Coastal Delights

A tryst with Madhya Pradesh - 4

2012-01-10T04:36:00.000-08:00

So, it was finally time to say goodbye to the land of musical gharanas. The last night at Landmark was spent in lazying around and watching the Xmas celebrations that the hotel had lined up for guests. I particularly liked the Santa guy, welcoming one and all at the reception. Thanks to Abhay, the CA friend, we got perfect advice. The Gwalior fog, I had presumed, would be worse in the wee hours (my favorite time for kicking off journeys) But it was Abhay who revealed that 4.00 am was in fact the best time to leave the city as the fog would be thickest during 6.00 to 8.00 am, by which time we would have crossed the city limits of Shivpuri.

So off we went, hopping into the car at sharp 4.00 (thankfully, the hotel was exceptionally quick about the check out formalities) Exactly as Abhay had predicted, we were at Shivpuri for our first tea break at 6.00. The next break was at Guna at 9.00. This one proved elaborate as the roadside stall was as good as a motel, thanks to some innovative space usage by the owner. The jalebi was divine and so were the samosas. Hotel Shiv Tirth is highly recommended for those who strive for cleanliness, to the extent they can find on Indian highways.

Continuing further on NH 3, we reached Biora by 11.00 am and stopped at the same motel that we had checked en route Gwalior, this time for some Dosas and sambar. Bad choice it turned out to be. The fermentation was at its peak and left a bad taste all throughout the journey. The same waiter greeted us with the same hospitality and was happy to note that we would be treading on the extended Biora - Bhopal route rather than the potholed Biora - Indore stretch. Bidding good bye, I was back at the wheel.

The Biora - Bhopal NH 12 through Narsinghgad was excellent, as smooth as Nasik - Dhule - Indore. We'll remain indebted to the Biora waiter for the tip and Abhay for the validation. We reached Bhopal by 3.00 pm.

At the first chouraha on arrival, it took considerable time to reach Maharana Pratap Nagar in the new city. Thanks to a smart traffic cop, we got the right advice in time. We drove in the parking lot of 'The Residency' at sharp 4.00 pm. The booking was telephonic but the reception recall was instant, something missing with many a Mumbai-Pune hotel. Watching the local TV channel was fun. A program called "Nadaniyaan" was especially amusing. We bought some Bhopal sweets and namkin from the local stores and called it a day. The room service was excellent and housekeeping prompt.

The next day, we were to leave at 4.00 sharp but the alarm failed to caution us. And it was not before 5.30 that we hit the road. The hotel staff had given elaborate instructions on the most optimal path to Indore. We had no trouble getting on the spacious NH 86 turned SH 18 through Sihor, Astha and Dewas. Beyond doubt, this is a model road for the country. We touched Indore NH 3 by 8.00 am and stopped at Rau (near Mhow) for roadside jalebi and kachori.

Resuming the now monotonous drive,we reached Dhule for lunch at 12.30 pm at Hotel Residency Park. It was here that I learnt Sachin Tendulkar had yet again missed his long awaited 100th ton. Recovering from the expected gloom with the help of an unprintable expletive, I got back to the car. I have passed several times through Dhule - Indore but the monotony of the journey is equally intense every single time, even with the new roads. Nasik arrived at 3.45 pm but the ever messy Nasik traffic consumed over an hour before we crossed Igatpuri. Some of India's worst drivers come from Nasik (as lethal as the Pune ones).

The final frontier through Bhiwandi-Kalyan-Thane was a seamless drive. We entered the premises of our housing society on Ghodbunder Road at 6.30 pm.

The tryst with M.P. was finally over in good time. Needless to say, memories will remain for life.

The End

A tryst with Madhya Pradesh - 3

2012-01-03T04:15:00.000-08:00

The Gwalior morning was bright and sunny. The much acclaimed winter had surely set in but sans the cold chill that normally defines it. We left the hotel at 9.00 am after a sumptuous breakfast of fresh Idlis and sambar (just like any Mumbai Udupi). Post salutations at the adjacent Hanuman temple, we took a tam tam (the six seater rickshaw). I was unsure of the map, hence just mentioned Jiwaji Gang and Ratan Colony in the same breath. The driver declared "80 rupees" with a poker face - maybe the cold was responsible for the lack of expression.

After a brief merry-go-round through the bustling streets of the old city, he stopped at a place. "where in Jiwaji Ganj" was all he asked for. I don't know why but I stepped out at that very location. Destiny or destination, it turned out to be the exact point where the gate to Ratan Colony was positioned. But I didn't bother to read the signboard at the top of the high archway and walked further away. Luckily, we bothered to ask a shop keeper and he advised a reverse gear.

After entering the colony, (or kalony as they would say)I floated aimlessly in pursuit of the building that was my rented home years ago. I simply knew the landlord's name - there was hardly any other clue...but thanks to the old-style architecture, I stopped at one structure that was crowned with a spacious terrace. The parapet gave it away - Fond memories of me flying kites flooded my mind in a jiffy and I asked a passerby for the landlord's name. My hunch was right - this was it.

We spent over two hours chatting with the inhabitants with whom I share a slice of history, nostalgia writ all over the place. The landlady, now in her late sixties, seemed to remember every detail. I was overwhelmed by her hospitality and she hugged me out of genuine warmth. For a second, I saw my mom in her frame. That moment was worth all the time. I am not the one for senseless romanticism but that moment was real. Cent per cent real.

Abhay Deo, her son and my childhood chum, is now a practicing chartered accountant in Gwalior. He narrated quite a few interesting tales of his profession. One of them was about an accounting problem faced by the celebrated Gwalior Zoo.

It so happened that the zoo had donated two lion cubs to the New Zealand government. But the NZ government made an electronic transfer of a sizeable amount to the Gwalior Nagar Nigam in return. Since it was receipt of money all right and not a counter donation (as it didn't accompany a gift deed), the Nigam was unsure about its accounting - how to record it in the Nigam's books was the quandary. Abhay sought help from both his own ICAI institute as well as the one in England and Wales but to no avail. Finally, he advised the Nigam to consider the cubs as fixed assets (and not inventory) and show the funds as a capital receipt. Although he claimed this to be a rare case, there's a lot of literature available on tricky situations concerning live stock accounting worldwide but his moot point had a lot of merit. For a country with agricultural roots, Indian accountants have done little to enure commensurate accounting of livestock and food grains except for the blind adoption of international standards. He also expressed the grave need for worldwide discussion on such dark money matters like how to collect tax from tabooed professionals like prostitutes or the rampant sand and brick merchants (Reti providers)who earn handsome income in hard cash and coolly escape all taxation nets. Makes sense! Imagine a whore claiming depreciation on her body deemed as a fixed asset.

His experiences were amusing, enlightening too, but all the same, he didn't seem too keen on unfolding our shared past. I wanted to recount our childhood tales but his professional pride refused to leave the present. He seemed to have moved on for good.

After Ratan Colony, our final destination was the old haveli at Jiwaji Ganj. This was my maternal grandfather's residence for many years. Unfortunately, the place is now sold off and worse, completely demolished and converted into something else. But I remembered the lane from memory, as also the neighboring buildings and two unforgettable monuments - Gangaram ki dukan - the barber's shop and Babulal's home - the horse cart driver who dropped us to school everyday (unfortunately both are no more) I still remember Babulal and his mouthful of choicest Hindi abuses showered on passing vehicles and pedestrians, en route school and home.

With no one around to relive memories for old time's sake, we did the usual Gajak and Petha shopping. My mission was kind of over, yet an undefined ache remained. How time flies, what seemed paramount yesterday becomes insignificant today...priorities change over time, perspectives undergo a transformation, yet something remains that draws you to it, if not pulls you back. One can relish the past without dwelling in it, at least that's what I would like to believe.

Precisely why I planned a hurricane trip merely for two elusive landmarks in the whole city of Gwalior. Foolish it may have been, but I am very happy to be a fulfilled and fun filled fool.

To be concluded...

A tryst with Madhya Pradesh- 2

2011-12-31T19:24:00.000-08:00

The route from Shajapur to Karanvas via Sarangpur was a 'karavas'. Actually, it was more about the brazen attitude of the drivers that was making life difficult. With patience, you could come to terms with the potholes, but not with the people treading on them. Panting and fuming, we reached the scenic town of Biora at the stroke of 12 noon.

There's a tourist motel right on NH3 - don't miss it if you travel to Biora. The food's great and the hospitality even better. The friendly receptionist-cum-waiter advised us to take the Biora-Bhopal route for the return journey. His tip was zillion times more valuable than the one we paid him, we found out on our way back.

After a delicious meal of Pav Bhaji and Chaas (The Bhaji was not the tomato-dominated stuff that we relish in Mumbai, it's a rich mix of fresh vegetables, yet looks red and tastes even better), we were ready to encounter the last leg that proved to be the longest one.

The roads are much better if you compare them with the Indore-Biora, hence the journey was not all that arduous, at least the Beenagunj-Guna stretch. But after Guna, the roads get narrower and the maze of trucks gets wider. Interestingly, throughout the Indore-Gwalior route, you are forewarned about approaching Ghat sections whenever the bend is minimal, they're hardly noticeable in fact. And in contrast, the couple of hair pin bends that really merit a caution come with no warning whatsoever.Wonder how do they define a 'ghat' in this part of the world.

Post Guna, you pass through the insignificant townships of Badarwas and Lukwasa. At Lukwasa, we had tea at a stall with an amusing title "Ziddi Pandit". The tea was excellent and I looked around to spot Mr.'Ziddi' but only a urchin seemed to run the show. We left the scene wondering who was 'Ziddi' and why was he so? (come to think of it, this could be a nice film title like 'Ziddi Pandit ziddi kyon hai?' akin to 'Albert Pinto ko gussa kyon aata hai')

After leaving Kolaras behind, we arrived at Shivpuri, the abode of Lord Shiva. This is an ancient place that finds mention in mythology as well as history. It also houses a promising 'tourist village' and a rich forest reserve. Years earlier when I was a small child, we had spent a night at a motel here, so I was told by my parents. Years later, when I looked around, I shuddered at the very thought of doing an encore. The town is excessively shabby, filthy really ...maybe the interiors could be better. But who knows? It was a tragic sight really, the place has such vintage value but what we saw around was only nuisance value.

It was getting dark now but thankfully the visibility was still fine. The Khankar-Mohana-Ghatigaon went on and on - it was 7.30 pm by the time we saw boards of Gwalior welcoming us. The approach road to the main city is so narrow that you would miss it if you don't ask for it.

Finally, we had arrived in the historic city. The city roads are awesome and although the drive to Hotel Landmark was confusing, thanks to the contrasting advice we got at different points, the whole effort was well worth it.

By the time, we reached our suite, it was 8.30 pm. Thankfully, the hotel service was excellent...just what one would expect after a long drive. The food was super, so was the beer, just that the waiter lacked the Mumbai finesse to open the bottle. I felt helpless, watching the rich Kingfisher froth spill all over the place - nothing short of a national waste. Vijay Mallaya would have been equally upset had he seen the mess.

Gwalior seems to have changed a lot over the years, for the better I would like to believe. The streets were full of life and the dazzle of commerce was exceptional - what with malls, multiplexes and shopping complexes all over the place. The area what they call City Centre is particularly eye-catching.

But I had come down with a purpose - to locate a place called Jiwaji Ganj and Ratan Colony in the old city where I had spent a few of my formative years. I looked forward to the next morning.

To be continued...

A tryst with Madhya Pradesh

2011-12-30T19:35:00.000-08:00

It was a trip planned long back but the execution had suffered the wrath of my work schedules, a tad more than it normally would have. The sole purpose of the expedition was to relive the fond memories of my growing years spent in Gwalior. So as soon as the trip was finalized, the mood turned nostalgic. As usual, we preferred to hit the road all the way through, although we were advised either to take the aerial route or tread on the one on tracks.

Friday 23rd, 2011

We (Me, wife and kiddo) left Thane at sharp 4.00 am in our humble Esteem. The drive till Igatpuri was the usual messy affair, thanks to the fog and the drunken truckers on the route. Thankfully, the roads are now smooth and wide and it was 6.30 am by the time we had tea at a roadside stall at the feet of the scenic Kasara ghat. And a pleasant surprise awaited us on the NH 3 ahead. We have been umpteen times on the Nasik-Dhule-Jalgaon-Nagpur belt but the road is now a transformation. For a couple of newly introduced tolls (80 bucks each), you are assured of a fantastic dream drive. Precisely why the monotony of Nasik-Pimpalgaon-Chandwad-Dhule doesn't bother you much now. We stopped en route on a empty stretch near Chandwad to catch some grub that we had carried with us. The road stalls here are filthy even by Mumbai standards, hence the precaution.

Dhule arrived by 10.30 am and here we went straight on the NH3 in the direction of Indore for the very first time. Earlier, we invariably turned right towards Dhule-Jalgaon-Nagpur and hence this route was a new experience. But the stretch proved even better than the earlier one as we raced ahead... leaving behind places like Songir, Dahiwad, Shirpur, Sangvi and Sendhva in quick time. After Sendhva, it takes relatively longer times to reach the approaching milestones. By the time we crossed Julwania-Thikri-Kalghat-Gujri-Mhow (The L &T Pithampur plant is merely 8 km from Mhow via Rau) and entered Indore, the time was 3.00 pm. And ironically, it was the drive to Hotel President in the heart of the city that consumed a full hour, thanks to the bumpy drive and grumpy inhabitants who didn't seem keen to help out. Indore has changed in many ways but the local arrogance and contempt for the outsiders is at its peak (especially when they notice a MH number plate). And the rules of traffic are special, it takes a while before you come to terms with them. It's quite simple in hindsight - whoever dares to block the way first,at the cost of risking a collision, gets to race ahead. The less adventurous have to make way.And for the pedestrians, the rules are even simpler. Just cross the road as if it was deserted, God will help you with the rest.

The shopkeepers essentially do a favour by selling their wares. The customer is a beggar in the guise of a buyer. Yes, there would be exceptions but my experience was ghastly for sure. I have suffered the wrath of South Indians in Chennai and Bangalore, I have seen the worst of Delhi and Noida hospitality (or the lack of it), I have also witnessed the hostility of the North East but nothing compared to what Indore (and Gwalior later) had to offer. There's a strange contempt on most of the faces here - you can't define it but you don't wish to describe it either. The best of malls are packed with the best of brands but are they waiting for the best of customers? I have my doubts.

The hotel staff was decent but the service level was pathetic. You had all the amenities you could think of but ask for an electric kettle and they will raise eyebrows. Room service is prompt but clearing used plates is not part of housekeeping. And yes, ordering Chinese food here could be suicidal here, please go for the normal North Indian stuff.

Saturday 24th, 2011

We left Indore promptly at 6.00 am and cruised on the NH3 via Dewas. It was from here that the dream road journey turned into a nightmare. The Dewas-Sia-Maksi route was scary - with giant pothoels threatening to attack you from the middle of nowhere - but it was still no indication of the big trouble that awaited us on the Shajapur-Sarangpur-Karanwas-Biora stretch.

We reluctantly had tea at a shabby tea stall adjoining the dusty railway crossing of Maksi. When filth greets you with open arms, the search for cleaner places and our cherished emphasis on hygiene, both lose their significance. The tea was bad, the cup half washed, few enthusiastic pigs were at our feet...yet we sipped to glory. By the time we crossed Shajapur, the roads vanished...What remained were potholed pathways calling for some inventive driving to find your way. If I was beginning to enjoy it, the cars and trucks from the opposite direction posed an even bigger threat.

To be continued...

Lakhu Risbud

2011-05-19T03:48:00.000-07:00

Here’s a selective translation of P L Deshpande's LAKHU RISBUD. I have tried to retain the original flavour while taking liberties with some text. Lakhu is an immensly likeable imposter, the pathos of his story is as endearing as the humour. Needless to say, P L Deshpande can’t be reproduced.

Lakhu Risbud

From ‘Vyakti aani Valli’ (Individuals and Characters)
By P L Deshpande

Lakhu’s an intellectual, a deputy editor at that. Actually, he’s still not sure what the word ‘intellectual’ means but does that stop him from merrily rattling lines like ‘We the Intellectuals’ or ‘Our intellectual tribe’. After all, why should meanings come in the way of usage?

Lakhu’s intellectual gems regularly glitter in not one but three periodicals - the daily ‘Aaghadi’, monthly magazine ‘Jadbharat’ and the weekly ‘Lokranjan’ - by virtue of his payroll association with the ‘Kranti Karya’ group that runs all three for a noble cause: emancipation of Marathi literature. Lakhu’s employers duly file receipts for dearness allowance, just that they don’t pay him the allowance. Lakhu sincerely believes this sacrifice fuels his journalism of courage and conviction.

Lakhu cleared his MA in Marathi two years back. Actually, he wished to major in Economics. But thanks to his enduring struggle with the English language, a secret shared only with the tutor who checked his English essays at school, he was found grappling with the spelling of ‘Economics’ - whether it ended with a ‘s’ or ‘c’? He ended the quandary itself by ticking on Marathi in the enrolment form.

Surely, it was this seemingly academic choice that paved the way for Lakhu’s tryst with intellectualism. As if to signify the start of a momentous voyage, this was also the time his eyes were adorned with a pair of spectacles - the most coveted mark of the thinking species. Deep within, he was delighted with the specs but outwardly he cursed them for limiting his potent sports potential.

Lakhu has never played a single sport in his life. The closest he came to the playground was during an inter-collegiate tournament when he recorded the proceedings for two overs while the scorer went to the toilet for a leak. But since many of his college mates were avid sportsmen - Parab, Kadam, Darasha, Disilva and Tawde among others - Lakhu chose to become the sole expert among the spectators making succinct observations: open-ended remarks like ‘Kadam’s back-hand lacks power’, ‘Darasha has a clear left-hand advantage’ or ‘Miss Mohini must improve her service’

These sly but carefully packaged quips soon won him a loyal audience and his wobbly wisdom gradually crossed other frontiers - Literature, Politics, Arts, Music, Philosophy, Humanities...

His favourite pastime was to point out flaws in college plays: how some actor failed to ‘touch the soul’ or how the director misread the script. And these sermons, consecrated with a generous sprinkling of Shaw and Maugham, were invariably delivered over tea and cigarette puffs sponsored by some mesmerised (or victimised) listener impressed with Lakhu’s ‘critical faculty’.

Enthused with his success, Lakhu found immense value in another ploy. He now claimed to have read all those books he reckoned (not found) as ‘must reads’. Such was the effect on the audience that after a while Lakhu himself believed he had actually read the books.

The BA class introduced him to Kaikini, the bright guy with an Inter first class. Lakhu had just about begun his self-inflicted struggle with ‘Quintessence of Ibsenism’ in the library when Kaikini stepped in, to collect information on Ibsen for his article in the college magazine. They met and exchanged notes, and Lakhu munificently dissected Ibsen for the benefit of Kaikini, courtesy: first six pages of “Doll’s House”; first six lines of “Quintessence...” (Fresh in memory) and a critique by some Marathi author.

Lakhu was thoroughly enjoying his performance.

“Ibsen, I tell you, simply cuts across our social fabric like a sharp knife. I mean...just note the way his Nora slams the door behind her as she leaves....” (That was all he knew about ‘Doll’s House’ sifting through a Marathi translation which he ‘found’ nowhere near the unread original)

“...You know, the way Nora departs...I mean...it causes such psychological...I mean and all that... you know what I mean!”

Kaikini was simply floored by Lakhu’s authoritative insights on Ibsen and their friendship began with a vow to study Shaw and Ibsen in greater depth.

Lakhu was often seen at Kaikini’s place, a plush flat in Talmakki Wadi. Kaikini’s gorgeous sister Varada would greet him in her chaste English

“Please be seated Mr Rissboood”.

A baffled Lakhu would then feel thoroughly ashamed of his name. Varada’s mother spoke fine English as well. She wore colourful sarees and her diamond earrings danced so gracefully with her gestures. During such mystifying moments, of stealing awkward glance at the ravishing mother-daughter duo, he would resolve to improve his English like never before.

Soon, “Fowler’s Usage” and “King’s English” would be registered against his name in the library. He also took on Shakespeare’s Hamlet for the same purpose but was on the verge of giving up only after a few pages...

Fortunately for him, he got to know from Kaikini that Shaw had openly criticised Shakespeare on numerous occasions. Well, that was it! Now he took on Shakespeare in public with outrageous remarks like:

“Shakespeare is a hoax; he lacks Shaw’s social consciousness. If I wish, I can demolish his myth in just four articles (in Marathi of course)”

“I was utterly disappointed with each of Shakespeare’s 32 plays (or were they 34...or 36?) King Lear has some merit but I don’t agree with what Bradley has to say”

These borrowed revelations impressed Madhu Gupte the most. With his fully-clothed body weighing less than 100 pounds, Gupte had the right ‘figure’ for a communist, what if his intellectual abilities were seriously in doubt.

Lakhu taught literature to Gupte while the latter introduced him to Marx...and just at the right time. When Kaikini cleared his BA with a first-class-first, Lakhu took a drop as he now discovered that all his professors were ‘shallow’ and Kaikini was only a careerist joining the ranks of exploiters in this capitalistic society.

Lakhu was now an authority on just about everything - Sartre, O’Neil, Kafka, Richards, Nihilism, Defeatism, Existentialism, surrealism...he threw a bagful of contemptuous opinions on every occasion, with the mindless vigour of errant street urchins hurling stones at each passing train.

.....

It took thirty long years for Lakhu to realise the fact that his non-conformism hardly confirmed anything and more important, his cultural ascent had not been accompanied by any economic raise. And slowly but steadily, he yearned less for the day that would unfurl the utopian prospects of free thinking and more for the one which fetched him his meagre monthly salary.

Madhu Gupte won a seat at the Corporation. Kadam, the guy with the weak back-hand, was now a Deputy SP and also the proud husband of Neela Salvi, the girl Lakhu secretly craved for throughout college years. Darasha became a pilot, Kaikini was in London and to top it all, he sent Lakhu a cute, handcrafted invitation announcing his sister’s marriage to one Major Hattangadi... "Damn these careerist fools!"

Now Lakhu has donned a new role, that of a cynic. The moment he learns some friend has tied the knot, he mockingly quotes from Oscar Wilde. For this reason, he’s worshipped as a woman-hater in his circle. But little do his friends know that even forty-plus ladies of his chawl don’t escape the unabashed lust of his eyes.

He writes... and writes all the time, and his journalistic job helps him in his cause, providing the platform for making brazen remarks on the establishment and the revered.

Even today, he’s busy with a review of the movie Dadanche Jaanve (Dada’s sacred thread), to be skilfully accommodated between two advertisements. He’s angry, it’s past the 10th of the month and his pay packet is still not in his pocket.

He begins “Four fools come together...”

“Risbud”, his editor yells....

“There’s hardly any creation, the cinematography’s dull, uninspiring...” (As he writes this, he recalls the dazzling lights that focus on the heroine’s prominent peaks)

“Words are a filthy mess (again the mind shifts to her pelvic thrusts on the number “Paach, Sahaa, Saat, Aath, Nadi Tiri Padli Gaath” - Five, six, seven, eight...by the river was the date)

“Risbud, I say”, the editor blares again...

Lakhu looks up reluctantly “What?”

“Good news! You win a 30 rupee promotion. We are launching a giant crossword. Will you design it? Here...hold the pay for this month”

Lakhu was speechless.

“I mean you’re such a committed intellectual, you may find this work demeaning”

“Not at all. We’ll make first-class crosswords sir!” Lakhu replied in a flash.

“Great, this baby’s yours. I feel the first prize should be at least 15,000/- what say?”

“Sure sir! And I’ll make the crossword fit for the prize” (30 rupees promotion)

As soon as the editor turned his back, a beaming Lakhu picked up the review and tore it to pieces. He began afresh:

“A masterpiece etched on Maharashtra’s literary landscape, as significant and sacred as the Krishna-Koyna conflux, is director M Ganpatrao’s Dadanche Jaanve....”

That evening, Lakhu bought himself a pack of Capston for the first time in his life.

Soulful Post, Soul-searching Dispatch

2011-02-18T03:41:00.000-08:00

The Postmaster, one of the three stories from Satyajit Ray's delightful film "Teen Kanya", is based on Tagore's heart-wrenching story about a little orphaned girl called Ratan (Chandana Banerjee)

Nandalal (Anil Chaterjee) arrives in the sleepy village of Ulapur to replace the outgoing postmaster. Even as he takes charge, his mind is still in Calcutta..amidst his folks back home. Here, he finds his maid servant Ratan as his only companion - the sole visible perk of his insipid job.

As he orders her around on errands every day, an elusive bond develops between the two. While he takes it upon himself to teach her Bengali alphabets, she vows to mend her shabby appearance to win his approval. His empathy stems from sheer boredom and loneliness but her affinity is deep-rooted. To him, she's an engaging pastime to keep disturbing thoughts at bay but she's chasing myriad rainbows of hope and aspiration, enthused by the sparing attention that he's paid her. He's probably the only postmaster who's treated her like a human and his word is now her command by choice.

Thanks to Ratan's reassuring presence, Nandalal is just about beginning to feel at home in Ulapur. But one fateful day, he contracts Malaria. Ratan nurses him with the caring diligence of a mother to get him back on his feet. As the next milestone in her learning voyage, she's now ready to grasp compound letters. She's also travelled good distance in the relationship where she now misinterprets his company as her support system.

Nandalal clearly has other plans. He's recovered from the dreaded disease but the deadly delusions have left him well and truly shaken. Precisely why he resigns from his post as soon as his plea for transfer is rejected. Ratan wakes up from her innocent stupor with a thud when she sees the new postmaster taking guard. Busy handing over the baton to the new guy, Nandalal requests him to teach compound letters to Ratan. In doing so, he's also distanced himself from any compound expectations emanating from his bond with the child.

She undergoes mixed emotions of anger and dejection that Nandalal is clueless about, both knowingly and unknowingly. He realises the gravity of her feelings on his way back home. When he offers her money as a token of his 'appreciation', she looks elsewhere. In one single gesture, she has exposed his moral betrayal...More important, in one gesture, she has off-loaded all the emotional baggage of her hopeful times. With the detached poise of a karm-yogin, she now gets ready to tend to the new postmaster. As Nandalal proceeds on his way ahead, she's allowed him to bury his remorse in the debris of his departure.

Tagore's moving story is of such beauty that even a mechanical cinematic adaptation would have won accolades on its strength. But Ray is not the one to rest on easy laurels. He delivers Tagore's soulful post in a soul-searching dispatch.

Ray's deft touches make the screenplay as enduring as the original. Every object of every frame underlines the pathos - whether Nandalal's trunk full of household memories, his damp, dusty dwelling-cum-office, the stagnant waters of the adjacent pond, the naive, amused villagers or even the poor old madman (Nripati Chaterjee)... disowned by the world, nevertheless a faithful companion to Ratan.

In fact, the madman is one of the film's integral metaphors. In an earlier scene, when Nandalal is unnerved by his crazy gestures, it's little Ratan who rescues Nandalal from an horrifying panic attack. Her caution to the madman is as ironic as it's humourous. "Haven't you seen how strong my master is?" We recollect that she's parroting what the earlier postmaster had remarked when Nandalal was introduced to her.

In the last frame, the same insane guy is lying dishevelled in the middle of the path ...On one end is Nandalal on his way home, on the other is Ratan, with a bucketful of water for the new post master. At the centre is the so-called madman, mute witness of their parting ways.

Ray of Hope

2011-02-13T21:02:00.000-08:00

"Yes, I am in the phone book, and you can knock on my door. Everybody has access to me, anyone who wants to see me. In fact, the people who come to visit on Sunday mornings are often very ordinary folks. Not big stars or anything like that. Some are my old colleagues from advertising days. Others are those who simply feel friendly towards me as a result of the films of mine they have seen. In the end, I think it's rather stupid to raise a wall around oneself. This way of doing things — as we have done today — is much more interesting, rewarding, exciting."

- Satyajit Ray

(in conversation with the renowned film critic and author Bert Cardullo)

For most of our snobbish filmmakers and arrogant artistes, the audience is merely a small cog in a large wheel. Wish they learn to make creativity rewarding and exciting....wish they learn from a true master!

Household Yogi

2011-01-29T17:00:00.000-08:00

Dayanand Shetty hardly ever spoke, certainly the last and least about himself. In the handful of chance encounters that brought us together, I don't remember him ever drag his trials and tribulations onto you, leave alone brag about them. But each time he listened attentively to your bagful of tales, his stoic attention and effervescent smile stayed with you.

I am indeed lucky to have enjoyed some quality time with him despite those chance encounters. Now when I look back in time, I fondly remember all those occasions - morning train rides, fag-end bus journeys, occasional drinks - when he unfurled few pages from his life book... from the struggle of his formative days to the challenge of later years. This was not the usual rant that we often hear people indulge in, this was genuine lament at how the world functions the way it does and why the people around you behave the way they do...

Daya had rich insights into life and simply because he never displayed them like pearls of wisdom, he was always denied the stardom of sainthood. But then he never demanded it in the first place. His bliss was truly unconditional, and more important, eternal.

It's a pity that the world denies you the right to set the degree of contentment; not even in your own life. Daya was content with what he had, or rather didn't have, but the world was keen to call him a loser. Not that Daya never aspired for a better life, but he was never desperate about it. Precisely why his divine nonchalance was declared his worst defeat. This social stigma also made him pretty vulnerable to the diktats of the folks around him, at the cost of spreading misconceptions about his personal conduct.

I myself held him in poor light when I knew of his abject surrender to a certain Godman claiming to be God. I learnt much later that even this aberration was thrust on him. Not that he should not be held accountable for this hopeless resignation, but one feels his general debility in material affairs would have inadvertently
made him hopeful of some magical transformation in his life.

As it happens, such selfless lives invite self-infliction that invariably brings on ilness and disorder. Daya had been unwell for long. Twice, he eluded life-threatening circumstances but this time round, fate eluded him. The last I saw him, he seemed relieved, if not happy, to be home...far from the arid environs of the hospital ward. But this relief only made way for the ultimate surrender..It seems most likely that he had planned this voyage himself, at least I would like to believe so now.

Dayanand is no more. He's left for heavenly abode, discarding the run-down robes of this life. But his simple, uncomplicated ways as also his unadorned detachment will continue to inspire me in despodency and ecstacy alike. He was the only one among my friends who was genuinely delighted with my offbeat pastime of visiting far-flung places without rhyme or reason. I could see the radiant bliss in his eyes when he learnt of my visit to the Annapoorneshwari Temple in Karnataka, to seek the blessings of the majestic 61-feet Hanuman purely based on an internet search. Neither is Karnataka my home town, nor is the temple goddess our "authorized" deity -but only Daya could feel the magic of this pull that goes beyond the notions of home towns, ancestral roots and family pride.

What could be more tragic than the fact that today I find not many souls with whom I can lament the real tragedy of this household Yogi, not his outward misery that has the world pity him as another hapless commoner. Some tragedies chase you even after your demise.

Late and Lost

2010-12-13T17:52:00.000-08:00

To me, he seemed queer. We were neither friends, nor foes. There was some negative energy about him, I thought, that kept me away. All the same, he was exceptionally warm at times. During such moments, I felt like knowing more about him. I did make feeble attempts. But he had this uncanny habit of playing foul just when you thought all was hunky dory. He was narrow-minded for sure, but at times, he even seemed vindictive. Precisely why, I never shared a drink with him ..despite his umpteen requests on desolate evenings.

We had quite a few heated arguments - work-related and otherwise. But our association, if not friendship, survived those high tides for some strange reasons. The place we worked for, many years ago,was downright messy - run by a self-procliamed messiah who was hired for his perceived wisdom. He loved his stardom instead. Not having the slightest idea of the dynamics of a software services organization, he simply tried to replicate the time-tested formulae of his past stints in manufacturing organisations. But more than this mismatch, it was his sheer arrogance that spelt doom for us...the kind of arrogance that comes with windfall authority.

All this while, my neither-friend-cum-nor-foe was the only one to predict the fate of the new regime. I dismissed his claims and focused my energies to serving the diktats of the new boss and his loyal brigade (handpicked from past organizations) I thought I was doing a great job in marketing communications - I even won accolades for few assignments. He still advised me I was in wrong hands. I presumed he was envious of my growing bond with the new guys.

Then came the thud - one fine day, the new boss declared that the "slowdown" has forced the company to rightsize its resources. This was, in fact, a ploy to justify the white elephants he had acquired across verticals at high prices. In a desperate attempt to convince his superiors and stakeholders in the US as also to save his own chair, he shun few departments - marketing communications was one of them - which meant it was time to bid adieu to this organization. Having survived the wrath of my wayward career moves, such incidents normally do not bother me...I am quite used to self-designed situations of making new beginnings but this was the first time it was forced on me. And worse, I was also battling with my mom's terminal cancer. I was badly shaken.

He had warned me throughout and more important, he seemed genuinely sad when he learnt that I was one of the many axed. He tried to help me out with options - when the guys I called my own - some from the CEO's loyalist gang - turned away - citing lame excuses. "Shall we go out for a drink" - he offered again, probably to cheer me up, but I refused again.

Thanks to my hidden stars, I soon landed a plush job that restored my faith in life but I lost touch with him. A common acquaintance told me later that he had joined another organization and shifted base to the UK. That was his ultimate dream - settling abroad - and I was very happy for him, more in the light of the fag-end concern he showed for me. But fate had other plans for him...As if it was simply waiting for him to touch his dream.

One fateful day, I learnt he was back home in India, detected with spine cancer and had little time left. Before I could come to terms with the tragedy of his life, he was no more...

Life's moved on as it does anyway, priorities have changed, what then seemed paramount now appears trivial now....but whenever I think of him, I simply can't fathom the highs and lows of our short-lived association. But today I do feel I should have had a drink with him. In fact, several of them....

Siddharth, forgive me if you can!

From the archives - Hindi

2010-12-12T04:00:00.000-08:00

Lime, Soda n Verse

2010-12-03T22:32:00.000-08:00

Dutt and Sanghvi took the phone call
And while they spoke, had quite a ball
Till the tap and the tapes
caused their low and mighty downfall

Abhishek played the game jee jaan se
but cinema halls turned sun saan se
The film flopped with a Period
Producers were seen luh luhaan se

Barkha Raani jaraa jam ke barso
Aapka defense weak pada hai
Zhum kar barso...

From the archives - Marathi

2010-11-12T04:15:00.000-08:00

NCERT's queer remake

2010-09-28T04:41:00.000-07:00

Adapting a literary work in the same medium but for a different demographic group is not a bad idea. But if you destroy the essence of the original in the process, the offense is unpardonable...worse than the Bollywood malpractice of "lifting" inspirations. It's only tragic that a great pioneering body like NCERT should be guilty on this count.

My son's Class V Textbook in English titled Marigold V includes a chapter called My Elder Brother, supposedly translated and adapted from Munshi Premchand's "Bade Bhai Saheb".

The English version tells its own story through a ridiculous direct speech narrative between the protagonist Munna and his elder brother Bhaiya. The dialogues are largely twisted and bereft of the original context. So is the moral which reads "The story shows that experience is as important as hard work"

Now, Premchand's story, as many of us are aware (http://coastaldelights.blogspot.com/2006/07/short-story-by-munshi-premchand.html could help if you aren't), is a moving tale of an hapless elder brother unnevred by the rapid yet casual academic strides of the happy-go-lucky younger sibling. Each time he builds a wall of defense in a desperate attempt to prove his might, he finds it unknowingly crushed by the little one.

Typical of Premchand, we find umpteen shades of human emotions lurking in this seemingly simple story. If one can't fathom any of those, it's perfectly fine. But why attempt a clumsy adaptation to create an "elder brother" unknown to Premchand?

NCERT is otherwise doing wonderful things in the world of education but it owes an apology to the unsuspecting innocent kids of Standard V who will suffer this literary mess as part of their syllabus.

Monsoon Musings

2010-08-30T00:15:00.000-07:00

Three nostalgic drops in the funny downpour...
*****

Those were the early days of my glorious employment stint. Every day, the Virar-Surat shuttled three hours to drop me at Vapi. This was followed by a bland auto rickshaw ride that took me to phase III of a gigantic industrial area. I had been assigned the weary job of ledger scrutiny in a dusty store room infested with people who were as wooden as the squeaking chairs around.

Turning page after page of the bulky ledger books, I killed 8 hours of time daily, succumbing to the torture of endless rants and tall claims of my native co-workers, with friendly grins and subscribing nods.

The only bright spot came in the evening - at 4 pm sharp. This was tea time. No, don't get me wrong, the tea was far from special. In fact, it was pathetic in taste and appearance, the cups as half-washed as the poor lad who passed them around.

But the very moment of the tea's arrival was so reassuring - "Just an hour to go" it signalled with every thud. It did leave a bad taste in my mouth but it kept the hope alive throughout the exile!

