SOLITUDE SCRIBBLES

2011-12-22T21:56:00.000-08:00

Sunrise 2011: A Brave New World
Oh yeah, yet another year draws to a close. The death of the latest 365-day stint on the face of the earth doesn’t call for mourning, though. As 2011 grew from infancy to teenage and then from midlife to old age and then to the grave, I too grew up I guess. May be not, in the strictest sense of the term! On retrospect, I realize I grew younger than ever with an adorable bunch of youngsters giving me company. Active, extremely competent go-getters all, they have managed to pull down my age by a few years.
Year 2011 has seen me stare at it with utmost scare in the beginning. Later on, I made friends with 2011 - rather, the year made friends with me. Lauding, scolding and making me believe in all things positive, the year has been the best of buddies. Even as entrepreneurial dreams were held aloft, I managed to do what I believed in – writing, and editing news. And, the focused efforts at writing news on technology and environment had a young brigade (who incidentally, were alien to the jaded, flawed copy book called journalism when they tried it out for the first time) backing me with ideas, words and crazy thoughts.
We – I and them – wrote, edited, packaged and rolled out a brave new world of content for the serious reader who read, dissected, praised the good work, mauled the bad ones, and also pointed out the genuine flaws to make us do things better.
Year 2011 opened before me one major career truth. To be in journalism, one doesn’t need to have a formal journalism degree. All it needs is sense, sensibility and the courage to present facts in the most readable manner. Sense prevails when factual errors turn minimum, and sensibility rules when one realizes what to write and how.
As 2011 bids goodbye, I tend to smile for leading a pack of maverick multi-taskers who write the way things need to be written. Flaws are many, but then everything is a learning process and every one around me learns from every mistake he or she has made, without being scolded or ridiculed. Instead, we ate, drank and made merry, we made each other laugh, we gave shape to crazy plans, we made things happen. And, see, we are smiling together as the sun sets on a fruitful year.
Good writers have come and gone, and the process might continue. But then, that’s how careers are made. People move from good to better to best organizations. What we do together may not be ‘The Best’ at present, but ask me and my boys and girls, and we will tell you for sure that the tag is just waiting to come unto us, and is waiting round the bend. We, together, will make it happen. 2012, come on in, buddy!

2011-02-25T03:52:00.000-08:00

Goodbye to the story teller extraordinaire

Night after night, when my little six-year-old cuddles up to me in anticipation of a new hero’s tale from the Mahabharata, Uncle Pai has always been there to help me remember how an Abhimanyu pierces the Chakravyuha or how Babruvahana makes it to the Kurukshetra to his father’s rescue. Blood and gore apart, the tales he had once upon a time told me still reverberate in me thoughts of the victory of good over evil. And, that makes me pass it on to my enthusiastic kid who loves to sleep thinking of these heroes and the heroines of the mythical yore.

This afternoon, as every website I visit tells me the news of the passing away of Uncle Pai, I get transported to my school days when my father made it a point to buy me and my sister at least two copies of the Amar Chitra Katha every month. This happened without fail till we – me and my sister - thought we had grown up beyond that so-called childish chitra katha regime.

Uncle Pai is no more. But then, tears fail to roll down my cheeks even as I confirm the death of the man who told me tales of even the most inconsequential asura or a rare weak meek soldier in the Kaurava ranks. Mahabharata, Ramayana and even modern age personalities and saints who did the universe proud by their inventions and thoughts were whispered into my inner ear by this man, who for me, had been the master story teller of granny tales. For me, in fact, Uncle Pai never dies. He never can.

Reading aloud every new copy of the latest Amar Chitra Katha volume had spurred in me the reader I am today. May be, the varied volumes have even influenced the way I write too. It isn’t just me, though. Hundreds of thousands of kids still continue to learn the subtly told narratives of the mythical and historical realms by way of those enticingly illustrated pages churned out in quick succession month after month from the Amar Chitra Katha presses.

And, every page that taught me and the kids of my ilk during our formative years still continues to educate us, every time we revisit those days. Duryodhana, Krishna, Bhima, Ghatotkacha, Pururavas, Uloopi, Gandhari, Mandodari and Urmila still talk to me, spurring me to run down memory lane where good always triumphed over evil. At an age when the Sanskrit slokas failed to dwell in my tongue and heart, Uncle Pai had been there for me as the quintessential tutor, story teller and guide to the mythical and historical texts.

Even as I narrate to the sanctum sanctorum of the mind a fresh tale from the Mahabharata that will be the sweetest lullaby for my daughter tonight, Uncle Pai seems to be bidding goodbye. May be, he has already stuffed his pockets with innumerable stories he can narrate from now on to the beings of the other world, up above.

2011-02-17T01:04:00.000-08:00

Five school children and a staff member of Little Hearts School, Pettah , near to where I live, were killed in an accident today. A school van carrying nine nursery children fell into the Parvathy Puthanar canal. My heart goes out to the parents and teachers of the tiny kids, who never realized they were having their last ride. The caretaker Bindhu also passed away. The reason for the mishap is said to be high speed of the vehicle.

Adieu, Tiny Souls

Morning blues,
Time for school,
Irked parents,
Hesitant tots

Pushed, punished
And tagged,
A smile forced,
Along with the breakfast snack

School van rolls in
Devil at the wheel
Little did they realize
Farewell art so painful

Smiling kids, waving on
In the company of friends,
They bid goodbye,
The van gains speed

Blazing tarmac,
Satanic speed,
Kids inside,
No one to care!

Carelessness at the wheel
Deep below, hell beckons
Five kids, they go down smiling
Human error, unpardonable

To err is human,
But no pardon here,
Divinity unwarranted
Lynch the devil

Smiling kids,
In deep slumber
Adieu tiny souls
Rest in peace!

2011-02-16T06:07:00.000-08:00

It is that time of the year yet again, and I’m forced to travel down blog-memory lane and look at what I had written a year ago. This particular post tells me nothing has changed – and nothing will. I have this urge to write again on this, but I guess it would be better to bring back the same post of February 2010 so that you will also realize nothing has changed. So here goes!)

Faith, Anyone?

What spurs faith? Decibel-spewing loudspeakers? Or sweat stinking bodies in a traffic-jam-inducing crowd? Sad, temple festivals are fast taking out the little faith I seem to have in the gods.

Year after year in the place where I live when the crowds arrive, I experience a chill down my spine. Anywhere is offering space for the faithful, it seems. Bus stations overlooking drains, railway tracks stinking of human waste – offerings are made to the goddess anywhere. And, we take pride in proclaiming to the world the greatness of a women’s congregation.

I woke up early today after my deep slumber got snipped by the roaring loudspeakers. I’m pretty sure the gods they sing in praise with those high decibel sounds have long gone. Not even the gods, leave alone lowly humans like me, would stay on after being subject to such torture. The legal system has long back abhorred of such loudspeaker torture, but who cares?

The festival day is more than 24 hours away, and I just venture out on to the roads only to be confronted by heaps of bricks that would transform themselves into makeshift ovens to cook the boiling effervescent offering to the goddess in a matter of a few hours. Don’t I have my right of way, when festivals unfurl. Population explosion is a fact, I tend to believe when I see the whole of Kerala descend on to a single spot in the name of faith and the goddess. Can anyone tell me where faith resides in these men and women who strut around restless armed with a mini-kitchen under their arms. They are unmindful of whoever comes their way or even a slight sense of civic behavior. You call it faith? I beg to disagree.

Blocking traffic in the name of God is not faith, I call it criminal. Shouting chartbusters into my eardrum and wrecking my physical and mental balance is not faith, I call it irresponsible behavior. Burning hundreds of fluorescent lamps in the name of festivals all through the night in the name of God is not faith, I call it arrogance. Mind you, we are a State where electric power is rare commodity.

If this is faith, I can’t have it even if I need to. I wouldn’t want my gods to shower blessings on me only if I wake up people in the night with my blaring loudspeakers. I wouldn’t want my gods to smile on me for blocking traffic and causing a poor soul in a rushing ambulance to die. I wouldn’t want to be burning electricity 24x7 in the name of god and push my fellow beings to worrisome nights when global warming is already giving them sleepless nights. Faith isn’t what loudspeakers or traffic jams can bring to me. They never can.

