Jo and Woh were two very good friends. And then one day, Jo got scared. And Woh died.
Guess why?
Arey baba, simple...
Jo Dar Gaya Woh Mar Gaya
Friday, March 28, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Rana, Rum and Rhythm
Indian Ocean -- Asheem, Sushmit, Amit and RahulBoss, I have a great story, says the hack. Asks the editor, what is the provocation? News is all about timing.
Try doing a story about Obama's chances in 2006 and try doing it now. On the other hand, if it was Osama in 2001, it's Obama in 2008 (may be, therein -- in the name, that is -- lies the reason why methinks Hillary is going to eventually prevail. Americans are ready to forgive a Clinton, Monica Lewinsky and rest of the warts and all, rather than a name that rhymes alarmingly similar to the most hated name in the western world.)
Poor bloke, that Shakespeare, he got it all wrong, about the Rose by any other name being a Rose thingy. Names matter. Or so at least one of, if not both, the Clintons think (as per prevalent Patel Nagar wisdom). Besides, it's not fair to hold Obama responsible for Osama. To confuse Obama with Osama would be as unfair as confusing Hillary Clinton with Fellatio.
Heck, this is not about Clinton or Obama. Or even about fellatio. Far from it.
This is about stories and wrong timings. Or lets say about there being no timings for at least some stories. Some things are about instinct. And this one is about instinct, alright. You go with the flow, just as I am doing right now.
In my two decades in journalism, I have written about politics, done food reviews, film reviews and even the odd book review. But I have -- to my credit -- a single music review that I wrote sometime in 1991. Lack of opportunity combined splendidly with lack of knowledge of music to ensure my infinite wisdom on music remained limited to a solitary piece on what was then a young music group. I am referring to Indian Ocean.
An ode after a gap of almost two decades follows an hour on my newly acquired I-pod of listening to Indian Ocean's best works over the past decade and a half. The rum and coke were perfect accompaniments.
Not just perfect, even faithful. First time I ever went to Rana's house, and witnessed first hand the magic that the man weaves with his guitar, I distinctly remember the rum was there that night too. At some point of time we ran out of coke, but there was enough rum and music to make that evening rather special.
Rana is Sushmit. Sushmit Sen. A friend, a serious rum drinker and a guitarist extraordinaire. When we first met, he was already a famous rum drinker, and his reputation as a guitarist of considerable talent was only growing. Now his impressive CV has another highlight -- a friend of yours truly for almost close to two decades.
That first evening at his house in Mayur Vihar, he first fiddled with, then fine tuned his guitar as we settled down with rather generous measures of Old Monk. As he started playing a few compositions, conversation ceased, and for the next hour or so, all those lucky to be there were transported to a world of Melancholic Ecstasy. Melancholic Ecstasy is one of the earliest compositions of Indian Ocean, it remains among one of their finest.
During the period I have known Sushmit and his group, Indian Ocean has become a household name in India amidst the more discerning music lovers, and a name to reckon with in the western music world. Sadly though, rum-soaked nights have become increasingly rare, the addas unfortunately held hostage by Indian Ocean's hectic international schedule.
All through these years, and the success they have brought, Sushmit has not changed much.He remains as bashful as ever, still preferring his guitar (he is notoriously reluctant to lend his vocals to any of the songs) to do his talking for him. He still remains more lucid at 11 pm than he is at 11 am.
Impressive as he is, Sushmit is just one of the four excellent reasons why one likes, nay loves, Indian Ocean. The other three being (not necessarily in that order) Asheem Chakravarty, Rahul Ram and Amit Kilam .The beauty of Indian Ocean's music is, and has always been, that the sum of these parts is far greater than the impressive individual parts.
I don't quite remember what exactly I had written all those years ago in that piece I had penned for Delhi Mid Day on Indian Ocean. I do remember quite clearly though that i had stated it is difficult to define, or label, a music that seduces your ears, charms your senses and then goes on to stir your soul. To the lasting credit of Indian Ocean, they continue to do the same even today.
As I listen to Maa Reva, I can't help but think how, like good rum, the music of Indian Ocean makes you feel much better at the end of each composition than you did at the beginning.
How do you describe Indian Ocean's music? When I don my music reviwer's hat, I come up with profound expressions like "when genius meets sublime". But a description closer to my heart, and one that I suspect would meet the approval of Sushmit and his band members, would be "when rum meets rhythm".
Try doing a story about Obama's chances in 2006 and try doing it now. On the other hand, if it was Osama in 2001, it's Obama in 2008 (may be, therein -- in the name, that is -- lies the reason why methinks Hillary is going to eventually prevail. Americans are ready to forgive a Clinton, Monica Lewinsky and rest of the warts and all, rather than a name that rhymes alarmingly similar to the most hated name in the western world.)
Poor bloke, that Shakespeare, he got it all wrong, about the Rose by any other name being a Rose thingy. Names matter. Or so at least one of, if not both, the Clintons think (as per prevalent Patel Nagar wisdom). Besides, it's not fair to hold Obama responsible for Osama. To confuse Obama with Osama would be as unfair as confusing Hillary Clinton with Fellatio.
Heck, this is not about Clinton or Obama. Or even about fellatio. Far from it.
This is about stories and wrong timings. Or lets say about there being no timings for at least some stories. Some things are about instinct. And this one is about instinct, alright. You go with the flow, just as I am doing right now.
In my two decades in journalism, I have written about politics, done food reviews, film reviews and even the odd book review. But I have -- to my credit -- a single music review that I wrote sometime in 1991. Lack of opportunity combined splendidly with lack of knowledge of music to ensure my infinite wisdom on music remained limited to a solitary piece on what was then a young music group. I am referring to Indian Ocean.
An ode after a gap of almost two decades follows an hour on my newly acquired I-pod of listening to Indian Ocean's best works over the past decade and a half. The rum and coke were perfect accompaniments.
Not just perfect, even faithful. First time I ever went to Rana's house, and witnessed first hand the magic that the man weaves with his guitar, I distinctly remember the rum was there that night too. At some point of time we ran out of coke, but there was enough rum and music to make that evening rather special.
Rana is Sushmit. Sushmit Sen. A friend, a serious rum drinker and a guitarist extraordinaire. When we first met, he was already a famous rum drinker, and his reputation as a guitarist of considerable talent was only growing. Now his impressive CV has another highlight -- a friend of yours truly for almost close to two decades.
That first evening at his house in Mayur Vihar, he first fiddled with, then fine tuned his guitar as we settled down with rather generous measures of Old Monk. As he started playing a few compositions, conversation ceased, and for the next hour or so, all those lucky to be there were transported to a world of Melancholic Ecstasy. Melancholic Ecstasy is one of the earliest compositions of Indian Ocean, it remains among one of their finest.
During the period I have known Sushmit and his group, Indian Ocean has become a household name in India amidst the more discerning music lovers, and a name to reckon with in the western music world. Sadly though, rum-soaked nights have become increasingly rare, the addas unfortunately held hostage by Indian Ocean's hectic international schedule.
All through these years, and the success they have brought, Sushmit has not changed much.He remains as bashful as ever, still preferring his guitar (he is notoriously reluctant to lend his vocals to any of the songs) to do his talking for him. He still remains more lucid at 11 pm than he is at 11 am.
Impressive as he is, Sushmit is just one of the four excellent reasons why one likes, nay loves, Indian Ocean. The other three being (not necessarily in that order) Asheem Chakravarty, Rahul Ram and Amit Kilam .The beauty of Indian Ocean's music is, and has always been, that the sum of these parts is far greater than the impressive individual parts.
I don't quite remember what exactly I had written all those years ago in that piece I had penned for Delhi Mid Day on Indian Ocean. I do remember quite clearly though that i had stated it is difficult to define, or label, a music that seduces your ears, charms your senses and then goes on to stir your soul. To the lasting credit of Indian Ocean, they continue to do the same even today.
As I listen to Maa Reva, I can't help but think how, like good rum, the music of Indian Ocean makes you feel much better at the end of each composition than you did at the beginning.
How do you describe Indian Ocean's music? When I don my music reviwer's hat, I come up with profound expressions like "when genius meets sublime". But a description closer to my heart, and one that I suspect would meet the approval of Sushmit and his band members, would be "when rum meets rhythm".
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Cinema Paradiso
Why do you go to the movies? I do, because I have been in love with them, this whole movie-viewing, movie-anticipating (oh, the thrill of the Friday, first show!), movie-dissecting (imagine, Ramesh Sippy, the guy who made Sholaay also made Bhrashtachaar?) experience for as long as I can remember.
I have loved going to the movies since I first watched Manoj Kumar’s Shaheed on a crowded ground in Diglipur. For a few years after that, I thought Manoj Kumar was Bhagat Singh.
Later, I skipped school with friends to watch the oh-so-adult Lacemaker and Gypsy
First Satyakaam and then Anand and Mili convinced me cancer was serious business. I seriously fell in love with Jessica Lange after watching Tootsie. Movies had seamlessly become part of one’s life.
Some scenes are etched in your memory for ever. I have a feeling if I ever suffer from memory loss, I will wake up the next morning and still remember the train fight sequence in Sholaay.
