Random Thoughts of a Demented Mind

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.

Barber Shop

2010-02-24T06:56:26Z

There was a time, long long ago, when I used to look forward to getting my hair cut at the local men’s”saloon” (Rs 10 a cut) It was not so much the act of cutting the hair that I liked but the delicious waiting, sitting surrounded by an ocean of beheaded hair, hair hair everywhere, leafing through the eclectic collection of reading material the “saloon” would have—consisting of Stardust, Filmfare and many of its august brethren (The saucy Hindi mystery novels I didnt much care for I accept). It was precisely because of these magazines that I would go on Sunday mornings, when the crowd would be the largest, the lines longest, the maximum loss of study time possible. As I waited, surrounded by naughty film magazines not allowed at home and hemmed in by refined men getting their underarms trimmed, I was convinced that Heaven must be something like this.

It was during those mornings, as the cassette player blasted out Jhankar-beat-mixed songs and Bappida-r iconic “Chale aana tu paan ki dukaan pe saare teen baaje” (a line I always wanted to tell someone but somehow never got around to) and its “Pa-pa-pa Paan Paan Paan” refrain, that my mind set flight away from the world of men blackening their hair or getting a champi tel maalish or a warm wet shave.

And alighted in dream worlds of Rajesh Khanna and Tina Munim, of Reena Roy and Mohsin Khan. Hours passed as I turned the pages,my heart beating fast, reading “Dimple’s Shattering Confessions” or examining ,with the interest of an art connoisseur, pictures of Sonu Walia in “Akarshan” or wondering the future of humanity with “Marc Zuber–Is He the Next Big Thing?” or understanding how in a solar eclipse a small body can cover a much larger heavenly one by studying carefully Mamata Kulkarni’s famous “hands in front” picture.

Sometimes while looking intently at pictures of Neeta Puri in “her hottest photo shoot yet” I would suddenly be startled on discovering neighbourhood uncle sitting close to me, glancing over my shoulder with an angry expression on his face. Looking down in embarassment at having been caught gaping open-mouthed at pictures good kids did not, I would put the magazine down by my side only to have uncle pick it up quickly and start leafing through to the center. Which is when I would understand why he looked angry in the first place.

The shop was owned by three Bihari brothers, all of whom looked identical with big dacoo-type moustaches, gruff and taciturn men, all of them afflicted with that disease that all barbers have—-they refuse to cut your hair beyond a certain point, threatening that your hair will stand up if they snip one additional strand of hair. That I have learnt, is just a threat, delivered in order for them to move onto the next customer and for you to need a haircut as soon as possible. Since I loved coming to the barber, I would play along. Which made me their favorite. I was quick and easy.

But my favorite was a boy they had brought from the village, younger than the three brothers, with a barely-growing moustache who was also in charge of getting tea for the other brothers from time to time. I liked him the most not because he was a good hair-cutter (he was the worst in the store) but he was the most crazed Anil Kapoor fan (he would dispense change by saying “One two ka Phour. Phour two ka one”) I had ever seen. He had stuck four pictures of Jhakass in the store right next to pictures of Ganesh and Laxmi at which he would look reverentially from time to time, no doubt because Mr. Kapoor is considered the patron saint of those who spend their life with hair. And if a song of his “hairo” would come on the radio, he would shake his head Anil Kapoor style as his scissors started snipping madly in the air, causing tremors in my heart as I came to realize the truth of the song “Zindagi ek jua hai” , fearing for my ears.

Once I came to the US, I however started dreading going to the barber. First of all, a hair cut in Stonybrook cost USD 13 + tips which was godawful amount of money for a graduate student in 1999. On top of that, the only nearby (walking-distance) hair-cutting place, colored almost totally in pink and silver, was manned by 50-plus women, who were unfailing polite but kept on talking while cutting your hair—about the weather, about the strawberry patch in her house, about how her grandson didnt quite like football—to which I was obliged to make some polite exclamation or a “That’s marvelous” where all I wanted to was to left alone, contemplating the effect on my finances on losing USD 13 + tips. There was this time in Rochester I was seduced by a shop which advertised 5 dollar haircuts. Going inside I saw my “hair-stylist”, a teenage girl in full Goth attire, who within a blink reduced my mane to a vision of post-apocalyptic forest-land with clumps of hair standing up amidst patches of near-barren ground.

