2 number ka maal

The principles of Westminster system, the democratic parliamentary system that we adopted, modelled after the British government, help us govern the largest democracy in the world. Now that we have finished the gigantic task of electing worthies who will represent us in the national capital, we must look beyond our shores, as we often do for inspiration.

The Palace of Westminster is the seat of Parliament of the United Kingdom and, practically, all former British colonies, with the notable exception of the United States of America, have adopted the legislative model used in Westminster.

While India has adopted the British system, there are differences, and one that has occupied headlines in the UK recently is that the British MPs can, and do, claim expenses for a second home, outside their constituency, in London.

Ever since the British paper, The Daily Telegraph, published expenses claims made by senior British MPs under the controversial Personal Additional Accommodation Expenditure for MPs or second homes allowance, what Freedom of Information activists long held, became obvious-that this is an expense most open to abuse.

Media exposure of glaring cases — like claiming the cost of cleaning a moat, fitting chandeliers and in another case, jacuzzi-style bath — stunned taxpayers, as they learnt exactly what they were subsidising with their hard-earned money.

We must keep in mind that historically, all over the world, more tax is paid by those who do not have homes with moats or chandeliered hallways where their visitors might wait while the butler announces them, or retire to the rest room for a jacuzzi bath. These are blue or white collared workers struggling to pay bills as they balance various aspects of their lives. For them, this extravagance is a bitter pill to swallow, indeed.

Not that all MPs were extravagant in their purchases: They even billed for routine things like an ice tray for £1.50, and to top it all, a chocolate Santa, for 59p! Hey, a guy’s got a right to a snack. Others were billing the British taxpayers as much as £18,800 over four years in “unreceipted” expenses for food consumed at the designated second home!

Now that they have been exposed, the honourable members are not terribly contrite, they are sorry, but not so sorry as to resign from their positions following public outcry at their extravagances. They have actually found the scapegoat — the House of Commons Speaker, Michael Martin, who has announced his resignation for failing to handle the crisis of confidence that followed the evisceration of the expense accounts scandal.

Considered the first person from a working-class background to sit on the Speaker’s chair in the House of Commons, Martin presided over a house that for a long, long time held allowances as a supplementary salary, and receipts as notional, because they were anyways secret.

Now that they had been “outed”, the MPs bayed for blood, and punished their leader. Yet, even after they elect a new Speaker, they will have to reform the system, or be seen to be on the wrong side of fair play, which would definitely lead to the loss of public support. The Honorable Members can still have their chandeliers; clean their moats or have jacuzzis installed, provided they pay for them, like the rest of us.

Cooking up a story

I can’t cook to save my life, though I love food and like to experiment with various cuisines. Indian Takeaway was a title that intrigued me and as I read it, I enjoyed it, which was reason enough to review the book by Glasgow-born Hardeep Singh Kohli. He writes well, is funny and I liked his idea of cooking western food in India while travelling around.



Lately, thanks to my spouse, I have also been introduced to Nigella Lawson’s TV show on cooking — I normally work on the laptop or read while it is on, but anyone who’s seen it would understand that my gaze strays towards the TV often — the lady speaks very well and is also quite easy on the eye.
Seeing that Hardeep had splattered himself all over the cover, I made a somewhat uncharitable comparison of his appearance with that of Nigella in the review. It’s like comparing apples and oranges, I know, but sometimes we “just do it”, as the Nike ad says.
Moments before submitting the copy, I decided that I had to know more about her, now that she was figuring in my writing. Googling yielded, among other things, a Wikipedia entry as well as a link to her website.



I was on a roll and things were making sense! We had often observed that Nigella Lucy Lawson’s language was as classy as her looks — comes with having graduated from the University of Oxford, and you don’t become the deputy literary editor of The Sunday Times at age 26, just like that, you know!
There is much about her that subtly announced old money and breeding, easily understood when you find out that she is the daughter of Nigel Lawson, Baron of Blaby, a former Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Vanessa Salmon, whose family owned a large British business.



Nigella is a millionaire in her own right, her cookware range is worth £7 million, and she has sold more than three million cookery books worldwide. She is also married to one of the richest men in the UK, worth more than £110million.
In the show, she refers to her children and she loves cooking for them. However, “I am determined that my children should have no financial security. It ruins people not having to earn money.” She does not want to leave her wealth to her children, something that her husband does not agree with. His opinion would find resonance among those who label their vehicles “Pappu te Tinki di Gaddi”.
We live in a culture where inheritance is taken for granted. Patiala, where I grew up, had many a home of a once illustrious family brought to ruin because children who did not work for a living and eventually ate into their inheritance, often at a blazingly fast rate. It takes a great mother to recognise this fact and show tough love. Nigella’s statement reflects what one would call her pragmatic positivism, as a tribute to her stepfather, the philosopher A. J. Ayer, the famous exponent of logical positivism, whose book Language Truth and Logic influenced one’s college days. From Lawson to logic, you just don’t know what a good chef can rustle up, really.

Sitting, sitting, bum is paining…

I believe that we’re all familiar
With the situation I’ll be describing
Not too sure however about
The remedy I’ll be prescribing
Not sure in fact if remedy there is any
When sitting begets us only
Aches n pains in our sweet fanny!

Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sit down’ training
Is going to make this inactive bum
Go tara rum pum pum pum pum!

Remember when in school three periods
Continuous, of English, Sanskrit and Math
Concentrating, trying to answer question
To avoid the watchful teacher’s wrath
Eyes watering, trying to subdue overwhelming yawns
Surreptitiously shifting from one to another cheek
Dying to be outside in the lush, verdant lawns!

Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sit-down’ training
Is going to make this static bum
Go bum chic bum, chik bum bum!

Getting married is a joy they say
The bride and the groom are ecstatic
But the hours of ‘seated’ punishment before
You would think you’d turned Jurassic
Perched on those ‘thrones’, with stiff smiles
Then before the fire on the ground,
Says the ass “I think, I’ve got the ruddy piles!”

Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sit down’ training
Is going to make this motionless bum
Go tra la la, tum tum, pum pum!

The worst situation is in office I say
Growing roots on your chair before the comp
The days are a far and distant dream when
Your pals ‘n you would go for a romp
Yawn away darlin’, but there’s one thing for sure
Your backside’s growin’ extremely BIG,
It aint sexy and cute and pert no more!

Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sitting’ training
Is going to make this inert bum
Go Ha! Ha! Ha! Tum! Tum! TUM!

He held her hand

The Tribune , 5th Jan, 2010

Their romance began the day they got married. She had never set her eyes upon him before that and neither had he had a glimpse of her till then. It was that kind of era. You met your life-partner at your wedding and fell in love thereafter. That he held her hand in the car while they drove off was probably a major scandal of the time.

For the next 62 years they were a couple with vastly different personas but with a chemistry that was gentle and sizzling at the same time. They had six children and managed to raise them all with grace and fortitude, despite modest means, for them to become fine citizens of the world. They had their quarrels too and, sometimes, long periods of not talking to each other, but even as a young boy I knew that my grandparents were a really special couple and that they cared for each other no end.

He was tall and handsome; she was tiny but somewhat portly. He was a stickler for punctuality; she was quite laid back. He was intelligence personified; she was a little slow on the uptake at times. He held a postgraduate degree in English; she had attended only a few primary classes at school. He was blessed with a sense of wit; she would laugh heartily at his jokes. At times he would crack some really hi-fi ones which went over her head, but he would also repeat some old jokes for her benefit at which she would be in splits as if she’d heard them for the first time.

They were quite a team! Six children were apparently packed off to school and college every morning without much fuss. In situations that called for a cool head, it would be my grandmother who maintained her poise even if her husband was infuriated at the turn of events.

On their 60th anniversary, they were looking like shy newly weds, ensconced together on their throne like seats. The whole clan was present to greet them. I had discovered that anniversary cards were available only till the golden jubilee. Not too many people needed them beyond that.

As I watched them hold each other’s hands, I realized once more that their love was not the sort that was to be explicitly displayed, but the genteel, graceful sort of love that existed in the eyes, in the smiles, in the holding of hands.

When he left us for ever a couple of years later, she didn’t cry much. She remained silent for long periods though, and it was an effort to get her to talk. Earlier this month, she passed away too, and now whenever I look up at the sky, I know that he has held her hand once again, never to let it go.

Frogs and Snails and Puppy dog Tails…

“Mom… MOM”
My 16 year old son bangs the door and comes into where I am fixing his milk in the kitchen. He yanks me to him roughly, gives me a careless kiss on my eyebrow and demands something ‘nice’ to eat.
“Cheese toast?
“Nah!”
“Popcorn?”
“No mom, something exciting”
“Chocolate cookies? Rasgulla? Homemade cake?”
“Boring” he said morosely and then a smile lights his face.
“I know! I want MAGGIE!” Then seeing my expression he says, “Don’t worry ma, I’ll make it myself.”
The old rhyme was true. While girls are made of sugar and spice and all that’s nice, boys are made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. My boys manage to constantly shock, disgust and irritate me. The only reason I tolerate them is because no one will adopt them and well, let me admit, they make me laugh…and laugh…and laugh!

