The rains are a week late, and the stock exchange index loses value. Meanwhile, it is muggy here. Muggier than on most days. There will be relief when it rains. Rains and snow force people to create warmth in a way summer can't. Love stories will be read, fritters will be had, stories will be written - not all by hand. The rains, like snow, are a physical indicator of passing time. Years will be recalled by what fell from the sky.
Warning: story ahead. In Dubai it hailed once. We were in class, attentive towards the dark sky outside, distracted only by the faint voice of a lecturing history teacher. Dark skies meant rain, and rain meant a flooded school, because when it rained in Dubai, it rained. And we would go home. Then water pattered against the windows and into open school corridors, not falling downwards but seemingly sideways, with the wind wheezing and squeezing through cracks under doors and narrow spaces. We walked towards the exits at angles, feet always a few steps behind the head, fighting a furious wind that raised sand and caked it on our faces.
It was satisfying, for a high-school boy's aim is straightforward: how do I get out of school? This was a means to an end. But then, as we boarded a bus, something else happened, which I had hoped would happen again sometime, but never expected to see. Ice fell from the sky. Dubai, a desert on Latitude 16.55 East 25.6 North, to the west of Oman, north-east of Saudi Arabia, in a part of the world where it barely drizzled in some years, Dubai finally had hail. We scattered, bags over heads, fingers pelted by ice, in gleeful panic towards buses revving up to get out of there. Along the journey we saw all the things we had heard happened during hail. Cobwebs spun across windscreens, dented cars, accidents, rainbow-streaked oil spills, and the world looking like an ice-factory explosion. The day passed in breathless descriptions of sights and sounds and mock fear and telephone calls to friends in various parts of the city - "It's going to hail here; I saw something fall, I swear!"
The next day, assignments were given: "What is hail?", "What is the greenhouse effect?", "Write a 500-word essay on pollution." Subdued students stared at skies, wondering when they'd see ice from the sky again.
Years later, a subdued adult stares out his window, wondering why why why the sky is so blue, and why it doesn't just rain.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
Inner Ecstasy
Just yesterday, a cricketer, Asim Butt, was charged with substance abuse. The use of this recreational drug, Ecstasy, meant that he was banned for a year. The drug is illegal, but what does it actually do? Here's a pretty good account of the experience:
This isn't the best part of 'Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater', an essay in Granta which describes, vividly, how a man turns to his son for drugs and what happens to both their lives. Interesting stuff there.
It distinctly was not an out-of-the-body experience, as it was not a mind-expanding one... It distinctly was a further-into-the-body experience, and a mind-clarifying one. An impenetrably penetrating experience. An excavation of the self. An exhumation of the other. Because that is how one finds gold—one exhumes it, excavates, one digs for it, deep, and deeper.
This isn't the best part of 'Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater', an essay in Granta which describes, vividly, how a man turns to his son for drugs and what happens to both their lives. Interesting stuff there.
Ex-art director
I should have known better. There's no reading substitute for black text on a white page. I'll keep the layout, but change the colour. The font size will seem bigger that way. That'll be my last experiment with this layout for a while.
All those lessons in art direction. All gone.
All those lessons in art direction. All gone.
The flavour of history
Lately, I've been reading up a lot on India for a project; its history, myths, and other stories that don't find their way into newspapers for a number of obvious reasons: controversy, fear of taking a stand, ignorance, or not enough current news value. The authors of these books are Indian and foreigners, and even though I'm just starting to discover Indian history (never having lived here, I studied European history in school and university), I find that the more enjoyable reads and the more relaxed prose comes from non-Indians. It could be my inexperience, but there is a sense of discovery to their books, and they express it simply, which is delightful. They find stories within history, knowing that history by itself can be interesting, but weighty. There are attempts to humanise the past and place it in the context of the present, and this brings history alive, and prompts questions and curiosity; it is very much like having an interesting teacher who makes you question, rather than one who comes to class, lectures, and disappears.
The Indian books I've read so far have, in comparison, the feeling that the subject of history is so jaded that it leaves me jaded. History is often put down pat, as if it were more a 12th-grade textbook and less something to be understood and enjoyed. I've had to read many of Romila Thapar's sentences three times to understand certain things. It was like being back in school again, where many textbooks had history with none of the excitement of history.
