No, no, no. I have not wasted time, money and energy actually watching this. Nah, I have just donned the smart-alecky pants of a lazy reviewer and written this piece based on mere impression. Infact I shouldn't have bothered writing an original review at all. A copy-pasted one would have served this xerox alright.
If ever a movie screamed about being a re-make, this Salman flick does so. The title and the poster themselves gave me my first deja vu feeling. Amitabh has played Moragan Freeman so many times - basically because he is the only one in Mumbai who can do so - his doing so one more time gave me my second indication. And then of course there were the promos that did the rest.
I am way too tired writing the same things about the interesting concepts that Indian filmmakers have about intellectual property, creativity and originality. I am not going to waste any more web space. What I alreday wasted is useless enough. Cheerio, guys, and go watch Jim Carey again. And again.
Sunday, 17 August 2008
Friday, 25 July 2008
Wielding the juggernaut - circus over, challenge begins
Now that the nuke deal is nearly initialed on the dotted line, one begins to feel twinges of misapprehension. Have you come across tales of a couple awaiting a baby for years and years, and then when the son turned out to be a blackguard of the first water, wishing they hadn't hoped for his birth. You begin to fathom what I am trying to hint?
There has already been enough passed on as to how the deal is not a bed of roses all the way and has its gray areas by the kilometers. We know the nuclear power shall not be cheap, as we shall be buying technology and raw materials from the wealthy west. We know India's foreign policy shall be under the microscope of the international watchdogs and an atom bomb shall not be born in our arsenals, much to the glee of our pleasant, friendly neighbours.
However, my concern is none of the above real or imagined reasons. My motivation is a purely personal one at the moment where fear for my own skin is the inspiration behind the blog.
Think and project - are we, as a nation, as a people, capable of maintaining nuclear reactors? A nation where municipality taps miss maintenance, roads cave in, bridges fall, trains bang head-on, airforce planes crash and rocket launches fail. A nation where non-issues mar the real crux of the matter all the time, where corruption reigns, where criminal politicos run elections from jail, illiterate housewives rule states, below par candidates on reservation seats try to manage public offices. A nation that fairly bends double under the weighty threats of terror attacks from nearly all its neighbours.
Is such a nation capable of handling several nuclear reactors safely?
Pranab Mukherji mentioned that winning over the trust vote was the easier part of the deal. How right is he, albeit I am taking his words in another sense.
Most probably I am behaving like a gypsy gone crazy and perhaps tomorrow I shall laugh at this web log of mine. But meanwhile, pledge to be exta-careful, India, lest a Chernobyl happens here.
There has already been enough passed on as to how the deal is not a bed of roses all the way and has its gray areas by the kilometers. We know the nuclear power shall not be cheap, as we shall be buying technology and raw materials from the wealthy west. We know India's foreign policy shall be under the microscope of the international watchdogs and an atom bomb shall not be born in our arsenals, much to the glee of our pleasant, friendly neighbours.
However, my concern is none of the above real or imagined reasons. My motivation is a purely personal one at the moment where fear for my own skin is the inspiration behind the blog.
Think and project - are we, as a nation, as a people, capable of maintaining nuclear reactors? A nation where municipality taps miss maintenance, roads cave in, bridges fall, trains bang head-on, airforce planes crash and rocket launches fail. A nation where non-issues mar the real crux of the matter all the time, where corruption reigns, where criminal politicos run elections from jail, illiterate housewives rule states, below par candidates on reservation seats try to manage public offices. A nation that fairly bends double under the weighty threats of terror attacks from nearly all its neighbours.
Is such a nation capable of handling several nuclear reactors safely?
Pranab Mukherji mentioned that winning over the trust vote was the easier part of the deal. How right is he, albeit I am taking his words in another sense.
Most probably I am behaving like a gypsy gone crazy and perhaps tomorrow I shall laugh at this web log of mine. But meanwhile, pledge to be exta-careful, India, lest a Chernobyl happens here.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Muck and Dirt and Shit. Or just Politics
"As Lalu Yadav said earlier during the debate, many members of the house do not know much about the Indo-US civilian nuclear deal, I happen to be one of them." So admitted Mehbooba Mufti of People's Democractic Party.
Waah bhai waah! I have been hearing this sarcastic rendition since childhood - "Saari Ramayan khatam ho gayi to poochhte ho Sita kiski biwi thi?" (After the entire Ramayan was over, you asked whose wife was Sita anyway?). Never had I thought I would get such a live example of the same over National TV. Here is the entire country going gaga about the deal. Even the fruit vendor I came across yesterday was discussing the deal with me, and here we have an MP if you please, thumping her chest with affected, self-righteous honesty and exposing her utter ignorance. Aargh! What on earth do I say?
Meet Shibu Soren. A man accused of master-minding a murder. He now stands tall with the Coal Ministry probably in his pocket. There goes Amar Singh, being openly accused of buying MPs for money. Mr. Advani is so desperate for one term as PM he will touch lower and lower depths of dis-integrity. Man! I am tired of slapping my palm against my forehead.
Consider the utter, arrant, total, self-absorbing IDIOCY of our MPs - while just-out-of-high school Rahul Gandhi was making a speech about the stamina and fighting spirit of a Vidarbha widow Kalavati, the BSP objected saying her name was too close to the name of their chief Mayawati!!!!!!!!!! Imagine that the ruckus created over this forced the Lok Sabha to be adjourned for an hour and after it resumed, Gandhi had to refer to his heroine only as Mrs. Kala!!!!!!!! Have our MPs done a doctorate in raising non-issues? What did they think, this was a national circus going on where they were to act as clowns to provide tax-free entertainment to the gareeb junta?
61 years of Independence and here we stand. Atop a moral quicksand where truth gets sucked in so fast you hardly ever see it. Why has integrity gone out of fashion? Why aren't there any ideologies left? So right was Shashi Tharoor when he likened Democracy with Draupadi. Isn't she being mauled and insulted and raped everyday in front of and by its so-called custodians? Shame, shame on each one of us. Not one of us ought to spare himself the blame of bringing India down chin-deep into this horse shit.
Give me a break, someone! Please!
Waah bhai waah! I have been hearing this sarcastic rendition since childhood - "Saari Ramayan khatam ho gayi to poochhte ho Sita kiski biwi thi?" (After the entire Ramayan was over, you asked whose wife was Sita anyway?). Never had I thought I would get such a live example of the same over National TV. Here is the entire country going gaga about the deal. Even the fruit vendor I came across yesterday was discussing the deal with me, and here we have an MP if you please, thumping her chest with affected, self-righteous honesty and exposing her utter ignorance. Aargh! What on earth do I say?
Meet Shibu Soren. A man accused of master-minding a murder. He now stands tall with the Coal Ministry probably in his pocket. There goes Amar Singh, being openly accused of buying MPs for money. Mr. Advani is so desperate for one term as PM he will touch lower and lower depths of dis-integrity. Man! I am tired of slapping my palm against my forehead.
Consider the utter, arrant, total, self-absorbing IDIOCY of our MPs - while just-out-of-high school Rahul Gandhi was making a speech about the stamina and fighting spirit of a Vidarbha widow Kalavati, the BSP objected saying her name was too close to the name of their chief Mayawati!!!!!!!!!! Imagine that the ruckus created over this forced the Lok Sabha to be adjourned for an hour and after it resumed, Gandhi had to refer to his heroine only as Mrs. Kala!!!!!!!! Have our MPs done a doctorate in raising non-issues? What did they think, this was a national circus going on where they were to act as clowns to provide tax-free entertainment to the gareeb junta?
61 years of Independence and here we stand. Atop a moral quicksand where truth gets sucked in so fast you hardly ever see it. Why has integrity gone out of fashion? Why aren't there any ideologies left? So right was Shashi Tharoor when he likened Democracy with Draupadi. Isn't she being mauled and insulted and raped everyday in front of and by its so-called custodians? Shame, shame on each one of us. Not one of us ought to spare himself the blame of bringing India down chin-deep into this horse shit.
Give me a break, someone! Please!
Friday, 11 July 2008
Who let the cat out (of the bag)?
Now we smell a rat, we do.
The UPA Government was blamed robustly for its alleged opacity in keeping the nuke deal text as big a secret as the face of a newly wed Hindu bride of yore.
And then the text was plunged in toto on an American website.
And then the IAEA spokesperson Melissa Fleming claimed sheer absence of any restrictions on the publicizing of the treaty.
Seems like our ruling party is having a severe egg-on-the-face trouble. And not just any egg, but that of an ostrich. And everyone who can, is having all the fun he can have with this egg, churning and churning it to make proper eggnog.
