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.
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Monday, February 21, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
(Reprise)
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Why, Lord? Why do You do this to me?
One stupid week has hardly ended that another starts up in full earnest.
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?
— 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?
Friday, November 5, 2010
Big F'N Deal (!)
You know it’s a slow day in the news media biz when the main story is deputy CM and the (hitherto believed to be non-existent) missing link between humans and bulldogs, Chhagan Bhujbal saying, “I am the host of the meeting. Why should I give my passport details?”. The sad thing however is that it isn’t merely a slow day, it’s been an extremely slow week (if not fortnight). So much so that it’s really no fun reading the newspapers any more.
Being as it’s such a slow time, there’s only 2 stories that everyone’s yelling and screaming from the rooftops about. The first is that delightful Adarsh Cooperative Housing Society story, where the media actually seems surprised that Mumbai’s political top-brass (allegedly including human-bulldog hybrid) is complicit in claiming apartments that were meant for war widows. Plus, the building itself is unauthorised in that it is a security risk (too close to defence installations) and it violates environmental regulations. I got bored of this story in no time. Kick out the corrupt politicos and bring in even more corrupt bastards to replace them. That’s the general way things go.
The other story that has been dominating is quite obviously all the hullaballoo about Barack Obama’s trip to India. Let’s for a second put aside all this “visiting my role model Mahatma Gandhi’s country” and the “paying homage to the victims (of the November 26 massacre)” stuff. Let’s also put aside all these fanciful dreams and hopes (that verge on the delusional) that India has about this visit — the Security Council seat, a better defence deal, solid backing against Pakistan. Forget about it. It ain’t gonna happen.
Here is what is going to happen. There’s a reason Obama’s on his way with two full plane-loads of “captains of industry” — CEOs, MDs, GMs and the ilk or so I’m told — and there’s a reason the first (and arguably, more important to them than Delhi) stop is India’s financial capital. Keep in mind that the American economy is yet to recover from the debilitating recession. Business ventures in India could prove to be just the ticket for many firms feeling the pinch. Then of course, there’s the fact that looking like you’re best pals with India could help turnaround Obama’s sagging popularity. At least among the Indian-American voters. Finally, the third plus of this trip for Obama and possibly the most significant from a strategic standpoint, will be the message it will send out to China.
But that’s it.
Stories about how XYZ Road is being spruced up for his visit or how ABC cops are taking some precautions before the visit have bored the hell out of me already, but the worst is probably that stupid one about some hotel making an Obama platter. Big f'n deal. I was never even interested in that shit, so being bored is out of the question. Like I said, it’s a slow time for news.
Speaking of which, I’ve often wondered whether certain foreign celebrities enjoy such a thriving Indian fanbase to merit an almost daily update on them. Alright now if it was people like George Lucas, Jackie Chan, Sylvester Stallone or I don’t know, Bono... people who are EXTREMELY well-known in India, it would make sense. But what makes Eva Longoria so important and why is she plastered across papers nearly everyday for some banal reason or the other. How her relationship with her husband is so healthy, how she used to be bullied as a kid, how she is thinking of getting a driver’s licence, how she.. I don't know... bought a bloody hamster or something. As far as I know her only claim to fame was being in Desperate Housewives.
And the other is Lady Gaga. I’ve heard that her music is quite popular abroad, but I didn’t know it was all that big here. Now either both of them have a really hardworking PR team in India or I’m living in a completely alternate reality to the rest of India.
P.S - Which is probably more than evident given how much I fume watching the Indian version of Masterchef. Why is it that there is literally no TV show that we, Indians can replicate (or rip off) without making it cheap as hell, given that most shows we rip off are pretty cheap to begin with?
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?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
What’re you trying to prove?
Ad-libbing lyrics in songs is one of the more fun things one can do in a group, especially a drunken group. Now whether it be at Fuzz Club/BLEACH or at Yorks or even General, some of the most hilarious times I recall were usually right after some particularly funny ad-libs. The classics of course, were the “B-sides” that involved mainly AJG and me (and often an army of others) turning songs by Rage Against The Machine, System Of A Down, Disturbed and countless other bands into paeans to cheese and ham, brioche rolls, sleeping till late and some other less-than-complimentary concepts attributed (perhaps unfairly) to a friend of ours.
