I have been ill for the past few days. Fever, headache, the works. I am told that I should value the royal treatment I’m getting right now, because there may be a time when I possibly wont be pampered this way. Sigh. Yes, people keep telling me all sorts of horror stories. And I used to think that I’m the only subject matter expert when it comes to those.
There is something serenely delicious about listening to a song like saiyyan on my ipod in the dead of night. The rhythmic pulsating music and the hauntingly beautiful lyrics beat a pattern in the still air like a butterfly fluttering its shivering wings and weaving its meandering way through the fragnant moonlight. And to think that no one apart from me can hear it. It’s almost like eavesdropping on a private conversation without too much guilt.
Apparently, I’m not. Infact, the blogsphere is replete with examples of people who insist on writing only horror stories. Bad relationships, grueling work schedule, james bond-ish relatives who kill with a smile..you name it, they have it. I know life isn’t all hunky-dory but surely once in a while there could be something nice and pleasant to write home about? The most likely cause for this is that the horror stories make good reading and therefore attract more and more blogreaders. Kind of like a ‘lets see whose linen is the dirtiest today, shall we?’ community, maybe. As real and as depressing, as say, world news.
I have been watching Indian idol a lot. Maybe I too have the lowest common denominator taste when it comes to television. But its quite entertaining, really. Most of them are very good singers who probably learnt to sing flawlessly at the age of three and are too busy now trying to learn to be modest about the whole thing. The judges are more entertaining, actually. Especially udit narayan. He’s just not right for this sort of show, where you are expected to walk off the stage every now and then and defend your favourite with flared nostrils and high decibels. He’s the kind of person who probably utters two words in three hours and that too with hesitation. Decision-making doesn’t come naturally to him. ‘Aapne accha gaya’ he mostly opines; with a half an hour interval between two words.
I quite like Shashi Tharoor. He writes a weekly column for the Sunday times. When kids collected stamps, as part of a necessary childhood ritual, he knew about the Slovaks and Yugoslavia and the Gulf war. There was a time when I was similarly interested in world politics but as I learnt, world news, especially the daily suicide bombings in the mid-east can be grueling daily consumption for anyone. Its kind of ironic, that while things like these keep happening, and give enough reason for depression, I do remain contentedly happy at a different level of consciousness. What a bundle of contradictions we humans are. Like a Japanese doll. Layers within layers.
What if decisions could be outsourced? You don’t know what to wear and you get a phonecall and you know. Or you don’t know which girl to get married to and the next time you see someone, she has a big tick-mark on her forehead. No rational planning involved. No intense internal monologues. In a sense, decisions are outsourced. Someone up there makes up our minds for us; we just realize it later. We have to discover the decision , after it has already been made. I just wish the process of discovery could be made easier.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
my first story, barring the one i wrote about the dentist and sadly didnt get published
Every year the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival celebrates the spirit of Mumbai with a week long cultural programme. It incorporates film screenings, dance performances, music recitals, food festivals, plays, creative writing workshops, visual arts exhibitions and heritage walks. It also hosts a number of competitions, such as the Flash Fiction contest; encouraging awareness about the arts and urging people to give expression to the dormant creativity in them.
Flash Fiction (also called micro-fiction or short-shorts) presents a simple challenge: tell a story with all the classical elements: a beginning, middle and end, a conflict and resolution, a credible protagonist…but do so in a very limited number of words.
Here’s an attempt.
She was a pretty, young thing. In fact, I quite liked her. But the day she rolled her eyes and said, with a short, sharp laugh, ‘Love, what’s love? It’s all rubbish, yaar’ to her best buddy who was nursing a broken heart, I knew I had to step in. I stalked her day and night, hiding my boyish golden curls under a cap and my bow and arrows in a huge slingbag. I followed her wherever she went; watched her keenly when she interacted with people. But she was close, very close. And then, one day I saw it. Her eyes danced as she spoke to her boss, her smile a bit too ready to please. I knew then that I had won. I strung an arrow to my bow and let it fly. It struck her heart in the middle of a conversation with him. She suddenly blushed and stuttered. ‘Ha!’, I exclaimed, ‘there, done’.
Revenge was sweet. Very sweet.
Flash Fiction (also called micro-fiction or short-shorts) presents a simple challenge: tell a story with all the classical elements: a beginning, middle and end, a conflict and resolution, a credible protagonist…but do so in a very limited number of words.
Here’s an attempt.
