What's up, Delhi?

Cheap Weekend Fun Anyone?

2011-09-15T18:23:00.000+05:30

Dark and smoky are your first impressions. No rush, take your time and once your natural night vision is on, move forward. Groups of young boys and girls smoking hookahs crowd this place and lots of young people are always an indication of cheap alcohol at hand. A hookah, 3 beers and a vegetarian starter are available for Rs 500 and ‘unlimited’ packages including alcohol, appetizers and main course starts at Rs 700. There are also prizes (read alcohol) to be won in their drinking games. The music and décor are inconspicuously harmless and there is a terrace section for the smokers. All in all a good deal, safe, cheap and fun and a good contender for a regular watering hole.

Happy Hours 1+1: 11am to 6pm
Prices: Indian Rum: Rs125; whisky:Ranging from Rs 125 to Rs175; vodka:Rs 125 to Rs 150; Indian beer pints:Rs 90; Indian beers: 650 ml Rs145; Brandy: Rs 125; breezers: Rs100

Cafe 27 Bar & Kitchen, 26, Kailash Colony Market, Greater Kailash 1, Ph: 64512727, 2923002; Nearest Metro Station: Kailash Colony, Violet Line

Now who hasn’t been to 4S?! It is ‘the’ watering hole, at least of south Delhi. The food is good, the alcohol cheap, the staff friendly and the doorman (the huge moustached man) so bloody affable! An unassuming little bar in Defence Colony Market, it is easy to miss, but seek and you shall find. It has garnered such popularity in the past few years that any night of the week it is hard to get a table. It is crunched for space but that is part of the positive experience, everyone makes do with it. Hang around the bar or wait at the waiting table. Another great part about it is the unblaring, ear drum bursting music that plays in most bars. These guys got it right with keeping it simple, overall a really positive place with tons of character.

Happy Hours: 50% off - Noon to 10 pm

Prices: Indian beer 650 ml: Rs 220; domestic whisky: Rs130; domestic rum and vodka: Rs110

4S, A 26, Defence Colony Market; Ph: 41664314, 41664316; Nearest Metro Station: Lajpat Nagar, Violet Line.

holysuspenders Batman!

Mid-week Blues? Feeling Cheap? Head to...

2011-09-14T15:24:00.002+05:30

Dive Bars. First City's scouting of the NCR, in an adventure to find a few sasta highs. Starting with Noida...

‘Here pull with no escape’, says the fine print (in case you’re Phoebe and don’t ‘get’ gravity), so you’re warned before you enter this pub-cum-lounge-cum-restaurant-cum-party-place (banquet kinds, that is). The music’s at the right volume and insipid enough to ignore completely (though an odd evening does play host to Bob Marley covers), the ambience is wait-what-ambience?, and the people around are looking exactly for what you’re looking for - a quick, cheap-ish fix. Head for the kill, if your poison’s Scotch, and if it’s beer, well, remind someone to stop you, at some point. (Someone outside the pull of Gravity, preferably). Whatever you do though, do not go with any recommendations on the ‘exquisite cocktail’ list.

Prices: Rs. 245 for a Kingfisher Mild, All IMFL, small peg, for Rs. 175

Happy hours: 11 am to 7.30 pm

GRAVITY 401-402, Jaipuria Plaza, Sector 26, Noida, Ph: 0120-2532111, 2532555

floatin'

IT’S CALLED THE LIVING ROOM. MAKE ROOM TO LIVE.

2011-09-07T16:10:00.025+05:30

Picture this - a higgledy-piggledy bunch of quixotic fantasists thrown together (as though fate were blending an unlikely Saturday smoothie), each with their own individual explanations as to why giving up several precious hours of leisure (even more so for most, squeezed as they are from the remains of a six day work-week) to voluntarily sit in a tiny little classroom and make complete asses of their middle-aged (some mentally, others not so much) selves, in Spanish no less, is totally worth it. Come February for example, Prospective Expat will leave Delhi behind for Costa Rican shores. On-a-diet is desperate to dream in another language, with the kind of hunger that would put her detoxes to shame. For DJ, who has off late been spinning ‘salsa nights’ across clubs in the city, this is yet another step in the same direction. As for me, I can finally look forward to reading Neruda’s verse the way it was always meant to be – richly endowed in the primal sounds of nascency, richer still in spirit and elegiac significance like all original manuscripts – before crossing it off my rather extensive bucket list.

Needless to say we are soon, the lot of us, fast friends. Faster than you can say ¡espléndido!

And so, on day four of what will be, at least a forty-day trek uphill of funny phrases, strange sounds and a lot of baffling grammar, we are collectively drunk on our modest accomplishments and new-found ability to rrrroll our tongues, in slowly but surely less-desi Spanish speak.

The resolution to baptise-in-beer our newly formed alliance, is put to vote in one of the cooler paradigms of democracy that I have seen, and is unanimously approved. The boys chivalrously offer us choice (or what On-a-diet insists on calling ‘the dilemma’) of watering-hole for the night, and for this I am indescribably grateful. Because around Hauz Khas Village, and Delhi-ites of old will agree with me when I say this, there is really only one place you want to be on a breezy autumnal night. Around here, all roads lead to TLR, or more specifically up four long flights of stairs to their open-air portico that boasts twinkly lights, boho cushions in a riot of colour, candles and tea-lights spotting the deck, corners spilling over with foliage (and if you get your seasons right, also happen to be bursting into bloom) and as the night progresses, an inevitable gathering of artists, poets and musicians who are happy to share tables, start conversations and make music. And so, for those of you who think that I made the decision to head to The Living Room Cafe that night, you’re wrong. The unbelievably awesome decision kind of made itself, as did the decision to order the Thai Fish Cakes and Garlic Chicken (with the phenomenal Hummus dip), for the table.

The first round of ales is followed quickly by a second, at which point I invite the solitary soul sitting across from us to come join us, at what is by now a fairly raucous table – wouldn’t he like some company? After the briefest of pauses, Lonely Boy decides to graciously accept and we pull up a chair for him. Somebody else offers him a cigarette. He appears simultaneously charmed, anxious and just the slightest bit bemused. “I’m new to Delhi,” he proffers, which suddenly seems to us, both obvious, as well as explanation enough. His major is Philosophy, he plays football in the park on weekends with the local children and on nights like this he likes to walk around exploring, occasionally stepping into a pub or café that catches his fancy. “I also love guitars,” he confesses staring wistfully at the farthest corner of the terrace where a foursome have made themselves at home against the curving balustrade, knocking back pints and strumming a vintage Fender so blue and beautiful, that it would seduce just about anyone.

“And I just love men who play guitars,” On-a-diet sighs, “especially when they look like that.” “What, that ‘man-child’ you mean?” DJ splutters, for all the good it does him… seeing how they’re all four of them invited, less than a minute later, to come sit with us! Man-child (which at this point - round three - is just a convenient nickname) as it turns out, lives in Paris, has been playing music all his life and most importantly, has cheekbones that could give Johnny Depp a run for his money. He kisses our hands greeting us and keeps a firm hold of On-a-diet as she swoons slightly, before offering back with only the slightest tremble, “enchanté,” instantly finding herself on the receiving end of an equally candid, adoring grin, that is second only to the expression of utter resignation on DJ’’s face before he promptly disappears to get himself a refill.

The Fender changes hands and Lonely Boy is evidently thrilled to bits, at the turn that his evening seems to have taken. Prospective Expat and I look on in amusement as next to us, the predestined flirting begins - smatterings of French and Hindi punctuating the curious, stilted and sexually charged conversation of broken phrases and frustrated English, that stumbles along as best as it can. DJ returns and the conversation swiftly changes tack as The Band begins to tell us more about the music they like playing, who inspires them and how much they’ve enjoyed their stint in Delhi. Some impromptu jamming and a lot of drunken laughter later we reluctantly call for the check – The Band is headed to Uzbekistan early the next day, and the rest of us have an honest living to make even earlier!

