Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Living alone!
Its been about 3 years now...living in hostels, rooms...at times it seems its the life of a pariah dog...going from place to place...living with so many different people...while you can call most of them friends...none of them is family...the kitchen at the paying guest accommodation, well, somehow the pots and pans dont look right...somehow the tea tastes different, the salt less salty, the spices just not quite there...I cant cook there...not that I was ever an enthusiastic cook...but still this kitchen feels alien...and well your whole life seems to be at the mercy of some other person at every time...your broker, your landlord, your roommate, your cabwallah all the time at the mercy of someone or the other...and yet through all this you learn different things...you learn how to handle people...you learn finances...and most importantly you learn how easy your life was with family...how you cribbed about it then, but you were actually so blessed...and its true, distance does make the heart fonder!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Touchy Indians Inc.
It was the umpteen call from my editor to cover an umpteenth protest. Frantically he yelled over the phone, “Where are you? What’s your plan for today?” And before I could say anything, he pounced upon me, “Listen I am sending you to this protest at Azad Maidan (its every Mumbai protestor’s favourite haunt). There are these people called the Touchy Indians Inc. who have organized a unique protest against…uh um…against something just go and find out.”
So left with no choice; I went to Azad Maidan, braving myself to meet this extraordinary league of gentle?men who called themselves the Touchy Indians Inc. I had heard about them from my colleagues who had covered their other ‘unique’ protests before. My poor colleagues had to stand in the hot sun while they sat on one of their infinite protests in hi-fi shades fitted with fans. They had gone hungry entire days trying to capture the ‘uniqueness’ of these protests. Sigh, it was my turn today.
When I reached Azad Maidan, I saw all the members of Touchy Indians with a placard hanging by their neck ‘Halla Bol is our copyright; ban the film’ and shouts of ‘Halla Bol pe Halla Bolenge, nahin chodenge, nahin chodenge.’ The PRO Zindabad Singh soon spotted me and directed me to the makeshift office of the director Naare Nath. A portly man with a distinct Neta look, Naare Nath sat on one of those extremely common white plastic chairs used at every meet and protest; looking every bit the I-will-change-the-world-because-what-I-think-is-right leader that he was. “Naare Nathji,” I ventured, “why are you against this film, it has not even released?” “We will serve a notice to the makers of this movie. It has hurt our sentiments, how can someone name a movie Halla Bol, how can they hurt the sentiments of hundreds of Indians? How can they threaten our identity? Tell me is this right?” “But Naare Nathji, what is the reason?” I tried to understand his indignation but failed. “Don’t you see, the movie is called Halla Bol. That is our patented Naara. No one except us can use the phrase. We have copyright, trademark, IPR and every other documentation on the phrase. Halla Bol hamara janma siddha adhikar hai.”
And because I didn’t know how to react and kept quiet, he continued. “Do the makers of this movie have any idea that they have ridiculed such a great institution of public service like ours. Dharti ham jaise logon ki vajah se tiki hui hai, do you know that? If we didn’t raise our voice frequently, our Indian culture and ethos would have ceased to exist. We say Halla Bol to all those who are a threat and we reduce them to pulp. But all said and done, we are the most secular and seva bhavi group in India. Our Hindu cadres extort gift and card shop owners every Valentines and give away all the money to Sadhu babas who teach us how to uphold Hindu traditions. Our Muslim cadres are constantly on the look out for independent girls who defy tradition. I don’t understand why all of them want to wear skirts and model in the backdrop of dargahs. Disgusting! Our Christian cadre hunts down every possible violation of the sanctity of the Bible. Then we have caste based sub groups also. They are very tech savvy, you know. They have this monitoring department where they view all the channels and track inflammatory statements made by starlets, inflammatory songs, movies, movie titles so that they can challenge insensitive people and uphold their dignity. Now, madam, you might be thinking that we don’t do anything for women. No no, it is not like that. We also have a stree morcha sangha. Very powerful women (he pointed towards some hefty women sitting at the dharna…they surely must have been power lifters…oh my god); their favourite pastime is blackening men’s faces…you know these leery men who cast their unholy eyes on our Bharatiya Naari. And let me tell you madam, all these leery men are always outsiders. These migrants, firangs and others like them. You might also argue that we destroy public property; but you know as well as I know that unless we break or set to fire these old buses, trains and buildings, then the government will never buy/ build new ones. So you see madam, how much good work we do. What would have happened if we didn’t exist? And these filmwallahs are taking away our pehchaan, our only naara Halla Bol. I say, Halla Bol on them.”
