Terrorist: 'Run, it’s a gesture!'


What is it with these gestures? A recent ‘report’ (one of those where there’s not much reporting) was about how the Bollywood fraternity did not celebrate Eid (on Dec 9) and chose to wear black arm-bands to condemn the Mumbai blasts. Now, me being the cynic that I am, have my doubts if the terrorist organizations have read about this daring gesture and have become so demoralized that they have planned to blow themselves up. Unlikely, I feel, though Dia Mirza might disagree, who’s quoted in the ‘report’ saying that her band will “give out a token signal against polarization in the nation.” Wow, I don’t think I understand such complex jargon…well, as long as she does.
The only one person speaking with a characteristic measure of sanity in the whole thing was Naseerduddin Shah, who said that the problem with such gestures is that we think we’ve done our bit.
Candle-light marches, rallies, protests, arm-bands…does it really help? Well, maybe it would, if we had a government that would feel the need to react to them and show some proactive measures. But, well, an imbecile Shivraj Patil resigned only for Chidambaram’s ‘shoe-filling’ party to be actually celebrated by party members! Wow! Doesn’t that call for celebration!
It’s like pelting a rhino with stones – the skin is too thick! Did you see Manmohan Singh’s speech after the Mumbai blasts – you couldn’t tell if it was the fear that his residence would be blown up next, or if Sonia Gandhi had just woken him up, and forced him to give a speech before he was able to brush his teeth… I strained to catch a tone or look of passion…none! I’m sure I’ve seen the quiet-Surd doing the fist in the air for the pre-election rallies! What was the point of the speech then, Mr President? Token of hope or a gesture that said, “Ok, I’ve done my job…condemned them…what else do you want me to do? I can’t catch them, can’t kill them, can’t equip our forces any better. I can’t, alright…now, let me brush my teeth.”
Pratibha Patil was for once better (and that’s saying something). She at least looked fully awake, and had actually some perk about her. I wondered if she’s used the brand of shampoo that a friend gifted me (Tea Tingle; It will make you jump out of bed…). She “strongly condemned” the terror-attacks and looked proud of herself for having done so…Oh gosh, poor terrorists, how they would run if they could see her.
So, where does that leave us? Trapped between the insanity of gun-toting brainwashed zealots and the even more frustrating theatre of politicians and celebrities waving their precious petty little gesture-flags and arm-bands? Give us something to wave too…

Now showing…Pirates of News: The Curse of 24x7


Woah… ‘India’s 9/11’… ‘War on India’…sounds damn intense and moving! The entire nation’s woken up, thanks to you folks! Everyone’s talking…taking part in the debate…the rise of the voice of India!
Great, alright, so we got the message. Good show, guys, but it’s time for a wrap. Pack your bags, lock away the creative faculty, and for God’s sake (and for Allah/Ram/Jesus/Satan…the whole halo club), please turn the camera off now!
But oh, you can’t right? Now I get it…you’re 24x7…can’t shut off, news or no news! Oh, I’m sorry guys, I really didn’t understand why you have to do this…oh, poor things, it must be so painful to have to constantly say something on the camera, sense or no(n)sense, to sit and interview socialites and politicians, and to come up with ‘Breaking News’ headlines like ‘Puppy falls in the well’ and ‘Amitabh gets up on the wrong side of the bed.’
And that’s why you can’t keep your hands and cameras away when a terrorist attacks or a hotel burns down. You unleash your very best, letting all of us know how charred the bodies are or gathering reactions from the dead Sabina Saikia’s husband, prompting him to have an emotional breakdown before the camera as you ask what he’ll tell his children. I mean brilliant stuff, boys (and girls). You took the real Breaking News (instead of the manufactured ones) and squeezed out every bit of drama, right down to the pith. Good emotional stuff! But seriously, you’re wasting yourself here, my boys (and girls). You should be in Bollywood…you have a bright career in (e)motion pictures. You know just how to get the best performance out of your cast. And…gasp!...you do it live! No scripts, no rehearsals, documentary stuff, man…real cinema!
India’s on the Truman Show, and hats off to you boys for it! Take a bow for “gunning down” the news! How bored would we be without you!