2010-12-27T21:31:00.000-08:00

Goodbye to a Year that Thrived on Mediocrity

Oh yeah, Year 2010 is on its way out. It’s been a while since I wrote my last post, and with the year end staring into my eyes, it’s time for a recap - as has been the practice year after year.

Now, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna do a newspaper or magazine or news channel-type recap of the year. In fact, nothing this year calls for a blog post. Every single incident has been an also-ran - be it Kalmadi, Abhishek Bachchan, Radia, Barkha or even the CWG for that matter.

Just also-rans all were, in a nation where mediocrity thrives. Okay, think again, and this being the so-called year-ender post, I guess I should scribble down something about why mediocre people and mediocre events turned big in the Indian landscape.

One question: Who the heck is Barkha? Partner-in-lobbying Vir Sanghvi had been a journalist all these years. Somehow, I adored him for his writings and way with words. May be, I still will love his words on print, notwithstanding the error in judgment he committed. That doesn’t mean he did us all proud.

And Barkha? The day I first saw her on television “reporting/ screaming aloud” from inside a bunker on a battlefield, I had told myself, this woman is fake. It took more than a decade, it seems, for the whole of India to realize that. Barkha, sadly, has corrupted many young minds who aspired (and are still aspiring) to get into television journalism. For, 24x7 journalism meant Barkha to many, Sad!

Sad things aside, what else made year 2010 worth talking about? Indian mainstream cinema had much to talk about. On one side there was Aisha and on the other 3 Idiots. While Aisha proved yet again that it needed more than clout, plastic-faced dolls and a dim-witted director to make a movie, 3 Idiots showed Bollywood why a committed approach was a must to make a movie that people would go watch again and again.

Talking Bollywood, I guess I need to say more. Instead of wasting precious web space writing paragraphs on undeserving stuff, permit me to list them down. Here’s what I understood watching Bollywood during 2010:

1. A Dabaang can’t be salvaged by a beefcake sporting a moustache or an almost-naked sis-in-law.
2. Greek god (sic) persona is fine, but flying Kites on a Juhu apartment terrace could be more rewarding than acting for some.
3. An unshaven visage, bulging eyes or arrogance don’t make one an actor. Ditto if he attempts to play the modern-day demon king.
4. Being married into cinema’s first family doesn’t make one an actress. You need to ACT, madam.

Malayalam mainstream cinema too saw mediocrity hit the jackpot. Chunky old men in military garb drew applause from lazy screen idol-worshippers. Army stories continued to be a rage, even when potbellied protagonists flew combat aircraft.

A whole lot of aged men were forced to dance, love and flirt and combat extra terrestrials in the name of horror-comedies and we, the mediocre audience, laughed out loud so that the producers laughed all the way to the bank. Comedy took the mediocre route, and so did mainstream Malayalam cinema.

Year 2010 saw news television plumb the depths. More so, in the land where I live! Chat shows turned funnier than ever before, while spot reporting exposed added mediocrity, time and again. The thriving traits of mediocre people behind the microphone continued to be applauded. And, on this side of the television set, we had a whole new bunch of mediocre audience. They too thrived, applauding mediocrity aired into their living rooms.

Year 2010 had been mediocre, to the core. We excelled as a mediocre audience. We made ourselves proud by letting mediocrity invade us. We loved being mediocre. We still watch Barkha, we still read Vir. We still let Dabaangs be super hits. We still wait for Hrithik Roshan’s next movie. We still wish to see Mohanlal as Agent 007. We would sit with eyes glued on to television when Abhishek and Aishwarya take the rapid fire questions on a lifeless KJo Show and look forward to see another celluloid trash starring the star couple.

We still watch news television knowing that what we hear and see are made up. We still wait to see Anil Kapoor’s daughters ruin our three hours of quality time again and yet again. We still look forward to a film maker who once used to make watchable movies, but was then enamored by a star couple later on, thereby scripting his own filmy doom. We would still let Raja, Kalmadi and Co re-assume offices in a few years’ time. We still wish to have Chief Ministers of the likes of VS Achuthanandan and Mayawati so that they could always be the leading lights on our path towards mediocrity.

We love mediocrity. We excel at letting mediocrity seep into our lives no end. We love to let messengers of mediocrity rule our lives. We still wait to see Barkha on TV. We still wait to watch Mani’s movies. We still watch news television. We will miss you 2010.

2010-09-24T01:09:00.000-07:00

Give Me My Sunshine, Give Me My Green!

Maybe, I don’t understand visual grammar. Maybe I’m dumb. I live in Kerala, and have been thanking my senses for making me see every Kerala frame as a motion picture that moves me. The hills, the streams, the elephants, the white elephants, the crocodiles, flags – red, saffron and tricolored, the shutdowns, the potholes, the technology, the snobbery, the wannabes, the cultivated Page 3 that never exists, the laziness, and the painted faces that transport me to a world never seen before – all have been well crafted frames for me, of my Kerala.
I had been reporting tourism in Kerala for quite a while, though not as much as what I was expected to do. Those were my journalism days, let me add. I had always felt the need for a better marketing push for the land much explored. Kerala needed a marketer, with not an MBA degree but someone with a fair amount of built-in aesthetics.
The sun, the sand, the monsoons, the elephants and all had in fact been showcased across the envious globe by the brilliant men and women in government, the media and hospitality sector. Kerala indeed is the almighty’s own land, as had been coined by one of those brilliant minds sometime ago. Kerala excels in whatever the Gods do - be it gulping down the intoxicating liquids in admirable fashion, stalking women for a casual mating session, calling for a duel or a full-scaled battle in times of anger or slitting throats at the drop of a bottle. God’s own land, indeed. When it comes to marketing the state, Kerala has always banked on some selling push but finally ended up as just another commodity on sale. The aesthetics in marketing had always been found lacking.
The moment was indeed waiting – for some good marketing effort. The moment I heard a new campaign had been made, I couldn’t wait any longer to see it and applaud it. Thanks to the Facebook and YouTube props, the Moment is Waiting campaign has been playing on my PC ever since. I have been hitting the Replay button every time the clip grinds to a close, in the hope of finding Kerala inside. Sadly, Kerala and its tourism potential don’t occur in me even as I go for the re-runs. What I see in the clip is a Ram Gopal Verma horror clip in the even more frightening clutches of a Garnier commercial.
As I watch again, it brings to mind the stark and empty grey lives of artists staring at a bleak future. I even see tusker stooping so low as if in anticipation of going back to the wild than be in the midst of arc lights and the drums. I see vagabonds looking for the wild only to be terrified by masked faces. I don’t see green. I don’t see the positive energy that Kerala is ultimately all about. I don’t see what I want my visitors to see. Maybe my moment is still waiting to come.
Kerala tourism is manned by the best men in the industry, and I can testify that based on the interactions I have had with the few once upon a time when I used to write my humble stories on Kerala’s tourism potential and upcoming developments. But then, I fail to comprehend the melancholy splashed across the latest campaign. It doesn’t welcome my guests to my land of green and harmony. They could even begin dropping travel plans if they are exposed to the ‘Your Moment is Waiting’ campaign.
I wouldn’t want a stop-hairfall commercial to be the mascot of my Kerala to the outside world. I wouldn’t want horrifying faces and fear-stricken faces of kids to drive away Kerala travelers. I wouldn’t want my greenery wiped away by negativity laden grey.
For me, the simple face of Kerala itself is campaign material, when I try and walk around with a handheld camera snapping up shots. Kerala opens up in front of my eyes as well framed shots. The Kerala Tourism campaign should have been simple and welcoming rather than being so intimidating.
Well then, I hear the film has had all the best brains working together. I’m no film maker or even a critic. So, may be, I don’t understand the craft and grammar that has been injected into the campaign. May be I’m dumb – so dumb to stay quiet even as a ‘masterpiece’ art house production gets unspooled. But then, somebody give me back my green Kerala so that I can tell people I know that my state is still a lush paradise where birds twitter and the elephants trumpet.

2010-08-21T00:11:00.000-07:00

No Goodbyes for You

Mohanan is no more. The quintessential errands boy has called it quits even before he could tell. He hadn’t mastered the art of bidding goodbye - he never had to. Omnipresence was his trait; no goodbye went well with his character. He was at my beck and call. Not just mine, he was Chempakassery’s own errands lad. The smiling kid of around 55 years, he preceded his arrival with a stink of arrack. He cycled into my heart with the cute childish smile half-hidden behind the whiskers on his unkempt visage. He, for me, had been Man Friday.