Man-child (or as we like to call him now, Prettier-than-Depp) and On-a-diet seem to have vanished. A hurried gathering of wits however, means we spot them a few yards away, holding hands under a bough of flowering frangipani, whispering what could (in this case, quite literally) only be sweet nothings.

We hover in the background, waving bashfully, nudging and hurrying them toward their goodbyes, whenPretty-Boy-Depp (that’s a lotta nicknames for one bloke…) suddenly remembers, “My friend! ’e teach me ’ow to say, I adore you, ‘Je t’adore, oui?’ in ’ow you say, Hin-dee!” His delight is doubly compounded by the rush of colour that floods his beloveds face, not to mention our palpable impatience, as we eavesdrop shamelessly, comfortably smug, and snug, in our fuzzy alcohol blankets.

This is the ‘pin-drop’ silence that my principal always hollered for in school.

He coaxes and cajoles until she is looking deep into his eyes; we see his thumb draw circles on her wrist, watch her mouth part slightly in anticipation. His lips curve into an Adonis-like smile designed to make you go weak in the knees and his voice, is a low throaty murmur, “Aah chéri,” he says, in familiar tongue, and then, with identical passion, “Maa ki choot.”

Baby Codeine =)

Songs of Heartbreak & Hipshake: The Delhi Belly Soundtrack, in the words of Ram Sampath

2011-07-05T11:56:00.002+05:30

A deconstruction of that and more, by Ram Sampath, here:

“I’ve always had a great love for organic, roots music like blues, folk, punk, gypsy music, 70’s funk. Now, when I signed this movie, it was a one song film, but I realised that Delhi Belly gave me the perfect opportunity to explore these rootsy genres, as the film itself is quite raw, so I kept composing songs based on characters from the script & I decided to tie all the disparate genres together with the theme of heartbreak, so my working title for the album was, ‘Delhi Belly - Sounds of Heartbreak & Hipshake’.

We weren’t trying to force any panga, but there is a strong sense of irreverence to the soundtrack. Sheer boredom with the current scenario was one strong motivation. Few people try to be honest and fun at the same time and that’s what we were aiming for. I think our audiences today are spoilt for choice and much more discerning. It is the industry that needs to catch up.

One big change that I can see is that we’re not afraid to get grimy and gritty. The influence of classic rock and heavy metal is also pretty evident. Outside of that, I think the points of reference are still quite superficial and narrow. We still think putting a flamenco guitar on a hip-hop beat makes it ‘flamenco hip-hop’. To put a positive spin on things, there’s a lot of room for innovation!
When you work with great lyricists, it’s great! All of them have a very sophisticated sense of humour. I just had to point them in the right direction. Aamir helped out a lot in that department as well. He helped us focus our ideas.

I have absolutely no direct connection with Delhi whatsoever, but two of my current favourite bands are from Delhi - Advaita and Them Clones.”

More in the First City July Edition. On the newsstands now.

Kill The Player, Part II

2011-07-01T15:50:00.001+05:30

One thing that not too many people take into account is that ‘men’ are still, by and large, operating on caveman mentality, especially when it comes to what the group considers ‘cool’. When it came to the hairy brawling beasts, the simplest way to prove a point was to scatter your opponent over several square yards of forest, with grisly reminders such as entrails wrapped lovingly around bushes, severed heads balanced jauntily on branches, and litres of blood soaking the forest floor, for the slower members of the clan. What alpha males got for this most excellent level of group dynamism was the unquestioning loyalty of every remaining male in the pack.

Unfortunately, this hasn’t changed much over the past few millennia.

These days, when the alpha in a group declares something to be ‘cool’, every male in his group must either agree unquestioningly, or challenge for leadership and be exiled after a thrashing, or simply keep their mouths shut. Debate and reasoned opinions are only for those rare groups that don’t need an alpha - and however far we might have come as humans, the day where that kind are the majority is still aeons away.

Since alphas command this level of almost blind obedience, it’s pretty common to see ‘personality cults’ of a sort developing, where the hangers on in the group are simply bad copies of the leader; they talk like he does, dress like he does, and try to behave with the same arrogant swagger that he does too. The reasons for someone becoming an alpha are varied; but most often, it’s directly related to a type of success that everyone wants. Like getting laid, for example.

In school, where most guys learn the ropes of male bonding and social hierarchies, the first of the semi-permanent groups develop around the first few guys to get lucky with the ladies, mostly because there’s nothing that combines the thrill of a dangerous sport, the absolutely mind blowing feeling of getting laid, and the hordes of envious admirers as well as teenage sex does. These guys might have been the first for any number of reasons; brawn, bulk, good looks, ability with casual cruelty; the point is, these gargantuan fish in thimble sized ponds become used to the unquestioning admiration of the lesser mortals. And the sex is pretty good, too.

How does one maintain this automatic kingship in face of the fact that sooner or later, most of the others will also get laid? Simple. Keep getting laid, preferably by different women, hopefully as often as possible. In a nutshell, this is why guys think it’s ‘cool’ to sleep around - because every guy , at the end of the day, wants to be the biggest dog in the pack, and what we learn as boys is that a major characteristic of big dogs is that they get laid, variedly, and often. Oversimplification, perhaps, but come over, and we’ll have a beer over the nitty-gritties.

Moving on.

This, however, doesn’t really explain why women also think it’s cool for a man to sleep around. Being a man, I only have theories on this, but since you’ve read my drivel so far, I figure I have you for another couple of paragraphs at the least.

For a woman, as far as I understand, the competition is not so much about getting laid, as much as it is about getting offers to get laid. Chris Rock (the man’s a genius), in Bigger and Blacker (what a show), put it something like this; “See, it's easy for women to turn down sex. lt ain't shit for y'all to turn down sex. You know why? 'Cause every woman in here, ever since you were fifteen, every guy you met has been trying to fuck you!” So, it would make sense to assume that women, in their groups, aren’t really competing for scores; they’re just competing on potential scores. Especially since actually sleeping with lots of guys opens up the can marked ‘whore’ (written in a largely feminine hand, I might add). And it’s not just about numbers, either. You, as a woman, could have a hundred nerds lusting and panting after you, but if that one dude doesn’t show you more attention than he did yesterday…

‘Wait; is that him, talking to her? How dare he! And she! Doesn’t she know he’s the biggest player around? He’s just looking to get laid, and she’s such a little ho. I’m the only one who can control him. He’s meant to be with me, I’m the one who’s going to change him from this uncontrolled, randy little boy who’ll shag anything that moves into a dangerous, lusty man who’ll shag only me.’

In one fell swoop, the dude’s position as alpha of his pack is cemented - ‘Dude, he’s got chicks fighting over him, and look at the chicks doing the fighting…’ - and women have decided which kind of man is worthy of their attention - the one that every other woman wants - which locks both men and women into this whore infested pit of superficial and mindless shagging and bragging - and cheapens sex, the other sex, and relationships in general.

Allright, so enough bile and bad temper. There are enough whores on either side, that both sexes can wince privately about, and this loving deconstruction is possibly one of the ways that they evolve. Is anything else possible? Sure. Loving relationships do exist. There are men who aren’t overgrown scrotums, and women who have more on their minds than what other women think of them.

So how does one kill the player? Part Three, some time this week.

Trifeck

Confessions of a Recent Monster Convert

2011-06-22T16:14:00.005+05:30

I take my words back. (Not easy, given words are not simply bread and butter, but soul and flesh).

But then, Born this Way can do that to you. Force you almost, to look at the Lady behind the Gaga. To respect the artist screaming (in brilliantly-hit notes, with a voice to match), amidst all that hype. Self-generated, at first, because if you're aiming for the Madonna effect, you gotta invent your own conical-bras-burning-crucifixes shebang, which for this era and generation, could mean meat dresses, blood-and-semen perfumes, sure. Anything that takes your eyes off the Facebook page on your iPad, man! Janis Joplin wailed like a banshee, Jim Morrison used his sex-on-legs persona to the hilt, and Madonna is as Madonna performs; if you're looking to arena-rock, you gotta play by the (rockstar-image) gimmick rule-book, on some level.