Then there were the General Sessions© that featured musical tributes to chips, Johnson’s stupidity, gaathia, all-night dandia and other such essential elements of life to the music of Bon Jovi, Metallica, Godsmack, Limp Bizkit and such like. The purpose of this exercise was not because we were devoid of original ideas. In fact, far from it. We enjoyed these songs and wanted to put a new twist on them. A customisation to suit present company. And it was a hoot. It was never for commercial gains or success either.
The major success one gained from this ad-libbing was being able to elicit laughter. If you did a particularly funny rhyme, your target got laughed at and if you’re ad-lib was lame, you were the one being laughed at. Everyone was a winner. And at the end of the night, each original track still had its dignity. Even professional bands ad-lib. Some change their own lyrics, some borrow lyrics from another band’s song and throw them in, just to get a pop out of audiences. But none of this is done with a view to making oneself seem cool or to make money. It’s always just about making a good time slightly more special.
Which is probably why I was mildly irritated (initially) and damn near apoplectic a few minutes later after listening to a song by another one of those dime-a-dozen products that America keeps churning out of its cookie-cutter of shit.
When I watched The Wedding Singer over 12 years ago, a song that plays at the very start of the film caught my attention. The song had that typically 80s vibe which made it catchy as hell and it got stuck in my head like a fishhook. Being an 80s classic, of course the theme was rooted in that era — it’s a song about hitting on someone, nothing particularly lewd or crude. Playful, more than anything. It was years later that a cover of that song by a nu-metal band, blew my mind. While preserving the playful theme and flow of the original, the song was now harder, edgier and rocked way way harder.
Now we return to 2010. A few years after Dope had “had their way now, bay-bayyyyyy” with Dead or Alive’s track, some unoriginal dipshit (look at his name if you need further evidence) called Flo Rida decides to get himself a piece of the action. Don’t get me wrong. I love covers that are vastly different from the originals, as long as they are a reflection of the spirit of the original song. One such cover is Terrible Lie (Maynard James Keenan’s version of a Nine Inch Nails track).
But back to Flo Rida now (what’s next? A reggae act called Mass Achu Setts?). So if it’s not bad enough that he wants to have a name like that, he decides to mess with a classic. In the process, he ropes in a woman (with probably the most ghetto-ass name out there) called Kesha (or is it Ke$ha?). And they go and turn You Spin Me Around (Like a Record) into a song about oral sex. What the hell, man?
“You spin my head round, when you go down-down?” Are you serious? Then after “Ke$ha” has finished singing that line, Mr Rida jumps in with something that sounds like “hibidi jibidi dibidi doo, hibidi jibidi dibidi foo” (I shit you not. If you don’t want to take my word for it, assail your ears and listen to it. It actually sounds like that). What he probably meant was something like “my ride’s so dope, my bling gives me hope, come play with my rope”. It’s horrific that people can get away with something like that. I’m all for songs about sex, sure. But not every song needs to be about sex. And these fuckwits killed the spirit of the song by shitting all over it for nothing but commercial purposes. Songs about fucking sell. It wasn’t something special done at a live show or among friends.
And I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that I have a bias against hip-hop. You’re going to tell me to stop taking lyrics so seriously because “the song is great to dance to”. Well first of all, I don’t think the song is hip-hop at all. There’s hip-hop and there’s pop music, both of which are genres that know where they stand and do their thing. I may not be a fan, but they believe in what they’re doing. Hip-pop is the category that this cock-sucking cover falls under. It’s got all the “bling-bling, guns, bitches and hos” stereotypes from hip-hop and the manufactured fakeness of what passes for pop (not talking about the late MJ here) today.
As for the point about dancing to it, go for it, dance to it. I don’t think it was ever my contention that you shouldn’t dance to it. I was merely railing against the uninspired, unoriginal, lame way Mr Rida (or the person who writes his “music”) decided to turn one of the most playful songs ever into just another piece of drivel about fucking. And there’s so much of it out there already. Just what are you trying to prove? That you have a dick?