Or that Amitabh one-liner in Gabbar’s lair : “Kisine hilne ki koshish ki to bhun ke rakh doonga.” All through adolescence and even college days, every time I mouthed that dialogue, it would seem to usher in bodily changes – I felt I had grown taller, adding several inches to my five-foot, three-inch frame.
If school years were all about Amitabh Bachchan and RD Burman and Kishore Kumar, then college was all about Woody Allen. In my second year in college, I was persuaded by my friends to go and watch a movie called
Over the years, there have been many many great (and I dare say, several terrible, crappy ones!) films that one has seen. Too many to list here. Too many different reasons too why I liked the movies that I have. Some for their music (Teri Kasam), some for the action (remember James Coburn in that knife throwing sequence in The Magnificent Seven?), some for the photography (A Walk in the Clouds) and others simply because they were such great movies.
But I guess if I had to choose one reason, one solitary reason, why I like the movies so much, then it has to be the dialogue. Those lovely, lovely lines that my favourite screen personalities mouth, the one liners that “make your day.” My sentimental favourite are the opening and closing lines of Annie Hall, regarded by many as Woody Allen's finest movie .
Opening lines of ANNIE HALL :
Alvy Singer : [addressing the camera] There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly. The... the other important joke, for me, is one that's usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but, I think it appears originally in Freud's "Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious," and it goes like this - I'm paraphrasing - um, "I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member." That's the key joke of my adult life, in terms of my relationships with women.
Closing lines of ANNIE HALL :Alvy Singer : [narrating] After that it got pretty late, and we both had to go, but it was great seeing Annie again. I... I realized what a terrific person she was, and... and how much fun it was just knowing her; and I... I, I thought of that old joke, y'know, the, this... this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships; y'know, they're totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd, and... but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us... need the eggs.
The following is a collection of some of my favourites, and I bet yours too. Have fun…
Receptionist : How do you write women so well?
Melvin Udall : I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.
Isaac Davis : I had a mad impulse to throw you down on the lunar surface and commit interstellar perversion.
Hawkeye : No wonder they execute people at dawn. Who wants to live at
John McClane : Hey, Carmine, let me ask you something. What sets off the metal detectors first? The lead in your ass or the shit in your brains?
[under his breath]
- DIE HARD 2
Harry : Had my dream again where I'm making love, and the Olympic judges are watching. I'd nailed the compulsories, so this is it, the finals. I got a 9.8 from the Canadians, a perfect 10 from the Americans, and my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gave me a 5.6. Must have been the dismount.
- WHEN HARRY MET SALLY
Gareth : I've got a new theory about marriage. Two people are in love, they live together, and then suddenly one day, they run out of conversation.
Charles : Uh-huh.
Gareth : Totally. I mean they can't think of a single thing to say to each other. That's it: panic! Then suddenly it-it occurs to the chap that there is a way out of the deadlock.
Charles : Which is?
Gareth : He'll ask her to marry him.
Charles : Brilliant! Brilliant!
Gareth : Suddenly they've got something to talk about for the rest of their lives.
Charles : Basically you're saying marriage is just a way of getting out of an embarrassing pause in conversation.
Gareth : The definitive icebreaker.
- FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL
[after learning Mickey is infertile]
Hannah : Could you have ruined yourself somehow?
Mickey : How could I ruin myself?
Hannah : I don't know. Excessive masturbation?
Mickey : You gonna start knockin' my hobbies?
- HANNAH AND HER SISTERS
Alvy Singer : Hey, Harvard makes mistakes too! Kissinger taught there!
- ANNIE HALL
Melvin Udall : People who talk in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.
- AS GOOD AS IT GETS
Mary Wilke : Don't psychoanalyze me. I pay a doctor for that.
Isaac Davis : Hey, you call that guy that you talk to a doctor? I mean, you don't get suspicious when your analyst calls you at home at three in the morning and weeps into the telephone?
Mary Wilke : All right, so he's unorthodox. He's a highly qualified doctor.
Isac Davis : He's done a great job on you, y'know. Your self esteem is like a notch below Kafka's.
[Sgt. Zale, drunk, has broken his hand]
B.J. : Congratulations, Sergeant. You've just turned your right hand into a maraca. Once I set it, you can sit in with the relief band.
Zale : How come I don't feel no pain?
B.J. : It's swimming upstream against the bourbon.
- M*A*S*H
Melvin Udall : Never, never, interrupt me, okay? Not if there's a fire, not even if you hear the sound of a thud from my home and one week later there's a smell coming from there that can only be a decaying human body and you have to hold a hanky to your face because the stench is so thick that you think you're going to faint. Even then, don't come knocking. Or, if it's election night, and you're excited and you wanna celebrate because some fudgepacker that you date has been elected the first queer president of the United States and he's going to have you down to Camp David, and you want someone to share the moment with. Even then, don't knock. Not on this door. Not for ANY reason. Do you get me, sweetheart?
Simon Bishop: [clears his throat] Uhm, yes. It's not a... subtle point that you're making.
Melvin Udall : Okay then.
Shuts door in Simon's face
- AS GOOD AS IT GETS
Jess : Marriages don't break up on account of infidelity. It's just a symptom that something else is wrong.
Harry Burns : Oh really? Well, that "symptom" is fucking my wife.
- WHEN HARRY MET SALLY
Hawkeye : Frank, you are 10 of the most boring people I know.
- M*A*S*H
Melvin Udall : Where do they teach you to talk like this? In some
- AS GOOD AS IT GETS
[Harry and Sally discussing orgasms]
Sally : Most women at one time or another have faked it.
Harry : Well, they haven't faked it with me.
Sally : How do you know?
Harry : Because I know.
Sally : Oh. Right. Thats right. I forgot. Youre a man.
Harry : What was that supposed to mean?
Sally : Nothing. Its just that all men are sure it never happened to them and all women at one time or other have done it so you do the math.
- WHEN HARRY MET SALLY
Melvin Udall : What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you're that pissed that so many others had it good.
- AS GOOD AS IT GETS
Friday, March 21, 2008
The Monk Who Gave Up Murighonto
You can give up booze. Or quit smoking. Forget the kosha mnagsho. You can live in serious self denial. You can turn vegetarian and author the cult classic among veggie foodies, called The Monk Who Gave Up Murighonto. You can do yoga and become Baba Rajon Dev. But still there is no saving you unless you can handle stress.
About this time, a couple of years ago, I had got official confirmation that my heart was under serious attack. I was told my heart functions were down to ten percent, two arteries were blocked, hundred per cent and that 15 per cent of my heart was damaged beyond redemption (I swear there have been moments in my life when I had thought the percentage was far higher than fifteen, but hell, I wasn't going to quibble with a little bit of good news coming my way!). And that I had survived to tell the tale was due to a rare combination of good fortune and solid medical skill.
Recent figures show a high number of Indian professionals suffering from heart diseases and other stress-related ailments compared to their western counterparts, who share the same work space. One tried to figure out why and this is what one found: From Monday morning onwards till about Friday evening, the Indian professional and his western colleague follow the same lifestyle. They work in the same office, deal with similar problems, more or less the same set of people, handle the same amount of stress. On Friday evening everything changes.
The western colleague's wife or girl friend shows up in office, they leave together for a long drive to may be Rishikesh. Pitch their tent on the bank of The Ganges. Have a can of cold beer (yes, you Bajrang Dal morons, you get beer in Rishikesh) and make wild love under a starlit sky. After two more days he shows up in office on Monday morning, refreshed and ready to tackle whatever life can think up to throw at him.
What about his Indian colleague? Let us now take a sneak peek into his awesome weekend. Friday evening as he parks his car outside his home, a cheery phone call from the wifey : "Sorry, forgot to tell you, the Kapoors are coming for dinner.” For the sake of general bonhomie and domestic peace, let the Indian colleague be known as Sandeep. Sandeep and Amit had once worked in the same organization and now kept in touch because their children go to the same school.
Sandeep quickly visualized the evening that lay ahead him. The teetotaller Amit will regale you with his inside take on the furious corporate battle in his office for the post of executive vice-president and how he has managed to stay one step ahead of the competition. Meanwhile, his wife will not-so-discretely show off her new diamond ring and you try not to squirm as your wife fixes you with an accusatory look. The deal is, as the evening wears on, if you can keep a straight face and look suitably impressed, you are allowed a fantasy. You are allowed to fantasize who should you kill first -- your guests, for doing this to you on a Friday evening, or your wife, who should have known better. That particular fantasy, I am told, is therapeutic.
Saturday mornings can be charming, if you don't mind fraternizing with electricians and plumbers. The almirah door that practically came off the hinges, the leaky faucet that floods your bathroom, the electric iron that could stand trial on attempt-to-elctrocute charges -- they have been patiently waiting for your personal intervention on this balmy Saturday morning.
The evenings can be oh-so-much-fun. Just after your child takes a break from watching cartoons and an hour before Ekta Kapoor enters your life, voila, the TV is all yours. If you are lucky, you can catch a few overs of a cricket match not featuring India (BIG stress issue that, watching India get thrashed, any cardiologist worth his salt would tell you).