The Rs10 middle-class ticket


The term ‘middle-class’ has to be the most overused (read, abused) adjective in the whole of journalistic repertoire in India. From the manicured fingers of the self righteous Shobhaa De didactically writing about her super-Indians to the the frontpage of the newspaper, you just can’t miss the expression. Well, we writers find it extremely convenient, to shove everyone possible, from the card-swiping IT couple to the man squished on the local train, to the chaat-shop owner into this bracket. Unless you have a car, maybe. Well, if it’s a Maruti 800 or a Santro, you could yet keep

your middle-class membership, though. Everyone’s middle-class, apparently. Kinda makes you wonder, is there a line that tells you who really is middle-class and who isn’t? What is it? The car, the house, the shirt-brand? Anything more definite and less conveniently blurred?

Yes …the Rs10 bus ticket.

If you live in Hyderabad, the sight of the LCD-display A/C buses that ply between Secunderabad station and VIT Park, Hi-Tec City, wouldn’t be unfamiliar, though it could be rare, sight. Rs10 is the minimum fare to get onto the bus. And at office-time when it’s absolutely crazy to try and utilize the public transport system, this comes as a real relief. Who wouldn’t shell out Rs10 for a ride from Panjagutta to Secunderabad in the seated comforts of an A/C bus, as opposed to fighting for footboard-space on the ‘ordinary’ bus?

Well, that’s your clear demarcation of the middle-class and the not-middle-class. No obscure, all-inclusive set, you can either afford it or you can’t. Not everyone does choose the Rs10 ride of comfort over the Rs4 madness; for not everyone can shell out Rs10 for the daily ride home.

So, I sit comfortably inside the 47V A/C bus, reading a second-hand English novel or listening to music on my refurbed ipod, as the other ‘ordinary’ bus, tilted to one side with people hanging out of the doors, passes by. Thank God we live in a country where the middle-class is so empowered, I think, and continue reading.

40 hours of Train-ing!...Part 2

(…continued)
Howrah Bridge
Have you ever stood on the Howrah Bridge? I mean, stood, as in stood still, without walking? Those who have will know how the entire bridge shakes, as if there’s an earthquake, with every passing bus and car. It’s actually quite an exciting feeling, and if you look closely enough, even the lights on the poles along the railing shake! These vibrations on the bridge, somehow, have become for me, a feeling I’ve always come back to, making the Rabindra Setu (the bridge’s Bengali name) one of my favourite spots in Cal.
I know you’d say that’s peculiar, but for me, if you stand there and see the busy cars shoot by under the dazzling lights of the busy metro, people hurrying along, to travel to or from the city (mostly middle-class travelers on sleeper coaches) – you’ve felt the pulse of Calcutta, with the movement under your feet conveying the intensity of life as it flows – hot, racy, and ever-alive, round the clock. It’s the artery through which people pour into Calcutta, like a life-vessel.
It made me remember the time when my friends had blindfolded me and brought me here (they knew I loved this place, and the river) on my birthday, before we went on the steamer. Even then, I knew where I was soon as I had stood still.

Ghoosh to shoot here!
I had my camera tucked away when I went onto the bridge, for I knew shooting from here was prohibited. There was also a more-or-less conspicuous metal board announcing the same. But being in India as we were (without meaning to generalize), we do take notices at scoff-value, and do exactly what it asks us not to! So, invariably, there was the odd first-timer to Cal, killing time (much like me) before his train perhaps, shooting the bridge from the bridge (and that honestly makes for a lousy shooting angle) with a point-and-shoot, or the more common mobile-phone camera. Well, as you would have it. The mama (that’s the slang for the policeman in Calcutta, literally meaning ‘maternal uncle’) is on the prowl and surprisingly sharp to take to task every megapixel-sized offence. The long arm of the law…or wait a minute, what’s this? Mamu’s more dexterous than you anticipated, as I discovered standing there looking at the drama (I still had time to kill, you know) – the offender gets promptly taken to the side, and then a quick exchange of hands means a 50rs note and the ‘seized’ shooting-device have changed hands. Another story about Cal told in brief…ghoosh (bribe) is good side-business here, and a 50rs note is always handy, if you’re driving without license, need to get a truck past the traffic signal anywhere in Calcutta, or… of course, if you're shooting the Howrah Bridge from the Howrah bridge!