Answers may be sent to the usual address. (I really hope he or ghetto-ass name woman reply)
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)
Sunday, October 17, 2010
My thoughts on Shite and Cack
It was May 2007 and I was in the middle of my first journalism-related internship, when I was asked to write a 600-or-so worder on the freedom of expression in the face of books being burnt and stuff. Naturally, conventional word limits are far too stifling for my requirements and so, I welcomed the idea of getting a few more words to play with. Long story short, the article was researched and typed out. It got printed. A good time was had by all.
Four or five days later, my boss at the time comes in with a hardcover book with a glossy dustjacket. Presumably it had to be reviewed. From afar I thought it was a graphic novel, due primarily to the fact that minus the black and white colouring of the dustjacket, the packaging resembled that of The Killing Joke. The signs looked good since I’d just written a piece on graphic novels a week ago. Arriving at the area where I was designated a seat, my boss hands it over with a smirk that turns into a grin and finally erupts in a raucous belly-laugh. What the hell? I didn’t really pay much attention to her reaction as i reached for the book.
She said she’d read a bit of it and it was hysterical. Hysterically bad that is. So it’s not a graphic novel then, given that I’m yet to read a truly BAD graphic novel. My mild sense of disappointment was then brushed aside by my curiosity to see what the hell that book was about. So, without reading the title of the book fully, I turned a few pages and began browsing through it.
Two pages in...
Four/five days after my book burning article...
I realised that this was the book that should’ve been burned. Maybe it would have shut the little cretin up. You hear me, Aditya? I’m talking about your poorly slapped together selection of “poetry” in three languages called My Thoughts in White and Black (I can’t find a link for it anywhere). That’s supposed to be the title of the book, by the way. Sounds a whole lot more like the title of an uninspired blog. The Marathi poems, I will concede, read quite well. All seven of them. The rest of the tripe comprises Hindi poems that read like they were taken from a primary school textbook. Don’t even get me started on the “Once I saw a cat; It was very fat; Because it ate a rat; Then it went and shat” type rhymes you’ve put down.
But I gotta hand it to you. Getting Granddaddy to have it published was a masterstroke. It actually looks like a credible book. What did he do to get such a high quality printing job? Did he send his goons to threaten the publisher? What happened after it was published? Did he threaten the publisher against ever publishing anything in any language other than Marathi? What about threatening a nationwide strike if any North Indian ever read it? I could go on forever, but the sad thing is it’s only a mild exaggeration of that whole family’s twisted way of thinking.
Now I know you’re going to ask me this, so you might as well get it out of the way now. That book was released over three years ago. So why am I ranting now? Well I’ll tell you why. Many reasons. Inertia primarily. But today happens to be the day that Aditya’s illustrious (cough cough) grandpa is going to declare him as their political party’s youth wing’s leader. (It’s amazing. These are the same geniuses who give shit to the Congress and call it a dynastic party)
Just a week and a half or so ago, the Shiv Sena’s scion (that would be Aditya, of course) saw fit to burn copies of a book that is part of the Bachelor of Arts syllabus at the University of Mumbai. The book, for those of you who don’t know is Such a Long Journey (which was also made into a film some 10-11 years ago. Anyway, the book is set in 1971 and does critique the politics of the time. Also for some more trivia, it’s written by Pastry’s uncle (Who is probably going to see some spiralling sales now. You know how well banned books sell).
Anyway, Aditya has his goons burn it and then gets the University’s spineless vice-chancellor to ban it from the syllabus. Straight away. Banned. None of the usual “we’ll consider it”. Just BOOM! Banned. It’s amazing how the bureaucracy is at its most effective at the most inappropriate times. That’s Bureau-CRAZY!!!! Roll your eyes as much as you want. I’ll wait.
Done? Okay. So the funniest part of this whole saga is that young Aditya hasn’t even read the book. Take a moment to laugh it up. He claims that people told him that it sullied the name of his family and party. WHAT’S LEFT TO SULLY, SON? Your party is a group of thugs, bullies and saffron supremacists. Most recently, ol’ Grampa Thackeray tried to shut down a reality TV show because it had two Pakistanis in it. He said and I quote, “We can’t let this green poison into our country.” Nicely done, Sir.
