Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Double The Punch Of T20
"Twenty20 with twice the balls."
The tagline of the new hard-hitting campaign to promote Pro40 matches, the 40-overs-a-side competition which is part of the English county cricket.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Akbar, Tansen, Shashi Kapoor and Me ...
Dad has this theory. For Tansen to perform the way he did, he needed the patronage of Akbar. As one of the nine jewels in Emperor Akbar's court, Tansen didn't have to worry about earning money and he happily immersed himself in music. In my years of mispent youth (and even during years well past my youth) as I chased my share of improbable dreams, Dad left me in no doubt that I could do so only because he played the benevolent Akbar.
Over the years, though I benefited considerably from Dad's somewhat patronising patronage, it is not the Akbar-Tansen model that has enthused, even inspired, me as much as the Shashi Kapoor school of creativity.
The man with that famous bucktoothed smile made pots of money by acting in the crassest of Bollywood films, and then spent that money in financing and producing cinematic gems like Junoon, 36 Chauranghee Lane and Kalyug.
In an interview to an English daily in London sometime ago, the suavest member of Bollywood's first family said it had not been easy to juggle his priorities between mainstream Bollywood films in which he acted and the films that he produced. And then there was his first love, theatre. Kapoor has admitted more than once while films earned him wealth and success, it was theatre which taught him his craft.
Not that I didn't enjoy Shashi Kapoor's acting in mainstream Hindi movies. I loved him in Kabhi Kabhie. I thought he was very nice in Kala Pathhar, where his offer to the baddies to try daalmooth with Limca still stands out in my memory. He was eminently watchable in Deewar, where he had that unforgettable "Mere paas Maa hai" dialogue.
The man had more than Maa going for him. He had the redoubtable Jennifer Kendall as his wife and oodles of common sense and creative energy with which he not only re-started Prithvi Theatre, but also made some of the finest movies one ever saw.
As a freelance journalist, I have tried -- with varying degrees of success and on a very small scale -- to do the same with my own life. I have done projects which would make me money in the hope that the same money would allow me to do projects that are close to my heart. There have been occasions when such endeavours have met with considerable success and I can also remember moments when my plans came unstuck rather spectacularly.
More than once I have lain sleepless on my bed, wondering where the next pay cheque is going to come from. But there have been moments -- more than one, too -- when I have been deliriously happy and not a little proud of the work I have been able to produce. At the end of the day, and I so hope the end is still some distance away, I would be happy with that on my epitaph.
Right now as I mull over my latest project, I am glad "Mere paas Shashi Kapoor hai" for inspiration.
Over the years, though I benefited considerably from Dad's somewhat patronising patronage, it is not the Akbar-Tansen model that has enthused, even inspired, me as much as the Shashi Kapoor school of creativity.
The man with that famous bucktoothed smile made pots of money by acting in the crassest of Bollywood films, and then spent that money in financing and producing cinematic gems like Junoon, 36 Chauranghee Lane and Kalyug.
In an interview to an English daily in London sometime ago, the suavest member of Bollywood's first family said it had not been easy to juggle his priorities between mainstream Bollywood films in which he acted and the films that he produced. And then there was his first love, theatre. Kapoor has admitted more than once while films earned him wealth and success, it was theatre which taught him his craft.
Not that I didn't enjoy Shashi Kapoor's acting in mainstream Hindi movies. I loved him in Kabhi Kabhie. I thought he was very nice in Kala Pathhar, where his offer to the baddies to try daalmooth with Limca still stands out in my memory. He was eminently watchable in Deewar, where he had that unforgettable "Mere paas Maa hai" dialogue.
The man had more than Maa going for him. He had the redoubtable Jennifer Kendall as his wife and oodles of common sense and creative energy with which he not only re-started Prithvi Theatre, but also made some of the finest movies one ever saw.
As a freelance journalist, I have tried -- with varying degrees of success and on a very small scale -- to do the same with my own life. I have done projects which would make me money in the hope that the same money would allow me to do projects that are close to my heart. There have been occasions when such endeavours have met with considerable success and I can also remember moments when my plans came unstuck rather spectacularly.
More than once I have lain sleepless on my bed, wondering where the next pay cheque is going to come from. But there have been moments -- more than one, too -- when I have been deliriously happy and not a little proud of the work I have been able to produce. At the end of the day, and I so hope the end is still some distance away, I would be happy with that on my epitaph.
Right now as I mull over my latest project, I am glad "Mere paas Shashi Kapoor hai" for inspiration.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Tashan, My Ass!
Now I am no anarchist. I have always been quick to condemn random acts of violence, irrespective of who it has been directed at or what purpose it set out to achieve. Yet yesterday when I learnt that a group of irate film-goers in a Mumbai cinema hall tore apart seats and vandalised the place, I actually felt mighty pleased.
Apparently a group of people who had gone to watch Tashan, this year's most awaited Bollywood release, got so upset by the fare that was dished that they vandalised the cinema hall.
If you are not familiar with the word Tashan, it means in coloquial Hindi, lot of style combined with lot of attitude. Don't blame me then when I went inside the cinema hall, after procuring tickets at a premium price, I was expecting great things from the film. After all, it was tomtomed as the year's biggest movie by the redoubtable Yash Raj productions. What I ended up watching was a terrible, terrible film.
For a while now, the fizz has been missing from the Yash Chopra stable of movies. Last year could have been disastrous, had Chak De not saved their blushes. Jhoom Barabar Jhoom was an astonishingly bad film and to no one's surprise bombed spectacularly, Tara Rum Pum disappointed deeply and Aja Nachle, otherwise not such a bad film, was marketed so poorly that it had a lukewarm response at the box office.
This year Tashan had been billed as the big movie of the summer. It had everything going for it -- a new look Saif Ali Khan, gorgeous Kareena Kappor in a two-piece bikini and that man with the midas touch at the box office, Akshay Kumar. In the end, all of them plus Anil Kapoor failed to save what was essentially, for the lack of a better word, a remarkably stupid film.