It is a pity because our history, I'm realising more and more, has some interesting periods that have relevance to today. The anti-conversion law, for instance, is not in keeping with our past or anything like that: it only clamps down on individuals. If protecting a religion is the aim, it's an utterly short-term aim, because religions expand and contract over centuries: Buddhism, for example, grew to become the state religion before Hinduism had a major revival, while Jainism went from being a major religion to a minor one. It takes centuries, you learn from history.
But back to books: in the end it really doesn't matter who knowledge comes from if it is accurate and readable. Indian or foreigner, it doesn't matter at all; it's just that one group is a lot more readable at the moment.
Update: Amit points out a piece by Ram Guha on - among other things - why Indian historians sound so laboured. Here's the piece, and here's Mr. Indiauncut's post from February.
Further update: The man's turning out to be my trove on this subject. Here's Rudrangshee Mukherjee on why there isn't any style in Indian history writing, and this is Amit's post.
The Indian books I've read so far have, in comparison, the feeling that the subject of history is so jaded that it leaves me jaded. History is often put down pat, as if it were more a 12th-grade textbook and less something to be understood and enjoyed. I've had to read many of Romila Thapar's sentences three times to understand certain things. It was like being back in school again, where many textbooks had history with none of the excitement of history.
It is a pity because our history, I'm realising more and more, has some interesting periods that have relevance to today. The anti-conversion law, for instance, is not in keeping with our past or anything like that: it only clamps down on individuals. If protecting a religion is the aim, it's an utterly short-term aim, because religions expand and contract over centuries: Buddhism, for example, grew to become the state religion before Hinduism had a major revival, while Jainism went from being a major religion to a minor one. It takes centuries, you learn from history.
But back to books: in the end it really doesn't matter who knowledge comes from if it is accurate and readable. Indian or foreigner, it doesn't matter at all; it's just that one group is a lot more readable at the moment.
Update: Amit points out a piece by Ram Guha on - among other things - why Indian historians sound so laboured. Here's the piece, and here's Mr. Indiauncut's post from February.
Further update: The man's turning out to be my trove on this subject. Here's Rudrangshee Mukherjee on why there isn't any style in Indian history writing, and this is Amit's post.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Shashi Kapoor's Bombay
A wind picked up and swept across land near the Arabian sea, bringing respite and hope and an upward glance to see how dark the clouds were. But it was not yet time. Moonlight penetrated the foliage of trees and illuminated the red-brick path before us, as well as the man who approached us slowly; we had never met before. Tall, balding and wearing clothes that betrayed a particularly savage day at the office, he slung his bag over his shoulder and took step beside us. His head and eyes ran up and down and back up us again, telling him everything he needed to know. Not a foot separated him and us, and I looked ahead, straining not to glance at him, but keeping watch at our three shadows cast by the streetlights behind us. Then he spoke clearly, with deep feeling, "Mere paas bangla hai, gaadi hai. Tumhare paas kya hai?"
This is Prithvi, whose environment encourages a mad spontaneity. Performing isn't only on stage; it seeps through the exits and into the public area outside, where the dinners on stone benches come with the odd loud dramatic announcement: "No, I will not have your children." Heads will turn towards the source of this vehement confession, half-embarrassed, always curious, then disappointed that it was only an act, but in hindsight admiring of the convincing delivery.
The large acting community is small, for aspirers recognize other aspirers, and just as envy is ever-present, so is a smile of recognition. Tables meant for four will have seven plates on them, chairs not a foot wide will have two seated, waiters will nod and bring teas without asking, knowing how much of what to serve when. For the unfamiliar ones, the gravel beneath and the bamboo sticks above provide familiarity with a deep-rooted self, the part that yearns for silence and baser things. But baser things apart, there is the walnut brownie and Irish coffee which are unrivaled in their potency.
On some days Shashi Kapoor ambles in and sits beneath a tree, leaning forward to autograph and be photographed, and then settling back comfortably after his fans have retreated. Waiters will rush by with water and other things, like offerings for a rather large idol. I remember him looking dapper in his pilot's uniform in movies, appearing more charming than Amitabh or Dharmendra or Vinod Khanna. Still, he's absolutely huggable. With him and a few others, this isn't just a theater, it is a commune.
