India just beat Australia. And man what a drubbing! We brought the Australian juggernaut to a screeching halt. Stymied, finally after sixteen Test matches. And we did it like gentlemen too! Ah, sweet comeuppance.
A few points of note:
• Newbie Ishaant Sharma getting Ponting’s wicket (ha,ha,ha). There is a God after all!
• Australia chasing a huge total of 413; a historic chase considering that the number of successful chases in the 400+ runs category have been only three.
• The “very very special” innings of Laxman.
• R.P’s and Pathan’s knocks.
• No McGrath though. Oh, well.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Judging
Pillaged by insecurities within,
Often I’m weak and numbed by self-doubt.
Truth would be a marvel to all who
See me merry without.
So perfidious the mask,
So set the mask I wear,
That should I face a mirror,
Out, a stranger should stare.
With you, I did not pretend.
With you, my mask melted away.
With you, the dark recesses of my mind
Could see the light of day.
‘Twas reassurance I sought,
The aplomb of an eagle’s flight,
The quiet confidence of feline grace,
Oh! To be a sovereign, assured of his might.
Alas, but you think me essentially frail,
And a little ridiculous, perhaps
That I turn to you quelling my pride,
And seek your comforting clasp.
“This I surely can’t have, and that I simply won’t”
This, you impose on me, and that you depose.
Oh, to be able to rage, reflect or grumble,
Without Judgment’s harsh riposte.
I thought that I could breathe with you,
I thought you would let me be me,
I thought, perhaps you were "different",
Ah, how daft could I be?
Often I’m weak and numbed by self-doubt.
Truth would be a marvel to all who
See me merry without.
So perfidious the mask,
So set the mask I wear,
That should I face a mirror,
Out, a stranger should stare.
With you, I did not pretend.
With you, my mask melted away.
With you, the dark recesses of my mind
Could see the light of day.
‘Twas reassurance I sought,
The aplomb of an eagle’s flight,
The quiet confidence of feline grace,
Oh! To be a sovereign, assured of his might.
Alas, but you think me essentially frail,
And a little ridiculous, perhaps
That I turn to you quelling my pride,
And seek your comforting clasp.
“This I surely can’t have, and that I simply won’t”
This, you impose on me, and that you depose.
Oh, to be able to rage, reflect or grumble,
Without Judgment’s harsh riposte.
I thought that I could breathe with you,
I thought you would let me be me,
I thought, perhaps you were "different",
Ah, how daft could I be?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
I’m just a girl
par·ent n.
1. One who begets, gives birth to, or nurtures and raises a child; a father or mother.
2. An ancestor; a progenitor.
3. An organism that produces or generates offspring.
4. A guardian; a protector.
5. A parent company.
6. A source or cause; an origin: Despair is the parent of rebellion.
I was watching the “news” today (if Zee News can be called a news channel, that is) or rather, channel-surfing when I came across this human interest piece about two sisters, Anjali and Rimjhim aged 5 and 6, who were abandoned by their parents a year ago. Their “parents” admitted them to a school in Patna, Bihar and never came back for them. Why, you ask? The same reason that the sex-ratio in Punjab is 800 odd females for every thousand males, the same reason that female infanticides/foeticides are prevalent, the same reason we still have dowry deaths, the same reason that human-trafficking of young girls is a booming trade, the same reason that poor farmers in drought ravaged regions of our country sell their female babies for paltry sums that wouldn’t even pay for half a semester of my engineering education, the same reason that the notion that it is futile to educate girls persists even in affluent families. And the reason is this-we have it in for girls, the females of the species.
We have X billionaires in our country-many who make it to the Forbes’ list, we aim at a GDP growth of 8% and then some more, we want Mumbai to become another Shanghai or what have you, we want more malls and metro railways, more foreign capital, more of India Shining, more of…just more. But we don’t care what happens to thousands of Anjalis and Rimjhims. We’d much rather tut-tut at their plight and change channels to watch Siddhu bluster in his colour-coordinated suits and pagdis. It’s much more entertaining.
This doesn’t happen to people like us, those born in privilege, those born on the right side of the tracks or the poverty line. But the chance of birth is what’s so uncanny. It’s like those rolling-of-the-dice probability problems we tackled while in college. It could have been any woman in my life. My mother, my aunts, cousins, nieces, best friend; it could well have been my story. What was fortuitous was our birth-that the chance of birth decided the luxurious course of our privileged lives. Good parents, good education and nurture that gave us a fair chance at survival and finding our place in the sun.
What disturbed me? Do I even need to answer this one? The inconsolable tears of the two cherubic little girls abandoned when they were barely out of infancy, the tragic hopelessness in their eyes, how they still wait for their parents, how their innocence was snuffed out so cruelly, how the people who should have taken care of them and protected them neglected their duties. They may have had their reasons. They may have had financial difficulties, may have struggled to make ends meet. I appreciate and understand fully. But nothing justifies hurting defenseless children and exposing them to a lifetime of pain and misery.
I think there should be gadgets (you know, like the ones James Bond or the fellows from Star Trek would carry) to determine someone’s “parentability”. Those of childbearing age would be subjected to these gadgets to determine if they would prove to be good parents, worthy of bringing a child into the world. And the tests would be made mandatory by law, failing which people would be subjected to the same plight that befell some in Midnight’s Children.
