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.)
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
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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