(Excerpts from an imaginary conversation between a twenty-something Indian, female and her mother on her (i.e. the twenty-something Indian female) birthday)
Mother: (sulking) Happy birthday.
Daughter: Thank you! It is nice to see you so happy that I’ve lived to see another year.
M: Sure, make jokes. You’ll see, all the nice guys will be snapped up before you know it.
D: (aside) With the sex-ratio so skewed in favour of guys, I doubt that’ll ever happen. It’s probably 3 guys to 1 girl. OMG, what a dream- one to cook, one to clean and another to carry all the shopping bags, pure bliss. (Aloud) Don’t worry Ma, you’ll find that someone special.
M: (marking a newspaper matrimonial in red) This one’s good. Listen, CA guy, lives in Singapore, wants engineer, doctor or MBA girl from our BB (don’t even ask) community.
D: (ever the artful dodger) Ma, don’t you want me to live nearby? Why ship me off all the way to Singapore? (aside) That’s right, play the emotional blackmail card; the tears welling up were a nice touch. If she picks a local guy, say you want to see the world and are looking for a global life-partner. I love mind-games. (aloud) I wonder if I should buy those shoes I saw yesterday.
M: (momentarily distracted) The black and silver ones? They should be a perfect fit. (Peering into the newspaper) Hmm, sounds reliable, good family, well-educated…
D: Are we still talking about shoes?
M: You are approaching your (shuddering and almost in a whisper) mid-twenties. Mid-twenties. Mid- twenties. Don’t be so flippant about these things. Your aunts, uncles, their second cousins and the neighbours and their cousins are looking too. Can’t you cooperate a little?
D: By “cooperate” you mean “don’t kick and scream while you are being led to the gallows”?
M: Don’t be morbid. Look at your cousins, they are so happily settled. (eyes averted heavenward, probably in a reverie of seeing D married)
D: (aside) They didn’t have the spirit to stand their ground. Given a chance now, I bet they’d rethink their decision to get hitched. (aloud) I’m sure they are. Ma, I want to live my life. Is that so bad?
M: There’ll be plenty of time to live your life after you are married.
D: What about my career? What if I have to relocate? How am I to be sure of the guy? What if he moon-lights as an axe-murderer? What if…?
M: Of course, it has its risks (as though conceding a minor point), but you’ll learn the ropes.
D: Ropes? Ropes? It’s my life we’re talking about! How did “ropes” enter this conversation?
M: It’s different for girls. It would be so good for your father and me to see you settled.
D: (humming No Doubt's "Just a girl")
(Enter, the father, a.k.a. the voice of reason)
Father: Why’s the newspaper marked in red?
D: Ma’s on a man-hunt. (winking)Right, Ma?
F: Again? Let D be. She needs to figure out her life before taking the …ahem, plunge, so to speak.
D: (aside) My hero!!!!!! (aloud) My hero!!!!!!!!!
Saturday, December 29, 2007
My brown-eyed girl
Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room. She was with her gaggle of friends, finishing the last remnants of a cheese cake. He was alone, as usual- the lone wolf, strong, silent and rugged, moving with a quiet grace.
She had heard about him, his fame had traveled far and wide. Legend had it that he had survived a nuclear holocaust. His struggles had made him cynical, world-weary. He had seen turbulent times- she could make out the ever-so-slight limp with which he walked.
In the room, crowded with so many eligible, sprightly young males, she had eyes only for him. She was drawn to his wry smile and odd manner. He liked her wide-eyed innocence, her naiveté, the demure way she stole glances at him and how she hung on to his every word. It was love at first sight.
They would meet in secluded corners, away from prying eyes. But she would scurry away frightened, when daylight washed over them. Times were lean and resources in short supply. He would save her a slice of stale pizza, hardly gourmet material. But in the first flush of love, even such slim pickings seemed a lavish feast.
Theirs was a whirlwind romance, the stuff of legends. Soon, they settled into connubial bliss with sanction from the elders of their community. The going was good, at first. Then came trouble in paradise.