Mohanan is dead and gone. Not from my thoughts, though. Mohanan who, you tend to ask? He had been the Communist who never graduated from working class status. The hard drinking, beedi -puffing frail man, at least for me, was an ideal candidate to be the red bastion’s mascot. However, he had lost out in the race, not being able to shout slogans or hack opponents at will. He had been so neutral whenever he spoke on political affairs, even as held aloft his ideas sprinkled with fading red. He was all for Shashi Tharoor as Trivandrum’s MP for the single reason that Tharoor had relatives in a house he used to run errands for. Flag hues just did not matter.
Even as his kin, spurred by good education, rose from working class to be decision makers, Mohanan continued to pedal all the way from a city suburb around 13 kilometres away just to make sure my – and almost the whole locality’s – electricity and water bills are paid on time month after month. He came riding like a wake up call for forgetful hypocrites like me. The forgetfulness in me had always come owing to an aversion to stand in line to pay bills. With Mohanan around, why would I ever have to stand in a queue after all?

Not just the bills, Mohanan had been my SOS-target to any work that needed some effort. Be it cleaning the overhead water tank or getting a signature from the local councilor, Mohanan had to be summoned. I just realize how lazy I have been, just because a man who was ready to execute all my work with a smile just stood round the bend waiting for my call.

Mohanan is no more. He lived a happy man, enjoyed every bit of his life till his daughter started encountering marital discord. Fathering a girl child, grooming her and getting her married off to someone good is any man’s dream. Mohanan too had such a dream, and he executed all that was required of him to perfection. But then, months later, he must have realized that he erred in choosing the best husband for his child. That seems to have pained him no end. Adding to the misery, he was diagnosed with cancer. That came about as the proverbial nail waiting to be hammered into the waiting coffin. Mohanan had to give in.

The last time we met, he had his trademark smile on his face though pain was biting into him. I always believed this man would never give in. He was a fighter, armed with a smile. He had solutions to all problems. He was in the forefront to help me tide over any tricky situation. Running errands was not just what he did. He had been an answer to all queries. Mannenna (Kerosene) Mohanan had fire within in all the time. Alcohol added to his strength. The smile reflected his love for life. Life too loved him too well, it seems. And now, he has started pedaling off to an unknown land where life meets joy.

Death, now, has one more reason to be proud of. Death has just hijacked my errands man - my Man Friday. All that’s left of Mohanan is the rusting, rickety bicycle that till yesterday had ferried him to places and crowds where I dreaded going to.
Mohanan is no more. I know I’ll forget him soon. Whoever has left my side has been long forgotten. But, I don’t think Mohanan will go off from my thoughts. He never can. Every bill that gets delivered at my door step will have his signature and smile on it. Every time I need to visit the Corporation Office will make me long for Mohanan’s return. I wish he does.

2010-08-12T02:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Manmohan Singhji,

Permit me to introduce myself at the outset. Nameless I used to be at the time of my birth, but once I got into my teens, I heard from the rags that I was christened Shera and elevated to a position any Bengal Tiger of my ilk would covet being in. So now I, Shera, am the official mascot of the Common Wealth Games and I am told the kids in India already have my pictures as wallpaper for their PCs. Let me express my gratitude for according me such an envious position.

However, respected Pradhanmantriji, the manner in which I’m being treated of late brings to me suicidal tendencies. I’m averse to killing myself, and try not to end it all as I would be deemed a criminal by my fellow Sherus. For, as you know I hail from a family that has been bracketed as Endangered. Your government knows very well we are just a few in number, and that makes us a minority. Sad still, we do not also have the right to claim our minority rights as minorities are a akin to just doormats this humongous diversity that we call India. But, respected PMji, I fail to comprehend why me and my brothers and sisters are being accorded the children-of-a lesser-god status?

Let me bring to your kind attention a few instances of doormat treatment handed over to us over the years. If you would remember, our name was till recently part of an organization that created terror in a neighboring island. We know, we were hurt, when the whole of India except for a small minority in a southern state, hated us to the core. The abuse and curse showered upon me and my pack had been so wounding that we resorted to lie low all through unable to speak up for our rights. Why is that anything negative need be attributed to the Tiger brand?

Our name has also been, it still is, used to define the fake strength and made-up charisma of a parochial mischief-mongering old man in the western state which houses India’s commercial and filmy conglomerates. What crime did we do to be associated with an aging cartoonist-politico who time and again makes India weep? Tiger he is called by his men and women, but I wonder if they do realize that Tiger spells patriotism. The freedom fighters and the government post-Independence knew that very well, or they wouldn’t have chosen one of my ancestors as the national animal.

Even as you, and the prime ministers who ruled over us before you, were voted to power, we were being hunted down for our skin. If you would ask any of your aides to tell you the statistics, it would read thus: The total number of Royal Bengal Tigers used to be 40,000 in 1900. But as time passed by the numbers came down. It is a recorded fact that by 1972, our number has dwindled to 1,800. Our foes had been coming in the form of additions to the human population, indiscriminate industries, hunting for oriental medicine and exotic skin traders. In this context, let me also add that thanks to late PM Indiraji’s efforts at launching Project Tiger, we were able to push up our number to 4200 by the 1990s. However, habitat loss and highly efficient poaching systems have again made us crave for life. The number has plummeted to below 3,500. I just hope you understand our plight.

I also happened to read in the paper strips - that were littered around our dwelling places by the people you call tourists - that the Indian government had in 2008 announced plans to spend more than $13 million so as to protect the country's endangered tigers. This amount was in addition to $153 million program announced earlier to create new tiger reserves. Pradhanmantriji, I suggest you should at least try and find out where the money has been going to.

Oh yes, that brings me to the point where I wanted to write this letter to you. As I had mentioned, I am thankful to your administration for having picked me as the CWG mascot. But see the mess I am in now. People have started smearing tar and dung over my posters as in protest against some dude called Kalmadi. I’m being told that this Kalmadi gentleman and his gentle team had been swallowing all funds and resources that had been sanctioned for the sporting extravaganza for which I am the mascot. Why this cruelty to me Sir ji?

Please tell me why Shera has to suffer this. I’m a minority, I know. May be I don’t have the numbers to put together a protest club. I don’t have the resources or even a dwelling place. Roti, kapda, makan and all are just dream for me and my ilk. I don’t mind it if you and your ever-increasing population have secured all the rights to the so-called continental cheesed rotis and the designer kapdas. That doesn’t mean you and your people should be treating us like cow dung on Rajpath. Like CWG to the wanton Kalmadis, you are killing us for your sport. Hope you realize this at least now.

I have all respect for you, respected Manmohanji. The whole point of scribbling this note to you comes based on the assumption that you are a just and considerate PM. Let bygones be bygones, I just have one request to make. In all sportsman spirit, let me request you to just permit me to step down as the CWG mascot. My heart bleeds when people equate me with Kalmadi. For the sake of the almighty, please let me walk out of dil-less Dilli and its leaking stadia. Please let me go back to the little bush yonder, which is all that is left for me to dwell. I sincerely wish you would let me go, once and for ever.

Thanking you

Your most obedient citizen. Jai Hind!

Shera
12.Aug.2010

2010-08-08T01:10:00.001-07:00

Aisheeeeeeeeeeesh!

• The Effort: Aisha!

• The Result: 3 hours of quality time LOST!

• Sonam Kapoor: Why doesn’t she at least attempt to act?

• The Other Actors: Should try some other job they are comfortable with.

• The Director: Robber of Scenes – a foolish one at that. Doesn’t even deserve a mention, so leaving his name out.

• Abhay Deol: Lost all confidence in him. Sad, I used to be a fan of his.

• The Advice: Stay away at least 200 m from cinemas that play this movie. Even the dialogues you overhear could make you insane.

2010-07-29T03:11:00.000-07:00

Bejewelled, in Green

Ratnagiri is like Sri Ragam from the vocal chords of the maestro of Maharajapuram. The showers that add bliss to beauty is akin to the Kunnakkudi magician in accompaniment. Ratnagiri has given me the bliss of a lifetime, amidst all that nature could do to me on my way back home from somebody’s Mumbai to someone else’s Trivandrum. It’s just Entharo Mahanubhavulu reverberating inside me as I visualize the bejeweled mountain range as the dream maiden decked up in lush green.

