsy post lurch a little closer to its point.

I believe it was some time between very late in the night on the 12th and very early in the morning of the 13th, when (for some unGodly reason) we were sat around discussing a particularly prickly topic in the subcontinent. That’s right, kiddies... The K-Word. So one of my cohorts begins detailing a particularly self-righteous, moralistic and over-simplified rant he’d heard in the very recent past. That got me thinking about how a ton of people ardently believe in these supposed universal truths that are based on debatable, inconclusive and flimsy grounds.

An example. “The Indian Army is always bad” is a favourite universal truth among hot topic activists, armchair pundits, media students and so on and so forth. I’m not even going to go into the extraordinary lengths to which these people go to justify the senseless massacre of innocent villagers, policemen etc. at the hands of “disenfranchised parties”. To ensure that I get to my point in the near future, I am going to refrain from indulging in a self-righteous rant of my own about this issue. How lucky you all are!

Moving on... there were two such “universal truths” (albeit nowhere near as conflicted) that I’d been mulling over the last couple of days. The first has to do with cowboys. We’re all familiar with the shouting and yelling that greeted the release of Brokeback Mountain, with all these dissenting voices belly-aching about how it was wrong to portray cowboys as gay. Dig deeper and we found that conservatives in Utah (for instance) thought it went against “traditional families”. Someone as cool and macho as cowboys can’t possibly be portrayed as being homosexual, Cletus, his maw and the entire deep south yee-hawed. And then, Hollywood, as you all well know, has nearly always without exception, propounded the idea of the cool, smooth-talking and the epitome-of-all-things-masculine cowboy. It’s the WILD West, not the Mild West, after all.

But wait, just a damn second.

Who the hell decided that cowboys were so cool? And the next inevitable question is, if cowboys are so cool, why aren’t goatherders considered cool? Why aren’t farmers considered cool? Why don’t kids get plastic combine harvesters for Christmas? Why don’t they dress up as millers for Halloween? The real cowboys are often lazy layabouts who take naps while their cattle graze and then herd them back and that’s the end of their day. Historically, I believe cowboys were cowards too. I mean who the hell goes with a revolver and shoots people armed with nothing but sticks and maybe bows and arrows? And then tries to act like the victim and complains, “Damn Injuns got me” or something like that.

The other “universal truth” is far more newsy and far more fun. For time immemorial, I have seen men, a majority of whom were British, go on and on about this particular institution (I suppose it would be a fair way to describe it). The level of understanding of this instition that you possess defines just how much of a man you are. If you have little to no comprehension of it, you are roundly pilloried and mocked. If you call the institution stupid, you see the scrawniest of folk jump up in its defence with fire in their eyes, all set to defend their institution and its way of life. And honestly, this aforementioned institution is fairly simple to understand. Simple enough for a wee kid to understand.

It is for that reason that I don’t get why a guy who has been a virtual legend in his field would be stupid enough to cling to that particular institute and its supposed exclusivity... So much so that it would cost him his job. Give me a moment while I find a suitable way to dispell this "universal truth". How do I put this? Err... Let’s try this.

To put it very simply:
OFFSIDE IS A FOOLISHLY SIMPLE RULE!! There is no glory in claiming that you understand it and that imply that women don’t. Even LBW is a harder thing to understand than your fucking offside. Keep in mind that I’m not talking about refereeing or umpiring, where you need to watch carefully to see if it is in fact offside or LBW. I’m talking about knowing how it works. So to all of you who still think that offside is the holy grail of masculine understanding, I say this: If you really want to be smarter or show the world that you’re smart and they’re dumb, try and work out how Duckworth-Lewis is calculated.

Spare a thought though for poor Andy Gray. Take a bow, son. What a stupid way to get fired.

A surreal return to VfB for sure, but worry not, normal service will be resumed soon.

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

2010-11-10T10:14:00.012+05:30

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 (!)

2010-11-05T14:41:00.002+05:30

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?

2010-10-21T14:08:00.004+05:30

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

2010-10-17T13:57:00.005+05:30

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

2010-10-09T15:35:00.004+05:30

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?

2010-10-08T01:31:00.002+05:30

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

2010-10-03T14:12:00.007+05:30

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

2010-09-23T13:10:00.007+05:30

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.)

The Human Salt

2010-05-12T13:50:00.002+05:30

Usually, salt in one's wounds isn't the pleasantest of things. Salt, as you all well know, stings like a mad hornet in your ass if it enters a wound. Take for instance, the extremely common example of having a cut and finding sweat running into it. It stings. A lot (depending on the nature of the cut). Now in a far more painful and sadistic example, imagine a fistful of salt being rubbed into a gash in your flesh. That hurts like crazy, but fortunately, I've never had to experience it.

I can only imagine that it hurts like crazy.

Now, I haven't decided to hammer out this post to discuss the pain inflicted on your self by the salty injection into your blood. I'm looking at the obnoxiousness of it all. Salt in a wound is the equivalent of someone who barges into your home uninvited. Maybe you don't even know the person. But he/she storms in and proceeds to spend a few moments just barking at you about how screwed up your home and your life is. He/she will then spend the next few moments screaming at you about your faults and things that went wrong in your life. (Think about salt in your wound if you will. "Yes, I bloody know I've got a massive gash in my arm. I don't need to be reminded of it by you hurting me more, salt") The person will then swing into action with a tank of acid and throw it all over your home burning your possessions, your memories and your personal effects.

And for what? Just because he/she is salt.

And this salty individual won't tell you the obvious problems politely. Oh no, this person is hell-bent on screaming about everything. And it's not a pleasant scream either. He/she possesses the shrillest, most eardrum-ripping and piercing voice known. (That's why it stings so much more) Naturally, at the end of it all, you feel violated, angry and yearning to slap said person upside his/her head. Pushed enough as you would with salt, you usually end up wanting to introduce his/her lips to the barrel of a shotgun and tell him/her to pucker up.

This brings us very neatly to who I believe is The Human Salt... (I won't go as far as to say, Devil Incarnate). I have seen/met a number of people who irritate me. I'm sorry, but I'm a bit judgmental that way. A lot of people make me angry as hell, but very few people make me seethe as much as The Human Salt. A number of people have pointed out the obvious to me, made foolish arguments to me and expected me to buy them, given me idiotic rationale and excuses (like for instance claiming never to have heard of a CD that they were lent, when it went missing and suddenly appearing with it a few days later). Still, that doesn't so much as hold a candle to The Human Salt.

I remember being extremely irked by the loud, self-aggrandising pomp of this person during the lunch break of a Test match between India and Sri Lanka in the first half of the 2000s. My dad and I laughed about how irritating he was. Flash forward to today. He is the toast of a television channel, run by the most narcissistic man on television today. I'm not going to even discuss the horror and wholehearted practice of urinating on the face of journalism that this narcissist indulges in on a regular basis. I'd rather get onto blasting this specimen whose identity I'm sure you've guessed by now.

That's right, The Human Salt is none other than Boria Majumdar. Google him and see how many hate sites come up. The man is without the shadow of a doubt, the most irritating and obnoxious person on television today. (Just for the record, second place is in the safe hands of a rival news channel's number one reporter) Now I've heard tales of Majumdar's influence in sports circles and the wealth of knowledge that he is. So fuckin' what? I've met a lot of reporters who can squeeze a quote out of ANYONE related to their beat at any time of the day. I happen to work with a couple of such people, who also happen to be the humblest and least obnoxious people I know.

Wealth of knowledge? I'm a bloody wealth of knowledge... And there are numerous people I know who possess far more knowledge in their heads than I could ever imagine, who are gentle with its dissemination. Even when they know I'm wrong and they're right. I fail to see how yelling and screaming shrilly on television makes any point whatsoever. More so when you have someone on the next channel conveying the same point in a far more docile manner.

You have an exclusive, you say? You have an exclusive spot on my wall, is what I'd like to tell you. An exclusive shooting range devoted only to you. (I really hope you read this and scream on television about how you're getting death threats. I'd laugh my ass off, since this is anything but a death threat) It's a plea to you, Boria. Please stop hurting my ears with your high pitched high decibel tripe. And please stop burning my retinae with that smug "I smell my own farts and they smell like roses" look on your face.

Is that too much to ask? Stick to writing about the history of a bail or the first time in recorded history that someone ever threw a small spherical object at someone else. That way I don't have to feel like I'm going to need surgery everytime you feel the need to screech about something. I don't come and screech in your face, do I? I blog. You could try doing that. Maybe you have one. I wouldn't know since I want nothing to do with you.

Regardless, I guess what I'm trying to say is that the above is just an example of some of the range of painful emotions that i undergo when the thought of The Human Salt even enters my synapses. Seriously though, so the Indian team got knocked out on its collective ass in this T20 World Cup. They played like fools. Don't act like they owed you something, Boria. And get all shrill about it and rope in former players who will say whatever you want just to ensure that you shut the hell up.

I don't want to be mean to you, but I'm compelled to do so since you won't meet me halfway. You won't tone down your bullshit and so, neither will I. I'm sure you have your legion of "fans". Meet them, hang out with them. But for God's sake, get off the tube. By the way, BM, do you know your initials also stand for Bowel Movements. Intentional? Perhaps.

I'm done now. It's off my chest. I feel much happier. Especially since this was post number 100 on this here blog. Tooooot!

SOS (Same ol’ Situation)

2010-05-05T19:27:00.003+05:30

I write the next few words in the expectation that you, VfBers have read or at least watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy. If you have, then it’s brilliant, because you will actually get what I’m trying to say. If you haven’t then, you should. Why? A) You will read/watch/both a brilliant story about a fantasy universe and B) You will totally get what I’m about to rant about.

Nevertheless, here goes... The Ents, whose turf was invaded by Merry and Pippen — who hoped to rope them in for the war on orcs and Uruk-Hais — held a long board meeting. Hours later, Treebeard came to Merry and Pippen to inform them that the meeting had been held and they had decided that... Merry and Pippen were not orcs. That’s right! Fuck whether or not they would go to war. They decided that Merry and Pippen weren’t orcs.

Why is that relevant? Well, it’s relevant because that is exactly what our judicial system has coughed up. Now, frequent readers of this blog (that in my personal opinion, is a surefire thing to read and make yourself look busy at work) will know of my love for playing cricket. I was told that this year’s Media Cup was shifted because the Ajmal Aamir Qasab (26/11 terrorist) verdict would be delivered on May 3. So mediapersons would need to do a lot of work over the weekend. Fair enough.

May 3 came. And there I was, watching it all unfold on television with the jarring loudness of Times Now, the cluelessness of CNN-IBN, the indecisiveness of NDTV and the sheer moronic behaviour of India TV. Seventeen months after the horrific attacks and months (i think more than 12) since the trial began, the judge put down his judgment.

Qasab, he had said, was guilty.

What?

What in blue blazes?

We saw him kill civilians and policemen. We saw him hauled up from a car that him and his homie had hijacked. It was established that he was guilty! I thought the trial was to decide just how guilty he was. Maybe I’m naive that way, but honestly, what in blue blazes?!? I can’t say, “What the fuck?” because it’ll probably be seen as contempt of court. Seriously though, Mr Court McKenzie... What gives? He’s as guilty as guilty can be. We know that. Where’s the verdict.

Oh, that’s been postponed till Thursday. Tomorrow. Why?

Just say it, chief. “Hang the fucker!” Besides, it’s not like doing anything to that pawn is going to stop terror. Qasab was a barely educated fellow picked up and promised his share of virgins in heaven if he killed and maimed in India. Just yesterday, a Pakistani-origin fellow in New York was picked up for setting up a car bomb in New York City. Now, tell me that country isn’t the world’s biggest breeding ground for terror.

Sorry, I’ll return to what I was saying. Death penalty. Afzal Guru has been on death row for ages (for attacking Parliament). I havent’t even heard of a thread being brought near him, leave alone a noose. So, why should I believe Qasab will be hanged? Well, let’s say he was hanged. What would it prove? What point would it make? None! Killing brainwashed fools merely speeds up their martyrdom. And so, dear Mr Justice McKenzie, I implore you not to give him a quick exit tomorrow.

Make him suffer.
Subject him to being made to work as a slave at the residence of every person he and his cronies harmed.
Make him stand at the side of a road holding a garbage can all day.
Make him clean out our sewers.
Force him to be the guy that biological weapons are tested on... I mean cosmetics, hehehe
Freeze him in cryo and defrost him regularly so he can be tortured.
And then freeze him again for 10 years or so.

But for the love of all things sacred, don’t kill him... It’s too easy an exit.

Tiptoeing on the in-between

2010-04-29T12:35:00.004+05:30

How many of you remember Val Venis? Not the WWE-era Val Venis, but the WWF one. Not the member of Right To Censor but, this guy. The faux pornstar character, who was supposed to act all ladies’ man-like and was supposed to preen, posture and pose to put on the impression of being irresistible to women. In WWF-world, it was still humorous to see him put on a deep voice and try and seduce women with the narrowing of his eyes and a pelvic thrust here and there. Over the years, that tired routine made me cringe. A lot.

Of course, pro-wrestling or sports entertainment is devised to tell its stories through exaggeration. And so a character like that would be perfectly acceptable. However, I cannot for the life of me, work out why a character like that would be acceptable as a cricket presenter. Sporting some ridiculous tight and gaudy-looking shirt with the top four buttons undone to show off his heavage (a word I learnt recently. Apparently, it means man-cleavage), some ghetto-as-hell gelled-up hairdo, slouched in his arm chair and making eyes at the camera like he were Don Juan de la fuckin’ Nooch.

But then, maybe I’m being too harsh. Sameer Kochhar does have a few good qualities... a philanthropic side, for one. He is the only man to make Arun Lal, Shonali Nagrani and Archana Vijaya (Revisit this if you need a brush-up) seem like good presenters, who know what they’re talking about. Kudos for your selflessness. Sacrificing your own dignity, so others look good. Anyway, long story short. IPL-3 drew to a close a few days ago.

There’s a number of good things about that fact. Not least of which is that we don’t have to see Kochhar trying to be Val Venis (unless he moves to a different channel) for at least another year. With Modi or without Modi, that remains to be seen, but it’s not for another year. No Citi Moments of Success for another year. No more people with poor eye-hand coordination trying to take catches and dropping them spectacularly in a bid to win themselves a cheap phone. No effin’ DLF Maximums for a year!

The other upside is that we can finally get back to some real cricket. It’s a shame that it’s again of the T20 variety, but that’s fine. The Lord of Pestilence reminisced recently about the magic of the 5-day version of the game. It’d be nice to have some more of that but for now, T20 will have to suffice. That it is international T20 obviously makes it better. The players aren’t playing for some cement manufacturer, hirsute newspaper owner or stylishly gaudy liquor baron. They’re playing for national pride.

We stand right now on the thin line between a big-money, glitzy and yet ultimately meaningless tournament and a far less money-addled, less glitzy but slightly more meaningful tournament. (T20 champions of the world doesn’t mean shit. ODI and Test championships matter, to me at least) It’s an exciting place to be standing — this thin border between the past and the future. Let me tell you why.

Looking back at the IPL, I can do so with perspective. Sure, for a large part, it was entertaining enough. Some shades of brilliance did shine through in the batting, bowling and (to a much much much lesser extent) fielding departments. A few outrageous shots and insane catches were all good to watch. However, a lot of this for me at least, was tainted after the whole Income-Tax department swooped down on IPL Inc. It got to a point where matches were being watched closely with viewers conducting detailed analyses of the tournament among themselves... Not about the state of the match, but about which matches had been fixed, how much did one think they’d been fixed for and so on. It was like 2000 all over again, as The Lord of Pestilence also points out.

