Random Thoughts of a Demented Mind

Forthcoming Events For The Mine

2012-02-03T15:26:36Z

At Mumbai, Pune and Bangalore respectively.

The Mine Launch Event Is Today

2012-01-28T05:05:51Z

If you are in the NCR, please do try to be there for the official launch event of “The Mine” at India International Center Conference Room III and Lawns from 6:30 pm where I shall be in conversation with noted critic Jaiarjun Singh to be followed by a open QA session involving the audience. The book, or blog and/or anything else will be discussed.

No invitation cards are required. Please walk right in. [IBN review of "The Mine"]

The JawaniPur Fest

2012-01-26T01:29:02Z

Reporting live from the Jawanipur Cliterature Fest—- Into its sixty-ninth edition, this the largest convention of adult media lovers, has had its biggest year yet. And no I am not referring to the orgasmic frenzy triggered by the arrival of Oooh-aaah, one of the biggest adult stars of the world who spectacularly announced at the fest grounds that his life has been like the Qutb Minar. Nor am I referring to the massive numbers who have thronged and thong-ed the venue. I am talking instead about the huge controversy that has blown everyone away—what the press are calling now L’affair Savita Bhabhi.

Trouble started once it was announced that Savita Bhabhi, has been asked to deliver the event keynote.

Viewers may remember that Savita Bhabhi is officially banned in the republic of Offendia.

[Cut to shot of person from “Protection of Pubic Morality And Phemily Values”] “This lady has destroyed the moral fabric of our nation. Saali hoti hai aadhi gharwaali, bhabhi ke saath kare kharabi—– when will the dirtyfication of our pavitra rishtas stop? Is there nothing sacred any more?”]

A few days ago, the government of Offendia declared that they had intelligence that four gang-bangers, essentially killers for money-shots, were coming to the festival site to gag the Bhabhi. The response to this threat (which some quarters have suggested is very very silicon-fake) from the festival organizers has been mixed—they had told Ms. Bhabhi to come, stop, come again and then stop leading to speculation whether pressure is being brought to bear from various quarters, some of them quite high-up.

A festival spokesman said “This is an event where adult media lovers from all over the world, common men and women like the pizza-delivery man, mailman, nurse, cop, come and share whatever it is they want to share with similar-minded people. We do not want controversy but honestly do not mind the free press it gives us.”

Speaking exclusively to our channel, a critic of the Fest said “Hah ! Don’t let the egalitarian claptrap fool you. This fest is what is known as the velvet room in an orgy…the elite sanctum where you can look in but cannot enter. It’s all mutual back-patting and la-dee-daa-ing inside. A bunch of swollen heads trying to get a head. And this Bhabhi thing—-fashionable champagne activism from the velvet room. Hah again!”

Speaking also exclusively to our channel, a critic of the critic of the Fest stuck his head out from the velvet room “That man is just jealous he was not invited. What a troll. Incidentally, all of us here appreciate the fact that Bhabhi has taken a position and is not kneeling down.”

And if all the drama was not enough, the very popular author of “Point Five Something” and “One Night At Call Girl Center”, in one of the sessions, opined that one must not make heroines out of people who give too much attention to lingerie-salesmen or boys playing cricket near her home. This statement was greeted with shocked gasps by the Fest crowd, most of whom revere Bhabhi as an iconic figure, one who has stood for freedom of speech and action for decades.

In protest against what they perceived as a hardening of stances, four courageous authors performed acts from some of her most famous works (like the very Kafkaian “Interview” ) in public. The festival authorities have gone on record saying that they would like to keep their hands-off from this though they have been watching from a distance. Some of the courageous authors then took planes and left the country, once it became public knowledge that law enforcement have been playing their tapes again and again with sound-off.

There was talk that Bhabhi might do a live webcam performance but even that the authorities shot down. Instead she put out an oral statement where she said that the top of the country has not been with her but the bottom has always been with her. “A woman of the people I am” she said her voice dripping with emotion to which the Fest critic merely gave a light tremor of disapproval.

(Some ideas based on discussion on Twitter)

[Note: My book "The Mine" has its launch event on the 27th at India International Center, 40 Max Mueller Marg from 6:30 pm. I will be in conversation with noted critic Jaiarjun Singh. If in Delhi, please plan to be there.]