Ratnagiri is nature’s golf course. From start to the horizon yonder, it’s all green - curvy and smooth. Laidback and lustful, she lies on her back inviting my gaze as I perch precariously inside a rickety MSRTC people mover. Who all should I thank for gifting me this experience of a life time? Gratitude is due to the Konkan Railway, to buddies Sangeetha and Anirudh, the rain gods, my mindset and the power within that makes me dream.

It all happened on a Sunday afternoon, en route to Padmanabha’s own land from the land of the aged Tiger. From a land where dreams are made and then marred beyond redemption, I start my journey back to the lovely space called home. Netravati, though not a charmer as the name suggests, has been mandated to ferry me back to that space I come back to wherever I go.

A sleepless night on the upper berth of the steel enclosure bearing the number 10, had been orchestrated with the enviable camaraderie of the three worldly-wise Gujarati grannies from Mumbai and the occasional fart and belch of a Malayali gent from Mumbai. Somewhere in the wee hours, good old Netravati ground to a halt. Word spread there is a case of flooding in the tracks somewhere ahead. The train chugged again a bit to slam the brakes one final time at a station in Maharashtra. Ratnagiri!

The public address system at the station screamed out in three different languages on our next course of action. We are being transported in 30 buses to a station called Advali (Hats off to Konkan Railway officials for being there for the passengers when they really needed them). Armed with just a backpack, I wasn’t hassled. But it wasn’t so for the innumerable passengers with tonnes of baggage. Kids, aged men and women and families all were skeptical about the whole process waiting to happen.

So, we were in the bus. The real story gets scripted from here. Away from the town, as we sailed along Ratnagiri’s hinterland roads, it was paradise yonder. Ratnagiri opened before me nature’s cutest nest. All green, and watered by incessant drizzle. Small streams metamorphosing into waterfalls as they reach a cliff made me thirst for the nectar of the hills. Life giving they must have been. Except for the asphalt tarmac that led to Advali, everything around me was green. Even the rocks were so, with an attire of moss. Young school children were there at certain points waiting for their school vans, and they looked immensely fresh, as would have been the angels. I envied them, for I was on my way to a mad city where innocence is passé. Here’s a jeweled hill top where the angels tread. Call it love at first sight. The love boosters lay spread across the greenery, making me lust for more.
Wonder why people flock to capital cities where green is something you relate only with professional jealousy and back stabbing. Green is this - life too. I would want to come back to my Ratnagiri. Somebody’s Mumbai and somebody else’s Trivandrum have just given me rotten green, I realize. I am jealous. I’m envious of the angels that tread these beautiful meadows all day and night! Wait for me Ratnagiri. I’ll come back to you, some day. Stay green, as always. My heart continues to stream along with Maharajapuram and Kunnakkudi’s celestial musicians -- antariki vandanamulu… entharo mahanubhavulu.

2010-07-01T01:06:00.001-07:00

They Don't Really Care About Us

EVEN the usually benevolent sun god seemed irked. Else, he wouldn’t have beaten down on me and the many hapless souls queued up ahead of and behind me. The mission ahead of us was common. We have been exercising unity in diversity all through the three-and-a-half hours spent under the hot sun. The almighty shining bright up above us would have thought we all deserved his prickly hot rays in good number. Of course, he had a reason – or a handful of them in fact.
Akin to those hapless flies to the wanton boys out there, we were there, all queued up, to be heard and approved by the masters that be, so that we could be granted a piece of laminated paper slab that would proclaim we are all Indians. Indians we would be, only if we have an electoral ID, we have been made to believe.
All talk of a single UID had given me faith in the system, as I was made to believe that a UID card would be more than enough to prove I am Indian. Now, with a voter ID, a card to be issued soon by the census bosses, a UID, a Passport if I decide to apply for one, a ration card which I should have to flaunt if my kitchen needs to see a burner lit (a gas connection needs a ration card, weren’t we told so?) and then driving license, secondary school leaving certificate and a host of other identity-proving documents would try and make sure I’m Indian. Goddamit, I may have to buy a new big wallet to keep all these cards securely close to my self so that I can display them the moment some babu out there asks me to prove my identity. I would have to go shopping for a nice big one that would fit into my bum pocket and not look my bottoms look weird too.
The electoral card queue has been seldom moving forward, as the 10am-5pm officers deployed by the state seemed determined to put the proverbial snail to shame. As I wait impatiently, thinking of the work pending in office, a high-decibel reception committee got into action mode on the other side of the wall, deafening the whole locality around. On one side were the honking monsters rushing back home from the technology park yonder, and on another side were another batch of smoke-spewing speedsters rushing to make it to the airport before check in time. (Have always wondered why check in time at airports is always a couple of hours before the flight takes off). The din climbed to a zenith with drums and the metal claps riding a crescendo. As the reception committee ran up to hysteric levels, in walked a minister accompanied by a bunch of cronies sporting their inimitable plastic-stamped smiles. It was a government-sponsored public function on the other side of the wall. The minister got into his act with not much of a delay, and right on this side, we stood hapless, desperately waiting to get hold of our voters’ card before the clock struck five.
The minister got into the mood in full glare of television cameras and scribes who were happily jotting down the verbal diarrhea, accompanied by the same amount of saliva spurts. Lo, and then something that he uttered then sent me into a tizzy. The translated version could read something like this. “The people are clamoring for newly-laid roads, they are clamoring for water. They think the government is here to satisfy all their demands in no time.”
Isn’t the government that thrives on the many taxes paid by me and my fellow countrymen obliged to do that, I just wonder. Coming from a minister who people like you and I had voted to power, the words make me writhe in shame. To think I have been waiting in this long line under the hot sun for hours together, is nothing short of disrespect to the self. Beat down on me, sun almighty, with all your might. For, I know what I’m doing. And, to think I’m doing it even after I know what I’m doing, calls for punishment. Beat down on me, with all your furious might. Have no mercy.

2010-06-09T20:27:00.000-07:00

Embrace Life

To all me near and dear ones and all you out there. Wanted to sharesomething with you all. This is something that impressed me to the core.

This is the new "wear your seatbelt" ad the UK is doing - started by a man not hired to do it, but because the cause is important to him, he came up with this idea, and now it's being hailed across the world as a ‘beautiful' commercial. And now the video has become so popular with the general public that people are forwarding it to friends/family on their own so quickly that it has spread all over the world in a very short time.

GO TO:

http://embracethis.co.uk/

2010-06-07T22:27:00.000-07:00

A BLINDFOLDED NATION

• A quarter of a century of sufferings!
• More than quarter of a lakh dead, and counting!
• A nation yet to come out of shock!
• The verdict: 2 years of imprisonment for 8 accused and a paltry fine as accompaniment.
• Warren Anderson, the prime offender, continues to be an absconder!
• Eight accused finally pronounced guilty, but no mention of Anderson!
• Financial papers are more worried about the fate of Keshub Mahindra, the then Union Carbide India chief and now a Mahindra top boss!
• The dead continue to haunt; the living dead weep - out of pain and treachery handed out to them by a system!

AND, YET, WE CONTINUE TO BELIEVE IN THIS SYSTEM CALLED JUDICIARY!

SAY SOMETHING AGAINST THE PROCESS AND YOU ARE IN THE PURVIEW OF CONTEMPT OF COURT!

WE, AS A NATION, CONTINUE TO BE A CASTRATED LOT.

JAI HO!