At the same time, looking forward, optimism overpowers all else. Watching Afghanistan playing for the first time in a major international tournament is something I really really want to see. Will they be able to pull off any major upsets? If so, I tip India as being the team that will be turned over by the Afghans. Will they qualify for the next round? Could they, just maybe do a Kenya and get to the semis? Given the unpredictable nature of T20 and the power of momentum, could they, just maybe have a hope in hell of becoming finalists? Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself but that’s a team I plan to follow as long as it’s in the tournament.

Another clash I’m looking forward to is how people who played in the IPL fare against those who (for one reason or another) didn’t. Should they meet, I believe this time around’s India-Pakistan match, more than some in the reason past, will be the ultimate grudge match. Of course, like I said, optimism overpowers all rational thought.
Rational thought suggests that there’ll be a ton of one-sided contests.
Rational thought suggests that there’ll be at least one utter mauling of a minnow.
Rational thought suggests South Africa will ballz it up again.
And so on and such like.

And then, you feel a sense of happy anticipation when rational thought and optimism come together and you realise there’ll be no MRF blimp, no DLF Maximums and no exaggerator-in-chief Danny Morrison (God-willing). You realise there will be the commentary brilliance of David Lloyd, who won’t feel compelled to call every shot “amazing” or “fantastic”. You realise there will be some very good performances and really tight matches. And best of all, you realise there’ll be the distinct lack of that stupid Spanish horn and... Sameer Kochhar.

Mrs G and Dr S, you really dropped the ball

2010-04-20T02:02:00.003+05:30

This isn't Montreal...
We're not talking about a legacy of over a decade...
Our protagonist doesn't have a very long history in the business, as it were
He doesn't even put opponents in the sharp-shooter...
Our antagonist isn't a scheming businessman... Far from it...

And no matter how loud I scream this phrase, even until my lungs burst, it will never reach the ears of the people in power. So, I will do my shouting here, in my sanctuary. It's not going to be pretty. It's going to go against a lot of my faith in the only party I feel can make a difference to India and rise above petty politics. But it has to be said. Mrs Gandhi and Dr Singh, listen the fuck up...

YOU SCREWED SHASHI!!!

Do I need to repeat it? No? I will anyway...

YOU SCREWED SHASHI!!!

Don't blame the opposition. Your opposition comprises bigoted communalists, archaic fossils, racists, sociopaths and murderers. And there are plenty of the same in your own party, don't deny it. But, in order to show yourself as blameless, you scapegoat Shashi Tharoor. Keep your nose clean and then go on the offensive. Of course, he's just a casualty of war, right? He's merely a fall-guy, so you can go on the offensive and get the upper hand in your squabbles with the opposition?

Backing a man who could've made a difference to your cabinet and Indian politics, in the face of all criticism, would've shown some gumption... some backbone. What you've done, is merely to consolidate the fact that as long as your surname is Gandhi or you suck up to someone with that surname (I refer not to the Mahatma, I talk about the Nehru-Gandhis), you can be in the Congress.

I was watching a talkshow a few moments ago, which actually prompted me to get on to the computer and vent my spleen. And on that note, I saw the editor of a magazine that I find to be a little hit-or-miss, making a very good point. "In Congress, you need to be a survivor," said Vinod Mehta, editor, Outlook. He was also of the school of thought, like me, that Shashi was a mere scapegoat. I disagree, Mr Mehta, I believe in the Congress, you need to be a domesticated animal who bows to every demand of the Gandhis.

Rahul Gandhi, for instance, has for a while been trying to portray himself as this charismatic politician. It would not surprise me if Rahul's mommy saw Shashi as a threat to Rahul's delusions of being the most charismatic and dumped him at the first opportunity. The people voted him into power. And here, you are cutting him down. Nice. You could've stood up to the dumb-ass opposition, but no, here you go towing the line.

To make matters worse, the aforementioned talk-show included that insufferable socialite (that's right, a socialite) Shobhaa De, who saw fit to pitch in about how inadequate a minister of external affairs Shashi was and how good his ouster was. What's the matter, Shobhaa? Facelift falling off? Or has Mrs G offered you a Rajya Sabha (House of Lords, FYI lukethenuke) seat? Or have you run out of bullshit to write about and those Paris trips don't quite do it anymore? Okay, those were spiteful. Answer this. Do you know shit about what Indian politics needs right now? Clearly not, because you were just commending the sacking of the type of irreverent and non-neta type we need.

But, I wouldn't expect you to know that.

I've been tingling with irritation since the news filtered in that Shashi'd been asked to step down and it got worse after watching that show. Lalit Modi is a piece of shit (sue me if you want, you piece of shit). Shashi spelt, to me at least, hope for a new breed of leaders. You cannot compare the two, just because they happen to be involved in some way or the other with the IPL.

I don't see enough members of the public backing Shashi or forcing a referendum or something to get him back as minister for external affairs. People still have heebie-jeebies because he's a two-time (nearly) divorcee, courting another woman and speaks his mind (sometimes foolishly). Hey, I'm allowed to hope, aren't I?

I hope enough people get behind Shashi.
I hope Shobhaa sticks to being a socialite (which is all she ever was and will ever be; no one gives a rat's testicle about your take on France's fashion or anything else you have to talk about)
But what I really really hope is that a man of the stature of Dr Manmohan Singh can shake off the Gandhi monopoly and kick Rahul out on his ass.
Else, I'm backing the Sena from now onwards...

In summation, I think the best way to put it would be as follows:
Dr S and Mrs G, get your act in gear. There'll be time to suck up to the Americans later. Show some backbone, because if you dont, remember forever: YOU SCREWED SHASHI!!!

With apologies to...

2010-04-18T03:50:00.003+05:30

... Jishnu Dasgupta, Sid Coutto and Wesley (I’m sorry but I do not know your surname)

There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’d like to preface this post by saying that none of this is meant to be hurtful or malicious, but it is something that needs to be said. So, here goes. They say that the mighty French football team at the 2002 World Cup faltered and fell apart not so much as a result of being crappy. It wasn’t that they did so appallingly because the opposition was mind-blowingly better.

Napoleon didn’t lose out in Waterloo because he was a poor tactician. Goliath wasn’t slain by David because the latter was a champion fighter. The United States didn’t get ripped to shreds in Vietnam because the US Army was a shoddy armed force. The one thing that I can really put my finger on that is common to all these vanquished parties that I mentioned is their complacency, which led to their fall.

Similarly, I honestly believe complacency ruined Friday night for me. Yes, to a large extent, my own complacency did so too. I did take it as a given that a night with x performing at y venue would be a guaranteed awesome night. I got complacent and was ultimately shown up by a decidedly mediocre and — to quote Gautam Gambhir — ‘ordinary’ night.

To digress ever so slightly, I recall an orthodontist of mine in New Delhi over 12 years ago, Dr Vinod Verma (whoo hoo, I’d been killing myself to remember his name) said something that’s still stuck in my head. I was on one of the chairs there getting a tune up on my braces (yes, I did have braces; hence, my wonderfully shaped teeth today) and one of his assistants was working on this boy’s biters, rippers and gnashers. His dad — one of those typical businessman-types, who would probably have given his son a lame looking beige and orange toy car on his birthday instead of a nice red one, because the former cost a rupee less.

He looked disdainfully at the assistant and then at Dr Verma and said, “I don’t want the assistant working on my son. I came to your practice because I thought you would do it.” The assistant walked away a little hurt and after the man left with his son, Dr Verma said, “They think that because they pay a man, they own his soul.” Made sense then. Still does today.

So no, I do not believe that just because I pay a cover charge or a ticket fee that I own the artiste or venue management’s soul. Yet at the same time, I do believe I’m entitled to a certain quality of entertainment and service respectively. Let’s deal with the latter first. Dealing with the franchise that it was and with staff like Wesley (who is among the hardest working and yet, politest waiters I have ever seen), you would have thought that the Mumbai chapter of that rock music-themed restaurant/bar would put up a better show.

Sadly not. Poorly managed seating-standing coupled with insipid food (a far cry from what the food used to be like). Complacency.

But, I didn’t really go to that place for the food or the ambience. I went for the music. One band I’d heard good things about but never seen live really (apart from some semi acoustic show at a rooftop Bandra restaurant). I’d heard nothing but good things about them hitherto. We’ll call them A. Then there was a band I’ve seen live lots of times before and they’ve never failed to please. We’ll call them B. And band C, we’ll call them Pentagram.

A, for some reason I don’t really know, were abysmal. It’s even worse when the band you’re watching think they’re the cat’s whiskers. But really... Honestly, A... go back to the drawing boards. B realised that they’ve been complacently putting up the same routine day-in-day-out. It doesn’t work if the audience doesn’t really give a rat’s ass and would rather get a beer than listen to some childish “sixth grade Michael Moore logic” sociopolitical rants from an act that really ought to know better. That’s some more complacency right there. Change the routine and ditch the clichéd skit you put on every time, B and don’t for God’s sake, make the mistake of imagining yourself to be Rage Against The Machine, because you are not. That still doesn’t forgive the distinctly flat show put on.

Pentagram though, were incredible.

But I couldn’t help thinking that the show overall was a massive waste of time. I complacently believed that it would be as good as always. But then B probably went in with the belief that the crowd would be as receptive as always. Just as A probably believed that everyone was going to love their music as much as the small group of sycophants they deal with (or fans of the previous band they were in), did.

An unsatisfactory night begets an unsatisfactory post.

Prost!!

(sorry)

Bleurgh in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

2010-04-03T12:20:00.005+05:30

I was taught at a young age that you should only fill your plate with as much as you can eat. (The phrase “having too much on one’s plate” rings a few bells I’m sure). Always serve yourself a little less rather than a little more; after all, there’s always second helpings, I was told. Made sense. Wasting food is a terrible thing to do.

The scene with putting food into your mouth isn’t very different. It’s quite an obvious one really. I was taught never to stuff too much food into my mouth. What, you may well ask, as I once did, defines “too much food”? If you can’t shut your jaw or chew with your mouth shut, you’ve got too damn much in there. It’s a basic rule of a thumb. Also, even if you do end up stuffing your face, you have to be a man (or if you’re female, then be a lady) about it and attempt to chew. Cover your mouth with your hand if you have to, as you gnash down on the massive slab of pizza or whatever to break it down. Similarly, if you shove smouldering hot food into your mouth, it’s your own damn fault.

Do whatever you have to, but you never spit food back onto your plate. It’s neither done nor acceptable (I believe) in civilised society.

Just a couple of days ago, I was feeling a bit of a dry mouth and throat coming on in the searing heat and popped into a restaurant that I used to frequent (considerably less so in recent times) and ordered a cold glass of watermelon juice to rehydrate myself. I looked around and sitting at a table, a couple of tables away from mine, was this guy whom my brain instantly tagged as a student-type. Spiked hair, beads around his wrist and neck... the usual Mumbai “Pink Floyd and Psy-Trance are rocking, dewwwd” stereotype.

Now, this lad has before him a plate of fried chicken drumsticks. (Interesting aside: I’ve always found chicken drumsticks to be the clumsiest food known to man. They’re awfully messy, awkward, that cartilage gets into your bite and ruins the taste — I used to be a non-vegetarian — and generally, they’re just a pain in the ass.) So, our man attempts to shovel one rather large and wieldy drumstick into his mouth, as his glazed eyes (probably due to a lack of sleep and excess marijuana abuse) follow it into his mouth.

He’s clearly bitten into too large a chunk, bitten off more than he can chew, as it were and it’s evidently quite hot as indicated by his almost spot-on impression of a gorilla in heat. Ptooie! He spits a glob of flesh and bone shards, laced with digestive juices, back onto his plate and throws back a glass of water down his throat gasping and panting. Meanwhile, I swear I saw that flesh and bone glob twitch a little while on his plate, oozing searing hot oil (as indicated by the steam rising from it). A few customers glared at the lad in disgust, while others tutted and some shook their heads. The waiters, for their part, looked on unperturbed and went back to discussing how Waiter A didn’t pay up after betting 50 bucks the previous night, on a team (that lost) in the IPL.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t lower myself and deign to write about something as trivial as the matter I’m about to delve into. It’s a dumb topic to blog about, I’d told myself and I wasn’t going to write about it. Sadly, I happened to witness this incident and so, here we are.

I couldn’t help but draw parallels between the binge-and-purge display put on by Stereotype Boy and the way celebrity news is digested (or not) by the masses. With the advent of Twitter and its hashtags and whatnot, nearly everyone has now been empowered to chip in with their two cents about anything and everything. The fact that 70-odd percent of tweets (I read this somewhere... I can’t remember where) pertain to people who are ‘famous’ is a reflection of this binge and purge mentality. Can’t get enough of the Cheryl-Cashley Cole saga, Eva Longhoria and her active sex life and other similar tripe about who’s fucking whom and so on and so forth.

And then, purging in the form of tweets, protests etc. in a bid to enlighten the world with their views about how things should be. In the past week — perhaps a shade less — everybody and their uncle has emoted about why an Indian tennis “star” (more on that in a second) should marry a Pakistani cricketer serving a year-long ban. She’ll still represent India, say the soon-to-be-married couple, so what’s the big deal?

I’m getting impatient so I’ll deal with that “star” part first. Sania Mirza is not a tennis star. Read that again if you want. Leander Paes, Mahesh Bhupathi, Michael Chang, Goran Ivanisevic, Martina Hingis, Ana Ivanovic, Maria Sharapova, Lindsay Davenport and so on are tennis stars. Andre Agassi (so what if he wore a wig and was on coke?), Steffi Graf, Roger Federer, Martina Navratilova and Serena Williams are tennis superstars. Winning a couple of WTA tournaments that most of the big names didn’t take part in, does not a star make. Neither does a world ranking of 24 for a wee while.

Sure, you could turn around and say, “Who the hell are you to say she’s not a star? Have you ever won Wimbledon?” Fair question. And I reply, she hasn’t won Wimbledon either and neither the fuck have you. Winning a Wimbledon Junior Doubles title is good. But that doesn’t make you a star. Winning an Australian Open Mixed Doubles title is also very good, but everything Bhupathi touches in mixed doubles inevitably turns to gold.

Next you’ll say, well, she’s the best Indian women’s player ever. To which I will retort, well, that shows that we suck and need to start improving, not glorifying middle-of-the-roadness as stardom. We’re getting sidetracked here, but the bottomline is... she’s no star. Just a good player.

Anyway, she’s getting hitched. I’m very happy for her and Shoaib Malik. Whether she continues to play tennis or not, whether she changes nationality or not, whether she goes to live in Dubai forever or not is really none of my effing concern or anyone else’s. So she broke off her engagement to someone else, Shoaib allegedly broke off a wedding. Maybe he’s a user of women. Maybe he isn’t. I fail to see why a) it is anyone’s concern but their own and b) why people should invest their time chipping in with their opinion about the issue.

Why the family of the allegedly ‘used and discarded’ first wife should air their grievances on air. Why the geriatric head honcho of a dying party of hooligans (that’s right, I said it) should see fit to pass judgment And why the general public at large should feel it to be their moral responsibility to advise the duo on what they should do.

But that takes me back to the binge and purge theory. When you stuff yourself with so much info and ‘news’ about these people you claim not to care about, but can’t stop gossiping about, you’re bound to end up puking or spitting up at some point. Or maybe one morsel of info that you stuff down your throat is so damn hot that it burns your mouth and you spit it out (spit out that half-digested morsel with your own salival inputs). And what happens then? You end up looking stupid. Not to mention, spitting half-eaten food back onto your plate is pretty damn grotesque.