For the past few years in Maryland, I have found a guy who is fairly decent. He hardly talks and that is his greatest asset. He does play the “hair will stand up game” but I am pretty insistent in getting my way.

Needless to say, I no longer need to go to the barbershop for my share of “other woman” scandals and hot pictures—-I get them off the front pages of TOI. And perhaps my barber-friend, the inveterate Anil Kapoor-fan, has now changed beyond recognition watching his hero on “Twenty Four Season Eight” on FX and swearing by “Slumdog Millionaire” instead of “Benaam Badshah”.

Who knows?

Because in today’s world, a kiss is just a kiss. A sigh is just a sigh. And a barber’s just a place where you cut your hair.

Justice

2010-02-22T04:36:16Z

After a few heart-rending glimpses at Facebook profiles of those that will never come back, killed at German Bakery and after asking myself useless questions like “Will we ever have justice?”, I have come to the conclusion that we in India should stop spending time, money and lives investigating Jihadis and trying to bring them to justice.

You heard that right.

Let me explain what I am trying to say.

Like any corporation, Terrorism Inc has essentially three kinds of employees.

At the lowest level are the grunts, the peons, the hands-on-people who do the quotidian tasks of “customer service” and “delivering packages” and the other activities described in their intake documents. People like Kasab, Ashfaq, Afzal. People against whom there is a mountain of evidence.

Yet I believe it is useless trying to prosecute them. Why? Well take for example Kasab. Now here is a dude from a foreign country who, helped by people in that said foreign country, comes waltzing in armed to the teeth and shoots dead a number of people in front of video cameras and a gazillion number of witnesses. Now in countries that have half a brain and a quarter of a gonad, such a person would be treated as an enemy combatant , tried in a military court with no press coverage and quickly dispatched off. However since we are in India, we try him in a civil court just like we would try a pickpocket, try to establish his guilt even though there is absolutely no doubt as to his culpability, spend crores on his security (yes HIS security) even after we know there is virtually no additional information he can give us (having been on the lowest rung of the ladder).

Not only that we place him under full media glare and this prompts him to repeatedly spin the most outrageous yarns that would make Kaiser Soze blush, allege mistreatment and of being framed (since that gives him one more spot in a news cycle) and in general command the kind of attention that he, not in his miserable years of existence on this earth, could ever have imagined. And even when he is convicted, he will enter the queue of other convicted terrorists like Afzal who still wait to be executed but who cannot because of political considerations (Ashfaq of the Red Fort attacks has not been executed as far as I know because of a petition accepted by the Supreme Court)

Then we come to the next strata of the terror hierarchy. Middle management. The project-managers who coordinate, plan and budget manpower and resources and sometimes get their hands dirty during design and code reviews. Unlike the coders and testers, these guys are much more difficult to catch since they mostly stay in their cabins and the evidence against them is often circumstantial and not as rock-solid as “The whole city saw you shooting people”. I claim that we should not bother to put them away. And this is why.