“Jo ab kiye ho daata, aisa na kijo/ agle janam mohe bitiya na kijo”
- Umraao Jaan
P.S. This may be a case for Linear Execution (borrowed from Puppy Manohar and Baby V)
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The grass is greener.
The other day, my friend lamented the absence of profound/intellectually stimulating conversations (a la Before Sunrise and Before Sunset) in his life. I admit that I felt all too keenly, the mundane, prosaic nature of all my conversations, after watching these films- envious of the riveting conversations of the lead pair. But I comforted my friend (and myself) by averring that the conversations weren’t real, but scripted by intelligent script writers and executed by talented actors. And no one talks like that in real life anyway.
(Besides, I would be loath to accept a total stranger’s invitation to accompany him/her on a sightseeing tour (no offence meant to Vienna, which I’m told is very picturesque). I mean there is already no dearth of psychopathic axe-murderers in the world without my inviting potential peril. Personally, I thought the guy was ardently hitting on the girl- it was routine“pass- making”, but old wine in a new bottle, nevertheless. The novelty was that he didn’t presume that the girl had only enough intelligence to open her mouth to eat food. The conversation was not only fascinating but also refreshing and flattering because they exchanged ideas and thoughts and not phone numbers. As you can see, I have no imagination and too much pragmatism)
I was watching Brothers and Sisters the other day and got thinking about my relationship with my brother. It’s cordial and civilized. We respect each other’s space, discuss work, I play agony-aunt to him and he supports my harebrained plans. So you see, I thought that it was a convenient arrangement- simple and mutually beneficial. That is until I saw the aforementioned series about siblings. The rich verbal sparring, constant ribbing about embarrassing episodes (again, no embarrassing episodes in our lives), the humour and vibrancy of the conversations made me rethink my tame and muted sibling revelry.
(Many years ago, when our aversion to extreme violence was non-existent, when we hadn’t discovered passive-aggression, when we were still young-ish, my brother and I settled any argument with, let’s just say no diplomacy or tact and a conspicuous lack of words. Now, with our advanced years, our relationship is more Victorian, quietly conservative and placid- quite a departure from Brothers and sisters.)
I think that good cinema and art inspire something akin to distaste/dissatisfaction for one’s own normal, meek and mild life. We tend to escape through these glamourous portals and get to play out our fantasies. But then again, good art is supposed to be true to life, is supposed to imitate life. However, I think that no art is without distortion, without a tinge of the artist’s personality; art is coloured by the artist’s fantasies, his dreams, his desires, his disappointments and triumphs, his soul- which cause these deviations from real life. And these deviations appeal to us, the audience. And we wish our life could imitate the art supposedly imitating life.
For some, the demarcating line where truth stops and fiction begins tends to get blurred. They never do detach themselves from the self that was moved in the movie theatre by some film. They identify more with fantasy and are baffled when their hackneyed lives don’t live up to the hi-falutin’ promises of fiction. And thus begins a rapid descent to dissatisfaction and even depression. The steady, stable quality of their lives is the first casualty. They seek adventure and novelty- the racy, fictional variety and rarely find it. Just like Don Quixote’s wind mills, sane women’s chasing the elusive prince charming from fairy tales/Howard Roark/Rhett Butler, children’s looking for Famous Five adventures, people looking for friends like Friends- the list is long. These peddle dreams, after all. These promise impossible highs and seductive lows.
Escapism sometimes is a defense mechanism, which lets us deal with pent up emotions- without being indecorous. Many of us have dreamt of the retort we should have used for a particularly malicious remark made by a virulent colleague but didn’t out of politeness, or aimed a well-deserved kick (in our fantasy) at an obnoxious fellow a la Ally McBeal or wished we had our very own genie on those Monday mornings. Escapism offers us hope, helps us cope with life’s vagaries and gives us an outlet for our baser instincts, which millennia of civilization haven’t been able to eradicate.
For the most part though, I think we should watch good cinema with a memo to ourselves- “Dangerously fantastic.Don’t try this at home. ”
(Besides, I would be loath to accept a total stranger’s invitation to accompany him/her on a sightseeing tour (no offence meant to Vienna, which I’m told is very picturesque). I mean there is already no dearth of psychopathic axe-murderers in the world without my inviting potential peril. Personally, I thought the guy was ardently hitting on the girl- it was routine“pass- making”, but old wine in a new bottle, nevertheless. The novelty was that he didn’t presume that the girl had only enough intelligence to open her mouth to eat food. The conversation was not only fascinating but also refreshing and flattering because they exchanged ideas and thoughts and not phone numbers. As you can see, I have no imagination and too much pragmatism)
I was watching Brothers and Sisters the other day and got thinking about my relationship with my brother. It’s cordial and civilized. We respect each other’s space, discuss work, I play agony-aunt to him and he supports my harebrained plans. So you see, I thought that it was a convenient arrangement- simple and mutually beneficial. That is until I saw the aforementioned series about siblings. The rich verbal sparring, constant ribbing about embarrassing episodes (again, no embarrassing episodes in our lives), the humour and vibrancy of the conversations made me rethink my tame and muted sibling revelry.