But while everyone else is preoccupied with reading between the lines of the agreement, here is our query - who was it that made the text public? And why?Since we have no idea of the truth, let's make a volley of speculations. Well perhaps not a volley, to be exact 'cause I can think of a mere two -
A random event? If so, the co-incidence couldn't have been timed better.
Left and/or the BJP? If so, I ought to give them more credit for their overseas ties. I guess their MPs must be actually doing something during their trips abroad.
More options, are there any?
The UPA Government was blamed robustly for its alleged opacity in keeping the nuke deal text as big a secret as the face of a newly wed Hindu bride of yore.
And then the text was plunged in toto on an American website.
And then the IAEA spokesperson Melissa Fleming claimed sheer absence of any restrictions on the publicizing of the treaty.
Seems like our ruling party is having a severe egg-on-the-face trouble. And not just any egg, but that of an ostrich. And everyone who can, is having all the fun he can have with this egg, churning and churning it to make proper eggnog.
But while everyone else is preoccupied with reading between the lines of the agreement, here is our query - who was it that made the text public? And why?Since we have no idea of the truth, let's make a volley of speculations. Well perhaps not a volley, to be exact 'cause I can think of a mere two -
A random event? If so, the co-incidence couldn't have been timed better.
Left and/or the BJP? If so, I ought to give them more credit for their overseas ties. I guess their MPs must be actually doing something during their trips abroad.
More options, are there any?
Ah! For some Eve-lution in the US of A?
No Woman No Cry - So sang Boney M, and America chorused.
In the years old history of the nation, never has a woman been the one to (wo)man the helm, and now does not appear likely to do so for another five years. Hilary Clinton, the former first lady, bows out of the race, giving way to charismatic Dem opponent Barack Obama.
Ah! For some Eve-lution in the US of A?
Incredible co-incidence for Clinton, this, that the state of Iowa should have a city named Waterloo for it was here that she faced one of her worst debacles.
I was actually quite irked by the constant mention of sexism in association with the lady. Was she or was she not the victim is debatable as even the feminist lobby seems divided in its opinion. If she was, then I would like to repeat Agatha Christie - 'Human nature is the same everywhere.' If she wasn't, then her self-acclamation as one such victim is an exhibition of poor politics - which it seems has been her besetting sin.
Anyway, so much for the Americans. How are we Indians taking it? I guess with an Indira Gandhi in the past and a Pratibha Patil in the present along with a posse of Mayawatis, Jayalalithas, Rabris, Uma Bhartis et al, Clinton's gender ought not to cause raised eyebrows in this land of paradoxes?
(Though with Obama, there could have been a slight stir, methinks. Remember, people did object to Sonia Gandhi's race when she was racing for the PM's chair).
On the whole we should mourn Clinton's loss. With Obama looking so hale and heartily ahead of McCain in the view of election's crystal-ball-gazers and happily planning to cut down outsourcing, it would have probably been better for us if the Americans had not agreed with Boney M.
In the years old history of the nation, never has a woman been the one to (wo)man the helm, and now does not appear likely to do so for another five years. Hilary Clinton, the former first lady, bows out of the race, giving way to charismatic Dem opponent Barack Obama.
Ah! For some Eve-lution in the US of A?
Incredible co-incidence for Clinton, this, that the state of Iowa should have a city named Waterloo for it was here that she faced one of her worst debacles.
I was actually quite irked by the constant mention of sexism in association with the lady. Was she or was she not the victim is debatable as even the feminist lobby seems divided in its opinion. If she was, then I would like to repeat Agatha Christie - 'Human nature is the same everywhere.' If she wasn't, then her self-acclamation as one such victim is an exhibition of poor politics - which it seems has been her besetting sin.
Anyway, so much for the Americans. How are we Indians taking it? I guess with an Indira Gandhi in the past and a Pratibha Patil in the present along with a posse of Mayawatis, Jayalalithas, Rabris, Uma Bhartis et al, Clinton's gender ought not to cause raised eyebrows in this land of paradoxes?
(Though with Obama, there could have been a slight stir, methinks. Remember, people did object to Sonia Gandhi's race when she was racing for the PM's chair).
On the whole we should mourn Clinton's loss. With Obama looking so hale and heartily ahead of McCain in the view of election's crystal-ball-gazers and happily planning to cut down outsourcing, it would have probably been better for us if the Americans had not agreed with Boney M.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Iron hand shirks the Velvet Glove
So finally, after having bickered and fought like an old married couple, the Left formally filed suit against the Congress for divorce, citing the US of A as third party.
News! News! Our very own M.M.S., (read Manmohan Singh), after having been the butt of endless Laughter Challenge jokes, has finally showed Indians that he is the proud possessor of a razor-sharp tongue. Its not just George Bush smothering him with accolades, but, and here you have to trust me, several Indians too.
More than a gentleman, M.M.S. is a gentle man. Soft spoken to the point of being labeled the weakest Prime Minister ever and considered a Sonia-stooge by several, he finally seemed to come of age and gave strong unequivocal statements in favor of the Nuclear Deal.
What's more, at least on two occasions, he came out as that rare politician who does not crave the chair like a drug addict. Once, he offered to resign if he could not carry the deal forward, and then he went ahead with his mission of giving I.A.E.A. the nod even when the Left threatened to pull out.
Good going, Sir! We wish you a happy wedded life with Softie Singh Yadav. :)
News! News! Our very own M.M.S., (read Manmohan Singh), after having been the butt of endless Laughter Challenge jokes, has finally showed Indians that he is the proud possessor of a razor-sharp tongue. Its not just George Bush smothering him with accolades, but, and here you have to trust me, several Indians too.
More than a gentleman, M.M.S. is a gentle man. Soft spoken to the point of being labeled the weakest Prime Minister ever and considered a Sonia-stooge by several, he finally seemed to come of age and gave strong unequivocal statements in favor of the Nuclear Deal.
What's more, at least on two occasions, he came out as that rare politician who does not crave the chair like a drug addict. Once, he offered to resign if he could not carry the deal forward, and then he went ahead with his mission of giving I.A.E.A. the nod even when the Left threatened to pull out.
Good going, Sir! We wish you a happy wedded life with Softie Singh Yadav. :)
F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
Two lesbians decide to get married, and one of the lesbians' ex-husband gives her away at the altar...A cross-dressing gay dad attends his son's wedding wearing a smart gown....An uber-smart mom kisses her son's friend...A guy falls in love with and marries a woman old enough to be his mother and lives with her happily ever after...A sister plays surrogate mother to her brother's triplets...An elderly couple make out without knowing their adult daughter was in the background...A father accidentally coming upon his daughter and son-in-law making love and after all the embarrassment goes on to give them tips on how to conceive....
Written like this, hashed up in cold blood, it all sounds so gross, so unpalatable. And yet F.R.I.E.N.D.S. is a hugely popular TV series that has captured the heart of millions and won accolades hands down.
There is something essentially warm and human about this ten year long drama(1994-2004). Yes, when seen here, even a lesbian wedding seems emotional and the paternal feelings of a gay dad get transmitted out of celluloid straight to your hearts - and all this while you are laughing your heads off at the awesome comic timing of the actors and the genuinely rib-tickling one-liners they are handed out by their scriptwriters.
Each character has been etched finely and given a very definite form and shape. One thinks sarcasm and Chandler pops into the mind. Ross is Geek to the K. Fashion Freaks are Rachels and Control Freaks are Monicas. If Phoebe is weirdness peronified, then Joey is the epitome of endearing inanity.
It takes the magical combination of superb actors (Jennifer Anisten, Lisa Kudrow, Courtney Cox, Matthew Perry, Matt Le Blanc and David Schwimmer) and absolutely top card behind-the-camera crew that makes FRIENDS click for us. Just look at the attention paid to the smallest of details. See how even the bit-part actors get such finely etched roles. Notice how the connectivity never breaks between sequential episodes and yet an individual episode can also be enjoyed and understood out of sync. Hats off!
Written like this, hashed up in cold blood, it all sounds so gross, so unpalatable. And yet F.R.I.E.N.D.S. is a hugely popular TV series that has captured the heart of millions and won accolades hands down.
There is something essentially warm and human about this ten year long drama(1994-2004). Yes, when seen here, even a lesbian wedding seems emotional and the paternal feelings of a gay dad get transmitted out of celluloid straight to your hearts - and all this while you are laughing your heads off at the awesome comic timing of the actors and the genuinely rib-tickling one-liners they are handed out by their scriptwriters.
Each character has been etched finely and given a very definite form and shape. One thinks sarcasm and Chandler pops into the mind. Ross is Geek to the K. Fashion Freaks are Rachels and Control Freaks are Monicas. If Phoebe is weirdness peronified, then Joey is the epitome of endearing inanity.
