Random Thoughts of a Demented Mind

May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss Kolkata Event

2010-03-18T17:03:02Z

The “May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss” launch event in Kolkata is on March 19th at 6:30 at Crossword Elgin Road near to the place (Bhowanipore College) where Bipasa Basu studied. I will be in conversation with Rimi Chatterjee . Please feel free to attend and bring along a friend or two. And no need to RSVP as per above poster.

On March 21st, at Cafe Coffee Day (CCD), Park Street at 4 pm, I want to do a blogmeet/tweetup/ where as promised before, the interactions will be of a more “personal” nature (interpret that as you wish). Originally my plan was to do it at T3 but it seems T3 has closed down. To coordinate, my cell number is 8981122343.

Chennai Uncle Massage

2010-03-18T16:06:50Z

Rohan Rohan,
Yes Papa?
Bowling over?
No Papa.
Scoring runs?
No Papa.
Open your mouth and have some mishti doi.

Kolkata Knight Riders had been on a winning spree. That is a state of being as unstable as a supersaturated solution and it was only inevitable that just like IPL 1.0, the KKR would have its juggernaut brought to a screaming halt.

But wait. Why are we even discussing winning and losing? IPL is not about such trivialities. It is about laughing at the Knight Riders and filling Lalit Modi’s pocket and by those parameters, KKR’s home game against Chennai was a roaring success.

The game started off with each team having one handicap. KKR conveniently lost consistent performer Charlie Langto-field due to injury just when big-ticket player Shane Bond became available. For Chennai, they also started with a handicap because KKR, for the third match in succession, did not play Ajit Agarkar. Rohan Gavaskar’s selection was to many in the audience a mystery since he was not given an over to bowl (which meant he was not a bowler) and batted after the bowlers (which meant he was not a batsman). Not to me because I understood why Rohan was in the team. He was there, representing wimpy people like your present interlocutor who for years in para cricket were part of teams where we were never given bowling, batted last and were asked to run about and fetch balls, particularly when it fell into evil aunty’s balcony.

Of course there still remained many things I had trouble wrapping my mind around—like why was there a discussion about Atul Wasson’s size, why Sunil Gavaskar was asking for mishti doi, why Harsha Bhogle was giggling like a school-girl while saying “Gavaskar is a very hard man” and where the hell was Arun Lal when we needed his vacant “my-mind-is-a-blotting-paper I soak everything up and get it all backwards” look the most.

KKR has the best of the initial exchanges. Hayden brandished his mongoose. Ishant whipped out his snake. Snake ate mongoose. Sehwag and Gambhir vied for a call from a certain Vidya (Vidya Charan Shukla?) in an ad that had definite 377 undertones. Runs were at a premium. Three wickets fell. Everything looked awesome for the home crowd except the cheerleaders, who seemed to be local CITU workers who had muscled in on the job.

And then Wriddhiman Saha dropped Dhoni. Bad mistake. Or as they say in these parts–Kelo.

Dhoni went berserk. Deepika Padukone berserk. Each delivery seemed to have Ranbir Kapoor’s face on it and was dispatched with a nasty personal vendetta. One savage pull almost took off the head of the guy who was wearing the Hooglie (tiger) mascot uniform of the KKR. Mashrafe was later seen praying to God for that narrow escape.

Runs flowed faster than industry leaving Bengal. Dhoni and Badrinath collided mid-pitch and Ishant Sharma, for whom information takes a lot of time to go from brain to hand, muffed the chance to run someone out (He may have been distracted by Kangana RunOut in the stands also). By then of course it was too late and the game was effectively beyond the KKR.

But when everything seems lost that’s when the King’s Men are at their best. Their entertaining best. Hodge packed up quick. Tiwari, whose fifty last game made his fans ask me to eat humble pie, showed why I held off on eating it, when he justified his 675,000 USD pricetag with another bizarre hit-hit-bowled innings. Dada chipped his bat by continuously hitting the air and Wriddhiman Saha, who seemed to have learnt batting from Kiran More, rode his luck for a while before the inevitable happened. So hapless were the Knight Riders that even Balaji was made to look like a fire-breathing dragon. Rohan Gavaskar, the Uday Chopra of cricket, was the only bright spot in the innings, if only for the “Yaaa I got batting” expression on his face which made me all nostalgic. KKR hurtled to a huge defeat and order was once again restored to the cosmos.

