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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Gasp wheeze cough!
Ok, so there is always an excuse. For not updating a blog, that is. But this time it is a genuine one, with due apologies and many sad noises attached.
About two weeks ago, I was wondering why life was not as it should be. Not philosophically speaking, but existentially so. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Work projects were coming to an end – or so I thought, more fool me – my mobile phone, the beloved instrument that I cherished for almost five years, was starting to hiccup miserably and my legs hurt more than my gym trainer’s toughness warranted. I was tired, dragging and feeling unwontedly tearful, with nothing to justify it, not PMS, not any fight with Father, no weepy movie on the telly…nothing. And then it all hit the fan.
My mobile phone died. I had bought it almost five years ago after falling instantly in love with it at the shop. It was a design statement, it was small, it was fabulously comfortable to hold and functionally more efficient than my own sense of organization. And it had been with me, doing its job magnificently, through one of the worst periods in my personal history. But it was old, not made any more and un-fixable. It is not in the great mobile phone department in the sky, far away from me, never to be used again. Of course, at that stage, the eternal debate was reopened: Should I get a new one, should I use an old one that did its job but satisfied none of my aesthetic requirements, or should I just do without, in a sort of anti-established-norm-of-society kind of way? The jury is still out on that one, though I have appropriated my father’s handset for the time being. Of course, my family being the sort it is, a new phone has been scoped out and is being argued over. Whether I do buy it or not depends entirely on what life brings me over the next few days.
But worse than that, I decided that I would have a minor breakdown in my system on the same day as my mobile phone went to the shop. It started out with aching legs, which could not be explained by a gym routine or a disturbed night of sleeplessness. The ache spread to the head and the back and generally diffused all over. Classic symptoms of influenza. The fever came, stayed for a while and then settled nicely in my chest to give me a bad case of bronchitis. I coughed, I gasped, I wheezed, I hacked and raled and generally was more miserable than anyone deserves to be. I stayed at home for a whole week, not even going out into the lobby outside my front door. And my trainer called at regular intervals to find out what was going on, my mobile phone never rang to bother me – of course, it was as sick as I was! – and I slept a great deal, tottered about having small arguments with Father and Small Cat and felt like I had been run through the super-spin cycle of a washing machine and hung out, limp and exhausted, to drip dry.
Unfortunate as it may sound, things have been improving. I am finally getting back to routine, with gentle gym regimens and the will to do more gaining ground every day. So I still am not especially interested in food, and neither do I want to do very much, but at least I do not feel limp and washed out, however I may look to my own eyes as I peep furtively into the mirror. When I get back my usual level of need to devour dark chocolate fudge or feel like whirling about doing sixty-four things at the same time, I will be completely over this bug. But, in all this misery, not once did I say “Oink!”, I tell my concerned friends cheerfully!
About two weeks ago, I was wondering why life was not as it should be. Not philosophically speaking, but existentially so. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Work projects were coming to an end – or so I thought, more fool me – my mobile phone, the beloved instrument that I cherished for almost five years, was starting to hiccup miserably and my legs hurt more than my gym trainer’s toughness warranted. I was tired, dragging and feeling unwontedly tearful, with nothing to justify it, not PMS, not any fight with Father, no weepy movie on the telly…nothing. And then it all hit the fan.
My mobile phone died. I had bought it almost five years ago after falling instantly in love with it at the shop. It was a design statement, it was small, it was fabulously comfortable to hold and functionally more efficient than my own sense of organization. And it had been with me, doing its job magnificently, through one of the worst periods in my personal history. But it was old, not made any more and un-fixable. It is not in the great mobile phone department in the sky, far away from me, never to be used again. Of course, at that stage, the eternal debate was reopened: Should I get a new one, should I use an old one that did its job but satisfied none of my aesthetic requirements, or should I just do without, in a sort of anti-established-norm-of-society kind of way? The jury is still out on that one, though I have appropriated my father’s handset for the time being. Of course, my family being the sort it is, a new phone has been scoped out and is being argued over. Whether I do buy it or not depends entirely on what life brings me over the next few days.
But worse than that, I decided that I would have a minor breakdown in my system on the same day as my mobile phone went to the shop. It started out with aching legs, which could not be explained by a gym routine or a disturbed night of sleeplessness. The ache spread to the head and the back and generally diffused all over. Classic symptoms of influenza. The fever came, stayed for a while and then settled nicely in my chest to give me a bad case of bronchitis. I coughed, I gasped, I wheezed, I hacked and raled and generally was more miserable than anyone deserves to be. I stayed at home for a whole week, not even going out into the lobby outside my front door. And my trainer called at regular intervals to find out what was going on, my mobile phone never rang to bother me – of course, it was as sick as I was! – and I slept a great deal, tottered about having small arguments with Father and Small Cat and felt like I had been run through the super-spin cycle of a washing machine and hung out, limp and exhausted, to drip dry.
Unfortunate as it may sound, things have been improving. I am finally getting back to routine, with gentle gym regimens and the will to do more gaining ground every day. So I still am not especially interested in food, and neither do I want to do very much, but at least I do not feel limp and washed out, however I may look to my own eyes as I peep furtively into the mirror. When I get back my usual level of need to devour dark chocolate fudge or feel like whirling about doing sixty-four things at the same time, I will be completely over this bug. But, in all this misery, not once did I say “Oink!”, I tell my concerned friends cheerfully!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The waiting game
I have always hated waiting. Which is why I have a rather interesting bruise on my leg now. Being the impatient type, I pulled a weight off a bar at the gym a couple of days ago but forgot the cardinal rule of such actions: always watch what you are doing. But, as always, I was in a hurry, yanked at the heavy ring, got distracted by a lovely BMW edging into its parking space downstairs and did not see that there was a minor weight blocking the way of the heavier weight I was after. Et voila! It shaved past my leg, narrowly missed my littlest toe and bumped to the floor with a loudish thud that attracted more attention to my silliness than I would have liked. I got yelled at by my trainer, who had stopped for a moment to correct someone’s position and wanted to know why I was in such a rush; I got yelled at by another trainer who normally takes my measurements once a month who pulled me away from the rapidly descending weight; and I got yelled at by the muscle in my mid-calf which is now turning a delightful shade of deep blue.
But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.
I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.
And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.
But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.
I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.
And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.
The waiting game
I have always hated waiting. Which is why I have a rather interesting bruise on my leg now. Being the impatient type, I pulled a weight off a bar at the gym a couple of days ago but forgot the cardinal rule of such actions: always watch what you are doing. But, as always, I was in a hurry, yanked at the heavy ring, got distracted by a lovely BMW edging into its parking space downstairs and did not see that there was a minor weight blocking the way of the heavier weight I was after. Et voila! It shaved past my leg, narrowly missed my littlest toe and bumped to the floor with a loudish thud that attracted more attention to my silliness than I would have liked. I got yelled at by my trainer, who had stopped for a moment to correct someone’s position and wanted to know why I was in such a rush; I got yelled at by another trainer who normally takes my measurements once a month who pulled me away from the rapidly descending weight; and I got yelled at by the muscle in my mid-calf which is now turning a delightful shade of deep blue.