If you have only an hour in Bombay and wish to see as much of it as possible, don't go anywhere else, just come right here. This is where you will see what the city used to be, as well as its spontaneity and madness and Bollywood. You might not see corruption or poverty here, but you will go away with a feeling, or even several feelings. They will tell you a lot about Bombay.
This is Prithvi, whose environment encourages a mad spontaneity. Performing isn't only on stage; it seeps through the exits and into the public area outside, where the dinners on stone benches come with the odd loud dramatic announcement: "No, I will not have your children." Heads will turn towards the source of this vehement confession, half-embarrassed, always curious, then disappointed that it was only an act, but in hindsight admiring of the convincing delivery.
The large acting community is small, for aspirers recognize other aspirers, and just as envy is ever-present, so is a smile of recognition. Tables meant for four will have seven plates on them, chairs not a foot wide will have two seated, waiters will nod and bring teas without asking, knowing how much of what to serve when. For the unfamiliar ones, the gravel beneath and the bamboo sticks above provide familiarity with a deep-rooted self, the part that yearns for silence and baser things. But baser things apart, there is the walnut brownie and Irish coffee which are unrivaled in their potency.
On some days Shashi Kapoor ambles in and sits beneath a tree, leaning forward to autograph and be photographed, and then settling back comfortably after his fans have retreated. Waiters will rush by with water and other things, like offerings for a rather large idol. I remember him looking dapper in his pilot's uniform in movies, appearing more charming than Amitabh or Dharmendra or Vinod Khanna. Still, he's absolutely huggable. With him and a few others, this isn't just a theater, it is a commune.
If you have only an hour in Bombay and wish to see as much of it as possible, don't go anywhere else, just come right here. This is where you will see what the city used to be, as well as its spontaneity and madness and Bollywood. You might not see corruption or poverty here, but you will go away with a feeling, or even several feelings. They will tell you a lot about Bombay.
Monday, June 06, 2005
It all comes down to better pavements
A frequent problem drivers experience on Bombay roads is the intrusion of their 'space'. This results in damaged sides and fenders. Last night, after a rickshaw managed to violently bump into the back of my car in slow traffic, it seemed that minor changes in the law could lead to more organised traffic, which would ensure a smooth flow and fewer road accidents.
Bus drivers tend to cut across lanes after dropping off passengers at a bus depot, not only holding up the cars behind in their own lane, but causing an immediate stoppage in the lane they've just entered. There's a reason why they don't stick to one lane. It's because people often use that lane as a parking spot, or rickshaw drivers tend to drive very lowly there. My recommendation is, these cars should be towed away, and rickshaw drivers should, on no condition, stop there to pick up passengers.
Another recommendation is, mandatory use of indicators. There also has to be lane discipline. Don't swerve between lanes just because there's a slow car ahead of you. And for heaven's sake, don't drive your car right between two lanes.
One other thing the authorities could observe is jaywalking. Driving is tough enough without having to look out for others, especially pedestrians. It might not be possible to prevent jaywalkers, but fines or even simple instructions to use the zebra crossing (hah!) could help. But there is one other problem here. People walk on roads because there are no pavements. So by creating pavements or other walking spaces, a significant number of walkers are off the streets, and this could actually lead to less stressful driving, and less of the siege mentality that both drivers and pedestrians acquire on the street. Could this lead to a somewhat less-stressed city?
Bus drivers tend to cut across lanes after dropping off passengers at a bus depot, not only holding up the cars behind in their own lane, but causing an immediate stoppage in the lane they've just entered. There's a reason why they don't stick to one lane. It's because people often use that lane as a parking spot, or rickshaw drivers tend to drive very lowly there. My recommendation is, these cars should be towed away, and rickshaw drivers should, on no condition, stop there to pick up passengers.
Another recommendation is, mandatory use of indicators. There also has to be lane discipline. Don't swerve between lanes just because there's a slow car ahead of you. And for heaven's sake, don't drive your car right between two lanes.
One other thing the authorities could observe is jaywalking. Driving is tough enough without having to look out for others, especially pedestrians. It might not be possible to prevent jaywalkers, but fines or even simple instructions to use the zebra crossing (hah!) could help. But there is one other problem here. People walk on roads because there are no pavements. So by creating pavements or other walking spaces, a significant number of walkers are off the streets, and this could actually lead to less stressful driving, and less of the siege mentality that both drivers and pedestrians acquire on the street. Could this lead to a somewhat less-stressed city?