As I was escaping from all that information overload, my editor again called, “Haan, tell me what’s the scene like?” “Sir, aah well…” “Did you get why they are protesting? Good…now just file a story…and try to get some opposing views you know…liberalists…go to Mahesh Bhatt or Shobhaa De or arre you know who to call…” And so, went my day battling for sanity, juggling with the super traditionalists and the super liberals. And oh…there will be many more…sigh, sigh!
It was the umpteen call from my editor to cover an umpteenth protest. Frantically he yelled over the phone, “Where are you? What’s your plan for today?” And before I could say anything, he pounced upon me, “Listen I am sending you to this protest at Azad Maidan (its every Mumbai protestor’s favourite haunt). There are these people called the Touchy Indians Inc. who have organized a unique protest against…uh um…against something just go and find out.”
So left with no choice; I went to Azad Maidan, braving myself to meet this extraordinary league of gentle?men who called themselves the Touchy Indians Inc. I had heard about them from my colleagues who had covered their other ‘unique’ protests before. My poor colleagues had to stand in the hot sun while they sat on one of their infinite protests in hi-fi shades fitted with fans. They had gone hungry entire days trying to capture the ‘uniqueness’ of these protests. Sigh, it was my turn today.
When I reached Azad Maidan, I saw all the members of Touchy Indians with a placard hanging by their neck ‘Halla Bol is our copyright; ban the film’ and shouts of ‘Halla Bol pe Halla Bolenge, nahin chodenge, nahin chodenge.’ The PRO Zindabad Singh soon spotted me and directed me to the makeshift office of the director Naare Nath. A portly man with a distinct Neta look, Naare Nath sat on one of those extremely common white plastic chairs used at every meet and protest; looking every bit the I-will-change-the-world-because-what-I-think-is-right leader that he was. “Naare Nathji,” I ventured, “why are you against this film, it has not even released?” “We will serve a notice to the makers of this movie. It has hurt our sentiments, how can someone name a movie Halla Bol, how can they hurt the sentiments of hundreds of Indians? How can they threaten our identity? Tell me is this right?” “But Naare Nathji, what is the reason?” I tried to understand his indignation but failed. “Don’t you see, the movie is called Halla Bol. That is our patented Naara. No one except us can use the phrase. We have copyright, trademark, IPR and every other documentation on the phrase. Halla Bol hamara janma siddha adhikar hai.”
And because I didn’t know how to react and kept quiet, he continued. “Do the makers of this movie have any idea that they have ridiculed such a great institution of public service like ours. Dharti ham jaise logon ki vajah se tiki hui hai, do you know that? If we didn’t raise our voice frequently, our Indian culture and ethos would have ceased to exist. We say Halla Bol to all those who are a threat and we reduce them to pulp. But all said and done, we are the most secular and seva bhavi group in India. Our Hindu cadres extort gift and card shop owners every Valentines and give away all the money to Sadhu babas who teach us how to uphold Hindu traditions. Our Muslim cadres are constantly on the look out for independent girls who defy tradition. I don’t understand why all of them want to wear skirts and model in the backdrop of dargahs. Disgusting! Our Christian cadre hunts down every possible violation of the sanctity of the Bible. Then we have caste based sub groups also. They are very tech savvy, you know. They have this monitoring department where they view all the channels and track inflammatory statements made by starlets, inflammatory songs, movies, movie titles so that they can challenge insensitive people and uphold their dignity. Now, madam, you might be thinking that we don’t do anything for women. No no, it is not like that. We also have a stree morcha sangha. Very powerful women (he pointed towards some hefty women sitting at the dharna…they surely must have been power lifters…oh my god); their favourite pastime is blackening men’s faces…you know these leery men who cast their unholy eyes on our Bharatiya Naari. And let me tell you madam, all these leery men are always outsiders. These migrants, firangs and others like them. You might also argue that we destroy public property; but you know as well as I know that unless we break or set to fire these old buses, trains and buildings, then the government will never buy/ build new ones. So you see madam, how much good work we do. What would have happened if we didn’t exist? And these filmwallahs are taking away our pehchaan, our only naara Halla Bol. I say, Halla Bol on them.”