But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.
I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.
And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.
But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.
I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.
And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.
The waiting game
I have always hated waiting. Which is why I have a rather interesting bruise on my leg now. Being the impatient type, I pulled a weight off a bar at the gym a couple of days ago but forgot the cardinal rule of such actions: always watch what you are doing. But, as always, I was in a hurry, yanked at the heavy ring, got distracted by a lovely BMW edging into its parking space downstairs and did not see that there was a minor weight blocking the way of the heavier weight I was after. Et voila! It shaved past my leg, narrowly missed my littlest toe and bumped to the floor with a loudish thud that attracted more attention to my silliness than I would have liked. I got yelled at by my trainer, who had stopped for a moment to correct someone’s position and wanted to know why I was in such a rush; I got yelled at by another trainer who normally takes my measurements once a month who pulled me away from the rapidly descending weight; and I got yelled at by the muscle in my mid-calf which is now turning a delightful shade of deep blue.
But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.
I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.
And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.
But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.
I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.
And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Here comes the rain again… NOT!
(Published yesterday...)
They said it would rain; then they said it would not. And it has not. Maybe the plains in Spain are as soggy as we should be right now, who knows. But as we wait – in vain, so far – we can take time off to contemplate the higher things in life. Like the dry skies above, karma and that sheltering canopy over our not-yet-drizzled-on heads: the umbrella.
I feel occasionally a bit like Renuka, wife of the sage Jamadagni, who got into a bit of a contretemps with the sun – she took too long to retrieve his arrows one hot and sunny afternoon and blamed the God Surya and his scorching rays for the delay, the Mahabharata says. Being a rather testy kind of chap, the sage shot an arrow at the sun who, a trifle nervous at an attack of this sort, offered the lady an umbrella. And thus was born that now ubiquitous shelter against sun and rain alike. It is seen through the world as a symbol of honorific or royalty, from the ancient Siam to Egypt, from South America to China, Africa and beyond. Locally, Maharashtrian culture salutes the umbrella, used to endow deserving folks with the honour of royal lineage or god-like qualities, and has the title of Chhatrapati, or Lord of the Umbrella, for the Maratha prices – Shivaji among them.
Many years ago, when I was a mere child, I decided I would play with my mother’s parasol. It had that typical Japanese curve and shaded from the palest cream into a peachy pink. For a small girl, it was fascinatingly pretty, and for a child who took things like clocks and pens apart to see what made them work, it was a surefire magnet. Waiting for Mother to look the other way, I managed to grab the parasol, open it and, to the orchestration of youthful caterwauling, got my hand stuck in its mechanism. There was blood and tears and lots of ice cream, but thenceforth there was also a lifelong aversion to anything that even faintly resembled an umbrella.
So when the monsoon threatened to arrive this year, it came time to check the general state of protection in our household. Since I travelled more by car than any-how else and since an umbrella would be more convenient than a raincoat for my morning trek to and from the gym, I had to find one. I found many that were…well…boring. You could take a walk down any street in the rain and see many of these bobbing above your head. The names were familiar – Stag from Ebrahim Currim, Sun, MH International, Shree Datta and more. There were newsprint umbrellas, and candy-striped ones, Disney cartoon characters, clear plastic, polka dots, block colours and an occasional rainbow swirl, all priced between Rs99 and Rs450. I gulped as I gazed at a Burberry classic umbrella for ‘price on request’, which generally means that you would not want to take it out in the pouring rain. I found a neat confection that had a little light inside it that you could switch on to read with – why would you want to read in a rainstorm, I was asked. I dug through the lofts at home to locate a laquered bamboo piece from Japan via Geneva that would probably melt in the rain, but would make a great fashion statement. I even checked out a story about a young woman who custom made umbrellas with unique designs and prints at a feasible price of about Rs500, but she had not set up a sales strategy yet, I learned.
At the neighbourhood department store I saw an elegant shades-of-grey umbrella (Rs495) that would match perfectly with my car; but why would my car need an umbrella, I wondered. I found a long magenta umbrella (Rs295) that made my face look decidedly bilious when I held it over my head. There was even a bright yellow and white one with the silliest smiley faces all over it (Rs560) that made me grin, but didn’t endow me with any vestige of adulthood. So my choice was mass market ‘safe’ blah. I finally picked a folding umbrella that I just knew would collapse pathetically over my head in the first blast of monsoon wind. But at a wonderfully low Rs99, and though made of nastily cheap fabric that showed no signs of being durable or even waterproof, it didn’t matter. It was a bright and almost fluorescent red, made my face glow and my mood lift and the wet that would envelop me didn’t seem at all important.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
That movie moment…
Have you ever lived through that short span of time when you feel like you are in a movie that you have seen somewhere, sometime? You know, those few moments when you know you have gone through whatever you are going through at some time in your past, a strong sense of déjà vu that you cannot place but you know exists deep within your psyche? Or even that you have watched at some time, happening to someone, somewhere distant from your own existence? Strangely, most of these tend to be rather scary, like a bad remake of a decent film, with just one aspect blown way out of proportion, making the entire sequence just off kilter enough to be surreal…or happening to someone else while you watch from somewhere above it all.
It happened to me this morning. I was on my usual morning trot over to the gym, swearing gently to myself at the heat and humidity weighing down the air, my head and the neat green gym bag I carry. I walked down the road, said my cheery hi to the little dog who scavenges in the park, doled out the biscuits I carry for it and turned the corner past the auto-rickshaws all parked willy-nilly around the edge of the pavement. I took the straight stretch of wide street at a good clip, crossing at the divide near the idli-dosa stand and walking along the side of the road to the circle. Looking carefully to the right and the left, since so many people here see little difference between the ‘going’ lane and the ‘coming’ one, I navigated the roundabout and dodged a cyclist as I went past the fast food eatery with its accumulated litter of cartons and paper bags. Rounding the next corner, I headed down the ‘one-way’ – or so it is posted, only I ever get caught going the wrong way – to my destination.
And there I came across my movie moment. Just outside the familiar and oft-visited grocery store was a very large and clamorous community of crows. A murder, I corrected myself, enjoying the fact that I not only remembered, but also got a change to use that wonderfully evocative term. They hopped and fluttered and cawed frantically as they pecked up the grain and crumbs tossed there by the storekeepers, since it is considered a virtue – gaining points with God, in a manner of speaking – to feed the birds…or stray dogs or an occasionally beggar. I walked towards the horde, aiming to skirt it and go my way. But somewhere along the route I was taking the perspective shifted ever so slightly. I am not sure if I diverted or the birds did, but it transpired that I walked through the group rather than around it. Which meant that for a small, very scary moment, I had crows flying all around me, too close for my comfort.