Sometimes, the bad turns best when pitted against the worst - like the stale odour of cigaratte fumes in a filthy public urinal.
***************************************************************************

"Take this bag. I have no use for it." offered my friend. "You need a bag, I guess!"

Wrapped in fungus, the smelly leather bag was crumpled from all sides. I was not exactly keen on the gift but the warmth was beyond words. Look at the emotion, not the gift, I told myself.

"Wait a minute, we'll have it polished" he urged as we came out of his office cabin. As the roadside shoeshine boy brushed vigourously, the Cherry gradually Blossommed on the leather. The bag was now a shining beauty in a dramatic transformation.

Just as I was about to tuck it in my arms, assuming the validity of the gift offer made seconds ago, I heard him stammer

"Err, wait a minute, I'll do one thing, I'll gift you another one - that one is much better than this one" he vouched in reverse gear.

It didn't need rocket science to unravel the mystery behind the mood swing. In any case, it was a gift I neither needed nor aspired for ...but the humour of the situation has me in splits to this day, despite the many years that have passed by.
***********************************************************************

The train was packed to capacity, as Virar trains almost always are. I managed to secure the space next to the window - the best bet for a standing commute. The train began its journey, slow and steady, away from Chuchgate.

At Charni road, an elderly gentleman, after much struggle, managed the place next to me. Though this spot appears sweet, it becomes a pain in the neck literally, thanks to the incessant requests by embarking passengers to tuck their luggage on the adjacent overhead racks.

Luckily, he was saved of all trouble as a young guy at the window offered his palatial throne in exemplary charity. While the old man was visibly relieved, the young man had no idea of the trouble he had invited.

"These days, people like you have become antique pieces" the old man laughed aloud what he reckoned was an exceptionally witty remark. The sacrificial lamb smiled, perhaps hinting at a full stop to further conversation, like most Mumbaikars. But grandpa was just not in the mood to give up.

"I tell you...in our days..he began....The young guy's exhaustion grew with each nod he put forth in proof of his attention to each of the out-of-context tales.

First came a short if not sweet acccount of how the once-young old guy saved money and effort for his first employer - by repairing his timeless Favre-Leuba wrist watch and winning a movie ticket to Eros for himself and wife! The brevity of the first tale was inspiring but soon proved misleading.

The next story in line was an elaborate narration of how his dear son smartly spotted a loose connection that sprung their dead television back to life. Earlier, the TV had been diagnosed with tube failure by a mechanic who recommended a costly replacement for which the old man was to withdraw money from the bank.

This tale was replete with irritating direct speech references like "Oh, the TV seemed fine as I came home that day. How come, I asked myself - did my wife withdraw the money from the bank? or did the mechanic work without advance? what could have happened"....but the most nasueating of them all was "Bravo I am proud of you, my son, Keep it up, I told my son!"

This was immediately followed by the saga of a leaking LPG cyclinder...

I could not keep track thereafter. I was fed up, faking sleep all this while lest his preying eyes fell on me...and our poor friend - the direct victim of the onslaught - looked vaccumed and crestfallen after all that sacrifice.

By this time, we had the entire row to ourselves - just the three of us - as the fag end stations passed by, but we both lacked the courage to share any more time and space with the blaberring All India Radio.

While I fled towards the footboard, he was nowhere to be seen. I have a hunch he got down a station earlier than his destination, simply to escape the agony. Our old friend, all alone in the compartment, wore a broad smile, probably thrilled with the day's broadcast.
******************************************************************************

Towards enlightened curiosity

2010-07-05T06:23:00.000-07:00

Overview

Athaa to Dynaanjidnyasaa- Part 1
(Marathi)
Dr Y A RAIKAR

The quality of perception in this book coupled with the author’s non-conformist leanings makes it a refreshingly different work of analysis and interpretation. As Part One of a two-part series, the 160-odd pages throw light on India’s unique physical and cultural attributes and aspects. The forthcoming Part Two will revisit select personalities, concepts, problems and events.

Any research that crosses the boundaries of specific domains and fields is invariably held as a neat compilation at best. The penance of the endeavour is hardly acknowledged, forget its acclaim. For the benefit of all readers, the author has modestly elucidated the method behind the endevaour, which in infact spells its edge.

One, the book attempts to probe any issue in its three-dimensional context - Universal (as a challenge before humanity), Historical (with reference to specific timelines) and Global (tracing its diverse manifestations across the globe)

Two, at the core is a holistic approach that implies the study of Knowledge to be the study of the history of Knowledge - a painstaking research of the commonalities and overlaps of varied disciplines and the ensuing influences - both subtle and obvious.

Three, to ensure that the enormity of the whole endeavor does not prove overwhelming to the busy reader of our times, each chapter is a slice of life, allowing the luxury of reading led by interest, rather than by instruction.

Apart from unearthing forbidden paradoxes, myths and realities, the book offers a perceptive window to India’s unique lineage and linguistic diversity, the sub-continental transformations - natural and geographical - over time, the enigmatic ( if not dark) sides of great men, and a detached probe into the relevance and distinction of our forest treatises, epics, sacred texts and sanctified teachings -sans pride or prejudice. More importantly, the author is equally conscious of the subjectivity of his own interpretations and welcomes reader feeback to revisit what inadveratently could prove inadequate, incomplete or incorrect in hindsight.

Given the sincerity of the author’s intent and the brilliant poise of his writing, he is sure to inspire many readers to tread the path of heightened awareness ahead of enlightened awareness… one in acknowledging the constraints and continuity of personal knowledge and experience, and two in shunning “cushions of convenience” that shield the plurality of truths and contrasts - inherent as well as manufactured.

The author’s prologue, however, takes the form of angst when it comes to his conclusions on the new waves of change hitting cultural and intellectual shores. He believes the new age is pregnant with threatening consequences lest we fail to adapt to an era which mistakes information for knowledge.

We can never deny that cut-throat competition has fuelled shallow thinking, convenient morals, blatant plagiarism and ruthless minds; but it has also challenged man to revisit many self-defeating beliefs that have unknowingly stunted the growth of the most intellectual of minds for long. And this truth is also plural.

Today, employment in itself is no longer a substitute for progression, embracing global sensitivities is not a matter of choice anymore and the collaborative strides of the internet have made a big dent into the rigid structures of pompous thought leadership, inching the world slowly but surely towards a culture of open source development.

And when life was supposedly hunky dory, were thinking minds any better? Self-proclaimed experts thrived even then, albeit the number would have been less in comparision. Hypocrisy and double standards are truly secular and timeless - beyond age, time, region, religion, caste, creed and sex. Like the yester-year abundance of time and space alone was no stimulant for detached probe and introspection, the new order is no utopia either. And like a poker-faced introspection is no epitome of deep conviction, happiness and contentment do not reside in stupid smiles, hollow laughs or wishful thinking. And thankfully, they need no advertisment. But does that mean detachment should come devoid of emotion? We think not. The heretic need not build thorny islands of seclusion or pose as enfant terribles.

As a celebrity tweeter post recently quoted a shayar

duniya me hu duniya ka talabgaar nahi hu,bazaar se guzra hu,khareedar nahi hu....

More often than not, it's the guy who declares his detachment and seclusion from the rooftops who happens to be the most attached.

If sensitivity, ahead of sincerity, to one’s life purpose is not overlooked on the pretext of rapid change all around, the new paradigms should not seem like intimidating encroachments, rather they would turn into chosen objects of analysis - and with some good old dark humour and a self-deprecating stance as the weapons of probe, why should any one - scholar, thinker, follower or reader feel redundant...whichever the generation.

One immediate way to raise a toast is to embark on a delightful reading voyage of this book, back and forth in time, amidst all the mayhem around. The delight won’t be compromised one bit.

Athaa to Dynaanjidnyasaa - Part 1
(Marathi)
Dr Y A RAIKAR
Majestic Publishing House, Thane, Mumbai
First Edition, June 2010
Price: Rs.200/-

The Celebral void on Marathi celluloid

2010-06-16T22:10:00.000-07:00

There have been many a debate - staged and otherwise - on what "ails" the Marathi entertainment industry of today. In fact, such arguments are in themselves a mega industry, and a rewarding pastime for the few enterprising among Marathi minds.

In recent times, we have seen offbeat Marathi films surfacing with unfailing regularity but variety, as we have often seen, does not necessarily promise quality. Worse, intoxicated by their disproportionate success, some of the directors and lead players of such films have become demi gods. And ironically, the flood of "offers" now leaves them with little time to explore sensitive themes.

No wonder, despite a strikingly rich and insightful literature, Marathi cinema is still stuck with family sob stories and mindless comedies. This is indeed a collective failure - of film makers, writers, actors, viewers and of course the oh-so-powerful critics. While most of the Marathi film makers operate in a "compromise" mode to desperately design a hit film, our viewers are happy with only such relief that allows them the luxury of switched-off minds. On the other hand, our actors have a single-minded aspiration of making it big in Bollywood - after all, a half-scene with Shahrukh Khan makes one a global icon zillion times faster than a Marathi film that could at best fetch an award at a film fest.

The less said about the critics, the better. While the mechanical star system of the regional press - print and electronic included - is largely shallow and disgustingly objective, the "English" scribes covering Marathi entertainment are an elite community - overtly thrilled with their brazen authority and thoroughly convinced of their intellectual superiority. Now that leaves no room whatsoever for something called responsibility. No wonder, they have no qualms in resorting to plagiarism and borrowed wisdom, however subtle and camaflouged it turns out to be. Worse, in the sole excitement to showcase their intelligence, they miss the film's soul. There's hardly any respect for the maker's perspective in the blatant exhibition of their own perception.

And the theory of relativity in their heads is simplistic, not simple - the more sarcastic and bitter the condemnation gets, the more learned the critic becomes (read appears). Interestingly, when the same critics turn filmmakers, they merrily chew the same gums that they once loathed with such disdain. Yet, such is the mighty aura that aspiring film makers try to win their approvals, ahead of engaging viewers.

There's no acknowledgment whatsoever, from filmmakers and critics alike, of the pressing need to raise the bar in as many aspects as possible - whether choice of scripts, methods of acting or directorial styles. Like every other field, this industry badly needs the participation of thinking individuals across disciplines. If not co-creation, collaboration is easily feasible if the industry wakes up to it. For a vulnerable industry where the availability of funds define the framework of creativity, nothing can be more heartening. Only if the industry opens up to the spirit of open source...

Nevertheless, amidst the widespread chaos that prevails, films like Vihir and Jogvaa leave us stunned - rooted in authentic regional settings but wedded to some hardcore universal truths all the same. Yes, films like Natrang, Valu, Harishchandrachi Factory and even the gawdy Lalbag Paral were refreshing all right but the introspective quality of Vihir is a rare cinematic experience - only matched before by the reclusive duo of Sumitra Bhave - Sunil Sukhtankar who have told us some of the most engaging stories on the silver screen.

More on the film Vihir is available at http://www.indiainfoline.com/LifeStyle/Movie-Review/Vihir-Marathi-movie-review-Deep-within/1656501

Among other things, the film questions the very meaning of "relationships" - the social defintions of "kith and kin" or blood relations. The protagonist, an adoloscent, is perplexed beyond what his age permits, but the director has kept the quandary child-like and that's this film's biggest achievement. And the script is god-sent for Marathi cinema. Hope aspiring film makers are already inspired to sketch more timeless creations on the celluloid landscape.

Talk of timeless creations and one thinks of directors like Raja Paranjpe, actors like Chandrakant Gokhale, writers like G D Madgulkar and music maestros like Sudhir Phadke. Not that their films were free of pet patterns and cliches, but their unquestionable sincerity, way ahead of brilliance, in furthering the cause of good cinema is still a coveted benchmark... only if we care to look back.

The I-specialist from US

2010-05-30T05:21:00.000-07:00

Old habits don't just die hard, they often take new forms. That's what a cricket match on a desolate beach showed us last night.

We always knew him as the aggressive kid with a penchant for self-praise. But we never knew his academic stint at a US university would make matters worse. The moment he stepped on the cricket field, he lost his sanity. As the self-appointed captain of an hopelessly unlucky team, he marshalled his "troops" on the field, as if this was Dhoni leading a bunch of under-19 aspirants.

That he is a poor bowler and average batsman is no reason to condemn him, but even his sporting mediocrity paled into insignificance before his savage behaviour. It was fun playing the gullible jack before the "great" one...the more you showed your vulnerability, the more boastful he became. His gestures could have put Rohit Sharma to shame - the way he was advising his players on the field at the slightest provocation. While it was fun watching his antics, the most irritating remark was how he had lost his "old touch" of his playing days (as if a Tendulkar-in-the-making did not bless a fulfilling cricketing career by choice)

This insane self-love did not spare even a child aged nine who was seen as any other competitor. How foolish can one get - and he calls this brazenness "killer instinct"

You can't converse with him anymore - he's keen only to pass judgements, give verdicts, analyze, probe, advice, teach, guide, coach, bless, patronise, predict, foretell - anything but plain, simple conversation.

There's not a single reason why our hero should hold himself in such high esteem, but he actually dares to consider him God's gift to mankind...and now the most eligible bachelor on earth. And to applaud his self-assertion are a bunch of few comic yes-men - always at his feet...suffering the wrath of his dictatorship for reasons known to them.

Our friend otherwise has many positive traits - he's enthusiastic, sensitive, sharp and witty...but it would be great if he stops playing the I-specialist - throwing nauseauting sermons on just about anything in life - sport, religion, education, films, culture, crime, music, literature, employment, business, politics, philosophy, logic, sociology, psychology, human values, animal instinct ...the list is endless.

Instead, he can learn how to play a caring host, how not to expose unsuspecting guests to the choicest hazards of ill-kept native homes, in the scorching summer of May. And some of his impotent disciples can try and find their own voice, rather than parroting his diktats, as if their very survival depended on it.

Uneasy Homecoming

2010-05-23T22:24:00.000-07:00

I was born in Arunachal Pradesh in a rundown clinic masquerading as a hospital - in far-flung Roing. For want of a better alternative, I was dropped in a Tea Tray, seconds after I was born. Obviously, this trivia of my trivial existence does not emanate from memory - what does though is the living album of my schooling years in Shillong - a scenic hill station in Meghalaya, popularly known as the Scotland of the East.

Nostalgia took me back "home" on work, after 30 long years, to the place of my simple yet colourful childhood..this time with my wife and kid. While the Mumbai-Guwahati flight was pretty bland, the helicopter journey from Guwahati to the spacious ALG base near Shillong's Elephanta falls was a joy ride. Hotel Majestic near Polo Market proved just the right den to celebrate my homecoming.

Shillong has changed, for better or worse, I am not sure. Though I am not among those who invaribly shun the present to glorify the past, but I could not dismiss the tinge of disappointment at the pace of commercialization here. Though not yet a concrete jungle, the Mumbai-brand appartments seem to disturb the beauty of the prim and prime cottages atop hillocks. And the vehicular traffic is a nightmare, what with no pavements for pedestrians to breathe easy.

The only saving grace comes in the form of Maruti 800 - the little machine is the perferred taxi car here, just what the doctor ordered for the narrow lanes and bylanes of the place.

It was not difficult to find Upland Road on Laitmukhrah, once the place of my residence. Faint memories guided me to Asgard Cottage - and ironcially, it was my wife who spotted it before me - someone who had never been there before. I was thrilled to meet the landlady - now in her late seventies. She manages the show with the same gusto as she did years ago. Her children, once my dear mates, are thankfully all well placed, leading the typical urban lives in Mumbai and Delhi.

The reunion was pleasant all right but the nostalgia was lopsided, far from mutual. The lady had all the time to recount the well being of her folks but very little space for tracing the waves on our shores. Precisely why, I never felt the need to reconnect with her children after coming back to Mumbai. Something inside tells me that the bond is lost.

I searched in vain for my school near the bustling Police Bazzar but only learnt towards the fag end of our sojourn that it was shifted elsewhere some years ago. This was painful as I wanted my kid to walk on the uneven grasslands of the bunglow-converted school that housed the best years of my school life.

The visit to Mohni Stores, the shopping joint of my mom's choice once, proved a big let down. The generation that runs it now has no place for the bygone, eager only to sell their merchandise - more the merrier. The stony faces over the counter dissuade you from even making an attempt to recollect the past.

The trip down memory lane was personally satisfying but the numbness of people interaction was disturbing. I don't care a damn for the folks - kith and kin included - who condemn such explorations as "waste of time" but I am deeply pained by the growing disregard that we now seem to have for other people's lives. Shilong was no exception.

Ideas for Ideation

2010-03-30T00:59:00.000-07:00

Not many corporate consultants today can claim to inspire positive action. At best, they are ambassadors of borrowed wisdom, perpetually adjusitng their tie-knots and poise to look intelligent enough before clients and prospects.

Vinay Kanchan is a sweet exception. His views are precise, packed with references of relevance and, most importantly, solution-centric.... like his thoughts on organizational creativity in the article:

http://www.afaqs.com/perl/news/story.html?sid=26434

He lists down the waves that seem destined to cause positive ripples in corporate ideation. If organizations get these themes right, they can take ideation to the next level:

by probing the voices of apparent dissent,

by channelizing informal conversation groups,

by encouraging individual expression and,

by discovering leadership control in its very release.

To quote him:

"Some companies have begun encouraging the use of a slice of official time towards personal projects. However, an interesting, basic step might be a culture shift in offices, towards the attitude that 'If one is really not busy, there is no need to pretend to be so'. Just not having to witness the furious typing on keyboards and the perpetually furrowed brows, whilst trundling along the corridors, might be reward enough."

You couldn't have said it better Vinay!

Scores of corporate corridors and cubicles are packed with professionals who enact their "busy status" round the clock... Sadly, a vast majority of these corporate actors begin to enjoy the fake act when they record the positive effect on their career progression.

The pretence may take many forms: whether desktop-driven (fill excel sheets, trigger google search, change outlook settings, run anti-virus programmes, clean mailbox, send courtesy mails) or in transit (make anxious trips to the loo, prolong cell phone conversations, be seen with heaps of printouts, appear disheveled in elevator journeys)

The facade may be self-defeating but in a system that rewards projections in lieu of performance, it makes perfect sense.

Those two grands

2010-03-03T18:37:00.000-08:00

I was unsure of the commute that day. Should I, shouldn't I? The quandary was painful. Jiggling the coins in my pocket, I somehow reached the bus stop - the bus ride would cost me 6 rupees to reach Nariman Point - and then the walk to my office would of course be free! It's worth it, I thought.

Having quit my Kenyan job midway, I was broke. The EMI of 7,000 Indian rupees that was peanuts before now seemed gigantic - each passing month threatened to confiscate the match box flat that housed me, my wife and kid. My parents had little clue as to what had transpired - for them, I was back on deputation in India for a short while. But the moment I asked for financial help, they half-knew something was seriously wrong. My dad deprived himself of his prized 50,000 FD - with the supremely innocent confidence that it would bring me back on track. But the money disappeared in no time on pending EMI and insurance. How was I to explain I needed more...

The newspaper that employed me as a correspondent paid me 5000 INR. At the age of 32 with a growing kid to take care of, that small amount was a big joke. Worse, the daily commute to the office was itself in question. And despite my so-called versatile career escapades, employment seemed a distant dream in the economic slowdown of that time.

I stepped out of the bus. Gathering my professional poise, kept fresh for prospective employers, I walked towards the office. At the entrance, I bumped into John, my office colleague. He offered tea. As we sipped a cupful at a Mallaylee joint in Fort, he voiced his concern

"I know you are having a hard time. I suggest you forget our tabloid. Look for another job"

He placed 2,000 in my hand. As I looked up, he said

"Keep it mate, you need it"

The two thousand rupees could hardly solve my financial mess, but their real worth was much more than two grands...coz they did a wonderful thing - they reclaimed my faith in the world with that extra push one needs to strech beyond limits. At a point when all the guys you call your friends have disowned you, when your own folks turn more helpless than you are, when self-doubt grips you, when you turn paranoid assuming it's all over...

Looking back, it's been quite a journey. Eventually, I landed a job with a software firm. As I rose higher, I reclaimed more than I lost, turning an enterpreneur by choice, however modest the scale. Life had a place for merriment.

Several years later, when we met again, I repaid John's money, without interest of course - coz I bear the real interest on a daily basis that can never reduce in balance. Locked in the memories of that bus ride, tea and those two grands. Two grands or not, we all need a John around us..to tell us the things we know but can't fathom...

Let's play John to as many as we can!

Mokashi's fun factory

2010-02-22T03:58:00.000-08:00

Paresh Mokashi's rapid-fire comic sketch of the life and times of Dadasaheb Phalke, better known as the father of Indian cinema, is undoubtedly entertaining. That he could have raised the bar to make it even more enduring is another story.

But all that pales into insignificance when you consider the fact that all these years, the film fraternity never thought of paying a tribute to the guy whose pioneering strides is the very reason for its existence.

Parag Mokashi has done that ...and deserves a thundering applause before the umpteen awards that would line up for his team in the near future.

To his credit, Mokashi weaves some top-class pathos for you. The concluding frame of the film stays with you - the protagonist contemplating a four-anna "Phalke toy" in a tram journey, named so as it "moves" like a Phalke cinema. The scene captures the essence and spirit of commerce that soars high on the wings of innovation.The concluding note summing Phalke's life-work and his timeless aura is poignant in its appeal.

The film handpicks the seemingly cinematic pieces from Phalke's life, elaborately dressed in humour throughout. The struggle on the home front comes out well...More so, the marketing gimmickry that Phalke resorts to entice his shaky viewers keeps one in splits throughout..

The art direction is first-rate. The Mumbai of Phalke's time comes alive on screen...Trams, cinema huts, roads, buildings tell a mute story of their own. How loyal is Nitin Desai to history is left to expert opinion.

Tough as it was to capture the multi-hued strife of Phalke's life, Mokashi resorts to simplistic motifs. In the process, he dilutes some of the story's shine. The attempt to make it hilarious seems desperate at times.

Whores, enunchs and homosexuals chasing a frantic Phalke, animated Parsis and Bohris engaged in invariably cliched rants, Phalke's English escapades, few antics of Phalke's home-grown cast and crew...the resort to slapstick seems a tad overdone.

Also, Mokashi could have easily included a playful refresher on the technicalities of the camera and how Phalke learnt the ropes - the static frame of Phalke perpetually glued to a film reel gets monotonous beyond a point, so does the background score that seeks to epitomize most of Phalke's vocational strides.

Nandu Madhav in the leading role of Phalke is outstanding - his emotive ability condones most of the glitches in the script. The support cast, save for a few plastic performers, is convincing (my favorites are the guys playing Vishwamitra, Phalke's childhood mate Telang and the harmonium player)

This factory is a delight, no doubt. A fitting tribute to a multi-faceted personality - draftsman, lithographer, magician, film maker and above all, a non-confirmist, die-hard enterpreneur..a guy who was mercilessly forgotten with the advent of the sound film and died unsung in 1944.

That Harishchandrachi factory aspired for an Oscar came as no surprise. With all its flaws combined, it's far superior to Slumdog Millionare! If the Oscars have eluded him, Mokashi can turn to another - the great Oscar Wilde and ask himself "Why was I born with such contemporaries?"

What a reunion!

2010-02-16T19:10:00.000-08:00

The other day, on one of my painfully sustained initiatives, we all met for a grand reunion - on one of the worst beaches of Mumbai's coastline. The sheer joy of sharing few nostalgic moments off the rigours of day-of-day life was simply beyond words. And the filth of the beach could not dampen our spirits that went high in the evening - for other reasons of course!

As I woke up with a heavy head the next morning, the remnants of the night before danced before my eyes.

Few of us had gone overboard - mixing drinks and what not! Thanks to my regular pranayams, the toxins could not trouble me. I also had a fair idea of what traspired but chose to submit that I went blank. Here, the fun began. I simply could not keep pace with the numerous versions of the same story titled "what happened last night?" Unfortunately, the quality of fabrication was poor.

And while the mischief mongers aborted memories of the ghastly night, the others chose to keep mum. It was fun nevertheless.Perhaps the price one pays for staging a reunion.

As with all my other groups, this one is quite disparate. We come from diverse backgrounds and grapple with different circumstances. That we are still in touch is partly effort and partly the intrinsic human will to bond, deep within each one of us and one that only grows with time.

The effort is largely mine, for whatever the world calls trivial and inconsequential attracts me no end. Else, I had no reason to shun some pending work aside and spend the night with guys with a known craving for mindless pranks - more the result of a dull, sedentary working life than anything else. If they can't understand, I certainly can.

The Brave, New World of Piyush Mishra

2010-02-08T19:30:00.000-08:00

The autocratic Hindi film industry, run by a chosen few, hates when loners, maverick at that, try to make statements. In a close-knit fraternity that swears by pampered legacy, proven formulas, muddled notions and big bucks, there's little room for non-confirmist views and waves!

No wonder, celebrities love idiots..the more idiots to idolize them, the more their vote banks and bank balance.

But some individuals care a damn.They dare to be different...and pay the price. If they survive the wrath of the lords and make their mark, it's poetic justice. Piyush Mishra is undoubtedly a sterling example. That he is actually a poet makes the justice even more poetic.

In the little celluloid space that's been alloted to him, he has done what others would not achieve in a life time (and yet win life time achievement awards by default-led design)

An NSD alumini, Mishra has subtly tailored his theatre sensibilites to the demands of the silver screen. While Maqbool and Gulaal are his career highlights, he has shown us he's capable of much more.

Gulaal was godsent for his versatality as a singer-composer-actor. Gulaal's songs form its soul. While the Rekha Bharadwaaj - Mishra duo create magic with the catchy, tongue-in-cheek "Raanaji Mhaare", there could not have been a better tribute to the great Saahir than Mishra's home-bred version of "Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hai".

Saahir's duniya was not a mere anguish of a stereotype celluloid lover. It was a bold condemnation of the hypocrisy that runs the world. Perplexed by the sheer force of Saahir's dejection, the world was quick to label it as "defeatist poetry".

But Mishra takes Saahir's verse to another level...he skteches the dilapidated structure, laments the ruins but goes beyond to call for salvage.

Palchin mein baate chali jaati hai hai
Palchin mein raate chali jaati hai hai

Reh jaata hai jo savera woh dhoonde
Jalte makaan mein basera woh dhoonde

Jaisi bachi hai waisi ki waisi bachaa lo yeh duniya...
Apna samajh ke apno ke jaisi uthaa lo yeh duniya...

No suicidal withdrawal, no sentimental worship..just a matter-of-fact appeal to take charge! With residual force!

The awesome lyrics should fetch him all the awards under the sun. What he has bagged so far is a Stardust Award - not considered a mainstream recognition. Yet, Stardust has done yeomen service by acknowledging the genius of Mishra.

Watching Mishra accepting the trophy was in itself a delight of cinematic proportions. Before the gathering of a largely superficial crowd, pompous celebrities and mindless anchors, Mishra rendered few lines of his "Duniya" with such devil-may-care zeal, like a true solitary reaper!

In recent times, lyricists and screen play writers have taken the lead in furthering the cause of meaningful cinema ...Swanand kirkire, Prasoon Joshi, Guru Thakur have all been superlative but Mishra is simply in his own league...

Fearless poet, soulful singer and above all, a great actor!

I am waiting for the day he makes his own films. Such abundance of talent is tailor-made for film direction.

May his tribe grow! Hopefully few well meaning producers would be willing to provide a green house.

PS: Mishraji, you should blog and tweet for the sake of your fans. Yes, you have arrived, but you need to reach out...for the larger cause, and to as many as possible.

The Neuralgia of Nostalgia

2010-01-30T18:56:00.000-08:00

It was a dusky evening. I was driving back home, weary and weak from yet another client presentation. The ringing cell phone broke my momentary trance and I parked to the side to steal a glance at the small screen of the tiny instrument. Picking up an unknown number did not seem a good idea at the fag end of the day. Neverthless, I pressed the green button.

The voice at the other end was distinctly familiar. Yes, this was my pal from the formative years of my employment. I was overjoyed with the telephonic reunion. Many years had passed by but our conversation seemed as if it were plucked right from the past.

Those were the days...

I remember his first day at office. Whsipering into my ear as discreetly as possible,he had asked "Can I go home for lunch everyday?" The innocence was 24-carat and paved the way for an enduring relationship - at least it seemed so then.

He had a natural way with stocks. At that tender age, he could feel the pulse of the market. And his confidence was contagious. With all my academic credentials, I didn't have half of his energy and assertiveness. In his company, I found my poise that only enhanced the analyst in me.

We were a pair to envy. Our chemistry seemed celestial. He exceled at making calculated predictions, I had the flair for deeper analysis and articulation. Whenever I felt short of confidence, his electric enthusiasm came to my rescue. Whenever he went overboard with his growing vanity (Hum hai to kya gum hai was his favourite slogan) , I would sober him down.

And the personal warmth was beyond words.I still remember the time when a salary raise motivated me to look for a new home in Mumbai. I was fed up of the commute between Virar and Churchgate, desperate to shift residence to any suburb in the bustling city. But when I realised that nothing was within my reach, he helped me face the fact with a smile "Just spend some bucks on renovating your home and you'll feel fine" he told me, sipping coffee at a modest Udupi joint.Such towering maturity at his age!

As time passed, I ventured into unknown territories - all grand vacations in the name of vocation. He stayed put in the same industry. We met once in a while but only till a point after which we lost all contact.

After so many years, he tracked me on Face book and now ...this call. In the telecon, he stressed the need for some help in content development. He was now the head of a division with a leading financial house. I was so immersed in the celebration of our reunion that I took many things for granted.

To my utter dismay of course.

All subsequent meetings with him now had the flavour of a typical vendor-client interaction. He was now careful of the "official stance" - those irritatingly slow, measured remarks in line with his new-found status. Hard as I tried to ignore, the distance between us was disturbing.

He was now "handling" me - every interaction smacked of corporate artifice - carefully drafted emails subtly urging to "keep in touch" but from safe distance, a non-commital nod to any suggestion, and lots of patronising, winsome smiles.

Probably he feared the worst - that I may soon ask for favours. That I would make dangerous in-roads. Probably some of my humble observations against his company were found intimidating and uncalled for.

I will never know the truth but I care a damn. I still wish well for him but the yesteryear music of our association has been needlessly remixed.

I know for sure that in the meteoric rise of his career, our friendship was buried alive. Now I wish he had never called back and I would have never known of his brtual transformation.

But perhaps I should have known better. The neuralgia of nostalgia can be agonizingly painful.

The Navras of Natrang

2010-01-21T23:07:00.000-08:00

The Marathi film "Natrang" breaks several conventions -

For one, debutant director Ravi Jadhav successfully brings back Tamasha on celluloid - a gasping folk art form of rural maharashtra, once a staple fare in Marathi films, especially the ones with rural backdrops.

Further, he picks an offbeat theme - a novel by Anand Yadav on the life of a "naachya" - a jocular character in the Lavni whose prime job is to provide comic relief through feminine gestures.

And to top it all, actor Atul Kulkarni raises the bar for the entire film fraternity with his amazing portrayal of "Guna" - the film's central character.

Yadav's story, though offbeat, is intrinsically filmic and Jadhav highlights its cinematic appeal with flair. Towards this mission, he is vastly supported by his lead players, lyricist & dialogue writer as also the music directors.

Guna is a happy-go-lucky farmer - an able-bodied guy obessesed with the Tamasha - his sole evening recreation with friends after a hard day's work on the farm. In line with the pre-dominant feudal mindset of his tribe, he dreams of playing the King in the "tamasha". His poetic temperament and way with words add depth to his passion. Turning his craving into his calling in life, he forms an amateur theater troupe and driven by the lure of fast buck, his friends back him as co-artistes.

A seasoned tamasha-goer ropes in a lady artiste to lend professional flair to their troupe. Just when the stage seems set, one condition put forth by the leading lady leaves Guna and his friends in a fix. She wants a "Naachya" to be inducted in the company, to keep the audience in splits with tongue-in-cheek commentary.

After a string of failed attempts to convince others, Guna takes it upon himself to play the Naachya - a role with great entertainment value but socially condemned all the same, synonymous with an enunch; an insult to manliness.

The muscular "Guna" sheds much weight and all pride for the sake of his beloved Tamasha. His devotion to his cherished cause, if not his dream, helps him master the taxing lessons in feminine grace under the tutelage of his leading lady.

Their shows are an instant hit and the troupe's growing fame catches the fancy of power-hungry political factions. However, Guna and his company is victimized by the venomous one upmanship of two warring groups.

One of their live shows is set ablaze and Guna is kidnapped and raped. He now comes face to face with the sheer brutality of public disgrace that a Naachya stands to suffer off stage.

The news of his humiliation turns public and Guna is openly disowned by family and friends alike. He laments for a moment but only to begin afresh. Giving him company in his new innings is his leading lady - now his soul mate, if not his life partner.

The film's end shows the veteran Guna being felicitated for his life-time devotion to his art - a fitting tribute to the real-life Gunas who have entertained people across generations even at the cost of personal ridicule. The film also points out the absurdity of all muddled notions surrounding gender divide, highlighting the "yin and yang" co-existence in every human being.

Atul Kulkarni's performance has very few parallels in cinema today - whether his physical transformation (building muscle for "Guna" and then losing it for "Naachya" in quick succession) or the histrionics reflecting contrasting emotions (the initial devil-may-care attitude and the sensitivity post the Naachya avatar) He is undoubtedly one of the finest actors India has produced in recent times.

The support cast is impressive - while Kishore Kadam is more than convincing, Sonali kulkarni makes an impressive debut. Whether through the insightful lyrics, pithy dialogues or the superb performance as "Shirpatrao", the versatile Guru Thakur makes a lasting impression.

Ajay-Atul make the music an integral part of the film with soulful numbers - Natrag Ubha and Khel Maandla as also catchy ones - Wajle ki bara and Apsara Aaali.

Having poured his heart out for the role, Atul Kulkarni deserved some better makeup and hairdo. The wigs on his head almost give the story away while few close-ups expose his actual age, clearly more than that of the protagonist he plays. In certain frames, some artistes (including Kulkarni) unknowingly switch to chaste Marathi, against the demands of their rustic rural characters.

Wishing the entire Natrang team loads of global success and recognition!

The Check Post of Conscience

2009-12-26T21:32:00.000-08:00

The time was 10 am.

We were speeding on the NH 17 en route Udupi. As we passed through the scenic Ankola - Honawar - Murudeshwar belt, the sudden sight of a burly check post guard on our tiny windscreen seemed quite unsettling.

Nine out of ten times, these checkpost interventions are far from noble - the temptation of grabbing few easy bucks from the weary traveller is just too easy to ignore for these uniformed vultures. Something told me that the gentleman in front of us was in the mood to fill his pockets.

"Where going"

He asked in broken English with a sprinkling of Kannada.

"Annapoorneshwari temple, Moodbidri"

Our reply caused no ripple on his wooden face.

"License, papers" he summoned. We did the needful.

As luck would have it, we didn't have the latest insurance premium receipt in place. He got his chance by legal means.

"Insurance compulsory, come in" he ordered.

The walk to the desolate cabin was disgusting.

He opened the receipt book and scribbled few lines. Now he was exceptionally rude...a natural instinct that comes bundled with an act of extortion.

"Rs 800/- fine"

Just then I remarked:

"The Goddess is watching from above"

He was unmoved but something seemed to move deep within him. The fear of Gods still works in India. More often than not, it's the last resort for the helpless to secure a semblance of justice from the establishment.

Give Rs 500.

Just before I left, I told him in Hindi:

"One suggestion. If you want money, don't be rude. Your sin would be less grave. I will pray on your behalf in the temple"

He looked away, acting as if the language made no sense to him. But the tough exterior had much to shield.

---------------

Time 6.00 am Day Two

We were on our journey back.

The visibility was poor but the check post ahead was unmistakably clear. So was the burly figure who stopped us.

As the guy glanced across the window pane, his face had some expression for a change.

Fearing an encore of the previous transaction, I remarked aloud

"Pehchana" (Did you recognise us)

Pehchaana, Pehchaana, thank you good morning, He went on and on. The tone was apologetic. And this time, the Hindi was fluent than before.

As I think of the encounter, I was happy, if not delighted, with the donation of Rs 500.

If a change of heart - however momentary and cosmetic - can come about for so less, I am happy to fill an individual pocket rather than the coffers of some unknown government with more ingenious and ruthless ways of misuse and misappropriation....and no remorse and apology whatsoever.

The toll collection on pathetic roads, day in and day out, is only one case in point.

The full stop of choice

2009-11-26T18:59:00.000-08:00

The film "Sukhaant" brings up the controverisal theme of Euthanasia (mercy killing) arguably for the first time in Indian cinema. That it's a Marathi film speaks volumes about the recent new wave in an industry dominated by gawdy sterotypes.