“Mom…MOM”
Does the boy think I’m deaf? “Yes boy, here I am two feet away from you.”
“Mom, smell this” And he comes close to me and breathes out with all his might into my face. When I move my head away involuntarily, he says, hurt, “Mom, smell …smell please, then I’ll tell you why.” Fearing the worst (Cigarette? Alcohol?) I take a full whiff of his mouth odour.
“What?” I demand, backing off.
“Is my mouth smelling fresh? I mean a girl won’t be put off because of bad breathe, will she?”
This is worse than cigarettes and alchohol.
“GIRL? Which girl?”
“Oh! No girl mom. Just asking.”
Sure; I believe that. Is it too early to talk about birth control?

“Mom…MOM…I need you urgently. ”
He’s standing before the mirror, with the most tragic expression.
“Mom, where did THESE come from?” he says pointing to a rash of acne.
“From your dirty thought about girls.” I said heartlessly.
“Well, would you prefer that I was gay then?” He retorts while poking at his pimples.
I almost said that that would involve dirty thoughts about boys but desisted.

“Mom…mom… see the new picture that I took”
“Goodness! What in the world is it?”
“It’s the picture of a dead cat that I saw lying in the rubbish bin. One of its eyes was hanging out. I’ll show you the close up”
How wonderfully aesthetically pleasing!

“Mom…Mom. I’ve decided what I want for my b’day gift.
“NO boy, you are not getting either the drum set nor the rabbits”
“Oh mom, trust me. It’s something small and cute and it’s not going to take up any space and its not going to create a mess either.”
Consideration? Could it be that the boy has finally grown up?
OK, so what is it?”
“First say ‘yes’.
“No”
“Mom….”
“OK, what is it?”
“An anti Christ tattoo on my upper arm!”
Lovely! I’m speechless.
“Nope”
“OK, then can I have a snake?”
“A snake tattoo? NO!’
“No mom, a real snake. See, it’ll keep away all the rats and vermin and they are pretty easy to keep. It’ll live in my room. Pleeeese mom…pleeeese…”

These conversations took place within the span of a week. The creatures bathe, brush and shampoo only because some girl may look at them. They talk only loudly, they watch porn and exchange dirty SMSes, and they are totally irreverent and disrespectful about their teachers and parents.

QED: Boys are definitely made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails!

Party Time

Published in Times Of India, 25th Jan, 2010

Whenever my wife and I have to attend a party, there is enough chaos before we leave home for the kids to roll up their eyes and for the maid to pull out her hair. Gifts have to be wrapped and clothes have to be ironed and worn, with seconds to go before the designated time of our departure. When we finally get into the car we’re normally quite late and there has been many an argument along the way which has resulted in that much more tension.

An even more cantankerous situation results, however, when we have a ‘do’ at our home and when we have to put up our best performance as please-all hosts. The scene at our humble abode, just minutes before the guests are to arrive, resembles that of an ‘Sabzi-Mandi’, with all kinds of items ‘decorating’ the venue.

One of us is usually busy with the laptop (me), another is shouting at all and sundry while running around the house (my wife), the kids are on tenterhooks and the TV is blaring. The maid and the borrowed ‘help’ look as if they’ve had enough and are never going to be part of any party again. Indeed, the pressure is really on!

Opinion is divided about the precise moment when I usually coax myself to leave the computer and join the frenetic ‘cleaning up’ operations on such occasions. Whatever be the truth of the matter, the fact is that there is a frenzied period of activity just before the guests arrive that is akin to the last over of a T-20 thriller.

Our best efforts to host the perfect party have the tendency to go awry, however, due to a variety of disruptive influences. Sometimes unwanted visitors arrive minutes before the party is scheduled, for sundry reasons like the newspaper bill. On other occasions, long telephone calls hold up preparations.

The result is that often the kitchen cabinet forgets to lay out all the items that they have toiled to prepare and the best dish keeps hiding in the oven, only to be discovered when the guests have gone!

Another gaffe is to under-estimate the quantity of food required. Some guests evidently find our food so delicious that they polish off bowl after bowl of the stuff. The result is that a few diners are left staring at empty pots on the table!

Even such errors are pardonable, but not what happened last time. A certain gentleman and his wife whom we know distantly turned up for dinner one evening and we kept scratching our heads because they were not on our list! An examination of my cell phone later revealed that I had smsd him the invitation instead of the intended person with the same name!

Team India- On top of the world



The manner in which Team India demolished the Sri Lankan challenge in the just concluded Test series and thereby surged to the pinnacle of the ICC Test Cricket rankings is truly remarkable. The Lankans were at full strength and genuinely harboured hopes of recording their first ever Test victory in India, if not a Series win. As it turned out, except for in the first Test, when they crossed 700 runs, Sri Lanka never fulfilled expectations. Magnificent batting, mainly by Mahela Jayawardene and Tillakratne Dilshan and also in patches by Thilan Samaraweera, Prasanna Jayawardene, and skipper Kumar Sangakarra, was not supported by their bowling at all.

Muthiah Muralidharan has finally run out of steam after a long and outstanding career in which he has taken almost 800 Test wickets. He struggled to trouble maestros like Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid and Virender Sehwag, while Gautam Gambhir and MS Dhoni played him superbly too. Each of India’s top batsmen, including Yuvraj Singh, scored heavily in the series, and made their runs with some style and vigour.

In addition, Ajantha Mendis and Rangana Herath, two quality spinners who would have tantalized most batting line-ups, came across an Indian batting armada that was on song.

In fact it is India’s batting that is the main cause of the team’s ascension to the top of the Test cricket world. When scores of 500 runs and above are regularly put up on the scoreboard, as India has managed to do in the past few years, the bowlers have a lot to bowl at. Winning matches becomes that much easier. Moreover, the batters have scored these runs quickly and dynamically even when batting in foreign lands, with the result that the opposition has been on the mat from day 1 on many occasions. To record their all time highest Test score and to twice beat their record for the most runs on any given day of Test cricket, all in the same series, speaks volumes forTeam India’s confidence and ability.

Virender Sehwag’s contribution has been paramount. He is now being bracketed with Sir Vivian Richards as the most destructive batsman of all time. The way in which he goes about his business is just astounding, for he displays no fear of anyone or anything. He goes about pulverizing the bowling whether he is batting on zero or on 293. To be able to score such monstrous scores as he has, with 6 double centuries and 2 triple tons under his belt, and yet to bat with such gay abandon, is most unbelievable, but true! Make no mistake, that third triple century and even a 400 is possible from his bat in the near future. Mind boggling!

The presence of Gautam Gambhir at the top of the order is another huge plus-factor for the Indian line-up. He has emerged as the ICC player of the year and has scored ton after ton in all conditions, to seriously warrant comparison with the great Sunil Gavaskar. His partnership with Sehwag is enough to send shivers down the spines of opposing bowlers.

With Tendulkar, Dravid, Laxman and Yuvraj (who has replaced Sourav Ganguly in the glittering line-up) also batting at their best, India seems to be blessed with an embarrassment of riches nowadays. The fact that excellent players like Wasim Jaffar, Suresh Raina, S. Badrinath and Rohit Sharma cannot find a place in the Test team, whereas they may have walked into any other Test side, indicates how blessed India is at the moment. Even Murali Vijay is playing one lucky Test a year as of now, though he has acquitted himself admirably.

No praise is too high for Zaheer Khan who has regularly provided crucial breakthroughs for India in recent years. In this series, Sreesanth too staged an impressive comeback and in Pragyan Ojha, India have found an exciting prospect. Harbhajan Singh has borne the brunt of the bowling attack after Anil Kumble’s retirement and has proved to be a worthy successor to him for the most part.
Dhoni’s captaincy is the icing on the cake for this Indian team. His astute leadership and steely nerves have served India so well that they have clearly become the team to beat in world cricket now. He has built upon the foundation laid by previous skippers like Ganguly, Dravid and Kumble to create a formidable unit. His batting is also flowering like never before and even his wicket-keeping seems to have improved!

Winning is a habit and this team has picked it up. However, the real test begins now, however, for they will have to prove that their rise is not a flash in the pan, but that India can be as consistently successful a side as the West Indians and Australians were when they were world-champions in different eras. Team India has slipped up in the recent past in the ODI and T-20 formats of the game and needs to pull up its socks therein. The coming months will tell us just how hungry this team is to be called one of the very best in cricket’s history.

SOUTH OF THE ADYAR RIVER

Oh for the days of my youth! Misspent, no doubt, but happy nevertheless. The days when Chennai was Madras to us and Pattinam to the old folks. When we had two grandmothers, a great grandmother and a host of great aunts to spoil us with thengai burfis! When cars meant Morris Minors, Ford Prefects and Landmasters!

It was the mid 60s and we were one of the first few residents of what was then Urur village. I distinctly remember the evening when we assembled and sat on the earthen floor outside what is now the Shastri Nagar Ladies’ Association, and some dignitary, whose name escapes me, declared the changed name of our locality to Shastri Nagar after our then Prime Minister. Or even earlier, when we heard the news of Pandit Nehru’s death over our ‘Telerad’. Our radio was one of the biggest in the colony and a bunch of us would gather round it of an evening to listen to the news or crowd round on a holiday to hear V.K. Chakrapani and Vizzy comment on Test cricket.