Sundays, one is spoilt for choices. You could either drive down to the airport to pick up your aunt and go for a leisurely lunch with parents, wife, child and the newly arrived aunt. Or, may be, go over and say hello to your in-laws. Of course, the good nephew that you are, ideally you would take her for some shopping in the evening, which the rest of the family would so much enjoy too. After all, these spanking new shopping malls need to be patronised too. And since you are into movies, you can catch a movie at the nearby multiplex. Once again you are spoilt for choice. You could go for The Motorcycle Diaries or the arty but trendy Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi. You wisely settle for Salaam-e-Ishq ("darun music" your mother says, "it has Salman Khan", wife beams, and then the clincher, "the little one will love it").
After that rocking weekend, as you meet up with your white colleague, brush a tuft of the Rishikesh grass off his shirt collar, you fight a murderous urge to throttle the next man who uttered the word "S T R E S S".
The lesson in all this ? SIMPLE. You can't combine a western week with an Indian weekend or vice versa.
The jury is still out on who is winning the battle between me and stress. But I am glad to observe others are faring decidedly better. There is a friend in Punjab who has hit upon this splendid vacation idea -- he is sending his wife and son on a forty-day paid holiday to the United States. He meanwhile will chill out at his modest 1000-acre farm, doing all those things that millionaire farmers do when their wife and child holiday abroad. Last I heard, the jolly Sikhs in the Doaba area of Punjab were readying themselves for The Mother of All Binges.
Now THAT is one way to take care of stress.
About this time, a couple of years ago, I had got official confirmation that my heart was under serious attack. I was told my heart functions were down to ten percent, two arteries were blocked, hundred per cent and that 15 per cent of my heart was damaged beyond redemption (I swear there have been moments in my life when I had thought the percentage was far higher than fifteen, but hell, I wasn't going to quibble with a little bit of good news coming my way!). And that I had survived to tell the tale was due to a rare combination of good fortune and solid medical skill.
Recent figures show a high number of Indian professionals suffering from heart diseases and other stress-related ailments compared to their western counterparts, who share the same work space. One tried to figure out why and this is what one found: From Monday morning onwards till about Friday evening, the Indian professional and his western colleague follow the same lifestyle. They work in the same office, deal with similar problems, more or less the same set of people, handle the same amount of stress. On Friday evening everything changes.
The western colleague's wife or girl friend shows up in office, they leave together for a long drive to may be Rishikesh. Pitch their tent on the bank of The Ganges. Have a can of cold beer (yes, you Bajrang Dal morons, you get beer in Rishikesh) and make wild love under a starlit sky. After two more days he shows up in office on Monday morning, refreshed and ready to tackle whatever life can think up to throw at him.
What about his Indian colleague? Let us now take a sneak peek into his awesome weekend. Friday evening as he parks his car outside his home, a cheery phone call from the wifey : "Sorry, forgot to tell you, the Kapoors are coming for dinner.” For the sake of general bonhomie and domestic peace, let the Indian colleague be known as Sandeep. Sandeep and Amit had once worked in the same organization and now kept in touch because their children go to the same school.
Sandeep quickly visualized the evening that lay ahead him. The teetotaller Amit will regale you with his inside take on the furious corporate battle in his office for the post of executive vice-president and how he has managed to stay one step ahead of the competition. Meanwhile, his wife will not-so-discretely show off her new diamond ring and you try not to squirm as your wife fixes you with an accusatory look. The deal is, as the evening wears on, if you can keep a straight face and look suitably impressed, you are allowed a fantasy. You are allowed to fantasize who should you kill first -- your guests, for doing this to you on a Friday evening, or your wife, who should have known better. That particular fantasy, I am told, is therapeutic.
Saturday mornings can be charming, if you don't mind fraternizing with electricians and plumbers. The almirah door that practically came off the hinges, the leaky faucet that floods your bathroom, the electric iron that could stand trial on attempt-to-elctrocute charges -- they have been patiently waiting for your personal intervention on this balmy Saturday morning.
The evenings can be oh-so-much-fun. Just after your child takes a break from watching cartoons and an hour before Ekta Kapoor enters your life, voila, the TV is all yours. If you are lucky, you can catch a few overs of a cricket match not featuring India (BIG stress issue that, watching India get thrashed, any cardiologist worth his salt would tell you).
Sundays, one is spoilt for choices. You could either drive down to the airport to pick up your aunt and go for a leisurely lunch with parents, wife, child and the newly arrived aunt. Or, may be, go over and say hello to your in-laws. Of course, the good nephew that you are, ideally you would take her for some shopping in the evening, which the rest of the family would so much enjoy too. After all, these spanking new shopping malls need to be patronised too. And since you are into movies, you can catch a movie at the nearby multiplex. Once again you are spoilt for choice. You could go for The Motorcycle Diaries or the arty but trendy Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi. You wisely settle for Salaam-e-Ishq ("darun music" your mother says, "it has Salman Khan", wife beams, and then the clincher, "the little one will love it").
After that rocking weekend, as you meet up with your white colleague, brush a tuft of the Rishikesh grass off his shirt collar, you fight a murderous urge to throttle the next man who uttered the word "S T R E S S".
The lesson in all this ? SIMPLE. You can't combine a western week with an Indian weekend or vice versa.
The jury is still out on who is winning the battle between me and stress. But I am glad to observe others are faring decidedly better. There is a friend in Punjab who has hit upon this splendid vacation idea -- he is sending his wife and son on a forty-day paid holiday to the United States. He meanwhile will chill out at his modest 1000-acre farm, doing all those things that millionaire farmers do when their wife and child holiday abroad. Last I heard, the jolly Sikhs in the Doaba area of Punjab were readying themselves for The Mother of All Binges.
Now THAT is one way to take care of stress.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Marlboro Musings
I haven’t yet written the novel that I think I have in my mind. But every time I have pictured myself writing that novel, I have, in my mind’s eye, seen a polished mahogany table and a wine coloured wooden chair. The table and the chair are placed against a big glass window, from where one has a spectacular view of the ocean.
On the uncharacteristically neatly arranged table, apart from the Toshiba laptop (the one gifted by Sanjay) there is a tall glass of dark rum, an wooden ashtray and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Both the glass of rum (and never a glass of vodka, which is my preferred poison) and the pack of cigarettes are no props. They are writing tools as much as the laptop is.
Which is a bit odd. Because, while I have always more than enjoyed my drinks, I haven’t ever been a serious smoker. I started out in school because I wanted to belong to the “gang” which smoked. It wasn’t until college someone pointed out that I was merely puffing and not inhaling. Even today the Marlboro Lights are only an accompaniment to the Smirnoff.
The Marloboro Musings come to you, thanks to a wonderful film I watched last night. Front Page, starring Jack Lemon and Walter Matheau. There were several engaging moments in the film, which one related to because it was about the business of news. But what really touched a button, and made these words flow, was an otherwise innocuous line from Jack Lemon. As he furiously hammers on the typewriter’s keys, frowning in concentration, he almost absent-mindedly says to Walther Matheau, without even looking at his direction: “Cigarette me.”
The crusty Matheau, otherwise never short of a word, just does what he is asked. He quietly lights a cigarette and places it between Jack Lemon’s grateful lips, even as Lemon types away without skipping a beat, and without so much as a thank you.
Cigarette me. That one line of just two words, that nonchalant demand for the cigarette, brought a thousand memories flooding back. If you have ever been a journalist and a smoker and been lucky enough to have worked in those happy days when newsrooms would have as much smoke as any popular pub during peak business hour, you would know what I am talking about.
Sleeves rolled up, trying to beat the deadline, as you penned your masterpiece, sometimes you would ask to be cigaretted, on other occasions just casually raise a hand, and someone surely would light a cigarette and place it either between your fingers or between your lips.
In return you don't say thanks. Partly because that word appears inadequate as an acknowledgement. You just keep an eye out when a fellow hack is trying to beat the deadline, his hands hammering away on those unfortunate keys. You do what Matheau does. Light up and put the cigarette between his fingers or his lips.
There were those who didn’t need a cigarette even at moments like these. Between 10.30 and 11.30 every morning, for one hour and sometimes a bit more, John Dayal, the finest journalist I have ever worked with, would sit in the news pit of Mid Day, in front of a computer, and type away furiously. Mostly he would re-write the main leads, and often – depending on the quality of English or the lack of it -- he would even end up translating.
During that one hour he wouldn’t take phone calls, and you had to be either very desperate or completely daft to interrupt him. Most of us were rookies, in our first jobs. With three years behind me, I was a veteran. When John was at his work station, we all sensed something special was happening. People would speak in hushed whispers, reporters on the phone with their contacts usually kept their voices low.
At the end of that hour John would straighten his hunched shoulders in an effort to get the blood flowing back again, reach out for a cup of tea that would be waiting for him, then get up from his seat and smile at all of us. The smile was a cue for resumption of normal business, and the big hall would suddenly come back to life.
Though I have had my moments, I am not half the journalist on a good day that John ever was on his worst. In Mid Day, Thursday mornings killed me. It was the day we brought out a three-paged Sports Extra. Theoretically, inside pages were locked the evening before. But because I was often the sole writer (and some nasty folks said the sole reader too) on those sports pages, I had the rare luxury to finish my writing and make the pages on Thursday morning.