Sukhaant is the story of Seetabai Gunje (Jyoti Chandekar) - a dignified lady who faces the challenge life throws at her with great resolve. Disowned by her promiscious husband, she's left to fend for herself and her little son. Plunging herself in the ocean of hard labour, she eventually builds a small-scale industry helping women like her stand on their feet.

Her son Pratap becomes a successful lawyer, blessed with a happy family of wife and kid. Just when life seems hunky dory, a road accident leaves Seetabai paralysed beyond cure.

Thus begins the heart-wrenching second innings of her life as a helpless patient - dependant on support for everything. She tries hard to defy her fate only to see through the futility of the whole exercise. And the fact that her loved ones offer unconditional support does not condone her misery in any way.

Her family tries in vain to infuse hope into her tattered soul but all that she yearns for is a full stop. This causes a pandemonium spree in the house till the merit of her plea finally dawns on the son.

Now, the mother-son duo fight a legal battle seeking wilful death to end her bedridden agony. The court obviously rejects the plea and the son finally takes the law in his hands to engineer an end of her choice.

The cast and crew collectively contribute to Sukhaant's larger cause but the film clearly belongs to two individuals - Kiran Yagnopavit for the brilliant script, screenplay and dialogues and Jyoti Chandekar for her amazing portrayal as the lead player.

She builds a strong case for the protagonist she plays - the initial semblance of hope, the gradual withdrawal, the loud protest, and the mute ultimatum...her face highlights the agony of a lady fighting for her right to dignified life (and death) with flair. Seetabai's staple tongue-in-cheek temperament turns lethal
as her mental state deteriorates - Chandekar has shown this transition in a performance rarely seen on celluloid.

Having said that, the film's end is far from convincing. The son's fatal act of the last scene is akin to a Abbas-Mastan thriller - a feat next to impossible in any hospital engaged in the endeavour of treating patients. The film could have looked at better ways of conveying its message at large - reinforcing the court's verdict denying the legality of ethunasia is a great idea to stimulate public attention but does it have to come against an exaggerated backdrop?

The hostile wrath that the son invites from the folks of his native place looks far-fetched. The outburst of Pratap's wife over a soured bed session seems only hurried - the director does not bother to project the build-up for her rage. Her perplexment over two contrasting emotions - sensitivity to the husband's love for his ailing mother and awareness of her own life space - deserved a better cinematic treatment.

Atul Kulkarni is impressive as always but falls short of the benchmark he has set for himself. The dejected look after the final act, his wailing confession to the wife and the desolate strides towards the police station in the last frame - all gestures come about loud and unreal - unlike the Kulkarni of Devrai or Vaastupurush fame that we know.

Kavita Medhekar underlines her role with sincerity but clearly struggles to unearth the finer aspects lurking between the lines... Her expression is subdued when it comes to delivering the pain of her penanace - as a wife who's taken for granted in a mother-son relationship.

Few other flaws dilute the film's appeal - the accident that cripples the protagonist for life causes no dent to the car at the point of impact....worse, the same car is overtly projected throughout the film, to the extent, it seems part of the cast.

A frame showing the lawyer son surrounded by media shows a junior artiste (playing a TV journalist) herself staring at the film's camera - and that this scene is repeated only adds to the embarassment.

It's high time filmmakers paid more attention to the marginal players as well - the nurse with the strong and nasueatingly comic South Indian accent, the poker-faced doctor calling for a CT Scan (as if it were a drill) and the synthetic mixed bag of mob reaction following the case winning media attention - these are serious flaws that are invariably ignored in our cinema as glitches.

The film scores very high for the sincere attempt to tackle a subject under wraps despite being the agony of several households. Kudos to the entire team for the effort.

And hope Chandekar and Yagnopavit bag few well-deserved awards this season.

Taken over by Overtaking

2009-11-22T16:55:00.000-08:00

Driving on Indian roads is nothing short of a penance...but only for those who carry the burden of road safety on their shoulders. For the rest, it's a reckless voyage of narcissistic aggression.

The worst form of this incurable hostility comes in the form of overtaking a vehicle at any cost, as if your very life depended on it. The desperation hardly needs a reason, it's more to do with the predatory instinct of ruling the world. And once you're bitten by this bug, you have no friend, no colleague, no associate and no acquaintance.

And contrary to popular opinion, truck drivers alone are not the only exponents of this malpractice. Our so-called decent city-dwellers abuse the law in equal measure.

A case in point is the situation when you are being ovetaken from the left.

Let's first look at what the law states :

a) The driver of a vehicle overtaking another vehicle proceeding in the same direction shall pass to the left thereof at a safe distance and shall not again drive to the right side of the roadway until safely clear of the overtaken vehicle.

b) Except when overtaking and passing on the right is permitted, the driver of an overtaken vehicle shall give way to the right in favor of the overtaking vehicle on audible signal and shall not increase the speed of his vehicle until completely passed by the overtaking vehicle.

Now imagine you are speeding on the right side of the road...you slow down in anticipation of the traffic some distance ahead. Pat comes a car from your left, speeding to glory, in a desperate attempt to overtake you... for the sake of overtaking.

Road safety in this case solely depends on the maganimity of the driver forced to implement "b" to mitigate the risk caused by the driver abusing "a" - and how does the driver abuse "a" - by first brushing past your car and then unabashedly claiming the right side, forcing the driver behind to slow down his vehicle to accomodate the VIP ahead.

And the gestures that follow when cautioned by the driver behind are best left unsaid. Mind you, they will throw caution to the winds but you can't even throw an admonishing glance at them.

The root cause of this desperation can't be identified, it can only be traced to the psyche of a person.

Watching a vehicle safely speeding ahead, dexterously making way through the maze of traffic, can prove annoying for some - the pent up anger explodes at boiling point untill one is fully consumed by rage - finally charging from the left in the insane attempt to leave you behind.

Little does one realize what's one leaving behind - a glimpse of
the predator masquerading as a preacher. And many bitter memories!

PS: That many such nightmares have helped me design a Defensive Driving course for motor training schools is the only good part of the whole experience.

Natural remedies for synthetic disorders

2009-11-20T03:42:00.000-08:00

Raju Parulekar - whoever he is - deserves sympathy and a lot of rest. Maybe, he can take a few days off, head for a dense forest of his choice and come back wiser.

Well, before you suffer his inventive and insightful gems in the piece

http://www.loksatta.com/lokprabha/20091127/alkem.htm

only to dismiss the genius naturally, let me introduce him.

Mr. Parulekar loves nature. For him, a farmer toiling in the field is a better sight than Sachin in action on the field. As mentioned earlier, he loves only natural things - organic at that. He finds the game of cricket "synthetic". Cricket and Sachin find no place in his book of history as both are about temporary milestones - not about such enduring, life-saving feats attributed to doctors, scientists, farmers, social activists and historians.

He's read Edward Gibbon's "Decline and fall of the Roman Empire" . (Thundering applause please!) He has studied the movie "Gladiator" in great depth to be able to put sport in perspective - as a royal pastime that was later thrown open to the public at large to pale the larger issues of life into significance. Sachin, for our dear Parulekar, is a Gladiator at the disposal of hungry politicians - designed to dissuade the public from the larger issues. A virtual reality, an opium! Move over, Mr. Karl Marx, cricket, Sachin in particular, is the new opium, not religion as you had once proclaimed.

Coming back to our friend, his confusion over his own views is confusing. On one hand,cricket is alien to him; on the other, he's keen to advertise his authority on Indian cricket - he certifies Sachin as a great player (mind you, not an acknowledgement but a certification) before pointing out how Sachin proved a miserable captain and how Ganguly is a better Gladiator than Sachin..Why?...Since the Bengal Tiger treats the regional press and language with great respect. Sachin, on the other hand, loves his international status at the cost of shunning his roots. What an analysis....Ask a kid in your neighbourhood and he would know better, Mr. Parulekar!

While you declare Sachin's 20-year landmark as insignificant, you remind us of a momentous milestone due next year - 20 YEARS OF YOUR OWN CAREER. You also lament at the fact that this achievement-in-the-making is unsung and unhonoured

Mr. Parulekar, it's good to note that you're not a cricket enthusiast, no harm done. We agree that the game is no longer played with noble intentions, we agree that the Sharad Pawars, Rajeev Shulkas and the Nirnajan Shahs of the world are some of the disgusting parasites prospering on the game's prospects and we also agree that Sachin mints millions on his milestones - but how does all of this reflect on his stature as an outstanding cricketer and a true gentleman. And the fact that he donates a larger share to unsung charity is only besides the point, he doesn't owe an explaination - at least not to you...

Dear Parulekar, achievements in sports and entertainment cannot be compared to the advancements in science and medicine. These are two factes that ensure the much needed work-life balance for us. Talking of entertainment, you're an entertainer in your own right..we mean it! Your comic article was real funny- it managed to keep us in spilts....

You suffer from a peculiar disorder Sir! - An ailment that paralyzes common sense and numbs the intellect with recurring attacks of self-love. Thankfully, there's no dearth of natural herbs in the forests of India - get treated quickly and naturally. And as a health supplement, watch vintage Sachin in action. Recovery would be that much faster. Slowly and surely, all your synthetic waste will fall off and you'll naturally find better ways to earn fame.

Who knows, you may even get the inspiration to become a better journalist - and if you achieve this feat, it would indeed be yeoman service to the nation since we don't have many at the moment.

The Mumbai Indian

2009-11-15T19:50:00.000-08:00

Sachin Tendulkar is a man of few words. But he does have a way with them. Precisely why he leaves no stone unturned to "convert every stone into a milestone". The other day, he made yet another effortless and elegant statement - just like his spectacular straight drive

"Yes, I am a proud Mumbaikar but I am an Indian first"

That was a lesson to all those who unabashedly unfurl the parochical flag in the name of belonglingness. And mind you, this is not just about Raj Thackeray and his Nav Nirmaan Sena. There are scores among us who swell with regional pride in day-to-day life - and ironically, feel they are serving some larger cause in doing so.

Yes, there's a lot of communal dictatorship in other states that invariably goes unnoticed. This is not to condone the real issues affecting the state of Maharashtra and Mumbai. But chanting the Marathi mantra is far from a solution.

Raj projects Maharashtrians as one united force -

Is he not aware of the big divide that exists between Maharashtrians themselves - And contrary to the popular notion, Koknastha Brahmins are not the only victims of this incurable disorder of vanity. Every other tribe has been consumed by this epidemic - whether Pathare Prabhus, CKPs, Bhandaris, Saraswats, GSBs, Marathas, Karwaris, Vaishya Vanis, Agaris...the list is endless.

All love to look down upon the rest with venomous disdain - and again, let's not conveniently blame the illiterate, orthodox and the rural alone. Our highly educated, cultured globe-trotting folks from the so-called dynamic professions like media, finance and IT are no less fanatic about their parochial ethos - who otherwise claim to be very progressive and magnanimous in life.

Sachin Tendulkar had the easier option to play to the gallery - to sing umpteen praises of his Maharashtrian roots and advertise his success as a "Marathi Manoos" success story. That he rose above narrow sentiments to salute the tri-colour explains why he stands tall as a human being, not just as a cricketing genius.

We see scores of people around us - all self-appointed authorities on cricket, who blow their giant-sized trumpets at the first given opportunity... even representing a small-town cricket team is nothing short of Wisden success for them.

And here, we have a truly international icon - sanctified by none other than the Late Sir Don - who remains unaffected by the aura that surrounds him...who simply takes guard...to face the next delivery!

Hats off to the Little Master - the true Mumbai Indian.

One state, many worlds

2009-11-08T19:00:00.000-08:00

Tag lines of government-run initiatives are rarely catchy. Karnataka Tourism is a great exception. One state, many worlds - it says and rightly so.

The state indeed houses exquisite worlds - of scenic coastal areas, green hilly regions, breathtaking ghats and fascinating plains. And each place is flavoured in the influence of the bordering state. Belgaum and Dharwad smack of Maharashtrian culture, Hampi and Bijapur reflect Hyderabadi etiquette while Udupi and Mangalore bear a strong Kerela influence.

Thanks to my stars, my work recently took me to Belgaum in Karnataka. As is my wont, I took this opportunity to tread on some of the long, winding routes that city-bred tourists would usually avoid. The thrill of such mad explorations is beyond words. And to give me company in my priceless Maruti 800 were my wife and kiddo - both avid travellers like me.

Day 1

We left two days prior to my corporate acting workshop at Belgaum - the plan was to lose ourselves in the captivating folds of the state before I worked in the shop.

We took the comfortable but expensive NH 4 (the tolls cost Rs 350/- from Thane to Hubli) I briefly checked the arrangements at Hotel Eefa in Belgaum at around 12.00 before proceeding further on the NH4.

We reached Hubli at 2 pm. The road ahead to Chitardurga was nothing short of a nightmare - we passed Haveri, Davangere, Harihar - finding our way through countless diversions, dangerous potholes and dusty pathways. Called the city of stones, Chitradurga today lives up to its name for the wrong reasons. Save for the majestic fort and artistic temples, the town life seems quite bland. The vivacity of coastal Karnataka is sorely missing.

It was 6.30 pm by the time we reached Hotel Aishwarya Fort in Chitradurga. The hotel seemed great on the website. ("top and top" - remarked one innocent pedestrian on the way when we enquired)

Reality was different, if not opposite. The hotel does roaring business only because it's the best in Chitradurga- the rooms are clean, service is passable, toilets are bearable and the food is edible...But the zing is clearly amiss. We spent the night there simply because we had no choice.

Day 2

We left the hotel at 6.00 am and embarked upon a journey that was filled with adventure. The destination was the Annapoorneshwari temple in Alangar near Moodbidri but the route was not optimal...by choice.

The shortest route is on NH 17, the next best is NH4 till Hubli, NH63 till Ankola and NH 17 for the last leg. We have been several times on both the routes but this one was the craziest... NH 4 till Chitradurga and then NH 13 till Karkala..a jounney spanning 9 hours on an average.

The road till Shimoga (Shivamoga - Lord Shiva's face) was great, save for the last 10km which was horrendous. It was 9.00 am by now. Thanks to the prompt advice of a smart young man sipping tea at a junction, we took the Tirthalli - Agumbe - Karkala route.

At Karkala, we almost lost our way. This time, a happy family resting in the garden of their scenic bunglow came to our rescue. The drive ahead was a mixed bag of smooth tar roads and potholed pathways - it was 1.30 pm by the time we reached Alangar at Hosanadu.

The Annapoorneshwari temple was divine as ever - with the majestic 61 feet Hanuman near the Gopuram...a picture of health and humility. After the darshan, we had food at the temple - simple and wholesome food of boiled rice, sambar, a vegetable and payasam.

We resumed our journey - this time to Udupi - to the comfortable Paradise Isle at Malpe Beach. The time was 5.00 pm when we checked in. The rest of the evening was spent at the beach and the hotel's exquisite bar. This was Sachin Tendulkar's day of the immortal chase - we caught few glimpses of the little master in action in our suite.

At the bar, I met one Mr. Dayanad Shetty, manager of the hotel and a resident of Bhayendar, a congested place in suburban Mumbai. He was enjoying the sleepy idyllic life of Malpe but was clearly missing the big city.

Day 3

We took the wheel at 4.00 am - on NH 17, stopping for breakfast at Bhatkal. It was 9.00 am at Ankola and by the time we reached Dharwad via NH 63, the time was 12.00. I was now showing signs of fatigue - having driven for long streches for two consecutive days. We reached the cosy, plush business hotel called Eefa at 1.30 pm. After a delicious biryani, I dozed off till 5 pm.

The workshop on corporate acting skills began at 6.00 pm and went on till 9.00 pm. By the grace of God, all went well and we called it a day at 10 pm.

Day 4

We began at 4.00 am. The hotel had graciously packed an elaborate breakfast for us. The journey homewards was kind of boring. We stopped at Karad for tea, enjoyed the packed breakfast under a tree near Satara and had few snacks on the expressway.

We were home at 1.30 pm, having completed a memorable journey in less than four days flat. We are indebted to the scores of kind souls in remote places who helped us with such route maps, milestones and landmarks that Google search would never deliver. Their faces reflect diverse emotions even as they surge forward to help you with the directions - amusement at having encountered unlikely off-season tourists, concern in designing the best route and good wishes for safe and sound travel.

We salute their sensitive nature, unadulterated ways and zest for life...free of the nauseating obsession that some of our friends back home swear by...obsession with swanky cars, plush flats, home theaters, shopping mall goodies, expensive cell phones....just about everything that comes branded in life!

PS: NH 4, NH 17, NH 13, NH 63 - all have suffered the wrath of erratic monsoons. Repair work is in full swing but it would take two months to complete the mammoth work as it's painfully manual.

2010 should bring in some cheer on this front.

Untill the next trip...

Keep It Up Sid

2009-10-11T04:26:00.000-07:00

Wake Up Sid is a simple, enduring sketch on a cliched canvas - the story of a laid- back rich guy forced to grapple with the deeper issues of his life has been a commmon theme in cinema. In that context, the first few frames of this movie remind one of Farhan Akthar's Lakshya (so does Ranbir of Hrithik) but the film has enough substance to claim its own place in the annals of cinema.

But given the familiar backdrop, director Ayan Mukherji tells an unusual love story of an equally unusual pair: the seasoned Konkona Sen Sharma and the promising Ranbir Kapoor striking a charming celluloid chemistry.

He's the pampered kid of a rich dad, she's the new girl in the big city - she's amused by his earthy charm and zest for life, he's enamoured by her resolve and clarity of purpose. The mutual respect unknowingly binds them in a relationship that grows beyond friendship but falls short of love. Both are baked in the reality of this elusive bond until one fine day, the pressure cooker whistles the triumph of true love.

Mukherjee employs the same popular motifs from the Bollywood factory - prime among them being a hardly-at-home dad with his mandatory rags-to-riches accomplishments, a caring-doting-forgiving mom showering 24/7 love and a man friday serving-with-a-smile 7 days a week.

But he is dexterous in portraying the subtle journey of the protagonists - how their larger commonalities condone the apparent contrasts finally to merge into a common goal. In reality, such love stories may be highly unlikely but the film leaves you yearning for them. The story floats aimelessly in the middle but the director shows great command over his medium in rearranging disparate pieces that make a complete frame in the end.

Ranbir is superlative as Sid - his confidence is striking, so is his emotive ability. He's one of the very few star-actors around who believe in underplay and are good at it too. Even his seemingly inconsequential gestures and interactions tell volumes about Sid's beliefs and idiosyncrasies.

Konkona, as always, is excellent - both of them unfold the chaos and confusion of their respective characters with aplomb and authority. There are umpteen moments when their eyes speak a thousand words in the film.

Rahul Khanna makes for a refreshing guest appreance, playing a part that he was naturally cut out for. Anupam Kher as the dad does full justice to the limited screen moments that come his way, Supriya Pathak as the mother is passable - her humour clearly falling short of the intended effect.

Kashmira Shah (remember her?) emerges from a long exile - her sex siren is a forced visual distraction. She does make an honest attempt but her character seems truly out of place - even in the locality she is shown to reside. In contrast, the folks playing Sid's friends (Rishi and Lakhsmi in particular) and other colleagues at office seem real and tailored for the cause.

The music, coming from the inventive trio of Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy, is soulful. Ek tara does for this film what Sapno se bhare Naina did for Luck by Chance - the lead singer Kavita Seth is simply outstanding - note her stress the words "boond boond" "moond moond" in Ek Tara: simply beyond words.

Well done Sid! Keep it up!

And a big thanks to Karan Johar for being such a sensitive producer in recent times - a job he's naturally and genetically cut out for...and needs no direction (no pun intended)

Humour Sans Uniform

2009-09-24T21:28:00.000-07:00

Vinay Kanchan is a true maverick. His refreshing work "The Madness starts at 9" is an hilarious take on the glorified circus run by advertising agencies but the arresting analogies can be easily extended to just about any industry that employs people.

Employing the lethal weapon of humour, Kanchan cuts an enduring slice of pathos in his narrative - how the word "creative" is abused in umpteen forms and modes, how the workplace is a grand orcheastration of motives, how hierarchies come with unwrit rules of conduct and camaraderie and how most troubles brew - thanks to how and when you said it, not what and how you did it...

In less than 200 pages, Kanchan brings you the choicest trouble beans brewing in the agency farm as its diverse species - owners, bosses, creative, planning & media heads, client servicing folks, freshers and trainees - get involved in disparate interactions - focus-group discusssions, media reviews, interviews and appraisals.

Also starring are members of the value chain like headhunters, and above all clients - the real patrons of the jamboree.

Obviously, Kanchan has seen it happening all around him but what's exemplary is the quality of his detachment in sharing deep insights that never sound prescriptive - and yet command universal appeal.

The humour is superlative throughout, save for the din of repitition that the mythical character "Chai La" and his over-rhymed sermons cause towards the end. Also, the author's obsession with word play is distracting at times...(with quips like "Let's not anda-estimate him" linked to a breakfast of scrambled eggs)

The author's note reads "I embark upon trying to give every poor new sod entering this hostile world a bit of hope and an unnecessary amount of perspective" The tiny hope and huge perspective are both more valuable than the tons of garbage that get rolled out every year in the name of management thought.

Page after page, Kanchan keeps us in spilts but lurking in the laughter is a tear or two of self-springing realization. It's indeed sad that modern-day organizations are on a redefining spree of a different kind - making flexibilty more and more rigid, turning creativity into a mythical concept and carving autonomy in a feudal mould.

In a recent newspaper column, the author observes:

"There are quite a few organizations where the term "creative" is associated with the output of the advertising agency.In these bleak economic times, this is an extremely dangerous assumption"

Couldn't have been put better.

That Kanchan is an independant creative thinking trainer spells great news for an industry drugged to inaction by an intimidating army of mollycoddled "consultants" and their "best-in-class" sermons of "holistic thinking" and "value-added service"

Doctored intensity

2009-09-19T21:38:00.000-07:00

"Rita" - actress Renuka Shahane's directorial debut based on Shanta Gokhale's novel "Rita Welinkar" - is the story of a sensitive, selfless girl called Rita.

Struggle and sacrifice are her constant companions right from her formative years. Yet, she bears the burden with a smile. Employment brings her financial independence coupled with the patronizing warmth of an unlikely lover Vittal Salvi - this makes her a non-conformist of sorts and she's determined to wage a silent war with the world. She expects the same devil-may-care attitude from Salvi who tentatively harbours his timid love story outside the cocoon of a conventional married life. His love is genuine but so is his need for social acknowledgement.

This reality of her love life is bursting at the seams, and ultimately one day, it explodes...Rita suffers a nervous breakdown. With the reassuring support of her childhood friend, she begins her second innings - this time, without the cushion of illusion and wishful thinking.

Despite such an intrsopective theme, the film thoroughly disappoints: The cinematic transition is jerky, leaving many gaps that the linguistic narrative is likely to have flowered in commensurate depth.

The movie merely "relays" the intensity of its subject matter - frame after frame - but the contextual thread is clearly amiss. The consequence is obvious: the "viewer" is left gasping for breath - trying to make sense of the extreme perspectives of several characters surrounding Rita - her comically villanish dad and an overtly snobbish mom above all. Emotions sway in motion all over the place but they don't seem to connect any dots in the viewer's mind. Rita's own locus standi appears hazy, at times even misleading.

Clearly, Shahane fails to handpick the cinematic milestones of Rita's life - the film struggles to move back and forth through the protagonist's letter to her friend but the buildup lacks strength. The story is somehow forced to culmination, simply because it had to end at some point. In fact every single frame following Rita's discharge from the asylum bears the potential to be the last.

There are scenes, there are players, they make stage-like screen appearances, play their parts and fade away before you have time to reel in the effect. Worse, the hurried approach adds a rather comic flavour to the whole script - nothing can be more fatal for a supposedly intense film.

A medicore support cast makes the going tougher - a jaded Dr. Agashe (in what could be one of his worst screen portrayals), the ever-loud and gawdy Suhasini Mulay, the highly monotonous Sai Tamhankar, the ridiculously average Tushar Dalvi (that he's a known pet of almost all offbeat film makers beats me) all erode value in equal measure.

Renuka herself looks rather cut-off from the story's mainstream - her bond with the protagonist seems the most crucial in the film and yet shares the least space. Playing a marginal part is fine but why marginalize the role? Makarand Deshpande breathes some life but unfortunately makes a guest appearance.

Time and again, we have seen most of the film makers ignore the vital role that the so-called junior artists play in making a film real and convincing. Rita is no exception - doctors & nurses, fellow inmates of the asylum, nosy neighbours, school teachers, office staff, Salvi's family members....all smack of the usual mediocrity that inevitably mars the film's credibility. We thought Shahane could have been different at least on this count.

Jackie Shroff in his maiden Marathi appearence, makes an honest effort but his gestures seem retarded - barring a couple of scenes, his presence is hardly felt.

Pallavi Joshi does a commendable job in sketching Rita's journey of despair and despodence even in the adhoc frames. If she seems inconsistent every now and then, it's more the weak script to blame. Almost all her dialogues are effortless - bearing the stamp of an accomplished actress. For a change, it was heartening to see her detached from her glorified Saregamapa avataar (a "reality show" victim in the bazaar of big bucks staged by mobile telecom providers and TV channels)

The music score is average - overdoing the classcial vocal in the background. The camera moves swiftly - the moving tyre closeup, the windshield vision, the overhead longshots...all look refreshing but remain a visual innovation at best.

If the very attempt to handle an offbeat subject is worthy of praise, Shahane deserves all of it. But her sincere effort notwithstanding, the intensity appears doctored. That the film motivates the viewer to read the novel seems its biggest achievement.

Shahane would do well to learn from Zoya Akhtar - who did a more competent job with her maiden venture - Luck By Chance. We only hope Shahane's directorial journey has just begun. Looking forward to the next one from her stable...

Karnataka again

2009-09-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

Addiction hardly needs a reason....precisely why we got back to Karnataka again within a space of 10 months - a scenic remote place called Algaar near Moodbidri to be precise - home to the sprawling Annapoorneshwari temple with its 61-feet Hanuman statue - the engineering marvel, a real fitting tribute to the living God.

Neither is Karnataka my home town, nor is the temple goddess our "authorized" deity - but the pull is simply beyond words..the magnetism challenging all convention governing the concept of hometowns and family roots.

So off we went again - myself, wife and kiddo in our Maruti 800 - in what was a fulfilling encore - this time, via Pune to attend an official meeting en route.

Friday 4.00 am

We left Pune, from the cozy bungalow of my partner friend. Within no time, we were speeding on the elegant and comfortable NH4 route towards Bangalore, the early morning chill making the journey highly introspective. Soon, it began raining heavily and for some time, visibility was poor - till we crossed Satara. It was around 8 when we stopped for breakfast at Hotel Pankaj, Karad. The food was delicious - esp. the wada sambar!

We resumed with renewed vigour and passed Islampur and kolhapur to enter Belgaum - the border town applauding our entry into Karnataka - Dharwad came and went by and past noon, we reached Hubli - the NH4 on this side is mediocre and the quality suffers - probably on account of a different contractor in charge.

Here, we changed tracks to follow the highly scenic NH 63 that bridges NH 4 and the coastal NH 17 - from Hubli to Ankola. A MUST-HAVE experience! The start from Hubli side is narrow but as the journey progresses, you soar sky high - such is the breathtaking voyage - a rare blend of modern-day road and scenic natural splendour all around. It was under some lush green cover that we consumed our staple home-made lunch of methi theplas and green chutney. The time was 1.30 pm.

By the time we covered the entire NH 63 stretch - it was 4 and we were at Ankola - the scenic coastal town on NH 17. Here, we stopped for tea break at Kamat's (Kamat's Uphaar becomes Kamat's Upchaar here) and while gulping the over boiled tea from the half-washed glass, we enquired about good hotels for the overnight halt. I had googled on the list of hotels on this route before the journey - and the waiter only confirmed the names. We zeroed in on Pandurang International of Kumtha (more for the "think local, act global" connotation)- but the Hotel is perfect for en route stay - clean, hygenic,simple...and no fancy claims.

We checked in at 5.30 pm and had an early dinner to call it a day. The next morning, we left at 7 am way ahead on NH 17 towards Udupi - stopping only at Bhatkal for breakfast. The cashier and the waiter at Hotel Sreenivas were more than prompt in service.

NH 17 is damaged beyond recogntion, if not repair and it was almost 10 when we reached Udupi. In the earlier tour, we had managed to cover Panaji- Udupi in 8 hours. The fag end downpour of August and the burden of heavy vehicles have contributed in equal measure to the road damage. The way your car sways to each side makes the journey akin to a boat ride.

From Udupi, we took the Manipal route to Karkala, through an under-construction road full of irritating diversions. But as we ventured ahead, the road became scenic again. We had to ask for directions to Moodbidri but the locals were ever-ready to help - a twinkle in their eyes reserved for the unlikely off-season tourists. Most of them believe in a "live and let live" policy and throw a generous sprinkling of humour in their conversation - be it the road side vendors, temple sculptors or the country residents.

SH 13 on Mangalore - karkala route took us to Algaar - our destination for this trip - the Annapoorneshwari temple. We were in the temple for less than an hour but the bliss seems eternal. No ceremonies to perform, no boons to seek! Just the bliss of the sheer presence. This temple is the brainchild of Jairam Heggade, an NRI settled in Oman, we learnt later. Mr. Heggade, thanks for gifting this great monument to the country.

On our way back, we ate the wholesome local staple food of brown rice,sambar, vegetable and curd at Hotel Golden Star, Algaar. Now began the drive back home and we never realised how difficult it was going to get. We got back to Udupi via Padbidri on NH 17 and followed the way towards Kumtha. But even as we crossed Bhatkal, a heavy downpour caused a mayhem on the damaged roads - the driving witnessing every possible challenge - dangerous potholes lurking in the muddy pools, poor visibilty at dusk, rash drivers approaching from every side, casual pedestrians blocking the way at each junction....on one or two occasions, I had to gate crash my car off the road to escape the wrath of a couple of bus drivers charging from the wrong end. Had we known that such dangers waited to greet us with open arms, we would not have wasted our time shopping in Kundapur and the stroll on the Marvanthe seashore.

It was 8 pm when we reached the hotel at Kumtha - the drive will remain etched in memory for the sheer adventure. We had a hurried dinner, and slept like a log.

5.00 am, Kumtha

We took the NH 63 again - killing the temptation of entering Goa through Karwar, stopping just before Hubli for tea and snacks at a roadside stall. The stall owner was the unlikely receipient of the temple parasadam and I thoroughy enjoyed my conversation with him - a sensitive guy overwhelmed by the sudden early morning visitors from Mumbai - taking out the best of tea cups from a dark corner of his hut-like shop to celebrate the occasion.

Little did he know that his visitor was just another EMI-victim from the big city - leading a vulnerable, post-dated existence typical of modern life of high loans and mighty moans. The monetary gift that we extended cannot change his fortunes but his eyes showed 24-carat gratitude at the gesture!

Once at Hubli, we were back on the comfortable NH 4 with its numerous but well-worth tolls. We chose Belgaum for the overnight halt - at Hotel Keerti in the main town..the hotel was poor in hospitality but clean & hygienic all the same.

A leisurely walk through the Belgaum market (for the purchase of special sweet Belgaavi kunda) was rejuvenating. The evening was spent in the august company of Kingfisher lager.

5.00 am, Hotel Keerti, Belguam

The last leg of our journey back home began as we sped on NH 4 towards Kolhapur with only a tea break at 7. 30. We stopped for breakfast at Sai International, Yelur near Islampur - a perfect place for long route travellers. The food is delicious and we also found the quality of accomodation to be above average. Unfortunately, we were running out of budget and time, else it was worth a night's stay.

We took a diversion off Satara to visit the Hanuman idols at the historic Chaapal, bastion of the great Swami Ramdas - mentor of the Maratha warrior Shivaji.

The time was 11 am when we left Chaapal and were back on NH 4 to reach Pune by 12.30 pm. Here, the search for a good food joint proved surprsingly tiresome and we finally settled on an average restaurant adjoining a petrol pump. This city is fast losing its charm and the crowd here even at odd hours puts Mumbai to shame.

We somehow gathered our spirits back and entered the fast but monotonous express way - two and a half hours later, we were at Panvel and the usual bland way took us to our home at Ghodbunder Road, Thane (in the lap of nature, we can still claim, though the green cover around us is fast depleting)

The next trip, we plan to cover Goa, Karnataka and Kerala...a long cherished dream - middle class in style but top class in aspiration. Till then...

Parallel Tracks

2009-07-27T18:08:00.000-07:00

Date: Out of memory

Time: 10.30 am

Location: Bandra Railway station

I was part of the usual suburban train circus of Mumbai - fighting for space and survival. The train had just left Khar and suddenly the crowd dispersed, making the footboard seem like an oasis of comfort.

As I filled the fresh air in my lungs, I noticed two gentlemen clung to the iron rod above the seats adjoining the footboard wall, both middle-aged and weary.

They were lost in some deep conversation and the matter seemed grave. The language was Marathi and my curiosity was needlessly on the rise - like it does when you have nothing worthwhile to do. I tuned in, and carefully tried to pick the sound bytes of their radio station.

"At this age, it would be difficult to get a job" one lamented.

"True,but why should you find one? It's your son's turn now, mate" said the other.

"Aaaah!, my son" came the sarcastic remark:

"The Lord wants to get into business. As if he's a Dhirubhai Ambani. Lazy bum"

They both shared a hearty laugh, wholesome outside, hollow inside. The note of resignation was evident.

"Did you chase accounts for the PF and gratuity formalities?" cautioned the advisor.

"Jadhav is a slow coach, you know that"

The answer came in an affirmative gesture - half-awake to the reality of the "slow moving" accountant Jadhav and half-aware of the impending doom of a retired life.

Both looked pensive and fumbling for words. From the looks of it, the advisor seemed close on the heels of the retiring colleague - his expression seemed to say

"I hate to admit but your fate would be mine soon"

Just at that time, a shapely female - probably a collegian - came in their line of sight as they glanced at the platform. She seemed to be in a hurry, trying to reach the stairs of the over bridge before the high tide of busy commuters caused a mayhem.

"Ahh ahhhhh" exclaimed both of our friends in unison, their eyes transfixed on the prominent peaks of her anatomy.

"Slowly go, my darling madam, my lovely heroine, ###@@@^^^... "

They teased her aloud in their "English" reserved for special occasions and locations:

An old jungle saying of this tribe - when fooling around with South Indians and Christians or moving around in Bandra and South Mumbai, ENGLISH IS MUST BOSS!

The girl obviously had no time to acknowledge the lusty sermon. She disappeared in the ocean of people after throwing an admonishing look.

As soon as the train left Bandra, our friends were back on the previous track of gloom - in a flash.

"How is your mother doing? Is the diabetes in control? I tell you, this Jadhav...........

I couldn't follow the conversation after that...shell shocked that I was by the sheer agility of their mood swing.

One moment of genuine lament, another of unabashed lust...Mixed emotions running sequential but almost on parallel tracks. Where did this super sonic response system sprout from?

Is that to do with the rigour of city life?...a life that has no room for transitions..where disparate emotions are forced to share scanty space? ...

Or is the monotony of a working class life to blame, one that seeks respite in the occasional lewd antic? A dark secret to be relished in public moments of private ecstacy...

Even as these questions bothered me, our friends seemed unperturbed.

For them perhaps, this was just another moment of just another day.

The essence of Role Plays - An Indian perspective

2009-06-16T05:40:00.000-07:00

Aptly used, corporate acting, role playing to be more precise, is a powerful tool to address a host of people issues - both within the personal and professional sphere.

The essence is in re-creating business situations based on client specifications to unearth the elusive human element wrapped in business interactions.

More often than not, the patterns that emerge challenge convention and fuel innovation.

Measurable business value is guaranteed, provided the “learnings” are conveyed to the target audience as an integral part of the enactment - plotting the refinement road map for individuals/groups.

The actors play a vital role as the conveyers – they have to “breathe” the roles they play – whether a disgruntled employee, pompous manager, matter-of-fact project manager or a patronizing business owner.

The art is to release enough clues through the enactment such that the session is not subjected to sudden jerks, periods of lull or derailment. If the actor “plays to the gallery” or is seeking applause, the session becomes self defeating.

It’s imperative that the actors should be well aware of the dynamics of corporate situations – routine and otherwise. An emphasis on grasping the domain and technological specs of the work environment proves highly rewarding – as the participants gain momentum only when the actor begins to “speaks their language”

A good actor salvages a near-hopeless situation by shrewdly keeping the conversation on track with a great sprinkling of wit and wisdom.

A good actor subtly helps participants with clues for better performance.

Typical Role Play designs

Interviews - Developing sensitive, focused and business-centric interviewers

Induction - Bridging the academia-industry divide to enhance the transition to the workplace

Difficult situations - How to convey the “bad” news with grace, how to minimize the “stress” associated with an “exit”, how to inculcate the right work culture, how to promote ethics at the work place

Appraisals - How to eliminate acrimony among groups and improve camaraderie for effective performance management

Change management - How to inculcate the desired culture across the enterprise in ripple-causing situations like M & As, takeovers, technology adoption, diversification and business fluctuations

Learning by experience

The sessions conveying the importance of brevity and preciseness of role play sessions to participants should be more elaborate. Else, many participants seem lost on defining the purpose of the role play session, even if they do it successfully, they are not able to drive it with conviction.