Cowardice in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

2010-03-30T12:47:00.004+05:30

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.

Dear God, please don’t send me to hell

2010-03-29T11:35:00.002+05:30

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.

Naïveté in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

2010-03-24T12:29:00.005+05:30

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

A Towel in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

2010-03-20T11:42:00.004+05:30

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!

A Scowl in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

2010-03-13T14:18:00.006+05:30

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

A Smile in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

2010-03-13T12:05:00.005+05:30

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!

Twas only a matter of time

2010-02-25T12:21:00.004+05:30

Jasper (the old guy with the long beard) from The Simpsons had made quite a poignant remark once while trying (the operative word is trying) to watch television. He’d said, “Two hundred channels; Nothing but cats.” That was me a few days ago. Road to Perdition on one channel, some dumb ass show called TMZ on another channel. News channels all airing the same boring story. Some crap on the sports channels and CSI on another.

Two hundred channels; Nothing but crap, I heard myself say.

Of course, to be fair, there was Bad Santa on some channel, but that wouldn’t be on until hours later. My unfathomable love for that film will be discussed at another time, in another post. Not now. Idly flipping through channels reminded me of a time nearly two decades ago, when all we had was two channels — Doordarshan and DD-Metro. Today, I cannot make any sense of how only two channels were enough back then, but they were. Strangely enough.

Cartoons, news, TV shows, music shows, sports (involving India) etc. Most of the programming was quite high-quality stuff. Television shows like Buniyaad, Malgudi Days, Oshin, Humlog, Nukkad and so on are the stuff of legend. I saw the entire coverage of the first Gulf War on Doordarshan news in tiny bit-size packages. No CNN for us back then.

Then again, I probably didn’t watch too much television back then. Read a fair bit. Used my imagination a fair bit. A shit load more than some of these loser kids of today. (Again, a topic for a different time). For instance, I played cricket — albeit with a plastic bat and ball — long before I’d ever seen a match on television. 1992’s probably when I watched my first cricket match on television. I’d never seen this sport being actually played. And they wore some pretty spiffy pyjama-style outfits, I remember thinking. Note: Doordarshan only used to telecast matches featuring India and so, the first match I saw was India v/s England.

WACA, Perth
Benson and Hedges World Cup
February 22, 1992

Set as it was in Australia, matches started long before I woke up for school and would be done before we were done with school. Plus, there was a small highlights package which was on long after I was asleep. The day India played England (in day/night match), I managed to catch most of the match. I don’t know how. Probably skipped school or something. Can’t remember.

With the fall of Mohammad Azharuddin’s wicket, in walked a diminutive (the word’s a dead give away) man, who seemed to be wearing a helmet a couple of sizes too big. Massive mop of curly hair and he looked no more than a couple of years older than me, I thought. I was 7. Every shot he unfurled in that knock against England looked amazing. I love that guy, I thought to myself. Saw him get out cheaply in the next match against the West Indies. It doesn’t matter, I thought.

Over the next few years, I got more and more involved in playing the game. Signed up with a few coaching classes. Realised I enjoyed bowling a hell of a lot more than batting, but I’d kill to be able to bat like that. That of course was that little kid on TV, who was slowly but surely making a huge name for himself in a game of men. And he bowled too! To think he started off as a quick bowler, which was what I was trying to do. Brilliant. And he was singlehandedly bowling India to wins. Once in a while.

Skipping forward, 1996 was the year the World Cup came to India and I did not miss a single bit of the action. Didn’t actually make it into any stadia, but watched all the matches on television. That was the era of cricket viewing for me, when I’d be depressed beyond belief at an Indian loss. So obviously, the semi final balls-up left me quite depressed for a while. But this little kid had the highest runs aggregate in any World Cup played till then (obviously he broke the record again years later).

The Sandstorm Match (from the legendary Sharjah encounters) happened a few years later. In addition to being a match that any Indian worth his/her salt ought to remember, this little man (as part of a montage of his shots) actually made Tubthumping sound like an amazing song. Such was the effect of the cool he oozed that I still think it’s a decent song. I love that guy. Meanwhile, loud renditions of “Sa-chin... SACHIN *clap clap clap*” had been doing the rounds in stadia all across the world and the mere notion of Mr Tendulkar stepping out to bat gave the best of the best of bowlers from across the globe, mad heebie-jeebies.

Meanwhile, just as that was happening with Sachin, batsmen from all over shuddered whenever the acronym “KP” (not that South African-English fake KP) was mentioned, followed by the phrase “... is the next bowler”. The fact that these batsmen who did shudder, could barely hold a bat and that all over, is probably more accurately described as all over Delhi’s Gulmohar Park area.

The fact is I was a deadly accurate and lightning fast bowler.

Ok... I was quite accurate and quick in the air.

FINE!! I was about as accurate as Shah Rukh Khan is Venezuelan and would seem like a fast bowler only if the sole basis of comparison was Carl Hooper. Happy?

Bloody digression. Anyway, next began the era when television sets across India and the world would be swiftly switched off when Sachin was dismissed. A family friend of ours and I almost left Lords when the little man was dismissed with a long long way to go in that NatWest Trophy. Saner minds prevailed then and we stayed on.

Saner minds, did I say? For the decades of runs and entertainment that this man gave the world, the least he could’ve asked for in return, was saner minds. Towards the second decade of his career, every time he was injured, dismissed cheaply or caught saying something that people misconstrued, there was a hue and cry and calls for his head. It’s been the case for the longest time.

From being called “overrated”, “tired”, “selfish” to being accused of “only being interested in records and never playing for the team or winning the team any matches”, he’s had to hear the most moronic remarks and indictments from people who really ought to know better. Former players, random armchair pundits, politicians (well, one politician) etc. It got to an era where it became “cool” to knock Sachin for every little thing.

Why did India lose in the Caribbean? Sachin’s fault
Why does the batting keep crumbling? Sachin’s fault
Why does global warming happen? Sachin’s fault
Why are India and Pakistan constantly at each other’s throats? Sachin’s fault
Why do I feel the need to blog today? Sachin’s fault

And how has he responded? Blasting bowlers from Australia, England, Pakistan, West Indies, South Africa, Namibia, Zimbabwe, Bermuda, Turkmenistan, Antarctica, Mars, Alpha Centauri and even bloody Rigel-7 into oblivion. I physically cannot create a compendium of his greatest knocks, because frankly it’d take too long. Enough of the introduction and the tying in “where my life was when he did what” thing.

There was obviously going to be someone who’d hit 200 one day in One Day International cricket. Sachin had gotten bloody close on a number of occasions. He had no other highest score or fastest score records to his name (most runs doesn’t count). Fact of the matter is even a kid from Mumbai broke the record he set with Vinod Kambli for the highest partnership eons ago. It was only a matter of time till he broke this one.

The Don knew it, Shane Warne knew it, Sunil Gavaskar knew it, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson probably knew it, you knew it, I knew it and now, the record books know it...

Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar, the world’s first ODI double-centurion...
What’s left to say except, I love that guy.

Daily (almost) deadweight disaster

2010-02-24T12:32:00.004+05:30

So there I was in my “need to know” pose at a coffee shop I’ve begun frequenting quite regularly since LT’s visit, desperately waiting for a phone call. A doctor was supposed to call me back with a clincher quote that would put the exclamation point, as it were, on my story. Watching people walk by is overrated. So is sitting around twiddling a pen between your fingers. Actually, it wasn’t a total waste. I did see this absolute fool with a jauntily-angled cap on his head, a t-shirt that was at least 10 sizes too big and jeans that were probably slung just above his knees, judging by the fact that the crotch of the jeans nearly touched the ground. I’m sorry, but housing is just a stupid concept.

No, he wasn’t African-American. He was just a local moron, who seemed to be from Bandra (sorry, couldn’t resist it).

So anyway, once I finished shaking my head at the state of today’s youth and the clothes they wear, my eyes that were now in the highest state of alertness, caught sight of a street-dwelling woman carrying her baby. Seemed like a happy enough baby. 10 fingers. 10 toes. Curious eyes darting around like a peregrine falcon on speed. In the middle of a sip of my middling-to-decent shot of espresso, the baby gets pissed off at something and starts crying loudly.

In an effort that looked driven more towards shutting the baby up, rather than pacifying him/her, the mother starts whacking the baby over the head — albeit not as hard as the word “whacking” would imply, but still pretty hard, considering a baby’s soft skull and all that. It made me remember that I’ve always hated being hit on the head, top of the head or back of it. There’s something very very insulting about it and obviously dangerous about it too. My brain’s got a lot of mileage left in it. There’s a lot I plan to do with it. Hands off.

But throughout my life, I’ve seen people wantonly hitting each other over the head. Mark my words, it’s dangerous. Take daftie for instance. You know daftie. The guy who thought he was black a few paragraphs above. I bet that lad was beaten fairly mercilessly over the head as a child. Maybe he still is. Who knows? I just wish I’d taken a photo of his ludicrous appearance.

Another thing that has always freaked me out is the thought or sight of any sort of injury to the eyeballs or the sternum (breastbone). I’m cringing as I write it. Makes me shudder almost as much as the idea of Camilla Parker-Bowles in the nood. Super-Mega-Shudder.

That’s what makes me queasy. What amuses me no end, in retrospect however, is a numb arm. It’s amused me for a while, but I’ve surprisingly never felt the need to articulate my thoughts about that peculiar form of temporary paralysis. Reminds me of a song actually. One that was introduced to me by a fellow who was pretty peculiar, himself. The song’s a lot of fun and it pays homage/mocks the musical style of a number of bands including Rage against the Machine with this particular line, done in their style.

Corporate America makes pencils
For the man with the left hand
They make pencils for the man with the right hand
But what about the man with the numb hand?

Did I mention that the whole song is about falling asleep on one’s arm and it going numb? I meant to. The track is by The Aquabats and is called I fell asleep on my arm. But back to the real issue, waking up to a numb arm is one of the scariest things I’ve ever encountered. You’re in the middle of a bomb-ass dream and out of nowhere, you wake up... a little dazed... incredibly disoriented... and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Damn straight you can’t breath. There’s this heavy thing on your chest. And worse, you only have one arm! So you use that arm to lift the heavy thing off you. No luck. It’s deadweight. But what the hell happened to your other arm? That’s right. It’s dead and lying across your chest suffocating you. Sweet sweet irony. Being killed by your right arm (right hand would sound better, but a hand is pretty light).

You try to throw your arm off you and once in a while it lands smack! on your nose, causing the involuntary watering of your eyes. Stop for a second. Regain composure. And then you aim to hurl the arm off your face. You succeed! Boo-yah! Except the momentum of the arm flying away, often carries your body off the bed and onto the floor, with a dull thwap!-sort of slapping sound. How appropriate. You just got bitch-slapped by your own stupidity. Well done! That shit is funny as hell in retrospect.

Why is any of this relevant? Because it bloody damn near happened to me again last night. Previous occasions have seen me get a black eye from falling on my alarm clock or the edge of a bedside table. This time though, my consciousness was slowly taking over and I stopped myself on the very edge of the bed. A semi-Matrix semi-Mission Impossible scene was what I had going on there. Go me!

But seriously, numb arms scare me. It’s all fun and games until you sever or damage a nerve or something. And this happens to me almost on a daily basis. Shudder.

S(qu)iddy, s(qu)iddy, s(qu)iddy

2010-02-21T11:10:00.004+05:30

I’ve been reporting for over a year and a half now and in that time, I’ve been to a fair few press conferences. Some of them begin on time, the press notes are precise and have all the info and the people addressing them are willing to answer all questions unflinchingly. Unless there’s some product or service to promote, these are usually very rare. Then there are those press conferencesthat start late, because after declaring a start time of 3 pm, the person holding the conference, doesn’t see fit to turn up before 3.40 pm. Said person goes on to evade questions and then promptly declares the conference over at 4 pm.

(I know who I’m talking about, some of you know who I’m talking about. There really is no need to try and be smart and mention the person or go, “He he yeah, I know. So true” in the comments section. If on the other hand, you don’t know who I’m on about and haven’t had the fortune of crossing paths with him, consider him to be merely a hypothetical example. Thanks)

Similarly, people have different motivating factors to go to press conferences. For a bunch of people, it’s the chance to get a story and get questions answered with minimal fuss that does it. For others, it’s a chance to network. For some, it’s a chance for some good ol’ fashioned free food and for another group, it’s a surrogate social life. And for one particular set of chumps, well, I frankly haven’t a clue as to why they go to press conferences at all.

I’m sure you, gentle readers, have watched a rap or hip hop video before. And you must have noticed that behind the rapper is a group of around a dozen bizarrely-dressed (fluorescent suits with matching hats, shades and walking sticks, for instance) half-wits who basically sway with the music. Every now and then, one of them will yell, “Hail Yeah” in a deep as the sea, gravelly-ass voice. That’s only once in a while. For the rest of the time, they’re just standing around taking up space on the stage.

It is exactly like that at politically-oriented press conferences. There are tons of examples, but I’ll only cite two. After the results of the 2009 General Elections were declared, the leaders of the Congress came and sat along a dais to meet the press and share their joy. However, what the group of around 35 (no lie) behind them was doing, I’ll never know. Standing around. Looking into different cameras. Nodding. That’s it. Not even a courtesy “Hail Yeah!” to get the crowd going. Nothing.

Just yesterday, a major union dispute was sorted and as such, the leader of the union saw fit to barge into a room where the media had been assembled to watch the premiere of a new “save water” ad. So, Mr Union Leader walks in to speak to the press accompanied by a glut of clowns, who push their way through an already packed room and just stand at the back doing... well, doing nothing. Just standing. And taking up breathing air and space in that little room that was being fought for by mediapersons gathered there.

And just as with these hip hop or rap shows, nobody there makes any sense. What “Maananiya this” and “Saheb that” have to do with the most obscure things on the planet I will never know. The person may just as well be reciting the lyrics to Snow’s Informer or be yelling “Is... New... York up in the house?” for all I know. My point is that the similarities are numerous and profound. Go see for yourself.

That being said, in case, you felt I was exonerating the role of, or saying “aww poor thing” to mediapersons a paragraph ago, you are mistaken. Mediapersons are usually the biggest clowns in the whole circus. Just like a rap show again, where the crowd is generally, the biggest set of fools. Who’d pay good money to see that nonsense, I ask you? (I kid... I kid... Oi crowds are far stupider) Long story short, despite the delay yesterday, caused by Mr Union, most mediapersons didn’t think it prudent to get on with the whole scheduled conference. Instead, they kept interrupting every two seconds, with that whole my question or query or demand for language of communication is more important.

I kid you not, there was a point where all I could hear was the fishmarket sounds of “Hindi, hindi, hindi” by certain sections that wanted the medium of communication to be Hindi. “Marathi, Marathi, Marathi” by those who wanted it in... obviously... Marathi. And finally, “Siddy, siddy, siddy” by those who couldn’t care less about the language and just wanted to watch the “siddy” that contained the ad. Computer fucking up and not being able to play the actual “siddy” was another fun little delay.

P.S - I must’ve been quite irritated by that whole set of events yesterday, which doesn’t usually happen to me. Not with press conferences anyway. Last night, I dreamt I was a Sentinel (a squiddy, if you will) — an autonomous sentient being on a search humans and destroy humans mission. I usually have fun dreams.

Only because everyone’s doing it...

