Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Crossroads
Radiohead. Pink Floyd. Play a song to make me forget. Play a song to make me cry. Play a song to make me feel good about all that we had. Play a song to make me realise all that I can't have. Play a song to make me feel miserable I can't play the guitar like that and sweep you off your feet. Show me the hills and the mist. Make me feel closer to myself. Make me feel farther from you. Money buys me happiness. Money can't buy me real happiness. I want to join college again. I want to put the clock back ten years. I want to grow younger by six years. I want to sky-dive to feel nothing but gravity. I want to sit by the ocean and hope the sound of the waves can drown my thoughts. The ocean reminds me of you and all the worries of the world written on your face. I don't want to be bound by social rules. I don't want to get married. I want to get married to be normal. I crave to be normal. I crave to be average. I want to be like the others who get to work abroad and learn about life. I don't want to buckle to external pressures. I welcome external pressures because it distracts me from my own confusions. I feel more alive than ever. I would welcome death if it came the next moment. I feel so frustratingly inadequate. I only want you. I desperately want to get back to 2001 and make more friends. I regret nothing yet I want to change my past. You showed me the liberation that Radiohead provides. You are the closest I ever had to a brother. You, not you, you are all I want. You, not you, can destroy all I live for. You, not you, are so snooty and self-centred. I want a purpose. I don't want a purpose to derail my journey. Dearest one, I want to be so near to you, I want you to hug me and tell me everything is fine, I want to see that goofy smile on your angelic face again. I want peace. I find peace in moments. I find turmoil in other moments. Turmoil wrecks peace. I am at a crossroad where all the lights except one are green.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Stamp Collector
With just four days to go for my second international trip, I am spending a considerable amount of time feasting on travel blogs, guidebooks and country fact books. Just like my first trip, this one will begin as a business trip and end as a vacation. Another similarity would be that I will be visiting two countries.
What disappoints me about the coming trip is the fact that both Singapore and Cambodia have issued e-visas. I am all too aware of the "environment friendliness" of these, as well as the relative ease of obtaining them whilst sitting in the comfort of my home/ office. Yet, the disappointment stems from the fact that I will not have two more visa "stickers" in my passport. Even on the previous trip, I was disappointed with the lack of any border checkpoint between France and Spain (where my passport could have carried the entry stamp from Spanish authorities) because my passport only shows entry and exit stamps at Charles de Gaulle Airport and nothing for Madrid's Atocha railway station (one of the largest in the world) or its enormous and splendid Barajas airport.
For long, I have envied those seasoned travellers who have three, four or even five additional passports bound together to accommodate all their visas and entry/ exit stamps. It's the only way a dry official document like a passport transforms into a gripping novel, with each visa and each stamp an unforgettable chapter. I have always imagined the pride with which I would present such a massive booklet at the immigration counter at an airport and cast a condescending glance towards the little kid eying me with awe. Most people want to collect postage stamps, but I want to collect visa stamps.
Obviously, my lust for travel is driven by a sincere, deep-rooted passion for exploring new and exotic places, meeting with people of different nationalities, and witnessing and briefly living among new cultures; not just for the almost robotic desire of collecting visa stamps. Nevertheless, the visa stamp from an exotic destination (say, Peru or Ethiopia or Iran or Vanuatu) is a prized possession and a catalyst to trigger all the memories associated with that place. The US visa is a prized possession of a different variety because a number of countries will never refuse you a visa or ask you to come to the consulate for a personal interview, if you have a valid US visa stamped on your passport. A Schengen area visa, especially a multiple-entry one valid for several years, is another valued stamp on your passport because you can visit dozens of countries in Europe with the same visa (of course, someone like me would still be disappointed because there won't be any additional stamps embossed during intra-Schengen area border crossings).
It's no secret that Cambodia is still an exotic destination which does not attract too many tourists. It is virtually unheard of in India. In fact, several people asked me where it was, one person asked me if it was in South America (obviously confusing it with Colombia) and yet another person, when I explained it neighboured Vietnam, asked if it was a province in Japan too (as he thought Vietnam was a province in Japan and that the US had nuked it during the Vietnam War). The best thing about Cambodia is that it features way below its neighbour Thailand in the average western tourist's list of must-see countries in South-east Asia. So when I get there in around ten days' time, I will not only be visiting a country that boasts of splendid ancient temples and natural beauty, but also collecting a rare entry/exit stamp. In fact, it will be my first "exotic" stamp. That's why I am kicked. OK, I admit - it's not the only reason. It IS a beautiful place.
Finally, I have to admit this is the only time I will pity the Americans. Their passport gets them entry into nearly 150 countries without requiring a visa. They will have very few stamps on their passports.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The flight into freedom - Udaan
It's been a while since I wrote a movie review. In fact, it's been a while since I saw a good movie at the talkies. Multiplex, they call it these days. It was one of those rare weekends when there were several movies releasing in which I had a REAL interest in watching. On top of my list was Udaan. I had seen the promo once on TV (unlike those big banner promos which hit you at all times) and I casually observed that it had been screened at Cannes. Hindi movie at Cannes? Without Aamir Khan involved? With a commercial release in a multiplex? A must watch, I told myself.
A must watch it is. If this were a book, the blurb would have told us that it's the story of a teenager whose mind isn't in academics, who is forced into the hands of a father who hasn't bothered to keep in touch, who is forced by the father into things he doesn't care for, and whose adolescent spirit refuses to die. I can hear the groan in your head, as you think it's one of those pseudo-rebellious, Utopian stories that Bollywood is capable of producing. (Like Rang De Basanti - emotionally charged but really, who does that stuff in real life?). But wait - it received the applause from the stiff suits at Cannes - it's got to be something meaningful.
The plot begins slowly. It moves slowly. It caresses the characters, in a slow, sensual manner. It paints us Rohan, the adolescent and Bhairav, the tyrannical father, in the manner of Van Gogh at the height of his powers. Rohan's been expelled from his boarding school and returns to Bhairav, who hasn't bothered to meet his son in eight years. Immediately, we see that the boy is not welcome at home. Home is in Jamshedpur, India's first industrial township, which provides the ideal cold, machine-like backdrop to the plot. Dad owns a factory and immediately sets about employing his son into the hard labour. The school dropout is forced into attending evening college for engineering. When all he wants to do is to write poems and stories.
The strongest point of the movie is its characterization. Besides the two central characters, there's the loving uncle Jimmy and the wide-eyed stepbrother, the little kid Arjun. No one's character is overcooked. We see Rohan's angst through his eyes and facial expressions, but never through flashbacks, visions and dreams. We see Bhairav's painful past through vague references and an old photo album, but we never get that full story. We see Arjun's fears and vulnerability through his scars, and his maturity through his stoic taciturnity, but never through a tantrum or an outburst. It's subtlety that one would not normally associate with a Bollywood film.
Rohan's story is brilliantly told. He is treated like a big man by his father, when he's just a teenager discovering the world around him. He's not afraid to steal away in his father's car (after stealing some money too) and enjoy a smoke, but you are never invited to make a moral judgement of these actions. He's not afraid to drink and drive, but you are never instigated to imitate him because you empathise with the rebel inside and not the act itself. Instead, your heart is inspired to reach out to him and tell him, "I feel you".
The film rides over so many stereotypes, especially the moral judgements and mundane life choices we make. In the end, it's what makes the story believable. A school dropout who writes beautiful, haunting poetry is not laughing stock - his choices command the viewer's respect and even support. A strict, disciplinarian who wishes his son the best (although his actions never match his wishes) is not a desirable thing - in fact, it solicits our disgust and frustration. Ironically, the one time we really love Bhairav is when he's stone drunk. The other time we reach out to him is when he is confronted with the unpardonable sin of whipping the kid Arjun. The college bullies are not the despicable demons we tend to stereotype them into - their human side is revealed. They live for the moment, having realised that success will never call into their ports and life has passed them by.
The violence is always mental. Bhairav beats Rohan on several occasions but the real violence is in Rohan's steely glare. One punch is all Rohan throws in the entire film, when it wouldn't have been a surprise had he committed patricide. There are no clenched fists, no quivering lips. Bhairav's frustration and temper are closer to the surface, while Rohan's is immensely restrained.
A word about the actors. Ronit Roy has always shown plenty of mettle on the small screen and he fills up every inch of the big screen as Bhairav. Rajat Barmecha is surely Bollywood's young star in a powerhouse performance as Rohan. Unlike some better-known names, he can act. It's a shame the Khans and Akshay Kumar will bag the big bucks and the awards, but in my book, Udaan is the film of the year. Beyond any shadow of doubt.
After all, Cannes said that it had a certain look to it.
A must watch it is. If this were a book, the blurb would have told us that it's the story of a teenager whose mind isn't in academics, who is forced into the hands of a father who hasn't bothered to keep in touch, who is forced by the father into things he doesn't care for, and whose adolescent spirit refuses to die. I can hear the groan in your head, as you think it's one of those pseudo-rebellious, Utopian stories that Bollywood is capable of producing. (Like Rang De Basanti - emotionally charged but really, who does that stuff in real life?). But wait - it received the applause from the stiff suits at Cannes - it's got to be something meaningful.
The plot begins slowly. It moves slowly. It caresses the characters, in a slow, sensual manner. It paints us Rohan, the adolescent and Bhairav, the tyrannical father, in the manner of Van Gogh at the height of his powers. Rohan's been expelled from his boarding school and returns to Bhairav, who hasn't bothered to meet his son in eight years. Immediately, we see that the boy is not welcome at home. Home is in Jamshedpur, India's first industrial township, which provides the ideal cold, machine-like backdrop to the plot. Dad owns a factory and immediately sets about employing his son into the hard labour. The school dropout is forced into attending evening college for engineering. When all he wants to do is to write poems and stories.
The strongest point of the movie is its characterization. Besides the two central characters, there's the loving uncle Jimmy and the wide-eyed stepbrother, the little kid Arjun. No one's character is overcooked. We see Rohan's angst through his eyes and facial expressions, but never through flashbacks, visions and dreams. We see Bhairav's painful past through vague references and an old photo album, but we never get that full story. We see Arjun's fears and vulnerability through his scars, and his maturity through his stoic taciturnity, but never through a tantrum or an outburst. It's subtlety that one would not normally associate with a Bollywood film.
Rohan's story is brilliantly told. He is treated like a big man by his father, when he's just a teenager discovering the world around him. He's not afraid to steal away in his father's car (after stealing some money too) and enjoy a smoke, but you are never invited to make a moral judgement of these actions. He's not afraid to drink and drive, but you are never instigated to imitate him because you empathise with the rebel inside and not the act itself. Instead, your heart is inspired to reach out to him and tell him, "I feel you".
The film rides over so many stereotypes, especially the moral judgements and mundane life choices we make. In the end, it's what makes the story believable. A school dropout who writes beautiful, haunting poetry is not laughing stock - his choices command the viewer's respect and even support. A strict, disciplinarian who wishes his son the best (although his actions never match his wishes) is not a desirable thing - in fact, it solicits our disgust and frustration. Ironically, the one time we really love Bhairav is when he's stone drunk. The other time we reach out to him is when he is confronted with the unpardonable sin of whipping the kid Arjun. The college bullies are not the despicable demons we tend to stereotype them into - their human side is revealed. They live for the moment, having realised that success will never call into their ports and life has passed them by.
The violence is always mental. Bhairav beats Rohan on several occasions but the real violence is in Rohan's steely glare. One punch is all Rohan throws in the entire film, when it wouldn't have been a surprise had he committed patricide. There are no clenched fists, no quivering lips. Bhairav's frustration and temper are closer to the surface, while Rohan's is immensely restrained.
A word about the actors. Ronit Roy has always shown plenty of mettle on the small screen and he fills up every inch of the big screen as Bhairav. Rajat Barmecha is surely Bollywood's young star in a powerhouse performance as Rohan. Unlike some better-known names, he can act. It's a shame the Khans and Akshay Kumar will bag the big bucks and the awards, but in my book, Udaan is the film of the year. Beyond any shadow of doubt.
After all, Cannes said that it had a certain look to it.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Screen behind the Mirror
I look at the mirror. It is a lie. It's not I who's looking back at me. There's something missing. There's something that's not right. It's nothing to do with my face. The same two eyes, the same nose, the same lips, everything else is in place too. But it's just not me.