It was like Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Birds’, but in sweaty technicolour and a very bad remake of that classic film. There was no house, no windows, no drapes, just me, my widly flying ponytail, my starting-to-flail arms and my few seconds of panic. Before I could register the fright, I had passed through and beyond it, but that little time I spent in the midst of the birds was more than enough. I trotted a little faster, gaining the quiet of the small courtyard that led to the stairs up to the gym with a sense of relief and vague triumph that I had managed to navigate that speedbump without any drama.
But I did think to myself, with a little giggle, “Cor, stone the crows!”
It happened to me this morning. I was on my usual morning trot over to the gym, swearing gently to myself at the heat and humidity weighing down the air, my head and the neat green gym bag I carry. I walked down the road, said my cheery hi to the little dog who scavenges in the park, doled out the biscuits I carry for it and turned the corner past the auto-rickshaws all parked willy-nilly around the edge of the pavement. I took the straight stretch of wide street at a good clip, crossing at the divide near the idli-dosa stand and walking along the side of the road to the circle. Looking carefully to the right and the left, since so many people here see little difference between the ‘going’ lane and the ‘coming’ one, I navigated the roundabout and dodged a cyclist as I went past the fast food eatery with its accumulated litter of cartons and paper bags. Rounding the next corner, I headed down the ‘one-way’ – or so it is posted, only I ever get caught going the wrong way – to my destination.
And there I came across my movie moment. Just outside the familiar and oft-visited grocery store was a very large and clamorous community of crows. A murder, I corrected myself, enjoying the fact that I not only remembered, but also got a change to use that wonderfully evocative term. They hopped and fluttered and cawed frantically as they pecked up the grain and crumbs tossed there by the storekeepers, since it is considered a virtue – gaining points with God, in a manner of speaking – to feed the birds…or stray dogs or an occasionally beggar. I walked towards the horde, aiming to skirt it and go my way. But somewhere along the route I was taking the perspective shifted ever so slightly. I am not sure if I diverted or the birds did, but it transpired that I walked through the group rather than around it. Which meant that for a small, very scary moment, I had crows flying all around me, too close for my comfort.
It was like Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Birds’, but in sweaty technicolour and a very bad remake of that classic film. There was no house, no windows, no drapes, just me, my widly flying ponytail, my starting-to-flail arms and my few seconds of panic. Before I could register the fright, I had passed through and beyond it, but that little time I spent in the midst of the birds was more than enough. I trotted a little faster, gaining the quiet of the small courtyard that led to the stairs up to the gym with a sense of relief and vague triumph that I had managed to navigate that speedbump without any drama.
But I did think to myself, with a little giggle, “Cor, stone the crows!”
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Going the international route
(Ah, a byline after ages...!)
“I was unsure if international artwork will find takers,” Gaurav Assomul is reported to have said in December last year, when his Marigold Fine Art took a show of European art to New Delhi. There was no reason to worry, he found, when the entire exhibition was sold out on the opening night. And with the battalion of buyers clamouring for more, the Marigold gallery in Mumbai hosted paintings, lithographs, prints and sculptures by familiar names like Salvador Dali, David Kracov, Stéphane Cipre, Jorg Doring, Arman, Andy Warhol, Serge Mendjisky, Franck Tordjmann, Patrick Hughes and Pablo Picasso last month, signed, numbered and certified works available at prices between Rs3,00,000 and Rs30,00,000. Both signed Picasso lithographs and Dali’s The Persistence of Memory were snapped up, while other pieces found enthusiastic buyers.
There may have always been an audience for art of this kind, with non-Indian signatures, but gallery showings and sales in this country of these works have not been frequent. With the growing awareness of international artists and their talent and the increasing ability of Indians in India to access and buy their creative productions, it would seem logical for them to be made available locally. But as one aficionado - (who prefers not to be named here) who has counted Modigliani in his list of haute-buys and has hobnobbed socially with the likes of Lucien Freud – says, “What you would get here would not be the ‘name’ pieces, but mainly prints, lithographs and perhaps certified replicas of the originals. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the ‘real’, original melting watch by Dali, for instance, rather than something that you know is not ‘the thing’?” He, obviously, seems to prefer to look, smile and shop elsewhere.
But there is a growing market for international signatures, judging by sales at shows. Galerie Mirchandani + Steinruecke, for one, is familiar territory for the work of non-Indian artists in Mumbai. Gallerist Ranjana Mirchandani-Steinruecke believes that “It would be exaggerated to call it a ‘market’, but there are a few collectors interested in looking at and buying art that’s not Indian. And actually the prices of non-Indian artists of similar calibre have been less than those of their Indian counterparts.” She sees the market developing “with the younger generation of Indian collector. Today, by and large, as always, the intelligentsia takes the lead and others follow.”
Ashish Nagpal, gallerist, art entrepreneur and promoter agrees that there is a market in India for international art, but “This is the wrong time, considering the meltdown,” for sales to be brisk. But the awareness is obviously growing, with people becoming more educated about art and artists. “They know art is an investment. I would see a market for prints of senior and more expensive artists and originals of the younger and more affordable ones.” However, “A person who has not bought Indian art will probably not buy international art – the education is important. Dali and Picasso rule the roost, and Damien Hirst and Anish Kapoor – I know a lot of Indian collectors are dying to lay their hands on his work, for instance,” are eagerly looked for, Nagpal says.
There are some who are not yet ready to venture into ‘foreign territory’. As Dadiba Pundole of the Pundole Art Gallery says, for him, “So far the focus has been Indian art. It took a long hard time getting Indian art where it is today. I am not sure if my involvement with my primary concern is over. At the same time, one is not closed to ideas.” As to what he believes will sell, “It comes down to quality and not just financial propositions.
Unfortunately, most people buy art for the wrong reasons, so individual perceptions will dictate the market.”
Neville Tuli, Founder Chairman - Osian's, commenting on the market, current or potential, for works of international contemporary and modern artists in India, says, “First, let the markets for the Indian arts strengthen and deepen. But it is absolutely a good idea to bring international art into India and start that process of exchange.”
And where snob values are concerned, does an international name hold a more coveted cachet for a local buyer than an Indian signature on a work of art? Assomull seems to think so, reportedly asking: "If you can own three original Dalis for the price of one Hussain, what would you buy?" Mirchandani-Steinruecke has a different take on that debatable issue, saying, “No, we are happy with our desi ghee.”
