Rather a pompous title for a simple, short post. ;-)
Anyone noticed how autos that carry children to school have changed ? It is really interesting to note the ways in which auto owners have adapted their vehicles to this role.
When we were kids, autos which ferried kids to school had a thin wooden plank opposite the main seat in order to accommodate a few more kids, while the rest stood in between the main seat and the wooden plank. Nowadays there is a wooden plank on the luggage area behind the main seat too, so even more kids can be accommodated, though what this does to the stability of autos on sharp turns I shudder to imagine ! So that school bags do not take up precious sitting space, these are hung from hooks at the back of the auto, on the outer side. And then often, the openings at the side of the auto have metal grills (grills, not the regular wooden rod) with a latch so that the little brats don’t fall out.
Am quite impressed with the improvements in this humble, everyday vehicle. Anyone got any more such examples to share, I’d love to hear about them.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Hindi Chini Bhai Bhai ?
For how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temple of his gods.
Quote at a war memorial in Tawang where the names of all the Indian soldiers who died in the 1962 war are listed.
Until I visited Arunachal earlier this year, the 1962 India-China war was just a number in a history textbook to me, one among many to be mugged up and repeated when asked for. I had no idea about the magnitude of the conflict, or of the extent to which Indian borders had been violated.
Somehow reading about a war or even watching documentaries / movies about it never brings it home to one as forcefully as actually visiting the battlefield does. Though we started out on a trekking plus tourism trip, we ended up getting a forceful introduction to our history, a reminder of our tenuous existence as a nation and a sense of gratitude to the army for being there.
It began one cold morning when the only place we could find that would give us breakfast was an army canteen at a height of 11,000 ft - nothing builds loyalty as fast as hot food and piping hot tea on a cold morning ! Then we drove on, higher still, and reached Sela Pass which was covered in snow. After having spent an arduous two days trekking in snow, watching army jawans at the camp made me really sympathise with those who have to live and work in such conditions for months on end.
A bit ahead of Sela Pass is the Jaswantgad war memorial, a memorial to Jaswant Singh, a Garhwal Rifles Soldier who helped by two local girls, defended his post against the Chinese for three days. I am sure that were this memorial to be in a park in a city somewhere, it would not have evoked strong emotions in me. But here in this lonely, desolate, grand, majestic setting, one cannot look at it, shrug and walk on; something tugs strongly at you. And you
realise that a soldier from an alien land had attempted to own this piece of land, maybe even strutted about somewhere close by assuming that the land would soon be his, and you begin to feel …………angry, hurt, bewildered.
Bewildered because I never realised till then how far into India the Chinese army had advanced, and am amazed that our history books so lightly gloss over this fact. Bewildered because I realise I do not know my country and it’s history at all. Bewildered when later on I see bunkers on the hillside and realise that I never before understood the difference between bunkers and trenches properly. Still bewildered when we drive past Tawang town the next day and find the hillside dotted with bunkers – somehow a sense of the enormity of the war grows on me day by day.
When you go home
Tell them of us and say
For your tomorrow
We gave our today.
Another quote at a war memorial for the Indian soldiers that perished in 1962
By,
Zenobia.
Just a short ramble
Just a short post – written in a hurry – that’s my excuse for any factual or grammatical errors.
This post is prompted by a stray comment a friend made about the results of a reality dance competition called ‘Jhalak Dikhlaa Jaa’ - we behave in small groups exactly in the same manner in which we behave as a nation, and vote on irrelevant criteria for the wrong person.
Before I continue, let me admit that I have watched all of ten minutes of one episode of ‘Jhalak Dikhlaa Jaa’ and have read about it once or twice in the papers – that’s all the background there is to this post. The finals of JDJ had Mona Singh (Jassi) competing against Shweta Salve, and the results were decided by viewer’s votes. Shweta Salve was the superior dancer by far, but Mona Singh had the popularity of her Jassi days to support her and she won. This led my friend to comment that if we Indians keep voting on the basis of irrelevant criteria, then we deserve the kind of leaders we have.
This post is prompted by a stray comment a friend made about the results of a reality dance competition called ‘Jhalak Dikhlaa Jaa’ - we behave in small groups exactly in the same manner in which we behave as a nation, and vote on irrelevant criteria for the wrong person.
Before I continue, let me admit that I have watched all of ten minutes of one episode of ‘Jhalak Dikhlaa Jaa’ and have read about it once or twice in the papers – that’s all the background there is to this post. The finals of JDJ had Mona Singh (Jassi) competing against Shweta Salve, and the results were decided by viewer’s votes. Shweta Salve was the superior dancer by far, but Mona Singh had the popularity of her Jassi days to support her and she won. This led my friend to comment that if we Indians keep voting on the basis of irrelevant criteria, then we deserve the kind of leaders we have.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Cup of Joe
Did you see the Dilbert comic-strip today?
It's pretty funny :-) ! I think I should also get oneof those coffee backpacks. One cup of coffee no longer seems to have any effect on me keeping awake in the afternoons at the work!
I don't even remember exactly when I learnt to drink strong coffee. When I was small, like all kids, me and my sis had to drink two (sometimes three) glasses of milk a day. No coffee or tea though - only Horlicks, Boost, Bournvita and the like. Coffee/tea were apparently not good for health. My sister had no issues with this - she simply detested coffee and tea and was quite content with the other beverage mixes - or at least as content as you can be when being forced to drink a tall glass of milk. Me, on the other hand, always had a strange attraction towards the smell of coffee.
So usually, mostly on weekends, my mom used to add a couple of drops of coffee to my milk with sugar. It gave a coffee-ish smell to the milk and I simply loved it! I still can remember me sitting, knees pulled upto my chest on a high stool (yeah, those were thedays when I could comfortably fit into such a small area) in a corner of the room as I drank it. I don't know why clambering onto the stool was important but it was a ritual for me!
Then, as I grew older, I started discovering the joys of tea. I still could tolerate only a very, very milky version of coffee. But tea - ah, that was something else! My dad is a tea lover too. During the weekends,mid-morning, dad would ask for a cup of chai. While giving dad his cup, mom would give me about two gulps of the tea in a tumbler. Dad and me would then drink our respective teas. Bliss!
As I grew older, my love for tea grew along with me.I still had to drink milk everyday but I could drink tea in the evenings. Tea was the first "dish" I learnt to make by myself. Given my addiction, it was easier to make tea myself than keep bugging mom for tea!However, during the "important" board-exam years,mom would make it for me if she found me studying late at night. But then, at some point, I was downing so many glasses of tea a day that my stomach started to hurt. Thus came the end of the endless-cups-of-tea era.Sigh!
Then, it was onto college. There, in the hostel, in the mornings, we used to get milk. Initially, I used to buy Horlicks, Boost or Bournvita to add to the milk and drink. But I noticed that the contents of thebottles got over pretty quick as every visitor to the room happily helped themselves to it. Really, the Horlicks "kudikka vendaam, appadiyey chaapuduvein"(no need to drink, I will eat it just like that) slogan never had better proof :-)!
In case you have never been in a typical hostel, hostel milk looks like white-colored water and is impossible to drink without some masking agent.Clearly, I needed something else to mix with the milk. So, I decided to switch over to the instant coffee powder that was provided by the hostel mess. I realized that more coffee powder made me feel more awake (ah, caffeine) and the strength of my coffees started increasing! I guess undergrad was where I learnt to drink the non-milky version of coffee. I was surprised at myself - I was actually enjoying drinking something which I always used to claim was too bitter!
That was until I came to the U.S. For the first time in my life, I drank black coffee. Basically my lab had run out of sugar and creamer and I was desperate for something warm to keep me awake through the night.Black coffee served the purpose well though rather bitterly.
However, as compensation, my apartment had a tea-loving roommate. So we used to take turns makingtea every morning and evening (if we were home). And then another cool thing happened. We got J as our roommate. If I thought I was a tea-addict, J must have probably had tea running through her veins!She loved to not only drink tea but also to MAKE tea!I tell you, it's bliss when you can look up from thebook you are reading and tell "J, lets have chai" and have a steaming mug of tea placed in your hand soon afterwards :-) !
But soon, it was time to get to the real world and work. For the first one year of my work-life, for some reason, I never drank coffee at work. It was just tea. I remember my colleague saying "Oh, you don't drink coffee? Then probably you don't smoke or drink either." - LOL :-) !
Then at some point, I can't remember why, I started drinking coffee at work in the mornings. And then added a cup in the afternoons too! Sigh! Nowadays, I proactively make fresh coffee to drink if I can't find some! Naturally, now I am finding that the normal dosage is not enough to keep me awake (even if it is mostly psychological for me anyways).
By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com/)
It's pretty funny :-) ! I think I should also get oneof those coffee backpacks. One cup of coffee no longer seems to have any effect on me keeping awake in the afternoons at the work!
I don't even remember exactly when I learnt to drink strong coffee. When I was small, like all kids, me and my sis had to drink two (sometimes three) glasses of milk a day. No coffee or tea though - only Horlicks, Boost, Bournvita and the like. Coffee/tea were apparently not good for health. My sister had no issues with this - she simply detested coffee and tea and was quite content with the other beverage mixes - or at least as content as you can be when being forced to drink a tall glass of milk. Me, on the other hand, always had a strange attraction towards the smell of coffee.
So usually, mostly on weekends, my mom used to add a couple of drops of coffee to my milk with sugar. It gave a coffee-ish smell to the milk and I simply loved it! I still can remember me sitting, knees pulled upto my chest on a high stool (yeah, those were thedays when I could comfortably fit into such a small area) in a corner of the room as I drank it. I don't know why clambering onto the stool was important but it was a ritual for me!
Then, as I grew older, I started discovering the joys of tea. I still could tolerate only a very, very milky version of coffee. But tea - ah, that was something else! My dad is a tea lover too. During the weekends,mid-morning, dad would ask for a cup of chai. While giving dad his cup, mom would give me about two gulps of the tea in a tumbler. Dad and me would then drink our respective teas. Bliss!
As I grew older, my love for tea grew along with me.I still had to drink milk everyday but I could drink tea in the evenings. Tea was the first "dish" I learnt to make by myself. Given my addiction, it was easier to make tea myself than keep bugging mom for tea!However, during the "important" board-exam years,mom would make it for me if she found me studying late at night. But then, at some point, I was downing so many glasses of tea a day that my stomach started to hurt. Thus came the end of the endless-cups-of-tea era.Sigh!
Then, it was onto college. There, in the hostel, in the mornings, we used to get milk. Initially, I used to buy Horlicks, Boost or Bournvita to add to the milk and drink. But I noticed that the contents of thebottles got over pretty quick as every visitor to the room happily helped themselves to it. Really, the Horlicks "kudikka vendaam, appadiyey chaapuduvein"(no need to drink, I will eat it just like that) slogan never had better proof :-)!
In case you have never been in a typical hostel, hostel milk looks like white-colored water and is impossible to drink without some masking agent.Clearly, I needed something else to mix with the milk. So, I decided to switch over to the instant coffee powder that was provided by the hostel mess. I realized that more coffee powder made me feel more awake (ah, caffeine) and the strength of my coffees started increasing! I guess undergrad was where I learnt to drink the non-milky version of coffee. I was surprised at myself - I was actually enjoying drinking something which I always used to claim was too bitter!
That was until I came to the U.S. For the first time in my life, I drank black coffee. Basically my lab had run out of sugar and creamer and I was desperate for something warm to keep me awake through the night.Black coffee served the purpose well though rather bitterly.
However, as compensation, my apartment had a tea-loving roommate. So we used to take turns makingtea every morning and evening (if we were home). And then another cool thing happened. We got J as our roommate. If I thought I was a tea-addict, J must have probably had tea running through her veins!She loved to not only drink tea but also to MAKE tea!I tell you, it's bliss when you can look up from thebook you are reading and tell "J, lets have chai" and have a steaming mug of tea placed in your hand soon afterwards :-) !
But soon, it was time to get to the real world and work. For the first one year of my work-life, for some reason, I never drank coffee at work. It was just tea. I remember my colleague saying "Oh, you don't drink coffee? Then probably you don't smoke or drink either." - LOL :-) !
Then at some point, I can't remember why, I started drinking coffee at work in the mornings. And then added a cup in the afternoons too! Sigh! Nowadays, I proactively make fresh coffee to drink if I can't find some! Naturally, now I am finding that the normal dosage is not enough to keep me awake (even if it is mostly psychological for me anyways).
By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com/)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Review of 'Seven Islands and a Metro'
Summary - An interesting movie, albeit one that might have benefited from with crisper editing. On the whole, I enjoyed the movie, though I felt some parts just dragged on for far too long. A must – see for all those who love Bombay, an added attraction is the use of Saadat Hasan Manto and Ismat Chughtai as narrators. The archaic language that Manto and Ismat speak in is charming. I have read some short stories by Manto before, gave me a thrill to recognise some of them in Manto’s dialogues. Though too many of his partition stories were used in the context of the Bombay riots - just one of those would have been far more effective.
The movie delves – err actually makes brief dips into - the lives of all who make up ‘Aamchi Mumbai’- the bar girls, mill workers, night-time tea sellers (the guys who wander around on cycles with a can of tea and plastic cups), construction site workers, kolis (fisherfolk), rich Jains, Christians, Parsis…..everyone.
It introduces one to the history of this city, the forces that have shaped it, how it is changing and why, and the turmoil that the change is causing. I loved the way they introduce the heterogeneity of the people who make up Bombay by combining the visuals of identity papers and the vocals in the background of various people answering an impersonal babu’s questions about their identity. Also loved the picturisation of the 7 islands of Bom Bahai metamorphosing into Bombay.
There were lots of small facts about the city that this movie brought to light. Though I have relished fried Boomla (Bombil in Marathi, Bombay Duck in English) for years, it was during the movie that I realised that they had really sharp teeth. Really enjoyed seeing how their jaws are used to hang them out to dry, and listening to the old Parsi lady and the not-so-old Maharashtrian woman describing the ‘right’ way to cook Boomla.
Another interesting fact about Bombay. In the 1980s, there were 2,32,000 mill workers in this city. Now there are only 30,000 !! I never realised the magnitude of this decrease. Suddenly I want to know what happened to those people, where did they go ? How many of them are currently unemployed ? How many are employed and in what capacity ? By how much has their income / living standard dropped, if at all ? Where do they live now ?
Through snippets of conversations with actual people, the movie takes a look at the social and economic forces that cause tension in the social fabric of the city. The kolis who are angry that no one visits the fish markets anymore as North Indian ‘lungiwalas’ go door-to-door selling fish. The rich vegetarian people who moved into a newly constructed building near a koliwada and now want to evict the original kolis because the smell of fish bothers them. The cemeteries that have been encroached upon by shanties. The pushing and jostling for precious inches of space that causes tempers to rise. The communal tension. The economic disparity. Enough reasons for serious concern about this wonderful city’s future.
I walked out of the theatre with the warm feeling like one gets when you meet a good friend after a long time and spend time going through his/her childhood snaps. Even though in the process of the conversation you may discover that your friend is currently unwell, and you may be concerned about that; when you go back home at night, the overriding feeling is one of happiness at having got back in touch with your friend again.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
The movie delves – err actually makes brief dips into - the lives of all who make up ‘Aamchi Mumbai’- the bar girls, mill workers, night-time tea sellers (the guys who wander around on cycles with a can of tea and plastic cups), construction site workers, kolis (fisherfolk), rich Jains, Christians, Parsis…..everyone.
It introduces one to the history of this city, the forces that have shaped it, how it is changing and why, and the turmoil that the change is causing. I loved the way they introduce the heterogeneity of the people who make up Bombay by combining the visuals of identity papers and the vocals in the background of various people answering an impersonal babu’s questions about their identity. Also loved the picturisation of the 7 islands of Bom Bahai metamorphosing into Bombay.
There were lots of small facts about the city that this movie brought to light. Though I have relished fried Boomla (Bombil in Marathi, Bombay Duck in English) for years, it was during the movie that I realised that they had really sharp teeth. Really enjoyed seeing how their jaws are used to hang them out to dry, and listening to the old Parsi lady and the not-so-old Maharashtrian woman describing the ‘right’ way to cook Boomla.
Another interesting fact about Bombay. In the 1980s, there were 2,32,000 mill workers in this city. Now there are only 30,000 !! I never realised the magnitude of this decrease. Suddenly I want to know what happened to those people, where did they go ? How many of them are currently unemployed ? How many are employed and in what capacity ? By how much has their income / living standard dropped, if at all ? Where do they live now ?
Through snippets of conversations with actual people, the movie takes a look at the social and economic forces that cause tension in the social fabric of the city. The kolis who are angry that no one visits the fish markets anymore as North Indian ‘lungiwalas’ go door-to-door selling fish. The rich vegetarian people who moved into a newly constructed building near a koliwada and now want to evict the original kolis because the smell of fish bothers them. The cemeteries that have been encroached upon by shanties. The pushing and jostling for precious inches of space that causes tempers to rise. The communal tension. The economic disparity. Enough reasons for serious concern about this wonderful city’s future.
I walked out of the theatre with the warm feeling like one gets when you meet a good friend after a long time and spend time going through his/her childhood snaps. Even though in the process of the conversation you may discover that your friend is currently unwell, and you may be concerned about that; when you go back home at night, the overriding feeling is one of happiness at having got back in touch with your friend again.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
Monday, October 09, 2006
5 Tips on Networking at Seminars
The other day one of my friends called me up in a bit of a panic. She was attending a seminar on the Plastics Industry in India as a part of her new job. She was thoroughly enjoying dozing through the day in her chair at the back of the room. But she was dreading lunch hour when she was supposed to 'network' with people, which was officially the main purpose of attending the conference. Having worked in a long series of jobs not involving such public networking, she was, understandably, panicking.
Having spent more than six years in client facing roles, I have managed to pick up quite a few tips on attending such conferences and am glad to be able to share it with all my friends who may be stuck in seminars on the Plastics Industry in India in the future.
1. Be there. The main purpose of a seminar is to network and every veteran knows this. Come lunch hour, and before you can say 'Shall we have lunch?' you will see the cards flying thick and fast. To make use of this, all you need to do is look confident and position yourself in the busiest spot in the area (Not the food table. People are usually focused and aggressive around there). As my friend discovered, 'they are dropping cards like confetti'.