2010-02-13T13:18:00.006+05:30

The biggest story of the week — a sad reflection of just how lame the week was in terms of news — was unquestionably the hoo-hah about the Indian remake of Simple Jack (remember Tropic Thunder?). I’m sure at least two or three other people have noted the shocking similarities between My Name is Khan and Simple Jack. It’s sadly not a theory for which I can with any semblance of a conscience take credit. Especially considering the fact that it was that bum Luke the Nuke who came up with it.

His reasoning?

- Jack isn’t quite firing on all cylinders *points at head* up there and neither is Khan.
- A woman empathises with Jack and finds his take on the world fascinating enough to fall in love with him. Ditto Khan.
- Jack loses his mother at a pivotal point of his life. As does Khan.

There were a few more. I cannot remember off the top of my head.

Wandered away from my damn point again. So, in what was a very slow week for news, the Shiv Sena took offence to comments made by Shah Rukh Khan about cricket transcending international boundaries blah blah blooey... “You’ll never work in this town again, you Pakistan-lover,” the Sena tells Khan and threatens to tear down cinema halls screening his new film. And calls for a ban on the film. Obviously.

Friday, February 12 saw the smooth release of the film, albeit with police protection for cinema halls. A few incidents of stone-pelting etc. notwithstanding, proceedings went off peacefully enough. It seemed the Sena chief had — not for the first time — bitten off more than he could chew in taking on a major public figure. I’m all for freedom of cinema and all that and I’m glad the film released. And yes, I began writing this post only because everyone else is talking about this.

Now, however, we’re changing the course that was originally plotted. Starboard! Right... Everyone who’s anyone came out and tweeted, facebook’ed, spoke or blogged about how this was a victory for democracy, for Indian people, for people who stand up to bullies and so on. Did no one realise how ridiculous it was to be getting all happy about something as trivial as a film release?

Spare me the naive rhetoric, but I do not buy the whole “We have to start somewhere and this generation is awakening at last” bullshit. Honestly, getting so Goddamn happy about a film releasing. The kind of money and power behind that film is more than sufficient to have ensured that the film would be a massive hit across India regardless of whether or not people went to watch it on the day of release.

As for the Sena, they’ve gone from being a solid force to a silly farce. Their antics get more cartoony by the day and their leader’s senility is slowly turning into an embarrassment for his son and family. There was no way in hell — even with the support of their mindless followers — that the Sena could possibly have stopped the film. It just wouldn’t have happened. Not only is the party’s supporter base slowly dwindling, but the police — as commanded by the state government — would probably have cracked some skulls and put agitators on ice for a while.

Also, while the aim may have originally been to teach Khan a lesson, what the Sena unwittingly went and did was to confer “legend” status on the film. It could even be the suckiest film ever made. Much much worse than Daisies. Much much worse. The point is all the hype and controversy will only pull in bigger and bigger crowds to watch the film. And to think that all the controversy had nothing to do with the film or its contents. It was about cricket... rather Khan’s comments about cricketers. Jeez.

So, in closing, I’d like to offer my two cents worth of advice to the major players here.
To Khan: You just pulled off a coup here, sunshine. Enjoy it, but don’t let it get to your head.
To the Shiv Sena: Just give up the political game. You’d make a brilliant PR firm. I can see it now. Sainik Relations. Good eh?
To Ben Stiller: Get your lawyers on the phone and sue the pants off Karan Johar and co. for plagiarism. I want a 3.5 percent cut of the millions you’ll inevitably get. I’m not greedy.

21/02/2010 Update: The actual film in itself was pretty damn good.

Why so discourteous?

2010-01-30T11:54:00.002+05:30

Flatulence, as you know, kids, is the expulsion through the rectum of a mixture of gases that are a byproduct of the digestive process of mammals mainly. The noises commonly associated with flatulence are caused by the vibration of the anal sphincter and occasionally This mixture of gases is known as flatus or informally, as a simple fart. Apparently, someone who farts for a living — a professional farter is called a flatulist. Apparently.

An air-biscuit is another name for flatus, that is far nastier, but a lot funnier too. Air-biscuits are undoubtedly the source of much mirth and hilarity. They’re not, you say? Then how do you explain the fact that the business of whoopee cushions is still booming? Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know for sure. But I do know they’re sold all over the world. I also know that they have remote-controlled devices that can emit the sounds of a flatus symphony... on demand.

I also know something that might be an urban legend but here goes... some weird girl, well known to a few friends of mine, allegedly goes around saying, “Oops! Came out!” every time she drops an air-biscuit, the frequency of which I’m told is alarmingly regular. Could be a flatulist for all we know. Anyway, the comedy value of farts is not something I intend to discuss here.

It’s the timing that I’m more concerned about. Only a couple of hours ago, I attended a meeting of the mayor of Stuttgart and his Mumbai counterpart. I would’ve thought the occasion would bring out the best behaviour from Mumbai’s representatives, who in an ideal world, would want to show their city in the best light. Wake up and smell the moonshine, I later found me saying to myself. When it wasn’t a reporter burping or slurping tea uncomfortably close to my ear, it was a senior councillor unleashing his volley of burps. When that wasn’t the case, it was Mumbai’s mayor who had no idea of what to say or do, leaping at the snacks on offer, almost as if it was the last plate of sandwiches (and some other junk) left in the world.

Then, as the discussion between the Stuttgart mayor and the commissioner of Mumbai (because the mayor of Mumbai had nothing to say) got to the topic of water management, I hear one of the peons — as he walks past me — let out a low, bass-heavy rear blast. I watched on incredulously as he continued walking nonchalantly past the dignitaries. Ok,... that happened, I said to myself as I tried to pay attention to what this dude from Deutschland was talking about.

Then it happened. That final switch. That last thing that told me loud and clear — Citizens of my city have absolutely no regard for manners, courtesy or even appropriate behaviour.

<I had an inkling about this when I first started living in Mumbai in 2005, when I noticed how people could not stop staring... at anything... anyone. A number of people I know have ranted about this staring thing, some have blogged. In fact, I know a few of these starers too.>

Staring, though was the least of my concerns. That final switch was the realisation that people believe it to be their God-given right to have their mobile phones on Ultra Loud mode at the most idiotic times. I’ve known this for a while, but it all came together today. I’ve seen mobiles ringing loudly in hospital wards, theatres during plays, cinema halls, press conferences, college lectures and even at a small meeting with the Nation’s Prime Minister.

The worst offenders are cameramen and photographers, who for some reason live under the belief that vibrate mode has not been invented and such a concept does not even exist. In fact, talking softly is a concept that’s alien to them as well. Aside from a couple of exceptions, most people I know in these categories are the loudest and most obnoxious people alive. To top it all off, they have the most annoying ringtones on the planet. Criminally irritating stuff.

Today’s photographers were no exception. Loud jangly and oppressive ringtones. In the middle of the meeting. What took the cake was that the deputy public relations officer, for whom (on a side note) food is a fulltime occupation, also did not have the sense to keep his phone silent, because sure enough, his phone began ringing loudly, throwing the mayor of Stuttgart off for a moment, in the middle of a sentence.

The deputy PRO merely glances at his phone... in the process, allowing it to ring for a while longer and then as nonchalantly as the farting peon, proceeds to slip the phone back into his pocket, as his eyes track another plate-load of food travelling across the room.

It wouldn’t be right to pass judgment, I know. And I’ve always been taught that being rude to someone rude, isn’t the right way to do things. The fact that I disregard those teachings most of the time is a different story altogether. Telling someone something politely... that serves no purpose. Yelling at them... even worse as you’ll probably get beaten. Ignoring them... hard to do, very hard to do and in a way, it shows that you accept what they’re doing.

So what have we learnt? Nothing.
What changes will we make in the future? None.
Where will all the knowlege you’ve gathered through this post, take you? Nowhere.

And yet, the sheer degree of catharsis from having vented all this, compels me to quote Lt. Aldo Raine who said, “You know somethin’, Utivich? I think this might just be my masterpiece.”

Get your hands off my tune, mothertruckers

2010-01-26T22:49:00.006+05:30

(Note: The subject of my Republic Day rant has me so befuddled and confused that I’ve spent the last 23 minutes and 42 seconds of my life trying to work out an intro that makes sense. And I’ve come up with nothing. That’s how disoriented I am by this whole thing. I’ll give it a shot anyway)

I don’t understand and never have completely grasped why Mainstream Hindi Cinema (MHC for short) and its proponents have always been completely at ease with their industry being called “Bollywood”. So much so that for a while, there have been tags like “Kollywood”, “Tollywood” and even urghh... even “Lollywood” being thrown around to describe different industries.

I refuse to go into the etymology or nomenclature of those bastardised phrases, suffice it to say that despite overtaking the American film industry in the 1970s, people were still so in awe of phoren maal, the West (most notably Amreeka) and aping them in every way that they decided that it made perfect sense to take the fact that a city called Hollywood happens to house a set of film studies and turn into “Bollywood” as a catch-all for MHC.

In the 2000s with spiralling film budgets and MHC films/actors being recognised across the world, the “Bollywood” fraternity has decided that it hates the name. It hates the fact that as a result of Hollywood, the MHC’s name is forever going to be known as this shitty portmanteau of Hollywood and Bombay (which is now called Mumbai. There, I said it. Now don’t you dare come and wreck my blog, you shit-for-brains. You know who you are).

And so, the MHC as a whole went on this killing spree of sorts. Let’s take everything nice and pleasant in the world and ruin it. Switzerland was first on their hit-list and courtesy Yash Chopra, they succeeded with aplomb. The Maldives, the Seychelles, Sun City (South Africa), Singapore, New York and London were the next targets. Countries across the world began shaking in fear.

Calls were frantically made from one nation to another. “Listen pal, I know you guys and us guys got issues,” said a Palestinian diplomatic to an Israeli one, “But this is bigger than all that. We need to protect ourselves from a bigger threat.” The Mexicans told their Cuban “ese”s to “Relax meng, cuz joo know we gotta save ourselves and our families, joo know”. Meanwhile over in Far East Asia, “people be tripping” just like “when Godzilla be coming, they be all ‘Gaica! Gaica!’.”

Damn. Meandered off the path again.

Anyway so once all those nations safeguarded themselves, these filthy MHCers set their crosshairs on what was once a sacred institution. A rite of passage. A test that separate the boys from the... bigger boys. The game of cricket. With a saboteur-in-chief on the inside, the MHCers tore apart the institution that once was cricket. Cricket turned to a three-letter acronym shared by a club called the Irish Protestant Ladies. That crushing last attack left most people reeling, bleeding and gasping for air, while all along praying, “Please Lord, let this be the end of their reign of destruction.”

Meanwhile, the good people in Marathi Cinema put out one brilliant movie after another to try and save the world from these MHC-mothertruckers, but the shittiest (there really is no better word) films ever made (so bad that they make Hiroshima Mon Amour look like a great film... I didn’t think it was possible either) by the MHC still drew bigger crowds. By this point one would believe that the MHC had made its point against the world. The whole world wanted to just forget all about that name “Bollywood” that had angered the MHC so.

The MHC was having none of it.

Finally, today, drunk with the power the MHC did the unthinkable. It attacked a major Indian institution that wasn’t a sport. It was a part of all our histories. If you ever watched Doordarshan (in the days when we had only one TV channel... and DD-Metro), you will know what I’m talking about and maybe you like it, perhaps you love it... shit, you may even hate it or find it cheesy. But you respect it.

Combining elements from most parts of India, with some eminent personalities of the time, this six-or-so-minute capsule carried by a song that translates literally to “When your tune meets mine, the tune becomes ours”, was first aired on Independence Day in 1988. Written by ad-man Piyush Pandey, this little segment often played between shows to make up time that hadn’t been bought by advertisers. Or there were no ads about upcoming shows. I don’t know. All I know is that if a certain show got over and there were 7 or 8 minutes left till the next one, BANG! This would play. Watch it for yourself, if you haven’t a clue about what I’m saying.

Seen it? Like it? I like it too. A lot. Especially the part at 5 minutes and a second that sounds like it was written by Europe (of The Final Countdown fame, if you weren’t sure that is).

Which is why I was highly pissed off to see the new version they were playing on some shitty channel. I refuse to put up the videos here so if you are curious to see why I’m so piqued, go here and here. It’s so damn long that it’s divided into two parts. It runs at a whopping 16 minutes, gets boring in no time, has a few flashes of brilliance — Sivamani, Gino/Louis Banks, Anoushka Shankar and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and sons.

The rest of it is the most heinous act ever carried out by the MHCers. EVER. While a sportsperson like Baichung Bhutia — who has given nearly as much time to Indian football as Sachin has to Indian cricket — gets barely a couple of seconds onscreen, these MHC floozies-posing-as-actresses get nearly 30-40 seconds EACH. These flavour-of-the-month idiots who are obviously lip-syncing prance around like idiots and we’re supposed to believe this shit is “the new generation’s Mile Sur Mera Tumhara”?.

Sorry bub, go back to the drawing boards because this shit don’t fly. This is one institution that those — screw it, I don’t care — Bollywood boneheads will not ruin for me. Who’s with me?

Mockery, insult and humiliation

2010-01-20T10:38:00.003+05:30

A while back, not too long ago, on a dusty, hot and grimy day, I recall seeing a Mercedes S-Class at the intersection of two major roads, stuck just like everyone else, in traffic. At the time, I remember thinking to myself what a great leveller traffic was. Motorists from all walks of life — from all demographics, psychographics and econographics — have to spend a few hours a day stuck in grid-lock traffic. Just like everyone else.

It was then that I peered into the lightly tinted windows of the Merc and saw two kids in the backseat with some adult, whom I could only presume was their mother. Outside the tinted window was a little street urchin-beggar type who was probably no older than the two kids in the vehicle. His palm outstretched, he stood at the window asking for alms. The window, to my surprise, rolled down and a hand no bigger than that of the beggar’s appeared, clutching a chocolate bar.

Soon another hand appeared and unwrapped the bar and the kid inside sat there eating the chocolate bar in front of the beggar. The window, it turns out was rolled down merely to tell the beggar to shoo off away from their vehicle.

Why is this random tale of urban decay relevant, you ask? Well, because it’s a metaphor for some of the ugliness that transpired yesterday at the auction before the Indian Premier League’s third season.

Before delving into it. Let’s get a few points out of the way:
1) With the present tension in Indo-Pak ties, especially after the 26/11 attacks and the governments of both nations not seeing eye-to-eye on investigations, perhaps it may be prudent that sporting ties are suspended between both nations.
2) With the IPL, perhaps certain quarters feel that the Indian board paying Pakistanis after their countrymen wreaked havoc in India, verges on the ridiculous and is certainly out of order. Perhaps.
3) Maybe, it’s uncertain how long the Laskhar-e-Tayyaba or any of those other terror groups can wait before they start attacking the holy beejezus out of India again and so, team owners don’t want to risk buying a Pakistani player, who may not be able to get a visa after further attacks.
4) Finally, maybe they just feel that the political climate is unsafe for Pakistanis to play in India, as it may be risky for them. (Yeah right)
None of these points for my argument. I’ve just put these on the table as givens. I will not be debating these.

The first name on the auction block was Pakistani Shahid Afridi, who if we’re being honest, is a bit of a irresponsible cricketer, but is enjoying some of the best form of his life. Major cricket pundits had tipped Afridi as one of the most sought after players in this auction. Not a single bid. “Shahid Afridi is unsold,” announced the auctioneer. Slowly, other Pakistani names came on the auction block and it became clear.