First of all, our investigative agencies will mismanage every aspect of the case from forensics to following basic proceedure, which will ultimately lead to the accused being let off on technicalities. Second of all, no matter which way things go, there will be agents (and I am deliberately not taking their names here) who will make sure that at the end, it is India that emerges as the villain. For instance, in the case of SAR Geelani, a known supporter for the “cause” who never made much bones about it, whose behavior during the Parliament attack was anything but “beyond suspicion” having had telephonic contact with the convicted, an interaction he initially denied, is supposed to have been “framed” by the government because finally the Courts exonerated him. However when the same Courts give a clean chit to the police on the Batla House Encounters, where arms are found and where those arrested have made no denials about their involvement in anti-national violent activities, then of course the same body’s judgment is no longer sacrosanct and there is talk of larger conspiracies, like how a policeman was “suspiciously” and “conveniently’ killed even though the Batla House accused says he did shoot at the policeman. And all this kind of duplicity happens without any kind of national outrage which seems to be solely reserved for other matters of greater importance. Given this and given that in the unlikely case that any of these middle managers do actually get sentenced at which point of time they will join the line of “waiting to be executed but never will” why even spend time and energy trying to catch these fellows, when no matter what happens India will end up with muck on its face ?

The “third class” is as always upper management, the big money managers, the Post Graduate Diplomas in Mayhem (PGDM). The good thing is that these people are usually out of the country ensconced in the “best neighbour one can have” or “The Cayman Islands for terrorism” and so they are quite out of our reach. Sometimes they do get caught like Maulana Azhar and Sheikh Omar and a plane gets hijacked in their honor, innocent lives are lost and after everything the government ferries them back to Afghanistan.

There is of course the angel investor in terror, Pakistan. But of course we should be careful not to get them angry as was evidenced not just in Sharm-e-Sheikh (is it not ironic there is almost the word “sharam” there) but the way when Pakistani sentiments are continuously pampered to. I am referring to our Home Minister whose initials are again ironically Politically Correct decided to comment on the IPL auctions thing (which being a decision of a private organization should not have been a topic of official commentary) in order to assuage angry Pakistanis that their Ball-Biter-In-Chief and Hinduyon-ki-Zehniyaat-hi-aise-hai sprouting messengers-of-peace-by-piece have been sinned against.

And that is why I believe we should as a nation stop spending any more resources into things like justice.

It’s just not worth it.

[Any comments on religions, of the hateful kind most specifically, as also what I consider strong personal attacks will be removed. If you have strong opinions and minds to influence, then I suggest you go elsewhere. Please obey the rules of this blog. Thank you ]

Sale Sale

2010-02-19T07:24:49Z

You could not walk on the footpaths of Gariahat in those pre-Operation Sunshine days (Operation Sunshine being the controversial drive to clean Kolkata’s footpaths of illegal hawkers that became the first nail in the coffin for the CPM in Kolkata and marked the rise of the Big M) without being assailed by them.

Salesmen.

“Sale boudi sale” [not to be translated as Bhabhis for sale but Bhabhi, we have a sale"] they would shout, a never-dying cacophony that seemed to emanate from the bowels of Hell. As you tried negotiating the narrow rope that was left of the sidewalk, you would bump into people standing and bargaining, their sweat mingling with yours, with directed howls of “Ashun dada ashun notun shirt wholesale” [Come Dada come new shirts at "wholesale" prices] aimed at your eardrums making you stop in your tracks, just in time for someone to stomp your right toe.

This tedium would sometimes be broken by comic relief provided by cries of “Boudi boudi blouse niye chole jacchen” [Bhabhi is running off with blouse] as a hook of some garment hanging from the rope strung across the footpath would catch the hair of some lady walking by or by a violent diversion provided by two shopkeepers, angry at being undercut by the other, hurling the most poetic of abuses. And no sooner had you crossed the zone of clothes-salesman would you be set upon by the “greeters” of illegal egg-roll shops that lined the footpaths. They would literally hold you by the arm and with avancular words of empathy (”Boy, you look tired after school, why don’t you have some chicken cho-men with extra sauce?” or “Going to tuition son? Ei Bhola whip up an egg roll double pronto for this gentleman right away”) entreating you to sample their wares while you tried to extricate yourself from their grasp, your senses nevertheless drawn to the chunks of meat of doubtful provenance sizzling like a seductress on the tawa .