2. Time it. The best time to network is the pre-conference cocktail. People are at a loose end because the event has not yet started and if you just spend your time standing alone nursing a drink you will look like an alcoholic. On the other hand if you stand with someone else who is also nursing a drink, you will look like an industry professional. The same holds true for the pre-conference coffee in case of day-time seminars
3. Circulate. This is not as tough as it sounds. Just listen to one of the world's silliest jokes from a perfect stranger trying to make polite conversation, and your survival instincts will automatically kick in and you make a move.
4. Catch them alone. Every conference will have at least three or four people who have turned up by themselves in a genuine effort to follow the trends in the Plastics Industry and are uncomfortable with the socializing part. Yet secretly, in order not to be branded an alcoholic (refer point 2) or a gourmand (modification of point 2), they would like someone to talk to. You may or may not find them useful in the course of your professional life but at that point in time when your boss turns around to check on how you are doing, instead of looking like a lost kid you can confidently give that quick smile that says 'Later. I am busy talking to this guy who will single handedly give us USD 100 M of future busines' );
5. Stupid talk is OK. Most people are intimidated by the fact that when they actually do enter into a conversation with a stranger they may reveal the fact that they are not Nobel-prize material. Veterans will tell you that rarely do the conversations go beyond the score of the cricket match going on currently or the general inefficiency of the organiser in managing time. Then someone will crack a bad joke and everyone goes 'har har har' and exchanges cards and you move on (Point 3 above).
If nothing works and it is becoming obvious that the room has conspired to make you stand out like a miserable and boring loser then it is time to use your cell phone. Whip out your cell phone and have a brisk, solemn-looking conversation on it that signals to people around you that you are checking the London markets to see how freight prices have moved and whether it is time to hedge. You may not have collected visiting cards at the end of it but at least you look like you are too busy managing your current life to be bothered with getting to know a pathetic bunch of half-wits who clearly have no other business other than cracking jokes on cricket. Then put off phone with a sweeping click, smile smugly and exit into the bathroom where you can burst into tears undisturbed.
By Anita B.
( more posts by Anita on http://royalvilla.blogspot.com)
Having spent more than six years in client facing roles, I have managed to pick up quite a few tips on attending such conferences and am glad to be able to share it with all my friends who may be stuck in seminars on the Plastics Industry in India in the future.
1. Be there. The main purpose of a seminar is to network and every veteran knows this. Come lunch hour, and before you can say 'Shall we have lunch?' you will see the cards flying thick and fast. To make use of this, all you need to do is look confident and position yourself in the busiest spot in the area (Not the food table. People are usually focused and aggressive around there). As my friend discovered, 'they are dropping cards like confetti'.
2. Time it. The best time to network is the pre-conference cocktail. People are at a loose end because the event has not yet started and if you just spend your time standing alone nursing a drink you will look like an alcoholic. On the other hand if you stand with someone else who is also nursing a drink, you will look like an industry professional. The same holds true for the pre-conference coffee in case of day-time seminars
3. Circulate. This is not as tough as it sounds. Just listen to one of the world's silliest jokes from a perfect stranger trying to make polite conversation, and your survival instincts will automatically kick in and you make a move.
4. Catch them alone. Every conference will have at least three or four people who have turned up by themselves in a genuine effort to follow the trends in the Plastics Industry and are uncomfortable with the socializing part. Yet secretly, in order not to be branded an alcoholic (refer point 2) or a gourmand (modification of point 2), they would like someone to talk to. You may or may not find them useful in the course of your professional life but at that point in time when your boss turns around to check on how you are doing, instead of looking like a lost kid you can confidently give that quick smile that says 'Later. I am busy talking to this guy who will single handedly give us USD 100 M of future busines' );
5. Stupid talk is OK. Most people are intimidated by the fact that when they actually do enter into a conversation with a stranger they may reveal the fact that they are not Nobel-prize material. Veterans will tell you that rarely do the conversations go beyond the score of the cricket match going on currently or the general inefficiency of the organiser in managing time. Then someone will crack a bad joke and everyone goes 'har har har' and exchanges cards and you move on (Point 3 above).
If nothing works and it is becoming obvious that the room has conspired to make you stand out like a miserable and boring loser then it is time to use your cell phone. Whip out your cell phone and have a brisk, solemn-looking conversation on it that signals to people around you that you are checking the London markets to see how freight prices have moved and whether it is time to hedge. You may not have collected visiting cards at the end of it but at least you look like you are too busy managing your current life to be bothered with getting to know a pathetic bunch of half-wits who clearly have no other business other than cracking jokes on cricket. Then put off phone with a sweeping click, smile smugly and exit into the bathroom where you can burst into tears undisturbed.
By Anita B.
( more posts by Anita on http://royalvilla.blogspot.com)
Monday, October 02, 2006
Happy Birthday !
Belated Happy Birthday Everyone !
Yes, this blog is now over a year old ! The first post on this blog was on August 22nd last year. All those of you who have contributed to the blog, thanks a ton. Those who have not - the rest of us want a birthday present - the most appropriate would be to write something and send it in.
Happy Birthday again !
Yes, this blog is now over a year old ! The first post on this blog was on August 22nd last year. All those of you who have contributed to the blog, thanks a ton. Those who have not - the rest of us want a birthday present - the most appropriate would be to write something and send it in.
Happy Birthday again !
Monday, September 18, 2006
Movie Review - 'House of Flying Daggers'
Its funny writing a review of a movie, nearly two years after it was released to much acclaim. It is a pity that HOFD took so much time to come to India. And it is an even bigger pity that it runs only for a couple of shows in Bangalore, the other slots being taken by an Indian Indiana Jones movie called “Naksha”.
HOFD has a gossamer storyline. It is the time of anarchy during the Tang dynasty, late ninth century. Various rebel groups are fighting the government and HOFD is one of the leading bunch of anarchists. A policeman, Jin, is sent to a brothel called Peony Pavilion in disguise to check out intelligence that a rebel is hiding there. There he runs into Mei, a blind courtesan, who is arrested after a dazzling dance sequence (the Echo Dance) on the presumption that she is the daughter of a leader of HOFD who was killed by the police. She is later helped to escape by Jin himself, who is acting as a mole to follow Mei to the HOFD. Jin and Mei are chased by soldiers and they fall in love after some elaborately staged fight (or dance) sequences across jungles, meadows, mountains and bamboo forests. Or are they just acting to be in love to meet their own motives. Some more surprises are in store and there is nicely spun tale of morality, love (there is even a love triangle) ending in a climax which is tragic and elemental. HOFD is a love story and please do not go expecting an action movie; the movie is not actually short of action sequences and indeed uses these to propel the love story forward.
Words like operatic and symphonic abound reviews of HOFD. For me personally, whose understanding of either operas or symphonies is next to zero, HOFD is a simply wonderful return to film making in its most pristine and unspoiled form. Films like “Crouching Tiger..”, “Hero” and now “HOFD” show the world and especially Hollywood a way of filmmaking which seem to have been forgotten. That cinema is primarily a visual (and aural) art form, in colour and texture. HOFD re-emphasises this in greater grandeur than ever before. The costumes are lavish and the art direction intricate (witness the floor design and the wall work in the Echo Dance. The action sequences are breathtaking and as (or more) wonderfully choreographed than the ones in Crouching Tiger or Hero (which to me was more mechanical than fluid). You are just dazzled by the way special effects have been integrated into the action.
Some of the sequences are truly memorable scene-of-the-decade ventures. ¬The Echo Dance in the beginning where Mei has to dance to the pat of a bean/ seed on a drum and the Bamboo Fight with its astonishing colours, sounds and movements are both sequences of unadulterated visceral glory. You want to tip your hat to the directors ability to imagine, leave aside execute, these scenes. Even some of the sensitive scenes are shot very well, like the scene were Jin gallops on a horse around a meadow sweeping flowers to give to the blind Mei and the panning shots of Mei and Jun in the meadows after a frantic love-making session. One can just go on.
The music and cinematography are the high points of the movie. Unlike the earlier named Chinese movies which had music by the brilliant Tan Dun, this has music by Shigeru Umebayashi who managed to reach the immense heights scaled by Tan Dun in both “Crouching” and “Hero”. Zhang Yimou, one of the greatest Chinese directors, has been called a “visual sensualist” by some. Movies of Zhang Yimou (himself a photographer) have always had brilliant composition and shot-taking. Colour for him is like dialogue to a Woody Allen movie. Here it is not as in-your-face as the colour- coded “Hero”, but simpler and still elegant and recalls all the visual splendour of Zhang’s earlier movies.
More interestingly, the career of director Zhang Yimou seem to echo the stage and growth of the Chinese economy. In his earlier classics like Red Sorghum, Raise the Red Lantern and Ju Dou made around the time of the student rebellion, he ran afoul of the government. However, the growing integration of Chine into the world economy seems to have made him return to more simple story-telling in movies like Hero and HOFD, though not in any way diluting his auteur status. I wonder what sociological conclusions to make from this, it is either mute indifference or an acceptance of the economic boom in China.
HOFD is “rich” in the way Hollywood movies were in the 50s when they were trying to battle television. The movie is a true feast to the senses, a riot of colour and music. I guess you may not catch it on the screen but a DVD rental is surely due. After seeing these movies, I wonder why we, with an equally strong mythology and folklore, don’t venture anywhere near what the Chinese have been doing.
By,
Guthikonda Vamshidhar
(http://guthikonda@blogspot.com)
HOFD has a gossamer storyline. It is the time of anarchy during the Tang dynasty, late ninth century. Various rebel groups are fighting the government and HOFD is one of the leading bunch of anarchists. A policeman, Jin, is sent to a brothel called Peony Pavilion in disguise to check out intelligence that a rebel is hiding there. There he runs into Mei, a blind courtesan, who is arrested after a dazzling dance sequence (the Echo Dance) on the presumption that she is the daughter of a leader of HOFD who was killed by the police. She is later helped to escape by Jin himself, who is acting as a mole to follow Mei to the HOFD. Jin and Mei are chased by soldiers and they fall in love after some elaborately staged fight (or dance) sequences across jungles, meadows, mountains and bamboo forests. Or are they just acting to be in love to meet their own motives. Some more surprises are in store and there is nicely spun tale of morality, love (there is even a love triangle) ending in a climax which is tragic and elemental. HOFD is a love story and please do not go expecting an action movie; the movie is not actually short of action sequences and indeed uses these to propel the love story forward.
Words like operatic and symphonic abound reviews of HOFD. For me personally, whose understanding of either operas or symphonies is next to zero, HOFD is a simply wonderful return to film making in its most pristine and unspoiled form. Films like “Crouching Tiger..”, “Hero” and now “HOFD” show the world and especially Hollywood a way of filmmaking which seem to have been forgotten. That cinema is primarily a visual (and aural) art form, in colour and texture. HOFD re-emphasises this in greater grandeur than ever before. The costumes are lavish and the art direction intricate (witness the floor design and the wall work in the Echo Dance. The action sequences are breathtaking and as (or more) wonderfully choreographed than the ones in Crouching Tiger or Hero (which to me was more mechanical than fluid). You are just dazzled by the way special effects have been integrated into the action.
Some of the sequences are truly memorable scene-of-the-decade ventures. ¬The Echo Dance in the beginning where Mei has to dance to the pat of a bean/ seed on a drum and the Bamboo Fight with its astonishing colours, sounds and movements are both sequences of unadulterated visceral glory. You want to tip your hat to the directors ability to imagine, leave aside execute, these scenes. Even some of the sensitive scenes are shot very well, like the scene were Jin gallops on a horse around a meadow sweeping flowers to give to the blind Mei and the panning shots of Mei and Jun in the meadows after a frantic love-making session. One can just go on.
The music and cinematography are the high points of the movie. Unlike the earlier named Chinese movies which had music by the brilliant Tan Dun, this has music by Shigeru Umebayashi who managed to reach the immense heights scaled by Tan Dun in both “Crouching” and “Hero”. Zhang Yimou, one of the greatest Chinese directors, has been called a “visual sensualist” by some. Movies of Zhang Yimou (himself a photographer) have always had brilliant composition and shot-taking. Colour for him is like dialogue to a Woody Allen movie. Here it is not as in-your-face as the colour- coded “Hero”, but simpler and still elegant and recalls all the visual splendour of Zhang’s earlier movies.
More interestingly, the career of director Zhang Yimou seem to echo the stage and growth of the Chinese economy. In his earlier classics like Red Sorghum, Raise the Red Lantern and Ju Dou made around the time of the student rebellion, he ran afoul of the government. However, the growing integration of Chine into the world economy seems to have made him return to more simple story-telling in movies like Hero and HOFD, though not in any way diluting his auteur status. I wonder what sociological conclusions to make from this, it is either mute indifference or an acceptance of the economic boom in China.
HOFD is “rich” in the way Hollywood movies were in the 50s when they were trying to battle television. The movie is a true feast to the senses, a riot of colour and music. I guess you may not catch it on the screen but a DVD rental is surely due. After seeing these movies, I wonder why we, with an equally strong mythology and folklore, don’t venture anywhere near what the Chinese have been doing.
By,
Guthikonda Vamshidhar
(http://guthikonda@blogspot.com)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Sounds
When I was in 8th grade (1988), my mum and dad finally relented and got me what passed for a hi-fi back in the day. It was a breathtaking experience to finally hear music the way it was meant to be heard, off an Aiwa deck, with a signal-to-noise ratio >75 dB (which was the best you could get in those days without selling vital organs), a Cosmic amp (local brand, dunno what happened to them), and 3-way bookshelf speakers made by goodness knows who. The sound of Herb Alpert's "African Flame" playing on that system in the night, with the windows wide open (reduces echos), and the lights dimmed (makes the dancing LEDs more psychedelic) used to bring a smile to anyone used to a 2W Hitachi cassette player made in 1978 ( i.e., me).
Along with the purchase, I persuaded the dad-man to buy me a tape of AC/DC's "Blow Up Your Video" - he didn't know who AC/DC was, though I doubt he thought it was anything to do with electricity. And starting with that tape, I learned the meaning of generation-gap. My mum and dad did not get why I liked AC/DC, and later, Pink Floyd, U2, and name-your-mainstream-rock-band. Their idea of good western music was Kenny G, Connie Francis, Cliff Richard, and Abba, though if they really were given a choice, they'd go with silence.
In 1993, when I moved to IITB, I took with me ... the Hitachi casette player, which had been serviced back into shape. In 2003, 6 years after I left India, and 10 years after I moved to IITB, the hi-fi was a distant memory, having been left behind in India, where it had disintegrated and been sold to the local electronics shop, and replaced by my parents with a boombox which probably sounded good enough. In my grad-student apartment was an Aiwa boombox, I hardly ever played tapes (and I don't even know where that AC/DC tape is), and most of my music is on the computer. The occasional CD I purchased was quickly transferred to the computer so I could loop the songs into endless playlists.
When I started playing music to my first-born (who was a few months old in 2003), I started her off with Creedence Clearwater Revival, Scissor Sisters, Beastie Boys, and, of course, AC/DC. Occasionally, I'd put KL Saigal on, just to change the tempo (a lot). And Vishwa Mohan Bhatt. This way, I figured that as she grows up, she'll be used to having my music as background noise.
But now that Kid A has turned three, her musical tastes have started asserting themselves. CCR is out. Scissor Sisters and Beastie Boys are out because of the language, ditto AC/DC.
They Might Be Giants (and the album "No!") are in.
Randy Newman (and the Toy Story OST) is in.
The Jungle Book OST is in.
And there is a marked preference for Toy Story (1 and 2), which are played every other day on the DVD player, as is Winnie the Pooh.
She sings the Winnie the Pooh song, the Tigger Song, 'Fibber Island,' and 'You've Got a Friend in Me.'
All her songs are in my head, and I hum them at work.
When everyone is asleep, or when I have a free moment at work, I listen to some old favorites, or indie pop (my current favorites are the Southern Arts Society's 'Turbulent Heart' and the Sprites's George Romero. (The use of apostrophe-plus-s is correct because Sprites is a proper noun.) I enjoy the Kid A's talking, singing, dancing - she's growing up too fast for my liking.
But when I get it, I revel in the silence.
By,
Speck 42
Along with the purchase, I persuaded the dad-man to buy me a tape of AC/DC's "Blow Up Your Video" - he didn't know who AC/DC was, though I doubt he thought it was anything to do with electricity. And starting with that tape, I learned the meaning of generation-gap. My mum and dad did not get why I liked AC/DC, and later, Pink Floyd, U2, and name-your-mainstream-rock-band. Their idea of good western music was Kenny G, Connie Francis, Cliff Richard, and Abba, though if they really were given a choice, they'd go with silence.
In 1993, when I moved to IITB, I took with me ... the Hitachi casette player, which had been serviced back into shape. In 2003, 6 years after I left India, and 10 years after I moved to IITB, the hi-fi was a distant memory, having been left behind in India, where it had disintegrated and been sold to the local electronics shop, and replaced by my parents with a boombox which probably sounded good enough. In my grad-student apartment was an Aiwa boombox, I hardly ever played tapes (and I don't even know where that AC/DC tape is), and most of my music is on the computer. The occasional CD I purchased was quickly transferred to the computer so I could loop the songs into endless playlists.
When I started playing music to my first-born (who was a few months old in 2003), I started her off with Creedence Clearwater Revival, Scissor Sisters, Beastie Boys, and, of course, AC/DC. Occasionally, I'd put KL Saigal on, just to change the tempo (a lot). And Vishwa Mohan Bhatt. This way, I figured that as she grows up, she'll be used to having my music as background noise.
But now that Kid A has turned three, her musical tastes have started asserting themselves. CCR is out. Scissor Sisters and Beastie Boys are out because of the language, ditto AC/DC.
They Might Be Giants (and the album "No!") are in.
Randy Newman (and the Toy Story OST) is in.
The Jungle Book OST is in.
And there is a marked preference for Toy Story (1 and 2), which are played every other day on the DVD player, as is Winnie the Pooh.
She sings the Winnie the Pooh song, the Tigger Song, 'Fibber Island,' and 'You've Got a Friend in Me.'
All her songs are in my head, and I hum them at work.