The High and The Mighty

2012-01-16T04:15:20Z

Indian fan, in search of answers, asks the High and the Mighty.

Ravi the Shastri: Why did India lose? Well, the Australian bowlers, strong strapping lads all of them, got the balls in the right areas, were straight, pitched up and hit the deck. Hard. Real hard. The pitch had some juice, there was bounce and carry, and the cherry was hard. Hard.Real hard. It was an important match and the Australians brought their A game but the Indians, their body language was all wrong and soon the cat was among the pigeons. Then…. [Fat lady sings]….oh wait that’s my ringtone….need to take this call. “Oh hello, Mr. BCCI, that cheque you sent me, it was a competitive total, but it had Sunny’s name written all over it…YES don’t you understand? it was in his name…the lady at the bank didn’t agree when I said ‘It doesn’t matter how they come as long as they come”…So please send me MY cheque fast, yes…mail it to me as fast as a tracer bullet…” So yes, as I was saying…

Rahul the Dravid: Of course we know why India lost. Because I am old. Slip catches slip through my fingers. I cannot bend down fast enough to yorkers and in-dippers. Rather than laughing at my fate, you should be ashamed that a man as old has to put on my gear and face up at No 3 while younger men develop shifty injuries right after IPL and stay at home. What next? Expect A K Hangal to head Blackcat commandos?

VVS the Laxman: India lost to Australia? You are wrong. India won. I personally made 281. And I have been saying Aftab Shivdasani will be the next Shahrukh Khan. What? Isn’t this 2001? Oh my God.I must have forgotten to take…

Tony The Greig: India humiliated in Australia? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA…..

Harbhajan The Singh: That’s what happens when you send Virat the Kohli, a mere boy, to do a man’s job. In 2007, when I gave gaalis, I turned the team around. These wannabes I tell you…

Sachin the Tendulkar: My 100th century. My 100th century. My 100th century. I think I will make myself available for ODIs to get it.

Virat The Kohli: Behen****, Teri maa ki *****, Yeh le mera *********

The Srini: When the Australians play in India, I assure you we WILL win. All right, all right, I will win. Chennai Super Kings will win. Compulsory hai.

Michael the Vaughan: India once again humiliated? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA…

Virender the Sehwag: Lost? As far as I am concerned, I have won. Personally, this has been a very good season. Two of Delhi Daredevil’s most exciting young talents, the Delhibois—Warner and Yadav have shown fine form. We have also bought Kevin the Pietersen, a batsman we Indians personally back to form in England. Our Bramhasastra Ajit the Agarkar will be well-rested come March. And finally, my season has been perfect—-some light bowling, some light batting, so that my shoulder stays loose without locking up. The last thing I want to do is to miss IPL. Because IPL matters.

Mahendra the Dhoni (in Hawaiian shirt and cool shades): Ooooh…ooohh…spare me the drama. First of all, let’s stop the ”Ooh Indian players dont care for Test matches” hand-wringing. Of course we don’t. We can play 5 ODIs and 20 T20s and make many many times the amount of money in the same time that we invest in a Test. So why should we care for them? Because “we are supposed to?” Because it’s somehow “great and noble and historic”? Why do you work for a private firm and not for the government? Why don’t you serve the nation? Rokhra. Same for you. Same for us.

You know what’s the bigger hypocrisy here? It’s not as if Indians even care for Test cricket. That’s why in India we play in front of a few thousand spectators, most of them school-kids bought there for free as outing from school.

What you DO care for is winning. That’s why you are upset. Because WE did not win. Because Agneepath became Agneephossh. This “WE” of course is a funny concept. Cause actually only “we”, the eleven players, win—we win money, we win fame and we win groupies in hotel rooms. You people convince yourself that this “we” includes you, if only to cover the singular lack of wins in your personal and professional lives. Not that I am complaining, this “WE” concept is why you paint your faces with blue, watch the ads, buy the cellphones and drink the soda and why “WE”, the real “WE”, live it large.

And that’s the thing. (chomping into a banana). I am trying to make all of us win. That’s why I hinted at retiring so that I can concentrate on ODIs and T20s.

In case you haven’t cottoned onto this yet, me and my generation suck at this five-day grind. So realistically we won’t be winning Tests abroad. We won’t be crying over it either, too much effort for not that much money. In ODIs and T20s, we have a decent chance of winning. And we really want to. It will make us more money with less effort. It will also make you, the paying public, happier because you have more wins to feel “proud” of.