So, on Thursday mornings I would usually be the first into the office, and quickly get on with the task at hand. As the minutes ticked by, I would pound the keys on my computer, sleeves rolled, eyes glued to the screen, mind away on distant tennis courts and cricket pitches. At that moment my entire being was focussed on writing.
The only thing, the single thing I wanted, my whole being cried out for, was a cigarette. But I wouldn’t dream of stopping my typing, of locating a cigarette, and lighting it. The entire process was too time consuming, too much of a distraction.
Yet, every Thursday morning, magically, even miraculously, a colleague or a friend would almost inevitably place that lit cigarette between my lips. I can’t for the life of me, remember ever asking for that cigarette. The timing would be uncanny, the understanding perfect, as Rahul, Deepankar, Arun, Gautam or Bobby would “cigarette” me.
I spent some of my happiest years -- my first few in journalism, being cigaretted and I guess had my share of cigaretting friends and colleagues. Today after I finish this blog, I might just light up one in the memory of those good old days.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Condom Man
When I ventured into blogspace the first time, one of the few promises I had made to myself was I will try to keep the blog as diverse as possible, and not repeat myself. That doesn't seem to be quite working right now, as I am back to talking about condoms.
The provocation this time is a news item in which the National AIDS Control Organization (NACO) chief Sujatha Rao has said that India needed to find someone like the Thailand cabinet minister Mechai Viravaidya, famous for getting Thais to talk about sex, condoms and AIDS. Despite high incidence of AIDS, India suffers from chronic low usage of condoms.
The provocation this time is a news item in which the National AIDS Control Organization (NACO) chief Sujatha Rao has said that India needed to find someone like the Thailand cabinet minister Mechai Viravaidya, famous for getting Thais to talk about sex, condoms and AIDS. Despite high incidence of AIDS, India suffers from chronic low usage of condoms.
"We are serious about finding India's very own Mr Condom," Rao was quoted as saying after visiting Thailand to study its dramatic increase in condom use over the past decade, which contributed to a sharp fall in new HIV infections.
"He has to feel passionately about the cause as Mechai does. He should have a dynamic personality to change both government policy and public perceptions about HIV/AIDS, sex and condoms," Rao said.
I thought of lending Ms Rao a helping hand in her noble venture of finding India's own Condom Man, and went through a shortlist that came to my mind.
I began with the nation's politicos. A lot of them are engaging conversationalists, can start discussions on any subject. And despite allegations to the contrary, a few of them do have the nation's best interests close to their hearts. So why not one of them?
Rahul Gandhi? He could encash on the family image to start discussions on the subject. Besides, after the drubbing in Uttar Pradesh, he does desperately need an issue to catch the public eye. The Condom Man could just be his ticket to greater fame. Though the jury is still out on whether he is engaging enough to start and keep a national discussion going, he could well be the right man for this job. Also if he says 'aye', momma is going to ensure the entire state machinery was used to make the campaign a success.
If you wanted a more earthy appeal, one could always go for the colourful Indian railway minister Laloo Yadav. There is hardly a more engaging conversationalist in the public domain than the former chief minister of Bhar. But you don't want to push a man who has fathered a dozen odd children as the nation's Condom Man. Apart from that solitary tick against him, I can't think of any other reason why the man can't do the job Ms Rao wants our Condom Man to do.
I thought of a lot of other names, before discarding them quickly for one reason or the other. Some were just too old, others you thought wouldn't look quite convincing while promoting condom usage on television or other public forums.
Once I moved away from politicians, the first two names that immediately came to my mind were, of course, Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan. Between the two of them, King Khan and Big B have endorsed most things available on God's earth, except for nuclear weapons and condoms. You can get either, even better, both of them to endorse different condom brands. They could talk about condoms on TV, preach the message of their usage in their films. Or Ms Rao can even get them to take turns to host a show on the lines of KBC. Instead of a quiz of general knowledge, this time the focus could be on condoms. We could have a KPC, Kaun Pahenega Condom (Who Will Wear A Condom) instead of a KBC.
So my first choice is bit of an either-or choice. It could be Bachchan Senior. And it very well could be Shahrukh. If not them, then....
... How about Rajnikant? Can you visualise him, exhorting viewers to have a little chitchat about condoms just before the start of every screening of Shivaji, his latest blockbuster? What if he were to announce that everyone purchasing a ticket for the movie would have to purchase a condom too? Can you imagine the spurt in condom sales? The campaign would be a stupendous success, given Rajni's phenomenal fan following in the south India.
If you are looking for a similar impact in the eastern part of the country, then the best bet would be Sourav Ganguly. The former Indian cricket captain could wax eloquent on how important it is for a batsman to have the right rubber on the bat handle. If Dada says he uses condoms, a large part of Kolkata, and Bengal, might suddenly become more condom-friendly.
But, nothing like Bollywood biggies to drive home the message though. Apart from Big B and King Khan, there is Karan Johar. Seriously, guys, what do you think about Karan Johar as a condom ambassador?
We could have a chat show like Kondom with Karan, a la Koffee with Karan. And Karan asking Bollywood studs Salman Khan or Sunjay Dutt probling questions like "So, when did you first use a condom?" Oh, the mouthwatering prospect of a whole nation glued to their TV sets waiting to hear the answer to that one. And the piece de resistance at the end of the programme -- a condom hamper for the participant. Not just condom sales, I can visualise the TRP ratings going through the roof.
And once condoms are spelt with a K on Karan Johar's show, I'm sure even Ekta Kapoor may be persuaded to support the Kondom campaign. She might start a new soap. And who knows one day, Mera Kondom, Sirf Mera Hai on Star Plus may compete with Mujhe Mere Kondoms Lauta Do on Zee Network. Oh it's such a pity Ms. Kapoor is a woman, she would have been a top contender for the job. But the job profile in this case demands the candidate to be only a male.
Abhishek Bachchan? Fellow's got newly married. A perfect candidate to talk about condom usage you would think. Honestly though he doesn't exactly grab you as a national condom icon, does he?
If you look away from Bollywood, how about our Kapil Paaji (brother)? The man who appeared on our TV screens allthose years ago and said with such style, Palmolive da jawab nahin. I can close my eyes and picture him saying just as easily : Kohinoor da jawab nahin. I mean why not? He's as macho as they come and has a terrific following in Jatland. For the Haryanvis the message would be loud and clear -- if a son of the soil like Kapil Paaji can use a condom, then why not them.
Looking beyond Bollywood and cricket, there's the adman Suhel Seth. Since you are looking for someone who can talk about condoms, get a discussion going on the subject, then who better than Suhel? Over the past few years, I can't remember a television discussion that didn't feature him. From Indo-US nuclear deal to rise in sex crimes in the national capital to gay marriages to price rise, the man can talk endlessly till the cows go home. Or he can talk till you decide to become a condom user. Only if it is to shut him up.
So, you see, a myriad of possibilities. An interesting list of people to choose from and I am sure Ms. Rao would be considering a clutch of other names, too.
May the best man win. Amen.
I began with the nation's politicos. A lot of them are engaging conversationalists, can start discussions on any subject. And despite allegations to the contrary, a few of them do have the nation's best interests close to their hearts. So why not one of them?
Rahul Gandhi? He could encash on the family image to start discussions on the subject. Besides, after the drubbing in Uttar Pradesh, he does desperately need an issue to catch the public eye. The Condom Man could just be his ticket to greater fame. Though the jury is still out on whether he is engaging enough to start and keep a national discussion going, he could well be the right man for this job. Also if he says 'aye', momma is going to ensure the entire state machinery was used to make the campaign a success.
If you wanted a more earthy appeal, one could always go for the colourful Indian railway minister Laloo Yadav. There is hardly a more engaging conversationalist in the public domain than the former chief minister of Bhar. But you don't want to push a man who has fathered a dozen odd children as the nation's Condom Man. Apart from that solitary tick against him, I can't think of any other reason why the man can't do the job Ms Rao wants our Condom Man to do.
I thought of a lot of other names, before discarding them quickly for one reason or the other. Some were just too old, others you thought wouldn't look quite convincing while promoting condom usage on television or other public forums.
Once I moved away from politicians, the first two names that immediately came to my mind were, of course, Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan. Between the two of them, King Khan and Big B have endorsed most things available on God's earth, except for nuclear weapons and condoms. You can get either, even better, both of them to endorse different condom brands. They could talk about condoms on TV, preach the message of their usage in their films. Or Ms Rao can even get them to take turns to host a show on the lines of KBC. Instead of a quiz of general knowledge, this time the focus could be on condoms. We could have a KPC, Kaun Pahenega Condom (Who Will Wear A Condom) instead of a KBC.
So my first choice is bit of an either-or choice. It could be Bachchan Senior. And it very well could be Shahrukh. If not them, then....
... How about Rajnikant? Can you visualise him, exhorting viewers to have a little chitchat about condoms just before the start of every screening of Shivaji, his latest blockbuster? What if he were to announce that everyone purchasing a ticket for the movie would have to purchase a condom too? Can you imagine the spurt in condom sales? The campaign would be a stupendous success, given Rajni's phenomenal fan following in the south India.