The exacting demands of life and parenthood, took their toll. Her wide-eyed innocence became jaded. He realized that she was no longer was regaled by the tales of his adventures. The harder he tried, the remoter she became.
She no longer had eyes only for him. He saw her ogle the new guy in town, nonchalant about the effect her betrayal was having on him. He realized that “fidelity” was a dirty word and monogamy, a myth.
He sometimes wished he were an elephant or a sparrow and not a cockroach. Filthy mammal and bird though they were respectively, and proud as he was of his insect heritage, elephants and sparrows were known to practice monogamy, unlike cockroaches whose affections tended to be fickle.
There she went, antenna-in-antenna with her new found love. He played the helpless bystander, his heart broken to smithereens. He would be no match for this young, alpha male. He would not even try to win her back; he had too much dignity. So what if he was only a scavenging cockroach. She had not even spared a thought for the kids.
Whoosh! He scampered under a couch and into a nearby crevice as fast as he could, his head just peeping out of the tiny aperture. New guy wasn’t so lucky and, had caught the chemical spray right in his face and collapsed in a heap.
He hoped she had the good sense to run away. He would take her back and all would be forgiven. Wishful thinking never pays. He heard her scream and all was quiet. So, this is how it ends, he thought. Well, Karma’s a b****, he smiled wryly.
No woman, no cry, he sang softly as he crawled out of his hiding place, when he deemed it safe.
Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room...
She had heard about him, his fame had traveled far and wide. Legend had it that he had survived a nuclear holocaust. His struggles had made him cynical, world-weary. He had seen turbulent times- she could make out the ever-so-slight limp with which he walked.
In the room, crowded with so many eligible, sprightly young males, she had eyes only for him. She was drawn to his wry smile and odd manner. He liked her wide-eyed innocence, her naiveté, the demure way she stole glances at him and how she hung on to his every word. It was love at first sight.
They would meet in secluded corners, away from prying eyes. But she would scurry away frightened, when daylight washed over them. Times were lean and resources in short supply. He would save her a slice of stale pizza, hardly gourmet material. But in the first flush of love, even such slim pickings seemed a lavish feast.
Theirs was a whirlwind romance, the stuff of legends. Soon, they settled into connubial bliss with sanction from the elders of their community. The going was good, at first. Then came trouble in paradise.
The exacting demands of life and parenthood, took their toll. Her wide-eyed innocence became jaded. He realized that she was no longer was regaled by the tales of his adventures. The harder he tried, the remoter she became.
She no longer had eyes only for him. He saw her ogle the new guy in town, nonchalant about the effect her betrayal was having on him. He realized that “fidelity” was a dirty word and monogamy, a myth.
He sometimes wished he were an elephant or a sparrow and not a cockroach. Filthy mammal and bird though they were respectively, and proud as he was of his insect heritage, elephants and sparrows were known to practice monogamy, unlike cockroaches whose affections tended to be fickle.
There she went, antenna-in-antenna with her new found love. He played the helpless bystander, his heart broken to smithereens. He would be no match for this young, alpha male. He would not even try to win her back; he had too much dignity. So what if he was only a scavenging cockroach. She had not even spared a thought for the kids.
Whoosh! He scampered under a couch and into a nearby crevice as fast as he could, his head just peeping out of the tiny aperture. New guy wasn’t so lucky and, had caught the chemical spray right in his face and collapsed in a heap.
He hoped she had the good sense to run away. He would take her back and all would be forgiven. Wishful thinking never pays. He heard her scream and all was quiet. So, this is how it ends, he thought. Well, Karma’s a b****, he smiled wryly.
No woman, no cry, he sang softly as he crawled out of his hiding place, when he deemed it safe.
Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room...
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Taare zameen par: A review
This movie resulted in a self-discovery of sorts. I realized that I’m a sentimental shmuck, for all my bravado. The tears were always close to the surface and I had to duck low in my seat to maintain some semblance of dignity, so I wasn’t exposed for the sissy that I am. But the curious glances of the other audience members during the intermission told me that my façade wasn't fooling anyone.