How do I know we will win? Well not less than an year ago, I did win something big for you. Remember?

Understanding now no? Here… khayega kela?

Players–The Review

2012-01-09T03:00:29Z

At a climactic point of “The Players” where the protagonist and antagonist are engaged in a verbal O.K.Coral shootout, one of them says:

“Mera kaam hai naya twist laana. Tumhara kahani bahoot predictable ho gya hai”

Among the many special elements of “The Players” this was one of its finest, a moment of crystalline cinematic purity where the voice of the creator and the voice of his creation merge as one. It was as if the director-duo Abbas-Mastan, who are to film-making what Bonny and Clyde are to crime and Hobbs and Sutcliffe are to cricket, are trash-talking their contemporaries, those that make straight stories about straight people.

Because for Abbas-Mastan, it’s all about the twist. As a matter of fact so twisted are they, that within the first ten minutes, Abhishek Bachchan discovers a secret CD cut out in a novel, a novel sent to him by dead-criminal Aftab Shivdasani. No, the twist isn’t in the fact that someone gave Aftab Shivdasani 15 seconds of screen-time (which is what he had) or the fact that he would be seen with a book.

No the twist is in the name of the said tome.

“Oliver Twist”.

The twists of “Players” are present not only in the plot but also in Abbas-Mastan’s perception of reality. In that they are willing to twist the physical world, the laws of physics, geography and human behavior just in order to get that twist in. Like how they got that boat as the escape-vehicle in “Ajnabee” which many felt was rather twisted, since the story was set in land-locked Switzerland. Like how in “The Players”, a high-end jewellery store in Amsterdam is shown whose security is laughable, even after discounting the fact that Johnny Lever is an employee there.

Many of his critics pooh-pooh these minor reality-warps as plot holes, because catching “plot holes” makes them feel “Aha I caught you” superior. What they do not understand is that discovering so-called “plot-holes” in an Abbas-Mastan movie is like finding financial herapheri in the Commonwealth Games accounts book—there is no credit in it.

Actually the directors want you to feel smug and contented. Its the set-up that helps them pull the twist while you are feeling all god-damn superior. Or laughing your guts out.

Keen readers would have already noted the number of times I have used the word “twist” in this review. This in itself is a homage to the dashing director-duo whose ouvre is characterized by, among other things (like the prominence given to Johny Lever’s comedy routines and Bipasa Basu being made to play the exact same role in every movie), incessant repetition. In “Race”, the characters kept on using the word “race” in almost every sentence to emphasize the pace and the raciness of the movie. In “Players” the safe-word is “Baibaaaah”—”Dress me up baibaaah”, “Open the web baibaah” which we presume is Playaaah-like.

While on the subject of dialog, the research that has gone into “Players” is mind-boggling as Abbas-Mastan bring out perfectly the lingo used by international men and women of crime—-the profusion of “Baibaah”s, profoundities like “Playing ka time khatam hua. Let’s go for Gold”, “What a chick”, ”Players ! Jackpot !” and even a Tarantinoesque self-reference to a past film—”Ready for the Race Baibaah?” (It may be a co-incidence that the Race sequel is round the corner). And that is not all the Tarantino there is. There are hat-tips to the “Roop ki Raani Choron Ka Raja” train sequence and to the scene where Tanuja is killed in “Aatish” as also to Abhishek Bachchan’s greatest work (the “Idea” series of ads) with the line “What an idea.”

Not just repetition. Abbas-Mastan also is a master of replication. Unfortunately critics misrepresent this trait by using words like “copying” when analyzing Abbas Mastan’s past works. In “Players” he sends his haters for a chakka by legally buying the remake license from “Italian Job” which makes “Players” kind of like the Congress party—an Italian job at its core but with a lot of desi layered on top, like spaggheti served with tandoori chicken.