But getting back to Born this Way. Not just the song (though what-a-song! And now the hatching out of a pod makes so much sense, 'cuz she really was reborn at the Grammies that night, in a way), but the entire album calls for re-evaluation, track by track. Am leaving the actual business of that in Trifeck's able hands (who has pretty much been living in Gagaville), for the next edition of First City. But I'll say this: Edge of Glory redefined razor sharp, tight pop for me, Hair served up sense of humour with 'I am my hair' (Who else can carry off that kind of vanity, seriously?), Judas had me envisioning her as Madonna's rightful heir, and You & I gave me goosebumps on Nebraska's behalf.

I bite my tongue, Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. Monster and Gaga forth. Please.

floatin'

Kill The Player, Part I

2011-06-14T16:48:00.001+05:30

If you’ve ever come across someone who told you to “hate the game, not the player”, there’s one thing you can conclude right there. You’ve either met a bag of scum, or someone shallow enough to be incapable of anything meaningful.

A lot (my god, a lot) has been said about women’s rights. Some of it even makes sense, once the rabid “That guy screwed me over and left” kind of rage tantrums have been accounted for (No, personal agony does not directly translate into a good reason for a perspective. You have to think it through and figure out which bits of your rage are justified and which ones were just you being foolish.) However, there is an inescapable fact - there are guys who are utterly immoral when it comes to sex - and as a man, I’d like to say, yeah, we hate his fucking guts too. And no, he ain’t a man, he’s a little boy who gets his ‘man’ status from the legions of foolish women looking for a bad boy to tame. Isn’t it obvious? You can’t tame a boy into a man. You have to grow them up - and given their mammary fascination, start with a rubber sucker. It’s what they’re used to.

No, I’m not looking for a convoluted way to blame this on women, despite what it may seem like. Men and women are connected on so many levels - not just the sexual - and so when you look at the reasons for something one group does, it’s almost certain you’ll find some answers on the other side of the fence. This is one of them.

One of the most common complaints from feminists is that a guy who gets busy five nights a week is a ‘player’, while a woman who does the same is a ‘ho’, and the first is a compliment while the second is an insult. First question - who the hell said ‘player’ is a compliment? The dude leaning by the corner with his balls in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other? And you believed him?

Second question. Are women as a group saying that there aren’t women who sleep around, or that women who do should be given a ‘nothing you do will impact your life’ token? Life is about making decisions and dealing with the consequences of them. If you don’t want to be classified as someone with no morals, sexual or otherwise, then for god’s sake, live by some fucking morals, instead of trying to reset the bar so that decent behaviour is something extra good, instead of just normal.

And as a final bit of bile, this Slut Walk is just fucking idiotic. What are you women setting out to achieve? Some sort of shoot-yourself-in-the-foot balance by making sure the next two centuries are dominated by women behaving like Charlie Sheen?

Trifeck

The First City Shorts. Out Now.

2011-05-31T14:57:00.007+05:30

There’s a certain magic in not going all the way.

In stopping short.

But only just about.

In creating the chiselled short story.

FIRST CITY celebrates it.

And invites a few select writers to pen us one.

The Glenlivet Writers' Special 6: The Short Story.

Do You Have A Flag?

2011-05-20T16:43:00.003+05:30

Why do countries need borders? For the same reason that humans need closets - to hide away their skeletons.

The creation of a country - any country - is an incredibly divisive phenomenon. Israel is the most glaring example. India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Russia, China; every single country that has permanent borders, has had to draw and constantly redraw them in blood. Preferably the blood of whoever’s on the other side of the line. Even when the war is contained within, such as in the US civil war, there is an incredible amount of violence and divisiveness - and what is bought at this bloody price is the solemn vow to view a piece of geography as a living creature with a specific mindset - usually one that shelters and justifies the brutalities of its creators.

Much has been said about patriotism, about governance, about unity in diversity and the brotherhood of people from the same country. These reasons are usually mentioned as the intellectual justification behind arbitrary borders. Nonetheless, all of these are emotional reasons - not logical - for the creation of a country. Another oft mentioned justification is that countries and borders are formed to protect people with a particular mindset against others. This logic is fair enough when it comes to protection for pacifists against out-and-out invaders - but in today’s world, these opposing mindsets are usually ‘I want’ and ‘Me too’. There’s no reason to believe that one dude with money on his mind will be less of an ecological nightmare than another. The only reason that humans are conned time and again into supporting endless conflicts over resources is because national ‘leaders’ - and I use the term in its loosest sense - use the fear of ‘wanting-and-not-having’ to convince people that it’s a case of ‘needing-and-not-having’.

Another commonly used reason for the existence of man made borders is the proper use of resources. This ignores the unstated assumption - that everything within the arbitrary boundary is rightfully the property of the humans living within it. There is no reason to say that humans deserve to use a river more than the fish, trees, animals and birds that live around it. The fact that they can’t or don’t express their pain and rage at this rape - yes, rape - is considered proof that humans don’t need to take other living things into account before making territorial decisions.

There is no reason to believe that a ‘country’ is the only social structure that is capable of providing a certain standard of life in a fair and equitable manner. There is no proof that having the military strength to destroy any who oppose you is sufficient to create a sustainable way of life. There is no reason for a boundary - unless, of course, you want to impose your beliefs on those within it.

(There are several obvious critiques of the points made in this article. I don’t intend to address them, for two reasons; one, most of those critiques have been dealt with most excellently in the works of much wiser minds - Adam Smith, Karl Marx, John Nash, MK Gandhi, among others. The other reason is quite simply this - pre-empting ‘rational’ (read ‘limited to perfect overlap’) arguments has a way of limiting the point you’re trying to make into a very specific case; as if there is no logic to generalities themselves. The right to life, something that humans reserve for themselves, is one such bit of non-specific logic.)

The One (Cold) Coffee Book: Making May Bearable, One Book at a Time - Book 2

2011-05-19T13:19:00.000+05:30

THE STORYTELLER'S TALE

Omair Ahmad

But in the many chambers of music and dance in Delhi the word ‘love’ was spoken of in many ways, it was nothing but a currency of exchange, of looks and glances, and promises that were never truly what they pretended to be. Here, love was a thing to be done many times.

In the tradition of Arabian Nights this one, when a story well-told is the mooldhar of the experience, of higher value than the story itself. But then, can one separate the content from the form?

Located in Delhi of the 1700s, at a time when Ahmad Shah Abadali’s men have ransacked the city, a poet, in his attempt to leave the asinine traders behind, finds himself at an isolated casbah. He’s invited by the Begum of the casbah to stay and he shares a story in return for this hospitality. A fantastic, emotional tale about two brothers, Taka and Wara - one human, one wolf – the poet evokes many feelings in the Begum, provoking her into thinking about trust, relationships, fear and love. There is an-ever-so-slight exchange of glances between them, before she decides to respond. With a story of her own.

Read it for Delhi, for lost poets (and how it is their business to be lost), and for a deft treatment of the story-within-story device.

The One (Cold) Coffee Book: Making May more Bearable since 1990

2011-05-18T13:15:00.003+05:30

Yes, the mercury's @ 43+. Stay indoors, with this:

BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY

Jay McInerney

In the history of opening lines, Jane Austen be damned, this one sticks its neck out fabulously: You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. Hook, line and sinker reeled in, you’re then buoyed up by this first-person narrative phenomenon of a book that just happens to happen to you, one that sails you right through to page 174, and the ‘message’: You will have to learn everything all over again. The New York book of the 80s, Bright Lights, Big City is akin to spoken word theatre; it’s almost like the author (who went onto script Gia, among other things) is screaming, at times, whispering at others, and mostly narrating it all in a deadpan yet conversational monotone.

If there ever was a literary equivalent of cocaine, or how addiction plays out in a city that’s super-charged regardless of the ‘substance’ in your blood stream, this is it.

floatin'

Yellow, Yellow, Dirty Fellow

2011-05-11T17:56:00.003+05:30

The reason that every Tappan, Babblu and Tinkoo are suddenly authors and musicians and artists isn’t because there’s a whole generation of people with ideas to express and feelings to explore. It’s mostly because, like everything else in this world, art and money are now bedfellows, and are now the proud parents of a nursery full of little wailing bastards.