Shastri Nagar was then a clutch of four streets or so, with the Fifth Cross being the hub of activity. This unpaved lane comprised a row of independent houses with no compound walls or even fences separating them, much to the joy of us youngsters who were provided with a natural playing field, although biased towards length. Justice Soundarapandian, then a serving Judge of the Madras High Court, was our immediate neighbour, but except for a lone orderly, there was no posse of armed constabulary around and we even had access to his kitchen via the back door. During the monsoons, the road would turn into a veritable stream, with the water lapping on the doorsteps. Out would come paper boats, made from carefully preserved calendar paper, to compete for size. Lattice Bridge Road was then a mud topped stretch and if you missed 19M or 19S, the only two buses that would ply up to the depot, you either had to trudge home from Adyar corner, or pay a princely sum for the use of Hanif’s tonga that would be stationed opposite Hotel Coronet. Apart from Eros, which was a pucca structure, the only other theatre in the vicinity was Jayanthi, which was actually a tent. As we couldn’t afford the price of seats from our meagre pocket allowance, we would reluctantly shell out the huge ransom of 20 paise from our savings to sit on the mud floor just in front of the screen, with heads craned and moving from side to side, like spectators in a tennis match, to watch MGR take on Nambiar in a sword fight!

That was the time when Vannanthurai was actually a dhobi ghat and we would cycle precariously through the sandy slopes past the open burning ghat to Elliots beach. Beyond the small kuppam, the beach was covered with casurina trees where you could actually play ‘hide and seek’ and the Ashtalakshmi temple was barely accessible from the road. Besant Nagar simply did not exist, except for the schools and the scout camp. As kids, a couple of us would head for the beach early weekend mornings and ride out to sea with the fishermen on their catamarans, leaving our clothes and our cycles unguarded on the sand without fear of being stolen. A mile or so inside, we would jump out and swim back with the tide. The first few forays were deliriously horrific; the huge swell of the sea would rush past like an express train. For one terrifying moment, we would be at the bottom of the trough with the next big swell towering menacingly like some huge monster with its devouring jaws upon us. And the next moment we would be riding the crest, up, up and away. We are quite willing to swear we could actually see St. Thomas Mount out there in the far distance!

Those were the days of kite flying from our terrace. Manja was mandatory and if my father was in a generous mood, a ‘bana’ kathadi, almost as big as us kids, would be gleefully purchased. We had a thatched shed for the car and during the day, it would serve as space to spread out the thread for the careful application of vajram, ground glass and an indescribable powder guaranteed by the shopkeeper to win any ‘deal’! Perched on high ground, there was no threat to two wheeler riders from the manja, although the solitary incident of a throat injury on Marina beach was talked about for months.

On an odd Sunday afternoon, after solemn affirmations to our parents that all homework was dutifully complete, we would be permitted to take a bus ride to Vivekananda College grounds to watch Kalli deliver his bullets with the red cherry, or the stylish Michael Dalvi notch up an unassuming century in the First Division League. A ten paise worth Rita ice cream stick was an added treat.

Yes, those were the days indeed. But then, like good old Bob Dylan sang, ‘the times they are a-changing’ and I suppose we must change with them too! We have traded simple pleasures for sophisticated comfort, patience for pressure and camaraderie for condescension. A heavy price to pay, perhaps? I suppose it all depends on one’s point of view!

He held her hand

The Tribune , 5th Jan, 2010

Their romance began the day they got married. She had never set her eyes upon him before that and neither had he had a glimpse of her till then. It was that kind of era. You met your life-partner at your wedding and fell in love thereafter. That he held her hand in the car while they drove off was probably a major scandal of the time.

For the next 62 years they were a couple with vastly different personas but with a chemistry that was gentle and sizzling at the same time. They had six children and managed to raise them all with grace and fortitude, despite modest means, for them to become fine citizens of the world. They had their quarrels too and, sometimes, long periods of not talking to each other, but even as a young boy I knew that my grandparents were a really special couple and that they cared for each other no end.

He was tall and handsome; she was tiny but somewhat portly. He was a stickler for punctuality; she was quite laid back. He was intelligence personified; she was a little slow on the uptake at times. He held a postgraduate degree in English; she had attended only a few primary classes at school. He was blessed with a sense of wit; she would laugh heartily at his jokes. At times he would crack some really hi-fi ones which went over her head, but he would also repeat some old jokes for her benefit at which she would be in splits as if she’d heard them for the first time.

They were quite a team! Six children were apparently packed off to school and college every morning without much fuss. In situations that called for a cool head, it would be my grandmother who maintained her poise even if her husband was infuriated at the turn of events.

On their 60th anniversary, they were looking like shy newly weds, ensconced together on their throne like seats. The whole clan was present to greet them. I had discovered that anniversary cards were available only till the golden jubilee. Not too many people needed them beyond that.

As I watched them hold each other’s hands, I realized once more that their love was not the sort that was to be explicitly displayed, but the genteel, graceful sort of love that existed in the eyes, in the smiles, in the holding of hands.

When he left us for ever a couple of years later, she didn’t cry much. She remained silent for long periods though, and it was an effort to get her to talk. Earlier this month, she passed away too, and now whenever I look up at the sky, I know that he has held her hand once again, never to let it go.

The Towering Little Master

Indian Express- Chandigarh Newsline- November 16, 2009

When we were in school, boys of my generation used to dream of playing like the original little master, Sunil Gavaskar. His straight drives, his piles of runs and his record number of tons were so inspiring that we grew up hero-worshipping him and when he retired in 1987 we felt a void in our hearts that we found difficult to fill up.

Two years later, a young boy, all of 16, strode on to the international cricketing stage and took on dreaded Pakistani bowlers like Imran Khan, Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis and Abdul Qadir. The moment his first cover drive thudded into the fence in that Karachi Test, we marvelled at the sheer class of the young man and knew that we were in for a special treat. What we did not know at the time was that we would still be celebrating Sachin Tendulkar’s genius, 20 years later.

Each and every moment that he has spent at the crease in the course of this journey has been a moment of sheer joy for his millions of fans. The sense of collective anguish that engulfs Indian audiences each time the Master has to make his way back to the pavilion is truly unbelievable.

During the recent Australia-India ODI at Mohali, Tendulkar was poised to reach the unheard-of-landmark of 17,000 runs and the scoreboard was following him every inch of the way. When he fell 7 runs short of the milestone, for a well compiled 40, the feeling of despair that overtook the 40,000 crowd was such that some of us started to leave the stadium. This, despite the fact that local hero Yuvraj Singh and Indian skipper, MS Dhoni, were still to bat. A burly policeman was even heard remarking ‘Baba ji is out. What’s the point of watching now?’ Thus does the great champion, ageing just theoretically, manage to hold the crowd like none else even today!

Each innings of his has been chronicled, analysed, and dissected, over and over again, but some of the memories are definitely worth reliving-

1. His maiden Test century, at the age of 17, at Old Trafford in 1990 which converted a sure-loss into a near-win.

2. His 114 at Perth in 1992 on as pacy a pitch as ever seen in Test cricket.

3. His 222 run stand with Mohammed Azharuddin at Cape Town in 1996-97 (Tendulkar made 169 runs with 26 fours), described even by Alan Donald as some of the best batsmanship ever seen in Test cricket.

4. His twin centuries against the shell-shocked Aussies at Sharjah in 1997-98 that gave nightmares to Shane Warne.

5. The heroic but tragic 136 on a minefield of a pitch at Chennai against Pakistan in 1998-99 when India fell short by just 13 runs.

6. 98 brilliant runs in the 2003 World Cup tie against Pakistan when Shoaib Akhtar and company were pulverised by him.

7. His 103 not out at Chennai against England last winter, as India successfully chased an imposing target of 387 on a crumbling wicket.

8. 175 of the most scintillating runs that you’ll ever see, against Ricky Ponting’s outfit at Hyderabad just ten days ago.

The list is endless, as is the man’s reservoir of talent, grit, and determination. Much has been written about the expectation-led- pressure that his shoulders are burdened with, every time he strides to the crease. His humility and his spiritual nature have surely stood him in good stead at such times.

Those booming drives, the delicate flicks and the amazing paddle-sweeps seem to get better every day, and he continues to delight us with newer and newer shots that simply take our breath away. His fitness at the age of 36 is astounding.

If ever India’s youth needed a hero to idolise, Tendulkar has been that hero, with his unparalleled success, his integrity, his graceful demeanour and his never-say-die-spirit.

Is he likely to play the 2011 World Cup and better still, to win it for India? Who knows? Sachin Tendulkar knows no boundaries, no limits.

What we should do is to give up conjecture about his date of retirement, give up analysis and dissection, and just cherish that familiar ecstatic feeling that his batting still generates in us. For when he finally puts his bat away, we shall miss him no end.

Film Review - The Ugly Truth ****




Starring Katherine Heigl, Gerard Butler and Eric Winter

Here’s a film that breezes along at a peppy and witty level to leave you wanting more at the end.