And what a feast ”Players” is. Mini Coopers. Johnny Lever saving the day. Bobby Deol as an “Illusionist” who wears a Mexican sombrero to look cool. Feats of deduction that would make Miss Jane Marple do an item-dance, like when Abhishek Bachchan deduces that a robbery was committed by a woman because only a woman would make sure to change the arrangement of the vase in the room she just robbed. Surreal sequences like where a Russian general does a strip-tease to “Mera joota hai Japani” and asks why Indians sing when they are horny. Sonam Kapoor tries desperately to look sexy. Abhishek Bachchan tries even more desperately to act. Bipasa Basu while masterminding a heist belts out lines, pregnant with subtle allusions, like “I can see the tunnel now” and “Main speed bara rahi hoon”.

Indeed. What a feast. Full of cheese.

In a season where the official “Players” are getting their asses handed to them in Australia with the only thing they can get up being their middle fingers, escape from it all by seeing the real “Players”.

Baibaaah.

The Birthday Post

2011-12-29T20:34:08Z

His birth-star glittered in the night sky. That day again.

The sell-sword felt his years. Every one of them. They had removed the arrows and dressed the wounds. Yet they still burned his flesh, more deeply tonight than on any other. As an old crone once said “A warrior carries his battles with him.”

He did.

Each scar. Each blow.

No one lives this long without having regrets. Certainly not a petty soldier of fortune.

The times he had raised his shield too slow. The times he had left his defenses open while going for the kill. The times when he had walked through the woods, opening himself to ambush and pain, rather than riding down the long winding highway. The false Gods he had worshipped. The false covenants he had made. The times he had been stabbed by the poisonous blade of treachery. The times he had done the same.

But most of all, he rued the moments wasted squabbling over trifles. The more summers he had gone through, the more he had realized how precious time is.

Regrets. They swirled around him like wraiths, their icy breath chilling him to the bone.

Having seen many winters though was not without its benefits. They threw a few more coins his way. He had good war stories to tell, some even true. The whelps bowed to his years. Of course they mocked him behind his back. He knew they did. He had been a whelp once too.

He dug into the mead with his fingers, as ravenous as a werewolf on a moon night. The strong ale hit the throat, warm like first love.

No. Not that bad. Life had been good. More or less. He thought of all he had known, better men than him, who lay fallen by the road, in the shadows, an arm or leg less, defeated by fate.

But he, he still walked.

The armor creaked. The steed wheezed under his weight. He feared the enemy inside, the one that kills silently without a sword, more than he ever did when he was young.

Yet he fought. Bled. Laughed. Killed. Lived. Dreamt.

He raised his goblet to the heavens.

And rode slowly into tomorrow.

Hawt

2011-12-25T16:38:35Z

Potol Babu Filmstar is one of Satyajit Ray’s greatest short-stories.

Its main thesis is that in theater or in cinema, there is nothing like an insignificant role; a truly skilled artist, even if given one word of dialog, can make it memorable.

Sanjay Kapoor is one of our greatest actors. His main thesis is similar.

“Only Indians are bothered about the length of a role instead of its impact,” complains Sanjay Kapoor. [Link]

Very right. As in movies and as in life length does not matter. What matters is whether you can hit, with searing impact that spot which is the nerve-center of all pleasure.

Yes I am talking about the heart.

If any proof of how great actors can make every second of screen-time count, no matter how few seconds he is given, one needs look no further than Anil Kapoor’s performance in MI4 Ghost Protocol.

It’s not that I had gone to see MI4 totally without any expectations of absolute awesomeness. For decades, Indian stars have been trying to cross-over to Hollywood—Dev Anand, Aishwarya Rai, Aamir Khan to name a few. Without too much success. Till the phenomenon of “Slumdog Millionaire” which catapulted Anil Kapoor, reportedly a UN-designated protected rain-forest because of the lush vegetation he supports, to Hollywood stardom.

As a matter of fact, there are few Oscar memories as heart-warming as Anil Kapoor running all about, like a teenage groupie at a Kid Rock concert, with stars in his eyes.

I was happy.

It was like someone I had grown up with had finally made it big. Lump in the throat. Honest.

Which is why I had decided, when I heard Anil Kapoor had been given the role of chief villain in MI4, that I would see it, no matter what the reviews. If for nothing else but to support the man.

Then the trailers came and Anil Kapoor was nowhere to be seen. Aah I thought, they are deliberately keeping him away from the pre-release publicity, like Kevin Spacey was for Se7en, so that he can make a surprise “jack in the box” appearance.

MI4 released. The papers said Anil Kapoor had been given a very small role and that the chief villain was someone else. No matter. Apne to apne hote hain. So I kept my promise.