Sunday, June 05, 2005
D
D is, in a way, an art director's movie. Language is sparse, while the background score and lighting convey mood. Scenes are framed like paintings, with light and dark often creating tension out of nothing in an environment that we are familiar with. This is apt, for it tells us that violence is never far in this city. It is this subtle message that runs across the movie; a man is pushed off a train and people pretend to not notice; a daytime shoot-out occurs at a bungalow off a road in Juhu.
The movie's director is Vishram Sawant, who did time in the gritty underworld of advertising, where knives and shredders lie easily beside 2b pencils and yellow writing pads (I'm kidding, it's not that bad.). In his version of Bombay there is no agonising over moral dilemmas or some such. You want to shoot? Shoot. Don't want to? Don't. In hindsight, I like this movie even more because it presents Deshu's journey as a set of clear-cut decisions which he knows he alone is responsible for.
There are wonderful moments that help us understand this man who covers his emotions with a straight face and sunglasses. One such instance is when Deshu exercises his power without moving a finger, imagining a policeman who tormented him previously squirming somewhere while wondering when Deshu would pack him off. These throwaway lines and thoughts are what help us form impressions of people. They may not always be accurate, but they are good guides. For example, the first time he smiles is during a conversation with an actress he's protecting. It's a part of him not many others will see.
On opening a few papers this morning, I noticed the reviews were harsh. Perhaps they know better, but I didn't see much wrong with it, and feel that even if this movie's setting is similar to the one in Ab Tak Chappan, Satya, and Company, it adds to our understanding of the different characters who make up the underworld. And even if it doesn't do that for you, why not look at it as an individual piece of work, rather than compare? If there's anything I don't understand, it's the mind of an Indian newspaper movie reviewer.
Postscript: This was on Rediff's movie review: "...Randeep Hooda [Deshu] is star material, as long as he does not shave his stubble."
One big sigh.
The movie's director is Vishram Sawant, who did time in the gritty underworld of advertising, where knives and shredders lie easily beside 2b pencils and yellow writing pads (I'm kidding, it's not that bad.). In his version of Bombay there is no agonising over moral dilemmas or some such. You want to shoot? Shoot. Don't want to? Don't. In hindsight, I like this movie even more because it presents Deshu's journey as a set of clear-cut decisions which he knows he alone is responsible for.
There are wonderful moments that help us understand this man who covers his emotions with a straight face and sunglasses. One such instance is when Deshu exercises his power without moving a finger, imagining a policeman who tormented him previously squirming somewhere while wondering when Deshu would pack him off. These throwaway lines and thoughts are what help us form impressions of people. They may not always be accurate, but they are good guides. For example, the first time he smiles is during a conversation with an actress he's protecting. It's a part of him not many others will see.
On opening a few papers this morning, I noticed the reviews were harsh. Perhaps they know better, but I didn't see much wrong with it, and feel that even if this movie's setting is similar to the one in Ab Tak Chappan, Satya, and Company, it adds to our understanding of the different characters who make up the underworld. And even if it doesn't do that for you, why not look at it as an individual piece of work, rather than compare? If there's anything I don't understand, it's the mind of an Indian newspaper movie reviewer.
Postscript: This was on Rediff's movie review: "...Randeep Hooda [Deshu] is star material, as long as he does not shave his stubble."
One big sigh.
The other genius
While reading James Gleick's Genius, a book about Richard Feynman, a passage in the prologue caught my attention. In this, Mark Kac, the mathematician, beautifully describes why Feynman, a brilliant man in many ways, left behind few students.
As a cricket writer, I find myself wondering if this paragraph could be applied to Sachin Tendulkar. During his time as captain there were suggestions he lost his cool with teammates if they failed to complete a task he considered simple. Could it be that to Tendulkar's magical genius, Rahul Dravid is an ordinary genius, for his excellence at orthodoxy is obvious and easily understood? Both men play the game in their mind, but one was born with it, while the other worked towards it. This could also be another advantage if Dravid becomes captain. He could coherently help players understand their talents better.
Postscript: There are others more qualified to speak about minds, genius, and psychology, but this passage, accurate or not, struck a chord with me. I thought I'd share it with you.