The really sad part of the whole thing is that as a teen when I first got hooked to movies, it was Yash Chopra's movies that showed me what Tashan was all about. For me, and I am sure for thousands of others, too, Tashan was when Amitabh Bachchan, with a beedi between his lips and his eyes all brooding, locks the godown door in Deewar, throws the keys to Peter, and says : "Ye chabi tere hi jeb se nikalunga, Peter." Now, that was Tashan, that gave you goose pimples.
Again, Tashan was when Shatrughan Sinha asks a group of baddies in Kala Paththar, "Dhanna, is ladki ko to mai bacha loonga, par is bhari jungle mein, tum sab ko mujhse kaun bachayega?" Now, Kala Paththar was all about Tashan. Even that Shashi Kapoor one-liner, "Tumne kabhi soda ke saath dalmuth khaya hai kya?", was sooo classy, I mean tashni.
And then there is this Tashan.
For me the defining, even defiling, moment of the film was when the three protagonists Akshay, Saif and Kareena are travelling in the back of a truck. Kareena takes a pair of scissors and begins to slice off her pair of jeans at her thighs, until she turns it into a rather short denim shorts. As the cameraman focuses on Kareena's bare thighs, an apparently naive, and needless to say, terribly shocked Akshay says : "Ye kya kar rahe ho? (what are you doing?)" Kareena giggles dumbly and says, "Kuchh nahi, bas Tashan (nothing, just Tashan)"
I thought from that point on the film was irredeemable. If Aditya Chopra thinks he can lure thousands into cinema halls by promising them a tantalising glimpse of Kareena Kapoor's upper thighs then I think it is time he considers alternative career options. For God's sake, these are not Ram Teri Ganga Maili days of Raj Kapoor. Porn is available at the click of a mouse all over the internet. Surely a little bit of flesh display isn't going to pull in the crowds.
Me and the entire hall groaned, not entirely inaudibly either. Oh Bebo, sweertheart, honeybunch, I wanted to cry out aloud, that ain't Tashan. I mean if you really think that's Tashan, I guess then, in Anil Kapoorese, I would have to say, "Tashan, mera gadha", which crudely translates into Tashan, my ass.
For a while now, the fizz has been missing from the Yash Chopra stable of movies. Last year could have been disastrous, had Chak De not saved their blushes. Jhoom Barabar Jhoom was an astonishingly bad film and to no one's surprise bombed spectacularly, Tara Rum Pum disappointed deeply and Aja Nachle, otherwise not such a bad film, was marketed so poorly that it had a lukewarm response at the box office.
This year Tashan had been billed as the big movie of the summer. It had everything going for it -- a new look Saif Ali Khan, gorgeous Kareena Kappor in a two-piece bikini and that man with the midas touch at the box office, Akshay Kumar. In the end, all of them plus Anil Kapoor failed to save what was essentially, for the lack of a better word, a remarkably stupid film.
The really sad part of the whole thing is that as a teen when I first got hooked to movies, it was Yash Chopra's movies that showed me what Tashan was all about. For me, and I am sure for thousands of others, too, Tashan was when Amitabh Bachchan, with a beedi between his lips and his eyes all brooding, locks the godown door in Deewar, throws the keys to Peter, and says : "Ye chabi tere hi jeb se nikalunga, Peter." Now, that was Tashan, that gave you goose pimples.
Again, Tashan was when Shatrughan Sinha asks a group of baddies in Kala Paththar, "Dhanna, is ladki ko to mai bacha loonga, par is bhari jungle mein, tum sab ko mujhse kaun bachayega?" Now, Kala Paththar was all about Tashan. Even that Shashi Kapoor one-liner, "Tumne kabhi soda ke saath dalmuth khaya hai kya?", was sooo classy, I mean tashni.
And then there is this Tashan.
For me the defining, even defiling, moment of the film was when the three protagonists Akshay, Saif and Kareena are travelling in the back of a truck. Kareena takes a pair of scissors and begins to slice off her pair of jeans at her thighs, until she turns it into a rather short denim shorts. As the cameraman focuses on Kareena's bare thighs, an apparently naive, and needless to say, terribly shocked Akshay says : "Ye kya kar rahe ho? (what are you doing?)" Kareena giggles dumbly and says, "Kuchh nahi, bas Tashan (nothing, just Tashan)"
I thought from that point on the film was irredeemable. If Aditya Chopra thinks he can lure thousands into cinema halls by promising them a tantalising glimpse of Kareena Kapoor's upper thighs then I think it is time he considers alternative career options. For God's sake, these are not Ram Teri Ganga Maili days of Raj Kapoor. Porn is available at the click of a mouse all over the internet. Surely a little bit of flesh display isn't going to pull in the crowds.
Me and the entire hall groaned, not entirely inaudibly either. Oh Bebo, sweertheart, honeybunch, I wanted to cry out aloud, that ain't Tashan. I mean if you really think that's Tashan, I guess then, in Anil Kapoorese, I would have to say, "Tashan, mera gadha", which crudely translates into Tashan, my ass.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Light, Camera, Action...
Cricket's billion dollar baby is a week old. And defying predictions of an early demise by the purists (more a wishful thinking than based on any realistic assessment of the ground realities), it is chugging along at a fair, if not frenetic, pace.
In Hyderabad, the response might have been a tad tepid, and on the first day in Mohali there were a few empty seats. But elsewhere -- at Eden Gardens in Kolkata, in Mumbai and Bangalore, Jaipur and Chennai -- the stands have been packed.
As fours and sixes have rained, leggy blonde cheerleaders, from countries which have had little or no truck with cricket, have balle-balle'ed to Daler Mahendi in Chandigarh and to Shivamani in Chennai, the crowds have enjoyed the action both on and off the ground.
As fours and sixes have rained, leggy blonde cheerleaders, from countries which have had little or no truck with cricket, have balle-balle'ed to Daler Mahendi in Chandigarh and to Shivamani in Chennai, the crowds have enjoyed the action both on and off the ground.
These are early days yet. But after one week and nine matches, few of them riveting, others one-sided, the inaugural edition of the Indian Premier League appears to be a phenomenal success.