Role players need to be conveyed with more clarity that this media is not for displaying their acting prowess, but for “living” the role of a guinea pig which subtly helps participants understand the hidden aspects of day-to-day human interactions and emotions .

Since the participants are the ambassadors of the program, it would be a good idea to recognize good performance, such that the good word spreads across the organization – this will help convey the message that role plays deliver measurable business value , it’s not a mere fun session. It will also help minimize the popular contempt against this tool as being a “non-business” pastime.

Even though the role players need not grasp the depth of the domain/technical knowledge, a curtain raiser can be arranged by the facilitators for a quick summary of the essence of the role.

The observers can be powered to with more authority to be able to control and monitor off-track and derailed situations rather than citing them in offline conversations.

Get wiser, be a miser

2009-06-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

The other day, an outing at a remote place taught me some precious life lessons about human psychology. It's surprising how some people never seem to mend their ways, worse, they take pride in showing their true colors at the first given opportunity.

You extend help to them at odd hours, go out of the way to accommodate them, put their interest before yours ...only to learn an indisputable fact of life: that stinginess can be an acute mental disorder for some folks.

In fact, it's a life mission for them...one that inspires these great souls to save money at any cost, and extract maximum mileage out of the monies "forcefully" spent.

Thanks to them, I learnt some innovative ways to "ensure" the last laugh when it comes to shelling out money.

Sharing a few gems in public interest:

...Like drink alcohol straight from the bottle if you need to fully recover your "share" of the cost. This way, you drink exactly for what you have paid for. And if you have a tendency to go bonkers on a couple of drinks, you can rest assured that the other guys don't guzzle at your expense.

...Like never take your own car out on dusty, bumpy roads. Try and travel in working class cars owned by lesser mortals. Not only do you save on fuel, wear and tear, you can ridicule people of "lowly" status - who travel in Maruti 800s, who don't own lavish homes, who belong to the deprived class.

...Like driving is not about mind power, it's about power steering and windows. It's not about safe driving, it's about exclusive rights on the road, in line with the car's price. The more expensive the make, more exclusive the rights. It's not about the car's intrinsic value, it's about the car's market value.

...Like you should check and double check the "calculations" before you shell out your peanuts.

...Like you should shell out your share with a heavy heart, as if you have gone bankrupt.

...Like you should always carry your plastic money to remote areas such that you can wear your plastic smile in declaring your willful insolvency.

...Like you should host the cheapest possible dinners and satisfy all your value-added cravings when you are a guest.

...Like you should always assume that the guys you are trying to squeeze are dumb and you can outsmart them with your innovative money-saving strategies.

If you follow the tips and tricks painstakingly cited above, you will be very happy in life...at what cost is anybody's guess, and besides the point.

Happy saving! Happy craving!

Out of the woods with Bollywood

2009-05-22T21:23:00.000-07:00

It was a cold, windy night. Typical of the region. I was shocked to hear the clock strike one, engrossed all this while in some heart-to-heart conversation with a couple of my office colleagues in the cosy confines of their home in Almaty, Kazakhstan. I was to leave by 11 but lost track of time in the course of our sojourn.

Suddenly, the thought of making it back to my den sent a chill down my spine. The distance was truly overwhelming and reaching back was mandatory. My workplace was a stone's throw from my abode and I had an early morning meeting the next day.

These are the times you miss home the most. The sultry weather,chaotic pavements,crowded suburban trains,the filth and the garbage...just about everything is fine..for you reach home in good old Mumbai at any hour,from any corner...

After a dazed goodbye, thanks to the Vodka consumed in generous sips, I went down the stairs to find a cab. Taxis in Kazakhstan are a difficult proposition at night - you are at the mercy of some private car owners trying to make a fast buck - guided by the lure and influence of alcohol, in the same breath! And there's something more that hits you...An all-pervading gloom blossoms here after dark that makes the pathos of the place come alive with the lights.

Kazakhstan is facing an identity crisis of sorts - the sharp contrast of the Soviet era control and the post break-up fission has taken its toll .. The economy is confused, if not chaotic. The rich, famous, intelligent and the educated have taken to banking - the grand, old flourishing business worldwide. In fact, my very presence in Almaty was in the capacity of an IT consultant for a leading bank.

The R & D, OR and analytical heads, the once "prized possessions" of the Soviet Union, have either fled to the US (where else) or turned to software (where else again) in the hope of material prospects. But life is hell for the working class.

The disillusionment is the worst for the elderly. Disowned by their sons and daughters, they are invariably at the mercy of inadequate pensions. The young among the homeless have taken to begging. Gambling and prostitution are rampant. Night travel is risky, if not fatal.

As I waited on the pavement, a huge Soviet Lada - the most popular working class car in Kazakhstan - slowed down near me and casually parked to the side. I felt like a suspect KGB spy - a marked man, being tracked by his own men. To my relief, this was only a resident posing as a cabbie. He offered help - paid help, but help all right.

I began with whatever Russian that my tongue could manage:

Dvyesti...I murmured! Tristaa! He retorted...

This was the fare negotiation in tenge - the Kz currency. I offered two hundred , he wished three hundred and nothing less..this came to about 100 rupees spelt in Indian currency. His wish was obviously my command on that dark, windy night.

Even as I was happy at the economy of the bargain, pat came the condition in broken English - He would drop me at the nearest block and from there, I would have to walk down to my apartment. Coz he had no time.

The proposition was scary on two counts - one, the hour was unearthly and two, my lane was infested with some suited booted beggars who favoured this time for some great begging sessions....

In broad daylight, you could ignore them, but certainly not now...but I had no choice anyway.

I hopped in, and, soon realized, we had another passenger seated next to him..a fair, skinny girl... perhaps in her early twenties. Like most Russian women, she was exceptionally beautiful. My heart skipped a beat - not at the prospect of meeting a damsel at midnight, but in anticipation of some big time trouble - blackmail, kidnap, mugging...

But the impending nuisance had a different flavour. The couple was busy enjoying their moments of togetherness and the affection was crossing all socially acceptable limits of public display. He looked back now and then - his eyes half-seeking my approval for the strip tease and half showing an "I-don't-care" emotion...
She was giggling endlessly.

"You from country?" he asked, all of a sudden.

"India" I replied back - happy at the seemingly harmless question.."How much money" was the one that I was fearing (although like me, even he would not have approved of my legendary deputation allowance, had he asked)

"Indiaaaaa", his eyes lit up. Even the lady seemed interested now, her giggles uninterrupted.

"Ah, aiswaryaaaa rae",he smiled to glory...I nodded - feeling like the recipient of a Padmashree.

"amitbh bachaaaan" came the next query followed by the same gesture from me,

"mitun chkraberty" this time, I had a broad smile, like an interviewee during the final rounds when he knows he's in...

My poise seemed to signify as if the prolific lady and the distinguished gentlemen in question were my next-door neighbors.

I roped in Raj Kapoor and Rishi Kapoor for more effect but the effort boomeranged. The names did not raise any eyebrows - probably that would have delighted the guy's father of a generation earlier...

Nevertheless, the scene now changed dramatically... He was exchanging sweet nothings with her while she giggled even more (probably, she was paid more for the giggles) but now the affinity was reassuring. And the public display made way for some decent conversation - hand in hand - like two lovers dating before marriage.

The new-found warmth cocooned a huge reward for me too. Contrary to the deal, I was dropped right at my gate and the fare was renegotiated back to Dvyesti - the discount on account of Aishwarya, Amitabh and Mithun - my close friends from India.

As I got out of the rusty car, they shook hands with me, she giggled even as I bade Dasvidaniya, and they waited till I disappeared in the stair case of my building...

...as a mark of respect for the guy who came from the land of tinsel town celebrities.

And all this while I thought Bollywood was a big waste of money...I never knew my passion for this industry would win me friends in a foreign country at an odd hour against all odds.

The next morning, as I passed the bustling traffic square, on my way to office, I could not help offering my humble salutations in the direction of the giant hoarding that showed a smiling Aishwarya Rai recommending a wrist watch of Swiss make to the world at large...

...For some non-entities of Indian make, this advertisement was as emotional as it was commercial.

Out-of-court settlement

2009-05-15T21:36:00.000-07:00

It was sometime last year that a fine gentleman, a distinguished member of our residential premises, proposed the brilliant idea of marking a badminton court in the open area next to the car park.

Fortunately, this idea was given the "no objection" certificate by one and all. The court was marked - a tad shorter than the customary specifications - to accommodate the Honda Cities, Hyundai Accents and Maruti Swifts resting in the parking lot.

Initially, we were only a few inspired souls on the court once in a while, soon the fever settled on alternate weekends...subsequently it became a weekly habit and eventually we had daily loyalists waiting with bated breath for the clock to strike seven in the evening...the time when play begins every day.

The game began but we never realized, more than the court, the players themselves were "marked" by roving eyes from unknown quarters.

Any growing popularity invites attention, and attention makes way for nuisance - soon many a voice of discontent were floating in the air -

"They make a lot of noise";

"Why block the area when we have a handful of them swearing by the game?";

"We have a tough time parking our cars";

"Our guests find it difficult to walk by the side";

"The shuttle cock can cause damage to our cars";

The excuses were many but the aim was one - to bring the game down.

The climax came in the form of a notice "requesting members to co-operate and abstain from making noise as it was examination time for students"

The notice was the "ad hoc" handiwork of a certain lady, self appointed patron of the society and member of the "ad hoc committee" who had her "child" appearing for the X standard board exams during this period.

The badminton court was hardly the source of commotion - save for the occasional shouts and sighs of the players. In sharp contrast, the hyena-like laughs and heated debates emanating from the very place that "housed" the X standard child was the biggest cause of noise pollution - yet, came the notice - generously backed by some ever-disgruntled souls - on and off the adhoc committee - trying their best to settle old scores on this convenient premise.

Also lending unconditional support were the usual mischief mongers (a universal sect across the globe) whose favorite pastime is backbiting and bitching around during the desolate evening hours...Then there were those who chose to be on either side - trying to please all and offend none. They were seen playing on the court cheering our cause, and yelling off it too, supporting our detractors.

Much to the dismay of the protesting tribe, our game continued. And the patrons grew by the day. Today, we have members of all age groups sweating it out on the court. Prime among them are bubbly kids, enthusiastic housewives and working women - regulars at the court, intent on taking their game to the next level - each passing day. It feels great to watch them deliver confident smashes, astute drops and clever placements.

The court is now a rich source of inspiration and the reservoir of some 24-carat enjoyment. Not only has it fostered the sporting spirit in our locality, it has lent meaning and purpose to the vacuumed existence of us city-dwellers - breaking the monotony, bringing work-life balance.

Precisely why, all of us come together each day, our founder gentleman included - notwithstanding the litany of hurdles:

The shuttle cock is often caught by the swaying trees above us, the net is raised now and then to make way for passing cars, passerbys & bikes make sudden on-court intrusions, savage flat owners drop garbage from their windows...

...the list is endless, but the spirit is never-say-die. Staying put on court, we have achieved a wonderful out-of-court settlement.

Judicious, if not judicial.

Mumbai Indians and the IPL Bazzar

2009-05-15T00:14:00.000-07:00

The Mumbai Indians did lose their close IPL encounter with the Rajasthan Royals but not before we caught a tiny glimpse of the vintage Sachin - few of his strokes past the bowler - especially in the Ravindra Jadeja over - were a treat to watch! And Abhishek's heroics at the fag end deserve every accolade - this lad is a humble assassin - one of MI's best talents - may his tribe grow - within Mumbai Indians and among Indians.

The MI team management continued on its wayward track - busy making things more difficult than they were - helping the opponents with the "extra" thrust to outshine them. Jayasurya in the middle order (worse than dropping him), Duminy wasted (worse than forcing him to open)... And what was Harbhajan doing, stealing a single when he could have taken it upon himself. The blunders were many..the less discussed, the better!

Nevertheless,this was not a shameful defeat, they had almost reached the shore...unlike some of the early encounters where they gave up even before taking on the challenge.

One of the worst tortures of IPL, especially in the context of such poignant defeats, is to suffer the needless C-grade melodrama in the name of "extraa innings" that surrounds it.

We had two cheerleaders of the puke brigade - the plastic Shilpa Shetty faking the "prayer" act and the highly intimidating Mandira Bedi exposing her cricket "gyan" laced in her repulsive curves.

It's pathetic how Ms. Bedi is allowed to torture some of the living legends with the most pathetic of questions - and when she runs out of gas, she's quick to bank on her friends - back in the studio - coupled with animated, jaded gestures of the highest order.

So very nauseating is the fake environment (maybe, that's what inspired the Fake IPL blog) that it's now begun to affect the pros as well -

Our Harsha Bhogle is busy showering mindless sermons all the while - he has no time for good old plain commentary any more. Consider these expert comments (read enactments) in his inimitable (and now irritating) style:

"Now, somebody, somebody of the two, needs to take charge... someone needs to fire, else the situation will just get worse from here",

"it's so difficult for a batsman to change gears - imagine one saying, now I have been hitting singles so far, never mind, now I'll start hitting all over the park"

"This is the second over, that's 10 percent of the innings, remember"

"Now, that's only a single, Warne won't mind that, he won't for sure! What he'll say - hey, take as many singles as you can, but no boundaries and sixes, mate!"

Mr. Bhogle, will you stop analyzing simple facts that all know...we know you are an MBA but only a commentator, and not an expert at that!

And our dear friend Arun Lal, suffered some hangover as well last night -

Commenting on the Mumbai management, he erroneously "crowned" the Deccan Chargers' Darren Lehmann as the coach of the Mumbai Indians - much to host Gaurav Kapur's delight - the highly over-rated compere was more than happy to correct his guest with ruthless and insensitive authority.

Victories and defeats are part of the game - but the nuisance value of the IPL carnival is truly unnerving. The players on the field have to hold their nerves to win matches, we off the field have to do that only to stay tuned.

The Mumbai Indians have two more encounters - both against proven heavyweights
led by two of Sachin's most illustrious successors - Sehwag and Dhoni.

Perhaps all is not lost yet, but the Mumbai Indians look yet lost!

For old time's sake

2009-05-12T20:23:00.000-07:00

The other day, nine of us were off to a resort near Alibaug to catch some vintage moments of peace and tranquility, away from the din of city life.

This was a sort of get-together for old time's sake. Having spent close to eleven years of my life in Virar - the last and lost station on Mumbai's bustling Western Railway - my bond with the place and its people is special.

There have been several Virar moments that I cherish to this day - those were my early years of work life - most of it spent commuting on the tracks to and fro - Virar to Churchgate and back - day in and day out. Whatever time was left out, I spent with this Alibaug gang - playing pranks, whiling time and making merry. Most of them were kids then...few were grown up, others were toddlers. The pleasures were trivial but never seemed so...to this day.

Each passing day, I saw them grow up to the realities of life. Today, all are well placed or rising in the vocations of their choice - artistes, singer-composers,engineers,software professionals,accountants,technicians...

It felt great to be part of the merriment - all of us happy to relive old moments with the same intensity. From age 21 to 39, we were all kids on a common plane, celebrating our togetherness in the quiet vicinity of the beach house.

In this so-called age of material pleasures, this unconditional reunion - without rhyme or reason,without aim and agenda, was indeed heartening...a living proof of true emotions in motion...that defy time and the vagaries of life.

For old time's sake...

What's wrong with Sachin Tendulkar?

2009-05-08T19:40:00.000-07:00

Watching the Mumbai - Delhi IPL match yesterday was a nightmarish experience to say the least. More than the shameful defeat, it was Sachin Tendulkar's body language that was cause for widespread embarrassment for all those like me... who love Mumbai and Sachin in equal measure.

It was a perfect recipe for disaster that Sachin had so painstakingly prepared - dropping Sanath and forcing Duminy to open were two unpardonable offenses - more ghastly than the decision to bring himself on for the dreadful 19-run gift on a platter.

At least, the bowling aspiration had some method in the madness - the lure of spin following Duminy's success with the ball in the match and Sachin's track record as a bowler (do we still remember the last over of the HERO cup?)

That the gamble boomeranged was another issue..

But how can one drop Sanath Jayasurya? - whatever his current form - you drop him and you lose three-in-one - an excellent fielder, a wily bowler and a superlative match-winner batsman...

Is there anything called team meeting in the Mumbai camp - one wonders?

Shaun Pollock & Jonty Rhodes... do you say something at all, if at all you have a say!

Time and again, we see the Mumbai players repeating what they do worst - Bravo impresses with a quick-fire knock and just when you expect him to break loose, he loses his cool... and of course his wicket.

Abhishek Nayar seems desperate to either run himself out or attempt a cross-batted heave at the first opportunity. He succeeds in his mission every single time.

Harbhajan comes out for a stroll - fancies a shot or two and bids good bye exactly when you need him to slog it out.

Malinga, one of the leading wicket takers in the tournament, bowls four great balls in an over, followed by two forgettable deliveries and it's all over.

Duminy begins well, consolidates in style and when the time is ripe for the final wrap, he succumbs without a fight!

And watching this circus, match after match, is our ring(read wing) master Sachin, wearing a wry smile, perhaps secretly whipping himself in KADAKLAKHSMI fashion.

Mr Mukesh Ambani - Sachin may have great celebrity supporters like Aamir Khan singing his praises and applauding his cricketing skills but that hardly helps your cause. Thank your stars - Anil is not in the IPL race - for a second, imagine him backing Delhi or Hyderabad! Scary, is it not?

And when it comes to waving flags, Priety Zinta, her stupid giggles and hugs notwithstanding, looks more confident than your wife - given the heroics of Yuvi and his guys who perish, but perish in style!

We all love Sachin for what he has achieved and is capable of but does that condone his lethargic ways, suspect captaincy and worse, his adamant stance of playing the doctor rather than undergoing an honest diagnosis as an ailing patient.

Hope is the hallmark of a Mumbaikar...we still hope of Mumbai going for the kill, winning the rest of the encounters and booking a semi-final berth eventually...

Sachin, we would still watch your next game(s) but get back Sanath...he's still your best bet! Sanath Power! Go get it ...Else, do share your thoughts on playing a non-playing captain for a change!

First Among Equals

2009-04-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

The other day, I had the privilege of visiting the world-class plant of an established global beverage in one of the principal cities of Maharashtra. Sadly, this honour came wrapped in a package of third-rate disappointment - the amazing gentleman who was instrumental in coordinating our visit voiced enough sterling views to make you lose faith in humanity.

The revered sire belongs to a caste that stakes exclusive claims to culture and intellect in Maharashtra. Having half-inherited this clan from my mom, I already have an insider view into the parochial and anti-human beliefs of this high and mighty club....but what I heard was nothing less than shocking.

According to him, human beings come in three slabs of a self-sprung pyramid - at the top are the blessed members of his community, then come the "other" brahmins, and at the lowest rung are the non-brahmins. Best-in-class is only about being best-of-breed...he tells you straight. His disgusting thoughts notwithstanding, I admire the intensity of his audacity - that's intact in the seemingly "equal opportunity" environment of the MNC that employs him.

To match his foolish authority are his intense gestures - the bulging eyes full of contempt for lesser mortals like me...And to render an unconditional and overwhelming applause to his great sermons, we had few members from his tribe, unfortunately in the wrong group - who were visibly reassured of their "supreme status" in the world through his pearls of wisdom.

The high-tech operations of the plant proved a stark contrast to the dehumanizing and regressive ways of one of its managers. Personally, it was a matter of shame for me to find such a narrow-minded individual in a plant that boasts of broad-based operations across the globe.

His sympathizers are quick to point out a lame excuse in a meek defense - that the lower castes have won favors and reservations from the powers-that-be for long and that this contempt for the "lowly" is the need of the hour... Nothing can be more shameful.

This is not to defend the anti-social protests of the scheduled tribes as also the impotent government protection offered to ensure power-giving "vote banks". The sad part is we do not wish to look at the whole picture - we open versions that suit our purpose - whether it's a Dalit seeking to win a favour based on reservation or a Brahmin blaming the world for his "helpless" status - each clings to the version of choice...When would we care to look at the whole picture, to analyze the whole story - what went wrong and what can we learn from history?

The next decade, they say, belongs to India..

We surely are making rapid global strides but are we growing as individuals - we sure are far away from the new paradigm of "global citizen"...but we can at least cover some ground in treating each one of us as an equal, honorable and dignified citizen of this country - with every right to carve a niche in respective spheres. We can break many a ground on the strength of this simple and humane belief.

Till such time, the "Best" in Best-in-class and Best-of-breed runs the risk of being a claim sponsored by parochial patronage.

Luck By Chance - Brilliance By Design

2009-02-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

The movie Luck By Chance gives you sheer unadulterated delight,a rare experience these days. This outstanding film is a bold statement of debutant director Zoya Akthar on the elusive and enigmatic phenomenon called the Hindi Film Industry. The theme in itself is potent and colorful – a subject not novel by any chance - but Zoya goes several steps ahead to make umpteen observations with amazing sensitive detachment. This treatment is indeed one-of-a-kind – a feat that deserves every award and accolade from all possible quarters.
Luck By Chance tells the story of Sona Mishra, a small town girl aspiring to make it big in tinsel town. She goes through the predictable rounds of struggle and bumps into Vikram Jaisingh – a graceful opportunist – a struggler trying his offbeat charms on all potential victims. An unnamed bond develops between the two – an intricate mix of love, lust, support, care and respect.
Sona’s path of struggle is more sincere - dependant on the perceived goodness of people around her – principally the fly-by-night producer Chowdhary, who has plotted her career graph well in advance – a certain role at a certain time will launch her into stardom and till then, it’s wait and watch. She waits and watches –till the gloom of her doom leaves her shattered.
Vikram on the other hand, tries every trick under his sleeve and, with loads of luck, becomes a star overnight. The usual distance leaves both at two ends of the tunnel – both victims of their respective situations. Vikram glows in the dazzle of his stardom and deserts Sona. In a weak, vulnerable moment, he comes back to reclaim his support system but this time round, Sona has matured and blatantly points out the weak spot in their relationship – his self-centered world of claims.
Leaving him at the mercy of his stardom, Sona comes to terms with the reality of her life – she loves her job, she earns decent money and her independence is never challenged in this big, bad city – all enough to help her make a decision – to be happy. Ironically enough, she owes this state of mind to his casual sermons during their moments of togetherness – a decantation that settles the sediments of deep meaning in her core as an afterthought.
Zoya Akthar shows loads of cinematic flair in what is her debut effort. Her style is a collage of vibrant techniques – At times, she lets the camera speak its own (The “exist” in lieu of “exit” in front of a doorway says what thousand words could not) and there are junctures where the dialogues drive the show. Somewhere in the middle of the story, the focus turns rather lopsided in favour of the male lead, nevertheless things happen in quick succession and there's hardly a dull moment.

Zoya is immensely helped by two of the most competent artistes the silver screen has ever seen – Konkona Sen Sharma & Farhan Akthar. Farhan does disturb the poise of his character in certain frames by almost turning into the host of “Oye, it’s Friday” (like the scene where he can’t resist a pun “no more horsing around”) but Konkona is superlative throughout – she leaves no stone unturned in making her character immortal in the annals of film history.Both show exceptional restraint in underplaying their solemn moments - the effect flowering like it should without playing to the gallery.

And for some vintage company is an august support cast – never seen in such true-to-life avatar on celluloid – Rishi Kapoor as the innocently pompous, happy-go-lucky producer, Dimple Kapadia as the slimy, venomous star queen of yester years, Aly Khan as the matter-of-fact seasoned producer, Sanjay Kapoor as the stupid, confident flop actor-turned-sloppy director, Juhi Chawla as the typical doting housewife of affluent homes and above all, Anurag Kashyap as the poor, victimized script writer caught in a intricate whirlwind of commercial demands and artistic urge (Kashyap unearths vintage dark humor with such effortless grace in the limited screen footage allotted to him)Saurabh Shukla looks jaded - the "Satya" fame actor falls short of the benchmark he is known for.

But who can forget Hrithik Roshan, an integral part of the film. His sensitive portrayal has not left the archetypal pug mark of a special appearance – there’s nothing casual about his character – he breathes it with as much intensity as Farhan and Konkona do. Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy pour their very best in “Sapno se bhare Naina” – a song that says it all in such simple words – the lyrics and the music were made for each other.

Luck By Chance is a milestone movie…as Dil Chahtaa Hai was some years back…Hope our film industry is blessed with more of such creative siblings. With more Luck by chance perhaps!

Indian Curry, British Bowl

2009-02-18T19:16:00.000-08:00

Danny Boyle knew he had a global winner in the script of Q & A. The generous accolades for the film from the world over tell many a tales of orchestrated creativity and populist strategem.If Slumdog makes you happy at its global success, it also leaves you sullen at the falling standards of film making and the over-accommodating benchmarks as to what constitutes creativity.

The film tells the story of Jamaal Malik - a slum dweller with starry-eyed ambition to make it big in life..but not at the cost of his simple morality that remains unadulterated in the hustle bustle of the metropolis. As he grows up to the realities of life around him, the resolve to defy his fate becomes even stronger.

And as we would expect of a Indian cinemascope product, success greets him on the way with dramatic twists and turns as he becomes a millionaire and wins back his childhood love. Boyle relies on all the gimmickry that fills an Indian film - and the usual wow-a-Britisher-makes-an-Indian-film hysteria helps his cause too.

The artistes are no great shakes in terms of capabilities - Both Dev Patel and Frieda Pinto cash in on the jackpot that they hit - and who would not - but they fall short of histrionics in crucial scenes - at best, they are passable. Anil Kapoor plays a character that's hardly developed - the audience is left wondering about the reason for his loud n' wicked ways - and the "live" feel of the TV show Kaun Banega Crorepati is ridiculous (The Patel and Kapoor rendezvous in the loo during the commercial break is the height of stupidity)The frame showing the child Jamaal going all over, rolled in shit, (literally) in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of superstar Amitabh Bachchan is as disgusting as it is unreal (Amitabh ka helicopter...Amitabh ka helicopter..shouts a slum urchin! - what filthy drama) Mahesh Manjrekar ends his screen oblivion with a half-baked role that he makes even more unconvincing.

The best part of the theme is the way it begins ....with the four options asking how Patel won the coveted millionaire crown - "it is written" - says the screen at the end...brilliant stuff. Even the scenes of the working class cross-section glued to television screens watching their favorite TV show are beautifully done.The child artistes are wonderful.

A R Rahman, Gulzar and Pokutty's Oscar fame is indeed the highlight of the film's recognition. Not that their glowing talent was in need of any firang acknowledgment - but the Oscar win is the real Jai Ho!

Akshay kumar's Chinese disaster

2009-02-05T23:04:00.000-08:00

Akshay Kumar happens to be my favorite star-actor in hindsight. During his early years on celluloid , he seemed bland, if not repulsive...running around trees with Raveena Tandons and Shilpa Shettys or flinging roundhouse punches at Amrish Puris and Gulshan Grovers. Even his serialized Khiladi success was not enough to make him a star to reckon with - he was only headed to fade away as an also-ran of Bollywood. But his 40-plus success is a story of great determination that hardly seemed destined.

Somewhere, I don't know exactly when, he made his mark as a great comedian star capable of using the nuances of the film medium to great effect, the way Govinda carved his own niche. Perhaps, it took a Priyadarshan to unearth the seemingly non-actor's value proposition.

His current status is an inspiration to all those who don't stand a chance in the normal scheme of things. He is so refreshingly different from the celebrity circus....No nauseatingly pompous six-pack claims, no narcissist marketing gimmickry, no narrow minded strategies of angry old men....Akshay's mass appeal is truly class apart.

His films are no great shakes in terms of innovation - but he surely makes them look innovative. He is accused of stealing the show in every frame -but rarely has the audience complained in the bitter tone that his co-stars wail in. And the stars who are used to rocking center-stage with their plastic "Chak de" smiles can never ever match the rustic appeal of this aging star.

Singh is King was labeled a no-brainer by the critics and self-proclaimed film pundits but it turned out to be quite an entertaining film. The presence of the prolific Om Puri made it even more enduring. Staking no claims to intellectual supremacy or socially relevant purposes, it stood out as a thoroughly entertaining product - far more sincere than the Sajjanpurs of the world.

Precisely why, I chose to watch Chandni Chowk to China in a theatre closer home - a costly proposition in these times of recession. The disappointment was more than grave - the film is neither a fantasy, nor a social drama - the creative team behind the curtains has made a perfect mess of a potentially powerful script - Akshay does his usual bit but the lack of a theme leaves him gasping for breath.

The best frame in the film is the Kungfu training regime made special by the guy who plays the role of Akshay's Guru. Kailash Kher's background score makes perfect company for those electrifying moments when Akshay moves from strength to strength to become a master himself - entertaining stuff.

The rest of the scenes are a drag - there are times when even the usually noisy front rows of the hall sat in dismay - not making any sense of the going-ons. Deepika Padukone offers great visual delight but has a long way to go in her histrionics - she can learn a bit more on comic timing from her illustrious co-star of the movie.

If this film was meant to be Akshay's life story in reels, it's such a poor tribute.

It's high time Akshay turns his attention to some meaning in his meaty roles. With his new-found style, authority and success, he's in a far better position to take risks on offbeat subjects.

Else, why lutaye karod to watch a tod marod dil ka chor?

A date with three states

2009-01-04T20:04:00.001-08:00

Who: me, wife, kiddo
What: A leisure trip
Where: Karnataka and Goa
Why: No particular reason
How: Our humble Maruti 800
When: December 22 - December 26, 2008

We left Thane on December 22nd at 4.00 am. The Thane - Navi Mumbai patch was bearable in the dawn-lit environment - we crossed the industrial belt in less than 30 minutes.Before we realized, it was the sleepy township of Panvel greeting us with open arms. Offering our customary salutations to the Panchmukhi Hanuman on the way, we entered the Panvel-Pen road that marks the beginning of what has now become our second home - the scenic National Highway No. 17...what with our umpteen trips to Goa without rhyme or reason.

We reached Wadhkhal Naka (a popular intersection known for its Wada Pavs) at 5.45 am - a left turn from this point introduces you to the ensuing greenery and pleasing road bends.

Nagothane - Kolad - Mangaon took us to Mahad - here was our first tea break. Rejuvenated, we resumed the journey on the Poladpur - Khed patch. We stopped for breakfast at Pratapgadh point midway on the long winding stretch of the majestic Kashedi ghat. The time was 8.30 am.

The journey continued ahead through Chiplun passing through the rather dull stretch of Lanja - Rajapaur. Here, we had our lunch break of home-made methi parathas and chatni under the green cover by the roadside. The afternoon was in its full 1.00 pm splendour.

We now entered the scenic Sindhudurg region - a place whose amazing ecosystem is needlessly disturbed by the huge posters of local politicians all over the place.
The drive ahead via Kankavli and Kudal was smooth - slowed down only due to the occasional bullock cart in the way...

Sawantwadi came and went by - the hair pin bends of Banda also passed by and we now entered the territory which epitomizes merriment in gay abandon - GOA. Mapusa to Panaji was just like the usual city travel - with modern wheeled machines desperately trying to roar past you... with the typical urban disdain for a smaller vehicle.And if the smaller vehicle happens to be fast..the contempt gets even more venomous.

We found our way through the noisy traffic to reach Miramar Beach at 4.30 pm - our first stop-over in the cosy cottage of GTDC beach house. The night was adorned with Xmas festivities. We enjoyed a light dinner and refreshing beer at the resort hotel.

The next day, we left at 6.00 am for Mhalsa temple, Ponda before embarking on the way to the coastal state of Karnataka. Before that, we had tea and bread at a cosy hotel just before Margaon.

First came Karwar, then Ankola, followed by Kumta, then Honavar, next Murdeshwar - Bhatkal - the splendid Marvanthe beach to Kundapur, where we had lunch at a small joint offering vegetarian meals served in banana leaves...truly sumptuous and filling.The time was 1.30 pm.

We resumed with new vigour...Saligram - Udupi was a quiet drive.Thankfully, the traffic was bearable and after losing our way for a while in the congested township of Udupi, we reached Hotel Karavali on the NH 17 at Udupi at 3.00 pm - our stop-over for the second night.

The hotel is modest in ambience but very warm in hospitality - an ideal stop-over for the weary long-distance traveler. In the evening, we had a leisure walk through the adjoining Malpe Beach - where we booked a room at the wonderful Paradise Isle for the next day.

The next morning, we left the hotel at 6 pm. for an unforgettable drive on the NH 17 Udupi - Mangalore stretch. Thanks to the friendly native folks, we were advised the right routes at the right time, all through our brief sojourn at Karnataka.

We had tea at a roadside stall just before Mulki and the friendly stall guy proved some great company in the wee hours. He tore few pages of his life book while we had tea - his enthusiasm was infectious, his concern unconditional.

We took a left diversion from Mulki. This was the route to Karkala where another left fork way ahead takes you to Moodbidri. Some way further down, you reach Hosanadu, home to the sprawling Annapoorneshwari temple housing a 61-feet Hanuman idol - a picture of humility and strength bundled together. The time was 8.30 am.

From here, we proceeded through Karkala for Sringeri through the Kudremukh forest region. The road immediately after the forest region was pathetic - construction workers and bulldozers greeting us mile after mile on the narrow winding path.

Sringeri, the holy town housing the Adi Sankaracharya Math, arrived at 11.00 am. The math and the temple is divine, clean and sanctified by spiritual grace but the area outside is shabby, filthy and congested.

After the darshan, we left for Udupi, this time through the small scenic villages of Perduru and Agumbe.At Perduru, we had a great lunch at a small joint - boiled rice, sambar with curry leaves, rasam and chutni - a meal that was made unforgettable by the sheer simplicity of the family that served us.

Before Agumbe, we shopped for some handicrafts at a local shop. Mud idols, wall hangings and fancy stuff - great to look at, and easy on the pocket.

We reached Udupi via Manipal to reach the beach resort at Malpe Beach at 3.30 pm. This was the stop-over for the third night. The evening was spent at the virgin beach and dinner was at the exquisite bar and restaurant facing the beach.The resort is well maintained but the service is poor. The staff needs an orientation program in customer service at the earliest. The owner could spend more time supervising the staff rather than hosting special dinners for chosen dignitaries.

The next morning, the clock stuck six when we left for the return journey to Goa. We had breakfast at a Udupi joint before Kundapur at 7.30 am. The next halt was directly after Margaon en route Panjim at the Mhalsa Residency - typical mouth-watering Goan food..try the Goan thali of several fish varieties packed in one meal. You will love it.

The time was 2.30 pm.

Passing through Panjim and Mapusa, we checked in at the Vittal Kamat Hotel in Sawantwadi at 4.00 pm - our stop-over for the fourth night.A great place - clean and tidy. But no frills - no non-veg or bar, if you are looking for spice. You would get that in the town aplenty - although there's a dearth of decent family restaurants in Sawantwadi. Buy some goodies from the stuffed markets instead.

The next day, we began at 5.00 am, had brief halts at Sangmeshwar (Swad Sangmeshwar, a good place for snacks and tea) Mahad (Vittal Kamat Udupi varieties for lunch), Pen (Hotel Karnala for snacks, in fact I had a chicken thali here) to reach our Thane residence at 5 pm (But for the traffic at Kalwa that made us travel back through Airoli to enter via Mulund, we would have been home by 4.00 pm)

Five days and Four nights....the fascinating trip is long over but etched in memory for life...Looking forward to the next one.

Virar to Churchgate - I

2008-11-15T08:07:00.000-08:00

The platform was bustling with the usual action. The same old fear came back to haunt me and settled, as usual, in my stomach.

Will I, won't I?

Hope I am lucky today?

The handsome train, adorned with a fresh coat of paint, arrived with dignity...slow, rhythmic, inviting...come one, come all..hop in if you can..early bird prizes!!

As the metallic creature whizzed past, the green splendour of the first class compartment enticed me as it always did.. But this was no time for yearning. I was ready for the same old battle of brain and brawn.

Hard as I tried, I was caught in a whirlwind of sweating bodies, churning furiously all over me, like the big, fat stones in a rustic factory grinder. Alas! My luck had failed me again. For the third time in succession in the week, I was reduced to a stand-up comedian in the train. Earlier, age was with me. I could digest these failures with the smile of a wounded soldier. But at 38, I was not getting any younger. And now the bones cracked in protest, each time I missed a seat.

I was left tottering on the footboard, trying to put my best foot forward but to no avail. I quickly resigned to my fate for the day. Not that I had any option. Now, it would be a long wait till Dahisar. By that time, I would have two alluring options, squeeze my way in towards the privileged area near the seats or reach the door for a lungful of air.