Frothy and bubbly throughout, TUT begins with a flourish and doesn't slacken until the very last scene (which, by the way, is the only let down).

Katherine Heigl (the TV Producer who is a control-freak) and Gerard Butler (the naughty TV Anchor) are in prime form. Their chemistry is sizzling and their performances superb. While Butler goes about his business with effortless aplomb, Heigl is pretty and effervescent while displaying impressive acting skills too. Eric Winter plays the part of the also-ran to perfection.

The jokes are naughty and even crass at times yet the film does not stoop to conquer like many others do nowadays. A few scenes like the one when Butler debuts on Heigl's prime time show really bring the house down.

In short, there's nothing ugly about The Ugly Truth and only the prudes (and the kids) need avoid it!

Film Review - Dil Bole Hadippa ***



Directed by Anurag Singh. Starring Shahid Kapur, Rani Mukherjee, Anupam Kher, Poonam Dhillon and Dalip Tahil.

A feel-good film, Dil Bole Hadippa succeeds in its earnest effort to entertain without stooping low. The performances are superb, especially Rani Mukherjee’s. She essays her roles, that of a village belle and of a wannabe sardar cricketer, with much élan. Shahid Kapur looks more like a star with every film. He plays the tough cricketer, who takes a liking to the desi sardarni, with some verve. Kher and Tahil are their efficient and authentic selves.
The love story is quite simple as is the overall theme. The cricketing episodes are quite believable except for the last-ball all-run four!
The Punjab based scenes are well presented and the Punjabi touch is fun. Mukherjee’s Hindi-Punjabi diction strikes a chord too.
Where the film slips up is in its inability to move from the smooth to the exciting, except when the climax arrives. Overall it lacks some zing. Sherlyn Chopra and Rakhi Sawant are better off in E-grade films than in quality fare like this.
All in all its family-fun and you can take your brains along with you to watch it.

Philanthropy in hard times

Market meltdown, credit freeze, economic Armageddon, financial free fall. It’s an economy so bad that economists have come to sound like English majors as they grope for metaphors to describe its severity and depth. In an economic climate this gloomy, philanthropy has also taken a beating.

As organizations at the centre of the philanthropic community survey their members, there is, as one would expect, clear evidence of a decline in overall giving. All this when even those people who have never asked anyone for help and are still reluctant to seek help, who see it as a matter of pride not to – have come forward to call on help lines. There is a PGI – Philanthropic Giving Index just like the Consumer Confidence Index which tends to overreact to good news and bad news. One thing is for sure – although these are very difficult times for a lot of people, this is not a depression. Most people who say we are in another Great Depression didn’t live through the last one. They are being provocative and unnecessarily restless.

Many ordinary people feel fortunate they still have jobs and they come forward to do even more because they see how hard it is for those who are out of work. It is actually the wealthy individuals who made pledges but then incurred significant losses that find it difficult to honour their commitments. In any economic downturn, arts and culture non-profit organizations are often hit the hardest. In addition to the decline in overall giving, individuals and grant makers tend to redirect their donations towards groups that provide food and shelter and other basic needs. They will shortchange the local music or theatre troupe in favour of the food pantry. These are definitely hard times for artists and arts organizations. There is a shift toward health and hunger that may be understandable, but that does put them in jeopardy.

Actually, the arts are not just ornamental. They are not merely good for our souls and our quality of life. They are a smart investment that fuels economic growth. They contribute significantly toward the economy and account for millions of jobs especially in the rural sector. I believe tax laws should be changed to permit social benefit enterprises to receive tax advantages and growth allowed through capital investment. These “hybrid” companies fulfill the missions of traditional non-profits while operating under a for-profit business structure. This proposal would not only provide help to organizations and people in need – it could stimulate investment and speed the overall economic recovery. Another thing is that in hard times and competition, just like businesses become innovative in attracting their customers, so can NGO’s. It reminds me of the blind boy whose sign was changed by a passerby from “I am blind” to “Today is a beautiful day and I cannot see it.” His hat was full of money at the end of the day. Be creative, be innovative, think differently – that’s the mantra. One can visit the site - http://yes-inspirations.blogspot.com/ for more inspirational stories.

From the perspective of all us who are fortunately donors, positivism in attitude is essential. There are many other ways of beating this downturn than shying away from giving. In fact philanthropy means to give till it hurts. Until it hurts it is not true charity. There is also a whole group of social entrepreneurs out there with a lot of pent-up demand to do things. They believe in a triple bottom line: take care of the community, take care of the environment, and earn a profit. They believe that “you can do well and do good at the same time.” In the words of Henry Ford, “If money is your hope for independence you will never have it. The only real security that a man will have in this world is a reserve of knowledge, experience and ability.” As long as we believe that the system will work and we all do our jobs well and do some good in the process, there is a hope and security which we will never lack. The turnaround is bound to happen with good times for all. But this chance of doing good for those in need now may not come again in our lifetimes.

Forwards in my mailbox!


My mailbox is my private space
When I log on, I open it to see
Who all have been thinking of me?
And who all want to interface?

Has Zoroo’s dog been potty trained?
When is Suparna to Egypt flying?
O what terrible news is this?
Arun’s dad is ill, he’s dying!

I read that my son’s missing home
My aunt tells me her daughter’s visiting Rome
Arvind has a new idea for a table
Vivek has written a brand new fable.

Roopie sends me a ‘middle’ to edit
Sera tell she has more carbon credits
Parul decided to put on some weight
Gupi’ dad’s getting an ornate gate.

Guna’s telling to come for marathon
Avyy’s got a new girl, he’s love lorn
Mansi’s looking for a job desperately
‘Where ARE you?’ writes Guna irately

Aha! Today my box is full of unread mails
5 from Jaya, 8 from Gupi, one from Guna, I see
Manmohan sends me 3 and here Supreet hails
Sesh writes after long and 2 from Gracie.

Everyone’s got lots of news to give
People want to share their lives with me
What all’s been happening in their worlds
I settle before the computer to see.

What’s Manmohan have to say?
He’s talking about the benefits of a BANANA?
Then he recommends that I do
20 Surya Namaskaars in a day!

Gupi’s sent a dancing chameleon
Pics of dogs dressed in party suits
And then he’s also sent to me
Amazing bridges built of roots.

Roopie’s decided to be academic
He’s sent an article from Guardian
Very educative, I must confess
About the origins of the Accordion

Sesh sent some funny visuals
I laughed at 3, smiled at the next 6
Read through the next 10, and was replete
(Sorry Sesh, now I’m pressing ‘DELETE’)

‘The Positive Approach’ tells Sumit
‘What is Love?’ educated Jaya
‘Animals in Funny Situations’ bleats Baljeet
‘There’s always a Better Way’ propounds Vijaya

Did I want to know about ‘Waste art’?
Never mind, I do now
Do I need ‘Lessons from Life’?
Sure, while I download ‘The Laughing Cow’

Can someone tell me how they’re doing?
Give updates on their life, their job, their health?
Whom they are wooing, what they are ruing?
Have they added to experience, to family, to wealth?

I tell you guys, I’m DONE with forwards
Mail ONLY when you have something to say
Else I’ll send you forwards that’ll bring bad luck
If you don’t forward a thousand TODAY!!!

Massage Networking

When the dreaded early morning bell wakes me up on Mondays, I groan and moan like no man has ever groaned and moaned. The massage man is never late, and he’s never absent. To my sheer chagrin, he turns up week after week and even gives me a mild chiding for looking sleepy and reluctant when I let him in.

His mastery over his age-old craft is such, however, that once he gets to work, one feels rejuvenated with every passing minute and forgets all negativities that had earlier clouded the mind. He goes about his business, pushing, pulling, slapping and knocking me all over the place, with the result that almost every component of the body is woken up and beaten up in no uncertain terms.

If that had been all, life would have been quite simple. But that is not all. There is much more to the massage man.

His ability to double up as a barber is one factor. He insists on giving one a haircut every month. And then he tells one in graphic detail about how he undertakes about 50 such haircutting operations under his tree every day, apart from attending to a dozen home calls.

Many bureaucrats would balk at the idea of getting a haircut from an under-the-tree-barber. Not so the members of the large sarkari network that our man has established over the years. Legend has it, in fact, that our masseur-cum-barber makes his clientele look much better than any glossy and expensive parlour could ever manage.

The real excitement lies, however, in our hero’s ability to handle this huge client network with aplomb, and even to mend strained relationships that sometimes develop between officers. Never has a harsh word escaped his lips, for anyone. He regularly quotes one Sahib ji to another and proclaims to the client at hand that the other Sahib ji has always been full of praise for him.

In fact one often fails to keep track of which particular Sahib ji he is on about, since it is not easy to be on the alert while feeling relaxed during a massage!

At times he takes a break from the action, calls up one of his favourite Sahib jis, and hands the phone to the poor Sahib ji at hand before he can resist, thereby breaking the ice between the concerned officers in no uncertain terms.

Once, in fact, while I was literally on the mat, a Minister ‘Sahib ji’ called him up and asked why he had not turned up that morning. Innocent as he is, he proclaimed to the senior political figure that he was occupied at that time with lowly me, and therefore would be late for the Minister “Sahib ji’s’ appointment. I felt worried about the Minister’s ire but fortunately both of us escaped any admonition, only due to the P.R skills of my expert service provider.