It is the subject of lunchtime conversations in office and come eight in the evening, at least for past one week, pubs with giant size TV screens have been seriously populated with cricket lovers.
A large part of the success is because of the stupendous viewership ratings the live coverage of the IPL matches have garnered. In modern day sports, television is king, and IPL is no exception. As viewership ratings have soared and corporate houses queued up to get their ads aired, the smile on IPL czar Lalit Modi's face has been almost beatific. It remains to be seen though if spectator interest and viewership ratings last through the length of 59 matches.
It is the subject of lunchtime conversations in office and come eight in the evening, at least for past one week, pubs with giant size TV screens have been seriously populated with cricket lovers.
A large part of the success is because of the stupendous viewership ratings the live coverage of the IPL matches have garnered. In modern day sports, television is king, and IPL is no exception. As viewership ratings have soared and corporate houses queued up to get their ads aired, the smile on IPL czar Lalit Modi's face has been almost beatific. It remains to be seen though if spectator interest and viewership ratings last through the length of 59 matches.
The League could not have asked for a more explosive or more entertaining start than the first match between Kolkata Knight Riders and the Bangalore Tigers. Kiwi wicket keeper Brandon McCullam, opening the innings for the Knight Readers played an innings of astonishing savagery, scoring 154 runs off just 85 deliveries. Even by T20 standards, it was an awesome display.
To no one's surprise, and to the spectators' delight, the bat held sway over the ball in most matches. McCullam's hundred was followed by an equally hardhitting knock by Aussie southpaw Michael Hussey. Already a name to reckon with in Tests and one-dayers, Hussey showed good cricketing skills are as essential for success in the game's shortest version too.
And despite the run glut, bowlers did enough to suggest during the first week of the tournament that they were not there merely as cannon fodder for batsmen. Glen McGrath still made the ball jump just short of good length on that off stump corridor and his erstwhile compatriot Shane Warne managed to get wicked turn from the pitch.
There are still 50 more matches to be played before the inaugural edition of the IPL draws to a close. One thing is pretty much certain -- by the time the last ball is bowled and the final run is scored, the grammar of cricket, as we have known it over the years, is likely to be significantly re-written.
Shots that would find place in no coaching manual would have become passe. Already the scoop over the shoulder, played fine and over the keeper, is being perfected to an art form by enterprising batsmen the world over. Frugal bowlers are proving to worth their weight in gold as economy rates have become as important as wickets.
As for me, I have told the wifey, till June 1, no dinner engagements please with anyone who is not into cricket. Every evening I join my parents in front of the television set and watch the match till the last ball.
I decided fairly early on I was a Kolkata Knight Riders fan, my Dad's not so sure -- he can't make up his mind between Delhi Daredevils or Kolkata Knight Riders.
My Ma has no such loyalty issues. Her loyalties remain unwaveringly with Sourav -- she would happily support Belize, if Dada were to captain that country's national side.
To no one's surprise, and to the spectators' delight, the bat held sway over the ball in most matches. McCullam's hundred was followed by an equally hardhitting knock by Aussie southpaw Michael Hussey. Already a name to reckon with in Tests and one-dayers, Hussey showed good cricketing skills are as essential for success in the game's shortest version too.
And despite the run glut, bowlers did enough to suggest during the first week of the tournament that they were not there merely as cannon fodder for batsmen. Glen McGrath still made the ball jump just short of good length on that off stump corridor and his erstwhile compatriot Shane Warne managed to get wicked turn from the pitch.
There are still 50 more matches to be played before the inaugural edition of the IPL draws to a close. One thing is pretty much certain -- by the time the last ball is bowled and the final run is scored, the grammar of cricket, as we have known it over the years, is likely to be significantly re-written.
Shots that would find place in no coaching manual would have become passe. Already the scoop over the shoulder, played fine and over the keeper, is being perfected to an art form by enterprising batsmen the world over. Frugal bowlers are proving to worth their weight in gold as economy rates have become as important as wickets.
As for me, I have told the wifey, till June 1, no dinner engagements please with anyone who is not into cricket. Every evening I join my parents in front of the television set and watch the match till the last ball.
I decided fairly early on I was a Kolkata Knight Riders fan, my Dad's not so sure -- he can't make up his mind between Delhi Daredevils or Kolkata Knight Riders.
My Ma has no such loyalty issues. Her loyalties remain unwaveringly with Sourav -- she would happily support Belize, if Dada were to captain that country's national side.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Truer Words Were Never Said...
If this be your destiny to be this a laborer called a writer, you know you got to go to work everyday. But you also know that you are not going to get it everyday.
- Leonard Cohen
Thursday, April 17, 2008
A Toast For Free Tibet
Tibetan monks taking part in anti-Chinese rally
I marched for the Tibetan cause today...
Let me explain. I was on duty, but I walked the length of the march and walked next to the marchers.
‘Tis true that I walked about five kilometres in the baking
Can’t say if Amir or Saif were as happy to run with the Olympic torch. On the other
It has been fun watching the Indian government’s reaction to, and handling of, the torch relay issue. Every time the official spokesman has opened his mouth on the subject, you got the impression that he knew he was between a rock and a hard place.
On the other hand, the authorities here are painfully aware how idiotic their attempt to appear politically correct (the
The last couple of days, the Indian foreign ministry has tried its best to pass off the issue as a sports event. It washed its hands off (at least, officially) the torch relay and instead asked the Indian Olympic Association to organize the whole event.
Even as the Indian authorities walked a diplomatic tightrope and made extravagant security arrangements to ensure there were no untoward incidents during the Olympic torch relay, the Tibetan anti-torch rally was a smashing success. It got serious international media coverage, it’s the only torch relay that the people of
May be, it is time we allowed the older foreign policy towards China (and Tibet) to die a natural death and take a fresh look at the whole issue.
Chairman Mao once said power flows from the barrel of a gun. Well, so does diplomacy. There is little point in conducting it from a point of weakness. China has seldom bothered about India's stand on several issues, including Tibet and done pretty much as it pleases, as befits its stature as the region's number one bully.