"There are two kinds of geniuses, the "ordinary" and the "magicians." An ordinary genius is a fellow that you and I would be just as good as, if we were only many times better. There is no mystery as to how his mind works. Once we understand what they have done, we feel certain that we, too, could have done it. It is different with the magicians. They are, to use mathematical jargon, in the orthogonal complement of where we are and the working of their mind is for all intents and purposes incomprehensible. Even after we understand what they have done, the process by which they have done it is completely dark. They seldom, if ever, have students because they cannot be emulated and it must be terribly frustrating for a brilliant young mind to cope with the mysterious ways in which the magician's mind works." [Italics mine.]
As a cricket writer, I find myself wondering if this paragraph could be applied to Sachin Tendulkar. During his time as captain there were suggestions he lost his cool with teammates if they failed to complete a task he considered simple. Could it be that to Tendulkar's magical genius, Rahul Dravid is an ordinary genius, for his excellence at orthodoxy is obvious and easily understood? Both men play the game in their mind, but one was born with it, while the other worked towards it. This could also be another advantage if Dravid becomes captain. He could coherently help players understand their talents better.
Postscript: There are others more qualified to speak about minds, genius, and psychology, but this passage, accurate or not, struck a chord with me. I thought I'd share it with you.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Snip
I love this. Ram Gopal Varma announces that he'll be making yet another movie about the fascinating Mumbai underworld some months ago. At first we refer to it as 'D-company', and that's how the film is discussed - as one about Dawood Ibrahim, who's living it up on the other side of the border. So months go by, Randeep Hooda cultivates a nice frenchie, finds a pair of sunglasses that look just like Dawood's (the triangular kind with the rounded corners), and posters of the movie - now called just 'D' - are stuck up everywhere.
And then, five days before the movie is released - and this is the part I enjoy most - Varma allegedly receives a call from Dawood, who asks what the movie is about, ie. "Is it about moi?" No, Varma is reported to have said. You are a muslim based in Pakistan, and my character is a hindu who lives in Bombay.
And yet, replace Dawood with the censor board, nothing changes. In Maximum City, Suketu Mehta writes of an instance where Mahesh Bhatt is before the censor board, who haven't seen his to-be-released movie, Zakhm, and are wondering what bits to cut. This happens after the all the hard work is done and it is on the verge of release. Replace Zakhm with Black Friday or numerous other films. The filmmaker has no idea of who is going to object to what and when. Most probably, questions will be asked a day or two before the film is released. This benefits no one. Perhaps there could be proper channels and a timeframe to air greviances. That way the business of making films could be less complicated. How that'll stop Dawood from calling up people at odd hours I don't know, but it'll prevent the censor board from clowning around too much as and when it wants.
And then, five days before the movie is released - and this is the part I enjoy most - Varma allegedly receives a call from Dawood, who asks what the movie is about, ie. "Is it about moi?" No, Varma is reported to have said. You are a muslim based in Pakistan, and my character is a hindu who lives in Bombay.
And yet, replace Dawood with the censor board, nothing changes. In Maximum City, Suketu Mehta writes of an instance where Mahesh Bhatt is before the censor board, who haven't seen his to-be-released movie, Zakhm, and are wondering what bits to cut. This happens after the all the hard work is done and it is on the verge of release. Replace Zakhm with Black Friday or numerous other films. The filmmaker has no idea of who is going to object to what and when. Most probably, questions will be asked a day or two before the film is released. This benefits no one. Perhaps there could be proper channels and a timeframe to air greviances. That way the business of making films could be less complicated. How that'll stop Dawood from calling up people at odd hours I don't know, but it'll prevent the censor board from clowning around too much as and when it wants.
The Storyboard Treatment: Superheroes
He's Superman, she's Spiderwoman. They're caucasian. He's way too happy. She doesn't need a mask and her costume is stretched to the limits around her hips. It is a match made in heaven: DC's Superman and Marvel's Spiderwoman (if she truly exists) are dancing together. Dancing like they've fallen in love and have run away from home. Dancing with joy, vigour and around a tree. They've fallen in love, so who needs to save the world; love will save the day. So they dance and dance and dance while their friends (the justice league? The X-Men?) prance around in the background. But wait, is that Clark Kent? A bird? A plane? No, it's Govinda. And the other unmasked menace (where's Jonah Jameson when you really want to tip him off?) is Kimi Katkar.
Just how was this song part of a movie?
Just how was this song part of a movie?