The crowd left morose and disconsolate. A man told his Boy Toy—Get me that spinner Ass-win next season. The Super Kings celebrated. Sadness descended over the city.

And somewhere amidst the heat, bustle and tears, a father and son, oblivious of the world around them, quietly had a cup of mishti-doi together.

[Let us have a blogmeet/tweetup/ on March 21st, Sunday at 4 pm in T3 (T3 has closed down), Cafe Coffee Day (CCD) Park Street, Kolkata. Please email me to confirm participation. Since a book launch isnt conducive to general conversation, come to this event if you want a more "personal experience".]

A Visit To Eden Gardens

2010-03-15T11:03:59Z

There were three huge notices on the top of Gate No 9. One was the ICC’s anti-racism statement. One was a picture of Ajit Agarkar having an expression of pure terror on his face, as if he had just came face to face with his doppleganger. And the third was a statement as to how seriously the IPL took ambush advertising and what horrible things would happen to people who bought in an ad for a competing product. Considering the different rights the IPL authorities wished to impose on the paying public, as codified on the back of the ticket (They own the images of people in the stadium, audience members are not allowed to take pictures, the IPL is not liable for any damages etc) I think from next year they should put up another notice saying that they own the organs of people entering the stadium and have the right to remove a kidney anytime they wish.

I was going to Gate No 12, standing in a line which soon became two which soon became three, being jostled and pushed, sweating as I waited to take my Rs 1200 seat. The cops were not interested in crowd control, as they stood some distance away in clumps having their afternoon tea. This left people in the queue to be assailed by vendors selling Rs 50 Korbo Lorbo Jeetbo flags and “unlicensed” KKR jerseys which seemed to have been locally made from purple colored sari “false” and cheap zari. Resisting the urge to buy one of these hideous made in Metiaburuj products, I made a note to self to see if there were some official stores inside the stadium selling KKR gear. I later found there was and the uniforms they were selling seemed also to have been stitched from sari false and cheap zari but were priced twenty-times more. Needless to say, they did not get my business.

Taking my seat inside H block, I found that my view to half the field was blocked by a pillar. Charming. The CAB does take their paying public seriously. Fortunately, there were many empty seats around and I moved to one such. The BRC boys were on my side of the ground—Praveen Kumar was aimlessly walking about like an old man out on an afternoon stroll, Kallis limbered around like a gentle giant and Virat Kohli tried his best to look serious and busy. On the other side of the pitch, Dinda was being used like a beast of burden as he kept on bowling and bowling. Ishant Sharma sent down a few deliveries, one of which knocked out a stump sending the crowd into delirious applause. This wasnt the first time I had watched net sessions before but this was definitely the first time, the quiet experience of watching sportsmen at work was assailed by a DJ who kept on shouting “Hey Kolkata make some noise” as the sound system boomed with songs from “Murali Katrik calling Dinesh Katrik”. This particular gentleman would be a source of constant irritation throughout the evening with his exhortations to do Mexican waves while an over was being bowled “Hey Kolkata Mumbai did six Mexican waves. Can you do better?” with my attempt to concentrate on how Murali Kartik was adjusting his length to Dravid being blocked by morons jumping out of their seats.

My irritation with the DJ was more than compensated by the couple that was sitting in the seat behind me for the first half of the game,sharing a packet of popcorn. She—all nyaka and talcum powder. He—the Bengali uber-male lecturing his girl-friend/wife (all I can say is that they were not brother/sister), his Bengali masculinity characterized by his sab-janta (know-it-all) nature and perhaps his ability to chew on the head of fish without throwing the bones out.

As Shreevats Goswami strolles out to open the innings, the lady turns around and asks her man—-Oi punchke bamon ta ke? [Who is that tiny midget?]. The man replies “Ke jaane. Bodhoye Malluyar chele tele hobe.” [Who knows? Might be the son of Malluya]. Just as I was trying to wrap my mind around this funda, she asked her second question as Karl Langeveldt marked his run-up. “Accha ar oi gobda dekhe takla shada-ta ke?” (Who is that rather fat bald white man?). This time her husband was more confident “Oita hocche Charlie Langto-field.” After deliberating a while on whether the use of the word “Langto” (nude) was merely a lack of knowledge, a Freudian slip, or a result of hearing “Tu nangi acchi lagti hai” from Love, Sex Dhoka too many times, I concentrated on the game at hand.