2010-06-06T11:43:00.000-07:00

Epic in a Jha bottle

FIRST THINGS FIRST - Prakash Jha’s Raajneeti isn’t based on the Gandhi family. Shrimati Indu Pratap, of course, has the looks, the gait, the wave and all the sarees of Shrimati Sonia Gandhi. But then, the similarities end there. All talk of Katrina’s Sonia avatar is just bullshit. Prakash Jha is no fool to accept such comparisons wholeheartedly. He does know for himself that the whole world is drawing comparisons between Indu and Sonia, but prefers putting them on iggy mode. He knows his version of the story better. He has reiterated in interviews and media statements that Raajneeti is no Sonia sad story. I stand by him. Raajneeti is no Gandhi-Sonia sob episode.
What is Raajneeti then? Instead of mimicking the Rajiv-Rahul-Sonias on screen with his immensely talented star cast, Jha has pulled out those heroes and anti-heroes straight out of the pages of the Mahabharata and clad them in designer Khadi. Further still, he has even blended one of Veda Vyasa’s heroes with the Corleone of Mario Puzo's Godfather to create his hero/anti-hero to an amazingly intriguing effect.
And, there lies Raajneeti’s charm. Jha knows his craft. There sure are many a Bollywood moment in the Apaharan-Gangajal maker’s opus. But Raajneeti is a class creation in its own style. The film isn’t a chronicle of the day to day political circus that gets enacted in some hinterland of a diversity named India. Raajneeti is, in fact, a political scenario waiting to happen. Gone are the days when the Gandhi topis ruled the roost and every one else nodded in agreement. Jha narrates to the world a tale that is sure to unfold. If you didn’t know, the khadi of yore is no more. Designer khadi, mod BlackBerry, high-end Mercs and more significantly, foreign university doctorates, have started coming into India’s raajneeti. Jha has brought in the Corleonish Arjuna who has as his American university research topic “the subtextual violence in 19th century Victorian poetry”. Research almost over, the young dashing hero dons the anti-hero garb to play politics to avenge the slap on the face and a handful of bullets showered on the parivaar. He has on the other side of the play-field none other than his brother, an illegitimate one though, brought up as a Dalit somewhere in a place called Azadnagar. Arjuna and Karna, who else!
Pulled down in a crowd of mighty men, Jha’s Karna finds himself in the arms of a protective Duryodhana, who had just fallen out of the Parivaar’s influential cousins. Perfect setting for Mahabharata to be retold!
Jha knows his craft so well. Raajneeti has its own ways of narrating the tale, and it is interesting too. Flaws do run in one after the other - for instance, the way the Kunti-Karna (Bharti- Suraj) meeting happens. Bharti makes such a loaded moment look so inane and off the mark. Jha could have done justice to that scene. If he had done that cinematically appealing, the scene could have been one of the high points of Raajneeti. But then, he ruined it. There are many such moments where Jha could have acted more like what he is. He is an ace craftsman of celluloid tales, but such instances could take the sheen out of his capabilities. Raajneeti suffers from such setbacks.
Raajneeti, as a whole, is a movie I would watch again, and again. For, it has the master strokes of a film maker who knows his art. Equally important are the actors Jha has picked to play his characters. Ranbir is one actor with tons of potential - his quiet presence and his doings bring out the actor in him. Nana Patekar, as the modern day Krishna, proves why he falls in the league of better actors. Katrina and Arjun Rampal are not bad, but Ranbir scores all the brownie points in comparison. The two men I would want to applaud all through the movie are Ajay Devgan and Manoj Bajpai – the Karna-Duryodhana combo. Deadly indeed, the two are. Every time they are on screen, they take over the scene. I would want to watch Raajneeti yet again for these portrayals.

2010-02-27T02:47:00.000-08:00

Faith, anyone?

What spurs faith? Decibel-spewing loudspeakers? Or sweat stinking bodies in a traffic-jam-inducing crowd? Sad, temple festivals are fast taking out the little faith I seem to have in the gods.
Year after year in the place where I live when the crowds arrive, I experience a chill down my spine. Anywhere is offering space for the faithful, it seems. Bus stations overlooking drains, railway tracks stinking of human waste – offerings are made to the goddess anywhere. And, we take pride in proclaiming to the world the greatness of a women’s congregation.
I woke up early today after my deep slumber got snipped by the roaring loudspeakers. I’m pretty sure the gods they sing in praise with those high decibel sounds have long gone. Not even the gods, leave alone lowly humans like me, would stay on after being subject to such torture. The legal system has long back abhorred of such loudspeaker torture, but who cares?
The festival day is more than 24 hours away, and I just venture out on to the roads only to be confronted by heaps of bricks that would transform themselves into makeshift ovens to cook the boiling effervescent offering to the goddess in a matter of a few hours. Don’t I have my right of way, when festivals unfurl. Population explosion is a fact, I tend to believe when I see the whole of Kerala descend on to a single spot in the name of faith and the goddess. Can anyone tell me where faith resides in these men and women who strut around restless armed with a mini-kitchen under their arms. They are unmindful of whoever comes their way or even a slight sense of civic behavior. You call it faith? I beg to disagree.
Blocking traffic in the name of God is not faith, I call it criminal. Shouting chartbusters into my eardrum and wrecking my physical and mental balance is not faith, I call it irresponsible behavior. Burning hundreds of fluorescent lamps in the name of festivals all through the night in the name of God is not faith, I call it arrogance. Mind you, we are a State where electric power is rare commodity.
If this is faith, I can’t have it even if I need to. I wouldn’t want my gods to shower blessings on me only if I wake up people in the night with my blaring loudspeakers. I wouldn’t want my gods to smile on me for blocking traffic and causing a poor soul in a rushing ambulance to die. I wouldn’t want to be burning electricity 24x7 in the name of god and push my fellow beings to worrisome nights when global warming is already giving them sleepless nights. Faith isn’t what loudspeakers or traffic jams can bring to me. They never can.

2009-06-26T13:01:00.000-07:00

Adieu, Sir
“Sanjoo...” Will you call me that again? Weeping kin carrying your lifeless frame pass by me to the waiting funeral pyre. Tears brewing behind my eyelids, I stand watching you who, once upon a time, would have run up to me with a smile on your face and open hands.
Vijayan Sir, Chennai, with you, had been joy for us – me and the many friends who saw in you the quintessential friend, philosopher and guide. Remember, Sunday mornings at my little den in Triplicane used to reverberate with activity and you were at the presiding slot. We discussed Marx and Mohanlal in the same vein. We sang, and listened to, songs that stirred in you nostalgia of the emotional kind. You made merry with us when we sang; You were with your daughter, mother and wife when you listened to the songs by the masters.
Salimbhai's chicken curry, Joe's maverick sportiness, Sunesh's unique toddy-tapioca tales, Unni's measured, shy smile and Jimmy's stuttered utterances in Mallappally Malayalam – all evoked one liners of the best kind from you. It was revelry in your company. Oh, the way you loved it, it was like Sundays grew better week after week for you, for us, and for the paper we made the next day, week after week.
“Sanjoo, a spoon and a plate of chicken”, you would call out, every time I leap to the kitchen to see if the rice has boiled. Hunger for home made food was sure ignited in every one when you had your first spoonful. The chicken curry is ready to be devoured, you would proclaim. Once in a while, Prem would arrive from Trichy in his inimitable style. You just loved being in the midst of us – eating drinking and making merry. Between the cup and the lip, we had our fill of Express days of yore, the Emergency, the past and the present as you told us what journalism used to be once upon a time.
Even as the bosses played truant, you worked with a smile. You corrected and guided the erring Sub. You re-wrote the incorrigible reporters so that they could smile the next day. You recast headlines making even the bosses writhe in envy.
Long back, in Srini’s tiny little lodge room in Kochi, remember, you had left us all in awe when you told us tales of an Indian Express that ceased to be. You then told us of the editors who knew what journalism really meant, you narrated to us the way reporters shook regimes. You made us believe in socially-committed journalism, you made us write, you made us all think and dream of good journalism.
As you fade into oblivion, my heart goes out to Express, who will miss you. Express has always been proud that you would walk in every day to make her look so attractive as she sails out of the press. She had always turned lovely when you touched her. The magic of your deft fingers on the key board and the command of the stern mind had always ensured that Express came out every morning so luring. Express will miss you. Journalism will miss you. Sir, hope you know, you were the best that Express ever got. The best ever.
Even as the pyre is lit, I await your Sanjoo call. Yes, I hear you call out to me to say good bye. Good bye sir, I’ll miss you all my life. My tiny efforts at good journalism will miss you.