If you are looking for a similar impact in the eastern part of the country, then the best bet would be Sourav Ganguly. The former Indian cricket captain could wax eloquent on how important it is for a batsman to have the right rubber on the bat handle. If Dada says he uses condoms, a large part of Kolkata, and Bengal, might suddenly become more condom-friendly.
But, nothing like Bollywood biggies to drive home the message though. Apart from Big B and King Khan, there is Karan Johar. Seriously, guys, what do you think about Karan Johar as a condom ambassador?
We could have a chat show like Kondom with Karan, a la Koffee with Karan. And Karan asking Bollywood studs Salman Khan or Sunjay Dutt probling questions like "So, when did you first use a condom?" Oh, the mouthwatering prospect of a whole nation glued to their TV sets waiting to hear the answer to that one. And the piece de resistance at the end of the programme -- a condom hamper for the participant. Not just condom sales, I can visualise the TRP ratings going through the roof.
And once condoms are spelt with a K on Karan Johar's show, I'm sure even Ekta Kapoor may be persuaded to support the Kondom campaign. She might start a new soap. And who knows one day, Mera Kondom, Sirf Mera Hai on Star Plus may compete with Mujhe Mere Kondoms Lauta Do on Zee Network. Oh it's such a pity Ms. Kapoor is a woman, she would have been a top contender for the job. But the job profile in this case demands the candidate to be only a male.
Abhishek Bachchan? Fellow's got newly married. A perfect candidate to talk about condom usage you would think. Honestly though he doesn't exactly grab you as a national condom icon, does he?
If you look away from Bollywood, how about our Kapil Paaji (brother)? The man who appeared on our TV screens allthose years ago and said with such style, Palmolive da jawab nahin. I can close my eyes and picture him saying just as easily : Kohinoor da jawab nahin. I mean why not? He's as macho as they come and has a terrific following in Jatland. For the Haryanvis the message would be loud and clear -- if a son of the soil like Kapil Paaji can use a condom, then why not them.
Looking beyond Bollywood and cricket, there's the adman Suhel Seth. Since you are looking for someone who can talk about condoms, get a discussion going on the subject, then who better than Suhel? Over the past few years, I can't remember a television discussion that didn't feature him. From Indo-US nuclear deal to rise in sex crimes in the national capital to gay marriages to price rise, the man can talk endlessly till the cows go home. Or he can talk till you decide to become a condom user. Only if it is to shut him up.
So, you see, a myriad of possibilities. An interesting list of people to choose from and I am sure Ms. Rao would be considering a clutch of other names, too.
May the best man win. Amen.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Straight From Her Heart ...
I had been thinking of writing a meaningful blog on the occasion of The International Women's Day. Thought I would reflect on the women I have known, even write about someone whom I have found inspirational. And then I chanced upon this. Random thoughts that had escaped her mind (or was it her heart?) Once I read what she wrote, I felt a tad foolish about what I had been planning to write. She happens to be my better (by a long way) half...
At times you don't know what to write but you still feel an urge to say things. Nothing in particular, probably just to convince yourself there is still something happening in your life except the mundane daily chores of getting up in the morning, not quite relishing your cup of bed tea (as there is always a backlog of work bothering your mind so much that a cup of tea means a criminal act of wasting those precious five minutes!), then taking a (not so) luxurious two-and-a-half minute bubble bath.
Then the vigorous exercise of waking up the little one, who secretly -- and sometimes not-so-secretly -- wishes every morning the day to be declared a holiday, giving him a minute-long bath and then a never ending argument with him about his attire (I never quite understood why they don't have school uniforms at the nursery level!). In winters he refuses to be stuffed with multiple-layered woolens, according to him, it makes him look fat and un-smart. And in the summers the luxury of an air-conditioned room doesn't let him leave the bed. So, you see, he can't be blamed for reaching school just a minute before the main gate is closed.
Me leaving the house with hair uncombed, carrying my son's yellow coloured Pokemon's school bag, two office leather bags and a bowl containing a boiled egg (that's my breakfast every morning). Needless to say, I detest having it, but don't have the energy to bother my mind to decide on a more convenient and an easier thing to carry which I can munch while driving and dropping my son to school and realizing I am late as always for office.
All I can do is pray I don't get a maddening traffic like I did the day before, and, of course, my prayers are never answered. The 16-kilometer stretch has made me a make-up expert, as at one traffic intersection I apply a kaajal (my eyes look sad without it, someone once told me and I guess I have taken it too seriously!), at the next intersection a lip gloss (which reminds me I need to change this one, as it must be a year old) and at the next one, I comb my hair.
I get a call from my boss, who despite being a sweetheart, calculates the working man hours better than any mathematician would. I tell him I am in the parking lot trying to find a space which can somehow accommodate my charming grey Santro Zing (my favourite possession which tolerates all kinds of tortures inflicted by me, in terms of maintenance). The minute-long walk from the parking lot to the office is killing, as i know there is a mail in my inbox, saying : "Meenu, you are doing a great job, but you need to work on your morning arrival. I wonder who invented this term "but", as it completely leaves the part of the statement before it insignificant.
Work begins at 10 and ends at 6 and it is time to start preparing MIS for 11 girls, editing, sending mailers, saying that the same mistake is repeated and is unacceptable if this happens every day. Does that sound like a warning at all? I don't simply hate man management but even dread it, as it is something I need to work on. I have been trying to improve my man management skills since i don't remember when.
By the time I reach home, I hope to relax and enjoy watching some television, or listening to some good, even soulful, music. But as I drag my weary body through the door, I find -- to my dismay -- on one television set a Bengali woman sobbing hysterically after she discovers she has been cheated by her husband. On the other TV, Popeye has finally got an opportunity to smooch his gal and my son's eyes are glued to the screen as if he is one of the characters of the cartoon series.
Equidistant from the two television sets, my husband has this huge pair of earphones clamped on his ears, in a desperate attempt to avoid the sobbing woman and the love-struck Popeye, and there is a loooong gap between the "hi" and "how was the day". I wish the answer was any different any day.
And, sitting here in my office, I secretly wish to myself, Happy Women's Day !!!
At times you don't know what to write but you still feel an urge to say things. Nothing in particular, probably just to convince yourself there is still something happening in your life except the mundane daily chores of getting up in the morning, not quite relishing your cup of bed tea (as there is always a backlog of work bothering your mind so much that a cup of tea means a criminal act of wasting those precious five minutes!), then taking a (not so) luxurious two-and-a-half minute bubble bath.
Then the vigorous exercise of waking up the little one, who secretly -- and sometimes not-so-secretly -- wishes every morning the day to be declared a holiday, giving him a minute-long bath and then a never ending argument with him about his attire (I never quite understood why they don't have school uniforms at the nursery level!). In winters he refuses to be stuffed with multiple-layered woolens, according to him, it makes him look fat and un-smart. And in the summers the luxury of an air-conditioned room doesn't let him leave the bed. So, you see, he can't be blamed for reaching school just a minute before the main gate is closed.
Me leaving the house with hair uncombed, carrying my son's yellow coloured Pokemon's school bag, two office leather bags and a bowl containing a boiled egg (that's my breakfast every morning). Needless to say, I detest having it, but don't have the energy to bother my mind to decide on a more convenient and an easier thing to carry which I can munch while driving and dropping my son to school and realizing I am late as always for office.
All I can do is pray I don't get a maddening traffic like I did the day before, and, of course, my prayers are never answered. The 16-kilometer stretch has made me a make-up expert, as at one traffic intersection I apply a kaajal (my eyes look sad without it, someone once told me and I guess I have taken it too seriously!), at the next intersection a lip gloss (which reminds me I need to change this one, as it must be a year old) and at the next one, I comb my hair.
I get a call from my boss, who despite being a sweetheart, calculates the working man hours better than any mathematician would. I tell him I am in the parking lot trying to find a space which can somehow accommodate my charming grey Santro Zing (my favourite possession which tolerates all kinds of tortures inflicted by me, in terms of maintenance). The minute-long walk from the parking lot to the office is killing, as i know there is a mail in my inbox, saying : "Meenu, you are doing a great job, but you need to work on your morning arrival. I wonder who invented this term "but", as it completely leaves the part of the statement before it insignificant.
Work begins at 10 and ends at 6 and it is time to start preparing MIS for 11 girls, editing, sending mailers, saying that the same mistake is repeated and is unacceptable if this happens every day. Does that sound like a warning at all? I don't simply hate man management but even dread it, as it is something I need to work on. I have been trying to improve my man management skills since i don't remember when.
By the time I reach home, I hope to relax and enjoy watching some television, or listening to some good, even soulful, music. But as I drag my weary body through the door, I find -- to my dismay -- on one television set a Bengali woman sobbing hysterically after she discovers she has been cheated by her husband. On the other TV, Popeye has finally got an opportunity to smooch his gal and my son's eyes are glued to the screen as if he is one of the characters of the cartoon series.
Equidistant from the two television sets, my husband has this huge pair of earphones clamped on his ears, in a desperate attempt to avoid the sobbing woman and the love-struck Popeye, and there is a loooong gap between the "hi" and "how was the day". I wish the answer was any different any day.