And boy am I glad I did.

He comes late. Towards the climax.

The end-game has been intriguingly set up. A madman wants to nuke the world. The final piece of the puzzle are the satellite codes. And they are in the hands of a playboy millionaire from India, brilliantly named Brijnath. Yes. Brijnath is Anil Kapoor, the billionaire’s name.

The bad men are after it. So is Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) and his team. Which means both sides make a dash to our desh, the land of good Gosht protocol to get it from Brijnath.

Ethan Hunt cracks a plot that has classic Bollywood written all over it. The comely agent (played by Paula Patton) has to seduce Brijnath and get the satellite codes, in the same way that generations of heroines would distract the villain in his lair while the hero sabotaged the nefarious designs.

With the fate of the world in the hands of Brijnath, the plan is set in motion. The female agent makes no secret of the Patton tanks she is packing, clad as she is in a revealing evening dress. They catch Brijnath’s tirchi nazar.

What follows is sheer magic. In the next few minutes, Anil Kapoor cycles through each of his trademark mannerisms. The “Aap ko dekh ke” expression from Kishen Kanhaiyya. The rakish glance from “Zindagi Ek Jua”. The suaveness of “Chocolate”. The roll of eyes from “Boee Boee Bamba Bababam Boee”. The classy appreciation of female beauty of ”Ladki Hai Kya Re Bawa” from Ladlaa and “Tere Ang Ang Main Hai Jadoo” from Loafer. The cheery abandon of “Azaad Aya Re” from Mr. Azaad. The turbo-charged energy of “Hungama Ho Jaye Hungama.” The hairy passion from that love-making scene with Dimple from “Jaanbaaz”. The childish sexiness of “Batata Vada” from Hifazat. The body language of “Dil to Dil Hai” from “No Entry”. The jhak-assness as he jhaanks the ass. The romance of “Maalgadi tu dhakka laga”. The playfulness of “Roz karenge hum ku ku ku ku ku ku ku ku”. The raw expectancy of “Karobar” when Juhi Chawla tells him “Main aapne aap ko bechne aayi hoon”. And finally, at the end when he is outwitted by the crafty femme fatale, that expression of sexual defeat, reminding one of Abhimanyu when Kimi Katkar sings to him ” Utaar aapni dhoti aur…baandh meri sari”.

If the expressions are powerful, no less are the words. And how he says them. I do not think I am wrong when I say that his “My name is Brijnath. Waylcome to my humble home (with namaskar)” and “My Gawwdd., you are a pyassionate creayture” and “I would layke to show you my collection of (throaty whisper) aaaarttt” and “All Indian men are hawtttt, very hawttt” and the naughty “But you have to find me” may very well find their way into accent-correction modules, so authentic and propyaah they are.

And finally of course one must appreciate the meticulous research that went into that role.[Link]

“I make every role special even if anything special is not required and even if it a single scene by researching it and in this case there is a certain Indian billionaire and to a certain extent I have followed his mannerisms and so on,” he said.

As a matter of fact, Anil Kapoor squeezes in more drama and chills in those few minutes than Don 2 does in its entire running length. I will be honest. Don 2′s problem isn’t the plot holes, or its derivativeness (MI, James Bond, Ocean’s Eleven) or that Shahrukh Khan once again hams to high heavens.

It’s the fact that it is deadly boring.

And that is definitely not what you can say about Anil Kapoor’s MI4 cameo.

It’s not everyday that an actor’s histrionic pyrotechnics are so spectacularly explosive that, just by appearing in front of the camera for a few seconds, he can totally burn out the rest of the movie, one that has the blowing up of the Kremlin, a sandstorm, a protracted shoot-out, cat-fights, intense hand-to-hand combat, nuclear warheads flying about and edge-of-the-seats high altitude high jinks.

But then again it is not everyday that Anil Kapoor is in Mission Impossible.

The Mine Now Available For Preorder

2011-12-25T16:23:48Z

Yes it can’t get more blatant than that. My next novel “The Mine” (publisher: Westland, 290 pages) is now available for pre-order. (Links to some fine stores on the left-hand-side). For those of you too lazy emm too tired to move your eyes a few pixels to the left, here is a link to the Flipkart order-page.

