Homeland-Insecurity dept.

Lovable American Desi works like a mule, pouring bucketfulls of sweaty money into the American social security system (which he knows is going to give him a royal thengaa), only to find himself swindled out of an ethnic identity and emotional security. With great enterprise (and some steadfast support from his best buddy -- also a Desi), he extracts a two-week leave and returns to his Des for some spiritual R&R.

Aforementioned Desi is actually Shah-Rukh Khan in a Caravan, who in a subtle masterstroke is also simultaneously running a giant sleeper ad campaign for Phillip Morris Inc. Calmly he winds his way unobstructed through the idyllic countryside in search of his lost Aaaya. There he meets interesting, lovable, quirky people with some equally quirky problems. Also a really dapper school teacher (with what seems like an inexhaustible wardrobe of the best Kanjeevaram silk), who, after a still-born first impression, he manages to thaw into some edible state after a cleverly disguised item number masquerading as a Ram-Leela performance. Together they run amok reminding all those country bumpkins what bumbling fools they really are. The country bumpkins listen patiently, agree, then help Desi Dude build a neat-little science project.

The dude though, himself briefly dithers before he makes the obvious choice -- he dumps his silver Jag and a swanky apartment (with wooden flooring and designer plumbing!!!) plus a job managing a satellite that looks strangely like Space Shuttle Columbia for a lifetime of replenishing his Desi Ma'am's Kanjeevaram wardrobe.

Oh, and all the time he's away, best buddy faithfully handles his boss John Q.Something and covers for him with unselfish generosity. Like any other typical Desi, he covers his manager's ass without coveting his manager's job.

Right...

Sigh! If only real life could be that simple...

since-we-are-in-verse-mode dept.

I can see the world turning in its haste to engulf itself
I do not see myself segregated from it; I am It, it is Me
I am but a little eddy in a heady whirl of unheard voices
A little furl of cloth in the violent seas, merrily riding on

I have been a criminal, a liar, deeply have I offended
(I have even felt softly rising, the pangs of remorse)
I have walked upon this earth, on my own feet, jaded
And declared: none was like me, nor will there be another

one-before-i-turn-in dept.

With every aching bone, and a tired mind,
embrace the night; welcoming, knowing
Shoved around in the bustle outside
for you, the gift: the joy of forgetting

there-and-back-again dept.

In the last four days, I have travelled almost 900 kilometres, 450 of
which I drove myself. Which isn't much, considering my previous expolits in the great American emptiness, but significant nevertheless.

And at each end of the journey, waits a different life, with people with a different idea of who I am, holding on to radically incompatible symbols that represent the idea of who I am for them. And whats more, holding out the unreasonably intransigent expectation that I yield unquestionably to their stupid prejudices. More than the driving, its the patience that has to be shown with childish incomprehension that is more tiresome.

I think I know now how kindergarten teachers feel :).

Going to Sleep

Now that day wearies me,
My yearning desire,
will receive more kindly,
like a tired child, the starry night

Hands, leave off your deeds
mind, forget all thoughts;
All of my forces
yearn only to sink into sleep.

And my soul, unguarded,
would soar on widespread wings,
to live in night's magical sphere
More profoundly, more variously.

-- Hermann Hesse

Fading star, memories of those that were,
With the eye, firm, beholding the new light
The coldness within, will stay awhile, awhile
Softly, the wind blows, the day arrives.

Cold, cold heart, indulge me some more
Partake of this, the unstained warm delight
No sun waits for the the dew drop's shiver
No pain falters , a leaf is not that shall not wither

that-same-old-tune-again dept.

Again a tryst with my old friend, the grim reaper. This time he was standing ominously in a passage, and I sighted him and looked him in the eyes. Some part of me must be indentured to him, for him to stalk me so obsessively. One day, under a clear sky we shall meet, and settle our account.

bull[ae]-shah-di-gal dept.

In one of my desultory channel browsing sessions (the only effective algorithm to watch television without ending up buying a .44-steel-cast Magnum and shooting up everything in sight), I was rivetted by a video on one of the Punjabi music channels. A Sardar in full regalia, strumming a six-string all over India. The artist: Rabbi Shergill, and the song was "Bulla ki Jaanaa", his rendition of the famous Kafi by 18th-century Sufi saint Bulla-Shah (also known as Bulle-Shah, I'm told, but that does not mitigate his name one bit ;)). Needless to say, since I have recently been impressed by many things Punjabi (pronounced Ohye, Punhjhaabbee!), I managed to get my hands on the album.

I was impressed with what seems to be a debut album. The lyrics are good (all in Punjabi), with a few classical selections like the Bull[ae]-Shah poem, and some by other famous Punjabi poets. Rabbi writes amazingly perceptive lyrics himself, but comes up a little short on composition. The result is this odd feeling you get on the B-sides of listening to Walt Whitman recited to the tune of Raghupati Raghav Rajaa Ram. Well, maybe it needs a bit of getting used to or maybe the engineering on these songs is a little overwrought. But this man's talent as a bard/balladeer is undeniable. In this age of mindless Britney-pop, he is a true visionary, a man with depth and true insight, and most important of all, great emotional sincerity. No wonder he was given the boot by all the recording labels before being signed on by the guys who founded Tehelka.