(Many years ago, when our aversion to extreme violence was non-existent, when we hadn’t discovered passive-aggression, when we were still young-ish, my brother and I settled any argument with, let’s just say no diplomacy or tact and a conspicuous lack of words. Now, with our advanced years, our relationship is more Victorian, quietly conservative and placid- quite a departure from Brothers and sisters.)
I think that good cinema and art inspire something akin to distaste/dissatisfaction for one’s own normal, meek and mild life. We tend to escape through these glamourous portals and get to play out our fantasies. But then again, good art is supposed to be true to life, is supposed to imitate life. However, I think that no art is without distortion, without a tinge of the artist’s personality; art is coloured by the artist’s fantasies, his dreams, his desires, his disappointments and triumphs, his soul- which cause these deviations from real life. And these deviations appeal to us, the audience. And we wish our life could imitate the art supposedly imitating life.
For some, the demarcating line where truth stops and fiction begins tends to get blurred. They never do detach themselves from the self that was moved in the movie theatre by some film. They identify more with fantasy and are baffled when their hackneyed lives don’t live up to the hi-falutin’ promises of fiction. And thus begins a rapid descent to dissatisfaction and even depression. The steady, stable quality of their lives is the first casualty. They seek adventure and novelty- the racy, fictional variety and rarely find it. Just like Don Quixote’s wind mills, sane women’s chasing the elusive prince charming from fairy tales/Howard Roark/Rhett Butler, children’s looking for Famous Five adventures, people looking for friends like Friends- the list is long. These peddle dreams, after all. These promise impossible highs and seductive lows.
Escapism sometimes is a defense mechanism, which lets us deal with pent up emotions- without being indecorous. Many of us have dreamt of the retort we should have used for a particularly malicious remark made by a virulent colleague but didn’t out of politeness, or aimed a well-deserved kick (in our fantasy) at an obnoxious fellow a la Ally McBeal or wished we had our very own genie on those Monday mornings. Escapism offers us hope, helps us cope with life’s vagaries and gives us an outlet for our baser instincts, which millennia of civilization haven’t been able to eradicate.
For the most part though, I think we should watch good cinema with a memo to ourselves- “Dangerously fantastic.Don’t try this at home. ”
Friday, January 11, 2008
Saffron haze
Dear Bal uncle,
One hardly sees you in any public forum nowadays. Is retirement going well for you? Or are you still calling the shots? I am almost beginning to miss your incendiary speeches, your fiery interviews, your formidable dark shades and your saffron glow. Almost.
But what’s this I hear about your lackeys defending hooligans who molested women on New Year’s Eve? The media folks are painting innocent "boys” criminals again, are they? Pesky gossip-mongering nuisance, these media fellows, I tell you. Take their duties as the fourth pillar of democracy too seriously. Why, we wouldn’t have coups, famines, wars, assassinations, terror-strikes and such unpleasantness if the media didn’t report these. We civilians would then have such a strong, unshakeable sense of security. (What was that about ostriches with their heads buried in sand?)More trouble than good, the media, I tell you.
And so what if these alleged wrong-doers were caught on camera? They are innocent until proven guilty. Some are more so than others. Being Marathi gives them your clean-chit, after all. I’m sure these media-types are just harassing nice Marathi boys from good families; boys who were just minding their own business outside the J.W. Marriott.
Besides, even if the allegations are true. I’m sure the “boys” were sufficiently provoked and hence justified in their reaction. You must agree with me, I’m sure, that the women who were molested dressed provocatively and (horror of horrors) drank and made merry on New Year’s Eve, with complete disregard for our rich, ancient Indian culture and aped the “West” so shamelessly. Therefore, they got their just desserts. They deserved it because of their wanton, un-Indian behaviour and boys, with their raging hormones, will be boys after all. How can they be faulted for acting on instinct?
I think many crimes can be prevented (prevention being better than cure) by extrapolating this notion of yours. For instance, thefts of property could be prevented if we stopped carrying money about, shut down banks, stopped buying valuables like gold, cars, TV etc, because they are just invitations to thieves and robbers. Murders could be avoided if we all wore medieval knight armours. As you can see, most common crimes can be avoided by exercising precaution. Not complying with these precautionary measures only makes one a sitting duck for would-be criminals. How can they be faulted for acting on instinct? There is a lot of potential in this revolutionary theory of yours. It would ease the workload of policemen, courts would be relatively free, and lawyers could utilize the free time by protesting against Hallmark and Valentine’s Day and, digging up pitches before India-Pak cricket matches.
I know that “Mumbai is for Marathis” is your abiding refrain. Yet, I request you to consider my case as a naturalized Mumbaikar. I was born in Mumbai and have lived here all my life, which is a substantial number of years. Although I descend from dubious East Bengal stock, I am willing to swear allegiance to Maharashtra. I celebrate Durga pooja and Ganesh Utsav with equal gusto. I speak Marathi, albeit haltingly, and am eager to learn to speak it fluently. I seek your express permission to call Mumbai and Maharashtra my home.
Regards
A non-Marathi female.
One hardly sees you in any public forum nowadays. Is retirement going well for you? Or are you still calling the shots? I am almost beginning to miss your incendiary speeches, your fiery interviews, your formidable dark shades and your saffron glow. Almost.