Sure, every piece of creativity is art in its own right. Nobody has the right to judge another human’s journey, and what they produced along the way. Still, some signposts on this oft-trodden road of opinion still stand. Art is something produced by an artist. Not the other way around. The creativity comes from inside the human being; so if there’s a work of art that inspires, and is beautiful, and hold deep meaning, it’s because all those characteristics were in a vision that the artist had. You can’t begin to write/paint/compose something just for money, or fame; even then, you’re doing it because of the feeling those things give you - and from the kind of insipid pap that commercial artists produce, it’s quite evident how inspiring money and fame actually are; sing it with me. ‘Gurllllll…’.

So. Artists. Lady Gaga, for example. The woman’s a genius. She knows how to evoke feelings in people who listen to her, even if the feeling she began with was lust. A Britney or even a Christina will never be able to touch her, because (talent notwithstanding), lesser artists like them do it for the feeling they get. Like fame, for example. Or notoriety. Or sex appeal. Or for public acclaim. Gaga goes it the other way around. She doing it to make other people feel things - and that’s what art is about. Feeling a moment, deeply, honestly, personally and truthfully, and then somehow expressing those feelings so that other people can get into the moment. Not into your pants.

what we're listening to: pentagram's bloodywood

2011-05-10T13:06:00.001+05:30

BLOODYWOOD

Pentagram

Counter Culture Records

No apologies rock. It’s what Pentagram’s always been about, through the decades. And now, well into their late thirties, they continue building that wall, uninterrupted. The evolution is unerringly evident, of course; Randolph’s production skills up the notch yet again, and each time you think Vishal couldn’t possibly outdo himself, he redefines the concept of a powerhouse performance, throwing out that massive voice into the world, translating any passive listening exercise into a live show experience. The great news on Bloodywood is that Shiraz’s drumming and Papal’s bass carve out their own fiery paths too, sounding stronger than they’ve ever done so far. Sheer, sparkling confidence can do that to you. It can also make you wanna pull off a Sholay déjà vu with cover art.

Vishal laces ‘Let me tag you’ with riveting sarcasm as guitar licks dance around him on Identify, the opener. Mental Zero reeks of the evils of reality television, while In my Head showcases dissonance in Randolph’s able hands. Tomorrow’s Decided shreds through an almost death metal, hard sound for the headbangers, and you can hear The Prodigy on this one. If Nocturne is anything to go by, then my guess is Vishal doesn’t sleep much - there’s a brilliant hi-octane tone to this track, which reminds you why rock n’ roll can never die out. This one’s also as poetic as Pentagram gets, while Technology (I Get You) swims all mellow (you know how the energy has to dip to rise again?). Must I? is my favourite off what shall form the lesser favoured tracks; it’s got this constant edge going for it.

Bloodywood takes you back to early Pentagram, to Up; best thing is they’re still rude, and proving it yet again, that age can’t put down a rockstar. Here are four of them. Homegrown.

floatin'

Osama is Dead. Long Live Obama. OR The Death of the "Boogeyman". OR Is it Just Me or Is It All Very Hotshots Part Deux?!

2011-05-05T16:18:00.003+05:30

We love Steve Martin for saying what he did. And then, apparently, it got us "reminiscent" of where we all were when 9/11 happened.

Some of us thought there was a bad Hollywood film playing, and some thought it was animation. Someone was on a plane (yikes!) between Vienna and London, and someone else was actually helping a friend pack for New York ("She can celled her tickets, of course"). Some of us are pissed that the exchange programme didn't work out that well for them that year, and someone else is just too much of a Wag the Dog fan ('I see an election coming. I predict the death of Osama Bin Laden'. Anyone?).

The winning entry, though, is this one. Thankyou, Shalinee Ghosh, for playing this round!

"In the elevator! A lady got on at the 5th floor and I blurted out - do you know the WTC has been hit by an aircraft - my brother in law is supposed to leave for the US today and he just called. Seems to be some kind of a terrorist activity. I am rushing off to watch it on TV at my In-law's since we do not own one. And she clearly shocked out of her wits - said Oh my God........ really.... you dont own a TV - how do you survive.... the rest of the conversation was a blur. I ran the two blocks and up to the 3 rd floor and as I was entering the house the second plane crashed into the building."

floatin'

now you see me, now you dont...

2011-04-24T20:19:00.033+05:30

The one suspicious thing about the God debate is that everyone’s so damned sure about what they believe – except for the agnostics, whose point of view can roughly be summed up as 'I don't know what the fuck is going on at that level, and frankly don't want to'. Personally, I’m of the school of thought that says 'Ignorance is not a point of view, especially if you choose it', but to get back to the initial point – both believers and disbelievers are entirely convinced of their points of view.

This is an odd situation. One would expect that to be entirely convinced either way, there’s got to be some bit of objective data, some experience that cannot be denied; for example, actually seeing a club-wielding man with a tail flying through the air. Or on the other hand, finding a mathematical equation that can predict exactly what happens next ten times out of ten. Neither has happened, and this is an ancient debate.

Or perhaps it’s a lot simpler than all of that; maybe people form their beliefs about God based on how their prayers are dealt with – and everybody prays, regardless of what the actual words are. It could be a devout and spiritual “Oh Lord, grant me the knowledge I require to cast off my chains,” or on the other hand, could be a much more short term and materialistic, “Dude, I really hope I get away with lying to my boss.” The point is, everybody acknowledges that for something to happen, the world needs to co-operate with what you’re doing.

That's the crux of it, really, at least for me. There's this enormous, complex, thing outside of me that I happen to be a part of, and I don't understand it sometimes, and I wish someone would just tell me what the hell is going on. Enter Doctor Frankenstein with manager Goldman Sacks-Wallstreet, a Wild Haired Chap in a Sheet and his Congregation, and somewhere off to the side, a Chap Sitting on a Picket Fence with an Uncomfortable Look on his Face. Possibly reading an economic or financial newspaper.

Science has had a really good go at finding God. They really did put in a hell of a lot of effort, and thanks to all that mental sweat, we can now travel into space, be effectively connected to millions of people at the same time, and also effectively wipe out any race of living creatures on the planet, including ourselves. Thanks to the development of money - which, curiously, was more dependent on religion – the scientific society now finds itself focused on the advancement of knowledge, practical applications of science in technology, making human lives easier, and making money, in that reverse order.

Religion claims to come from God, so no problem there; and thanks to the effort they've put into proving their position, we now have some of the most heartwrenchingly astute observations on the nature of reality, and also a set of cast iron excuses to hate other people. Thanks to religion's ability to bring people together and inspire creativity, society went from a collection of savage and scattered people looking for answers, to a unified and cohesive people, looking for answers savagely.

And somewhere in the whole thing, the question somehow changed from "What the hell is this experience I find myself in?" to "Is there a puppetmaster, or a set of rules?" The stereotypical atheist has his head so far up his ass that he doesn't even understand the question “Is there a God?” The stereotypical mystic will dodge and evade that question, or else answer it with a thunderous “Yes!” and try to lose you in a thicket of references, and the stereotypical agnostic, a hitherto unremarkable creature who has emerged mostly because of this deadlock, is so jaded that he doesn't believe anything, and is most likely to question your beliefs, in a dastardly attempt to bring you to his level of apathy.

Which brings the whole question back to where it belongs. What do you believe? Is this truly a non-alive universe, and it just so happens that on this planet, the right combination of everything happened, and life was a natural result? Or on the other hand, were we scooped out of raw firmament and created for the express purpose being made in God's image? Or is there perhaps some other explanation, more subtle yet?

Whatever the answer, one thing is for certain. It's interesting being alive.

Trifeck

Come on the Arnab!