You were not safe from salesmen even if you vowed never to go out on the streets. They would come a-knocking right when you were going to take your afternoon siesta or when you were bang in the midst of it, or when you were sitting down for lunch with your hand dripping with daal or just when you were going to put the first mugful of water on your back . No they would not go away easily, banging on the door and assaulting the bell. Nor would they be satisfied by “Barite keu nei” (No one is at home) as they would retort, somewhat logically, “But you are there.” And some of them would not stop even there—for instance sellers of “products for leddies” would sometimes start doing their sales pitch from the other side of the door, in their loudest voice so that the neighbors giggled, till the “leddy” in concern would open the door out of embarrassment.

Salesmen. Sometimes the object of irritation, sometimes of anger, and sometimes of awe. It takes something special to be able to take the first step, to reach out to a stranger, suppressing ego in the face of possible rejection, often conveyed in a manner that is hardly gentlemanly. All this in order to make a sale.

My favorite salesmen however were those whom one encountered in the book fair (an old post I wrote about them) , authors and poets who would roam around, engage book-hunters in banter and then sell them their writings. They were my favorite because of the quiet dignity they bought to the joy of writing, radiating an earnestness and love of what they do in a way that would touch even the most cynical of us.

And now I find myself, in a very different context and using a very different medium and using words like “buzz creation” , in the ranks of those who sell their words, peddling my own book “May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss” as I use my own little corner of the cyberfootpath to block your virtual surf path for a second, entreating you to do the needful.

Yes the book has gone on pre-order. Come this way please.Sale. Sale.

A feature on “May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss” in the Indian Express today (February 18, 2010)

My Name is KingKi

2010-02-14T18:23:44Z

BJo [sits in a sauna, clad in a towel] : You know what. I am sick and tired of people calling me a maker of lovey-flubby-pinkie-winkie coochie-hoochie-coo movies like “Kuch Kuch Kiya Hai” and “Kabhi Aage Kabhi Peeche” and “Kaabhi Andar Na Daalna”. I want to make serious impactful cinema with political undertones….

KingKi (eyes shut, enjoying sauna): Gone mad or what?

BJo (smiling): Kidding yaar. Of course my next movie will be a love story, an intense and passionate one. What else can I do in any case? After all asking me to make a non-love story is like asking Sachin Tendulkar to dance ballet. Plus yahaan ka public only wants the coochie coochies. But baat kya hain, today’s audiences want more. When they come out of the movie, they want to feel a surge of “I am so smart” and this is why we need to layer in a political, deeper, “more mature” cocoon over the hoary old cliches and truisms , in essence making old garbage sound profound and brilliant . Simple college romances don’t work any more dude and honestly I cannot make you look like a college kid any more….

KingKi (raising his eyebrow): Well if that idiot can why can’t I? Well at least can you at least make me the world’s best engineer who can improvise devices on-the-fly?

BJo: Of course ! After all what am I for? Here is going to be your slogan in the movie. “I can fix almost everything”….

KingKi: Don’t we have to pay royalties to Aaj-Haar, ex India captain for the use of that phrase?

BJo (ignoring that remark): I think I have got it. For this movie, we will do the whole “minority persecution” thing, set it in the US (because I only shoot stateside). Of course this cannot be too nuanced, since audiences love black and white and to be honest I cannot handle innovative stories or complicated narratives. So what I will do is put in some of the favorite cliches the world likes to believe about the US—-that they target people of a particular faith and color with Mogambo-style delight, national security agents snarl like angry bears and make “I am watching you” gestures like De Niro in “Meet the Parents”, George Bush was bad and uncaring but his successor is greatly different and good. In order to do this pandering to held beliefs, we would have to bend things round a bit like make rural Georgia in 2008s look like the world of Uncle Tom’s Cabin or show every detainee in the US being subject to horrific torture but hey if the world believes these things about US, isnt it smart business to just persist these stereotypes?