40-hours of Train-ing!... Part 1

Till date, my longest train journey. Nearbout 40 hours on the Upper Berths (and thanks for that at least) of Sleeper Coaches of the Indian Railway.
And if the prospect had been daunting even before I started, it was no match for the dreariness and backache at the end of the expedition!
After office, the Falaknuma Express to Calcutta was a 26-hr journey, and from there, it was onward to Ranchi the next night on the Howrah- Hatia.
So, anything exciting? Well, let’s see …other than the usual bit of quarrel between the TTE and a ticketless traveler, the bunch of eunuchs (as soon as you had entered West Bengal) asking for money, the debate over when the lights should be turned off and the middle-berth raised…not much!
So yeah, on went the train with my only companion being Frodo Baggins, Merry Took, Sam and party, on their first Middle-Earth saving adventure…Fellowship of the Rings. Disturbed of course by the aforementioned distractions and yes, a stiff neck or a sore elbow out of being used much too long as prop.

DIGRESSION…Side-Middle
Oh, one criticism here, and that as a rule any Bong must do while traveling - the extremely uncomfortable implementation called the Side-Middle-Berth. What, is this a train to get refugees from Lahore to Amritsar, that you must pack in people in max numbers? It pushes up the Side-Upper even more and leaves everyone cursing a side-berth. Whoever made it surely assumed travelers were dwarf-sized or could unhinge their heads and put them in their bags when needed (that sounds disquieting). And of course, no one thought of where to create the extra seating space when you’re not sleeping on a 26-hour journey.
My verdict (and I give it of course with such conviction since it hardly matters!) is to make the person who’s brainchild it is, to be forced to travel on it without being allowed to climb off (other than to go to the washroom) from the length of Kashmir to Kanyakumari…and back!

In Cal for 3 ½ hours
Anyway, back to where I was before I digressed to vent out gyaan and all other things less than indispensable, and I reached Howrah…6.45 pm, Day 2. Another first – my shortest stay in my hometown.
The warm air of Calcutta and that old mushy thing called nostalgia made me want to go out for a breath of air under the Calcutta sky and beside the Hoogly river (I suggest you stop there with your sensible-nostalgia, just short of soaking your feet in gonga-jol and filling a bottle as many do. FYI, a million sewerages in the city drain into this :) ).
So, Rs10 at the cloakroom meant my luggage was taken care of and out I went with my Nikon in my hand. The Howrah Bridge, I must admit, looked quite a sight under the night sky, hued in an understated purple (I think…since I’m bad with colours), thanks to Philips, who did the lighting sometime back. Slow shutter speed, ISO as high as I dared, a steady hand and that thing called trial-and-error gave me a couple of good shots from one of the bathing ghats.
I still had time to kill before my 10.20 pm train to Ranchi, so, I decided to take a walk on the bridge itself. I was a tourist in Cal right now, and never before had I spent so much time on the Howrah bridge, which usually served for a deep sigh and of course, the way to home.
(To be continued... Howrah Bridge)

Andhra 'Meals'



Yes, rather peculiar, you might say, and I agree. I’ve been in Hyderabad for 2-and-a-half years now, and have never before tried food at a typical Andhra mess, the ones that you’ll find beside streets here and there, all over Hyderabad. But I did already have a fair idea from eating the food served at the Times Of India canteen here, and from a couple of friends’ narrations of their encounter with the Chicken Pulusu and Eguru. When my friends asked the waiter at Abhiruchi, a well known Andhra restaurant in Sec’bad which of the two is less spicy, they met with a smile, and “Sir, Andhra food, all spicy. Pulusu less gravy, Eguru more gravy (or the other way around, I’m not sure).

So, a couple of my colleagues who’re from here, and me, we went to this Andhra mess near Yusufguda checkpost. 35 bucks a plate (sorry, meals, yes, always plural), and well, I who had thought my office food was a not-so-great version of the local cuisine, found the fare much the same. Didn’t know friums (basically, some kind of hollow cylindrical fries) were Andhra food. Anyway, the dal was, as usual, heavily infused with curry leaves, and the rice and potato mash-dry-curry weren’t much of an improvement, really. The Egg curry had a mirchi-ka-salan type of gravy with one egg (not fried) floating in the middle.