“I was unsure if international artwork will find takers,” Gaurav Assomul is reported to have said in December last year, when his Marigold Fine Art took a show of European art to New Delhi. There was no reason to worry, he found, when the entire exhibition was sold out on the opening night. And with the battalion of buyers clamouring for more, the Marigold gallery in Mumbai hosted paintings, lithographs, prints and sculptures by familiar names like Salvador Dali, David Kracov, Stéphane Cipre, Jorg Doring, Arman, Andy Warhol, Serge Mendjisky, Franck Tordjmann, Patrick Hughes and Pablo Picasso last month, signed, numbered and certified works available at prices between Rs3,00,000 and Rs30,00,000. Both signed Picasso lithographs and Dali’s The Persistence of Memory were snapped up, while other pieces found enthusiastic buyers.
There may have always been an audience for art of this kind, with non-Indian signatures, but gallery showings and sales in this country of these works have not been frequent. With the growing awareness of international artists and their talent and the increasing ability of Indians in India to access and buy their creative productions, it would seem logical for them to be made available locally. But as one aficionado - (who prefers not to be named here) who has counted Modigliani in his list of haute-buys and has hobnobbed socially with the likes of Lucien Freud – says, “What you would get here would not be the ‘name’ pieces, but mainly prints, lithographs and perhaps certified replicas of the originals. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the ‘real’, original melting watch by Dali, for instance, rather than something that you know is not ‘the thing’?” He, obviously, seems to prefer to look, smile and shop elsewhere.
But there is a growing market for international signatures, judging by sales at shows. Galerie Mirchandani + Steinruecke, for one, is familiar territory for the work of non-Indian artists in Mumbai. Gallerist Ranjana Mirchandani-Steinruecke believes that “It would be exaggerated to call it a ‘market’, but there are a few collectors interested in looking at and buying art that’s not Indian. And actually the prices of non-Indian artists of similar calibre have been less than those of their Indian counterparts.” She sees the market developing “with the younger generation of Indian collector. Today, by and large, as always, the intelligentsia takes the lead and others follow.”
Ashish Nagpal, gallerist, art entrepreneur and promoter agrees that there is a market in India for international art, but “This is the wrong time, considering the meltdown,” for sales to be brisk. But the awareness is obviously growing, with people becoming more educated about art and artists. “They know art is an investment. I would see a market for prints of senior and more expensive artists and originals of the younger and more affordable ones.” However, “A person who has not bought Indian art will probably not buy international art – the education is important. Dali and Picasso rule the roost, and Damien Hirst and Anish Kapoor – I know a lot of Indian collectors are dying to lay their hands on his work, for instance,” are eagerly looked for, Nagpal says.
There are some who are not yet ready to venture into ‘foreign territory’. As Dadiba Pundole of the Pundole Art Gallery says, for him, “So far the focus has been Indian art. It took a long hard time getting Indian art where it is today. I am not sure if my involvement with my primary concern is over. At the same time, one is not closed to ideas.” As to what he believes will sell, “It comes down to quality and not just financial propositions.
Unfortunately, most people buy art for the wrong reasons, so individual perceptions will dictate the market.”
Neville Tuli, Founder Chairman - Osian's, commenting on the market, current or potential, for works of international contemporary and modern artists in India, says, “First, let the markets for the Indian arts strengthen and deepen. But it is absolutely a good idea to bring international art into India and start that process of exchange.”
And where snob values are concerned, does an international name hold a more coveted cachet for a local buyer than an Indian signature on a work of art? Assomull seems to think so, reportedly asking: "If you can own three original Dalis for the price of one Hussain, what would you buy?" Mirchandani-Steinruecke has a different take on that debatable issue, saying, “No, we are happy with our desi ghee.”
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Ooh, aah, ouch!
Last week I took a break from the gym. It was my first since I joined up and more or less enforced by my trainer, the gym manager and my own anatomy. You see, many years ago I hurt my knee badly enough to need fairly drastic surgery and have needed to exercise (ha ha) a certain amount of caution ever since. Of course, that does not stop me rushing about in my usual pell-mell manner on perilously sharp and high heels, occasionally pitching into doors, up stairs and down sidewalks with not-too-happy results, but I have never worried about my ‘bum’ knee since it was fixed. Not that I worried too much about it before it was fixed, since I had no clue that it needed any fixing! But a couple of weeks ago it started hurting with the slightest movement and, after a few days of tottering across to the gym and gingerly going slower and slower on the treadmill, I finally admitted defeat. And took a few days off the exertion.
It was a strange feeling. After years of telling myself that I hated any kind of physical activity, especially the kind that made me sweaty and caused my various muscles to tick gently at rest, I rediscovered the fact that I actually like exercise. Many years ago, in what was almost another lifetime, I did lots of it, from dance to aerobics to even an abortive attempt at swimming – to no avail, I determinedly sank in any large body of water, so much so that I developed a real aversion to anything resembling a pool from a bathtub to a koi-carp pond. But I liked dance, be it the pure classical style that I had been taught for so many years or just hopping about in a discotheque or swaying vaguely idiotically to pounding beats in a dancaerobics class. It was movement, it was music, it was rhythm and it made a lot of sense to me, mind, body and soul. And slowly I found that I liked almost any sort of movement; it cleansed my skin with the sweat, it cleansed my psyche with the tiredness that allowed me to sleep hard and restfully and it cleansed my spirit and made me feel not just virtuous, but fresh and energized as well.
Finding that again was good for me. And I enjoyed it, through all the pain and sore muscles. But when I had to let it go for that whole week, it was not easy. I wanted that pull on every joint and that fatigue that made my calves and upper arms twitch gently. I wanted that feeling of having done something physical to get into better shape in so many ways, from the mental to the emotional to the bodily stretched-out-ness. I lurked around the house for that hour and a half that I am usually out in the morning, wondering what to do with myself and getting on my own nerves in the not doing of it. I teased Small Cat so much that she retreated under the living room sofa and refused conciliatory offers of chewy sticks and treat biscuits. I followed Father like a shadow all over the house getting on his nerves enough for him to suggest I read a book or do some cooking. And I trotted behind the maid from room to room until she asked me if I was not getting late for my usual morning outing.
My trainer insisted I would do only very light weights and restricted all activity to upper body lifts and stretches. When I ventured to suggest that we could do a stint on one machine or the other for the legs, he glared at me and pushed another set of reps at my hapless biceps, triceps, abs or other attenuated names for muscle groups. And he seemed to sigh when he saw me bounce into the gym with a broad smile anticipating a tough workout – and beamed approvingly when I sulked out an hour later with my top half sweating and twitching and my legs sore with disuse rather than exertion.
Be all that as it may, I am now getting back into the swing…or stretch…or lift…of things. We started slowly increasing the pressure on my legs today and though he was still rather cautious not to strain my knee and asked after every set of exercises whether I was ok, at least it was a start back on the road to recovery. I do feel like a bit of a fraud – and regressive to boot…or sneaker – when I find myself doing half my former pace on the treadmill, or slowing down on the cross-trainer, or not pushing that hard uphill on the recumbent bike, but I know I will be back up there soon enough. Now if only I could convince my knee that it would be a good thing….