At periodic intervals, it has made claims on territory that legitimately belongs to India. It gave up claims on Sikkim one day only to lay claims on large parts of Arunachal Pradesh. Even today China continues to hold on to large chunks of Indian territory it occupied in 1962.
Irrespective of India's stand on Tibet (or the lack of it), China would rake up the Kashmir issue as and when it feels the need to do so. In recent years as the US has shown some reluctance to supply arms to Pakistan, China has been quick to step in and offer offer vast military aid to Pakistan.
Under the circumstances, one can't help but feel Indian government's spineless response on Tibet is going to be as successful in placating the Chinese as the Hindi Chini bhai bhai slogan was in preventing the 1962 war.
Tibetans are by and large a bunch of rather friendly people (even if they were not, they still have a right to be free). My earliest, and rather limited, interaction with them was in my Delhi University days when I would often land up at the Tibetan settlement near the University campus with my friends to have chhang or rice beer. The beer packed a nice kick and crucially was dirt cheap.
As we sipped the chhang and ate our momos in a restaurant strangely named as Monastery, we would often get into discussions about life in Tibet, about the Chinese occupation (yes, Mr. Karat it IS occupation) of Tibet. We got to hear horror stories of illegal detentions, suppression of the most basic human rights. On occasions we met a few Tibetans who had fled Chinese rule and escaped to India. Each one had a different story to tell, yet each story was achingly, painfully similar.
Our generation is lucky enough to live in a free land. Perhaps we don't fully appreciate the value of this freedom. I often saw that value in the eyes of Tibetan men and women I chatted with.
Living in a shabby ghetto thousands of miles away from their homeland, you could see in their eyes both despair and hope. I don't know about my other friends, but I remember as I sat there I felt more than a little guilty about living a life of freedom.
Facebook, the social networking site that I believe is now a rage among Martians too, is hosting several online campaigns and protests against Chinese rule of Tibet. On the day the Beijing Olympics begin, Facebook is trying to get at least one hundred million people to light candles in support of the Tibetans.
I haven't yet made up my mind what I should do. May be, I will drive up to that area near the Delhi University campus where Tibetans live, get high on chhang and abuse the Chinese to my heart's content.
Friday, April 11, 2008
An Ode To Friends
In 1998-99, several of my good friends, most of them in academics and a few into software, suddenly upped and left for American shores. Life wasn't easy alone in Delhi, bereft of the support structure one had got used to. Internet became the preferred medium of communications and some interesting letters were exchanged during that period, most of which, sadly, I no longer have.
Among the few that I do, is a mail I got from my good friend Sangeeta Mediratta. Medirats, now Dr. (ahem) Mediratta, loves to listen to music, reads anything from classics to comics, and when not riled can dazzle you with her grin. Last heard she was masquerading as a professor of English Literature in one of those Ivy League institutions. The following is a mail she sent to me sometime in 2001... I think one of her friends had forwarded it to her and she forwarded it to me.
Enjoy it...
Main Aur mere roommates
Aksar Yeh Baatain Karte Hain
Ghar saaf hota to kaisa hota
Main kitchen saaf karta,tum bathrooom dhote
Main hall saaf karta, tum balcony dekhte
Log is baat pe hairaan hote
Aur us baat pe haste
Main aur mere roommates
Aksar Yeh Baatain Karte Hain
Yeh hara bhara sink hai
Ya bartanon ki jang chidi hui hai
Yeh colour full kitchen hai
Ya masalon se holi kheli hai
Hai farsh ki nayi design
Ya doodh,beer se dhuli hui hain
Yeh cellphone hai ya dhakkan
Sleeping bag ya kisika aanchal,
Ye airfreshner ka naya flavour hai,
Ya trash bag se aati badboo
Yeh pattiyon ki hai sarsarahut
Ke heater phirse kharab hua hai
Yeh sonchta hain roommate kab se gum sum
Ke jab ke usko bhi yeh khabar hai
Ke machar nahi hai, kaheen nahi hai
Magar uska dil hai ke kah raha hai
Machar yaheen hai, yaheen kaheen hai
Peth ki ye haalat, meri bhi hai, uski bhi,
Dil mein ek tasvir idhar bhi hai, udhar bhi
Karne ko bohot kuch hai magar kab kare hum
Kab tak yoon hi is tarah rahe hum
Dil kahta hai HomeDepot se koi vaccum cleaner la de
Ye carpet jo jine ko zoonz raha hai, fikwa
Hum saaf rahe sakte hai, logon ko bata dain,
Haan hum roommates hai - roommates hai - roommates hai
Ab dil main yehi baat, idhar bhi hai udhar bhi......
Among the few that I do, is a mail I got from my good friend Sangeeta Mediratta. Medirats, now Dr. (ahem) Mediratta, loves to listen to music, reads anything from classics to comics, and when not riled can dazzle you with her grin. Last heard she was masquerading as a professor of English Literature in one of those Ivy League institutions. The following is a mail she sent to me sometime in 2001... I think one of her friends had forwarded it to her and she forwarded it to me.
Enjoy it...
Main Aur mere roommates
Aksar Yeh Baatain Karte Hain
Ghar saaf hota to kaisa hota
Main kitchen saaf karta,tum bathrooom dhote
Main hall saaf karta, tum balcony dekhte
Log is baat pe hairaan hote
Aur us baat pe haste
Main aur mere roommates
Aksar Yeh Baatain Karte Hain
Yeh hara bhara sink hai
Ya bartanon ki jang chidi hui hai
Yeh colour full kitchen hai
Ya masalon se holi kheli hai
Hai farsh ki nayi design
Ya doodh,beer se dhuli hui hain
Yeh cellphone hai ya dhakkan
Sleeping bag ya kisika aanchal,
Ye airfreshner ka naya flavour hai,
Ya trash bag se aati badboo
Yeh pattiyon ki hai sarsarahut
Ke heater phirse kharab hua hai
Yeh sonchta hain roommate kab se gum sum
Ke jab ke usko bhi yeh khabar hai
Ke machar nahi hai, kaheen nahi hai
Magar uska dil hai ke kah raha hai
Machar yaheen hai, yaheen kaheen hai
Peth ki ye haalat, meri bhi hai, uski bhi,
Dil mein ek tasvir idhar bhi hai, udhar bhi
Karne ko bohot kuch hai magar kab kare hum
Kab tak yoon hi is tarah rahe hum
Dil kahta hai HomeDepot se koi vaccum cleaner la de
Ye carpet jo jine ko zoonz raha hai, fikwa
Hum saaf rahe sakte hai, logon ko bata dain,
Haan hum roommates hai - roommates hai - roommates hai
Ab dil main yehi baat, idhar bhi hai udhar bhi......