It takes the magical combination of superb actors (Jennifer Anisten, Lisa Kudrow, Courtney Cox, Matthew Perry, Matt Le Blanc and David Schwimmer) and absolutely top card behind-the-camera crew that makes FRIENDS click for us. Just look at the attention paid to the smallest of details. See how even the bit-part actors get such finely etched roles. Notice how the connectivity never breaks between sequential episodes and yet an individual episode can also be enjoyed and understood out of sync. Hats off!
Monday, 9 June 2008
Of tone-deaf adults and buzzed teens
It took two long years for the Children's Commissioner of UK to realize that the 'Mosquito Teen Deterrent' was against human rights of teen-aged Britons. Professor Sir Al Aynsley-Green took his time commenting that the device was 'demonising' the youth, and his time came only after about 3,500 units of the 'demoniser' had already been traded. But shop owners are loathe to get rid of it, for they owe the security of their businesses to these non-adult alarms. And the 'Mosquito Teen Deterrent' is here to stay, claimed the UK Government when it refused to ban it.
I salute you, O Commercialism, for having managed to devour every other consideration, including the capacity to decide what is human and what is not.
Does it hurt you to think that a large population of the teens residing in the Queen's land are being treated with pest-control measures? Are they being, by any chance, confused with a flight of locusts?
However, that is a less relevant query.
Does it matter to those children and teens who are being meted out this treatment?
Frankly, this was where shock set into my system.
The situation where the injured party themselves should have been the ones to register antagonism, they were found gleefully enjoying it all! I found myself actually fidgeting to find incidents of irate mobs, angry slogans and wrathful showdowns where the youngsters participated. What I came across instead were mobile ringtones that were rip-offs from the ultrasonic alarm that became popular overnight - students began to use it to get messages during class hours right under the noses of presbycusis stricken adult teachers! Their message was loud and clear - 'Treat us as non-humans if you wanna, we shall enjoy it anyway.'
Someone please go tell the marketing honchos in charge of selling the Mosquito - they can actually use it as an age-detector in catching the lying mommies and cinema actors red-handed. Why do they need to make money out of such Mephistophelian activities? No, I understand its not their fault. Where else would they find a market where victims are lapping up the products designed to harm them?
Ah! Mother Evolution! Here you were with the gift of the most evolved creature - the human. And here is the new human generation devoid of any respect for your gift!
I salute you, O Commercialism, for having managed to devour every other consideration, including the capacity to decide what is human and what is not.
Does it hurt you to think that a large population of the teens residing in the Queen's land are being treated with pest-control measures? Are they being, by any chance, confused with a flight of locusts?
However, that is a less relevant query.
Does it matter to those children and teens who are being meted out this treatment?
Frankly, this was where shock set into my system.
The situation where the injured party themselves should have been the ones to register antagonism, they were found gleefully enjoying it all! I found myself actually fidgeting to find incidents of irate mobs, angry slogans and wrathful showdowns where the youngsters participated. What I came across instead were mobile ringtones that were rip-offs from the ultrasonic alarm that became popular overnight - students began to use it to get messages during class hours right under the noses of presbycusis stricken adult teachers! Their message was loud and clear - 'Treat us as non-humans if you wanna, we shall enjoy it anyway.'
Someone please go tell the marketing honchos in charge of selling the Mosquito - they can actually use it as an age-detector in catching the lying mommies and cinema actors red-handed. Why do they need to make money out of such Mephistophelian activities? No, I understand its not their fault. Where else would they find a market where victims are lapping up the products designed to harm them?
Ah! Mother Evolution! Here you were with the gift of the most evolved creature - the human. And here is the new human generation devoid of any respect for your gift!
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Double Entendres
Why am I blogging about Double Entendres? Because of 3 reasons -
1. I am semi-non-pachydermatous
2. I am a female
3. I am living in a sex-crazed male world
Now don't you go about getting the wrong idea about me. Being an Evolutionary Biology enthusiast, I am a Life Sciences graduate and post-graduate. I know the importance of what bees and birds do. I am, in addition, quite a no-nonsense, non-squeamish, academic discusser of that three-letter-word-which-should-not-be-pronouned. I know that makes the world tick and while I do not go about cracking the ashleel, maansaahaari category of jokes, I do laugh at some of the more decent ones amongst them.
Besides, the mood of this blog is not angry or irritated. Actually three unintentionally rhyming words shall describe my current state of mind well - Bemused (33%), Amused (40%) and Confused [100-(33+40)% calculate for yourself if you are that enthu. We biologists pride ourselves on not knowing much of maths].
So that sets the preliminaries right. Now for a little bit of history.
I recall that as rather raw, green-behind-the-ears 18 year old, I used to go to the Symbi mess to have my dinner with my elder flatmates and their elder guy friends. The express instruction to me and to two others like me was this - 'If possible keep shut before the guys. And if you do open your trap and utter something you are not to utter, you are to shut right back up immediately after I give you the hint to do so.' This instruction had come our way after one or two bewildering (to us) situations when something innocent said by me or the others had got the guys in our group either wreathed with mischievous grins or with devilish glints that said not in words but action - 'Oh Yeah? And then....?'
I guess the male of the species and many of the females reading this blog shall know what I mean. The most innocent sounding words somehow get twisted into having sexual connotations without any apparent rhyme or reason! Why o why? The other day my friend raised this topic, and we got to enlisting a number of these mis-meant strings of letters. I was baffled by the sheer number of words that I came across! Nearly every third or fourth word we speak in our daily lives is not always what it was meant to be. In fact, it was her suggestion that this topic may just be worth blogging about. Abhilasha here goes your suggestion converted into action.
But thing is, I am myself a little unsure what the exact purpose of this blog is. Is it because I wish to bring to the notice of the orthodox literary world that look what's happening to your dictionary? Do I wish to share with other females my feeling of embarrassment covered beneath a veneer of 'Oh-okay-it-happens' when it does happen? Do I wish to rebuke the male species to mind their language interpretation skills?
Don't know yaar! I am, just as I mentioned above, Bemused, Amused and Confused. In that order. And did you calculate the %age of confusion in the blog and in me? And did I use any words here that have unintentional double entendres? Wonder!
1. I am semi-non-pachydermatous
2. I am a female
3. I am living in a sex-crazed male world
Now don't you go about getting the wrong idea about me. Being an Evolutionary Biology enthusiast, I am a Life Sciences graduate and post-graduate. I know the importance of what bees and birds do. I am, in addition, quite a no-nonsense, non-squeamish, academic discusser of that three-letter-word-which-should-not-be-pronouned. I know that makes the world tick and while I do not go about cracking the ashleel, maansaahaari category of jokes, I do laugh at some of the more decent ones amongst them.
Besides, the mood of this blog is not angry or irritated. Actually three unintentionally rhyming words shall describe my current state of mind well - Bemused (33%), Amused (40%) and Confused [100-(33+40)% calculate for yourself if you are that enthu. We biologists pride ourselves on not knowing much of maths].
So that sets the preliminaries right. Now for a little bit of history.
I recall that as rather raw, green-behind-the-ears 18 year old, I used to go to the Symbi mess to have my dinner with my elder flatmates and their elder guy friends. The express instruction to me and to two others like me was this - 'If possible keep shut before the guys. And if you do open your trap and utter something you are not to utter, you are to shut right back up immediately after I give you the hint to do so.' This instruction had come our way after one or two bewildering (to us) situations when something innocent said by me or the others had got the guys in our group either wreathed with mischievous grins or with devilish glints that said not in words but action - 'Oh Yeah? And then....?'
I guess the male of the species and many of the females reading this blog shall know what I mean. The most innocent sounding words somehow get twisted into having sexual connotations without any apparent rhyme or reason! Why o why? The other day my friend raised this topic, and we got to enlisting a number of these mis-meant strings of letters. I was baffled by the sheer number of words that I came across! Nearly every third or fourth word we speak in our daily lives is not always what it was meant to be. In fact, it was her suggestion that this topic may just be worth blogging about. Abhilasha here goes your suggestion converted into action.
But thing is, I am myself a little unsure what the exact purpose of this blog is. Is it because I wish to bring to the notice of the orthodox literary world that look what's happening to your dictionary? Do I wish to share with other females my feeling of embarrassment covered beneath a veneer of 'Oh-okay-it-happens' when it does happen? Do I wish to rebuke the male species to mind their language interpretation skills?
Don't know yaar! I am, just as I mentioned above, Bemused, Amused and Confused. In that order. And did you calculate the %age of confusion in the blog and in me? And did I use any words here that have unintentional double entendres? Wonder!