For those who do not yet know that I have written a second book, I have. After my first novel “May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss”, I felt the need to move as much away as the MIHYAP-RTDM world as possible and try something different. Which is why I put on weight like Vidya Balan did for “Dirty Picture” and explored something totally out of, to use a phrase made popular by Guru Greg, my comfort zone. Thus was born “The Mine”, a psychological-horror thriller, based on an idea I have had for years.

So you ask—what is “The Mine” about? Let me copy-paste the back of book blurb.

At a secret mining facility somewhere in the deserts of Rajasthan, an ancient place of worship, with disturbing carvings on its dome, is discovered buried deep inside the earth. Soon the miners find themselves in the grip of terrifying waking nightmares. One tries to mutilate himself. Worse follows.

Five experts are called in to investigate these strange occurrences. Sucked into a nightmare deep underground, they embark on a perilous journey; a journey that will change them forever, bringing them face-to-face with the most shattering truth of them all…

The greatest evil lies deep inside.

So you once again ask—what is “The Mine” about? Yes. I know. That blurb really does not say much. But that’s unfortunately all I can reveal for now. Kapil Sibal’s orders.

If you want to know more though, may I interest you in an extract from the book, the Prologue, over at the CNN IBN website.

One thing I would like to say about “The Mine” though. It is not a homage to the Ramsay-Harinam Singh-Joginder horror ethos. Many people think that the seriousness that surrounds it is part of the “act” and that any time, Doodhwala Baba or a Khooni Panja will make their appearance on its pages. Let me assure you that there will be nothing of the sort.

The best part of writing a book, at least for me, is the book tour. This time, I will be covering more cities than I did for MIHYAP. Which means I am coming to a book-store near you. Here below is the schedule.

Apologies if you find your city not in the list.

Double apologies if you do find your city there.

January 27, 2012 India International Center, New Delhi.

January 31, 2012 Starmark South City, Kolkata

February 4, 2012 Landmark Infinity Mall, Mumbai

February 7, 2012 Crossword ICC Tower, Pune

February 11, 2012 Reliance Time Out, Cunningham Road, Bangalore

Whatever important you have planned that day, be it a photoshoot with FHM or a Rahul Gandhi rally, please ditch. And come to the event.

What else? Let’s see.

Please follow updates at the Facebook page or alternatively (for those of you who do not like to “Like”) at this blog. Also watch the trailer if not for anything else but for the fantastic musical theme composed by Prateek Dubey. “The Mine” does not have a non-India publisher (I have not looked for one) but will be available on Kindle from February 2012 for all of you outside the country.

Finally, please do spread the word. Twitter. Facebook. The works.

Thank you in advance.

[PS: Will be on http://ibnlive.in.com/chat/ at 6 pm IST on Thursday, December 22nd, 2011 for a live chat on "The Mine" and other topics. Please do plan to attend]

The Wannabe Trends of 2011

2011-12-15T16:39:26Z

Like love, it is difficult to define wannabeness. You just know when you see it. Like when beefcake Akashdeep Saigal, of Big Boss, insists that he be called SkyWalkR. Like when Sreesanth speaks with an accent on Love2HateU but another, the real one, comes out from time to time, like a torn Lux baniyaan strap peeping out from behind that Louis Vuitton.

This brainless, thoughtless me-too-ness with aspersions of coolness—-ooh the humanity.

Yes I know I am sounding like one of those old men who sit on park benches and rail against the world.

I understand that perhaps wearing trousers in place of dhotis was considered wannabeness once upon a time.

I also remember that when I was in high school, the legendary Anjan-Babu of South Point High School made me rap in the staff-room, dubbing me “The Baba” because I had publicly announced my admiration for Baba Sehgal, something considered then to be the height of wannabeness.

And finally I consider myself a progressive person who understands the inevitability of the proverbial generation gap.

But despite it all, some things, some things, just still keep grating away at me like nails on chalk.

So here they are—the wannabe, most infuriating trends of the year. Agree with me. Or I will poke you in the eye with my Mahendra Lal Dutt black umbrella.

Cause you are in my corner of the park.