He could easily have been a top Sahib ji himself, such are his qualities of head and heart. In a way, he is the top boss even now, for he literally floors quite a few Sahib jis every week!

OUTSTANDING BOLT

Usain Bolt has not only re-defined the rules when it comes to competing at the highest levels in any sport, he has managed to actually achieve the kinds of results that were hitherto not even dreamt of.

In winning short sprints at the apex level by margins that could be considered as ‘miles’, and by coasting to victory in an almost cavalier devil-may-care style in race after race, he has infused the kind of excitement among sports lovers that only a Mohammed Ali, a Don Bradman, a Michael Phelps, a Tiger Woods, a Diego Maradona or a Bjorn Borg had managed to do before him.

Already, he speaks of wanting to become a legend, ‘and nothing else’! In fact, in many ways, his feats are even more astonishing than those of the glitterati mentioned above. He has taken just a few months to beat world records by margins that earlier took many decades to shave off. The World record in the 100 meters dash, stood at 9.95 seconds in 1968 and went down to 9.85 seconds only in 1994 whereas Bolt improved his own World record from 9.69 to 9.58 in a matter of exactly one year!

The skeptics would have waited for him to falter somehow or somewhere, a la Ben Johnson perhaps, but no such eventuality appears possible with Usain Bolt. He appears to love running more than anything else on the earth and it shows in the manner in which he raises his effort levels on the really big stage, like the Olympics or the World Championships. His humble origins and meteoric rise to the top of the world are already the stuff that legends are made of.

His accident a few weeks prior to the World Championship would have led many an athlete to withdraw from such a major event, (as top sportspersons across the world tend to do nowadays, at the slightest hint of injury!) but Bolt not only competed, he shone like a beacon and annexed all three titles, with two of them coming in World Record timings.

Michael Johnson, the former 200 metres great, had been quoted before the finals at Berlin last week, as having said that it may take years to beat the World Record in that distance by as huge a margin as Bolt had managed in the 100 metres sprint days earlier. He must have gaped even more than we did at the sheer horse power of Bolt, as he raced round the bend with amazing alacrity, while shattering the record so comprehensively!

Exactly what Bolt’s dazzling achievements would have done to inspire budding sports persons throughout the globe can only be a matter of conjecture at this stage. Suffice it to say that not only sportspersons but people from all walks of life would take heart from the performances of Mr Bolt, for he has proved inexorably, that there is no substitute for sheer grit and hard work if one wishes to reach the pinnacle. A little bit of talent and skill come in handy too!

FILM REVIEW - Love Aaj Kal *** & ½



Directed by: Imtiaz Ali
Star Cast: Saif Ali Khan, Deepika Padukone, Giselle Monteiro, Rishi Kapoor, Rahul Khanna, Neetu Singh, Vir Das, Raj Zutshi


Some films are meant to be enjoyed without being dissected by a reviewer. Jab We Met was one such film and Imtiaz Ali has almost done an encore with Love Aaj Kal. Though not as comical in its treatment as JWM the latest Ali offering touches the right chord too. There is a freshness about LAK that brings a certain amount of joy. The scenes depicting an era gone by and love without conversation are contrasted superbly with the touchy-feely love of aaj-kal. Saif has improved with each film and here he displays a level of versatility that few actors have managed of late. His portrayal of a depressed loner in San Fransisco, as he pines for his lost love, is touching. Deepika acts better than she had been able to in her previous films. Playing a restorer of archeological monuments suits her well! Brazilian model Giselle Monteiro looks unbelievably authentic as the demure Sikh girl. Rishi Kapoor is on song but Rahul Khanna is wasted. What the film lacks is real substance in the first half and also a well-rounded ending. All in all, sensible and well directed, LAK is one of the year's best...

This couldn’t have been elementary, Mr Watson!



Tom Watson walked into the venue of the Press Conference after having ended up second at the British Open Golf Championship at Turnberry, at the ripe old age of 59, and immediately sensing the mood, stated loud and clear, “Ok, this ain’t a funeral you know”.

According to onlookers, one look at the eyes of all those present would have confirmed that Watson was way off the mark. Not one of those eyes was dry!
In fact he was earlier just a few inches off the mark with his final putt, but in being so, he squandered a chance of winning a 9th Major Golf Championship , 32 years after he had won his first! Having led the field with a resolute, gritty, remarkable and truly astonishing performance for three days, Tom Watson had finally succumbed, at the very last post.

An epoch-making, record-shattering, awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping feat was thus nipped in the bud. But Watson had already achieved the impossible by coming so very close to lifting the Claret Jug, the traditional Open trophy, at his age. Superhuman as his feat was, Watson showed no emotion in defeat and stoically faced the barrage of questions from the world media. One correspondent wrote later that the whole planet had wanted Watson to win, except Stewart Cink, his caddie and his close relatives!
Why, even Cink said afterwards that he had mixed feelings even though he had played clinically to win the 4 hole play off! Cink, himself a fan of the great man, knew that it was he who stood between Watson and history, for no man older than 46 had ever won a major Golf Championship.

Jack Nicklaus who was that age when he last won the Masters, must have felt like a spring chicken at that time in comparison to the creaky boned Watson of 2009 who would be too old to be eligible to compete in the Pro category by next year!
The fierce desire to win and the never-say-die-spirit that all true champions possess were obviously still stored in sizeable quantity somewhere inside Watson’s heart. To that heady mix, he added a certain amount of strength, stamina and skill at the Open.

He said to reporters later that he wanted his peers to talk about him as “one hell of a golfer!” Tom Watson need not worry on that account.
The 2009 British Open held at Turnberry, Ayrshire, Scotland, shall not be remembered for Stewart Cink’s maiden victory in a Major. It shall be remembered for Tom Watson’s conquest of sports lovers’ hearts, across the world. Take a bow, Mr Watson!

vivek.atray@gmail.com

Nautch Girls of the Raj

*Still, to the cadence of the sprightly air,*

*Her supple limbs and waving head she plies;*

*Now, drooping forward, bows with modest care;*

*Now, backward bending, flash her beaming eyes;*

*And, midway, now her form is seen to rise, till, once more, standing, she
resumes the dance.*

*And many a varied attitude she tries.*

This piece of poetry is but one paean to the nautch girl. Pran Nevile’s *Nautch
Girls of the Raj* has been published by Penguin Books, India, and in the
book, we find many such snatches of poetry that are charming but more
importantly, tell us how fundamental the nautch girl used to be to
entertainment and even the functions of daily life.

The nautch girl did not just entertain but served a purpose that changed
down the ages. Still, somehow, historians and the scribes of yore have not
done justice to this talented tribe, so germane to the culture and history
of India and said to be in existence since the times when the gods roamed
the earth.

Music and dance is a fundamental part of our cultural heritage, proved even
today by the fact that the average Indian cannot watch a film without it
having plenty of dances and music to entertain him.

Pran Nevile decided to “study the aesthetic pursuits and achievements of the
dancing girls through the ages.” He sought to discover why and how “this
icon of the performing arts was banished from the performing arts by the end
of the nineteenth century”.

Nevile, who has written extensively on the days of the Raj, and also on
Indian art and culture, found himself fascinated by the role of the “public
woman” who he says was an integral part of the Indian society. He traces the
mention of these ladies to the Puranas that highlight their auspicious
presence as a symbol of good luck. Nevile points out how music and dance
were divine gifts to human beings. In fact, Lord Brahma commissioned Sage
Bharata to compile the Natya Shastra, the sacred exposition on dance and
music.

The Apsaras, created by Brahma himself, were the forerunners amongst the
nautch girls. Urvashi, the most beautiful, was born on earth to impart
knowledge of the dance to the Devdasis, or the temple dancers. In the
Mauryan era, the temple dancers became equally a part of the royal life and
thus more temporal in nature. In the Mughal era, the Devdasi tradition
languished in north India, but the Mughals brought Persian dancing girls to
India. The fusion of the two styles gave birth to the glorious Kathak. In
the South, the Devdasis fell into poverty and had to seek the patronage of
the British Sahibs, who were enthralled by them.

Nevile has actually tabulated not just the rise and fall of the nautch girls
but also their significance in the social milieu. Looked up to for their
beauty and talent, these ladies had a ready wit and poetic disposition. They
were often used to install manners and mores of civilization in the boys of
leading aristocratic families. In the time of the British Raj, nautch
parties were an accepted part of the social scene, even attended by the
memsahibs.

Nevile also writes about some of the celebrated nautch girls, giving
charming details, and wherever possible, a short biography. We thus come
across Nicki, ‘easily the most celebrated nautch girl of Calcutta’ in the
early 19th centaury, Begum Jahan, ‘a tall and charming figure, Hingum, with
the sonorous voice and Mehtab, the celebrated nautch girl from Sind.

It was later in the 19th centaury, when there was a rise of a new petit
bourgeoisie class in India that, influenced by the British missionary ideal
of morality, denounced the nautch girls and dealt them with the death knell.
The rise and fall is thus clearly chronicled.