2011-04-14T19:35:00.001+05:30

“Are you saying this is not a victory for the people?” the bespectacled and suited man bellowed at the lady sitting inside a television. “I’m sensing some sour grapes here ma’am, I really am. Could it be that you’re not happy because someone else achieved something that you’ve wanted for a while?” The other humans in the room nodded sagely, while I crawled around on the speakers’ head. “I think,” began the lady he was talking to, but she was interrupted by a bald and sharp featured man, “No ma’am, I think you should answer the question. It’s only fair.” “I think…” the lady began again, only to be pulled up short once again. “Haan, bataiye na, aapke chehre pe muskaan kyon nahi hai? After all, it’s a day to celebrate!” said another man, sitting next to the bald one.

Usually, I don’t get myself involved in this sort of thing. Excited humans tend to behave very childishly, and that’s usually deadly to my kind. Keeping an eye on the humans, (and when your eye is half the size of your head, that means a lot), I began to clean my wings, waiting for the tea and biscuits that usually followed the show.

“I think,” began the lady, again, and then glared out of the television set, as the bespectacled man took this as his cue to interrupt. Perhaps this was some sort of ritual. Humans are so odd. “Look, this is the first time in many years that this has happened! The government has capitulated, how can you disagree?” “But I’m trying not to disagree!” she wailed. “That doesn’t matter,” the man bellowed in return. “You said this is not a complete and uncontested victory. What kind of cynic do you have to be to not think we’ve won, utterly and completely?”

“I think the problem here is,” a heavily bearded man, inside another television began, “is that some people are quite rightly asking what has been achieved. If you look at…”

I don’t understand what he said, but the bespectacled man sure took offence. He swelled like a bullfrog, and I hastily leapt to the air, looking for calmer resting grounds. The youngest man in the room looked like a good bet - he hadn’t moved around much, and wasn’t going to, it seemed, and that was enough for me. Keeping an eye out for the now wildly gesticulating four eyes (I know, I’m one to talk), I buzzed toward relative safety, wings moving overtime. Spittle is deadly when you’re my size. “…I mean, sure, you might have more experience than I do, and perhaps you’re more suited to analysis than me, but who’s chairing this debate? You or me? Me, right? Good, then I’m the final arbiter on everything that’s said here, and I say that you’re an unashamed cynic, and unpatriotic also. Just because history is on your side, just because the people who have promised to do what we ask are habitual liars, is no reason to disbelieve that this is an utter and complete victory! So you can just think about that, while I ask the other people here to agree with what I just said. You, sir,” he looked toward my present perch, “what do you think, am I right, or am I right? After all,” the decibel levels mercifully dropped, and he adopted a more grandfatherly tone, “we’re doing this for you, the youth of the nation. Any false sense of superiority I get out of this is purely a bonus, regardless of how I might make it seem. What do you think, young lad?”

Had I not been so utterly blown away by the volume and saliva, I might have noticed the young man’s hand as it swept toward me. The last thing I heard before darkness took me was the bearded man in the television muttering to himself. “Bloody moron. Last time I come on this show…”

Trifeck

Dedicated Scumbags and Eternal Bitches

2011-04-01T14:52:00.003+05:30

The term ‘ladies and gentlemen’ is now officially defunct, because both ladylike women and gentlemanly men are now characters from the grave.

A ladylike woman was one who had class, style, and grace. A gentlemanly man was above all, courteous, dignified, and broadminded. What’s common to both of these descriptions is that they’re entirely dependent on people agreeing to what those adjectives mean; and that, above all, is the reason for this double homicide.

There will always be men who know and respect what it means to possess a penis. “I’m not talking about the guy that fucked you and left,” said Chris Rock in Bigger and Blacker, more than a decade ago. “Fuck him, okay?” Men of that kind know that it’s not about opening doors and carrying women across puddles. It’s about loving women, and not just the horizontal kind. By the same token, there will always be women who were born to be ladies; stylish in the absence of money, classy simply because they respect themselves, and graceful because they know that their beauty is meant for the world, and not for the mirror. On the other side, however, are the dedicated scumbags and the eternal bitches, people as certain of their self serving beliefs, although for different reasons. These sorts of people, though, will never need to be told who they are. They’re the extreme cases, people who figure out their own realities, who stick to their own moral codes regardless (or perhaps because of) what life does to them.

The vast majority of people, on the other hand, are people who are still figuring out what their life is all about, people as yet unready to claim a niche and stick to it. People who are still growing, yet required to act grown up, are more reactionary than principled - cannon fodder on the battlefield of opinion, also known as the media. Advertisers routinely take advantage of this; almost every single ad on TV these days attempts to define what it means to be a man or a woman. Men, for example, have metallic square phones (which is why they get condoms when there’s no change), value cars over their wives and newborn children (a la the SX4 Diesel), and thanks to the likes of John Abrahams and Shahid Kapoor, don’t sweat or have dark skin. Women fare only slightly better. Their concerns in life seem to be pimples, their hair, and their cell phones, with a little bit of space left over for competing to see who’s got the hotter boyfriend. While ads are a small enough part of everyday life and not to be taken too literally, they’re still very relevant to social beliefs - both a description and a projection of the kind of people we are.

At the end of the day, though, it’s not about public opinion or what the TV tells us to believe. It’s more about things that are talked about in public spaces, and values that we share as a people. Chivalry is dead, but only the kind of chivalry that treats women like beautifully fragile possessions. Ladies are history too, but only the kind of ladies that need gentlemen to survive. What we’re seeing these days is a redefinition of masculine and feminine roles - and the only thing for sure is that nobody’s sure what makes a gentleman, and what isn’t proper for a lady.

In all this uncertainty, though, a few things become rock solid. Men and women are fundamentally different - in their biology, in the kind of wiring in their brains, in the ways their bodies evolve in their lifetimes, in the roles that society will expect them to play. There are some traits that are masculine and some that are feminine - and oddly, it’s impossible to find a man with only masculine ones, or a woman with exclusively feminine ones. The ancient idea of gentility, that a man had a responsibility to protect and care for (and therefore some rights over) the weaker woman, emerged from centuries of living in a world where physical strength was the defining characteristic - and men in this respect are fundamentally stronger. These days, the threats that people and families face are more abstract; and in this, it’s more likely that on average, women are the fundamentally stronger ones - mostly because women’s brains are wired way better for dealing with lots of different kinds of information at the same time.

While the world makes up its mind on the new age lady and gentleman, there are some questions that are fairly relevant. Is mutual respect on the cards? How about accepting that men are superior in some spheres, and women in others? What about the joy a man feels when he knows he’s taking care of his wife and kids? Will something allow for that honest display of concern, or will it be gunned down in the name of women’s rights? Where will we draw the line on feminine assertiveness? Should the men of this century pay the price for the heavy handedness of long dead patriarchs, and accept as ornamental a position as women were relegated to? Is feminism really a drive for sexual equality, or should it be balanced out by a new age chauvinism?

If personal opinions count for anything, here’re this writers’ two bits. The only gentleman that’s dead, and the only chivalry that’s faded, is the one that existed to be talked about. Men who behave lovingly toward women will do so whether there’s a social advantage to it or not; and women who honestly respect themselves will always have men to love them. Which is what it was always all about.

Trifeck

and the oscar goes to...!

2011-02-18T14:42:00.005+05:30

First, let's get over the fact that's unimaginable: What? There was no Meryl Streep movie this year?!

Ok, that done with...

Here's who we think-feel-wish-hope should get it. And who probably will anyway. In red and blue, respectively.

Actor in a Leading Role

Javier Bardem in “Biutiful”
Jeff Bridges in “True Grit”. For bringing the groove back to the western.
Jesse Eisenberg in “The Social Network”
Colin Firth in “The King's Speech”. Because "they" love the royalty, Brits, and a good ol' story of winning against all odds, speech impediments, et al. And this one's got it ALL.
James Franco in “127 Hours”

Actor in a Supporting Role

Christian Bale in “The Fighter”. For being the ultimate shape-shifter. For hiring the guy he played onscreen, to beef him up for the next Batman. And because "they" didn't bother to nominate Justin Timberlake or Andrew Garfield for The Social Network. (We might agree on this one with "them".)
John Hawkes in “Winter's Bone”
Jeremy Renner in “The Town”
Mark Ruffalo in “The Kids Are All Right”
Geoffrey Rush in “The King's Speech”. Because "they" love a Brit sense of humour.