When everyone is asleep, or when I have a free moment at work, I listen to some old favorites, or indie pop (my current favorites are the Southern Arts Society's 'Turbulent Heart' and the Sprites's George Romero. (The use of apostrophe-plus-s is correct because Sprites is a proper noun.) I enjoy the Kid A's talking, singing, dancing - she's growing up too fast for my liking.
But when I get it, I revel in the silence.
By,
Speck 42
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Review of 'Nine Queens'
This is a difficult film to analyze as it has many layers of deception built into it. The basic premise of the story is very simple – Marcos (Ricardo Darin) and Juan (Gaston Pauls) are two small time swindlers in Buenos Aires (it's a Spanish movie) who run into each other 'accidentally' and decide to team up for a day. In turn they run into a swindler trying to meet a guest in a hotel where Marcos' beautiful sister Valeria (Letecia Bredice) 'happens' to work. The latter is a con artist who has faked a set of valuable postage stamps of the Weimar era known as the 'Nine Queens'. The guest is no saint either, he is the infamous Gandolfo (Ignasi Abadal) - a multi millionaire – who is 'about' to be deported from Argentina the next day.
The plot runs into its predictable series of twists and turns. The main charm of the story, though, is the fact that throughout the course of the movie and indeed till the very end one is not really sure as to who is the lamb and who is the wolf. The circumstances are too pat, the boyish newbie Juan has to cough up 50 grand (very conveniently his entire wealth) as his contribution to pull of the caper. Will the roguish Marcos swindle Juan? Or will Valeria, who hates Marcos, but is crooked enough to sleep with Gandolfo walk away with all the money? And what about Gandolfo? He has seen many a swindle in his life and indeed is a big con artist himself. The movie unfolds gradually and keeps unfolding till the very end.
The pace of the movie is very relaxed. The story is simple, so the director (Fabian Bielinsky, who has also written the movie), has ample time to flesh out the characters and develop the plot with all the side stories. Juan comes across as a loveable rogue, a bewildered, hopeless, no-gooder who is being pushed by circumstances into a trade that he seems to loathe. His father is in prison and needs 70 grand to bribe a judge to set him free. The most delightful vignette of the movie is when Juan goes to meet his father in prison. They are sitting across a table playing cards wherein his father is rapidly moving the cards and Juan has to guess the position of the ace, which he unfailingly does so. At the same time his father is exhorting Juan not to do any work that will land him in prison. The shot ends with Juan not being able to identify the ace's position and turning up all three cards to find that the ace has disappeared. His father concludes the game by saying "You wouldn't survive." This seems to be the overarching message of the movie, only one has to keep guessing who the "it" is. The other characters, too, are brilliantly sketched out. Marcos as the world weary, battle hardened, take no prisoners conman, Valeria as the beautiful, hardworking sister who nevertheless seizes her crooked chance when she gets one and Gandolfo as the playboy businessman are played to perfection by the respective actors.
The end of the movie is where I have a quibble. As mentioned before, the movie keeps peeling of one layer after another. The most apt ending, in my opinion, was the penultimate layer. (Hint: being an economist I believe the Argentinean peso is the ultimate con artist.) Unfortunately the director peels off one layer too many and leads to what I feel is a very tame ending to a delightful journey.
PS – I hope the last paragraph is tantalizing and irritates my readers a wee bit. That is the intention. I hope it will motivate more people to watch this charming movie. J
By,
Sachin Desai.
The plot runs into its predictable series of twists and turns. The main charm of the story, though, is the fact that throughout the course of the movie and indeed till the very end one is not really sure as to who is the lamb and who is the wolf. The circumstances are too pat, the boyish newbie Juan has to cough up 50 grand (very conveniently his entire wealth) as his contribution to pull of the caper. Will the roguish Marcos swindle Juan? Or will Valeria, who hates Marcos, but is crooked enough to sleep with Gandolfo walk away with all the money? And what about Gandolfo? He has seen many a swindle in his life and indeed is a big con artist himself. The movie unfolds gradually and keeps unfolding till the very end.
The pace of the movie is very relaxed. The story is simple, so the director (Fabian Bielinsky, who has also written the movie), has ample time to flesh out the characters and develop the plot with all the side stories. Juan comes across as a loveable rogue, a bewildered, hopeless, no-gooder who is being pushed by circumstances into a trade that he seems to loathe. His father is in prison and needs 70 grand to bribe a judge to set him free. The most delightful vignette of the movie is when Juan goes to meet his father in prison. They are sitting across a table playing cards wherein his father is rapidly moving the cards and Juan has to guess the position of the ace, which he unfailingly does so. At the same time his father is exhorting Juan not to do any work that will land him in prison. The shot ends with Juan not being able to identify the ace's position and turning up all three cards to find that the ace has disappeared. His father concludes the game by saying "You wouldn't survive." This seems to be the overarching message of the movie, only one has to keep guessing who the "it" is. The other characters, too, are brilliantly sketched out. Marcos as the world weary, battle hardened, take no prisoners conman, Valeria as the beautiful, hardworking sister who nevertheless seizes her crooked chance when she gets one and Gandolfo as the playboy businessman are played to perfection by the respective actors.
The end of the movie is where I have a quibble. As mentioned before, the movie keeps peeling of one layer after another. The most apt ending, in my opinion, was the penultimate layer. (Hint: being an economist I believe the Argentinean peso is the ultimate con artist.) Unfortunately the director peels off one layer too many and leads to what I feel is a very tame ending to a delightful journey.
PS – I hope the last paragraph is tantalizing and irritates my readers a wee bit. That is the intention. I hope it will motivate more people to watch this charming movie. J
By,
Sachin Desai.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
about Books. and Reading.
Some of my earliest memories are of going with Mummy to the Higginbothams in Bangalore, greedily exploring the shelves and choosing the book I wanted. Then returning to my grandparent's house to curl up in a corner and lose myself in the exploits of Noddy, Big Ears, Mr. Plod, Tess, and of course, Noddy's red-and-yellow car (Praap ! Praap!).
A year – or maybe two later, I remember waking up early one cold, foggy morning in Ambala to find that Daddy had returned from an outstation trip with 'The O'Sullivan Twins' – my first foray into the St. Clare's series. In due course of time, I moved on to other series by Enid Blyton – MaloryTowers, The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, The Five Find Outers etc. (p.s. was 'Brer Rabbit' also an Enid Blyton invention ?) My most constant and cherished friends in my early years were those books; I think I learnt more about good manners, integrity and character from Ms. Theobald, Mrs. Jenks, Mrs. Cornwallis and Ms. Peters than I ever did from any teacher in school.
For reading material more rooted in Indianness, one depended on Tinkle and Amar Chitra Katha comics and Target magazine. At that time, there were hardly any children's books by Indian authors. A lot of one's early knowledge of Indian history came from Amar Chitra Katha comics, parts of epics such as the Ramayana and Mahabharata, also tales about the buildingof the Taj Mahal, about Birbal, Vikramaditya, Tipu Sultan, Sher Shah Suri etc. One's idea of feminine beauty was also largely based on Amar Chitra Katha heroines – graceful, curvaceous figure, lovely big eyes, heart shaped face and long, lustrous tresses. Tinkle with Suppandi and Shikari Shambhu was entertainment interspersed with some general knowledge. Target was my all time favourite then as it featured lots of stories about children like me and my friends and I could easily identify with their adventures.
Once all my relatives knew that little Zenobia (yes, I was little once, a long long looong time ago) preferred books to dolls, visits from or to relatives meant more books as presents. There exists a snap of my familywith my uncles in which I can be seen clutching tightly my present – an abridged version of 'War of the Worlds'. Does anyone remember those small pocket versions of classics – I had 'War of the Worlds', 'Time Machine' and ‘Last of the Mohicans’.
My happiest vacations were in my maternal grandparents house where the attic was full of bundles of books, wrapped in newspaper, bound with twine and covered in dust; and my normally stern grandfather had given me carte blanche to unwrap and read anything. It was like participating in a 'lucky dip' each time I picked up and unwrapped a new bundle, one never knew what one would end up with. There were tons of old issues of Readers Digest – Grandpa had been a subscriber from the very beginning. Then there were the stacks of Readers Digest Condensed Versions – big fat tomes solemnly trying to live up to the dignified dark green / brown binding and the majestic gold lettering on the spine. There were old classics – all of Jane Austen's work, Wuthering Heights, Moby Dick etc – these were the ones I read, the rest were too weighty for me to even attempt ! To satisfy one's need for zippy thrillers, there were lots of Erle Stanley Gardner (Perry Mason detective novels, does anyone remember who played Kitty to his Karamchand ? ) and Agatha Christie novels.
Days consisted of sipping fragrant hot tea in the morning and reading; chilled rasna lime / rasna mango in the afternoons and reading some more; while a steady stream of snacks and meals found it's way to my stomach. Until it got hot one sat in a rocking chair under a tree or on the swing in the porch, later one moved to a spot close to the fan. Longish spells of reading were broken only by intervals of playing cards with or chatting to grandparents. Evenings were reserved for visits to the sea-side, back home for dinner and TV watching, and then to bed with a book.
And Oh ! the book inspired adventures. Like finding an old abandoned decrepit temple in a forest near our house in Tambaram and exploring it carefully during the day with friends for hidden treasure or unknown ghosts. Or starting our own Secret Seven Club to find out who the bicycle thief on campus was. Having meetings to analyse clues and discuss the progress of our investigation – we would have done a parliamentary committee proud with our lengthy deliberations. Of course all meetings included juice and snacks thoughtfully provided by a club member's mother. Apart from going through enough snacks to feed an army and keeping us occupied throughout the holidays, our club didn't achieve much, though maybe it honed our 'analytical ability and reasoning skills'. ;-)
Books got me into trouble quite often too. Once, when I was about ten years old, some neighbours saw me reading a book while walking by the side of the main road. They decided to tell my father the next time they met him, which unfortunately was at a party. I got a solid firing from my father in front of 25-30 people, to add to my misery he also threatened to cancel my library card. Another time I left an Archies comic that belonged to my grandfather's friend on top of the flush tank in the loo, and due to some thoughtless person using the shower to bathe, it got wet. That was another time I came close to having my borrowing privileges curtailed, I also got a lecture on carelessness vs. responsibility and treating books properly that I will never forget.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
A year – or maybe two later, I remember waking up early one cold, foggy morning in Ambala to find that Daddy had returned from an outstation trip with 'The O'Sullivan Twins' – my first foray into the St. Clare's series. In due course of time, I moved on to other series by Enid Blyton – MaloryTowers, The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, The Five Find Outers etc. (p.s. was 'Brer Rabbit' also an Enid Blyton invention ?) My most constant and cherished friends in my early years were those books; I think I learnt more about good manners, integrity and character from Ms. Theobald, Mrs. Jenks, Mrs. Cornwallis and Ms. Peters than I ever did from any teacher in school.
For reading material more rooted in Indianness, one depended on Tinkle and Amar Chitra Katha comics and Target magazine. At that time, there were hardly any children's books by Indian authors. A lot of one's early knowledge of Indian history came from Amar Chitra Katha comics, parts of epics such as the Ramayana and Mahabharata, also tales about the buildingof the Taj Mahal, about Birbal, Vikramaditya, Tipu Sultan, Sher Shah Suri etc. One's idea of feminine beauty was also largely based on Amar Chitra Katha heroines – graceful, curvaceous figure, lovely big eyes, heart shaped face and long, lustrous tresses. Tinkle with Suppandi and Shikari Shambhu was entertainment interspersed with some general knowledge. Target was my all time favourite then as it featured lots of stories about children like me and my friends and I could easily identify with their adventures.
Once all my relatives knew that little Zenobia (yes, I was little once, a long long looong time ago) preferred books to dolls, visits from or to relatives meant more books as presents. There exists a snap of my familywith my uncles in which I can be seen clutching tightly my present – an abridged version of 'War of the Worlds'. Does anyone remember those small pocket versions of classics – I had 'War of the Worlds', 'Time Machine' and ‘Last of the Mohicans’.
My happiest vacations were in my maternal grandparents house where the attic was full of bundles of books, wrapped in newspaper, bound with twine and covered in dust; and my normally stern grandfather had given me carte blanche to unwrap and read anything. It was like participating in a 'lucky dip' each time I picked up and unwrapped a new bundle, one never knew what one would end up with. There were tons of old issues of Readers Digest – Grandpa had been a subscriber from the very beginning. Then there were the stacks of Readers Digest Condensed Versions – big fat tomes solemnly trying to live up to the dignified dark green / brown binding and the majestic gold lettering on the spine. There were old classics – all of Jane Austen's work, Wuthering Heights, Moby Dick etc – these were the ones I read, the rest were too weighty for me to even attempt ! To satisfy one's need for zippy thrillers, there were lots of Erle Stanley Gardner (Perry Mason detective novels, does anyone remember who played Kitty to his Karamchand ? ) and Agatha Christie novels.
Days consisted of sipping fragrant hot tea in the morning and reading; chilled rasna lime / rasna mango in the afternoons and reading some more; while a steady stream of snacks and meals found it's way to my stomach. Until it got hot one sat in a rocking chair under a tree or on the swing in the porch, later one moved to a spot close to the fan. Longish spells of reading were broken only by intervals of playing cards with or chatting to grandparents. Evenings were reserved for visits to the sea-side, back home for dinner and TV watching, and then to bed with a book.
And Oh ! the book inspired adventures. Like finding an old abandoned decrepit temple in a forest near our house in Tambaram and exploring it carefully during the day with friends for hidden treasure or unknown ghosts. Or starting our own Secret Seven Club to find out who the bicycle thief on campus was. Having meetings to analyse clues and discuss the progress of our investigation – we would have done a parliamentary committee proud with our lengthy deliberations. Of course all meetings included juice and snacks thoughtfully provided by a club member's mother. Apart from going through enough snacks to feed an army and keeping us occupied throughout the holidays, our club didn't achieve much, though maybe it honed our 'analytical ability and reasoning skills'. ;-)
Books got me into trouble quite often too. Once, when I was about ten years old, some neighbours saw me reading a book while walking by the side of the main road. They decided to tell my father the next time they met him, which unfortunately was at a party. I got a solid firing from my father in front of 25-30 people, to add to my misery he also threatened to cancel my library card. Another time I left an Archies comic that belonged to my grandfather's friend on top of the flush tank in the loo, and due to some thoughtless person using the shower to bathe, it got wet. That was another time I came close to having my borrowing privileges curtailed, I also got a lecture on carelessness vs. responsibility and treating books properly that I will never forget.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Is ‘Resilient’ the new ‘Metrosexual’ ?
Every once in a while, a new word appears from nowhere, and before you know it, everybody is using it like it has been around forever. The hottest new cliche is ‘Resilient’. Which means ‘an ability to recover from misfortune’. Since Tuesday, it must have used by every Tom, Dick, and Harry; from news anchors to celebs to activists to politicians.
Bombay laid claim to this title many years ago, when it was serial bombed in response to the Babri Masjid demolition. Since then many a small incident, like the Mulund/Ghatko blasts, the Gateway blasts and now the Terrible Tuesday blasts, and the moniker is firmly Mumbai's.
Even before the pyres were lit, everybody had been falling over each other to congratulate themselves about their resilience, and how they are able to get back to work without skipping a beat. But did we really ?
Take a look at how Bombay reacted. First, the phone companies were blasted for networks getting clogged. When calls started getting through, people ensured that they and their near ones were safe, and promptly started bitching about when the trains would get working.
The fact is, bombings are very finite acts. Either you are hit, or you are safe. And once you are safe you aren't really concerned because it ain’t happening again. It is very easy to talk tough, when the enemy has already left. The much bandied 'you can't keep me down' spirit was missing just a couple of days before when the Sena held the city to ransom. Not knowing what to expect, everybody stayed indoors. Don't want to ding my car, do I ? Going for a drive on Sunday required more balls than getting on to a local train on Wednesday morning. 3 million people travel by the western railway daily. Probability of getting hit could have been the definition of zero. On Sunday night at 8:00 pm dadar wore a deserted look. There was no spirit to be seen, unless it was being consumed indoors.
In 2004 when the metro was bombed in Madrid 190 people were killed. You know what the city did ? 2 million people went on strike in Madrid (population of 3.2 million), 1.5 Million went on strike in Barcelona (population 1.6 million) saying they were not resilient. They said they wouldn't take it in their stride. Overall it is estimated that 28% of Spain's entire population protested on the streets. They wanted answers, and they wanted action. Three days later they voted the incumbent national govt. out of power, saying they wanted somebody to do something.
Here are samples of what our leaders said: In Mumbai, the top cop A.N."Pg3" Roy came out with a blinding pearl of wisdom, "These seem to be planned attacks"(source : ticker on NDTV). Planned as in not for fun? Not spontaneous? I bet the Mumbai police won't be able to set off 7 firecrackers in 7 different locations in a spread of 10 mins. The Chief Minister : "We want the world to know Mumbai is not worried about such events." Not worried ? He was right, we are resilient. When asked about intelligence failure, he said, "Let us not talk about such things today. We need time to conduct investigations." (source : front page article in Business Line, 13/07/06) Such things ? Yeah. When there are bar dancers to be hounded, why bother with terrorists.
So go on Bombay, go back to work. Pretend like nothing matters to you. After all what is 200 people out of 12 million getting blown to bits, as long as my 8:34 shows up on time the next day. Burning buses for a vandalising a statue is ok, but when it comes to bombing trains we don't mind, we need new ones anyway.
Tiger Memon is running businesses in Dubai. Miandad can track Dawood down to marry off his daughter. We don't care. The accused in the Ghatko/Mulund bombings were let off because of shoddy investigations. Does anybody remember? Or is resilience about amnesia as well? The Israelis are still arresting Nazis in Argentina, 60 years after the Holocaust. I guess they refuse to be resilient. Bloody morons. Learn to let go from Mumbai. A N Roy will get promoted. He is being praised. An enquiry will be launched. 500 muslims will be arrested. Then Medha Patkar, Shabana Azmi and Arundhati Roy will protest that minorities are being victimized.
So all my resilient Mumbaikars, I hope we get bombed again. So that we can again engage in self congratulatory forwarding of 'Dear Terrorist' emails.