A good read is this article by Minty Tejpal of Tehelka, documenting Rabbi's journey.

and-in-other-news dept.

The doctrine of puritanism must probably be as old as religion itself (or perhaps, it is religion itself?). Every few years sees the emergence of a new species -- a new shade of the same old color. There must exist some well-defined pattern behind this cycle of resurgence and demise. There also seem to be many flavors of puritanism -- one that arises out of economic upheaval, one that is brought on as a reaction to rapid social change etc. etc.

I don't know much about history, but here's a highly readable article that describes the evolution of English Puritanism. The article's main theme is a polemic that correlates it with the current wave of Christian conservatism that Bush seemed to ride on to victory in the recent U.S. Presidential Elections. But still, readable nonetheless...

yawn dept.

Read this on a blog somewhere...

It is a great privilege to work with individuals who possess a scientific temper and an inquisitive and open mind. More so because India is so pathetically fanatical about its cults and religions and irrational belief systems and such people are in short supply. How often does one have to squirm in silence on encountering irritating bottom-dwellers who will prattle on about their latest pyramid business scheme, or rant ceaselessly about other religions and modes of thought other than their own. Its refreshing to meet people who have the self-belief to say "we don't have all the answers", and not try to ascribe to their own ideas some atrociously inflationary levels of importance.

That there is an inhumane racial, economic (whatever, just add to the list) social hierarchy strangling independent thought in this country is obvious. Go to any city and talk to the young men and women just out of schools. Listen to the content of their language. Eighty percent of it is junk that is purely related to their immediate social environment ("XXX met YYY and they had dinner at ZZZ"). The ability to abstract is zero. The ability to relate to those not within their social sphere is zero. Well, but is the situation any different elsewhere? Probably not. I remember in college having to struggle to find friends that I could relate to. So much of our thought is lost in the nuances of our language. And so much of our thought is governed by the way we use language. How is a rational man to hold on in a sea of humanity that refuses to give up its senseless babble about trivialities?

The author does make some pertinent points but commits the fallacy of self-contradiction by showing a fanaticism for tolerance and an intolerance for fanaticism. There are many individuals that one does come across, if one looks hard enough, who transcend their environment. The author seems to have been blinded by bitterness (quite possibly, brought upon by some traumatic experience).

the-time-is-now dept.

I have always had problems with punctuality, ever since I was in school. I remember being meted out different kinds and levels of punishment for being tardy (standing outside the class for an hour, a jog around the school playground, a dressing down by the school principal) -- and it doesn't seem to me that any of it has made any shred of difference to my innate nature.

Of course what is cute and cuddly in school is actually quite off-putting and unsexy as an adult. People make the most blood-curling faces, and trash you in the most explicitly embarassing terms for wasting their valuable time.

My father, for one, as long as he was alive, never missed a chance to let me know how I never had any sense of time. As if the fourth dimension never existed for me, that is.

Then how does one be on time? In an age of distractions and constant crises and temptations, how does one maintain fidelity with the stoically marching hands of the Great Merciless Timekeeper?

A thoroughly intractable problem.

platitudes-from-the-plateau dept.

At times like these, things even themselves out nicely. There is nothing to look forward to in anticipation, nothing to smoulder at in resentment, and no ghosts to retire into their graves. There is just the vague sensation of being.

Life moves at a steady, humdrum pace, and the indomitable fear for personal survival kicks in and provides the only sustenance.

There's some distant rumbling up-ahead. Hopefully there might even be a nice, ass-kicking storm coming to dispel the monotony of existence.

insipid-social-observations dept.

This one truly boggles the mind, and warps the brain. Where have all those ugly rock stars gone???

useless-rascals-i-say dept.

Some senseless weirdos ('Samskruti-Sanrakshak', as my late and great grandpaw used to call 'em) hate the 'Pune Times'. Why??? Oh, Why??? For the love of God and all that is holy, what will they take away from me next!!!

I love the smell of Pune Times in the morning...It smells like...party!!!party!!!party!!!

didn't-know-a-guitar-could-do-that dept.

Awesome!!!

disclaimer dept.

Udayan Shinde may have been accused of being a nihilist. The allegations are flying thick and fast but the reports have not received official confirmation.

This in spite of my last blog entry about him.

Until then I can only preemptively put out this in his defense -- in his own words:

There is a mind-boggling array of belief systems in the market, out there. Try any one of them. If one works for you, fine, great, wonderful. But do not at any point have the temerity to think that what you subscribe to is the absolute truth. There are no absolutes. Only approximations to the truth. We accept them because they satisfy certain aesthetical constraints hard-wired into our brains (or deep-programmed by our environment).

Ideally, one should accept the belief system which can do most to better one's lot in the human social hierarchy, and of course, feels good in the bargain.

life-in-the-truck-lane dept.

Those were simpler times. The trucks were Tata or Ashok Leyland, the cars were Premier Padminis or Ambassadors (in about '84, also Marutis -- for a brief period Dolphins and Standard 2000's) or Mahindra Jeeps.