She was a pretty, young thing. In fact, I quite liked her. But the day she rolled her eyes and said, with a short, sharp laugh, ‘Love, what’s love? It’s all rubbish, yaar’ to her best buddy who was nursing a broken heart, I knew I had to step in. I stalked her day and night, hiding my boyish golden curls under a cap and my bow and arrows in a huge slingbag. I followed her wherever she went; watched her keenly when she interacted with people. But she was close, very close. And then, one day I saw it. Her eyes danced as she spoke to her boss, her smile a bit too ready to please. I knew then that I had won. I strung an arrow to my bow and let it fly. It struck her heart in the middle of a conversation with him. She suddenly blushed and stuttered. ‘Ha!’, I exclaimed, ‘there, done’.
Revenge was sweet. Very sweet.
Monday, June 18, 2007
father's day!
Well, I don’t think I’ve ever done this sort of thing, but I’m sure my dad has had to put up with a lot of weird things that I do day in and day out.
Here’s to my papa: Belated happy father’s day! You’re the best!!
Here’s to my papa: Belated happy father’s day! You’re the best!!
Friday, June 8, 2007
A few days back, shrek 3, the latest offering in a highly successful commercial enterprise, was released to a world wide audience. Much like its parent creations, it too chronicles an episode in the life of our friendly neighborhood ogre called shrek, and indulges in a variety of tell-tale (pun intended) parodies on the way. The indulgence, however, becomes an impediment to the magical way in which a simple story, well-told had earlier captured our imagination, The whole point about , ‘ogres having layers’ , is lost in the multitude of cultural references that the film spins from one scene to the other. The moral and the aesthetic implication of having an ogre as a hero, and of subverting the monopoly that conventional, stereotypical, princes (or princesses) have admittedly exercised in fairy-tales, is neglected. It only seems to be over-doing its self-reflexivity : it becomes a story obsessed with its own cleverness in its telling.
Though Dreamworks, shrek’s production house, does not continue its mockery of Disney, (its major rival company), as much as it did in the first shrek film, it unfortunately tries to compensate by putting in a plethora of cultural references in its place. While films like shrek are understood to be for young adults in the west, here it is supposed to be a film for children because it is animated. The point is that not many children, (its supposed target audience, in India) would understand either the necessity or the usage of tongue-in-cheek parodies of popular songs, rock-bands, numerous films, and mythical, legendary figures. But then again, shrek is really more of a film for adults, rather than children; the latest is more so , with its reference to shrek’s impending introduction to parenthood , and fiona’s feminist rampage. The plot is barely there and too predictable. The story suffers; cultural references are clever but not very engaging to all. Whereas earlier films could be understood and loved on the basis of the simplicity and the interest aroused by the story alone, this latest is directed to adults well versed with western culture and even they with all the subtle evanescent humor between the lines or behind the scenes here, will find it difficult to swallow without the sweetening saccharine of a grossing plot. In India, Shrek loses it with children, and also, partially with adults like me.
On another note, it’s interesting to see that Shrek isn’t the first time that children have been exposed to adult themes in a work arguably meant for children. Books and films for children have often referred to intimacy, relationships, or events with disturbing repercussions. When I read children’s books now, I am not only struck by their slight but existing references to adult themes, but also by the fact that I was not affected by these as a child. Children books like to sir with love, or the curious incident of the dog in the night, or the Adrian Mole series can be read at two levels, one as a child and the other as an adult. In the west, bowdlerized books meant purely for children are being seen as unnecessary, not only because they work on two levels, but also because familiarization with adult issues is seen as desirable. Though difficult to gauge reactions to this on an authorial level in India, because the market for children books is decidedly small, I have no doubt that such-like offences will not be tolerated by our home-grown molice police. We have grown up on censored versions of everything; books, films, plays. Though it is difficult to support the argument of two levels, with relation to films, because of the visual medium of expression, I think that shrek is fine on this account. It does not overdo anything which does not or did not happen in real life. There can be instances, however, where these can be easily taken overboard, and then maybe, we will need to see exactly where to draw the line.
P.S: forgive the amazingly boring impersonal tone; I was trying to write as a newspaper columnist.
P.P.S: er, my apologies to newspaper columnists…:)
..
Though Dreamworks, shrek’s production house, does not continue its mockery of Disney, (its major rival company), as much as it did in the first shrek film, it unfortunately tries to compensate by putting in a plethora of cultural references in its place. While films like shrek are understood to be for young adults in the west, here it is supposed to be a film for children because it is animated. The point is that not many children, (its supposed target audience, in India) would understand either the necessity or the usage of tongue-in-cheek parodies of popular songs, rock-bands, numerous films, and mythical, legendary figures. But then again, shrek is really more of a film for adults, rather than children; the latest is more so , with its reference to shrek’s impending introduction to parenthood , and fiona’s feminist rampage. The plot is barely there and too predictable. The story suffers; cultural references are clever but not very engaging to all. Whereas earlier films could be understood and loved on the basis of the simplicity and the interest aroused by the story alone, this latest is directed to adults well versed with western culture and even they with all the subtle evanescent humor between the lines or behind the scenes here, will find it difficult to swallow without the sweetening saccharine of a grossing plot. In India, Shrek loses it with children, and also, partially with adults like me.