By,
Nikhil Pednekar
Bombay laid claim to this title many years ago, when it was serial bombed in response to the Babri Masjid demolition. Since then many a small incident, like the Mulund/Ghatko blasts, the Gateway blasts and now the Terrible Tuesday blasts, and the moniker is firmly Mumbai's.
Even before the pyres were lit, everybody had been falling over each other to congratulate themselves about their resilience, and how they are able to get back to work without skipping a beat. But did we really ?
Take a look at how Bombay reacted. First, the phone companies were blasted for networks getting clogged. When calls started getting through, people ensured that they and their near ones were safe, and promptly started bitching about when the trains would get working.
The fact is, bombings are very finite acts. Either you are hit, or you are safe. And once you are safe you aren't really concerned because it ain’t happening again. It is very easy to talk tough, when the enemy has already left. The much bandied 'you can't keep me down' spirit was missing just a couple of days before when the Sena held the city to ransom. Not knowing what to expect, everybody stayed indoors. Don't want to ding my car, do I ? Going for a drive on Sunday required more balls than getting on to a local train on Wednesday morning. 3 million people travel by the western railway daily. Probability of getting hit could have been the definition of zero. On Sunday night at 8:00 pm dadar wore a deserted look. There was no spirit to be seen, unless it was being consumed indoors.
In 2004 when the metro was bombed in Madrid 190 people were killed. You know what the city did ? 2 million people went on strike in Madrid (population of 3.2 million), 1.5 Million went on strike in Barcelona (population 1.6 million) saying they were not resilient. They said they wouldn't take it in their stride. Overall it is estimated that 28% of Spain's entire population protested on the streets. They wanted answers, and they wanted action. Three days later they voted the incumbent national govt. out of power, saying they wanted somebody to do something.
Here are samples of what our leaders said: In Mumbai, the top cop A.N."Pg3" Roy came out with a blinding pearl of wisdom, "These seem to be planned attacks"(source : ticker on NDTV). Planned as in not for fun? Not spontaneous? I bet the Mumbai police won't be able to set off 7 firecrackers in 7 different locations in a spread of 10 mins. The Chief Minister : "We want the world to know Mumbai is not worried about such events." Not worried ? He was right, we are resilient. When asked about intelligence failure, he said, "Let us not talk about such things today. We need time to conduct investigations." (source : front page article in Business Line, 13/07/06) Such things ? Yeah. When there are bar dancers to be hounded, why bother with terrorists.
So go on Bombay, go back to work. Pretend like nothing matters to you. After all what is 200 people out of 12 million getting blown to bits, as long as my 8:34 shows up on time the next day. Burning buses for a vandalising a statue is ok, but when it comes to bombing trains we don't mind, we need new ones anyway.
Tiger Memon is running businesses in Dubai. Miandad can track Dawood down to marry off his daughter. We don't care. The accused in the Ghatko/Mulund bombings were let off because of shoddy investigations. Does anybody remember? Or is resilience about amnesia as well? The Israelis are still arresting Nazis in Argentina, 60 years after the Holocaust. I guess they refuse to be resilient. Bloody morons. Learn to let go from Mumbai. A N Roy will get promoted. He is being praised. An enquiry will be launched. 500 muslims will be arrested. Then Medha Patkar, Shabana Azmi and Arundhati Roy will protest that minorities are being victimized.
So all my resilient Mumbaikars, I hope we get bombed again. So that we can again engage in self congratulatory forwarding of 'Dear Terrorist' emails.
By,
Nikhil Pednekar
Friday, July 14, 2006
Too Close for Comfort
A few days ago, on July 11th, there were 7 bomb blasts in Mumbai – all on the local trains. They were all set to go off around the same time in the first class men’s compartment on different trains. The death toll is currently 190 and rising…
This is not the first time something like this has happened. Since I moved to Mumbai in 2000, there have been other such incidents as well. But this time, it felt more real than ever before…
To start with, Jai was on the train before the one that had the bomb. He caught the train that left Churchgate at 5.40 p.m and the bomb was on the 5.44 p.m. train. In fact, he considered waiting for the next train since the 5.40 was pretty crowded but he was late for a meeting with our architect so he decided to brave the crowds anyway. That was how close it was - especially since Jai travels by the men’s first class compartment. It really made me think of the blasts as more than just another terrorist attack. It made me think of the men who died yesterday. They left home yesterday morning as if it was just another day. Families said goodbye to their fathers, brothers and sons, not knowing that this would be the last time that they would see them. And we could have been one of those families… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
My maid’s daughter still hasn’t come home. She had gone to Borivili for work yesterday and that was the last they heard of her. The chances are that she is okay since the casualties are mostly male. But she does not have a mobile phone and they have not been able to contact her. They have gone to Borivili to look for her – I hope they find her safe and sound. I tried putting myself in her shoes and it was just too scary. The thought that I might have no idea where or how Ayaan was in a situation like this is just beyond thinking about… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We were away at the new house, but our current house is pretty close to the station. My mom and the maid actually heard the blasts. Ayaan and my mother were actually close enough to two of the blasts to hear them… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We are all fine (thankfully) – just a little shaken. But in true Mumbai spirit, we are not letting it get us down. The trains are up and working and Jai insisted on going by train today – he refused to be cowed down by these acts of terror. I made it to office too and the traffic on the roads was almost as jammed as it usually is. Never say die, life as usual and all of that.
By,
Rohini Haldea
This is not the first time something like this has happened. Since I moved to Mumbai in 2000, there have been other such incidents as well. But this time, it felt more real than ever before…
To start with, Jai was on the train before the one that had the bomb. He caught the train that left Churchgate at 5.40 p.m and the bomb was on the 5.44 p.m. train. In fact, he considered waiting for the next train since the 5.40 was pretty crowded but he was late for a meeting with our architect so he decided to brave the crowds anyway. That was how close it was - especially since Jai travels by the men’s first class compartment. It really made me think of the blasts as more than just another terrorist attack. It made me think of the men who died yesterday. They left home yesterday morning as if it was just another day. Families said goodbye to their fathers, brothers and sons, not knowing that this would be the last time that they would see them. And we could have been one of those families… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
My maid’s daughter still hasn’t come home. She had gone to Borivili for work yesterday and that was the last they heard of her. The chances are that she is okay since the casualties are mostly male. But she does not have a mobile phone and they have not been able to contact her. They have gone to Borivili to look for her – I hope they find her safe and sound. I tried putting myself in her shoes and it was just too scary. The thought that I might have no idea where or how Ayaan was in a situation like this is just beyond thinking about… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We were away at the new house, but our current house is pretty close to the station. My mom and the maid actually heard the blasts. Ayaan and my mother were actually close enough to two of the blasts to hear them… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We are all fine (thankfully) – just a little shaken. But in true Mumbai spirit, we are not letting it get us down. The trains are up and working and Jai insisted on going by train today – he refused to be cowed down by these acts of terror. I made it to office too and the traffic on the roads was almost as jammed as it usually is. Never say die, life as usual and all of that.
By,
Rohini Haldea
Friday, June 30, 2006
Review of 'Zero Effect'
With the World Cup taking a pause, before the quarter-finals, I suddenly found that I had a whole evening on my hands and nothing worthwhile on tv. So I decided to borrow a whodunit from the local library. The plot of ‘Zero Effect’ shows a lot of promise in the initial half an hour, but ultimately turns out to be fairly straightforward. However the charm of the movie lies in its characterization and the delightful narration.
The story has Holmesian shades with a brilliant but eccentric detective Daryl Zero (brilliantly essayed by Bill Pullman of Independence Day and While you were sleeping fame) as a protagonist and his doting “Watson” Steve Arlo (Ben Stiller in a competent performance). Daryl is a social misfit, a person who seldom leaves his apartment that resembles a safety vault. Daryl is eccentric to a fault and never interacts with his clients face to face. Its only when Daryl is on a case that he comes into his own and displays his superhuman powers of observation and objectivity. Steve is his representative and the voice and face of the firm. Steve both idolizes and loathes his employer. He seems to take vicarious pride in the sleuth’s skills and brilliance but hates the fact that he is ill treated by Daryl. The two are called upon to solve a case by a wealthy Mr Gregory Stark (Ryan O’Neal) who has lost the keys to his safe deposit box and is consequently being blackmailed due to the dubious nature of its contents. The case seems straightforward enough, find the keys and stop the blackmailer. It starts getting murkier when Daryl starts investigations and links it to dark events (notably a murder) that occurred more than two decades ago. His personal life gets complicated when a mysterious spunky woman Gloria Sullivan (Kim Dickens) arrives on the scene and they start dating. He has always prided himself on being able to read other people’s minds but with Gloria he seems to hit a stone wall.
The final denouement is delightful but by no means unpredictable. The lesson here is that one cannot change one’s basic nature. Your nature (both the good and evil aspects) may at times be dormant but at some point in time it will blossom and burst forth. I think writer director Jake Kasdan deliberately kept the plot predictable as he wanted the viewers to concentrate on the protagonists, their interactions and the human follies and tragedies that visit us all in our daily life.
The movie has a lot of comic moments and the stars especially Ben Stiller and Bill Pullman share a great rapport. The movie also rakes up the perennial ethical question that faces most of us working professionals. What is important the letter or the spirit of the law? Its obviously exacerbated by the nature of work of private investigators. The question is kept unanswered as there is probably no clear solution to it. The movie ends in a realistic fashion, no fairy tale endings with all loose ends neatly tied up. It seems and feels like the only solution.
By,
Sachin Desai
The story has Holmesian shades with a brilliant but eccentric detective Daryl Zero (brilliantly essayed by Bill Pullman of Independence Day and While you were sleeping fame) as a protagonist and his doting “Watson” Steve Arlo (Ben Stiller in a competent performance). Daryl is a social misfit, a person who seldom leaves his apartment that resembles a safety vault. Daryl is eccentric to a fault and never interacts with his clients face to face. Its only when Daryl is on a case that he comes into his own and displays his superhuman powers of observation and objectivity. Steve is his representative and the voice and face of the firm. Steve both idolizes and loathes his employer. He seems to take vicarious pride in the sleuth’s skills and brilliance but hates the fact that he is ill treated by Daryl. The two are called upon to solve a case by a wealthy Mr Gregory Stark (Ryan O’Neal) who has lost the keys to his safe deposit box and is consequently being blackmailed due to the dubious nature of its contents. The case seems straightforward enough, find the keys and stop the blackmailer. It starts getting murkier when Daryl starts investigations and links it to dark events (notably a murder) that occurred more than two decades ago. His personal life gets complicated when a mysterious spunky woman Gloria Sullivan (Kim Dickens) arrives on the scene and they start dating. He has always prided himself on being able to read other people’s minds but with Gloria he seems to hit a stone wall.
The final denouement is delightful but by no means unpredictable. The lesson here is that one cannot change one’s basic nature. Your nature (both the good and evil aspects) may at times be dormant but at some point in time it will blossom and burst forth. I think writer director Jake Kasdan deliberately kept the plot predictable as he wanted the viewers to concentrate on the protagonists, their interactions and the human follies and tragedies that visit us all in our daily life.
The movie has a lot of comic moments and the stars especially Ben Stiller and Bill Pullman share a great rapport. The movie also rakes up the perennial ethical question that faces most of us working professionals. What is important the letter or the spirit of the law? Its obviously exacerbated by the nature of work of private investigators. The question is kept unanswered as there is probably no clear solution to it. The movie ends in a realistic fashion, no fairy tale endings with all loose ends neatly tied up. It seems and feels like the only solution.
By,
Sachin Desai
Monday, June 12, 2006
"Tell me your biggest weakness."
"I dig my nose all the time and have a tendency to lob great gobs of spit at whoever i am speaking to."
"I hate other humans and scream at them for the slightest mistake, three of my colleagues recently had a nervous breakdown."
"I set very high standards for my whole team; after eight months working with me, my boss took a three month sabbatical to figure out clear goals and objectives for his life and work."
"My nickname is 'Terminator', the last four companies I headed went bankrupt."
"I believe that eight hours in office are best spent in tea/coffee/chat sessions interspersed with email checking and Tetris playing."
"I am hypercritical, negative, cribby and come to office only to disperse venom over a larger population."
Does anyone ever, ever admit to genuine weaknesses in an interview ? Granted, those listed above are exaggerations, but I wonder how an interviewer would react if someone came close to admitting to being antisocial, bad - tempered, lazy, impatient, irresponsible, stupid etc. When the answer is so obviously a work of fiction, why do interviewers persist in the farce ? Does asking this question not reflect on their lack of perspicacity ?
I have decided that my decision to join a company shall henceforth be based on the quality of questions asked by the interviewer. Those that keep silly, unnecessary questions to a minimum shall stand a greater chance of having me grace their office with my presence on a daily basis. In fact, I shall make a marksheet and rank companies I interview with in order to make an unbiased, balanced, sensible decision. In case anyone who reads this ever ends up interviewing me, here is how you will be graded :
Silly question with no hope of being answered honestly - (-50)
Question that may be answered honestly, but probably not - (-20)
Good sensible question - (+20)
Previous answer logically led to this Question, interviewer displays reasoning ability and analytical skills - (+50)
Doesn't ask too many questions but tells me all about his company and the industry - (+100)
Looks like Abhishek Bachhan/John Abraham/Milind Soman and may be my boss - (+1000)
(Yes, the last seems rather unlikely, but one never stops hoping....and just in case it happens, have ensured that marking system takes care of assigning this factor highest priority.)
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
"I hate other humans and scream at them for the slightest mistake, three of my colleagues recently had a nervous breakdown."
"I set very high standards for my whole team; after eight months working with me, my boss took a three month sabbatical to figure out clear goals and objectives for his life and work."
"My nickname is 'Terminator', the last four companies I headed went bankrupt."
"I believe that eight hours in office are best spent in tea/coffee/chat sessions interspersed with email checking and Tetris playing."
"I am hypercritical, negative, cribby and come to office only to disperse venom over a larger population."
Does anyone ever, ever admit to genuine weaknesses in an interview ? Granted, those listed above are exaggerations, but I wonder how an interviewer would react if someone came close to admitting to being antisocial, bad - tempered, lazy, impatient, irresponsible, stupid etc. When the answer is so obviously a work of fiction, why do interviewers persist in the farce ? Does asking this question not reflect on their lack of perspicacity ?
I have decided that my decision to join a company shall henceforth be based on the quality of questions asked by the interviewer. Those that keep silly, unnecessary questions to a minimum shall stand a greater chance of having me grace their office with my presence on a daily basis. In fact, I shall make a marksheet and rank companies I interview with in order to make an unbiased, balanced, sensible decision. In case anyone who reads this ever ends up interviewing me, here is how you will be graded :
Silly question with no hope of being answered honestly - (-50)
Question that may be answered honestly, but probably not - (-20)
Good sensible question - (+20)
Previous answer logically led to this Question, interviewer displays reasoning ability and analytical skills - (+50)
Doesn't ask too many questions but tells me all about his company and the industry - (+100)
Looks like Abhishek Bachhan/John Abraham/Milind Soman and may be my boss - (+1000)
(Yes, the last seems rather unlikely, but one never stops hoping....and just in case it happens, have ensured that marking system takes care of assigning this factor highest priority.)
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Boromaima (Eldest Paternal Uncle's Wife)
She sat on the sofa, propped up with some cushions. She had been sitting on the same spot for so many years that there was a depression in that spot. Everyone had noticed this dent, except boudi(elder cousin brother's wife). Or was it because she preferred not to notice, boudi never noticed anything that involved an expense or made others lives easier, without exception of her own children. Boudi was a character; she walked with a strange limp and a walking stick; she stashed away the cash in the newspaper folds in the cupboard, firmly, as if she could take all of it with her after life. Money was not the only thing she stashed; she stashed away gifts that people had given her jamai (daughter's husband)–during her daughter's wedding, 20 long years ago. She still took these gifts out and gave them to her jamai on each jamai sasti. (The festival that Bengalis celebrate to honor their son-in-laws, once a year). Banyans and t-shirts came out of the various cupboards all over the sprawling 3-storied house.
She also stacked away the day's unsold fruit and vegetables the fruit –seller sold to her at dusk at discounted prices; after he finished his rounds of the neighborhood and sold all he could. These spare vegetables were neatly put into the fridge, for Pushpa to take out and cook from time to time. Pushpa was the mad maid, who was deaf and looked very strange, wearing her sari in an adaptation of the Bengali way, though not quite the typical Bengali way. Shakespeare had clearly met someone like her when he wrote about 'the method in the madness'. Seemingly mad Pushpa accompanied boudi on her customary walks every evening to the neighborhood temple. Boudi was extremely ritualistic – fasting on the appropriate days, following all the customs to the t, and making sure she visited the temple everyday. Somehow she felt it absolved her of all her sins, as she cowered in front of Shiva or Ram. In her spare time, or just after she had sparked off a controversy she would disappear into her puja room, pretending to be immersed in prayer. Here, she hid all her choicest snacks and treasures. These were put away in the trunks under the murtis beside the lamp. This ensured that no one else had access to her objects of desire; also while the world thought she was lost in devotion, she could always steal a bite of misti (Bengali sweetmeats) that Pushpa had quietly purchased for her from the Ganguram shop nearby. She lived like a thief in her own house. Or perhaps it was because it wasn't her own house - that kept her in a perpetual state of fear. It had been built by boromama and cleverly appropriated by her from her bhashur( her husband's elder brother and my boromama), with active support from her wily father, through a stellar emotional performance at the time of her husband's death.
Sumi heard the clanging of the degchi (cooking vessel) in the dismal kitchen next to boromaima's room. It was Pushpa's way of sounding the dinner/lunch gong. Alpana, boromaima's young maid breezed in with boromaima's lunch plate – on it was placed some boiled vegetables – a combination of ladies fingers, potatoes and pumkin, rice and a piece of fish cooked in the Bengali macher jhol style (fish in a light gravy of turmeric and other spices) . Boromaima's lunch was served. Sumi thought of the past – how boromama and maima lived in 8, Ballygunge Place in beautiful I.C.S. quarters with Bahadur sounding the dinner gong to announce that he had served a 3-course English meal. Such had been boromaima's training.