2009-06-11T10:28:00.001-07:00

Clowns in the tube
JOURNALISM has its own damn truths. As a scribe, you stand the chance to be pushed into a situation you never want to be. I am in one. I now sit in a newsroom that sports a television, of all things! Duh. Mind you, it's not the television that's making me tear my greying hair off my fuming top.
Being in a bee hive with no helmet on would have been better compared with the situation I'm in right now. Half-baked weirdos who call themselves political newscasters eating, drinking, sleeping, dreaming and puking uncooked politics and deliberating on how to bombard the reluctant viewer and the even more reluctant listener with dickheads of the silly political kind abound. Pinaryis, Azheekodes, Achoos and the so many bloated Chennithalas and Jayarajans and their doings day in and day out dominate the tube. Kudos to the genius, whoever he / she is, who called the telly the idiot box.
Has journalism ever sounded or looked so silly? I'm talking of Malayalam news channels and the journos who nauseatingly hold fort. Almost all of them sport the looks of the been-there-done-that news analysts with no analysis ever brewing anywhere in their top storey. To give them company are the self proclaimed political observers, who have of late taken up yet another pastime to entertain the telly buff. They have started calling others names! While one calls another dumb, he retaliates by yelling dumber. Meanwhile, one of the players of the political arena accuses another of phoning him up to extend a farcical brawl, another believes he was termed a doggie that too a diarrhoea-inflicted one. The newscasters have a field day, all the time. And, the saddest part is that I, and I'm sure many of my ilk here, are forced to endure nonsense 24x7. The dumb talk and dumber counter talk ring between my ears even while I drive back home. What nonsense! It's a fuckin' bloody weird world of dullards on television.
Journalism indeed has its own damn truths. Newscasters turn producers of skitty skit and you need to endure them too! Easy ways of filling telly wave space, you know. Post elections, and the controversies thereafter, tube space-filling seems to have taken a skitty route. While clippings from many a political event are stitched together with a funny song in the background, it is political analysis taking a different route.
There are some other weirdos too who make it a point provoke the viewer to call him names. I have done that many a time, out of loss of self control. Chat shows are favourite domains to these clowns. While one almost forces the participants and viewers on this side of the television to find the way to his house and shout the worst abuses ever on him, another succeeds, unknowingly, to make the men and women watching him smirk with embarrassment. There's another one who excels in intimidating the chat show audience who come armed with valid queries, while another hops around like a sambar deer with a 'Im the best' visage. Sad, these dudes and dudettes think they are the best. Weirdo buffoons all. Ignorance is bliss in god's own tube cast.
I'm forced to watch this buffoonery all day. I have been trying hard to find at least one who is really made for television. Lemme end this on a brighter note. I have, in fact, found two who really know their job. Asianet's TN Gopakumar and Manorama News' Johnny Lukose. I guess it's time the kids learn to be adults for once, by just watching these two gentlemen carry their expertise in the most admirable manner on TV. What say?

2009-05-12T03:33:00.000-07:00

Bobbitise the bugger!
This man should be bobbitised. Am I sounding mean. I don't intend to. I mean what I say. Mohammed Azam Khan, who has set out on a vulgar trip by distributing his own party candidate Jayaprada's morphed pictures deserves no less treatment.
Outraging the modesty of a woman, physically or mentally, is crime. Azam Khan is guilty of this crime.
The poll scene in India has never been so nasty. When Azam Khan, the Samajwadi Party leader in UP, hit the scene with morphed nude pictures of party candidate Jayaprada, he was in fact raising a stink. The stink raised by Azam Khan has maligned the whole process. The Samajwadi Party has now split down the middle with Khan openly campaigning against Jayaprada in Rampur. First it was morphed pictures of the actor-politician in the nude. Then came the CDs containing the pictures. When Jayaprada lamented “it is not right to target a woman's integrity like this and no woman would want to enter such politics," she was in fact painting a picture of reality.
The general Indian public know Jayaprada as dignity personified. She has never stooped to low levels even on screen by shedding clothes for the celluloid act. Further, she has been exemplary as a politician too, having served her Rampur constituency by ushering in overall development like never before.
Maligning the image of a politician, that too a woman, calls for serious introspection by the EC and the public.Political gains notwithstanding, Azam Khan's action brings to the fore the discontent of a failed politician who can't tolerate a person from opposite gender walking away with people's laurels and support. who has been seeing unconditional support from the people of her constituency.
Wonder why all the male chauvanistic pigs in the Indian political scenario are silent about the whole episode. Wonder why the ambitious women in the political garb too aren't reacting.
Rampur has always been the daku land in Hindi films. Rampur now has moved from fiction to reality with the advent of Azam Khan. Rampur doesn't have to wait for heroes to salvage its pride. Will someone pick a blunt knife and do the needful asap, Please.

2009-04-14T05:49:00.000-07:00

Why the heck should I?

I just hate the polls. No not just because a high flying big shot tries to put on and portray a common man's visage among the commonest of common men and women in hinterland Trivandrum. Not because a woman officer is forced to be chief electoral officer when the man who tried to grab her once upon a time is going great guns as the angel-in-charge of Dalit empowerment. Not because an old man who is totally at sea about the modern day world is calling another who thinks young, names. Not because a sweet looking heir-apparent grabs a sun-burnt kid hoping he would get all the other kids' parents' votes as a bunch. No, not because elections are a means of livelihood for some and pass time for many.
I hate the polls. For, my democratic, fundamental rights as an Indian are plucked from my soul and thrown to the wind. I have all the right to say no to someone who smiles at me all of a sudden as if we knew each other from time immemorial. I hate beggars who beg for something other than food. I hate the loud speakers and the manifestos that vomit lies by the minute. I hate notes that promise a temple or a mosque along with cheap rice and wheat. Cheap, isnt poll time politics just that?
Even as poll campaigning was at its peak, I had the misfortune of driving along the national highway last weekend along with wifey and kiddo. Just as we were driving into a busy junction, I found myself just another link in a long chain of smoke spitting vehicles idling ahead of me. Oh just another jam, I consoled myself. It was not to be. Scared of the 'cycle repair shop' commercial being repeated by baby daughter yet again, I had to switch off the engine every second after I turned the ignition key on hopes of inching ahead when the truck ahead of me started rolling.
An hour and half inched past us, the traffic jam added many a dozen link behind me. Finally, the long chain started moving again – after almost two hours of sweat, smoke and swear words.
Who the heck made me, and the scores of motorists ahead of and behind me, wait for two hours, that too on a national highway that should flow smooth? Another bunch of vote-seekers, who else. National highways are not any body's dad's property, not even of these men and women who look to race past every one to sit tight on a cushioned seat in weather-cooled Parliament.
I have my right of way. I have the right to say no to someone who blocks my way. I have the right to pity the cops who play slaves to these men and women who dream of a seat in the Lok Sabha. I have all the right to brush aside the ruthless buggers who pollute my space with blaring loud speakers.
I don't need a man who gets tanned and weak while walking in the hot sun after being forced to beg for votes just for the sake of it. I don't want a man who is totally alien with the realities of the common man to represent me in Parliament. I don't want a man who has never seen the constituency he wishes to represent, to represent me in Parliament. I don't want a man who pounces on women to be my voice in Parliament. And, I don't want a man who thinks of building temples to be my representative. Most importantly, I don't want to forgive anyone who blocks my road, pollutes my air, falls at my feet for votes or smile at me just to ensure my vote. I won't vote. I can't. Jago Re or whatever you guys tell me through television commercials, I can't. I won't. I bloody can't.

2009-02-24T03:02:00.000-08:00

Masak Kali Masak Kali; Ud Matak Matak Matak Kali...

Films just happen. Good films just happen, rather. Rang de Basanti just happened, and its already part of my soul. The wait seemed over when they said Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra is coming up with another gem. The wait proved amazingly good. In fact, better than the movie itself.

I never wanted Mehra to be just another director, who came, showed, and failed to conquer. He indeed did conquer my senses and sensibilities in huge proportions the moment Rang de Basanti started rolling. Mehra dear, what ails you now? Rang de Basanti turned out to be a gem. An opus. The cast, the storyline, the roobaroos and the padhsaalas all make me think sane, every moment, moment after moment. Remember, the television set that starts blaring when hit from all sides. You portrayed the Indian psyche with elan when you placed the telly in your frames. RBD's characters never carried a mobile phone, they communicated with their souls. Delhi proves to be India's soul in RDB, where all things good, bad and the ugliest happen. RDB, my gosh, made me think a tad extra. I just loved you, Mehra --- until now, sadly.