Actress in a Leading Role

Annette Bening in “The Kids Are All Right”. For out-performing Julianne Moore. For bringing to life, the bittersweet joy and trauma of keeping a marriage.
Nicole Kidman in “Rabbit Hole”
Jennifer Lawrence in “Winter's Bone”
Natalie Portman in “Black Swan”. Because "they" would like to seem dark, and because "they" love pregnant ladies.
Michelle Williams in “Blue Valentine”

Actress in a Supporting Role

Amy Adams in “The Fighter”. Because "they" would want to acknowledge her now.
Helena Bonham Carter in “The King's Speech”
Melissa Leo in “The Fighter”
Hailee Steinfeld in “True Grit”. For being such a riot!
Jacki Weaver in “Animal Kingdom”

Directing

“Black Swan” Darren Aronofsky. Because "they" would find this the right kind of arty.
“The Fighter” David O. Russell
“The King's Speech” Tom Hooper
“The Social Network” David Fincher. For making this film. For making this film... work.
“True Grit” Joel Coen and Ethan Coen

With Best Film, it's probably a toss-up between Black Swan and The King's Speech. We'd love to see The Fighter, or The Social Network.

floatin'

Big Five: The First City Interviews' Anthologies

2011-02-15T16:04:00.005+05:30

It's that best of conveniently sorted in one place kinda merchandise we all could never ever do without. (It's like we all know the real Massive Attack is in Mezzanine, but a Collected is essential). Neat packaging is key, vital.

And so it is that we give you, the The First City Interviews' Anthologies. Smartly packaged as The Still Point (Art), Wordsmiths (Writers), Mixed Tape (Music), Selections from 1990-2007 (The First City Interviews Volume I & II). Interviews that are conversations - revelatory, definitive, evocative, epic. Executed in unique First City style, all of them rendered anew, true, be it MF Husain, Shah Rukh Khan, Vikram Seth, Syed Haider Raza, Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia, Dayanita Singh, Pandit Ravi Shankar, Prabuddha Dasgupta, Phoolan Devi, Anjolie Ela Menon, Arundhati Roy, Kishori Amonkar, MIDIval Punditz, Karsh Kale, David Bailey, Naseeruddin Shah.

So, the real thing in the First City Magazine, still. The Big Five might just be even better.

Buy a copy at the office:
A 7, Sarvodaya Enclave, 2nd floor, Ph: +91 11 46000200. Landmarks: Mother's School, Opp IIT.
All five, for 1200 bucks, and priced at 300 bucks, each.
Payment in cash.

not gaga enough

2011-02-02T15:52:00.007+05:30

Lady Gaga is always on our horizon somewhere. For better or worse. For eg: L'etranger gave the Ed Room a vital piece of information the other day, "She's coming up with her own line of perfume. It will smell of blood and semen."
Got me thinking, in almost articulate prose, what about the Lady jars with me. No, it's not just that the perfume idea is gross (Of course, it's gross, it's meant to be gross). But the thing is to move beyond that. The perfume idea, symbolises to me, the inherent conundrum that is Lady Gaga. Every shocking, perverse, gross, deranged (gaga, in short) idea that can be manipulated to public effect has been DONE. To death, even. People have crucified themselves to comprehend the burden of Christ, and reality television implodes on our screens, day after primetime TV day, so what good (harm) can a meat dress do, really? Madonna has happened, Lady, long long time ago. A nothing you've done so far comes close to the hulchul of her fetishising, am afraid.
Blood and semen and meat. Seriously? Not gaga enough for me.

floatin'

A Prodigious Night

2011-01-27T11:19:00.009+05:30

The Feb issue is done. I hope. It went for print day before. Ask any FC member how it is for us during press time. Meeting deadlines, proofing, corrections keep us on the edge till the very end. So, going out for an evening isn’t in our schedules as such. And the Prodigy concert seemed like something that would take place somewhere very far away – outside the margins of our possibilities. And yet, perhaps due to some divine intervention and my friend’s unrelenting persuasion we found ourselves at the Huda Grounds, just before the Prodigy would claim the stage.

There were drinks being served outside and although our parched throats were begging for some quenching, we couldn’t afford to stand in the endless cue. It would have been nice though to get a little tipsy for the concert. But time wouldn’t allow it. So we just flashed our passes and rushed through the gates. And as we entered, they did too.

“ALL MY PEOPLE IN DELHI,” Maxim roared into the mike, staring at the gathering, with his painted face, as if in rage. And thousands roared back in unison – I don’t know what, but seemingly, in approval. And that was it! Beginning with ‘The Omen’, an hour and a half long of trance had begun. I had always thought of myself as someone who enjoyed music and all that but from a distance. I never had completely succumbed to a moment and let myself loose and get carried away and I am not the best Prodigy fan. But that night, despite my sobriety, I just lost it like never before. I was jumping, hooting, whistling, making signs I do not understand with my fist and fingers and flailing them into the sky in high hopes of the band seeing me do it.

Every experience has its epiphany. And for me, and I am sure for most, the epiphanic moment arrived as Maxim commanded the audience, from his well deserved pedestal, to ‘go down’, beckoning us to lay low, almost squat. And everyone obeyed as if it was one of the commandments. And suddenly, the frequency plummeted into the sky and everyone instinctively rose and started jumping higher and higher to the chants of ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.

It was crazy. The music was ferociously loud, the tremors of which thundered through our skins and into our brains. It was some kind of occult experience as everyone danced and jumped weirdly, as if in some state of trance; as if in some kind of apocalyptic explosion.

What the Prodigy delivered on the night of 15^th January was a performance Delhi perhaps had never witnessed before. And it was the largest electronic concert in town, and the first of its kind here. Bright flashing lights, raging electronic noise, crazy dancing on stage and outside, and a cosmopolitan gathering going berserk, shouting ‘The writing’s on a wall/ It won’t go away’ made it all unforgettable and yet to explain that experience or even remember it, is impossible. I lost myself completely as I closed my eyes and jumped higher and higher. Higher and higher!

L'etranger

Haunted Hillside

2011-01-18T16:52:00.002+05:30

This is the extended disco remix of an article appearing in FIRST CITY's February 2011 issue, in the FCINSIDE section. (Oh, and hello again. It's been a while.)

Horror stories, one imagines, should begin with a howling wolf, ideally perched on an improbable ledge on the side of a mountain, with perhaps a bat or three gliding through the fog for verisimilitude. This one begins on a much more prosaic note, an agrument in a brightly lit office, about ghosts, whether they exist, and if so, if they have the brains to move out of the deep mountains where all good ghost stories begin, and into the city of djinns, where all good ghost stories go to grow up.

Having been thoroughly routed in the war of words, I retreat to the age old way of convincing the unbelieving. “I’ll go and find one,” I proclaim smugly. Two days later, some of that smugness has left, and in its place, a vague feeling that I’m not going to like what I find, coupled with the realisation that while it’s incredibly butch to park a couple of kilometres away from the allegedly haunted spot, it’s also not the best idea on a frigid January night. No matter, at least I’ve got solid protection with me - a burly, unimaginative product of the Punjab named Aman, lathi gripped firmly in one hand. The lathi seems like a bit of overkill; you can’t really lay the smack down on a ghost; but it seems to make him happy. Oh well.