KingKi: So essentially we are Slumdog Millionairizing the US, reducing a country to stereotypes for easy audience digestion.

BJo: Exactly. And with this theme I see much business in many countries of the world, particularly in Middle Earth.

KingKi: And also boost my popularity in the country I refer to as the “best neighbor to have”…..But wait. I have a condition. I will be a part of this movie only if I am in every friggin scene. In my last movie “Talli Tailor” I shared screen-time with some other dude and it was a mega-flop cause my loyal fans just cannot tolerate anyone else taking even a second of my movie away from me. Cannot afford one more like that.

BJo: Relax. In this movie, you won’t be the hero. No you will be God. Not only will you make Archimedes look like an engineering school dropout but make even St. Peter look like Caligula. You will help everyone even when being hauled onto the cross, you will rebuild flood-affected villages while the US administration watches in silence, you will fix engines and most importantly, you will always always speak the truth. Just like God. I can just imagine audiences full of women (and men) swooning “Oooooooooo” throughout the movie, the whites of their eyes showing as they are wracked by mini-orgasms at the sight of your sheer awesomeness. And as a final touch, the character will share your last name so that the connection between you and him will be very tight—–if he is God then so are you.

KingKi: I agree. So I am. But you know people tell me I act the same in every way, head shaking, lip-curling—–in short in a very retarded way.

BJo: Aha. Here is where the genius of this concept is. In this movie, you will be suffering from autism, like Dustin Hoffman in “Rainman”. (I need to find out a technical sounding term for it). Which means that not only can you try to copy his mannerisms like the reciting of exact numerical figures, but act any way you want to and it will all be absolutely right. As a matter of fact, this autism is what will be driving your other-worldly honesty and cuteness—-think Forrest Gump. And noone will dare criticize your acting as “hamming” because they will be afraid of looking insensitive. Of course, we both understand you will in no way be able to attain Dustin Hoffman’s levels in “RainMan” but honestly the audience couldnt care less as long as we keep you in every Godly frame.

KingKi: This is actually sounding quite exciting.

BJo: Castingwise, I am going to cajole KyaJhol to act opposite you—–you two have always given megahits. Chemistry is very important and I am sure with her around, the chemistry issue will be handled very satisfactorily. She might screech a bit too much when the drama gets intense, like old Premier Padminis scream and shake at speeds above 60 kmph, but she is reliable. Now what I cannot make up my mind is whether I should get Kiron Kheer or Farida Balal to play the role of the bhole-bhala, hearty “gajjar ka pancake” cooking Southern African-American matron Mama Jinnie or just go with local talent…..depends of course on the budget.

KingKi: Don’t worry about the budget. We will get into a whole lot of corporate tie-ins. Like with Burbak, the shoe company who also act as partners of my cricket team. In first five minutes, we will have a escalator shot of my shoes and then periodically bring the narrative to the issue of shoes. I ammm very smarrrttt………….

BJo: And I am positive I will get Fix SearchingLights to finance this project. It will be ironic for a movie about “minority persecution” being financed by a studio whose parent company is known to pander to the most reactionary elements inside the US but as they say ganda hai par dhandha hai yeh ! Which means we will have enough cash to spread around for publicity. Reviews, as a result, will be good. My spidey sense tells me….

KingKi (phone ringing and picks up. Speaking into phone): No Mr. Sharma. I told you before I cannot go and dance at your wife’s second marriage. No sir. I cannot. I dont care if that’s what the terms of your alimony say. I am sorry. I have….wait what did you say? Two crores? Dinner included? Hmm…ok then. See you in an hour.[Hanging up] Sorry we have to continue this conversation a bit later. I need to do this.

BJo: Sure. I need to get this project moving. Now all we need before release, is to have certain incidents that accentuate the ethereal halo of victimhood around you even more, in essence blurring further the distinction between you and the Godly martyr in the movie. Of course we cannot make such things happen ourselves but there is nothing that prevents us from taking advantage of them , should they occur [wink].