As I was escaping from all that information overload, my editor again called, “Haan, tell me what’s the scene like?” “Sir, aah well…” “Did you get why they are protesting? Good…now just file a story…and try to get some opposing views you know…liberalists…go to Mahesh Bhatt or Shobhaa De or arre you know who to call…” And so, went my day battling for sanity, juggling with the super traditionalists and the super liberals. And oh…there will be many more…sigh, sigh!
Monday, September 24, 2007
When eyes becomes strawberries!
Strawberry kanne...goes the popular song from Minsara Kanavu (Sapnay in Hindi)...a fine example of the brand of lyrics from Vairamuthu, the popular tollywood lyricist. Could eyes be like strawberries? Were they red or were they semi-conical? Surely Kajol's eyes don't look like that. Vairamuthu signifies the way Tamil song lyrics are going these days. A dash of English, some Punjabi or hip hop tune some tamilian dhol wonder and there is your average Tamil hit song. But the best part are the lyrics. Sample this...Sachin adicha Sixer thaan, Sivaji adicha puncture thaan (from Sivaji The Boss). Meaning if Sachin hits, its definitely a sixer and if Sivaji hits you, your muscles shall be punctured. Could there be a better simile? Then there is TR and his son Simbu. In a recent movie Simbu sings much to the delight of crazy fans Kangal mudi eeravu thoongum pothu, enn bedroom fanum kezhavanthu enna ezhuputhe, unna neeniaka solluthe! …” (When I close my eyes in the night, even my bedroom fan stoops down to wake me up and make me think of them) Talk about being crazy in love.
50 kg Tajmahal Vairamuthu calls Aishwarya Rai. And in Annian the line goes...Rambaigal heartile ringtone Remo (Remo is the ringtone of the nyphm's heart...huh?) And the heroine talks about the perils of her own beauty by singing 'May matham 98il major aanene major ana nalai naanum bejaaraanene'(I turned 18 in May 98 and that was when my troubles began). Who can forget 'Telephone manipole siripawal ivala' (Is she the one who laughs like a telephone?) Tring, tring is that the sound. I would like to meet a guy who would love a girlfriend who laughs like that. And Vaali says in Boys 'Girlsa chewing gum aakathey heartile kudisai podathey' (don't treat girls like a chewing gum don't put up a cottage in my heart). Talk about women's lib. And the song Oh maria goes Kadallukku fishing nettu kadhalukku internet (for the sea there is a fishing net, for love there is the internet). Praoffound I say. But my favourite goes 'Coca Cola brown colour da en akka ponnum athe colour da' (Coca Cola is brown in colour, my sister's daughter{i.e. fiance} is also the same colour). Who wants fair and lovely?
The point is Tollywood lyrics are not about poetry anymore. Its about getting a rhyme by hook or by crook. And alliteration and atrocious similes are the only way out. By writing such lyrics and composing such songs, Tollywood music fraternity thinks that they are getting to the level of rap and hip hop artists. Sadly, they are just ruining the language and accomplishing nothing else. What saves the day sometimes is the instrumentation in most of these songs; which are generally folkish tunes set to western beats - a combination that appeals across classes. And we cannot expect songs that take the story further (remember Paartha Nyabakam Illayo from Puthiya Paravai). The songs are generally far removed from the movie, shot in exotic locales or elaborate sets a la the latest hit Sivaji. What has remained over the years is the boastful quality of songs of superstars. Be it Naan Anai Ittal for MGR or Sega fighta Sivaji righta for Rajnikant. Long live Tamil machismo. Long live Tanglish, after all, that's the only language that remains to save the great Dravidian pride.