As I tried to close my eyes for a typical commuter-brand nap, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure right beside me. The sharp, slim nose was still the best hint. I flashed a half-smile, seeking a return favour. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he smiled back.

Yes, that was him! But for god sake, what was he doing here in this goddamed train reserved for lesser mortals. I had known him as an authentic South Mumbai product, oblivious of the suburban travel woes - an epidemic that grew by leaps and bounds, as loads of unfortunate aspirants desperately sought and bought shelter in the insignificant townships beyond the municipal limits of Mumbai. More the number, more the nightmare.

And this fellow drove an Esteem when I craved for a decent bicycle. To this day, a Maruti 800 is an integral part of my cherished dreams. I thought he should have progressed to BMW by now.

My face showed my emotion, or perhaps he guessed it. For a second, he turned his face away, as if to deny my existence but our gestures had long crossed the boundaries where one could put on a fake act.

And he was a hopeless actor. I knew it better than anyone else. How he wished he could ever participate in one of our two-penny college plays. But poor fellow, he was always rejected.

Here he was before me... after ages... dejected for a change!

To be continued.....

Shyam Benegal ki Ajeeb Dastaan

2008-10-17T22:27:00.000-07:00

Having watched Benegal all through my impressionable growing years – both on the silver screen and the small screen - any Benegal product excites me instinctively, long before the actual purchase. Welcome to Sajjanpur (WTS) was no exception. I went all the way, guided by the lure of Benegal, to the nearest multiplex mall that cost me well over Rs 500 (including the customary popcorn and coffee for the family).
But the great expectation made way for some great suffocation. What I saw was a comic creation of a maverick director who seems to have lost his direction. And the emotional despair that pervaded the picture was far greater than the economic disaster that ransacked my pockets.
Zubeida was his previous film that smacked of mediocrity (though he regards it as one of his best) but compared to WTS, it still remains a decent proposition. WTS is clearly Benegal’s worst. And not because WTS is not serious cinema unlike most of his films, but simply because it’s not good cinema. And good cinema is synonymous with Benegal Cinema. Hence the great disappointment!
The WTS story, if there’s any, is Benegal’s own – that of a literate youth Mahadev (Iqbaal fame Shreyas Talpade in the lead role) in Sajjanpur, a village in the Hindi belt of rural India, who makes his living writing letters for fellow dwellers. The community houses a rainbow of characters in true Hindi film fashion – the good, bad and the funny –all underlining their persona through animated gestures. (We agree this is a comedy film but does it have to be comic?)
Mahadev transforms emotions into words – and the letters travel varied distances with the desired messages. A lot happens around Mahadev in abruptly erupting scenes – a fiery election campaign – where a local goon (Yashpal Sharma locked in the same old stereotype of a baddie) is challenged by an aspiring eunuch (played to perfection by Ravi Jhankal), a love story (Ravi Kishen and the Benegal favorite Rajeshwari in one of their worst performances)blooming in the dark behind the back of a retired miltary guy (Benegal regular Lalit Mohan Tiwari proving a disaster as Subhedar Singh), a superstitious mother desperate to get her Mangalik daughter wedding-ready (Ila Arun: funny and bearable as the mom, Diyva Datta: loud and gawdy as the daughter)

To top it all, we have Mahadev’s own aspiration of becoming a novelist and of course – his barmy desire to woo his childhood crush – the petite Amrita Rao as Kamala Kumharan, who pines for her husband Banshi (Kunal kapoor looking more like a Kashmiri militant than a village simpleton) toiling in the big bad city of Mumbai …

Mahadev provides creative documentation support to one and all. And amidst the professional chores, he carries out his wicked personal mission – trying to separate the husband-wife pair, penning unduly harsh letters on Kamala's behalf and faking Banshi’s replies - in the desperate hope of winning back his lady love.
But only till such time he finds that the husband is about to sell his kidney to make a living. And some Dalda brand melodrama takes over. Mahadev mortgages his land, travels to Mumbai, and hands over the hard cash to Banshi on Kamala's behalf – of course keeping his identity anonymous.

The end has this publisher with a stupid 24*7 grin who congratulates the budding novelist Sukhdev (Mahadev’s new pen name) on his book that sketches the grand narrative of Sajjanpur. And there’s a surprise in store provided you last the whole film in one piece – we see the dashing and explosive Divya Dutta as Mahadev’s wife – “Oh! So they are the ones who got married eventually” the audience is expected to exclaim in ecstasy before they leave the cinema hall.

The film reminds you of those regionally produced Doordarshan telefilms made with meager budgets and mediocre actors, invariably telecast during odd-hours. Several frames compete for the crown of the most disgusting scene – the school flashback showing a caricatured master admonishing the kid Mahadev for kissing the young Kamala, the nauseatingly funny military guy escorting his daughter-in-law for a medical checkup, the military guy chasing a frantic Ravi Kishen out of the village – are few that come close to clinching the title.

Shreyas Talpade shows flashes of brilliance as the leading man but is highly inconsistent with his accent (put on at times) and overacts in certain frames (the red gamcha clutched between his teeth during tongue-in-cheek conversations gets irritating beyond a point) Surprisingly, Amrita Rao is impressive and plays the village belle in line with the demands of the character.

But if there’s anything enduring in the film, it’s Ravi Jhankal’s true-to-life portrayal as the eunuch. Benegal would have done well to make his the central character – he’s one who tells a real story and despite the limited footage, churns out an amazing performance. Daya Shankar Pande (now better known as the small screen Shani Dev) as the snake charmer is another actor who has the audience in splits in the couple of shots he’s been allotted. And Putru (or Kutru) the dog comes out with a spirited performance – trying to make up for the lack of human competence in the acting department.

The film is deprived of effortless humor – very few scenes have the power to sprout a real laughter – like the one where Yashpal has this customary line before kick starting his bike “mamaji baithiye” and the old guy retorts in one instance “hum to pehle hi se baithe hai”.

Fortunately, the film critic community has been kind and forgiving to Benegal for a change. Maybe his “legend” status is now exempt from any X- Ray examinations. Many a reviews have applauded Benegal for the so-called social messages woven through this light-hearted comedy. Well, if the lewd antics of Ravi Kishen and Rajeshwari stand for the noble cause of child widow marriage, we have had enough. Even otherwise, there are enough crude sprinklings probably to keep the masses occupied – one scene showing Talpade suggestively crossing his legs at the mention of Virya (sperm). Now, what’s that – had it been David Dhawan, it would have been termed vulgar, but it’s Benegal, there has to be some deep thought behind it.

Most of the critics have come down heavily on Shantanu Moitra’s music (probably in search of an easy prey) but it’s actually one of the redeeming features of the movie. While KK’s “Sitaram Sitaram” is catchy and Kailash Kher’s “Aaami aazad hai” is soulful, the other numbers are certainly not garbage stuff.

It’s high time Benegal looks beyond his trusted repertoire of support players. Barring Jhankal, the troupe proves highly irksome. And if this jamboree was not enough, we also have the jaded Rajit kapur as the District Collector (another Benegal pet in a mindless guest appearance) Well, if you have to rely on known commodities, why not choose the better among them? If not Naseer and Om, why not Sudhir Kulkarni and Pankaj Berry at least?

Benegal has remarked somewhere that he cannot make a film like Ankur anymore. Times have changed, the relevance is lost, the context is lost. We agree, but why make a movie at all if WTS is his answer. In recent years, Benegal has shown an obsession with celebrity stars and mass appeal ingredients. Right or wrong, we have no right to comment, unaware of the compulsions before him. That his personal brand erodes in the process is however a matter of grave concern. Benegal is our cherished icon in the league of Ray and undoubtedly a national treasure. To this day, the brilliant Hindi translation of the Nasdiya Sukta hymn – the title song of his legendary “Bharat Ek Khoj” gives us goose bumps. Not to mention his timeless creations over the years.

This generation is indeed lucky to have a fighting fit Benegal keen to make more films – but how we wish he does what he does best – tell a story in any genre but only in his inimitable style and armed with indisputable conviction.

Waiting for his next with bated breath.Sitaram!

Two old men and a Wednesday

2008-09-16T22:20:00.000-07:00

When two ageing actors - albeit not of the superstar variety - keep you glued to your seats in the cinema hall without the customary musical interlude, you know the movie has clicked with the audience – and for a change, you don’t need the reassuring statistics of the elusive box office to prove that.

A Wednesday aerates you with freshly infused hope in the vitality of Indian cinema. The story leaves few glaring gaps that highlight the far-fetched story line – hurried attempt at simulating the Die-Hard-like finesse, the common man's ridiculously easy access to RDX in the city, a single television crew covering the whole event end-to-end, being only three of them - but the novelty of the script and the power of the cast turn your attention away from this post mortem. More than anything else, this film is a glowing tribute to two of the best actors India has ever produced. Both Anupam Kher and Naseeruddin Shah prove that lost time has not pushed them past their prime.

The story is simple and told in a matter-of-fact style, so apt for the genre. A common man, refusing to come to terms with an imposed life of continued terror, schemes an uncommon plot that underlines the impotence of the whole system fighting terrorism, police included.

He kicks off his vendetta in the language of terror through an ultimatum to the commissioner of police – release four dreaded terrorists held captive or else see Mumbai go up in flames. As proof of concept, a bomb waiting to be diffused (or is it a bag of RDX) already waits in the station urinal opposite the Police headquarters – a feat that the protagonist accomplishes amidst the chaos of day-to-day police public interaction.

The events that follow tell a story of unique individual daredevilry that is as inspiring as it is unconvincing. The latter is condoned by the inimitable competence of Naseeruddin Shah who knows how to strike gold, whatever the mine field. As the anonymous bomber, he does an amazing tight rope walk – his dialogue delivery packs a neat punch or two but is always in line with the anguish and wherewithal of a common man.

Kher as the upright, nonchalant super cop is superlative – his gestures, walk and mannerisms all breathing a top cop. His dignified demeanor makes you yearn to see him don a similar role in real life, such has been the impact.

He leaves no stone unturned to relish the opportunity that has come his way after an extended string of mindless performances. Both actors, like several of their well meaning counterparts, have long been pendulums swinging between two extremes - On one hand was the mainstream world that reduced them to caricatures for a decent ransom. On the other, was the so-called offbeat tribe – which owned them as intellectual bonded labour for cheap imitations of Rays, Ghataks and Adoors.

Films like Aamir, Khuda Ke Liye and A Wednesday spell good news for these actors and audiences alike – Better late than never!

Distance

2008-08-27T00:53:00.000-07:00

Hotel Girish still wears the same look from outside. Except that it now has a new window that serves Udipi dishes in attractive plastic- wrapped take-away packs over the counter. A package of 30 rupees would now fetch you a Wada sambar and chutney with a soft drink of your choice. This is the brainchild of Anna’s son - a software engineer with an MBA. Just back from the US.
With ready-to-deploy offerings and object oriented approach to solve just about anything in life.

It was a lopsided deal between Father and Son that Anna would “oversee” from time to time, while Girish would “take charge”. A new section serving Chinese cuisine would be launched next month to tap the college crowd that flocks the restaurant in the evenings.

Girish is sure of his cost benefit analysis, Anna is sure of his age. Both have kept their doubts to themselves in perfect harmony.

It was here that they decided to catch up. She would be in India for a week. There was so much to share.....if only they had the time and inclination. Both seemed short of supply and from both ends, he believed.

He was there before time. As always. A diary of past rendezvous flickered before his eyes for a moment. Whether it was the rugged platform of Dombivli station, the latest film at Eros, a harried job interview at Seepz or a cup of masala tea at Hotel Girish, she was always a trifle late to make it.....but with her unmistakable smile to make up.

The thought brought a smile on his lips. He took his seat in the family room. During those days, there was no room for families. And in any case, they were not a family. Just a young pair filled with romance and starry-eyed ambition. They would first bicker with Raghu for the best seat, and then begin their own argument. And Raghu would shake his head in playful disdain placing the plain white teacups on the equally unadorned table made of cheap plastic.

And what sweltering arguments they had! He remembered the day he had really gone overboard, he now thought. And how she left in a rage. Leaving the Chutney Sandwich and the tea untouched.

But wasn’t his proposal far-fetched? To start out on their own...in the small shed near that stinking garage. A public urinal stands there now. At least, it serves its purpose now.

“Rebel code” she had laughed at the name of the proposed outfit. That was what irked him more than her negative inference. She left fuming, leaving the storm in the teacup.

All that rut over that fucking open source ….a movement that now left him stuck with his fabled principles. And a life only incidental.

But how mesmerizing it all appeared then. The barmy desire to be called a rebel. To make a difference at any cost. And that forceful contempt at the mundane “programmer” tribe- desperate for green cards and the predictable chain that followed it – flourishing careers, celebrated homecomings, pompous matrimonial ads, snobbish marriages and the goddamed pride of a foreign-exchange earner.

In sharp contrast, his “code rebel” group. The intellectual sessions on Apache, Linux, Perl, the anti-proprietary campaigns, the free software ideas…

....And to cheer the contempt for the “run-of-the-mill”, those violent meetings at beer bars, cigarette-fumed debates and then the ghastly resort to grass. And where was the fervour gone?

After all that hue and cry, he was only a programmer still…an aging programmer at that, programmed to survive, a non-billable burden for the firm, a member of the lowly “in-house project team”.

Following the futile chase of an elusive dream of a new-wave start-up of radical morals, he was still employed to serve a profit-conscious firm of the same commonplace tribe that he once loathed. And now he wrote inconsequential code for projects that unabashedly promoted the Microsofts and IBMs of the world.

He was surprised to see her wrapped so elegantly in a saree. Still the same smile. The face looked more radiant but the gestures were familiar. As if it was another meeting at Girish plucked out of the past. But there was no Raghu to acknowledge their past. Wonder where’s he now?

He was unsure about her choice for the day and half-expected a fussy denial.... one stamped with US-returned credentials. But he was wrong. She picked up the laminated menu card and placed the order herself.

Idli sambar arrived followed by cold coffee. And then the nostalgia. There was so much for a hearty laugh. The Dombivli chawl, pestering neighbors, Aamir Khan and Juhi Chawla, packed suburban trains, failed job interviews, messy projects with killing deadlines, the clumsy kiss in the packed Eros theatre, besan laddoos in her tiffin; all for him… and of course, the treasure of memories locked in Hotel Girish.

She remembered every single detail, with the passion of an author who breathes the entire script of his novel, however discarded it may have been. He could read the pathos of their story in her eyes, her gestures, her sighs as also her smiles.

They went on and on, till it was dark. Dark enough to curl back in the beam of their respective lives. She got up, and he could see her eyes were moist. So much had changed around them and yet nothing had changed between them. They were still the same.

She was now head of the Grid computing division of her firm, she told him drawing a family snap out of her leather purse. A happy family against the backdrop of the scenic Disney land. Her family. Her land.

He stared at the road on which her cabbie whizzed past. She was on her way to her world and yet she had left her warmth behind. Distinct it was, even in the sultry weather.

As he turned to leave, he bumped into Anna. The old fellow was in a jovial mood, watching the proceedings of the place that he had built - brick by brick. From a distance.

Distance! Yes, was it not the hint…the distance?

He could see it all from there – his bliss in her well-being, the thrill - not the pride - of his off-beat ideals, the chord that still held them together...the love that bloomed on parallel tracks.

Much like Anna’s devotion to his hotel. Amidst his son’s rapid strides, the youthful crowd, Chinese cuisine and the soft drinks.

Only Alter, No Ego!

2008-08-24T19:31:00.000-07:00

The launch of the 22nd issue of the “Gallarie” Magazine at the Crossword bookstore, Kemp’s Corner was blessed with a munificent tinge of colour, thanks to the gracious presence of actor Tom Alter. Sporting a new crew cut-like haircut and scouting for space and seat in the cozy Crossword store, he shared his thoughts with Sudhir Raikar on issues close to his heart.

“I am very happy with my place in the Hindi film industry” he begins, dismissing the pet media claim that Bollywood typecast him in Gora Sahib roles.

“I am disturbed by this muddled media notion that defies both statistic and sentiment. “In the 200-odd films that I have worked in, only 10 have cast me as “The Englishman” baddie, of which only one film called Amma has me speaking broken Hindi – Bollywood’s popular Angrez dialect. Sheer numbers tell the story. Don’t they?”

Does that mean he’s content with his screen track record? “Absolutely. The Ray classic Shataranj ke Khiladi (as Captain Weston) and Ketan Mehta’s Sardar (as Lord Mountbatten) rank very high on the artistic front, but I loved my roles in most of my films - Kranti, Sultanat, Raam Teri Ganga Maili, Veer Savarkar and Parinda, to name a few”

Very few know that Tom starred as the Leading man opposite actress Abha Dulia in Chameli Memsaab – a film that did exceptionally well outside Mumbai and other major metros. Tom is happy with his tryst with the small screen as well “I loved Junoon – playing Keshav Kalsi was undoubtedly one of the highpoints of my career”

And how does he rate the current crop of artistes and films? “Well, they boast of technical finesse but the soul is missing. Corporatization has taken its toll – when the film becomes a product, art takes a back seat” he contends.

“When was the last time we saw Yash Chopra create a movie amidst the flurry of glossy products? Even Subash Ghai has gone the corporate way. The film industry is missing the adventure of film making – I personally miss the big and small banners of yesteryears which unfurled conviction ahead of commerce.”

He is hopeful though. “People Iike Vidhu Vinod Chopra have held fort. I liked the way Vishal Bharadwaj has gone about his directorial avatar – on his own accord. And Rajit Kapur is doing great work. This guy has substance and style.” Alter played a doctor in Kapur’s inspired but innovative “Bheja Fry”

On recent media reports about his directorial plans, he sets the record straight again “This again is a media invention. I aspire to direct one day for sure, but nothing’s lined up as yet. I have the scripts ready for the film, not the finances. I keep my fingers crossed”

Any discussion with Tom can’t be complete without cricket. Coincidently, in the film Dressing Room, Tom played a cricket coach.

“The IPL has taken the charm away. The glamour and the cut throat competition spell bad news for test cricket in particular, as also cricketers like Kumble, Dravid, Ganguly and Laxman. You get slotted before you perform, nothing can be more depressing.”

“In a way, cricket and Hindi films sail in the same boat. Both are the victims of corporatization. If test cricket is a Guru Dutt film, the ultra-limited versions are like mediocre TV serials” he sighs with a smile.

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The interactive panel at Crossword saw “Gallarie” editor Bina Sarkar Ellias discuss the relevance of religion in modern times with four eminent guest speakers – gifted script writer and lyricist Javed Akhtar, academician Zeenat Shaukat Ali, poet, painter and playwright Gieve Patel and of course prolific actor Tom Alter.

Javed Akthar spoke his heart out in his inimitable animated discourse, precisely why he stuck the right chord with the audience. Rephrasing the theme as ‘Should religion be relevant today?’ he uncovered the absurdity of the term “religious tolerance” - attacking the tyrannical quality of any religious sect that leaves no room for vocal introspection or reason. But his thought bogey ran full steam on devoted leftist tracks, failing to acknowledge faith as a bigger and larger entity, distinct from beliefs and myths.
While Ms. Ali’s discourse was predictably academic and quotation-heavy, Gieve Patel was restrained and candid in his short communiqué. Tom’s extempore was easily the highlight of the show. The cheerful actor spoke the least, smiled the most and was upbeat, albeit in his laid-back manner. His emotional address ended with an appeal recommending “Khuda ke Liye”- a commendable Pakistan production that portrays religion in the right perspective. He expressed doubts over the possibility of a similar re-examination in India of the Hindu or Christian faith, coming with the same unflinching courage and conviction.
Devoid of the poise of a celebrity speaker, he happened to be on the dais but did not belong there – his dignity was matched in equal measure by the presence of ace director Shyam Benegal, a picture of quiet introspection among the listeners.
The bulk of the audience, not surprisingly, wore elitist garbs adorned with cerebral embroidery. Most of the questions that followed the panel discussion seemed like vehicles to demonstrate the speaker’s intellectual wares. But unlike the bookshop stuff – the books, the DVDs and the coffee – they came free!
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Blogger's Park

2008-08-24T19:28:00.000-07:00

Sudhir Raikar jogs around three celebrity blog tracks only to be led on a delightful trail of the Big B’s illustrious footmarks – his big strides in a new territory.
Many years back, he changed the face of Indian mainstream cinema – running it virtually like a one-man industry. Some time back, he engineered a paradigm shift in television viewing with the inspired-but-innovative game show Kaun Banega Crorepati. And now, he’s busy lending a deeper meaning to the medium of the times – Blogging.
That celebrities have taken to blogging in a big way is common news. But superstar Amitabh Bachchan has proved again that whatever is worth the while, he does it in style.
Of the 75 days of incessant blogging till date, he has maintained a very high quality of introspection in what is essentially an online diary interspersed with nostalgic expression – words that often take the form of stream of consciousness writing.
Apart from his trademark humility, chaste language and powerful idiom, he is open in his admiration for the web and the young generation – free of inhibitions and hang-ups, aiming to soar high on the wings of opportunities.
Day in and day out, he offers a perceptive window into his life – that attracts die-hard fans, bitter critics and observant readers in equal measure. And once in a while, he lashes out at his detractors – members of the media and fans alike – in a matter-of-fact language. What’s commendable is his consistency and poise in sifting through the countless posts from the world over – some with blatant abuses, others with blind admiration and many with unsolicited words of advice.
At the ripe age of 66, the man is studying the world around him with the eyes of a keen student. His inklings leave his readers wondering – is he the super star of main stream cinema or a literary genius. In religiously keeping his tryst with the blog, Bachchan has truly recognized the real power of the web as a non-intrusive but potent medium. A bridge that gets him closer to his audience sans the middlemen (getting around the filter, as they say), a divide that still keeps safe distance from absurd attacks and a tailored platform to lock horns with his detractors, each time he finds his personal space encroached.
If one compares his blog with two of his well-known counterparts and fellow bloggers, the big difference stands out, tall like him.
Star-actor Aamir Khan, who probably unveiled his web space ahead of Bachchan, was an enthusiastic blogger to begin with. In a few posts, he did attempt to discuss a variety of holistic issues within and outside the celluloid frame. With the passage of time, however, his blog has been reduced to a “Now Showing Coming Soon” Notice Board. A haven for the overflowing love-you-miss-you posts, it leaves very little for meaningful interaction with the public at large. To make matters worse, his infamous “Farm House Dog” post also did not augur well for his well meaning fans.
Director Ram Gopal Verma has gone about his web mission in characteristic sharp shooter style. His thoughts on cinema are highly perceptive, so is his commentary on the several factors that contribute to the process of movie making. His take on the mindless critic tribe is equally enlightening. In exposing the intellectual poverty of each target, he even cites their pet brand statements, replete in their mechanical critiques.
What’s however not web friendly is his discourteous stance that he projects like a jewel. For a medium as participatory as the web log, this one-way traffic is adverse, if not fatal.
Blogging is personal, no doubt, and there’s nothing prescriptive about it. But the disciplined manner in which Bachchan has approached the medium is indeed food for thought for just about everyone who sees the web as a medium of expression, not just the film fraternity.
The Personal web log, or blog as it’s commonly referred to, has a recent history. Used as a noun as well as a verb, this magical term was coined in 1997 by the charismatic American Jorn Barger – who embraced computers, literature and philosophy in the same breath. The popular term “Blog” was the brainchild of the equally versatile information architect Peter Merholz. In the 11 years of its young existence, blogging has grown rapidly to bloom into a potent social medium for interaction, reflective writing in particular.

That Amitabh Bachchan is one of its ardent fans spells great news for a generation of netizens who stumble upon web pages more than they bump into each other. And for the highly mollycoddled recluse tribe, the so-called IT experts, which is oblivious of the difference between the Internet and the World Wide Web, here’s a towering inspiration!

Director’s Cut

2008-08-14T18:00:00.000-07:00

Director Satish Rajwade’s sudden exit from the popular Marathi TV serial “Asambhav” has deprived a good story of its great story teller. Sudhir Raikar spoke to the unassuming talent whose innovative style statement in editing and direction marks a new chapter in Marathi entertainment.
At 34, Satish Rajwade wears the reassuring smile of a seasoned professional. He’s unassuming to the core, unfazed by success and controversies but ask him about his trade and the conviction comes alive in his gleaming eyes. “I love my work. Whatever little I have achieved till date has been the result of my unflinching devotion to my work. Nothing else matters”
Rajwade’s arrival in the entertainment industry seemed destined in an unlikely way, ever since he participated in an acting workshop in suburban Ville Parle as a kid of 12. School and college years were replete with awards and mementos that recognized his acting skills.
“I joined the commerce stream of Mithibai College only for its conducive theatre environment. Thanks to my passion, I acted in over 158 one-act plays in English, Hindi, Marathi and Gujarathi” He reveals.
His first tryst with success came in the form of the Marathi play “All the best” where his co-artiste was class mate Shreyas Talpade, long before the latter stuck gold in tinsel town. “It was director Mahesh Manjrekar, my mentor and well wisher, who was instrumental in offering me the Hindi version of “All the best”. The Marathi version followed, for a good 890 shows.”
During one of these shows, Rajwade won the attention of director Govind Nihalani’s crew. Before he knew, he bagged a role in Nihalani’s offbeat film “Sanshodhan” alongside the likes of Manoj Vajpayee. This was followed by two-bit roles in “Hazaar Chourasi ki Maa” and Manjrekar’s “Vastaav” and “Nidaan”. The association with Nihalani introduced Rajwade to the world of film editing and he found his purpose, waiting for him at the cross roads.
“I suddenly realized this is where the actual film happens. The sheer thrill ignited my passion and I began learning the ropes, assisting Nihalani as a trainee editor sans stipend and conveyance”
This marked the second innings of Rajwade – as a director. His debut happened through a music album “Na Jaane Kyun” starring model Samir Dharmadhikari. The album was well received and the producers, happy with the unexpected success, urged Rajwade to direct a Hindi film.
“I suggested a cost effective route in the form of a Marathi film – such that if it bombed, the loss, like the profit, would be lower. This argument got the buy-in and work on “Mrigjal” began.” But the cakewalk ended there.
Rajwade never realized “Mrigjal” could be such a litmus test of his tenacity. At the eleventh hour, he found his prospective screen play writers shying away. “In the heat of the moment, I wrote the story myself. If this was not enough, my cameraman did a vanishing act – I had to pull my personal contacts to rope in Suhas Gujarathi at the last minute”
Even as Rajwade took things in his stride with bated breath, “Mrigjal” bagged 23 awards including story, screenplay and cinematography – all products of accidental afterthought. This was the first grand proof of Rajwade’s genius.
“Mrigjal” won critical acclaim for Rajwade but the offers that followed were not heartening. They came either from fly-by-night operators trying to make hay or from one-time directors looking to utilize government grants, employing shoe-string budgets only to fill their pockets. Rajwade chose to stay away, at the cost of being without work for a substantial time. “It was my family that saw me through these difficult times. I owe my success to them”
Zee TV played his savior too, offering him serials like “Duniyadari” and “Oon Pawus”. Then “Asambhav” happened. And the rest is history.
Rarely has any Marathi serial won worldwide attention for the quality of its production. It was Rajwade’s astute direction and debutant Chinmay Mandlekar’s dialogues that has made “Asambhav” such a huge hit, even among non-maharashtrian households. For an audience nauseating in the overdose of mindless melodrama, “Asambhav” proved a breather. In a record achievement, it bagged five awards at the 33rd Radio and Television Advertising Practitioners’ Association of India (RAPA) awards function. The serial won Rajwade celebrity fans including the veteran composer Pyarelal of Laxmikant-Pyarelal fame who called him to his residence to congratulate him.
The story deals with the controversial and tabooed theme of rebirth but thanks to Rajwade’s treatment, the story is an entertaining mix of tradition and innovation. On one hand, it upholds traditional values seeped in religious thought. On the other, it questions beliefs and dogmas. In exploring the abnormal, normal and the paranormal, all in the same breath, it does not make any exclusive claims to truth.
Rajwade intersperses a dark sinister look of a racy whodunit plot and a sober family drama with amazing flair and authority. The serial does lose its rhythm at times, led by a wayward storyline and some mediocre players, but few enduring performances – notably that of Sharvari Patankar (Priya), Sagar Talashilkar (Chandu), Kishore Kadam (Saranjame), Chinmay Mandlekar (Abhimaan), Rajwade himself (Inspector Bhonsale) and to some extent, Anand Abhyankar (Dinanath Shastri) - are of such high quality that they unknowingly raise the bar for Marathi television, otherwise known for its shallow production values.
In a recent development, Rajwade has chosen to part ways with the team, close on the heels of Mandlekar’s exit. He asserts his reasons are purely personal and do not stem from any hostile difference of opinion with the producers, as media reports blatantly conclude. Though emotional, he is not bitter in the aftermath of the separation.
“I have thoroughly enjoyed the “Asambhav” experience and I am indebted to Nikhil Sane of Zee Marathi for this wonderful opportunity. I also thank my well wishers and the audience from the world over who have appreciated my work” he acknowledges.
His admirers want him back as the captain of the “Asambhav” ship and they have formed fan clubs on social networking sites like Orkut, urging the producers to call back their “director” hero.
For Rajwade however, this exit, though painful, is not a full stop. He is busy on some interesting projects and chooses to look ahead. One of his much-talked about Hindi venture was “Akhand” – a story set in pre-independent India that was to cast super star Akshay Kumar in a negative role, besides Abhishek Bachchan and Suneil Shetty in pivotal roles. “Unfortunately, the project had to be shelved. But the subject being so close to my heart, I hope to revive it soon. I keep my fingers crossed”
“Akhand” or no “Akhand”, “Asambhav” or no “Asambhav”, Satish Rajwade has arrived. A director by choice, he has no qualms about sacrificing the fine actor in him. In the process, he brings with him such finesse which would make the stalwarts proud.

Masquerade

2008-02-27T21:55:00.000-08:00

Every time he stared at the desktop, the down-in-the-mouth look of his reflection on the screen was hard to ignore. As if his true self came out face to face in an abrupt blaze of spiritual enlightenment. While his mechanical strokes keyed in another lifeless report titled “Less flesh, more trade – the gory tale of prostitution”, his mind was busy contemplating the approaching dead end in his own life.

This was his last day in office. The tabloid needed him no longer. But who did, anyway?

He got up from the revolving chair with the uneven cushion, went to the stinking loo, and came back in a jiffy – much earlier that the time one would assume in answering a nature’s call. How many would suspect, he wondered, that it was only his near-fatal restlessness begging for some movement that engineered the futile trip.

Still unsure about the story, he brought about a non-committal end to the torture with the line

“These vulnerable victims of an age-old flesh trade continue to suffer the wrath of pouncing beasts even as the world around them chooses to look away”

Today, there was no remorse to prick his conscience as he filed the report for the skinny sub-editor to fake a post-mortem. To hell with the trash. Tons of such garbage fill the advertisement-deprived blank spaces in umpteen newspapers everyday.

Newspapers run by warring industrial groups in a theatrical war against the establishment. And with himself dismissed, who cared if his report met the same fate. In fact, it would rhyme well with his destiny if it did.

Picking his torn leather bag bursting at the seams, much like his anxiety, he came down the creaking stairs of the office building.

He was now to come after a week to collect his paltry dues. In humanitarian interests of its employees, his caring employers would donate a month’s salary as compensation for the termination.

That was enough to feed an ageing bachelor with a queer lifestyle till he found a new abode that would harbour his redundant conviction. His farewell treat was an inconsequential affair in the roadside canteen, a couple of old mates and the sole peon for company.

The cool air seemed to fan his agony but was some respite from the stuffy confines of the editorial room. As he walked towards the friendly railway station in faltering steps, he checked the jingling treasure in his pocket that stuffed more metal than paper. Turning his back to the over bridge that offered to take him to the platform with unfailing regularity, he went to the desolate Pan shop in the corner of the busy lane.

The familiar face behind the hanging strings of tobacco and Pan masala pouches was his most reliable source of nightlife information. Today, the Panwala was amused at the special request from the “paper guy” of a packet of condom along with the regular brand of tobacco.

The stonewalled heritage building looked exceptionally bright, like an old, wrinkled woman dressed in bridal wear. Tube lights in the staircase were a rare sight in structures of this variety. In sharp contrast, the building was the home of shady acts in dark corners.

He climbed his way to the third floor with a slow, measured pace where the reddish eyes of the Madam greeted him. Thanks to his deceptive white-collar appearance, she took some time to come to terms with his basic instinct wrapped in fine print.

And almost in a flash, her instinctive respect for the sophisticated tribe made way for the plastic smile of day-to-day commerce. She turned the soiled curtain to allow a peak inside and named the price.

Ignoring her playful abuses, he entered the dingy room glowing in the cheap red light of 20 watts. She sat there, wearing a dead expression to match the wood of the broken furniture around. Yellowing straps of her white bra stuck out of a tarnished red blouse, deliberately buttoned the wrong way.

The act did not last long. Without the foreplay, it was quite disgusting in hindsight. He dressed up, eager to win back his place of pride in the civilized world.

Madam was waiting outside in earnest for a closer look at the new specimen. He found her eyeing him intently as his hand slid into his pocket.

“They all come here,” she swore under her breath, glowing in the pride of her social acknowledgment.

The last train back home hardly looked like one, carrying scores of tired souls dozing to the tunes of their middle class fate. Leaning against the metallic wall of the foot board, he thought of his carnal escapade and a broad smile spread over his face.

The guilt of the impetuous act also accommodated a relief of an inadvertent escape. Far away from the fairy-tale stories of the fourth estate, he was now free to play the victim that he was.

The masquerade was over.

When two great minds met on a chess board!

2008-02-19T21:57:00.000-08:00

The great filmmaker Satyajit Ray had not read Munshi Premchand, largely unaware of Hindi and Urdu literature that he was. But in both his Hindi movies based on Premchand's works, one a telefilm “Sadgati” (The deliverance) and the other a feature “Shatranj Ke Khiladi” (The Chess Players) Ray showed exceptional flair, one, in picking the right literature for screen adaptation and two, in placing the theme on a broader landscape without diluting the author’s conviction. Most of the ingredients for his earlier work, prior to this film, were drawn from a familiar Bengal milieu, though he made no bones of the fact that it was Bhibhuti Bhushan's novel that introduced him to rural Bengal…one that placed Ray on the world map with his magnum opus Pather Panchali- the first of his timeless trilogy classic. Hence his interest in Premchand was admirable, that showed an eye for potent stories as well as a profound understanding of his medium.

My focus here is on Shatranj ke Khiladi (The Chess Players), one of the most amazing portrayals of Lucknow against the backdrop of British invasion lurking in the elusive treaties of friendship offered by the East India Company. Premchand sketched an astute parallel between British aspirations and the legendary game, as also, the picture of an 1856 Lucknow drugged in celebration of art and culture under the short-lived regime of Wajid Ali Shah. That the tranquil percolated to the lowest echelons of society is described best in his line - “yaha tak ki phakiron ko paise milte to ve rotiyan na lekar afhim khate ya madak pite” (Even the beggars seemed to prefer opium & liquor over food whenever they had money at hand)

Through his superlative idiom, Premchand exposed the fake morals of his central charaters - Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan Ali, friends and landlords reeling in the hypnotic spell of chess, shunning the world around them – the world of family chores, marital duties, cheating wives, social pressures, marching troops, everything else but the chessboard.

Fearing mandatory participation in the war against the Company in the light of the growing adversity, they flee to the outskirts and simulate their relaxed surroundings only to drown back in the game of chess. A trivial dispute in the game soon takes the shape of a war and all of a sudden, family honour is found at stake. Accusing each other of swindling, fraud, borrowed royalty and inferior roots, both lose their lives in a terminal combat, a mutual checkmate of sorts. Through the conflict of the two, Premchand highlights the irony of their beliefs - it was the false pride of individual honour, not the larger cause of their state that was found worthy of sacrifice. Ray retained the paradox in a new flavour –also focusing on the royal checkmate of Wajid Ali Shah tottering in the fake support of the East India Company. Ray keeps the protagonists alive, and makes a telling comment through them in the end…

”Jinse unki biwiyan nahi sambhali, woh angrezon ka kya samnaa karenge” (We can’t handle our wives, how can we cope with the might of the British?)

The characters of General Outram and Captain Weston examining the pros and cons of the king, his tastes, his lifestyle, his women and his art…wrapped in one delightful tête-à-tête is undoubtedly the hallmark of this film… a product of Ray’s exceptional screenplay and one that had V S Naipul shower the famed compliment

“It’s a like a Shakespeare scene. Only three hundred words spoken, but terrific things happen.”