Look, look! I don't see how extraordinary I am. I cannot see how different I am from others around me. I respect women and their decisions; yet the mirror shows me as a man who seemingly is no different from other men who objectify women. I act true to my beliefs, yet the mirror shows me as no different from those whose morals are as transient as a chameleon's colours. I work honestly for a living, yet the mirror only shows that I am not an engineer. I would never beat my wife and constantly suspect, belittle and dominate her, but the mirror only shows a strong arm and frown on my face, just like on any other man. I have infinite compassion in my heart, but the mirror understands not what is meant by that. I want love, attention and affection no less than the next person, but the mirror cannot decipher so complex a code.
The greatest irony is in the truth. The mirror only shows my face, hands, trunk and legs as they are. But then, why do I interpret the mirror differently?
Look, look! I don't see how extraordinary I am. I cannot see how different I am from others around me. I respect women and their decisions; yet the mirror shows me as a man who seemingly is no different from other men who objectify women. I act true to my beliefs, yet the mirror shows me as no different from those whose morals are as transient as a chameleon's colours. I work honestly for a living, yet the mirror only shows that I am not an engineer. I would never beat my wife and constantly suspect, belittle and dominate her, but the mirror only shows a strong arm and frown on my face, just like on any other man. I have infinite compassion in my heart, but the mirror understands not what is meant by that. I want love, attention and affection no less than the next person, but the mirror cannot decipher so complex a code.
The greatest irony is in the truth. The mirror only shows my face, hands, trunk and legs as they are. But then, why do I interpret the mirror differently?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
How Mature is my Society Part III
Urban India never ceases to amaze me. I have said this on two previous occasions on this blog, but I will not tire just yet. My fascination stems from the dichotomies I perceive between how advanced people in India's metropolitan cities today seem in terms of material progress, but how far they lag behind in terms of updating their collective state of morality and their reaction to individual actions.
I met a very interesting person yesterday. She made two very interesting statements. First, that she was open to the idea of having one-night stands with attractive strangers, for mutual pleasure. Second, that if she were to get married someday, she would never grudge her husband for having a one-off sexual escapade with "another woman", so long as he was emotionally committed to her (i.e the wife) . Women who have such thoughts are not non-existent in metropolitan India today, but they constitute one of the most marginalised and misunderstood minorities.
Somehow, I feel that Indian society and the unwritten code of morals that weighs heavy on our collective shoulders is obsessed with women and their sexual behaviour. Any woman who has thoughts as my friend does is described as a whore or a woman of loose character and literally becomes an object in the eyes of Indian men. Men harbouring adulterous thoughts and desire to bed several women are forgiven by the same code of morals. Even highly educated men in great jobs are not spared.
Which brings me to the plight of another friend. She had been in a couple of relationships during her college days. Whether she had partaken of the forbidden fruit of sexual pleasure or not is a matter of speculation and no more (without asking privacy-intrusive questions, that is). Based just on the material that she had dated two guys, a family "carefully selected" by her parents to marry her into not only rejected her hand in marriage, but also broadcast their speculation (and there are no points for guessing what they speculated) to the larger community. The friend in question was transformed from a brilliant, ambitious and extremely eligible lawyer into a common street whore sans morals. And this is a family (the boy's, that is) where everyone was a "gold medallist" in all their academic glory.
The point here is not about questioning the morals of society, but delving into why one cannot embrace a common, consistent school of thought. The market-based capitalist economic model adopted and embraced so passionately by the businessmen, software engineers and management graduates (who, incidentally, are the hottest property on the marriage market) in urban India today necessarily demands the freedom of the individual and a respectful acceptance of the competence of every person to make decisions that suit them best. If investing in risky stocks was a decision a female took and gained success by, she must equally have the right to make a sexual choice. If a man and a woman are judged by their boss on the same criteria, then society must judge them against similar moral benchmarks.
I feel somewhat sorry for my friend who had the "deviant" thoughts on her sexual choices. Being a man, my agreement with her views means little because I apparently have the right to think that way. Will I marry a girl who admits to having had sexual relations with other men in the past, but who will assure me of lifelong commitment in an emotional and temporal sense? My simple answer is yes. But will I be marrying a whore? The simpler answer is no.
Monday, April 26, 2010
How Mature is my Society Part II
Two things make headlines in India - politics and cricket. When the two are combined along with other headline-grabbers in a heady mix of high-profile scandal, corruption, juicy love affairs involving public figures, rigged sports events, fear of imminent political fallout and glitzy, morality-busting late night parties, we get a perfect Indian curry. The controversy surrounding the IPL is stuff which even Jeffrey Archer couldn't dream about and is something which is threatening to turbocharge the Indian media industry out of recession.
What is most fascinating about the whole rigmarole is that the IPL so perfectly captures India today. The economic reality of the IPL was all about tapping the tremendous and virtually limitless potential contained in India's massive urban middle class. Nothing sells in India as well as cricket and Coca-Cola, and Lalit Modi chose to exploit every last drop of blood from the former. He was an entrepreneur and a visionary (although most people would argue that he stole the basic idea from the ICL, let us remind ourselves that several of the most successful commercial ventures in history were not original ideas). He used the BCCI's long arms as a springboard to sell his idea. He pursued his goal with zest and determination. And he achieved staggering results of global proportions - the IPL enjoys unbelievably high TRPs in half a dozen countries, the advertising slots command astronomical prices and still there is no dearth of demand, the ICC has held several debates about carving out a "window" for the IPL in a packed international schedule and most tellingly, the IPL has become (by a rough and highly conservative estimate) the fourth most valuable sports venture in the world. Let us pause for breath and remind ourselves that the IPL is just in its third season and lasts for less than two months every year!
That, in a nutshell, is the economic face of India. We are determined to conquer the world. We stand on the threshold of economic greatness. This is a juggernaut that can conquer everything in its path.
The other reality of the IPL epitomizes who we are as a society and what we cherish as personal or moral values. There are allegations that may never be proved, but the stories are striking. Allegedly, Modi manipulated the rules of the game to suit his best interests. Allegedly, he interfered with the market by rigging auctions and fixing bids. Allegedly, he exposed his crass moral immaturity by unflinchingly branding a lady entrepreneur as a woman of loose character and by exploiting her sex to pronounce moral judgement about her closeness with a political rival. Allegedly, he laid bare his base craving for fair-skinned females by getting foreign models and professional call-girls into drug-filled, testosterone-driven post-match parties. Allegedly, he curried favour with powerful men who belonged to his caste.
How different is it from what we are? I am not referring to our business dealings alone here. How many parents will settle for nothing less than "fair and slim" wives for their sons? How many people would not use their near and distant relatives to get accelerated response from government bodies, right from getting a passport out of turn to getting a house plan approved to ensuring uninterrupted electricity supply for their immediate neighbourhood? How many of us think twice before offering a bribe to anyone and everyone in the hierarchy, whether post office clerk or High Court judge, to get "our" work done? We are still a strongly patriarchal and disgustingly male chauvinist society, as is evident in every stage of a woman's life.
And then there's the king of all hypocrisies - religion: we use the name of God to justify every otherwise-unacceptable deed or thought. I am waiting for someone to claim that their act of wrongdoing in the IPL was motivated by religious beliefs, or for Modi to convert to Buddhism.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
The Party Animal
I once had a long argument with R about what a party is. Everyone seems to have an opinion on parties. "Oh, I love partying". "Man, I attend the coolest parties in town". "Dude, I'm booked on Friday night - there's this party happening with karaoke". Personally, I don't see what the hoopla is all about.
I begin with the worst form of party - the office party. It's supposedly your employer's way of showing that it cares for your work-life balance. Somehow, everyone is presumed to enjoy eating at flashy restaurants, and everyone is presumed to be a hard-drinking party animal. Usually, the boss and the long-serving employees get piss drunk, scream out loud along with the blaring Bollywood music, shake their (substantial) tummies around the table and crack horrible jokes. Then the old-timers gossip the same gossip they gossiped about three years ago. The newbies are scared - what will they reveal to their boss, who will force them to get drunk, how do they react if their boss asks them for a dance. Then there are the ones who hate the whole thing; they will sit quietly at the end of the table and eat finger food all evening. A few critical points to note - attendance is compulsory, especially if you are a newbie; jokes that attack your personal life (especially relationships and sex) are the best and safest jokes; strictly no honest opinions about work and your boss must be expressed.
Then there are the random parties. There's a crowd of a dozen people headbanging away to obscenely loud rock music. Everyone knows a maximum of one other person in that group. Everyone is to be addressed as "dude". Your standing in the eyes of the others is determined by how many parties you have attended in the past week. You find that one other guy who wants a beer as badly as you do and you stick to him throughout the evening, both of you shoulder-barging your way through the crowded floor to the bar. The hot chick in the strapless dress is the target for every man, single or attached, but she is more committed to her drink than anything else. Food is ordered by anyone and everyone, and plates of random stuff are passed around to everyone. Few words are spoken, and sentences always begin with "Err... What did you say your name was, dude?" The exception, of course, is the hot chick - everyone knows her name, her dad's job, her brand of perfume and the date of her next period.
Next in line are the private parties. This usually follows a random party, if you have made the cutoff of 17 parties in the past one week. The guy whispers into your ear or sends you a text message with the invitation. The venue has no furniture - just bean bags and mattresses on the floor. The booze is only beer, vodka and, if you are exceptionally lucky, whisky. Food is pizza or junk ordered from the take-out round the corner. A basketball game runs on mute on the TV - note that cricket and football are for the masses, only the uber-cool American games are allowed. One gang of people is in the balcony, and the air there smells strange. That's pot luck for you. The hot chick is slightly more amenable to a conversation. Just when you think you are approaching jackpot, the hunk in the Benetton pullover whisks her away to one of the bedrooms and shuts the door behind them. By the time anyone realises, everyone is drunk and it's 5 AM.
The best is reserved for the last. These are the parties which you go to with your best friends from college, especially those who live in a different city. Everyone knows everyone's best and worst habits. Everyone knows exactly which girls or guys they dated and why the breakup happened. There are nearly no secrets. The objective is to make noise, and plenty of it. The venue is a comfortable middle-class pub where the music is classic rock and not too loud. Discussing work is completely forbidden. Discussing the "good old days" is a necessity. Singing along to the songs is appreciated, but asking an unwilling person for a dance is not. Jokes are outright silly, or dependent on wordplay. Everyone gets drunk, but remains cheerful and an integral part of the party. You leave the party wondering when you will have such a good time again.
What was the point of all that? I guess it just puts things in perspective. Firstly, no booze, no party. Example, your neighbour kid's third birthday celebration. Secondly, it would have been a much better idea to sink into your couch at home and catch the Saturday evening game. No matter what kind of party. Third, college days are the best. Cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap booze, cheap jokes, priceless fun.
I begin with the worst form of party - the office party. It's supposedly your employer's way of showing that it cares for your work-life balance. Somehow, everyone is presumed to enjoy eating at flashy restaurants, and everyone is presumed to be a hard-drinking party animal. Usually, the boss and the long-serving employees get piss drunk, scream out loud along with the blaring Bollywood music, shake their (substantial) tummies around the table and crack horrible jokes. Then the old-timers gossip the same gossip they gossiped about three years ago. The newbies are scared - what will they reveal to their boss, who will force them to get drunk, how do they react if their boss asks them for a dance. Then there are the ones who hate the whole thing; they will sit quietly at the end of the table and eat finger food all evening. A few critical points to note - attendance is compulsory, especially if you are a newbie; jokes that attack your personal life (especially relationships and sex) are the best and safest jokes; strictly no honest opinions about work and your boss must be expressed.
Then there are the random parties. There's a crowd of a dozen people headbanging away to obscenely loud rock music. Everyone knows a maximum of one other person in that group. Everyone is to be addressed as "dude". Your standing in the eyes of the others is determined by how many parties you have attended in the past week. You find that one other guy who wants a beer as badly as you do and you stick to him throughout the evening, both of you shoulder-barging your way through the crowded floor to the bar. The hot chick in the strapless dress is the target for every man, single or attached, but she is more committed to her drink than anything else. Food is ordered by anyone and everyone, and plates of random stuff are passed around to everyone. Few words are spoken, and sentences always begin with "Err... What did you say your name was, dude?" The exception, of course, is the hot chick - everyone knows her name, her dad's job, her brand of perfume and the date of her next period.