Poker-faced team owners sat and waited for the auctioneer to call time and it became abundantly clear that none of the franchises were going to buy a Pakistani player. By the auction’s end, the question on most people’s lips was, “If you weren’t going to sell them in the first place, why did you include Pakistanis in the list of auctionees?”

Fair question. Owners of all teams tried to deflect the query, stating “availability” or “we didn’t need a bowler” or some other bull-honkey. When cornered, each and every one of them came up with the lame “well, it’s ultimately the captain’s decision and not ours”. Convenient. Meanwhile, and quite understandably, cricketers from Pakistan were fuming at the snub. Can you blame them?

Amid some of the over-the-top hysterics like “the tournament won’t be as good because of the lack of Pakistanis” and “Indian fans will demand their money back because they won’t get to watch quality players”, one point stuck out like a sore thumb. The most obvious one. Why keep them in the list, purely to humiliate them with no bids? If you, Lalit Modi, had the slightest inkling that something like this could happen, shouldn’t you have held a meeting with owners beforehand to spare the Pakistanis this insult?

That’s a foolish query because as is common knowledge, Modi’s only in it to fatten his own wallet — a point I’ve discussed at length in an earlier post. So far, while politics and relations between India and Pakistan were strained, the sight of the two teams on a cricket field often brought a tiny bit of joy to the harrowed citizens of both nations. A good friend of mine was telling me yesterday that sport holds the answer to most world problems. If that is the case, what now? What if they’re scared to send a team to the Commonwealth Games, thinking, “You never know with these Indians, they might stick our team in Delhi’s slums, while the others stay at the official Games Village”?

Will the Pakistani players and sport administration ever trust us again?

What happened to the likely lads?

2010-01-13T11:57:00.002+05:30

This one’s a little technical, I must warn you in advance.
This is an issue that’s been sitting latently in the back of my head for a while now. I never realised it had taken a comfortable seat in that last row in my head, until last night when I was watching some cricket show on TV called err… I can’t remember but it showcased old matches interspersed with historians and former players waxing eloquent about some particularly profound moments in the match.

Fairly pedestrian stuff, if I’m to be absolutely honest. Hearing some old bat (no pun intended and none needed) warbling on about how 1996 was a defining year for Indo-Pak cricket (when India was in no way even connected to the match) is not my idea of analysis. And neither is a former cricketer whose one claim to fame is as old as time itself, telling me exactly what I just saw. No kidding. He described the ball bowled and the stroke played. “And it went all the way to the boundary!” That’s great, halfwit… But so what?

The match on show last night was a 1996 Wills World Cup - Group B match between New Zealand and Pakistan. The refreshing lack of reverse pulls, power plays, free hits, “Dilscoops” or whatever the fuck they’re called and reams of advertising running across the screen, gladdened my heart. Also, the game seemed to be played at a less frantic pace, but seemed to be just as intense. As Denzel once said, “The shit’s chess… It ain’t checkers”, cricket is best played as a slow-burning mind game. This new brand of “boom boom” cricket just turns this delightful sport from chess to checkers.

Sure, the game back then had its own problems, with dodgy rain laws, no mechanism as such to replace spoiled white balls and… well, I can’t think of any more. That’s probably why the televised game had me captivated far more back in 1996 than it does today. Nevertheless, we’re not going to discuss which era of cricket was better or whether Twenty20 is the death of real cricket. Instead, we’re going to look at a character that for some reason or the other, has been sidelined from world cricket and for which, the sport is poorer.

We’re talking bowling here. And you have your express pace bowlers, you’ve got your fast medium or medium fast guys, who can once in a while get the ball right up your nose. Then you’ve got the medium pacers, who can’t really be called “fast” at all, but the wicketkeeper still shows them a bit of respect by standing back. Leggies, offies, Chinamen, left arm orthodox etc. etc. make up the spinners.

I was watching Pakistani Salim Malik and Kiwis Gavin Larsen, Roger Twose and Chris Harris display their skills with the ball, when it suddenly hit me. What the hell has happened to the slow medium, dibbly-dobbly (as some commentator used to call them) liquorice allsorts bowlers? Apart from the four I mentioned already, there was Ajay Jadeja for India, Arjuna Ranutanga for Sri Lanka, Akram Khan from Bangladesh and a ton more that aren’t really coming to me right now. These guys could be gamebreakers on their day.
You would think that a bowler capable of using the shine of the ball to extract lateral movement in the air, who can use the seam and bowl with the guile and flight of a spinner would be a lethal commodity in world cricket. You would think that a bowler like this would be a real force in the death overs. You would think that someone who could bowl like that could really make use of flatter tracks where pace, bounce and spin aren’t on your side… only your brains are.

You would think so. I would think so. Sadly, the people running the game these days don’t think so. This Twenty20 mentality actually makes people shake in their little boots when they imagine playing such a bowler in their team, worried that he could be smashed all over the park because he isn’t quick and he doesn’t spin the ball much. What’s wrong with plain simple smarts? Don’t those count for something?

What Messers Harris and Larsen had by the bucketload was smarts. They knew they weren’t quick or particularly big spinners of the ball, but that’s where subtle variations of the same ball earned them scalps. Today it’s hard to imagine anyone other than a frontline quick or frontline spinner bowling the final over of a match, whether to contain the opposition or dismiss them. Back in the early 90s, a couple of matches were won for India by a similar dibbly dobbly bowler who took the ball from his captain and bowled the final over. (NOTE: There will be claims that he is a leg-break bowler and not technically a slow medium bowler, but in 1993, Sachin was a slow medium who could bowl balls that spun square)

In today’s batsman-friendly setup, where bowlers are largely accepted as being mere props, fast bowlers get their pace used against them and spinners who lack pace see mishits go for six. In this system, could you imagine a short stout(ish) slow medium bowler bowling the final over of a game to protect something like 3 runs? ‘Fraid not! Throw it to Sreesanth instead. Oh crap! Four off the first ball. Well played, lads.

It is my honest belief that the re-emergence of the dibbly dobbly bowler will bring bowlers back in a huge way into a game that is slowly turning so batsman-centric, that you may as well set up a bowling machine and play 11 batsmen on your team. That’s it. I’m done. Toldja it was a little technical. Nooch!

The numbers game

2010-01-03T03:47:00.005+05:30

2010... Big whoop!
2011... Cricket World Cup
2012... The world ends
2046... Wong Kar Wai something or the other
2050... End of the world as we know it?

I say, “Big deal” and yet there’s enough people hell-bent on hammering into my skull the fact that I’m cynical... allegedly. I’m a killjoy... supposedly. And I’m just boring... apparently. None of which is to say that I haven’t had my fair share of fun at the end of a year. This year was fun. Relaxed. Chilled out. 2007 to 2008 was bloody horrible, being dragged as I was to a nasty club. 1990 to 91 was awesome as it marked the first time I got to stay up so late. But 2003 to 2004 was by far and a long way, the best New Year’s ever as I (chest puffs up) was one of the two hosts of what was by all measures, a party that was off the Richter Scale in terms of fun and sheer stupidity.

For the first time this decade, I digress.

It’s the accusations of me being boring that got me thinking along these lines. And I asked myself, “Why is it that us, humans are so damn obsessed with statistics?”. Look around you and you’ll see this for yourself. From the time you’re a little kid, you’re inundated with fools asking you how old you are. That carries on later as you try and sneak into an adult film, bar, or 18+ music show, with people always asking your age and you coming up with a response. Later in life, you try and downplay your age, but you’re always asked for that number. How many years has it been since you were born?

It gets worse. People are interested in how many marks you got in a certain examination. What year you graduated. How much you earn. What’s the size of your waist? How many runs did Sachin Tendulkar score? How many miles till I get home? How many fingers do you see?

Everywhere you look, it’s statistics. I understand the practicality of statistics... to an extent. I understand certain calculations need to be done. But the point of keeping a track on how many years it’s been since a certain man — that half the world doesn’t believe existed — was born is lost on me. Why, to me, it looks like we’re watching milestones fly past as we break all speed limits and rush headlong to our graves, pyres, towers of silence or whatever the hell else there is.

It is 4.20 in the morning and this is my sub-conscious speaking. Ernie, as my sub-conscious sometimes likes to call himself, hopes this rant makes some sense. His host is far far beyond the realms of sleep-blogging to know. He’ll probably realise in the morning. Ernie and his host however, both hate the human preoccupation with statistics. Happy New Year, all ye Viewphiles!

The most vicious creature known to man

2009-12-30T11:01:00.005+05:30

Biology was always my favourite subject in school. Shame then that I never really pursued it further, but there were reasons and we shall not go into them right here right now. Regardless, I was always fascinated by biology — not so much plants and trees, but animal biology... the zoology stuff.

I believe it was in Class 7 (Seventh Grade, or Year 8 depending on where you’re from) that I was given an assignment to make a presentation about the most vicious creature in the animal kingdom, according to me. Now, half my brain figured the teacher had been watching some TV show all morning and it happened to be called America’s Most Vicious Animal Attacks or something like that and in her infinite wisdom or unabashed lethargy, had decided to turn it into an assignment.

Still it sounded like fun. While all around me, voices emanated about whether a tiger was more vicious than a lion or whether a bear would survive an octopus attack, my mind was trying to establish parameters to decide on viciousness. After all, even a harmless skunk can be quite a vicious little piece of shit, spraying that vile stink-juice like it does. So I asks the teacher. I asks, “Who decides what is vicious and what isn’t?”. She says, “You do”. I says, “Oh”.

There could be a bit more to this assignment that I previously imagined. So I did a bit of research and whittled the list down to 3 strong contendors — a shark, a vulture and a boa constrictor. After an hour or two of deliberation, the jury that sits inside my head decided to vote in favour of the vulture. Circling dying animals and starting the process of picking them clean to the bone, as they’re dying, is about as vicious as it gets. And besides, I figured that a ton of people would go with the shark, on account of its total bad-assery. As for the boa constrictor? Well at the end of the day, the boa constrictor is just a jerk.

Presentation day rolled around and you know how every class has those one or two (or sometimes more) kids who will basically put in the minimum mental effort required and come up with something like “Tiger has claws and sharp-sharp teeth, so he is most vicious. Thank you please.” Yes I’m a bloody elitist, but that doesn’t invalidate my point. So, a bunch of tigers, lions, panthers and even cheetahs (wussies by nature) went by. Then I did the vulture thing. Wasn’t too shabby. Some of the ones that stood out were jellyfish, polar bear and a good friend on mine’s bid to be ironic with a presentation on why the mosquito was the most vicious creature.

It’s only today, well maybe a couple of days ago that I realised that we were all wrong. Every single one of us was dead wrong. Even Will Ferrell was wrong and Gavin Lyall (author: The Most Dangerous Game) couldn’t be more wrong if he tried. Fuelled by observations made over a lifetime and triggered by an interesting comment made by a colleague of mine, I have now realised that the most vicious animal known to man has always been none other than the Goddamn pigeon, which is also known by its latin binomial nomenclature Shittius motherfuckeris. And you that the braconid wasp (Verae peculya) had it bad?

But seriously, these vile creatures aren’t called flying rats, for cuteness sake. Pigeons are unequivocally, the scum of the earth. You know the phrase “to shit on someone’s work”. Well, I bet the person who coined it made it after watching pigeons drop a slimey smelly one on the world the good Lord created. But, I hear some of you argue, so their personal hygiene sucks, but that doesn’t make them vicious.

These people have clearly never been crapped on by these aerial shitmachines. Their viciousness stems from the fact that they will hunt you down and drop their load on you. It doesn’t matter where you are, they actually find ways to position themselves above you. Your next argument, I’m certain will be “Why you pickin’ on pigeons, you pigeon-hater? As REM says, ‘everybody poops... sometimes’.” Sure, other birds crap from a height too. But if you’ve noticed carefully, it’s usually only by accident that you get crow crap on you (say you’re walking under a tree) or if an eagle or something happens to crap on you. No other bird goes out of its way to score a direct hit everytime it needs “to go potty”.

Take my office washroom for instance. Due to the ingenious design of said washroom, there’s no ceiling overhead and the nearest thing to a ceiling is the roof of the shed that houses this monstrosity of architecture. After being tired of getting crapped on by pigeons while on a visit to the restroom, someone decided to put an asbestos sheet over the top — albeit one that covers only half the men’s room. For around two or three days, the plan worked. But soon after, the pigeons actually relocated themselves so as to be able to “bombs away” away from the sheet and on people in the washroom. Those vicious bastards!

Back to what I was talking about earlier... My colleague once happened to comment, while shooting the breeze, that for pigeons, strategically launching their waste so as to hit high-value targets is probably a sport. And in their sport, they too have their Sachin Tendulkars, he said. Why just Sachin I wondered, surely they also have their Shane Warnes and Muttiah Muralitharans and obviously, their Harsha Bhogles, Richie Benauds and yes, sadly, Ranjit Fernandos (check dis) too. You didn’t honestly believe that the whole “Grrrrooooo Grrrooooo” sound they make was just bird calls, did you?

It’s obviously their commentators describing a particularly strategic relocation that a pigeon just indulged in. Or they’re debating the pros and cons of dropping a fluid missile on an old woman, as opposed to say, a little boy running around in a field — faster moving target equals more points, you see. Or they could even be discussing how long it’ll be before that hotshot Leroy the Pigeon’s prolific scoring rate sees him overtake the established veteran and senior statesman of the game Ernest the Pigeon. Commentator 1 goes “Ghhhrrroooooo Ghhrroo” to state that it’s too early to say something like that, to which Commentator 2 fires back “Ghhhhrrroooo.. Ghrrooo Ghhrooo” which means NEVER! It’s never too soon, given our short life expectancies.

And you honestly thought they were just making noises to pass the time? You gullible fool.

Snippety-snip snap shenanigoats

2009-12-27T11:47:00.003+05:30

I was never particularly in love with a festival to the extent that I’d wait impatiently for it to arrive. As far back as I can remember, it’s always been the festivity in the air that appealed to me. And by festivity, I don’t mean long poojas and prayers, fireworks, coloured powder, eggs, halls decked with boughs of holly... Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la and so on and so forth. Festivity to me is the unpredictable mood in the air around those times of the year. You never can say for certain what someone’s going to say or do next.

Sometimes you get doses of great unpredictability like a different city’s bureau of your publication sending you pages early in the night. Sometimes it’s shady unpredictability with a friend pissing all over your collective plans because of a family function he/she simply must attend. So yeah... that’s why I like festivity.

In the festive mood that I presently find myself, I decided to walk on down to the ol’ barber and get a haircut for the whole “ushering in the New Year” thing. It’s times like these that I really hate Hollywood for selling me a false dream. I’m talking about the films Barbershop and Barbershop 2, where said barbershops are bursting with conversation, people cracking jokes and odd characters throwing down some heavy socio-political discourse. The barbershop I frequent, which for some reason is called Air-Cool, is nothing like that.

In fact, Air-Cool is so damn cool that some geezer has immortalised it with this black and white photograph I found online. Upon looking closely at it, I found that the man posing at the front is the same idiot who cut my sideburns too damn short this morning.

As I’m getting weary of repeatedly pointing out, I’ve just gone and digressed again. Now this is one of those places where piped instrumental versions of old Hindi music plays over the chorus of clicking scissors, the hum of electric clippers and of course, the swishing sound of the sweeper clearing away freshly cut hair from the barbershop floor. Peaceful and calm is great, but where’s the conversation?

Faced with that predicament, you sometimes try and engage a barber in a conversation, but the high-levels of stress that emanate from him, with each word you say seemingly adding a wrinkle on his forehead, the desire to talk disappears pretty damn quick. Sometimes the barber is too lazy to respond in any more than monosyllables. So whatcha gonna do? You sit and look around at the people, see if they’re having more fun than you.