It was a strange feeling. After years of telling myself that I hated any kind of physical activity, especially the kind that made me sweaty and caused my various muscles to tick gently at rest, I rediscovered the fact that I actually like exercise. Many years ago, in what was almost another lifetime, I did lots of it, from dance to aerobics to even an abortive attempt at swimming – to no avail, I determinedly sank in any large body of water, so much so that I developed a real aversion to anything resembling a pool from a bathtub to a koi-carp pond. But I liked dance, be it the pure classical style that I had been taught for so many years or just hopping about in a discotheque or swaying vaguely idiotically to pounding beats in a dancaerobics class. It was movement, it was music, it was rhythm and it made a lot of sense to me, mind, body and soul. And slowly I found that I liked almost any sort of movement; it cleansed my skin with the sweat, it cleansed my psyche with the tiredness that allowed me to sleep hard and restfully and it cleansed my spirit and made me feel not just virtuous, but fresh and energized as well.
Finding that again was good for me. And I enjoyed it, through all the pain and sore muscles. But when I had to let it go for that whole week, it was not easy. I wanted that pull on every joint and that fatigue that made my calves and upper arms twitch gently. I wanted that feeling of having done something physical to get into better shape in so many ways, from the mental to the emotional to the bodily stretched-out-ness. I lurked around the house for that hour and a half that I am usually out in the morning, wondering what to do with myself and getting on my own nerves in the not doing of it. I teased Small Cat so much that she retreated under the living room sofa and refused conciliatory offers of chewy sticks and treat biscuits. I followed Father like a shadow all over the house getting on his nerves enough for him to suggest I read a book or do some cooking. And I trotted behind the maid from room to room until she asked me if I was not getting late for my usual morning outing.
My trainer insisted I would do only very light weights and restricted all activity to upper body lifts and stretches. When I ventured to suggest that we could do a stint on one machine or the other for the legs, he glared at me and pushed another set of reps at my hapless biceps, triceps, abs or other attenuated names for muscle groups. And he seemed to sigh when he saw me bounce into the gym with a broad smile anticipating a tough workout – and beamed approvingly when I sulked out an hour later with my top half sweating and twitching and my legs sore with disuse rather than exertion.
Be all that as it may, I am now getting back into the swing…or stretch…or lift…of things. We started slowly increasing the pressure on my legs today and though he was still rather cautious not to strain my knee and asked after every set of exercises whether I was ok, at least it was a start back on the road to recovery. I do feel like a bit of a fraud – and regressive to boot…or sneaker – when I find myself doing half my former pace on the treadmill, or slowing down on the cross-trainer, or not pushing that hard uphill on the recumbent bike, but I know I will be back up there soon enough. Now if only I could convince my knee that it would be a good thing….
Monday, May 25, 2009
Long time no write!
It happens. Sometimes you don’t know what to say and when you do, you have no idea how to say it, and when both of those come together, something else comes along that prevents you from saying whatever it is that you know you want to say. And even as you come up with fabulously satisfying sentences like that last one, you wonder why you need to say what you have to say at all – why not just leave it unsaid, which would be a whole different kind of satisfaction, no?
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
Long time no write!
It happens. Sometimes you don’t know what to say and when you do, you have no idea how to say it, and when both of those come together, something else comes along that prevents you from saying whatever it is that you know you want to say. And even as you come up with fabulously satisfying sentences like that last one, you wonder why you need to say what you have to say at all – why not just leave it unsaid, which would be a whole different kind of satisfaction, no?
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Diva of dance
The first time I heard the name 'Saroj Khan' was perhaps when I started working on the website of a movie magazine. I knew nothing about Hindi films beyond what I had read in the newspapers, which at that time snootily avoided all things filmi, and I did occasionally listen to the radio late at night when I couldn't sleep and lights out had been enforced. Then, suddenly, Madhuri Dixit became a real person - not just a tinsel-dotted star on the big screen - to me, when a designer friend showed me an outfit he had created for her, saying that she and I were the same height and general shape, though there was rather more of her in parts than I had then. Curious about this person that my friend spoke of with such almost-awe, I did my research and found that she was the hot and happening star in the world of Hindi movies, that ephemeral existence called 'Bollywood'. And perhaps her strongest identification was that hip-swinging performance in a song called Ek do teen. Learn how to count, another friend teased me, you may even go into that field of journalism and interview her some day!
I did manage to watch the dance on television, on one of the many countdown shows telecast every week. And was amazed that someone could swivel a hip with such abandon and not fall over. More research followed, and I read that a choreographer called Saroj Khan was responsible for that creation. And that Ms Khan and Ms Dixit were bonded synergistically, each posing a challenge to the other to do better, to outdo, every time, every song, every movie. With typically elitist snobbery, I decided that both the star and the choreographer were loud and vulgar and I didn't want to know more about either. Until the night I watched Madhuri Dixit dance at a popular film awards event, doing what was almost pure Kathak, her grace and her emoting elevating the entire evening to a realm that transcended the noise and flashing lights of a world that never had too much appeal for me. The piece was choreographed by Saroj Khan, it was announced. Since then, I have wanted to meet the lady, the person who changed my mind about the jhatka-matka nautanki that I believed Bollywood to be.
Recently, I was watching a dance reality show on television. Saroj Khan, the choreographer who reigned in the kingdom of bosom-heaves and pelvic-thrusts, came on to the stage and did a tiny vignette of salsa. Her hips swayed, her hands waved and her lips pouted. And the audience, like me, was spellbound. She was not slim or beautiful, but she moved with infinite grace, each tiny shake holding so much magic that it pushed any other more vigorous performance by any other younger, slimmer, more goodlooking celebrity into oblivion. And in that few seconds of movement, she made a fan out of a skeptic - All Hail, Saroj-ji!
I did manage to watch the dance on television, on one of the many countdown shows telecast every week. And was amazed that someone could swivel a hip with such abandon and not fall over. More research followed, and I read that a choreographer called Saroj Khan was responsible for that creation. And that Ms Khan and Ms Dixit were bonded synergistically, each posing a challenge to the other to do better, to outdo, every time, every song, every movie. With typically elitist snobbery, I decided that both the star and the choreographer were loud and vulgar and I didn't want to know more about either. Until the night I watched Madhuri Dixit dance at a popular film awards event, doing what was almost pure Kathak, her grace and her emoting elevating the entire evening to a realm that transcended the noise and flashing lights of a world that never had too much appeal for me. The piece was choreographed by Saroj Khan, it was announced. Since then, I have wanted to meet the lady, the person who changed my mind about the jhatka-matka nautanki that I believed Bollywood to be.