Next in line are the private parties. This usually follows a random party, if you have made the cutoff of 17 parties in the past one week. The guy whispers into your ear or sends you a text message with the invitation. The venue has no furniture - just bean bags and mattresses on the floor. The booze is only beer, vodka and, if you are exceptionally lucky, whisky. Food is pizza or junk ordered from the take-out round the corner. A basketball game runs on mute on the TV - note that cricket and football are for the masses, only the uber-cool American games are allowed. One gang of people is in the balcony, and the air there smells strange. That's pot luck for you. The hot chick is slightly more amenable to a conversation. Just when you think you are approaching jackpot, the hunk in the Benetton pullover whisks her away to one of the bedrooms and shuts the door behind them. By the time anyone realises, everyone is drunk and it's 5 AM.
The best is reserved for the last. These are the parties which you go to with your best friends from college, especially those who live in a different city. Everyone knows everyone's best and worst habits. Everyone knows exactly which girls or guys they dated and why the breakup happened. There are nearly no secrets. The objective is to make noise, and plenty of it. The venue is a comfortable middle-class pub where the music is classic rock and not too loud. Discussing work is completely forbidden. Discussing the "good old days" is a necessity. Singing along to the songs is appreciated, but asking an unwilling person for a dance is not. Jokes are outright silly, or dependent on wordplay. Everyone gets drunk, but remains cheerful and an integral part of the party. You leave the party wondering when you will have such a good time again.
What was the point of all that? I guess it just puts things in perspective. Firstly, no booze, no party. Example, your neighbour kid's third birthday celebration. Secondly, it would have been a much better idea to sink into your couch at home and catch the Saturday evening game. No matter what kind of party. Third, college days are the best. Cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap booze, cheap jokes, priceless fun.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Hello! Do you understand me?
Today began like any other Sunday. The eyes opened at half past nine, but still felt droopy. I dragged myself down for breakfast and turned on the telly. As is my habit, I went to the sports channels first, and saw a ten year old girl attempting to spell "ostentatious" (Yes, that's anoher Indian show copied from a successful American TV series). The aptness of the word for the situation apart, it got me thinking. What is the purpose of having words in the dictionary which only a miniscule fraction of even native English speakers know the existence of?
I remember a panel from the comic "Obelix & Co". The highly educated and talented young economist Caius Preposterus tells the rustic menhir delivery man Obelix "If you can't increase the efficiency of your productivity infrastructure, the market will fall" and receives a glazed-eyed response "UH?" That, in short, is a quick lesson on bad communication. A couple of my friends are absolute masters of the English language, but they find it hard not to use a ten-letter word in every sentence they speak. It's something which I have never understood. It's all fine to wax eloquent and use four words when one would have sufficed, but is it really efficient? Does it achieve the purpose of writing or speaking in the first place?
As a lawyer, I must be the last person on Earth to be taking such objections to such grandiose vocabulary, for my brethren hold the unenviable reputation of always attempting to confuse the rest of the populace through the use of two-hundred word sentences. However, I find no percentage in it. If I can't convince a client to cough up my fees in plain English, I don't see how a note that reads, "This is to hereby notify you that a sum of Rupees Four Lakhs only has remained unpaid as a result of your conscious, deliberate, calculated, premeditated, predesigned, predeceased, purposeful, willful and express acts and omissions which are set out in the Schedule hereunder, and your failure to make good all payments outstanding whatsoever and accruing in whatsoever manner without limitation shall give me no option but to exercise any and all means at my disposal, including but not limited to legal action, to move for the recovery of the aforesaid outstanding payments from you, your legal heirs, permitted assigns, successors, agents and representatives" will do the trick. (PS: That reminds me. There is a word out of place in there somewhere. A chocolate for every person that points it out to me.)
Our modern corporate world is no better. I received an email recently: "Dear Anirudh, It will be a pleasure to touch base with you in Bangalore, as I will be telecommuting next week. It is so nice to see someone stepping up to the plate at such short notice. I had been out of the loop on developments, but now we can strategize how we can move forward. We need to build synergies and create value items. My plate is empty, so fill me in on any new ideas which you may have. Regards, xxx" I don't know the origins of any of the phrases above, but everyone in the corporate world needs to have an instinctive habit of spewing any old nonsense in order to sound right. Anyone who says, "Let's meet for a coffee and chat when I am in Bangalore" is either unsophisticated or is trying to curry favours with you.
The gist is I like to keep it simple. The erudite in us demands that we use ostentatious (there's that word again) language, but the real requisite is to be lucid. Curses! The habit's catching. I had better end this before I turn magniloquent.
I remember a panel from the comic "Obelix & Co". The highly educated and talented young economist Caius Preposterus tells the rustic menhir delivery man Obelix "If you can't increase the efficiency of your productivity infrastructure, the market will fall" and receives a glazed-eyed response "UH?" That, in short, is a quick lesson on bad communication. A couple of my friends are absolute masters of the English language, but they find it hard not to use a ten-letter word in every sentence they speak. It's something which I have never understood. It's all fine to wax eloquent and use four words when one would have sufficed, but is it really efficient? Does it achieve the purpose of writing or speaking in the first place?
As a lawyer, I must be the last person on Earth to be taking such objections to such grandiose vocabulary, for my brethren hold the unenviable reputation of always attempting to confuse the rest of the populace through the use of two-hundred word sentences. However, I find no percentage in it. If I can't convince a client to cough up my fees in plain English, I don't see how a note that reads, "This is to hereby notify you that a sum of Rupees Four Lakhs only has remained unpaid as a result of your conscious, deliberate, calculated, premeditated, predesigned, predeceased, purposeful, willful and express acts and omissions which are set out in the Schedule hereunder, and your failure to make good all payments outstanding whatsoever and accruing in whatsoever manner without limitation shall give me no option but to exercise any and all means at my disposal, including but not limited to legal action, to move for the recovery of the aforesaid outstanding payments from you, your legal heirs, permitted assigns, successors, agents and representatives" will do the trick. (PS: That reminds me. There is a word out of place in there somewhere. A chocolate for every person that points it out to me.)
Our modern corporate world is no better. I received an email recently: "Dear Anirudh, It will be a pleasure to touch base with you in Bangalore, as I will be telecommuting next week. It is so nice to see someone stepping up to the plate at such short notice. I had been out of the loop on developments, but now we can strategize how we can move forward. We need to build synergies and create value items. My plate is empty, so fill me in on any new ideas which you may have. Regards, xxx" I don't know the origins of any of the phrases above, but everyone in the corporate world needs to have an instinctive habit of spewing any old nonsense in order to sound right. Anyone who says, "Let's meet for a coffee and chat when I am in Bangalore" is either unsophisticated or is trying to curry favours with you.
The gist is I like to keep it simple. The erudite in us demands that we use ostentatious (there's that word again) language, but the real requisite is to be lucid. Curses! The habit's catching. I had better end this before I turn magniloquent.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
The Thrill of the Chase
She glanced at her watch for the seventh time in five minutes. As if history lectures weren't boring enough as they were, this professor wanted to conduct "extra" classes on Saturday afternoons to catch up with the syllabus. Extra classes were where your parents thought you were while you dried your eyes on Rohan's shoulder while watching Shah Rukh Khan and Karan Johar spin the latest tale of woe and love. They were not meant to happen, you know. TRRING! The harbinger of freedom rang loud and long, heralding an evening with Rohan.
She grabbed her bag and ran out of the building. He would have gladly picked her up from college, but she did not trust her classmates to keep mum about him. Instead, she walked for a fair distance and stood in the calming shade of the large Gulmohar. She glanced at her watch again; it was 3.30. Where was he? Why wasn't he here yet? Does he remember they were to meet today? She couldn't call him because she had spent the last of her prepaid currency arguing with him the night before. 3.45. She was getting desperate. It was not like him to be late for a date. Had she told him off too harshly? Had he taken her angry words seriously? Will he never love her the same way again? She couldn't even call him to apologise.
4.00. She was nearly in tears. OH! What was that? A flash of red and green streaked past her eyes. When the streak settled she saw the most beautiful bouquet of red roses in front of her. She heard his voice from behind her, "Surprise!" This moment of sudden joy followed half an hour of frustration and anxiety, and it was too much for her. A lone droplet traced a joyous path over her cheek into the side of her mouth. Her arms moved as though on remote control and wrapped themselves around his neck. "Thank you so much!! I was so anxious!" He merely smiled and led her by her hand into his car.
She was late getting home. Her father gave her a look which said, "I don't know you". Her mother asked her a hundred questions. Why are you so late? Why did you have to wait for the direct bus only? Why is your history teacher such a sadist (a point which she gladly agreed with her mom, though)? Don't you know that good girls are back home before dark? She was hungry. But her father stepped in. "No food for you tonight. Somehow, I don't think you like history all that much." Mother looked aghast. How could her daughter sleep without dinner? The atmosphere was thick with tension. Father knew, but didn't say it out aloud.
She quietly went up to her room and picked up a book to read. She had spent her evening watching a movie and then they had driven to the hilltop to watch the sun go down. She quickly closed the book she was reading. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she slept with a smile on her face. Her sacrifice was not in vain. The thrill of the chase was worth it.
She grabbed her bag and ran out of the building. He would have gladly picked her up from college, but she did not trust her classmates to keep mum about him. Instead, she walked for a fair distance and stood in the calming shade of the large Gulmohar. She glanced at her watch again; it was 3.30. Where was he? Why wasn't he here yet? Does he remember they were to meet today? She couldn't call him because she had spent the last of her prepaid currency arguing with him the night before. 3.45. She was getting desperate. It was not like him to be late for a date. Had she told him off too harshly? Had he taken her angry words seriously? Will he never love her the same way again? She couldn't even call him to apologise.
4.00. She was nearly in tears. OH! What was that? A flash of red and green streaked past her eyes. When the streak settled she saw the most beautiful bouquet of red roses in front of her. She heard his voice from behind her, "Surprise!" This moment of sudden joy followed half an hour of frustration and anxiety, and it was too much for her. A lone droplet traced a joyous path over her cheek into the side of her mouth. Her arms moved as though on remote control and wrapped themselves around his neck. "Thank you so much!! I was so anxious!" He merely smiled and led her by her hand into his car.
She was late getting home. Her father gave her a look which said, "I don't know you". Her mother asked her a hundred questions. Why are you so late? Why did you have to wait for the direct bus only? Why is your history teacher such a sadist (a point which she gladly agreed with her mom, though)? Don't you know that good girls are back home before dark? She was hungry. But her father stepped in. "No food for you tonight. Somehow, I don't think you like history all that much." Mother looked aghast. How could her daughter sleep without dinner? The atmosphere was thick with tension. Father knew, but didn't say it out aloud.
She quietly went up to her room and picked up a book to read. She had spent her evening watching a movie and then they had driven to the hilltop to watch the sun go down. She quickly closed the book she was reading. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she slept with a smile on her face. Her sacrifice was not in vain. The thrill of the chase was worth it.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Plane Infuriating
8:10 PM. Thirty-five minutes before the flight takes off, not more than twenty before they finally (like, finally) shut the boarding gate. The roadsign flashes past - "Bangalore Interanational Airport - 13km". More nail chewing. I glance at my watch every 30 seconds. Suddenly, the turn-off leading to the airport is seen. Some sigh of relief.
8:31PM. Fourteen minutes for the flight to take off. I plead with the cute girl wearing the tight red jacket. Something is said about missing a friend's wedding party. Right. I'm allowed in. It's a good thing I block my seat when I book my ticket.
8:34 PM. The plane is full. I feel smug about sitting beside the window. And even better that the middle seat in my row is empty. When will I be able to afford business class for personal trips? More immediately, why aren't we taxiing for takeoff?
8:47 PM. The little girl in row 23 starts wailing. She's hungry and she wants to use the loo. Mommy and baby get up. The tall one with the shapely legs approaches them and orders them to sit. Baby wails loudly. Mommy yells even louder. Oh, brother!
8:53 PM. We are still on the ground. Why did I tip the cabbie to drive me faster? Oh look, here's the root cause walking up the aisle. Must be the largest root cause in the world. All 130 kilos of him make a beeline for the one empty middle seat left on the plane. No points for guessing which seat that is. Oof!
9:09 PM. It sounds like there's an earthquake in the kitchen, or like a death metal band gone mad. Something creaks like a window on one hinge in a haunted house. Then the airport lights look like little dots on a map. Confirmation of the fact that we have taken off is received in the form of a banshee wail from row 23.
9:25 PM. The problem with seat 29A is that it's too close to the head. That's what they call a loo in an airplane. Most Indians never flush the toilet outside their homes. It's their answer to Hitler and his gas chambers. End result - I ring for the long-legged hottie if they have any air freshener on board. Plastic smile followed by a hollow apology. What's worse is they don't allow liquids on board these days - so my bottle of Dior is safely inside the hold. I wish I was there too.