Some people make faces as they’re being shaved, others have their faces buried in magazines and a third group just glare at you for looking at them. Fortunately, as I was waiting for my turn in the chair, I got a fair bit of entertainment as well as an important lesson in human psychology and I do believe I’ve come up with some sort of theory that would be admissable in scientific journals.

I’ve seen toddlers get haircuts before. I’ve never before seen two toddlers getting haircuts in the same barbershop at the same time. So naturally, curiosity got the better of me and after sharing a sympathetic half-smile with a seriously harrowed-looking dad, the show began. Toddler A was with his dad (the harrowed guy) and Toddler B was with his mom and dad. Toddler A was first off the mark and unlike any wee ‘un I’ve ever seen, this guy was wide-eyed and wore a wider grin and followed the electrical clippers as they buzzed around his head. I think it’s safe to say he was loving it.

Meanwhile, mom and dad put Toddler B into the chair after a lot of coercion, including a promise to show him crows after the haircut. Seeing the barber wield some long scissors, mom asks him to swap the scissors for electric clippers. While in the red corner, ol’ Toddler A is gurgling to himself and the harrowed dad suddenly seems at peace.

Just then, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a piercing little scream, followed by the loud bawling of Toddler B. He’s not liking it. Not liking it one bit. Thrashing his neck from side to side to avoid the buzzing machine. His little hands clench into tiny baby potato-size fists, while his toes curl up with irritation. Toddler A’s peaceful reverie smashed, he turns to see what all the commotion is about. This is the crucial moment.

He sees Toddler B crying his little lungs out and looks down, Toddler A that is, looks down at his hands and sees little wisps of hair. Hair that’s just been cut from his head. His eyebrows very slowly turn from a flat line like a calm sea to a growing wave and finally a raging tsunami. Running concurrently to all this, his lip starts to quiver and KABOOM!! The weepy bomb explodes. Now, we have crying and screaming and weeping in stereo surround sound.

By then of course, it was time for me to be seated and Toddler A was done with his haircut and Toddler B’s parents had given up. But one thing really stuck out for me. Go back to that crucial moment I spoke about. Toddler A was perfectly happy and then when he saw Toddler B crying, he suddenly started crying. My theory is that it is at this age where the concept of peer pressure or the herd mentality (I’m not sure which) is built into the human system.

Maybe if babies were isolated from one another, they could grow to be individual ladies and gents with their own sets of views, not just some noise about bitches and Nike shoes. You know? Think of the potential for advancement in all of life’s fields. More focussed human beings. Like androids. Or cyborgs.

Then again, maybe Toddler A just got scared.

Boab Mar-lay’s Greatest Hits

2009-12-19T12:30:00.004+05:30

I think we’ve all had shitty days
We’ve all had times when we dread the thought of going to work
Or even sometimes, dread the thought of going home.
We’ve all fought with people and come out of the fight angry, hurt or depressed.
There have also been times where it seems as though we’ll never smile again.

In those particular situations, music tends to pick me up, cheer me up, fire me up or whatever the need of the hour is. But there are a few times when even music falls sadly short. What do you do then? I don’t know about you lot, but one thing that never fails to cheer me up is the manifestation of a WTF? Moment before my very eyes. It could be anything, from a man falling over to someone shouting a dorky name out loudly across the street. It could and very often is some obscure phrase a colleague of mine comes up with before jiggling his belly to the beat of the universe (I like how it sounds, I don’t know what it means).

Right, so now that the jibber-jabber of the introduction or lead as it were, has been dealt with and is out of the way, we can actually get to this latest WTF? Moment I experienced. After a fairly ratty day a week or so ago, I found myself on the train heading to work, with my earphones tucked in. As I was sifting through my tracklist to find something to fit the mood, I was shaken out of my dreary state by the sound of three youths yelling and screaming about something.

Sensing a fight about to kick off, I moved to the side to avoid being in the firing line. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you feel after reading this story), it wasn’t a fight at all as it turned out and was just three collegians having a “conversation”.

Before I get into it, let’s meet the characters...
1) A is clearly the leader of the gang, but not in a cool Top Cat kinda way. More in a creepy, “Yeah my brother is drug dealer and I think he’s really cool. Hopefully, he’ll let me deal for him too, so you guys know just how cool I am” kind of way. Spiked hair, an ear piercing, a Ché Guevara t-shirt and a mouth that is filthier than Chris Rock’s.

2) B is A’s little lackey, his little yes-man if you will. Bespectacled and sporting a truly honourable attempt at using hair oil to imitate his leader’s spiked look. Slightly less mouthy but equally annoying.

3) C is the new kid. While A’s trying to show him the levels of coolness he can aspire to, B’s doing his best to reinforce A’s cool credentials and how C’s life would be so much better if he joined this gang.

I tried to ignore them and switched on some Therapy?. Sadly, the trio drowned out any semblance of sound in my phones. So I figured, hey, why don’t I just listen in. After all, it’s not eavesdropping if you’re listening to a loudspeaker, in this case, a human loudspeaker. I can’t be bothered to write out what they said in Hindi and then translate it, so I’ll just transcribe it in English. I’ll try not to lose the essence in the translation.

A: C, You should come to this party we’re going to, over the weekend.
B: Yes, it’s going to be great
A: And don’t worry. You’ll get everything there *brings his fingers to his mouth and takes a drag from an invisible joint and then takes a swig from an invisible bottle of booze*
C: Really?
A: Of course, we only go to great parties... like this one
C: Wow.

A: And don’t worry about the money. We’re always taken care of. My brother—...
B: Yeah, his brother has contacts...
A: But the best kind of parties to go to are rave parties
B: Rave parties are the best
C: Rave?
A: Yeah, there’s all the drinks and drugs you want and once you’re buzzed, the best kind of music to listen to, is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: True. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)

C: I’m not quite with you. Rave?
A: Yes, they’re great. But we only go to this one farm in Amboli. The cops never catch us there because they join us at the party.
B: That’s right.
A: But the best music when you’re high is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)

<At this point, I am totally hooked. Whether or not I remember to climb out of the train at my stop, is immaterial right now>

A: Trance is the best. You should listen to some.
B: Yeah. Totally
C: But what is it?
B: You know that Goan guy with a long white beard? He makes trance music.
C: Which guy?
A: Have you heard of Boab Mar-lay? [prounced: Bobe (rhymes with hope) Mar-lay (rhymes with parlay)]
B: Yeah yeah yeah! That’s the Goan guy with a beard.
A: No, it’s not.

A: Boab Mar-lay is from Mexico and he got kicked out from there. Now no one knows where he is but he’s still making great music. I have 40 GB of music on my harddrive, of which 13 GB is only Boab.
B: You listen to his music, tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
C: Sounds quite good. I’ve never heard any though.
A: I’ll rip some for you. You see Boab Mar-lay was kicked out from Mexico by the government. Why? Because of his message, which is the thing I love the most. His message is that you should enjoy every moment and have a great time all the time. So do all the drugs you want, drink as much as you want, because life is about enjoying yourself. He has a few songs about cocaine and how it’s something everyone should do. We’ll get some cocaine at the party.
B: Yeah, you’ll love it—...

***

It was then that I had to tear myself from my seat and alight at Lower Parel station. How I wish I could’ve heard more of that bizarre conversation that left me with numerous WTF? Moments and a bemused half-smile across my face. Now I need to go and check out some Boab Mar-ley, if you’ll please excuse me.

Hostages at Home

2009-12-10T13:09:00.004+05:30

Warning: It’s been a while since I issued any disclaimers. Let’s see if I remember how to do one. The views expressed below are not as part of a political debate about states or languages. The views are not to pass judgment on what is set to happen in the near future. If you read and interpret them that way, then you’re really really missing the point... and you’re a moron too. Enjoy!

Apparently, a hostage is “a person held by one party in a conflict as security that specified terms will be met by the opposing party”. In other words, the safety of said hostage hangs in the balance and the hostage-taker poses a threat to the hostage’s life. Agreed? Good, then I’ll continue. Now, holding someone hostage in most parts of the civilised world is tantamount to an act of terror, or at its very least, an act of crime. In India for instance, as per section 364 of the Indian Penal Code,...

“Whoever kidnaps or abducts any person in order that such person may be murdered or may be so disposed of as to be put in danger of being murdered, shall be punished with imprisonment for life or rigorous imprisonment for a term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine”

I shall safely assume at this point that you, good reader, agrees with me that errr... taking hostages are baaaad... Mmmkay? There’s a funny story I once read that some small hick-ass town in the United States punishes an unsuccessful attempt at suicide with the death penalty. Whether that’s true or not is immaterial. What matters is that it’s a damn funny story. Anyway, as far as an unsuccessful suicide attempt is concerned, the Indian Penal Code says...

“Whoever attempts to commit suicide and does any act towards the commission of such offence, shall be punished with simple imprisonment for a term which may extend to one year 1 or with fine, or with both”

People all over the world will tell you that it’s not the destination, but the journey that counts in life. One shouldn’t be preoccupied with reaching a point, instead one should take in the sights, the sounds and the smells along the way. Well your journey is over, dear reader, because here comes the point.

In the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, a movement of secession has been ongoing since God knows how long for a separate state called Telangana, which as Wikipedia will tell you, means Land of the Telugus. The demand for a separate state has been on for a while and most recently, one of the most vocal advocates of a separate state, Mr Kalvakuntla Chandrashekhar Rao launched a fast-unto-death, demanding that the government create a separate state called Telangana.

This standoff went on for around 11 days and his health grew steadily worse, just as his supporters turned increasingly violent until the government finally blinked and said that the process of creating this new state would begin in January 2010. Well, now KCR (as he’s better known) is a hero to his people. Once he recovers his health, he will be garlanded, praised, poured milk upon, cheered etc. etc. Indian cult-of-personality and all that.

But what about the fact that what he effectively did was hold a human being hostage? What about the fact that his threat was to effectively kill a person if he did not get his state of Telangana? And what about the fact that what he was doing was really a case of attempted suicide? Albeit a very slow attempt. Will there be any imprisonment for him? Or a fine, even? Hell no.

For you see, the act of going on a fast-unto-death or a hunger strike has been a part of India’s cultural history, ever since its inception. Gandhi employed this particular tactic to great success and since then, numerous politicos have taken his cue and gone on these hunger strikes. Where does it all stem from? I don’t know.

But I have a theory. Threatening to kill oneself is merely a branch of a tree rooted so deeply in humanity’s collective mindset, that it’s often hard to imagine life without it. Each and every one of us has had a branch from that tree brush past us or whack us across the face at some time or the other in our lives. The name of the tree? Emotional blackmail/manipulation. Not really one of those Latin kingdon-phylum-class-species type names, but it’s a real tree.

The profundity of that last paragraph has just left me speechless, so I shall end here. As for you, gentle reader, you are advised to comment and share your views about this here topic with me... or I’ll never speak to you again.

“What have you achieved?”

2009-12-01T12:06:00.007+05:30

Long long ago in a city of steel far far away...
A smokey student hostel room
A tiny television set with a PS2 plugged in
Four pairs of eyes glued to the screen
A burly and hairy beast of a man crushes the PS2 controller’s keys to within an inch of their lives
A relatively smaller and yet almost as hirsute man with a taste for things profane nimbly taps the keys of his battered old PS2 controller.

Enough mood... Now on with the story. The beast man known henceforth as GC and the littler man called AMSTM were playing Pro-Evolution Soccer and were in the middle of a hotly contested match — That being said, most PES matches played in said room were fairly hotly contested anyway. This time though, it was personal... If memory serves, it was the 82nd minute and AMSTM pulled off a screamer of a goal, much to GC’s bitter disappointment.

GC’s anguish was compounded moments later, when one of the carefully crafted onscreen sprites scored another goal, doubling AMSTM’s lead. Being a sporting loser isn’t one of GC’s more well known qualities and so he stood up, like a gorilla in battle (making itself large) and bellowed at AMSTM, “WHAT HAVE YOU ACHIEVED?”

Silence....

I’ve been thinking of that line since the time I woke up this morning. Not for the same reasons as above obviously. For what it’s worth, I recall AMSTM being stunned witless by that outburst and the rest of the room cracking up with laughter. But anyway, back to the point... As we roll into December, the last month of this , the double-O decade, I found me asking that question of myself. “What have you achieved?”.

For sure, it’s been a tumultous and exciting decade, which saw me do a ton of foolish, fun and worthwhile things (sometimes all at once), it saw me meet a wide array of people; from the weird to the downright bizarre (you know who you are). I read a number of good books, saw some brilliant films, heard some awesome music — saw every single live music show I’ve ever been to, in this decade.

There’ve also been disappointments, failures, times that I’ve let myself, my family and my friends down, times I’ve been despondent, times when I felt tomorrow would suck even more. But none of this really amounts to having achieved anything. Educational qualifications happen. I don’t consider them achievements. News stories too, happen. They’re hardly achievements.

So what have I achieved? That being asked, what the hell have you achieved lately?

A year on...

2009-11-29T12:12:00.006+05:30

...not a lot has changed,” say people. The November 26 terror attacks of last year have been commemorated with plaques here and junctions being renamed there with a few installations being set up at the theatres of terror. People say the attacks should have served as a warning and yet, they add that nothing has changed. Everything is exactly the same, they say. The government/authorities are still bumbling about with Band-Aid® solutions to compound fracture situations with some unGodly sense of misplaced pride about these solutions.

A case in point is the city’s fire department, which admittedly found itself fighting fires amid a hailstorm of bullets and grenades in the 26/11 attacks. This is not a typical situation. It’s a damn anomaly and as such, should be acknowledged as that, one would imagine. Now, under this misguided idea that firemen will regularly have to deal with being shot at, bulletproof vests have been ordered and received by the department. Honestly, bulletproof vests. And yet, helmets fitted with oxygen masks are too much to ask for.

It’s like a concept in cricket captaincy called “ball chasing”. What happens here is that as a captain, you set a field for a particular bowler and if the batsman happens to pick a gap and hit the ball through a vacant part of the field, your first instinct is to plug that gap by picking up a fielder from somewhere else. Playing catch-up, basically. That is exactly what this bulletproof vest plan is. Some quarters also wanted firemen to receive military training. Thank heavens then for the chief fire official who put his foot down and said, “No! Law and order control is not the fire department’s job. Fighting fires is.”

Digression aside, people also believe that the attitude of the police hasn’t changed despite losing some of their best men in the attacks. They’re still the same callous and corrupt lot, people say. To serve and protect? Ha! “They’re serving themselves an extra helping of tax payer money to protect their well-fed belly” is a view one is more likely to come across.

The government hasn’t changed, the cops haven’t changed, the security of the Nation hasn’t changed, Pakistan’s refusal to take responsibility hasn’t changed. Nothing’s changed, people scream.

I beg to differ.

Something has changed and this change has been quite massive. Last year, I had written about the way people responded to tragedy, specifically, the terror attacks. (Feel free to have a look. I’ll wait.) The biggest change I’ve seen and I’m dead certain that I’m not alone, is that people have turned so incredibly stupid. Which, it must be said, is quite a feat, considering they were already pretty damn stupid to begin with.

First, there were the candles. Those infernal candles. You remember the candles? Then, there was the hysterical news reporting, all that shrieking and bellowing like someone had trapped the anchor’s testicles in a car door. Then came all that “We will not forget!” bull-honkey.