The master that he was, in each department of his profession, Ray was firm on picking the right cast for playing his characters. He had a wealth of talent in his own native land, most of his staple cast would have done justice to the said roles but he never knew compromise. His genius thrived on authentic settings and the result was obvious. Shataranj ke Khiladi, Ray’s most expensive film then, won critical acclaim worldwide in all the right circles. The star cast was impressive, much like the blockbuster Sholay - but more importantly, each artiste lived the role to recreate a splendid slice of history, whether Richard Attenborough as the stoic and ruthless General Outram, Tom Alter as the mild mannered Captain Weston with a soft corner for Indian art, Amjad Khan as Wajid Ali Shah, a mute spectator of his own downfall, Victor Banerjee as the well meaning prime minister Ali Naqi khan, desperately coaxing his somnolent king to take charge, Saeed Jaffery as Mir Roshan Ali, one of the duo falling to the fatal addiction of chess...and of course Sanjeev Kumar himself, then a top-notch star of the bustling Bombay film industry, in one of his outstanding performances as Mirza Sajjad Ali.Shabana Azmi, Leela Mishra, Barry John, Farooq Shaikh, Fareeda Jalal…all stuck the right chord with the audience in their respective cameos. And who can forget the baritone voice-over of Amitabh Bachchan quipping rich insights through the crafty narrative.

A tribute to Premchand, Ray & his crew. ………and the pathos of Avadh beneath the royal splendour and merriment, unaware of the impending doom.

Garm hawa - The film

2008-02-18T17:01:00.000-08:00

Garm Hawa (Hot winds) is undoubtedly one of the best movies ever made on the Partition. Director M S Sathyu’s best work till date, it was based on a gripping short story by the immensely talented Ismat Chugtai. As eminent filmmaker Satyajit Ray observed in his review, the poignant theme of the film itself placed it on a pedestal but Sathyu, with playwrights Kaifi Azmi and Shama Zaidi, spared no effort to make the adaptation stand tall on its cinematic merit.And of course, with the luxury of an exceptional star cast, they had every reason to be reassured. Balraj Sahani, Shaukat Azmi, Farooque Sheikh, Jalal Agha, Gita Siddharth..…. The names give an idea of the caliber.

The film revolves around the life of Mirza Salim (Balraj Sahni), a middle-aged shoe manufacturer from Agra. His leather business has flourished over generations and his personal life has been quite fulfilling. But the Partition turns his life upside down as one by one; disaster strikes his household in a chain of tragic events. A Sindhi refugee claims their ancestral dwelling soon after Salim’s elder brother leaves for Pakistan and the house is declared evacuee property. Immediately after shifting to a smaller rented place, his aging mother breathes her last in the ancestral Haveli, her wish fulfilled through the magnanimous gesture of the new owner. Salim Mirza is helpless before the new realities but retains his stoic calm in bidding goodbye to the growing procession of Muslims heading towards Pakistan- his relatives, neighbours and friends among others. His stance rests on the firm belief that things would soon be normal again. But the string of misfortune is longer than he expects. Prime among the tragedies is his daughter’s (Gita Siddharth) suicide, devastated by the tragic end of her love story – not once but twice in her short life.

Finally with a heavy heart, Salim Mirza sets out bag and baggage as the others have. The film ends on a note of leftist hope when his son Sikander (Farooque Sheikh) joins a procession of student activists demanding fair play from the government. The father, after a momentary reckoning, decides to follow suit.

It’s interesting to note the multi-pronged attack the film invited before and after its much-laboured release in 1973. The now controversial BJP luminary L K Advani was then the editor of the RSS mouthpiece Organizer. It is believed he condemned the film by labeling it a Pakistan sponsored initiative. As a result, the producers had a torrid time to get things back on track – what with few distributors backing out besides delay in securing the censor certificate. Even among the people who liked the film, some thought it painted a bleak picture of the Pakistan immigrants showing them as an unpatriotic and immoral lot.

To me, the film beautifully highlighted the agony of the commoners against the backdrop of the socio-economic transformation following the partition. It is as much a story of a wrecked nation and dubious political stratagem as it is of personal trauma and crumbling individual lives, the torture equally vicious on either side of the border. Some accused the director of employing a deliberate leftist twist to Chugtai’s original story of an ordinary stationmaster protagonist, going by Kaifi Azmi’s known communist leanings.

Yes, such twist the tale definitely carried, but did not Azmi enhance the theme, astutely exploiting his stint as an ex-union leader of a shoe factory in the portrayal of a personal trauma of national significance.

The towering presence of Balraj Sahni, his last major appearance on celluloid, is the film's most enduring feature. With his exception, most of the players came from the experimental reservoir of IPTA but the entire cast contributed to the film’s cause in equal measure, so did Shama Zaidi’s authentic Agra settings and Ustad Bahadur Khan’s soulful music.

To this day, people find it hard to believe Sathyu hails from Karnataka. To them, such authentic reproduction of surroundings could only come about with first hand experience rooted in lineage. Such was the effect it had on the insightful audience- very much in minority akin to the subject matter of the film.

The film is replete with memorable scenes depicting pathos of a different league. In one such profound scene, Salim Mirza’s Tonga accidentally upsets a fruit seller’s cart and a near-riot ensues in the Moholla. Advising his Tonga puller to check his mounting emotion, Salim Mirza remarks in his characteristic seasoned voice

“Nayi Nayi Aazadi mili hai, log apna apna matlab nikaal rahe hai” (With a brand new freedom at hand, people are hoisting their own versions.) Such times! Such films!

My African Safari

2008-01-21T06:14:00.000-08:00

Our car was merrily racing ahead, finding its way through the lush green countryside. I was tempted to put on my windcheater but my hands never moved to pick it up. John was in a merry mood, humming a happy number in his native Swahili that matched my mood. He seemed overjoyed to find me in the front seat next to him rather than the customary back seat reserved for his employers. And I was indeed playing his employer, if not the one who paid him his meager salary.

Despite the fine weather, the lurking thought came back to nag me with a vengeance. I felt a dull pain in my navel as I thought of my people back home. I missed my son, wife and parents like never before. I missed life.

It was almost three months since I had left home for Kenya to take guard as my firm’s business development manager in a modest office in Nairobi’s central business district. We sold tailor-made software solutions for the horticulture industry and it was the management’s wish and command that I give a thrust to the African operations. The proposition showed me the promise of greener pastures but my folks took it with a pinch of salt.

With my peers and relatives thriving on the pleasures of more prime assignments and plush remunerations in more esteemed western countries, my African safari seemed like an ugly duckling far behind the smart swans, desperate to stay afloat in the deep sea of career achievements. Nevertheless, the deep sigh of my parents did convey a reluctant approval.

And did I have a reason to protest? My career was a chequered mess across industries and in each career stint I had changed jobs like shirts. This celebrated track record coupled with an equally legendary bank balance had only added to the wrinkles on their worried faces. So, they sighed as if to warn me - Africa or Antarctica, you better stay put this time.

And they were right. The stakes were even higher now. I had a family of my own – a son with a one-year-old smile oblivious of his father’s social status, and a doting wife who faked a solace in the staged pride of her husband’s “rich and varied experience”

John woke me up from my slumber. We had reached Nakuru. The sleepy village was more an ideal picnic spot than a place of commerce, hard to find in Mumbai. I could picture my son jumping to glory on the green carpet of the adjoining farm, when again John shook me, this time pointing his thick finger at the sprawling concrete structure across the deserted lane.

“What brings you here, Mr…?” barked the grumpy old guy at the reception.

I took some time to digest the fact that he was the receptionist. We exchanged plastic pleasantries before I was directed to a large sofa. It was after half an hour that I was summoned in a small, cozy cabin smelling of fresh paint. Seated across the large mahogany desk was a burly figure. Just before I entered, the nameplate had given me a fair idea of the events to follow.

A N Salunke
Factory manager

An Indian marketer’s worst nightmare in Africa is to bump into another Indian in an official encounter. You could always meet up in social gatherings or homely treats and raise a toast of nationalism together but here, the protocols were more demanding.

And here was an Indian to judge my merit. I could already sense a hostile dismissal of my ideas ending in a haunting “no sale” journey. And worse, it would invite the wrath of employers, again Indian.

Yet, going by the Maharashtrian surname, I gathered enough poise to enter the cabin and take a seat that, I implied, was offered to me.

“Good Morning, sir.” I was at my polite best. The cold stare was frozen.

“I am from Innovative Software. We are into Farm management solutions and I just thought………………”

Before I could finish, he croaked with open contempt:

“We have an in-house team managing our IT. And we are doing fine”

This was followed by a laugh that seemed hyena-like to me. I had no option but to show my teeth to applaud his sense of humour.

I made another feeble attempt.

“How wonderful. That’s really great. But we could still have a look. I have the demo on my laptop. It’s really ……”

“Sorry. I am short of time, really. Anything else?” He cut me short.

There was nothing else really. But visions of my squirmy boss forced me to keep the struggle alive. Now I was desperate.

“Are you from Maharashtra, sir? I am too. Where in….”

“I am from Satara. Now, if you don’t mind. Good day to you” pat came his reply.

I forced my way back. John was waiting outside with the characteristic look of a dutiful chauffeur. By now, he had a good idea of my official plight and I found some comfort in the warmth of his mute sympathy.

Quite ironically, the person who had shooed me away minutes back was my countryman, who swore by the same religion and spoke the same language as mine. Or was it so?

And which was the lingo that voiced John’s unstated concern for me? With these unsettling thoughts, I hopped back in the car.

====================

I was now five months old in Kenya. Touring over a dozen flower farms across six villages around Nairobi, I dragged my weary expectation with my laptop each time I entered an office. But the disparate army of ruthless blazer-clad farm managers on the other side simply refused to budge. With nothing more worthwhile to do, I began to draw patterns out of the statistics in my transit time.

For instance, though the outcome of the meeting was a denial in every case, the manner in which it was conveyed was in perfect co-relation with the color of the manager. The white managers buried my case with an official chuckle reserved for the developing tribe, the dark ones were encouraging in their “let you know” replies while the brown varieties seemed only eager to put the final nail in my coffin. Needless to say, I was alone to celebrate this analysis.

But how could I? I was on the verge of being branded a non-performer. The reward that would follow the branding exercise was a recurring nightmare in my mind. The couple of prospects that lazed in my “hopeful” list were moving steadily to being written-off in my employer’s books. With each passing day, I felt my wheezing confidence shrinking in size.

One fine morning, I set about, filled with false aerated hope, in the direction of a departmental store that stood close to my residence. It was the kind of weather one would prefer to observe life from the window, teacup in hand, catching insights with every sip.

But preference was not part of my modest perks. The tea, window as well as the home were mine only till my employer thought so. Hence, their usage was implied to be termed and conditioned to suit my employer’s needs, albeit not mentioned in my appointment letter.

And yet the purpose of my visit to the store was far from official. I thought of pampering my mind with beer and leave the rest to my muddled judgment thereafter. It was an adventurous thought, one that could cost me my job, but I was in that typical rebellious mood that sweeps the middle class once in a while. And nothing like liquor to epitomize the hushed protest. Tea would only remind me of my bourgeoisie existence.

This idea was easier to execute as it had unknowingly been timed well. My immediate boss was away on an ill-timed novel vacation (ill-timed for the company, novel for him) to the Alps with his wife, a luxury that came with his job. This meant I was to compile his weekly excel report to the supreme boss swirling his big cushioned chair at our headquarters in Sweden. But this also meant my weekly third-degree interrogation in the name of visit report was off for a week. So, what the hell if I spent a day at home.

Yes, the chauffeur was a problem, he would be here anytime. But by now, John had come to strike a chord with me, noiseless in its music and one befitting the unsung. I had not done anything like this before but I decided to trust him. I took the plunge.

“Yes, brather. What you want” the fellow at the counter was cheerful.

“Six tuskers, please” I placed the order.

Tusker was a popular brand of beer that I had fallen in love with. That it cost fewer shillings than a bottle of mineral water was a handy excuse to fool myself. But honestly, it was the happy elephant on the sticker that was great company during my dusky evening solitude. I was now used to raise a toast with the majestic mammal every time I opened a Tusker can. But today, it would be in broad daylight for a change.

I proceeded to the cash counter to pay for my goodies. The guy there seemed to be more authoritative than his position allowed. My hunch was right. He was the owner of the store, probably on one of his inspection rounds. Did he ever enjoy an abrupt vacation, I wondered as I thought of my boss.

“You Indian? From where” he asked eyeing me carefully.

“Bombay” my short reply.“I am Indian too, Kenyan Indian” He smiled.

The qualifier was a breather. Having spent generations in Africa, Kenyan Indians had pickled in authentic Kenyan flavour. There was very little Indian about them. And in my marketing avatar, I was happy to note that.The old guy before me seemed more than interested. His volley of questions continued. I tore few pages from my life book in response.

“Software. You software” he picked up the most unusual thread. Or I thought so.

“Yes” I answered back, rather wearily. And how can you help, you haggard. I wanted to ask him.

“You know Point Of Sale. Government make it mandatory for department store. You fit software for me. I know friend in other store. You get big business. Over 100 store in this area, more in Nairobi”

This was unexpected. And I was here to buy tusker. So was this my lucky break?

“Yes, we have Point Of Sale software. We can fix this job for you. But your budget?”

I was unduly hesitant about my question. I didn’t want to displease this messiah who now seemed to remove the snowy flakes of dejection from my professional life.

“No worry, you tell price. I want good job” he maintained.

My joy knew no bounds.This was another risk, more fatal than my beer adventure. I was here to sell farm management software. Worse, we had no PoS software. My only hope was my employer. I would first have to somehow show him the opportunity.If he was convinced, look for an alliance partner with the product, adjust his share in the top line, and put the final price to the store owner.

Yes, my train of hopeful bogeys ran on a narrow gauge of possibilities but there was no other option.Suddenly, there was so much to do. I came out of the store, lost in thought.

=============

There was so much to do. I was confused…what first? Taking a lungful of air in, I turned to pick my cell phone, an ancient discarded piece reserved for my exclusive use.

“Speaking,” my boss groaned on the other line.

“Sir, we have a big opportunity coming our way. There is a department…”

“Big or small, let me decide. Spell the opportunity,” he cut me short as expected.

The sarcasm was unnerving at best. In less than ten minutes, I threw as many adjectives I could to show him the elusive treasure my wishful thinking had dug with earnest hope. There was a dramatic pause at the other end.

I was almost ready to face the ceremonial full stop when he came up with a twist for me. One that was destined to twist me, I found later.

“You’re on your own. Get me a price. And then I would measure the time you have washed out”

It was futile to tell him that price would come much later, we had to fix the product first. I made myself some coffee and got down to task. The Kenya Telecom lines were clogged as usual. Our own VSNL would be jet speed in comparison. In an hour, I had narrowed my choice, in line with our prospect’s need and the region, to two vendors for a potential tie-up.

One was an upmarket product catering to the Fortune 500 companies - an alliance with a non-entity serving the Dark Continent – nah! They would shoo me away within no time.

The other name with a clumsy tag line looked very much a shady player, but I had little choice.

Know Point- POS it in style, the web site declared.

For a second, I thought of scraping the whole idea. Why dig another grave? I already had one in place, eager to lap me up. But some force made me hopeful… the hope was indiscernible, just like the force. The firm was located in Andheri, a known suburb back home. Was it the native connection, I am not sure, but I picked up the huge landline instrument to dial the annoyingly stretched ISD number.

=============

It really intrigues me, always in hindsight, the crystal-clear pattern of my fate, and yet the foolish resolve to defy it, every single time.

The events happened in quick succession, each shaping my gaffe in style.

I could never come up with a price for my boss. The store owner was supportive for a while, restless with time and foul in the end, throwing a mouthful of abuse every time I ventured to buy more time. Matters became worse soon and I stopped visiting the store even for my groceries.

The icing on my cake of catastrophe, however, came later. In the form of a contract between Know Point and the store for a PoS software installation and support. In exploring the uncharted waters of this opportunity- my cape of good hope – I had unknowingly passed it to Know Point. And did I have reason to whine?

My resignation letter made matters very easy for my employers. All the same, it was also my blanket to cover my collapse, at least till the time I was around. The firm had magnanimously waived my notice period. That was a great relief, one that saved me from any immediate liability. The deferred counterparts would greet me following my ignoble homecoming. But I had time to expect them, and reconcile with.

During the last week of my stay, I was invited to a dinner at the Nairobi Maharashtra Mandal – a group that was supposed to simulate my hometown and culture in this part of the world. What it probably did replicate was the loud shimmer of hollow ideals.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed my last supper in the august company of some happening people –who had made their mark in the foreign land, with bagful of tales - of glory, of pride, of triumph. While the men narrated their legends of professional heroism, the women presented their jewellery, public version of their marital bliss, as also a rich discourse on the multitude of “spare time” hobbies. With everyone ready to explode at the slightest provocation, there was a serious dearth of audience to take in the loaded gospels.

On my drive back, late in the wee hours of the next morning, John seemed quite pensive. It was to be our last journey together unless destiny had other plans. But he spoke his heart out, like a close friend that he certainly had grown to become. Like my cheerful maid, Rose, who diligently moved the heavy teak furniture everyday to sweep the floor spot clean, the roadside grocer Williams, who shoved generous handfuls of vegetables into my shopping bag without weighing them and the milk woman who cheered me up with endearing tunes of Swahili folklore every morning.

Not that I was ever under any illusion about this non-interfering and god-fearing tribe. One of the worst victims of colonial hangover, they would starve to death but would never step out of their cottages without an elaborate English attire – their status symbol as prominent as their rough skin and empty stomachs. They would not mind running menial errands for you but would never hesitate to ridicule you if you were found in sandals. You can skip putting your best foot forward, but shoes, you got to wear mate! …they will tell you with foolish authority. But even with all the quirkiness and tomfoolery, I could still relate to them on a wavelength that was effortless and a bond that was universal.

Towards the end of our warm sojourn, we passed by a procession of queer men, women and children on a desolate turn. John briefed me they were the Masai clan of Africa. A fierce, warring and semi nomadic tribe solely living off their cattle, engrossed in their age-old rituals, termed repulsive only by the encroaching civilization around them.

“They ugly peapal, dirty peapal, eat blood, but brather, they are our peapal” his eyes were moist.

“I am sorry but Indian corrupt, they take our job, they become manager in our farm and rule us. But one day, this will change brather. God is great”

It was some mutiny he was hinting at. I could feel the ache of several years in his cracking voice. An ache inflicted by the shovels of greed that we have dug deep in their land to fill our insatiable kitties, whether in industry, trade or employment.

In a land that confers first-rate status on you without much fuss, we have been busy making exclusive claims to the honor. Even the most mediocre of our people, sooner or later, can aspire to command a semi-managerial position in Africa, a status that comes bundled with big mansions, a simulated life of Western comforts and a rich army of local help - chauffeurs , maids, watchmen, gardeners........in sharp contrast to the difficult life back home in India - match-box flats, huge housing loans, swarming suburban travel, low-paid jobs and forced self-help. Those who lack the maturity to cope with the dramatic shift lose their poise in the deafening noise of their volcanic rise.

My African Safari is long over. I am back where I belong, rather where I am supposed to belong. But the disturbing memories of some of our glorious ambassadors in Africa haunt me to this day. Wherever I heard them ridicule the locals as “Kalus” or abuse the working class with the choicest obscenities, I could only laugh at the hypocrisy of our beliefs, our so-called war against apartheid and our orchestrated nationalism, roaring each time India wins a cricket match.

Book Review - Eimona

2007-06-25T05:40:00.000-07:00

Eimona is a gripping tale of co-existing contrasts in a tech-savvy, money-minted new-age India – abundance & deprivation, loneliness & celebration and advancement & regression – seen through the eyes of an aging protagonist of the old order who sees a future that begins to dictate even before it beckons from the mists of the unknown.

Whether it's the endearing protagonist Subbu, his grandson Bharat, Bharat's go-getter wife Indu, their innocent daughter Maya or the several others who circle the life of this family of four - the author brings out the most profound emotions lurking in the seemingly inconsequential actions of every character.

The author’s vivid imagery of the world around him is as hilarious as it is heart-wrenching – we have smart career-women seeking ready-to-deploy hubby packs of good looks & meek authority; the sophisticated demeanor of professional life degenerating into shabby movements of retired confinement; societal code of conduct for bereavement and celebration; the incidental well-being of families blessed with ample space, adequate money and less time; and of course - the umpteen vultures of culture selling best-of-breed solutions for fighting depression, blooming love lives, deciphering child psychology besides a host of social and anti-social issues disconcerting the high-achievers of the new generation.

The trinkets of observation - principally seen through the roving eyes of Subbu - are laced with effortless humour - an astute blend of Wodehousean wordplay and Chaplinesque graphic display. They subtly highlight the self-defeating ingredients of self-centered strides - the intrusive courtesy of shopping malls, fleeting values of modern families, switching loyalties of corporate worlds, matrimonies bound by contractual obligation and supersonic success stories demented by brimming insecurity.

However, the perfect poise of Subbu’s detached tongue-in-cheek commentary is somewhat lost in the volcanic climax of the novel. Knowingly or unknowingly, the author tilts the moral scales in Subbu’s favour rather forcefully. Towards the end, Subbu has his stamp of incisive authority virtually on every episode. One wonders whether the hypocrisy of the new order could have come about more subtly.

Nevertheless, the pace of the novel is extremely alluring. The fag-end drama, in what’s a social commentary, is narrated with best-seller finesse. In fact, the novel has all the essential elements to make it an engaging film plot.

This is a one-of-a-kind effort that makes you wake up and take notice. And the story is best read, not described.

G B Prabhat is the founder of Anantara Solutions - a second generation outsourcing company engaged in business & technology consulting worldwide.

My Father

2007-06-04T06:09:00.000-07:00

My father was the eldest of two brothers but the second issue of his parents. The first was a daughter. He was tall and lean with protruding front teeth, a slight hunch, balding head and brown skin. His staple attire was dhoti-kurta but for official site visits, he wore khakhi shorts, shirt and a sun hat. Years later, the same hat lay hooked to the wall - his mute and forlorn memento.

The untimely demise of his mother dumped huge responsibility on his young shoulders. But he rose to the occasion on all fronts – running household chores, tending to his siblings and studying at a modest Girgaum school. Despite being a bright student, he could never complete his matriculation, a blemish that cost him dear in his vocation. In hindsight, I feel his matriculation failure was only an early clue to his enigmatic life ahead.

Thanks to his special flair for machine repair and carpentry, he managed to secure admission in Baroda’s Kala Bhavan, the sole place open to non-matriculates at that time. While completing his diploma in Civil Engineering, he rose to fame as a bright and enterprising student adept at making innovative wooden artifacts. His creations still adorn the homes of several of our relatives’ - mirrors, photo frames, toys, stools, chairs, tables and cupboards made with amazing trademark precision. He always carried a foot ruler in his pocket. Wherever he went, people consulted him on variety of things but he offered his earnest advice only after elaborate measurements on the ruler.

Like the foot ruler, a torn, weathered wallet was his constant companion. My mom often nagged him to throw it away but he reckoned it as his lucky mascot – one that had presumably never emptied ever since he had bought it. But the wallet too, in the end, lay bare like him and needless to say, nobody treasured it after him.

He got married while he was studying at Baroda. After his diploma, he got a temporary job with the PWD at Ahmedabad. Whether it was to do with his non-matriculate status or something else, he was invariably earmarked to fill temporary vacancies – as sub overseer, tracer and even carpenter at times. This meant his constant relocation to remote places in line with the projects at hand. For me, this meant a lonely upbringing at my grandfather’s place in Devbagh away from my parents. My grandfather was a good soul but a hard task master and I would often be at the receiving end of his snide remarks. But my father was of the firm belief that constant touring with him would only spoil my future. I wish he had thought otherwise...

His stars eluded him at work throughout his career. But in each of the temporary roles entrusted to him, he worked with permanent devotion. Managing labour, contractors or finances...... he undertook every assignment to the liking of his superiors. He was particularly popular among the British engineers for his honesty and integrity. But all the recognition and accolades were limited to the completion of the project in hand. After that, he was left yearning for the next assignment. And his luck continued to dodge him, even furling cruel jokes at times.

Once a telegram landed at his door unexpectedly “N L JOSHI PERMANENT”

His joy knew no bounds. His project at Chaniyar had been a recent success and he assumed this telegram as the direct appreciation of the achievement. He wrote several letters in a jiffy informing his relatives of the good news. It was only a careful read that revealed the embarrassment - N L Joshi in the telegram stood for some Nathabhai Lalabhai Joshi, not Narhar Laxman Joshi that was my dad’s name. Dad took much time to recover from this shock. But fate had even more bad news in store – soon he lost his job as there was no vacancy left to accommodate him anymore.

Thanks to the timely magnanimity of a Parsi officer, my dad was later appointed as overseer in Rajkot under the Kathiawad PWD. His life now seemed back on track. He even came home during an AIR RAID PRECAUTION programme in Mumbai. After the training, he took me to Rajkot. That was undoubtedly the best moment of my life. For the very first time, I was with him away from Devbagh. More than the ice creams, toys and films that I was showered with; I enjoyed the charms of his undivided attention.

But soon after, his health began to fail him. No treatment seemed to work on him. To make matters worse, his financial health declined and I was sent back to Devbagh. That was the end of my euphoria. This time, destiny had a fatal note in its music, I was to discover later.

Months later, he came home on unpaid leave. This time, he looked crestfallen, completely broke that he was in body, mind and pocket. We would go for long walks in the evening and he bought me sugar cane juice and snacks. But a dark corner of my heart ached at the reality that the money that bought me these goodies was not his. Nevertheless, having him around meant the world to me. Gradually, his health began to show some improvement. The blizzard in his life seemed to have slowed down, the flakes of snow falling apart to reveal distant rays of hope.

Just when things began to look up, a letter from his office cautioned him of his likely termination on failure to report immediately as his leave limit was exhausted. On an impulse, he rose to leave against the will of everyone else. Weak that he was, fever stuck him even as he boarded the train to Rajkot. After that, he showed rapid deterioration and each passing day made him more helpless and shattered. Finally on one fateful day, a telegram conveyed the bad news. My father was no more.

“Whether a bridge or a building, one has to spot the weak point in any construction”, he once told me while helping me with a paper lamp that I was making for Diwali. Alas! He failed to see the weak point of the very structure that housed his self respect. And when it finally collapsed, the debris crushed my childhood for ever.
The more I think of my father, the more difficult it is to fathom his nature – he vociferously fought double standards all around him but was a mute spectator to the hypocrisy at home right under his nose. He was exceptionally brilliant at his work but remained all life a non-matriculate at the mercy of a temporary job. He was deeply concerned about me, yet he left me alone to grapple with the vagaries of an obliged upbringing. He exhibited great courage to fight the odds of his wayward employment but could not confront his elders to protect the interests of his own family.

His demise leaves a bagful of unanswered questions in my mind. Why did he have to head for Rajkot in a self-defeating do-or-die mission? Why did he cling to a temporary job on a scant salary all his life? Why could he not find his luck in Mumbai like so many of his peers? Why did his penance come at the cost of his family’s well-being?

Hard as he tried to defy his fate, his life ended in mournful defeat. This inheritance of loss marks the beginning of my life journey. I can never hate my father but the very fact that providence has forced me to pity him remains one of the greatest tragedies of my life.

This is a tribute to the timeless enterprising spirit of my grandfather - the piece is a free-wheeling translation of the chapter "My Father" plucked from the anti-autobiographical book "Damu' world" penned by my father Dr Y A Raikar.

Cent Per cent

2007-05-27T09:48:00.000-07:00

The gate was still the same bulk of unceremonious iron but the rust was gone for good. Probably one of the government grants had come good for a change. The pine trees, defining the narrow path to the modest entrance, swayed their gesture of welcome that brought a twinkle to the professor’s weary eyes. This acknowledgment was some green respite from the blistering heat of his career track.

The corridor bore the customary dead look that pervades the expanse of an educational institution during a vacation break. The gaudy fonts of sign boards atop the wooden doors of dimly-lit chambers reluctantly declared the respective authority surrounding the names – clerical, administrative and faculty - in no particular order. The names of course had changed.

With nobody in sight to act as his tourist guide, the professor set out on his own …..The tour, after all, was his official path for nearly two decades. As he climbed the creaking stairs, he looked around for some form of objection to his expedition, formal or otherwise, but nobody seemed to care a damn about this quiet intrusion. The hushed vicinity of the first floor was mercilessly overpowered by the strong stench of urine and the professor knew the exact location of this nasal terrorism. The ghastly toilet on the extreme left next to the Common room was still the lowest priority for the institute, in true Indian tradition. Few things never change.....even across generations.

With quiet authority, he marched to the cubicle that was once his professional abode. The room, complete with electrical fittings, window sills and furniture was exactly the same. Except for the huge, unadorned wooden chairs perhaps…the mantle of accommodating the institute’s intellectual pride had now been passed on to the smart generation of their plastic counterparts.

Just when he was about to conclude on the complete absence of human existence in the whole expanse, he heard hurried footsteps in his direction. It was the dean, he found out later in the ensuing and absorbing conversation…He found it rather amusing to find the highest authority for sole company in the scholarly abandonment of the place.

This was the dean’s second year in the reckoning and the professor was glad to acknowledge some enthusiasm in the dean’s earnest eyes. The dean, in turn, was pleased to note that this visit was unofficial, a walk down memory lane. This mutual happiness made way for some engrossing conversation. Times had truly changed, the dean lamented – there were hardly any takers for archeology and history these days. Even among the few who lose their way to this place, the majority drop out midway, he revealed a dark secret in hushed tone.

The dean offered tea but was glad to note the refusal from the other end. That saved him some embarrassment. There was no one around to make tea. With mechanical promises exchanged to keep in touch, they parted ways and the dean felt the need to escort the professor to the gate in what seemed like genuine respect for yesteryear faculty. Just as the professor looked back at the building for one last time, he spotted a familiar figure walking towards him –this was Dias- the chirpy peon from his teaching days, now probably in his early fifties and uncharacteristically subdued.

The professor was unknowingly swept over by the unusual reunion. Not knowing how to celebrate this fag-end ecstasy, he searched his pockets on an impulse. Dias took the weathered hundred rupee note, speechless and spellbound. They shook hands in a gesture that was devoid of any formal orchestration. As prominent as the unmistakable delight at the sudden monetary gain, the moist eyes of Dias also revealed the warmth of heartfelt gratitude. The professor didn’t care if the latter came wrapped in a commercial transaction. He seemed obsessed with the unadulterated bliss.

In the low-scoring subjects that he taught all his life, there was no student who could have done him proud with cent per cent result. The bliss that Dias gifted him was hundred per cent. And he was only thankful that Dias was not his student.

Chopra's Eklavya

2007-05-09T22:17:00.000-07:00

Vidhu Vinod Chopra's Eklavya brings a breath of fresh air in the Bollywood chaos. It may not be an exemplary film but Chopra presents a personal viewpoint in style, more importantly within the framework of commerical cinema.

Using the motif of Eklavya - the epitome of sacrifice in the epic Mahabharata - Chopra weaves a story of a selfless royal guard, who in the course of his duty comes to terms with the fact that Dharma sans intellect can prove self-defeating. Not as subtly as one would have liked it, but Chopra does succeed in questioning the tradition of glorifying sacrifice in the name of Dharma.

This is undoubtedly one of Amitabh's greatest performances till date, at par with his roles in movies like Alaap, Saudagar, Anand and the recent Black. Whether it's his matter-of-fact acts of unmindful loyalty or the tug of war between royal duty and parental love - Amitabh breathes his character to lift the pathos of Eklavya to a level rarely scaled on Indian celluloid. It's heartening to lose the trademark Big B embossing his stardom at the cost of the theme.

Chopra's admiration for Ritwik Ghatak is well-known. In many ways, Eklavya comes closer to Ghatak's obsession with mythological motifs layered with deeper meanings lurking in tragic situations. But this proximity does not produce the same magic that Ghatak spun time and again with his cinematic folklore. Unlike Ghatak, Chopra tries to simplify an imagery that's simple in essence but very much like Ghatak , he takes a big risk with an offbeat theme. It would invariably take a Ralph Fiennes to appreciate the effort.

Jackie Shroff and Sanjay Dutt - both Chopra favourites for long - are absolutely fascinating - the scene of a turban-tying Jackie swearing his frustration under his breath with a scowling Jimmy Shergill for company is amazing. Even lyricist Sadanand Kirkire in his debut comic avataar is endearing.

The lenght of the film is apt - one could have been easily tempted to exploit the desert in true Bollywood style - but not Chopra. His use of a Shakespeare sonnet against the backdrop of Rajasthan is a masterstroke. Bachchan and Parikshit Sahani with their innocent stares at the king's pompous recital of a phirang composition complement the sonnet's magic.

On the flip side, the child voice-over at the start of the film seems an overt simplification of the theme, probably with the audience in mind. With the exception of Bachchan, all players struggle with the taxing pronunciations and intonations and some of Bommon Irani's loud gestures - a needless underlining to convey deceitful endeavours - could have been checked.

Welcome to Huntworth

2007-01-13T00:38:00.000-08:00

The historic town of Satara in Western Maharashtra wraps a rich legacy of over 300 years in its tiny fold.

300 years of epic history – the reign of the mighty Shivaji, the eventful Peshwa regime, Nana Patil’s parallel government, the radical educational initiatives of Karmveer Bhaurao, Yashwantrao Chavan’s visionary leadership ……. The lanes and bylanes of this place tell vintage tales of these rebels who blessed the soil with their noble cause.

Today, the legendary monuments of Satara echo the mutinous spirit of a bygone era. Prime among them is Sadar Bazaar’s Huntworth building – the residence of the then chief minister of Mumbai - Sir D B Cooper. Amidst the concrete encroachment from all sides, the bunglow stands tall celebrating its royal solitude with spiritual detachment.

Nobody can deny the times of yore – either we are trapped in the vicious tentacles of our past or we take it by its horns – dismissing the lures of illusions and wishful thinking. Huntworth has achieved the latter – its ripe age may have sapped it of energy, but the self respect is still towering. Akin to the vintage homes of Shakespeare and Milton, Huntworth holds fort on the sands of time - breathing mute testimony to a history of over eight decades.

The main entrance is unchanged, save for the new log cabin aside for security. The porch is also the same…what’s more; you would still find Sir Sahib’s umbrella to the side. Think of the several political monsoons it has weathered and you will lose count.Now it stands alone tucked in a corner…his forlorn memento.

Every door, every window, every wall of Huntworth has witnessed Sir Sahib’s dignity from close quarters – the tête-à-têtes, the debates, the schemes, the hospitality – they have seen it all. This observation has a life of its own flowing through the length and breath of the seemingly inert structure. The man is no more, the legend lives on….

All the inanimate things in Huntworth are blessed with his sanctity. Every minute of your presence here conveys the secret of their speechless existence – they are mute only in awe of the great man. Else, they had better ways to sing the glory…. ways that would transcend the shallow boundaries of human speech.

Huntworth has shared Sir Sahib’s greatest tragedy in equal measure – the untimely loss of his only son. Sir Sahib could never really recover from this shock. He passed away within three years of his son’s demise but so long as he lived, the greatness of the man rose above his personal grief.

Thanks to his pioneering strides, he graced the lives of millions around him only to touch their hearts. Huntworth was his loyal companion throughout this voyage – in times of celebration, in times of grief. Every stone of this structure breathes the passion, triumph, anguish and the fag-end loneliness of the man.

Think of Sir Cooper in the expanse of Huntworth and a distinct image dances before your eyes

A stairway is hinting at an uphill journey into the mists of the unknown.

One man, slowly but surely, is taking giant strides ahead. As he looks back, he signals to the vast population on his trail –

“Take only a step ahead ….and you'll find yourself way ahead”

A freewheeling translation of a chapter from the book “Sahasrakatil Vegla Parshi” on the life and times of Late Sir D B Cooper by Jaywant Gujar, Chandrakala Publication, Pune

Short Story by Munshi Premchand

2006-07-13T01:25:00.000-07:00

Munshi Premchand, the great writer from India, is my all-time favorite. Throughout his lifetime, he served timeless pathos in all flavours. This is my humble attempt to translate his "Bade Bhai Sahab" (Big brother) a gripping and moving tale of an hapless elder brother gradually getting unnerved by the rapid yet casual academic strides of his happy-go-lucky younger sibling. Each time he builds a wall of defense in a desperate attempt to prove his might, he finds it unknowingly crushed by the little one. Lurking in this simple story are umpteen shades of human emotions. Here it goes...

My brother was five years elder to me, but only three grades ahead. Not that his tryst with schooling began late, it surely must been his keen devotion to learning that dissuaded him from any hasty progress. How could the great monument of knowledge stand tall without a strong foundation? Hence the motto of spending more than a year in each division.

My upbringing was solely his responsibility and for me, his was obviously the final word. How could I ever think of defying him? He was so studious … always engrossed in books. I often found fancy cats, dogs and birds drawn on few pages of his note books…. could well have been his idea of taking a break perhaps.