But what’s this I hear about your lackeys defending hooligans who molested women on New Year’s Eve? The media folks are painting innocent "boys” criminals again, are they? Pesky gossip-mongering nuisance, these media fellows, I tell you. Take their duties as the fourth pillar of democracy too seriously. Why, we wouldn’t have coups, famines, wars, assassinations, terror-strikes and such unpleasantness if the media didn’t report these. We civilians would then have such a strong, unshakeable sense of security. (What was that about ostriches with their heads buried in sand?)More trouble than good, the media, I tell you.
And so what if these alleged wrong-doers were caught on camera? They are innocent until proven guilty. Some are more so than others. Being Marathi gives them your clean-chit, after all. I’m sure these media-types are just harassing nice Marathi boys from good families; boys who were just minding their own business outside the J.W. Marriott.
Besides, even if the allegations are true. I’m sure the “boys” were sufficiently provoked and hence justified in their reaction. You must agree with me, I’m sure, that the women who were molested dressed provocatively and (horror of horrors) drank and made merry on New Year’s Eve, with complete disregard for our rich, ancient Indian culture and aped the “West” so shamelessly. Therefore, they got their just desserts. They deserved it because of their wanton, un-Indian behaviour and boys, with their raging hormones, will be boys after all. How can they be faulted for acting on instinct?
I think many crimes can be prevented (prevention being better than cure) by extrapolating this notion of yours. For instance, thefts of property could be prevented if we stopped carrying money about, shut down banks, stopped buying valuables like gold, cars, TV etc, because they are just invitations to thieves and robbers. Murders could be avoided if we all wore medieval knight armours. As you can see, most common crimes can be avoided by exercising precaution. Not complying with these precautionary measures only makes one a sitting duck for would-be criminals. How can they be faulted for acting on instinct? There is a lot of potential in this revolutionary theory of yours. It would ease the workload of policemen, courts would be relatively free, and lawyers could utilize the free time by protesting against Hallmark and Valentine’s Day and, digging up pitches before India-Pak cricket matches.
I know that “Mumbai is for Marathis” is your abiding refrain. Yet, I request you to consider my case as a naturalized Mumbaikar. I was born in Mumbai and have lived here all my life, which is a substantial number of years. Although I descend from dubious East Bengal stock, I am willing to swear allegiance to Maharashtra. I celebrate Durga pooja and Ganesh Utsav with equal gusto. I speak Marathi, albeit haltingly, and am eager to learn to speak it fluently. I seek your express permission to call Mumbai and Maharashtra my home.
Regards
A non-Marathi female.
"All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others."
- George Orwell (Animal farm)
Why, Mumbai?
I’m mortified, stupefied, petrified, and mystified. In all those debates of Mumbai vs. “X” metro, I would smugly mention my beloved city’s “live and let live” motto and promptly win the argument. I would complacently state that women felt safe here, that the city let you be who you are- regardless of your cast, creed, colour, religion, sex and bank balance, that she assimilated everyone in her fold, everyone who ever set foot in Mumbai.
Now, I can’t even brag about Mumbai without squirming uneasily, without making excuses for her shortcomings, without calling reprehensible crimes “one-off”, isolated incidents. Not after what happened outside J.W. Marriott on New Year’s Eve, not after Mumbai and the integrity of its denizens were besmirched by the actions of a few. I arrogantly thought that these things happened in the uncivilized cow-belt, in Delhi and those “other” cities which have none of Mumbai’s sophistication and…spirit.
“Spirit”- how I despise the word. I despise that it has come to encompass both indifference and resilience. I despise that vast multitudes of us just absorb shame, shock, terror and remorse and get on with our lives. It is such an annoyingly convenient cliché, the word “spirit”. But it is just our spirit, our essence, our soul, our ethos and our identity that have been called into question.
Do we dismiss what happened as an anomaly? Is Mumbai on the fast-track to becoming another Delhi, in terms of crimes against women? Will assaults on women be a regular feature henceforth? Should we mourn the death of the legendary Spirit of Mumbai? Do we care?
Of course, we care. This is our home. We are under threat and have to fight so that this city doesn’t lose its identity. We need to wake up and smell the coffee and see ourselves for what we were and what we have become and not wish away these bugbears. Change begins with the acceptance that there is a need for change, a need for tweaking things back to normalcy, a need to eliminate these worrying distortions. May be then I will stand a chance of winning those debates with a clear conscience.
Now, I can’t even brag about Mumbai without squirming uneasily, without making excuses for her shortcomings, without calling reprehensible crimes “one-off”, isolated incidents. Not after what happened outside J.W. Marriott on New Year’s Eve, not after Mumbai and the integrity of its denizens were besmirched by the actions of a few. I arrogantly thought that these things happened in the uncivilized cow-belt, in Delhi and those “other” cities which have none of Mumbai’s sophistication and…spirit.
“Spirit”- how I despise the word. I despise that it has come to encompass both indifference and resilience. I despise that vast multitudes of us just absorb shame, shock, terror and remorse and get on with our lives. It is such an annoyingly convenient cliché, the word “spirit”. But it is just our spirit, our essence, our soul, our ethos and our identity that have been called into question.
Do we dismiss what happened as an anomaly? Is Mumbai on the fast-track to becoming another Delhi, in terms of crimes against women? Will assaults on women be a regular feature henceforth? Should we mourn the death of the legendary Spirit of Mumbai? Do we care?