Bollywood grapevine has it that this movie was actually Amole Gupte’s brainchild and Aamir Khan usurped the chair of director and poor Amole was relegated to the position of “creative” director. Whatever the facts, I’m glad this film was made. I’m thankful that it had none of the hype of OSO or Saawariya, so the fluff could be separated from real cinema. I am grateful that those affiliated with the film shunned appearances in reality TV shows and other props to promote the movie. It speaks volumes about the sheer confidence and passion they had for the film and its message. Hats off to them.
I admit that I wanted to see Khoya Khoya Chand and not this film. I also grumbled about shelling thirty bucks (not a huge amount by any standard, considering that I’ve shelled out twice the actual price of a movie ticket for atrocious seats) more for the scalper tickets. I had to eat humble pie after all. The film is a gem and I take issue with anyone who thinks it is mediocre, motor-mouth RJs included.
Taare zameen par deals with a child’s struggle with dyslexia. More importantly, it underlines the cruelty, indifference and insensitivity “normal” people use to deal with those differently-abled. It’s also a lesson in humanity, good parenting and compassion without being too preachy. The film sensitively portrays the harsh world a child of eight inhabits, his confidence shattered by constant taunts of teachers, peers and parents who don’t understand his problem. Living in the shadow of an overachieving elder sibling, with whom he is forever compared doesn’t make matters easy for the poor kid. The child, however, is gifted and of above-average faculties, and lives in the beautiful world of his imagination. He is just not what our society considers “normal” or even functional. Of course, such dreamers have never had it easy. Remember Leonardo da Vinci? And predictably enough, our education system and societal yardsticks which define a person’s worth by the marks he/she scores, by his/her rank in class, by the amount of money he/she makes, manage to stifle the child’s creativity and break his spirit, but Aamir Khan saves the day!
The movie also makes a point about how little we respect those talents which can result in little or no monetary gain, about how, to be considered “settled” and secure in life, one has to be an engineer, doctor or have an MBA, about how we should treasure children and nurture them just because they are. And how, as influential people in an impressionable child’s life, teachers and parents have a great responsibility- that of making or breaking a child’s life.
Darsheel Safary, the kid who plays the main role in the movie, is the discovery of the year. (Sorry boys. He pipped Deepika Padukone to the title because my loyalties lie with real talent and not with pancake). His reactions are instant, un-studied and un-tutored. He doesn’t get to say much in the movie, but his body-language and expressions speak a thousand words. He has such unsullied innocence, that you want to reach out and protect him from harm. You have my vote for best actor of the year, kid!
The music score is unusual and I cried throughout the Ma song (yes, snicker away. Let’s see how you hold up while watching this movie). The whole theatre kept still even when the credits rolled by, because there was a heart-wrenching documentary about children in the end. That means we still can be salvaged right? That we still have compassion and humanity? That the movie touched a chord somewhere in the Mumbaikars present, so anesthetized to emotions?
It takes colossal strength of convictions to make a film like this, especially in this day and age of item numbers and sculpted six-pack abs. Please, please, please watch this film and make it "run successfully all over".
Bollywood grapevine has it that this movie was actually Amole Gupte’s brainchild and Aamir Khan usurped the chair of director and poor Amole was relegated to the position of “creative” director. Whatever the facts, I’m glad this film was made. I’m thankful that it had none of the hype of OSO or Saawariya, so the fluff could be separated from real cinema. I am grateful that those affiliated with the film shunned appearances in reality TV shows and other props to promote the movie. It speaks volumes about the sheer confidence and passion they had for the film and its message. Hats off to them.
I admit that I wanted to see Khoya Khoya Chand and not this film. I also grumbled about shelling thirty bucks (not a huge amount by any standard, considering that I’ve shelled out twice the actual price of a movie ticket for atrocious seats) more for the scalper tickets. I had to eat humble pie after all. The film is a gem and I take issue with anyone who thinks it is mediocre, motor-mouth RJs included.