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Trout Curry, Vodka And A Dash Of Lime
No Einstein, me. But right now I feel I am in the same league, having discovered an equation which is of no less importance to mankind than the one the old man had figured out.
Mine is considerably simpler than Einstein's E is equal to MC square. It reads :
Heaven = Trout curry, vodka, lime and a slice of green chillies.
And if you figure out the right location, as I have (thanks to a friend, with whom I guess I will have to share the Nobel. The Swedish Academy has decided on the prize, they are just quibbling about the category, I'm told), then this could well be a lifechanging experience for one.
Let me elaborate...
To begin at the beginning, on Thursday a friend of mine called up from Mandi in Himachal Pradesh, inviting me to spend a few days in the hills. I have itchy feet anyways. Besides his logic was impeccable -- this time of the year the weather is so good in the hills, it is silly to waste it on Delhi.
So, yesterday I took the morning flight to Kullu. My friend, Sudripto, a senior official with the Himachal Pradesh government picked me up from the small picturesque Bhuntar airport. I thought we were going to Mandi, but Sudripto had other plans. We crossed the bridge over the Beas river and went into Parvati valley. "Let me take you to a place called Kasol," he said, as he drove on.
We had been driving for an hour on this mountain road, with dense forest on either side of the road. Across the forest there was a mountain river. We couldn't see it, but by God, we could hear it alright. Increasingly it was difficult for us to hear each other above the noise of the river. And, then suddenly, my friend braked, stopped the vehicle in the middle of nowhere. He got down from the vehicle and, without a word of explanation, waded inside the forest to our left. I had no choice but to follow him. I had no clue where we were going, but I knew we were getting closer to the river.
After about five minutes of walking, he said : "Now close your eyes, and hold my hand and walk." And then my eyes closed and holding his hand, we walked for ten, may be fifteen minutes. "Ok, stop," he said, "now open your eyes."
And I saw heaven on earth.
Where we were standing, to my left, about five hundred metres away was that mountain river, in full spate. To the right, was the forest through which we had driven and then walked. We were on this grassy valley. Ahead of me, in the distance was a mountain that looked like a giant Christmas tree, the green leaves and white snow was so evenly distributed. What held my attention was neither the mountain river, nor the Himalayan version of the Christmas tree.
My eyes were locked on a beautiful two-storeyed grey building, sitting in the middle of this picture postcard location. "It is a Swiss chalet," my friend whispered in my ears. "Th-this is heaven", I found myself muttering.
Over the years, I have travelled a lot, and been fortunate to see many wonderful places. But this was something else. The scenery, the serenity of the place, it took your breath away. The air was so fresh, so crisp you could feel it, even hear it softly hitting your cheeks. During my first few moments, I didn't utter a word, moved around quietly, tiptoeing on the soft grass under my feet. One felt like an intruder who had walked in through the gates of heaven. A jarring movement, any loud noise, you feared, would break the spell, and you will once again find yourself in a Rajouri Garden mall.
And then a tall dark man, with a hint of a stoop, came out of the doors of the chalet and walked towards us. He greeted my friend and smiled at me. The spell was broken. But thankfully I had not been transported to the aforementioned mall.
"This is Sanjoy... He owns this place," Sudripto said. Sanjoy smiled again, and made a gesture with his hand, and a minion materialized. Sudripto directed him to bring our bags from the jeep. It was about 11.30 in the morning, and i felt hungry enough to eat a horse.
Sudripto went to the chalet. Sanjoy guided me to the riverside. Up close the river looked rather wide, I sat on the cool grass on the banks of the river. Sanjoy leaned against a boulder, then reached in the crevice between that boulder and the next one, and came up with a bottle of Smirnoff, and two glasses. I sat there, making a mental note to search other boulders later. He dipped the glasses in the river, filled half of the glasses with crystalclear water and then poured a generous measure of vodka. Another minion, as if on cue, showed up with a plate of sliced lime and sliced green chillies, which were duely added to our vodka.
Sanjoy handed me a glass held up his own, using the sliced chilly as a stirrer, and then said, "Cheers, Rajan", his first words after we had reached Kasaul. As I looked around, there was not a human being in sight. "The nearest village is three kilometres up that road you drove down," explained Sanjoy, who said it was the "middle of nowhere" look of the place which first attracted him to build the chalet here.
Sudripto joined us a little later, a drink in hand. A simple but yummy lunch followed a little later on the river bank. Deliciously spiecey trout curry and piping hot rice. "We get the trout from the river here", said Sanjoy. But, of course.
Later in the day, after I had woken up from a lazy afternoon nap, as dusk was slowly descending upon Kasaul, Happy Singh visited us. The tall strapping Sardar was as loud as this place was quiet. He had a trout farm not too far away. He obviously knew his way around, and quickly poured himslf a peg that would have had the Patiala peg squirming in acute inferiority complex, and then made himself comfortable next to me. He smiled at me, then pointed to Sudripto, and said : "Sir's friend, my friend."
A little later, he expertly rolled a perfect joint and handed it to me. I lit it and blew a lazy smoke ring, then after two wholesome puffs offered it to Happy. He politely declined, "I don't smoke. I am a Sikh," he explained, a fact that evidently didn't prevent him from either procuring the stuff or rolling it with such expertise. A few, nay a lot, more drinks into the night, Happy Singh departed but promised a la Doug MacArthur that he would return.
That was yesterday.