Recently, I was watching a dance reality show on television. Saroj Khan, the choreographer who reigned in the kingdom of bosom-heaves and pelvic-thrusts, came on to the stage and did a tiny vignette of salsa. Her hips swayed, her hands waved and her lips pouted. And the audience, like me, was spellbound. She was not slim or beautiful, but she moved with infinite grace, each tiny shake holding so much magic that it pushed any other more vigorous performance by any other younger, slimmer, more goodlooking celebrity into oblivion. And in that few seconds of movement, she made a fan out of a skeptic - All Hail, Saroj-ji!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Dance off
There are times when one becomes clearly conflicted. As a self-confessed American Idol fan, I watch every new episode of that show, sometimes even watching a re-run in parts because the music did the trick for me. But these days, I find that I am getting good at the surf shuffle, as I like calling it, zipping between channels to optimise my viewing of two shows, especially on one day. That day comes here on Friday every week, when the elimination on American Idol clashes woefully with the contest episode of an Indian version of Dancing With the Stars, locally called Jhalak Dikhla Jaa. So which do I watch? How can I not know what goes on in one as opposed to the other? Very simple. Look at cnn.com on Thursday and you know who is gone from Idol and how. Sometimes the spoiler alert is sounded even on Wednesday. Since I don't really like watching fond farewells and tearful scenes, I prefer not watching how it happens as the episode unfolds on television, even though I cannot resist taking a peek for some usually pretty good music. So now the routine is set, more or less: Idol on Thursday night, Jhalak on Fridays with sneak peeks of Idol eliminations, and then Jhalak eliminations on Saturday night. Sounds like an exciting life? Actually, it is sweet and smells wonderfully of home, which is a good thing in my book.
How did I get into watching television so fanatically? Trust me, it is fairly fanatical, since I do not like anyone calling me during that hour that I am glued to one channel or the other (or, sometimes, both), but I will answer text messages during the commercial breaks. It started with a friend who was stuck on Jhalak. Watch it, she insisted, you will like the dance and music and general liveliness. Then she said I needed to watch one episode so I could tell her what happened, since she was out that evening. I did. And it was fun. What made it better was that a friend of mine was participating. He lost, but it was interesting to see him do something that was so out of his ken. The next thing I knew, I watched not just that show, but also others like it, from Nach Baliye to Saas vs Bahu to Zara Nachke Dikha to...
This particular season of Jhalak has a special interest for me. Not only are the stars unusual - Bhaichung Bhutia, the football player, Mohinder Amarnath, the cricketer, Gauhar Khan, the model, and others not usually seen shaking a hip, Bollywood-ishtyle - but the judges are too - Saroj Khan the 'mother' of filmi choreography, Vaibhavi Merchant, who now rules pretty sharp in tinseltown, and Juhi Chawla, perhaps one of my favourite Bollywood stars where comedy and repartee are concerned. For now, some of the players have been eliminated - Bhagyashree, Anand Raj Anand, Ugesh Sarcar, Mohinder Amarnath, Ram Kapoor and, in the last episode, Gauhar Khan. There have been many tears, some laughter, a generous amount of bitching and a huge amount of learning, but who wins eventually is still up for grabs. The wild card round could bring back one of the celebrities who have left the show, up to dance against the likes of Parul Chauhan, Monica Bedi, Karan Singh Grover, Shilpa Shukla, Hard Kaur and Bhaichung Bhutia.
Winner could take a lot home, including a new fan club, but for now, I wait and watch. And clutch the remote control for the TV in one sweaty hot hand as I shuffle between the stars and the search for an Idol.
How did I get into watching television so fanatically? Trust me, it is fairly fanatical, since I do not like anyone calling me during that hour that I am glued to one channel or the other (or, sometimes, both), but I will answer text messages during the commercial breaks. It started with a friend who was stuck on Jhalak. Watch it, she insisted, you will like the dance and music and general liveliness. Then she said I needed to watch one episode so I could tell her what happened, since she was out that evening. I did. And it was fun. What made it better was that a friend of mine was participating. He lost, but it was interesting to see him do something that was so out of his ken. The next thing I knew, I watched not just that show, but also others like it, from Nach Baliye to Saas vs Bahu to Zara Nachke Dikha to...
This particular season of Jhalak has a special interest for me. Not only are the stars unusual - Bhaichung Bhutia, the football player, Mohinder Amarnath, the cricketer, Gauhar Khan, the model, and others not usually seen shaking a hip, Bollywood-ishtyle - but the judges are too - Saroj Khan the 'mother' of filmi choreography, Vaibhavi Merchant, who now rules pretty sharp in tinseltown, and Juhi Chawla, perhaps one of my favourite Bollywood stars where comedy and repartee are concerned. For now, some of the players have been eliminated - Bhagyashree, Anand Raj Anand, Ugesh Sarcar, Mohinder Amarnath, Ram Kapoor and, in the last episode, Gauhar Khan. There have been many tears, some laughter, a generous amount of bitching and a huge amount of learning, but who wins eventually is still up for grabs. The wild card round could bring back one of the celebrities who have left the show, up to dance against the likes of Parul Chauhan, Monica Bedi, Karan Singh Grover, Shilpa Shukla, Hard Kaur and Bhaichung Bhutia.
Winner could take a lot home, including a new fan club, but for now, I wait and watch. And clutch the remote control for the TV in one sweaty hot hand as I shuffle between the stars and the search for an Idol.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Knives and forks on Halloween
Beezil and I have been friends since we were in college. We lived in the same college dorm, though in different corridors. We met through a bathroom door. It was past 11pm and I was inside one of the stalls doing my thing before retiring for the night when I heard voices. Actually, it was one voice, someone having along conversation with someone else. I was wary, since I had heard so much about girl gangs and the nastiness that can go on within the confines of a large, shared bathroom. I peeked cautiously under the door and saw only one pair of feet. They were sheathed in fluffy slippers and planted firmly in front of a mirror, with whatever I could see of the rest of the person talking to herself swathed in a pink towelling dressing gown. I debated whether I should just go out there and see who this strange but interesting person was, even though my native shyness and painfully activated 'be careful' gene were prodding me in the nose and telling me firmly to be quiet and wait. But then my own madness and somewhat eccentric sense of humour bubbled up and I had to ask, "Do you always talk to yourself?"
There was a startled silence for a second and then a barrage of repartee crossed and re-crossed the stall door. I was done in there and opened the door to peek out. My rather astonished gaze saw a face bare of makeup, eyes large behind big glasses, hair pulled back, the whole topped with a brightly coloured shower cap. It was the start of a long and valuable friendship, that holds strong even today, touch wood, never mind the knives and tantrums and tears. Now that is another story, for perhaps another time...