Discovering each other again
Someone, somewhere, wrote that travel writing was the last resort of the failed writer. I forget who it was, or where I read it, but it stuck with me. More like haunted me as I seriously thought of taking it up. But all the same, when I get out and write about travel, it strikes me as difficult; not at all a last resort. Infact it takes a level of skill to pull it off. Too involved, and you come off looking self-obsessed; too detached, and the piece might feel impersonal. Then in between, there's history, modernity, the people to cover. It's not a last resort by a long shot. And then there's the worry about how Bryson, Dalrymple or Pico would have described the place. Their impressions would have been masterful, so where does one stand?
How well could they describe places they had lived all their lives? It's quite strange to look at your own residence with a traveller's eye. A hair saloon is a hair saloon. In any other city, it would have been a cultural statement. Restaurants are places that feed you. In other cities, they become part of a bigger picture or a culture. Then there are prejudices. I feel a certain way about the inhabitants of my suburb, Andheri, and quite another about the folks in Bandra. It's not easy to look at things too differently. But then I suppose this genre of writing forces you to open your eyes and look differently.
I'm writing all this because of a piece I have to write about Indore - a place I visited every year and formed rigid impressions about. Then, during the course of this research, I saw the city again after much hard work. It had changed in the gradual way that clouds blow, and was now clearly a new city. It felt like getting to know a new person. Or an old person again.
How well could they describe places they had lived all their lives? It's quite strange to look at your own residence with a traveller's eye. A hair saloon is a hair saloon. In any other city, it would have been a cultural statement. Restaurants are places that feed you. In other cities, they become part of a bigger picture or a culture. Then there are prejudices. I feel a certain way about the inhabitants of my suburb, Andheri, and quite another about the folks in Bandra. It's not easy to look at things too differently. But then I suppose this genre of writing forces you to open your eyes and look differently.
I'm writing all this because of a piece I have to write about Indore - a place I visited every year and formed rigid impressions about. Then, during the course of this research, I saw the city again after much hard work. It had changed in the gradual way that clouds blow, and was now clearly a new city. It felt like getting to know a new person. Or an old person again.
The doctor is in
Was away for a few days partly because I couldn't look at the screen anymore, or read books. It was the small print.
But I'm back now. Irregular blogging resumes.
But I'm back now. Irregular blogging resumes.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
I'll have that. And that and that and that and...
Not long ago, we were outside doing a round of the roadside stalls. So much food. So much bloody food. And we ate all of it. All for a piece for a newspaper. And we've come home now because the stomachs can't take any more. And yet, ten minutes from now, we'll be back on the streets to explore and eat some more.
One thing's for sure: the food here is fabulous. This is the most fulfilling article ever.
One thing's for sure: the food here is fabulous. This is the most fulfilling article ever.
Baran
Sweltering morning heat made way for a breeze that sprung from nowhere. Sweat froze, travelled upwards, and sank back into skin. Clouds grew puffier with every passing hour; dark travellers poised to revive in their wake. We sped away on a motorbike, trying to surge ahead, beyond our pursuer, giggling as we swerved around carts, families and the other obstacles an Indian road throws up, for we knew it was futile. But we slowed, daring it to catch us. Then I felt it on my neck. It was cool; a single touch cooling an entire body. I reached behind slowly to confirm what I had already known. The rains had come.
Friday, May 27, 2005
That special ingredient
When I visit family after a long time, I find that no matter how much we've changed, love finds a medium in food. What would you like to have, they ask shortly after I've unpacked my bags. Tell us all your favourite foods. What would you like to have for lunch? For dinner? For breakfast? In between? Between the two tea breaks between lunch and dinner? And what would you like to drink with each meal? Mango shake? Banana shake? Pepsi? A special recipe? No, don't have just one, have more. And then have one more!
How much love can one take? In this matter, I've learnt today, it is best to exercise some restraint. No more blogging till tomorrow. I'm recovering from love.
How much love can one take? In this matter, I've learnt today, it is best to exercise some restraint. No more blogging till tomorrow. I'm recovering from love.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
The real fourth umpire
During my years in New York I waited up at night, hitting the reload button to see if this man had written anything new, because anything he wrote was absolutely riveting. His commentary sang to me, and I loved how he went after cricket administrators on days when there were no matches. So problematic was his website for the BCCI that they did not allow them press passes, if I remember correctly. The man's name is Prem Paniker, and here's his blog: Fourth Umpire - not to be confused with Doordarshan's pre-match program where Srikanth murders Hindi and a recent probable Indian coach (okay, Mohinder Amarnath) sings patriotic songs.