This morning I woke up to the noise of children playing. I looked out of the window of my first floor room. Sanjoy and Sudripto, half a dozen young children, presumably from a nearby village, and three white men were playing an enthusiastic, if raucous, game of soccer. The time on my watch showed eight. Another picture postcard moment, I said to myself.
The white men were staying at the chalet. I met two of them at breakfast. One was an Italian writer who had booked an apartment for three months. He had come to finish his book here and was going to be in Kasaul till December end. Another was an English musician, who was most excited about the cookies he planned to bake later. This was his second trip to the chalet. He had come here in 2005 and fell in love with the place.
Breakfast was followed by a tour of the chalet. The two floors are divided in four two-room apartments. You can rent an apartment for a minimum of fifteen days. And though there is no official policy, Sanjoy did admit that writers, artists or musicians were preferred as boarders. The rooms are fitted with large screen TV and Bose audio system. There is internet connectivity but no telephones. Sanjoy said: "I never advertise this chalet. I get my customers through word of mouth publicity." Considering that he is booked till early 2009, I guess he isn't doing too badly.
In the basement, one half houses a bakery, where from bread to cookies to pastries, everything is baked to order. "I encourage the guests to bake," Sanjoy said. He added, there is no fixed menu card. Trout and jungle fowl, both found in plenty nearabouts, are the main attractions, fresh vegetables are purchased from the nearest village. And now and then, somone like Happy Singh would show up wth a wild boar, and there would be a bonfire and a feast.
It was the second half of the basement which caught my eye. It was loaded with books. English, fiction and non fiction, French, German, Spanish even Bengali books. What impressed me was the breadth of the collection --from travelogues to thrillers to biographies. There was enough to house a library and more. And then there were the DVDs. Hollywood classics, European cinema, Iranian films, and of course plenty from Bollywood and a surprising number of documentaries. "Everytime I go to Delhi or Calcutta, I pick up books and DVDs," said Sanjoy, who, Sudripto said, was an M Phil in Comparative Literature from Jadavpur University in Calcutta.
I write this blog post on my laptop, sitting on the boulder which doubles up as Sanjoy's outdoor bar. It is past three in the afternoon. Riverwater smashes on the rocks and splashes on my feet, and the sun feels lovely on my back.
There is murder on my mind. Ever since I came here yesterday, a thought has crossed my mind more than once -- to bump off Sanjoy, take over this property and the rest of his life and never return to Delhi.
Mine is considerably simpler than Einstein's E is equal to MC square. It reads :
Heaven = Trout curry, vodka, lime and a slice of green chillies.
And if you figure out the right location, as I have (thanks to a friend, with whom I guess I will have to share the Nobel. The Swedish Academy has decided on the prize, they are just quibbling about the category, I'm told), then this could well be a lifechanging experience for one.
Let me elaborate...
To begin at the beginning, on Thursday a friend of mine called up from Mandi in Himachal Pradesh, inviting me to spend a few days in the hills. I have itchy feet anyways. Besides his logic was impeccable -- this time of the year the weather is so good in the hills, it is silly to waste it on Delhi.
So, yesterday I took the morning flight to Kullu. My friend, Sudripto, a senior official with the Himachal Pradesh government picked me up from the small picturesque Bhuntar airport. I thought we were going to Mandi, but Sudripto had other plans. We crossed the bridge over the Beas river and went into Parvati valley. "Let me take you to a place called Kasol," he said, as he drove on.
We had been driving for an hour on this mountain road, with dense forest on either side of the road. Across the forest there was a mountain river. We couldn't see it, but by God, we could hear it alright. Increasingly it was difficult for us to hear each other above the noise of the river. And, then suddenly, my friend braked, stopped the vehicle in the middle of nowhere. He got down from the vehicle and, without a word of explanation, waded inside the forest to our left. I had no choice but to follow him. I had no clue where we were going, but I knew we were getting closer to the river.
After about five minutes of walking, he said : "Now close your eyes, and hold my hand and walk." And then my eyes closed and holding his hand, we walked for ten, may be fifteen minutes. "Ok, stop," he said, "now open your eyes."
And I saw heaven on earth.
Where we were standing, to my left, about five hundred metres away was that mountain river, in full spate. To the right, was the forest through which we had driven and then walked. We were on this grassy valley. Ahead of me, in the distance was a mountain that looked like a giant Christmas tree, the green leaves and white snow was so evenly distributed. What held my attention was neither the mountain river, nor the Himalayan version of the Christmas tree.
My eyes were locked on a beautiful two-storeyed grey building, sitting in the middle of this picture postcard location. "It is a Swiss chalet," my friend whispered in my ears. "Th-this is heaven", I found myself muttering.
Over the years, I have travelled a lot, and been fortunate to see many wonderful places. But this was something else. The scenery, the serenity of the place, it took your breath away. The air was so fresh, so crisp you could feel it, even hear it softly hitting your cheeks. During my first few moments, I didn't utter a word, moved around quietly, tiptoeing on the soft grass under my feet. One felt like an intruder who had walked in through the gates of heaven. A jarring movement, any loud noise, you feared, would break the spell, and you will once again find yourself in a Rajouri Garden mall.
And then a tall dark man, with a hint of a stoop, came out of the doors of the chalet and walked towards us. He greeted my friend and smiled at me. The spell was broken. But thankfully I had not been transported to the aforementioned mall.
"This is Sanjoy... He owns this place," Sudripto said. Sanjoy smiled again, and made a gesture with his hand, and a minion materialized. Sudripto directed him to bring our bags from the jeep. It was about 11.30 in the morning, and i felt hungry enough to eat a horse.
Sudripto went to the chalet. Sanjoy guided me to the riverside. Up close the river looked rather wide, I sat on the cool grass on the banks of the river. Sanjoy leaned against a boulder, then reached in the crevice between that boulder and the next one, and came up with a bottle of Smirnoff, and two glasses. I sat there, making a mental note to search other boulders later. He dipped the glasses in the river, filled half of the glasses with crystalclear water and then poured a generous measure of vodka. Another minion, as if on cue, showed up with a plate of sliced lime and sliced green chillies, which were duely added to our vodka.