The roads were rough and two-laned, Television was only one channel (two if you lived in one of the four metros) -- evenings were black and white on the regional broadcast, colour on the national service (which began at 9:00pm).

The news was a brief capsule of Ministers cutting red-ribbons on dams, hydel power stations and sahitya sammelans (here they only lighted lamps, and got some footage on the podium, babbling continuously with the sound turned off). When they went off, on came Rajiv Gandhi, reading from a script, "Humein Dekhna Hai...".

Friday nights meant NDTV's The World This Week hosted by Prannoy Roy. And after hearing about Ronald Reagan being shot, and Israel decimating Lebanon, the family would collectively sigh, "Thank God we're Indian".

Election nights meant analysis by Prannoy Roy and Vinod Dua with an old classic thrown in for good measure. V.P. Singh won once (I wanted him to win, he looked like such a righteous old chap), and prattled on about Mandal this, Mandal that.

Ice cream meant a choice between Kwality and Jumbo or Joy (Later on, Dinshaw's added itself to the list), eventually all succumbing to Vadilal. Soft drinks meant ThumsUp or GoldSpot (with the occasional horror experience of RimZim and Campa Cola).

Playing Pakistan meant being whipped by Imran or Javed or both.

The monotony of school and play was punctuated once a year by the local jatra, where we would buy dumroos, tin motor-boats fueled by miniature oil-lamps, a wooden talwaar-dhaal set, and feathered paper caps that smelt really bad (like a chicken coop to be precise).

Indira Gandhi was shot by her bodyguards. I was at home, at the dining table, eating dahi-bhaat when I heard the news.

The only things worth holding on to from those times were the comics.

Vishal Patel writes about this and more here. 'Uproariously funny', is the verdict.

lounge-lizards dept.

Udayan Shinde has already found a mention on this blog. Publishing here, some very cryptic paragraphs I found in a text-file on his computer.

There is something subtly intoxicating about five-star hotel lounges. Yet when I find myself in one of them, being there sends me into an endless reverie. Maybe its the shiny gloss on the furniture, the people (important-looking, always) huddled in clusters talking in low, hushed tones. Or the pithy words on the coaster: "Culture is the attainment of perfection", and the like. Or the persistently floating, understated, yet inescapable aroma wafting around the hallways (in spite of all the cigarette smoke).

Maybe its a state of mind induced in a person of humble economic origins on confronting the ritualized life of those higher up in the economic pyramid. I think such an environment foists introspection on the thinking mind, while on others, it enforces a sense of general well-being, akin to an endless free-fall. Perhaps, using phrases like 'humble' and 'thinking mind' is only conceit -- after all, we are all sentient beings, and the environment into which we are born or led into is, arguably, predestined. It is, of course, quite possible that beneath the frothy layers of projected well-being, there is foment -- each pair of eyes, constantly scanning, evaluating, planning, understanding (or trying to understand).

oil-and-ketchup dept.

Looks like the Yanks prefer their crude to their ketchup, as expected (by me, of course). Its going to be Bush for the next four. Yay!!!

As my friend and great political pundit Amrut Joshi said, "Bush will win. He is more fun."

And during his victory speech, the newly reelected president announced a new draft legislation where all Americans would be shipped off to fight the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, while the entire American economy would be outsourced to India. "That way, the fiscal deficit becomes someone else's problem", he explained.

still-life-with-boredom dept.

We are all vain, fickle animals. How cruelly do we so casually spurn the affections of those that love us, and yet squander our lives over merciless infidels? Surely it must amuse the all-merciful, in his omniscience, to watch us weave our tangled webs of self-deception and deceit. Perhaps, 'Al-Nawaz', in one of his sombre moods, lamenting his lost love, caught a glimpse of the infinite, and trying desperately with his (at the time) limited vocabulary to distill the essence of his experience, wrote down this:

In the courtyard, the flowers bloom, the Indian rose, dispels all gloom
The insects swarm, and plunder it all; and beauty thus, begets its doom

There was a house, in the lane, where I lament my lover's reign
She gave me joy, and infinite pain; sweet pain, alas, taken too soon

All around, the call resounds, the faithfull crouch and bow their heads
For some the crowd is divine; to some, beckons the solitude of their rooms

The priest offers heavenly bliss, yet frowns upon the brimming glass
Peace, sheikh, for we are the anointed ones, who sorrow's dregs consume

Love was not all unkind, 'Nawaz', she offered her right, reassuring hand
Cursed was I, I yearned for all; vain desire led me to my doom

loss-for-words dept.

I don't know how I had never come across the Hrishikesh Mukherjee movie Satyakaam, despite having read so much about it. Ah, that statement was so naive! Haven't I often experienced the mysterious arrangements of nature as she, with an amused smile, moulds time, space and causality like a lump of clay?

It should suffice to say, then, that I have seen the movie, and am at a loss for words. Very few movies leverage the cinematic medium to the fullest extent, even fewer transcend it. This is surely one of them.

I shall say no more. This review has said it before me, more eloquently than I could ever have.