And now, this year, news channels had the same sort of retrospective news reports. “What happened on that day...” and junk like that. People brought their candles out. (I’m convinced that the city of Mumbai has some underhanded dealings with a major wax manufacturer. Everywhere I look, it’s those damn candles) Some people — like this one woman on a news channel who was crying, because all the people who lost their lives, made her feel like she had lost her son and husband — cried, postured, talked about the increased need for accountability etc. etc.

But wait... There were TWO elections held this year. One of them was on a National scale and one was on a state assembly scale. With all the effort these fools could put into making banners and keeping those Godforsaken candles burning in the wind, one would imagine they’d actually go and vote. Nope. No chance of that. Voter turnouts were among the lowest seen by the city. Logic dictates that if you want all these changes, you’d change your representative or at least put pressure on your representative to deliver. Not miss the whole damn election process altogether, as these geniuses did.

And they still see fit to start yelling and screaming about change. Sigh... Such stupid creatures... and getting stupider by the minute.

Chris Tucker said it best...

2009-11-19T01:34:00.002+05:30

There’s a film known as Friday and it just so happens to be one of my very favourites. It isn’t especially demanding of the viewer, where brains are concerned anyway. But it’s a hell of a lot of fun. Anyway, so it stars Chris Tucker and one of the most iconic scenes in the film is when he stands over a knocked out Zeus “Tiny” Lister and yells, “You got knocked the fuck out!!”.

It isn’t all that profound a statement, but his delivery of “You got knocked the fuck out!!” still resonates in my head. More pertinently this week, because without flying Mr Tucker over to India to say it, the whole nation seemed to say it to one man... an ageing “tiger”, if you will.

Yes, yes, yes, I am talking about that hot topic. I am talking about Bal Thackeray (the octo-something-arian), that Marathi hriday-samraat (upholder of the pride of the Marathi man is what I think it means) whose acrimonious editorials in his party’s mouthpiece are the stuff of legend. This time around he messed with the one person no Indian would tolerate being so much as disturbed... Leave alone hassled, fined, taxed or worse yet, disciplined. (Mike Deness? Where are you?)

Anyway, India’s pride and glory Sachin Tendulkar told the press that he was an Indian before being a Maharashtrian (i.e. he was a citizen of the Nation, before being a citizen of the state... and why not?). Thackeray lays ridicule upon him telling him to stick to sports and not comment on what that ageing communal and linguistic fascist describes as politics.

In other words, that nearly extinguished shell of a man is allowed to talk trash about anyone and everyone in the vilest terms and when Sachin answers a question and perhaps (knowingly) aims to spread a message of national harmony, Thackeray feels the need to rebuke him. Interesting shit, non? Anyway, the whole of India got behind Sachin and told Thackeray to know his role and shut his mouth. After all, there are some holy cows you just don’t touch. Sachin, in this case.

A day later, Thackeray’s newspaper publishes a “clarification” and claims it to be “affectionate advice from an elder”. HA! Yeah right... Thackeray and your Shiv Sena, you just got knocked the fuck out!!

Of morons, animals and really, morons...

2009-11-09T21:01:00.005+05:30

November 9 is a day that will forever live in infamy — in my head at least — for the sheer levels of stupidity and moronic behaviour scaled by people of my city. And this is just when I thought people couldn’t get any stupider — case in point, being people refusing to acknowledge the Nation’s National Song, as it impinged on their Islamic beliefs.

Never mind, today’s idiocy scaled even the mark set by those soaring levels of dumbness. A to-be-sworn-in member of the legislative assembly for Maharashtra wanted to take his oath in Hindi. It just so happens to be the National Language after all. Anyway, so as he’s about to do it, he’s attacked by these animals from the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS) — a party of a few intellectuals and mostly thugs. They proceed to slap him for not taking the oath in Marathi, the state language and hit him with slippers, grab his microphone etc. The usual shit goons and thugs indulge in.

The latest is that four of these animals have been suspended for four years... Four years of their five-year term. If you thought for a second that they’d be upset, think again. They’ve received nothing but adulation from their party’s equally obnoxious and thuggish leader. Spare a thought for the voters from the constituencies of those four suspended members of the legislative assembly. What the hell did they vote for? For a candidate who’d be suspended for 80 per cent of the term?

The suspended people will meanwhile, live it up at home and get paid for doing nothing. Hopefully, people learn their lesson and never vote for such foul creatures again.

If on the other hand, you think I’m showing any sort of solidarity with the guy who took his oath in Hindi, you are mistaken. Far from being roundly regarded as a fairly corrupt fellow, I find it incredibly stupid that he would announce days in advance that he would not take his oath in the state’s language, but the National Language. Is it not folly to publicly come up with something like this, when one knows what sort of animals the MNS are and the currency they deal in. See adjoining picture for details of their currency and how lavishly they spend it.

Further, it was reported that at a city church, a crucifix was — believe it or not — crying! And working as I believed I did at a progressive publication that pushes the envelope, I would’ve imagined that running the photographs with a slightly skeptical caption would have been apt. But no. We don’t want to look like mocking their faith. We don’t want to call a shovel a shovel, a spade a spade and an obvious act of condensation as that. We’d rather term it a miracle and in the process, allow people to continue buying into superstition and standing in line with idol worship.

Methinks the two instances of stupidity in the day may not have been so far removed from each other...

All spinal-tapped out...

2009-10-30T02:47:00.010+05:30

Alternatively, the title of this post could very well be Who the hell is MJ? - Volume 2. But that would take away from the point of this particular post and so it would not be a very good title after all. Now MJ was always in the business of blowing people’s regularly and consistently and even after his death, “let me tell you, cousin, business is booming”.

But that’s not what this post is about; it’s actually about my back — one that’s reputed for its constant propensity to leave me in tremendous pain. Today was dif—... Apologies, it’s tomorrow now, so, yesterday’s back issues were different. Markedly so. The last time my back got this sort of treatment was... well, I don’t remember really. Enough foreplay now, I think.

I’m still recovering from the countless chills that travelled up and down my spine like it was the goddamn Bandra-Worli Sealink, as I watched This is It last night. As I’m sure a gigantic majority of you, dear readers are aware it’s the posthumously edited film containing footage of MJ preparing for his 50-date O2 Arena engagement in London. Now the first thought that entered my mind was that it was either going to begin or end with the “real story” of MJ’s demise and honestly, that would have sucked. Big time.

Fortunately though there was none of that. Only rehearsals and the build-up to the the mammoth London tour. If it’s just one city, I’m not sure if it can be called a tour or not. Hmmm.. something to think about.

Anyway, I won’t go into too many details, so I’ll keep it short. I think it’s fair to say that IF he’d lived on to actually perform the kind of show he was planning... I realise that’s a huge “if”, but stay with me. If he’d actually performed even one of those shows, I can guaran-damn-tee that it would have been the finest live performance ever ever ever witnessed anywhere on this planet. (Sorry Till, Cristoph, Oli, Richard, Flake and Paul... I can’t wait to get my mits on your newest album though, if that’s any consolation)

Where was I? Ah yes, let’s just put it this way, the kind of budget the show had and the way green-screen (chroma to some of you) was being used all over the place and music videos were being created on a whim... well, it’s a kind of Roland Emmerich, Stephen Sommers, Ridley Scott and Peter Jackson project with William Gibson, Anne Rice and Haruki Murakami ideas... And obviously, the music is banging!

I’m gushing, I realise. You would too if your spinal column had been turned to jelly over the course of around two hours or so. Jelly-fic! The kind of attention to detail the man paid was something that really shines in the film or maybe the film’s made to look like he was hands-on. I don’t know. I especially enjoyed the bits where he was communicating and sharing ideas with musicians on how to mix it up with songs, by singing the parts for them, whether “bum-ba-thish-thish-boo-doo-ba” to the bassist or hitting one of them high-pitched notes for the incredibly talented Orianthi Panagaris (in picture) to work out a guitar solo. Not once did he cheapen his music to chords and notes and octave this and bar that. His tunes were always beyond all that.

What was weird though, was his repeated “God bless you”s, but then he was always supposedly a bit kookie. What I felt also was that this massive routine that was being planned — though visually and aurally fantastic — would probably get a little old by the 12th or 13th show. Once you’ve seen it and been mesmerised, would it hold the same awe the next time around? Maybe they had different routines planned. Maybe they expected a new set of 20,000-odd people to turn up to each show.

What was downright bizarre was how someone in that level of fitness, was found as such a broken man when they found his body. There’s no way that person could be the same MJ. Note: I am not supporting Joe Jackson’s theory about the use of body doubles. And at the same time, MJ was one of the only people onscreen who wore full-sleeves throughout the documentary. You never get to see his arms. Which leads me to believe that a) he may have been cold (Thank you, Chim-tee) or b) his arms were covered with injection marks, which would seem logical.

But, now’s not the time to discuss all that. I hear the film’s in theatres only for two weeks. Go watch it. You won’t be sorry. Just as I’m not sorry that I’m not ending this post with some lame way using the phrase “This is It”.

Chamone!

P.S. - Also saw the trailer for the upcoming 2012 and well, that did a whole different number on my spine. There’s a special place in my heart for disaster films and this particular one is shaping up very nicely to occupy a little corner in that special place.

The Art of Un-fucking a Situation...

2009-10-25T11:34:00.004+05:30

... and sometimes just watching a sufficiently fucked scene crumble
(That’s part of the title too, but too long to fit, you see, so I had to bring it down here)

Anyway, I don’t have a lot of time to luxuriate on each word and sentence and roll it around in the batter of excessive prepositions and punctuation marks before throwing it down here, so I’ll cut right to brass tacks. People around me don’t think I’m a very good listener. Perhaps not, but the reasoning is what I find peculiar.

It’s the theory that when they tell me about a problem or come to me with one, I’m reluctant to just listen to it and make the right noises (the hmmms, ohhhs and awwws expected, presumably) and would rather take the time to think up a solution — maybe not a very good one, but a solution nonetheless. Trying to un-fuck the situation. That doesn’t always go down well but such is life.

Problem-solving and of course cancelling out the fornication that a situation has undergone are two things that one deals with regularly in most walks of life. As I only know about how these two things are done in my walk of life, that’s gonna be my point of reference from here on end. I’ve seen people around me who are very very good at problem-solving in my workplace. Whether it’s the problem of a lack of stories, a rapidly-evolving event that’s hard to keep tabs on or the problem of there being work to do, but preferring to be a lazy bastard and dawdle or stand around chit-chatting (so as to do the minimum work possible), I’ve seen some brilliantly fucked situations being un-fucked.

So much so, that I consider it an art to un-fuck a situation. It takes an artist to take a potentially bad scene and paint it in different colours and end up brightening up the whole scene.

Then again, at times, it’s worth watching the spectacle of chaos and enjoying the sight of everything falling apart. Just as it happened last night and a new Chief Minister was picked for the state around a whole half hour after the last page of the newspaper was ready to go to the printers. Changing one of the main stories on page 1 brought to us the realisation that it completely contradicted a story we had on page 2 and at that time, nothing could be done to change it.

So whatcha gonna do?
a) cry about it?
b) yell at everyone about it, but in effect do nothing?
c) call up 9,412 people in the span of 13 minutes and get a new story?
d) kick back and watch it crumble?

(Answers on a postcard or in the comments section)
(I love these abrupt endings)

Whether tis nobler in the mind...

2009-10-14T02:32:00.003+05:30

To be mainstream or alternative, is what you should have been pondering. For you see, Hamlet, my good fellow, you messed up and messed up big time. The question of being or not being is trivial. You have to be. Without being, you may as well be dead.

And people who aren’t, are almost guaranteed of being forgotten as soon as they are off the page and out of the mind. The page, in this case, is not necessarily an actual page — of the paper or virtual variety. It could be in a relationship, for all you know. You may be forgotten without a second though by someone you considered a friend, if you choose not to be (by be, I’m not sure exactly what I mean, but vaguely, being something... something memorable).

Being forgotten is one of the worst things around; far worse than being written off, I’d go as far as to say. To write someone off is to claim that what they can offer is not worthwhile, but to forget, is almost to make it seem like it never was.

In the true tradition of The View, I digress.

Returning to my point, To be mainstream or to be alternative? That is the question. For something as vast as this, let’s narrow it down and keep it simple so the most of me and the least of you understands. Let’s look at the blogosphere. I concede I’m a fairly unremarkable blogger. The sight of someone saying, “Yes, that’s what I was thinking” when they read the contents of a post I’ve blasted up on this here site, comes as a happy surprise to me and makes me smile. But for the majority of the time, my blog slips under the radar. Fair enough, it is not your usual pack of rants... ermmm... most of the time.

And I can assure you that you are some of the minutely few people who take the time to read it. Even fewer of you take the time to pick my rants to the roots of their origin (not saying I’m dying to be interpreted or anything). This is not a blog that racks up 40 plus hits a day.

What perturbs me most is that the fact that it isn’t racking up those kinda hits after being around since 2007... doesn’t seem to bother me all that much. A lack of killer instinct? A false pretext of being the alternative to the mainstream? I’m not sure. I do know that I struggle to write for an audience. My boss knows this. But surely, a few more hits wouldn’t kill. Throw in some Bollywood, some “how fucked up the world is” or alternatively, a dash of “how pretty my morning is and everything around me too”. That’ll get more hits,... (maybe).

But where would that leave me? Would I feel any happier? You can bet your entire life savings — for most of the readers who come to this here blog, that isn’t a whole lot, so let’s change that. You can rob seven banks and beat up an old woman on the way and bet your entire bounty that I would not feel an iota of a difference. Why?

Why? Because The View lets me pepper you, the readers with this kind of a pointless and meandering tirade, with zero accountability for me to bear. Ultimately, the reading of this stuff is your burden to bear. And I wouldn’t cha-...

(You see? I don’t even have to complete my blog. Being in the alternative bracket of genre-allocation kicks ass!)

The Power and the Glory

2009-10-12T15:23:00.006+05:30

Power or being powerful is not something one would usually tend to associate with a 77-year-old man. That being said, neither is the concept of glory one that would be generally associated with the Jewish, during the holocaust. And yet, Sunday gave me glimpses — albeit possibly played up by my own mind in one case or completely fictitious, as in the other case.

Sunday was made of glimpses of these concepts demonstrated by the demographic or sociographic (I think it’s a word and if not, as usual, I’m making it one) in question. The second reference I’ve made above is pretty obvious, so I’ll start with the first. I’ve seen this guy on a number of occasions on television. In fact, innumerable times. I finally got to meet the man in the flesh just over 24 hours ago. But I digress. The point is he’s been called a “weak Prime Minister” and “soft on Pakistan” among other things and the old boy’s never raised his voice at even opposition parties, leave alone being rude to them (publicly).

On Sunday, all it took was one sentence from him, in his usual calm and composed tone and style of delivery to turn a “weak Prime Minister” to someone who in fact controls the power that is India. The exact statement follows, reproduced in its entirety as delivered by the man, when asked about Pakistan blaming India for terror on Pakistani soil.

He said, “We are not in the business of exporting terror and the government and people of Pakistan jolly well know that these are false accusations.” An unremarkable statement in itself, but it had to be seen to be believed. The expression turned stern, the teeth seemed to be almost gritted and the stress on the word “jolly” made it almost seem like what he was actually saying was “They know goddamn well that we aren’t the ones who are fucking spawning these sons of bitches and Rahman Malik (Pak Interior Minister) can shove his allegations where the sun don’t shine.”