Taare zameen par deals with a child’s struggle with dyslexia. More importantly, it underlines the cruelty, indifference and insensitivity “normal” people use to deal with those differently-abled. It’s also a lesson in humanity, good parenting and compassion without being too preachy. The film sensitively portrays the harsh world a child of eight inhabits, his confidence shattered by constant taunts of teachers, peers and parents who don’t understand his problem. Living in the shadow of an overachieving elder sibling, with whom he is forever compared doesn’t make matters easy for the poor kid. The child, however, is gifted and of above-average faculties, and lives in the beautiful world of his imagination. He is just not what our society considers “normal” or even functional. Of course, such dreamers have never had it easy. Remember Leonardo da Vinci? And predictably enough, our education system and societal yardsticks which define a person’s worth by the marks he/she scores, by his/her rank in class, by the amount of money he/she makes, manage to stifle the child’s creativity and break his spirit, but Aamir Khan saves the day!
The movie also makes a point about how little we respect those talents which can result in little or no monetary gain, about how, to be considered “settled” and secure in life, one has to be an engineer, doctor or have an MBA, about how we should treasure children and nurture them just because they are. And how, as influential people in an impressionable child’s life, teachers and parents have a great responsibility- that of making or breaking a child’s life.
Darsheel Safary, the kid who plays the main role in the movie, is the discovery of the year. (Sorry boys. He pipped Deepika Padukone to the title because my loyalties lie with real talent and not with pancake). His reactions are instant, un-studied and un-tutored. He doesn’t get to say much in the movie, but his body-language and expressions speak a thousand words. He has such unsullied innocence, that you want to reach out and protect him from harm. You have my vote for best actor of the year, kid!
The music score is unusual and I cried throughout the Ma song (yes, snicker away. Let’s see how you hold up while watching this movie). The whole theatre kept still even when the credits rolled by, because there was a heart-wrenching documentary about children in the end. That means we still can be salvaged right? That we still have compassion and humanity? That the movie touched a chord somewhere in the Mumbaikars present, so anesthetized to emotions?
It takes colossal strength of convictions to make a film like this, especially in this day and age of item numbers and sculpted six-pack abs. Please, please, please watch this film and make it "run successfully all over".
Monday, December 17, 2007
Jab we met: A review.
I know, I know, Jab we met released ages ago and I saw it ages ago. Nevertheless, here goes:
The most striking thing about Jab we met is Kareena Kapoor. This is entirely Bebo’s film. She has outgrown her decorative bimbo roles which required her only to bat her eyelashes and dance around trees. This is her meatiest role yet, although there were flashes of her immense talent in Dev, Omkara, Yuva and Chameli. Kareena plays Geet, a Sikh-ni(to use her own term) from Bhatinda. Geet is vivacious, chirps non-stop, is scatterbrained and, in love with life and herself. Sometimes the bubbly act was a little OTT, but otherwise Geet’s non-pragmatic, I-take-things-as-they-come and innocent, even inane attitude towards life was thoroughly entertaining. Her mantra was simply to embrace life and get messy in the process. Kareena plays the effervescent girl to the hilt and is very believable in the role of Geet.
Shahid Kapoor did not disappoint either. His character was the perfect foil to Kareena’s character. He plays the quiet, practical, strong and silent Aditya who is disillusioned with his life and meets Geet when he is at his lowest point. Geet’s joie de vivre manages to rub off on the dour Aditya, gets him out of his blue funk and transforms his life. I thought Shahid was perfect for the role and that his formidable acting genes stand vindicated. I think he is a highly under-rated actor and should be given better roles, although he does manage to shine even in the worst, most sketchily scripted movies.
I am an unabashed, gushy fan of the film’s music. I was eagerly waiting for Pritam Chakraborty’s next after Life in a metro. I like almost all the songs- right from the energetic Naggara, Naggara and Mauja hi Mauja to the melodious Tera na hona to the unusual Yeh ishq.
The movie is a definitely worth a watch.