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Beware the tricking Bunties - busting the bootpolish brigade
"Didi, do you want me to polish your sandals?" My cousin and me were lolling on the walls of the Pyramids mall on M.G. Rd, Pune, when this query was addressed to us in decent accent and impeccable English. No wonder our heads snapped up. Medium height, thin, sallow-brown complexion, long hair, red jacket, yellow pajamas, barefoot, big smile. In forty seconds, 'Anoop' was diligently polishing our sandals while discussing his mother and sister and his village in Rajasthan and his English education in a nearby Convent. We were thoroughly impressed.
He saw that.
Soon as he had pocketed the modest five rupee remuneration, he struck while the iron was hot.
"Didi, shall I ask you one thing? Please don't take me otherwise, but you can see I am carrying my boot polish stuff in a plastic bag. This way I do not get enough customers. Can you help me buy the proper wood box and equipments?"
I was a little taken aback. Not because I don't expect street children to have such gumption, but because this request was ringing a bell! Where else had I heard this story? A similar emotion was playing on my cousin's face. She too seemed to be grappling with her elusive memory. She came out with 'Raghu' just as I cried out 'Bunty'.
Then she looked at me and spoke out her roommate's name while I mentioned my friend's name.
Readers with me so far? No? You may want to follow the link 'Abhilasha idles' in my 'Blogetarians like me' section. There you may want to read her 'Bunty blog' which may cause several of the chunks of the jigsaw puzzle to fall into place.
There is an idiom in Hindi - 'Tu Daal Daal Main Paat Paat'. The one-up strategy. The counter-move. The stuff that happens during evolution between the prey and the predator - something we called the 'Red Queen Effect' after an intelligent evolutionary biologist read 'Alice in Wonderland'.
We are living in a constant state of tussle - to be fooled or to be callous - that's the question. Intelligent charity - the new mantra of people interested in lavishing shiny 1 rupee nickels on traffic signals.
He saw that.
Soon as he had pocketed the modest five rupee remuneration, he struck while the iron was hot.
"Didi, shall I ask you one thing? Please don't take me otherwise, but you can see I am carrying my boot polish stuff in a plastic bag. This way I do not get enough customers. Can you help me buy the proper wood box and equipments?"
I was a little taken aback. Not because I don't expect street children to have such gumption, but because this request was ringing a bell! Where else had I heard this story? A similar emotion was playing on my cousin's face. She too seemed to be grappling with her elusive memory. She came out with 'Raghu' just as I cried out 'Bunty'.
Then she looked at me and spoke out her roommate's name while I mentioned my friend's name.
Readers with me so far? No? You may want to follow the link 'Abhilasha idles' in my 'Blogetarians like me' section. There you may want to read her 'Bunty blog' which may cause several of the chunks of the jigsaw puzzle to fall into place.
There is an idiom in Hindi - 'Tu Daal Daal Main Paat Paat'. The one-up strategy. The counter-move. The stuff that happens during evolution between the prey and the predator - something we called the 'Red Queen Effect' after an intelligent evolutionary biologist read 'Alice in Wonderland'.
We are living in a constant state of tussle - to be fooled or to be callous - that's the question. Intelligent charity - the new mantra of people interested in lavishing shiny 1 rupee nickels on traffic signals.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Terror at the homefront
The interesting thing about miracles is that they happen - so opined G.K. Chesterson. Replace miracles with co-incidences and the statement holds true.
Less than 2 hours ago (my post in the Gupshup C box shall bear me out), I was bemoaning the lack of inspiration in my amateur career as a blogger. And now here I am, an inspired individual, feeling that familiar upsurge to put words on a web page. That's co-incidence for me. On second thoughts, a more apt quotation would have been 'One often gets what one wants.'
They say inspiration strikes you from unusual sources - it fairly takes you off your guard at times. Well, they couldn't have been more accurate in my case. Surely enough, inspiration to write a blog after a more than a month long hiatus is something I owe to something as uninspiring as a cockroach. Okay, not just a cockroach - hundreds of them to be frank.
Now before I proceed I consider it my holy undertaking to warn my delicate minded readers (er, are there still any left in this literary world of gore and sinew?). What follows is a tale of simply unpalatable violence and written in rather poor taste apart from being wholly useless and without any morals at the end. Proceed at your own risk. Though I do hope you do. Proceed, I mean. After all so many cockroaches paid for this piece of blog with their lives.
I hate cockroaches. Nobody exactly loves them, but I simply dislike them, abhor them, detest them. They are an anathema to me. The only other thing the hatred of which can hold a candle to this hatred is my hatred of lizards. So when I landed into my friend's house for an extended vacation, the presence of several roaches in the kitchen as my chummy flat mates did not appeal to me in the least.
I made up my mind as to my next mission in life. Just like the W.H.O. has made it its mission to eradicate the polio virus once and for all, I decided to do just that with these hideous pests. Breaking News - 'Roaches were soon to get locally extinct from my friend's kitchen.
The first step was to study conditions. Don't snicker. If you think cockroaches can be done away with without proper planning, you've got another think coming. Roaches have outlived dianosaurs - so you can imagine what tough customers they are. Now where was I? Oh, yes. The conditions.
My friend's extremely busy schedule, her maid's stubborn decision to fulfill the cleaning rituals as sketchily as possible and the roaches' inherent resilience against extinction - all had combined together to help the pests build up an impressive number. This part of the research was instrumental in my giving a small demo to the maid on how to be a more comprehensive cleaner - after all I wouldn't be there all the time.
The next item on the agenda was to make a careful demographical study of the population with special stress on behavioural patterns and age class distribution. Which niches did the devils occupy? Well, there was hardly a place in the kitchen which they did not occupy - the sink, the refrigerator, the cupboard linings, even inside the large cooking vessels that are not used regularly. Besides hi-jacking my friend's kitchen for their living quarters, they also had the temerity to use it as a the outside of a Gurudwara where kadaah prasaad is always available. And being the health-freaks that they are, they even utilized the tiled kitchen walls and floor for regular walks.
Carefully timed surveys at meal times and between meal times helped me do the population survey. The head count was impossible to take, in the wake of their overwhelming numbers and the general problem in differentiating one individual from another. But I did get a general idea as to their number. They were infinite. There were several adults and many children, too. Yours truly not being an expert on cockroach sexology, gender determination was another poser.
Not exactly covering myself in glory in the above task, I was still far from disheartened. I had the bigger goal, the bigger picture in mind, viz., to kill, to destroy, to annihilate, to disembody the entomologist's Lucifer.
The next logical task was to get an anti-cockroach spray. There I was not disappointed at all. Whatever spare time my friend manages to have, she devotes it to the killing of these unhygienic creatures and for this HIT spray bottles are always at hand in the house. These canny beasts invariably give her the slip by hiding here and there, simply waiting for the deluge of the spray to die down. Its not her fault. A software technologist cannot compete with a budding ecologist in killing roaches.
Anyway, so here I was, with all the preliminary studies done, all the required material gathered and just the task to begin.
The task began with gusto. In my present status of bachelorhood, it is the cockroach that brings out the housewife in me. I pick up the broom, the dust pan and the cleaning rag without any visible signs of disgust and can make several kaam wali baais become envious or appreciative depending on their constitutions.
The cockroach also brings out the hardened professional killer in me. The general respect and kindliness toward all life forms that had made me take up Biodiversity in the post grads recedes to the backbench in these moments and my baser self takes over. The self that revels in death by violence.
No, I am not taking out a neon-shine knife from my pocket and stroking my chin or palm with it meditatively. Neither my eye has an unwholesome glint in it. Relax. All I am engaged in is opening all the cupboards one by one and emptying them of utensils and the odds and ends of a kitchen. This the den of the Mephistopheles. I believe in going to the core of the problem at once.
Several roaches were shocked out of their pleasant interludes by my simple act of jerking open the cupboard doors. 'What the heck!', I think one of them said to the other. I ignored their chattiness. We professional killers are rather the strong and silent variety. Down came the spray of HIT, hitting the chappies squarely. Some were blown away by the impact of the jet force. They landed and commenced writhing. With one swift stroke of the broom, I swept them away. They were no more important. Important ones were those that were escaping. Running pell mell wherever they could go. I worked both my hands - one holding the HIT bottle and spraying accurately and the other holding the broom and swatting, again, accurately. Five minutes later I was standing triumphantly amidst the corpses. So must King Ashoka have stood after the Kalinga Battle. Only I was feeling no remorse and not even the slightest inclination to turn Buddhist. The triumph any way did not last long. I discovered amongst my victims several that had only been stunned and were now wriggling their legs in an effort to recuperate. Not possible with me around! Another vicious spray of HIT and several bangs of the broom on the floor apart from my occasional stamps of feet on the unlucky arthropods ensued with satisfactory results.