And, sitting here in my office, I secretly wish to myself, Happy Women's Day !!!
Monday, March 10, 2008
RSS And The Business Of Pleasure
Oh, the poor, poor Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh. For the boys in khaki, life has been on a downward spiral since those heady days of the Gujarat riots of 2002 when the Moslems were taught that M-O-D-I wasn't just a four-letter word. Since then, though, the successes have been few and far in between, and the list of failures is growing.
Recently, the Bharatiya Janata Party has had trouble finding a leader who can lead the party in the next general elections. Their best bet for the job, old pro Atal Behari Vajepayee's is not keeping very good health. The current party president Rajnath Singh isn't taken too seriously within his own party circles. Which ensured the selection of an aging LK Advani for the job.
As if the party's leadership issues were not bothersome enough, now the fornicating billion (It is logical, silly, you have to fornicate and fornicate a lot to get to a billion and more) are upto their nasty tricks. Thankfully nothing eludes the hawkeyed boys in khaki. So they eventually caught up with the dastardly act of mixing the business of sex with a lot of pleasure.
I am referring to the issue of vibrating condoms, that has stirred the nation and shaken the Swayamsevak rank and file.
Apparently, the pack of three condoms, branded as Crezendo, contains a battery-operated ring-like device. Once the battery is switched on, the device works pretty much like a vibrator. A promotional message from the company, Hindustan Latex Limited, describes Crezendo as a product that "provides ultimate pleasure by producing strong vibrations."
The company had launched Crezendo three months ago. At that time no one said anything about the vibrating ring. But now the truth is in the open. We know now that the vibrating condom is in fact a vibrator and a condom, thanks to the alertness of a Sangh loyalist in the Madhya Pradesh government, Kailash Vijayvargiya.
An angry Vijayvargiya told the BBC recently, "The government's job is to promote family planning and population control measures, rather than market products for sexual pleasure." Subsequently, a company spokesman for Hindustan Latex Limited has confessed the vibrating ring was "a pleasure enhancer", but insisted it was not a "sex toy".
Naughty, that. Sex is ok, according to the RSS, and even according to the Indian government. But pleasure? We all know, that's not on. It is only for a good reason that sex toys are banned in India.
As redfaced HLL officials go blue in the face explaining the finer differences between a sex toy and a pleasure enhancer, the good Sanghi, Vijayvargiya has dashed off a letter to prime minister Manmohan Singh, warning that the sale of sex toys in India would have "severe consequences in society".
Many years ago, and only after much deliberations at the RSS headquarters in Nagpur, it was decided to okay the use of condoms. But not without reservations, for the Sangh has never looked favourably upon any sexual act that doesn't lead to procreation, and the condom is specifically meant to prevent procreation.
However, one thing helped swing the vote in favour of the condoms. Almost all its users had unequivocally stressed that it lowered the pleasure level during intercourse. Now that mightily pleased the RSS bosses. They knew what pleasure could do. For one thing, it could make people happy. Happy people are inclined to think independently and have been historically known to fight firecely for the independence of their thought process. If allowed to be happy, who knows what they might think of the RSS tomorrow, reasoned the reasonable men of RSS. So, they, in principle, okayed the use of condom.
But this vbirating condom is clearly a bit of a much. Expecting the RSS to do nothing about it is stretching the Sangh generosity beyond a level even a condom maker can't guarantee its highest quality rubber to do.
Though sex toys are officially banned in this country, in Delhi's underground market (a physical fact, not to be mistaken as a metaphor) Palika Bazar, one can buy a range of vibrators. Other toys like strapon dildos and customised sex dolls can be discretely supplied if one so desired.
I asked one of the suppliers if the business wasn't fraught with risks and if he feared a backlash from the RSS or other custodians of Indian culture. His response was rather interesting. "Nahi (no) sir, it is because of their continued hostility the government can't officially allow the import of sex toys. Which is good for our business." The demand is always high and the margins are very good, he said with a grin. The inflated dolls, I gathered, are sold at rather inflated prices.
Meanwhile, my own investigations into the offending, I mean vibrating, condom has reached a cul de sac of sorts. I checked with my friendly neighbourhood chemist and he said he had run out of the vibrating condoms. All the controversy was very good for the business. "They just vanished off my shelves," he said. Elsewhere, HLL is understood to have taken the confoms off the shelves after being made aware of their erring ways by Mr. Vijayvargiya.
So, for now, the hardworking Swayamsevaks can heave a sigh of relief. If the much-venerated RSS mouthpiece, The Organiser was anything like a Times of India or a Hindustan Times, the next issue might even have carried the story of the successful campaign against vibrating condoms, with RSS IMPACT printed in bold.
I have this naughty naughty friend who is into these inflated dolls and first told me about their availability in Palika Bazar. Clearly a heathen himself, he has no understanding at all about the workings of the RSS. He is worried if the boys in khaki, emboldened by the stunning success of the campaign against vibrating condoms might muscle into influencing other areas of sexual behaviour. I asked him, like what? Like the RSS leadership doesn't have anything else on its mind.
But that is beyond the comprehension of lesser mortals like him. So he continued to pester me with his unending queries : "Umm, what if the RSS tomorrow said masturbation was bad too and banned it. I mean that too gives you pleasure and doesn't contribute in any way to procreation."
Admittedly, he had a point there. There was the issue of pleasure involved and also no connection with procreation. And then my clarity of thought, my wisdom, honed for years by the Sangh's way of thinking, returned.
Silly fellow, I told him, how can any organisation with swayam seva (self help) as its central theme be ever opposed to masturbation? Now, THAT shut up the thick head for good.
Recently, the Bharatiya Janata Party has had trouble finding a leader who can lead the party in the next general elections. Their best bet for the job, old pro Atal Behari Vajepayee's is not keeping very good health. The current party president Rajnath Singh isn't taken too seriously within his own party circles. Which ensured the selection of an aging LK Advani for the job.
As if the party's leadership issues were not bothersome enough, now the fornicating billion (It is logical, silly, you have to fornicate and fornicate a lot to get to a billion and more) are upto their nasty tricks. Thankfully nothing eludes the hawkeyed boys in khaki. So they eventually caught up with the dastardly act of mixing the business of sex with a lot of pleasure.
I am referring to the issue of vibrating condoms, that has stirred the nation and shaken the Swayamsevak rank and file.
Apparently, the pack of three condoms, branded as Crezendo, contains a battery-operated ring-like device. Once the battery is switched on, the device works pretty much like a vibrator. A promotional message from the company, Hindustan Latex Limited, describes Crezendo as a product that "provides ultimate pleasure by producing strong vibrations."
The company had launched Crezendo three months ago. At that time no one said anything about the vibrating ring. But now the truth is in the open. We know now that the vibrating condom is in fact a vibrator and a condom, thanks to the alertness of a Sangh loyalist in the Madhya Pradesh government, Kailash Vijayvargiya.
An angry Vijayvargiya told the BBC recently, "The government's job is to promote family planning and population control measures, rather than market products for sexual pleasure." Subsequently, a company spokesman for Hindustan Latex Limited has confessed the vibrating ring was "a pleasure enhancer", but insisted it was not a "sex toy".
Naughty, that. Sex is ok, according to the RSS, and even according to the Indian government. But pleasure? We all know, that's not on. It is only for a good reason that sex toys are banned in India.
As redfaced HLL officials go blue in the face explaining the finer differences between a sex toy and a pleasure enhancer, the good Sanghi, Vijayvargiya has dashed off a letter to prime minister Manmohan Singh, warning that the sale of sex toys in India would have "severe consequences in society".
Many years ago, and only after much deliberations at the RSS headquarters in Nagpur, it was decided to okay the use of condoms. But not without reservations, for the Sangh has never looked favourably upon any sexual act that doesn't lead to procreation, and the condom is specifically meant to prevent procreation.
However, one thing helped swing the vote in favour of the condoms. Almost all its users had unequivocally stressed that it lowered the pleasure level during intercourse. Now that mightily pleased the RSS bosses. They knew what pleasure could do. For one thing, it could make people happy. Happy people are inclined to think independently and have been historically known to fight firecely for the independence of their thought process. If allowed to be happy, who knows what they might think of the RSS tomorrow, reasoned the reasonable men of RSS. So, they, in principle, okayed the use of condom.
But this vbirating condom is clearly a bit of a much. Expecting the RSS to do nothing about it is stretching the Sangh generosity beyond a level even a condom maker can't guarantee its highest quality rubber to do.
Though sex toys are officially banned in this country, in Delhi's underground market (a physical fact, not to be mistaken as a metaphor) Palika Bazar, one can buy a range of vibrators. Other toys like strapon dildos and customised sex dolls can be discretely supplied if one so desired.
I asked one of the suppliers if the business wasn't fraught with risks and if he feared a backlash from the RSS or other custodians of Indian culture. His response was rather interesting. "Nahi (no) sir, it is because of their continued hostility the government can't officially allow the import of sex toys. Which is good for our business." The demand is always high and the margins are very good, he said with a grin. The inflated dolls, I gathered, are sold at rather inflated prices.