So that was the girl in the loo, as I called her for a long time in letters home. She did have a name, once that was easy to remember and easier to spell, even though the college administration managed to get it wrong on her mailing address. It wasn't long before I found the ideal nickname for her: Beezil. It was a word I found in an Regency romance novel, used by the hero for the heroine, and it fit my new friend perfectly; neither of us has any clue what it means, but it has a wonderfully warm and creative feel to it, with that touch of madness that is typical of both of us, her perhaps more than me. She and I got up to many hi-jinks, rescuing each other from situations both funny and potentially hazardous to our mental health, individually and collectively, and have managed to stay fond of each other no matter what problems litter the path to laughter.
But our first adventure was Halloween. She was off to a Halloween party and was going, she told me, as a silverware drawer. After that first bit of mouth-opening amazement, I got the idea and it was a truly inspired one. It didn't take much, just the contents of her mother's cutlery shelf, stapled or sewn on to her standard uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. It worked. There were butter knives and regular dining knives spaced through a motley array of spoons, forks, even a fish slice perhaps, though my memory could be telling me stories on that one. Somewhere along the way I may even have helped her make sure that a wire whisk stayed in position. It was a roaring success, she reported later, and the most original costume that evening. I was at my own Halloween celebration - my first since a foray into the streets of Heidelberg dressed as Pippi Longstocking when I was a pre-teen - pretending to be a bat, in all black with glitter spray painted over my hair and a headband with small black bats mounted on wildly waving springs attached to it. It worked, too, perhaps too well, because I had quite a time trying to escape the attentions of a gentleman who believed that he was Batman and therefore needed to get overly friendly with at least one of the species that he said he was kin to. I thought fond thoughts of the knives stapled on my friend's sweatshirt.
Beezil would have offered to use one to help me, if she had been there, I knew.
There was a startled silence for a second and then a barrage of repartee crossed and re-crossed the stall door. I was done in there and opened the door to peek out. My rather astonished gaze saw a face bare of makeup, eyes large behind big glasses, hair pulled back, the whole topped with a brightly coloured shower cap. It was the start of a long and valuable friendship, that holds strong even today, touch wood, never mind the knives and tantrums and tears. Now that is another story, for perhaps another time...
So that was the girl in the loo, as I called her for a long time in letters home. She did have a name, once that was easy to remember and easier to spell, even though the college administration managed to get it wrong on her mailing address. It wasn't long before I found the ideal nickname for her: Beezil. It was a word I found in an Regency romance novel, used by the hero for the heroine, and it fit my new friend perfectly; neither of us has any clue what it means, but it has a wonderfully warm and creative feel to it, with that touch of madness that is typical of both of us, her perhaps more than me. She and I got up to many hi-jinks, rescuing each other from situations both funny and potentially hazardous to our mental health, individually and collectively, and have managed to stay fond of each other no matter what problems litter the path to laughter.
But our first adventure was Halloween. She was off to a Halloween party and was going, she told me, as a silverware drawer. After that first bit of mouth-opening amazement, I got the idea and it was a truly inspired one. It didn't take much, just the contents of her mother's cutlery shelf, stapled or sewn on to her standard uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. It worked. There were butter knives and regular dining knives spaced through a motley array of spoons, forks, even a fish slice perhaps, though my memory could be telling me stories on that one. Somewhere along the way I may even have helped her make sure that a wire whisk stayed in position. It was a roaring success, she reported later, and the most original costume that evening. I was at my own Halloween celebration - my first since a foray into the streets of Heidelberg dressed as Pippi Longstocking when I was a pre-teen - pretending to be a bat, in all black with glitter spray painted over my hair and a headband with small black bats mounted on wildly waving springs attached to it. It worked, too, perhaps too well, because I had quite a time trying to escape the attentions of a gentleman who believed that he was Batman and therefore needed to get overly friendly with at least one of the species that he said he was kin to. I thought fond thoughts of the knives stapled on my friend's sweatshirt.
Beezil would have offered to use one to help me, if she had been there, I knew.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Paint the horror
I just read a report on the replica of that famous anti-war painting, Guernica, done by Pablo Picasso in 1937. He was expressing his protest against the bombing of the little town of Guernica, in Basque country, by Republican forces during the Spanish Civil War. The work was shown in select galleries around the world – at the Whitechapel Art Gallery in London in 1939 - until Picasso realized that the painting was suffering rather from the wear and tear of constant travel and toing and froing from Spain to wherever. So he gave permission for three exact copies to be woven - yes, as a tapestry – by two weavers from Paris in 1950. Today, one copy is in Japan, another finds a home in France and the third is part of the property of the Rockefeller family and on loan to the United Nations, hanging just outside the Security Council chamber in the landmark New York building for 24 years. It is this replica that is now on display in London, again at the Whitechapel Art Gallery. The tapestry is part of a just-opened show by a Polish sculptor, Goshka Macuga, who ‘speaks’ of the controversy generated by the original work, now at the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía in Madrid.
There has always been debate over this particular work. After some argument, Picasso undertook to paint the piece for the World Fair in Paris, but few paid any attention to it at the time. It was only when it went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in the 1940s, and was kept there during World War II – Picasso wanted it to stay there until democracy was restored in Spain – that it gained the adulation that it is mentioned with today. Perhaps the most recent furore came when blue curtains were drawn across the tapestry version at the UN in 2003; the synchronicity was a bit off, since the Security Council was meeting to listen to the US’s argument for starting the war on Iraq and an anti-war artwork would hardly induce the right mood. It could, of course, as cynics have said, be for reasons more mundane – blue has a great television presence!
In my own mind, Guernica is replete with controversy. I know it is a hugely significant work, a piece that should be seen and experienced at least once in a lifetime. It has depth, meaning, symbolism, greatness…everything that makes any work of art a must-do for event hose who do not hunger for cultural exposure. But it is also – or at least it was for me – an excruciatingly painful experience. Standing in front of the work, placed in a niche in a shadowed room, the first thing that hit me was how small it is. When you see photographs of it, you expect scale, vastness, almost a landscape across which the eye can travel. What you see is bodies – humans and horses - with limbs and necks at strange angles, agony in every twist and anguish in each oddly placed eye. There is death, of course, but there is an immeasurable pain in the dying. And a lot of that pain is transmitted to the viewer, cutting through all the insulation of so many critiques read and so much hype seen beyond. It has to be seen, but the seeing needs to be done at a distance, where it cannot hurt the heart, the mind and the sensibilities. The controversy is obvious - you have to see it once, but do you really need to see it?
I stood in front of the painting once, some years ago. I am not sure I ever want to see it again.