It's still young, but it has a shape already. Check it out. He's in New York now, and as sharp as ever about what the game's up to.
It's still young, but it has a shape already. Check it out. He's in New York now, and as sharp as ever about what the game's up to.
Hookah delight
The cousin is hooked on hookahs. Not the hardcore kind with tobacco, but a safer version I'd call Hookah Lite. But he won't go just anywhere for this delicacy that allows him the freedom to exhale smoke without a parental caution. No, it has to be at Mr. Bean, a charming cafe in an old bungalow. So, after much enticing, we visited it with a few cousins.
It was literally like a restaurant in a house. You walk through the living room to make your order in the dining room. From there you settle into an adjoining bedroom with leather couches and are lulled into a motionless state by pleasant music. Glass walls separate rooms where the scene played out is similar: college heros and their heroines slumped on couches with a hookah pipe in their hand and a glazed look in their eyes, heads swaying gently to the music.
There he had his hookah, a double-apple, and tried blowing out smoke in rings while scandalised younger cousins watched in awe. "Can I try it?" asked the seven-year-old.
"No. You have to wait until you're in the tenth standard."
Silence.
"You can blow smoke from your mouth and nostrils, but can you blow it out of your ears?"
Entirely apt conversation in a smoky haze in a coffee shop that's actually a house in Indore at 3:30 in the afternoon.
It was literally like a restaurant in a house. You walk through the living room to make your order in the dining room. From there you settle into an adjoining bedroom with leather couches and are lulled into a motionless state by pleasant music. Glass walls separate rooms where the scene played out is similar: college heros and their heroines slumped on couches with a hookah pipe in their hand and a glazed look in their eyes, heads swaying gently to the music.
There he had his hookah, a double-apple, and tried blowing out smoke in rings while scandalised younger cousins watched in awe. "Can I try it?" asked the seven-year-old.
"No. You have to wait until you're in the tenth standard."
Silence.
"You can blow smoke from your mouth and nostrils, but can you blow it out of your ears?"
Entirely apt conversation in a smoky haze in a coffee shop that's actually a house in Indore at 3:30 in the afternoon.
No cows? It must be Mcdonalds
I was here a little more than a year ago. The cows - there were so many! - have nearly disappeared. I wonder if it has something to do with Indore's push towards some sort of modernity, of which smooth roads are a good indicator - and there are plenty of new roads here.
This is a far cry from something I had heard in Delhi. A politician from Bihar had recently moved to Vasant Vihar. Upon discovering that influential Biharis lived there, he promised them that cows would be allowed free rein there. So he opened up the gates to several farms and cows, lots of cows, now park themselves on the streets of what is a rather pretty area. It could just be a story. But I did see the cows.
This is a far cry from something I had heard in Delhi. A politician from Bihar had recently moved to Vasant Vihar. Upon discovering that influential Biharis lived there, he promised them that cows would be allowed free rein there. So he opened up the gates to several farms and cows, lots of cows, now park themselves on the streets of what is a rather pretty area. It could just be a story. But I did see the cows.
Constable's clouds
Jet Airways' flight 9W 381 to Indore was like any other flight to anywhere else. It involved a take-off, a cruise, and then a landing. But like every other journey, what lay beyond the window made it different. Somewhere over Powai lake, the aircraft returned to level. Below was a groggy Bombay. So there was little movement, except for specks of orange and white around temples on hilltops.
But up where we were, there was a different spectacle. In the distance a single layer of thick clouds stretched across the horizon, like an unreal world floating above the real one. They were dark grey and white and grey and pale. They were the same colour as the clouds in John Constable's paintings after his wife died. This was where Odin and Thor and all my Marvel-Comic-characters would play and woo and wage war. This was our monsoon.
But up where we were, there was a different spectacle. In the distance a single layer of thick clouds stretched across the horizon, like an unreal world floating above the real one. They were dark grey and white and grey and pale. They were the same colour as the clouds in John Constable's paintings after his wife died. This was where Odin and Thor and all my Marvel-Comic-characters would play and woo and wage war. This was our monsoon.
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