As KKR applied the stranglehold on BRC and wickets fell, in walked Eoin Morgan. This was one person I was most looking forward to seeing .So evidently was the well-informed couple with the popcorn. Because as he came out, the Neville Cardus ka aulaad behind me declared “That is Deal Ston”. Yes “ston” which is how Bengalis pronounce “stan”. Definitely lot of Love Sex Dhoka going on here. Morgan had all the shots in the book. What he didn’t have was a sense of history or the knowledge of the curse on English players playing the reverse sweep at the Eden to left-handed spin bowlers, a curse that Mike Gatting knows only too well.

The crowd was totally into it. Everytime Ishant ran into bowl, the Eden crowd was solidly behind him with cries of Ishant Ishant rending the air. A glimpse of the King on the large screen was also cheered lustily. Of course all this was nothing compared to the roar that went up whenever Dada dived around , which he did quite well today, only to get up with an air of “Uff what all I have to do” which of course everybody found endearing. The only moment of discomfort for me was when Rahul Dravid came into bat wherein the crowd kind of fell silent and the woman at my back spat out “Eke ami chini” (I know this man) with malice that hit the back of my neck like a breeze from Hell with her husband saying “Biswasghatok” (Traitor). This was the signal for me to stand straight up and applaud Dravid every step of his way to the crease. Dravid started hitting the ball all along the ground with great finesse and the difference in class between him and the rest was immediately apparent. But there is only so much one can do and though Kallis did stay through the innings, it was a soulless inspiration-less phone-in kind of performance, the kind that Brad Hodge is typically famous for.

KKR’s innings started with a vengeance. Manoj Tiwari got his legs wobbled during a run and then went postal hitting everything out of sight. Hodge joined in. With the rate at which they were going, one got the impression the match would finish in ten overs. I think the sponsors were petrified by that possibility. When the first “strategic break” came about, I noticed that the two minute clock did not start “counting” down till after about a minute into the break, thus possibly creating a time window for more advertisements. The Eden crowd did not mind joining in a joyous chorus of “All is well” as Bangalore were being given a pasting, none more severe than on the “Ston” guy.

But then two wickets fell. Dada pottered around and Pujara, with the pressure of the Tiwari innings on him, found himself totally unable to rotate the strike. The only people pleased must have been the organizers as that meant ads could be shown as scheduled. And just when I was dozing off, Dada rolled back the years and sent Steyn into the stands with the shot of the match. Needless to say, I stood up, roared and lost my voice.

With the match finished, I joined the sea of humanity leaving. My feet were trod on twice, an elbow was forced in my face, I had a splitting headache from the heat and my throat was sore. The match wasn’t exciting except to a KKR partisan (which I am not), the cheerleaders did not dance anywhere near to where I was sitting, I could not share a mango drink with Katrina Kaif and KKR’s Chief of Operations, Collen Venning did not make fransip with me.

But still I felt strangely exhilarated, having soaked up the sheer energy of the place. Because heaven this place is. And how could it not be? Its name after all is the Eden, it is a Garden, and it comes complete with its very own popcorn-eating Adams and Eves, blessed with the knowledge of the Gods.

The Show Gets On The Road

2010-03-13T11:20:21Z

Watching Extraa Innings without Mandira Bedi’s comforting presence and sharp cricketing knowledge is akin to experiencing spring without the koel bird, or more accurately a nuclear holocaust without radiation burns. Which is why when I saw Sameer Kochchar, the star of new-age movies like Bold and the international sleeper hit Ek Se Mera Kya Hoga (reportedly Shane Warne’s favorite flick), I felt a tightening of my neck muscles. Perceiving Navjyot Sidhu, the Adolf Eichmann of the English language, sitting next to him did nothing to lessen my sense of dread till presently my eyes alighted on the third person in the room, Arun Lal. He was looking serene and peaceful, almost like I imagined Lord Buddha, verily a teardrop on the cheek of time, dispensing zen-like knowledge as is his wont. It was then, especially when Sidhu and Arun Lal started getting into banter about pulling down trousers, that I could relax on my sofa. All waz well.