10:10 PM. Time for dinner. I have a fabulous lesson in eating within a confined space. I can survive the Black Hole of Calcutta now, I'm dead sure. The mountain next to me orders three cups of coffee. If there's anything worse than a fat man sitting next to you in economy class, it's a fat man who stays awake through the journey and keeps shifting his elbows about. I'm thankful I don't have to hear his tigerish snores.
10:44 PM. The sexy voice on the PA enquires if there's a doctor on board. This sounds interesting. Who's had a heart attack? Who's collapsed from a stroke? I am to be disappointed. A lady who looks like she's swallowed her smelly socks is throwing up. If you ask me, it isn't a doctor that's required. Just clear the row next to the emergency exit, open the same and show the lady her place. With luck, she may land into a doctor's clinic. The way the ruling party blows its trumpet about rural healthcare, it's highly likely too.
11:46 PM. Too much traffic over Delhi. They got rid of traffic snarls on the road and put 'em smoky buses and trucks in the air. That explains the brown muck that floats over the capital 365/24/7. Another half hour with the lump of lard, the pair in row 23 and the lady with the socks. Can I have a bottle of water please? No sir, the pilot has asked everyone to return to their seats.
12:23 AM. The outside air temperature is 29 degrees celsius. At midnight? You've got to be kidding me! I wish these scientists devote their time to design an airconditioned shirt. I don't have cancer, so why waste time discovering a cure for it? I thought we lawyers had our head up in the clouds.
8:31PM. Fourteen minutes for the flight to take off. I plead with the cute girl wearing the tight red jacket. Something is said about missing a friend's wedding party. Right. I'm allowed in. It's a good thing I block my seat when I book my ticket.
8:34 PM. The plane is full. I feel smug about sitting beside the window. And even better that the middle seat in my row is empty. When will I be able to afford business class for personal trips? More immediately, why aren't we taxiing for takeoff?
8:47 PM. The little girl in row 23 starts wailing. She's hungry and she wants to use the loo. Mommy and baby get up. The tall one with the shapely legs approaches them and orders them to sit. Baby wails loudly. Mommy yells even louder. Oh, brother!
8:53 PM. We are still on the ground. Why did I tip the cabbie to drive me faster? Oh look, here's the root cause walking up the aisle. Must be the largest root cause in the world. All 130 kilos of him make a beeline for the one empty middle seat left on the plane. No points for guessing which seat that is. Oof!
9:09 PM. It sounds like there's an earthquake in the kitchen, or like a death metal band gone mad. Something creaks like a window on one hinge in a haunted house. Then the airport lights look like little dots on a map. Confirmation of the fact that we have taken off is received in the form of a banshee wail from row 23.
9:25 PM. The problem with seat 29A is that it's too close to the head. That's what they call a loo in an airplane. Most Indians never flush the toilet outside their homes. It's their answer to Hitler and his gas chambers. End result - I ring for the long-legged hottie if they have any air freshener on board. Plastic smile followed by a hollow apology. What's worse is they don't allow liquids on board these days - so my bottle of Dior is safely inside the hold. I wish I was there too.
10:10 PM. Time for dinner. I have a fabulous lesson in eating within a confined space. I can survive the Black Hole of Calcutta now, I'm dead sure. The mountain next to me orders three cups of coffee. If there's anything worse than a fat man sitting next to you in economy class, it's a fat man who stays awake through the journey and keeps shifting his elbows about. I'm thankful I don't have to hear his tigerish snores.
10:44 PM. The sexy voice on the PA enquires if there's a doctor on board. This sounds interesting. Who's had a heart attack? Who's collapsed from a stroke? I am to be disappointed. A lady who looks like she's swallowed her smelly socks is throwing up. If you ask me, it isn't a doctor that's required. Just clear the row next to the emergency exit, open the same and show the lady her place. With luck, she may land into a doctor's clinic. The way the ruling party blows its trumpet about rural healthcare, it's highly likely too.
11:46 PM. Too much traffic over Delhi. They got rid of traffic snarls on the road and put 'em smoky buses and trucks in the air. That explains the brown muck that floats over the capital 365/24/7. Another half hour with the lump of lard, the pair in row 23 and the lady with the socks. Can I have a bottle of water please? No sir, the pilot has asked everyone to return to their seats.
12:23 AM. The outside air temperature is 29 degrees celsius. At midnight? You've got to be kidding me! I wish these scientists devote their time to design an airconditioned shirt. I don't have cancer, so why waste time discovering a cure for it? I thought we lawyers had our head up in the clouds.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monkey Business
Every Indian worth his salt knows the Ramayana. Or he knows at least the point that Lord Ram's army consisted of monkeys. Well, yeah, they are mythological creatures; so they are "holy monkeys", but monkeys nevertheless. The less divine monkeys that we are familiar with are known to be nosey characters who love to pluck a shiny object out of your hand, love to screech and make faces at passers-by, and generally make themselves a nuisance. The more advanced form of monkeys (we call them apes, I hear) make ugly faces at you and thump their chests while issuing a bellow.
At the cost of being grossly misunderstood and misquoted, I say that we have a brand new army consisting of completely non-divine and non-blessed monkeys. And guess what, they are also known as Ram's army! Some vital differences exist, though. For instance, the old Ram's army took pains to cross an ocean and rescue a damsel in distress. The present one takes pains to put damsels in distress. Second, the mythical army had outstanding leaders like Hanuman and Sugriv, each boasting of an impeccable code of ethics and honour. The present army has dodgy politicians in charge, whose only claim to infame is that they never married; so they don't see what joy women can bring (oh Lord!).
And in the middle of the whole hullabaloo, two points are to note. Some young women, not dissimilar to many friends I have and am fond of, got roughed up and had their honour violated by this gang of monkeys and still cower in fear of the society which has labelled them as women of loose character for absolutely no fault of theirs. Secondly, despite all the hoopla, Valentine's Day did not create any demand and Bangalore's shopkeepers continue to face the heat of the recession.
It seems like Harbhajan Singh must now look not in Melbourne but in Mangalore for his next monkey. Although the official version of what he called that burly, curly Aussie would sound better if used against this modern monkey army.
At the cost of being grossly misunderstood and misquoted, I say that we have a brand new army consisting of completely non-divine and non-blessed monkeys. And guess what, they are also known as Ram's army! Some vital differences exist, though. For instance, the old Ram's army took pains to cross an ocean and rescue a damsel in distress. The present one takes pains to put damsels in distress. Second, the mythical army had outstanding leaders like Hanuman and Sugriv, each boasting of an impeccable code of ethics and honour. The present army has dodgy politicians in charge, whose only claim to infame is that they never married; so they don't see what joy women can bring (oh Lord!).
And in the middle of the whole hullabaloo, two points are to note. Some young women, not dissimilar to many friends I have and am fond of, got roughed up and had their honour violated by this gang of monkeys and still cower in fear of the society which has labelled them as women of loose character for absolutely no fault of theirs. Secondly, despite all the hoopla, Valentine's Day did not create any demand and Bangalore's shopkeepers continue to face the heat of the recession.
It seems like Harbhajan Singh must now look not in Melbourne but in Mangalore for his next monkey. Although the official version of what he called that burly, curly Aussie would sound better if used against this modern monkey army.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
No Smoking? Really?
We have a particularly activist, or should I say blindly optimistic, Minister up in Delhi who thinks that by banning smoking in "public places", the average health of Indians is going to improve. Harrumph! In election year, the Ministers reduce taxes, reduce train fares, increase reservation, lay roads, carry out sustained media campaigns of their shining achievements and distribute free liquor to the teeming millions. So where does the smoking ban fit in?
A heavy-smoking friend of mine said he STILL smokes more than a pack a day. The sutta-seller near college says he STILL sells the same number of cigarettes and bidis a day. Large restaurants STILL allow smoking, by a simple process of continuing their existing system of demarcating a smoking zone. Little sutta-shops STILL do thriving business just outside the gates of the many IT companies that dot this city.
What do you say, Mr. Minister?
Therefore, only two categories of people have been affected negatively by the smoking ban - smaller eating joints and non-smokers. Yes, non-smokers. Earlier, office campuses (and buildings, for that matter) used to have smoking zones, where all of 'em got together and kept their stench to themselves. Now, they light up just outside the main gate, which means everyone who wishes to get in or out of office has become a passive smoker. The streets (which, curiously, are NOT "public places") are one place where everyone who wishes to smoke can - meaning more burden on us non-smokers. Talk about law not achieving its stated purpose...
Before I conclude, someone's apparently forgotten to tell the Bongs that there's a smoking ban in place. Or is it that the Minister thought he might get the Tata treatment in Kolkata if he went there to enforce his orders? In any case, the Bongs continue to puff away happily - on the streets, in houses, inside office buildings, in public toilets, in (shared) autorickshaws, in football stadiums, in restaurants, anywhere. Hell, there was this guy leaning against a lamppost which had the "no smoking" sign and blissfully blowing blue-grey smoke to the heavens.
It seems the Minister's plans are up in smoke. As are his chances of being re-elected.
A heavy-smoking friend of mine said he STILL smokes more than a pack a day. The sutta-seller near college says he STILL sells the same number of cigarettes and bidis a day. Large restaurants STILL allow smoking, by a simple process of continuing their existing system of demarcating a smoking zone. Little sutta-shops STILL do thriving business just outside the gates of the many IT companies that dot this city.
What do you say, Mr. Minister?
Therefore, only two categories of people have been affected negatively by the smoking ban - smaller eating joints and non-smokers. Yes, non-smokers. Earlier, office campuses (and buildings, for that matter) used to have smoking zones, where all of 'em got together and kept their stench to themselves. Now, they light up just outside the main gate, which means everyone who wishes to get in or out of office has become a passive smoker. The streets (which, curiously, are NOT "public places") are one place where everyone who wishes to smoke can - meaning more burden on us non-smokers. Talk about law not achieving its stated purpose...
Before I conclude, someone's apparently forgotten to tell the Bongs that there's a smoking ban in place. Or is it that the Minister thought he might get the Tata treatment in Kolkata if he went there to enforce his orders? In any case, the Bongs continue to puff away happily - on the streets, in houses, inside office buildings, in public toilets, in (shared) autorickshaws, in football stadiums, in restaurants, anywhere. Hell, there was this guy leaning against a lamppost which had the "no smoking" sign and blissfully blowing blue-grey smoke to the heavens.
It seems the Minister's plans are up in smoke. As are his chances of being re-elected.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Viva la Mohun Bagan
I have always wanted to watch a match sitting in the Kop at Anfield (and still want to). To be a part of the chants, the cursing, the passion. The Salt Lake Stdium in Kolkata is no Anfield and Mohun Bagan is no Liverpool FC - not by a country mile. Yet for singing, swearing and fanatic passion, I really don't have to travel all the way to the cold and rainy north-west of England. A giant stadium in the east of India is more than sufficient. This last Sunday, I got to watch my first live match - Mohun Bagan versus JCT Mills, Phagwara in the Indian National Football League - at the gigantic Salt Lake Stadium, and I have not only survived the idiosyncacies of Kolkatan football, but also emerged a huge fan of the same.
I accompanied Anubhav's dad (whose family have been Mohun Bagan fans for generations) and two of his friends (who he met and befriended while watching games at the stadium) for the match. The half-hour drive to the stadium was marked by a full education on Mohun Bagan's history and current squad. "Oh you are from Bangalore! Our centre-half, Manju - watch out for jersey number 3 - is from Karnataka!" "Mohun Bagan defeated Manchester United, played against Pele and gave a testimonial to Oliver Kahn. Which other Asian club can boast of all that?" The pride and the passion in their voices imparted a warm feeling. "You are not going to watch a football match - you are going to watch Mohun Bagan win."
A little aside here. I have heard plenty of fantastic stories about matches at the Salt Lake Stadium. Hotly contested local derbies, especially those against "the refugee team" (East Bengal), have been known to produce plenty of slipper-flinging, face-punching, shirt-tearing episodes of madness. So I was approaching this game with a slight bit of nervousness.
Back to the game. There was NO security at the stadium to speak of, except at the grandstand where the coaches and the VIPs sat. We drove the car through the stadium entrance and right up to the gate laeding into the stands. My companions took a miute off to take a leak on the stadium walls. Then we just walked up the ramp and into the stands - no tickets, no frisking, no fuss. The match had begun and was in its third or so minute. There were around 40,000 fans in the stadium, and it STILL looked mostly empty. "There were 215,000 who squeezed themselves in for Kahn's farewell game".