The most striking thing about Jab we met is Kareena Kapoor. This is entirely Bebo’s film. She has outgrown her decorative bimbo roles which required her only to bat her eyelashes and dance around trees. This is her meatiest role yet, although there were flashes of her immense talent in Dev, Omkara, Yuva and Chameli. Kareena plays Geet, a Sikh-ni(to use her own term) from Bhatinda. Geet is vivacious, chirps non-stop, is scatterbrained and, in love with life and herself. Sometimes the bubbly act was a little OTT, but otherwise Geet’s non-pragmatic, I-take-things-as-they-come and innocent, even inane attitude towards life was thoroughly entertaining. Her mantra was simply to embrace life and get messy in the process. Kareena plays the effervescent girl to the hilt and is very believable in the role of Geet.
Shahid Kapoor did not disappoint either. His character was the perfect foil to Kareena’s character. He plays the quiet, practical, strong and silent Aditya who is disillusioned with his life and meets Geet when he is at his lowest point. Geet’s joie de vivre manages to rub off on the dour Aditya, gets him out of his blue funk and transforms his life. I thought Shahid was perfect for the role and that his formidable acting genes stand vindicated. I think he is a highly under-rated actor and should be given better roles, although he does manage to shine even in the worst, most sketchily scripted movies.
I am an unabashed, gushy fan of the film’s music. I was eagerly waiting for Pritam Chakraborty’s next after Life in a metro. I like almost all the songs- right from the energetic Naggara, Naggara and Mauja hi Mauja to the melodious Tera na hona to the unusual Yeh ishq.
The movie is a definitely worth a watch.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
The best things in life are free…
…Or don’t burn a huge whole in your pocket. For instance:
1. The smell of freshly cut grass.
2. Walking on fresh dew early winter mornings.
3. Curling up with a nice book and hot-chocolate on a rainy afternoon.
4. Talking the night away with your best friends.
5. Making perfect rotis for the first time.
6. A child’s laughter or smile at something you said or did to make her happy.
7. Getting wet in the first rains of the year and tucking into piping hot bhuttas, coffee and pakoras.
8. Singing to yourself when you drive to work.
9.Basking in the full moon’s light, which floods through the windows of your room.
10. Playing on the swings you barely fit into.
11. Burying you feet deep in cool sand.
12. Waking up to your favourite song.
13.Meeting an old friend with whom you haven’t stayed in touch.
14. Having your mother fuss over you when you are ill.
15. Watching a cricket match on TV with your family and friends.
16. Waking up before your alarm rings and realizing that you still have 15 mins of sleep.
17. Reaching the end of a torturous trek, the exhilaration at enduring the rigours and finally making it to the top, where the view is breath-taking.
18. Visiting a place for the first time and being mesmerized by it.
19. Having your parents narrate their childhood tales.
20. Your culinary ventures being mistaken for your mother’s.
Feel free to add to the list.
Friday, December 14, 2007
I figure:
That I’m always going to be a cry-baby/wet-fish about unattainable things and chase after mirages and elusive goals. Also, I will always have someone to drive up the wall with my incessant whining.
That the grass will be greener on the other side. People I meet will keep getting younger, smarter, thinner and richer and, I will wonder what I have been doing with my life all this while.
That I was wrong when I thought that one automatically grows up and turns wise when one starts earning a living. Man, was I wrong. I figure there will be enough heartbreaks, disillusionments, loves, losses, victories, sorrows and you will always do some growing up with each.
That I will regard lightly that which I get easily and take it for granted till I have lost it. And then I will kick myself for the sheer idiocy of the situation.
That I will envy those who say that they would change nothing about their lives and live the same way if given another chance.
That I will always seek adventure but then my life will be staid, hassle-free, mundane and …you get the drift.
That I will never have interesting stories/life-changing circumstances for the benefit of posterity, unless I stop being so straight-laced.
That I will never be able to dance with gay abandon (although I am a trained dancer) just for the pure joy of dancing and will never be able to wander aimlessly.
That my parents will always bail me out, regardless of my age.
Phew!
That the grass will be greener on the other side. People I meet will keep getting younger, smarter, thinner and richer and, I will wonder what I have been doing with my life all this while.