Sanjoy handed me a glass held up his own, using the sliced chilly as a stirrer, and then said, "Cheers, Rajan", his first words after we had reached Kasaul. As I looked around, there was not a human being in sight. "The nearest village is three kilometres up that road you drove down," explained Sanjoy, who said it was the "middle of nowhere" look of the place which first attracted him to build the chalet here.
Sudripto joined us a little later, a drink in hand. A simple but yummy lunch followed a little later on the river bank. Deliciously spiecey trout curry and piping hot rice. "We get the trout from the river here", said Sanjoy. But, of course.
Later in the day, after I had woken up from a lazy afternoon nap, as dusk was slowly descending upon Kasaul, Happy Singh visited us. The tall strapping Sardar was as loud as this place was quiet. He had a trout farm not too far away. He obviously knew his way around, and quickly poured himslf a peg that would have had the Patiala peg squirming in acute inferiority complex, and then made himself comfortable next to me. He smiled at me, then pointed to Sudripto, and said : "Sir's friend, my friend."
A little later, he expertly rolled a perfect joint and handed it to me. I lit it and blew a lazy smoke ring, then after two wholesome puffs offered it to Happy. He politely declined, "I don't smoke. I am a Sikh," he explained, a fact that evidently didn't prevent him from either procuring the stuff or rolling it with such expertise. A few, nay a lot, more drinks into the night, Happy Singh departed but promised a la Doug MacArthur that he would return.
That was yesterday.
This morning I woke up to the noise of children playing. I looked out of the window of my first floor room. Sanjoy and Sudripto, half a dozen young children, presumably from a nearby village, and three white men were playing an enthusiastic, if raucous, game of soccer. The time on my watch showed eight. Another picture postcard moment, I said to myself.
The white men were staying at the chalet. I met two of them at breakfast. One was an Italian writer who had booked an apartment for three months. He had come to finish his book here and was going to be in Kasaul till December end. Another was an English musician, who was most excited about the cookies he planned to bake later. This was his second trip to the chalet. He had come here in 2005 and fell in love with the place.
Breakfast was followed by a tour of the chalet. The two floors are divided in four two-room apartments. You can rent an apartment for a minimum of fifteen days. And though there is no official policy, Sanjoy did admit that writers, artists or musicians were preferred as boarders. The rooms are fitted with large screen TV and Bose audio system. There is internet connectivity but no telephones. Sanjoy said: "I never advertise this chalet. I get my customers through word of mouth publicity." Considering that he is booked till early 2009, I guess he isn't doing too badly.
In the basement, one half houses a bakery, where from bread to cookies to pastries, everything is baked to order. "I encourage the guests to bake," Sanjoy said. He added, there is no fixed menu card. Trout and jungle fowl, both found in plenty nearabouts, are the main attractions, fresh vegetables are purchased from the nearest village. And now and then, somone like Happy Singh would show up wth a wild boar, and there would be a bonfire and a feast.
It was the second half of the basement which caught my eye. It was loaded with books. English, fiction and non fiction, French, German, Spanish even Bengali books. What impressed me was the breadth of the collection --from travelogues to thrillers to biographies. There was enough to house a library and more. And then there were the DVDs. Hollywood classics, European cinema, Iranian films, and of course plenty from Bollywood and a surprising number of documentaries. "Everytime I go to Delhi or Calcutta, I pick up books and DVDs," said Sanjoy, who, Sudripto said, was an M Phil in Comparative Literature from Jadavpur University in Calcutta.
I write this blog post on my laptop, sitting on the boulder which doubles up as Sanjoy's outdoor bar. It is past three in the afternoon. Riverwater smashes on the rocks and splashes on my feet, and the sun feels lovely on my back.
There is murder on my mind. Ever since I came here yesterday, a thought has crossed my mind more than once -- to bump off Sanjoy, take over this property and the rest of his life and never return to Delhi.
Friday, April 4, 2008
No Naxals in Wall Street
"We are like those insects that come out only after rains. You will find us only where there is poverty, injustice. You want to get rid of us, get rid of poverty, get rid of injustice, get rid of hunger. And we will go away," explains Samar Mukherjee, formerly a school teacher and now a senior leader of Naxals, the militant Left movement that now has its footprint over a third of India.
We are sitting in a rather large tin shed (Mukherjee's temporary quarters) in one of the abandoned tea estates in north Bengal, in the eastern Himalayan foothills. My host tells me we are not very far from Naxalbari, the village from which the movement borrows its name.
It is April, and not surprisingly raining heavily. The rain drums down on the tin roof as Mukherjee uses a stick to draw an imaginary map on the ground. "See, from Nepal, to north Bengal to Jharkhand and parts of Bihar, down to Orissa, Chhattisgarh, and Andhra Pradesh, Left groups are active in areas where the poorest live," he elaborates. Suddenly he looks up at me, his face creased in a grin, "You will not find us on Wall Street".
Later I meet Mukherjee's lieutenants, young men and women who form bulk of the cadre of Left groups like Naxals. Most are dressed in green fatigues and almost all of them are carrying guns. Save for their guns and fatigues, they would be indistinguishable from other young men and women from that part of the world.
Most of them had lived in extreme poverty, struggled to manage two square meals a day, some of them had been victims of social injustice. "We have never had any problem recruiting. When we march through a region, hundreds approach us, wanting to join our movement. For some it is a way out of the miserable life they lead. Others want to fight, take revenge against their oppressors," says Mukherjee.
Tea gradens, like the one we are in, have been fertile recruitment grounds for Naxals for years. The workers in these gardens survive on paltry wages, their families often denied basic education or proper health facilities.
Several of Mukherjee's comrades are tea garden workers or children of tea garden workers. Most of the gardens are in secluded areas and not the easiest places to reach, thus they make ideal hiding places.
"Darjeeling tea is world famous. Those who sit in their fancy homes and offices and sip Darjeeling tea are hardly aware of the inhuman conditions in which tea garden workers lead their lives. For hundred years their lives have remained the same," says an almost angry Mukheree, for a moment losing his schoolteacher composure.