The book is replete with pieces of poetry written in praise of the nautch
girls that are delightful to read. In addition, the book offers a
smorgasbord of reproductions and drawings obtained from collections all over
the world that makes it extremely visually appealing. Surely, Nevile is the
scribe of the ladies of the dance and through the use of prose, poetry and
pictures, brings alive the life of these beautiful women!

Film Review - Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince ***



Cast: Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson, Richard Griffiths, Helena Bonham Carter, Julie Walters, Alan Rickman
Directed By: David Yates


Harry Potter has lost some of his fizz and much of his verve by the time his 6th film has been unveiled. His somewhat grown up demeanour, his interest in comely lasses, and his complete lack of punch in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince make his adventures in this film less captivating to watch and much less thrilling to behold. There are just a couple of edge-of-the seat moments in Half Blood Prince as opposed to a-thrill-a-minute in earlier films of Potter like The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Order of the Phoenix.

The whole film, in fact, seems much more ‘normal’ than did his early ones, which had left viewers simply gasping with the pace of the action and the thrills on display. Harry’s normally redoubtable friends Ron and Hermione are smitten by the mushy stuff even more than is Potter. We are thus forced to watch scenes that were hitherto unheard of in a Harry Potter film, with much time wasted on love potions and ‘snogging’! The ending too is very timid for a Potter film.

The acting, however, is as superb as always, and Michael Gambon as Professor Dumbledore delights in a meatier role. The film does have its high points, especially when Harry ends up with the book on potions used earlier by the Half Blood Prince himself and when Dumbledore defies all odds to bring Potter and himself back to safety.

Potter fans cannot afford to miss any of his films, but the Half Blood Prince is only half as good as the others!

Mango Mania

Mirza Ghalib’s views on those who do not relish mangoes are so well known that there is not much to be gained from reproducing them here, except perhaps the annoyance of that miniscule minority that is not afflicted by Mango Mania. Suffice it to say that come summer, most of us are compelled by a strong urge to dig into basket loads of the delicacy at every possible opportunity. This universal craze for the king of fruits has translated into a variety of incidents that I have been witness to over the years.

My mother would regale family and friends with tales of how I as a toddler who could barely walk often used to be found under the dining table having finished off an entire Dusshehri with the ‘guthli’ quite miraculously still inside the peel. Not much has changed today, and I still love Dusshehris, but I’m even crazier about Chausas and I simply go mad when I spot a Langra, especially if it is just the right colour.

Having thus devoured thousands of mangoes over the years I have always professed myself to be a blue-blooded expert on the subject. It is not often that I can be outsmarted when it comes to recognizing the correct breed or selecting just the right piece from the fruit seller’s pile. Perhaps part of my training came from hearing endless debates between my late parents on their favourite variety. My mother was always a Langra fan but my father always insisted that the Dusshehri was not at all an ‘aam’ it was ‘khaas’! My father also used to speak of the time when as a University student he and his friends would consume five kilos of mangoes, each!

Then there are those who have no idea about the intricacies of the subject and simply concentrate on polishing off as many pieces as possible as soon as they are unveiled. My wife is one of them. She used to insist before we got married, that the best mangoes are the little ones which have no name but which simply are termed as “Chupne Vaale Aam’. Once she became a part of our family her general awareness on the subject increased rapidly and today she is almost as clued up about these divine delights as I am.

Some mango lovers complain that the fruit makes them put on weight, that it soils their clothes and that it causes pimples and stomach upsets and thus they end up actually denying themselves. Others simply swoop upon pile after pile during the season and worry about cosmetic matters and fitness issues after it is over. Somehow a carefree attitude becomes a true mango fan. What after all is the point of living a life if it is to be lived sans mangoes?

Film Review - New York ***


Directed by: Kabir Khan
Cast: John Abraham, Katrina Kaif, Neil Mukesh

‘New York’ is a film that holds one’s interest from beginning till end, but turns out to be a bit too stark for a Bollywood entertainer. Kabir Khan displays shades of brilliance in his direction, as he had done earlier with Kabul Express.
John Abraham has matured into an actor who knows his style, is comfortable with it, and goes about playing one role after another with utmost ease. In ‘New York’ he transforms himself effortlessly from the family man to the ruthless terrorist. Katrina Kaif has a worried look on her face for the most part, and appears convincing too.
Irffan Khan looks as is he has been an Indian born FBI agent all his life. At no stage does he appear to be enacting a role in a film, so perfect is his portrayal.
The surprise package is Neil Nitin Mukesh, who brings in a certain amount of effervescence to a film that is essentially a serious take on the aftermath of 9/11. He even sings a line from an old song of his legendary grand father’s collection. Neil not only looks the part on the big stage but also shows signs here of becoming a force to reckon with in Hindi films in the years to come.
New York is as authentic and realistic as a Bollywood film can be without being labled as an “Art film”. The humour is sparse and the fun is almost missing, but coming as it does after a huge void in the calendar of film releases, it is drawing in the audiences in large numbers.

Wedding Season Blues

Thank God the wedding season is some way off! Except for a sprinkling of wedding invitations that dot the calendar, there aren’t as many evenings at this time of year when one has to don formal gear, prepare an envelope with the mandatory shagun inside it, and to take a quick look at the route map. Seasons of weddings bring in a lot of harassment to us hapless attendees. Artificial smiles, upset stomachs and parking woes that are part and parcel of such occasions, mean that a wedding-goers lot is not easy. Especially if one is careless!

Consider the perils one can be subjected to, especially if due care is not taken while reading the invitation. On occasion my wife and I have landed up at the venue of a wedding late in the evening when the party had actually been earlier in the day, over lunch, and were forced to make a hasty retreat. Worse, we once landed up on the wrong date, a full 24 hours late! A quick call home and a directive to our elder daughter to read out the wedding invitation carefully divulged the horrifying detail to us on the last mentioned occasion. My wife was of course quick to blame me, and I had to pacify her by taking her to a newly opened restaurant for dinner!

Another potential hazard is to have to attend multiple weddings on the same evening. On such days, one usually ends up slipping in and out of wedding pandals, while in the interim quickly greeting the host, exchanging cold handshakes and plastic smiles, munching at a few tidbits and ultimately driving home to eat some sandwiches!

Alternatively, I’ve learnt to eat at home and fill my tummy before going to a wedding. That’s the only way to resist the lure of temptresses like panir-taka-tak and methi-malai-kofta. If you’re a vegetarian, that is. Else there would be even more deadly temptations to combat. Another invaluable lesson learnt is that the man of the house should start getting dressed for the occasion only when his wife announces, after many hours, that she’s ‘almost ready’ for the evening! A third important nugget is to expect the Baraat to be at least two hours late, and to arrive at about 10 pm, especially if you’re on the boy’s family’s list of invitees. And the most important one is of course to read the wedding invitation very carefully!

All my experience came to naught, however, when I went to a ‘wedding’ recently and found that I had duly arrived on the correct date, at a fashionably late time and at the right venue. The only problem was that my envelope containing the shagun proved to be a white elephant, as the invitation turned out to be for a farewell party!

My best wishes to all those who plan to get married in the coming months. I just hope that they don’t send me an invitation!

Wedding Season Blues

Thank God the wedding season is some way off! Except for a sprinkling of wedding invitations that dot the calendar, there aren’t as many evenings at this time of year when one has to don formal gear, prepare an envelope with the mandatory shagun inside it, and to take a quick look at the route map. Seasons of weddings bring in a lot of harassment to us hapless attendees. Artificial smiles, upset stomachs and parking woes that are part and parcel of such occasions, mean that a wedding-goers lot is not easy. Especially if one is careless!

Consider the perils one can be subjected to, especially if due care is not taken while reading the invitation. On occasion my wife and I have landed up at the venue of a wedding late in the evening when the party had actually been earlier in the day, over lunch, and were forced to make a hasty retreat. Worse, we once landed up on the wrong date, a full 24 hours late! A quick call home and a directive to our elder daughter to read out the wedding invitation carefully divulged the horrifying detail to us on the last mentioned occasion. My wife was of course quick to blame me, and I had to pacify her by taking her to a newly opened restaurant for dinner!

Another potential hazard is to have to attend multiple weddings on the same evening. On such days, one usually ends up slipping in and out of wedding pandals, while in the interim quickly greeting the host, exchanging cold handshakes and plastic smiles, munching at a few tidbits and ultimately driving home to eat some sandwiches!

Alternatively, I’ve learnt to eat at home and fill my tummy before going to a wedding. That’s the only way to resist the lure of temptresses like panir-taka-tak and methi-malai-kofta. If you’re a vegetarian, that is. Else there would be even more deadly temptations to combat. Another invaluable lesson learnt is that the man of the house should start getting dressed for the occasion only when his wife announces, after many hours, that she’s ‘almost ready’ for the evening! A third important nugget is to expect the Baraat to be at least two hours late, and to arrive at about 10 pm, especially if you’re on the boy’s family’s list of invitees. And the most important one is of course to read the wedding invitation very carefully!

All my experience came to naught, however, when I went to a ‘wedding’ recently and found that I had duly arrived on the correct date, at a fashionably late time and at the right venue. The only problem was that my envelope containing the shagun proved to be a white elephant, as the invitation turned out to be for a farewell party!