On another note, it’s interesting to see that Shrek isn’t the first time that children have been exposed to adult themes in a work arguably meant for children. Books and films for children have often referred to intimacy, relationships, or events with disturbing repercussions. When I read children’s books now, I am not only struck by their slight but existing references to adult themes, but also by the fact that I was not affected by these as a child. Children books like to sir with love, or the curious incident of the dog in the night, or the Adrian Mole series can be read at two levels, one as a child and the other as an adult. In the west, bowdlerized books meant purely for children are being seen as unnecessary, not only because they work on two levels, but also because familiarization with adult issues is seen as desirable. Though difficult to gauge reactions to this on an authorial level in India, because the market for children books is decidedly small, I have no doubt that such-like offences will not be tolerated by our home-grown molice police. We have grown up on censored versions of everything; books, films, plays. Though it is difficult to support the argument of two levels, with relation to films, because of the visual medium of expression, I think that shrek is fine on this account. It does not overdo anything which does not or did not happen in real life. There can be instances, however, where these can be easily taken overboard, and then maybe, we will need to see exactly where to draw the line.
P.S: forgive the amazingly boring impersonal tone; I was trying to write as a newspaper columnist.
P.P.S: er, my apologies to newspaper columnists…:)
..
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Big Fat Indian Wedding
I have had two weeks of unadulterated fun. The turn of events which surprisingly led to this, is what this post is about.
Since my exams got over, and there was a wedding in the family, I have been caught up in the mania they call the great Indian wedding. Before I go on, let me reveal that my family is probably the most boring family on earth, when it comes to weddings. To put it in a nutshell, we don’t believe in going over the top, or celebrating like there is no tomorrow, both of which, as I see it, are essential ingredients for any hungama. They are, what my brother, would call ‘hygiene factors’ in his management lingo. Things which have to be there if you want a proper Indian shaadi. We, as a family, are not into this Punjabi style of celebration; we celebrate but in moderation.
I think the idea that excess if crass, got into our family, through years of living in Bengal. I have heard stories, of how an uncle of my mother’s nana flew kites, which had banknotes attached to it, to celebrate his nephew’s birth. He raised a din over it, quite literally when he organized a walking music band to tour the entire city. For everyday celebrations, he played host to theatre companies, staging shows at his own cost, in his own house, for his coterie of friends. Even in those days, such extravagance was looked upon as superfluous. Later, through my nana’s marriage into the family, the interaction with a family of hufaaz[1] took its toll and the family began to pay more attention to the Islamic tenet of moderation. I think, at this point, decades of living in Calcutta also helped; we imbibed Bengali values, and ended up rejecting excess, and embracing moderation. Rooftops of our numerous houses in Calcutta didn’t play hosts to patang-baazis any more, they looked like gentler and maybe even austere shadows of their former selves. This did not mean that we didn’t celebrate, but there was none of the extravagance of old. My aunts and uncles got married in this style and were content with it. The youngest of them however, has , for the good of the next generation of the family, turned out to be an aberrant. It has him, who got married last week. It was a extravagant week long celebration, starting with the haldi, and ending with the walima, the grand finale. Everyone enjoyed themselves to the hilt; me and my cousins more so. It was though no where near Punjabi weddings, and neither crass, nor in poor taste , as opulent celebrations like those, sometimes turn out to be. The difference between the two can be grasped, if you compare the Bachchan wedding to the Chatwal or the Mittal. While the Bachchans celebrated in style , but with good taste, the Chatwals hosted a month long celebration, playing host to drunk firangis. As much as I have come to cringe at dad Bachchan’s popping-out-of-a-hat act in each and every film, and tear my hair at beta Bachchan’s political correctness, I must admit they did get this wedding right. It suited their stature, and looked like simple, good fun; just the right mix for a wedding. It’s another story, that the money Bachchan saved at the wedding, was poured onto the deity’s feet at Tirupati, and sealed up in the temple’s coffers; it could have, perhaps, been put to more immediate and effective use, for the good of mankind.
[1] Plural of hafiz, a person who has learnt the Quran by heart.