Things became better once their on-field expert Ravi the Chappatti shot took over. Ravi was looking like a vampire who had been in the coffin for too long, steaming his face. More curiously there was something about his hair—as if he was growing a crop of BT brinjal saplings on his scalp which later on I realized was part of IPL’s going green campaign. He set the ball rolling by reminding us of IPL commentary’s Rule no 1—the Hyperbole (not to be confused with Rajasthan Royal’s Halla Bol) Policy which consists of using sentences like “There is electricity in the air” and “The crowd is going wild” and “This is immense” every five sentences. He also invoked Rule no 2 which is to introduce Modi with adjectives like Supremo, Fuhrer, God Of All Things, Mahabali and to stress that the great man had been working “overtime”. Not that we ever doubt that.

The official part of the show got presently underway. Lalit Modi got hold of the mic and refused to let go of it, blabbering on like a corporation councillor at a junior school prize distribution function. Perhaps because he was working overtime, he did mix up IPL 3 with IPL 2 and just when I thought I should shift to watching the infinitely-more-entertaining movie Dalal on Zee, the speech ended. IPL then had the ceremonial signing of the “We wont be naughty boys” document and then the Green initiative was announced, if only to stress that IPL is driven by a love of the green. Cold hard cash that is.

There are many things the IPL can be accused of—-of bastardizing the game, of tearing apart world cricket, of bringing even more money into the sport. But one thing it has always been innocent of has been good taste. The opening ceremony was no different. It started off with a rendition of “I cant help falling in love with you” the “you” obviously being money with a bunch of backup dancers lamely cavorting around. On a careful dekkho, I thought I saw some of KKR’s bench players there—-I definitely thought I got a glimpse of Mortaza in a shiny white blouse slowly moving his hips. This was followed by a bunch of people in lighted Ku Klux Klan uniforms and some shadowy figures playing the drum inside a mosquito net.

Then came the mandatory Bollywood star. I was expecting Katrina Kaif since she typically has a no-bid contract over such events. But no this time it was Deepika who came out with a “Mumbai do you want More?” Good thing the crowd didnt respond otherwise I am sure Kiran More would have come out in disco tights. That perhaps would not have been such a bad thing since Deepika looked bored and disinterested, having the same expression that Sunil Joshi had in IPL season 1. Of course that was enough to electrify Arun Lal because later when Kochchar asked the panel “Any performance that stood out?” the Lal said “Deepika”, almost as worked up as he was in the finest hour of his career—-when he became Richard Hadlee’s 374th wicket.

The climactic act came from Lionel Ritchie, whose last hit was around the time Arun Lal opened for India. Since I could not make out what he was singing I suspected it was actually Tauseef Ahmed, the Ritchie-lookalike Pakistani spinner, who was on the stage, because the powers-that-be at IPL had decided to conserve some green. Their own.

Now with the fluff and hoopla finished, the time had come to get to the business end of the tournament, the real thing that we were all there for.

Namely the advertisements.

In some great innovations that could only have been conceived of by the Dark Lord Sauron, there were ads on giant screens in the stadium on which the camera would remain focused on between balls. Periodically the camera would pan up to a gigantic phallic-shape blimp in the sky with a sponsor’s name on it. Sometimes it would swing on to the Uber Supremo sitting right next to, what in scientific jargon is referred to as, item log. And for the few seconds that the IPL hadnt yet found a sponsor for, it would concentrate on the cricket match in the middle.

KKR started off exactly the way we expect it to. Manoj Tiwari, who bats worse than the Bhojpuri singer by the same name, was dismissed off the first ball he faced. Ganguly lasted two more balls. Pujara and Hodge flattered to deceive. Just when we could see IPL 2.0 all over again, Kolkata discovered the person who has the potential to be this season’s Shane Watson—an angel by the name of Angelo Matthews. Together with Owais Shah, he played professionally and strategically and took Kolkata to a score which was still 10-20 runs short of what the pitch demanded but still very competitive. KKR started off bowling exactly like they did batting, dropping chance upon chance, jumping over balls, hitting the umpire with the throw but then after a strategic time-out they radically upped their game doing something I have yet to see KKR do well—-that is bowl a very restrictive line. Things were so good that even Ishant Sharma didnt get carted for 20 runs in the end.

The highlight of the match to me was the way Symonds was dismissed. If anyone had been following his recent games in the Australian T20 series, they would see Roy has been increasingly getting out to the pull wherein he mistimes the shot and the ball rockets up. Today he was continuously fed short balls directed to his chest and he fell under this continuous barrage at his weak spot without causing much damage. As an aside, KKR would do well not to drop Angelo and Langeveldt when the big names—Gayle, McCullum, Hussey become available because these two are very good at-death bowlers. And they should get Vignesh, ICL’s stand-out performer, into the side as soon as possible in place of Manoj Tiwari.