My best wishes to all those who plan to get married in the coming months. I just hope that they don’t send me an invitation!

He says

He says,
speak of…
…the yellow butterfly and the freshly spotted purple,
…the Golden Shower tree, pregnant with a windy May,
…the road that loses its feet to the mountain peak,
…and that wretched shack with its shocking momos,
…the fog that hugged us that day,
…and the blackbirds that eavesdropped.


He says,
speak of
…that song that rose from black & white
and brush-swept our willing faces;
…the two children we stole from our family albums,
and wore their faces and hopped all day.
…and that quiet walk by the highway,
and the snake swimming in the lake.


He says,
speak of,
...dreams and wishes and songs that came true

He says,
speak of
the miracles
when you were me and I were you.


But then…
miracles are for keeping,
so utterly ahead of speaking.

By the fire

By the fire
lives a dream
baking, burning,
and becoming.
By the ice
lives a body
dying, dying
destroying.
Between the two live us
You and I
I and You
burning and freezing and burning again
and life breathes on...
between the poles

A river runs through me

A river runs through me
one thin sheet of glass,
and if I turn rock
at my edges and bends
it cuts away at corners...
gnashing at me
wounding
bleeding me
and
flings me away
into times lost.

A river runs through me
and I am just about learning to wear it
in a perfect fit.

Love is the only way

I am in prison.
I can move my fingers but this deep valley in my palm is a mesh of wires gone rusty. Clearly, the lines in my palm are distressed, they say.
My eyes can roll and jump left and hop right but I can’t bat their lids. And the eyes that can’t bat their lids forget many things. Like shedding tears. Because they never know. Because they never feel the pain or ecstasy enough to shut under the lids and stamp the moment.
My arms can move and move well to coil themselves around the world, and feel One that the Masters talk about. But my shoulders ache under a cold mountain. A cold cold mountain that lost its river to a landslide. The river is Me. The mountain is You.
I, inside me, have a fresh new pair of wings, especially after some pilgrimages… but its feet are tied with your wrist and I can’t simply leave ground because the sky is calling….
I am in prison… Loosen the tangles. Give me birth. Only you can release me. Only You.

Nimbu pani

"There is hardly any *nimbu*, some sugar and a lot of water in Sukhia’s Nimbu Pani, but we all love it,” said a fellow student as he introduced me to the most famous dhaba at St Stephen’s and its legendary owner, ably assisted by his son, Rohtas.


The kiosk that housed the *dhaba *was ironically a Coca Cola tin shed, but what far outsold the imported aerated drink was the home-made concoction that surely goes back to time immemorial, with local and other variations that have been passed with pride from one generation to another. The dhaba was situated next to the cafe, woe to anyone who called it a canteen. A place that served scrambled eggs and mince was special, not like other eating joints in the campus and beyond.



The Dhaba is where students hang out. As I saw a luscious nimbu filling up the TV screen during a commercial break, I remembered those hot days when we went to Rohtas to get a nimbu pani, and a glass, at times two, were enough to beat the summer heat and cool us down. Sometimes, we would ask for a bun-samosa as a special treat.



Rohtas would use an enormous cauldron, that the uninitiated thought was an aluminium patila, to stir the concoction, and a wooden squeeze would make short shrift of dozens of fresh nimbus and squeeze the last citrus drop of lime.



The late General Zia-ul-Haq liked to flaunt his connection with St Stephens. He had studied in the college but had not passed out of college, an excuse seized by many Stephanians to explain away his dictatorial behaviour—he had not spent enough time in the college to imbibe the true values that St. Stephens stands for. Whatever little hope the good General had of being recognised as a Stephanian was dashed to the ground by Sukhia. Asked if he had any recollection of the young Zia-ul-Haq, Sukhia said: “No. He did not have any account with me”.


All of us philosophy students who routinely hung around at the dhaba while waiting for our 3 pm Philo Soc meetings every Friday totally appreciated the neat way in which Descartes’ *Cogito ergo sum *(I think, therefore I am) was mutated by Sukhia into: “He had no account, therefore he did not exist”.


Zia, ever the master PR person, sent a basket of mangoes for Sukhia. Lately we have been inundated with TV advertisements of a bottled mango flavour that is supposed to be sexy and sweet, and the new drink Nimbooz, which uses the fruit and the squeeze brilliantly contrasted against the azure sky. It made a pretty picture, but for us who have been brought up on the real thing, these bottled drinks are not even poor substitutes, merely well-packaged pretenders.

Blog on, blokes!

“Yes we can,” seems to be the new mantra with Indian politicians. What works in the good ole US of A should also work in India, be it slogans or blogging. Age no bar, blog karo bar bar, is the new mantra.

Manpreet Badal is among a handful of politicians who knows what “cloud computing” means. He should be on cloud nine as his blog has evoked a tremendous response.

A recent article published in this paper has brought the blog into limelight, as Manpreet himself acknowledges. This foray into cyber space by Punjab’s well-educated Finance Minister gives us a chance to see various facets of this otherwise reclusive person since the blog has pictures and some personal comments.

Looks like Manpreet is not averse to criticism, some adverse remarks and digs at him are allowed through the “moderation” that every comment has to go through before being approved for posting.

Manpreet is being prudent since the lack of moderation in comments drove away a fellow political leader and blogger, Omar Abdullah. When I clicked on the link to see the youngest CM’s blog, I read: “This domain name expired,” Internet-speak to say that the time-period of the site’s booking has finished.

Well, Omar has “administrative rights” to another “domain” now, a real one called Kashmir and he will no doubt like to block off his blogging experience since he faced such nastiness from spammers and hatemongers that he signed off the blog with a mail that said: “We truly are a bunch of intolerant people. We want to be heard but do not have the strength to hear; we want to have an opinion but do not believe anyone else is entitled to one.” True enough.

Now, I know some people associate intolerance with the Prime Ministerial aspirant L K Advani, but his website and blog is a fine example of shining India in cyberspace. “I was looking for a recipe for a salad, and I found a link for Advani’s site,” said Jaspreet, my significant other, amused and exasperated in equal measure. She is a focused person and resisted the temptation of clicking on the advertisement pointing to the Iron Man’s website and the result was a sumptuous dinner for the family.

Call it professional inquisitiveness, but I could not do the same. I visited the blog and found that Advani’s crew has been working overtime… a massive advertisement blitz to draw in visitors and a neat job of packaging the PM-in-waiting, along with seemingly personal touches expected in a blog.

All would be great, except for the fact that it is soon apparent that Advani’s blog is not by him, it is for him. Blogs are fundamentally fora of personal expressions, personally expressed…but then that’s too much to expect from political figures, isn’t it? Blog on, blokes, we have eternal hope that our politicians will be more honest and transparent, at least in cyberspace.

A hero will lead us

It is a torrid and sweaty summer night in Chennai as it usually is in the last week of April and I am watching the IPL like many of you probably are. Rajasthan Royals are playing KXIP. There is one man who, despite a now bulky and rather overweight figure, stands tall among the rest. A rare character with infectious enthusiasm, with an attitude where encouragement rules over criticism and above all, a bowler who simply never ceases to astound. I am sitting in front of the screen with a silly but beatific smile transfixed to my countenance as Shane Warne bowls. Misdemeanours be damned; he is my hero!


And that, dear reader, should say it all!

The Great Intruder

In a world that has been invaded by modern gadgets, the mobile phone may not be the most complicated one on view, but it is surely the most intrusive. Handy for sure, even life-saving at times, and excellent at never letting one feel alone, the cell phone is truly a symbol of our ‘connected’ times. Gone are the days when we used to search for a friend at a railway station, or used to wonder when a loved one would return home.

This feeling of being available 24/7 is unsettling, however, for many of us. Those moments of “doing nothing” are gone, for one tends to text-message a friend instead of staring into the sky, as one used to. This disease of being compelled to fiddle with one’s hand-set has certainly put paid to those peaceful times.

There are those who are very adept at using the little devil, and pride themselves in being able to utilize every feature it has to offer. A friend of mine falls into this category. Every time one meets him, he has a new piece, and does not fail to enlighten me about the exciting new capabilities that it has to offer. It enables its proud owner to email, organize, calculate, remind, play music, play games, and take pictures, store files, and record videos. I have no doubt that this he takes it to bed and to his bath. His wife is obviously unhappy at such unwarranted competition.

Some others are more wary of these meddlers. They switch them off whenever they can (if they know how to). So potent is the little intruder, that it can start making all kinds of noises at the most unlikely of times. At conferences where silence is of the essence, one invariably hears “Jhalak Dikhla Ja” in full earshot of all concerned, leading to many a glare and a wince, depending on whether one happens to be the offended or the offender. At one such event one even heard the compere asking all present to check whether their neighbours’ phones were switched off, leading to many a mini-argument in the hall, before the compere hastily withdrew her directive.
What took the cake however was the total cacophony on a recent train journey. There were two worthies who were intent on outdoing each other in the loudness with which they spoke into their hand-phones. One was on about his wife, and was complaining to his friend endlessly about her lack of attention to his welfare.