As I found others eating around, one helping, two helping, three helping, four…it was again reinforced that quantity rules over quality here.

No, I’m not being a racist here and declaring all things South Indian bad, for I myself am a big fan of Utthapam, and dosa and Mysore Bonda. But make no mistake, that’s not Andhra cuisine. I also totally love the Nizami food in the Old City, the haleem, and the kebabs of Shahdab. But this typically Telugu food, friends, wasn’t quite my palate.  

Good in one way, though. I could now reconcile to the quality of food in the canteen and not feel cheated for being charged 30 bucks for well…

Oh, by the way, the menu also pomised a brain something. Err...think I’ll avoid.

Cutting it close

As the auto-driver dodged a group of college-girls on the wrong side of the narrow by-lane, spitting paan and sending vehicles and people diving for cover, I glanced at my watch, “Shit! 10 minutes before the train pulls out,” I thought, “…We’ll be cutting it close!”

----------------------------

Hurriedly finishing our quick-fix bowls of Maggi, Manish and I thought we might just make it to Seetaphalmandi station for the 3:15 MMTS to Secunderabad. Little did we know the adventure (we or at least I’d learn not all adventures are fun) that awaited us. This was Manish’s first trip to Calcutta after he’d shifted to Hyderabad 2 months back to work with the Bank Of America. Anyway, the train was late (and that’s not unusual), and we were thinking that it might just be a good idea to not wait any longer and take an auto the Secunderabad, for the Falaknuma Express departed at 4pm.

…And, we almost did go, when a small miracle (or it seemed one then) and we heard a train approaching. No point waiting for the MMTS now surely, I asked Manish to double-check the name, and yes, it said ‘somewhere-to-Secunderabad.’ Cool then, we hopped on. And let me tell you I’d done this several times, on my way back from work or something – if it said Sec-bad and was heading in the direction, it was a safe bet. Obviously, a train that says ‘Secunderabad’ has to go to Secunderabad, right?

Well, wrong! But we realized too late! The train switched to a parallel track and soon the metal lines it rolled on skewed away from Secunderabad. Relax, must be a different platform, I thought. That changed soon to ‘not good’ as we completely faced away now. “Bhaiyya, yeh train Secunderabad nahi jati?” we asked one of the passengers, but we knew the answer already – it was headed for the godforsaken “Somewhere” and not to “Secunderabad!” What? How’s that possible? It said Secunderabad, so it had to go to…No time to logic it now, we were just praying for a station…any station, and I saw my watch…3:30!

For a moment, we thought it would take us all the way to “somewhere” without stopping. Manish even suggested, “Jump kar jaayen?” “What? Pagal hai kya?” I offered. A saner idea (comparatively saner, that is) was whizzing through my mind, “To stop train, pull chain!”

Thankfully, it stopped on its own. At Lalaguda. Alright, there’s hope. I’ve seen this station before. “Manish, tu auto rok, main suitcase lata hoon.” I was calculating in minutes now. Amazingly enough, the usually practical Manish displayed amazing propensity for dumbness now. He refused an auto because the fellow asked for 50 Rupees. “What?” I couldn’t believe it. Another 5 minutes, and thankfully, this guy agreed, saying “Challis rupae.” I’d have agreed even

for 100 now!

We were racing the clock now, but the 7-or-something bhp auto-rickshaw was definitely not. We went through roads and lanes I was certain I’d never seen before. Until we reached Marredpally, and then neared Secunderabad.

The smart-ass driver refused to take the route I told him, and drove into a narrow side-lane…

only to line up behind a row of barely-budging buses. Damn!

It was only now that the auto-driver seemed to register we were in a hurry, and suddenly, in a sudden burst of adrenaline and fuel-injection, he jerked the throttle, turned a sharp right and sped. As he dodged a group of college-girls on the wrong side of the narrow by-lane, spitting paan and sending vehicles and people diving for cover, I glanced at my watch, “Shit! 10 minutes before the train pulls out,” I thought, “…We’ll be cutting it close!”

Paying the auto, half-running, half-dragging the luggage, by the time we entered Sec’bad station, we were counting down 5 minutes! We were on platform 1 and had to get to 10! Not sure how, but as we jerked, and jostled, bumped and turned this way and that, went down the foot over-bridge, and counted off from S6 down to S13, we had done in under 5-minutes (A process that easily takes 15!). Panting, we climbed on, pushed Manish’s suitcase under his seat, and looked at him!