He goes quiet after the little outburst. Fiddles with his glasses, lights a Wills Navycut (I thought the cigarette had gone out of production, I felt as happy seeing it as one does when meeting an old friend after a long time), then takes a sip of the rum we had been drinking the past two hours.
And then the poise and the schoolteacher voice are back as suddenly as they had disappeared. "You see, Mr. Chakravarty, this is not about ideology. A lot of these people don't know anything about Marx or Mao. For generations, people here have led a life without basic amenities, a life without without dignity. We try to tell them they have as much right to this nation's resources as the next man.You have a right to education, right to health, and most importantly a right to life with dignity."
I ask him why follow the path of violence. "You can't get dignity or equality through the ballot box," says Mukherjee. "There is a system, a very effective one at that, in place which ensures that the poorest sections of the society remain poor. You need to completely uproot this system, it is not enough to introduce mild internal changes."
"We use violence sparingly, only when it is entirely unavoidable," he goes on to add. "You only get to hear about our violent acts. Any popular movement can't survive on terror."
Even government agencies reluctantly acknowledge the rapid spread of the Naxal movement. Several meetings have identified the "Naxal problem" as the number one threat to India's internal security.
In the tea gardens of Bengal and the villages beyond, the Naxal movement has gathered momentum and found new supporters because of the work they do with the common people. In a number of villages, Naxal activists run health care centres and schools, as is the case in states like Jharkhand, Chhatisgarh and Andhra Pradesh.
There is a conflict in perception. What the government agencies view, or at least publicly acknowledge, as a law and order problem is viewed by Mukherjee and his followers as a just battle against years of denial of basic rights and amenities. It is difficult, if not well-nigh impossible, to find fault with the latter view.
Over the years, I have travelled extensively through the so-called "Naxal belts. These are also areas which house India's poorest. People who go to sleep every night half fed. People who find themselves at the recieving end of inhuman treatment in the name of caste. People who live miles away from the nearest hospital or school, and a world away from you and me.
For years they have not had a voice. And now they have picked up a gun. The question we must ponder is what other choice do they have? What would I do, what would you have done in their position?
I don't know about you. For me the answer is easy.
We are sitting in a rather large tin shed (Mukherjee's temporary quarters) in one of the abandoned tea estates in north Bengal, in the eastern Himalayan foothills. My host tells me we are not very far from Naxalbari, the village from which the movement borrows its name.
It is April, and not surprisingly raining heavily. The rain drums down on the tin roof as Mukherjee uses a stick to draw an imaginary map on the ground. "See, from Nepal, to north Bengal to Jharkhand and parts of Bihar, down to Orissa, Chhattisgarh, and Andhra Pradesh, Left groups are active in areas where the poorest live," he elaborates. Suddenly he looks up at me, his face creased in a grin, "You will not find us on Wall Street".
Later I meet Mukherjee's lieutenants, young men and women who form bulk of the cadre of Left groups like Naxals. Most are dressed in green fatigues and almost all of them are carrying guns. Save for their guns and fatigues, they would be indistinguishable from other young men and women from that part of the world.
Most of them had lived in extreme poverty, struggled to manage two square meals a day, some of them had been victims of social injustice. "We have never had any problem recruiting. When we march through a region, hundreds approach us, wanting to join our movement. For some it is a way out of the miserable life they lead. Others want to fight, take revenge against their oppressors," says Mukherjee.
Tea gradens, like the one we are in, have been fertile recruitment grounds for Naxals for years. The workers in these gardens survive on paltry wages, their families often denied basic education or proper health facilities.
Several of Mukherjee's comrades are tea garden workers or children of tea garden workers. Most of the gardens are in secluded areas and not the easiest places to reach, thus they make ideal hiding places.
"Darjeeling tea is world famous. Those who sit in their fancy homes and offices and sip Darjeeling tea are hardly aware of the inhuman conditions in which tea garden workers lead their lives. For hundred years their lives have remained the same," says an almost angry Mukheree, for a moment losing his schoolteacher composure.
He goes quiet after the little outburst. Fiddles with his glasses, lights a Wills Navycut (I thought the cigarette had gone out of production, I felt as happy seeing it as one does when meeting an old friend after a long time), then takes a sip of the rum we had been drinking the past two hours.
And then the poise and the schoolteacher voice are back as suddenly as they had disappeared. "You see, Mr. Chakravarty, this is not about ideology. A lot of these people don't know anything about Marx or Mao. For generations, people here have led a life without basic amenities, a life without without dignity. We try to tell them they have as much right to this nation's resources as the next man.You have a right to education, right to health, and most importantly a right to life with dignity."
I ask him why follow the path of violence. "You can't get dignity or equality through the ballot box," says Mukherjee. "There is a system, a very effective one at that, in place which ensures that the poorest sections of the society remain poor. You need to completely uproot this system, it is not enough to introduce mild internal changes."
"We use violence sparingly, only when it is entirely unavoidable," he goes on to add. "You only get to hear about our violent acts. Any popular movement can't survive on terror."
Even government agencies reluctantly acknowledge the rapid spread of the Naxal movement. Several meetings have identified the "Naxal problem" as the number one threat to India's internal security.
In the tea gardens of Bengal and the villages beyond, the Naxal movement has gathered momentum and found new supporters because of the work they do with the common people. In a number of villages, Naxal activists run health care centres and schools, as is the case in states like Jharkhand, Chhatisgarh and Andhra Pradesh.
There is a conflict in perception. What the government agencies view, or at least publicly acknowledge, as a law and order problem is viewed by Mukherjee and his followers as a just battle against years of denial of basic rights and amenities. It is difficult, if not well-nigh impossible, to find fault with the latter view.
Over the years, I have travelled extensively through the so-called "Naxal belts. These are also areas which house India's poorest. People who go to sleep every night half fed. People who find themselves at the recieving end of inhuman treatment in the name of caste. People who live miles away from the nearest hospital or school, and a world away from you and me.
For years they have not had a voice. And now they have picked up a gun. The question we must ponder is what other choice do they have? What would I do, what would you have done in their position?
I don't know about you. For me the answer is easy.
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