The spot we’re heading toward is located a kilometre or two away from the intersection of the DLF main road and the road heading toward Faridabad. The road is lonesome enough at night, especially in the winter; fog rolling in from all sides, nothing but undeveloped land in every direction, and the vague rumble of trucks somewhere in the distance. As I walk past the intersection, the heavy, misty air swirling and parting before me, I cant help but feel the vague, first stirrings of unease. This road is emptier than I remember, and the night is colder than I expected; but it’s more the way that the fog deadens all sounds that makes me wish I hadn’t been so smug about things. As I turn to talk to Aman, the unease turns to full blown panic, words choking in my throat. A woman is walking toward us, white sari clad, moving silently, with one arm outstretched. A clatter of wood as the brave son of Punjab hares off into the distance, lathi abandoned where it fell, and then she’s too close for comfort. It’s the eyes that really frighten; they’re dead, no sign of life or energy, just a blank look boring into my soul, arm still outstretched. Her hair is wild and unruly, yet lush; like nothing I’ve ever seen before. There’s something… wrong about her; I can’t help looking deep into her eyes, expecting some reaction, some acknowledgement that I’m as human as she is; but there’s nothing. Just emptiness. Her arm is still outstretched, though; and as the panic slowly fades, I realise she’s asking for money, or food, or something; frightening as she is, she’s just looking for some help. I dig into my pockets, find a note and pass it over, expecting some sort of reaction; but again, there’s nothing.

“Aap kahan se ho? Aap yahan itna late kya kar rahe ho? (Where are you from? What are you doing here so late?)” I ask, fighting to keep the tremble out of my voice. No reply, and now I’m really getting creeped out. Aman is slowly making his way back, slightly shamefaced, and I try again, “Can I help you? Is there anything you need?” Still nothing. “Dude, lets go, leave her man, lets just get out of here.” Sage advice, I feel. Walking quickly away from her, I turn for one last look - she’s standing in the same spot, arm outstretched, watching us. We hurry away.

A few minutes down the road, we come to our second surprise; and having muffed the first one so badly, Aman seeks to make good. There’s an old, turbaned man crouched by the wayside, feeding a small fire, and Aman approaches him, recently retrieved lathi at the ready. “Bhaisaheb, aap kaun ho? Yahan koi bhoot voot toh nahi dekha? (Brother, who are you? Have you seen any ghosts around here?)” As I open my mouth to protest this out and out biasing of the sample - seriously, who’s going to respond properly to that one? - the old man wheezes a chuckle and says “Ji haan, yahan to bahut bhoot hain. Aap dekhenge? (Of course, there are several around here. You want to see one?)”

“Kaise bhoot? (What kind of ghost?)” I ask warily, the hair on the nape of my neck beginning to rise. I don’t want to see any more scary women. Or men. As I start to curse this bright idea in the privacy of my head, the old man floors us with a simple line.

“Arre, bakre ke bhoot. Aur kaunse yahan milenge? (Goat ghosts of course. What other kind did you think you’d find here?)” As Aman bursts into delighted laughter, and I thank whatever gods are watching us for bringing us a harmless old madman, he continues. “Strange things happen here at night. Plants inside walled compounds are eaten, except there are no animals around. This farm behind me,” he waves a gnarled and ancient hand at a small compound behind me, “this farm used to have vegetables growing inside it. Now there’s nothing, because the owner is fed up of having to fire guards for taking his crop. That’s what he thought was happening. Now there’s nothing here, no one, and nobody will buy the land either.”

Goat ghosts. I’m not convinced. Much more likely that the owner was right about the thievery. We nod, though, and proceed to leap the wall, the old man’s cackle sounding out across the barren land. The plot is empty, as he said. Some half eaten plants struggling to survive, again, like he said. Weirdly enough, some of the bite marks on the plants look fresh; but the only gate leading into the compound is shut, the heavy lock rusted firmly shut. There’s no way that animals could have leaped the wall; there’s broken glass lining it. We leap over again, and return to the old man; who refuses to talk to us anymore. “Dekh liya?” he cackles, before turning back to his fire, and ignoring us thoroughly after that. Disgusted, we decide to abandon the expedition; it’s really cold, there doesn’t seem to be anyone who can actually tell us what’s going on, and as for the reason that this place spawns ghost stories, well… it makes sense. Insane old men and silent lady beggars are enough to give anyone the creeps.

As we return to the intersection, I keep an eye open for the lady. Don’t want to get surprised again. She’s not there, though; and as I get into my car and slam the door shut, I get my last surprise for the night. An aged, wizened, broken toothed face leers at me through the window, while ancient hands beat at the glass, clawed and jagged nailed. In the receding terror, while my heart returns to it’s regular one per second, I roll down the window, offer her the last of my money, and ask “Aap woh doosre madam ke saath hain? (Are you with the other lady?”)

“Kaun? Woh lambi waali? Rajkumari? (Who? The tall one? The princess?” I nod, and she cackles louder, almost capering with delight, a grotesque parody of joy, given that’s she’s tall, ancient looking, and practically a moving skeleton; “Saab, jin log ko bhoot dikhte hain, unke saath bhoot rehte hain… (Sir, the people who see ghosts, those are the ones ghosts stay with…)”

Trifeck

Review: No One Killed Jessica

2011-01-11T16:07:00.004+05:30

Recently, my friends asked me if I like Bombay in films or Delhi. I pondered over the question and decided that I liked Bombay in the older films and Delhi in the newer ones. Come to think of it, Delhi does seem to be the muse to the new crop of filmmakers attempting to redefine the idea of neutral, non-invasive European or American cities that allow love stories to concentrate on its bubble gum. No sweat patches, no dug-up roads, no crowds that seem to be stuck together in a vacuumed plastic bag. In other words, not a city that breathes down your neck, violates your space, breaks your heart for the most mundane reasons. I often wonder if Karan Johar shoots his films in New York because he can’t bear the heat and dust in India. But recent films revel in these very things. The city is the most important character and if anyone had any doubt, this film begins thus.. D D D Dilli Dilli Dilli. And Delhi persists and stares at you from every frame, not unlike the men in it that want to be photographed.

The film was supposed to be called Who Killed Jessica. But the fact is that we all know who and when and why. So rather than the idea of who did it the title reflects the sarcasm for a faux mystery that started out as an open and shut case. There’s hostile witnesses, tampered evidence, corruption, sting operations and public opinion proving greater than the power of being ‘Somebody’. For the director then the story was, so to speak, ready-made and he mostly does a good job of staying faithful to the events relatively recent in public memory. In fact, the scene with the sting operation on Vikram Jaisingh (played by Niel Bhoopalam) reads almost identical to the transcript of the original operation on Shayan Munshi done by Tehelka.

If there is one thing we know about Rajkumar Gupta (Director) from Amir and now from NOKJ is his terrific knack for drama. He knows exactly how to accentuate and take the scene to a worthy climax. In the beginning of the film when Sabrina (Vidya Balan) is to find out about the tragedy that has befallen her sister, the screen seems black until the mobile phone starts ringing and intermittently illuminates her sleeping face. In a cinema where adaptations of actual events are rare and often dry or extremely simplistic, Gupta’s film can be seen as a success in its re-telling. However, the changes that he makes, probably for the sake of dramatic liberty, are questionable. The fact is that Jessica was 34 when she was killed, but in the film she is only 23. Does it make her death more tragic? Also, various people and parts of the media were instrumental in garnering public opinion, but the film condenses the multiplicity of voices into the single character of Meera Gaity (Rani Mukerjee). She is the bitch with the golden touch, the brash face of new-age heroism, complete with punch lines and flourishes and dramatic turns to the camera, reminding us that stories may not have heroes but Bollywood needs them to justify the star system.

The film doesn’t make complete villains of those responsible for the shooting or the witnesses that turned hostile. Especially, because it would have been easy and convenient to do so. Although, at times, it does indulge in borderline caricaturising of these characters. Besides the stars, the casting of the film is commendable. Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub as Manu Sharma is assured in his vulnerability of having done wrong. The music (Amit Trivedi) is the true triumph of the film as it grows into the story so that it’s impossible to separate the two.