That I was wrong when I thought that one automatically grows up and turns wise when one starts earning a living. Man, was I wrong. I figure there will be enough heartbreaks, disillusionments, loves, losses, victories, sorrows and you will always do some growing up with each.
That I will regard lightly that which I get easily and take it for granted till I have lost it. And then I will kick myself for the sheer idiocy of the situation.
That I will envy those who say that they would change nothing about their lives and live the same way if given another chance.
That I will always seek adventure but then my life will be staid, hassle-free, mundane and …you get the drift.
That I will never have interesting stories/life-changing circumstances for the benefit of posterity, unless I stop being so straight-laced.
That I will never be able to dance with gay abandon (although I am a trained dancer) just for the pure joy of dancing and will never be able to wander aimlessly.
That my parents will always bail me out, regardless of my age.
Phew!
The folly of Modi’s operandi
Not that I’m unaware that Modi bashing is en vogue, but, clichéd as it sounds, this is different. This isn’t about outrage expressed at religious bigotry, or an argument in favour of Mr. Modi, or scrutinizing the validity of his claims of development in Gujarat, or about advocating a change of government. I have two very specific points of contention, which have left me non-plussed.
First, how could a shrewd politician like Mr. Modi tarnish his election campaign, that too at the fag end, by raking up the Sohrabuddin issue and justifying the brutal, cold-blooded killing of Sohrabuddin and his wife? Wouldn’t it have served his interests better to have concentrated on his success at moulding Gujarat into a preferred destination for private investment and if he had let sleeping dogs lie? With his trusted aide and star campaigner Vanjara behind bars and being investigated for the murder of Sohrabuddin and Kauserbi, the disapproval of the post-Lyngdoh, toothless EC notwithstanding, the move to capitalize on the Sohrabuddin killing was singularly maladroit and uncharacteristic of a political stalwart like Mr. Modi. A neophyte politician could be forgiven for this gaffe, but it is simply unacceptable coming from Mr. Modi. If he thinks that whipping up frenzy in the rabble by painting an innocent man a terrorist would translate into votes, then he is seriously off the mark. Culling collective conscience in the last elections may have worked, but the situation seems different this time. Mr. Modi should just have used the “vikaas”(development) defence and be done with it. His charisma, even though some consider him a mass-murderer, should have tided him over.
Second, why didn’t Mr. Modi try to quell the dissension in the ranks of his own party? Why didn’t he clip the wings of his rivals within the BJP and try to address the causes of dissatisfaction? In India, people vote for personalities and not ideologies. Mr. Modi, the crowd-puller, simply has no equal worthy of mention in the opposition parties. So winning the elections would have been a veritable cakewalk for Mr. Modi, if only he had tried to do something about Kesubhai Patel, his biggest, most vociferous critic in the BJP. Mr. Modi places too much credence in Hindutva and Hindu fanatics. Besides, even among the proponents of Hindutva, Mr. Modi has become quite a villain for his policies which seem to have ignored the interests of certain sections of Gujarat. I think this oversight and complacency may well be Mr. Modi’s undoing in these elections.
First, how could a shrewd politician like Mr. Modi tarnish his election campaign, that too at the fag end, by raking up the Sohrabuddin issue and justifying the brutal, cold-blooded killing of Sohrabuddin and his wife? Wouldn’t it have served his interests better to have concentrated on his success at moulding Gujarat into a preferred destination for private investment and if he had let sleeping dogs lie? With his trusted aide and star campaigner Vanjara behind bars and being investigated for the murder of Sohrabuddin and Kauserbi, the disapproval of the post-Lyngdoh, toothless EC notwithstanding, the move to capitalize on the Sohrabuddin killing was singularly maladroit and uncharacteristic of a political stalwart like Mr. Modi. A neophyte politician could be forgiven for this gaffe, but it is simply unacceptable coming from Mr. Modi. If he thinks that whipping up frenzy in the rabble by painting an innocent man a terrorist would translate into votes, then he is seriously off the mark. Culling collective conscience in the last elections may have worked, but the situation seems different this time. Mr. Modi should just have used the “vikaas”(development) defence and be done with it. His charisma, even though some consider him a mass-murderer, should have tided him over.