The other was the fiery sort, and was intent upon scaring the wits out of his subordinates. His use of profanities became so profound that one or two courageous types actually requested him to lower his voice. That was the last straw for our loud-mouthed friend who was already on a short fuse. He turned his attention to the interfering parties in no uncertain terms. It took the entire set of passengers in the coach 30 minutes to subdue him!

My wife is the only person I have come across who is unruffled by any disturbance resulting from any mobile. She keeps her own set either switched off, or in silent mode, and never responds to calls from anyone! She claims that her phone is only to be used for her to call whomever she has to. Such bliss!

Shoe-shoe, shoo shoo

Throwing shoes has become the latest fad, thanks to one Iraqi journalist. If only the poor guy had patented it, he might well have been on his way to being a millionaire. But what classification would the patent be under? Intellectual Property Rights? Still, he seems to have started something of a fancy, with the targets being our illustrious Home Minister and the Chinese Premier, among others. However, all the shoe casting having missed the targets, I see some commercial possibility in starting a ‘school for shoe throwing’. My experience and expertise in cricket, I am sure, will hold me in good stead. Good balance, right grip, a steady arm, a quick draw backwards and a sweet follow through… these are the basic elements of a good shoe throwing training programme. Who knows? Maybe it will culminate in an international shoe throwing tournament, with expert teams. In fact, “The Chennai Chappal Chukkers” may very well compete with the “Boston Boot Bangers”, or the
“Hamburg Heel Heavers” might play the “Singapore Sneaker Shovers”!!! Media sponsors could see big name participants from shoe manufacturers specifying whose shoes would be: 1. more accurate, 2. easier to throw 3. last longer, 4. cost less. Anchors like Mandira Bedi could wear and display shoes that could be used as potential missiles. There is simply no end to the possibilities.

An ode to Beer!!

By Aradhika Sharma
I’m tired, I’m mad, I’m ready to quit!
I’m, down and out; with fatigue I’ve been hit!
Stuck in traffic for hours, in a procession
Ain’t getting a raise because of recession!!

Wife’s PMSing, the grind 'n shake is out anyhow
Mother-in-law is visiting…that ghastly ol' cow!
Our servant’s dad died AGAIN and he’s catching a train
So I’m to help with the household chores, to add to my pain!

My daughter’s new boyfriend has a purple ponytail
And orange nail polish on his pinki’s long nail
But you know, I still prefer him any day
To my son who has publicly announced that he’s gay!

Right now, you know, my life ain’t worth a dime
It’s like a drink of gin, without bitters or lime
Thinking these thoughts, I’m down in the dumps
O did I mention, my gay son has mumps?

In my depression, towards the fridge I do stumble,
“Gimme the opener, gimme a glass”, I mumble
I open the freezer, the torture life inflicts is sheer
And in my melancholy haze, I reach for a beer!

I take that first sip, then a glug then two three and four
My body, my mind scream ‘give us more, more MORE’
Obediently, I acquiesce, I respond to their call
And suddenly I find myself standing strong and tall!

What a taste divine, all drinking souls must agree
Did someone say all the best things in life are free?
Obviously, that poor sod never tasted barley water
Else, on it he would have spent his last dime and quarter!

Beer, I insist, has many advantages and gains
It’ll rid you of mental strains and bodily pains
Doesn’t matter if the wife has PMS and spasms,
We beer drinkers know, it makes up for lost orgasms!

Did anyone see a colour more lovely ‘n molten
Like a field of wheat, ripened and golden?
It’s a way to Nirvana, a pious upliftment,
I’m getting another bottle for spiritual fulfillment!

The day has turned bright and beautiful and cool
I love the traffic, I love the purple ponytailed fool
I might as well gather my rosebuds while I may,
At least my son’s not unhappy, in fact, he’s GAY!!!

Rukh


A translation of the Punjabi poem by Late Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Some trees seem to me like my mother
And some like my sons
Some look like my daughters
And some like my brothers and sisters
Some seem like my father
With leaves sparse, here and there
Some trees look like my grandmother
Feeding her bread to the birds
Some of them look just like my friends
Whom I would go hug and kiss
Only one of them looks quite like my love
Sweet and tender yet full of pain
Some trees falling, I feel like
Resurrecting them with my shoulder
And some so pretty...I could
Kiss them and die!
Some trees, when they sway together
To the winds a blowing
The sweet language of all the trees
I wish I could put into my words.
Sometimes I do dream
Of coming in this world as a tree
Come, if you want to hear my song
While singing amongst my fellow trees.
Should I say...all trees are like my mother?
They give me shade, yet not as much as she.
Arvind Krishna

The Question Mark waits to sliver

When
you sleep,
and walk tunnels of sleeplessness;

When
you talk
and the words splinter away like orphans;

When
you look into the mirror and
meet an undisclosed island from lost memory;

When
a smile rolls on your lips and
a scream begins to scratch the walls of your gut;

When you say a ‘hello’ and ‘am doing fine’,
and blood goes sour
and drips into your tongue;

When in the fever of your morning rush
you freeze in the kitchen…
like a blackening, blackening shadow,
silent, so screaming….

When,
the whole of TV is stirred and spent
and the whole of the day is slugged out and smoked,
when all the clothes are washed and dried,
and all the meal is sobered and swallowed,
When all the bills are panicked over and paid
and all the shopping is stuffed into our walls,
and all the medicines bought and beaten,
and all the diseases cut and cured,

When all of life is worn and worn out,
and all of us are masked and hidden…
…It still finds us,
Like that germ of the air…

It always nooses over,
The Question….

How tweet it is

Suddenly the Twitter ‘bitters’ or bashers seem to have disappeared and a wave of goodwill and seriousness has come around Twitter. This doesn’t mean that you have to like Twitter, or even feel guilty about pining for an earlier, simpler, pre-Twitter world. It simply means that anyone who ignores the vast socioeconomic impact that Twitter is already having around the world risks going the way of the luddites.

The skepticism or contempt of new technologies often occurs because the ultimate applications to which the devices are put are not apparent when they are introduced. Only when the real social benefits of a new technology manifest themselves do people stop being bitter. Something of the sort seems to be happening with Twitter. Initially, those in the know dismissed it as a juvenile, intrusive, preposterously inconsequential technology that made modern life even more atomized and annoying. This is not to say that oft-heard criticisms of Twitter are baseless. Without question, at least in its most common applications, the innovation seems to heighten the epidemic of frivolity and an almost pathological need to share which clearly does not need to be shared.

But is electronically mandated terseness necessarily bad? What is wrong with inciting people to resist bloviating on with some tired spiel that everyone has heard a million times before? In this sense, Twitter is the ultimate anti running your chatter-box device. Much against critics that it limits meaningful information in content, it cuts through the heart of the matter. In fact, one of the things that make Twitter so interesting - and a threat to social networking systems like Facebook – is that it cuts through all the malarkey that afflicts the more sophisticated networking sites. Stocks with suspect earnings are hammered because of information bits that first surface on twitter. News of political corruption and scandals spread like wild fire on Twitter. Twitter is also tremendously useful in directing tweeters and Twitterers to informative web sites, where the original tweet is amplified and explained.

But what about the flak that it encourages tweeters to share even the most trivial thought that passes through their tiny little heads? The Twitter pages of movie stars or sports celebrities tell you that there is precious little that is being tweeted for them my minions and flunkies and publicists that anyone in the real world needs to know. Counter to that is the argument that when Twitter is embraced by authors, philosophers, deep thinkers and luminaries, it will prove itself immensely useful in disseminating powerful and original thoughts and ideas. The 140-character limit can encompass lofty thoughts, clever apercus and blindingly illuminating kernels of wisdom quite concisely. And then, Twitter encourages those who have nothing to say to say it, or those who have nothing to share to share it. It also encourages those who should be silent to be verbose. At its worst, it hamstrings conversation, reduces complex thoughts to banalities and speeds the proliferation of trivia. It motivates people to take their eyes off the ball. It is ushering in a golden age of gibberish. How tweet it is!

The return of the Gladiator

Ancient Rome missed out on all the media hype. Only the spectators inside the amphitheatres could witness the gladiatorial contests, where men fought men with sword and lance. Today however, the weapons are the willow and the cherry, red or white depending on the time of the contest, but the gladiatorial thrill has been revived and can be viewed around the world. Our erstwhile cricketing superheroes are even being projected on the small screen dressed in war metal, faces hideously grimaced with bloodlust. The bat is the sword, the chest guard is the shield and the pads and gloves, the chain mail.

And what more appropriate place than South Africa? Rome had to import its lions with which to feed the losers, but there is an abundance of them right at the doorsteps of the stadia. Of course, some losing teams might even prefer the teeth and talons of the actual lions to the media lions who, with their characteristic morbidity, will gleefully tear them apart with their pens.

And the contest begins tomorrow!

Welcome to Writers Chowk!

The place where writers converge, and how! Contributors to this blog include Roopinder Singh, Aradhika Sharma, Arvind Krishna, Seshadri Sreenivasan, Manraj Grewal, Vivek Atray and Balpreet... Others who are keen to contribute can mail us at writerschowk@gmail.com