Both of us had sweat on our foreheads, and traces of tension still writ on them!

“Not bad,” I offered, looking at the watch with relief now. “Yeah” Manish said. We both knew it was stupid, but couldn’t help smiling now. We’d learnt our lesson (or maybe now we th

ought so)…but it’d serve for good conversation for sure.

[We’d both promised to put this on blog. Here’s my promise. Waiting for yours.]

Glass walls


It’s amazing how two worlds can be separated only by a layer of cold glass – On one side, the frosted breath of a hungry 5-year old; On the other, the air-conditioned discomfiture of long hours at the traffic signal, looking at the Blackberry and cursing, “Dammit!” The naked feet on the other side, separated by 10mm of glass and 10 strata on the economic pyramid, do not have the diction of “dammit,” nor the sensation of discomfiture. In it’s heightened pain-bearing threshold, it is unaware of smaller discomfitures. To his numbed feet, that comfortable “discomfiture” is a non-existent sensation. The glass will not roll down, and the divide will not be altered, not even by a carelessly flung out rupee.

The Obamanic diaries


I think JFK will still keep the airport, but everything else runs the risk of getting Obama-fied, if the man’s present charisma and popularity are anything to go by. Don’t be surprised if say TOYS R US come out with Obama-robot Prez dolls that give inspirational speeches and which get used by schools and model parents to teach their kids “some good values” – the American way! ‘The ultimate good friend for your kid – Obamate.’
‘Obama rules’ t-shirts, mugs, pens, candies (?), and god knows what else the American entrepreneur brain will come up with to sell! One good thing though, from the US point of view that is, it might help overcome the recession by a bit. With the rest of the world equally taken up by the hottest new brand on tongue-tips, US could soon be selling its ‘revolutionary’ Obama accessories and insignia to the rest of the world. Perhaps even shift production base to India for the manufacture of its dolls, bags, caps, t-shirts etc at a lower making-charge and then sell it to Indians and others (excluding China, who’ll resist). And when sales are really high, and dim (in absence of a better euphemism) Americans can’t figure out how the batteries go into the Obamate robot doll or when the have queries on what new features the Obamate 2.0 version has – they will also set up a BPO in India to give chat support to American customers, with Rangaswamy pretending all the way to be Jason and trying to cover up his accent that’s as overwhelming as the Chennai filter-coffee he has every evening.
But all these major outsourcing plans could come to a grinding halt if – hypothesis 1.i.a) Mamata Bannerjee cries out for the ‘deepribhed’ people of the village where the SEZ land was to given to TOYS R US; or well, 1.i.b) If Obama comes down really hard on the outsourcing issue.
Hmm…don’t think TOYS R US will be too happy about that – paying more for making Obama dolls because Obama thinks it’s wrong to make Obama dolls outside Obamanation. That’s just bizarre and my sentence framing has developed a malfunction.