Now, Boromaima lived in one room of the 3-storied house, where she lay down on a 4-poster bed, sat up on the dented sofa and ate her lunch at a small wooden table. How ironical that she was relegated to a solitary room, given that boromama (boromaima's husband) had actually built this house. Boromama was an I.C.S. officer and boromaima had lived in great style during his lifetime. She had been the perfect wife of the I.C.S. officer – well bred, extremely intelligent, beautiful, convent educated and an avid social worker. She could drive, play tennis and go ballroom dancing with equal ease; for a woman brought up in the 1920s, it was no mean achievement. What was even more fascinating about boromaima was that she was a prolific reader – Shakespeare and politics, Marxism and feminism attracted her equally. She could converse with almost anyone, leaving her grand-daughters' friends impressed with her pleasing personality and her wealth of knowledge. The only thing that Sumi had never seen boromaima revel in was cooking. She ate very little and was so measured in her eating habits. The most fascinating thing about boromaima however was that she never complained – and I mean never. No matter how unwell she felt, how rotten the fish tasted, how often the maid bunked or how cruelly boudi behaved with her. This was especially commendable because she had lived through 4 deaths –boromama's, her son-in –law's, her only son's and finally her only daughter's. In spite of that she never complained. This was what impressed Sumi about her boromaima the most. How could anyone be like that; in the 38yrs of her own life, Sumi had found so much to complain about – demanding parents, an asshole of a boyfriend, a thankless job, irritating maidservants, the weather, her friends who had drifted away, the slow bank manager and so much else.
Sumi sat on the chair in front of boromaima. She was Sumi's boromaima. As Alpana placed the plate on the table, Sumi lent a helping hand for boromaima to get up from the sofa and go and sit at the table. The table was a wooden one, from dadu's time; the chair seemed to belong to the table – Sumi thought, it had been a set forever. A few leaves from the aam tree that grew outside the window, had been stuck into a used medicine bottle for decoration. A calendar bedecked the wall, though not turned to the right month – in nineteen days no one had bothered to flip the calendar, in a house full of people who had nothing to do. This made Sumi furious and she tried counting till ten to calm herself, a tip boromaima had given her ages ago. A bottle of water was placed on the windowsill, next to a jar of horlicks and a steel glass. This was the sum total of boromaima's minimal needs.
Sumi got up to change the page of the calendar and patches of dust got transferred from the calendar pages to her manicured fingers. Several thoughts were going through her mind. She wondered about the future and about the past. She thought of her days at 33, Shakespeare Sarani, where boromaima would religiously come to spend the day every Thursday and regale Sumi with age old stories and anecdotes , so much so that Sumi would beg boromaima not to return home. During the monsoon, sometimes her wish would be granted- when she would have to stay back due to the quick water logging in the building. She would spend hours with boromaima – not getting pampered; but learning. Boromaima was always active – stitching, mending all the torn clothes- the buttons that had come off from the school uniform; the pocket of baba's shirt and even the strap of ma's bra. Sumi was fascinated that it was even possible to mend a bra strap!!!
Boromaima taught Sumi one lesson –The objective of education my dear, she would say; is about how well you can adapt to any given situation that you find yourself in. Sumi never understood quite what this meant till many, many years later. Sumi was now a busy executive, working in a multinational company outside Kolkata. She earned a good salary, went out to eat often, watched Hindi and English movies for entertainment and often indulged in retail therapy. However, she was awfully lonely, and it was at times like this when she came and sat by boromaima's side in Kolkata that she felt secure, felt there was a life beyond Crossroads and Lifestyle, beyond Under- the-Over and ShahRukh Khan and plays at NCPA and Irish coffee at Prithvi. She understood how important it was to have a person in your life that you could look up to and love simultaneously, she understood how you could be the most generous to yourself when you actually helped others out- by volunteering work at a social service center, teaching orphans or sponsoring some students to study further. She had only begun to understand………
She had only begun to understand the life that boromaima had lived. She understood how someone who was a double M.A., blessed with a handsome and gifted husband, a son and a daughter, someone who had contributed so much to the society she lived in; could be like this. What Sumi could not fathom was how someone who had lost everything – glamour of her husband's position, coupled with the loss of both her children in sudden and uncertain circumstances - could be so pleasant, so disciplined and above all have no bitterness. This is what fascinated Sumi. Sumi experienced an invigoration that she had never felt before; she continued feeling this as she boarded the flight back to Mumbai. Her mind was elsewhere… she landed in Mumbai and took a taxi home. As soon as she reached home, she switched on the lights, poured herself a glass of iced water, switched on the A.C., a comfort she had suddenly gotten used to; the heat in Mumbai had not reduced one bit, she thought to herself. She washed her face with the soap - free cleanser her beautician had recommended and she took a deep breath. She dialed Palash's no. from her landline. Somehow whenever she needed to make an important call she used the landline instead of the cordless phone, somewhat like looking for security. Someone answered the phone from the other end – she could sense it was his mother who had come to visit him in Mumbai. She asked for Palash – in a manner that was matter of fact, without exchanging any pleasantries with his mother. He was in the loo, she would hold she said; she could hear the flush and the bathroom door open, he came onto the phone. 'Palash?', she said in a flat tone, expressionless and bereft of any feeling, 'Hi Sumi- welcome back to Mumbai', he said with feigned enthusiasm; 'Palash' she said again; 'I am leaving, I am setting you free and setting myself free from you as well'. The rest of the conversation continued as expected, Sumi thought as she smiled to her self a month later as she boarded the flight to Chennai.
It had been surprisingly easy – easier than she had imagined. She knew that she was never really meant for boyfriends, husband and marriage. There were enough and more girls in society ready to do that. She was made for better and bigger or let's say different things in life…she had been scared to admit this to herself, she had been convincing herself that she needed a man, she needed security, she needed love from a family, having lost her parents when she was very young.
But on meeting boromaima this time, she realized that she needed none of these. She wanted much, she wanted all those things that regular people don't; she wanted to make a difference, she wanted to be a vagabond, working on projects and teaching street children, feeling the wind in her hair and seeing the smile of a thousand children. It was surprisingly easy to pursue her dream, the words resounded in her mind 'education is about adapting to any situation'. She didn't want to empathize with Palash's mother's grief about her arthritis problem, or Palash's concern about where to store his family's black money. It was surprising how she had put up with all of this; she had almost succumbed to marrying someone who was alarmingly different from her, not just in family background, but in the basic values of how to live life. She wondered what she had been looking for, what she had been getting – one free dinner in a plush hotel once in a while and some necking in the taxi. Surely this wasn't what her life was meant to be. Surely there was a 'big picture' a bright picture that she was missing out on. Surely in her years at Presidency College, over cups of tea in the college canteen, when she debated about fallacies dialectical materialism; this was not what she envisioned her life to be? Surely, surely, not. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked- she was wearing a mauve and pink designer kurti, with polished nails and a Shieshedo face mask- ugh!
For the last 30 yrs she met boromaima, boromaima had been such an integral part of her life, that she had never noticed boromaima. It had taken physical distance from boromaima and the disenchantment of her current life to notice boromaima. Boromaima in her white starched sari, with short cropped hair, trimmed nails, flawless skin and her non-complaining 90 yr. old attitude sitting in a dreary house in Kolkata. Sumi changed into her freshly washed shorts and torn t-shirt, showered and slipped on her rubber chappals. She switched off the tube lights, switched on the red lamp and sat down at the piano that she had rented from Furtado's. Sumi started playing Mozart's 40 th Symphony in G Minor. In spite of the untuned keys of the piano, the staccato music reverberated in her dimly lit living room and in her now not so dimly lit inner spaces. Sumi's education at the late age of 38 yrs had just begun.
By,
Anonymous.
She also stacked away the day's unsold fruit and vegetables the fruit –seller sold to her at dusk at discounted prices; after he finished his rounds of the neighborhood and sold all he could. These spare vegetables were neatly put into the fridge, for Pushpa to take out and cook from time to time. Pushpa was the mad maid, who was deaf and looked very strange, wearing her sari in an adaptation of the Bengali way, though not quite the typical Bengali way. Shakespeare had clearly met someone like her when he wrote about 'the method in the madness'. Seemingly mad Pushpa accompanied boudi on her customary walks every evening to the neighborhood temple. Boudi was extremely ritualistic – fasting on the appropriate days, following all the customs to the t, and making sure she visited the temple everyday. Somehow she felt it absolved her of all her sins, as she cowered in front of Shiva or Ram. In her spare time, or just after she had sparked off a controversy she would disappear into her puja room, pretending to be immersed in prayer. Here, she hid all her choicest snacks and treasures. These were put away in the trunks under the murtis beside the lamp. This ensured that no one else had access to her objects of desire; also while the world thought she was lost in devotion, she could always steal a bite of misti (Bengali sweetmeats) that Pushpa had quietly purchased for her from the Ganguram shop nearby. She lived like a thief in her own house. Or perhaps it was because it wasn't her own house - that kept her in a perpetual state of fear. It had been built by boromama and cleverly appropriated by her from her bhashur( her husband's elder brother and my boromama), with active support from her wily father, through a stellar emotional performance at the time of her husband's death.
Sumi heard the clanging of the degchi (cooking vessel) in the dismal kitchen next to boromaima's room. It was Pushpa's way of sounding the dinner/lunch gong. Alpana, boromaima's young maid breezed in with boromaima's lunch plate – on it was placed some boiled vegetables – a combination of ladies fingers, potatoes and pumkin, rice and a piece of fish cooked in the Bengali macher jhol style (fish in a light gravy of turmeric and other spices) . Boromaima's lunch was served. Sumi thought of the past – how boromama and maima lived in 8, Ballygunge Place in beautiful I.C.S. quarters with Bahadur sounding the dinner gong to announce that he had served a 3-course English meal. Such had been boromaima's training.
Now, Boromaima lived in one room of the 3-storied house, where she lay down on a 4-poster bed, sat up on the dented sofa and ate her lunch at a small wooden table. How ironical that she was relegated to a solitary room, given that boromama (boromaima's husband) had actually built this house. Boromama was an I.C.S. officer and boromaima had lived in great style during his lifetime. She had been the perfect wife of the I.C.S. officer – well bred, extremely intelligent, beautiful, convent educated and an avid social worker. She could drive, play tennis and go ballroom dancing with equal ease; for a woman brought up in the 1920s, it was no mean achievement. What was even more fascinating about boromaima was that she was a prolific reader – Shakespeare and politics, Marxism and feminism attracted her equally. She could converse with almost anyone, leaving her grand-daughters' friends impressed with her pleasing personality and her wealth of knowledge. The only thing that Sumi had never seen boromaima revel in was cooking. She ate very little and was so measured in her eating habits. The most fascinating thing about boromaima however was that she never complained – and I mean never. No matter how unwell she felt, how rotten the fish tasted, how often the maid bunked or how cruelly boudi behaved with her. This was especially commendable because she had lived through 4 deaths –boromama's, her son-in –law's, her only son's and finally her only daughter's. In spite of that she never complained. This was what impressed Sumi about her boromaima the most. How could anyone be like that; in the 38yrs of her own life, Sumi had found so much to complain about – demanding parents, an asshole of a boyfriend, a thankless job, irritating maidservants, the weather, her friends who had drifted away, the slow bank manager and so much else.
Sumi sat on the chair in front of boromaima. She was Sumi's boromaima. As Alpana placed the plate on the table, Sumi lent a helping hand for boromaima to get up from the sofa and go and sit at the table. The table was a wooden one, from dadu's time; the chair seemed to belong to the table – Sumi thought, it had been a set forever. A few leaves from the aam tree that grew outside the window, had been stuck into a used medicine bottle for decoration. A calendar bedecked the wall, though not turned to the right month – in nineteen days no one had bothered to flip the calendar, in a house full of people who had nothing to do. This made Sumi furious and she tried counting till ten to calm herself, a tip boromaima had given her ages ago. A bottle of water was placed on the windowsill, next to a jar of horlicks and a steel glass. This was the sum total of boromaima's minimal needs.
Sumi got up to change the page of the calendar and patches of dust got transferred from the calendar pages to her manicured fingers. Several thoughts were going through her mind. She wondered about the future and about the past. She thought of her days at 33, Shakespeare Sarani, where boromaima would religiously come to spend the day every Thursday and regale Sumi with age old stories and anecdotes , so much so that Sumi would beg boromaima not to return home. During the monsoon, sometimes her wish would be granted- when she would have to stay back due to the quick water logging in the building. She would spend hours with boromaima – not getting pampered; but learning. Boromaima was always active – stitching, mending all the torn clothes- the buttons that had come off from the school uniform; the pocket of baba's shirt and even the strap of ma's bra. Sumi was fascinated that it was even possible to mend a bra strap!!!
Boromaima taught Sumi one lesson –The objective of education my dear, she would say; is about how well you can adapt to any given situation that you find yourself in. Sumi never understood quite what this meant till many, many years later. Sumi was now a busy executive, working in a multinational company outside Kolkata. She earned a good salary, went out to eat often, watched Hindi and English movies for entertainment and often indulged in retail therapy. However, she was awfully lonely, and it was at times like this when she came and sat by boromaima's side in Kolkata that she felt secure, felt there was a life beyond Crossroads and Lifestyle, beyond Under- the-Over and ShahRukh Khan and plays at NCPA and Irish coffee at Prithvi. She understood how important it was to have a person in your life that you could look up to and love simultaneously, she understood how you could be the most generous to yourself when you actually helped others out- by volunteering work at a social service center, teaching orphans or sponsoring some students to study further. She had only begun to understand………
She had only begun to understand the life that boromaima had lived. She understood how someone who was a double M.A., blessed with a handsome and gifted husband, a son and a daughter, someone who had contributed so much to the society she lived in; could be like this. What Sumi could not fathom was how someone who had lost everything – glamour of her husband's position, coupled with the loss of both her children in sudden and uncertain circumstances - could be so pleasant, so disciplined and above all have no bitterness. This is what fascinated Sumi. Sumi experienced an invigoration that she had never felt before; she continued feeling this as she boarded the flight back to Mumbai. Her mind was elsewhere… she landed in Mumbai and took a taxi home. As soon as she reached home, she switched on the lights, poured herself a glass of iced water, switched on the A.C., a comfort she had suddenly gotten used to; the heat in Mumbai had not reduced one bit, she thought to herself. She washed her face with the soap - free cleanser her beautician had recommended and she took a deep breath. She dialed Palash's no. from her landline. Somehow whenever she needed to make an important call she used the landline instead of the cordless phone, somewhat like looking for security. Someone answered the phone from the other end – she could sense it was his mother who had come to visit him in Mumbai. She asked for Palash – in a manner that was matter of fact, without exchanging any pleasantries with his mother. He was in the loo, she would hold she said; she could hear the flush and the bathroom door open, he came onto the phone. 'Palash?', she said in a flat tone, expressionless and bereft of any feeling, 'Hi Sumi- welcome back to Mumbai', he said with feigned enthusiasm; 'Palash' she said again; 'I am leaving, I am setting you free and setting myself free from you as well'. The rest of the conversation continued as expected, Sumi thought as she smiled to her self a month later as she boarded the flight to Chennai.
It had been surprisingly easy – easier than she had imagined. She knew that she was never really meant for boyfriends, husband and marriage. There were enough and more girls in society ready to do that. She was made for better and bigger or let's say different things in life…she had been scared to admit this to herself, she had been convincing herself that she needed a man, she needed security, she needed love from a family, having lost her parents when she was very young.
But on meeting boromaima this time, she realized that she needed none of these. She wanted much, she wanted all those things that regular people don't; she wanted to make a difference, she wanted to be a vagabond, working on projects and teaching street children, feeling the wind in her hair and seeing the smile of a thousand children. It was surprisingly easy to pursue her dream, the words resounded in her mind 'education is about adapting to any situation'. She didn't want to empathize with Palash's mother's grief about her arthritis problem, or Palash's concern about where to store his family's black money. It was surprising how she had put up with all of this; she had almost succumbed to marrying someone who was alarmingly different from her, not just in family background, but in the basic values of how to live life. She wondered what she had been looking for, what she had been getting – one free dinner in a plush hotel once in a while and some necking in the taxi. Surely this wasn't what her life was meant to be. Surely there was a 'big picture' a bright picture that she was missing out on. Surely in her years at Presidency College, over cups of tea in the college canteen, when she debated about fallacies dialectical materialism; this was not what she envisioned her life to be? Surely, surely, not. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked- she was wearing a mauve and pink designer kurti, with polished nails and a Shieshedo face mask- ugh!
For the last 30 yrs she met boromaima, boromaima had been such an integral part of her life, that she had never noticed boromaima. It had taken physical distance from boromaima and the disenchantment of her current life to notice boromaima. Boromaima in her white starched sari, with short cropped hair, trimmed nails, flawless skin and her non-complaining 90 yr. old attitude sitting in a dreary house in Kolkata. Sumi changed into her freshly washed shorts and torn t-shirt, showered and slipped on her rubber chappals. She switched off the tube lights, switched on the red lamp and sat down at the piano that she had rented from Furtado's. Sumi started playing Mozart's 40 th Symphony in G Minor. In spite of the untuned keys of the piano, the staccato music reverberated in her dimly lit living room and in her now not so dimly lit inner spaces. Sumi's education at the late age of 38 yrs had just begun.
By,
Anonymous.
Monday, June 05, 2006
New Pinch
Yesterday, as I drove into the parking lot of the community recreation center (CRC) where my fitness class is located, I saw that it was rather crowded. The reason became apparent when I noticed a whole bunch of costumed kids. Some performance had just gotten over at the theatre in the CRC. The kids were mostly little girls - probably between ages five and eight. Most were dressed in cute costumes of various colors.
My eyes fell upon one little girl wearing an extremely frilly, pink- colored short frock which flared below the waist. As she hopped and skipped her way over to her friend, I could see her looking down checking out her cute frock every so often. And everytime she looked at the frock, her face would light up with happiness and pride.
I could SO totally empathise with what she was feeling. I was once there. One of my all-time favorite snaps was taken in Nainital. My sis and I were about 8 and 6 years old then. We both are sitting on a stone parapet at the edge of the road with mom and dad seated on either side of us. Behind us is a stunning backdrop of mountains and just below the parapet, on the other side, a lush green valley is falling away from the edge. But neither me nor my sister are looking at the scenery. We are not looking at the camera either. Instead, our attention is completely, entirely, focussed on our feet. You see, we both were wearing new slippers bought especially for the vacation. And our favorite activity then was admiring our new footwear :-)!