Many a times he wrote a single name several times over, or scribbled few sentences that didn’t make any sense to me. For instance, once I found the following etched in his notebook:

Special, Ameena, brothers, because, Radheshyam, Mr. Radheshyam, one hour…

At the end of this trail was the image of a man. I broke my head over this creation but failed to unravel the mystery. Nor did I dare to ask him. He was in the ninth standard; I was only in the fifth grade…how could I attempt to dissect such intricate stuff?

I never lost a single chance to rush to the playground, throwing pebbles in the air; flying paper butterflies. Climbing up and down the stairs, riding the hostel gate like a motorcar….I had great fun, but back in the hostel room, an eerie silence invariably unnerved me.

My brother would fling the first question rudely “Where were you?”

My answer was a meek silence, conveying the acceptance of my crime. He would then caution me in a flurry of kind and rude words.

“Learn English in this fashion, and you had it. This is no child’s play dear. Slog for months and you barely get to reach the shore, even scholars never take it easy.

And I ask, do you not see me toiling , poring over books, if you fail to see, that’s your fault. There are umpteen plays, fairs, cricket matches everyday, have you ever seen me taking a break. And despite this devotion, I spend more than two years in each grade. It takes me two years, you will probably spend a lifetime. If you want to waste your life thus, better go home and play Gulli danda* to your heart’s content. Why blow Dada’s** hard –earned money for nothing?”

I would burst into tears after this, guilty that I was. He would hurt me with such choicest words. For a second, I would be tempted to give up…why not go home... I was happy being a dullard but god save me from this struggle…

But all tension vanished the next moment to make way for some fresh resolve.... to burn the midnight oil, a new time table sans fun and frolics....

Get up at 6 sharp, finish breakfast… 6 to 8 English, 8 to 9 Math, 9 to 9.30 History, followed by lunch and school. Back home at 3.30, half an hour rest, 4 to 5 Geography, 5 to 6 Grammar, stroll round the hostel half an hour, 6.30 to 7 English composition, followed by dinner, 8 to 9 translations, 9 to 10 Hindi, 10 to 11 revision and then retire to bed.

Making a time table is one thing, sticking to it is another. The breach began from day one. The bouncing football, the fervor of Kabbadi, and the pace of volleyball all pulled me back to the playground. And gone were all oaths, all resolve …

The annual results were out. I stood first, he failed to clear. Now just two grades separated us. For a second, I was tempted to confront him right away. “And whatever happened to your penance? What do we see?”

But his crestfallen face made me think otherwise. Rage made way for compassion. But yes, now I had a newfound confidence and the guilt was gone for good. Probably, he had guessed it.

Yet, he got his chance one day at the lunch table.

“So you feel you have conquered the world. My dear fellow, this is just the beginning. History is replete with stories of pride getting the better of the best. Remember what happened to the might of Ravana – the invincible demon king. What did you learn from his story? "

"Clearing an exam is one thing, knowledge is another. You were lucky this time, but it can’t happen every time. Don’t judge me by my score, wait till you reach my grade. Algebra and Geometry will drive you crazy and god save you from the atrocities of British history. Just try remembering emperors by names …there have been eight Henries alone. Mention Henry the VII as VIII and you lose all marks… And we have dozens of James and Williams, and countless Charles…where are you dear? And every name troubles you again with I, II, III, and IV…

Had they asked me for options and I would have thrown up countless names. Why stick to the same name again and again?

"Geometry is another torture…. write A, B, C as A, C, B and you get a big zero. I just don’t get the point…Daal, Rice, Chapati or Rice, Daal, Chapati…is it not the same...Then why kill poor students for the goddamed sequence? But if you want to clear exams, you better suffer this nonsense. Write an essay on “the value of time” in not less than 400 words. What kind of a joke is that? Common sense has it --- say what you have to in 3-4 lines and move ahead in life. But no, 400 words please. This is nothing but anarchy.”

”So you see, my darling brother, you have a long way to go. Don’t float in the air; you will soon land with a thud. Yes, I have flunked but I am still your elder brother and I know the world better.”

I was getting late for school, waiting for this painful discourse to end. I simply lost my appetite over his ghastly picture of higher grades.

Somehow, I tugged along, my daily routine intact. Annual exams were round the corner again. I cleared again, he flunked again…I had no idea how, but I had topped again. And he had miserably failed…This time, he was in real bad shape…face devoid of color, eyes sunk deep…I felt sorry for him. And then a wicked thought crossed my mind. One more year and we could end up in the same grade. no no… How could my mind be so devilish? I crushed the nasty thought.

But now he was no more the same brother I knew. He would pass off all opportunities to pull my ears and generally kept off me. May be, he realized he had lost the right. This made me even more independent and I roamed about at will all day long.

One pleasant evening, I set about running after colorful kites. I was one among the army of 10-12 lads carrying bamboo sticks as weapons. Our mission was to collect as many fallen kites as we could. We were oblivious of the surroundings when I suddenly bumped into my brother. He was probably on his way back home from the bazaar. He caught me by the wrist and asked tersely

“Are you out of your mind? Roaming like a vagabond with these hooligans. If not anything, have some respect for your grade. I know of several eight-graders of yester years who made name as magistrates, collectors, editors, leaders and scholars. And look at yourself? You are intelligent no doubt, but where's your self-respect?”

“I can read your mind all right. You feel you have caught up with me and that I have no right to question you. But you are wrong. I am five years elder to you and will always remain so…This truth will prevail and even God can’t challenge it...whether you get into my grade or even move ahead. "
"And, thanks to the kind of examiners we have these days, that's indeed possible. . ." he added with a wry smile.

"I have loads of worldly knowledge that’s way above academic grades. Did our Amma*** and Dada ever go to school? The government in America, constellations in space, wives of Henry the VIII, they may not know, but can we ever match their wisdom in worldly matters. Tomorrow, if I fall sick, you will surely panic and send a telegram to Dada, but Dada in your place, would never react like that. He will first try some home remedy, only if it fails, will he call for a doctor."

"Leave health issues" , he paused for effect to resume again, "those are grave matters, can we plan our monthly budgets? Every rupee that Dada sends us, does it not vanish by the 22nd of the month? Are we not left waiting for the next remittance? Did you know that Dada raised a family of nine in less than half of what we blow up?"

"Look at our headmaster. He has an MA, that too from Oxford. He earns a handsome Rs. 1000 as salary. But who runs his house? His aged mother. There goes his degree to the bin.

"So you see, do away with that false pride. You are nowhere near me.” He then raised his hand consumed by rage

“And I will not hesitate to thrash you if need be. I know you’ll hate me for this”

I was speechless and an intense, queer feeling swept over me. I could not bear the sight of my poor brother, shaking nervously, and losing his mind with every word he uttered. As tears trickled down my cheeks, I only managed to say,

“No, I don’t hate you, it’s all my undoing. Every word of what you say is true. Please forgive me”
He hugged me instantly. His shaky voice was now barely audible.

“I am not against flying kites, my love. Even I am tempted, but I am helpless. If I take it easy, who will look after you?’

Just then, we saw a kite above us, utterly helpless, cut reins hanging in shame, on its mournful journey down. Tall that he was, my brother caught the twine and ran towards the hostel, hapless but fast…...

I followed suit, pacing after him.

====================

* Popular Indian game played with wooden sticks & billet with conical ends
**Short for father
***Short for mother

Flush in a flash

2006-07-13T00:38:00.000-07:00

My ancient toilet flush is on a weeping spree again. The floor is irritatingly wet every time I go in for my tryst with nature. If this is not enough, the hiss of the leaking water from the sullen outlet teases my ears. I step out of my matchbox flat reluctantly fighting the temptation to roll back in those crumpled sheets.My eyes look for that big burly figure, my harbinger of rest room peace – Arun. He is the local doctor for any plumbing chore. He has a way with toilets I must say. Choked sinks, wet washers, tight taps, and loose nuts… he can mend in minutes. He is lazying under the pump room shade as usual. If the neighborhood had not known his skill, he would have passed for the local goon – the one you consult in life-and-death situations that threaten your middle-class dignity. Arun never believes in wasting time. He rushes to my place and attends to the ailing patient.

“It’s the handle again” he murmurs and leaves the scene.

15 minutes pass and he’s back with a plastic wrapped brand new handle in his rough palm. I am in the hall when I hear the familiar sound of the water gushing out in a jiffy. Like an overjoyed expectant father waiting outside the labour room, I rush to the loo with another admiring look towards Arun. He has done it again and for the umpteenth time, he carefully explains the dynamics of the flush.

“See, when you push this handle, water begins to fill in the pan. When the level crosses the top of the trap here, the flow starts and gradually, a bubble in the top creates a siphon. It is this siphon, my friend, which pulls the water out of the pan and we say the toilet has flushed”

This extempore invariably flows in chaste English with a tone best-suited to address a classroom. I thank him as I always do and he rushes back to the pump room shade.

Arun is my next-door neighbor. He lost his job as a solution architect with Flow Soft- a flow-modeling software firm - following an allegation of irrational behavior at the workplace. Arun’s magnum opus, a thesis on “Intricacies of fluid dynamics and flow engineering” lies buried in his cupboard.

Half-smile

2006-07-13T00:35:00.000-07:00

His half-smile was unforgettable. That was the only memory of Mujawar I carried back to Mumbai. He was the driver on rolls for the sugar factory that I visited as a consultant. The Mahindra Commander jeep was at the guesthouse promptly at three in the morning. He was dressed in khaki; probably his uniform, and a bright red woolen monkey-cap hid most of his face. The front door was left ajar for me. I hopped in, wearing an over-done grin that you usually reserve for chauffeurs, especially when they see you off at odd hours. It was December and I didn’t mind his strong odor in the chill of the wee hours. There was a certain warmth in it.

“So, are you happy with your job” I asked him on our way to the station.

“No”, was his matter-of-fact reply.

“It must be hard work, driving all night “.

Again the terse response “I sleep most of the time”

I had no idea what to ask further. It was the typical situation we often face in life – when you strike a conversation for the heck of it …the journey is short, you don’t know the guy, you want to keep mum, he wants to keep mum, and yet you end up opening your mouth.

“Do you grow sugar cane” “I made another feeble attempt

“I don’t own any field” pat came the reply. His answers were bundled with huge full stops, bringing further questions to a grinding halt… Suddenly, I remembered his very first reply.

“Why don’t you try some other job? “Like?”

He croaked with a cold look. “Er, like..”

I just could not come up with anything. This time, I was glad that he didn’t care. He was so close to me but his nonchalance made him invisible. “Station”, he announced precisely. I jumped out of the jeep and waved my hands in the universal gesture of a good-bye. As expected, no reaction echoed from the other side. As I walked up the stone-strewn path of the tiny railway station, I heard his voice.

“Hello, over here” Now what’s wrong with him?

I wondered even as I turned back. “Your... Look below, down there” he said pointing his rough, scarred middle finger.

Now, he had a half-smile on his face.Goodness, my fly was undone. I had left in a hurry, more worried about missing the 4.45 morning train. In the effort to pull myself out of the guesthouse, did I forget to pull up the zip…. Phew…a scene flashed in my mind instantly…several years back, my classmate, a cute girl I much fancied, had caught me with my zip down. How embarrassed I was. I never imagined this iceberg, of all people, would remind me of my childhood crush at the end of our sojourn.“Thanks, what’s your name,” I asked, my fingers on the zipper just to reconfirm.

“Mujawar”, he said softly. This was followed by the loud roar of the jeep that left behind an ugly cloud of dust and smoke for company. As it cleared, like a dream sequence from a Hindi film, only one image danced before my eyes – his half smile.

Platter off the coast

2006-07-11T00:56:00.000-07:00

Few delicacies from the universal cuisine:

http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/articles/sen/ (Tagore and his India)
http://satyajitray.ucsc.edu/articles/sen.html (Satyajit Ray and the art of Universalism)

Brilliant essays on two great Indians by Amartya Sen - the Nobel laureate economist.

=========================

http://www.sei.cmu.edu/about/website/indexes/siteIndex/siteIndexTR.html

A neat compilation of Carnegie Mellon Software Engineering Institute's Technical Reports by Title, this is a great source of information for enlightened programmers, technical architects, business analysts, design experts, sales professionals and just about anyone interested in diverse software concepts.

==========================

http://www.boloji.com/hinduism/101.htm

A reply to Dr. Frank Morales' false notions about Hinduism written by Chittaranjan Naik with great conviction. See my review on his article at http://www.shvoong.com/www/199521-sword-kali-naik/

==========================

http://www.kapor.com/writing/index.html

Founder of the Lotus Development Corporation and an independant authority on Software Design principles and practice, Mitch Kapor wrote the Software Design Manifesto some sixteen years ago, but every word of it still rings true. Also read his insightful articles here!

http://www.stevepavlina.com/blog/2005/10/polyphasic-sleep/

Steve Pavlina shares his experience with Polyphasic Sleep in his inimitable style. The article also details his sleep logs. The best place to find more about this sleep pattern also known as Da Vinci sleep or Uberman sleep.

http://www.studioinspira.com/

A fine example of clarity in communication. Young media web designer Kedar Prabhawalkar's site conveys the value proposition of his enterprise with resounding conviction. Aspiring web designers all over the world would do well to learn from his style. A rare treat indeed!

http://www.cybernoon.com/DisplayArticle.asp?section=fromthepress&subsection=inbombay&xfile=August2006_inbombay_standard10444

Dombivli Fast is a path-breaking Marathi movie that sets a new trend in an industry stuck with the sob stories of family melodrama or the orchestrated laughter of mindless comedies. Read my review.....

Books forever - Fantastic Five

2006-07-05T05:16:00.000-07:00

Sacred Waters by Steve Alter

I have yet to read a better account of a spiritual journey. Not that the Char Dham Yatra has not been captured in literature before but the author (brother of the illustrious actor Tom Alter) treads a diffrent path. Rather than meeting all expectations that his readers may have thrust on him, he raises them to a level only apt for a spiritual journey.

Whether it's the physical hardship of the journey or its psychological effect, Alter avoids the popular route employed by many - that of glorifying every event. The rich and varied mythology of India, the nuances of its cultural diversity, the tug of war between environmentalists and the establishment, the sanctified commerce of the temple economy, the demi-gods of the country - Alter's essays on the umpteen aspects of his pilgrimage reflect an unique devotional detachment. And he hints at his own spiritual experience not as any enlightement, but only as a natural course of the travel - deviod of loud adjectives and heavy jargon. And more importantly, without losing the innocent wonderment of an honest pilgrim.

In doing so, he also raises some fundamental issues - buried under the carpet by vested interests from every sphere. The spirit of adventure travel, he believes, is entwined with a disturbing paradox. For centuries, journeys of this kind have been wrongly labelled as "War against nature" rather than an attempt to find one's roots in the green mysteries. He also exposes some of the ridiculous beliefs of the typical travel freak - like the craze to capture every scene through the view-finder of a camera - more in proof of individual glory rather than an appreciation of nature. Such obsession only proves self-defeating, especially in a journey that's a rare treat to the human eye.

A traveller wih his heart and mind in the right places - Steve Alter was destined to go places -Char Dham being four of them- I am absolutely sure of that!
========================================================

A Brief History of The Future by John Naughton

Before the Internet truly became a worldwide household phenomenon as it is today, there was plenty of literature devoted to its origins, early days and growing advancements. But John Naughton’s book has enough differentiators that make it a special flower in an overflowing basket.

Wonder, he points out, is sorely missing among us – the plain, simple quality to marvel at technology rather than be its pompous users. In fact, he raises a moot question in the process – are we not taking progress for granted in casually floating towards the next Big Thing at any point of time? Yes, we seem to be doing just that, all the time – be it electricity, the telephone, the DVD player, the latest cell phone or the tablet PC.

Naughton is brilliant in the case he makes for engineers – a largely unsung and invisible tribe – which achieves the unthinkable and yet is invariably accorded a lowly status compared to actors, musicians, artists, athletes, doctors and scientists. He openly admits his personal grudge, since he is an engineer himself, but rightly observes this plight is embedded in the very role they perform. While they focus on the technical means, the ends are invariably decided by a superior, a client, a government agency or a company. Naughton pays homage to the engineers of the Internet on two counts – one, because they built an amazing world open to all and two – because they invented institutions and traditions in the process that made the world a better place.

He begins the voyage under the section - A Brief History of the Future - before devoting a chapter to the Radio days. Since the story of the Internet is closely entwined with computers, Naughton briefly traces the origins in Blaise Pascal’s adding machine, Scchickard’s mechanical calculator and Babbage’s Analytical Engine before finally zeroing in on the campus on the East Coast of the United States – the legendary Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Naughton elucidates the anatomy of a computer, devices like the modem, or demystifies core concepts like packet switching, messaging protocols and email in an extremely reader- friendly fashion – a rare feat for books devoted to technology.

As the book proceeds, Naughton pays tribute to visionaries like Joseph Licklider, Robert Taylor, Douglas Engelbrat, Norbert Weiner, Vannevar Bush and Ted Nelson and engineers like Paul Baran, Donald Davies, Larry Roberts, Bob Kahn, Vint Cerf and Tim Berners- Lee. While Naughton throws light on the origins of the Net, its creators, mechanics and protocols, he also spares a thought or two on its social significance and impact. Here is a book written with passion, not just for the sake of history. It is only fair that it is read in the same spirit.

====================================

Business Blunders by Geoff Tibballs

For journalist-turned-full time author Geoff Tibballs as he points out in the preface, the biggest business blunder has been choosing the wrong lottery numbers week after week. But his highly entertaining book captures a rich variety of business blunders across the globe spanning different industries. As the beautiful preface by the legendary Sir John Harvey- Jones remarks, the fine balance of business is in making affordable mistakes and avoiding the atomic explosion of the true business blunder. But Sir John’s best compliment to the book is in his hope to make his own contributions to the ensuing volumes. Though Tibballs never makes the claim that this is an educative book, the humorous collection of blunders is indeed a ready reckoner for valuing the spirit of enterprise and innovation. Tibballs divides the blunders under clearly defined categories – that makes for very interesting reading.

Under Flawed concepts, we have the New Coke experiment that failed to click and the ill- famed IBM lethargy that made Microsoft speed away with all the glory in personal computing business. There are also some lesser-known blunders like the AC Gilbert Toy story or the Irish Canal experiment. Under Bankers’ Errors, we have the Barings collapse covered in great detail. The Sting covers tales like the fake Hitler diaries and biography of Hollywood producer Howard Hughes.

Do not miss the Sale of the Eiffel Tower and The Day The Circus didn’t come to Town. Truly hilarious accounts, of course they seem so only in retrospect. Missed opportunities is devoted to stories like that of Dick Rowe who turned down the Beatles and Napolean’s unfulfilled dream due to the sale of Louisiana state. Money Down The Drain is a wonderful collage of stories like The Advanced Passenger Train, The Hoover Flights Fiasco, The Montreal Olympics Ruin, Raise the Titanic movie disaster and a life time holiday – thanks to a computer error.

Throughout the pages, Tibballs’s narrative is rich in humour and precise to the point. And he tells each story with exceptional flair – whether a popular blunder or a lesser known chaos. In the process, he strikes a chord with the reader. This is a great tribute to the spirit of business. As Sir John Harvey- Jones puts it, this book makes for fun reading and yet carries a subliminal message for us all.

=======================================

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

Arundhati Roy, who won the coveted Booker Prize for this book, says it tells a sad story. Indeed it does so but the real beauty of her pen leaves the reader pondering as to whose story it is all about. This is indeed a story of stories –of two unfortunate twins grappling with the pathos of their twisted providence, of social hypocrisy in a male-dominated society; of fake morals of progressive Marxists and religious fundamentalists alike; of a determined woman taking the world by its horns …..

The stories are commonplace but not the pathos.Little events and ordinary things- these are the ingredients that Roy employs with remarkable authority and style – the humour is poignant, the language bears a fresh appeal, the metaphor is strikingly outstanding, and the meticulous detail is at its inventive best. Bit by bit, the story unfolds through the eyes of the hapless twins – Estha and Rahel and yet, Roy makes each character come alive only through their spectacles. In the innocent surveillance of the delightful twins is packed a wealth of human insight, and refreshingly devoid of arid psychology.You can see every character influencing the twins’ lives in true splendor - their nagging grand aunt Baby Kochchmma; their privileged cousin Sophie Mol; her proud father Uncle Chacko; her determined, over-protective mother Margaret Kochamma; the convenient morals of their grand parents Mammachi and Pappachi, their indifferent father Baba far away from their reach; their unfortunate mother Ammu – fighting a losing war on her terms and last but not the least; Velutha – the untouchable rustic lad whose death is clearly one of the most poignant in literature till date and of course, the kids themselves – Rahel, the girl with her devil-may-care adventurous spirit and Esthapen, her brother with his quiet resignation .

Long after you have kept the book aside, the words continue to haunt you in a delightful trance. There have been few before Roy who have seen nights suffused with sloth and sullen expectation; hot brooding months with long humid days; gardens full of whisper and scurry of small lives; the queer compassion of the very poor for the comparatively well-off; religions seeping into places like tea from a teabag; society’s circus in railway stations inviting despair with the rush of commerce; long, oiled hair of the morally upright who lay down laws who should be loved and how. And how much.

Yes, this is a sad book that fills the reader with some innate joy – the elation is clearly beyond words.

=========================================================

Our Films, Their Films by Satyajit Ray

This is Satyajit Ray's first and only book in English on cinema and should be part of every film buff's library. As the title suggests, the author discusses the characteristics of Western films (pre-dominantly Hollywood, and some Italian and British movies) and Indian films to throw light on the art and science of film making, nuances of his own craft, his choice of artists, his thoughts on cinematography and music. Besides, the book also carries excerpts from his personal experience.

The first section is devoted to Indian films where the author highlights the need for developing skill and temperament in creating works of art under conditions of deprivation. Obviously, he found it lacking among Indian film makers who were either busy peddling muddled notions of the so-called indigenous art form or blindly copying the Western style, however out-of-place in the Indian environment.Few diary-like chapters capture moments of ecstacy, tension and hectic schedules while shooting for films like the Apu trilogy and Jalshaghar. He also discusses at length the life and times of three international figures – all masters in their own right – Akira Kurosawa, Charlie Chaplin and Jene Renoir. In elaborating on the Italian neo-realism cinema, he remembers a few Italian movies including the celebrated Bicycle Thieves – a film that inspired Ray to make his first film Pather Panchali. He advises Indian film makers to study Vittorio Desica – the director of the film – to grasp the nuances so very tailored for the Indian scene – where finances and resources are always in scarcity.

Ray beautifully summarizes the commercial characteristics of the bustling Bombay film industry with a special tribute to the innovative spirit of Hindi film numbers in recreating popular Western music into convincing desi versions with amazing regularity. Among the offbeat Indian films, Ray discusses at length four features films including M. S. Sathyu’s Garm Hawa, Shyam Benegal’s Nishant and Mani Kaul’s Duvidha. The book is a great reference book, a travelogue, a collection of essays and film reviews and a diary – all in one- much like the genius of the great director who had his stamp of creativity in every sphere including direction, music, cinematography, screenplay, writing and illustrations.

Verse and worse

2006-01-12T22:06:00.000-08:00

The commuter's diary

Soon after he died
They found his diary
with strange marks
weathered and deformed
on certain days of his working life
Queer man, they labeled
and buried him so
The diary joined
the pile of trash
to the old paper mart
Its new asylum

Only the diary knew
those strange marks
stood for lucky days
of imperial travel
at the window seat
in swarming trains

The shuttling journey on beaten tracks
Now rusts in peace
In the solemn grave yard
The torn mute witness
Recycled for peanuts

Desire

I desire to break free
from the crumbling frame
and the heavy load
of an old dream

But the scornful smile
of my vicious fate
Aerates me afresh
With false hope

Safe and Sound

Day in and day out
Clock keeps ticking
Only for the din
Am alive and kicking

The busy brush and its tap
Shoe shine guy sings a rap
Hey! keep marchin onward
Put your best foot forward
Music at the flour mill
Santoor beats, a welcome fill
White ghost warm and funny
Five grands for this symphony

Tempting rhythm on tracks
Pleading screech on cracks
Trains you call local
So friendly and vocal
Wheely creatures honk
the peace of a monk

Wailing sirens, humming machine
Serve an universal cuisine
Twists-n-turns, merry-go-round
I feel safe in this sound

8.12 V T fast - Up or Down

Shewanta hates her name
Her creaking Dombivali chawl
Sakharam loves her name
His screeching Ambernath dream

Her dream abode in a Dadar flat
A bathroom to call her own
His eyes set on that last room
Minutes away from the loo

His fantasy wrapped in a saree
Pallu playing hide and seek
She yearns for that sexy look
Tight trousers and tempting tops

Her first thought of the day
Weeping kitchen tap for witness
The new US-returned boss
Benetton shirt and matching tie

“Permanent” letter and Diwali bonus
Honeymoon at Matheran lodge
His sweet voyage all night long
Wrecked by the old man’s cough

She wears a big wide grin
with the Pink salwar kameez
Hopping over crumpled sheets
Favourite number on his lips

Both happy in their hope
Sailing in the 8.12 V T fast
Stroking respective dreams
In the sweat of the ruckus

Dance Bar

Man to wife

Office folks coming home
Dump the old saree
Get the modern look
You have a week’s time
Buy lace and satin
Wear it within
And for god sake
Lose that matron bra
Jeans would be just right
To mingle in the crowd
Your safe new look
Even after the fourth peg
Learn from Mrs. Kapoor
Miss Lily and Ms Gidwani
All about graceful mixers
And broad-minded gestures
Am a new age hubby
Rise to the occasion
Great fun to be a flirt
Within your laxman rekha

Wife to herself

Ok you bloody swine
Will fuel your aspiration
Modern or ancient
You will crack the whip

Watch your wife gyrate
Around home-made numbers
Warm and desirable
Strictly not available
Will tease and tickle
A shudh bharitiya pickle
My sexy inviting look
Will hook but not unhook
When the party’s over
Back to the kitchen
Serving wada and sambar
The quintessential homemaker

Home sweet home
And a happy family
Closed-door dance bar
But not a pickup joint

Soap Opera

The seven-storyed concrete
Every window a channel
Some dark with "for sale" tags
others lit with serial hope

Emotion fighting intellect
Stories on every floor
Some sponsered, others not
Telecast on prime time

Bed-ridden grandma
swallows Her pride
with the capsule
Another episode extended
At the mercy of fate

Merging into each other
hit and miss affair
The newly wed couple
Eternal bliss in foreplay

Householder with tense eyes
Behind broad-rimmed specs
Busy pulling shoe-strings
Losing balance on the sheet

Damsel surfing the world
An obliging idiot box
Dry gravy on the rice
Sorry picture on the plate

Soap operas galore
Pathos, romance,intrigue
Each bubble floating
only while "on air"

Soft wear and tear

Programmed for America
A body shoppers’ delight
Made in India
A short-term contract
Mercy of the great dollar

Paradise lost
Back to the rupee
The Top-notch professional
And true patriot

Huge Loan on salary
Chauffer-driven Honda City
Pink slip, the next day

Frantic call

Dying ring tones
Unsung missed calls
Emails buried alive
The Junk mail debris

Mystery for me
History for you

The perfect couple

Deep embrace
Brimming grace
Passion rocked
Emotion locked
Corporal lust
Karmic thrust
Swift and supple
The perfect couple

Buzzing doorbell
Crack the shell
Wrap the surreal
Fake the real
Time to unwind
Back to the grind

Get me the broom
Or spell my doom
Save me the smack
Memsaab’s back

Time to let go

Mindless travel
away from navel
Lock to the fore
key in the core
Search invain
truth plain
clueless strife
end ripe
Breathless nap
Call of the gap
Dump the urge
Time to merge

Wings of Hope

2006-01-12T22:04:00.000-08:00

Street Siesta - Shibu G. takes you around the quiet by lanes of Fort .....

"The historic locale of Mumbai’s Fort area bears a languid look in the afternoon. The mad morning march of office-goers now transforms into leisure walks on sun-baked lanes, as majority of the white-collared class catch their grub at Udipi lunch homes. While a good population flock like flies to Nepalese-run red-painted Chinese stalls, the Malayalee joints are equally busy with extra helpings of curries thrown over sullen mountains of rice at regular intervals. Mobilized through a parading army of sweat-soaked waiters, they epitomize the restaurant’s generosity extended to regular customers"

Done with his hurried noon meal, Shibu walked down the street, trying to get his sequence right. He was already happy with the effect. Hope this would pass for a story today. But the next moment, he was jittery.

No more of your stupid features– Gazdar had warned.

Gazdar – the man-eater editor of his tabloid. If Gazdar’s ultimatum today was any indication, Shibu had very little time. The current trend was dead against him. Young guys and girls came in dozens everyday in strange, skimpy outfits to cover the city on peanut stipends, most of them showered with fantastic pocket monies by obliging dads and moms. Shibu got a little over four grands for his journalistic masquerade. That, the management now thought, was far from cost-effective. Besides, there was little about his stories that furthered the paper’s cause. Crime, Law, Hospital, Politics, Sports, Art and Entertainment – all beats had owners. And Shibu was left with Human Interest stories – with inhuman deadlines. He came back to his desk in the remote corner incensed by the strong smell of the adjoining urinal leaking to glory.

Gazdar had left a Post –it Note stuck on a glossy paperback. For Review Today. Must.

Asshole, Shibu swore under his breath, savoring the glorious view of the enticing red waistband of Miss Roshni’s panties as she bent over to pick the bulky thesaurus from the rack below. Roshni, Rosh to Gazdar, the cute skinny creature who sincerely believed she spun mega revolutions with her byline. Shibu looked for a free terminal. Luckily, that fatso Sunder was out, the rebel with a pause. Madly in love with his South Bombay scoops and his UK Mass media degree. Fuck them all.

Shibu opened a new Wordstar file on the ancient machine. They would just not go for better software and machines. All they want removed is men.He looked at the title. “Mumbai – Gust of Hope” By Salomi Gidwani. Good lord! Another of those disgusting half-baked travelogues “Replete with irritating personal memoirs, the book hardly reflects the ethos of a dead-yet-alive city. A hasty analysis of earmarked chronicles – the sketch is………”

“Shibu…” Gazdar’s voice was unmistakable. But not the tone.

“Let’s have coffee,” He proposed, grinning from ear to ear.

“You remember your report on malnutrition deaths last week. Seems Channel XI covered it in their morning capsule, with due credit to us for breaking the news. Now that it’s boiling hot, makes sense to cover it in depth. You leave tonight. Get some advance from Accounts. Visit at least five six tribal pockets and yes…I want more pictures -morgues, hospitals, naked children – get going”

He left the room and before the door banged, he barked “Don’t forget the review, it’s urgent”

How about this God-sent lease of life? Six tribal pockets meant 15 days of tour in the least. Away from office. Amidst an unsuspecting lot of tribals – how would they ever know their fake saviour is as helpless? The chai-wala was quite shocked to see a smiling Shibu. What’s wrong with him today, he wondered.

Sipping tea from the weathered cup, Shibu turned back to the screen. The keys on the board slaughtered the old file with the detached flair of a professional killer. A new file lay open before him with a dancing cursor begging to move. Shibu soared high on the wings of a newfound hope.

“Despite being another personal sketch of a city much explored, it’s heartening to find a refreshing gust of narrative style in this racy account…In less than 500 pages, there’s barely an aspect of the city’s culture that the author has not touched upon. Ms Gidwani’s catalogue of this throbbing metropolis is.........

Night Shift

2006-01-12T22:03:00.000-08:00

My manager had put me on the night shift for the week. I had just joined the 24/7 production support team for a key client - an US automobile major. It was my turn as Sailesh was on leave, and Raghu had quit. This was his last day in office. He had agreed to see me through the first night. And then I was to take it ahead. But that was no solace. In our short association, we had only grown to dislike each other. No real ground for enmity, but I found him snobbish, and extremely conceited. As if he was God’s gift to software. Thank god, he was leaving. Good riddance. Wonder what he thought of me. Whatever he may have thought, I was sure of the negativity. So, with such grand chemistry in broad daylight, the prospects after dark seemed all the more bleak.I reached my desk much before the scheduled time of 8.00 pm. I thought it fitting, more so for the inaugural day and was glad not to find Raghu around. I put on my machine and its faint hum filled the vacant cubicle within minutes. When the scheduler flashed an error code on the screen, I almost panicked at the sudden reality of my job. “Errors have a 5 per cent chance, buddy. Most of the time, you will surf the net or doze off” Sailesh had assured me. But here it was, right at the start of my daunting mission. It was a system error, something I was not equipped to tackle. I felt a cold chill run down my spine. As I sifted through the pages of the biblical user manual, I felt a shadow lurking behind me. It was Raghu and I could already imagine his wry smile of contempt. But he wore a homely grin along with his T-shirt and faded jeans, a rather strange sight for a formal guy with an high-and-mighty attitude. But what happened in the next few minutes was truly unbelievable. He fixed the bug for me, called up the client overseas, and signed off the help desk log with the “success” tag. Before I could recover from the shock, he was back with piping hot tea from the pantry.He was such a great conversationalist, I found that night, with an incredible sense of humour. And what a bore he seemed all these days. Imagine my perception, it had changed overnight…literally... I never knew he was among the first batch of software engineers that were recruited by our firm. How young he looked. And a proud member of the IBM mainframe group, with the fierce loyalty befitting a pioneer. The error that almost killed me minutes back was very rare, he told me. It had happened only twice in his whole career before. Somewhere, in the middle of the night, he got out an Old Monk from his leather bag. My first-ever liquor jaunt in office was truly memorable. After the third peg, he unexpectedly turned pensive; with open regret for the current breed of software guys. “Their pride is killing them” he declared with prophetic authority. Now that was funny. … And what happens to your belief during the day, my friend? Wish I could ask him. Taking my amusement for boredom, he changed the topic to girls. How did he guess my only passion in life? He asked me for my favourite list from office and I revealed a few secrets that reigned my lusty thoughts all the time. But I could not place any of his choice, probably, these dames were no longer in the company, I reckoned. There was no Raghu around when I woke up from my awkward slumber on the revolving chair.

I found his curt email in my inbox in the evening “Sorry dude, can’t make it and I don’t care. Fuck you all. Good bye” The date and time of the email indicated it was written the day before. That meant Raghu never came to office. Then who was the soul who helped me out? A chill ran down my spine.

Later that month, I won the “best performance award” for the bug fix from the management. The secret of my success is still in lock and key, but every word of the rich citation haunts me in my solitude “His group was in a quandary following the resignation of a key resource who absconded despite an assurance to help the team on the first day of the support exercise. In an exemplary performance in the most trying circumstances, he single-handedly solved one of the most complicated job control language bugs without any prior experience of trouble shooting”

Hard Cash

2006-01-12T22:02:00.000-08:00

Unlocking the wooden door coated with cheap green paint in gaudy patterns, Shyam marched indoors with the mechanical resolve of the working class. A cup of tea would help, he reckoned.

He was wrong. Staring at the black remains of the beverage floating at the bottom of the cup, he measured the sad thought. May be, he still had time, maybe he read it all wrong, a glimmer of hope seemed to assure him. After all, Mehta is a noble soul. And why should anybody know at all? By the month end, he would quietly square it off. Bhai had given his word. Just a matter of five days more…. what difference would it make?

He tried to recollect the last time Mehta had asked for the balance. Not for months…yes, yes… last year it was, just before the internal audit. Just once in almost eight months. And there was no audit in sight now. Not for the next three months.

The beaming face of Radha made a delightful intrusion into his reverie. She had come for some sugar, as always. A pickled housewife, she was in her early forties, voluptuous, much like the over-sized vamps of South Indian films but more importantly, with looks that would not merit a second look. Just right for his exclusive attention. And she was also a mother of two. Somehow, the social certificate of chastity came so easy with motherhood, he wondered. That was a great help, her marriage.

He greedily savored her belly and its alluring button that peeped out of the shifting pallu now and then; little did he know the display was intentional, one that followed careful mock sessions before the mirror from every possible angle. Radha derived loads of earthy pleasure, throwing a basketful of voyeuristic opportunities at him whenever she could. Though she fancied her chances all the time, it was difficult, what with an obnoxious, drunkard that her husband was, unabashedly patrolling her whenever he was home.

But Shyam was precious in every way. And he was no ordinary hand, a cashier in a private company, not a stupid mill worker like the father of her kids. Amidst the children, the chores and the demands of her black and white married life, she was keen to play the young maiden. She turned back, but not before flashing an inviting smile, offering a delightful view of her swaying behind through her fading nylon saree. It was magic no doubt, he forgot all about office and the cash, if only for a while.

Yes, he needed Radha, to fill his dreams, if not his life… .to please his eyes, if not his loins…. a welcome oasis in the murky desert of his spinster life. The thoughts came back with vengeance, 10,000, that was huge for him no doubt, but peanuts for Mehta all the same. Why should he bother? And was there an option? Did not Bhai’s request wrap a silent threat? The initial help with the room, the rent for the first few months, the ultimatum to the landlord on his behalf? Give and take... It was expected..… some day.