The same procedure was followed with all the other cupboards. It became impossible to know what colour the kitchen floor tiles were. Um, ok. That was an exaggeration, but it sure did become difficult to walk on the floor without treading on what had been cockroaches. The kitchen floor was thus duly cleaned with an indefatigable spirit.
My eyes, trained for the last few hours to register all moving objects from the corner, suddenly detected motion. Lo! A number of roaches, rather panicky after the massacre of their brethren, were huddled along the kitchen slab and walls, above the cupboards. Some were even walking up the walls, trying to reach the ceiling. Not to be undone, I pulled a chair in and stood up. The antic of HIT in one hand and broom in the other was repeated, this time a little higher in the air. This time it became difficult to discern the colour of the kitchen counter. One of the corners of my eyes caught some roaches struggling in a spider web up above where wall met ceiling. Spiders, featuring rather low in my estimation, went several notches up in that one moment.
One more round of brisk sweeping and scrubbing followed, after which I gave a great sigh of relief. I had won. I had won!! My retina registered movement yet again. Ah. Here was one survival, trodding weakly along. I impinged him with the HIT spray, my reflexes by now trained into the 'spray at sight' order of my brains. The creature wobbled. I persevered. The last roach of the kitchen took its last gasp.
My mission was over. I relaxed before the idiot box. Somewhat co-incidentally, they were showing 'Shootout at Lokhandwala' on cable. As I watch the movie and type this yarn out, I am wondering if several hundred ghosts of roaches shan't haunt me tonight. I hope not.
Less than 2 hours ago (my post in the Gupshup C box shall bear me out), I was bemoaning the lack of inspiration in my amateur career as a blogger. And now here I am, an inspired individual, feeling that familiar upsurge to put words on a web page. That's co-incidence for me. On second thoughts, a more apt quotation would have been 'One often gets what one wants.'
They say inspiration strikes you from unusual sources - it fairly takes you off your guard at times. Well, they couldn't have been more accurate in my case. Surely enough, inspiration to write a blog after a more than a month long hiatus is something I owe to something as uninspiring as a cockroach. Okay, not just a cockroach - hundreds of them to be frank.
Now before I proceed I consider it my holy undertaking to warn my delicate minded readers (er, are there still any left in this literary world of gore and sinew?). What follows is a tale of simply unpalatable violence and written in rather poor taste apart from being wholly useless and without any morals at the end. Proceed at your own risk. Though I do hope you do. Proceed, I mean. After all so many cockroaches paid for this piece of blog with their lives.
I hate cockroaches. Nobody exactly loves them, but I simply dislike them, abhor them, detest them. They are an anathema to me. The only other thing the hatred of which can hold a candle to this hatred is my hatred of lizards. So when I landed into my friend's house for an extended vacation, the presence of several roaches in the kitchen as my chummy flat mates did not appeal to me in the least.
I made up my mind as to my next mission in life. Just like the W.H.O. has made it its mission to eradicate the polio virus once and for all, I decided to do just that with these hideous pests. Breaking News - 'Roaches were soon to get locally extinct from my friend's kitchen.
The first step was to study conditions. Don't snicker. If you think cockroaches can be done away with without proper planning, you've got another think coming. Roaches have outlived dianosaurs - so you can imagine what tough customers they are. Now where was I? Oh, yes. The conditions.
My friend's extremely busy schedule, her maid's stubborn decision to fulfill the cleaning rituals as sketchily as possible and the roaches' inherent resilience against extinction - all had combined together to help the pests build up an impressive number. This part of the research was instrumental in my giving a small demo to the maid on how to be a more comprehensive cleaner - after all I wouldn't be there all the time.
The next item on the agenda was to make a careful demographical study of the population with special stress on behavioural patterns and age class distribution. Which niches did the devils occupy? Well, there was hardly a place in the kitchen which they did not occupy - the sink, the refrigerator, the cupboard linings, even inside the large cooking vessels that are not used regularly. Besides hi-jacking my friend's kitchen for their living quarters, they also had the temerity to use it as a the outside of a Gurudwara where kadaah prasaad is always available. And being the health-freaks that they are, they even utilized the tiled kitchen walls and floor for regular walks.
Carefully timed surveys at meal times and between meal times helped me do the population survey. The head count was impossible to take, in the wake of their overwhelming numbers and the general problem in differentiating one individual from another. But I did get a general idea as to their number. They were infinite. There were several adults and many children, too. Yours truly not being an expert on cockroach sexology, gender determination was another poser.
Not exactly covering myself in glory in the above task, I was still far from disheartened. I had the bigger goal, the bigger picture in mind, viz., to kill, to destroy, to annihilate, to disembody the entomologist's Lucifer.
The next logical task was to get an anti-cockroach spray. There I was not disappointed at all. Whatever spare time my friend manages to have, she devotes it to the killing of these unhygienic creatures and for this HIT spray bottles are always at hand in the house. These canny beasts invariably give her the slip by hiding here and there, simply waiting for the deluge of the spray to die down. Its not her fault. A software technologist cannot compete with a budding ecologist in killing roaches.
Anyway, so here I was, with all the preliminary studies done, all the required material gathered and just the task to begin.
The task began with gusto. In my present status of bachelorhood, it is the cockroach that brings out the housewife in me. I pick up the broom, the dust pan and the cleaning rag without any visible signs of disgust and can make several kaam wali baais become envious or appreciative depending on their constitutions.
The cockroach also brings out the hardened professional killer in me. The general respect and kindliness toward all life forms that had made me take up Biodiversity in the post grads recedes to the backbench in these moments and my baser self takes over. The self that revels in death by violence.
No, I am not taking out a neon-shine knife from my pocket and stroking my chin or palm with it meditatively. Neither my eye has an unwholesome glint in it. Relax. All I am engaged in is opening all the cupboards one by one and emptying them of utensils and the odds and ends of a kitchen. This the den of the Mephistopheles. I believe in going to the core of the problem at once.
Several roaches were shocked out of their pleasant interludes by my simple act of jerking open the cupboard doors. 'What the heck!', I think one of them said to the other. I ignored their chattiness. We professional killers are rather the strong and silent variety. Down came the spray of HIT, hitting the chappies squarely. Some were blown away by the impact of the jet force. They landed and commenced writhing. With one swift stroke of the broom, I swept them away. They were no more important. Important ones were those that were escaping. Running pell mell wherever they could go. I worked both my hands - one holding the HIT bottle and spraying accurately and the other holding the broom and swatting, again, accurately. Five minutes later I was standing triumphantly amidst the corpses. So must King Ashoka have stood after the Kalinga Battle. Only I was feeling no remorse and not even the slightest inclination to turn Buddhist. The triumph any way did not last long. I discovered amongst my victims several that had only been stunned and were now wriggling their legs in an effort to recuperate. Not possible with me around! Another vicious spray of HIT and several bangs of the broom on the floor apart from my occasional stamps of feet on the unlucky arthropods ensued with satisfactory results.
The same procedure was followed with all the other cupboards. It became impossible to know what colour the kitchen floor tiles were. Um, ok. That was an exaggeration, but it sure did become difficult to walk on the floor without treading on what had been cockroaches. The kitchen floor was thus duly cleaned with an indefatigable spirit.
My eyes, trained for the last few hours to register all moving objects from the corner, suddenly detected motion. Lo! A number of roaches, rather panicky after the massacre of their brethren, were huddled along the kitchen slab and walls, above the cupboards. Some were even walking up the walls, trying to reach the ceiling. Not to be undone, I pulled a chair in and stood up. The antic of HIT in one hand and broom in the other was repeated, this time a little higher in the air. This time it became difficult to discern the colour of the kitchen counter. One of the corners of my eyes caught some roaches struggling in a spider web up above where wall met ceiling. Spiders, featuring rather low in my estimation, went several notches up in that one moment.
One more round of brisk sweeping and scrubbing followed, after which I gave a great sigh of relief. I had won. I had won!! My retina registered movement yet again. Ah. Here was one survival, trodding weakly along. I impinged him with the HIT spray, my reflexes by now trained into the 'spray at sight' order of my brains. The creature wobbled. I persevered. The last roach of the kitchen took its last gasp.
My mission was over. I relaxed before the idiot box. Somewhat co-incidentally, they were showing 'Shootout at Lokhandwala' on cable. As I watch the movie and type this yarn out, I am wondering if several hundred ghosts of roaches shan't haunt me tonight. I hope not.