The Second Freedom Struggle: You are 20-something. Your knowledge of Gandhi-ism comes from Munnabhai. Your idea of political struggle is inspired by Rang De Basanti. You consider yourself apolitical because “all politicians are crooks.” You think we can live in peace with Pakistan if only the politicians get out of the way. You normally change the channel whenever there is anything remotely seriously political on TV because “Yaar these politicians are such buddhas”.You saw the Islamic revolution in Egypt (of course you thought it was a mass uprising of the “democracy” against “dictator” because our Indian news channels told you) and thought “Hey dude, I want my Tahrir Square. Looks so cool ya.” And so when this hullabaloo over corruption happens, you put on your white T-shirt, balance a Gandhi topi on your head, paint colors on your face (the news channels always pick these girls up to show), go wild on Facebook, and then, with all friends, hang out at the Maidan.

So far, it’s fine. Not that I like it. But it’s fine.

But then you decide to call this “India’s second freedom struggle”. Why? It’s a cute marketing slogan. Cause there is that rush of living that freedom-fighter experience. Like being on a roller-coaster. Like bungee-jumping.

I hate to break this to you little kid but if you think the first freedom struggle was about rock-concerts, theme songs, one-day cutey “de-tox” fasts, and a half-drunk actor and a honest management guru fulminating on stage….you have no idea. Not that I would not dare attempt to tell you what it was, but it consisted of lives torn, solitary confinement in dark cells on islands for islands and sacrifice of the type none of us would dare to understand. Not that we need to either. The point though remains. Do not delude yourself into thinking that this is the “second freedom struggle”. In any way. We can argue till the cows come home about everything else about this whole Lok Pal thing, but can we agree on this? Please?

Flash Mobs: Men urinating on walls in broad daylight. We, as a nation, know all about flashing. As to spontaneous assembly of people united by a common goal, well we know all about that too. So honestly, as a concept, there was nothing new about flash mobs. But then they were doing it in foreign cities—in stores, in malls, in public squares. To Jai Ho no less. Our national song. From that great movie “Slumdog Millionaire”, which makes us feel so proud.

So you see we had to do it. Mumbai did. Nice. Now Delhi, wannabe central, had to replicate it. For the first time though, Delhi police were pro-active in preventing an act of terror by stopping them within a few steps. No such mercies in Hyderabad where the flash mob was as spontaneously pleasing as a Dr. Manmohan Singh speech. Bangalore evidently did some collective freeze-unfreeze act which Kolkatans of course laughed at. Spontaneous freezing of the city for no reason. Very original.

And so now this cloud of “Me-too” will spread from city to city as the harried citizens of India, under attack from price-rise, a falling national currency and misgovernment have to face the ever-present threat of a bunch of wannabes, like jack-in-the-boxes, popping out of the crowd and rubbing their carefree abandon into their faces.

Kolaveri-Di Knockoffs: I am not complaining when instead of avian flu, the most dangerous virus you can catch is the “Kolaveri Di”. It is a nice, catchy song whose greatest achievement, and this I understood after hearing Dhanush sing on “Star Ya Rockstar” was the voice correction that seems to have done to make him sound good. Quite remarkable, I would say, for something marketed as something “spontaneous”.

But then the prevalent air of wannabess took over—everyone had to have their own version of the song. So there was the Punjabi one.

The hot girls one.

The super-wannabe one.

My personal favorite: The sexy boys, tree-humping version.

And then in a killer kung-fu chop of undiluted wannabeness, the execrable Bangali one. Murderous rage. I think I understand what it means.

La Tomatina: Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara was pure testicle-puree. In it men were reduced to these “sensitive” stereotypes that women objectify, the ones who buy expensive bags for their fiances and go to exotic places to “discover themselves”. If that was not bad enough, a bunch of moneyed morons from all across the country were so influenced by the spectacle of the human tomato Katrina Kaif jumping on tomatoes that they decided they needed to do it themselves. Screw the cultural context and history.

We have money and we will spend it by dancing on tomatoes. No matter if it is less about tomatoes and more about men dancing on poles.

We love it. Cause it makes us feel like Hrithik or Katrina. Plus tomato is good for the skin. And there is always the possibility of getting tomatoey with a hot “gal”.

Nothing I can do about it since they are your greenbacks. Except to pray that you wannabes find yourself in front of raging bulls one day. They shall give the Spanish life that you so desire. Or in this case, death.