Of course, we care. This is our home. We are under threat and have to fight so that this city doesn’t lose its identity. We need to wake up and smell the coffee and see ourselves for what we were and what we have become and not wish away these bugbears. Change begins with the acceptance that there is a need for change, a need for tweaking things back to normalcy, a need to eliminate these worrying distortions. May be then I will stand a chance of winning those debates with a clear conscience.
Monday, January 7, 2008
A gentleman’s game
Dear Mr. Ponting,
I take this opportunity to congratulate you and your team on your sixteenth consecutive Test victory. The ways and means you applied to clinch victory from the jaws of a draw have reinforced everyone’s faith in your dedication to victory, by hook or by crook.
By the way, it was quite a shrewd move to declaw the Indian team by getting Harbhajan Singh out of the way, racist bigot that he is. Quite a spanner in the works he was becoming, what with getting your wicket thrice and scoring sixty-four runs. Good move Mr. Ponting. You showed him that Aussies aren’t called world champions for nothing- champion strategists, champion sledgers, and now, champion truth-modifiers. (But I’m quite sure Bhajji did not mean to insult monkeys; so don’t get PETA to hound the poor lad. He has enough troubles with the three match ban as it is)
Have you read “The Alchemist” Mr. Ponting? Well, the author Paulo Coelho has this curious notion that when you want something badly, the universe conspires to bring it to you. You really wanted this win badly, didn’t you Mr. Ponting? The match umpires, working for the universe, ruled in your favour eight times out of nine in the appeals made. Phew! That’s some potent force, the universe.
And of course, the Indians are being babies by crying foul, aren’t they Mr. Ponting? Oh, and wasn’t the match referee simply a prince of a fellow by believing your “boys” without an iota of evidence? That happened even though it boiled down to the Indians’ word against yours. I think it was the universe at work again. Of course, it is silly to believe that racism had any part to play in the referee’s decision. Racism is only when Bhajji calls Symonds “big monkey” (if he called him so, that is), what you Aussies do is just healthy, spirited derision, all in good humour and an integral part of the game.
Oh, but the Indians say that they could never be racists. India gave the world Gandhi after all; the same Gandhi who fought apartheid in South Africa. Ha. I’m sure Gandhi was part Australian. How else would you explain his egalitarian ideals and devotion to truth? Speaking of truth, it was clever to point the pavilion to Ganguly. It was touch and go for a minute there wasn’t it? When the umpire asked you if you thought Ganguly should be given “out”? A lesser man would not have had the presence of mind or the gumption to raise his index finger and lower his principles. But you were equal to the moral pressures of this deed. Kudos to you, Mr. Ponting!
You have shown the world that the Aussies are world champions…in something.
Regards.
An Indian.
I take this opportunity to congratulate you and your team on your sixteenth consecutive Test victory. The ways and means you applied to clinch victory from the jaws of a draw have reinforced everyone’s faith in your dedication to victory, by hook or by crook.
By the way, it was quite a shrewd move to declaw the Indian team by getting Harbhajan Singh out of the way, racist bigot that he is. Quite a spanner in the works he was becoming, what with getting your wicket thrice and scoring sixty-four runs. Good move Mr. Ponting. You showed him that Aussies aren’t called world champions for nothing- champion strategists, champion sledgers, and now, champion truth-modifiers. (But I’m quite sure Bhajji did not mean to insult monkeys; so don’t get PETA to hound the poor lad. He has enough troubles with the three match ban as it is)
Have you read “The Alchemist” Mr. Ponting? Well, the author Paulo Coelho has this curious notion that when you want something badly, the universe conspires to bring it to you. You really wanted this win badly, didn’t you Mr. Ponting? The match umpires, working for the universe, ruled in your favour eight times out of nine in the appeals made. Phew! That’s some potent force, the universe.
And of course, the Indians are being babies by crying foul, aren’t they Mr. Ponting? Oh, and wasn’t the match referee simply a prince of a fellow by believing your “boys” without an iota of evidence? That happened even though it boiled down to the Indians’ word against yours. I think it was the universe at work again. Of course, it is silly to believe that racism had any part to play in the referee’s decision. Racism is only when Bhajji calls Symonds “big monkey” (if he called him so, that is), what you Aussies do is just healthy, spirited derision, all in good humour and an integral part of the game.
Oh, but the Indians say that they could never be racists. India gave the world Gandhi after all; the same Gandhi who fought apartheid in South Africa. Ha. I’m sure Gandhi was part Australian. How else would you explain his egalitarian ideals and devotion to truth? Speaking of truth, it was clever to point the pavilion to Ganguly. It was touch and go for a minute there wasn’t it? When the umpire asked you if you thought Ganguly should be given “out”? A lesser man would not have had the presence of mind or the gumption to raise his index finger and lower his principles. But you were equal to the moral pressures of this deed. Kudos to you, Mr. Ponting!
You have shown the world that the Aussies are world champions…in something.
Regards.
An Indian.
Friday, January 4, 2008
A letter to Ekta Kapoor
Dear Ms Kapoor,
I wasn’t sure of the spelling of your name, what with numerological considerations. So, please forgive me for resorting to the conventional spelling of your last name. I know that in order for my letter to even merit a glance of your esteemed self, I would have to sufficiently alter the spelling of my name in accordance with the rules of numerology. My signature will tell you that I have changed my name from the numerologically unsound “Jane Doe” to the numerologically sound “Kjaane Kdoie”.You will be happy to know, I’m sure, that I intend to change it legally through an affidavit and there will be an announcement about the name change in The Times of India shortly.
But, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. I have been a great admirer of yours ever since your soaps took Indian television by storm. Your soaps have captivated thousands, set many fashion trends, made numerology a much sought after science (yes, I believe you. It is very scientific), made small-time actors household names and you the unquestionable Queen bee of the idiot-box, sorry, small screen. Having followed your sky-rocketing career graph closely, I firmly believe that you should run for President in the next presidential selection oops, election.
(I would have advised you to seek the post of Prime Minister, but that post requires actual work. So let’s leave politicking to the boring old fogies in Delhi, with no fashion sense and you can enjoy the post of the nominal head of our nation and still continue to do good work for Indian television.)
I am aware that you are a shrewd businesswoman and wouldn’t take any declarations at face value, albeit made by a fellow numerology aficionado. So, I have buttressed my views with facts and figures. I hear that you are a busy woman, so I’ve collated the said facts and figures in bullet points.
• You will be backed by at least 65.34% of the women in the age-group of 15- 100 (the upper limit is undecided, for obvious reasons). And that’s only a conservative estimate of the viewership of your soap operas; there are many, many more women (and men, if whispers discussing your serials at office water coolers or during coffee breaks are anything to go by) who watch your serials but are too ashamed to admit it. I have every reason to believe that you reign the 9-11 pm time-slot, known as “prime time” in TV parlance. Women who watch your serials are generally quite docile, but come 9 p.m. every Mon-Thu, they turn into GI-Janes if anyone dares to take the remote away from them or so much as breathes “channel-surfing”. With such obvious militant tendencies bubbling beneath the thin veneer of serenity, they would definitely take up cudgels if your candidature fell through and the authorities wouldn’t be able to deal with them. You have muscle-power on your side. And in India that counts for a lot.
• The grandparents and parents of twenty-year olds in your soaps, look like they have just stepped into their thirties and mid to late twenties, respectively. Tell me, Ms Kapoor, have you found the Elixir of Youth? You surely must be in possession of some secret technology that prolongs youth and makes anti-ageing creams and botox seem medieval. With such a potent weapon in your arsenal, your victory is guaranteed. Given the obsession with youth and beauty, you with your answer to the prayers of thousands fighting a losing battle against wrinkles, are bound to have sufficient bargaining power and leverage to bag the post.
• The protagonists in your serials seem to have boundless energy. Again, Ms. Kapoor, what is the secret? They run business empires worth 100 crores, throw lavish bashes at the drop of a hat, organize parties/festivals/ceremonies for weddings/child-births/birthdays/ recovery from illnesses, accidents etc/ ear-piercing/ breathing, solve the problems of all and sundry in their burgeoning joint families, sire numerous children (caring a whit for the population explosion in India), go to the gym, hold elaborate praying rituals, scheme and counter-scheme to bait the villains of the piece and still have enough energy/time to make aloo-parathas for the aforementioned family. Phew! Just that list boggles my mind. With this energy, you are well-set for world domination. Imagine the number of problems you could solve- poverty, cancer, AIDS, terrorism- to name a few which beset us. Surely, as President, you could do much good.
• And the women in your shows. Man, they look as fresh as daisies when they wake up in the morning, not a hair out of place, impeccable faces, no puffy eyes, draped in beautiful silk saris- quite the opposite of what I look like after a good-night’s sleep. I’m sure all the women (and men) in India would be grateful to look like that, effortlessly, in the morning (the men sans the silk saris, of course). And as President of the country, it would be incumbent upon you to make sure that your subjects are well-groomed and you, Ms. Kapoor, would be equal to the task given your vast experience. You would be like manna from heaven for those aspiring to be “shiny happy people”.
• And you have always upheld Indian culture in your soaps. All the leading lads and ladies in your serials are fashioned after Ram-Sita, Arjun, Savitri-Satyavan and even the villains are like Ravana, Duryodhan and so on. You have introduced “our culture” to a generation raised on a staple diet of MTV, that representative of “western” culture. I’m sure you would be a worthy icon and parents would urge their tots to emulate you. And what better example than the president of India?
• You have given hopes to thousands of plain-janes who want to look like anyone but themselves. Plastic surgery has come to the rescue of so many unfortunate people who have had accidents in your soaps. Not only does it alter facial features, but it also transforms one into a completely new person- new voice, new hair, new height, new eye colour, new weight. (Will you please make me look like, ummm, Catherine Zeta Jones?) Imagine the multitudes of people you would be helping as president.
So you see Ms. Kapoor, I have very compelling reasons to urge you to give the post of President serious consideration. Do ponder carefully about the points I’ve made. I request you to keep in mind the hopes and dreams of thousands when you make your mind.
With warm regards,
Kjaane Kdoie.
(formerly Jane Doe)
I wasn’t sure of the spelling of your name, what with numerological considerations. So, please forgive me for resorting to the conventional spelling of your last name. I know that in order for my letter to even merit a glance of your esteemed self, I would have to sufficiently alter the spelling of my name in accordance with the rules of numerology. My signature will tell you that I have changed my name from the numerologically unsound “Jane Doe” to the numerologically sound “Kjaane Kdoie”.You will be happy to know, I’m sure, that I intend to change it legally through an affidavit and there will be an announcement about the name change in The Times of India shortly.
But, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. I have been a great admirer of yours ever since your soaps took Indian television by storm. Your soaps have captivated thousands, set many fashion trends, made numerology a much sought after science (yes, I believe you. It is very scientific), made small-time actors household names and you the unquestionable Queen bee of the idiot-box, sorry, small screen. Having followed your sky-rocketing career graph closely, I firmly believe that you should run for President in the next presidential selection oops, election.
(I would have advised you to seek the post of Prime Minister, but that post requires actual work. So let’s leave politicking to the boring old fogies in Delhi, with no fashion sense and you can enjoy the post of the nominal head of our nation and still continue to do good work for Indian television.)
I am aware that you are a shrewd businesswoman and wouldn’t take any declarations at face value, albeit made by a fellow numerology aficionado. So, I have buttressed my views with facts and figures. I hear that you are a busy woman, so I’ve collated the said facts and figures in bullet points.
• You will be backed by at least 65.34% of the women in the age-group of 15- 100 (the upper limit is undecided, for obvious reasons). And that’s only a conservative estimate of the viewership of your soap operas; there are many, many more women (and men, if whispers discussing your serials at office water coolers or during coffee breaks are anything to go by) who watch your serials but are too ashamed to admit it. I have every reason to believe that you reign the 9-11 pm time-slot, known as “prime time” in TV parlance. Women who watch your serials are generally quite docile, but come 9 p.m. every Mon-Thu, they turn into GI-Janes if anyone dares to take the remote away from them or so much as breathes “channel-surfing”. With such obvious militant tendencies bubbling beneath the thin veneer of serenity, they would definitely take up cudgels if your candidature fell through and the authorities wouldn’t be able to deal with them. You have muscle-power on your side. And in India that counts for a lot.
• The grandparents and parents of twenty-year olds in your soaps, look like they have just stepped into their thirties and mid to late twenties, respectively. Tell me, Ms Kapoor, have you found the Elixir of Youth? You surely must be in possession of some secret technology that prolongs youth and makes anti-ageing creams and botox seem medieval. With such a potent weapon in your arsenal, your victory is guaranteed. Given the obsession with youth and beauty, you with your answer to the prayers of thousands fighting a losing battle against wrinkles, are bound to have sufficient bargaining power and leverage to bag the post.
• The protagonists in your serials seem to have boundless energy. Again, Ms. Kapoor, what is the secret? They run business empires worth 100 crores, throw lavish bashes at the drop of a hat, organize parties/festivals/ceremonies for weddings/child-births/birthdays/ recovery from illnesses, accidents etc/ ear-piercing/ breathing, solve the problems of all and sundry in their burgeoning joint families, sire numerous children (caring a whit for the population explosion in India), go to the gym, hold elaborate praying rituals, scheme and counter-scheme to bait the villains of the piece and still have enough energy/time to make aloo-parathas for the aforementioned family. Phew! Just that list boggles my mind. With this energy, you are well-set for world domination. Imagine the number of problems you could solve- poverty, cancer, AIDS, terrorism- to name a few which beset us. Surely, as President, you could do much good.
• And the women in your shows. Man, they look as fresh as daisies when they wake up in the morning, not a hair out of place, impeccable faces, no puffy eyes, draped in beautiful silk saris- quite the opposite of what I look like after a good-night’s sleep. I’m sure all the women (and men) in India would be grateful to look like that, effortlessly, in the morning (the men sans the silk saris, of course). And as President of the country, it would be incumbent upon you to make sure that your subjects are well-groomed and you, Ms. Kapoor, would be equal to the task given your vast experience. You would be like manna from heaven for those aspiring to be “shiny happy people”.
• And you have always upheld Indian culture in your soaps. All the leading lads and ladies in your serials are fashioned after Ram-Sita, Arjun, Savitri-Satyavan and even the villains are like Ravana, Duryodhan and so on. You have introduced “our culture” to a generation raised on a staple diet of MTV, that representative of “western” culture. I’m sure you would be a worthy icon and parents would urge their tots to emulate you. And what better example than the president of India?
• You have given hopes to thousands of plain-janes who want to look like anyone but themselves. Plastic surgery has come to the rescue of so many unfortunate people who have had accidents in your soaps. Not only does it alter facial features, but it also transforms one into a completely new person- new voice, new hair, new height, new eye colour, new weight. (Will you please make me look like, ummm, Catherine Zeta Jones?) Imagine the multitudes of people you would be helping as president.
So you see Ms. Kapoor, I have very compelling reasons to urge you to give the post of President serious consideration. Do ponder carefully about the points I’ve made. I request you to keep in mind the hopes and dreams of thousands when you make your mind.
With warm regards,
Kjaane Kdoie.
(formerly Jane Doe)
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Ring out the old, ring in the new
I quite steadfastly resisted the devil of dissecting the year that was and sharing acquired wisdom (such as it is), but I realize that introspection, soul-searching, and such psychobabble, are made of sturdier stuff.