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
SHUT up spitting SHIT
These comments were directed at MPs from Bihar. ‘Dung-beetles’. ‘The Ganges of Corruption’. ‘Rotten Brains’.
When it comes to criticizing Bihar, I am one of the Biharis who have generally been ahead of people of other states, at times. Yes, the average Bihari is rather lazy, likes to shirk his duty whenever he can, is a little silly several times, and shrewd whenever he can grab unearned money.
Does that justify the above poison pen comments?
No.
Many sensible readers of my blog may mention that this is merely a political statement, aimed at vote banking. And that, my friends, is the actual cause for concern. The fact, that statements like these can win votes elaborates the fact that the average voter in Maharashtra agree with the Thackreys!
Some weeks ago, the author of ‘City City Bang Bang’ for TOI wrote something like this – ‘Statistically speaking, more than 50% Maharashtrians do not conform to the views of Raj Thackrey. We are happy to hear that. Do we bother that nearly 40% Maharashtrians do.’
During my five year stint at Pune, Maharashtra, two separate incidents sort out as glaring examples of the same.
We were a group of nine girls in a flat, eight of us being from North India, five of those eight from Bihar. We were stopped in the midst of celebrating a birthday party by angry yells from our next door neighbours.
“These shameless north Indians,” spluttered ‘auntie’, “you have no manners. You have not been brought up well” and words to that effect.
Next day, ‘auntie’s’ daughter, who was about our age, came to us smiling. “Don’t worry. I understand. If I had been sent to a hostel like you and wouldn’t have the pressure of guardians, I’d have freaked out like you guys!”
Another incident was when we once rode wrong side up into a one-way street. The traffic police stopped us, arrested – yes, there is no softer word, arrested us and detained four of us Biharis in the traffic police station. Any word uttered in Hindi did not appeal to him. He wanted nothing short of 500 bucks. We girls had been on a shopping stint and had perhaps about twenty rupees in all between us. Things remained at a stalemate like situation. He wouldn’t budge and we couldn’t budge.
Finally, two hours later we were allowed a phone call. Which we made with alacrity, to the only Maharashtrian flatmate of ours. She came in thirty minutes. She spoke to the policeman in Marathi for about five minutes. After paying a hundred rupees as fine, for which we were given a receipt, the four of us walked free again.
I do not want to mention the number of Chemistry and Botany lectures that bounced above my head because they were given in Marathi in my college. There is no point in mentioning that when in a group of Marathi students, I always laughed late, if at all, depending on if a translation of the joke came my way. It shall be useless to mention the several travel concession and hostel admission forms I was unable to fill because of them being in Marathi only.
But there is a point in mentioning this – even today, when my CSIR fellowship comes to Patna University, it mentions the name of my Pune college and the address is still that of my hostel in Pune. I know that tomorrow if someone else from my department is called for the Shyama Prasad Mukherji fellowship, they will perhaps remember my name for I have been, till date, the only student from my department to be called for that same fellowship.
I am not the only example of such irony. There will be hundreds of people like me. People who work there, have bought houses there, have lived in there for ages and ages and given the state the best years of their lives.
For what?
For being called ‘dung beetles’ and being the possessors of ‘rotten brains.’
Interesting.
(The author of this blog has often been accused of possessing a Marathi accent while speaking Hindi, has a large number of Maharashtrian friends and is well-liked amongst the lot for knowing passable Marathi. My dear average Maharshtrian – respect your language and culture. I agree it is worth it. Be proud of it. But come on! Stop being an Australian Cricketer about it. Er, did I mean Arrogant, when I accidentally typed Australian Cricketer? By the way, my knowing Marathi is not the only reason why my friends like me.)
When it comes to criticizing Bihar, I am one of the Biharis who have generally been ahead of people of other states, at times. Yes, the average Bihari is rather lazy, likes to shirk his duty whenever he can, is a little silly several times, and shrewd whenever he can grab unearned money.
Does that justify the above poison pen comments?
No.
Many sensible readers of my blog may mention that this is merely a political statement, aimed at vote banking. And that, my friends, is the actual cause for concern. The fact, that statements like these can win votes elaborates the fact that the average voter in Maharashtra agree with the Thackreys!
Some weeks ago, the author of ‘City City Bang Bang’ for TOI wrote something like this – ‘Statistically speaking, more than 50% Maharashtrians do not conform to the views of Raj Thackrey. We are happy to hear that. Do we bother that nearly 40% Maharashtrians do.’
During my five year stint at Pune, Maharashtra, two separate incidents sort out as glaring examples of the same.
We were a group of nine girls in a flat, eight of us being from North India, five of those eight from Bihar. We were stopped in the midst of celebrating a birthday party by angry yells from our next door neighbours.
“These shameless north Indians,” spluttered ‘auntie’, “you have no manners. You have not been brought up well” and words to that effect.
Next day, ‘auntie’s’ daughter, who was about our age, came to us smiling. “Don’t worry. I understand. If I had been sent to a hostel like you and wouldn’t have the pressure of guardians, I’d have freaked out like you guys!”
Another incident was when we once rode wrong side up into a one-way street. The traffic police stopped us, arrested – yes, there is no softer word, arrested us and detained four of us Biharis in the traffic police station. Any word uttered in Hindi did not appeal to him. He wanted nothing short of 500 bucks. We girls had been on a shopping stint and had perhaps about twenty rupees in all between us. Things remained at a stalemate like situation. He wouldn’t budge and we couldn’t budge.
Finally, two hours later we were allowed a phone call. Which we made with alacrity, to the only Maharashtrian flatmate of ours. She came in thirty minutes. She spoke to the policeman in Marathi for about five minutes. After paying a hundred rupees as fine, for which we were given a receipt, the four of us walked free again.
I do not want to mention the number of Chemistry and Botany lectures that bounced above my head because they were given in Marathi in my college. There is no point in mentioning that when in a group of Marathi students, I always laughed late, if at all, depending on if a translation of the joke came my way. It shall be useless to mention the several travel concession and hostel admission forms I was unable to fill because of them being in Marathi only.
But there is a point in mentioning this – even today, when my CSIR fellowship comes to Patna University, it mentions the name of my Pune college and the address is still that of my hostel in Pune. I know that tomorrow if someone else from my department is called for the Shyama Prasad Mukherji fellowship, they will perhaps remember my name for I have been, till date, the only student from my department to be called for that same fellowship.
I am not the only example of such irony. There will be hundreds of people like me. People who work there, have bought houses there, have lived in there for ages and ages and given the state the best years of their lives.
For what?
For being called ‘dung beetles’ and being the possessors of ‘rotten brains.’
Interesting.
(The author of this blog has often been accused of possessing a Marathi accent while speaking Hindi, has a large number of Maharashtrian friends and is well-liked amongst the lot for knowing passable Marathi. My dear average Maharshtrian – respect your language and culture. I agree it is worth it. Be proud of it. But come on! Stop being an Australian Cricketer about it. Er, did I mean Arrogant, when I accidentally typed Australian Cricketer? By the way, my knowing Marathi is not the only reason why my friends like me.)
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
That indestrucible thing called 'Rebecca'
What was Daphne Du Maurier thinking of when she penned 'Rebecca'? I'd give my eyeteeth to know that! For rarely has a reader come across a character that is, in the truest sense of the words, larger than life.
One of the most striking scenes of the book that impressed me was when the second Mrs. de Winter tears up and burns a page bearing Rebecca's handwriting and signature. The last scrap of paper to be destoyed was the one bearing the masterful 'R' of the Rebecca! Now that's indestructability for you!
Indeed, Rebecca is death's answer to life. She is the embodiment of death's win over life. Any spirit can take a crash course from her on how to haunt effectively. 'Cause, haunt she did, not with absurd ghostly manifestations, but with just that - her Spirit.
Am sure a stray reader of the book is bound to comment that half of Rebecca's haunting comes from the attitude of the second Mrs. de Winter's inherent mousiness and of course, Mrs. Danver's fanatic devotion. But tell me, do, isn't it the all-round praise of the dead Rebecca that makes the narrator, this second Mrs. de Winter more and more unsure of herself? What is the cause of that all-round praise? Rebecca herself. What is the cause of Mrs. Danver's adoration? Again Rebecca herself. It is she, Rebecca, who was so impressive in life that her imprint cannot be removed even after her death.
I am amazed at myself. I am, normally, a conventional admirer of goodness. Loyalty and truth appeal to me as a rule. But there is something infinitely attractive about the glaring immorality and garish rebellion of Rebecca. So immense is the power of her personality that coming from her, even the bad looks beautiful.