Of course that sort of language isn’t something you’d hear from Dr Singh. Oh no. That’s the sort of talk that’s comfortable at home in what forms the second of these concepts I’ve been ranting about. The glory of the Jews in Inglourious Basterds.See, I told you the second reference was bleeding obvious. Naturally, I was always going to go and watch this film. It was Quentin after all.

CAUTION: HERE BE SPOILERS. STOP READING IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN AND WANT TO SEE THE FILM. THERE ISN’T ANY POINT IN RUINING IT FOR YOURSELF

Now, before I went to watch this film, I’d heard numerous tales of how it was a very gory film and there were scalpings shown with all the lurid details Quentin is capable of conjuring onscreen. That’s alright. I figured it’d be an interesting enough setting to try out his idea of stylicised violence.

To hell with the violence though, the last time I saw/read anything that rewrote history about WWII was Philip. K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle, which told a tale about a time where the Germans, Italians (Eye-talians, according to that man Pitt) and Japanese won and took over the world.

But the way SS officials were depicted as intelligent and shrewd people (not insulting their intelligence in anyway) and the fact that they still end up losing (with Hitler getting his visage blown to shreds) at the hands of the Jewish uprising was... well, something I never actually envisioned watching an onscreen fictionalised depiction of. Never. This isn’t a film review so I want talk about the sublime nature of the reams and reams of dialogue in the film. I won’t talk about Samuel L. Jackson. I won’t talk about Harvey Keitel or Mike Myers either.

It’s always exciting to see someone break character. Like Metallica writing Mama Said or like Bangladesh beating India at cricket or to extend the metaphor, like Stephen Sommers making a chick-flick (The Mummy Returns was not by the way, a chick-flick: Ed) or like Franz Kafka writing a joke book. And these two incidents were some of the finest breaks of character I’ve seen in a while.

A convenient escape route

2009-10-08T11:04:00.004+05:30

I think I’ve heard the phrase “violation of sovereignty” a fair few dozen times over the last 20 or so hours. The context is Pakistan’s response to the Kerry-Lugar bill passed by the US Senate that “aims” to create better ties with Pakistan. This bill that is to be debated now by Pakistan’s national assembly, promises $1.5 billion every year for five years to Pakistan as a grant.

As always, take a few moments to catch your breath and re-read that last part. That’s right. A country with debts of $1.4 trillion is now set to hand out grants to Pakistan. I don’t believe I need to go into any details about the fact that that country is today not only known as, but also widely acknowledged as the the World Terror Hub. Places across the world are known as World Technology Hubs or World Tourist Hubs or even World Heavy Metal Hubs. I’ve never known any country to just sit there so brazenly about being called the World Terror Hub. It could be argued that they want to get rid of terrorism just as badly as the rest of the world does, but I just don’t see it.

From that slight detour and back on track, the US Senate passed the Kerry-Lugar bill, which has apparently been amended since it was first tabled. Among some of the conditions, of which there are a fair few, the most important part I saw was that the US would only commence the cash flow once the following conditions were met.

The Pakistani military or its intelligence agency — ISI — ceases to support terrorist groups that have conducted attacks against the US or its coalition forces in Afghanistan or the people of neighbouring countries. (The ISI has long been known to support terror groups and this fact came out into the mainstream when a leaked British defence ministry document in 2006 substantiated just how the agency was behind the 7/7 serial blasts and other such attack. As for the attacks on neighbouring countries, Pakistan is in this wonderful position where it can condemn attacks on one hand and yet, fund people to do a 26/11 and then dilly-dally with the prosecution process. I doubt they’ll agree to this one.)
Pakistan prevents Al-Qaeda, Taliban, Laskhar-e-Tayyaba and Jaish-e-Mohammed from operating in its territory, including cross-border raids into neighbouring countries. (I’m sorry, but I just don’t see that happening. Cross-border raids into Kashmir are unlikely to ever stop.)
Pakistan dismantles terror training camps across the country including those in Quetta and Muridke (A section allegedly chucked into the bill by an Indian lobby. Read below for details on this section)
Pakistan strengthens counter-terrorist and anti-money laundering laws.
Pakistani security forces do not “materially and substantially” subvert the political or judicial processes of the country. (Vague vague vague. What is the defining characteristic of a material and substantial subversion? How is it different from an immaterial and unsubstantial one? And at what degree of subversion does the difference lie?)
Pakistan continues to cooperate with the United States in an effort to dismantle supplier networks that relate to the acquisition of nuclear weapon related materials AND provides the US to direct access to Pakistani nationals like A.Q. Khan who are associated with such networks. (A.Q. Khan is one of Pakistan’s most valued resources. I cannot believe the country would allow anyone direct access to him. Just as they haven’t given anyone any access to Dawood Ibrahim for years and years, when the world knows he lives in Pakistan. Also he’s not even a Pakistani national)

Certain political leaders and sections of the media have taken to referring to this particular bill as a “strait jacket”, which is designed to prevent Pakistan from harming itself or others. Further, parts of the media also believe that the Pakistani government has been ignorant to the contents of the bill or has surrendered to the American diktat.

A matter of hours (I don’t believe it got to even days) after voices in Pakistan blamed India (or the BCCI) for the latest match-fixing conspiracy theory surrounding the former’s loss in the Champion’s Trophy, more voices emerged from within Pakistan blaming an “Indian lobby” for having pressurised the US into including the clause about “terrorists in Muridke and Quetta” (as I had mentioned above).

Now, Pakistani political parties are asking for the US to make further amendments to the bill before the national assembly in Pakistan can debate it. And there you have it folks, by using the most convenient escape route known to Pakistan for the past 62 years, which is also known as the “Blame India” policy, the country to the northwest seems all set to get itself out of another sticky situation with the rest of the world. And it’ll probably get its grants too. And continue to shoot the shit out of our citizens.

Appendix: The last time I recall hearing this “violation of sovereignty” thing so many times was when India was about to sign the Hyde Pact, also known as the 123 Agreement in 2006. In the face of many parties that disagreed with a lot of the conditions — including one about giving the US access to all India’s nuclear facilities, I think — a no-confidence motion was called, resulting in the trust vote and that infamous “cash for votes” scam.

One could well say, “Well India was indulging in the same antics as Pakistan is, right now. It’s exactly the same thing.” And while one may be partially correct, the facts are as follows: India will be spending $100 billion on American technology and Pakistan will be getting $7.5 billion... as a grant. That makes it a completely different thing.

A Nation Built on Sweat...

2009-10-06T02:31:00.009+05:30

A Nation built on Blood
A Nation built on Dreams
A Nation - A Nation!
A Struggle - A Struggle!
A Weapon - A Weapon!

— Sepultura - Sepulnation

I’m feeling patriotic today... I don’t quite know why... It’s not that jingoistic, chest-beating and making an anus of myself kind of patriotism. I didn’t just finish watching Lagaan.It’s not Independence Day or Republic Day... Hell, it’s not even a dry day. Well, now that I know what it ain’t, let’s look at the amalgamation of what it is...

As with most things I blather on about, the reasoning is manifold. Part of it is the fact that I’m just happy, in general. Another contributing factor is that I recently read the rant of an ungrateful sod (I refuse to name you. I have dignity), selling out his country, in a bid to earn sympathy and dare I say it, friends (?) to a bunch of strangers — who are probably going to think, “Oh no, what a hell-hole India must be... poor guy”. How much or how little sympathy he got is none of my concern, but that letter did make me look around and appreciate my country for what it is.

Another potential contributing factor could be the fact that the elections are just around the corner... and watching people whip themselves into a frenzy with campaigning, bringing down their opponents or trying to win the faith of citizens is just... well, it’s a trip. Then of course there’s the feeling of dazed exhaustion at the end of a hard day’s work (No, I’m not claiming I’ve paid my “dues” or any such shit) in your own homeland, where people treat you (unless you’re a film actor, cricketer or dynastic politician) like you deserve to on the basis of what you’ve done. Actually done. Not who you are or who your daddy is.

Then of course, there’s the buzz I still have from last night. There’s a Guns ‘n’ Roses video I remember watching where Slash busts out a solo of The Godfather Theme and everyone in the audience is spellbound. I recall getting a similar vibe through the way popular culture defines Jimi Hendrix’s Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock ’69. That’s kinda what it was like watching Motherjane’s Baiju belt out a Carnatic Music-infused version of Vande Mataram — India’s National Song, for the uninitiated. And for the even less initiated, it’s not to be confused with the National Anthem. Ever.

Yes, I’m aware that I don’t need to hear National pieces of music for my love for my country to be realised. And yet, I sat there last night with my heart thumping like a bass drum as I heard every strain and note of that song resonate inside me. We’re by no means, a perfect Nation. Far from it. I dislike most of my fellow Indians

whom I meet on a daily basis — that’s never a good thing. But every country has its problems. The bureaucracy and corruption are two of the major problems we have, but we’ll find ways around it... We have no other choice. We’ve got major problems to resolve. And we’ll do it. We don’t need the Commonwealth Games, a Cricket World Cup or an Obama approval to prove we’re a serious country.

But, I digress as always.

Sigh, what a rendition of Vande Mataram that was..
What a performance...
What a band...
Sigh.

As for the aforementioned, ungrateful sod, I doubt I’ll be hearing from him any time soon. I’m an Indian after all. With the things he’s said, he’d either have to be really shameless or really stupid to talk to this Indian again... Hmmm.. Now that I think about it—...

Jai Hind

Sexy time

2009-09-25T10:46:00.004+05:30

What is with the news this week being full of just sex, sex and very little else apart from sex? More so than usual, I mean. In fact, the papers have been so full of sex lately that I’m surprised that a renowned political science (or something) professor from St. Xavier’s College — who usually has a problem with anything and everything — hasn’t gone and filed a Public Interest Litigation to ban all newspapers.

Slight detour: Public Interest Litigation? Now there’s a misnomer if I ever heard one. I’d like to look at a list of all the so-called Public Interest Litigations filed (especially in Mumbai) and check just how many were really in the public’s interest and how many were just because one person was pissy that his/her kid wouldn’t stop watching WWE on TV. Or wouldn’t eat his/her peas. Or something.

But back to the sex part now, more on the issue of bans and banishment later. Here’s a list of only a miniscule number of “sexy” stories that popped up in the papers this week.

Cricket training dossier: The biggest story by far was arguably lifted from what was probably a tiny section in Indian cricket coach Gary Kirsten’s dossier to the team on preparation etc. He happened to mention that sex was a good preparation tool before a big game. In his words, “pre-match sex boosts players’ performance”. Perhaps so, but that was probably just a section of the whole dossier. Instead that was pretty much all that was written about. So much so, that they even had a section in one paper (I forget which) where retired cricketers were asked about their views on this dossier. There are many terrible things in the words and reading about Bishen Singh Bedi and Ajit Wadekar waxing eloquent about masturbation ranks quite high on that list.

Sex degrees of separation: According to Britain’s Lloyd’s Pharmacy, the average British person has had 2.8 million indirect sexual partners in a lifetime. What began as a survey of 6,000 adults to raise and spread awareness about sexually-transmitted diseases, turned within no time into what will undoubtedly form the topic of discussion at many a bar-type situation. According to the ‘sexual health director’ of Lloyds, “When we sleep with someone, we are, in effect, not only sleeping with them, but also their previous partners and their partners’ previous partners.” Lovely thought.

Moskau Mule: Nothing to do with a mule really, I just like the alliteration... But I digress. On the same week as I go and meet the US Ambassador to India, the US Ambassador to Russia filed an official complaint with the Russian government. Why is this relevant? Because the complaint was filed against someone who allegedly fabricated a sex video that popped up on a Russian website, depicting a US diplomat “doink the hokey-pokey” with some unidentified woman in a non-descript hotel room. Apparently, the video was made by splicing footage. Of course it was spliced. It was spliced the same way as Varun Gandhi’s communal speech was spliced with the footage.

Doggy Style: However, what is by far and a long way, my favourite sex story of the week is about 26-year-old taxi driver Mahesh Kamat. Now, as the story goes, Mahesh, after a hectic day behind the wheel, decided to unwinds — as you do — by having sex with a dog. The traumatised canine’s whines and yelps drew the attention of a passerby, who lodged a complaint and had the man put away. Now, after being in custody, Kamat demands bail. Why’s that, you ask? Because according to him, the police had not taken the victim’s statement. Read that again if you need to. The lack of the raped dog’s statement, according to Kamat, was reason enough for him to get bail. Honestly.

And that’s just some of them.

However, reverting to the talk of bans and banishment, some genius from that hallowed hub of Hinduism that is Nevada, USA has called for Kirsten’s resignation as coach, for attacking the moral fibre of the country. According to a “Hindu statesman and president of the Universal Society of Hinduism” by the name of Rajan Zed, Kirsten seemed to imply that women were to be used like gym equipment or some such shit. He also claimed that in India, cricketers are looked upon as role models and having them indulge in casual sex was a scary thought, as millions would start copying them. As an indication of just how mind-numbing that last statement was, my brain has gone blank and I have no idea how to finish this post, let alone continue it.

FIN

A letter to Mr Tharoor

2009-09-19T10:34:00.005+05:30

Dear Mr Minister of State for External Affairs or just Shashi, if I may call you that?

Let me preface my letter by saying, I have no doubt that this must have been an trying week indeed for you. And doubly so, considering you happen to be a citizen of this Nation of ours, where everyone — from political parties to media houses — seem to be caught in some cutthroat deathmatch of one-upmanship. And as your luck (or lack thereof) would have it, your much publicised twittering (or tweet or whatever it’s called) happened to fall in the run-up to the elections.

You know that’s asking for trouble.

To recap, when you were asked if you would travel by “cattle class” the next time you travel to your constituency in Kerala, you said, “Absolutely, in cattle class out of solidarity with all our holy cows”. Dunno about the rest. Makes me laugh (*).

And yes, you did put out many a clarification stating that “you were repeating the term used by the journo”, that “you incorrectly assumed that people would understand humour and not deliberately distort your words” and that it “wasn’t aimed at passengers but companies that herd passengers like cattle” and the Prime Minister too tried to play it off as a joke. Sadly, just as Jaswant Singh and L.K. Advani will forever be stuck with their Jinnah-love, so too will this remark stick to you like white on rice. That’s the nature of today’s world, Sir. Once the media and opposition politicians have sunken their teeth into something you did/said that is open to interpretation, they will all interpret it in the worst way possible and never let you forget their interpretation.

You and I, we’re not all that different, you know — minus the small matter of the UN involvement, the member of Parliament thing, the umpteen books and articles and the education... Apart from all that, we’re not too different. I once made a simple joke using the phrase “LS” for comedy effect. I was tagged elitist. I once referred to a George Carlin line in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back and said to someone jokingly, “Stop being so suburban” and i got tagged elitist, snobbish, “townie” and a slew of other shit. <Small digression: And yet, these same morons are branded comedy superstars for potshots at the colour of my skin, my residential address, where I’ve studied, what I’ve done and what I do. The reason I put that (*) higher up in this letter, is because I’m certain that at some point, one or more of these aforementioned morons will question my right to laugh at the statement you made and call me elitist again. Good Stuff>

But I learnt something from all those “faux pas”. The reason I use inverted commas is because personally I did not see my foot even remotely near my face, never mind it entering my mouth. That people chose to make an issue out of it is why it will be known to them as a faux pas, but to me as a “faux pas”. Anyway, I did learn something and that is that if you make the mistake of wasting high-quality humour on these people, don’t explain the joke. They’re never going to understand it. They don’t want to understand it.

Take it easy and don’t let all the governance hoo-ha stop you from putting out some more books. Keep it clean.

Bye-bye...