ReMatriculated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

System Reboot

doof doof doof doof doof
thish thish thish
doof doof

Check 1, 2... Check...

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

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

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

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

Until the curtain rises...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

Twas only a matter of time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Nation Built on Sweat...

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

— Sepultura - Sepulnation

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, I digress as always.

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

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

Jai Hind

A letter to Mr Tharoor

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

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

You know that’s asking for trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

Bye-bye...

Who the hell is MJ?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No mummy, no papa"

The junction at Mahalakshmi temple is one that has no less than three or four roads leading in and out of it and is one of the busier junctions in the city of Mumbai.

Now that the random trivia is out of the way, here comes the point. It's also a junction frequented by a variety of beggars and mobile hawkers. I've already dealt with beggars and the various tactics they employ, so I'll get straight into mobile hawkers. Contrary to the name, they don't actually sell mobile phones (well maybe, toy mobiles but, I digress) but they in themselves are mobile.

Traipsing as they do from vehicle to vehicle that's at a traffic signal, trying to peddle their wares. Bootleg books are one of the things one regularly encounters people — most often little kids — trying to sell. So there I was at the aforementioned junction a couple of days ago, when I see a little girl clutching a stack of books walking from car-to-car until she notices a CR-V, inhabited by two obvious out-of-towners. The Caucasian features are a dead giveaway.

She knocks on the window and holds up a bootleg of one of the countless books on Barack Obama doing their rounds. "Obama!!" she says in a voice loud enough to penetrate the rolled-up window (presumably to keep the cool air in and the... well, you get it). The man shakes his head. "Thousand splendid suns," she yells next clutching Khalid Hosseini's book and holding it up to the window. The man shakes his head again and rolls the window down a little and sticks out his hand with a ten rupee note in it.

Little girl refuses to accept any hand outs or alms... She's a businesswoman, after all. She walks around to the other side of the car, spotting a woman sitting next to the man. "Madam! Obama!" she shouts. Woman also shakes her head. Holding up a copy of Q & A which is now being sold under the name Slumdog Millionaire, she asks, "Slumdog?" The woman again shakes her head.

That's when the little girl pulls out a real gem and a gem of such shine and polish that it merited me writing a whole blog about it. "Madam, I have no mummy, no papa. I also slumdog," she says. Goddamn! Did I just hear that, I asked myself. Certainly did. "I (am) like this slumdog only," she says pointing at the book. The woman doesn't want the book but rolls down her window, this time offering the girl a 100 rupee note. The girl says no and walks off.

That's called taking pride in what you do.

Piqued by curiosity, I ventured back there yesterday and tried hunting her down and asking her some questions. None of which were ominous, I assure you. While on one hand, selling bootleg books is pretty illegal, she's gotta make a living. After much coaxing, she volunteered her name — Seema. A bar of chocolate and further questions brought out the fact that she was 9 and that she gets into a lot of trouble with her supplier, if she doesn't sell the books.

She also disclosed that people try to palm her off with alms, but that, apparently, is not her beat. "Main bhikari nahi hoon (I'm not a beggar)," she told me as she trotted off to sell some more books, clearly pissed off that I had wasted her time and had no inclination to buy a book.

P.S. - New layout, y'alls!

That Man Smith

Will: Hey, you know what, you ain't got to do nothing, Uncle Phil. You know, ain't like I'm still five years old, you know? Ain't like I'm gonna be sitting every night asking my mom 'when's daddy coming home?' You know? Who needs him? Hey, he wasn't there to teach me how to shoot my first basket, but I learned it, didn't I? And I got pretty damn good at it too, didn't I, Uncle Phil?
Uncle Phil: Yeah, you did.
Will: Got to do my first date without him, right? I learned how to ride, I learned how to shave, I learned how to fight without him. I had *fourteen* great birthdays without him; he never even sent me a damn card. The hell with him! [pause]
Will: I didn't need him then, I won't need him now.
Uncle Phil: Will...
Will: No, you know what, Uncle Phil? I'm gonna get through college without him, I'm gonna get a great job without him, I'm gonna marry me a beautiful honey and I'm having a whole bunch of kids. I'm gonna be a better father than he ever was. And I sure as hell don't need him for that, 'cause there ain't a damn thing he can teach me about how to love my kids! [long pause; he's crying] How come he don't want me, man?

Most of the readers that frequent this website would be correct if they recognised this as a mere splinter of an excerpt from an episode of the fantastic show, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, (which everybody must have seen at some point or the other). More than just a little snippet from the world of Will, Carlton, Uncle Phil, Hilary, Geoffrey et al, this little segment encapsulated Willard Smith's pedigree as an actor (to that point at least). Sure, he could be the "funny guy" and cause people to have crippling chest problems (a theory that Luke and Garf will definitely corroborate) with the sheer hilarity of his antics and timing. But this little vignette had nothing to do with his comic timing or facial flexibility. To me, it had a lot more to do with his versatility, in that he could make you cry seconds after having you in fits of laughter.

Over the years he acted in some films and critics unkindly branded him as a one-trick pony, claiming at times that he would often project himself as far bigger than the movie itself. It is speculated that it is for this very reason that he didn't get to be Neo in The Matrix. In retrospect, it's probably best that Keanu Reeves got that role. Regardless, Smith took on a variety of films, playing different types of characters and yet, the criticism continued. It is only after The Pursuit of Happyness (arguably) that I believe he began to amass critical acclaim.

Shocking, non?