The credit surely goes to Du Maurier. How can she create such a strong personality without letting that character ever get to the fore of story-telling, is something that makes me want to take my hats off to her. Or perhaps that is the secret? By never letting Rebecca tell her story herself, and by throwing the circle of torch-light on her from different points, she shows to the reader a character never in full, but like a jigsaw puzzle. More bewitching, more enchanting.
The best lesson for amateur authors trying to tutor themselves in characterization. That's Rebecca, apart from being so much else!
One of the most striking scenes of the book that impressed me was when the second Mrs. de Winter tears up and burns a page bearing Rebecca's handwriting and signature. The last scrap of paper to be destoyed was the one bearing the masterful 'R' of the Rebecca! Now that's indestructability for you!
Indeed, Rebecca is death's answer to life. She is the embodiment of death's win over life. Any spirit can take a crash course from her on how to haunt effectively. 'Cause, haunt she did, not with absurd ghostly manifestations, but with just that - her Spirit.
Am sure a stray reader of the book is bound to comment that half of Rebecca's haunting comes from the attitude of the second Mrs. de Winter's inherent mousiness and of course, Mrs. Danver's fanatic devotion. But tell me, do, isn't it the all-round praise of the dead Rebecca that makes the narrator, this second Mrs. de Winter more and more unsure of herself? What is the cause of that all-round praise? Rebecca herself. What is the cause of Mrs. Danver's adoration? Again Rebecca herself. It is she, Rebecca, who was so impressive in life that her imprint cannot be removed even after her death.
I am amazed at myself. I am, normally, a conventional admirer of goodness. Loyalty and truth appeal to me as a rule. But there is something infinitely attractive about the glaring immorality and garish rebellion of Rebecca. So immense is the power of her personality that coming from her, even the bad looks beautiful.
The credit surely goes to Du Maurier. How can she create such a strong personality without letting that character ever get to the fore of story-telling, is something that makes me want to take my hats off to her. Or perhaps that is the secret? By never letting Rebecca tell her story herself, and by throwing the circle of torch-light on her from different points, she shows to the reader a character never in full, but like a jigsaw puzzle. More bewitching, more enchanting.
The best lesson for amateur authors trying to tutor themselves in characterization. That's Rebecca, apart from being so much else!
Monday, 4 February 2008
Lost in Screenplay
‘It would be a rare reader indeed who appreciated the celluloid adaptation of a well-liked book.’
I am quoting myself – I spoke about it once while arguing about Saawariya and White Nights.
Today I am inclined to dedicate a whole blog to this sentiment.
Take it from me – when you dislike the movie adaptation of a book you loved, go and thank the director.
Don’t understand what I mean? Read on.
As a fifteen year old I read a book titled ‘Five Little Pigs’ by Agatha Christie. There is something about all that Christie has written and there was something about this book that haunted me. There is some curious way by virtue of which Christie gave such enormous depth, such a three-dimensional quality to her characters. I generally re-read my Christies – indeed I have nearly memorized many of them. Not so with ‘Five Little Pigs’, for I happened to lose it and did not have the chance or even the inclination to buy it again and supplement my library (for there would always be some other Christie title that beckoned to me in the book shops, lol). Anyway, as I was saying, I could not re-read ‘Five Little Pigs’. The name of the characters, the intricacies of the plot passed out of mind. To be frank I even forgot the ending – not who the criminal was of course, Christie doesn’t allow you to let any of her books pass off into oblivion that much, but yes I did forget what happened to the other characters whose depth I have alluded to above.
But what I didn’t forget was the impression the book made on me. Since fifteen is an impressionable age you may say all the credit for impressing me cannot go to Christie, and so well it may be. But that is neither here nor there. Fact is I was thoroughly affected and stirred and moved by the book and the memory that I had been so affected stayed with me as I grew up.
Ten years later, I came across a movie adaptation of the book. In these ten years, I had matured enough not to hope too much, to know that disappointment in some measure was a surety and that I should not blame the movie-makers too much. With my mind already fortified enough to bear even the most atrocious digressions from the book, I was pleasantly surprised. It was not a bad adaptation at all. The book, I remember had haunted me and the movie was not lacking in depth either. With all concessions it was a very good adaptation and only the most fastidious reader would hate it. I shall hold my point that of all the movies made on Christie’s novels this one maintained the spirit of the book. Even the one glaring digression it did make was something understandable – as I re-read the book I realized that Christie, the mistress of innuendoes had indeed dropped enough hints and double entendres to justify the conclusion that the director made.
So far so good.
Trouble arose when I got my hands on the free e-book of ‘Five Little Pigs’. I could not deny myself the temptation to read it again, especially after having enjoyed its movie adaptation recently.
Ah! How I regret doing so now!
Deepti Singh, the reader has been vanquished by Paul Unwin, the Director if you allow me to be a bit melodramatic.
The book is now permanently spoilt for me. All the lingering allure it possessed for me has gone. My imagination has been restricted. My thoughts have been curtailed. My feelings are ambivalent. And all because of a decent movie adaptation! As a fifteen year old the Amyas Crale or Caroline Crale or Elsa Greer or Angela Warren had been picturised by me or the way their house had looked in my imagination or the way the painting had looked in my mind – all gone! Phut! Just like that! Now that I re-read it, the Amyas Crale I thought of was not mine anymore but the face of the actor the director had chosen. The Elsa Greer was not the same at all. Neither was Caroline. My mind kept flitting back to the motion picture. The book was not mine anymore!
I cannot express in words my disappointment. I wish I could format that drive of my brain that houses the memories of the movie. So that I can read this book again, imagine again, be impressed again, be stirred again. I blame myself for not giving this book as many perusals as it deserved, so that I could impinge it in my mind and protect it from the ramifications of the movie - like I managed with a another Christie title 'Sad Cypress'. But what's the good of that now! I have already let a good motion picture spoil a great book!
What a pity! It is not a bad movie adaptation of a good book that kills the book. For then at least the reader has his own impressions untampered with. Beware of the good adaptations!
I provide below the link of the free e-book. I envy those of you who shall read it the first time!
http://www.truly-free.org/
I am quoting myself – I spoke about it once while arguing about Saawariya and White Nights.
Today I am inclined to dedicate a whole blog to this sentiment.
Take it from me – when you dislike the movie adaptation of a book you loved, go and thank the director.
Don’t understand what I mean? Read on.
As a fifteen year old I read a book titled ‘Five Little Pigs’ by Agatha Christie. There is something about all that Christie has written and there was something about this book that haunted me. There is some curious way by virtue of which Christie gave such enormous depth, such a three-dimensional quality to her characters. I generally re-read my Christies – indeed I have nearly memorized many of them. Not so with ‘Five Little Pigs’, for I happened to lose it and did not have the chance or even the inclination to buy it again and supplement my library (for there would always be some other Christie title that beckoned to me in the book shops, lol). Anyway, as I was saying, I could not re-read ‘Five Little Pigs’. The name of the characters, the intricacies of the plot passed out of mind. To be frank I even forgot the ending – not who the criminal was of course, Christie doesn’t allow you to let any of her books pass off into oblivion that much, but yes I did forget what happened to the other characters whose depth I have alluded to above.
But what I didn’t forget was the impression the book made on me. Since fifteen is an impressionable age you may say all the credit for impressing me cannot go to Christie, and so well it may be. But that is neither here nor there. Fact is I was thoroughly affected and stirred and moved by the book and the memory that I had been so affected stayed with me as I grew up.
Ten years later, I came across a movie adaptation of the book. In these ten years, I had matured enough not to hope too much, to know that disappointment in some measure was a surety and that I should not blame the movie-makers too much. With my mind already fortified enough to bear even the most atrocious digressions from the book, I was pleasantly surprised. It was not a bad adaptation at all. The book, I remember had haunted me and the movie was not lacking in depth either. With all concessions it was a very good adaptation and only the most fastidious reader would hate it. I shall hold my point that of all the movies made on Christie’s novels this one maintained the spirit of the book. Even the one glaring digression it did make was something understandable – as I re-read the book I realized that Christie, the mistress of innuendoes had indeed dropped enough hints and double entendres to justify the conclusion that the director made.
So far so good.
Trouble arose when I got my hands on the free e-book of ‘Five Little Pigs’. I could not deny myself the temptation to read it again, especially after having enjoyed its movie adaptation recently.
Ah! How I regret doing so now!
Deepti Singh, the reader has been vanquished by Paul Unwin, the Director if you allow me to be a bit melodramatic.