The sound of Mehta’s car in the driveway the next day sent a cold chill down his spine. And before he tried to cope with his fear, the peon declared, “Sahib wants to talk to you?”

Was the end near? He could hear his heartbeats drumming to death. “Jadhav, how much cash do we have right now?”No sooner had the words left Mehta’s rugged lips, the panic consumed Shyam in one mighty blow ……and… he broke down. The confession took less than 10 minutes. The crime had taken a lifetime.

Shyam Jadhav lost his job within a week. “If he did it once, he would do it again” was Mehta’s cold logic behind the judgement that sealed Jadhav’s fate. Jobless at home, he has taken to liquor. Worse, Radha has distanced herself from him lately, having caught a glimpse of her vulnerable husband in his dithering movements. But what has made him a nervous wreck is something he learnt much later.

One, Mehta’s question about the cash balance was just a random inquiry of the current status of cash-in-hand…and two, Bhai was promptly at his doorstep five days later, with 10,000 rupees in hard cash. As promised.

What if………….

My Friend Muri

2006-01-12T22:00:00.000-08:00

By the time the train reached Thane, the time was 7.15. Every bone in my body ached in anguish as I was thrown out of the footboard...From one foot to the other... My eyes were now fixed on the foot-over bridge that would faithfully take me to the West. East and West - those prized keywords in a city where a huge sea of humanity finds its way through two-way tracks, pouring to and fro on either sides with amazing regularity. It was on my dejected march towards the chaotic bus stand, that I bumped into Muri. It took me some time but his protruding teeth and frog eyes gave him away. Yes, Muri he was all right, my friend of sorts from college. The rest flashed by like a heavy downpour, one with huge drops that hurt the scalp.

Muri was part of our core group, if only by default. His parents had named him Murali but for us, he was just Muri. Throughout my college years, Muri clung to us like a shadow - gatherings, competitions, picnics, traditional days - neither an invitee, nor a participant but always around. As if he had signed a charter of unconditional presence. He was invariably the butt of every joke we cracked and we didn’t need a reason to laugh at him. Though he gave us many. Within the larger group, we were a core team of six. Archana, Bipin, Gautam, Ria, Sonia and me. And yes Muri, our selfless Man Friday. I still remember our Manori trip that was our first-ever overnight adventure. We had planned it months in advance and the initial verdict was in favor of Muri’s inclusion. After all, we needed him to run errands, serve food, or simply keep guard. We were all set when Gautam changed the plan. At the very last moment… just when Muri was ready with a turd-shaped clumsy yellow bag packed with junk pile waiting to burst out. Gautam, the wealthiest among us, had a say in everything…. and more often that not, it was final. He felt Muri would be a nuisance. Our plans were not exactly noble, so why take chances. On second thoughts, we saw his point and Muri was left out. As always, he turned the other way without a frown… I had even borrowed his goggles for the day.

Time flew like it always does – priorities changed color, what seemed paramount yesterday felt trivial later and melodrama made way for some real-life drama. Willfully or otherwise, we moved in life. Some way ahead, few close on the heels, others much behind. Gautam got busy with his family business of textiles, Archana did her masters in psychology, we simply lost touch with Sonia, Bipin & Ria left for the US after their marriage - a foregone conclusion it was, only a matter of time really. Their wedding reception proved to be our last assembly. And there was no Muri around, as if to prove this was not the real thing.

Lost in our own worlds, we never bothered to keep track of Muri.And today, I found him like a forlorn shadow emerging after a long cloudy spell. He was now a clerk with the Indian Statistical Institute, he told me on his own. And he wished to know about each one of us.

Why? Why do you want to know, for God’s sake? My friend! That core group has long disintegrated into pieces. Of all people, why do you bother?

Wish I could ask him all that. For a second, he took me back in time. I felt as if the chaos around would freeze and the rest of the group would appear from nowhere to hatch our next plan, continuing from where we left. A plan that would now definitely have a role for dear Muri. I would gladly ensure that. With a mechanical promise to keep in touch, we parted ways, losing ourselves in the now-familiar black hole with that insatiable urge to accommodate strangers of all kinds.

=======================================
Dedicated to the Muris of the world. I believe there are many!

Love story in a triangle

2006-01-12T21:59:00.000-08:00

Sex was never on my mind when I first saw Nilanjana. I must admit, I was dumbstruck by her physical charm that was a bit unsettling in its impact. But it was not lust that drove me, at least to begin with.The professor was always at his nonchalant best, raising his head only for the one-off nod of a lop-sided conversation. He taught me taxation with great fervour every evening, invariably when the weather called for something more romantic than the slabs of income tax and the blocks of wealth tax. My mind never followed the professor’s incessant downpour of moneyed gospels but what I savoured was no less taxing. Every time Nilanjana stepped in from the kitchen with generous helpings of homemade snacks and tea, she flashed a smile that seemed to leave a clue or two for me. She had an inviting figure, perhaps what I was naturally inclined to fall for. Plump but not heavy, filled at the right places in the right proportion. And did she look divine in a saree. I loved the way she played with her pallu, every time she stole a glance at me. It was only after a month that I solved the puzzle. What was a naked truth was a puzzle for beginners like me.

The sudden discovery made me jubilant and rightly so. Here was a ravishing female, married at that, making a pass at me. For some days, I just reeled in the spell of this impossible feat. I was too numb to react. All this while, she waited patiently for me to take charge of our unnamed relationship, I learnt much later. She was willing to wait. It was her long-term investment and she seemed sure of the rich dividends. Maybe, this she learnt from the professor’s innocent sermons on calculated risk. For me, this was a lifetime opportunity. To learn from a real lady…. the secret of sex… the nectar of love. She was my master, much like the ferocious heroine of an X-rated film pouncing on young boys half her age. Nilanjana of course, was only five years elder to me and far from ferocious, was grace personified.

I wondered what made her choose the ageing professor, bespectacled and dry, a white ant lost in the pages of his giant manuals and tax recokners. But was it her choice in the first place?I still remember our first kiss.

She was in the kitchen, roasting papads on the gas stove, looking very pretty in her pink salwar kameez. The kameez rode much higher on the backside, than what socially acceptable limits would recommend, as she stood almost lackadaisical, one leg resting on the calf of the other, leaning on the kitchen platform.... offering a glorious view of her shapely buttocks from the flimsy salwar, garlanded by jutting panty lines.

The sight was just too much for me. The professor had excused him out for a while; to fetch his cigarettes maybe…I paced the lobby in nervous steps, caught in the deafening waves of lust and panic. It was hard to stay afloat in the high tide of excitement. But I did dare, as I moved towards the kitchen that more seemed like her bedroom to me now.

Befitting the jittery emotion of my age, I hugged her from behind. The gesture was comic, not at all appropriate for the occasion but she was considerate as ever. Sensing my panic, she caressed my forehead to harbour my childish advances with her assured movements. I placed my lips on the tip of her nose in another blunder. She raised her head at an angle where our lips met in a frenzied lock.

After that memorable evening, our escapades grew in number and variety as time passed by. Every time the professor was away for a conference or symposium, I played her man by proxy. Snuggled together in the warm blanket, we contemplated the future of our relationship, invariably after a volcanic love session in bed. Both of us were aware of the futility of the discourse, but we did indulge in it with religious zeal. As if it was our tonic after the grueling carnal meet. I never knew what was on her mind but I was pretty sure of the ensuing chain of events in my life. Her warmth was only an oasis in my dry academic life, one that would be left parched by the time I was ready to launch a promising career back in my native land. But I lived for the moment while I could.

I bunked college often to take her out …to nearby hill stations on my speeding bike. Yes, it sure was risky but we were too drugged to weigh the perils on our way. I am not sure when the new bond brought us closer than before. Invisible but fulfilling in its warmth. It was not long before we shared a rapport only a nuptial knot is supposed to bring about.

We were part and parcel of each other. I chose the colour of her lingerie, my admonished look cautioned her every time the strap of her bra peeked out of her blouse, I knew the emotional intricacies of her monthly periods, it was my telephone call that became her bedtime pill...she cooked my favorite dishes, ate from my plate in unsuspecting moments, was panicky whenever I caught the slightest chill and of course, she knitted sweaters for me with the customary delight of a housewife.

Maybe, the professor was not altogether oblivious, we could sense. But inch-by-inch, we had reached a stage where it mattered no more. In any case, he showed no signs of disapproval either. Or may be, he had come to terms with the new reality, as often one does with the changed tax structures of a fresh budget. One night, as I lay in bed, alone for a change, I pondered over the blizzard in my life. Yes, I sure did bask in the cold wave, but it was a blizzard all right. The flakes of snow would soon melt to show me the approaching dead-end. Why then, was I scripting a certain disaster in the making? I had no answer.

=====================

Exams were round the corner. I was just not geared for the grind. The more I tried to concentrate on the arid syllabus wrapped in the bulky books and manuals before me, the more my mind came back circled in the triangle around my life. And how entertaining those love stories seem in movies. To be enjoyed reel-by-reel, munching popcorn and wafers now and then. Real life drama came with no respite. Maybe I should reinforce the obvious before she weaves a dream for us, my mind told me. But how can she? She was mature enough to concede to reality. That was certain. It was a matter of time, may be. Then why was I brooding over the issue? I was thoroughly confused. The result was obvious. I flunked. The professor was disheartened, after all my failure was a blotch in his pristine record as an outstanding tutor. Of course, that was just part of the disappointment. Somewhere, I had trespassed on his private property and that would have been more painful.

It was around eight in the evening when I knocked on his door. This was the first time after the results that I had been to his place. He was in his study sipping coffee, poring over his books as usual. I was absolutely sure he was in love with them. The way he sifted through the pages of the book held lovingly to his chest, it seemed just like a caress to me. Much like the way I stroked his wife’s beautiful hair whenever she was on my lap. But today, she was not to be seen around. I could hear her movements amidst the clatter of utensils in the kitchen. Had he ordered her away? I was inclined to believe.

He first mourned over my failure but only as an aggrieved parent would. That was the first time I really felt dejected. I had gone several paces behind in the rat race of academics and I could sense his genuine concern for me. Precisely why the dejection soon made way for guilt when I thought of his wife. Why did I do this to him? I asked myself. But had I done anything? It all seemed to happen on its own, did it not? Well, something inside me told me I could not blame it on destiny alone. I could opt out of it while I could. I made an instant resolve on the spot. I would have to be out of this. Yes. That was it. Make a fresh attempt in December and if I still flunked, get back to the modest family garment business. My dad would only be glad to see me back.

To supervise the making of colourful briefs, vests and panties we manufactured for the big brands. Better to clothe the world intimately than to disrobe family honour.

My instant resolution dissolved with the very sight of Nilanjana, dressed in a teasing nightgown draped with enticing lace, ravishing than before. Or was it the heightened emotion following the separation. It seemed ages since I last met her and I was suddenly overpowered by a strong urge to kiss her. It was tough to betray my instinct, rooted to the ground that I was. She wore a half-smile; wonder what was going through her mind? The professor asked whether I would make a fresh attempt at my exam. I nodded my approval but he could sense the shallow purpose beneath my perfunctory affirmation. He rose from his chair and moved towards his balcony facing the street below.

Before we knew, we engaged in the most passionate of kisses, those that fuel earsplitting catcalls in packed theaters as the lewd public finally begin to see some value for money. It was indeed vulgar, our act, with the professor still around, if not in the room with us. Could we not have waited for a better opportunity? Probably not, the feel of Nilanjana was so comforting, so assuring, was there anything else on earth I sought? Whom was I fooling? I don’t know what happened to me after that. It was a sudden outburst of suppressed emotion maybe. All of a sudden, I held her soft hand in mine and led her to the balcony. Fuck the professor, fuck the world, this lady is mine. I told myself, not even bothering to confirm her acceptance in her eyes. I took it for granted. An earthy assumption that flowered like wild shrub. You don’t have to water it to see it grow. I didn’t leave anything for doubt. Here I was, telling him I loved his wife and ridiculous it was that I sought his consent. If he was my guru, I was to offer him dakshina. I was doing just the opposite, and what was that I asked for? Yet, the professor was unmoved. Perhaps, he was waiting for it all this while.

Now our encounters became perfect simulations of married life, she accompanied me just about everywhere. Soon, we were the talk of the town. Whether it was vigour of youth or the queer faith of offbeat love, we took pride in the ripples we caused in the otherwise still waters of societal sanction. We had our road map clear by now. Our wedding would wait until my second attempt. Meanwhile, I would inform my parents of my decision. Nilajana had nobody except for the professor. Bereaved of parents early in life, she only had an aunt counting her days somewhere in Benaras.

We had just been back from Matheran. Atop the cozy hill, we tried every improvisation under the sun to write a bulky sex manual for the novice. And unlike the professor’s junk of white papers, they would surely sell like hot cakes. She was adventurous than before; probably happy with the unlikely twist in our tale. It was just like our honeymoon and enterprising waiters left no stone unturned to make us feel like newly weds. We would spend hours in bed coiled in each other till our tummies grumbled for some food.

Ignoring every single point of the delightful terrain around, much famed in tourist parlance, we chose to find our way through the secret passages of human anatomy.

I dropped her home, kissing her good night before speeding my bike home. I saw the professor watching us from above much like a nocturnal animal. I just could not fathom his mind. How could one be so calm and poised in such threatening circumstances? If this was not encroachment, what else was? To hell with him. Impotent fool.

As I opened my door, I saw two envelopes lying at my feet, begging for attention. One bore the address of my native place; the other was a handwriting I recognized in a jiffy. Why should the professor write to me? Or did this letter make up for his odd silence. I tore the other envelope open. Wrapped in crumpled paper was a smiling face, innocent and radiant. The photograph was gaudy, clicked probably in some shady photo studio, the girl seated in a fake shikara straight out of a Kashmir of the artist’s imagination. The paper carried my parents’ plea to consider this “perfect” match. The last line confirmed the much-needed divine approval to the alliance. From the stars above.

I turned my eyes to the second envelope. What was so paramount that the professor should trust his pen for?

=================================================

My dear Dipankar,“You are headed for certain disaster. You are free to take your own course but I do not want you to blame me later, that’s my only wish”

Warm regards
Arindam

I rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water. Now what was this? I was about to call home to convey my decision. My first reaction was to confront him at home, probably throw an obscenity or two at him, how dare he predict my life? Impotent bastard. But the next moment, I was shaken. What if he was right? He had not made any explicit mention but the message was evident. And by the way, why was she so keen to spoil her marriage? What for? Was the love so overpowering? Was it love at all? No, there’s something more. There has to be. And how often had I dismissed the fear, every time it bothered me, long before the professor’s advice. I had to see her.

The roads were slippery, it had drizzled moments ago. My bike sped along the turns and stopped a block ahead of the professor’s bungalow. The lights were off. The watchman told me the professor had left for Bombay. For a conference. “Fuck the oldie. Where’s my love” I wished to ask him.

“Madam gone to Benaras” he uttered, surprise still ripe in his voice. This was a real shocker. I drop her home hours ago, and there’s no mention of Benaras. And before I know, she is gone. And that phantom husband of hers. Professor Arindam De. Kiss and fondle his wife, he won’t bat an eyelid but pray he would, for your well being through worthless letters. Robinhood with a limp manhood…. asshole. Strange, very strange.

It seems they was made for each other. I don’t know why but I felt like calling up my mom. The STD booth was deserted, as was expected at that hour. Mom was jubilant, I rarely called up on my own, unless I needed money. It was not long before she asked me about the smiling girl in the snap. I am still not sure whether I said yes, but I must have, going by the events that followed in quick succession.

The leave application, the ride to the station, the journey back home, the “visit” to the girl’s place down to the brief sojourn in the sole air conditioned restaurant of my tiny hometown –sipping lassi and savouring samosas. There was nothing about Charulata that one would not find enchanting. Beautiful, bubbly, innocent and dreamy. Her world knew no bounds and just nothing was impossible for her. She was studying commerce at the local college but her real love was music. She wished to take up singing as her profession. This secret, she shared with me during my second visit and added that she trusted me enough.

“Where from did this trust emerge?” I asked her with a chuckle and she sped away blushing to glory, just like they show in films. I must say I was swept away by her charm, if only for a while.

It was when my father sought my consent for the engagement that my mind came back to Nilanjana. I had not met her since that fateful day, where the hell was she? Probably still in Benaras. Just then, my mind had another somersault. Was she really at fault? Was it the professor’s trick? Did I have any right to jump to conclusion? Or what this the escape route that I was waiting for? To shun the past and plan a conventional, hassle-free life with Charu – a life blessed with parental sanction and marital excitement. Probably it all began the moment I saw the snap in the letter? No, I can’t be so mean. I was suddenly desperate to convince myself of my own morality…No No, I can’t be a hypocrite. After all, why did I go so far with Nilu? Was it all about sharing beds alone?

“I would let you know as soon as I reach there,” I told my dad, who seemed visibly irritated with my vague, delayed response. He shrugged off the annoyance, the way dads often do, and my mom took over. “C’mon, he’s shy to tell it on your face, give him some time” How I wished mom was right.

As soon as I got back, I made the customary round to the professor’s bungalow. She was indoors but I was not my usual self when I walked in. The professor was still away and her smile flashed back the golden moments from my past. I saw my moods lifting up.It’s not often that you wish to laugh and cry at the same time. It happened to me that night. I lashed out at her sparing no effort. She was calm, never once giving me back. It was only when I was drained of the last bit of force that she rose to speak. And her story could only bring tears to my eyes. Big drops that rolled down my cheeks all right, but not before washing my heart clean of all qualms and fears. Well, almost all.

Her ailing aunt was no more. It was her demise that had her rush to Benaras. She was desperate to let him know but the professor advised her to hurry up. Now I knew why. Only if the watchman had told me. I was about to tell her about the professor’s letter as also the proposal brewing home just when she hugged me with fiery passion and broke down. The warmth was back in my life and I forgot all about the professor.

We made passionate love all night. It was five in the morning when I woke up from my slumber. She was fast asleep, head on my chest, hair spread all over in an enticing sight. How assured she seemed, locked in my arms, in gay abandon. In celebration of the reunion. But did I deserve this faith? Buying time, minute by minute. Playing with two lives at the same time? The tender Charulata on one hand, and a pickled Nilanjana on the other. I cursed myself for my untimely home visit that now added another dimension to my thorny love story but deep down in my heart, there seemed to be just a little more room for Charulata and her blank slate of innocence. A proposition that seemed more secure and inviting before the trials and tribulations of a life with Nilanjana.

====================

The clock struck four as it broke my trance. I still had more than an hour with me. How I hated those goddamed wedding receptions – the customary hellos, painful plastic smiles, rapid exchange of business cards, the mechanical blessings showered on the couple…and all that with an eye on the food counter. And the poor couple, flashing teeth all day, dreaming of the approaching mythical night… and the hunky-dory waves of honeymoon. Unaware of the impending reality of marital life - family chores and social responsibilities that would banish the flowery euphoria of initial years in the cupboard, locked with the wedding blazer and the saree in the overpowering scent of mothballs.

I picked up the envelope – Mr. And Mrs. Dipankar Sen - it affirmed right at the center. Aha! What epic history behind that matrimony but now reduced to an anecdote for smiles? All’s well that ends well…I have grown up to believe, and I still do. Except that it’s sweeter in hindsight. To look back and relish the golden moments and mourn the horrifying time. With the entire past packaged in a feature film of sorts, it’ s so easy to sift through frames, focus on the chosen few, and form a balanced critique at the end.

But what an agonizing experience it was then. There were moments, I still remember, when I was close to being a nervous wreck. And the rush of blood of that night, when I contemplated suicide for the first time. “Shall we?” She asked, covered all over in pure kanjivaram silk, looking delightful. A spicy housewife, plump, round, not curvaceous definitely, but inviting all the same. I kissed her forehead and she blushed like a schoolgirl.

“Okay. Enough of your romance. We are getting late” she warned me.

I was in no mood to listen. It was an afternoon quickie, not expected of a middle-aged couple, certainly not in such bouncy style. Her denial made way for mute surrender and soon enough, she cared a damn for the reception and the Kanjeevaram saree, taking charge on the new front. And what a cavalry, she still was. We relished every moment as we locked for the umpteenth time. The fervour was still the same. After all these years. And time stood still. Like it did during our first meet. But what about the storms we braved, interspersed between all these encounters at regular intervals. And we lost count how many?

My mom’s reticent stance was the biggest quandary in my way. She had made it a life-and-death issue without the expected verbiage. Nilu had left it to me, urging me at times to shun the past and embrace Charu. In less than a year of our marriage, my mom passed away in sleep. She had forgiven me, Dad told me later but to this day I regret not being by her side during the last moments. That regret will follow me to my grave for sure.

The professor was reduced to his shadow – haggard and dejected, he would not leave home, shunning even his books and manuals. To this day, we laugh over that letter. It was only when I confronted him later, grabbing him by his collar, that I learnt the real story –his feeble attempt was more akin to “Naro va Kunjaro va” stratagem of Mahabharata. The certain disaster in my life that he saw concerned my neglect of studies, he confessed on interrogation, but just seemed to hint at Nilanjana. The professor and his impotent tricks.

After shaking the wits out of him, I even shared a drink with him and showed him the futility of his ludicrous desire. That how he had no qualms over her unauthorized use but wished the social façade intact. If he did not see reason in my argument, he certainly could not dare to oppose me any further.

I could never really understand the professor. He expired only last year, a lonely man. I was instrumental in initiating a scholarship in his name at the institute. That was the only tribute I could pay him.

Charu, I often think of her smile, her innocent chatter, the lassi and the samosas –mute witnesses of our sole encounter… probably she has taken up music, the way she desired. How I wish she had. I must admit I still fantasize about her and my memory tickles me enough to yearn for her. But my mind still swears by my choice, my heart may not at times. I did post a letter in her name; I am not sure whether she read it in the first place, and if she did, could she sympathize with me? How could she? When I could not convince my mother, how could Charu see the storm in my life?

I got up first. The radium glowed in my watch – the time was 7 pm… the party would have long begun, would we be missed? Probably not, how many of them get noticed in attendance. It’s all a farce anyway, all for a day. I could see lights flooding the neighbourhood through the window. I suddenly realized we were still groping in the dark. The blazing light filled the room to offer a great view of her glistening body. In all its nude splendour.

For many years, I was sure sex drove us together. The way we relished carnal encounters in the same spirit. The way I came to terms with the fact that she could never become a mom. Although she was candid in letting me know the professor was not at fault, at least on this issue.

But if physical charm was the binding force, we are no longer our former selves – much like the toothpaste on the basin, losing its shape with every squeeze, slowly on its way to the bin. We have put on weight, my hairline and waistline engaged in an embarrassing exchange of character. She is not what she used to be – the shapely curves are now only a shape, her skin has lost much of its glow and she is definitely more irritable with the advent of menopause.

It’s strange but I am still not sure what’s on her mind. Maybe, she feels the same about me. Yes, we know much more about each other yet I have only just begun to comprehend our love…. and each passing day teaches me more.Then what was it that brought us together in wedlock?

I have no idea of any elusive force that did the needful. Was it a force in the first place? How does marriage bring two souls together? Does the rapport come coupled in the nuptial knot? I know one thing for sure - the chemistry between us is nothing short of celestial. Precisely why I would like to believe marriages are made in heaven.

What a city!

2006-01-12T21:58:00.000-08:00

With a volcanic birth dating back 5 crore years, a rich heritage of 15 centuries and more than 600 years of foreign rule, Mumbai is nothing short of an enigma. Bursting at the seams it may be, but this bustling city still keeps its charm alive- thanks to its seashore psyche, innovative enterprise and an all-embracing outlook. But to me, what truly sets it apart is its unique obsession with contradiction. Abundance & deprivation, hygiene and filth, virtue and vice, black and white…. all extremes mingle together with inimitable magnanimity. Run, live and let live is Mumbai’s mantra but in the maddening pace is an unmistakable rhythm. The ears that catch this music also see method in madness, order amidst chaos, clarity with confusion and more importantly hope despite the despair.

Would it be a surprise then…. that Mumbai’s monuments, buildings, roads, ……all have such tales to tell…stories of people who made history, stories for people who care to look back. Each time I pass by the Esplanade mansion in Fort, I marvel at its rich history.

Situated next to the illustrious Army Navy stores, this building housed the erstwhile only-for-Europeans Esplanade Hotel – then considered a deluxe hotel with as many as 130 suites. The “premium” room tariff of the year 1889 would seem ridiculous today – Rs. 7 for the ground floor (a rupee less for every floor upwards) inclusive of breakfast, lunch, dinner, ice, hot/chilled water besides an attendant.

Quite ironic that Malabar Hill, now a mute spectator to the dark deeds of white- robed politicians every time the modern-day pirates raid the sprawling Governor’s bungalow, has its name rooted in piracy… after the infamous Malabari pirates who invaded the Mumbai shoreline during the seventeenth century. In reality, these pirates were a mix of Americans, British, Arabs and Sri Lankans. The Walkeshwar Hill was used for monitoring their nuisance. They were eventually driven out in 1695 but the name stuck.

As I rushed each day to the umpteen offices in each of my countless stints in and around Fort, I have always managed a chuckle for the statue of Late Justice Mahadeo Govind Ranade near Churchgate. Not many know the story behind the sculpture that looks away, avoiding an eye-to-eye contact with countless commuters and tourists each day. With a squint in his right eye, Justice Ranade invariably ensured that all his photographs ignored this twisted anatomy. The sculptor Ganapat Mhatre, known for his outstanding dexterity, was truly in a fix. Gasping in the tug of war between the loyalty to his art vis-a-vis Ranade’s sentiments, he carved a perfect replica but erected it facing the High Court, and not the road. As a result, pedestrians to this day remember him, if they ever do, exactly as he would have liked.

And who said libraries worm their way on the back of book lovers alone. The Native General library of Dhobi Talao, next to the Framji Cawasji Institute, the oldest library of Mumbai, was set up through the pioneering efforts of a Military Board clerk called Raghoba Janardan. A man of modest means and credentials, it was his burning desire to see younger generations catch the reading habit. Is it poetic justice that he is not around today to witness the stark reality?

Crawford Market, Old Secretariat, Central Telegraph Office, Mumbai High Court, Sailors Home (today’s Police headquarters) – what do they remind us, first glance? Well, I am not sure of that. What it should, however, is Gothic architecture. Following the English empire’s adoption of the then emerging European style as its national norm, Mumbai became a convenient guinea pig for Gothic creations. Thus were born the fabulous structures… now left to house the soaring ambition of a sleeping bureaucracy, the prejudiced verdicts of a lop-sided judiciary and the whims and fancies of a ruthless police.

And in striking contrast to the growing gender wars around us, the 1875- built Prince’s Dock & the Princess Street inaugurated in 1905, both are fondly remembered day in and day out as one gender – male or female – that’s anybody’s guess. But the choice is free of ugly debates and fanatic claims. While the dock was named after Prince of Wales (later crowned Edward VII), the street is in memory of Princess of Wales who accompanied Prince of Wales (later crowned George V). The difference in gender is eclipsed by the common pronunciation but the royal aura remains.

PS: The snippets of history, I borrow from my dad, historian & archeologist and an ardent Mumbai lover. If not heredity, parentage does help. The piece itself is a rehash of an article I wrote for a magazine brewed to match the tastes of coffee table reading…. to be buried under the table after the coffee, as jet-lagged passengers shrug off their stupor to board their flights of fancy.

Home Sweet Home

2006-01-12T21:54:00.000-08:00

If there was one film that depicted the monumental import of housing in Mumbai, it was Bhimsain’s Hindi film Gharonda (The Nest), released way back in 1977. A moving story of a starry-eyed couple braving all odds to own a dwelling place in the bustling metropolis caught immediate resonance in the hearts of all those who fight similar demons in real life. Hero and heroine, both members of the bourgeoisie, work for the same establishment run by an ageing widower who openly nourishes a soft corner for her. He is all alone with his roommates in a dingy lodge; she shares the responsibility of her younger sibling with her elder brother and sister-in-law. In the hope of a rising career graph and the riches it would bring along, the duo invest their savings and hopes in a match box “Flat” taking shape in the concrete promise of a “builder” – the supreme entity selling dream abodes in the big city. The initial euphoria does not last long as the builder flees with the money leaving all dreams shattered. The dead-end facing the couple is made even more poignant by the suicide of a roommate ruined by the same fate.Crushed under the cascading effect of the doom, the hero suggests a practical way out to his sweetheart in a momentary wave of disillusionment…. get married to their employer. …and outlive the separation only to reclaim the lost paradise…this time round on the solid foundation of a rich grave. The heroine dismisses the idea outright but as things would have it, ends up doing exactly the same- partly driven by circumstances, partly led by the stanch reality of an assured life. And she is not disappointed. In the affluent surroundings of the elite class, she also finds an understanding mate in her husband, who is ready to discount her past life in return for warm companionship. The hero in contrast, invites a catastrophe as pressure mounts upon pressure. The loan he took on himself for the dream house now turns life threatening. In trying to guard the remnants of his self-respect, he shuns his job to make matters even worse. Yet, he can still live with the despair, but not without her memories. The conflict in his mind takes him to her doorstep where he confronts her with fundamental questions. In the litany of abuses is also an invitation to rejoin him in a fresh crusade. The husband, eavesdropping the conversation, pines for her support but unsure of her true feelings for him, leaves it to her. The director could have pulled the curtains on the tragedy in a thousand ways. But the end, aptly at the railway station is stoic in its brilliance, as the hero in a diametrically opposite transformation, decides to shun his past… to start alone and afresh...in the same city. Husband and wife return back to their world, he relieved of the debt he bought with the marriage and she, happy in the world, once thrust upon her but now her dream abode. The film stood out in many respects – the delightful music of Jaidev, Bhupinder and Runa Laila with some outstanding numbers, Gulzar’s fantastic screenplay and amazing portrayals by all players…. Amol Palekar and Zareena Wahab as the protagonist couple, Dr. Sreeram Lagoo as the widower boss and Jalal Agha, Sadhu Meher, T P Jain, Sudha Chopra and Dina Pathak in their brief appearances, only to name a few. But for some needless melodrama, (Zareena Wahab bears perfect resemblance to the deceased wife of her boss) the script is devoid of any simplistic black-and-white portrayal and makes room for pathos of exceptional quality in the tragic love story but more importantly, the note of fresh hope towards the end is free of any run-of-the-mill self-destructive prescription of shattered love.

Grand Hills, Gleaming Eyes

2006-01-12T21:51:00.000-08:00

Given a choice, I would never ever spend my vacation at a pilgrimage swarmed with hyperactive devotees singing His praises and their wish list in the same breath. And if the devotional hullabaloo was not enough, we have these agents of God – the temple priests - key elements of the thriving temple economy – with their golden prescription for every problem on the face of this earth. Precisely why they are so popular –commit any sin, just make sure you cleanse yourself through the divine conduit. But this time round, I had no choice. A couple of my mates from college days had already chalked out the trip to one such world-renowned shrine located so aptly on a picturesque hill. I had never been to the place before. The month was November and my leave record at the office was surprisingly positive. After a round of customary denials and cajoling, I was all set. The fascinating view of the hills was all I needed to soothe my nerves. We also managed two great Darshans of the Lord from close quarters – we were indeed lucky to have achieved that fast in a non-VIP queue – my friend told me later. Of course, I vividly remember the awe-inspiring image of the Lord, garlanded so beautifully, but I also have picture-perfect memory of the high and mighty priest who at once reminded me of my Group head at office. After granting me one full divine second with the Lord, he shooed me away with a hefty push. Enough is enough, his eyes told me, just the way my boss did. On our way back, we walked down the hill through the spacious cemented pathway rather than board the roaring bus run by the temple trust. We reached the base, much earlier than we anticipated. Exhausted that we were, our eyes looked for some decent accommodation in the somewhat shady settings of the city. Just as we were contemplating the next move, we heard a coarse voice.“Room sir, Bombay style. Good lunch & dinner”The guy seemed around 50 and everything about his appearance was beggar-like. He was thin, frail, covered in rags, but his eyes, surprisingly, were gleaming.Of course, we were in no mood to investigate the gleam further. His sight was most repulsive and his breath swore only by country liquor. Sure of his ignorance, I warned my friends under my breath in the Sahib’s language. “Avoid him. Don’t respond. Shoo him away”And then, we got the shock of our lives. He looked into my eyes and spoke in good English, if not chaste.“Why are you avoiding me? I will get only five rupees from Ashoka. It’s a good hotel. Trust me.”Call it colonial hangover or plain hangover; we Indians are invariably mesmerized by the English language, and coming from the so-called lowest echelons of the society, the enthrallment is even more. The only credential perhaps that turns a commoner into a distinguished member of the working class. Blabber, shout or abuse in English…. you sure get noticed and what’s more, you can even get away with it. Before we knew, we followed him like obedient students. In about five minutes, we reached the porch of Hotel Ashoka. He was right. The place was no great shakes but was clean no doubt. Just before we climbed the stairs to the makeshift privacy of our cubbyholes, the same coarse voice declared. “Bakshish, sir” “Not now, later,” Not anticipating this move, that was all I could utter on the spur.Grand Hills, Gleaming eyes
Fortunately, he was not around when we checked out the next day. It was strange, we were reasonably curious about the guy all the time, yet we wished him out of sight all the time. The better part of our overnight chat centered round him alone, each one of us trying to crack the apparent riddle of his life. A retired professor turned alcoholic fallen on bad days was the popular choice... On second thoughts, we turned him into a schoolteacher…that seemed more convincing. We reached the station, found our compartment, flung our luggage on the berths and came out for some tea. There he was near the tea stall. His winsome smile was a striking contrast to his gross face. This time, we knew what was coming. “Bakshish, sir” We already had our hands in pockets but my friend teased him. “Next time, we will come again”His precise answer rendered us speechless. “Definitely sir, you will come again. But I may not be alive then”As the train puffed out of the platform, I turned back. And there he stood, his face devoid of expression. And then, I noticed the gleam again. I still wonder how could it find a place of pride in those sunken eyes. It seemed more like a remnant of happier days. Maybe, it was sheer hope in all its raw splendour. Or could it be proof of the divine proximity atop. Either way, I am happy to have caught it at the feet of the grand hills. Away from the din of the sanctified commerce.

The refreshing fruit juice

2006-01-12T21:46:00.000-08:00

Like any other city dweller, the regular hustle-bustle on the pavement hardly distracts me. On the contrary, there’s something quite reassuring about its inimitable rhythm. Precisely why the goings-on around me never prompt me to stop and take notice, even for a moment.

So here I was, pacing through the street, feeling important and privileged for no good reason. Just as I took the turn in the mundane direction of my office building, a particular sight broke my habituated trance.I saw a frail, bubbly kid, around five, walking alongside his mother in perfect harmony. Merrily cruising along with the customary innocence of a kid, he stopped all of a sudden, his gleaming eyes stuck on a roadside Fruit Juice Stall.

The gaudy signboard above and the flowing gutter below were hardly an encouragement for a quick respite with fruits. But this was how I measured the proposition. The kid thought otherwise. His enquiring glance at his mother said it all. The lady seemed tense; a disapproving grimace already spanning her grim face in meek defense. But her son’s pleading gesture was overpowering, she soon realized, looking lost for a moment. The quandary was unmistakably working class, one that grappled with an unplanned and ill-timed expenditure that threatened to upset the forced equilibrium of her day-to-day existence. But the heart finally reigned supreme as she forced her way towards the shabby, over smiling vendor.

The menu was displayed in cheap red paint on the right corner of the wooden stall. After a moment of reckoning, she finally settled on the enticing Chikoo Milk Shake. Her kid nodded his instant approval. As the liquid slowly turned the glass brown all the way to the rim, the boy waited for his moment of splendour with bated breath. And finally, there it was, overflowing with the magic potion of everlasting bliss. The mother removed a tiny purse from the corner of her faded blouse and deprived it of 12 rupees …all crumpled notes.

The joy ride lasted for a while and then came the final moment – the glass resting upright on his lips as the last sip noisily sailed through. Having quenched his thirst at the windfall oasis, the lad now willingly succumbed to the desert of his life. Within a moment, both of them were out of sight. How I wish this bliss be eternal, as the kid had just concluded for himself.

Watching the whole scene from the adjacent bookshop mocking an arduous waiting-for-someone act in proof of my sanity – one look at the pavement followed by another at my wristwatch – was tough but worth all the while. As I reclaimed myself to face the grind, like a mesmerized audience leaving a cinema hall at the end of a gripping movie, some kind of undefined warmth gushed out of my navel to fill me throughout. Much like the juice in the glass that the kid relished just a while ago. The sultry sirens and handsome hunks of Bollywood seemed to stare at me from the glossy magazines behind me, dangling in disbelief.