After all, this man was able to pull off roles with a plethora of co-actors, human and non-human and still generate some ridiculously top-notch chemistry with them all. The list is truly mind-boggling:

- With a DJ, a fat man and a short man
- With an accomplished actor like Gene Hackman
- With a skilled comedian like Jeff Goldblum
- With the computer generated robot, Sonny
- With a child
- And now most recently, with a dog

It is the latter that forms the basis for this particular piece, after a rather long-winded diatribe. Even by my lofty standards *chortle chortle*. I saw the film I am Legend today and to be honest, all I had heard about the film was that a number of people I know wanted to see it and it was about the last man on Earth, it was supposed to be quite good and that it had that man Smith in it. That's all. This morning I read a savagely cynical review and on a whim, perhaps even goaded by the review, I decided to go and watch it for myself.

Directed by Francis Lawrence of Constantine fame and screenplayed (if such a verb doesn't indeed exist and if it doesn't, then I'm MAKING it exist) by the brilliant Akiva Goldsman... Not too bad so far. The Richard Matheson-authored book by the same name has been adapted to film four times in the past, I'm told and the latest was supposed to be in 2002 with Micheal Bay directing it. Instead, he chose to make Bad Boys II. Prior to this, Ridley Scott was expected to direct the film starring Arnold, but it went over-budget.

Enter Mr Smith.

The film can be described as a slow-burner, if and only if you feel compelled to classify and pigeon-hole everything. The scale is nothing short of epic, with what seems like most of Manhattan at the director's mercy for filming purposes. What really shines isn't the special FX or the aforementioned grandeur of scale. While being competent, it isn't even the plot that shines. Consistent with the subject of this post, it's Will Smith who lays down a devastatingly touching portrayal of a scientist/army colonel, who battles the loss of human companionship, security and even sanity to find a cure for this cannibal/zombie virus hoo-ha. That's what really shines.

One of the best things about the film I found (surprising, considering my love for post-apocalyptic universes in sci-fi stories) was the fact that most of the film is set on beautiful sunny days in a completely empty city. I have never seen that aspect used in any film to this date.

NOTE: To all nitpickers and those with too much time on their hands and an innate urge to try and make a point (irrespective of whether or not it is accurate), I'm sure there've been films in the past that used this idea. However, I've never seen it in any film I've seen before. Ya dig?

Over the course of the one and half or so hours, I found my favourite scenes to be the ones that had the least to do with the actual story/plot. These are the scenes where he depicts his own character growth as the film progresses. From a dinner table scene with his dog to the "I like Shrek" scene later on in the film, these are the gems that really shine brightest in the gleaming box of jewels that is I am Legend.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it is highly unlikely that one will ever see Will Smith in an overly arty or "intellectual" (note the sarcasm) flick. And maybe his films aren't everyone's cup of tea (enjoy your new-wave French cinema, by all means do). But in terms of satisfying films that leave you walking out of the cinema with a thought in your head, a smile on your face and perhaps even new catchphrases on your lips, you can't beat the man's work. Empathy with the character being portrayed and trying to relate to him has never been a problem with Smith's films. Now it's got to the point where it's nigh on impossible not to relate to his characters. You'd have to be really really really detached to do so. And where's the fun in that?

Matchstick Symphony

What does a matchstick sound like when it's blown out? Go on, try it. How much of an interference does it cause to the rest of the sounds around you, in your room, at anna's or wherever else you may be? Do you remember the sound, say, 15 or 20 minutes after the matchstick's been blown out? And if you do, can you reproduce the sound in your head for more than a day after you hear it? And then, can you describe the sound to someone else at that point?

Before I am mauled and run over by a tirade of "no way!!"s and cries of "you sold out!!", I hasten to add that this isn't a bleeding heart ode to all things touchy-feely or anything of the sort. I'm still all man, baby!!! So put away your brickbats, cease the name-calling and stop burning those damn effigies. Alright?

Over time, I have permitted my writing travel only down certain tried and tested avenues, aloof to, perhaps afraid of peeking down different alleys or trying alternate routes. The fear of the unknown, possibly? Who's to say? Who's to know? So, without further ado, let's get on with it.

Anyway, the point of this symphony is more to do with the symphony of life (mention The Verve and get a slap in the mouth; I do actually like them, so I don't know what the slap would achieve, oh well). So, yes, the symphony of life comprises a mélange of sounds, from the time you come screaming into this world to the time you leave it, amid the hushed and buffered sound of sniffs and sobs (or loud guffaws and cheers, if you happen to have lived the life of an A-hole).

Along the way, there is the tittering of little girls as they make fun of a small boy who is apparently infested with cooties. Meanwhile, somewhere else on the planet, a dog howls into the night, lonely, aroused or just plain confused. Leaves rustle, the wind whistles, chisels ..ermm... chisel and my jokes continue to fizzle amid a sea of groans.

These sounds and trillions others come together to make up the symphony of life. But, and here I revert to my original point, what of the sound of the matchstick being extinguished? An inconsequential matchstick that's worn out its welcome and needs only to be discarded. After all, of what use is a matchstick once it's gone out? But I keep coming back to its sound. It is still a member of the symphony right? It is as much a part of the symphony as the sound of a young street child being cracked in the side by an oncoming vehicle, crushing part of his pelvis and sending him hurtling across the road, crashing into the tarmac with a sickening thud as his head is busted wide open.

Does he curse out loud?

Does he whimper softly?

Is he capable of emitting sound?

And what after his mangled corpse is scraped off the road and moved out of eye-shot and the large rivers and little tributaries of crimson blood streaming from where his carcass lay and into the gutter are washed away by jets of water? What then? Does anyone remember the sound of that matchstick as it was extinguished? Could anyone really be expected to?

Can I expect to remember it?