50 kg Tajmahal Vairamuthu calls Aishwarya Rai. And in Annian the line goes...Rambaigal heartile ringtone Remo (Remo is the ringtone of the nyphm's heart...huh?) And the heroine talks about the perils of her own beauty by singing 'May matham 98il major aanene major ana nalai naanum bejaaraanene'(I turned 18 in May 98 and that was when my troubles began). Who can forget 'Telephone manipole siripawal ivala' (Is she the one who laughs like a telephone?) Tring, tring is that the sound. I would like to meet a guy who would love a girlfriend who laughs like that. And Vaali says in Boys 'Girlsa chewing gum aakathey heartile kudisai podathey' (don't treat girls like a chewing gum don't put up a cottage in my heart). Talk about women's lib. And the song Oh maria goes Kadallukku fishing nettu kadhalukku internet (for the sea there is a fishing net, for love there is the internet). Praoffound I say. But my favourite goes 'Coca Cola brown colour da en akka ponnum athe colour da' (Coca Cola is brown in colour, my sister's daughter{i.e. fiance} is also the same colour). Who wants fair and lovely?
The point is Tollywood lyrics are not about poetry anymore. Its about getting a rhyme by hook or by crook. And alliteration and atrocious similes are the only way out. By writing such lyrics and composing such songs, Tollywood music fraternity thinks that they are getting to the level of rap and hip hop artists. Sadly, they are just ruining the language and accomplishing nothing else. What saves the day sometimes is the instrumentation in most of these songs; which are generally folkish tunes set to western beats - a combination that appeals across classes. And we cannot expect songs that take the story further (remember Paartha Nyabakam Illayo from Puthiya Paravai). The songs are generally far removed from the movie, shot in exotic locales or elaborate sets a la the latest hit Sivaji. What has remained over the years is the boastful quality of songs of superstars. Be it Naan Anai Ittal for MGR or Sega fighta Sivaji righta for Rajnikant. Long live Tamil machismo. Long live Tanglish, after all, that's the only language that remains to save the great Dravidian pride.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The Rear Window
Have you travelled by bus in Mumbai? Over the J. J. Flyover? The flyover passes through many of those less metropolis looking areas of Mumbai like Bhendi Bazaar. As your bus whizzes past, you can't but help indulging in voyeurism. For spread out right across your window are the balconies and windows of scores of apartments. Bhendi Bazaar is what the average Mumbaikar would tell you, a Muslim middle class area. And so these flats just have the average amenities. As you look at them, fascinated, just like Jimmy Stewart does in The Rear Window, you get the feeling of peeping into a different world in a different era. These are houses that have the most basic furniture as can be guaged from the open balcony doors and windows. Evening time and you shall find most households surrendering themselves to the charms of television in the light of a 40 V bulb. You also find ornate dressing mirrors (that look like items from chor bazaar) and eager women sprucing themselves up to meet their beloved who would arrive any time now. Then there are the 60+ abhi to main jawaan hoon uncles trying to comb those few remaining strands. Then there are the children prancing about, fighting, playing. From those windows you can almost see all of their sparcely furnished little homes. Homes that seem to live in some pre-independence kind of era. Homes that have some sort of a warmth and attraction to them. But the attraction wears off when you see those few houses where women sit on the floor holding their heads in their hands. The starkness of all that simplicity strikes you then. But you still watch on. It is voyeurism, yes, but it is a study, a revelation of how the odds have been in your favour most of your life. The flyover and the homes seem almost endless as you realise this. And it also strikes you why certain members of the elite class didn't want a flyover near their house. After all it might reveal some of the shards of their own existence to the unsuspecting Peeping Tom.
For starters
Hmmm... what shall I start with? Well, a blog just sounded interesting and different from a regular diary entry, so well I am at it. Nothing much to say about myself, just would like to write about things I have done, places I have been; just an airing of views. So let's get started.
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