Delhi 6 is another tale, less intimately told by the man who just loves, adores Delhi. An ensemble cast, most of them excelling in their perfomances, good music (Masa kali Masa kali.... yummy) and a whole lot of moments go wasted. Mehra seems to have lost his heart somewhere in between, may be on the flight from NY to Chandni Chowk. RDB was told straight from the sanctorum of his soul, Delhi 6 just hovers around Pin Code Six. The Monkey Man references go awfully awry when the protagonist arrives in a fully illuminated motherboard tied to his tummy and a mask that could be picked up at shacks around the Ram Lila Maidan.

What shocks me is the lack of chemistry displayed between Divya Dutta's untouchable sweeper girl and Atul Kulkarni's character when she hands over strands of hair from her crown and asks him to pass it on as Kaala Bandar's baal. Baal baal bache hain aap Mehraji, I would have just walked out if I weren't with my family watching the movie with enthusiasm. Such a scene would have been the moot point of emotions dear Mehra, if you had put your heart into it. I had my heart pounding molten when in a song sequence the cast of RDB stands up to salute the India Gate from atop a jeep. You knew how to do it right, but where did you pack off your mind while shooting this scene in Delhi 6?

Look what you have done with the brewing of the communal riot and its Kaala Baandar link. Loud mouthed Sadhvis and the cop in a fox's armour come good, but then Uncle Baig's love-lost existence wasn't just worthy of just a mention. When Rishi Kapoor mouths Ek (ishq) tha and then 'Tere papa le gaye', I was hoping to shed a tear at least. Holy ghost, you ruined the scene. To be fair to Kapoor, he played his role well for a change, and ruined the whole exercise with an emotionless rendition of 'tere papa le gaye'. This from you Mr Mehra, the same Mehra, who had an emotional son shooting down his criminal dad and then speak volumes just with the glistening of the tear softened eyeball in RDB? Emotions come in when you give your heart to what you do, Mr Mehra. And I thought you knew this better than even the veterans when you made RDB. What went wrong?

Thank Om Puri, Abhishek, Pawan, Waheeda, Cyrus and Mr Bachchan Senior for doing wonders to your film, Mr Mehra. They just excelled in this less-than-ordinary craft of yours. But then I always do believe cinema is the director's baby. You had given us an illustrious kid for us to look up to when you made RDB. Sorry to say, Delhi 6 proved to be a miscarriage. Mr Mehra, lemme add. I loved you just once through the film – when you blended New York with Delhi in a song sequence. That was brilliant. I gotta give you another chance, I guess. What's next dude?

2009-01-27T01:32:00.000-08:00

Padma and the ice maiden

Yet another R-Day just dawned and faded into oblivion. The majestic parade on Raj Path, the foreign tourists and diplomats watching the whole extravaganza in open-mouthed awe, the President as the ornamental head receiving the salute and kids young and old relishing the colourful creations on wheels representing the states and varied bodies – all have come and gone, promising to return in the same format next year, year after year.

R-Day or not, what makes me sit up and rue my fate is the announcement of the Padma Awards. Sheer buffoonery of the state of affairs, I would to call it. Among versatile, exceptional and intelligent men and woman picked for the Padmas is one ice maiden who has never ever managed to do something that could bring her even a bouquet of flowers, let alone the Padmas.

Aishwarya Rai, of all Indians! What's her claim to the respected Padma Shri? Years ago, she must have been placed on top of the world which got excited by her vital statistics. I wonder how she cleared the IQ round, if they got one in the rounds. She speaks gibberish, acts dumb and is nowhere near even the worst actor ever on Indian screen. I personally have never seen her face muscles move. And, I dont think they will even if molten lava is splashed on her visage. So much so for her acting skills.

Madam Rai calls herself an actor, when she is just bottom-rate star and that too just for a few. Not anyways for me. She is is sheer waste of raw stock. Idiotic Sanjay Leela Bhansali's dumb-and-dumber extavaganza Devdas proved beyond doubt what it means to be dumb and yet receive the applause. It may not be Bhansali's problem, it is just the star crazy film buff's stupidity. Devdas might have made Madam Rai a star who managed to stay on top. Years later, Madam Rai has metamorphosed into Madam Rai-Bachchan, after almost being a Madam Rai-Khan and a Madam Rai-Oberoi. The Khans and the Oberois are still enemies thanks to this maiden, while Mr Bachchan junior seems to have lost out in the race to be superstar after the maiden walked into his life that once upon a time held so much potential

Ah, thats not my concern. I'm concerned about the Padma Shri conferred on someone who has done nothing to make India proud. I know, some of you might have arguments ranging from a Miss World factor to a Cannes Festival appearance. I personally dont believe these are achievements that deserve a Padma Award, excuse me. What's her contribution to Indian cinema, if thats what you are arguing on her behalf? NOTHING AT ALL. Apart from the many buckets of glycerine and a few frames full of navel-baring midriff, heaving cleavage and yucky-butt-jhatkas, what does she have as contributions to Indian cinema?

Why does India still remain irreverent to the men and women who brought her freedom? Why does India confer the laurels on undeserving creatures on a day that's so important in our lives? I am not willing to see a Sunderlal Bahuguna, a Madhavan Nair or an Anil Kakodkar share a platform with Madam Rai Bachchan or the stupidly funny Akshay Kumar. Crucify me for that, I don't care. I bloody don't care! Padma Shri Aishwarya Rai Bachchan is insult to the nation. Convince me on why shouldn't think so.

2009-01-13T03:35:00.000-08:00

License to loot!

A visit to the regional transport office a few days ago opened up an interesting world in front of my prying eyes. Nothing new, did you say? True, it has been the same always in pockets like the RTO and similar corridors infested by the babus who live happily on the taxes I pay year after year. This time around it was, in fact, comic relief for me.

I happened to be at the RTO, with a close relative of mine, trying to wade through the crowd of hapless motorists waiting for their turn to pay the new Road Safety Cess slapped on motoring men and women in Kerala. Clerks who virtually did nothing but managed to appear working hard were dime a dozen. So were the counters. Most of them preferred to stay empty even as the crowd grew thicker by the minute.

The proceeds of the cess levied from me and my brethren, along with penalty, interests and fees, will be credited to a consolidated fund, proclaimed a newspaper. Only then did I know there is this thing called Cess which I too have to pay. Wondered what it means. The newspaper had the answer to that too. After deducting the expenses of collection and recovery, the remaining amount of the cess will be transferred to the Kerala Road Safety Fund.

So that was it. Road safety has turned a concern for the government. But then where are the roads where I could drive on, I begin to wonder. Every day from and to office, I encounter fresh potholes and mini ponds in the middle of the highways. Speeding madmen who call themselves drivers, toll collectors in front of a bridge made ages ago, trenches they dig in the middle of the night so that no speeding car or truck accelerates away without paying up and many other distractions ranging from ministers, escort policemen and the ISRO bus drivers who think they own the roads, leave me frightened while on the road.

The government's concern for the citizens' safety is worthy enough to be applauded. So what do we do to make ourselves safe? Pay Cess, silly. The pockets have been long waiting to filled. Oh yes, did I beat about the bush a bit? Coming back to the point, cut back to the RTO scene. There I was standing shoulder to shoulder with similar motorists to pay up so that I ensure my safety on the road.

It's working day, and I need to reach office soon. The counters are all open – akin to a football goalpost with no goalkeeper in sight. But then, my Cess money isn't any ball I can just kick in and scoot. I need to show the traffic cop or the interceptor, who have found their jobs a highly-lucrative business, something to prove that I have paid my Cess. So the wait continues.

A good soul arrives, switches on his work PC and starts work. All hands laden with money stretch toward him. The good clerk worked as if he knew the value of time. I indeed started showering my voiceless blessings on him. After an hour or so, another middle aged clerk walks in. A sigh of relief escapes every mouth in the queue. One more man who can make things move faster so that all of us can go to office on time, I thought.

The new entrant sat staring at his computer for a while, then flicked out his flashy mobile and started playing his favorite game. The other clerk, hard working as ever, hoping for some assistance, felt uneasy not seeing the PC monitor light up. Coyly, he asks, where do you start? Pat came the answer! “I don't feel like working today” Jaws drop. He is unconcerned.