Getting new clothes/new footwear used to be quite an event when I was small. There had to be some occassion for new clothes - typically, birthday, diwali, pongal (if we got lucky), a close relative's wedding (if we got luckier) and a summer dress or two. Footwear typically got replaced only when the older ones got completely worn out.
So, whenever I wore new clothes, it was an occassion. The clothes would invariably have been chosen by me with lots of care. Before getting to actually wear the dress, I would have admired it in the cupboard several times. As the day to actually wear the dress approached, anticipation would build up and the excitement would be almost too much to bear.
When D-day finally arrived, it was time to go and flaunt the new clothes before everyone. Also get "new pinch" from peers. And of course, cast stealthy looks at the clothes myself from time to time and sigh in satisfaction. Oh yes, I know what exactly the little girl in the pink frock was thinking last evening.
Nowadays, of course, wearing new clothes or new footwear is no longer a special event. I don't restrict myself to buying new clothes only for some specific occassion. I buy clothes when, hmm, let me see: there is a sale or I am bored or I am happy or as a cheer-me-up or for no reason whatsoever or oh, because summer/winter/spring/fall is here. So wearing new clothes has almost completely lost its charm. Only very rarely do I even notice the new footwear or the wearing-it-for-the-first-time top. While it is very nice to have a big closet filled with clothes and shoes, I think I have lost something in the process.
Isn't it true - we appreciate nice events which happen ocassionally a lot more than nice events which happen all the time?
By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com)
My eyes fell upon one little girl wearing an extremely frilly, pink- colored short frock which flared below the waist. As she hopped and skipped her way over to her friend, I could see her looking down checking out her cute frock every so often. And everytime she looked at the frock, her face would light up with happiness and pride.
I could SO totally empathise with what she was feeling. I was once there. One of my all-time favorite snaps was taken in Nainital. My sis and I were about 8 and 6 years old then. We both are sitting on a stone parapet at the edge of the road with mom and dad seated on either side of us. Behind us is a stunning backdrop of mountains and just below the parapet, on the other side, a lush green valley is falling away from the edge. But neither me nor my sister are looking at the scenery. We are not looking at the camera either. Instead, our attention is completely, entirely, focussed on our feet. You see, we both were wearing new slippers bought especially for the vacation. And our favorite activity then was admiring our new footwear :-)!
Getting new clothes/new footwear used to be quite an event when I was small. There had to be some occassion for new clothes - typically, birthday, diwali, pongal (if we got lucky), a close relative's wedding (if we got luckier) and a summer dress or two. Footwear typically got replaced only when the older ones got completely worn out.
So, whenever I wore new clothes, it was an occassion. The clothes would invariably have been chosen by me with lots of care. Before getting to actually wear the dress, I would have admired it in the cupboard several times. As the day to actually wear the dress approached, anticipation would build up and the excitement would be almost too much to bear.
When D-day finally arrived, it was time to go and flaunt the new clothes before everyone. Also get "new pinch" from peers. And of course, cast stealthy looks at the clothes myself from time to time and sigh in satisfaction. Oh yes, I know what exactly the little girl in the pink frock was thinking last evening.
Nowadays, of course, wearing new clothes or new footwear is no longer a special event. I don't restrict myself to buying new clothes only for some specific occassion. I buy clothes when, hmm, let me see: there is a sale or I am bored or I am happy or as a cheer-me-up or for no reason whatsoever or oh, because summer/winter/spring/fall is here. So wearing new clothes has almost completely lost its charm. Only very rarely do I even notice the new footwear or the wearing-it-for-the-first-time top. While it is very nice to have a big closet filled with clothes and shoes, I think I have lost something in the process.
Isn't it true - we appreciate nice events which happen ocassionally a lot more than nice events which happen all the time?
By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com)
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Review of 'Alchemy of Desire'
The Alchemy of Desire
Let me start on a defensive note. I borrowed this book mistaking Tarun Tejpal for Aniruddha Bahal. I had enjoyed Bahal's 'Bunker 13' and decided this had to be good. By the time I realised my error, I had started to read the book and the book seemed reasonably promising. Sadly I had not read the many reviews that had apparently trashed this book.
The book's front flap indicates that the book is about the lives of young Indian couples in today's day and age. I think most readers would differ. Especially when they come to the historical bits. But wait, I am running ahead. The story starts off with the protagonist and his wife breaking up inspite of the great sexual chemistry they have. The book traces the lives of the two for a while. Then comes the twist in the tale and the couple breaks up and the book goes downhill from thereon. The first half is so realistic that you are waiting for a really strong reason for the break up. Which does not happen. The silly story ladled out makes you wonder if Tejpal overdosed on Hollywood movies about enchanting India and Maharajahs and slaves and princesses before writing the second half. You stop caring about the couple and by the time the time you reach the end of the book, you begin to skim and indifferently finish the book.
Note to myself: Aniruddha Bahal is not Tarun Tejpal. Remember.
By,
Anita B.
Let me start on a defensive note. I borrowed this book mistaking Tarun Tejpal for Aniruddha Bahal. I had enjoyed Bahal's 'Bunker 13' and decided this had to be good. By the time I realised my error, I had started to read the book and the book seemed reasonably promising. Sadly I had not read the many reviews that had apparently trashed this book.
The book's front flap indicates that the book is about the lives of young Indian couples in today's day and age. I think most readers would differ. Especially when they come to the historical bits. But wait, I am running ahead. The story starts off with the protagonist and his wife breaking up inspite of the great sexual chemistry they have. The book traces the lives of the two for a while. Then comes the twist in the tale and the couple breaks up and the book goes downhill from thereon. The first half is so realistic that you are waiting for a really strong reason for the break up. Which does not happen. The silly story ladled out makes you wonder if Tejpal overdosed on Hollywood movies about enchanting India and Maharajahs and slaves and princesses before writing the second half. You stop caring about the couple and by the time the time you reach the end of the book, you begin to skim and indifferently finish the book.
Note to myself: Aniruddha Bahal is not Tarun Tejpal. Remember.
By,
Anita B.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Review of 'Doshar'
doshar- the companion.
film by rituparno ghosh .
it's a black and white film in the literal sense but several shades of grey exist in the storyline. perhaps one of the most disturbing and different tales on marital infidelity i have seen. the story starts with a man and his lover returning from radisson - a resort on the outskirts of kolkata after a supposed ' business tour' weekend (both were colleagues) when the disastrous happens - they have an accident where the woman dies and the man is hospitalised and the accident is covered in the press. from this coverage the spouses of both get to learn about the extra marital affair they never knew about till this point.
the rest of the story is about how each deals with this incident, more focus on Konkana who essays the role of the man's wife. she does a wonderful job- potraying a range of emotions and flitting between one and the other - disgust, obligation, love etc. The best part of the film is that it is very very real and therefore very disturbing - the way the world reacts to an incident like this, the man seldom in the wrong and the woman almost always - whether she is the mistress or the wife. so while the office is willing to forget the mistake the man has made , they refuse to even have a memorial service for the woman who is killed in the accident ! interesting also how everyone suggests that the wife make the compromise and live on with her spouse, except ironically her mother in law.
what is beautiful about her character is the strength she tries to potray and hold her own , and finally about the compromise that she ends up making. but what is well depicted is that her way of dealing with things appears quite similar to how many women we know would deal with a similar situation, without much help from anyone else, in a matter of fact way. while she makes her compromise in the end, she relentlessly mentally tortures her spouse in a cold and strong manner, not asking for sympathy but making him feel like a worm nonetheless.
what was a little unfair however is almost a trend with this director, he always potrays the man like a tool who is a loser only interested in having sex, the story is told from the woman's perspective and the reasons for the man's behavior are never explored. i guess the director too needs to limit his scope of story telling so it's ok. the folks i watched the movie with found the movie very slow, but i thought it was a natural pace, giving an opportunity for great screenplay and script to be played out.
i would recommend the movie, for the complexity it deals with in a non - judgmental and more importantly real way.
By,
Soma Ghosh
film by rituparno ghosh .
it's a black and white film in the literal sense but several shades of grey exist in the storyline. perhaps one of the most disturbing and different tales on marital infidelity i have seen. the story starts with a man and his lover returning from radisson - a resort on the outskirts of kolkata after a supposed ' business tour' weekend (both were colleagues) when the disastrous happens - they have an accident where the woman dies and the man is hospitalised and the accident is covered in the press. from this coverage the spouses of both get to learn about the extra marital affair they never knew about till this point.
the rest of the story is about how each deals with this incident, more focus on Konkana who essays the role of the man's wife. she does a wonderful job- potraying a range of emotions and flitting between one and the other - disgust, obligation, love etc. The best part of the film is that it is very very real and therefore very disturbing - the way the world reacts to an incident like this, the man seldom in the wrong and the woman almost always - whether she is the mistress or the wife. so while the office is willing to forget the mistake the man has made , they refuse to even have a memorial service for the woman who is killed in the accident ! interesting also how everyone suggests that the wife make the compromise and live on with her spouse, except ironically her mother in law.
what is beautiful about her character is the strength she tries to potray and hold her own , and finally about the compromise that she ends up making. but what is well depicted is that her way of dealing with things appears quite similar to how many women we know would deal with a similar situation, without much help from anyone else, in a matter of fact way. while she makes her compromise in the end, she relentlessly mentally tortures her spouse in a cold and strong manner, not asking for sympathy but making him feel like a worm nonetheless.
what was a little unfair however is almost a trend with this director, he always potrays the man like a tool who is a loser only interested in having sex, the story is told from the woman's perspective and the reasons for the man's behavior are never explored. i guess the director too needs to limit his scope of story telling so it's ok. the folks i watched the movie with found the movie very slow, but i thought it was a natural pace, giving an opportunity for great screenplay and script to be played out.
i would recommend the movie, for the complexity it deals with in a non - judgmental and more importantly real way.
By,
Soma Ghosh
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Pet Peeves
The nominees for the Aishwarya Rai Award for the most Irritating Personality of the year are :
1) People whose cars have these automatic blood-curling sirens that destroy peace whenever their vehicles are in reverse gear. To make my miserable life even worse I have to live with the harsh reality of being woken up at 7:30 A.M every morning to the shrieking sounds of an instrumental version of an Annu Malik song. AN ANNU MALIK SONG. If that does not get Amnesty International to act, I don’t know what will.
2) Aishwarya Rai: She is so artificial that she would put Pamela Anderson’s breasts to shame.
3) The Australian accent and Navjyot Siddhu: I have clubbed them together because I can’t choose between the devil and the deep sea infested with sharks. One has to listen to all these marvels (perfection in a negative way is still perfection) of mankind to appreciate my feelings.
Suffice it to say that that Australia was a penal colony of Great Britain i.e. British convicts were sent to Australia. Clearly the convicts reformed themselves in Australia and restricted their crimes to murdering the English language.
Navjyot Singh Siddhu riles me even as I write. Actually, he beats the Australians hollow. Siddhu was known as the stroke-less wonder who improved his skills to be able to hit Bangladeshi spinners by swinging his bat such that the follow through would cause the bat to reach the boundary as well.
Moreover, he speaks in this artificial, bombastic tone with phrases/ similes that remind me of the Hardy Boys (Jumping Gemini fish, etc).
Siddhu seems to think that the simile and alliteration are the only 2 figures of speech. Some idiots think that Siddhu’s oratorical skills are Churchillian. I would bet my bottom dollar that he would not be able to pronounce awry, risqué and ingénue to save his life.
4) Beauty Queens: During the Miss World Contest, Priyanka Chopra was asked to name the LIVING person she admired the most, without batting an eyelid she answered Mother Teresa. This after MOTHER TERESA HAD BEEN DEAD FOR 3 YEARS..AND PRIYANKA CHOPRA WON THE GODDAMN TITLE.
5) Page 3 personalities: As a fervent capitalist, there is a part of me that has to accept this phenomenon. However, I hate the hypocritical nature of these people when they say that they are selective about the brands they associate with. Hey people, the only thing you are selective about is the bank account the money should be transferred to. Moreover, a vast majority of these people have as much talent so as to make Annu Malik seem like the second coming of Mozart.
6) Pushy sales people: I am specifically talking about people who work in the food and beverages industries. These guys make an attempt to up-sell so much that the day is not far off when the following exchange takes place:
Me: May I have a coffee with ice-cream please?
Intern: Would you like ice-cream with that sir?
7) Annoying habits: This deserves a section of its own but I will try (fat chance) to be succinct. So here goes:
Women hugging each other replete with a shriek despite the fact that only a week would have elapsed since their last meeting.
Women going to toilets together in pubs/restaurants. I don’t know but it seems weird..unless they are going for some sort of lesbian stuff, which the Freudian part of me finds fascinating.
Women making non-erogenous zone contact. Men like to be touched ONLY if it arouses them. Men making ANY sort of contact. Shaking hands being the honourable exception to the definition of contact.
Women forcing you to skip a sport telecast to watch 'Maid in Manhattan' or some crappy film/programme like that.
Women who insist on cleaning your cupboard, buying all sort of unnecessary stuff that only they will use like Dettol liquid soap, tissue paper, garbage bags.
People who substitute the Hindi word “ki” for "that" in a sentence that is otherwise constructed in the English language.
People who let the phone ring endlessly. I am no social scientist but one usually lifts the receiver when one hears a phone ring.
By,
Gaurav Kala
1) People whose cars have these automatic blood-curling sirens that destroy peace whenever their vehicles are in reverse gear. To make my miserable life even worse I have to live with the harsh reality of being woken up at 7:30 A.M every morning to the shrieking sounds of an instrumental version of an Annu Malik song. AN ANNU MALIK SONG. If that does not get Amnesty International to act, I don’t know what will.
2) Aishwarya Rai: She is so artificial that she would put Pamela Anderson’s breasts to shame.
3) The Australian accent and Navjyot Siddhu: I have clubbed them together because I can’t choose between the devil and the deep sea infested with sharks. One has to listen to all these marvels (perfection in a negative way is still perfection) of mankind to appreciate my feelings.
Suffice it to say that that Australia was a penal colony of Great Britain i.e. British convicts were sent to Australia. Clearly the convicts reformed themselves in Australia and restricted their crimes to murdering the English language.
Navjyot Singh Siddhu riles me even as I write. Actually, he beats the Australians hollow. Siddhu was known as the stroke-less wonder who improved his skills to be able to hit Bangladeshi spinners by swinging his bat such that the follow through would cause the bat to reach the boundary as well.
Moreover, he speaks in this artificial, bombastic tone with phrases/ similes that remind me of the Hardy Boys (Jumping Gemini fish, etc).
Siddhu seems to think that the simile and alliteration are the only 2 figures of speech. Some idiots think that Siddhu’s oratorical skills are Churchillian. I would bet my bottom dollar that he would not be able to pronounce awry, risqué and ingénue to save his life.
4) Beauty Queens: During the Miss World Contest, Priyanka Chopra was asked to name the LIVING person she admired the most, without batting an eyelid she answered Mother Teresa. This after MOTHER TERESA HAD BEEN DEAD FOR 3 YEARS..AND PRIYANKA CHOPRA WON THE GODDAMN TITLE.
5) Page 3 personalities: As a fervent capitalist, there is a part of me that has to accept this phenomenon. However, I hate the hypocritical nature of these people when they say that they are selective about the brands they associate with. Hey people, the only thing you are selective about is the bank account the money should be transferred to. Moreover, a vast majority of these people have as much talent so as to make Annu Malik seem like the second coming of Mozart.
6) Pushy sales people: I am specifically talking about people who work in the food and beverages industries. These guys make an attempt to up-sell so much that the day is not far off when the following exchange takes place:
Me: May I have a coffee with ice-cream please?
Intern: Would you like ice-cream with that sir?
7) Annoying habits: This deserves a section of its own but I will try (fat chance) to be succinct. So here goes:
Women hugging each other replete with a shriek despite the fact that only a week would have elapsed since their last meeting.
Women going to toilets together in pubs/restaurants. I don’t know but it seems weird..unless they are going for some sort of lesbian stuff, which the Freudian part of me finds fascinating.
Women making non-erogenous zone contact. Men like to be touched ONLY if it arouses them. Men making ANY sort of contact. Shaking hands being the honourable exception to the definition of contact.
Women forcing you to skip a sport telecast to watch 'Maid in Manhattan' or some crappy film/programme like that.
Women who insist on cleaning your cupboard, buying all sort of unnecessary stuff that only they will use like Dettol liquid soap, tissue paper, garbage bags.
People who substitute the Hindi word “ki” for "that" in a sentence that is otherwise constructed in the English language.
People who let the phone ring endlessly. I am no social scientist but one usually lifts the receiver when one hears a phone ring.
By,
Gaurav Kala
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Review of 'Sin City'
We are all familiar with the "new age" comics seen on 24 hour cartoon channels which have realistic images and lots of violence and are usually quite horrible (unlike the loveable Tom and Jerry stips of yore.) Frank Miller is the author of several graphic novels titled Sin City - a city where, as the name suggests, life is stripped of all decency and reduced to sleaze and violence and the pursuit of your base instincts. Robert Rodriguez (along with Frank Miller and Quentin Tarantino) brought together a galaxy of A-list actors (Bruce Willis, Benicio Del Toro, Elijah Wood, Brittany Murphy, Mickey Rourke, Josh Hartnett etc.) and brought these garish cartoons to life in a movie by the same name. This movie is essentially a set of 3 'shorts' adapted into a 2 hour narrative.
So, if I find new age cartoons grotesque why am I reviewing this film? My answer is for the sheer vividness of the images. One often sees movies where cartoons have been brought to life. But this is a movie where real people go through the motions of fighting, shooting, killing, knifing, eating other people (yes you got that right - cannibalism is one of the subplots) but the whole effect is of watching a cartoon strip slowly unfold before your eyes. This movie is entirely shot in black and white with a judicious dash of colour... (I have included a shot from the movie as an attachment to give you a general idea). The effect is very stylish and a visual delight.
To get back to mundane aspect of the movie - a story.... there really isn't much of a story... a cop (Bruce Willis) fighting a paedophile (Nick Stahl who is also the hideous "Yellow Bastard") and happens to be the all powerful Senator Rourke's son; a do gooder (Clive Owen) fighting a no good cop (an inspired performance by Benicio Del Toro of "Traffic" fame) to maintain the balance of power between the city cops and the hookers; and a grieving lover (Mickey Rourke) avenging the death of his lover (Jaime King) at the hands of an unknown assasin.