But somehow KKR’s vastly improved performance didnt make any sense to me. I mean what could have happened to make these wimps into lean mean fighting machines? Surely it couldnt be Wasim Akram. Finally I had the answer when during one of the crowd shots, my eyes fell on a lady in a KKR uniform sitting in the VIP enclosure, a lady who looked Kate Winslett. And when the match finished, Dada went over and gave her a hug.

Relief. At last the KKR had got it, the fundamental lesson from Royals and Punjab. Hugs from SRK may work for some but not for all. Of course it was a bit unfair that only Dada got a hug but then again as a captain he does represent the team. Even when he makes a zero.

And so the tournament looks interestingly set-up. Will Arun Lal get excited again? Will Sidhu plumb new depths? Will Ravi Chapatti’s head see a Green Revolution? Will we get to see Ajit Agarkar? Will a gigantic Jackie Shroff shaped blimp advertising Musli power make an appearance? Will we find out the name of Winslett-look-alike? What other devious advertising schemes shall be conjured up by the magicians at the IPL? And when will Rameez Raja join the commentary team, thus completing Arun Lal?

Keep watching.

Shuru Ho Gaya Mamu

2010-03-12T07:40:11Z

Driving in from Netaji Subhash airport to South Calcutta, in between posters of Konkona advertising real-estate, my eyes were assailed by gigantic cut-outs of the great King Khan, wearing KKR’s new purple jersey (tough luck to all the suckers who spent moolah buying their black jerseys), cut out of the same lingerie cloth as their old uniform but with a kinkier color, having the suitably pithy slogan “Luck De” (which I initially read as “Lick De”). Suitably seduced, I leaned back, closed my eyes and thought to myself—-Oh to be in India now that IPL is here. Front page of newspapers replaced by a gigantic advertisement for the tournament. IPL countdown clocks on every channel.The stench of money, greed and cheap thrills.

So who will win the IPL? Its futile speculating and frankly I am not interested. Okay if you really want me to stick my head out, it should be Delhi Daredevils because very simply put, they have an overwhelmingly strong team, so strong that in the interests of fairness the fight should be stopped before it begins. Sehwag, Gambhir, Dilshan, Warner, De Villiers are five of the world’s best devastators and they are ALL in one team and could potentially play together. But then again, who really cares as to who wins except those who place the bets and those who carry home the prize money?

I personally only care for one thing. And that is entertainment. What kind of entertainment? Let me explain.

Now when I saw this (picture taken by Suhel) I think I understood the ostensible theme of the ad—badass men with charger-like horns you dont mess with, even if one them bowls at 125 Kmph nowadays. But what truly entertained me was the subtext—-I am “horny”. Yes. And while the horny angle is lost on Andrew Symonds, about whom those beautiful lines were penned in Dilli 6 “Humare pyar mein yeh bandar baan baithe”, who looks as usual angry and drunk, it is RP the Role Player with the bedroom eyes and the whole “My bowling is like my love-making style—slow, gentle and very compassionate” thing he has got going which makes me all weak in the knees. This is why I give Chargers my thumbs-up and I will definitely be behind them through the season.

The team I am most disappointed in is the Bangalore Royal Challengers. In 2008, they regaled us with bald-pate-glistening I-have-no-clue-about-cricket-but-watch-my-lips-move Charu Sharma as the CEO, T20 superstar Wasim Jaffer galloping like a snail, old age home escapee Sunil Joshi out for a walk in the park and a red-faced maniacal owner. Since then, they have radically firmed up their act and look a very strong and balanced cricketing side with Manish Pandey, Virat Kohli and Morgan forming a crux of next-gen stars backed up by the experience of a Dravid, Kumble, Kallis, Boucher and by mid-career players like White, Taylor and Steyn at the top of their games. Which means there will be no room for Wasim Jaffer’s pyrotechnics or of the King of Good Times blowing his top.