Meanwhile, my own investigations into the offending, I mean vibrating, condom has reached a cul de sac of sorts. I checked with my friendly neighbourhood chemist and he said he had run out of the vibrating condoms. All the controversy was very good for the business. "They just vanished off my shelves," he said. Elsewhere, HLL is understood to have taken the confoms off the shelves after being made aware of their erring ways by Mr. Vijayvargiya.
So, for now, the hardworking Swayamsevaks can heave a sigh of relief. If the much-venerated RSS mouthpiece, The Organiser was anything like a Times of India or a Hindustan Times, the next issue might even have carried the story of the successful campaign against vibrating condoms, with RSS IMPACT printed in bold.
I have this naughty naughty friend who is into these inflated dolls and first told me about their availability in Palika Bazar. Clearly a heathen himself, he has no understanding at all about the workings of the RSS. He is worried if the boys in khaki, emboldened by the stunning success of the campaign against vibrating condoms might muscle into influencing other areas of sexual behaviour. I asked him, like what? Like the RSS leadership doesn't have anything else on its mind.
But that is beyond the comprehension of lesser mortals like him. So he continued to pester me with his unending queries : "Umm, what if the RSS tomorrow said masturbation was bad too and banned it. I mean that too gives you pleasure and doesn't contribute in any way to procreation."
Admittedly, he had a point there. There was the issue of pleasure involved and also no connection with procreation. And then my clarity of thought, my wisdom, honed for years by the Sangh's way of thinking, returned.
Silly fellow, I told him, how can any organisation with swayam seva (self help) as its central theme be ever opposed to masturbation? Now, THAT shut up the thick head for good.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Sukumar Ray Didn't Pen This One
I don't know who wrote this one. Had a laugh reading it. Hope you will have a good time, reading this...
Through the jongole I am went
On shooting Tiger I am bent
Boshtaard Tiger has eaten wife
No doubt I will avenge poor darling's life
Too much quiet, snakes and leeches
But I not fear these sons of beeches
Hearing loud noise I am jumping with start
But noise is coming from damn fool's heart
Taking care not to be fright
I am clutching rifle tight with eye to sight
Should Tiger come I will shoot and fall him down
Then like hero return to native town
Then through trees I am espying one cave
I am telling self - "Bannerjee be brave"
I am now proceeding with too much care
From far I smell this Tiger's lair
My leg shaking, sweat coming, I start to pray
I think I will shoot Tiger some other day
Turning round I am going to flee
But Tiger giving bloody roar spotting this Bengalee
He bounding from cave like football player Pele
I run shouting
"Kali Ma tumi kothay gele"
Through the jongole I am running
With Tiger on my tail closer looming
I am a telling that never in life
I will risk again for my damn fool wife!!!!
Through the jongole I am went
On shooting Tiger I am bent
Boshtaard Tiger has eaten wife
No doubt I will avenge poor darling's life
Too much quiet, snakes and leeches
But I not fear these sons of beeches
Hearing loud noise I am jumping with start
But noise is coming from damn fool's heart
Taking care not to be fright
I am clutching rifle tight with eye to sight
Should Tiger come I will shoot and fall him down
Then like hero return to native town
Then through trees I am espying one cave
I am telling self - "Bannerjee be brave"
I am now proceeding with too much care
From far I smell this Tiger's lair
My leg shaking, sweat coming, I start to pray
I think I will shoot Tiger some other day
Turning round I am going to flee
But Tiger giving bloody roar spotting this Bengalee
He bounding from cave like football player Pele
I run shouting
"Kali Ma tumi kothay gele"
Through the jongole I am running
With Tiger on my tail closer looming
I am a telling that never in life
I will risk again for my damn fool wife!!!!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Indians Thunder Down Under
Ishant Sharma : India's first genuine fast bowlerFinally, a one-day series win in Australia, on the back of a terrific Test series that not just Indian cricket fans believe, had all things (or may be just the umpiring) remained equal, would have gone India's way. Every time this Indian side has won in Australia, it has only driven home the unfairness at Sydney.
Lot of water has passed under the bridge since Sydney, though. India has had the measure of their hosts and more fancied opponents in both Tests as well as one-dayers, and in the process has emerged as a tough-as-nails Test unit and a combative, exciting one-day side.
There is much to celebrate. Sachin Tendulkar's return to prime batting form in both Tests as well as one-dayers. The emergence of Anil Kumble and Mahendra Singh Dhoni as two top draw captains for Test matches and the more fast and furious versions of cricket.
But perhaps the biggest cause of celebration is the emergence of Ishant Sharma as a genuine fast bowler. For the first time in the history of Indian cricket, there is a fast bowler who has crossed the 150km speed barrier. During this series, for the first time we saw an Indian fast bowler make top batsmen duck and weave with the bounce he was getting and the speed he was generating.
The high point in a series that saw many highs was surely the spell young Ishant bowled to Australian skipper Ricky Ponting on the fifth day of the Perth Test. Indians were looking for a win, and knew there was going to be no victory as long as Ponting was out in the middle. At a crucial moment of the match, Indian skipper hurled the ball to Ishant Sharma.
For the next one hour and a little more, the rookie made the master look like a novice. An inswinger cut Ponting in half, the next ball pitched at the same spot as the previous delivery, but swung the other way, beating Ponting comprehensively. Finally at the end of a nine-over long mesmerizing spell, another perfectly pitched outswinger took the edge of the Australian skipper's bat and ended Ponting's misery. India not only went on to record a famous victory, from that moment on there was a clear shift in momentum for the rest of the series.
Starting the Australia series as a rookie, Ishant Sharma ended it a couple of months later as India's new pace bowling spearhead. Once the two injured quick bowlers Zaheer Khan and RP Singh are back to their fitness, it would be interesting to see how a full strength Indian attack would fare against opposition batsmen.
If the bowling department has a healthy look about it, with the likes of Irfan Pathan, Sreesanth and Munaf Patel, the batting looks equally formidable. After a well earned rest following the tough Test series, the trio of Rahul Dravid, Sourav Ganguly and VVS Laxman are ready to join their illustrious colleague Sachin Tendulkar in the Indian middle order as India readies to face off against South Africa at home. Now with the attacking Virender Sehwag once again restored at the top of the order, the Indian Test batting line up against most teams and on most wickets appears to be almost intimidating.
It is only in the fitness of things that Sachin Tendulkar is back as numero uno in ICC one-day rankings. He batted wonderfully during the Tests, then seemed to lose his way as the one day series began, and then in the first final at Sydney scored a classy matchwinning hundred. His well-crafted 91 set up the second win in Brisbane.
The ICC rankings for Test matches currently has Tendulkar in the 12th spot. But anyone who saw him bat in Australia recently would not question his position as the world's best batsman right now.
Following the success of the youthful Indian side in the one-day triangular series in Australia, the curtain seems to have been rung down on the one-day careers of Dravid and Ganguly. There is no stopping Tendulkar though. He remains the batting mainstay of a young Indian one-day side which can only get better with time.
The younger batsmen like Gautam Gambhir, Robin Uthappa and Rohit Sharma may not inspire the sort of awe that the Indian Test batting line up does, but the young tyros did enough throughout the long one-day series to give Dhoni the confidence to drop the experienced Virender Sehwag and go with five specialist bowlers.
Gautam Gambhir finished as the top scorer in the triangular series, which included some of the world's finest batsmen -- Tendulkar, Ponting, Hayden, Symonds, Hussey, Jaywardane, and Sanghakara. Uthappa showed in the finals that he could play patiently too, giving fine starts in both Sydney and Brisbane. Earlier, on a few occasions, coming down the order he smashed the bowling all round the park.
Over the years, India has been reluctant to have different captain for one-dayers and Test matches. Now, more by accident and less by design, India has stumbled on to this winning combination of two astute skippers for Tests and one-dayers. If Anil Kumble was rather impressive first against Pakistan, and then in the tough tour of Australia, the younger Mahendra Singh Dhoni as India's young new one-day captain has shown a maturity in his batting and captaincy that belies his years.
In the process, India has concocted may be a winning recipe for success. These days cricket is played round the year. There is no concept of an off-season anymore. And the amount of cricket that is being played will only increase with the beginning of the new Twenty20 Indian Premier League from next month. With India now playing almost two different sides for Tests and one-dayers, India can have the rare luxury of fielding well-rested players for both versions of the game.
Only Tendulkar and Dhoni are regulars in both Tests as well as one dayers. Suddenly the Indian bench strength looks most impressive. There are enough fast bowlers to cover for the injured ones and there is healthy competition for the batting slots.
An Australian tour is usually a bruising experience for visiting players, both on and off the field. Indians have done very well to turn this experience to their advantage. The jury is still out on whether this series will mark the beginning of the decline of a cricketing superpower or the rise of another -- though there are some signs of both -- one thing is clear though. There is no contest in contemporary cricket quite like the India Australia rivalry.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
'Tis Time For A Little Bit of Intolerance Against Lot of Intolerance
My Friday, First Show reputation is in tatters. It has been weeks since I have landed to watch a movie on a Friday afternoon. And though I was really keen to watch Jodhaa Akbar on the opening day, it took me a while (last evening, to be precise) before I could finally see the film.