So is this movie for the lily livered people? I think it is... as a thumb rule I would suggest that if you have been able to stomach (and enjoy) Pulp Fiction and the Kill Bill series, then this movie is certainly for you.
By,
Sachin Desai
So, if I find new age cartoons grotesque why am I reviewing this film? My answer is for the sheer vividness of the images. One often sees movies where cartoons have been brought to life. But this is a movie where real people go through the motions of fighting, shooting, killing, knifing, eating other people (yes you got that right - cannibalism is one of the subplots) but the whole effect is of watching a cartoon strip slowly unfold before your eyes. This movie is entirely shot in black and white with a judicious dash of colour... (I have included a shot from the movie as an attachment to give you a general idea). The effect is very stylish and a visual delight.
To get back to mundane aspect of the movie - a story.... there really isn't much of a story... a cop (Bruce Willis) fighting a paedophile (Nick Stahl who is also the hideous "Yellow Bastard") and happens to be the all powerful Senator Rourke's son; a do gooder (Clive Owen) fighting a no good cop (an inspired performance by Benicio Del Toro of "Traffic" fame) to maintain the balance of power between the city cops and the hookers; and a grieving lover (Mickey Rourke) avenging the death of his lover (Jaime King) at the hands of an unknown assasin.
So is this movie for the lily livered people? I think it is... as a thumb rule I would suggest that if you have been able to stomach (and enjoy) Pulp Fiction and the Kill Bill series, then this movie is certainly for you.
By,
Sachin Desai
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Review of 'Crash'
'Crash' is about racism. It is set in big-bad LA, where the multitude of its characters seem to be relentlessly subjecting each other to racist behaviour. Racism is dangerous in that it is unpredictable, and veiled until it gets triggered resulting in hurtful behaviour. 'Crash' takes a look at it, but comes up short.
There are several problems with 'Crash'. First, there are way too many characters hammering home a variation of the same story, and all of them are spread too thin. We don't know what motivates them, or what their other concerns in life are.
Second, a lot of the characters are movie and tv stereotypes. So you have a bad cop/good cop combo. You have the black boss (actually two) who has put in years of hard work to get to where he is (presumably the white guys don't need to). The DA is white, and wants to appear squeaky clean. The locksmith is mexican, the Iranian is hot headed . We don't see the medical
insurance administrator woman, but she has a name (shanicwa or something) that
can't get any blacker. There is a rich black couple outinsulting each other by comparing each other's blackness. There are two black guys engaged in an analysis of why/whether they were discriminated against in a white diner, and how they should be the ones feeling scared in a white neighbourhood. and just when the irony gets you to sympathize with them, they pull a gun to carjack a lincoln navigator (There are two of those too). Later, the white woman victim of the jacking admits to feeling suspicious about the two would-be black thieves. So was she right, and should white people be afraid of black people or not? There is a old black mom who is on cocaine. Why did she have to be black? Why couldn't the DA's wife be on cocaine, she is neurotic and lonely to begin with.
And then (altho a couple of my friends thought that was the director/writer being blunt) the movie democratizes racism. Everybody is doing it to everyone else. The latina cop telling an asian woman driver how the latter would have been able to "blake" had she being looking over the wheel, imitating almost honestly how a lot of older asian women dlive their cars. Her black cop boyfriend couldn't care less about the difference in hispanic ethnicities, because he wonders aloud "why then do they all park their cars on the grass". The bad cop is eventually redeemed, maybe forgiven too. A hitchhiker discovers, to his discomfort, that the good cop isn't as race-blind as he is made out to be. So is it that everybody is flawed, and racism and prejudices are par for the course? and we can be bad at times but there is the good to offset it? The only characters that come out clean are the mexicans, both the locksmith and the DA's maid. Again stereotypes of migrant workers that never complain.
Coincidentally, I am reading Amartya Sen's new book, 'Identity and Violence, Illusion of Destiny'. Haven't finished reading it yet, but his thesis is that it is wrong to adopt or assign singular identities to people. i.e, wrong to label anybody on the basis of one major affiliation, black, white, rich, poor, muslim, catholic, western,eastern etc. He says we are a mix of several attributes, making this reductionist approach fundamentally wrong. What makes it worse is that once we accept this classification, we tend to propose solutions on the basis of the super sets, each by definition incompatible with the other. 'Crash' i thought is guilty of this approach. It compartmentalizes its characters. And the characters also see themselves as belonging to these compartments. And having done that, they behave in the way those compartments are expected to behave.
Not unmissable. And don cheadle was way better than matt dillon.
By,
Nikhil Pednekar
There are several problems with 'Crash'. First, there are way too many characters hammering home a variation of the same story, and all of them are spread too thin. We don't know what motivates them, or what their other concerns in life are.
Second, a lot of the characters are movie and tv stereotypes. So you have a bad cop/good cop combo. You have the black boss (actually two) who has put in years of hard work to get to where he is (presumably the white guys don't need to). The DA is white, and wants to appear squeaky clean. The locksmith is mexican, the Iranian is hot headed . We don't see the medical
insurance administrator woman, but she has a name (shanicwa or something) that
can't get any blacker. There is a rich black couple outinsulting each other by comparing each other's blackness. There are two black guys engaged in an analysis of why/whether they were discriminated against in a white diner, and how they should be the ones feeling scared in a white neighbourhood. and just when the irony gets you to sympathize with them, they pull a gun to carjack a lincoln navigator (There are two of those too). Later, the white woman victim of the jacking admits to feeling suspicious about the two would-be black thieves. So was she right, and should white people be afraid of black people or not? There is a old black mom who is on cocaine. Why did she have to be black? Why couldn't the DA's wife be on cocaine, she is neurotic and lonely to begin with.
And then (altho a couple of my friends thought that was the director/writer being blunt) the movie democratizes racism. Everybody is doing it to everyone else. The latina cop telling an asian woman driver how the latter would have been able to "blake" had she being looking over the wheel, imitating almost honestly how a lot of older asian women dlive their cars. Her black cop boyfriend couldn't care less about the difference in hispanic ethnicities, because he wonders aloud "why then do they all park their cars on the grass". The bad cop is eventually redeemed, maybe forgiven too. A hitchhiker discovers, to his discomfort, that the good cop isn't as race-blind as he is made out to be. So is it that everybody is flawed, and racism and prejudices are par for the course? and we can be bad at times but there is the good to offset it? The only characters that come out clean are the mexicans, both the locksmith and the DA's maid. Again stereotypes of migrant workers that never complain.
Coincidentally, I am reading Amartya Sen's new book, 'Identity and Violence, Illusion of Destiny'. Haven't finished reading it yet, but his thesis is that it is wrong to adopt or assign singular identities to people. i.e, wrong to label anybody on the basis of one major affiliation, black, white, rich, poor, muslim, catholic, western,eastern etc. He says we are a mix of several attributes, making this reductionist approach fundamentally wrong. What makes it worse is that once we accept this classification, we tend to propose solutions on the basis of the super sets, each by definition incompatible with the other. 'Crash' i thought is guilty of this approach. It compartmentalizes its characters. And the characters also see themselves as belonging to these compartments. And having done that, they behave in the way those compartments are expected to behave.
Not unmissable. And don cheadle was way better than matt dillon.
By,
Nikhil Pednekar
Friday, April 07, 2006
An Admission
I wish I could write like Dorothy Parker,
Wendy Cope or Emily Dickinson;
Reality relieved by whoops of laughter -
Their barbs pointed and verse sharpened.
Wish I could describe like Bill Bryson,
My travels to lands far and near;
Love-story scented with cherry blossom,
‘The Lady and the Monk’ – Pico Iyer.
An Indian Enid Blyton would be nice too -
Magical folk on the faraway tree;
And mysteries solved by Chinky and Bablu,
Not scones, but samosas for tea.
Arun Shourie, once a mighty crusader,
Exposed scams and toppled governments,
I doubt I’d topple a glass of water,
Unless it shook from the force of derision.
Hemingway, Austen, Auden, Dostoevsky,
Let me not think of venturing there;
Even I must respect a boundary
Between wishful thinking and impudence bare.
I wish I could be Anita or Leo
With their ready verse and sparkling wit
Then we would be a triumphant trio.
(Your guess is right - Anita wrote this bit !)
But one cuts the coat to fit the cloth,
No point fretting over what I haven’t got;
To literature though I pledge my troth,
The literary muse – away he trots.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
Wendy Cope or Emily Dickinson;
Reality relieved by whoops of laughter -
Their barbs pointed and verse sharpened.
Wish I could describe like Bill Bryson,
My travels to lands far and near;
Love-story scented with cherry blossom,
‘The Lady and the Monk’ – Pico Iyer.
An Indian Enid Blyton would be nice too -
Magical folk on the faraway tree;
And mysteries solved by Chinky and Bablu,
Not scones, but samosas for tea.
Arun Shourie, once a mighty crusader,
Exposed scams and toppled governments,
I doubt I’d topple a glass of water,
Unless it shook from the force of derision.
Hemingway, Austen, Auden, Dostoevsky,
Let me not think of venturing there;
Even I must respect a boundary
Between wishful thinking and impudence bare.
I wish I could be Anita or Leo
With their ready verse and sparkling wit
Then we would be a triumphant trio.
(Your guess is right - Anita wrote this bit !)
But one cuts the coat to fit the cloth,
No point fretting over what I haven’t got;
To literature though I pledge my troth,
The literary muse – away he trots.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Review of "Pride and Prejudice'
I assume most people who watch this movie have previously either read the book or watched the BBC version or at least the horrible 'Bride and Prejudice'. (If you have not, you may not fully understand the movie. And this review.) I am sure there are other versions, perhaps in other languages (I know that a Hindi soap opera based on this story used to appear in DD many moons ago). So here we have one more movie based on the same book and when you step into the hall, you wonder what it has to offer ?
The one stark difference from the other versions I have seen is in the scenes. The picturisation is absolutely enchanting to say the least. The green English countryside, the constant downpours, the stone buildings, the noise and colour in the parties, the houses in which the girls live...the list can go on. Everything is vivid and alive. Unlike the BBC series (a very good one, I would like to add) where you somehow have the impression of watching the proceedings as a third party, the camera in this version makes you feel like you are actually over there watching the story unfold. Some of the characterizations are also good. Mr. Bennett in this movie is kinder and more in sync with the family than he was in the original book. Charlotte Lucas is perfect as an aging spinster; aware of the compromises she has to make. Miss Bingley in the few scenes she has comes across as she ought to – a clever, perhaps slightly cynical woman who is probably in love with Mr. Darcy, but wants him more for the advantages that come with such a marriage. The casting is also appropriate in most cases. Keira Knightley’s liveliness is just right for the role and the gaggle of sisters looks just the way you would have imagined them to be.
The challenge in taking a fairly complicated book like this and making it into a three-hour movie is in figuring out which scenes to leave out and which scenes to retain. Which characters are to be developed, and what side stories are to be forgotten. The central tale is that of Lizzie Bennet, the Gentleman’s daughter with no fortune and four sisters, falling in love with the rich and proud Mr. Darcy. Unfortunately the book has way too many characters that contribute to the tale of love between Lizzie and Darcy. Minor characters like Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are sacrificed. But the director still needs to retain Colonel Fitzwilliam and Anne De Bourgh. So at the end of the movie, the one overwhelming feeling you have is of having read a summary of the book. You can get what the movie is about, but you have not really had the time to cry and laugh with Lizzie. Lizzie and Darcy patching up makes you happy but does not make you wipe a tear, nod your head and say ‘these kids!’
There are some minor points to quibble on. Why does Mr. Bingley, instead of being a genial friend, come across as an ex-inmate of a mental asylum on rehabilitation in the countryside? He smiles like an imbecile every time he is on screen. Just when you are glad that he has stopped smiling, he opens his mouth and says some silly dialogues. Even his hair sticks out all over the place like he has had one too many electric shock treatments in the loony bin. Mr. Collins looks more sensible than he does. Also, did any woman say ‘Don’t judge me’ to her friends before Sex and the City? Why is Wickham barely there? And that’s not just because an eye-candy plays the role. As a fairly key character, the character should have been given at least as much importance as Mr. Collins.
On the whole, if you can, read the book. If you must watch this movie, reserve it for a rainy afternoon when the scenes in the movie matches the weather outside and you just may discover the spark of romance that makes the book one of the best romantic books ever written.
By,
Anita B.
The one stark difference from the other versions I have seen is in the scenes. The picturisation is absolutely enchanting to say the least. The green English countryside, the constant downpours, the stone buildings, the noise and colour in the parties, the houses in which the girls live...the list can go on. Everything is vivid and alive. Unlike the BBC series (a very good one, I would like to add) where you somehow have the impression of watching the proceedings as a third party, the camera in this version makes you feel like you are actually over there watching the story unfold. Some of the characterizations are also good. Mr. Bennett in this movie is kinder and more in sync with the family than he was in the original book. Charlotte Lucas is perfect as an aging spinster; aware of the compromises she has to make. Miss Bingley in the few scenes she has comes across as she ought to – a clever, perhaps slightly cynical woman who is probably in love with Mr. Darcy, but wants him more for the advantages that come with such a marriage. The casting is also appropriate in most cases. Keira Knightley’s liveliness is just right for the role and the gaggle of sisters looks just the way you would have imagined them to be.
The challenge in taking a fairly complicated book like this and making it into a three-hour movie is in figuring out which scenes to leave out and which scenes to retain. Which characters are to be developed, and what side stories are to be forgotten. The central tale is that of Lizzie Bennet, the Gentleman’s daughter with no fortune and four sisters, falling in love with the rich and proud Mr. Darcy. Unfortunately the book has way too many characters that contribute to the tale of love between Lizzie and Darcy. Minor characters like Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are sacrificed. But the director still needs to retain Colonel Fitzwilliam and Anne De Bourgh. So at the end of the movie, the one overwhelming feeling you have is of having read a summary of the book. You can get what the movie is about, but you have not really had the time to cry and laugh with Lizzie. Lizzie and Darcy patching up makes you happy but does not make you wipe a tear, nod your head and say ‘these kids!’
There are some minor points to quibble on. Why does Mr. Bingley, instead of being a genial friend, come across as an ex-inmate of a mental asylum on rehabilitation in the countryside? He smiles like an imbecile every time he is on screen. Just when you are glad that he has stopped smiling, he opens his mouth and says some silly dialogues. Even his hair sticks out all over the place like he has had one too many electric shock treatments in the loony bin. Mr. Collins looks more sensible than he does. Also, did any woman say ‘Don’t judge me’ to her friends before Sex and the City? Why is Wickham barely there? And that’s not just because an eye-candy plays the role. As a fairly key character, the character should have been given at least as much importance as Mr. Collins.
On the whole, if you can, read the book. If you must watch this movie, reserve it for a rainy afternoon when the scenes in the movie matches the weather outside and you just may discover the spark of romance that makes the book one of the best romantic books ever written.
By,
Anita B.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Driving Me Mad
I always knew driving in India was tough. Heck, walking in India is tough and involves instances where your entire life flashes before your eyes pretty often. Driving though goes to the next plane. One of the reasons is that as a car driver you are in the exclusive position of being the Loser in every possible accident situation.
Let us take the possible range of things/people you can collide with. The first in the category of ‘victims’ are pedestrians. Pedestrians in India do not believe in using the footpath. 'When there is a perfectly good road available, why can't I use it?' is the logic used by most. Not surprisingly, over time, footpaths have come to serve as places where electric transformers, phone boxes, roadside peddlers, snack vendors, beggars etc co-exist peacefully. Of course, pedestrians point out that the cause-effect relationship is the other way round and the reason they don’t use footpaths is on account of the impediments scattered around. I say, show me a pedestrian who uses footpaths in India and I will show you a man who has not lived in India long enough. Pedestrians also do not believe in zebra crossings, preferring to dart across the road when they spot their destination. That this may cause an oncoming vehicle to swerve suddenly and crash into a building and kill ten people is not of much consequence.
The next category closely competing with pedestrians are two wheelers and three wheelers. They follow a variation of Parkinson's laws - motorists will fill up any available space on a road. This involves making instant calculations on whether the motor bike's entire width is less than the 1.5 feet available between a bus and a truck on the road. More often than not, these calculations are precise to a millimeter. The 'not' is when problems arise.
With both pedestrians and smaller vehicles, the forgone conclusion is that you are a Goliath pelting Davids all over the place with your big bad capitalist attitude. The assumption is that if you are driving a car, you must be rich and have the attitude of a big bad capitalist. So the public sides against you, you pay whatever money is needed to settle the issue and worry if your EMI payment on the car was less than that.
At the opposite end of the spectrum are buses. The most dangerous of this lot are the public transport buses called CTCs. They are usually huge, look extremely unbalanced from years of carrying too many people and are stuffed with most of India's 1 billion population. When a man knows that he is the lifeline to ease the city's transportation problem, he drives at a level 8 ft from the ground and is a government servant, he does not quite care if he dents a couple of car bumpers a day. Even during my driving lessons, I had put down CTC bus drivers as mean and unpredictable and driving next to one as the worst situation a car driver can face. At that point, however I had not seen one CTC bus overtaking another. This scene is somewhat like watching King Kong stomping through New York - beautiful but terrible.
Imagine a narrow road, which has two lanes. Now imagine a bus stop where one CTC bus is parked. The next one approaches from behind. Seeing the earlier bus, the CTC driver quickly calculates that he will have to trail behind all along the length of the entire narrow road. A thought that clearly causes intolerable grief. So even while the last passenger is boarding, the second CTC bus lurches in a 45 degree angle, powers full thrust ahead and regally overtakes the first one. You can usually smell the burning tyres of vehicles that had to brake suddenly to avoid close contact with a lurching bus. I have sometimes pulled over to admire this wonderful sight. That is infact the only way to handle the situation. If you are stupid enough to be hit by a bus, don't bother arguing with the driver for justice. He can scrunch you up like a little insect and still get away with it.
So clearly car drivers are at the bottom of the food chain. Why do we still drive? Most people, I think, love the challenge of seeing if they can get to work alive everyday. After that, anything that assails you at work can only be better. As for me - I can't think of a better place to sing aloud without inviting widespread abuse.