Since my exams got over, and there was a wedding in the family, I have been caught up in the mania they call the great Indian wedding. Before I go on, let me reveal that my family is probably the most boring family on earth, when it comes to weddings. To put it in a nutshell, we don’t believe in going over the top, or celebrating like there is no tomorrow, both of which, as I see it, are essential ingredients for any hungama. They are, what my brother, would call ‘hygiene factors’ in his management lingo. Things which have to be there if you want a proper Indian shaadi. We, as a family, are not into this Punjabi style of celebration; we celebrate but in moderation.
I think the idea that excess if crass, got into our family, through years of living in Bengal. I have heard stories, of how an uncle of my mother’s nana flew kites, which had banknotes attached to it, to celebrate his nephew’s birth. He raised a din over it, quite literally when he organized a walking music band to tour the entire city. For everyday celebrations, he played host to theatre companies, staging shows at his own cost, in his own house, for his coterie of friends. Even in those days, such extravagance was looked upon as superfluous. Later, through my nana’s marriage into the family, the interaction with a family of hufaaz[1] took its toll and the family began to pay more attention to the Islamic tenet of moderation. I think, at this point, decades of living in Calcutta also helped; we imbibed Bengali values, and ended up rejecting excess, and embracing moderation. Rooftops of our numerous houses in Calcutta didn’t play hosts to patang-baazis any more, they looked like gentler and maybe even austere shadows of their former selves. This did not mean that we didn’t celebrate, but there was none of the extravagance of old. My aunts and uncles got married in this style and were content with it. The youngest of them however, has , for the good of the next generation of the family, turned out to be an aberrant. It has him, who got married last week. It was a extravagant week long celebration, starting with the haldi, and ending with the walima, the grand finale. Everyone enjoyed themselves to the hilt; me and my cousins more so. It was though no where near Punjabi weddings, and neither crass, nor in poor taste , as opulent celebrations like those, sometimes turn out to be. The difference between the two can be grasped, if you compare the Bachchan wedding to the Chatwal or the Mittal. While the Bachchans celebrated in style , but with good taste, the Chatwals hosted a month long celebration, playing host to drunk firangis. As much as I have come to cringe at dad Bachchan’s popping-out-of-a-hat act in each and every film, and tear my hair at beta Bachchan’s political correctness, I must admit they did get this wedding right. It suited their stature, and looked like simple, good fun; just the right mix for a wedding. It’s another story, that the money Bachchan saved at the wedding, was poured onto the deity’s feet at Tirupati, and sealed up in the temple’s coffers; it could have, perhaps, been put to more immediate and effective use, for the good of mankind.
[1] Plural of hafiz, a person who has learnt the Quran by heart.
Monday, May 7, 2007
delhi bas?
I’ve just come back from delhi. Half frozen and near death. The capital of democratic India , I’ve realized, is not the sunny cuckoo-land I’ve always pictured it as. It is a vicious evil urban jungle which works in connivance with sharp chilling winds. Winds which slyly work their way around you undaunted by layers of woolies and wraps, under a bleak foggy grey sky.
People tell me that that is what you get if you go to delhi in winter. I tell them I wish they had told me this sooner. Then I could have saved many a shiver and many an ..er…wasted expletive.
Not to mean that it was a totally wasted trip. I saw things which I hadn’t before seen in delhi….the lotus temple.. much nicer auto-rickshaw walas who stop in the middle of the road incase you want to take a couple of snaps of India gate from that just-the-right-angle… famous kebabs from karim’s ( hidden in one of the numerous crooked, bustling lanes which surround jama masjid)… connaught place (a term which here means ‘shopping! shopping!’)… women who ( as rahul bose says in one of his films) dress like it’s diwali everyday,… and humayun’s tomb (which is not exactly a tomb, but a sprawling complex, which houses many monuments, all of which, in a sense, commemorate death).
Actually, now that I think of it , it seems pretty weird that the mughals celebrated something like death, which is usually supposed to be the ultimate-dampener-of-spirits, the ultimate-wet-thumb-on-hot-stove experience, in such a grandiose fashion. They built tombs,(beautiful ones, I agree, but tombs all the same) pretty much wherever they went. Infact, if you try throwing a ball around, in delhi, I’m pretty sure that you’ll be hitting atleast one such, in every three tries.
Talking of death, I recently read a poem by Emily Dickinson (a slightly loony poet who talked to her friends while being partially hidden, under her bed, and had her doctor diagnose her as she walked by an open door). In this poem, death is like a suitor who takes her out. Her attitude is such, that, she feels a bit annoyed at all the unwanted attention, and yet goes out with him for the sake of civility. Surprisingly, they have a great time-it’s a moonlit night, he gets a carriage, and they roam about the city and pass familiar sights together; the point being, that something, which you think is just going to be a fat lot of trouble, may actually turn out to be not so bad after all.