The film is worth a watch because it is undoubtedly among films that are slowly but surely articulating a new language for Bollywood, one that actually comes from the people that it is going to.

humpty dumpedme

new art ++

2011-01-04T13:48:00.002+05:30

“I remember, in my first show in New York, they asked, ‘Where is the Indian-ness in your work?’ Now, the same people, after having watched the body of my work, say, ‘There is too much of Indian philosophy in your work’… They’re looking for a superficial, skin-level Indian-ness, which I’m not about.” Bangalore-based artist Alwar Balasubramaniam, maker of false walls that challenge superficial beliefs, who’s now moving to a village in or der to “breathe out” Guggenheim and the likes, poses the conundrum that The Singh Twins, Brit-Indian expats, resolve, in a way, in their miniatures that embrace an Indian way of life, “I remember going to school before India was cool, getting very weird looks about wearing henna on my hands, but Madonna comes along with henna on her hands, and suddenly it is body art!”, and again affirming that with, “If you go to an Indian village, you’ll find a woman making a figure of mother earth out of a mound of earth. It’s outside the gallery context, but that’s conceptual art.” Subodh Gupta, our homegrown conceptual artist, tells us about the long road that reads ‘Danapur to Delhi’, but only obliquely, remarks, “It’s not about just creating yourself, or doing something that’s fantastic… Art has a much wider canvas today, to do something and say more than that”, his signature frames intact. While Ranjani Shettar, creator of wispy forms that aim to defy gravity, expounds on the “touch” that means the world to her. Bharti Kher considers “joining the crazies in Minneapolis or something”, in FIRST CITY, while Thukral and Tagra trip on the obsession that is “going abroad”. In the New Art Issue…

… But that’s just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

If you’re looking for a recipe for the Slow-Cooked Pork Belly with Onion Marmalade, Cibo style, you still got to pick up FIRST CITY. The Chef also regales you with that story about the alligator mommy and the baby, who ended up as a side-dish. But for a better aftertaste, there’re New Restaurant Reviews, What’s New, Food Festivals, Suburban Corner, Dish, Drink, Dessert, Revisiting, in FOOD & NIGHTLIFE.

There’s a lot happening to offset the low temperatures in the city this month. His Holiness the Dalai Lama plans to add some sunshine cheer with his talk on happiness, the Bharat Rang Mahotsav kicks off and plays out through January, and the Prodigy, yup, is coming to town. FC2 gives you previews and listings, so you can plan things out.

Also, we’re green and healthy in FCINSIDE this month; starting a new series, Dilli-By-Cycle, for us all to feel-breathe the city closely. Also featuring Alt Tab (the basement poster shop in Hauz Khas Village, the sketcher at Dilli Haat), the Expat Column (Jacek Ratajczak mourns about the lack of an underground in Delhi), Dinesh Khanna’s Doubletake and Nimret Handa’s Beautiful Delhi.

Whilst FCBOOKS has its own winding narrative, as always. Gerard Woodward crafts the perfect dirty letter and calls it Nourishment, while Omair Ahmad builds the story of Jamaal and how he becomes Jimmy the Terrorist. Zac O’ Yeah claims his Swedish-ness and hands out a few Nobels for crime fiction in his wishful thinking list, while Tishani Doshi pens ‘the first bastard boyfriend’ and other such life’s anomalies, in verse, exclusively, for FCBOOKS. Also, featuring Reviews, High Five, the new First City anthology on art interviews since 1990, The Still Point.

All this in January 2011. On the newsstands. 50 bucks.

rounding up an audible 2010: what we were listening to this year

2010-12-29T17:12:00.007+05:30

RATED R - Rihanna

Sure, it’s all a deliberate pose - the cover that’s meant to give us the demented boyfriend deja vu, the snap and crackleof the words that speak of lives flashing before eyes, heads smacking against car windscreens, the music that attempts to blow a short fuse. All carefully constructed, and it all works. She’s got sass and the attitude of a hustler so pre-requisite to the genre she belongs to, Rihanna.

THE FAME MONSTER - Lady Gaga

It’s a sad commentary on the musical landscape that genius has to go to such lengths to be noticed in today’s world of poseurs, pretenders and pretty faces. There's an unshakeably confident and weirdly beyond-it-all-but-so-in-it Madonna like quality to her music too. The album is old school and unconventional in the style of a Beyoncé or an Aguilera, or even a TLC; its novelty lies in the direction the drama is coming from. This isn’t a little girl trying to be soulful and deep while keeping the edgy and freaky beat going. Nor is this a talentless pseudo pornstar making it big by taking her clothes off. This is a full blown diva from the 70s, completely unafraid of where and who she is, transplanted into the morass of 21^st century Hollywood. Leather clad, lyrically astounding, musically outstanding - but so damn weird, it’s awesome.

OF THE BLUE COLOUR OF THE SKY - Ok Go

Crazy, loud and high-pitched,an echo that soon becomes a shout. Exhilarating and hard to digest. Rebellious, inspiring and reeks of freedom.

CONGRATULATIONS - MGMT

They sound like kids trying on rock music for size, searching for a voice that defines them, having way too much fun in the process. They‘re super-talented, be it in crafting chord changes, or in devising the arrangement, or in creating lyrical quality, or simply in their phenomenalk ability to surprise - all marks of solid rock bands. Where they go from hjere will now be interesting space-watch.

HOW TO DESTROY ANGELS - How to Destroy Angels

In his never-ending quest for eternal coolness, Trent married Mariqueen Maandig (ex-West Indian Girl), formed How to Destroy Angels, and probably forced her to sing on this album. And this debut release establishes Trent as the hippest, with it-est musician this side of John (Ono) Lennon and Mark David Chapman’s gun. We admit, Trent’s a conniving genius. The music could be (crudely) classified as Nine Inch Nails-lite. Reznor’s schizophrenic breakdowns and bizarre antics on the synth/laptop remain, but they are considerably toned-down. The album kicks off with The Space in Between, a groovy track with the usual Reznor histrionics wailing away in the background. The crucial difference here is vocal delivery, with Maandig providing a pleasant melody (almost trip-hoppish) and a measured approach to songwriting. In fact, Reznor seems to be holding back in the first half of the album, letting the wife take center stage. The album takes getting used to, requiring a few listens to grasp. The songs get slightly repetitive at times – mostly mid-tempo sound guzzlers designed to strike a balance between atonal industrial whatnots in the background and pretty vocals. But your feet won’t stop tapping. It’s like a nervous tick, except enjoyable. Just for that, this album is worthy of at least a couple of open-minded listens.

THE WILD TRAPEZE - Brandon Boyd

The vocal melodies wouldn’t be out of place on an Incubus record, with single Runaway Train, and Courage and Control, sounding like vocal outtakes from Light Grenades, but the melodies will gravitate you towards the songs; a guilty pleasure if you will - akin to that extra drink that leaves you throwing up on the toilet, you might end up humming (or spewing) these songs for days. The craftiness of the album lies in its quirks. I have an admission of guilt here – I love groove. And I was hooked to this album upon hearing the second song, Here Comes Everyone, which grabs you in your special place with its infectious groove and other-worldly harmonies. Unusual song structures, and aforementioned groove, make sure that the album doesn’t become monotonous – without them it’s just Boyd singing sometimes-derivative melodies over a sweet-sounding acoustic guitar, and the short length of the songs ensures that they don’t overstay their welcome at any point during the 35 minute duration of The Wild Trapeze.

COME AROUND SUNDOWN - The Kings of Leon

The End is what starts off Come around Sundown. Prophetic, that, to those who’ve been watching the Kings of Leon slowly (but surely) grow up to be U2 (and are annoyed at the prospect of another U2). For those of us who don’t find that the worst news of the decade (especially since Lady Gaga has already grown up into the new Madonna, apparently), this is a pretty good album; think Only by the Night, only slower, groovier, its biggest sin is a certain repetition. Which comes about only because Jared, Matthew and Nathan (the rest of the Followill brothers gang), are solely relying on Caleb to deliver the sound. Maybe it’s time to fight for your solos now, boys, and please make them eight-minute long. There’s epic confidence that swells on The Face, languid atmosphere that reigns supreme on The Immortals, and there’s the adrenaline rush of Radioactive, the laidback drive of Beach Side, the wicked funk of Pony Up, and the fitting end that is Pickup Truck, about “the romance of the southern man”, the brothers have said. What the album scores major points on is structure, for sure, but you must rewind back to The End for a last listen again. It is, of course, in the tradition of all time great rock bands who compose a track with that title, but The Kings are clearly in no hurry to get where they’re going… The road ahead says ‘U2’, but let’s not tell Bono!