Most of us buy into the great indulgence of January 1st- checking-off the fulfilled resolutions from the previous year and making new resolutions. I tried to convince myself that just because one has transitioned through 31st December 2007 to 1st January 2008, taking stock is not in order. In fact “stock-taking” can be satisfactorily indulged in on, say, 17th May or 25th July of any year. Heck, it can be done everyday. Commerce does it on the 1st of April every year. My friend takes stock after each boyfriend. My mother does so on birthdays (my birthdays. For further information, read previous post).
Fate seldom plays fair and, as I said, stock-taking comes from hardier, well stock! Just when I was scoffing at people who make resolutions on the first day of each year and then suffer through the humiliation/frustration of not achieving their goals and are then reduced to embittered souls driven down the vale of depression (ok, I exaggerate), I came across the list of my new year’s resolutions from 2003, buried in the pages of Gone with the wind.
I had used the list as a bookmark. I have forgotten why I stopped making resolutions; perhaps because unattained resolutions reminded one of one’s foibles, of the innate weakness of not staying the course. Wondering why now, of all times, it had to surface and why I never threw it away, I went through the list. After the overwhelming nostalgia subsided, I too slipped into self-examination mode, exorcising demons and ghosts and basking in the afterglow of triumphs, as they were.
Ok, demons and ghosts first. Shrinks call them “lost possible selves” or “alternate versions of oneself”. What we could/should have been. “I wish I had taken singing and guitar lessons more seriously”. “I wish I still spoke to the friends I have left behind”. These reflections are almost always tinged, nay, always have generous dollops of regret/remorse/penitence. Past mistakes or missed opportunities, vie for your attention. If only I had. What if I had…? I wonder what he/she is doing now. And so on. We wish we could do things differently, turn back Time and redress the past. I try to have an optimistic view of regrets; that they come with expiry dates. “Regret” ceases to be “regret”, when you view it in the context of the joys you have now. May be getting what you wanted then would never have resulted in this present happiness. Perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, regrets just become the roads which you didn’t take, so you could go down the path you have chosen for yourself. Seen in the grand scheme of things, gains outweigh regrets…er, maybe.
And then there’s the good news. Events, things and people I’m grateful for. The gains which outweigh regrets. The joys, triumphs, goodnesses, mercies, favours and blessings that came your way. “I got a raise”, “My son has a job”, “My health has improved”. Things that fill you with hope and happiness. Knowing that you braved the storms with fortitude and emerged undefeated and stronger, and not worse, for the wear. The skills you gained, the new friends you made, the places you visited, the smiles you brought, the tears you wiped, the adventures you sought and the lessons you learned. You can then greet the New Year with open arms and a toothy grin, and get ready for yet another roller-coaster ride.
Happy new year everyone. Bust your ghosts and count your blessings.
Most of us buy into the great indulgence of January 1st- checking-off the fulfilled resolutions from the previous year and making new resolutions. I tried to convince myself that just because one has transitioned through 31st December 2007 to 1st January 2008, taking stock is not in order. In fact “stock-taking” can be satisfactorily indulged in on, say, 17th May or 25th July of any year. Heck, it can be done everyday. Commerce does it on the 1st of April every year. My friend takes stock after each boyfriend. My mother does so on birthdays (my birthdays. For further information, read previous post).
Fate seldom plays fair and, as I said, stock-taking comes from hardier, well stock! Just when I was scoffing at people who make resolutions on the first day of each year and then suffer through the humiliation/frustration of not achieving their goals and are then reduced to embittered souls driven down the vale of depression (ok, I exaggerate), I came across the list of my new year’s resolutions from 2003, buried in the pages of Gone with the wind.
I had used the list as a bookmark. I have forgotten why I stopped making resolutions; perhaps because unattained resolutions reminded one of one’s foibles, of the innate weakness of not staying the course. Wondering why now, of all times, it had to surface and why I never threw it away, I went through the list. After the overwhelming nostalgia subsided, I too slipped into self-examination mode, exorcising demons and ghosts and basking in the afterglow of triumphs, as they were.
Ok, demons and ghosts first. Shrinks call them “lost possible selves” or “alternate versions of oneself”. What we could/should have been. “I wish I had taken singing and guitar lessons more seriously”. “I wish I still spoke to the friends I have left behind”. These reflections are almost always tinged, nay, always have generous dollops of regret/remorse/penitence. Past mistakes or missed opportunities, vie for your attention. If only I had. What if I had…? I wonder what he/she is doing now. And so on. We wish we could do things differently, turn back Time and redress the past. I try to have an optimistic view of regrets; that they come with expiry dates. “Regret” ceases to be “regret”, when you view it in the context of the joys you have now. May be getting what you wanted then would never have resulted in this present happiness. Perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, regrets just become the roads which you didn’t take, so you could go down the path you have chosen for yourself. Seen in the grand scheme of things, gains outweigh regrets…er, maybe.
And then there’s the good news. Events, things and people I’m grateful for. The gains which outweigh regrets. The joys, triumphs, goodnesses, mercies, favours and blessings that came your way. “I got a raise”, “My son has a job”, “My health has improved”. Things that fill you with hope and happiness. Knowing that you braved the storms with fortitude and emerged undefeated and stronger, and not worse, for the wear. The skills you gained, the new friends you made, the places you visited, the smiles you brought, the tears you wiped, the adventures you sought and the lessons you learned. You can then greet the New Year with open arms and a toothy grin, and get ready for yet another roller-coaster ride.
Happy new year everyone. Bust your ghosts and count your blessings.
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