As we wound our way through the crowd to find a good spot, the home side had their first chance. A massive African (who I later learned was a Nigerian called Odafe) robbed the opposition midfielder and fed the Brazilian striker and fans' favourite Jose Barreto, who played a neat first-time through ball to Mohun Bagan and India captain Baichung Bhutia. Unfortunately, the former JCT and East Bengal star took the shot on his weaker foot and the keeper was able to get down and smother the ball. The crowd was roused and we found a great spot to sit.
A few things were noticeable immediately. The players clearly lacked the pace and the physique of the European stars we are all used to watching every weekend. For some reason, the Premiership players seem to cover 50-60 yards in a dozen or so strides, but these guys seemed to be making a huge effort to make twenty yards. Also missing was off-the-ball running. Except for the strikers and one or two others, no one seemed to be moving around to make space and time to receive the ball. Thirdly, perhaps partially as a result of a not-too-smooth playing surface, most passes were neither along the ground nor long aerial balls - they were being played around three feet above the ground with plenty of (uneven) bounces in between. Fourth, technique in terms of first touch and body position while receiving or striking the ball were far inferior to what I have seen on TV.
Having said that, the match did not fail to entertain. JCT started off by playing delightful one-touch football and enjoyed the lion's share of possession, while Bagan's dimunitive wide players weren't finding time on the ball as they would have liked. One superb move from JCT, a rare pass-and-run, along their left flank released the striker, who held the pace edge over the lumbering Odafe. The Nigerian dived in from behind and upended his opponent half a yard outside the box. I felt he was lucky to receive only a yellow card, but I didn's dare to say so aloud. The resulting freekick was way over the bar, but JCT were winning the opening exchanges.
Then, against the run of play, Mohun Bagan scored. Ishfaq was slowly finding his feet on the Bagan left wing and suddenly found himself on the end of a horror back-header from the JCT centre-half. The bounce nearly beat the 5'6" wide man, but he somehow lobbed his weak header over the advancing keeper. The ball took a couple of bounces and trickled into the empty net. The stadium erupted. The chap sitting behind me nearly burned my ear with his cigarette as he flung his arms up to celebrate. A few firecrackers were flung from the upper tier and most exploded in mid-air. The ones that didn't gave some fans in the lower tier burnt bums.
The goal took the stuffing out of JCT and gave Bagan some steel. Both teams were making horrible fouls and were being unnecessarily physical, possibly as a result of frustration and a lack of skill to beat their man, but only the away side were enjoying the referee's protection. To be fair, though, Odafe was flinging himself around with gay abandon and the ref was showing unduly immense patience with him. Bengali and Hindi profanities flowed from the crowd. One chap some fifteen feet from me took off his slipper and threatened to fling it a hundred yards. Then Mohun Bagan won a dodgy penalty.
Bhutia and a JCT defender at least a foot taller than the home skipper went up for a ball which had been lumped skyward from midfield. Bhutia fell like a matchstick in the breeze and the Mallu ref pointed to the spot. All eleven JCT players surrounded the ref and for a while it looked like a fatal Chakravyuha for Mr. Nair. In the end, two JCT men saw yellow cards and Barreto stepped up to calmly stroke the ball to the keeper's left. Apparently, the Indian FA is still wondering whether to allow the Brazilian to play for India - trust the bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs over the one man of class playing in this country.
After that, the match meandered along without much incident. Some comical defending from the home side allowed a JCT shot to bobble around in the box before finally striking a post. Odafe committed one sin too many and slunk away down the tunnel for an early bath. The Bagan and India goalkeeper impressed with his assurance at catching hopeful punts from anywhere on the pitch. Bhutia received a standing ovation for having aimlessly wandered around the park and maintaining an impressive 100% record at passing the ball straight back to the opposition. Barreto charged with the ball from the half line like a poor man's Steven Gerrard and finally passed the ball into the gleeful keeper's hands. Ishfaq tormented the JCT right-back with some stepovers and delighted some in the crowd by tripping over the ball during some attempted stunt.
In the end, 2-0 was a deserving scoreline. JCT deserved to lose and Bagan didn't play well enough to score more. The Odafe red card and the 14 offside decisions given against the home side were the major talking points after the game. But the main thing was not the football. No one expects Mohun Bagan and JCT Mills to produce a spectacle to savour for the ages. The phenomenal passion with which Kolkatans follow the game, even if they know it is nowhere near world class, is massively touching. Most importantly, the experience of being amongst completely partisan supporters and getting lost in the ocean of curses flying around should be a very important lesson on the Road to Anfield...
I accompanied Anubhav's dad (whose family have been Mohun Bagan fans for generations) and two of his friends (who he met and befriended while watching games at the stadium) for the match. The half-hour drive to the stadium was marked by a full education on Mohun Bagan's history and current squad. "Oh you are from Bangalore! Our centre-half, Manju - watch out for jersey number 3 - is from Karnataka!" "Mohun Bagan defeated Manchester United, played against Pele and gave a testimonial to Oliver Kahn. Which other Asian club can boast of all that?" The pride and the passion in their voices imparted a warm feeling. "You are not going to watch a football match - you are going to watch Mohun Bagan win."
A little aside here. I have heard plenty of fantastic stories about matches at the Salt Lake Stadium. Hotly contested local derbies, especially those against "the refugee team" (East Bengal), have been known to produce plenty of slipper-flinging, face-punching, shirt-tearing episodes of madness. So I was approaching this game with a slight bit of nervousness.
Back to the game. There was NO security at the stadium to speak of, except at the grandstand where the coaches and the VIPs sat. We drove the car through the stadium entrance and right up to the gate laeding into the stands. My companions took a miute off to take a leak on the stadium walls. Then we just walked up the ramp and into the stands - no tickets, no frisking, no fuss. The match had begun and was in its third or so minute. There were around 40,000 fans in the stadium, and it STILL looked mostly empty. "There were 215,000 who squeezed themselves in for Kahn's farewell game".
As we wound our way through the crowd to find a good spot, the home side had their first chance. A massive African (who I later learned was a Nigerian called Odafe) robbed the opposition midfielder and fed the Brazilian striker and fans' favourite Jose Barreto, who played a neat first-time through ball to Mohun Bagan and India captain Baichung Bhutia. Unfortunately, the former JCT and East Bengal star took the shot on his weaker foot and the keeper was able to get down and smother the ball. The crowd was roused and we found a great spot to sit.
A few things were noticeable immediately. The players clearly lacked the pace and the physique of the European stars we are all used to watching every weekend. For some reason, the Premiership players seem to cover 50-60 yards in a dozen or so strides, but these guys seemed to be making a huge effort to make twenty yards. Also missing was off-the-ball running. Except for the strikers and one or two others, no one seemed to be moving around to make space and time to receive the ball. Thirdly, perhaps partially as a result of a not-too-smooth playing surface, most passes were neither along the ground nor long aerial balls - they were being played around three feet above the ground with plenty of (uneven) bounces in between. Fourth, technique in terms of first touch and body position while receiving or striking the ball were far inferior to what I have seen on TV.
Having said that, the match did not fail to entertain. JCT started off by playing delightful one-touch football and enjoyed the lion's share of possession, while Bagan's dimunitive wide players weren't finding time on the ball as they would have liked. One superb move from JCT, a rare pass-and-run, along their left flank released the striker, who held the pace edge over the lumbering Odafe. The Nigerian dived in from behind and upended his opponent half a yard outside the box. I felt he was lucky to receive only a yellow card, but I didn's dare to say so aloud. The resulting freekick was way over the bar, but JCT were winning the opening exchanges.
Then, against the run of play, Mohun Bagan scored. Ishfaq was slowly finding his feet on the Bagan left wing and suddenly found himself on the end of a horror back-header from the JCT centre-half. The bounce nearly beat the 5'6" wide man, but he somehow lobbed his weak header over the advancing keeper. The ball took a couple of bounces and trickled into the empty net. The stadium erupted. The chap sitting behind me nearly burned my ear with his cigarette as he flung his arms up to celebrate. A few firecrackers were flung from the upper tier and most exploded in mid-air. The ones that didn't gave some fans in the lower tier burnt bums.
The goal took the stuffing out of JCT and gave Bagan some steel. Both teams were making horrible fouls and were being unnecessarily physical, possibly as a result of frustration and a lack of skill to beat their man, but only the away side were enjoying the referee's protection. To be fair, though, Odafe was flinging himself around with gay abandon and the ref was showing unduly immense patience with him. Bengali and Hindi profanities flowed from the crowd. One chap some fifteen feet from me took off his slipper and threatened to fling it a hundred yards. Then Mohun Bagan won a dodgy penalty.
Bhutia and a JCT defender at least a foot taller than the home skipper went up for a ball which had been lumped skyward from midfield. Bhutia fell like a matchstick in the breeze and the Mallu ref pointed to the spot. All eleven JCT players surrounded the ref and for a while it looked like a fatal Chakravyuha for Mr. Nair. In the end, two JCT men saw yellow cards and Barreto stepped up to calmly stroke the ball to the keeper's left. Apparently, the Indian FA is still wondering whether to allow the Brazilian to play for India - trust the bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs over the one man of class playing in this country.
After that, the match meandered along without much incident. Some comical defending from the home side allowed a JCT shot to bobble around in the box before finally striking a post. Odafe committed one sin too many and slunk away down the tunnel for an early bath. The Bagan and India goalkeeper impressed with his assurance at catching hopeful punts from anywhere on the pitch. Bhutia received a standing ovation for having aimlessly wandered around the park and maintaining an impressive 100% record at passing the ball straight back to the opposition. Barreto charged with the ball from the half line like a poor man's Steven Gerrard and finally passed the ball into the gleeful keeper's hands. Ishfaq tormented the JCT right-back with some stepovers and delighted some in the crowd by tripping over the ball during some attempted stunt.
In the end, 2-0 was a deserving scoreline. JCT deserved to lose and Bagan didn't play well enough to score more. The Odafe red card and the 14 offside decisions given against the home side were the major talking points after the game. But the main thing was not the football. No one expects Mohun Bagan and JCT Mills to produce a spectacle to savour for the ages. The phenomenal passion with which Kolkatans follow the game, even if they know it is nowhere near world class, is massively touching. Most importantly, the experience of being amongst completely partisan supporters and getting lost in the ocean of curses flying around should be a very important lesson on the Road to Anfield...
Monday, October 13, 2008
Champions of Sentiment
What springs to mind when one mentions the Australian cricket team? If you were thinking about a tough, unrelenting, unemotional, ruthless side that batters, thrashes and utterly dominates the opposition into submission, you wouldn't be in the minority. Their success story for the last decade and more has been awesome and more than the mere number of victories, it is the manner in which they have been achieved that evokes such a fearsome yet dreary picture in our minds.
Scratch the surface, however, and you will find the one team in the world which actually has a tremendous sentiment for tradition and the occasion. India hangs on to its aging stars for a variety of reasons - a particular cricketer's rowdy fan following, the weight of another's statistics, the need to satisfy regional selection demands or simply a matter of not being called the villain who ended the career of so-and-so. Pakistan's cricket is always in shambles. Terrific talents rub shoulders with super-bloated egos, and political upheavals in the cricket board are never too far away. They have been and will always be an enigma.
Even England for that matter has broken the stereotype and divorced history and tradition. The slightest hint that a cricketer looks like international material and he will be off his county's regular roster and put on a central contract, ever ready to turn up in national colours. There are so many guys making their debuts and then disappearing after a handful of games that an England cap seems like no big deal. Twenty20 and its associated "innovations" were invented in England. Heck, that Mecca of cricket, Lord's, has the swankiest bit of modern architecture among cricket grounds.
That brings us to the topic of this post - Australia. Today I was watching the highlights of a rather drab (never mind the media hype about it being an exhilarating match) fifth day, one moment stood out. A leg spinner better known for his astronomical strike rate in the shortest format of the game induced a champion batsman 14 runs short of the world record of Test runs to scoop one to cover. What happened next? The huge bear of a cricketer broke into tears! THAT is what a first Test wicket meant to him. All the hard work of the last few years, all that waiting for the prized call-up to the Australian Test side, all that toil for five days in the cauldron of an Indian stadium - it all came down to this.
Does anyone remember Steve Waugh's last Test innings? Yes, it was That Sydney Test when India scored at will to post over 700. Waugh played the sort of innings he had played all his life - stoic, back-to-the-wall stuff. Does anyone remember what he wore on his head that day? A faded, torn old baggy green - not any old baggy green, but the cap he wore on his debut. Throughout his career, he was a non-nonsense batsman and a ruthless captain who would not be swayed by anything. Yet he wore his sentiment on his sleeve (rather, on his head) when the occasion demanded.