Revisiting Lear


It’s been a while since I saw a film that made me think after the show was over. The Last Lear did not only that, but it also left me at a lack of a convictional response when asked if the film was good? Good or bad is way too judgmental a reaction. I’d say the film makes you think and that’s the best part of a Rituporno movie.
Amitabh, I thought, excelled playing Sam, the eccentric retired stage actor, and the moments of screen excellence were at the elocutionary deliveries from Shakespeare, in flawless accent, emotion and screen presence. Makes you think what this man could have done if he were born of the age of the stage and not celluloid. The baritone, the stature, the energy, kind of made me recollect only one other man – Bengali stage actor Rudraprasad. Interestingly again, Mr Bachchan’s other most noticeable performance also came as the teacher in Black, a role which again tended towards the theatrical.
Arjun Rampal was convincing as the obsessive and somewhat narcissistic film-director Siddharth, though I think being somber is the only emotion that comes naturally to him. Per chance, or per director’s choice, that’s exactly what he needed to be in Lear – the man of fewer words and more thoughts.
Preity Zinta lacked lustre, especially being in the frame with Shefali Chhaya, who clearly had superior emoting, range and presence. Kind of makes you wonder again why a Rituporno would go for Preity if not for the promotion power of a commercial actor. In his kind of filmmaking, which is less about storytelling than its how (craft over narrative), the shortcomings of an actor get caught out. Made her convincing only in the shoots of the film, where she’s admittedly the model-turned-actress who can’t act!
Chhaya playing the unsanctioned woman in Sam’s life exudes the passion with which she loves the man, mingled with her knowledge of his childlike innocence and remoteness from the practical world. In her admittance, “He isn’t that passionate otherwise (as a lover) but on stage…” shows her overwhelming love for the stage actor who had swept her off her feet.
Jishu Sengupta is mature in his brief appearances and Prosenjit is alright (that’s a compliment, given his over-the-top acting in commercial Bengali cinema).
The one thing that sitting here in Hyderabad made we wonder, however, was the use of Bengali dialogues, interspersed throughout. They came without subtitles, and while not following them wouldn’t take away from the story, I’m sure it’s give a sense of not following, causing a distraction. And anyway, Lear isn’t all about following the drift of the story. Somewhat exclusivist of the director, I felt, for I’m not ready to believe it’s an unintentional flaw on the production’s part.
As Sam tells Siddharth, “I will be good, but your camera will make me look bad,” the audience is made to think. He elaborates that the camera doesn’t allow the hands to be seen when the face is showing, and doesn’t allow one to make out facial expressions in a long shot where the whole body is seen. “And who’s to decide what’s to be seen?” he asks of the director in a thought-provoking moment (even though its one of theatre’s oldest arguments). At the same time, the genius of the director makes Sam anticipate his tragic accident at the end, where he convinces the director that a stuntman cannot replace him in the death scene, for he will never have the same expression.
The seamless flitting from present (of Jishu’s stream of consciousness) to flashback and returning to the present of another conversation (Preity and Shefali) leaves the conversations and thought processes implied and could have been carried off so beautifully only by a mature director.
The script and screenplay are strong, and the use of background noises of the street and other things show off the attention to detail.
The plot has a touch of absurdity when the whole crew allows the veteran almost-blind actor to jump off the cliff without protesting, but then again, as I said earlier, it’s about the how and not so much the what, so we’ll take it.

Fundamentalism vs Nationalism


The most dangerous part of Fundamentalism is that they try to associate it with nationalism at a perverse level. And nationalism, for India always comes down to the British rule, and the memories of an oppressive outsider, ingrained in memories, less by first-hand experience and more by the images prescribed to us by word of mouth, tales of terror and history books. And that, irrespective of the fact that the average Indian has really moved away from that sense of antagonism against the British.

Fundamentalists try and shift this latent antagonism like a transferred epithet towards the outsiders of a state. And then they try and link this picture with that of the aggressive colonizer who usurped our rights, means of livelihood and independence. Thus, they will have you believe that the reason you, the Marathi Manush of Mumbai don’t have jobs is because the evil Muslim or ‘North Indian’ came down to the land that doesn’t belong to them and took them away! See, the Punjabis, Biharis and others drive the fiat taxis of Mumbai, they’ll point out. Their anger even extends to the Parsis at times, that community who we cannot think of in isolation to Mumbai.

The most dangerous part is the way in which they manage to convince people. If the Mumbai riots, and the fanatic blind faith of the Nava Nirman Sena, are anything to go by, one wonders what level of eyewash can lead to such suspension of common sense.

Such faith and sense of righteousness can come only when you believe is something so strongly. It’s the same sentiment that freedom fighters of the pre-independent era used to mobilize the masses against the British. They would tell the people of India why they need to fight and made them believe that fighting the British was the purpose of their lives. Without this absolute convincing, it is not possible to shape the opinion of an entire population towards a revolution. And that holds true for every freedom movement in the world.

Same weapon, but a perverted usage. That’s what fundamentalists and communal fanatics use. A convincing job so absolute that you think it’s the purpose of your life.

A questioning, rational man cannot fight in a revolution. He is bound to think of family, right and wrong, are all outsiders bad or is the system bad? Basically, a mind that constantly questions, and such a mind can never be convinced absolutely.

The mind that in pre-Independence India would have been a freedom fighter is today, a misguided, brainwashed fanatic.