The Legend of Sir Aggie

2011-12-11T06:30:57Z

India has been blessed with great talents in the 90s, pace bowlers breathing hell, fire and brimstone. There was Srinath, of the whippy action, who would throw his hands up in the air whenever the ball was creamed past point with a “I would have caught that you slow-moving fielder” and seemed to be still grumbling about it, as he round-armed his throws from the deep. There was Prasad with his slow and slower ball about whom it has been said that many of his deliveries, like light from distant stars, have not yet reached the batsman many years after he released them from his fingers. There was Debashish Mohanty, all gangly arms and legs, Harvinder Singh, Abey Kuruvilla, Doda Ganesh, David Johnson, Thiru Kumaran—a line of carving stations at a sumptuous Vegas buffet, that would get batsmen from across the world melting in their own saliva.

And yet above of all them was this one man. A colossus. A legend. My personal favorite.

Sir Aggie.

The fastest to get 50 wickets in One Day Internationals. A century at Lord’s. A match-winning 6 wickets in Australia. Great corkers, like that late-leaver which bowled Kallis. Montages like this.

But the thing about Sir Aggie, as in what makes him special, are not those glorious moments, few and far in between as they are. It is how he went from one of those moments to the other— the pleasure, as they say, of his journey.

An important match on. India has set the target. Opposition chasing. First spell of Sir Aggie. 5 overs for 18 runs and 2 wickets. Second spell. 2 overs for 11 runs. Some reverse-swinging. All good. Now it is the 46th over. The game in balance. Project submission due tomorrow. I have spent the whole night awake.

India has to win, to make it worth the pain.

And then Sir Aggie comes in for his final burst. Like the crack of doom.

Short and wide. Cracking square-cut. FOUR. The legend is just getting warmed up. The second. Overpitched. FOUR again. The next ball. WIDE. Down the leg side. The third ball gets the batsman one-run as Sir Aggie gets it into the blockhole. The fourth ball he misses the yorker, it becomes a full-toss. SIX straight into the crowds. Next one is hustled to deep-square leg for two. Captain moves fielders around, brings up fine-leg. With an impish delight, Sir Aggie spears it down the leg-side. FOUR. Game over, folks. Required run-rate is now 3.5 off the remaining with the only suspense being which of the two opposing batsmen hit the winning runs.

96 overs. Wasted. No sleep. Anger gurgling up like lava from the pits of Hell.

Sir Aggie has come through. Yet again.

What made Sir Aggie so brilliant, and this I have realized after years of experiencing joyous teeth-gnashing , was his sense of timing. Lesser geniuses would have had their meltdowns earlier in the innings. At least then I could have gone to bed earlier. Lesser talents would have given a string of bad performances forcing them out of the side for good. But no. Sir Aggie..he was never like that.

He was always mixing things up. Good with the bad. The holy with the naughty. Which made sure that he would always be in the team. Yes sometimes they would drop him but then, like a lingering tune that drives you mad , he would be back.

With that whippy, flappy run-up of his. Easy, measured. And that pace. Consistent throughout his career, unlike some of the new wannabes who drop their speed after a season or so. It was almost as if Sir Aggie wanted to bring his gifts to the batsman as fast as he could, like Santa on Fedex Next Day Delivery, and then run back to his mark and return with another loaded sled.

Santa Claus. No. Sometimes I saw him in something even greater. Like when he would walk out to bat during that amazing sequence of seven zeros, like the Son of God trudging towards Golgotha, carrying his bat like a cross, wearing a helmet like a crown of thorns, amidst the taunts of the spectators. The Australians would crowd him like Roman soldiers, their eyes gleaming with the delight that comes from inflicting pain on the innocent. Then he would be mounted on the cross, his hands and toes nailed to the wood, to be crucified. Not once. But again and again. Zero after zero. And yet each time he would walk out, knowing well the inevitability of his crucifixion . Such was his passion that he cared not, except to look upwards and say silently “Forgive them oh Father, for they know not what they do”.

Sinners love their friends. But only the truly heavenly love their enemies. Like Sir Aggie.

Which is why I was saddened to hear of Sir Aggie’s dropping from the Mumbai team. For a second, my faith wavered. Is it all over? Have the forces of darkness finally won?

No.

Because I believe. Sir Aggie will be back. Like someone else was resurrected three days and three nights later on a glorious Sunday.

And only then will those who had come to scoff remain, once again, to pray.

[Image courtesy: Rediff.com]