My favorite team of course, purely on the basis of the entertainment they provide, will remain the KKR. And I will be at the Eden come Sunday to support them against the Bangalore Royal Challengers. I will raise the slogan of “Amar lokkhi roton chele” (My darling gem of a boy) in the tremulous voice of a thakuma (grandmother) as Laxmi Ratan comes in to bowl. I shall roll my tongue around “Jol-e chul taja, tel-e chun taja, bench-e Mor Taja” (sorry no translation for non-Bong readers) as I try to spy with my right eye the world’s most highly paid benchwarmer. I shall shout till I go hoarse if (I hear he is injured) UnLucky Chikna Agarkar, his ears flopping in the breeze, comes in to bowl like a Santa Claus bearing gifts for the batsman. I shall snigger at the sight of Ishant Sharma, standing mid-pitch after being struck for a six, with the expression of a man whose pocket has been picked. Twice in one day.

Will all this be worth the Rs 1200 I will shell out for my ticket—-around the same price one would pay, once upton a time, to watch 5 days of Test cricket?

I think you know the answer to that one.

Random Thoughts Of a Demented Mind

2010-03-11T08:35:12Z

Being in India out of home-base posting has been infrequent. But that does not mean I dont have things to write about. So here in a post, I jot down everything I have been wanting to say for the last few weeks in more or less an unstructured way.

Maha Hope Rahul M, as a person and as a personality, is in no ways as entertaining as Rakhi Sawant. This explains why I didnt follow the program in the US as I had done for RS ki Swayamvar. However while sporadically watching the season finale , I finally became conscious of the show’s significance in the cosmic scheme of things. As comely lasses danced in choreographed fashion to “Kabse aayi hai teri dulhe raja” type songs in a manner that could not be any more “reality” trying desperately to be the choice of a man with a liking for the “Coke side of life” once discovered alongside a dead family confidante , hailing from a family that has more skeletons in their cupboard than that would be found under the fields of Panipat, and with a, to put it politely, a dodgy history with women I came to the realization that this is not, as some feel, a new low in Indian TV history. On the contrary, this was a Coelhian message of hope and inspiration, at the same level of surreality as Jackie Shroff’s exhortation to use “Musli power” , directed at people with less-than-perfect line items in their marital resumes (like use of controlled substances, wife having “accidents riding his bike“) who despair of ensnaring a living female for the rest of their miserable lives.

Yes you can.

All you need is to get a reality show, preferably titled “Villainiya Dulhaniya Le Jayenge”. And then even a Dumpy you can have a Dimpy.

Swami Ever-Happy In the prescient movie “Teesri Aankh” Sunny Deol, who is known for exercising all muscles and glands except the lachrymal one, distraught at the proliferation of hidden cameras tearfully said “Kahaan chupayenge humare ma behenon ko?” Forget ma and behen, even our holy folk are no longer safe from the malignancy of extreme zooms. I mean here is this man, who had treated a disciple for her “wheezing problems” ( a side-effect of asthma where people find difficulty in blowing) , being given some seva (English translation: being serviced) in return for being cured (”Being true devotee, I offered my services like feeding and massaging him regularly in his room”) and this pesky camera just had to insert its telephoto lens inside this intensely spiritual bonding and give it a naughty subtext. I think Swami Every-Happy and ace politician Randy Tricycle should both do something about this menace, having fallen victims themselves in the last few months. On the subject of massages and other exercises that cause wheezing, here is a picture I took in the course of my travels in CR Park.

Sex Baba: Move over Desi Baba. The real deal is here. What I particularly liked about this fine soul is this line, in the best tradition of the Uncertainty principle: [Link] “I am 99% innocent.” , a refreshing change from the “I am 100% innocent” disingenuity one is used to hearing. Note to self: Next time wife catches me checking someone out I shall say “I am 99% innocent”. I suggest you do too.

Pakistan ban: An angry Pakistan board decided to unleash their khunnas on every major Pakistani player, an action as likely to be taken back as a Mamata Banerjee resignation. Last heard, administrative sanction was taken retro-actively by sending Inzamam to Oxford to do his PhD in post-modern literary criticism.No not to punish Inzi but to punish the British.

Book Update: Doing very well.

May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss Delhi Launch Event

2010-03-07T08:19:15Z

Caption 1: Since neither Gulshan (jo ladkiyon ke saath shaadi karta hai par honeymoon naheen manata) from Gunda nor Gul Panag showed up at my launch, the only Gul that khila-ed was “Gulmohar”, the hall in India Habitat Center where the event was held

Arriving an hour before the event, with a broom and a bottle of phenyl, I waited a while before meeting panelist no 1 Jai Arjun Singh, who would later on in the evening prove that siring babies is incontrovertible proof of a rocking sex life. He would be soon joined by panelist no 2 Sidin Vadukut, the Shakeela of English writing and best-selling author, who greeted me with a “Long time no see” before we both came to the realization that we have never actually met before. At least in this life.