Speaking of Bangalore Tests, does anyone recall Michael Clarke's debut here? When on 97, he sent his helmet back to the dressing room and demanded that his (brand new) baggy green be brought out. He celebrated his special moment by raising aloft both bat and baggy green, just like dozens of great Aussies before him had done.
The Aussies are the ones who revere almost to the point of worship each member of a squad that was labelled as Invincible all of 60 years ago, in spite of later teams being far more "invincible". While Sachin Tendulkar is fanatically possessed in the minds of Indian fans, he has an equally large group of critics who label him as selfish and never having produced the goods when it mattered - and he is India's greatest cricketing icon. But you would never, ever find an Aussie having anything but the greatest reverence to Sir Don Bradman, and speaking ill of the Don is more taboo than the greatest sin.
What the Aussies have is an unadulterated passion for the game. It is true that players like Brett Lee and Michael Clarke are huge commercial brands back in their home country, but to them the game necessarily comes first. Should even their best cricketers, such as Ponting or Lee or Hayden, show even the slightest indication that the ad money means more to them than the baggy green, the board will not flinch in showing them the door. It's Passion or Bust. Each Australain cricketer has to spend years slugging it out in the domestic system and produce consistently brilliant performances to even get a look into the national squad. The ones who are in the national team have to produce that same level of consistency and performances at the world stage, or else there are half a dozen highly deserving guys to take each one's place.
Sadly, even a one-sport country like India cannot produce this level of professionalism. The Aussies show it in every sport, be it cricket, football, rugby, swimming or tennis - and mind you, they are quite successful in all these sports. India throws raw teenagers into the heat of Test cricket, and at the same time gives established domestic performers not more than one game to prove they can hack it at the highest level. Zonal "quotas" still form the basis of selection. Thank God no one has invoked the Constitution to demand a reservation policy for the squad.
The Aussies are not only champions when it comes to respecting and honouring tradition and history, but also champions in building upon that history to make some of their own. Beneath that rough, ruthless exterior of an Aussie cricketer is one hardworking, immensely talented sportsman whose deep regard for sentiment is his strength.
Scratch the surface, however, and you will find the one team in the world which actually has a tremendous sentiment for tradition and the occasion. India hangs on to its aging stars for a variety of reasons - a particular cricketer's rowdy fan following, the weight of another's statistics, the need to satisfy regional selection demands or simply a matter of not being called the villain who ended the career of so-and-so. Pakistan's cricket is always in shambles. Terrific talents rub shoulders with super-bloated egos, and political upheavals in the cricket board are never too far away. They have been and will always be an enigma.
Even England for that matter has broken the stereotype and divorced history and tradition. The slightest hint that a cricketer looks like international material and he will be off his county's regular roster and put on a central contract, ever ready to turn up in national colours. There are so many guys making their debuts and then disappearing after a handful of games that an England cap seems like no big deal. Twenty20 and its associated "innovations" were invented in England. Heck, that Mecca of cricket, Lord's, has the swankiest bit of modern architecture among cricket grounds.
That brings us to the topic of this post - Australia. Today I was watching the highlights of a rather drab (never mind the media hype about it being an exhilarating match) fifth day, one moment stood out. A leg spinner better known for his astronomical strike rate in the shortest format of the game induced a champion batsman 14 runs short of the world record of Test runs to scoop one to cover. What happened next? The huge bear of a cricketer broke into tears! THAT is what a first Test wicket meant to him. All the hard work of the last few years, all that waiting for the prized call-up to the Australian Test side, all that toil for five days in the cauldron of an Indian stadium - it all came down to this.
Does anyone remember Steve Waugh's last Test innings? Yes, it was That Sydney Test when India scored at will to post over 700. Waugh played the sort of innings he had played all his life - stoic, back-to-the-wall stuff. Does anyone remember what he wore on his head that day? A faded, torn old baggy green - not any old baggy green, but the cap he wore on his debut. Throughout his career, he was a non-nonsense batsman and a ruthless captain who would not be swayed by anything. Yet he wore his sentiment on his sleeve (rather, on his head) when the occasion demanded.
Speaking of Bangalore Tests, does anyone recall Michael Clarke's debut here? When on 97, he sent his helmet back to the dressing room and demanded that his (brand new) baggy green be brought out. He celebrated his special moment by raising aloft both bat and baggy green, just like dozens of great Aussies before him had done.
The Aussies are the ones who revere almost to the point of worship each member of a squad that was labelled as Invincible all of 60 years ago, in spite of later teams being far more "invincible". While Sachin Tendulkar is fanatically possessed in the minds of Indian fans, he has an equally large group of critics who label him as selfish and never having produced the goods when it mattered - and he is India's greatest cricketing icon. But you would never, ever find an Aussie having anything but the greatest reverence to Sir Don Bradman, and speaking ill of the Don is more taboo than the greatest sin.
What the Aussies have is an unadulterated passion for the game. It is true that players like Brett Lee and Michael Clarke are huge commercial brands back in their home country, but to them the game necessarily comes first. Should even their best cricketers, such as Ponting or Lee or Hayden, show even the slightest indication that the ad money means more to them than the baggy green, the board will not flinch in showing them the door. It's Passion or Bust. Each Australain cricketer has to spend years slugging it out in the domestic system and produce consistently brilliant performances to even get a look into the national squad. The ones who are in the national team have to produce that same level of consistency and performances at the world stage, or else there are half a dozen highly deserving guys to take each one's place.
Sadly, even a one-sport country like India cannot produce this level of professionalism. The Aussies show it in every sport, be it cricket, football, rugby, swimming or tennis - and mind you, they are quite successful in all these sports. India throws raw teenagers into the heat of Test cricket, and at the same time gives established domestic performers not more than one game to prove they can hack it at the highest level. Zonal "quotas" still form the basis of selection. Thank God no one has invoked the Constitution to demand a reservation policy for the squad.
The Aussies are not only champions when it comes to respecting and honouring tradition and history, but also champions in building upon that history to make some of their own. Beneath that rough, ruthless exterior of an Aussie cricketer is one hardworking, immensely talented sportsman whose deep regard for sentiment is his strength.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
How Green Is My Valley
Last night, I was travelling home from Hyderabad by train, and as is the case on any moving vehicle, insomnia had struck. Just when I was resigning myself to staring at the ceiling and listening to a dozen different tones of snores, I noticed some fellow-insomniacs in the next coupe having some sort of discussion. I butted in to random conversation, and the gang was thus - Sandeep, a Hyderabadi by origin, affiliations and allegiance but a Bangalorean by residence; Vandana, a techie who worked in Hyderabad in the past and currently works in Bangalore; and Vaishali, a US-returned LLM graduate who stays in Hyderabad but might move to Bangalore to work here.
Among other mundane topics, a hotly debated subject in the wee hours of the night on a speeding train was the relative merits of the two Cyber Cities of India - Bangalore and Hyderabad. My traumatic experience in Hyderabad for the last month and a half made me a staunch Hyderabad-basher, while the rest took turns at having pot shots at me and Bangalore in general. Poor Vandana seemed to have encountered the worst that Bangalore has to offer - the rudest auto-wallahs, the most nonchalant maid-servants, the greediest repairmen and the seediest pubs. Sandeep seemed to have experienced the worst traffic in Bangalore ever - the Domlur flyover during heavy rains.
The whole discussion made me reflect till long after the conversation - what is the Bangalore that I love so much? What are the undying symbols of the charm which I associate with my hometown? I think back (very) fondly to my high school days - when playgrounds were meant for us to play in, when we could ride our bicycles down BTM Main Road and JP Nagar Ring Road without the slightest cause for concern, when huge trees lined both sides of pretty much every main road in the city and when we could sit inside an auto and then instruct the driver to take us to our destination. All this has most certainly changed. The IT revolution has brought with it unprecedented growth, but it has also brought along pollution, traffic chaos, spiralling prices, an alarming crime rate and worst of all, a dehumanising effect on people.
Yet, I stood steadfastly by my city and to my utmost surprise, I could still bring out points which no other city can match. Take for example a Sunday morning involving an early jog in Cubbon Park followed by a soothing drive to Gandhi Bazaar and a sumptuous breakfast of Masala Dosa and Coffee at Vidyarthi Bhavan. Jayanagar has undergone a facelift like none other, but still one would find nostalgic old men and women reminiscing about the good old days at Thaatran Katte. Bull Temple Park is still Bull Temple Park - serene, invigorating, relaxing. Veena Stores in Malleshwaram still serves some of the most lip-smacking South Indian snacks anywhere. Rangashankara still costs only fifty rupees. It is still possible to get into a bus passing through Chamarajpet or Basavanagudi, and find polite conductors and patient drivers who wait for the old man to get in and have a seat before moving ahead.
It may be impossible to wish for the "old" Bangalore - life moved at a slow pace, people enjoyed their Idli and Coffee, street corners were meant for catching up with friends and gossipping about the neighbour's daughter, owning a Bajaj Chetak or a Premier Padmini was a status symbol and movie tickets costed twenty bucks. Even the Gods would frown upon any disturbance to this idyll paradise as a warm day unerringly meant a super-cool evening shower.
It's time to take a deep sigh, close my eyes and wish in vain. But not all hope is lost, for no other city in India or anywhere else in the world has a soul more pure than my Bangalore. The climate, the culture, the people - nothing else comes close...
Among other mundane topics, a hotly debated subject in the wee hours of the night on a speeding train was the relative merits of the two Cyber Cities of India - Bangalore and Hyderabad. My traumatic experience in Hyderabad for the last month and a half made me a staunch Hyderabad-basher, while the rest took turns at having pot shots at me and Bangalore in general. Poor Vandana seemed to have encountered the worst that Bangalore has to offer - the rudest auto-wallahs, the most nonchalant maid-servants, the greediest repairmen and the seediest pubs. Sandeep seemed to have experienced the worst traffic in Bangalore ever - the Domlur flyover during heavy rains.
The whole discussion made me reflect till long after the conversation - what is the Bangalore that I love so much? What are the undying symbols of the charm which I associate with my hometown? I think back (very) fondly to my high school days - when playgrounds were meant for us to play in, when we could ride our bicycles down BTM Main Road and JP Nagar Ring Road without the slightest cause for concern, when huge trees lined both sides of pretty much every main road in the city and when we could sit inside an auto and then instruct the driver to take us to our destination. All this has most certainly changed. The IT revolution has brought with it unprecedented growth, but it has also brought along pollution, traffic chaos, spiralling prices, an alarming crime rate and worst of all, a dehumanising effect on people.
Yet, I stood steadfastly by my city and to my utmost surprise, I could still bring out points which no other city can match. Take for example a Sunday morning involving an early jog in Cubbon Park followed by a soothing drive to Gandhi Bazaar and a sumptuous breakfast of Masala Dosa and Coffee at Vidyarthi Bhavan. Jayanagar has undergone a facelift like none other, but still one would find nostalgic old men and women reminiscing about the good old days at Thaatran Katte. Bull Temple Park is still Bull Temple Park - serene, invigorating, relaxing. Veena Stores in Malleshwaram still serves some of the most lip-smacking South Indian snacks anywhere. Rangashankara still costs only fifty rupees. It is still possible to get into a bus passing through Chamarajpet or Basavanagudi, and find polite conductors and patient drivers who wait for the old man to get in and have a seat before moving ahead.
It may be impossible to wish for the "old" Bangalore - life moved at a slow pace, people enjoyed their Idli and Coffee, street corners were meant for catching up with friends and gossipping about the neighbour's daughter, owning a Bajaj Chetak or a Premier Padmini was a status symbol and movie tickets costed twenty bucks. Even the Gods would frown upon any disturbance to this idyll paradise as a warm day unerringly meant a super-cool evening shower.
It's time to take a deep sigh, close my eyes and wish in vain. But not all hope is lost, for no other city in India or anywhere else in the world has a soul more pure than my Bangalore. The climate, the culture, the people - nothing else comes close...
Saturday, August 30, 2008
How Mature is My Society?
Scene 1: A local city bus is waiting to leave in a rather dirty bus stand, in any city or small town in India. As the driver revs up the engine, people rush to get in. In the midst of the melee, an old lady with stained teeth and wrinkled face puts her head through the window and spits a huge glob of chewed paan on to the pavement.