So as I was asking earlier, what is it you are trying to protect, Aditya? Your party sucks. I’m sure your mother is a wonderful person, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same about your granddad or your dad. I’d add your uncle to this list, but I’m quite happy that he could very well be that catalyst to destroy your archaic and backward Sena. You have a chance to be great. Hone those skills. Get back to writing. Put out a book on the back of the quality of your writing and not who your grandpa is. Don’t get sucked into this xenophobic, communal cesspool of hate that’s been in your family for so many years.
All I can do is to encourage you to break out!
Note: I doubt you’ll pay any heed to my advice, but what the hell? It was my duty to tell you. Now I’m gonna exercise my right to wait patiently and watch as your Sena and its “legacy” slowly burns to the ground like Ravana will later this evening. Happy Dussehra!
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!
Friday, October 8, 2010
How do you sleep at night?
I had set out intending to write a scathing and insanely vitriolic attack against a regional party in Maharashtra, but unique circumstances have compelled me to make my attempt at hitting out at a pan-national piece of shit. Any guesses? Come on... give it a shot (this one’s for all the Indians out there). Who is the biggest piece of shit you know, on television anyway? Who enjoys using the misery of others to his own gain and that of his television “news” channel (big hint there)?
I’ll cut to the chase. The person in question is Arnab Goswami.
To set the scene and despite Goswami and his channel’s assertions, Omar (in a speech before the state assembly on October 6) did not question the status of the heavily debated state of Jammu and Kashmir. What the J&K Chief Minister did in fact say in his speech, was that a solution needs to be found “that is fair to the three regions of the state (Indian Kashmir, Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir and what I imagine is No Man’s Land) and the neighbouring country”.
With me so far?
Okay. He added in a later statement (and this is the interesting part) that the state had never truly merged with India, but it had merely acceded to India. Sure enough, if you check the Instrument of Accession (Jammu and Kashmir) and I have, on October 26, 1947, Maharaja Hari Singh acceded to India, but not like Junagarh and Hyderabad that merged with India.
These are facts.
Put them together and what you have is the Chief Minister of J&K merely quoting his history lessons. Given the fact that opposition parties all across the world find absolutely any reason to rebuff or slam the ruling party, it was no surprise that BJP members protested and were up in arms. To its credit, the Congress stood by Omar (once in a while, they do something right). And here is where Goswami steps in. Trying to be sensationalist and grab eyeballs is great, but when you do that at the risk of national integrity, you are a traitor, Goswami. No two ways about it.
We’ve just come out of the Ayodhya verdict (see previous post) and this jerk sees fit to make a mountain of a molehill. His news channel carried this ticker all day about how Omar had “gone too far”. Wait a second. Was Omar some lapdog of yours whose gone and pissed on your lap, Goswami or did you just not have any other topics for a discussion show to do today? Then, in said discussion show, he assembles a posse of speakers (two of whom including Sajjad Lone were remotely sensible). There’s a BJP spokersperson who obviously lays into Omar.
What was interesting though was as the “discussion” progressed, Goswami’s problem with Omar’s speech evolved too. I’m not being cynical for the sake of it. I know exactly how much discussion Goswami actually does. There is no one on the planet who loves the sound of one’s own voice as he does. My former resident editor will testify to this fact. From having a problem with the “status” Omar supposedly conferred on the state, to him flip-flopping on his stand (again, with ropey evidence to put his case forward) to saying he was just trying to extend his political career, Goswami struggled to clutch at straws. I smiled.
But, unhampered by a lack of facts on his side, Goswami chose to keep repeating his opinions again and again, hoping (nay, praying) that someone would say, “Yes, you’re right. Have a biscuit.” But no biscuit was forthcoming. Meanwhile, his channel’s ticker continued to flash a message saying that if viewers objected to the content, they could lodge a complaint with the National Broadcasters Association and sure enough, the website was provided.
Upon visiting the website, you find out under the appropriate tab how one can go about complaining. And it reads as follows.
| A complaint must be made in writing, either in English or Hindi, and must include the following: |
|
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.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Human Salt
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!
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!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
SOS (Same ol’ Situation)
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.
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.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tiptoeing on the in-between
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.
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.
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