Well, I guess that’s true.
I could actually say that for this post of mine.
Ciao.
People tell me that that is what you get if you go to delhi in winter. I tell them I wish they had told me this sooner. Then I could have saved many a shiver and many an ..er…wasted expletive.
Not to mean that it was a totally wasted trip. I saw things which I hadn’t before seen in delhi….the lotus temple.. much nicer auto-rickshaw walas who stop in the middle of the road incase you want to take a couple of snaps of India gate from that just-the-right-angle… famous kebabs from karim’s ( hidden in one of the numerous crooked, bustling lanes which surround jama masjid)… connaught place (a term which here means ‘shopping! shopping!’)… women who ( as rahul bose says in one of his films) dress like it’s diwali everyday,… and humayun’s tomb (which is not exactly a tomb, but a sprawling complex, which houses many monuments, all of which, in a sense, commemorate death).
Actually, now that I think of it , it seems pretty weird that the mughals celebrated something like death, which is usually supposed to be the ultimate-dampener-of-spirits, the ultimate-wet-thumb-on-hot-stove experience, in such a grandiose fashion. They built tombs,(beautiful ones, I agree, but tombs all the same) pretty much wherever they went. Infact, if you try throwing a ball around, in delhi, I’m pretty sure that you’ll be hitting atleast one such, in every three tries.
Talking of death, I recently read a poem by Emily Dickinson (a slightly loony poet who talked to her friends while being partially hidden, under her bed, and had her doctor diagnose her as she walked by an open door). In this poem, death is like a suitor who takes her out. Her attitude is such, that, she feels a bit annoyed at all the unwanted attention, and yet goes out with him for the sake of civility. Surprisingly, they have a great time-it’s a moonlit night, he gets a carriage, and they roam about the city and pass familiar sights together; the point being, that something, which you think is just going to be a fat lot of trouble, may actually turn out to be not so bad after all.
Well, I guess that’s true.
I could actually say that for this post of mine.
Ciao.
My lean, mean working machine!
Much has happened in the week gone by. Italy has won the world cup, Federer has once again proclaimed territory at SW 19, my PC has had a makeover and I have formulated plans on how to wrest a master’s degree in English literature from JU without much effort or attendance. Talking of my PC, it has been totally revamped. It is now the proud owner of a new processor, more memory, a sleek black cabinet and a cool black-grey keyboard with multimedia keys. The wonder of it all; the evolution of a drab piece of electronic junk into a lean, mean working machine was as astounding as that of the fairytale frog into prince charming..Ofcourse, after I saw what prince charming actually looks like, in shrek 2, it doesn’t seem much of a transition, really…Anyway, the white monitor and ups do look a bit nondescript before these new guys but I like it better this way. The dual tones of black and white seems to me to be quite a strong comment on the issue of racial equality and the urgent need for disparate sections of humanity to unite into a merging whole…also, ofcourse I like it better now because..um…black or white,it finally works!I’m, generally speaking, not very adept at handling modern technology. I can mend the iron (yes I can) but the object which I speak of can by no stretch of imagination be called modern. I mean, there are irons and there are irons. This is neither. It’s a piece of devilish intent and malicious design, picked up by my dad, which doesn’t believe in the concept called work. The day it does work, is a day of celebration. There is only one piece of antiquity which rivals this contraption and that is a tape-recorder. Last heard of, it was blaring its way into damnation, by torturing poor souls at my brother’s college hostel. Since then, there has been no news…But to come back to what I was saying. Technology and I don’t go together. I mean, take this PC of mine. It has broken down atleast six times in the past year and I’m not talking of a computer’s equivalent of minor colds when I say this. I mean proper breakdowns, which takes weeks to get it back in line. Then,… there’s lifts. Nothing much about them except that I don’t like them. My college lift has a habit of staying invitingly still when you don’t need it, and immediately moving up or down when you walk towards it. If you are lucky enough to get in, it will invariably move in the direction opposite to the one you want it to go. So if you want to go from the second to the ground floor, it will first take you up to the fifth and then all the way to the ground floor….. And don’t even get me talking about my mobile. It switches off in the middle of a conversation. Whenever, wherever. A mind of its own. And now it’s taught my mum’s mobile to do the same. Aargh!So now that I have finally got atleast one of these - my PC - working , you can excuse my gushing about it. After all, it’s not everyday that one has cause for such celebration.
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