Presently we had people trickling in, among which included a person who asked me if the MD of Harper Collins was going to be there. Scratching my head, I thought for a second whether I should try to pretend to be the MD of Harper Collins but then I saw my commissioning editor Saugata Mukherjee standing close by which is why I let the opportunity pass. Presently Nilanjana Ray Roy, the moderator of the panel , the Sachin Tendulkar resident expert on book launches and famous for once blogging under a male nom de plume (Hurree Babu, brother of Pakachika Raja Babu) [Yes you heard that right. A woman taking name of a man. You see, the world of blogs is very different from the world of chat, where 100% of the men are men and 99% of the women are men] arrived and immediately we went into a huddle laying down the ground rules.

Which actually were none.

The photographer from Harper Collins called me to one side and took some photographs which was the longest I had posed for pictures since I got married. The only pose I was not captured in was the Deepika Padukone Liril-wannabe pose from Phir Mile Sur but that I suppose wasn’t a bad thing.

Caption 2: Signing books at event.Very sign-tific.

After signing a few books (there was a table outside where books were stocked), I took my position on the stage. The urge to deliver a speech in Mamata Rail Budget style was immense.

Caption 3: My editor dispels all doubts as to my position in the management hierarchy of Harper Collins

The panel started with a book reading. A book reading is dreadfully difficult to pull off unless you have the voice of Obama and the facial expressions of Rakhi Sawant. Since I have not been so blessed, I kept my reading short. As a precautionary measure, I had told my parents beforehand to laugh periodically after two minutes, preferably when I was speaking in order to gently nudge the crowd in the proper direction. The reading being finished, after a rather generous or perhaps polite audience response, the group discussion started in right earnest.

Caption 4: Making a point

The discussion of course was highly intellectual and abstruse, even more dense and pedantic than is the norm in literary book releases with post-modernism, Dada-ism, Pakistani zombie movies, Zahereelay, trolls, freedom of expression and the divinity of Shahrukh Khan being topics of active discourse. In the middle, Sidin did that thing which has become de-rigeur in most literary launch events— he asked the audience if there was anyone there who had unprotected sex. Not a hand went up which confirmed my worst suspicions. Everybody in the audience believed in “protection”. In other words, not a single libertarian in the whole crowd of close to a hundred people. Sigh.

Caption 5: There were times the panel stopped to listen.

The audience had in its ranks multiple book authors like Gulu Ezekiel and of course the redoubtable Samit Basu, who is fast emerging as a male mother hen ( technical term: father cock) for first-time authors. Needless to say, the audience had many things to say and frequently jumped right in. I enjoyed the questions a lot though I believe someone missed a trick by not asking for an Ipod for asking the first question.

So intense was general participation and sawaal-jawab that after about 2 hours into the event, Saugata had to ring the bell and stop the fight.

I hung around for some time (or as they say well-hung) signing books. Quite a few of them. While I loved doing this, what I didn’t so much enjoy was the fact that I couldn’t spend any time with many members of the audience whom I had really wanted to meet for long. Apologies for that, especially to those who took time off from work on an office day to come out to support a friend. Much appreciate the gesture.

Caption 6: A warm thank you

And so final words. Thanks to everyone who attended. You get double thanks if you bought the book at the venue or have already pre-ordered. There are a number of online stores selling the book (links on left side-bar of blog) out of which one is shipping to 50 countries. There is one more book event, this time in the land where all trains run to i.e. West Bengal, in the fair city of Kolkata at Crossword, March 19th. Hope to see several of you there.

Till then, stay khulla.

[Uploading the video for full event (it was recorded on AVHCD and needs conversion using 5-min-free video converters) is a pain given the net speeds here. And so I have the first 15 minutes (Video 1, Video 2, Video 3) which includes my small reading section.]

Update: A picture of Sidin (holding a copy of my book May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss) is henceforth attached.

Come One Come All

2010-03-03T10:09:55Z

Pliss try to attend. And bring friends. More the heppier.

Postcards From The Edge

2010-02-28T20:00:02Z

Here are a few photos during my random wanderings around Delhi.

I have always wondered why there has never been a store that sells aquariums, leather belt, ladies purse and dog food all together. Well now I know there is one.