Scene 2: Krishna and Sita are travelling in an auto. They will be married in a few days' time and are obviously in love with each other. Krishna moves closer to Sita and puts his arm around her shoulder and nothing more. The auto-wallah peeks into the mirror and widens his lips in a lusty leer.
Scene 3: Rohan and Ketaki have been classmates and best friends for ten years. One day, they realise they are in love and go on to date each other for two years. Then Rohan goes to Ketaki's house and asks for her hand in marriage. They flatly refuse because he is not from her caste. Rohan turns to Ketaki, but she wrinkles her nose and says she cannot go against her father.
India finds itself at a crossroads. The urban centres have witnessed phenomenal economic growth for the last decade. Disposable incomes among urban youth are at an all-time high, property prices continue to skyrocket and many "international brands" are available off the counter in swanky, futuristic malls. However, the big question remains - how mature is the Indian society? Have we as a society kept pace with the economic growth? Has exposure to the more liberal, capitalistic western world put an end to dogmas, supertistions and rigidity of thought?
My answer in all frankness is a resounding no. Any of the three scenes described above are extremely commonplace and could have happened to any of us or to people known to us. The key to the maturity of a society lies in the maturity of the individuals who constitute the society. If we are immature enough to believe that the footpath does not "belong" to us and hence we have a right to spit on it, then we can never expect our society to be mature enough to respect public property and preserve cleanliness of public spaces.
I'm not for a minute arguing that public spaces in the western world are sparkling clean. I have seen obscene graffiti on subway walls in Paris and lewd scrawls on the seats of the Madrid metro. Yet you will not find a Parisian dumping a cigarette butt anywhere except in the dustbins placed on the footpath. When a pedestrian approaches an intersection and looks like he is about to cross the street, cars come to a halt to let him cross, even though they may miss the green signal. Respect for the law follows respect for the integrity of public spaces. Sadly, while Indians jealously guard their personal property, they treat public property with utter disdain, to the point of being hell-bent on destroying the same.
As regards the second incident, there are two kinds of people in India, neither of whom are exactly pleasant company. When a couple very obviously in love publicly expresses their affection for each other in even the most innocuous manner (such as holding hands or putting an arm around the shoulder), there are those who lech at the couple, their eyes betraying all the voyeuristic thoughts that run in their heads (like the auto-wallah in the example); and then there are those who turn up their noses and have nothing but contempt for the couple. Most of us want to live in a world of denial where we want to believe that physical urges between a man and a woman are unnatural and must be restricted to the absolute privacy of the marital bed. This self-denial is so strong in many of us that we detest anything remotely romantic. I agree it is very hard to get over the "one partner for life" mindset, but true maturity lies in mixing experimentation with stability.
The third scenario is something all of us feel strongly about, but when we find ourselves neck-deep in the situation, a vast majority of us takes the path of least resistance and sticks to unsubstantiated, unsupported, unproven and vague "values". Hypocracy is the first symptom of immaturity, and that's what most of us are - hypocrites. I'm quite sure Ketaki's parents must have known Rohan for many years, entertained him at home for lunch or dinner, met his parents at social functions on numerous occasions and yes, known that their daughter was in love with him. Yet when the time came to make a commitment, the old immaturities struck and they took refuge in that rogue's paradise - moral values. There is nothing as immoral as morality, for it is what leads us down the path of hypocarcy and hence, immaturity.
The answer to the big question isn't difficult, but changing the scenario will take many more decades of economic progress and mental maturing to achieve. I do not blame the generation gap, because many people from my generation are just blind adherants to their parents' views and practices. I am not advocating an open rebellion or a total rejection of their experiences and judgement, but what I do advocate is a more open-minded, consistent and unbiased evaluation of every situation. Learning to respect others and their views may be a very good starting point. India is on an unswerving, unrelenting path towards a fully capitalisitic society, but unless we internalise the concepts of individual and social liberty that go hand-in-glove with market capitalism, we may be a society lagging behind the economy and the world.
Scene 2: Krishna and Sita are travelling in an auto. They will be married in a few days' time and are obviously in love with each other. Krishna moves closer to Sita and puts his arm around her shoulder and nothing more. The auto-wallah peeks into the mirror and widens his lips in a lusty leer.
Scene 3: Rohan and Ketaki have been classmates and best friends for ten years. One day, they realise they are in love and go on to date each other for two years. Then Rohan goes to Ketaki's house and asks for her hand in marriage. They flatly refuse because he is not from her caste. Rohan turns to Ketaki, but she wrinkles her nose and says she cannot go against her father.
India finds itself at a crossroads. The urban centres have witnessed phenomenal economic growth for the last decade. Disposable incomes among urban youth are at an all-time high, property prices continue to skyrocket and many "international brands" are available off the counter in swanky, futuristic malls. However, the big question remains - how mature is the Indian society? Have we as a society kept pace with the economic growth? Has exposure to the more liberal, capitalistic western world put an end to dogmas, supertistions and rigidity of thought?
My answer in all frankness is a resounding no. Any of the three scenes described above are extremely commonplace and could have happened to any of us or to people known to us. The key to the maturity of a society lies in the maturity of the individuals who constitute the society. If we are immature enough to believe that the footpath does not "belong" to us and hence we have a right to spit on it, then we can never expect our society to be mature enough to respect public property and preserve cleanliness of public spaces.
I'm not for a minute arguing that public spaces in the western world are sparkling clean. I have seen obscene graffiti on subway walls in Paris and lewd scrawls on the seats of the Madrid metro. Yet you will not find a Parisian dumping a cigarette butt anywhere except in the dustbins placed on the footpath. When a pedestrian approaches an intersection and looks like he is about to cross the street, cars come to a halt to let him cross, even though they may miss the green signal. Respect for the law follows respect for the integrity of public spaces. Sadly, while Indians jealously guard their personal property, they treat public property with utter disdain, to the point of being hell-bent on destroying the same.
As regards the second incident, there are two kinds of people in India, neither of whom are exactly pleasant company. When a couple very obviously in love publicly expresses their affection for each other in even the most innocuous manner (such as holding hands or putting an arm around the shoulder), there are those who lech at the couple, their eyes betraying all the voyeuristic thoughts that run in their heads (like the auto-wallah in the example); and then there are those who turn up their noses and have nothing but contempt for the couple. Most of us want to live in a world of denial where we want to believe that physical urges between a man and a woman are unnatural and must be restricted to the absolute privacy of the marital bed. This self-denial is so strong in many of us that we detest anything remotely romantic. I agree it is very hard to get over the "one partner for life" mindset, but true maturity lies in mixing experimentation with stability.
The third scenario is something all of us feel strongly about, but when we find ourselves neck-deep in the situation, a vast majority of us takes the path of least resistance and sticks to unsubstantiated, unsupported, unproven and vague "values". Hypocracy is the first symptom of immaturity, and that's what most of us are - hypocrites. I'm quite sure Ketaki's parents must have known Rohan for many years, entertained him at home for lunch or dinner, met his parents at social functions on numerous occasions and yes, known that their daughter was in love with him. Yet when the time came to make a commitment, the old immaturities struck and they took refuge in that rogue's paradise - moral values. There is nothing as immoral as morality, for it is what leads us down the path of hypocarcy and hence, immaturity.
The answer to the big question isn't difficult, but changing the scenario will take many more decades of economic progress and mental maturing to achieve. I do not blame the generation gap, because many people from my generation are just blind adherants to their parents' views and practices. I am not advocating an open rebellion or a total rejection of their experiences and judgement, but what I do advocate is a more open-minded, consistent and unbiased evaluation of every situation. Learning to respect others and their views may be a very good starting point. India is on an unswerving, unrelenting path towards a fully capitalisitic society, but unless we internalise the concepts of individual and social liberty that go hand-in-glove with market capitalism, we may be a society lagging behind the economy and the world.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Living on borrowed time
He felt a dull, throbbing pain, but he did not know which part of him was paining. All he knew was that the pain was sometimes unbearable and caused him to faint, while at most other times it was bearable but ever-present. His life revolved around his Master. His Master fed him three times a day with the choicest of dishes, his Master bought for him the best clothes and his Master had given him a luxurious bed to sleep in. But his Master never allowed him to go out of the house. For a few hours everyday, he was allowed to open only those windows which his Master allowed him to open and from there, he could catch glimpses of the World. Everyday, he cleaned the house, he cooked for his Master and he did everything that his Master asked him to do. But every time he did something for his Master that he didn’t want to do, the pain increased. One day, he overcooked a dish. So his Master brought out a whip and mercilessly thrashed him with it. That day, his pain was unbearable. He wanted to cut off those parts of him that were aching, but again he was unable to say for sure which parts of him were experiencing the pain. He wanted to run away from the house, but he knew that he would have to eat dry bread everyday, wear rags and sleep on the pavements if he ran away. What part of the World he could see through the windows of the house he liked. He thought that the World was not a very harsh place to be in, but he also knew that there was much in the World which he hadn’t seen and which could be very harsh indeed to him. Another fear which plagued him was that the pain would only increase if he ran away. Another Master may whip him even more and for lesser mistakes.
One day, while he was sitting beside the window, a person in the World told him that there was a cure for his pain. The cure was to learn to bear the pain and get used to it. That night, he felt great pain. He closed his eyes and tried to forget the pain. He told himself that patience and tolerance would drive away or at least mask the pain. He couldn’t sleep all night long because he was unable to wish away the pain.
The next morning, he had made up his mind. He would run away from the house. His Master could easily find ten others like him, who would not feel pain even when they were whipped. So, that afternoon, he quietly slipped a note under his Master’s door and made off from the house. His first reaction upon reaching the road outside the house was one of unconfined joy. He leapt into the air and danced down the road. His curious eyes drank in every sight which they had missed for all these years. There were many things in the World which ought to have intrigued him, but he did not see them that afternoon. He only saw the road and the open fields, where he could dance and sing all day long. His pain seemed to have vanished.
But what he neither saw nor felt was the note which his Master had stuck on his back that declared him to be a fool and an ingrate. There would be no Master in the World who would feed him, clothe him or give him a place to stay. He had discovered the joy of freedom, but unknown to him, he had taken upon himself the burden of failure.
Monday, August 14, 2006
On Auction: My Conscience
Mercenary - n One who serves or works merely for monetary gain; a hireling. adj having or marked by an eager and often selfish desire especially for material possessions (Merriam-Webster Dictionary Online, 2006)
My sole desire in life is to make money. Give me money, and I will do anything you ask me to do. Your smallest wish is my command, provided the price is right. I have a conscience, for which you can pay a rent and bend according to tour will. The current lessee of my conscience is one of the top law firms in my country. I guess bidders for my conscience will be hard pressed to match the rent I am now getting, but that makes it all the more interesting and rewarding for me.
In the legal field, I can offer you the best services that money can buy. Ethics and morals are highly dependant on what the lessee of my conscience wants done. I have no problems in drafting a document that will make a few thousand poor villagers homeless. I have no qualms about strategising how a large American or European or Australian company can squeeze the life out of hard-working illiterate farmers by forcing new agricultural methods upon them. I see no personal issues in ensuring that a large multinational company will slime an Indian entrepreneur and take away from him his life's hard work in the form of his company. I will see to it that the behemoth overseas conglomerate smoothly chucks out marginal farmers and indigenous tribes from a remote area in my country so that they can set up infrastructure projects that serve an unknown purpose for an unseen public. I will ensure that the rich will get richer and the poor poorer because that is what is expected of me from this capitalistic economy.
In case you have any impractical and hypocritical suggestions like the betterment of society and lending a helping hand, you have come to the wrong person. My society consists of just one person - myself, and the only person in this world who needs all the monetary inputs is me. Charity is for the disillusioned and the weak. A conscience that cannot be leased out for money belongs to a person who is certified insane, or at best to a person who possesses a Master's Degree in Wallowing in Dirt, Garbage and Other Such Disgusting Places.
In case you want anything done and the law stands in your way, come to me. Pay the right amount and consider your work done. This is life, this is reality. Accept it soon because otherwise it will descend on you like a ton of bricks.
My sole desire in life is to make money. Give me money, and I will do anything you ask me to do. Your smallest wish is my command, provided the price is right. I have a conscience, for which you can pay a rent and bend according to tour will. The current lessee of my conscience is one of the top law firms in my country. I guess bidders for my conscience will be hard pressed to match the rent I am now getting, but that makes it all the more interesting and rewarding for me.
