I had a strange morning today. Coming out the gym, my clothes and hair steaming gently in the unexpectedly sharp burst of sunshine after too many days made gloomy by rain and heavy clouds looming threateningly overhead, I finished my ritual call home and started the trek to get through my errands. They were not many, but they were must-dos. I started at the local grocery store, the Apna Bazaar. Doing a quick whizz though the aisles, I picked up some of the things I felt at that moment to be vital to my existence, and then proceeded to the checkout. All the clerks were people I had seen before, that we occasionally had a brief chat with, that we exchanged civilities with if we saw them outside the store. They have all been unfailingly polite and friendly, accommodating to their limits and helpful as far as they were able. But today came as a bit of a shock.
I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.
From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.
It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.
Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Democratic rights
I had a strange morning today. Coming out the gym, my clothes and hair steaming gently in the unexpectedly sharp burst of sunshine after too many days made gloomy by rain and heavy clouds looming threateningly overhead, I finished my ritual call home and started the trek to get through my errands. They were not many, but they were must-dos. I started at the local grocery store, the Apna Bazaar. Doing a quick whizz though the aisles, I picked up some of the things I felt at that moment to be vital to my existence, and then proceeded to the checkout. All the clerks were people I had seen before, that we occasionally had a brief chat with, that we exchanged civilities with if we saw them outside the store. They have all been unfailingly polite and friendly, accommodating to their limits and helpful as far as they were able. But today came as a bit of a shock.
I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.
From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.
It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.
Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.
I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.
From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.
It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.
Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Reality bytes
The television show Sach Ka Saamna, based on the international Moment Of Truth, has run into some hot water. The contestants on Iss Jungle Se Mujhe Bachao, the Indian version of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, have run into more creepy-crawlies and yucky gunk than they are used to dealing with and want more hot water (among other things), or else they will get out of there. And all other reality shows have a strangely déjà vu flavour, like you have seen them before on other reality shows. Which is not a huge problem, except that the “other reality shows” are actually any other reality show, since there are so many of them being beamed – some not too happily – into homes all over this great and glorious country. Some have been stopped because of woefully low viewership, others have legal blocks, some never found participants and a few faded gently out into the sunset by themselves, gracefully knowing when to stop, usually before TRPs sank so low that they needed to be revived to exit.
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
Reality bytes
The television show Sach Ka Saamna, based on the international Moment Of Truth, has run into some hot water. The contestants on Iss Jungle Se Mujhe Bachao, the Indian version of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, have run into more creepy-crawlies and yucky gunk than they are used to dealing with and want more hot water (among other things), or else they will get out of there. And all other reality shows have a strangely déjà vu flavour, like you have seen them before on other reality shows. Which is not a huge problem, except that the “other reality shows” are actually any other reality show, since there are so many of them being beamed – some not too happily – into homes all over this great and glorious country. Some have been stopped because of woefully low viewership, others have legal blocks, some never found participants and a few faded gently out into the sunset by themselves, gracefully knowing when to stop, usually before TRPs sank so low that they needed to be revived to exit.
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
In continuation....
Someone asked me a couple of days ago whether I still do a blog. It took me a few moments to think about that one. Do I? Considering that a blog is supposed to be a regular input online and that I have often scoffed at those who purport to blog and update theirs only about once a year, I have been most remiss indeed. But that is how life overtakes you when you least expect it to – you are there, minding your own business, and suddenly a crisis of sorts rolls over you and you are left wondering what happened, when, how, why and all the other questions you would have asked when you had the time and energy to ask.
Which is what has been sorely lacking with me for a while now. When there is time, the energy levels are too low for comfort and when there is great energy and gung-ho, I have things that have to be done NOW, leaving no time for that thing called a blog which I started some years ago with such enthusiasm. Problem is – or was – a bug that wormed itself into my system and refused to go away for way too long. It still pops in every other day to remind me what it was like to be visited full time by its exalted self. In simple language, I got a fever that developed into bronchitis and staggered about for a while before taking to my bed and feeling like I had been run over by a steamroller and had lost my legs and any volition to move more than one muscle at a time in the process. And I coughed my way sadly through the week…fortnight?...and more, feeling like there was something nasty in my chest (which there was) and wondering why it couldn’t just go away.
When I finally mustered up enough energy to get up and go - to wherever, from the gym to lunch with a friend to shopping for groceries to a business meeting – my time management had got up and gone. Deadlines were breathing heavily and hotly down my unsuspecting neck and those had to be dealt with before any frivolities like blogs and eyebrow grooming could be thought of. As I plucked out that elusive stray hair from just above my left brow and said a mean word as it hurt like the dickens (I did think of a ruder phrase, but this blogsphere is a family space), I decided that in all that needed to be left out for the time being, a blog would top that list. And it has. As always, I promise to be more regular, time, weather and adrenaline permitting, but who knows what Fate will throw at me next.
Which is what has been sorely lacking with me for a while now. When there is time, the energy levels are too low for comfort and when there is great energy and gung-ho, I have things that have to be done NOW, leaving no time for that thing called a blog which I started some years ago with such enthusiasm. Problem is – or was – a bug that wormed itself into my system and refused to go away for way too long. It still pops in every other day to remind me what it was like to be visited full time by its exalted self. In simple language, I got a fever that developed into bronchitis and staggered about for a while before taking to my bed and feeling like I had been run over by a steamroller and had lost my legs and any volition to move more than one muscle at a time in the process. And I coughed my way sadly through the week…fortnight?...and more, feeling like there was something nasty in my chest (which there was) and wondering why it couldn’t just go away.
When I finally mustered up enough energy to get up and go - to wherever, from the gym to lunch with a friend to shopping for groceries to a business meeting – my time management had got up and gone. Deadlines were breathing heavily and hotly down my unsuspecting neck and those had to be dealt with before any frivolities like blogs and eyebrow grooming could be thought of. As I plucked out that elusive stray hair from just above my left brow and said a mean word as it hurt like the dickens (I did think of a ruder phrase, but this blogsphere is a family space), I decided that in all that needed to be left out for the time being, a blog would top that list. And it has. As always, I promise to be more regular, time, weather and adrenaline permitting, but who knows what Fate will throw at me next.
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