KingKi: Absolutely not [wink back].

BJo: Ok see you then. Remember duniye main do type ke log hote hai—-ek chalaak insaan aur ek buddhu insaan.

KingKi (smiling trademark grin and leaning head on one side): My name is KingKi. And I am not a buddhu.

BJo: That my friend you certainly are not.

Naakh Kata In Nagpur

2010-02-11T02:48:17Z

One of the defining trends of the last ten years of cricket has been a perceptible decline in the quality of world bowling, a fact that has not only led to inflated reputations of many an ordinary batsmen but has also contributed to faster rates of scoring. I would not know exactly why we have had this dip but abridged forms of the game might be a major reason. As an example, one has to only look at Pakistan to see how they have gone from a country that produced the most explosive of bowlers (Wasim, Waqar, Safraz, Imran and even to an extent Aaqib) to one that cranks out ball-hurlers who can at best be called restrictive (Naved-ul-Hasan, Umar Gul).

In this context, the South African bowling line-up is a blast from the past—-a “no-weak-link” attack that can sustain high quality bowling over sessions, even on bowling surfaces not tailor-made for them. Watching their ceaseless barrage, I was reminded of the West Indian attack of the early 80s, especially the one that came to India in 1983 which included Marshall, Roberts, Holding, Davis and Daniels (that attack was of course far better) never more so when Dale Steyn exquisitely set-up Sachin in the first innings through a ball outside off-stump which he hits for four and then the clever follow-up which is tossed slightly further out and swinging away inducing a nick, nearly identical to the way Michael Holding outwitted Sunil Gavaskar in the second innings of the Eden Test (Sunny describes this dismissal in some detail in Runs N Ruins)

Needless to say, against this quality of bowling, the batsmen of the world’s “No 1 Test side” came unstuck. While the sight of batsman after batsman raising arms and having their stumps taken out against brilliantly directed in-dippers delivered at searing pace was predictable though embarassing what was doubly galling was to see Indian batsmen, supposedly some of the best players of spin, having trouble coping with Paul Harris’s outside-leg line. There was deja-vu here too, except that it reminded me how English and New Zealand and West Indian batsmen used to play our spinners and how they would get out not playing a shot to one that turns and bounces, bound to the crease, scratching around for overs waiting for the end to come. Paul Harris is a very good bowler but he is no Warne. Against Warne many years ago and against a similar line of attack, batsman after Indian batsman would come out of their creases and go inside-out or use their feet to “work the angles” with spectacular results. No not no more (only exception: Harbhajan in the second innings).

For the debacle of Nagpur, there is enough blame to go around. From the selectors to Gambhir to Dhoni (world’s No 1 something who I would say is lucky that he plays now, ten years ago his ‘old man poking with a stick’ technique would have been exposed much more dramatically and much more often) to even Sehwag and Sachin (neither of whom could anchor the innings in the face of a crisis). Unfortunately a lot of the vitriol will be directed at the new players (”We have seen the future and it’s not good” type denouncements) forgetting the fact that the Fab four also took some time in becoming who they ultimately became. For me the mujrims of the match were Indian bowlers who let South Africa, on a pitch on which there was enough assistance throughout, amass such a total. That South Africa would beat us in a pace faceoff is not surprising. That South Africa would have, by far, the best spinner in the game is the true shocker for those of us who love Indian cricket and this alone should put in proper perspective India’s crisis of talent.

Of course all this is just a passing cloud. Very soon we will have the Premier Mujra League getting underway in which Dhoni will hit the mickey out of Steyn, Morkel wont be able to get in a game and Harbhajan Singh will slap all and sundry with bat, ball and hand while strutting around like the super-stud that he thinks he is. “All iz well” will be the mantra once again since we wont have Test engagements for most of the year and IPL and an assortment of meaningless muqablas and mahayuddhs would have wiped the lessons of Nagpur clean from our minds.