In the legal field, I can offer you the best services that money can buy. Ethics and morals are highly dependant on what the lessee of my conscience wants done. I have no problems in drafting a document that will make a few thousand poor villagers homeless. I have no qualms about strategising how a large American or European or Australian company can squeeze the life out of hard-working illiterate farmers by forcing new agricultural methods upon them. I see no personal issues in ensuring that a large multinational company will slime an Indian entrepreneur and take away from him his life's hard work in the form of his company. I will see to it that the behemoth overseas conglomerate smoothly chucks out marginal farmers and indigenous tribes from a remote area in my country so that they can set up infrastructure projects that serve an unknown purpose for an unseen public. I will ensure that the rich will get richer and the poor poorer because that is what is expected of me from this capitalistic economy.
In case you have any impractical and hypocritical suggestions like the betterment of society and lending a helping hand, you have come to the wrong person. My society consists of just one person - myself, and the only person in this world who needs all the monetary inputs is me. Charity is for the disillusioned and the weak. A conscience that cannot be leased out for money belongs to a person who is certified insane, or at best to a person who possesses a Master's Degree in Wallowing in Dirt, Garbage and Other Such Disgusting Places.
In case you want anything done and the law stands in your way, come to me. Pay the right amount and consider your work done. This is life, this is reality. Accept it soon because otherwise it will descend on you like a ton of bricks.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Last moments with friends...
Date: 2nd June 2006
Time: 19.15 hours
Weather: Pouring cats and dogs
Location: Room 204, Cauvery Hostel, National Law School
Anubhav, Tanmay, Harsha and I are chatting nonsense as usual. Anubhav is trying to sell his posters to juniors and make a quick buck. Arka walks in and makes a cutomary silly comment, this time relating to Anubhav's shark-like business acumen. I also learn that he will be around till the 7th. Then he walks out of the door. Anubhav follows him after a few minutes....
Date: 2nd June 2006
Time: 20.00 hours
Weather: Slight drizzle
Location: Nagarbhavi Circle, Bangalore. About half a kilometre from Law School.
I get off from Harsha's bike, heaving my bag across in the process. I turn to face him and extend my hand towards him. His hand grips mine as he says, "Bye da. It's been great having you as a roommate. All the best." I murmur similar words in reply. Then he says, "Quick! Give me a hug!" I comply. Then he takes a quick look over his shoulder, says "Bye" again and without a backward glance heads back the way we had just come. I walk slowly, lost deep in thought, towards the waiting autos....
Date: 3rd June 2006
Time: 19.25 hours
Weather: Overcast with a hint of rain
Location: My favourite couch in front of the TV at home
Dnyanesh messages me, "Dude where exactly is Ragoo's?" I reply and tell him the location of the restaurant in question. He replies, "Thanks. I am taking some juniors for a treat there. Thanks for introducing me to such a nice place to eat." The next morming, I try to call him but the recorded voice informs me that his number has been "temporarily" disconnected....
Date: 4th June 2006
Time: 13.00 hours
Weather: Fine and sunny
Anoop calls me and says, "Hey Swami, I'm off da. Best of luck and keep in touch"....
Date: 7th June 2006
Time: 13.30 hours
Weather: Baking hot
Tanmay messages, "Hey I'm on my way to the railway station." I immediately pick up my phone and call him. Both of us are obviously lost for words. We say, "So..." at least a dozen times apiece during the ten minute call. His train's at 2.30. He's on his way to the station. Yes, he's packed everything. Big luggage he's sent to Anubhav's dad's house in Delhi. I know all this already but it gives me airtime with Tanmay. At last, I say the final goodbye....
Time: 19.15 hours
Weather: Pouring cats and dogs
Location: Room 204, Cauvery Hostel, National Law School
Anubhav, Tanmay, Harsha and I are chatting nonsense as usual. Anubhav is trying to sell his posters to juniors and make a quick buck. Arka walks in and makes a cutomary silly comment, this time relating to Anubhav's shark-like business acumen. I also learn that he will be around till the 7th. Then he walks out of the door. Anubhav follows him after a few minutes....
Date: 2nd June 2006
Time: 20.00 hours
Weather: Slight drizzle
Location: Nagarbhavi Circle, Bangalore. About half a kilometre from Law School.
I get off from Harsha's bike, heaving my bag across in the process. I turn to face him and extend my hand towards him. His hand grips mine as he says, "Bye da. It's been great having you as a roommate. All the best." I murmur similar words in reply. Then he says, "Quick! Give me a hug!" I comply. Then he takes a quick look over his shoulder, says "Bye" again and without a backward glance heads back the way we had just come. I walk slowly, lost deep in thought, towards the waiting autos....
Date: 3rd June 2006
Time: 19.25 hours
Weather: Overcast with a hint of rain
Location: My favourite couch in front of the TV at home
Dnyanesh messages me, "Dude where exactly is Ragoo's?" I reply and tell him the location of the restaurant in question. He replies, "Thanks. I am taking some juniors for a treat there. Thanks for introducing me to such a nice place to eat." The next morming, I try to call him but the recorded voice informs me that his number has been "temporarily" disconnected....
Date: 4th June 2006
Time: 13.00 hours
Weather: Fine and sunny
Anoop calls me and says, "Hey Swami, I'm off da. Best of luck and keep in touch"....
Date: 7th June 2006
Time: 13.30 hours
Weather: Baking hot
Tanmay messages, "Hey I'm on my way to the railway station." I immediately pick up my phone and call him. Both of us are obviously lost for words. We say, "So..." at least a dozen times apiece during the ten minute call. His train's at 2.30. He's on his way to the station. Yes, he's packed everything. Big luggage he's sent to Anubhav's dad's house in Delhi. I know all this already but it gives me airtime with Tanmay. At last, I say the final goodbye....
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
So Long, Farewell, Adieu.....
As I write this, it is slowly but surely sinking in that I have just one week of student life left. Like many things in life, this is an inevitability; but again like many things in life, it is not the happiest inevitability. I know it is coming one day, but I don't want that day to dawn. I also have not realised the passage of time until this morning, when two incidents occured which dropped on me with the force of a falling meteor.
Ajay casually asked me on our way to college, "When are your final presentations in corporate finance?" and when I replied, "Next Wednesday", he said, "Oh! I was hoping we could travel back together next week. But I have exams starting from Thursday, so I can't go home on Wednesday." I remained silent for a minute, because my mind suddenly raced over the four years of travelling we have done together. In four years we have discussed, argued, agreed upon, disagreed upon and debated just about everything under the sun from "hot" girls passing by on the road, to the possibility of life outside of the Earth, to every conceivable subject in law. Both of us have bunked innumerable classes just to return together when one of us was leaving early for some reason. I suddenly realised that one of my fondest memories of law school life - travelling with Ajay - was coming to an end. Monday morning will perhaps be our last ride together.
Then when I entered the Acad Block to attend class, "Yum" Bharat called to inform that class had been cancelled. Then when I called Tanmay, he said that there would be no more classes. The words "No More Classes" hit me like something fired out of a shotgun at point blank range. Five years of rushing to catch the bell, five years of managing attendance to just about reach the required 75%, five years of innovative bunking techniques, five years of SMS-ing in class, five years of chit-passing, five years of sleeping in class, five years of Snake and Bounce and F1 high scores, five years of heated (and largely irrelevant and nonsensical) arguments - they had all come down to this. No formal farewell, no official last class, no sentiment, no clamouring for a "free" hour, no vote of thanks to the teacher - nothing to indicate that our collective student lives are over. There is a time and place for everything, and this is the time and place for sentiment; but sadly, it hasn't been given an opportunity to present itself in the open.
It is true that I have spent most of my fifth year at home. It is true that I have antagonised approximately ten times more people than I have befriended in college. It is true that I have been one of the least enthusiastic persons in class as far as participation in "class" activities go. It is true that I am the butt of jokes for my utterly irrational, maverick and impulsive decisions regarding everything. Yet something binds me to this place, to my classmates, to my hostel mates, to my teachers, to the institution in general. I will miss organising and conducting the late night "crash courses" before any exam, I will miss my quisling-like activities during moot court selections, I will miss the "philosophical" discussions with people like Dnyanesh, I will miss making all those crazy and ill-timed points in class, I will miss the adrenaline flows during the final 24 hours before project submission, I will miss "flirting" with anyone female in college - hell, I will miss everything I ever did as a routine here.
Before my tear glands overflow, I want to look back upon what I have achieved here. On the positive side, I have achieved a moderate CGPA which ultimately got me a highly coveted job, reasonable success in moot court competitions which took me to one of the most prestigious national-level events, a subservience to the system which kept me in the good books of the faculty, a strong will power which helped me resist temptations, a wonderful world-view and maturity which has given me the strength and ability to live life, a strong moral base which is based on reason and tolerance, and finally, great friends who will be by my side through life. On the negative side, I have learnt how to "manage" the system which has reduced the value of hard work and perseverence in my eyes, I have acquired an arrogance and swagger for merely being a part of an "elite" institution as compared to others in more "mundane" colleges, I have made many enemies because of my wavering nature and selfishness, and as a result, I have become an introvert and a loner which makes me a very poor team player.
Now I have to put an end to this. Perhaps, years later, when the sentiment has died, I may find the patience to write some memoirs of my life in law school.
So long, farewell, adieu to you, my dear National Law School. It hasn't been an education, it has been an experience....
Ajay casually asked me on our way to college, "When are your final presentations in corporate finance?" and when I replied, "Next Wednesday", he said, "Oh! I was hoping we could travel back together next week. But I have exams starting from Thursday, so I can't go home on Wednesday." I remained silent for a minute, because my mind suddenly raced over the four years of travelling we have done together. In four years we have discussed, argued, agreed upon, disagreed upon and debated just about everything under the sun from "hot" girls passing by on the road, to the possibility of life outside of the Earth, to every conceivable subject in law. Both of us have bunked innumerable classes just to return together when one of us was leaving early for some reason. I suddenly realised that one of my fondest memories of law school life - travelling with Ajay - was coming to an end. Monday morning will perhaps be our last ride together.
Then when I entered the Acad Block to attend class, "Yum" Bharat called to inform that class had been cancelled. Then when I called Tanmay, he said that there would be no more classes. The words "No More Classes" hit me like something fired out of a shotgun at point blank range. Five years of rushing to catch the bell, five years of managing attendance to just about reach the required 75%, five years of innovative bunking techniques, five years of SMS-ing in class, five years of chit-passing, five years of sleeping in class, five years of Snake and Bounce and F1 high scores, five years of heated (and largely irrelevant and nonsensical) arguments - they had all come down to this. No formal farewell, no official last class, no sentiment, no clamouring for a "free" hour, no vote of thanks to the teacher - nothing to indicate that our collective student lives are over. There is a time and place for everything, and this is the time and place for sentiment; but sadly, it hasn't been given an opportunity to present itself in the open.
It is true that I have spent most of my fifth year at home. It is true that I have antagonised approximately ten times more people than I have befriended in college. It is true that I have been one of the least enthusiastic persons in class as far as participation in "class" activities go. It is true that I am the butt of jokes for my utterly irrational, maverick and impulsive decisions regarding everything. Yet something binds me to this place, to my classmates, to my hostel mates, to my teachers, to the institution in general. I will miss organising and conducting the late night "crash courses" before any exam, I will miss my quisling-like activities during moot court selections, I will miss the "philosophical" discussions with people like Dnyanesh, I will miss making all those crazy and ill-timed points in class, I will miss the adrenaline flows during the final 24 hours before project submission, I will miss "flirting" with anyone female in college - hell, I will miss everything I ever did as a routine here.
Before my tear glands overflow, I want to look back upon what I have achieved here. On the positive side, I have achieved a moderate CGPA which ultimately got me a highly coveted job, reasonable success in moot court competitions which took me to one of the most prestigious national-level events, a subservience to the system which kept me in the good books of the faculty, a strong will power which helped me resist temptations, a wonderful world-view and maturity which has given me the strength and ability to live life, a strong moral base which is based on reason and tolerance, and finally, great friends who will be by my side through life. On the negative side, I have learnt how to "manage" the system which has reduced the value of hard work and perseverence in my eyes, I have acquired an arrogance and swagger for merely being a part of an "elite" institution as compared to others in more "mundane" colleges, I have made many enemies because of my wavering nature and selfishness, and as a result, I have become an introvert and a loner which makes me a very poor team player.
Now I have to put an end to this. Perhaps, years later, when the sentiment has died, I may find the patience to write some memoirs of my life in law school.
So long, farewell, adieu to you, my dear National Law School. It hasn't been an education, it has been an experience....
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