By,
Anita B.
Let us take the possible range of things/people you can collide with. The first in the category of ‘victims’ are pedestrians. Pedestrians in India do not believe in using the footpath. 'When there is a perfectly good road available, why can't I use it?' is the logic used by most. Not surprisingly, over time, footpaths have come to serve as places where electric transformers, phone boxes, roadside peddlers, snack vendors, beggars etc co-exist peacefully. Of course, pedestrians point out that the cause-effect relationship is the other way round and the reason they don’t use footpaths is on account of the impediments scattered around. I say, show me a pedestrian who uses footpaths in India and I will show you a man who has not lived in India long enough. Pedestrians also do not believe in zebra crossings, preferring to dart across the road when they spot their destination. That this may cause an oncoming vehicle to swerve suddenly and crash into a building and kill ten people is not of much consequence.
The next category closely competing with pedestrians are two wheelers and three wheelers. They follow a variation of Parkinson's laws - motorists will fill up any available space on a road. This involves making instant calculations on whether the motor bike's entire width is less than the 1.5 feet available between a bus and a truck on the road. More often than not, these calculations are precise to a millimeter. The 'not' is when problems arise.
With both pedestrians and smaller vehicles, the forgone conclusion is that you are a Goliath pelting Davids all over the place with your big bad capitalist attitude. The assumption is that if you are driving a car, you must be rich and have the attitude of a big bad capitalist. So the public sides against you, you pay whatever money is needed to settle the issue and worry if your EMI payment on the car was less than that.
At the opposite end of the spectrum are buses. The most dangerous of this lot are the public transport buses called CTCs. They are usually huge, look extremely unbalanced from years of carrying too many people and are stuffed with most of India's 1 billion population. When a man knows that he is the lifeline to ease the city's transportation problem, he drives at a level 8 ft from the ground and is a government servant, he does not quite care if he dents a couple of car bumpers a day. Even during my driving lessons, I had put down CTC bus drivers as mean and unpredictable and driving next to one as the worst situation a car driver can face. At that point, however I had not seen one CTC bus overtaking another. This scene is somewhat like watching King Kong stomping through New York - beautiful but terrible.
Imagine a narrow road, which has two lanes. Now imagine a bus stop where one CTC bus is parked. The next one approaches from behind. Seeing the earlier bus, the CTC driver quickly calculates that he will have to trail behind all along the length of the entire narrow road. A thought that clearly causes intolerable grief. So even while the last passenger is boarding, the second CTC bus lurches in a 45 degree angle, powers full thrust ahead and regally overtakes the first one. You can usually smell the burning tyres of vehicles that had to brake suddenly to avoid close contact with a lurching bus. I have sometimes pulled over to admire this wonderful sight. That is infact the only way to handle the situation. If you are stupid enough to be hit by a bus, don't bother arguing with the driver for justice. He can scrunch you up like a little insect and still get away with it.
So clearly car drivers are at the bottom of the food chain. Why do we still drive? Most people, I think, love the challenge of seeing if they can get to work alive everyday. After that, anything that assails you at work can only be better. As for me - I can't think of a better place to sing aloud without inviting widespread abuse.
By,
Anita B.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
The Glory Days
Anita watches Maine Pyaar Kiya to relive the eighties and to provide feminist social commentary on Indian culture from the eighties, and also to comment on Juhi Chawla's cooking skills. When my friend Rahul and I get together, one of the things we end up doing is singing. We sing Indian TV ads from the eighties and nineties. Mostly eighties. What's the relation with the first sentence? Editor to please help.
Vimal washing powder: Babuji, kahaan chale (toing toing toing toing toing toing toing toing), kapade kyun hain maile dhule? Used to be the fellow who was later in Hum Log -- possibly concurrently in Hum log -- then later released a music album, that flopped.
Lifebuoy: Tandurusti ki raksha kartaa hai lifebuoy! Kollu Gautam Krishna, who was later at IITB and went to the same high school as yours truly, was the one behind the outgoing 12th grade class's rendition of the Lifebuoy theme song at the graduation party at Atomic Energy Junior College in 1990. The principal was livid.
Nirma! Washing powder Nirma! Dudh si safedi, ... Used to be Sangeeta Bijlani in this ad.
Prestige: Jo biwi se kare pyaar, woh Prestige se kaise kare inkaar? The funny thing about this is that Prestige pressure cookers are actually unsafe, since the lid clamps down on the vessel from outside. The pressure build up will cause the lid to open, whereas in the Hawkins design the pressure forces the lid shut.
Hawkins! Hawkins ki seeti bajee ... With Neena Gupta. Who was in the other great soap opera, Buniyaad. No wait, I'm thinking of Sonia Razdan. But Neena Gupta definitely released a music album. Which was on MTV. Which flopped (album, not MTV).
Bulbs and tubes: This had the fellow who played Shikhandi in Mahabharat on TV. Speaking of which, anyone remember the controversy over Arun Govil (who played Ram in Ramayan) having visible vaccination marks on his arms while in the garb of Ram? So much for authenticity. And don't get me started on the arrows.
Lijjat papad: Eh henh hainh, eh henh hainh. With that ventriloquist dummy. From the indomitable members of Mahila Gram Udyog.
Maggi Hot and Sweet Tomato Chilli Sauce. It's different. Sir, you're a genius. Shut up, Kitty! With Pankaj Kapur of Karamchand (which my mum and dad never let me watch), and lady who played Kitty in Karamchand. Many variants. I seem to recall Ajith was in one of them. Or an Ajith impersonator.
Yes, we're a sad bunch, Rahul and I. These ads are a remarkable picture of pop culture (or what passed for it). Middle class sensibilities and the like. (As an aside: With all the MBAs that read this blog, is there anyone -- maybe in marketing at the firms that made these ads -- who can get me videos of these ads? Here in the US there are websites devoted to classic TV ads. I would love to setup a website devoted to Indian ads.)
Then there's Thums Up. I sing the Thums Up ad. Remember going to theatres for a movie, and the fellow running on a dusty track, with Gary Lawyer singing, "Because you're the best! Better than all the rest! You gotta taste the thunder! Thums Up! Taste the thunder!" After watching that I always went to the lobby during the interval and got me a Thums Up. Even today Coke and Pepsi cannot compete with it -- that extra jolt of caffeine will get you through the day and night, no problem. In fact, I brought it to work and gave some Amreekis a taste of the good stuff. They could see why it has remained the favorite drink of tired farmers and office workers everywhere in India -- one of them couldn't sleep the night. (I haven't revisited Thums Up and rum since my days as an undergraduate, though. Hmmm. Time to give the visiting in-laws a taste of undergraduate life, eh?)
The Pepsi ad, I never quite liked. Hearing Kapil Dev going, "Yehi hai right choice, baybeeee!" was just not on. The other Pepsi ad (their first one), with Juhi Chawla and Remo, which premiered with much hype, was much better. Kapil was much better at Palmolive (Palmolive da jawaab nahin!). Fellow goes to the echo point in a mountain range and shouts "Sakura!" The echo says "Konica!" (since Sakura became Konica). Fellow shouts "Palmolive," and there's no echo. Why? Because Palmolive da jawaab nahin.
The Amul ads were the best of all. I think there's a book of them someplace. "Krishnan makes Masur ki daal."
Singing ads is not all I do to recapture my youth. Staying up late -- till 3 or 4 in the morning on the weekends (so as to not disrupt work), and watching TV. Sadly, other than reruns of Saturday Night Live, the only thing running then are ads for Jack LaLanne's juicer, the Ab Cruncher, the BowFlex machine (with Chuck Norris), the vacuum food saver, Ron Popeil with God knows what. So I try to find something to read. But usually there's nothing new, so I go downstairs to the kitchen, and cook up some Maggi (2-minute) Masala Noodles that I buy from the local desi grocery, or Top Ramen Curry Smoodles (that I also buy from the local desi grocery). However, now that they've started putting nutrition facts on the packages, the noodles aren't as appetizing.
Anyone remember the truly horrible Maggi Chaat Noodles and Maggi Milk Noodles? The milk noodles were especially yucky. Milk flavored noodles. What will they think of next?
This documentation is due to:
1. Realizing Sachin's career is getting over (I think I talked about this elsewhere -- Jhen please to link (Yes, Sir. http://entropymuse.blogspot.com/2006/02/personal-records.html)).
2. Turning 30.
3. Birth of first child.
4. Birth of second child.
5. Approaching 31. (In other words, I'm younger than Jhen.)
6. In-laws visiting for second child and hearing tales of father-in-law's youth.
7. Grey hairs accompanied the birth of the second heir.
8. Black-and-white film that I used for the past 2-3 months, just for the heck of it.
9. Ten years ago, I could polish off entire bottles of booze and wake up fresh as a daisy. Not anymore.
10. Having to shop for a minivan to transport kids, self, wife, in-laws/parents (whoever is visiting). No more dreams of a Toyota Prius. (Yes, I'm a liberal. Get over it.) Next car will of course be for my mid-life crisis. Probably a used Porsche Boxter.
By,
Speck 42
Vimal washing powder: Babuji, kahaan chale (toing toing toing toing toing toing toing toing), kapade kyun hain maile dhule? Used to be the fellow who was later in Hum Log -- possibly concurrently in Hum log -- then later released a music album, that flopped.
Lifebuoy: Tandurusti ki raksha kartaa hai lifebuoy! Kollu Gautam Krishna, who was later at IITB and went to the same high school as yours truly, was the one behind the outgoing 12th grade class's rendition of the Lifebuoy theme song at the graduation party at Atomic Energy Junior College in 1990. The principal was livid.
Nirma! Washing powder Nirma! Dudh si safedi, ... Used to be Sangeeta Bijlani in this ad.
Prestige: Jo biwi se kare pyaar, woh Prestige se kaise kare inkaar? The funny thing about this is that Prestige pressure cookers are actually unsafe, since the lid clamps down on the vessel from outside. The pressure build up will cause the lid to open, whereas in the Hawkins design the pressure forces the lid shut.
Hawkins! Hawkins ki seeti bajee ... With Neena Gupta. Who was in the other great soap opera, Buniyaad. No wait, I'm thinking of Sonia Razdan. But Neena Gupta definitely released a music album. Which was on MTV. Which flopped (album, not MTV).
Bulbs and tubes: This had the fellow who played Shikhandi in Mahabharat on TV. Speaking of which, anyone remember the controversy over Arun Govil (who played Ram in Ramayan) having visible vaccination marks on his arms while in the garb of Ram? So much for authenticity. And don't get me started on the arrows.
Lijjat papad: Eh henh hainh, eh henh hainh. With that ventriloquist dummy. From the indomitable members of Mahila Gram Udyog.
Maggi Hot and Sweet Tomato Chilli Sauce. It's different. Sir, you're a genius. Shut up, Kitty! With Pankaj Kapur of Karamchand (which my mum and dad never let me watch), and lady who played Kitty in Karamchand. Many variants. I seem to recall Ajith was in one of them. Or an Ajith impersonator.
Yes, we're a sad bunch, Rahul and I. These ads are a remarkable picture of pop culture (or what passed for it). Middle class sensibilities and the like. (As an aside: With all the MBAs that read this blog, is there anyone -- maybe in marketing at the firms that made these ads -- who can get me videos of these ads? Here in the US there are websites devoted to classic TV ads. I would love to setup a website devoted to Indian ads.)
Then there's Thums Up. I sing the Thums Up ad. Remember going to theatres for a movie, and the fellow running on a dusty track, with Gary Lawyer singing, "Because you're the best! Better than all the rest! You gotta taste the thunder! Thums Up! Taste the thunder!" After watching that I always went to the lobby during the interval and got me a Thums Up. Even today Coke and Pepsi cannot compete with it -- that extra jolt of caffeine will get you through the day and night, no problem. In fact, I brought it to work and gave some Amreekis a taste of the good stuff. They could see why it has remained the favorite drink of tired farmers and office workers everywhere in India -- one of them couldn't sleep the night. (I haven't revisited Thums Up and rum since my days as an undergraduate, though. Hmmm. Time to give the visiting in-laws a taste of undergraduate life, eh?)
The Pepsi ad, I never quite liked. Hearing Kapil Dev going, "Yehi hai right choice, baybeeee!" was just not on. The other Pepsi ad (their first one), with Juhi Chawla and Remo, which premiered with much hype, was much better. Kapil was much better at Palmolive (Palmolive da jawaab nahin!). Fellow goes to the echo point in a mountain range and shouts "Sakura!" The echo says "Konica!" (since Sakura became Konica). Fellow shouts "Palmolive," and there's no echo. Why? Because Palmolive da jawaab nahin.
The Amul ads were the best of all. I think there's a book of them someplace. "Krishnan makes Masur ki daal."
Singing ads is not all I do to recapture my youth. Staying up late -- till 3 or 4 in the morning on the weekends (so as to not disrupt work), and watching TV. Sadly, other than reruns of Saturday Night Live, the only thing running then are ads for Jack LaLanne's juicer, the Ab Cruncher, the BowFlex machine (with Chuck Norris), the vacuum food saver, Ron Popeil with God knows what. So I try to find something to read. But usually there's nothing new, so I go downstairs to the kitchen, and cook up some Maggi (2-minute) Masala Noodles that I buy from the local desi grocery, or Top Ramen Curry Smoodles (that I also buy from the local desi grocery). However, now that they've started putting nutrition facts on the packages, the noodles aren't as appetizing.
Anyone remember the truly horrible Maggi Chaat Noodles and Maggi Milk Noodles? The milk noodles were especially yucky. Milk flavored noodles. What will they think of next?
This documentation is due to:
1. Realizing Sachin's career is getting over (I think I talked about this elsewhere -- Jhen please to link (Yes, Sir. http://entropymuse.blogspot.com/2006/02/personal-records.html)).
2. Turning 30.
3. Birth of first child.
4. Birth of second child.
5. Approaching 31. (In other words, I'm younger than Jhen.)
6. In-laws visiting for second child and hearing tales of father-in-law's youth.
7. Grey hairs accompanied the birth of the second heir.
8. Black-and-white film that I used for the past 2-3 months, just for the heck of it.
9. Ten years ago, I could polish off entire bottles of booze and wake up fresh as a daisy. Not anymore.
10. Having to shop for a minivan to transport kids, self, wife, in-laws/parents (whoever is visiting). No more dreams of a Toyota Prius. (Yes, I'm a liberal. Get over it.) Next car will of course be for my mid-life crisis. Probably a used Porsche Boxter.
By,
Speck 42
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Are you peeing right now?
Saw the powerful Rang De Basanti last night. This blog is inspired by one line in the movie......Aamir tells Sue that we are a generation with one foot stuck in the past and another in the future...which leads us to pee on the present. It invoked a lot of laughter in the theater I was in and thus drowned the punch, but it kind of stuck in my head.
I know that we are indeed a confused generation on a lot of fronts (I am sure that other generations would have felt the same in their days!). This confusion is also perpetuated by the huge pace of change that we are going through. Our teens were for the first time influenced by Cable TV, breakdown of joint family system, reservation issues, Babri Masjid, increased terrorism, corruption being brought to light by media, globalization, imbibing of multiple cultural values....etc,etc,etc
We indeed feel connected to our roots....an example would be that most of us are by and large fairly religious in our own ways and most Hindu youth do follow our cultural ethos around idol worship, I am sure it’s the same for youth of other religions.--------this is our foot in the past.
We are very modern and experimentative....an example would be that despite the respect we would have for our elders, we would like to be open to ideas of how we want to live our life; e.g. men taking up more roles in managing family life and becoming more 'metro-sexual'---------this is our foot in the future.
What bothered me is what are we doing about our present. A lot of youth around me in Lucknow - at the peak of Babri Masjid movement were indeed moved and became fanatical-a-la-Atul in RDB. A lot of us indeed are running towards a job abroad-a-la-junior Singhania in RDB. A lot of us do party hard a-la the DJ of RDB.
I would hate to believe that we are all peeing over our present. Yes, when the momentum of change is huge in a country like ours with all the liberalisation of value systems and the economy at large, we do not know whether we are on the right path.
Sardar Patel told Jawahar Lal Nehru once....We are taking decisions of a high magnitude and they can be interpreted in various ways by generations to come. I just hope that they could see that we didn't mean anything wrong, but were merely driven by the circumstances of our times.....I feel the same way, our generation is kind of stuck in a similar bind, and frankly we don’t think about all this most of the time either.
Lets hope we are certainly not peeing on our present.
By,
Amit Agarwal
I know that we are indeed a confused generation on a lot of fronts (I am sure that other generations would have felt the same in their days!). This confusion is also perpetuated by the huge pace of change that we are going through. Our teens were for the first time influenced by Cable TV, breakdown of joint family system, reservation issues, Babri Masjid, increased terrorism, corruption being brought to light by media, globalization, imbibing of multiple cultural values....etc,etc,etc
We indeed feel connected to our roots....an example would be that most of us are by and large fairly religious in our own ways and most Hindu youth do follow our cultural ethos around idol worship, I am sure it’s the same for youth of other religions.--------this is our foot in the past.
We are very modern and experimentative....an example would be that despite the respect we would have for our elders, we would like to be open to ideas of how we want to live our life; e.g. men taking up more roles in managing family life and becoming more 'metro-sexual'---------this is our foot in the future.
What bothered me is what are we doing about our present. A lot of youth around me in Lucknow - at the peak of Babri Masjid movement were indeed moved and became fanatical-a-la-Atul in RDB. A lot of us indeed are running towards a job abroad-a-la-junior Singhania in RDB. A lot of us do party hard a-la the DJ of RDB.
I would hate to believe that we are all peeing over our present. Yes, when the momentum of change is huge in a country like ours with all the liberalisation of value systems and the economy at large, we do not know whether we are on the right path.
Sardar Patel told Jawahar Lal Nehru once....We are taking decisions of a high magnitude and they can be interpreted in various ways by generations to come. I just hope that they could see that we didn't mean anything wrong, but were merely driven by the circumstances of our times.....I feel the same way, our generation is kind of stuck in a similar bind, and frankly we don’t think about all this most of the time either.
Lets hope we are certainly not peeing on our present.
By,
Amit Agarwal
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