For those of us who have always wanted a desi meat czar like Colonel Sanders of KFC, the wait is over. Say hello to our very own Dadu (grandfather) whose cutlets I have been told are to die for.

The three inescapable things of life. Birthday, marriage and of course kitty parties.

Gour chicken. Named after Gouranga, the Vaishnavite saint, this charming shop has its logo —chickens fighting each other, one with a gun and the other with a knife. Or perhaps the shop is named after Mithunda (whose original name is Gouranga) and that explains the “mujhe cheel chaal ke chicken bana de” violent imagery.

I swear allegiance to the Republic. I think I saw Jedi knights of the Old Republic taking orders and lightsabers being used as tubelights.

For those of you who remember their history, Dr. Shiva’s Shiv Shakti was a secret society that tried to lay ruin the world with their evil designs but was stopped dead in their tracks by Gunmaster G9. Since then however, taking advantage of the fact that Gunmaster is presently busy judging dance reality shows, the sly men have started opening branches across the nation. Selling tea.

What Shiv Shakti is to world peace, the word (railways) station(ary) “Mamta” is to “enterprise”. Spine-chilling.

On the subject of spine-chilling subjects. Taken by Magnificent Maami Neha Viswanathan at United Coffee House.

Two Big Os

2010-02-25T06:51:39Z

As an country we are obsessed with statistics and with individual achievement. Perhaps that is because of the way we have been conditioned to think from childhood, focussed exclusively on marks and ranks. Given that baggage of our upbringing, the euphoria that sweeps the nation as Sachin Tendulkar becomes the first man (yes a woman has already done this) to score a double century in a one-day international is understandable, being as it is no mean feat.

But two hundred is after all, just a number, a tall one nonetheless, a peak that was fated to be climbed some time or the other, given the improved scoring rates of today. As a feat and and as an innings, I would say not say this was any more splendid than his lone hand 170 odd against Australia in a losing cause, on a pitch not so friendly for batting.

However what truly takes one’s breath away has been the resurgence of Sachin Tendulkar over the past two years, after arguably the lowest point in his career when Dilhara Fernando took his stumps out in the match against Sri Lanka in World Cup 2007, a shockingly painful sight which made many (me included) have their faith falter in his career’s longevity. From the ashes of that despair however, he has since risen in a manner that may not have been as dramatically pronounced as Ganguly’s (because he was never publicly shamed and kicked out) but make no mistake, the return has been no less emphatic. Sachin is today, in a golden phase of his career with a magical run in Test matches and his innings of today showing, as if it needed showing, he can still take apart very good bowling attacks in the shorter version of the game.

Some people will say “This Sachin is no longer as fun he used to be. He has slowed down so much. How is he the greatest batsman ever if he cannot consistently dominate? Now he purses only personal records.”

The numbers though say a different story. (I am an Indian and so of course I will bring out numbers !) In ODIs, against a career average of around 45 his average in the last two years has been around 66. Wait that’s not all. Against a career strike rate of 86, his strike-rate in the last two years has been an amazing 97. That surely says that not only has he been more consistent (and hence valuable for his team) but he has also consistently scored at higher rates. True he doesnt play the booming cover-drives as he used to or send the ball over long-on with the same power as he once did. But he compensates for that with lesser number of dot balls played, deft placements and improvisations back of the wicket with the occasional thump through point or the swivel on toe throwing open a portal in the time-space continuum to days gone by.

While most normal cricketers have their performances falling away with age, Sachin has showed why he is a cut above the rest by moving his numbers the other way. True, his style has changed in the process but his effectiveness as a batsman over the past few years has increased. In his own way, Sachin has thus simply redefined his greatness.

Maybe the eyes dont gauge the line as fast any more, maybe the body does not move into position as quickly. Perhaps that’s true. Which makes him every more remarkable. Despite the depredations that time has wrought on the body and mind he still can bat, almost from memory, sometimes more impact-fully than he ever did in his salad days.

For the connoisseur of cricket as well as of life, it is this metamorphosis of his style, his ability to keep on adapting at an age that most mortals get ossified in their habits, his inherent “rising above all the cynicism” devotion to his craft (remember the four-saving dive in the first one day international) that is truly astounding, something far more awe-inspiring than the magnitude of his scores.

The old Sachin radiated heat. The new Sachin gives light.

But he still remains the sun.