Jodhaa Akbar is a damn good yarn, told rather stylishly by Ashutosh Gowariker, one of the better film makers in our country. Long before Gowariker made a reputation for himself first with Lagaan and then Swades, I had thoroughly enjoyed watching Baazi, starring Gowariker favourite Aamir Khan.
Over the past few days I had been impatient to view Gowariker's latest cinematic offering after all the controversy surrounding "historical inaccuracies". Rajput groups have protested against what they view as "distortion of facts". They are upset that the film portrays Jodha Bai as Emperor Akbar's wife, while they insist she is in fact Emperor Jahangir's wife.
Gowariker has said more than once he is ready to stick to his version of history which he insists is "well-researched". Historically, there appear to be two conflicting schools of thought -- one claiming Akbar was married to Jodha Bai , another insisting she was Emperor Jahangir's wife. I honestly don't know if Akbar or Jahangir was Jodha Bai's husband. Frankly I don't care, and I don't think, as far as the film is concerned, it matters one way or the other.
Jodhaa Akbar is a mainstream Bollywood film, not a documentary. Gowariker has made a love story, a damn good one at that, if you ask me. He has tried to stick to facts as much and as far as he can. My point is, you don't like what he has shown, then stay home or watch other Bollywood releases, which, mind you, aren't usually strong on facts.
But violent demonstrations and bans are a bit of a much. They just give lie to our tall claims of being a tolerant society. Methinks it is high time this society showed some serious intolerance towards such acts of intolerance.
It will be interesting to examine the role of the media -- particularly India's television channels -- in stirring the so-called Rajput pride. When forty channels beam ad nauseum fifty protestors demonstrating outside a movie hall, the viewer often gets the impression of a far bigger agitation happening than what it really is.
Not for the first time, short of ideas and perfectly willing to fuel an otherwise unnecessary controversy, Indian television channels have taken the cheapest route to TRP ratings by highlighting the issue of "hurt Rajput pride" and have given momentum to an agitation that didn't initially appear to have a leg to stand on.
Demonstrations and agitations against films are not new. What is new is the phenomenal publicity these fringe agitations garner, thanks to their indiscriminate coverage by Indian television channels. It is time someone looked more closely into limiting the free publicity these fringe groups manage to get.
As for me, as I sat through the three and a half hour long film, watching the gradual unfolding of a love story between a Mughal emperor and a Rajput princess, narrated rather grandly but at a deliciously sedate pace, I wondered what was the fuss all about.
Even when the film was being made, there were reports that Akbar has never looked as handsome and Jodha Bai never as beautiful as they look in Gowariker's Jodhaa Akbar. Hrithik Roshan looks very good, and acts brilliantly, as Emperor Akbar. And Aishwarya Rai Bachchan is quite stunning as Jodha Bai.
The Rajput princess in Gowariker's tale holds more than her own against Akbar. It has been a while since I last turned the pages of my history books, and my memory isn't what it used to be. But I remember rather distinctly that the history books I read never quite gave Jodhaa Bai the sort of prominence that Gowariker bestows upon her.
If anything, I thought, it might be the more rabid Maulavis who might be cross with Gowariker for his depiction of an almost-feminist Akbar. In almost every face-off with the Rajput princess, it is the Mughal emperor who appears to come off second best.
If you ask me, the only person who might, or even should, have any problems with the film is Abhishek Bachchan. Bachchan Junior was reportedly unhappy with his wife Aishwarya Rai's liplock with Hritik Roshan in Dhoom 2. Later, the kiss was deleted by the producer. Though there is no such steamy scene in Jodhaa Akbar, there is an undeniable chemistry between the lead pair. The ice maiden not just thaws, even sizzles, in the company of Hrithik Roshan.
Film trade papers have declared the movie a countrywide smash hit and critics have had nice things to say about Jodhaa Akbar. New York Times and Daily Telegraph have lavished praise on Gowariker, comparing his grand style of film making with Cecile De Mille. The film is doing brisk business, and can do well without the agitations and subsequent ban imposed on its screening.
With elections not too far away, various state governments have not been shy of courting controversy. Governments in Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh quickly banned the screening of the film. Following a directive by the Supreme Court of India, the ban has been temporarily lifted (until March 14) when the matter comes up for hearing again.
It is curious how state governments ban such a harmless film like Jodhaa Akbar on the spurious ground that the controversy over it may endanger communal harmony, yet both the state government in Maharashtra and the Indian government idly watch the Thackeray clan spread their campaign of hate, unchecked.
It is rather ironical, you would think, that those who are so keen to hand out history lessons are actually so reluctant to learn any lesson at all from history.
Jodhaa Akbar is a damn good yarn, told rather stylishly by Ashutosh Gowariker, one of the better film makers in our country. Long before Gowariker made a reputation for himself first with Lagaan and then Swades, I had thoroughly enjoyed watching Baazi, starring Gowariker favourite Aamir Khan.
Over the past few days I had been impatient to view Gowariker's latest cinematic offering after all the controversy surrounding "historical inaccuracies". Rajput groups have protested against what they view as "distortion of facts". They are upset that the film portrays Jodha Bai as Emperor Akbar's wife, while they insist she is in fact Emperor Jahangir's wife.
Gowariker has said more than once he is ready to stick to his version of history which he insists is "well-researched". Historically, there appear to be two conflicting schools of thought -- one claiming Akbar was married to Jodha Bai , another insisting she was Emperor Jahangir's wife. I honestly don't know if Akbar or Jahangir was Jodha Bai's husband. Frankly I don't care, and I don't think, as far as the film is concerned, it matters one way or the other.
Jodhaa Akbar is a mainstream Bollywood film, not a documentary. Gowariker has made a love story, a damn good one at that, if you ask me. He has tried to stick to facts as much and as far as he can. My point is, you don't like what he has shown, then stay home or watch other Bollywood releases, which, mind you, aren't usually strong on facts.
But violent demonstrations and bans are a bit of a much. They just give lie to our tall claims of being a tolerant society. Methinks it is high time this society showed some serious intolerance towards such acts of intolerance.
It will be interesting to examine the role of the media -- particularly India's television channels -- in stirring the so-called Rajput pride. When forty channels beam ad nauseum fifty protestors demonstrating outside a movie hall, the viewer often gets the impression of a far bigger agitation happening than what it really is.
Not for the first time, short of ideas and perfectly willing to fuel an otherwise unnecessary controversy, Indian television channels have taken the cheapest route to TRP ratings by highlighting the issue of "hurt Rajput pride" and have given momentum to an agitation that didn't initially appear to have a leg to stand on.
Demonstrations and agitations against films are not new. What is new is the phenomenal publicity these fringe agitations garner, thanks to their indiscriminate coverage by Indian television channels. It is time someone looked more closely into limiting the free publicity these fringe groups manage to get.
As for me, as I sat through the three and a half hour long film, watching the gradual unfolding of a love story between a Mughal emperor and a Rajput princess, narrated rather grandly but at a deliciously sedate pace, I wondered what was the fuss all about.
Even when the film was being made, there were reports that Akbar has never looked as handsome and Jodha Bai never as beautiful as they look in Gowariker's Jodhaa Akbar. Hrithik Roshan looks very good, and acts brilliantly, as Emperor Akbar. And Aishwarya Rai Bachchan is quite stunning as Jodha Bai.
The Rajput princess in Gowariker's tale holds more than her own against Akbar. It has been a while since I last turned the pages of my history books, and my memory isn't what it used to be. But I remember rather distinctly that the history books I read never quite gave Jodhaa Bai the sort of prominence that Gowariker bestows upon her.
If anything, I thought, it might be the more rabid Maulavis who might be cross with Gowariker for his depiction of an almost-feminist Akbar. In almost every face-off with the Rajput princess, it is the Mughal emperor who appears to come off second best.
If you ask me, the only person who might, or even should, have any problems with the film is Abhishek Bachchan. Bachchan Junior was reportedly unhappy with his wife Aishwarya Rai's liplock with Hritik Roshan in Dhoom 2. Later, the kiss was deleted by the producer. Though there is no such steamy scene in Jodhaa Akbar, there is an undeniable chemistry between the lead pair. The ice maiden not just thaws, even sizzles, in the company of Hrithik Roshan.
Film trade papers have declared the movie a countrywide smash hit and critics have had nice things to say about Jodhaa Akbar. New York Times and Daily Telegraph have lavished praise on Gowariker, comparing his grand style of film making with Cecile De Mille. The film is doing brisk business, and can do well without the agitations and subsequent ban imposed on its screening.
With elections not too far away, various state governments have not been shy of courting controversy. Governments in Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh quickly banned the screening of the film. Following a directive by the Supreme Court of India, the ban has been temporarily lifted (until March 14) when the matter comes up for hearing again.
It is curious how state governments ban such a harmless film like Jodhaa Akbar on the spurious ground that the controversy over it may endanger communal harmony, yet both the state government in Maharashtra and the Indian government idly watch the Thackeray clan spread their campaign of hate, unchecked.
It is rather ironical, you would think, that those who are so keen to hand out history lessons are actually so reluctant to learn any lesson at all from history.
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