The book is now permanently spoilt for me. All the lingering allure it possessed for me has gone. My imagination has been restricted. My thoughts have been curtailed. My feelings are ambivalent. And all because of a decent movie adaptation! As a fifteen year old the Amyas Crale or Caroline Crale or Elsa Greer or Angela Warren had been picturised by me or the way their house had looked in my imagination or the way the painting had looked in my mind – all gone! Phut! Just like that! Now that I re-read it, the Amyas Crale I thought of was not mine anymore but the face of the actor the director had chosen. The Elsa Greer was not the same at all. Neither was Caroline. My mind kept flitting back to the motion picture. The book was not mine anymore!
I cannot express in words my disappointment. I wish I could format that drive of my brain that houses the memories of the movie. So that I can read this book again, imagine again, be impressed again, be stirred again. I blame myself for not giving this book as many perusals as it deserved, so that I could impinge it in my mind and protect it from the ramifications of the movie - like I managed with a another Christie title 'Sad Cypress'. But what's the good of that now! I have already let a good motion picture spoil a great book!
What a pity! It is not a bad movie adaptation of a good book that kills the book. For then at least the reader has his own impressions untampered with. Beware of the good adaptations!
I provide below the link of the free e-book. I envy those of you who shall read it the first time!
http://www.truly-free.org/
Saturday, 2 February 2008
10 roles we assign to God
- God, the 'Sorry' reciver & transmitter
God, the Superman
God, the Scapegoat
God, the Santa Claus
God, the Ghost buster
God, the Humility-badge
God, the Bodyguard
God, the Plastic Surgeon
God, the Encyclopedia
God, the Socialist
Monday, 28 January 2008
10 Bollywood clichés
Cars/bikes parked on the roadside conveniently have the ignition key in the right place for the hero to use
Horses are meant for 2 purposes only – a) to be headstrong and be tamed by the hero after threatening to overthrow the heroine b) to come home wounded, as a loyal messenger that danger/death has befallen the hero’s brethren
Heroines shall wear short dresses during the happy hours; come tragedy and salwar kameez becomes the dress code
Unsuitable girlfriends (whom the hero eventually discards for the heroine) always wish to become models/film actresses
Daughters undergo a surprisingly swift turn-around of emotions soon as their daddys’ villainy is established
Heroines are extraordinarily fertile – often merely one night stands lead to pregnancy
Even the poorest hero’s mom shall offer lovely leaf tea to the rich heroine’s dad in a proper china tea set
College Principals are invariably buffoons of the first or second order
Rape victims wear dresses with easily detachable sleeves
Successful suicides – hanging. Unsuccessful suicides – the kerosene-on-body-in-the-kitchen act and the breaking-wine-bottles-on-wrists act
Sunday, 27 January 2008
10 original quotes/quips
If you believe in God you are a creature of realistic dreams
That which inspires Poetry is Beauty
Arrogance is a virtue if you can afford it
If you write well, you’ll bore your listeners
A good teacher was an average student
If life were easy each would have lived it
Most chefs are males because women cook for love
A Blackhole is the most selfish thing in the universe
A condom is an anti-evolution invention
What the camera-shy subject told the photographer – “I hate getting snapped at”
Friday, 4 January 2008
Liar Liar Pants on Fire!
Dr. (Mrs.) M., a Government Medical Officer gets posted in a small village A near the her city of residence B. On paper, she is staying right in that village A PHC (Public Health Center). In the eyes of the C.S.(Civil Surgeon) and D.M.(District Magistrate) of the district of village A, she is putting up in the modest town that calls itself the District Headquarter. For the M.O.I.C. (Medical Officer In-charge), she is there in the 'office' for half-a-day, twice-weekly. For truth's sake, she is living in her permanent residence, which is about two hours of motorable distance from her place of posting, in city B.
Within a few days of getting this posting, Dr. M. decides to buy a car. To buy a car from a showroom of city B, she has to apply for a loan from a national bank that has branches in that same city. Since banks do not give loans so easily, they deem it necessary to come and check out the donee's well-off-ness. Especially, since Dr. M. being joint-owner of a house in the said city is the guarantee of the loan. Hence, here are the harried instructions to yours truly - "When you answer the doorbell or the phone and someone asks for me, be very careful while answering. If it's the C.S. or D.M.'s office, then I am not living here. I am living there. If it's the Bankers, then I am not living there. I am living here."
Golmaal hai bhai sab golmaal hai?
Hear another one -A cousin of mine is fond of her little jokes. So much so, that if you get a much awaited phone call (say, a friend you happened to mention to her hadn't called you recently) and you get that call, it's likely to be her trying to pull off a prank. Or if you get a call from 'Kaun Banega Karorpati', think twice before you exult. Or if she tells you someone's coming tomorrow, that someone ain't likely to make an appearance in the next three months.You get the idea...
Now this dame gets herself a flight from Banglore to Calcutta in the morning, from where she has to board the connecting flight to our city in the evening. The flight timings are altered, because of which she has to board the airbus within 30 minutes of landing at Dumdum. Naturally, she gives us all a ring so that we can send the car to meet her flight at the right time. And, equally naturally, the conversation takes the following turn -
Cousin - Ma, my flight was re-scheduled. I am boarding the flight now. Come to pick me up in an hour.
Aunt - Hahaha...try another one.
Cousin - Ma! I am serious.
Aunt - Yeah, yeah. Bye beta. I understand you must be getting quite bored sitting alone at the airport.
Line disconnected.
My cousin franctically rings up my place.
Cousin - Didi, I am sitting in the connecting flight now - they re-scheduled the flight. Please tell Ma to send over the car.
Me - Heeheehee...who do you think you are talking to, darling. I know you.
Cousin - Di, please believe me. Can't you hear the pilot's instructions in the background?
Me - Oh yes, I can make out someone screeching his lungs out. Dumdum is an International airport honey. A busy one, too.
Cousin - Offo. Talk to this uncle who is sitting next to me. (Aside) - Uncle, please tell my cousin I am actually on board this flight.
Uncle - Hello? Yes, this girl is sitting next to me and we shall reach in an hour.
Me - Hahahaha. Good imitation, my love. You can't fool me any, though, am afraid.
Line Disconnected.
That day, my cousin came home by taxi, managing all the luggage with "uncle's" help, who remained very mystified and bemused throughout the journey.
And they say lies can help!
Within a few days of getting this posting, Dr. M. decides to buy a car. To buy a car from a showroom of city B, she has to apply for a loan from a national bank that has branches in that same city. Since banks do not give loans so easily, they deem it necessary to come and check out the donee's well-off-ness. Especially, since Dr. M. being joint-owner of a house in the said city is the guarantee of the loan. Hence, here are the harried instructions to yours truly - "When you answer the doorbell or the phone and someone asks for me, be very careful while answering. If it's the C.S. or D.M.'s office, then I am not living here. I am living there. If it's the Bankers, then I am not living there. I am living here."
Golmaal hai bhai sab golmaal hai?
Hear another one -A cousin of mine is fond of her little jokes. So much so, that if you get a much awaited phone call (say, a friend you happened to mention to her hadn't called you recently) and you get that call, it's likely to be her trying to pull off a prank. Or if you get a call from 'Kaun Banega Karorpati', think twice before you exult. Or if she tells you someone's coming tomorrow, that someone ain't likely to make an appearance in the next three months.You get the idea...
Now this dame gets herself a flight from Banglore to Calcutta in the morning, from where she has to board the connecting flight to our city in the evening. The flight timings are altered, because of which she has to board the airbus within 30 minutes of landing at Dumdum. Naturally, she gives us all a ring so that we can send the car to meet her flight at the right time. And, equally naturally, the conversation takes the following turn -
Cousin - Ma, my flight was re-scheduled. I am boarding the flight now. Come to pick me up in an hour.
Aunt - Hahaha...try another one.
Cousin - Ma! I am serious.
Aunt - Yeah, yeah. Bye beta. I understand you must be getting quite bored sitting alone at the airport.
Line disconnected.
My cousin franctically rings up my place.
Cousin - Didi, I am sitting in the connecting flight now - they re-scheduled the flight. Please tell Ma to send over the car.
Me - Heeheehee...who do you think you are talking to, darling. I know you.
Cousin - Di, please believe me. Can't you hear the pilot's instructions in the background?
Me - Oh yes, I can make out someone screeching his lungs out. Dumdum is an International airport honey. A busy one, too.
Cousin - Offo. Talk to this uncle who is sitting next to me. (Aside) - Uncle, please tell my cousin I am actually on board this flight.
Uncle - Hello? Yes, this girl is sitting next to me and we shall reach in an hour.
Me - Hahahaha. Good imitation, my love. You can't fool me any, though, am afraid.
Line Disconnected.
That day, my cousin came home by taxi, managing all the luggage with "uncle's" help, who remained very mystified and bemused throughout the journey.
And they say lies can help!
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