There has always been debate over this particular work. After some argument, Picasso undertook to paint the piece for the World Fair in Paris, but few paid any attention to it at the time. It was only when it went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in the 1940s, and was kept there during World War II – Picasso wanted it to stay there until democracy was restored in Spain – that it gained the adulation that it is mentioned with today. Perhaps the most recent furore came when blue curtains were drawn across the tapestry version at the UN in 2003; the synchronicity was a bit off, since the Security Council was meeting to listen to the US’s argument for starting the war on Iraq and an anti-war artwork would hardly induce the right mood. It could, of course, as cynics have said, be for reasons more mundane – blue has a great television presence!
In my own mind, Guernica is replete with controversy. I know it is a hugely significant work, a piece that should be seen and experienced at least once in a lifetime. It has depth, meaning, symbolism, greatness…everything that makes any work of art a must-do for event hose who do not hunger for cultural exposure. But it is also – or at least it was for me – an excruciatingly painful experience. Standing in front of the work, placed in a niche in a shadowed room, the first thing that hit me was how small it is. When you see photographs of it, you expect scale, vastness, almost a landscape across which the eye can travel. What you see is bodies – humans and horses - with limbs and necks at strange angles, agony in every twist and anguish in each oddly placed eye. There is death, of course, but there is an immeasurable pain in the dying. And a lot of that pain is transmitted to the viewer, cutting through all the insulation of so many critiques read and so much hype seen beyond. It has to be seen, but the seeing needs to be done at a distance, where it cannot hurt the heart, the mind and the sensibilities. The controversy is obvious - you have to see it once, but do you really need to see it?
I stood in front of the painting once, some years ago. I am not sure I ever want to see it again.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Idol chatter
For some reason, for the past couple of years, I have been rather avidly watching American Idol, the US reality show where one singer is chosen above a horde of others as the best voice, the best presence, the best showmanship. Last year, the first time I watched it from start to finish and said rude words when a late work-evening took away that pleasure from me, but I did get to see that final winning moment, when one man (David Cook) was declared better than all the rest. I even watched the musical debacle that was Sanjaya Malakar, feted in this country because he has an Indian gene somewhere deep within him, his stage presence due mainly to the indulgence of the judges and his bizarre hairstyles. This time too there is an Indian connection, a young man called Anoop Desai, but he has a voice, he can sing, he has charm and he can make it through to the finals if he doesn't think so much about it and just goes out there and sings what he can sing better than anyone else. But I bet you he won't, since he wants so hard to win that he works on whatever he thinks that the judges will like, which is usually what gives rise to that set of acerbic comments that includes words like 'boring', 'karaoke', 'wrong song' and the like.
Many of the original group have been left behind with the final eight now battling for the top spot - or there will be by tonight, since one more, Megan Joy, will be eliminated, news that is already on the Net, but which hasn't happened for us yet, local time. I have favourites in these left in the game, from the vivid-haired Alison, who sings like a rock dream but has the fashion sense of a much-younger (how can she be, since she is only 16!) teen who went on a wild shopping spree at Target, to the geeky Danny Gokey, who has a tragic story of his life but a voice that holds all the love, pain and sheer thrill of being able to sing that any one person can earn from the power that be.
My own top favourite is Adam Lambert, who can sing, has what would be described by someone slightly old-fashioned in a way that could not be equalled by more contemporary language as 'the voice of an angel' but sings with a devilish streak in his music and a wicked smile in his eyes. He does everything from straight R&B to punk with the same effortless style, his showmanship soaring beyond the funky hairdo and the black nailpolish to some place that everyone else seems to struggle to reach. He looks like he is thoroughly enjoying his performance, with a relaxed air and laid-back swagger that no one else has managed yet. Of course he has talent, bucketfuls of it, but to present it in a way that leaves seasoned judges speechless and wins kudos almost every week is something out of the ordinary. I am not sure I hope he wins. I do hope he can use his huge talent to bring pleasure to many more lives, just the way his minute-and-a-half or whatever the time limit is on the show makes me smile with a deep satisfaction of having heard something really worth hearing.
Of course, maybe the best part of the show is Simon Cowell and his supremely confident sass. Whether he is drawing a crayon moustache on Paula Abdul or whether he is agreeing with Kara Diguardi or debating with Randy Jackson, all well-known in the music business and respected for their opinions, or whether he is being utterly serious when he praises a contestant's performance, he hogs the limelight and attracts all the attention, good and bad. No judge on any Indian reality show, be it the greatly applauded Farah Khan or the often-nasty Anu Malek, can match Mr Cowell.
How the show pans out will be seen over the weeks to come. But it certainly seems to be getting more interesting with every episode. I am glad I have the time and leisure to watch it, to listen to these talented young people competing in what is often a silly contest, but an obviously worthwhile platform for a musical future. And you know already who gets my vote!
Many of the original group have been left behind with the final eight now battling for the top spot - or there will be by tonight, since one more, Megan Joy, will be eliminated, news that is already on the Net, but which hasn't happened for us yet, local time. I have favourites in these left in the game, from the vivid-haired Alison, who sings like a rock dream but has the fashion sense of a much-younger (how can she be, since she is only 16!) teen who went on a wild shopping spree at Target, to the geeky Danny Gokey, who has a tragic story of his life but a voice that holds all the love, pain and sheer thrill of being able to sing that any one person can earn from the power that be.
My own top favourite is Adam Lambert, who can sing, has what would be described by someone slightly old-fashioned in a way that could not be equalled by more contemporary language as 'the voice of an angel' but sings with a devilish streak in his music and a wicked smile in his eyes. He does everything from straight R&B to punk with the same effortless style, his showmanship soaring beyond the funky hairdo and the black nailpolish to some place that everyone else seems to struggle to reach. He looks like he is thoroughly enjoying his performance, with a relaxed air and laid-back swagger that no one else has managed yet. Of course he has talent, bucketfuls of it, but to present it in a way that leaves seasoned judges speechless and wins kudos almost every week is something out of the ordinary. I am not sure I hope he wins. I do hope he can use his huge talent to bring pleasure to many more lives, just the way his minute-and-a-half or whatever the time limit is on the show makes me smile with a deep satisfaction of having heard something really worth hearing.
Of course, maybe the best part of the show is Simon Cowell and his supremely confident sass. Whether he is drawing a crayon moustache on Paula Abdul or whether he is agreeing with Kara Diguardi or debating with Randy Jackson, all well-known in the music business and respected for their opinions, or whether he is being utterly serious when he praises a contestant's performance, he hogs the limelight and attracts all the attention, good and bad. No judge on any Indian reality show, be it the greatly applauded Farah Khan or the often-nasty Anu Malek, can match Mr Cowell.
How the show pans out will be seen over the weeks to come. But it certainly seems to be getting more interesting with every episode. I am glad I have the time and leisure to watch it, to listen to these talented young people competing in what is often a silly contest, but an obviously worthwhile platform for a musical future. And you know already who gets my vote!
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