Second, why didn’t Mr. Modi try to quell the dissension in the ranks of his own party? Why didn’t he clip the wings of his rivals within the BJP and try to address the causes of dissatisfaction? In India, people vote for personalities and not ideologies. Mr. Modi, the crowd-puller, simply has no equal worthy of mention in the opposition parties. So winning the elections would have been a veritable cakewalk for Mr. Modi, if only he had tried to do something about Kesubhai Patel, his biggest, most vociferous critic in the BJP. Mr. Modi places too much credence in Hindutva and Hindu fanatics. Besides, even among the proponents of Hindutva, Mr. Modi has become quite a villain for his policies which seem to have ignored the interests of certain sections of Gujarat. I think this oversight and complacency may well be Mr. Modi’s undoing in these elections.
We are like this only
Not to be unpatriotic or anything, but we, by which I mean Indians, take ourselves too seriously. Our sense of humor and our indefatigable optimism is what delivered us from the British oppression, the Emergency, assorted bomb blasts, wars, riots and what have you. I think we have lost our sense of humor. How else would you explain the following:
1. Manoj “Bharat” Kumar taking umbrage at a spoof made at his expense in OSO
and threatening to file a defamation suit against the film-makers.
2. Madam Mayawati calling for an all-India ban on Aaja Nach Le, because she felt that the lyrics of a song in the film insinuated caste distinctions and would definitely hurt sentiments.
3. Violent protests against Tasleema Nasreen’s book. The same Tasleema of mediocre talent and her books soft-porn, at best.
Whatever happened to tolerance. Lighten up people!
1. Manoj “Bharat” Kumar taking umbrage at a spoof made at his expense in OSO
and threatening to file a defamation suit against the film-makers.
2. Madam Mayawati calling for an all-India ban on Aaja Nach Le, because she felt that the lyrics of a song in the film insinuated caste distinctions and would definitely hurt sentiments.
3. Violent protests against Tasleema Nasreen’s book. The same Tasleema of mediocre talent and her books soft-porn, at best.
Whatever happened to tolerance. Lighten up people!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Unteachable
I’m told that I’m too old to start learning how to drive. I am something of a veteran learner, having gone through four and a half trainers. The “half” is for the weak-hearted, lily livered coward who made a run for it when he realized that I was, ahem, “unteachable”. The rest of the brave hearts stuck their grounds, but advised me not to get rid of the learners’ “L” in a hurry. So, this is the tale of my stigmata (read: “L” sign).
The funny thing is that I’ve had a drivers’ license for more than two years. Not that being awarded a license by the RTO (Regional Transport Officer) really certifies your driving skills; in fact anyone can get a license. You are required to drive some hundred metres and take a U-turn and voila, the drivers’ license is yours, unless you have a dodo’s IQ and your motor nerves are as coordinated as a six-week old baby’s. It is as simple as that. (And we wonder why we have so many road accidents.)
My dad, aware of the lame rite of passage for a certified driver in our great city, decided that my brother and I needed a stricter, more rigorous initiation into the world of driving. In the interest of public safety, unless the trainer appointed by him gave us the go-ahead, we couldn’t be trusted to drive a four-wheeler. He claims that his concerns were public safety and the safety of his own flesh and blood (not necessarily in that order), but I suspect the caution had more to do with preserving the erstwhile pristine status of his precious white four-wheeler. (Dad, S needs fifty stitches and I broke my neck, but the car’s fine). I’m sure the word “erstwhile” tipped you off. Now, our car wears yellow and black stripes it earned in a battle with a yellow and black pole next to our parking space. My dad, who was driving at the time, claims that his driving was faultless. The impudent pole got in the way.