Dozens of office goers have been waiting for more than two hours waiting for their turn in front of 12 counters. Just one counter functioned and another one was open but not willing to work. RTO staff are a blessed lot. Motorists never cease to come to them, and subject themselves to ransom. Their indeed is no other go. Money flows in under different heads, no one knows where the currency notes go.

I now sit wondering why I should even need a license to drive. Why should I pay my road tax for the roads I don't have? Why should I go and beg before a man who feels his mobile phone games are more important than the many office goers who are forced to skip work and pay to stand in line and hand over an amount of money that goes somewhere unknown? Why the heck should I pay toll to help someone recover the money spent on a bridge build a decade or more ago? Any work at the RTO is a pain in the butt. Why should I take the pain? Tell me please...

2008-12-19T03:01:00.000-08:00

Web-enabling Priorities

YEAR-end, yet again. Unlike the earlier years, it is turning out to be a tough time for yours truly to blabber on the good, bad and the ugliest ones that ruled the calendar. Personally for me, it’s been tough times. Tough as in, flawless decision-making skills just melted away from the sanctum sanctorum of my conscience. Someone has to win ultimately, right? I have let my priorities walk away with all accolades. I can see grateful smiles mingling galore with the ‘look-what-you-have-done-with-your-life’ smirks all around me. And, I don’t bloody care. Meri marzeee!

I bloody well know and realize what my top priorities are. My little angel and my sweetheart need me close to them. My parents need me somewhere around a certain perimeter of their lives. I need to be where I should be. What else should weigh more than all these? A high profile designation, and a fat packet fail to lure me these days. The man, my mentor, had to listen to a No from me, that’s something that has the potential to prick my conscience. I know, I believe he would understand my position and my conscience more than the No I mouthed when a transfer was doled out with a tempting assignment.

So here I am, trying to help build something out of thin air. Gone are the days when the web meant something related to the spider. Cobwebs don’t exist, nor does the potential to weave cobwebs. A focus, a team with the vision and mindful of dreams happen to be the ammunition. No one here aims at the moon, the world wide web holds more potential instead. As I switch over from a pink dream with facts and figures to another one with tech enabler space as prime tool, it’s time to get down to work again. The current scene I find myself in brings back to me the days when I happened to be part of a core team which catapulted one of the most successful web ventures to popular space. Nothing is impossible, or is the other way around as the famed footwear commercial proclaims. I have a Napoleon in me, don’t I?

So, as the new venture steps on the gas, I sit back with not even an iota of regret. I did what I was supposed to do. And I’m gonna do things in style, if I’m required to. I know what I’m worth, don’t I? A section of the world who knows me knows that for sure, I guess. Scribbling in solitude makes me a selfish arrogant bugger, ain’t it?

All said, as at the end of every calendar, I venture yet again to smear mud and also present a bouquet of the choicest flowers to the ones who deserve them.
My hate list for 2008:

V S Achuthanandan: The Kerala Chief Minister, for insulting a soldier who died fighting for the country. VS gets another rotten egg on his face for mouthing abuse inside the legislative assembly. VS gets one more for insistently talking in English to national media channels and making a fool of his good skills in Malayalam. VS needs one more for still keeping the Tatas and Gates away from his window of self respect.

The ‘Super-Duper Stars of Newstime Telly: Dump the bunch of Buttonhole-bore Sardesais, Blabbermouth Barkhas and the ‘I’m-on-camera-so-I-need-to-look-and-talk-foolish Arnabs out there, in the Indian Ocean and watch them being mauled by the sharks. Look what they have done to a profession which once upon a time commanded all the respect that one could think of! Look at the way they still put on the garb of protectors, saviours, and what not, while actually making a fool of themselves. Jokers all, and the ones of their ilk, deserve to be hit on the head with their microphones for the way news is being dramatised for cheap TRPs garnering reality TV.

Rahul Gandhi: For having waited for 37 years (or is it 38?) to be able to finally think of discovering India. Sonia’s wunderkind toured Northern India, mostly Lalu land, and came back in the belief that he has learnt and imbibed India as a whole. Poor lad!

• Unfortunately, no one, I mean NO ONE, makes it to my list of favourites this year. No one proved their worth.

2008-11-28T03:15:00.000-08:00

Who killed my Mumbai?

Mumbai is dead and gone. The Mumbai that lives in my heart, I mean. As I sit watching the electronic images that beam in to my soul, I drip blood. I am pained by the callousness of my Home Minister. I’m pained at the non-intelligence of our national intelligence infrastructure.

Imagine a bunch of terror mongers sailing in, on a raft loaded with ammunition and taking over important landmarks in global Mumbai. Imagine a scenario where in a security system claiming to be on par with world standards not even seeing a flickering spot on its intelligence radar even after lives at the Taj and VT were snuffed out with sheer gun power. These all happened in a night, while we were all sleeping or about to sleep.

Sadly, the Home Minister is still sleeping. If he is awake he must be out to choose his best attire to come on TV. Remember, he did that a few weeks ago when another set of terror vendors continuously struck different spots across the north. Guess he should have been a telly anchor in designer clothing. He would have been better doing that. On a day when the global hotspot of India was reverberating with grenade blasts and gun shots, grihmantri saheb went on camera saying “the terrorists left before he arrived.” Whattheheck!

Do I need a dummy to protect the city of my dreams? Whenever people said this city never sleeps, I have never wasted time to echo that truth and feel proud. Sad, the city is sleeping, never to wake up again.

Who killed Mumbai? I, you, and all who loved the metro. If we had loved Mumbai as it used to love us, we would never have let a rubber raft come sailing with RDX loaded to the brim. If we had wanted Mumbai to live on, we would never have let a Raj Thackeray make Mumbai just his. If we had wanted Mumbai to smile as it used to, we would never have let saffron and green be treated as two different religious brands ever. They once upon a time used to be just colours, we made them brands of two different religions and attached a militant tag to them. No wonder, Mumbai died an early death.

Will Mumbai see resurrection day ever? Wish she would. But we need more than just dreams to see her through. And, that includes chucking out the Patils in government and the Thackerays from Maharashtra soil. In a changed financial world, who lives if Mumbai dies, who dies if Mumbai lives!

2008-11-27T01:58:00.000-08:00

RIP: Mumbai, meri jaan

Mumbai, my Mumbai. What has come of the by lanes once I tread upon! The gateways that gave me the confidence in a world of cut-throat competition are stuffed with RDX and gelatine. The trains that gave me new companionships in the form of the kids that exchanged chitrahaars and the chitramalas on the Ektara for a penny or two are now missing. My Mumbai is dead and gone.

Lovely Victoria Terminus, which once upon a time provided me with the best avenues for the babe-watch of the lustful kind and the vada pav-Pepsi dinners, sports a nightmarish garb. Faces that once used to sport a smile for even the stranger are now veiled in gloom after nasty gun men rushed in with the firing machines. Mumbai, I weep blood at your fall!

Wednesday nights will never be different. Blood soaked and wounded, my Mumbai writhes in pain. Is this the price a metropolis would have to give for having gained the strength to go global? Is this what means to be the financial capital of a secular sovereign republic? I don’t want my Mumbai to be one.

My maximum city is under maximum stress all of a sudden. The children with the ektaras and the deft fingers, the extremely desirable bar girls of the night, the vada pav sellers, the lonely cops protecting the local trains, the scribes and telly reporters that infested all crowded spots and elsewhere, the local country liquor shops, the heaving cleavages and the micro minis that go up the elevators in various malls, the queens necklace and its admirers – Mumbai will never be the same for them anymore.

Terror attacks just happen, they never come announced. But then, what has been our intelligence infrastructure doing all the while. Terror came floating to my Mumbai’s shores, and Patil saab was found napping. He still is! Wtf!

Television images churn out live images of smoke billowing from the Taj and the Trident even as I sit mourning my beloved metro. Ambulances and the battle ready cops fill up the screen. Foreign nationals who came looking for a safe haven in this metro see life turning into a bullet ridden dream. My Mumbai, why do you make me weep so bad?

Tailpiece: Listening to the CNN-IBN reporter, who is wasting no time ridiculing the poor constables around the Taj and the Trident for their body language is, to me, nauseating. Doesn’t this reporter have a more important assignment in the gun shots heard inside. Let the cops do their work, please don’t poke your stinking mike between his life and work, for heavens sake!