So, we went through trainers in quick succession, because none of them gave us the much-coveted green signal, all too afraid of my dad’s ire. I suppose we just wanted a second (and then third and then fourth) opinion. I must admit that I was an indifferent pupil and played hookey on the driving lessons quite often. Lazy as I am, I was quite content to have my brother chauffeur me around. For the record, I’m “unteachable” not because I lack the requisite skills but because I simply didn’t care enough to learn. And for all those who think women can’t drive, I have this- sexist pig (no, it’s not a gender slur. A slur on the pig may be). I can drive, only I didn’t like the idea of road rage, of colourful abuses when the driver behind you cuts you off, of back-seat driving by the aforementioned simpletons who think women can’t drive, of traffic jams, of crowds, of speed-demons, of little kids/stray dogs/kittens who rush out in front of you from nowhere and you hit the brakes, your heart going at six-hundred beats per minute, or of the constant danger you are in when you drive.
Now I have a new trainer and he seems nice and amenable to giving me the go-ahead. Only, he seems baffled that I wait for cyclists, dogs, kittens, tortoises, snails etc to cross the road. Also, he can’t, for the life of him, see why I panic on seeing stationary HMVs fifty miles away and hit the brakes in a wide, spacious road. Slowly, but surely I am getting over my reluctance to drive and a bad case of nerves everytime I see another vehicle hurtle down at me. See, I have this picture of myself driving a convertible (with its top down) at a great speed, my hair flying behind me, the sun in my gleeful face and my passengers not praying for dear life. So, until such time as I can fulfill this dream, training it is for me.
The funny thing is that I’ve had a drivers’ license for more than two years. Not that being awarded a license by the RTO (Regional Transport Officer) really certifies your driving skills; in fact anyone can get a license. You are required to drive some hundred metres and take a U-turn and voila, the drivers’ license is yours, unless you have a dodo’s IQ and your motor nerves are as coordinated as a six-week old baby’s. It is as simple as that. (And we wonder why we have so many road accidents.)
My dad, aware of the lame rite of passage for a certified driver in our great city, decided that my brother and I needed a stricter, more rigorous initiation into the world of driving. In the interest of public safety, unless the trainer appointed by him gave us the go-ahead, we couldn’t be trusted to drive a four-wheeler. He claims that his concerns were public safety and the safety of his own flesh and blood (not necessarily in that order), but I suspect the caution had more to do with preserving the erstwhile pristine status of his precious white four-wheeler. (Dad, S needs fifty stitches and I broke my neck, but the car’s fine). I’m sure the word “erstwhile” tipped you off. Now, our car wears yellow and black stripes it earned in a battle with a yellow and black pole next to our parking space. My dad, who was driving at the time, claims that his driving was faultless. The impudent pole got in the way.
So, we went through trainers in quick succession, because none of them gave us the much-coveted green signal, all too afraid of my dad’s ire. I suppose we just wanted a second (and then third and then fourth) opinion. I must admit that I was an indifferent pupil and played hookey on the driving lessons quite often. Lazy as I am, I was quite content to have my brother chauffeur me around. For the record, I’m “unteachable” not because I lack the requisite skills but because I simply didn’t care enough to learn. And for all those who think women can’t drive, I have this- sexist pig (no, it’s not a gender slur. A slur on the pig may be). I can drive, only I didn’t like the idea of road rage, of colourful abuses when the driver behind you cuts you off, of back-seat driving by the aforementioned simpletons who think women can’t drive, of traffic jams, of crowds, of speed-demons, of little kids/stray dogs/kittens who rush out in front of you from nowhere and you hit the brakes, your heart going at six-hundred beats per minute, or of the constant danger you are in when you drive.
Now I have a new trainer and he seems nice and amenable to giving me the go-ahead. Only, he seems baffled that I wait for cyclists, dogs, kittens, tortoises, snails etc to cross the road. Also, he can’t, for the life of him, see why I panic on seeing stationary HMVs fifty miles away and hit the brakes in a wide, spacious road. Slowly, but surely I am getting over my reluctance to drive and a bad case of nerves everytime I see another vehicle hurtle down at me. See, I have this picture of myself driving a convertible (with its top down) at a great speed, my hair flying behind me, the sun in my gleeful face and my passengers not praying for dear life. So, until such time as I can fulfill this dream, training it is for me.
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